MATING: F.Reader x ot13
PACK MEETING: The House Rules are made to make the pack function - they're vital to a pack this size, and everyone loves the House Rules. Especially you, the single omega in the entire pack, who the House Rules are designed entirely around.
FRIDGE NOTES: This collection functions as an interactive piece between myself and readers. Every chapter posted of this universe will be a request from you - the reader. Readers who would like a chapter of this written will fill out the request form, and that will serve as the framework for me to write a chapter. This collection is not meant to have a plot or overarching theme - it's entire purpose is to write smut, fluff, angst - whatever you, as the requester, wants, so long as it makes general sense to the pre-established universe where all of seventeen and reader function as an established back that live together!
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It may contain explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
PACK WARNINGS: Some chapters may contain smut. All chapters will be warned appropriately.
PACK SCHDULE: This series has no schedule. I fill requests as I can and this only gets updated if I have requests! This series also has no scheduled end - requests will remain open until I no longer want to work on the fic.
REQUEST RULES:
âź In general, ensure your requests are reasonable.
âź Requests must be within this initial concept of the pack together in a shared omegaverse. Requests outside of this concept will be deleted.
âź I will fill requests at my own pace.
âź Not all requests may be filled, either because they are duplicates, may make me uncomfortable, may not make sense to the overall work, or because there is something about them that doesn't work.
âź You may not change the pre-assigned sub-gender of a member in your request
âź Your request shouldn't force me to ret-con or backtrack/negate something already posted
REQUEST FORM: Request here
THE HOUSE RULES:
1. The omega is never allowed to eat alone unless she asks to - SEUNGCHEOL
2. If she falls asleep on you, carry her to bed. No exceptions - MINGYU
3. Nobody leaves for long amounts of time without scenting her goodbye - JEONGHAN
4. Her nest is neutral territory. Arguments end at the door - JOSHUA
5. If the omega asks anything during heat, the answer is always yes - THE PACK
6. No one is allowed to make her cry and leave the room afterward - WONWOO
7. If she steals your clothes, they belong to her now - MINGYU
8. The omega is not permitted to carry heavy things while alphas are present - MINGHAO
9. Whoever wakes her up is responsible for dealing with the consequences - VERNON
10. Use the omega as you please, but respect is mandatory - THE PACK
11. The omega is not allowed to beg and then act surprised when someone gives in - SEUNGKWAN
12. If she wanders into an alphaâs room after midnight, she knows exactly what sheâs doing - SEOKMIN
13. The omega is not allowed to start things in shared spaces and then complain about being watched - JUNHUI
14. If sheâs whining, someone should probably handle it - CHAN
15. The omega is not allowed to say âIâm fineâ without at least one person investigating immediately - JIHOON
16. Arguments about whose turn it is to use her next must be resolved by rock paper scissors - SOONYOUNG
MEET THE ALPHAS: Seungcheol, Jeonghan, Junhui, Soonyoung, Seokmin, Minghao
MEET THE BETAS: Joshua, Wonwoo, Jihoon, Mingyu, Seungkwan, Vernon, Chan
warnings: fem!reader, fluff, mentions of sex and some references to it but not the explicit act, vernon is horny as fuck
ŕ§ťęŞ second instalment of CANDY FLOSS collection
Hansol feels dizzy.
He can barely hear the sound of water hitting the sink, because he is so focused on how his heart hammers in his chest, making blood roar in his ears. He feels weak, and heâs so glad he is sitting down right now because he is sure he would collapse otherwise. The mattress sinks under his weight as he shifts and tries to take long, deep breaths. The water in the sink is still running, audible behind the bathroom door. He has some time, so he needs to calm down before you finish âfreshening upâ.
He canât believe this is finally happening.
Hansol isnât a loud personality. He likes to quietly do his own thing much more. He always had, even from a young age. His friend group was small but tight knit, and he never felt the need to go out of his way to meet new people. Any urge he felt to have more human connection, he found online. He knows that sounds like creepy behavior, but some of the best people he knows now are ones he met on gaming forums or niche discord channels, and that includes you.
Today marks two years since he first talked to you. It also marks exactly one year and 12 days since you started dating.
You were the exact opposite of him. Loud and a little weird, a presence he couldnât ignore. He was taken with you, even if it was only by your words and through a computer screen. Hansol never understood online dating before he met you, but once he did, he wanted nothing more than to call you his girlfriend.
It still took him almost a year to officially ask you that, and it led to a long reprimand from you about âwasting timeâ and âtaking so longâ.
âI couldâve been yours way before this!â You had whined over voice chat. Hansol had grinned so hard he thought his face would split in half. He knew his skin was beet fucking red. He was almost glad you couldnât see him, because he felt like a pathetic schoolboy the way he was filled with giddiness about you saying yes to being his girlfriend.
E-girlfriend. Whatever.
He didnât tell his friends. The only one he confided in was Seungkwan. Mostly because he knew Seungkwan wouldnât judge. Seungkwan understands that Hansol is different, he thinks differently and feels differently, but all of it is one hundred percent genuine. He might not show it, but he is a sensitive guy, so his long term crush finally manifesting into something, even if it was just online, was a huge deal to him. Seungkwan got that, and he only patted Hansol on the back, saying he was happy for his friend.
He isnât ashamed. Hell no. Thereâs nothing about your relationship thatâs lesser than any others. In fact, Hansol would go as far as arguing that your relationship is more real and intense than anything he couldâve had in person. Being behind a screen meant that any awkwardness he felt in social situations was gone. He has time to formulate his answers, gather his thoughts as he types them out, tell you how he really feels about you. Things progressed from chat to voice and then to video at a comfortable pace, and every single one of those steps happened naturally, when Hansol thought he could handle it without being uneasy. And the same thing came from you. It was abundantly clear to Hansol that you liked him just as much, and that giddy feeling of asking you out never went away. Every night spent chatting with you, whether it was text, call or video, was as intimate and human as it came.
Things started heating up very soon after that.
Now, Hansol is no virgin. Heâs had girlfriends before, though most of them never lasted. Heâs had sex, though it wasnât something that excited him terribly. He had found it awkward and sticky more than anything else, and heâs sure any sexual partner of his was as unsatisfied as he was.
But not with you.
The first time you had phone sex, Hansol almost blacked out from how hard he came. Turns out, your way with words extends far beyond your ability to have normal, warm conversation. You talked him through it, came with him, brought him to his high in a way he didnât think was ever possible. Nothing, nothing could top that, Hansol was so sure. Your presence, whether sexual or not, encompassed him. He was so in love. He was convinced that it could never get any better than this.
But it could. It definitely could. Because heâs here now, one year and 10 days after he started calling you his, in this hotel that you found halfway between his city and yours, sitting on a soft mattress and listening to the water finally stop flowing into the sink.
His heart lurches when you step out, giving him a smile. Heâs seen you countless times on video. Heâs seen you first thing in the morning when you wake up, your hair a mess around your head, all throughout your day as you send him little videos of yourself at work, and at night, when you spread your legs for him. But there really is something about you being right in front of him. Youâre so beautiful, a material presence. When he hugged you at the train station, he could feel your warmth, could smell your perfume and that expensive body butter you always bragged about lathering on your skin. He still canât believe youâre here, within his reach, in his sights.
âDid the front desk call?â You ask, breaking his train of thought. âThey said they would call about the door problem.â
You had dialed the front desk as soon you two got in after struggling with the door for a good ten minutes. It kept getting stuck on the doorframe, and you had huffed in annoyance before letting staff know. That was before you went to the bathroom, and Hansol was left on the bed waiting for a call back.
He shakes his head to let you know that he hadnât heard anything so far. You sigh and tilt your head, only mildly annoyed. Hansol watches the way your lips purse, as you step in his space when you reach for the phone beside the bed again, dialing. His fingers twitch. He wants to touch you so badly. Heâs seen every part of you, every inch of you, in many, many different ways, but he hasnât felt any of it, hasnât felt the smooth glide of your skin or the dip of your collarboneâŚ.
âEarth to Hansol?â He blinks. You giggle down at him.
âIs everything okay? Youâve been weirdly spacey since the train station.â
Hansol is honestly surprised that youâre not. He believed you would be at least as nervous as him, despite knowing him for so long. But you had been excited to the point that you almost tackled him when you saw him, and he had to block your momentum by taking a few steps back so you both wouldnât topple over.
âIâm just really glad this is finally happening.â He sighs, smiling up at you. You return it, sitting beside him and taking his hand. Hansol grips it eagerly back, staring at your interconnected fingers. He canât believe how much he craved the very simple act of holding hands with you. He squeezes it, as if to convince himself itâs real.
âIâm glad too.â You reply. âItâs really been a long time coming.â
Hansol huffs and nods, still staring down at your intertwined hands.
âSo,â you pipe up, âwhat do you wanna do?â
Oh, you know exactly what Hansol wants to do. Leading up to this trip, Hansol had told you explicitly, many, many times, what he would do to you. But he knows youâre baiting him. You want him to say it, like you always make him do over text, or voice, or video. Hansol struggled with expressing himself until he met you, but you would always coax it out of him, until he reached a point where he felt no shame. He loves you so much, has so much desire for you, and he wants you to know that so badly.
âLet me kiss you.â He breathes. âIâve thought about it for so long.â
The corner of your lip ticks up and you nod, shuffling even closer to him. Thatâs all he needs. When his lips finally meet yours, he almost moans in relief.
Hansol has imagined this moment extensively, and for a very long time. He would imagine how you would taste, how your lips would feel when they slid over his, how your tongue would peek from your mouth and bump against his, first teasingly, then more longing. He came up with so many details over the months he has wanted to do this, but he quickly reaches the conclusion that nothing can trump the real feeling of it. All his assumptions are thrown so effectively out of his head that it is left pleasantly empty, occupied only by how heâs already addicted to the taste of you, and to the warm cavern of your mouth. When you moan into him, he thinks he might float up into the sky, the feeling is euphoric.
He cannot imagine ever going back to the arrangement you had for so many months before this. He cannot fathom a timeline where he doesnât get to kiss you every day, multiple times a day, whenever he feels like it.
He curses his need for air, sucking in long gulps to satiate his struggling lungs when he reluctantly has to pull back. Your lips are shiny with his spit, and his stomach lurches at the sight. He canât help but wind his hand into your hair, the soft tresses he always imagined stroking, and pull you into another kiss. He feels your hands wind into his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer, and he obliges. If he could, he would super glue himself to you forever.
Your tongue licks eagerly into his mouth, and Hansol moans wantonly, not even bothering to cover the noise. It eggs you on even more it seems, because your hand travels up to scratch gently at his scalp. It sends shivers down his back, and the force of the kiss turns bruising, more fiery. He canât help himself. He thinks he is going insane with every single tiny move you make.
He wants to kill whoever knocks on the door and makes you pull away, gasping for breath. You stand up quickly when the knocking persists, straightening your clothes and walking to the door. Hansol immediately pulls the pillow on the bed into his lap. He doubts the hotel staff will come in, since the problem is with the door, but he wonât risk them getting a full view of his throbbing erection.
He listens to your conversation and wills them to go away in his mind, wills you to come back so he can kiss you senseless. You have the whole weekend together and itâs only Friday afternoon right now, but Hansol doesnât want to waste a single second. He has resolved in his head already that heâs not letting you leave this bed for even a minute once he has you in it.
That itinerary you had planned could burn, for all he cares.
đ¤ đđđŚđŻđŚđŤđ¤: Personal trainers Sansang Ń reader
đ¤ đđ˛đŞđŞđđŻđś: A little late-night workout never killed anyone⌠or is that what youâre thinking when you sign up for a private session with two unfairly hot personal trainers who canât wait to show you exactly how deep and thorough their stretching techniques can get.
đ¤ đđ˘đŤđŻđ˘ / đđ˛ / đđŻđŹđđ˘: Shameless Smut, Gym! AU, Modern Setting!AU Non-Idol AU
đ¤ âđđąđŚđŤđ¤: 18+ / 21+ / MDNI
đ¤ đđŹđŻđĄ đ đŹđ˛đŤđą: 21.5k
đ¤ đđđŻđŤđŚđŤđ¤đ°: Dom! San, Dom! Yeosang, sub!reader, obvious elements MxM, curvy reader, body image issues, intense sexual tension, enthusiastic consent, unprotected sex, threesome, a multitude of sex positions: full nelson, spooning, lotus, and more, camel toe, stomach bulge, lots of sperm, fingering, degrading, pet names, size kink, squirting, blow job, creampie, breeding kink, boobs slapping, pussy slapping, dirty talk, face fucking, pussy drunk, strength kink, overstimulation, oral, double pussy penetration, manhandling, multiple orgasms, Ńreampie, rough sex, rough oral, power play, praise kink,cum eating, explicit sexual content, explicit language, and more.
đ¤ net: @cultofdionysusnet @k-vanity
đ¤ đ|đ: After forever, Iâve finally managed to finish it. This is my first full-length with Yeosang too, and to be honest, Iâm a bit nervous as I donât know whether youâll like it or not. That said, if youâre a fan of Crazy Form and Pretty Flushed and crave high-quality, top-notch fucking, then youâve come to the right place. Everything I can say is that youâre definitely going to get wet â and Iâm not talking about workouts, however intense they might be.
đ¤ âđŹđŠđś đ đ˛đŤđŤđŚđ˘đ° đđđ¤ đŠđŚđ°đą at the end of the post.
đ¤ âđŹđŠđś đ đŚđđŠđś đđđ°đąđ˘đŻđŠđŚđ°đą - check for more
đ¤đŽđđđđđđđ đđđ đđđđđđđ đđđ đđđđđđđđ - Your love makes all this possible
The gym hummed with that busy familiar rhythm that youâd come to know too well over the last few months - the low pulse of an unobtrusive track threading through hidden speakers like a slow, deliberate heartbeat, punctuated by the occasional sharp clink of weight plates finding their home and bursts of laughter rising like warm, effervescent bubbles through the golden, humid air. Heavy glass pendant lamps hung from the exposed concrete beams, casting soft pools of light that slid across the dark, gleaming wood floors and caught on every polished surface.
Mirrors stretched across every wall, turning the space into an endless, glittering labyrinth where every movement was reflected back at you from a dozen angles. Treadmills stood like obedient sentinels along one side while cable machines and leather-padded benches clustered in the centre, black iron and supple hide waiting in stillness, ready to be claimed.
You had been coming here for months, carving out these precious evening hours between work and the constant pressure of everything else, chasing a version of yourself that felt stronger, sharper, more yours.Â
Yet the results remained stubbornly modest.
Your body still carried its soft, generous curves with unapologetic fullness: the plush swell of your hips and the full, heavy weight of your ass that swayed with a subtle, tempting jiggle on every step; the generous, heavy mounds of your breasts straining against the stretched fabric of your training crop top. The stretchy leggings clung like a second skin, moulding to the thick, soft flesh of your thighs and pressing so intimately against the plump, puffy lips of your pussy that the delicate seam created a faint but unmistakable camel-toe â shameless and impossible to ignore, always leaving you hyper-aware of how vulgarly and vulnerably your body looked, no matter how many times you tugged at the fabric.
You smoothed your palms slowly down the front of your thighs, fingers dragging over the taut fabric that hugged every curve, and exhaled a quiet, frustrated sigh.Â
Maybe you were simply doing it wrong. The thought had circled more than once while you stood in the locker-room mirrors, your cheeks blooming with fresh heat as you watched sweat trace a glistening path down your neck and disappear between your breasts after another intense but apparently useless workout. You wanted change. You wanted to feel attractive in your own skin â truly, viscerally attractive. But right now all you felt was the quiet, persistent ache of not quite belonging here⌠and the deeper, more secret ache of how long it had been since anyone had touched you with real hunger.
The bright chatter of other girls drifted through the humid air of the locker room, their voices carrying over the rhythmic sounds of zips and locks clicking shut. Their laughter held that effortless post-workout glow, light and carefree, like exotic birds calling to one another in the steam-thick warmth.
âGod, my bumâs finally got some real definition after all that training.â One of them said, grinning as she playfully snapped the thin strap of her thong. The sharp sound of elastic against bare skin cracked through the humid space for a brief, filthy second before the delicate string vanished completely between the plump, rounded cheeks of her ass.
Her friend gave a low, knowing laugh, running manicured fingers through her long, damp hair.
âShouldnât you be thanking San and Yeosang for that?â She teased, voice light but laced with something hotter. âThose two havenât given you a momentâs mercy with these intense sessions lately. Though with trainers like them, I suppose you donât mind getting a little⌠sweaty.â The way she said it made it perfectly clear she was imagining an entirely different kind of workout.
âYouâre right, I donât mind at all.â The first girl replied with a soft, satisfied giggle. âThey could train me, stretch me out, do whatever the hell they wanted. Have you seen them without their shirts on? It should be illegal. All that sweat sliding down their abs, the way their pants cling so shamelessly to the thick, heavy outlines of their cocks⌠That alone makes it worth working my ass off in here every single day.â Her voice dripped with raw, almost reverent satisfaction.
âYouâre such a lucky little bitch.â Her friend teased, eyes sparkling with pure mischief. âI still canât get into their class â their schedule is booked solid for months. And you know I wouldnât say no to a private session with one of them⌠or both at once, if you know what I mean.â She raised her eyebrows suggestively and delivered a playful, sharp slap to her friendâs bare ass. The sound cracked through the humid space far too filthy for a public locker room and the girlâs soft, startled laugh only made it worse.
You stood there, half-hidden by the row of lockers, and felt your body betray you in the most humiliating, delicious way. A traitorous little clench rippled through your core, making the seam of your leggings press more insistently against your swelling, puffy pussy lips.Â
Heat bloomed low in your belly and spread outward, slow and molten, while your treacherous mind supplied vivid, unwanted images: Sanâs intense dark eyes raking over your soft curves as he corrected your form, Yeosangâs elegant fingers lingering a little too long on your waist, both of them watching you with that quiet, knowing hunger the girls had just described so vividly.
It had been so long since anyone had touched you properly. Really touched you. And now the thought of their hands â strong, sure, demanding â âstretching you outâ in ways that had nothing to do with flexibility made your thighs press together instinctively, which only made the pressure against your clit worse.
You swallowed hard, cheeks burning hotter than any workout had ever managed, and wondered, with a shameful little thrill, what it would feel like if San and Yeosang ever looked at you the way those girls clearly imagined them looking.
You finished dressing in silence, the blush still burning high on your cheeks like a brand you couldnât rub away, and stepped back out into the main hall. Almost against your will, your gaze drifted toward the far corner where the pendant lights spilled like molten amber across the dark wood floors.
And there they were.
Yeosang stood side-on to you, offering an unobstructed view of his almost angelically handsome face, still flushed a soft rose from exertion. He dabbed slowly at the sweat on his neck with a small white towel, the motion unhurried, almost languid, before he leaned down, picked up his black sports bottle, and brought the straw to his lips.Â
Those plump, pink lips sealed around it in a way that looked far too lewd for public eyes, and he drank in slow, rhythmic pulls, the elegant column of his throat working visibly with each swallow. A single drop of water escaped the corner of his mouth and trailed down the graceful line of his neck, mingling with the glistening sheen of sweat already coating his skin. The sight sent a molten pulse low in your belly â warm, heavy, and impossible to ignore.
San stood next to him, tall and effortlessly magnetic, the kind of man who made the air feel denser just by existing. A soft, boyish smile curved his mouth, carving deep, sweet dimples into his cheeks, while his catlike eyes remained half-lidded and seductive. A faint strawberry flush still coloured his skin from the workout.Â
He leaned in closer than necessary, murmuring something low and private against Yeosangâs ear, his broad palm resting low on the small of his friendâs back â fingers splayed possessively, the tips brushing just above the firm curve of his ass. The touch was too familiar, too intimate. It spoke of tangled sheets and bodies still slick with sweat, of quiet, filthy claims made in the dark and the lingering heat that followed long after.
A deeper blush bloomed hotter across your cheeks as you quickly turned away, heart stuttering like you had been caught staring at something forbidden. The endless mirrors threw your flushed, guilty reflection back at you from every angle while hot, filthy little flashes of the two men flooded your mind â Yeosangâs plump lips wrapped so obscenely around that straw, the slow, rhythmic working of his throat, Sanâs broad hand resting low and possessive on his friendâs back. You shouldnât have thought of them that way. Not at all.Â
You snapped yourself out of it, banishing the unwelcome heat, and hurried toward the exit. Your thighs pressed together with every rushed step, the friction only making the warmth between them worse, the seam of your leggings rubbing against your still-sensitive, slightly swollen pussy lips with every movement.
Later that evening you curled up on Soheeâs couch, a tub of half-melted frozen yoghurt balanced in your lap, finally letting the dayâs frustration spill out to the one person who always made you feel safe enough to say it out loud.
âI donât think it makes any sense.â You told her softly, your voice laced with quiet defeat as your fingers sank into the plush, milky softness of your thigh. âNo matter how much I work out, my body just stays like this. All soft and jiggly and⌠ugh.â The words tumbled from your pretty lips with a little pout.
Sohee laughed, warm and bright, setting her spoon aside. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she leaned in closer, voice dropping into a teasing purr.
âNonsense, baby. You look way too delicious to touch.â She tilted her head, studying you with open appreciation. âIf you keep squeezing that soft, juicy thigh right in front of me like that, I swear I might just eat you out.â She licked a slow streak of blueberry yoghurt from the corner of her mouth, her tongue dragging deliberately along the edge of her lip with a playful, hungry little grin.
âStop it!â You protested with a flustered laugh, swatting her arm as fresh heat bloomed across your cheeks. âItâs not funny. Iâm actually seriousâŚâ
âIâm serious too, baby.â Sohee said, her voice gentling even as her eyes stayed warm with understanding. She knew exactly how sensitive you were about this. âNot every guy wants those hard, lean bodies, you know? Some of them crave exactly what youâve got â all that pretty softness under their hands.â She shifted closer and gave your thigh a light, affectionate squeeze. âBut if itâs really bothering you that much⌠just ask San and Yeosang for help. Even though theyâre fully booked, Iâll have a word with them for you. Theyâre the best. And they often take the night shifts, so you wonât have to deal with the crowds or your crazy schedule. Trust me, you wonât regret it.â
Her words settled deep under your skin â sweet, tempting, and dangerously seductive. The same names from the locker room flickered once more in the back of your mind as the night stretched long and quiet around you.
You hesitated, spoon paused mid-air above the slowly melting frozen yoghurt. There was truth in what Sohee had said, you couldnât deny that, but you still couldnât shake the shyness and deep embarrassment twisting low in your stomach.
They were men â tall, strong, unapologetically attractive, with broad shoulders and stunningly sculpted bodies that spoke of raw power and years of disciplined training. You had caught glimpses of them during those late sessions, muscles glistening under the lights as they moved with confident, masculine grace. The mere idea of them watching you so closely â correcting your stance, guiding your form through every movement, their hands adjusting your soft body â felt far too exposing in a way that made your cheeks burn.
âIâll think about it,â you said evasively, tongue slowly licking the melting yoghurt from the spoon in a small, absent motion. Still, her words lingered, curling low and warm in your belly long after youâd gone home and slipped beneath the sheets.
You returned to the gym for a few more sessions over the next couple of weeks, slipping back into that familiar rhythm. You put in extra time whenever your schedule allowed, focusing intently on your form and pushing through every movement with quiet determination, all while trying your best to shove Soheeâs suggestion out of your head.
But no matter how hard you tried, her words kept echoing in your mind, refusing to fade. Your gaze kept drifting across the large, brightly lit space, unconsciously searching the far corners where the machines gleamed, hoping for even a glimpse of them.
Right there, they were leading a session with effortless confidence, commanding the space. It seemed they had become even more attractive than the last time you had seen them.
Today San wore a cap pulled low over his eyes, but it did nothing to hide the sweet, flushed blush sitting high on his chiselled cheekbones. His tight T-shirt clung to his frame like a second skin, perfectly outlining every ridge and curve of his broad chest and sculpted abs, the fabric stretching deliciously each time his muscles flexed as he helped a client on the cable row. San's voice was low and steady as he explained the exercises, calm and commanding.Â
Beside him, Yeosang moved with that quiet, precise grace that made your breath catch. His soft chestnut hair was slightly damp at the ends from the intense sets, the silky strands clinging to his forehead and flushed cheeks as he demonstrated a weighted, deep, controlled squat. His pretty rosy lips parted just enough to look obscenely inviting â almost too tempting to kiss â while his long, fluffy lashes fluttered gently. Those beautiful doe-like eyes caught the bright fluorescent light as he earnestly explained the movement. A thin, glistening trail of sweat slowly traced down the side of his neck while his broad shoulders shimmered under the lights with a fine sheen, making him look almost too devastatingly beautiful to be real.
You watched the easy, familiar way their bodies moved around each other â shoulders brushing, a small nod loaded with intimacy and something hot and sharp twisted deep in your stomach.Â
A sudden wave of heat flooded hot and slick between your legs from that small, seemingly innocent interaction. Your cheeks burned a deep crimson as you bit down hard on your plump lower lip, forcing your eyes back to your own weights while your heart hammered wildly in your chest.
One evening, as the gym was already practically empty and the lights cast longer, softer shadows across the polished floors, you finished your final intense set. Your thighs trembled uncontrollably, your breath came in short, warm pants, and every muscle burned with exhaustion. You could barely stay on your feet. Sweat had gathered along the delicate seam of your leggings right over your crotch, making the puffy outline of your pussy even more obvious than usual â the thin fabric clinging shamelessly, leaving nothing to the imagination.
That was exactly when San appeared beside you. He held out a chilled bottle of water, the cap already twisted open, his broad hand steady.
âHey, take it easy, sweetie.â He said, his deep, rich voice warm and caring as he tilted his head gently, a few strands of hair falling softly across his face, making him look boyishly handsome while still radiating that strong, unmistakable masculine charm. âYou donât need to push yourself so hard. Itâll never give you the results you want if you burn out.â San's eyes held yours a beat longer than necessary, genuine concern mixed with something deeper flickering in his gaze.
âYes⌠I think youâre right. Thank you.â You uttered softly, tentatively accepting the bottle.Â
A deep, shy blush spread across your cheeks as his warm fingers brushed against yours, that brief contact sending an unexpected spark straight down between your legs. You shifted awkwardly, squeezing your thighs together more firmly as you stared at the floor, trying to hide the heat blooming low in your belly.
âIf you ever need help â real help â one or both of us will be here. Just say the word.â He stepped back smoothly, giving you a soft nod as he turned to go, when Yeosangâs soft, melodic laugh drifted across the nearly empty hall.
Sanâs lips curved into a small, knowing smile at the sound, as if he had heard that laugh countless times before in far more private moments. That simple, familiar reaction only made the pull inside you grow stronger, hotter.
By the time you were leaving the gym that night, the decision had settled inside you: you would book a proper personal training slot with them.
Not because of the excited whispers you had overheard in the locker room, or the way their closeness had been lingering in your thoughts. But because, for the first time, someone had noticed you were trying too hard to cope with this on your own. The mirrors caught the soft sway of your hips one last time as you stepped out into the evening air, a quiet tension still humming low and warm inside you. Â
So here you were â still feeling a little nervous and full of doubt, yet strangely excited, your heart beating just a little faster than the situation warranted. After weeks of deep reflection, sleepless nights filled with self-doubt and embarrassment, and Soheeâs velvet-tongued encouragement, you had finally booked the trial session.
The familiar bustling rhythm of the gym wrapped around you the moment you walked in, and for a second you paused, fingers tightening around the strap of your sports bag. You kept telling yourself it was just another workout. Nothing more. But the thought of being so vulnerable in front of someone, letting them evaluate and guide your body, especially when that someone was San or Yeosang, had left a delicate flutter low in your belly.
You ran your hands lightly over the front of your crop top and black sports leggings, trying to smooth out imaginary creases and once again regretfully noting how tightly the elastic fabric hugged the plush swell of your hips. The small gesture was meant to calm you, but it only made you even more anxious about how you looked.
However, it was already too late to back out, especially when you caught sight of both of them waiting for you at the front desk. They greeted you right on time, and in person they were even more impressive than the last time you bumped into them in the gym.Â
It was almost unfair how devastatingly good they still looked even after several intense sessions.
San stood with his weight slightly shifted to one side, one hand resting casually on the counter. It was the easy, grounded way he held himself, like someone who was completely comfortable in his own body. His hair was soft and tousled as if he had just run his hand over it, falling in gentle waves over those sharp, feline eyes that crinkled warmly at the corners when he offered you a sweet, dimpled smile, the kind that hinted at a gentle nature beneath all that carved muscle.Â
Yeosang, on the other hand, carried himself with a quiet kind of elegance. Up close, he was even more breathtaking. His posture was straight without being stiff, and there was a calm precision in the way he moved. The tips of his silky reddish-brown hair brushed lightly against his faintly rosy cheeks and when the light caught his eyes, they shifted to a rich amber hue, warm and whiskey-deep, drawing you in with a quiet intensity that made something soft twist behind your ribs.
They introduced themselves anyway â even though there was no need to, since you already knew their names, voices low and professional, and offered firm yet gentle handshakes that lingered just long enough to feel reassuring rather than intimidating. In fact, everything turned out to be far less scary than you had expected, which was a genuine relief.Â
Just as Sohee had promised, the boys were real sweethearts â respectful, calm, and patient as they explained the simple movement screening they had planned. There was no pressure, no lingering stares full of silent judgment. Only two trainers who genuinely seemed to want you to feel comfortable in your own body.
They led you to a more secluded corner of the gym, toward the open mats near the treadmills designed for individual sessions. High mirrors ran along the wall, reflecting every angle of your plush curves framed between their sculpted bodies.Â
San asked you a few general questions to assess your fitness level while Yeosang suggested starting with something basic and gradually increasing the load. It sounded ideal to you. After a short warm-up led by San, Yeosang stepped forward and demonstrated a simple bodyweight squat with quiet, clear instructions. His movements were precise and effortless as he dropped low and rose again.
âKeep your chest up, weight through your heels.â Yeosang said gently. âAnd pay attention to your breathing â otherwise youâll tire yourself out too quickly.â His calm, competent tone eased the tension in your shoulders a little more.
San stood a respectful distance away, notepad in hand, watching attentively as you mirrored the movement and jotting quick notes on the points you still needed to work on.
When you finished the set and straightened up, breathing a little harder, the light burn in your thighs grounded you for a moment. San gave you a small, encouraging nod before stepping over to Yeosang to discuss the next steps with him. You offered him a grateful smile as you wiped the light sheen of sweat from your brow and your gaze drifted to the mirror almost on its own, and a soft blush warmed your cheeks as you caught the moment between them.
They stood close, their postures relaxed in a way that spoke of long familiarity. San leaned just a fraction closer than necessary as he whispered something low into Yeosangâs ear, his broad hand resting briefly on his friendâs muscular shoulder, his thumb pressing slightly into the supple, heated skin in a familiar, wordless exchange while they discussed the next exercise.Â
The touch looked warm and familiar, almost intimate in its casual ease â nothing overt, nothing that screamed anything more than close colleagues or friends. Yet it carried the lingering warmth of something deeper, like two bodies that had long since learned each otherâs rhythms in the quiet hours after the gym lights dimmed.
âYou shouldnât be noticing that,â the thought bloomed in your mind. Shame and curiosity tangled together until you couldnât quite tell them apart, and your cheeks flushed with heat as you quickly looked away.
After that, the training session carried on as if nothing had happened. Yeosang stepped closer to adjust the angle of your shoulders, his touch light and almost tender against your upper arm. Those gorgeous amber eyes met yours for a brief, steady second that made your pulse skip. San went back to monitoring you, picking up the notepad once more. His cute dimples flashed as he bit down gently on his plump lower lip, concentrating while he jotted something down.
The boys seemed to truly listen to every request you made, keeping a close eye on you and gently guiding you through each stage. Whenever you needed help they corrected your form with patience, explaining everything again without a hint of frustration. Sanâs voice was smooth as melted honey whenever he praised you, and there was something soft about the way Yeosangâs expression warmed when you got the movement right on the first try â like he was genuinely pleased in a way that went beyond just doing his job.
Nevertheless, the small, private gestures between them continued to catch your attention â a shared glance that lingered a fraction too long, Sanâs fingers brushing Yeosangâs wrist as he passed the water bottle, and the tender way Yeosang reached up to brush a few damp strands of hair away from Sanâs eyes. It hinted at a bond that felt warmer than simple friendship, yet somehow it only made the session feel safer, like you were being looked after by two people who already understood each other on a level most never reached.
By the time the trial wrapped, the gymâs golden light had begun to shift into softer evening hues. You finished your last set, straightened up, and wiped the sweat from your skin with a towel as the three of you naturally gathered near the mats.Â
The conversation came easily as you talked quietly about the session â what had felt good, what you might want to work on next, and how the hour had flown by. San summed things up, praising you once again for your efforts, and Yeosang offered you a four-week membership if you wanted to continue training under their guidance.
There was no pressure at all. In fact, at one point they both mentioned that you were a quick learner and, with the right approach, youâd eventually be able to manage without their help. You thanked them quietly, feeling surprisingly comfortable in their presence despite the stubborn, deep blush that still refused to fade from your cheeks.
All your worries had turned out to be unfounded. San and Yeosang were exactly as Sohee had described: respectful, attentive, the kind of trainers who made you want to come back not out of obligation, but because they made you feel seen and safe in a way no other man ever had. It wasnât the kind of attention that left you feeling small or inadequate. It was the kind that made you feel wanted, cared for, and completely at ease in your own body.
You paused at the door for the goodbye, offering them a soft, grateful smile as you confirmed youâd be taking the four-week subscription. That was when you felt it â their gazes lingering on you a heartbeat longer than professional courtesy allowed, warm and intent beneath the golden spill of the pendant lights.
They were men, after all. It was impossible for them not to notice how pleasant and appetizing your soft, milky body looked in the tight black leggings that hugged the plush swell of your hips and the gentle curve of your ass, the cropped top clinging just enough to the rise and fall of your breasts with each quiet breath.
Sanâs tongue darted out to wet his lips in a slow, unconscious swipe. His cat-like eyes traced the soft movement of your chest while the rosy flush on his cheeks deepened into something darker, sweeter. At the same moment, Yeosangâs hand came up to squeeze his shoulder with that same knowing pressure, his amber gaze following the sway of your hips as you turned to leave.Â
The gesture was small, almost protective, yet it carried the lingering warmth of two bodies that understood each other far beyond simple friendship â something hotter, more seductive, like a quiet current running between them. A silent exchange that made your own cheeks heat as you stepped out into the cool evening air.
You told yourself it was nothing. Just the natural appreciation of two trainers who had spent the hour studying your form. Nothing more. Yet the image lingered in the back of your mind all the way home â Sanâs dimpled smile replaced by something hungrier for a split second, Yeosangâs fingers pressing just a fraction too possessively into Sanâs muscle, both of them watching you walk away with that quiet, suppressed spark of interest.
The nascent tension hummed low and sweet beneath everything, waiting for the next session, the next correction, the next quiet moment when their eyes might linger on you again.
By the time two weeks had slipped by in a haze of warm golden pendant lights and the steady, addictive rhythm of steel meeting leather, you were absolutely thrilled â the kind of quiet, bubbling excitement that made your perception of your own soft curves feel lighter somehow, even as your body still carried that plush, yielding sweetness you had once despaired over.
The trial session had blossomed into a full four-week package. What used to be solitary, gruelling evening workouts had shifted seamlessly into nighttime sessions in friendly company â a rhythm that suited your busy schedule perfectly.
The gym at night felt like an entirely different world: practically empty save for a handful of solitary souls scattered across the treadmills and cable machines, the low bass of the music softer now, the heavy glass lamps casting a more subdued, warm glow. No crowds. No prying eyes. Just the faint whiff of sweat mixed with something musky and masculine, and the lingering smoky-sweet scent of the aroma diffuser in the air â and the two men who had somehow become the centre of your evenings without ever stepping over a single professional line.
San and Yeosang had settled into your routine with the quiet ease of people who had always belonged there, their presence so light and comfortable that it felt as though you had known them for years rather than mere weeks.
They were sweet without ever tipping into saccharine â pleasant in that effortless way, thoughtful in the small, unspoken details. Yeosang always remembered the exact ache in your lower back that you had mentioned the week before, quietly adjusting the cable machine to accommodate it without needing to be reminded. San, meanwhile, brought you chilled water at precisely the right moments and handed you fresh towels, constantly checking in with gentle questions about how you were feeling so you would never push yourself too far.
They remained impeccably professional even when the occasional light tease slipped through their careful composure. Sanâs deep, sweet dimples would flash whenever he caught you grimacing through a particularly stubborn set, his magnificent cat-like eyes sparkling with undisguised mischief as he coaxed you in that warm, honeyed voice that wrapped around you like velvet: âCome on, princess⌠one more for me. Youâve got this.â The nickname always landed so casually, slipping past your defences with effortless charm, yet it never failed to send a warm, unexpected flutter low in your stomach.
Yeosang was quieter, his amber eyes holding a skilfully controlled intensity that softened whenever he watched you push through a difficult set. In the right light they turned the deep, burnished colour of expensive aged whiskey, lending his already striking face an even more captivating quality. He always asked about your day in that smooth, deep voice â silk and smoke wrapped around every word â and the striking contrast between his angelic features and that sensual, almost indecent timbre never failed to send a shiver down your spine. He listened with genuine attention, offering small nods and gentle follow-up questions that pulled something tender and first-love soft behind your ribs.
Without realising it, you had begun to absorb small pieces of them into your own life, so that you found yourself sharing Sanâs quiet passion for late-night drives along the river and understanding Yeosangâs dry humour far more deeply whenever it slipped out in those perfectly timed one-liners.
The three of you had even started creating your own inside jokes â light, sparkling things that belonged only to the three of you, and they slowly turned the heavy weight of training into something that felt less like work and more like a shared ritual. The nighttime emptiness of the gym only made it easier to sink into their guidance. It no longer felt like a chore. Now you found yourself glancing at the clock throughout the day, already looking forward to these quiet evenings with your two trainers.
You had also begun to notice the small, delicious ways your body was responding to the steady rhythm of training. The plush give of your hips and ass had grown more resilient, now filling out the tight black leggings in a way that felt seductive rather than simply soft. It was a subtle shift, but one that gave you a little more confidence with every session. The faint outline of camel-toe had not disappeared, yet you no longer perceived it with the same sharp self-consciousness â especially after Sohee had casually mentioned that some men found it very arousing. Your friend had even tried to show you a few porn videos on the subject, and you had barely managed to talk her out of it, blushing furiously while insisting that you believed her.
Your breasts no longer felt so heavy and cumbersome either. They had grown more elastic and toned, and more than once you had caught yourself thinking that you liked the way they sat pleasantly within the neckline of your sports bra. And even though you still blushed deeply and looked away when boysâ eyes moved over you in quiet assessment, the warmth that rose to your cheeks now felt different â comfortable, almost pleasant. It was the kind of attention that made you feel seen rather than exposed.
The bond between San and Yeosang continued to reveal itself in small, wordless ways that only made the sessions feel intriguing. Sometimes San would rest a hand on Yeosangâs shoulder as they discussed your form, his thumb brushing once in a quiet, familiar gesture of agreement. Other times Yeosang would lean in close to murmur something against Sanâs ear while they stood behind you, their heads angled together for a brief moment. Once, when San passed him a resistance band, Yeosangâs fingers closed lightly over his wrist and lingered there just long enough to feel intentional.Â
These touches were never overt, never anything more than two people who knew each other deeply, yet they carried a quiet warmth that made something flutter low in your belly.
âTheyâre just⌠close,â you told yourself, the thought drifting through your mind like the first gentle stir of something you werenât quite ready to name.
By the time the bond between San and Yeosang had already begun to feel like a quiet, steady presence in the background of every session, the weeks spent together had only made the air around the three of you feel warmer. The gym at night had become its own little world, and the two of them had settled into your routine with the same ease as if they had always been part of it.
Discussions had slowly shifted from pure instruction to something warmer and more personal. San would tease you lightly whenever you gravitated toward the same machine first, his voice rich and enveloping as he grinned and said, âCreature of habit, huh?â Yeosang, on the other hand, often shared quick, ridiculous stories about clients from the day shift that made all three of you laugh until the mirrors echoed with the sound. They were comfortable together. Pleasant. Sweet in a way that made the long hours after dark feel like the best part of your day instead of the hardest.
Yet beneath the easy rhythm, something else had begun to take shape. Though the gym stayed nearly empty around you, the air between the three of you had grown thicker with a quiet tension â the kind that hummed beneath every shared laugh and every lingering glance caught in the mirrors. Their touches stayed light and instructional, warm but never lingering too long on the soft curves of your body. Still, the atmosphere around you felt heavier lately, charged with something unspoken. It was as if a slow, hypnotic pull had settled between the three of you â something beautifully inevitable that had yet to spark into flame.
But what you had no idea about was that each of them carried their own private storm.
Bold, heated thoughts that thickened their blood and made their cocks twitch traitorously beneath the thin fabric of their black tanks whenever your soft, voluptuous body moved between them.Â
Sanâs dimpled smile would flash innocently enough during a set, but later, alone in the locker room after youâd left, his mind would drift to pinning you against the cool mirrors, hands sinking into the plush give of your ass while he buried himself deep. Yeosangâs amber eyes stayed gentle and focused on your form, yet in the shower afterward, water streaming down his sculpted chest, he imagined those same eyes locked on yours as he fed you his cock inch by slow inch, stretching your gentle sweetness wide until you dripped around him.Â
And somewhere in the quiet overlap of their thoughts, the fantasies always merged â sharing you between them, long nights of hot, deep fucking where you were caught in the middle of their bodies, ruined and filled and claimed until thick, milky cum leaked down your trembling thighs.
Those thoughts slipped in and out of their conversations in the pleasant silence of the locker room as they changed, in the steam of the showers where their shoulders brushed with far too much familiarity, and late at night in the dark of their bedroom â hands wrapped around their aching cocks while they whispered filthy promises to each other about the pretty little star who had no idea how badly they wanted to breed her.
This slow burn could have continued for a long time beneath perfect professionalism, if it hadnât begun to physically irritate them â a constant, low throb of frustration that made their touches a fraction more deliberate, their gazes a fraction heavier when they thought you werenât looking.
The heavy doors of the gym yielded beneath your hurried hands with ease, swinging open to admit you into the warm, golden-lit space just as the last remnants of the evening chill clung to your skin.Â
Your cheeks were already flushed a deep, dewy rose from the frantic dash through the city streets, and your breath came in soft, quick little gasps that made the cropped top feel far too tight against the rapid rise and fall of your chest. One trembling hand pressed instinctively to the upper swell of your breasts as though to calm the wild rhythm beneath, while the other smoothed futilely down the front of your tight black leggings, trying to compose yourself into something more presentable.Â
The fabric had grown slightly damp during your rush, and now it clung to you like a second skin â molding itself to the generous, plush curves of your ass, stretching taut across the rounded flesh with every step. The seam nestled insistently between your thighs, pressing right against the plump, sensitive lips of your cunt in a way that sent tiny, unwelcome sparks of awareness through your body no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.
âIâm so, so sorry.â You managed, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. A few delicate strands of your soft, beautiful hair had slipped free of the ponytail, framing your face and brushing against your heated cheeks despite your repeated attempts to tuck them back with unsteady fingers.Â
The flush had spread lower, painting a warm, inviting glow across the graceful line of your neck and spilling down onto the smooth skin of your chest â whether from exertion or from the sudden, acute self-consciousness of standing before them like this, you couldnât tell.
Sanâs gaze moved over you slowly, taking in every detail of your flustered state with a small, knowing smile that curved his lips in a way that made your stomach tighten.Â
âEverythingâs fine, princess.â He said, the low, velvet timbre of his voice wrapping around the words like a caress. He waved off your concern with an easy, graceful flick of his hand, the gesture somehow both reassuring and hot in its casual confidence.
Yeosangâs dark, enchanting eyes softened with something far more playful and far more dangerous as he watched you try to steady yourself.Â
âAnd anyway,â He added, the teasing lilt in his voice sending a fresh wave of heat rolling straight through your veins. âTonight is all for you. No one else booked the late-night slot. The place is ours.â
What followed was the familiar rhythm of your sessions, yet tonight the air itself felt thicker, wrapped in a charged undercurrent that had been steadily building over the past four weeks and now hummed just beneath every movement.Â
Low, warm laughter wove through the golden glow of the late-night lighting, mingling with the low, throbbing bass that pulsed from the speakers and seemed to vibrate directly into your bones. The endless mirrors multiplied every soft, milky curve of your body, framing you between the two tall, sculpted forms of your trainers as you stepped onto the mats near the treadmills.
It wasnât anything overt. Not yet. But the subtle shift in the atmosphere wrapped itself around you like warm silk.Â
When San moved in close to correct your stance during the first stretch, his broad, warm palm settled at the small of your back, the heat of it seeping through the thin fabric of your top and lingering far longer than any professional correction required.Â
His fingers spread slightly, pressing with just enough intent that you felt the sheer size of his hand against your waist, the quiet strength in it, and your body responded before your mind could catch up â a subtle, involuntary arch into the touch, a soft catch in your breath, the way your thighs pressed together almost instinctively as a slow, liquid warmth began to gather and bloom between them.
Yeosangâs fingers brushed the delicate inside of your wrist a moment later when he passed you the water bottle, the contact light yet unmistakably deliberate, his thumb grazing the fluttering pulse point there in a way that sent a sharp little thrill racing up your arm.Â
The cool condensation on the bottle did nothing to ease the sudden flare of heat that settled deep and heavy in your core, and long after he withdrew his hand your skin continued to tingle with the ghost of his touch. You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from letting out the soft, needy sound that wanted to escape.
Their eyes met over your shoulder in one of those loaded, knowing exchanges that always left you feeling stripped bare, as if they could see straight through every layer of your composure to the growing, desperate want you tried so hard to hide. Heat pooled low and insistent in your belly, your nipples tightening into sensitive peaks against the fabric of your cropped top, and you fought the urge to cross your arms over your chest.Â
You told yourself it was nothing. This was just ordinary training â the final session before your package ended, the last time you would stand between them like this. It meant nothing that Sanâs touch seemed to brand itself into your overheated skin or that Yeosangâs gaze felt like a physical stroke tracing the lines of your body in the mirrors.
âThis is just training,â the thought looped in your mind even as your body betrayed you with every shallow breath, every subtle clench of your inner walls around nothing, every fresh rush of slick warmth that made the seam of your leggings feel even more intrusive, more knowing against the silky, sensitive folds of your cunt.Â
It had been so long since anyone had touched you the way you craved, since anyone had looked at you with that dark, hungry edge that made you feel small and desired and a little out of control all at once. âItâs all in your head. Theyâre still just your trainers.â
But San and Yeosang knew better.
They had been counting down the days to this final session, and tonight the professional boundaries that had held them back were about to mean very little.
The irritation that had been building for weeks had sharpened into something far more insistent for San and Yeosang â a constant, heavy throb that made their cocks twitch and strain against the thin fabric of their black sweatpants with every innocent sway of your hips, every soft blush that painted your sweet cheeks when they teased you lightly about your form.Â
You were so cute in your shy, responsive way, and they could no longer decide what they craved more: to pull you into their arms and finally feel all that plush juiciness and softness yielding against their bodies, or to ruin you completely, to leave you trembling and overflowing with their cum for hours.
Tonight, with the gym almost deserted and the heavy doors locked against the outside world, that hunger felt much stronger, almost unbearable. The air itself seemed thick with it â luxurious, forbidden, dripping with the promise of everything they had been holding back for weeks.Â
This was the last session of your block. Their final night pretending they didnât want to destroy you in the most exquisite ways. And as the golden lights spilled over your plush body like liquid champagne, highlighting every soft curve and every dewy flush, the tension finally, slowly, began to crack open.
The session had slipped into that measured rhythm you had always secretly longed for, the near-empty gym wrapped in nothing but the low golden lights and the faint, echoing sound of your own breathing. Yet tonight you could no longer ignore how much thicker the tension had grown, how much heavier it pressed against your skin like fire coiled just beneath the surface of every glance and every brush of contact.
San and Yeosang moved around you with the same effortless professional grace they always had, but their touches had grown bolder, more deliberate â impossible to dismiss no matter how hard you tried to tell yourself otherwise.Â
Sanâs strong hands settled on your body again, this time guiding your hips into alignment with a slow, noticeable pressure that made your breath catch sharply in your throat. His fingers dug just a little deeper into the plump, yielding flesh, holding you there for a beat longer than necessary. Yeosangâs light, teasing fingers traced the line of your shoulder and down the outside of your arm, the touch warm and lingering, sending a shiver racing straight through you and straight down to your core.
Their voices had slipped lower, richer, a few explicit little comments threading through the usual instructions like the slow, sensual stroke of velvet over bare skin.
âSuch a good girl for me tonight, princess.â San murmured close to your ear as he adjusted your stance from behind, his hot breath gliding over your flushed, sensitive skin in a way that made the fine hairs at the nape of your neck stand up. âLook at how perfectly you do it⌠following my every instruction so sweetly. Every inch of you responding exactly the way I want.â
âBreathe through it, sweetheart.â Yeosang said, his amber eyes darkening as he stepped in front of you, one hand lightly cupping your elbow to guide the movement. âLet us see how beautifully your body opens up when you stop fighting what it wants.â
Their words sank straight between your thighs like liquid heat, hot and filthy beneath the polished surface of their polite care. Your cheeks burned hotter. Your pussy clenched again, harder this time, the seam of your leggings pressing more insistently against your swollen, throbbing clit with every small shift of weight.Â
You could feel yourself growing slicker, the delicate folds becoming puffy and sensitive, the fabric starting to cling in a way that made you acutely aware of how wet you were getting â and terrified they might notice the subtle dampness if they looked too closely.
And still they moved around you. Sanâs hand slid a fraction lower, his fingers digging a little harder into the plump flesh of your hip, the pressure possessive in a way that made your knees feel unsteady. Yeosangâs fingers brushed the inside of your wrist again as he passed you the bottle once more, the contact sending another sharp little thrill up your arm.Â
Every touch carried the weight of weeks of restraint finally beginning to fray at the edges, and you could feel it in the way their eyes lingered on your body, in the way their breathing had grown just a touch heavier, in the dark, hungry edge that had crept into their voices.
Your body was betraying you more with every passing second â thighs pressing together in a futile attempt to ease the growing ache, hips wanting to rock subtly into the pressure of Sanâs hand, breath coming quicker, a soft, involuntary whimper catching in your throat that you barely managed to swallow.Â
It had been so long since anyone had touched you like this, since anyone had spoken to you in that low, velvet tone that made your cunt flutter and drip. The denial you had been clinging to was cracking, and you werenât sure how much longer you could pretend this was still just training.
Something in the air told you that tonight, in this final session, everything was about to change.
 âYouâve got so much more flexible over the last while. Look at the way your hips open up like thatâŚâ When San spoke again, his voice had dropped even lower, rich as dark chocolate laced with something far darker and hungrier.
âAnd so responsive tonight⌠makes it hard to keep things professional.â Yeosangâs amber gaze had grown heavier, more languid, soft but unmistakably edged with hunger.Â
You tried to laugh it off, cheeks burning hot enough to rival the golden lights, but your body betrayed you with every tiny shift. The leggings clung like a second skin to the plush swell of your hips and the gentle curve of your ass, offering almost no protection from the heat of Sanâs touch. The cropped top rose and fell over the soft press of your breasts with every quickened breath, and Yeosangâs gaze lingered on the delicate line of your neckline far longer than was appropriate, tracing the shadow between your breasts with open appreciation.
âThis is still just training,â you told yourself, even as shame twisted hot and sweet in your belly and your needy little pussy fluttered traitorously beneath the fabric. âTheyâre being nice, thatâs all. Stop imagining their hands everywhere else.â But the air hummed with it now, that unspoken want thickening between the three of you.
It happened during the new wide-stance sumo squat.
Legs spread wide, toes turned out, you lowered yourself slowly until your muscles burned and your hips opened obscenely wide. The stretch pulled your leggings mercilessly tight across your crotch, the thin black fabric molding perfectly to the plump, swollen mound of your pussy until the delicate outline of your camel-toe became shamelessly prominent. The seam dug right between the soft, peachy halves of your labia, pressing insistently against your swollen clit and the slick, sensitive folds beneath. Your soft folds were visibly outlined against the material, a faint darker wet spot blooming where your body had grown shamefully slick and needy from nothing more than their voices and their nearness. Every tiny adjustment, every subtle shift of weight sent the seam rubbing over your throbbing clit, making fresh slickness gather and the spot spread just a little more, the fabric growing visibly damper between your spread thighs.
Sanâs gaze dropped before he could stop it, locking onto that obscene little display. He swallowed hard, the rosy flush on his cheeks flaring hotter as his thick cock twitched visibly beneath his pants. In that moment he was already imagining leaning down, mouth watering at the thought of pressing his lips to that plump, warm mound, tongue dragging slow and filthy over the soaked fabric until you were grinding helplessly against his face, whimpering his name, your thighs trembling around his head while he licked you through the ruined material.
In reality he moved gently, almost awkwardly, sliding his hands to your hips to help guide you upright, his touch burning straight through the thin layer of your clothes and into your skin. The pressure of his palms made your pussy press more firmly against the seam for one dizzying second, and a soft, involuntary sound caught in your throat.
âHey⌠maybe we should skip holding this one too long.â He said, coughing awkwardly to clear his throat. His voice came out low and rough around the edges, dimples flashing in a smile that didnât quite hide the hunger. âYour leggings are⌠a little too tight right there between your thighs. Donât want to make you uncomfortable.â The words were clumsy on the surface, professional in shape but dripping with everything he wasnât saying. His cat-like eyes flicked once more to the way your pussy was so clearly outlined before he forced them away.
Yeosang caught the moment and gave San a knowing look â slow, filthy, and full of understanding. The corner of his beautiful, perfectly sculpted mouth curved as he made a deliberate, unmistakable gesture with his hand, fist closing and pumping once in the air in silent, teasing mimicry, eyebrows raised in quiet challenge. San rolled his eyes, cheeks burning darker, but he couldnât help leaning in close to Yeosangâs ear while you caught your breath, his voice dropping to a husky whisper meant only for the two of them.
âAs if you donât want to eat that pussy yourself.â He breathed, the words velvet and smoke with raw need. âI bet itâs sweet and warm under your tongue⌠already dripping just for us. I know youâve imagined how good it would be to warm that tiny, plump thing up in your mouth until she squirms and whines, begging for you to finally shove your tongue inside her hole. Or am I wrong, Sangie?â
âThis is so fucking meanâŚâ Yeosang hissed through his teeth, his voice stripped of every trace of its former playfulness. His fingers dug into the small of Sanâs back with possessive force, a tight little squeeze that spoke of countless nights spent tangled together, both of them imagining exactly this â you caught between them, soft and ruined and begging.
You couldnât hear what they were saying, but their body language told you everything. The flush had already crawled all the way down your chest, and your cunt clenched hard at the charged air even though the words werenât meant for your ears. Your pussy was already dripping anyway, soaking the seam of your leggings like a desperate little slut while they stood there pretending they werenât imagining ruining you.
Your body moved through the next set on autopilot â deep, controlled lunges â yet every breath felt electric, every shift of your plush, juicy curves drawing their eyes like magnets.Â
Sanâs broad palm slid lower this time when he corrected your stance, fingers splaying possessively across the curve of your hip, his thumb brushing the waistband of your leggings in a slow, deliberate stroke that sent heat licking straight to your cunt. Yeosang stepped in from the front, his long fingers grazing the sensitive underside of your arm as he adjusted your elbow, his amber eyes locking onto yours for a heartbeat too long, whiskey-warm and dark with something that made your thighs clench involuntarily.
You could no longer ignore their masculine attractiveness â not when sweat glistened along the strong column of Sanâs neck, trickling down in a slow, glistening path that disappeared beneath the black tank stretched tight over his heaving chest. His Adamâs apple bobbed as he swallowed, the movement hypnotic, the rosy flush on his cheeks deepening with every controlled exhale. Yeosangâs shoulders rolled with each demonstration, the smooth, heated skin of his arms flexing, veins standing out like silk cords beneath the warm glow; his thighs tensed visibly when he dropped into a squat beside you, the powerful muscles shifting under the fabric of his sweatpants, and you felt your own pulse throb between your legs at the sight.
"Theyâre so close, so warm, so fucking beautiful," the thought twisted inside you, shame and desperate lust coiling tighter until your pussy ached, the soaked seam of your leggings rubbing obscenely against your swollen clit with every tiny movement.Â
The room felt stuffier now, the low bass of the music pulsing like a second heartbeat through the floor and straight into your core, the mirrors reflecting your flushed face and their carved frames in endless, obscene luxury.
Sanâs gaze dropped again to the prominent camel-toe still outlined so shamelessly against your crotch, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he muttered under his breath,Â
âYouâre making this session real hard for us tonight.â The words slipped out low and honeyed, laced with filthy innuendo.Â
Yeosang let out a low, velvety chuckle beside him, stepping close enough that his chest brushed Sanâs shoulder.
âCareful, baby.â He purred, voice smooth as smoke and sin. âOr youâll have to explain why your cockâs trying to rip through those sweatpants while you stare at her pretty little pussy like itâs dinner.â
San shot him a heated look, dimples flashing in a smirk that promised trouble, but his hand lingered on your lower back a second longer, thumb pressing into the soft dip just above your ass in a touch that felt anything but professional. Yeosangâs fingers found Sanâs wrist in return, squeezing with a quiet warning.
The two of them exchanged a glance so loaded it made your breath hitch â teasing each other, yes, but sharing the exact same raw thirst, the same burning need to ruin you right here.
You felt it physically now â the heat rolling off their bodies in waves, the faint smoky-sweet perfume mixed with clean sweat wrapping around you like velvet poison. Sanâs chest rose and fell heavily as he moved behind you for the next rep, his breath ghosting warm against the nape of your neck when he murmured:
âBend a little deeper for me⌠yeah, just like that."
Yeosangâs eyes darkened to molten amber as he watched from the front, lips parting on a slow exhale, the subtle shift of his thighs drawing your gaze to the thick outline straining against his own pants.Â
The tension between the three of you was palpable now, almost physical â a living and breathing thing, every mirror catching the way your soft body trembled between their heat, your cunt dripping shamelessly while they fought to keep the last threads of restraint intact. The golden pendant lights turned the empty gym into a private, obscene cathedral of mirrors and shadow where the three of you stood panting in the center of it all.Â
Sanâs hand slid lower first â completely unprofessional, no longer pretending to correct your form, his calloused fingers dragging slow and deliberate down the curve of your lower back until they cupped the plush swell of your ass, squeezing the soft, milky flesh like heâd been starving for it for weeks.
Your breath caught, a soft, needy whimper slipping out instead, and that single sound shattered whatever was left of their restraint.
Yeosang moved in from the front, his amber eyes molten as he stepped close enough that his chest brushed the soft swell of your breasts, one long-fingered hand sliding up your waist beneath the hem of your cropped top.Â
âThatâs it, beautiful,â He whispered, voice thick and velvet-rough. âLet's show you a couple of more effective exercises." His touch grew bolder when you shivered instead of pulling back, fingertips tracing the sensitive underside of your breast.Â
"You donât want us to stop, do you?â Sanâs palm kneaded your ass harder, pulling you back against the thick, heavy outline of his cock straining against his sweatpants.
âNoâŚI donât want toâŚâ Your own hands betrayed you next â hesitant at first, trembling as one palm pressed flat against Yeosangâs sweat-slick stomach, feeling the hard ridges of muscle tense beneath your touch, then sliding lower to brush the firm, rounded curve of his ass. The other found Sanâs bicep, fingers digging into the warm, flexed muscle as if you needed to anchor yourself before you drowned. "I really, really want this...'Â
Both men groaned low and filthy at the contact, their bodies pressing tighter, cocks throbbing visibly now, and the way they looked at each other over your shoulder â Sanâs dimpled smirk turning dark, Yeosangâs tongue dragging slowly over his lower lip â told you theyâd been sharing this exact hunger for far too long.
They guided you into the next position without asking, hands everywhere at once. Yeosang gently but firmly pushed you back until your back was to Sanâs chest, your legs spread wide in a deep, standing lunge that had nothing to do with training anymore. Sanâs thick cock nestled hot and heavy right between the cheeks of your ass, the hard length rubbing shamelessly against the soaked seam of your leggings as he rolled his hips once, slow and deliberate.Â
Himself he stepped in front, his own erection pressing against your lower belly, the heat of it burning through the thin fabric. In the endless mirrors surrounding you, the reflection was obscene â your  lavish, soft body caught between their carved frames like a perfect offering, legs trembling, hips rolling instinctively back against Sanâs cock while Yeosangâs hands gripped your waist.Â
It looked exactly like a mock-up of sex: you between them, ass grinding back on one thick cock while the other waited to ruin you from the front.
And you didnât mind at all. Your cunt clenched hard around nothing, dripping so shamelessly that the camel-toe outline of your pussy was now dark and obvious, the fabric clinging wetly to your swollen folds.Â
âFuck⌠feel that, baby? Thatâs what you do to us.âSanâs breath ghosted hot against your ear as he rocked forward again, letting you feel every inch of his heavy cock drag along the cleft of your ass.
Then a hot, calloused palm slid boldly between your legs from behind â Sanâs, thick fingers cupping your entire pussy through the leggings, pressing the soaked material right against your aching clit and rubbing slow, firm circles that made your knees buckle.Â
âSo fucking wet already.â He growled, voice whiskey-rough and dripping sin. âYour pretty cunt is dripping through these leggings like itâs begging to be ruined.â
Yeosangâs eyes flashed dark with shared hunger as he watched Sanâs hand working on you. His own palm slid up your stomach and yanked your cropped top up in one smooth, decisive motion. Your tits spilled out shamelessly â plump, juicy, nipples already tight and pebbled under the warm air, bouncing softly with every shaky breath. Yeosang groaned at the sight, leaning in to drag his tongue along the soft swell of one breast while Sanâs fingers kept rubbing your pussy harder, the wet, obscene sound of fabric dragging over your soaked folds echoing through the empty gym.
This was so filthy, yet your cunt was clenching and dripping anyway, pussy throbbing against Sanâs palm while Yeosangâs mouth hovered so close to your nipple you could feel his hot breath ghosting over the sensitive peak.Â
Their bodies caged you perfectly, cocks grinding against you from both sides, hands and mouths claiming every soft inch as the mirrors reflected the three of you.Â
The boys werenât pretending anymore â not even a little â and neither were you.
Your hands slid into Yeosangâs soft, silky hair of their own accord, fingers threading through the damp strands as his mouth and tongue worked your breasts with passionate, wicked skill â hot, wet suction pulling one plump nipple deep between his lips while his tongue flicked and swirled like he was starving for the taste of you. You arched into him with a broken whimper, desperate lust twisting so tightly in your belly.
âFuck, look at her.â San groaned, cupping the breast Yeosang was devouring, squeezing the soft, milky flesh with grateful hunger and pushing more of you into his partnerâs greedy mouth. âSuch pretty, juicy tits⌠offering them to us like the good little slut you are.â
At the same time one of Yeosangâs hands slid boldly between your legs, joining Sanâs calloused palm in a filthy duet â two sets of fingers passionately massaging your soaked pussy through the drenched fabric of your leggings, rubbing firm, circling strokes right over your swollen clit and dripping folds until the material was completely soaked, your wetness smearing hot and slick across their skin.
âGonna stretch this tight little cunt so fucking good, princess.â Sanâs breath ghosted hot and filthy against the shell of your ear as he pressed harder, two thick fingers dragging up and down your seam.
That lewd promise hit your needy cunt like a spark, making your empty hole clench hard around nothing, dripping even more for them. âGonna open you up on our cocks until you feel every inch splitting your hole wide⌠show you what a real stretch feels like when two men ruin you together. Youâre gonna take us both, baby â gonna cream and squirt and beg while we breed this pretty pussy full.â
âGonna leave that pretty hole swollen and gaping, leaking our thick cum like the perfect little fuck doll you are.â Yeosangâs low chuckle brushed your other ear as he pressed closer to you, his voice velvety and filthy, full of the most depraved promises.
"I'll feed you so fucking well, princess." San slid his thumb between your parted lips, running it slowly over your tongue as he added, dark and possessive.
Yeosangâs other hand came down on your free breast with a sharp, delicious slap â once, twice â making the plush flesh jiggle and flush hot under his palm, the sting blooming into liquid heat that shot straight to your clit. He sucked on your tit again before releasing your nipple with an obscene, wet squelch, strands of saliva stretching from his swollen lips to your glistening peak before snapping.Â
The sight seemed to drive him wild; he spat deliberately onto the flushed mound, watching the thick glob of spit slide down your skin, and Sanâs palm immediately smeared it in slow, possessive circles, marking you like you already belonged to them.
Their tongues turned vicious after that, filth pouring from their mouths in a constant stream of honeyed depravity while your hand finally wrapped around the thick, heavy contour of Yeosangâs cock straining against his pants.Â
âSo thick and so heavyâ You squeezed, stroking the massive length through the fabric, feeling it throb and twitch under your palm, and both men moaned in unison â Sanâs low and sweet right against your ear, Yeosangâs a deep, broken rumble against your breast.Â
âThatâs it, doll.â Yeosang panted, voice silk and smoke. âFeel how hard you make me? How bad do I need to bury this cock in that sweet little cunt?â
âFuck⌠sheâs dripping so much for us already.â San moaned again, softer this time, almost reverent, as he felt a thick, warm gush of your slick leak straight from your hole and seep through the leggings onto their joined fingers. âSuch a needy, messy little star⌠this pussy is crying for us, baby. Canât wait to tear these fucking leggings off and watch it cream all over our cocks.â He groaned, rubbing the fresh wetness deeper into the fabric, pressing it right against your clit until your thighs shook.
Your body trembled between them, tits out and glistening with spit, their hands owning your soaked cunt, your own fingers shamelessly groping the delicious hardness of Yeosangâs throbbing cock while San ground his heavy erection harder against the plump swell of your buttocks. The empty gym had become nothing but a decadent stage for the three of you now, tension finally shattered into raw, dripping need.
The boys no longer held back â their caresses turned savage, hands working you with raw, hungry intensity. Sanâs thick fingers rubbed your pussy harder, aggressive and rough, grinding the drenched fabric right against your swollen clit in brutal circles while Yeosang matched him perfectly from the front, two sets of calloused palms massaging and pressing and owning your cunt like they owned every slick inch of it.Â
âBe a good girl for us, princess. You want these cocks? You want us to stuff that pretty mouth and fill this tight little cunt until youâre leaking our cum for days? Then youâre gonna squirt for us right now. Soak these fingers like the needy little slut you are. Earn it.â Yeosang pulled back just enough to fix you with a dark, fox-like stare â amber eyes glittering with the most depraved promises, lips wet and swollen as he growled low.
âYes, yes, Iâll be a good girl for you.â You nodded desperately, hips jerking forward on their own, grinding shamelessly against their hands as fresh slick gushed out of you.
Sanâs free hand kneaded your breast roughly, pinching and rolling your nipple until it throbbed, while Yeosang grabbed one of your soft thighs in a firm grip and hiked it high to his waist, spreading you wider so both of them could rub your pussy even harder, fingers pressing and circling with filthy intent.
You couldnât wait any longer. Your hand shot up, fingers tangling in Yeosangâs silky hair, and you yanked the beautiful vixen down into a dirty, wet, open-mouthed kiss â tongues sliding and licking and fucking each otherâs mouths in a messy, obscene tangle, saliva dripping down your chin as you moaned into him like a whore in heat.
When he finally pulled away, gasping, Sanâs hand left your breast only to grab the back of Yeosangâs head and drag him into an equally hot, filthy kiss right in front of you â tongues battling wet and loud, mouths devouring each other while their bodies caged you tighter.Â
The sight was absolutely obscene, so much hotter than any porn youâd ever seen â two gorgeous men making out like they were starving for each other while their hands kept destroying your cunt through your leggings. Your hole clenched hard around nothing, aching and empty and dripping like a desperate little slut.
Your hands grew bold, sliding greedily over Yeosangâs body â tracing the slick, heated muscles of his shoulders and chest, nails scratching lightly over his nipples until they pebbled under your touch. Then you went lower, slipping your trembling fingers into the waistband of his pants and wrapping around his thick, heavy cock and balls.Â
He was burning hot, velvet-smooth skin stretched tight over pulsing hardness, heavy balls drawn up tight and already slick with pre-cum. You squeezed and stroked him shamelessly, thumb rubbing over the swollen head while he moaned into Sanâs mouth.
When they finally broke the kiss, strings of saliva connecting their lips, San turned that dirty, dimpled grin on you, eyes dark and glittering.
âMmm⌠I can taste you on his tongue already, princess,â he purred. âBut next time I want to lick your sweet slime straight off his balls while heâs buried balls-deep in that pretty cunt.â
The words hit you like lightning. Your orgasm crashed over you like an avalanche â sudden, shattering, unstoppable. Your hips shook violently, thighs trembling as your cunt clenched and unclenched in powerful spasms, a hot, gushing stream of your arousal squirting hard through the ruined fabric of your leggings, soaking their fingers and dripping down your thighs in messy, obscene rivulets.Â
"Oh God!" You cried out, broken and needy, body jerking between them as wave after wave ripped through you.
Both boys moaned loud and filthy, pressing their hard cocks harder against you â San grinding his thick length against your ass, Yeosangâs cock throbbing in your fist â while praise and filth poured from their mouths in a constant, velvet stream.
âFuck, thatâs our good girl â squirting so pretty for us,â San groaned, rubbing your pulsing cunt through every gush.
âLook at her creaming and soaking everything⌠such a messy little star.â Yeosang panted, eyes locked on the way your pussy kept fluttering and leaking under their hands. âGonna make you do that again on our cocks, baby. Gonna ruin you until you canât even walk.â
They didnât stop rubbing you for a single second, milking every last drop of your orgasm. The afterglow of your first shattering orgasm still pulsed through every inch of your body like small electrical charges, leaving you trembling and loose and glowing between them. Your cunt throbbed hot and heavy, slick still leaking in slow, obscene rivulets down your inner thighs and soaking the already ruined leggings even deeper.
San and Yeosang didnât give you a moment to catch your breath â they simply covered you in hot, open-mouthed kisses, devouring every inch of skin they could reach like starving men who had finally been allowed to taste their favorite meal.
âFuck, princess⌠you squirted so beautifully for us.â Sanâs plush lips dragged slow and filthy along the column of your throat, sucking a dark mark just beneath your jaw while he groaned low and sweet against your skin.
âLook at you, all flushed and dripping â such a perfect little star.â Yeosangâs mouth found the swell of your breast, tongue swirling around your pebbled nipple before he sucked it deep, moaning gratefully as his hand kneaded the soft, plush flesh. âSo soft⌠so fucking delicious.â He breathed between kisses, lips trailing wet heat across your collarbone and down the valley between your tits.Â
Their hands roamed everywhere â possessive yet reverent â stroking the gentle curve of your waist, squeezing the plush give of your ass, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts like they couldnât stop touching you.
You felt desired. Wanted. Worshipped. Every filthy word and every hot press of their mouths made heat bloom low in your belly, your pussy clenching around nothing as fresh slick dripped out of you.
Yeosang was the one who finally lifted you, sliding his strong arms under your thighs and hoisting you up effortlessly so your legs wrapped around his waist. Your already ruined leggings rubbed obscenely against his abs as he carried you through the empty gym, Sanâs broad palm staying glued to your ass the entire way, squeezing and kneading the soft flesh.
âWeâre gonna show you what a real workout feels like now, baby,â Yeosang purred against your ear, voice smooth as silk and smoke, amber eyes dark with promise.Â
âNo more gentle little corrections. Tonight this pretty body is ours to ruin properly.â San chuckled low behind you, nipping at your shoulder. âWeâve been dying to fuck you like this for weeks.â
The door to their private locker room swung open and Yeosang carried you inside without bothering to turn on the main lights, letting only the dim golden wall lamps cast their low, luxurious glow across the mirrored space. Long leather benches gleamed faintly beneath the warm light, while faint steam still curled lazily from the showers in the corner, and endless reflections multiplied your flushed, half-naked form from every angle. The air hung thick and charged, heavy with the scent of sweat and amber, warm skin and smoky-sweet perfume, threaded through with the faint metallic tang of steel.
He settled you onto all fours on the wide leather bench with careful, deliberate hands, your palms pressing flat into the cool, supple surface while your knees sank into the padded leather. The position naturally arched your back, pushing your ass higher and presenting your soaked, throbbing core to the two dark, hungry gazes.Â
Without hesitation, Yeo dropped to his knees behind you, his strong hands gripping the soft, supple flesh of your inner thighs and spreading them wider, opening you further for his mouth.
He leaned in and pressed his hot, wet mouth directly against the drenched crotch of your leggings. Yeosang's warm tongue moved in slow, deliberate, filthy stripes, dragging over the thin, clinging fabric again and again with unhurried hunger, eagerly lapping up every trace of your earlier release. The material grew even more transparent under the heat and wetness of his mouth, molding obscenely to the plump, swollen shape of your folds.Â
Obscene, wet sounds filled the quiet space as he sucked and licked through the cloth like he was determined to drink you straight through it, the low vibration of his moans traveling straight through to your throbbing clit and making you tremble.
âGod⌠You taste even sweeter than Iâd imagined.â Yeosang groaned loudly against you, the words muffled and rough against the warm plushness of your snatch, sending fresh sparks of pleasure shooting through your core.Â
At the same time, San stepped in front of you, shoving his pants down just far enough to free his heavy cock. The fat, flushed head tapped against your parted lips once, twice, smearing viscous, glistening pre-cum across them in thick streaks before he pushed forward, sliding into the moist, welcoming warmth of your mouth with a deep, satisfied groan.
"That's what you want,baby, isn't it? You want to take my cock in your starving mouth and suck it until I come down your throat while Sangie licks that pretty cunt through leggings?â He purrs in a sultry and hoarse voice âGood girl. Take me nice and deep â just like that. Let me feel that tongue working.â San pulls your face closer to his velvety, throbbing length, practically burying you in his cock and testicles.
You whimper at his words as you try to swallow him whole, pushing his thick girth deeper and deeper into the narrow tunnel of your throat as you go. As you look up at him with your tear-filled eyes, his sharp cat eyes meet yours, he gives you a slow, predatory grinâa beautiful, cocky look that makes you squirm in your spot. San's fingers threaded gently into your hair, not forcing but guiding with steady pressure as you hollowed your cheeks and moaned around his thick length.Â
""Do you like my cock, my little princess, do you?"
All you can do is let out a pitiful sob in response. The overwhelming dual sensation of how they work on you, making your arms shake and your thighs quiver. You pushed back slightly against Yeosangâs mouth without thinking, your body chasing more friction even as you sucked San deeper.
After long, indulgent minutes of this slow, torturous attention â Sanâs cock sliding in and out of your mouth in deep, measured strokes while Yeosang devoured you from behind through the ruined leggings â they switched positions with the same unhurried grace.
Sultry brunette moved behind you, dropping to his knees and burying his face between your spread thighs with even more aggressive hunger. His tongue pressed hard and insistent against your clit through the fabric, licking broad, firm stripes that made your arms shake harder and your hips twitch back toward his mouth in helpless little movements. Yeo took his place in front, one hand cradling your jaw with surprising tenderness as he fed you with his massive girth.
You gag on it, the slippery, hot walls of your throat tightening around his cock, pressing against the sensitive, throbbing veins that stretch seductively along its thick, silky length. The sensation causes Yeosang to let out a loud moan, throwing his head back and rolling his eyes in pleasure.
While you were choking on Yeosang's dick, San hooked his fingers into the thin seam of your leggings and pulled with force, the fabric gave way with a sharp, satisfying tear.
âFinally.â Yeosang groaned loudly, throwing his head back, as you wrapping your lips completely around it, sucking in your cheeks. 'It took you so fucking long, Sannie.'
San didnât answer, instead, his palm came down in a sharp, wet slap directly against your now-bare, glistening cunt. The sound cracked obscenely through the room, your soft, plump folds jiggling from the impact, the sting blooming into hot, throbbing pleasure that made your whole body jolt forward.
A helpless, broken whimper escaped your throat, your eyes squeezed shut as your curvy, plush hips arched back instinctively toward the heat of Sanâs hand. Your body moving on its own, chasing more even if the sensation was burning.
San slapped you again, harder this time, watching with dark, hungry eyes as your folds flushed a deepe pink and grew visibly wetter under the warm golden light. A thick strand of your slick clung to his fingers for a moment when he pulled his hand back.
Without a word, Yeosang leaned forward from his position in front and spat directly onto your swollen, exposed clit â thick, warm saliva landing right on the sensitive bundle of nerves. San immediately smeared it in with his fingers, rubbing slow circles over your dripping entrance and clit like he was marking you, claiming every inch as theirs.
"Perfect, finest fuckhole." He exhales, his feline eyes darkening and becoming heavy, completely clouded with lust. His fingers parted your labia to reveal even more of your flesh. âFuck, look at you, so pink and wet and ready for us⌠this pretty pussy is already crying for our cocks, like it knows exactly who it belongs to now. Such a good, messy girl for us.â
Your thighs trembled under their hands, slick continuing to ooze from your needy core as the cool air kissed your exposed skin and their combined attention made your whole body burn with desperate, undeniable want. The mirrors caught every detail â your flushed face, the way your hips kept twitching back for more, the glistening mess they had made of you â and there was no hiding how thoroughly they already owned every reaction.
âOur princess deserved it, didnât she? But I think there are a couple more exercises that we havenât tried yet.â Yeosangâs voice came low and velvet-smooth as he spoke.
With effortless strength Yeosang lifted you again, this time completely off the bench. His strong arms hooked beneath your knees, spreading your legs impossibly wide so they dangled helplessly in the air, your lush body suspended and utterly at their mercy. Your back pressed flush against the solid, burning heat of his chest as he held you open like something precious and filthy all at once, the torn edges of your ruined leggings framing your exposed cunt in the most obscene display.
San dropped to his knees in front of you without hesitation, dark eyes ravenous as he buried his face between your spread thighs like a cat who had finally reached the cream. His tongue plunged straight into your dripping hole with long, greedy strokes, licking deep and thorough, devouring every drop of your slick while Yeosang kept you held wide open and perfectly positioned for him.
The position was pure, unapologetic filth â your body hanging suspended in the air, legs spread helplessly wide and dangling as Sanâs hot tongue fucked into your cunt with relentless, worshipful hunger. Yeosangâs mouth moved along the side of your neck at the same time, kissing and biting, whispering the most depraved promises directly against your ear while his strong arms never wavered.
âThatâs our good girl.â Yeosang murmured, voice low and velvet-rough right against your skin. âYouâre doing so fucking well for us already, princess. Look how beautifully youâre dripping down his chin⌠such a messy, perfect, little thing for us to ruin.â
Your hands fisted tight in Sanâs dark hair as another orgasm began to build, slow and inevitable, coiling low in your belly like thick molten gold. The mirrored walls reflected every obscene detail back at you â your plush body held open and trembling in the air, Sanâs face buried between your thighs, his tongue working deep inside you, Yeosangâs powerful arms keeping you exactly where they wanted you, their combined heat and hunger wrapping around you like the most addictive kind of poison.
The climax rolled through you like thick and white-hot wave, slow and crushing in its intensity. Your thighs shook violently in Yeosangâs iron grip while your cunt clenched and fluttered around Sanâs tongue. A hot, gushing squirt flooded out of you in messy, uncontrollable pulses, soaking his face and dripping down his chin in shiny rivulets that caught the dim golden light like champagne. You felt no shame â only pure, addictive desire and the overwhelming thrill of being held suspended and devoured like the most precious thing they had ever tasted.
"Tastes good, doesn't it?" Yeosang asks, licking his pretty lips as if he's trying to taste you, and San just moaned loudly in response, lapping up your juices as if it were his last meal on earth.Â
He purrs at your sweetness, like a contented giant cat, as he drank every drop with open hungry, his tongue still working you through the aftershocks until your vision sparkled at the edges with tears and your whole body trembled uncontrollably in Sangieâs arms.
âI canât⌠I canât take it, itâs so much...â You whimpered, voice broken and high, the words tumbling out between gasps as your fingers tightened almost painfully in Sanâs hair. âPlease... itâs too good, Iâm... fuck...â
Only then did they lower you. Yeosangâs arms eased you down onto the cool leather bench with surprising gentleness, though their eyes still burned with the same raw, insatiable hunger that promised they were far from finished with you.
They didnât give you time to recover. San stood first, kicking his pants the rest of the way off so his thick length slapped heavily against his perfectly sculpted abs with a loud, wet sound, splashing heavy drops of pre-cum across the chiselled ridges of muscle. Yeosang followed with unhurried grace, stripping until his cock was revealed in all its glory â so beautifully thick, juicy and veined, glistening from the copious streams of pre-cum leaking steadily from the swollen, reddened head and flowing down the length to dirty his full, heavy balls.
Both of them now gloriously naked, carved muscle gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat under the low light.
From this angle you swallowed heavily, feeling saliva pool thickly in your mouth while warm, viscous slick continued to flow from your little, plump pussy, thoroughly moistening your silky folds and making them glisten.
They began to tease you with their cocks like they had all the time in the world â dragging the heavy heads slowly along your swollen folds, tapping gently against your oversensitive clit, smearing their pre-cum over your slick skin in lazy, deliberate strokes that made your hips twitch and your breath catch with every new touch.
San rubbed the fat, leaking head of his cock up and down your ruined, dripping slit in slow, deliberate strokes, smearing your own slick and his pre-cum over your swollen labia until everything glistened. Yeosang mirrored him from the other side, sliding his own thick length along your pussy in lazy, filthy drags that made your hips jerk forward on instinct, your plump cunt fluttering helplessly between the two hot, heavy cocks.Â
Yeosang slapped his dick against your clit once, twice â wet, obscene smacks that sent little shocks of pleasure racing through you, then spat onto your exposed pussy, watching the thick glob slide down your folds before San rubbed it in with the broad head of his cock, smearing it everywhere.
âFeel that, princess?â San purred, eyes locked on the way your pussy glistened under their combined attention. âTwo cocks teasing this pretty little cunt⌠weâre gonna stretch you so fucking full tonight.â
âYouâre so light, baby. We should feed you better, right, San?â Yeosang lifted you again without the slightest effort, this time turning you so your back pressed against his chest, your legs hooked over his strong forearms in a perfect standing carry that left you suspended in the air between them. Your ripped leggings still framed your ass and thighs like a trophy while he held you wide open, a beautiful, voluptuous body completely helpless and exposed for whatever they wanted.
âIâve heard that a generous, warm load of cum can keep you full for the day⌠or a couple of hours.â A wicked smile curved his plump lips as he stepped in close, lined up, and sank into you in one long, devastating thrust â his thick cock stretching your tight, plush cunt open around his girth until you felt every veiny inch buried to the hilt.
âSo good⌠oh God, San⌠so thick⌠please, moreâŚâ The moan that tore from your throat was broken and needy as San started fucking you deep and steady, hips snapping forward while Yeosang held you suspended like you weighed nothing.Â
Every powerful thrust made your tits bounce, your pussy cream visibly around his cock, the wet slap of skin echoing through the mirrored locker room. Yeosangâs mouth found your neck again, biting and sucking marks into your skin while one of his hands slid down to stroke Sanâs cock every time it pulled out of you, fingers teasing his heavy balls and the base of his shaft like he couldnât help but touch him.
They kissed each other right over your shoulder â hot, open-mouthed, tongues sliding messily while San kept pounding into your cunt and Yeosang held you open for every thrust. The sight in the mirrors was pure luxury and filth: your soft body impaled and trembling in the air between two carved, sweating men who fucked and touched each other with shameless familiarity.Â
You felt desired. Craved. Like the center of their entire filthy universe.
Sanâs thrusts grew harder, deeper, his cock dragging perfectly against that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes. Yeosangâs fingers found your clit again, rubbing tight, fast circles while he whispered the most depraved things against your ear.Â
âThatâs our good girl⌠taking his cock so beautifully while I hold you open like a little fucktoy. Youâre gonna squirt all over him again, arenât you? Soak his balls while I watch.â
The orgasm crashed over you without warning â sudden, shattering, your cunt clamping down hard around Sanâs thick cock as you squirted hard, hot streams gushing out around him and dripping down his thighs in messy rivulets. Both men groaned in unison, Sanâs hips stuttering as he fucked you through it, Yeosangâs fingers never stopping their relentless circles.
âFuck yes, princess, cream all over my cock.â San growled, voice rough with pleasure. âSuch a messy, perfect little slut for us.â
They didnât stop. They simply adjusted their grip and kept you suspended between them, trading places with smooth, practiced ease â Yeosang sliding into your still-spasming cunt while San took over holding you open, their bodies moving together like they had done this a thousand times before.Â
And you knew, deep in your fluttering core, that the night was far from over.
Yeosangâs thick, veiny cock stretched you open so perfectly it stole the breath from your lungs, every slow, deliberate thrust dragging along your sensitive walls and making fresh slick drip down his shaft in thick, warm strands. San held you effortlessly in his strong arms, your back pressed to his broad chest, your legs hooked wide over his forearms, your exposed pussy an obscene invitation.Â
The position left you completely helpless and open, your body suspended between them, tits bouncing gently with every deep stroke Yeosang gave you.
San couldnât handle the sight. His dark eyes stayed locked on the place where Yeosangâs massive cock disappeared into your tight, plump cunt, watching the way your soft hole stretched thin and shiny around the thick shaft, the delicate pink edges clinging to every veiny inch like they were trying to pull him deeper.
âFuckâŚâ San breathed, voice rough and ragged, the hunger in it almost painful. âYouâre beautifully taking him, princess⌠that pretty little pussy stretching so wide and perfect around his thick cock. Itâs too fucking tempting.â
He wanted to feel both of you. His fingers slid down first, tracing the slick, stretched rim of your cunt where Yeosangâs cock was buried to the hilt. You felt every calloused fingertip exploring the place where your bodies connected â the soft, thin edges of your hole stretched obscenely around Yeosangâs girth, the hot, wet glide of skin on skin.Â
A broken whine slipped from your throat at the overwhelming sensitivity, your cunt fluttering hard around Yeosangâs cock as Sanâs fingers circled the stretched opening. From this touch Yeosang groaned low, hips rolling deep and slow.
âShhh, baby⌠take it like a big girl.â He whispered sensually against your ear, voice silk and smoke. âYou can handle us both. We know you can.â
San slowly pushed one thick finger inside you alongside Yeosangâs cock. The stretch was immediate and intense â a burning, delicious pressure that made you whine louder, body trembling in Sanâs arms as your pussy struggled to accommodate the extra intrusion. Sanâs finger curled gently, stroking the underside of Yeosangâs shaft, feeling both of you at the same time. Your head fell back against Sanâs shoulder, soft, needy sounds spilling from your lips while Yeosang kept fucking you slow and deep, his cock dragging against Sanâs finger with every thrust.
âFuck, sheâs so tight.â San growled, eyes fixed on the obscene sight. He spat thickly onto your already stretched pussy, watching the warm glob slide down and coat the place where you were joined.
Yeosang shifted his grip without breaking rhythm, one strong arm sliding beneath your thigh to help support your weight while San adjusted his stance, freeing one hand so he could position himself. He held you steady, his cock still buried deep inside you, murmuring quiet encouragement against your ear as San lined up the fat, leaking head of his own cock right beside Yeosangâs and started pushing.
The stretch was painful for one breathless second â a sharp, burning fullness that made your eyes water, but the pleasure that followed was blinding.
You felt impossibly full, stretched wider than you had ever been, both thick cocks sliding into your cunt together, rubbing against each other inside you, the veiny ridges dragging along your walls in perfect, devastating friction. Your plump labia, lewdly parted around them, the sight so obscene in the mirrors that another rush of slick gushed out around their joined cocks, coating them both in your mess.
They started fucking you properly in a way you never even thought possible with deep double-penetrating your tight little cunt in slow, synchronized thrusts. San and Yeosang moved together like they shared one mind, hips rolling in perfect rhythm, cocks sliding deep and dragging back out only to push in again even deeper and harder, stretching you open over and over.
The wet, filthy sounds of your soaked pussy taking two massive, sinewy cocks at once filled the locker room â loud, obscene squelches mixed with your broken moans and boysâ low, hungry groans. Yeosangâs hands gripped your thighs tighter, Sanâs arms locked around you, keeping you suspended and helpless while they ruined you.
You started shaking hard, thighs trembling violently, your cunt clenching and fluttering around their cocks as another orgasm built like a tidal wave ready to crash. They felt it immediately. With a shared, filthy groan they both pulled out of you at the same moment with a disgustingly loud slurping sound, leaving your hole gaping and empty, clenching desperately around nothing as thick strings of your slick dripped down the inner side of your thighs.
âPlease⌠please give me moreâŚâ Your body trembled between them, still suspended in Sanâs arms, the sudden emptiness making you whine needily, hips twitching in search of them.
They lowered you gently onto the wide leather bench, trading heated glances over your flushed, trembling form, their cocks glistening with your wetness and still rock-hard.
âNow, now, princess, donât pout. We just want to change positions.â San murmured, voice dark and promising as he ran a hand down your spine. âBelieve me, angel, weâre a long way from being done with you.â
He dropped onto the wide leather bench, pulling you down with him so your back pressed flush against his heated, sweat-slick chest. His strong arms hooked under your knees, yanking your legs up and back in a full nelson hold that folded you open like a pretty little present. Yeosang stood in front of you, amber eyes gleaming with dark hunger as he watched San line up and slam into you in one brutal, possessive thrust.
He fucked you like he had been holding back for years. His thrusts were fast, aggressive, slamming into your tight, plush cunt with all his strength, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the dim locker room like thunder. Every powerful stroke drove his thick cock so deep you felt it in your belly, a barely noticeable bulge would appear every time San thrust his impressive cock into you as deeply as it would go.
His heavy balls slapping heavily against your plump, juicy bum, making the soft flesh redden and wiggle. The loud, slick sounds that grew messier each time. Your swollen pussy was stretched indecently around him, puffy labia spread wide and lewdly, the obscene sight reflected back at you from every mirror, and Yeosang couldnât resist.
He dropped to his knees between your spread thighs and wrapped his long fingers around your swollen, peachy halves, squeezing the soft, sensitive flesh together and rubbing them up and down the sides of Sanâs pistoning cock while San stayed buried deep inside you. The added pressure made San moan loudly, hips stuttering for a second as he felt Yeosangâs fingers stroking him through your cunt.
âFuck, Yeosang.â San gasped, voice wrecked and wheezing with pleasure. âTake that slutty little cunt into your mouth⌠taste us together. I want to feel your tongue on my cock while Iâm balls-deep in her.â
Yeosangâs wicked smile flashed before he leaned down and wrapped his hot, wet mouth around your pussy, lips and tongue sucking roughly and greedily around the place where Sanâs thick cock disappeared inside you.Â
He sucked hard, tongue flicking wildly over your clit and the stretched rim of your tender hole, tasting both of you at once while his hand cupped Sanâs heavy balls, massaging and caressing them with slow, filthy rolls of his fingers.
For what felt like an eternity they kept you suspended between them, Sanâs powerful hips snapping forward in a relentless rhythm that drove his thick cock deep into the clutching, silky heat of your cunt again and again while Yeosangâs mouth worked with greedy, devoted hunger at the exact place where you were stretched around his partner.Â
The mirrored locker room filled with the obscene symphony of it â the rhythmic, wet squelch of Sanâs length spearing through your soaked folds, the filthy, eager sounds of Yeosang sucking and lapping at your swollen entrance and the heavy weight of Sanâs balls, the low broken groans rumbling from Sanâs chest, and the soft, desperate whimpers spilling from your own throat only to echo back at you from every reflective surface.Â
Your soft, milky body jolted helplessly in Sanâs iron hold, full breasts bouncing with every brutal thrust, nipples tight and aching from the constant friction, while your puffy, glistening pussy was forced wide around Sanâs cock and simultaneously worshipped by Yeosangâs relentless tongue, the dual assault leaving you trembling and gasping.
The pleasure had been coiling low in your belly for what felt like hours, tightening with every deep stroke and every clever flick of Yeosangâs tongue until it became something you could no longer outrun. It had been so long since anyone had touched you like this â truly touched you, unraveled you â and the knowledge that these two men had spent weeks circling you during training sessions, watching you, teasing you with lingering hands and loaded glances, only made the current moment feel more overwhelming. When the orgasm finally crashed over you it did so with shattering force.Â
A broken, high-pitched cry tore from your throat as your cunt clamped down viciously around Sanâs driving cock, your entire body seizing in his arms. A hot, copious rush of squirt erupted from you in powerful, rhythmic pulses, flooding Yeosangâs pretty face in a messy, glistening wave, splashing across Sanâs pistoning length and down his thighs, splattering onto the leather bench in obscene, spreading puddles. Your thighs shook violently in Sanâs unyielding grip, toes curling hard, back arching as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through you.Â
Your pretty, fluttering pussy continued to gush and spasm around Sanâs thickness even as Yeosang moaned low in satisfaction and kept licking and sucking through every convulsion, drinking you down like a man who had been starving for the taste of you, his elegant features shiny and dripping with your release.
Sanâs hips stuttered, a deep filthy groan vibrating through his chest as he fucked you steadily through the violent crest, his grip on your soft body tightening possessively, but they gave you no time to drift in the aftershocks.
He pulled back just enough to lick his lips with slow, visible satisfaction, his face gleaming with the evidence of your pleasure, and wrapped his fingers around the thick base of Sanâs cock. With deliberate, teasing slowness he drew his heavy length out of your still-clenching, gaping cunt, both men watching with dark hunger as your abused hole fluttered and leaked around the sudden emptiness, a thin strand of slick stretching between your puffy folds and the head of Sanâs cock before it broke.Â
Then Yeosang leaned in and took Sanâs shaft into his mouth in one smooth motion, sinking down until the head nudged the back of his throat, a low satisfied moan vibrating around the thick length as he tasted the mingled flavors of you and his partner. He pulled off with a wet, obscene pop, lips swollen and glistening, and lifted his gaze to both of you â that wicked, dark smile curving his mouth, full of filthy promise.
âMy turn now, princess.â Yeo breathed, the words low and velvet against the shell of your ear.Â
With that same measured control heâd used on you for weeks, he lifted your sweat-damp body and settled you onto the wide leather bench. He didnât just fold you â he arranged you. One strong arm slipped beneath the backs of your knees while the other supported the curve of your spine, guiding you until your upper back and shoulders rested firmly against the padded surface. Then, with deliberate slowness, he drew your soft thighs up and back, folding them deep toward your chest until your knees hovered beside your shoulders and your calves trembled in the air. The movement tilted your pelvis sharply upward in a deep anterior tilt, lifting your ass completely off the bench and presenting your cunt like an offering.
In this position your body was bent in a tight, obscene curve, the angle opened you completely: your puffy, swollen lips parted naturally, your slick, needy entrance exposed and fluttering, the tender pink inner folds glistening under the warm golden lamps. Even the tight, untouched hole of your anus was visible, framed by the torn edges of your ruined leggings. You were utterly spread, utterly vulnerable, and the deep fold of your body made every inch of you accessible for whatever Yeosang wanted to take.
San had watched every second with hungry, half-lidded eyes, before knelt beside your head. One large hand cradled the back of your skull with surprising tenderness while the other guided the wet, flushed head of his cock to your parted lips, smearing them with the mess of his own precum and your earlier saliva.
âOpen that pretty mouth for me, sweetheart.â San murmured, voice thick with want. âThere you go⌠good girl.â
You obeyed instantly, lips stretching around the thick, velvety head as he fed himself into the wet heat of your mouth at the exact same unhurried pace Yeosang used to sink into your cunt. The dual stretch hit you at once â the heavy girth sliding over your tongue and nudging the back of your throat while Yeosangâs cock pressed deep into your soaked, clutching walls, the fat head nudging that tender spot inside you that made your toes curl in the air.
They moved in perfect sync. Every time Yeo withdrew, San eased back; every time Yeosang rolled his hips forward and buried himself to the hilt, San pushed deeper into your throat. The mirrored walls threw the image back at you from every angle: your body folded and pinned, tits bouncing heavily with each thrust, Sanâs thick length disappearing between your stretched lips, and the visible, shifting bulge in your soft lower belly every time Yeosang balls-deep.Â
Your hands moved without thought. One gripped the edge of the leather bench hard enough that your knuckles whitened; the other slid up Sanâs powerful thigh, fingers digging into the firm muscle as if anchoring yourself while he used your mouth. A broken, muffled moan vibrated around his cock when Yeosangâs next thrust punched a little higher, deeper, the pressure so perfect it made your eyes water and roll back.
âFuck, look at her.â Yeosang groaned, voice still somehow calm even as his hips worked that deep, punishing rhythm. âTaking me so deep in this pretty little position⌠I can see myself moving inside you, princess. Your cunt is creaming all over my cock, such a messy girl.â
âYouâre trembling all over, little star. Poor thingâs been so empty for so long and now sheâs got both holes stuffed full. You love it, donât you? Love being used like this.â Sanâs thumb stroked your cheek as he rocked into your throat, his own breathing rougher now.Â
You tried to answer â a garbled, desperate sound around Sanâs cock, and the vibration made him hiss. Your free hand slid down your own body, trembling fingers brushing the place where Yeosangâs thick length disappeared inside you, feeling the stretch, the heat, the way your folds clung to him on every withdrawal. Your thighs quivered in his hold. Your inner walls fluttered and squeezed rhythmically, the wet, creamy sounds growing louder and filthier with every thrust. Saliva spilled from the corners of your mouth, running down your chin and throat as San kept that same relentless, matching pace.
The mirrored reflection showed everything: the way your body trembled and jolted between them, the shine of sweat on your skin, the way your pretty, swollen cunt looked stretched and used, glistening with your own slick every time Yeosang pulled back. The coil in your belly wound tighter, hotter, your next orgasm building with terrifying speed under the dual assault.
You were so full. So completely, ruinously full. And the knowledge that these two men â the same trainers who had kept their distance for weeks â were now fucking you in perfect tandem while you lay folded and dripping between them only made the pleasure burn hotter, sharper, impossible to hold back.
They felt it the moment your walls began to flutter in warning. Yeosangâs hips stuttered once, then stilled deep inside you. San pulled his cock from your mouth with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting your parted lips to the glistening head. Both men looked down at you with dark, possessive hunger, their chests heaving, cocks throbbing and shiny with your mess.
âNot yet, princess. Youâre going to cum only when both of us are buried deep inside this pretty little cunt at the same time. Weâre going to fill you until youâre overflowing, stuff this greedy hole so full of our thick cum that youâll be leaking us for days.â Sanâs voice came out low and rough with restraint, the words dripping with dark promise as he cradled your flushed face. For a moment leaned down and pressed a filthy, open-mouthed kiss to your swollen clit as Yeo slowly withdrew, leaving your pussy gaping and fluttering desperately around nothing.Â
The sudden emptiness made you ache, your sensitive walls clenching on air, a fresh trickle of slick sliding down toward your ass. The night was still young, and they clearly had so much more planned for your body.
Your cunt was stretched and aching, every inch of your form literally begging for a momentâs mercy â thighs trembling, chest heaving, the ripped leggings still clinging to your plush hips.Â
Yet the craving burned hotter than the soreness. You needed their cum. You needed their attention. You needed to be filled and claimed and used until your mind went blank. Stupidly, breathlessly, you nodded, lips parted on a desperate little whimper.
âYes⌠give me your cum.â You whispered, voice trembling with need as the words spilled from your swollen lips. âFill me up. Fill this cunt with both of your cocks. Please.â
They gave you exactly that â and so much more.
San spread a thick, soft yoga mat onto the floor and then with careful, unyielding hands they lifted you down from the bench. They arranged you between them on your side, turning the three of you into a heated, tangled press of muscle and sweat. You faced Yeosang, your soft, sensitive breasts pillowed against the firm planes of his chest while San curved behind you, his broad, powerful frame molding perfectly to your back. One of Sanâs strong hands slid down to hook behind your upper thigh, lifting and draping your leg high over Yeosangâs hip, opening you wide and stable while your lower leg stayed nestled between theirs.Â
This position left your pretty, swollen pussy exposed and accessible for them from both sides, whilst you were trapped between the scorching heat of their bodies.
 At first they only tortured you with the heads of their cocks.
San rubbed the fat, leaking tip of his dick up and down your soft, sticky slit from behind, dipping just an inch inside your fluttering hole before pulling back with a wet, obscene pop that made your hips twitch. Yeosang did the same from the front, sliding his own swollen head in and out in slow, shallow dips, both of them coating themselves in your slick. Hot breath brushed your ear and throat as they whispered the most depraved filth against your skin.
âFeel how greedy this little cunt is, princess?â San's voice was like liquid honey, sticking to your skin, his free hand splaying possessively over your belly. âYour slutty, insatiable hole clenching and fluttering, so fucking thirst to swallow us whole. So empty and desperate for us.â
âPlease⌠put them in. I need to feel both of you⌠stretching me at the same time.â You whimpered, one hand gripping Yeosangâs shoulder, the other reaching back to clutch at Sanâs thick thigh, nails digging in.
"As you wish, baby."Â
It happened in one smooth motion. Sanâs thick cock slid deep from behind at the same moment Yeosangâs heavy length sank into you from the front until both were buried to the hilt inside your stretched, aching pussy. Their heavy balls pressed tightly together beneath you. The obscene fullness stole the breath from your lungs â that deep, burning stretch that was almost too much and yet exactly what your body had been craving. Your soft, plump walls were forced to accommodate two cocks at once, every veiny ridge rubbing against the other and against your most sensitive spots with even the smallest shift of their hips.Â
A broken moan tore from your throat as your eyes fluttered and rolled back, your pussy clenching hard around them both in helpless, rhythmic spasms.
Slow at first, then deeper and harder, they moved in synchronized rolls that made their cocks drag and grind inside you in perfect, filthy rhythm. The wet, obscene squelch of your soaked pussy filled the locker room like the most luxurious, depraved symphony. Your soft, milky body trembled between them â Sanâs broad chest pressed flush to your back, Yeosangâs sculpted front flush against your tits, every breath shared, every thrust shared.Â
At first they kept the rhythm slow and deep, stretching you so wide you could feel every ridge and vein rubbing along your slippery, sensitive walls. Then San changed the technique â he held still, buried to the hilt, letting Yeosang fuck you with shallow, punishing snaps of his hips that made their balls slap together wetly beneath you. The friction was insane. Yeosangâs cock dragged along Sanâs while Sanâs thickness kept you pinned open, and you whimpered, overwhelmed, your hips rolling back instinctively, trying to take them even deeper.
âFeel that, princess?â San breathed hot against your ear, voice wrecked and thick with satisfaction, one hand sliding up to cup your breast and pinch your nipple. âTwo cocks owning this greedy little cunt at the same time⌠youâre taking us so fucking well. Look at how your pretty pussy is creaming for us.â
Then they changed. Yeosang stilled deep inside you while San started thrusting â harder, faster, the angle slightly different so his cock rubbed right against that sensitive spot on your front wall while Yeosangâs thickness pressed relentlessly against the back.Â
You lost yourself in the overwhelming sensations of indescribable painful ecstasy that shook you with every thrust of San's and Sangie's thick cocks into your leaking pussy, like electric shocks. Everything that was happening was so far removed from reality that you had no feeling at all, and you couldn't bring yourself to do anything other than moan and babbling their names incoherently while the boys kept stuffing you to the brim.
The dual pressure made your eyes roll back again, a high, broken sound escaping you as your swollen pussy creamed visibly around both shafts, slick dripping down their balls in shiny rivulets. Your hand tightened on Yeosangâs shoulder, the other sliding back to grip Sanâs ass, pulling him harder into you with every thrust.
âSan⌠Yeo⌠oh godâŚfuck...donât stopâŚâ You gasped, voice shaking. âItâs so⌠I want it so badly. Please,, fill me up; I want to feel your sperm flowing out of my hole.â You slightly moving your butty in an attempt to set yourself down deeper on on theirs warm, hard lengths.
They experimenting with angles, with depth, with rhythm â one cock gliding in deep while the other withdrew almost to the tip, then both driving in together until the stretch made your breath catch. Then long, sinuous grinding circles that made the obscene bulge in your lower belly shift and press outward with every deep roll of their hips.
Sanâs hand slid down to spread your swollen, glistening labia wider, giving them both an even clearer view of how your pretty hole stretched so obscenely around their joined, veiny lengths. Yeosangâs elegant fingers joined his, rubbing your swollen clit in tight, relentless circles while they kept fucking you in that side-lying press.
You were so deeply immersed in pleasure that you didnât notice how at some point San leaned over your shoulder to kiss Yeosang, tongues sliding hot and messy while their hips never stopped rolling in that perfect, filthy dance. The sight of them kissing above you while both were buried to the hilt inside you sent another rush of slick flooding out around their shafts, your walls fluttering helplessly.
You felt so full. So desired. So perfectly, deliciously used. Your sensitive cunt was trembling, your delicate labia reddened and coated with your sticky, juices that was gushing out of you with every movement of the two passionate boys as they continued to drag their cocks along your sensitive walls, making you feel overexcited.Â
They didnât let you catch your breath. And now, you were finally able to fully understand what the girls in the locker room meant when they talked about the boys not giving you a second's rest.
With effortless, combined strength they lifted your trembling body from the yoga mat like you weighed nothing, turning you into their personal fucktoy once again. Yeosang sat first on the edge of the wide bench and pulled you down onto his lap in a deep, eye-contact lotus.Â
Your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist as his massive, slippery cock slid back into your stretched, creamy cunt in one smooth glide. The angle was so deep you felt the head nudge right up against your cervix, the visible bulge reappearing in your soft belly as he settled you fully onto him. San moved in behind you, his broad chest pressed flush to your back, powerful arms locking around your ribs as he pushed his own heavy length in alongside Yeosangâs until both were buried to the hilt inside you.
Your legs stayed locked tight around Yeosangâs waist while Sanâs arms caged you between them. They began to move in slow, grinding circles, their cocks dragging and pressing against each other, the wet, filthy sounds of your soaked cunt and wet, slapping testicles filled the locker room.
âItâs so deep⌠I can feel you bothâŚâ Your hands slid up to cradle Yeosangâs face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones as you moaned brokenly against his mouth.Â
âTake every inch, princess. You're such a great dick sleeve, the most amazing pussy I've ever fucked." Sanâs purring, impossibly pornographic voice vibrates on your heated skin like an electrical voltage, sending signals of arousal straight to your lustful, needy cunt.
They shifted you effortlessly into the next position without ever pulling out. Yeosang lay back on the bench and pulled you on top of him in reverse cowgirl, your back to his chest, his cock still buried deep inside you. Your legs spread wide as San stepped between your spread thighs and pushed back inside your already-stuffed pussy, turning the position into a perfect, filthy sandwich.Â
Your soft, plush ass jiggled lewdly with every thrust as they fucked you together, Sanâs hips snapping forward while Yeosang thrust up from below, their cocks alternating and grinding in perfect, filthy sync.
They moved you through position after advanced position without ever letting you feel empty â from that sandwich straight into a suspended one where both men stood close together and lifted you between them. Then they shifted into a standing criss-cross, angling their hips so their thick shafts crossed inside you, grinding in opposite directions, the friction so intense your head fell back against Sanâs shoulder with a broken sob.
Every technique was slower, deeper, sharper, more devastating than the last â long, grinding thrusts that let you feel every single inch of them rubbing together inside your cunt, short sharp snaps that made your clit throb against their shafts, deep circling grinds that pressed right against your cervix and made the bulge in your belly shift obscenely with every move. Your body shook harder with every new position, your cunt creaming and fluttering wildly around their, fresh slick dripping down their balls, but they refused to let you cum yet.
The tension finally snapped like a silk thread pulled too tight.
Their thrusts turned chaotic, uncoordinated, desperate â hips stuttering, cocks grinding and rubbing against each other inside your overstuffed cunt with raw, animal need. Sanâs powerful slams grew erratic behind you, Yeosangâs deep rolls from the front losing their perfect rhythm as both men chased their release with broken, filthy groans. You felt them getting closer, their shafts swelling even harder inside you, balls drawn up tight and slapping wetly together with every frantic thrust. Your own body was trembling uncontrollably, pussy spasming and gushing around them, every nerve alight as you teetered right on the edge they still wouldnât let you cross.
And then you came. It hit you like a blinding white storm, so powerful that for one endless, suspended second your soul seemed to leave your body entirely. This time it's different; black dots begin to dance in front of your eyes, and your consciousness shuts down as you fall into the extreme, insane pleasure that has engulfed every cell in your body.
Your vision whited out, every muscle locking tight as your cunt convulsed violently around both cocks at once. You sob loudly as you squirted like a fountain. Hypersensitive and overwhelmed, your body writhing between them as the hot, powerful streams exploding out of you in rhythmic, uncontrollable pulses, soaking their joined shafts, their heavy balls, their thighs, and the yoga mat beneath you in messy, obscene floods.Â
Your pussy bucked and spasmed wildly, squeezing and milking their cocks with greedy, rhythmic contractions that tried to drag them even deeper inside you while fresh cream and squirt gushed out around them in thick, glossy rivulets.
One of your hands fisted in Sanâs hair, the other clutching desperately at Yeosangâs arm as your body shook uncontrollably between them.Â
âSan...Yeosang...Oh my GodâŚthis is too much! I canât⌠I canât!â The words dissolved into another broken cry as another powerful gush forced its way out.
âFuck, princessm, yes, just like that.â San murmured sultrily, pressing his plump, sensual lips against your neck, his hips jerking involuntarily. âSquirt for us. Look at this greedy little cunt gushing all over both our cocks like the perfect, desperate girl you are.â
âSheâs milking us so fucking hard.â Yeosang moaned, amber eyes rolling back as your velvety walls fluttered and clenched around them in rhythmic spasms.
They couldnât hold back any longer.
Sangie came first, teeth sinking into the soft curve of your shoulder with a guttural, broken groan as thick, hot ropes of his cum flooded deep into your spasming cunt. He kept thrusting through it, pumping load after load inside you, the warmth spreading and mixing with your own mess until it started leaking out around his cock in creamy white rivers. San followed right behind him, one hand roughly squeezing your breast, fingers digging into the plush, trembling flesh as he buried his face in your neck and moaned loud and shattered against your ear.
A seemingly endless stream of his thick, milky cum poured into you in heavy, pulsing jets, filling you so full you could feel the pressure building in your lower belly, the warmth overflowing until it forced even more of their combined release out.
Both cocks stayed buried deep inside your convulsing pussy as they emptied themselves completely, flooding your ruined little hole until you were stuffed to the absolute brim with their combined cum. The wet, filthy sounds of it leaking out around their twitching lengths filled the mirrored locker room, the golden light catching every glossy, pearly drop that escaped your overstretched hole.
Their bodies stayed pressed tight against yours, chests heaving, cocks still twitching and jerking inside you as the last weak spurts pushed even more warmth into your already overflowing cunt. San pressed soft, reverent kisses along your neck where Sangie had bitten you, while Yeosangâs hand gently stroked your stomach, right over the place where you could still feel the subtle bulge of their softening cocks and the heavy load they had just pumped into you.
The night was far from over⌠but for this one perfect, blinding moment, they simply held you between them â suspended in the afterglow, dripping with their cum, and completely, irrevocably theirs.
You continued lying there like that for long, luxurious minutes, suspended in the haze of pure, dazzling pleasure between their two warm, heaving bodies.Â
Their arms wrapped around you like possessive bands of steel and velvet, holding you exactly where you belonged â full, claimed, dripping. The only sounds were the slow, ragged rhythm of three sets of breathing and the occasional wet, filthy little squelch as your pussy fluttered and clenched weakly around their cocks, still trying to keep every thick drop of their milky load inside you.
Yeosang slipped out first with a slow, deliberate drag that made your sensitive walls squeezed weakly in a feeble attempt at protest, let out a broken, pitiful moan slipping from your lips. San followed a heartbeat later. The moment both cocks left your ruined hole, a warm, heavy stream of their combined cum poured out of you in one thick, creamy mass â pale and pearly, mixed with your own slick. It soaked the yoga mat beneath you instantly, joining the already massive puddle of your squirt and turning the dark fabric even wetter.
Everything blurred in the most delicious haze. You felt their fingers sliding between your spread legs, scooping up the thick mixture of cum and squirt that leaked from your pussy. Those same fingers found your lips, pushing inside your mouth, letting you taste the salty-sweet mess they had made of you. You sucked obediently, dazed and floating, your weak body sandwiched between two insatiable, lustful men, while they continued to feed you their sperm.
Yeo scooped a thick, pearly glob of cum from your cunt and brought it to his own lips first. He tasted it with a low, full of bliss hum, then leaned in and kissed you deep and filthy, letting the warm, creamy mess dribble slowly from his tongue onto yours. At the same time Sanâs large hand wrapped gently but firmly around your throat, thumb stroking the delicate column as he felt every swallow.
âThatâs it, princess.â San whispered hot against your ear. âSuch a good girl, swallow every drop we fucked into this little pretty cunt. Our precious girl, perfect little cumslut.â His thumb pressed lightly against your throat, feeling the movement as you obediently swallowed what Yeosang fed you, and soft moan escaped from his mouth.
Yeosang pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips:
âTaste how well we filled you, baby. All of it belongs to you now.â His free hand stroked tenderly down your trembling stomach while Sanâs fingers traced slow circles over your collarbone and the swell of your breast.
Wet, filthy slurping sounds echoed off in a small space as San slid down and buried his handsome face between your thighs. He licking long, greedy stripes up your delicate, sticky-glazed labia, before his tongue plunged right into your dripping hole, lapping down the creamy overflow like it was the finest thing he had ever tasted.Â
Yeosang joined him a moment later, their tongues meeting messily over your swollen folds, kissing and sucking and sharing the taste of you and each other in loud, obscene sounds that made fresh heat coil tight in your belly despite the overwhelming sensitivity. One of Sanâs hands slid up to grip the back of Yeoâs neck, holding him there as they licked and kissed over your pussy together, while Yeoâs fingers stroked slow, soothing circles on your inner thigh.
When you finally came back to yourself and could move, your body was still shaking and highly sensitive, and your thoughts were in complete disarray. You couldnât even argue when Yeosang pulling you into his arms, and and sat down on the bench again, gathered you against his sweaty, firm chest. His hands gently spreading your legs wide over his thighs so your fucked, reddened pussy was completely exposed once more.Â
The sight was pure filthy â your soft, plump pussy swollen and glistening, covered in a thick, sticky glaze of their milky cum that still slowly leaked from your stretched hole in lazy, pearly drips. A copious puddle had formed beneath you on the mat, the entire rug soaked and dark with the evidence of how thoroughly they had ruined you.
San leaned down between your spread thighs, pressing soft, reverent kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, working his way higher with deliberate slowness. You whimpered weakly, one trembling hand trying to push at his shoulder.
âToo sensitiveâŚâ You breathed, voice hoarse and broken, your thighs twitching involuntarily under his mouth.
Hot brunette only chuckled, low and dark, the sound vibrating against your skin as he looked up at you with that wicked smile, his lips already shiny with mix of their sperm.
âBaby.â He murmured, voice rich and filthy with promise. âBreak is over. Itâs time for the second set of exercises.â
Yeosangâs arms tightened around you, holding you open even wider for Sanâs hot, wanton mouth, one hand stroking possessively over your breast while the other rested lightly on your throat again â not squeezing, just resting there, a constant reminder of how completely they owned you.Â
Sangie kissed the side of your neck, soft and warm, then whispered hot against your ear:
âAnd this time, princess⌠weâre not stopping until you canât walk. Until this greedy little cunt is so full and so used youâll still feel us tomorrow with every step you take. Youâre going to take everything we give you, arenât you?â
Sanâs tongue dragged slowly up your trembling, oversensitive folds as Yeosang spoke, and your whole body jerked with a broken moan, caught helplessly between them.
You let your head fall back against Yeosangâs shoulder with a shaky, broken sound as Sanâs tongue dragged in one slow, deliberate stripe over your plump, slightly parted labia.Â
In the thick haze of overstimulation and reluctant new arousal, suddenly, that late-night conversation with Sohee a couple months ago popped into your mind. She had tried so hard to convince you that not all men like perfect, toned bodies, and some of them could crave softness, that they would want something warm and yielding to sink their hands and mouths into without hesitation.Â
But you had been the one who believed the opposite. You had convinced yourself that someone like Yeosang and San could never truly lust after a body like yours. Yet here they were: San groaning low against the plush, giving flesh of your inner thighs while his fingers sank in with unmistakable reverence, and Yeosangâs hand stroking possessively over the soft curve of your belly as if he never wanted to stop touching you.Â
The realization settled deep in your bones at the same moment pleasure did. They wanted this. They wanted you, exactly like this. And from the dirty promise in Yeosangâs earlier words and the way San was already losing himself between your legs, it was clear the night had only just begun â and they intended to spend every remaining hour proving just how wrong you had been.
The Base Note
Choi Seungcheol X f! Reader
MDNI | Mature | Explicit | Smut
Your clinical composure as an introverted perfumer completely unravels during a high-tension skin-chemistry analysis when SEVENTEENâs leader, Choi Seungcheol, uses his wits and charm to shatter your strict professional boundaries.
The compounding room hummed with the quiet symphony of climate control, a steady whisper of filtered air, the distant gurgle of a distillation unit cycling through its phases, the soft tick of the magnetic stirrer. You preferred it here. Four stories underground, windowless, bathed in the sterile blue-white glow of color-corrected LEDs calibrated to daylight brightness. No distractions. No small talk. Just some science and math.
Your domain. Your sanctuary.
The charcoal-grey silk blouse sat crisp against your collarbones, the top button secured exactly at the hollow of your throat. Your fingers, gloved, size extra small, hovered over a rack of glass pipettes arranged by volume in descending order. Ten milliliters. Five. Two. One. Each one sterile, each one waiting.
The formula on your workstation monitor glowed in neat columns. A skeleton of a fragrance, all structure and no heart yet. Youâd been nursing this composition for six weeks, stealing hours between commercial briefs to perfect the dry-down. It needed something warm. Something that breathed.
The door to the compounding room swung open with a quiet whoosh.
âThere you are.â
Director Park Min-jiâs heels announced her arrival three seconds before her voice did. She navigated the narrow aisle between workbenches with the practiced urgency of someone who considered walking a waste of time. Her tablet was already extended toward you like a warrant.
âI need you upstairs.â
You didnât look up from the pipette you were slotting into its holder. âIâm in the middle of a trial. The formula needs another forty minutes.â
âThe Hedione can wait.â
âWith respect, Director, it literally cannot. Thatâs how chemistry works.â
Min-ji exhaled through her noseâa sound youâd catalogued over eighteen months of working under her as exasperation, level four. She set the tablet down on your clean bench directly on top of your printed chromatograms, which you recognized as a deliberate provocation.
âChoi Seungcheol is here.â
The name meant nothing to you.
Your expression must have communicated as much because Min-jiâs eyes widened fractionally behind her narrow Prada frames. âSEVENTEENâs leader? The one with theââ she gestured vaguely toward her own face, ââthe jawline? Heâs doing a solo brand ambassadorship. Luxury menâs fragrance line. Massive contract. His team reached out last week.â
You pulled off your gloves, snapping the left cuff with practiced efficiency. âI donât handle celebrity briefs. Ellie does the pop star accounts. She speaks their language.â
âEllie gave him three custom samples last Tuesday. He rejected all of them.â Min-jiâs voice dropped, losing its corporate sheen. âHis exact words were âboring.â Then he asked if we had anyone more⌠specialized. Someone whoâd actually think about his skin instead of just pushing market-tested accords.â She paused, letting the implication settle. âHe specifically requested you. By reputation.â
Your hand stilled on the drawer handle.
âI donât have a reputation. I work in a basement.â
âYou have a reputation for being the most stubborn nose in this building,â Min-ji said, and there was something almost like admiration in her tone. âHe wants a live skin-chemistry analysis. Top-floor executive office. Now.â
The executive floor smelled like money. Not the sharp metallic kind that changed hands in boardrooms, but the quiet, settled wealth of polished mahogany and hand-tufted wool carpets and the faint, bitter ghost of expensive espresso. The corridor stretched endlessly, lined with abstract art you suspected was chosen by a consultant specifically to look like it hadnât been chosen by a consultant.
Your leather portfolio case weighed heavy in your left hand, filled with glass vials, sterile pipettes, scent strips, and a battered lab notebook that predated your employment at the brand by half a decade. Your right hand stayed empty, fingers curling and uncurling against your palm.
Itâs just another skin analysis. Volatile top notes. Elevated skin temperatures. How the oils lock into the skin. Youâve done this two hundred times.
The executive assistant pushed open the heavy double doors and gestured you inside.
The room was vast. Floor-to-ceiling windows flooded the space with cold light, Seoulâs skyline sprawling gray and glittering beyond the glass. A mahogany conference table dominated the centerâmassive, old-growth, the kind of furniture that had witnessed corporate takeovers and hostile negotiations. You set your portfolio down and began arranging your instruments with the mechanical precision of a surgical nurse: pipettes parallel, vials grouped by weight, scent strips fanned exactly five degrees apart.
The door opened again behind you.
You didnât turn. You were adjusting the fluid line in a graduated cylinder, holding it at eye level, and you would finish this measurement before you acknowledged anyone. It was a small act of control, and you needed it.
âThey really do keep you hidden downstairs.â
The voice was low. Rough at the edges, like velvet dragged against the grain. It registered somewhere in your chest before it reached your ears.
You set down the cylinder and turned.
Choi Seungcheol filled the doorway.
That was your first thoughtânot that he stood in it, but that he filled it, the broad line of his shoulders cutting a silhouette against the corridor light. His suit was unstructured, expensive, thrown on with the casual disregard of a man who understood that looking effortless required more effort than looking meticulous. Beneath the jacket, a black tee draped low across his chest, the neckline plunging far enough to reveal the hard architecture of his collarbones.
His face was sharper than the photos youâd never bothered to look at. Strong jaw. Dark, observant eyes that tracked across the room and landed on you with an intensity that felt almost physical.
You bowed. Formal. Precise. A perfect forty-five-degree angle timed to exactly two seconds.
âChoi Seungcheol-ssi. Iâm the senior perfumer assigned to your brief. Iâll be conducting your skin-chemistry analysis this afternoon.â
His head tilted. A fractional movement. âYou bow like a CEO.â
âI bow like someone who respects professional boundaries.â
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Behind him, a small entourage hoveredâa manager, an assistant, someone holding a garment bag. Seungcheol half-turned toward them, lifting one hand in a casual dismissal. âGive us the room.â
âSeungcheol-ah, the scheduleââ
âThe schedule can wait.â His tone didnât sharpen, but something in it shiftedâan assumption of authority so natural it didnât need volume. âIâll text when weâre done.â
The manager hesitated. The assistant glanced nervously at the garment bag. Seungcheol didnât repeat himself. He simply stood there, patient, immovable, a man entirely comfortable with silence as a negotiation tactic.
They left.
The heavy boardroom doors clicked shut behind them. Seungcheol reached backward without looking, his fingers finding the brass lock, and turned it with a sound that echoed in the quiet room.
Click.
Slow. Deliberate. Final.
He moved into the room like he owned itâwhich, you realized belatedly, he probably did now, or at least his endorsement contract did. He didnât sit in the executive chair at the head of the table. Instead, he leaned against the edge of the mahogany surface directly beside your arrangement of vials, his hip resting against the wood, his arms crossing over his chest.
He was close. Closer than a client needed to be. Close enough that you could smell him beneath the dry-cleaned wool of his jacketâsomething warm and clean, cedar maybe, and underneath it the faint salt of skin.
âSo.â His eyes traveled over your face, your high buttoned collar, your glasses, your rigid posture. The smirk that had been threatening finally arrivedâslow and lazy, pulling at one corner of his mouth. âYouâre the genius they keep hidden downstairs.â
âIâm a perfumer.â
âSame thing.â He uncrossed his arms, letting one hand rest on the table beside him, his fingers long and relaxed against the dark wood. âI was told you were a tough one.â
You reached for the glass rod youâd preparedâmusk base, a high concentration of ambergris, the raw materials still viscous and clinging. âIâm thorough. Thereâs a difference.â
âI like tough.â
He said it the way someone might comment on the weather. Casual. Warm. Utterly assured.
You ignored the way his voice curled around the words and stepped forward, the glass rod held between your thumb and forefinger. A single drop trembled at the tip, catching the light.
âI need your wrist please.â
Seungcheol didnât extend his arm.
Instead, he pushed off from the table and stepped into your space. One step. Then another. Until the toes of his leather shoes nearly met the tips of your practical low heels, and you had to tilt your chin upward to maintain eye contact, and the air between you grew dense with the scent of musk concentrate and something elseâsomething warmer, something alive.
His hand found yours.
Large fingers wrapped around your wrist first. The grip was gentle but absolute, the pad of his thumb settling directly over your pulse point and pressing down with just enough pressure to feel the rhythm beneath your skin.
Your heart stuttered.
âYour hands are cold,â he murmured, his thumb tracing a slow arc across the blue veins at your wrist. âDo they always run cold, or is that just for me?â
The glass rod trembled. You steadied it through sheer professional will.
âMy hands are temperature-regulated for chemical stability. Heat compromises volatile compounds.â The words came out clipped, clinical. Good. That was the armor. That was the wall. âIâd appreciate it if youâd allow me to do my job, Sir.â
His eyes met yours. Dark. Amused. Watching you with the patient, predatory stillness of someone whoâd spotted a crack in the facade and was deciding whether to slip through it.
He released your wrist.
But he didnât step back.
âDo your job, then.â
You took his hand with more force than necessary, flipping it palm-up and pressing your fingertips to the wide plane of his wrist. His skin radiated heat, higher than average temperature. You noted distantly, probably elevated due to recent activity or baseline metabolic rate. Beneath the surface, the steady thrum of his pulse beat against your index finger.
You dabbed the musk base onto his pulse point. The liquid bloomed against his skin, the top notes already beginning to evaporate, shifting from sharp alcohol to something warmer, deeper.
âIâm going to test a secondary accord now,â you said, your voice steady. âA leather and heated-skin base. It requires proximity to the artery to assess projection.â
âProximity to the artery.â He repeated the phrase like it was a punchline only he understood. âIs that the scientific term for my neck?â
âItâs the anatomical term.â
âOf course.â That smirk again. âPlease. By all means. Be anatomical.â
You didn't answer. Instead, you tapped the edge of the heavy mahogany table and pointed toward the adjustable leather seat positioned in the center of your workspace. âSit on the stool, please. I need you at a specific height for the secondary application.â
Seungcheol let out a low, amused huff but complied, sliding his broad frame onto the seat. He hooked his heels over the lower rungs, his knees naturally parting wide to accommodate his frame as he looked up at you, his dark eyes brimming with anticipation.
You set down the glass rod. Selected a fresh scent strip. Dabbed it with the leather accordârich and dark and something warmer beneath, something that smelled like sun-heated skin.
Then you stepped between his knees.
Heâd settled back against the tableâs edge, his legs parting slightly to accommodate your approach, and the position was, it was professional, you could perform a skin analysis from this angle, youâd done it before with other clients, there was nothing untoward about a perfumer standing in the V of a seated clientâs knees.
His thighs bracketed your hips. Not touching. But close. Close enough that the heat of his body reached you through the layers of your trousers and his suit fabric, and every instinct in your introverted, boundary-protecting soul began screaming for you to step back.
You didnât step back.
You raised the scent strip toward the side of his throat. His skin was smooth there, freshly shaved, the tendon of his neck curving down toward that architectural collarbone. You pressed the strip to his pulse point, the carotid, right at the angle of his jaw. You leaned in to assess the scent trail.
Your face hovered inches from his throat.
Leather. Wood. The faint, sweet salt of human skin. And beneath it, something else. Something that wasnât on the scent strip, something that was him, a warm and slightly spicy note that the chemicals were lifting and amplifying and throwing into the air between you like a challenge.
Your breath caught.
You heard it happen. A tiny stutter in your exhalation, right against his throat, where he could absolutely feel it.
Seungcheol tilted his head back.
The movement was slow. Almost lazy. His chin lifted, exposing the long column of his throat, and his eyes dropped to watch you from beneath heavy lids. The intensity in his gaze shifted, the playfulness draining away, replaced by something heavier, something that made your stomach drop and tighten in a way you refused to name.
His hand moved.
You didnât register it until his palm was already there, spreading warm and broad across the small of your back, his fingers splaying over the silk of your blouse. He didnât pull. He didnât yank. He just pressed, firm and steady. Exerting a pressure that drew you a fraction of a centimeter closer to him, until the heat of his thighs was no longer a theoretical measurement but a tangible presence brushing against your trousers.
âYou smell like clean soap and expensive paper, Director.â The whisper brushed against your cheek, low and rough, intimate enough to qualify as a secret. His thumb traced the ridge of your spine through the silk. "Let's see how long you can keep that up."
he words hit your brain a full second after they hit your nervous system.
Your body understood before your mind did, the sudden flush of heat blooming across your cheeks, the sharp punch of your pulse at your throat, the way your fingers tightened on the scent strip until the cardboard bent.
You snapped backward.
The movement was graceless, unprofessional, a retreat rather than a step. His hand fell away from your back as you broke contact, and you used the sudden cold absence of his touch to rebuild the walls that had crumbled so spectacularly in the space of three seconds.
âTheâthe top notes.â Your voice came out higher than you intended. You cleared your throat, forcing it back into your usual serious, professional tone. âThe citrus elements in this blend fade very quickly when the skin gets too warm. Most regular perfumes use heavy artificial chemicals to force those fresh scents to last longer, but the problem is those chemicals leave a waxy, fake after-scent that ruins the natural warmth of your skin. If you try to fix that with more synthetic boosters, the fragrance loses all its crisp clarity, and the whole blend just collapses into a cheap, generic smell you could buy at any department store for forty thousand won, which isââ
You were talking too fast.
The words tumbled out in a torrent, syllables tripping over each other, and you couldnât stop. The intellectual yapping had engagedâyour primary defense mechanism, the emergency flood-wall that rose whenever human interaction threatened to breach the carefully maintained levee of your composure.
âââand then thereâs the issue of the heavier musk molecules, which are physically larger and need healthy, hydrated skin oils to really lock into place. That is exactly why skin type matters so much when making a custom perfume. If someone has really dry skin, it won't hold onto those deep base notes for more than an hour, no matter what kind of ingredients you use to try and trap the scentââ
You were pacing now. Actually pacing. Back and forth across the executive carpet, one hand gesturing while the other clutched the bent scent strip like it was a lifeline.
Seungcheol watched you.
Heâd settled back against the table, arms crossed, the pose relaxed but his eyes tracking your every movement with an attention so focused it felt almost indecent. The smirk had widenedânot mocking, exactly, but deeply, authentically amused, the expression of a man watching something unexpected and delightful unfold.
Your cheeks were on fire.
You knew they were. You could feel the heat radiating from your skin, a humiliating pink flush that contradicted every word of clinical detachment coming out of your mouth. Your glasses had slipped half an inch down your nose, and you pushed them up with a jab of your finger, still talking.
ââand the average human nose can distinguish about a trillion different scents, but the whole industry just keeps churning out the exact same four basic blends and calling it innovation. That is why I never take celebrity projects. It isnât because I have anything against celebrities, but because their requests are always identicalâmake it sexy, make it last all day, make it smell like me but better. There is no real science to it, just marketing, focus groups, andâââ
âAre you done?â
The interruption was gentle. Almost fond.
You stopped mid-stride, your lecture derailing so abruptly that you swayed slightly in place. Your chest heaved. Youâd run out of oxygen somewhere around heavier musk molecules.
Seungcheol uncrossed his arms. He didnât laugh at you, though the corner of his mouth twitched again, and the fondness in his expression deepened into something that made your breath catch for an entirely different reason.
âYouâre cute when youâre panicking,â he said.
âIâm not panicking. Iâm educating.â
âYour glasses are fogging up.â
They were. You ripped them off your face and polished them on the hem of your blouse with more aggression than the task required. When you shoved them back onto your nose, Seungcheol was watching you with his head tilted, that patient amusement still radiating from him like heat from a banked fire.
âI have a questionnaire,â you announced, your voice edging toward shrill. âA comprehensive client intake form. For the brief. We shouldâI need to gather your preferences before I can formulate anything useful.â
âA questionnaire.â He said it like youâd proposed a medieval duel.
âYes. Itâs standard procedure.â
You snatched your portfolio from the table, unzipped it with a decisive hiss, and produced a four-page document covered in dense, single-spaced text. Youâd written it yourself three years ago during a particularly frustrating celebrity brief that had gone through seventeen rounds of revisions. No one had ever actually completed it. Most clients took one look and surrendered to whatever the marketing team recommended.
You dropped it onto the table between you with the force of a gauntlet thrown.
Seungcheol glanced at it. Then back at you. Then back at the questionnaire, his eyebrows climbing incrementally as he took in the sheer density of the text.
âSit here please,â you commanded, leading him to the executive chair. âWeâll go through it line by line.â
He sat.
To your absolute astonishment, he sat. He pulled out the heavy leather chair, settled into it with the languid grace of a man who had never been uncomfortable in his life, and folded his hands on the table like a student waiting for an exam.
You sat across from him. Poised your pen. Refused to look him in the eye.
âQuestion one. Preferred scent profiles?â
âWarm.â He answered immediately. No hesitation. âSomething that feels like skin after the sun goes down. Not cologne-y. Not like Iâm trying to announce myself.â
Your pen scratched across the paper. Warm. Post-sun skin. Avoid overtly cologne-y elements.
âNotes you dislike?â
âAnything aquatic. I donât want to smell like a shower gel.â
No marine accords. No aquas. âLongevity expectations?â
âEight hours minimum. But not aggressive. I want it to fade into something intimate.â He paused. âSomething youâd have to get close to notice.â
The way he said close made your pen slip. You corrected the line and refused to acknowledge the heat crawling up the back of your neck.
âWhat kind of trail do you want to leave behind?â
He leaned forward.
The movement was unhurried. Deliberate. His forearms settled on the mahogany, his shoulders broadening with the shift, and suddenly the table felt much smaller than it had a moment ago.
âSomething heavy,â he said, his voice dropping into that lower register that seemed designed to bypass your ears and sink directly into your chest. âSomething that stays on a personâs skin long after Iâve left the room.â His head tilted, those dark eyes catching yours and holding them. âDonât you agree, Director?â
You wrote furiously.
High sillage/heavy projection. Persistent skin adhesion. Late-stage dry-down with intimate throw distance.
You did not look at his lips. You did not think about the way his mouth shaped the word skin. You did not notice the tiny scar at the corner of his lower lip, or wonder how it would feel againstâ
âNext question,â you snapped, flipping the page with more force than necessary.
e knock came like a rescue flare.
Sharp. Professional. Three quick raps against the boardroom door, followed by the rattle of the brass handle. âSeungcheol-ah?â His managerâs voice, muffled through the heavy wood. âWe really have to go. The styling team is waiting for the next shoot, and traffic is building.â
Seungcheol sighed.
The sound was quiet, almost privateâa release of breath that carried something too complex to name. Then the idol persona slid back into place with the ease of a well-fitted jacket. He stood, buttoning his suit coat, his posture straightening into the public-facing version of himself: approachable, professional, charming without being threatening.
âThank you for your time.â The words were generic, directed at the ceiling as much as at you. The manager pushed open the door, already typing on a phone, already mentally moving on to the next obligation.
You stood rigidly by the table, clutching your questionnaire to your chest like a shield. Your bow was precise. Formal. Measured.
You survived. You maintained professional boundaries. Heâs leaving.
The manager was already halfway to the elevator, calling out something about a backup dancer who needed an extra fitting. Seungcheol followed at a leisurely pace, his shoes silent on the carpet.
He passed your side of the table.
You didnât anticipate the pause. You didnât anticipate the way he slowed, his stride breaking for half a beat, his body angling toward you as naturally as if heâd been drawn by gravity.
His mouth found your ear.
The brush of his lips against the shell of it lasted less than a secondâso quick that by the time your brain registered the contact, heâd already pulled back. The whisper that came with it was low, rasping, so intimate that it felt like a secret pressed into your skin.
âFix your collar, Director.â
Your breath stopped.
âYou missed a button.â
His voice curled around the words. A promise. A threat. An invitation.
âLetâs do more next time.â
He straightened. Smiled at the room like nothing had happened. Raised one hand in a casual wave that wasnât directed at anyone in particular. The glass doors swung shut behind him, and his silhouette receded down the corridor, and the managerâs voice faded into the distant hum of the elevator bank.
Your portfolio slipped from your nerveless fingers.
It hit the carpet with a soft thud, papers spilling, a pen rolling under the table. You didnât pick them up. Your hands flew to your throat, fingers scrambling against the silk of your blouse, searching for the missing buttonâ
Every button was fastened.
From the hollow of your throat to the highest point of your sternum, every single one sat precisely in its buttonhole. The collar lay flat. The silk was pristine. Your blouse was perfectly, immaculately intact.
Heâd lied.
Heâd lied just to make you check.
Your pulse hammered against your fingertips, wild and traitorous, and you could feel it everywhereâat your wrists, at your throat, low in your stomach where a heat had kindled that no amount of intellectual yapping could extinguish. The scent of the leather accord still clung to the air, mixed now with something else, something that smelled like clean soap and warm skin and the ghost of a whisper pressed against your ear.
summary: thinking about clingy, possessive and cuteness aggression enthusiast reader who canât keep her handsâor rather teethâ to herself when Seungcheol is preparing for his cxm activities.
wc: ~4.5k
pairing: idol!seungcheol x nonidol!reader (afab) [ w/ special appearance, bff mingyu ]
tw/tags: mostly pwp, established relationship, biting, marking, manhandling (he loves it), aggressive loving, oral (m.rec), jealousy, piv, choking, breath play (if u squint really hard), pet names, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, veryyy brief dry humping
< A/N: hello! this is a quick drabble i wrote out in between some WIPs i have yet to finish up. I couldnât get this picture out of my head of domestic cheol and his clingy reader gf whose love language is presented through biting and marking him up⌠sighs dreamily⌠anyways, I hope you enjoy it and please be sure to leave a comment, reblog and/or ask! Iâm eager to hear any and all feedback as it encourages me to continue my writing journey :]
At any given chance, youâre instantly sinking your teeth into his biceps, playfully tightening your grip around his throat, or simply pressing a rough kiss to his lips in passing.
There isn't a single time he doesn't accept it willingly. He knows you love him to a level he himself struggles to understand at times. The biting throws him for a loop every once in a while, sending his mind scrambling for a reason besides cannibalism.
But he finds it endearing all the same, enjoying it, even.
He loves it even more when you start doing it more often in public. Heâs able to see the hunger in your eyes from a mile away and it sends a chill down his spine each and every time he catches you.
Heâs posing with nonchalance for their concept photos when you first arrive, eyes darting over his form and caging your bottom lip between your teeth. He had acknowledged you with a curt smile and a nod of his head before continuing with the shoot, his own body wanting nothing more than to greet you fully in a warm embrace and kiss to your already swollen lips.
Though, as soon as the opportunity reveals itself, youâre beating him to it. You cross the set with a few quick strides in his direction before melting against him, ducking your head beneath his chin to press an innocent peck to his jaw.
He welcomes you with a tight squeeze around the hips and continues to rock you back and forth while you breathe in his scent.
âMissed you so much,â you admit with a pathetic whine. You weren't normally this needy, much less in public, but today felt different. It felt.. wrong, for once, waking up to an empty bed and a phone full of updates from his weverse, yet not a single message from him directly to you.
You knew he was busy. Hell, your relationship had been built off of his grueling schedule, back when he was promoting his second album with his group and you becoming a staff member of a sister company. He was beyond unavailable and yet you found it difficult to keep your eyes off of him. Unbeknownst to you, he was equally as desperate when it came to your attention. The few instances where your schedules would align left the both of you scrambling against the clock to further familiarize yourselves with one another, and eventually build a connection from a few fleeting glances and brief conversations.
Fast forward to now, things had only progressed in both of your careers, your lives busier than ever. Youâve been officially dating for three years and whilst primarily kept under wraps, your heart longed more and more for the opportunity to remind him of your devotion to him.
Much to your embarrassment, your loyalty presented itself with an unexplainable urge to swallow him whole and take every inch of his skin between your teeth without an ounce of shame.
Hence your current predicament; Seuncheol had his arms thrown lazily around your frame as you swayed, ever so blind to the scheming smile gracing your features. You leaned back, arching yourself against him as he questioned you with pinched brows.
To his surprise, youâd managed all the strength you had and utilized his obliviousness to your advantage, yanking him by the back of his neck and crashing your lips together with haste.
His hitched breath encourages you to move impossibly closer, your chests beating against one another with every jolt of your racing hearts.
The sheer intensity of the kiss is short lived when you detach from him with one last smack of your lips. Drunk on the high youâve fed him, Seungcheol attempts to chase your lips, urging you to continue.
His silent pleas amuse you, enticing you to lean in towards his ear and whisper,
âBe good for me, Cheol. Go do your job and make me proud.â
You send him off with a playful nip to his cheek, your canines grazing the skin gently, cautious of the hours worth of effort his makeup artists have put in. His eyes follow your retreating form as you find your place behind the cameras.
Heâs an hour and a half into taking naturally candid photos around the rented estate, and itâs driving you nuts.
The setting does little to ease your eagerness to claim him right then and there, offering a much more domestic and personal light to his preexisting bachelor aura.
Heâs a fucking housewife, your mind offers you to no particular request. Your grip on your jacketâs strings falters when a deep, raspy voice presents itself near the cusp of your ear.
âDid he mention the next shoot to you?â
âHm?â You respond, sparing Mingyu a passive glance before settling back on your deity of a man leaning over the terrace.
âWeâre going swimming, if you wanted to join afterwards.â
âWhy would I join?â You reply coolly.
âWell considering how much youâre drooling right now from him just standing there, I figured youâd want to indulge in having him in less layers for a few hours once we wrap up.â He grins.
Your skin burns from where he perches his chin on your shoulder, striking your body in flames as you try your best to shove your thoughts away. You canât just indulge in your boyfriendâs near nudity just for a few hours. You know you donât have that kind of self restraint when it comes to seeing him topless and unblemished.
âMingyu, respectfully,â you turn to him slowly. âGet lost.â
His laugh reverberates against your arm as he tosses his top half against you, bracing himself as he catches his breath. Your sneer recoils into a smile as you catch Seungcheolâs curious glance from across the room.
His posture tenses while raking his eyes over you and mingyu, taking a moment to readjust before continuing his scene. The photographer calls for a break just a few moments later, satisfied with the outcome.
Your body is moving before you register it, slipping out of Mingyuâs reach with one last glare before youâre crashing into Seungcheolâs rigid chest.
âBaby,â he says softly, taking your arms and wrapping them around his waist before placing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head. âAre you staying for the whole shoot?â
âDo you want me to?â You ask coyly, having preemptively cleared your own schedule in favor of following his.
âI always love having you here, you know that.â He smiles.
âThen Iâll stay.â You say and rise on your tip toes to plant a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
âArenât you two tired of being this clingy?â Mingyu invades your bubble in just a few seconds, separating your bodies with a sudden jut of his hip to yours.
You scowl at him as youâre rudely tossed to the side. His shit eating grin grazes his stupidly handsome features while returning your attention to him.
You two had always been at each otherâs throats, both playfully and unwittingly at times. He was your best friend, nonetheless, but it sent Seungcheolâs mind reeling with how kittenish you became when he was around.
Something in his chest twinged with envy and had jealousy rearing its ugly head every once in a while when you two stood too close together, shared a meal during his turns to film or pose for photos, or even as you bantered and bickered in front of him.
He knew it was nothing. Knew you loved him too much to replace him so easily, nevertheless with his own friend and group mate.
âYouâre just jealous, Gyu.â You huffed while snaking your arms around Seungcheolâs middle again.
âMe? Jealous?â He gasped, feigning an appalled expression while placing a hand to his chest.
âYah,â Seungcheol growled. âGet lost before I call Heejoo and tell her youâre moping around on set.â
Mingyuâs eyes wander to the ground at that, rubbing anxiously at the back of his neck as he begins backing away solemnly. The mention of his current situation-ship seems to strike him a lot harder than youâd both expected, and you smirk at his crumbling confidence.
âYouâre a dick for that.â He grumbles toward your boyfriend, unable to hide the sudden flush peeking out from under the collar of his shirt.
Seungcheol grunts at him once more, sending the younger man away with another dismissive threat before finally turning his attention to you.
âWill you help me put some sunscreen on before the next set?â
The following hour of camerawork concludes with a brief discussion about tomorrowâs expected schedule, all the more exhausting and seemingly endless as the last. You can see the fatigue draped over Seungcheol's features from where you stand, plummeting your heart into your stomach as you continue to watch him, mingyu and the team wearily deliberate future activities and propositions for upcoming promotions.
With a supportive clap to their backs, the team dissipates around them to end their workdays.
You take the remaining opportunity after the last staff member's departure to approach your boyfriend, your hands instinctually attached to his neck and puling him toward you. He moves pliantly, allowing his head to fall into the crook of your shoulder and neck as he exhales tiredly.
"Long day, bunny?" you remark quietly, raking your nails across the nape of his neck.
"Too long," he grumbles, ignoring the nickname you know normally grinds his gears any other day. You feel his muscles returning to their tense state as he removes himself from you begrudgingly.
"Can you stay the night?" The light in his eyes flicker with something akin to hope before clouding with uncertainty at the sound of your defeated sigh.
"I have a meeting early in the morning. Have to meet with the company to discuss some upcoming solo works." Your words fall on deaf ears as he's already groaning and pouting, choosing to disregard your excuse in favor of throwing a short-lived fit.
"I can have someone drive you early in the morning?" His offer hangs heavily in the space between you, an offer you really want to take him up on.
To your misfortune, calling out for today was enough of a reason for your company to dismiss you of your duties permanently should you choose to do it again.
The short notice had thrown your team for a whirlwind, a mini crisis plaguing the workplace and blowing up your phone for the entirety of your time spent watching Seungcheol. You were ashamed to admit it out loud, but you'd give anything to quit and replace your priorities with becoming a stay at home simp for your boyfriend. You'd give anything to watch him all day long, cling to him at every beck and call, and devote yourself to being the best version of yourself you could be for him.
Were you insane for thinking that far? yes.
Were you that serious about him? also yes.
You couldn't help the pained complaint that escaped your throat upon seeing his face fall. It shredded every single piece of you to know you couldn't stay, and even more so when he began to beg for you to.
"Please? at least for a few hours? 'Till I fall asleep?" His eyes drift between yours, searching for any bit of redemption, consideration, confirmation.
Removing your hands, you smooth over your features to look at your watch, noting the late hour and the dread pestering your mind. Your notifications peer back at your for a second, reminding you of the dedication you had to your work for the following morning.
It would only be a few hours, you consider.
A beat of silence passes by before you inevitably agree with a nod of your head. "Okay."
To say he's elated would be an understatement. He's over the moon at your response, immediately linking your fingers and dragging you inside the airbnb, shifting his direction towards the bedroom as you enter.
"I'll take a shower and then we can watch a movie!" He suggests after leading you to the bed where you sit patiently, smiling as he trips over his own two feet while dashing toward the bathroom.
God, you can't believe he's yours.
"Did you know you had a mole here?"
Seungcheol meets your eyes through the reflection of the mirror, watching you trail your nails down his spine as he finishes his skin routine at the bathroom sink. You've since changed into a spare set of his clothes, a simple t-shirt that drapes over your dips and curves and ends just past the apex of your thighs.
His gaze lingers for a moment longer than it normally does, mouth subconsciously watering at the sight of you.
"I don't think so." He chuckles softly while returning to his process of unfolding a face mask and spreading it across his features carefully.
"Your back is so..." your voice drawls with a pensive hum, considering your words intently before continuing. "boring."
"Huh?" He turns in your grasp, catching the faint smirk pulling at the corner of your lips.
"It's just missing something." You utter.
"Like what?" he murmurs, his lips pursed in effort to keep his mask from slipping.
Your grin spreads along your face, head cocking to the side as you maneuver your hands over the expanse of his bare chest, raising goosebumps in their wake.
"Could use a little more me on it."
You spot the shift in his demeanor, shoulders tensing slowly, eyes sharpening, and the veins in his neck straining as he swallows dryly. You don't give him a chance to act on his desire, gracefully pinning his wrists against the counter and slipping your tongue out to lap at the flushed skin of his neck.
His groan rumbles from between your pressed chests, audibly forfeiting all control as you continue to press open mouthed kisses to his throat. His hips buck desperately when he feels your teeth graze just past his jugular, sinking deeper into his flesh with every breath he gasps.
"Baby," he whimpers against your persistence. You pull back, relishing in the subtle chase of his lips toward yours, halting just out of his reach with an arched brow.
"Bunny?" you counter, urging him to proceed with what he needs to say.
"Can't." He whines, overwhelming mortified with displeasure for having to restrain himself.
"Can't what?" You probe innocently, inching closer once more, guiding him back to you by the draw strings of his shorts. He lulls forward without resistance, drawn to your lips with nothing except a mere inch between them.
"Can't be marked. Not now." He says petulantly, eyes downcast as he drops his head, dejected.
Your heart thuds against your rib cage at that, growing restless as fondness ebbs away at your brain, turning it into mush. He knows you so well, knows that you need to mark him up, leave your presence on his skin for everyone to see how taken he is.
Love smothers your senses, your head cloudy and full of him. Your everything. Your person.
You reach to curl your fingers through his blonde, wet strands, tugging with enough force to lift his head once more. He moans quietly at that, his own hands finding purchase on your hips as he stares at you through his dark lashes.
You smile and tap his bicep with your free hand. You notice his eyes trailing your features hungrily before placing a gentle kiss to his muscle, right below his shoulder.
"'S okay, Bunny." You coo.
His arm flexes under the warmth of your fanning breath, fidgeting at every peck of your lips you lead up his arm and toward his chest.
You freeze once you've reached his collar bone, slowing your breathing and blowing a long, heavy exhale that mists over his already clammy skin. You smirk triumphantly at his muted mewl, watching his chest rise and fall erratically.
"I won't mark your pretty skin just yet," you reassure calmly, your hand still twisted in his hair as you pull it experimentally once more, lavishing his skin in praises when he moans.
"Stay still for me, m'kay?"
You don't wait for his response before sinking your teeth near his clavicle with pressure, not enough to break skin but plenty to stimulate both him and you when he ruts against you.
"Gentle," He reminds you through brief, measured breaths.
"I know, I know." you chide and release your grip on his hair briefly to instead hold his throat between your hands.
His eyes peer down at you for a short moment before flashing you a playful grin. You mirror it with your own before squeezing lightly at his neck, reveling in the meek sound he coughs out.
"So pretty," you murmur lovingly. "All mine to play with however I want. Whenever I want."
To his dismay, his nod is restrained and dismissed by you when you apply just a bit more pressure, your gaze darkening as he wraps a hand around one of your wrists, wordlessly pleading for more. You oblige and wedge your knee between his thighs, now aware of how engrossed he truly was upon feeling his pulsing erection against your bare skin.
"Is this why you wanted me to stay so bad? So you could be manhandled by your pretty girlfriend? Hm?"
Your hands release him, dropping to your sides as he heaves a few labored breaths, his eyes never once leaving your retreating form as you saunter toward the bed, patting the space beside you once you're perched at the edge.
He carries himself on wobbly legs to where you sit, landing ungracefully onto the bed with a soft "oof" before reaching a hand out toward you. You link your hands together momentarily, allowing yourself to soak in the appearance of his current state; dazed, spent, and utterly beautiful with every inch of his skin painted a bright red by an angry flush.
"Roll onto your belly for me, Cheolie." you direct.
He does so without complaint, damningly compliant to your every command. You absentmindedly trace shapes into his spine, your lips curling into a smile each time he flinches against the brush of your nails.
He rests his head against his folded arms, unintentionally flexing his muscles at the broadness of his shoulder blades. You chuckle, quietly shifting your attention to the taut skin, lowering yourself to place lingering kisses.
A sigh creeps out of his deflating body, audibly enjoying your attention. You proceed to kiss your way up, pausing to nip at the fat of his arms playfully and releasing a giggle of your own when he claims he's ticklish with a laugh.
You bite back the quip on your tongue, choosing to focus more on his twitching hips by running your hand over the smooth skin of his arched lower back. He hums, satisfied, and groans when your begin to pull his shorts down his thighs, allowing them to fall aimlessly to the ground.
He jolts upright when your hand collides with a loud smack against his ass, immediately coiling into himself with a yelp.
"What, you can do it by I can't?" You joke when he replies with a harmless glare.
"I'm not letting you peg me, if that's what you're leading up to." He chastises with narrowed eyes.
You feign a look of betrayal, simultaneously guiding him onto his back once more as you move to straddle his hips.
"Tough, I really wanted to see your cute little ass all perked up for me." You can't hold back the devious giggle that threatens to escape you, fully leaning against his chest to stabilize yourself.
"You're insane." He huffs with an eye roll.
"Yeah, but it's kind of cute." Your smile lingers a moment longer as he presses his lips to your forehead, soft and everlasting.
It's then that you lift your head and laugh once more, your fingers reaching to remove his face mask he'd long forgotten.
"I was really trying to keep a straight face!" You giggled. He levels you with a bashful scowl, turning away from your gaze as you settle down with a quiet sigh.
In the blink of an eye, your playful character is gone, replaced by your previous deviant nature.
"You're gonna be the death of me." He murmurs against your skin when you begin grinding your clothed pussy onto his exposed cock.
"I better act quick then," You retort while reaching down and clutching onto your panties to pull them side, angling your sopping folds to trail over the head of his cock.
"Fuck, Bunny. You're so fucking perfect." You groan into the dip of his shoulder, pressing yourself harder against him. His grip on your waist returns, clambering against your ministrations.
"Justâ just take me already." He grits out through a particularly sharp inhale. "And don't call me bunnyâ shit âwhile we're fucking, jesus."
"You got it, Bunny." Your voice cracks ever so slightly as you begin your descent down his length, abdomen flexing with every ragged breath you take as he breaches your entrance. The stretch is painful, tearing you apart no matter how many times you've taken it. Tears spring to your eyes, threatening to spill before you finally settle, flush to his groin with a shaky breath.
"Oh fucking hell," He moans deeply. He recovers with a sudden shift of his hips, stripping you of all power you previously obtained.
You lurch forward with a startled mewl, your face falling between the crevice of his jaw and throat. Your mouth latches on helplessly, teeth grazing the stubble of his chin and biting down impishly.
He returns the favor, pausing to rip your (his) shirt off and tossing it aside hurriedly, attaching his mouth to the mound of your breast, nibbling at the supple flesh and grinding up into you when you elicit a borderline pornographic moan.
"Please, Cheol, please." You moan against his ear, grinding against him feverishly. Your begging fuels him further, ripping every ounce of self restraint out of him, replaced with an insatiable appetite only you can satisfy.
"You're so beautiful, baby. I'm gonna let you mark me as soon as all of this is over. Soon, my love. So soon." His attempts to soothe your desires warm your insides, your knees near gelatinous as he rams into your pulsating heat without a second regard or worry.
You feel his pace quickening with every plunge, your own movements futile in contrast with his. Your back hits the mattress in a flash, your legs forcefully pinned to your sides as he impales you over and over.
Your moans melt into short, wispish screams when you feel his mouth latch onto your breasts again, leaving deep, bruising indents from his teeth.
The mere idea of him biting you, the same way you've done with every given opportunity in the past, has your legs clenching against his waist, your teeth clamping around your lips as you feel yourself release into the euphoria of your climax.
"More, Cheol, please moreâI wantâI need more." Your cries fill his chest with pleasure and vanity, thrusting him head-first into the deep end of your satisfaction. He comes with a choked out cry, muffling the sound into your chest as he curls inwards, pumping himself dry into your tightening core.
"Baby," his hand leaves your waist to settle on your sweaty cheek, caressing the crimson skin as he adores your spent features. "You did so good, my love. so good for me."
You groan softly in reply, motioning for him to lay beside you with a limp wrist. He chuckles softly and gently pries himself free of your tight cunt with a groan.
âOne more round?â You mumble into the pillows, peeking an eye in his direction to catch the faint grin on his dewy face.
âGive me ten minutes.â
âShit,â he hisses. âSlow down.â
Your tongue slips between the slit of his cock, catching every last drop of his seed from his second release.
If thereâs anything youâve learned about your boyfriend in the past three years of dating him, itâs that heâs prone to over sensitivity after his second high. While you can recover relatively quickly after an orgasm, his stamina is overmatched by the mere pain of reaching another climax so short apart.
Itâs something you both teetered the line with, not knowing whether it was right or even possible to milk him for as many rounds as he could. But, much like the rest of your ideas and suggestions, he couldnât say no to you.
So you pumped his cock even faster, watching his jaw slack and chin quiver with a cry as he came down from his third match.
âYouâre doing great, bunny.â You encourage, slowing your pace down to run a stripe along the side of his length with your tongue.
His brows dip and another moan escapes him. âYouâreâ youâre killing me.â
âMh,â you hum. With a final tug to his half hard cock, you trail your lips over the smooth surface of his inner thigh, relishing in his breathy exhales.
âYouâre always so good for me.â You say.
The tip of your tongue traces the faint stretch marks of his upper thigh, nearing the edge of his hip where you still.
The pads of your fingers skim over the flesh before youâre leaning forward and clamping your mouth down full force, undoubtedly leaving a mark this time.
You hear his choked shriek of pleasure and pain, the sudden grip on your hair paired with it.
âFuck! âM gonna come again.â His voice lilts, pitched higher than usual.
You continue to pepper kisses along his waistline before meeting his opposite thigh with another skin-breaking bite. Your moan pulsates against the irritated skin, soothing the burn and easing the mark against the fat of his thigh to an eventual bruise with the flat of your tongue.
âCanât take anymore.â He cries desperately, loosening his fingers wrapped around your disheveled locks as he comes down from his final release.
You give in to his whining after another brief moment of caressing the enflamed skin. You carefully ascend up his hiccuping body, tiny pecks littering his bareness before you connect your mouth with his with the upmost tenderness you could possibly muster.
âI love you so much.â You speak quietly against his lips.
His eyes remain shut, fluttering in and out of consciousness as he nods his head in response.
âLove you too.â He murmurs.
Laying your head on his chest, your entire being laxes against him, fully satiated and enraptured in his presence. A hand creeps up your waist, squeezing your side carefully as his body deflates beneath you with a deep exhale.
You could never truly thank him enough for indulging in your antics. Youâre aware your love languages are drastically different; yours being entirely unhinged and bordering aggressive, where as his is prevalent in his gentle mannerisms, gift giving and pure compliance when it comes to you.
Nevertheless, the love you both have for one another surpasses all expectations and continues to surprise you day after day, year after year.
Even if you have to hide your love bites from the public eye.
< A/N: fin! this took a lot less time to write than i anticipated, despite the fact that smut tends to discourage my creativity. but! after getting all of my thoughts out and returning to the storyline with fresh ideas and inspiration, i was able to pump out a pretty decent chunk of raunch to satisfy my expectations for my first time writing smut.
that being said, i hope this flows well and encourages you to leave a comment or repost! feedback and suggestions are always appreciated. :) thanks!!!
The first time you met Choi Seungcheol, you genuinely thought he was some kind of mafia boss.
His presence was overwhelming. The kind that made people straighten instinctively when he walked into a room. Sharp eyes, broad shoulders, a deep voice that always sounded calm no matter what he was saying. Expensive watch around his wrist, black shirt neatly rolled up to his forearms, looking entirely too intimidating for a blind date your friend insisted you would âabsolutely love.â
You actually wanted to curse your friend out for setting you up with him.
But, boy, were you wrong.
It only took two dates for you to completely change your mind.
Because yes, Seungcheol may looked like someone who could ruin another personâs life with a single phone call. But he was also genuine in a way that caught you off guard. Soft-hearted too. So full of love for the people around him that sometimes it almost felt unreal.
He was stubborn, sure. Headstrong in the way men like him usually were. But underneath all that intimidating charisma was someone painfully gentle.
And Seungcheol loved taking care of his people. Especially you.
Whatever you wanted somehow ended up at your doorstep the next day. Even things you only mentioned casually in passing, things even you forgot about, Seungcheol always remembered. He paid attention to you in a way nobody else ever had before.
At first, it was hard getting used to it.
You came from a humble background. You learned independence young, learned not to rely on anyone except yourself. So having someone constantly buying you things, spoiling you just because he wanted to, felt uncomfortable.
It took years for the two of you to find a middle ground.
Seungcheol tried understanding where you were coming from, and in return you tried understanding that this was simply how he loved, how he cared. Remembering little things about you. Wanting to make your life easier in any way he could.
Maybe thatâs why his proposal shocked you so much.
There was no fancy restaurant. No hundreds of roses and candles on the floor. No dramatic setup.
It was just the two of you inside your shared apartment. Domestic and warm.
You had just stepped out of the shower when you found him sitting at the edge of the bed in the dark bedroom, the only light coming from outside the window spilling faintly across the room.
âCheol?â you asked quietly while walking closer. âWhatâs wrong?â
Then you saw his eyes.
There was so much love in them. So much trust. So much yearning that it almost felt like he was pleading with you without saying anything at all.
And your heart clenched.
He wasnât promising you something grand. Wasnât trying to offer the world like men in movies did.
âI wanna take care of you,â he said softly, voice almost unsteady for the first time since youâd known him. âIn every way I can. For as long as youâll let me.â
Then quieter, almost like he was nervous saying it out loud.
âI want to be your husband.â
Not asking you to become his wife first.
He wanted to be your husband.
Wanted to love you for as long as he lived and wanted you to have him fully before he could ever ask for all of you in return.
And for some reason, that hurt your heart more than anything else ever could.
So you cried.
You smiled through tears while nodding, laughing breathlessly when you felt the slight tremble in his hands as he slid the ring onto your finger.
âYes,â you whispered. âI want that too.â
You could feel his love so clearly that night it almost overwhelmed you.
And maybe thatâs why, a few nights later you found yourself kneeling between his legs. Your hands rest on top of his thighs, almost polite like you were asking permission before going any further.
âSweetheart,â Seungcheol said immediately, voice already rougher than before. âYou donât have to do this.â
But you only shook your head gently.
âI know,â you murmured while reaching for the waistband of his sweatpants. âI want to.â
He let out a shaky breath.
Slowly, you pulled his sweatpants and boxers down just enough to free him. Your hand wrapped around his cock carefully, pumping him onceâtwice, and that was when Seungcheol saw it.
The engagement ring sitting on your finger.
Catching the apartmentâs light every time your hand moved against him.
His fiancĂŠe.
Seungcheol tilted his head back slightly at the feeling, jaw tightening while your smaller hand stroked along his length.
âFuckâŚâ he muttered under his breath.
The warmth of your mouth made him lose whatever thoughts he had left after that.
Your tongue dragged slowly from base to tip before wrapping your lips around him properly, and Seungcheol swore he nearly saw heaven right there.
You tried your best to take him fully despite the obvious size difference. But he was bigâthick enough to already make your jaw ache after only a few minutes, veins pressing against your tongue every time you took more of him into your mouth.
A small gag slipped out of you when the tip nudged too deep into your throat.
âBabyâŚâ Seungcheol groaned softly, hand immediately moving into your hair. Not forcing. Never forcing. Just holding gently, adjusting the angle slightly more for you than for himself.
Because he knew oral wasnât your favorite thing.
Knew how your jaw started hurting after a while. Knew how easily you gagged and teared up whenever he went too deep. And truthfully, Seungcheol preferred being the one between your thighs instead, completely obsessed with making you squirm and tremble beneath him while he worked you apart with his tongue.
Which was exactly why seeing you try so hard for him now made his head spin.
âGod⌠baby,â he groaned shakily when he heard the small moan that slipped from you while sucking him off.
The sound nearly killed him.
You could already feel the sting in your throat when he pushed deeper into your mouth. He was bigger than anyone youâd ever been with before, both thick and long enough to make tears gather in your eyes embarrassingly fast.
Another gag escaped you when Seungcheol accidentally thrust upward this time.
His eyes widened immediately.
âFuck, Iâm sorry.â
He gently pulled you off him, both hands instantly cradling your face while wiping away the tears sliding down your cheeks.
âIâm sorry, baby,â he repeated softer this time, thumb brushing carefully beneath your eye.
But you only shook your head.
You didnât mind doing this sometimes if it made him happy.
And when you looked back up at him like that, Seungcheol swore something inside him completely shattered.
Because there you were.
His fiancĂŠe. The woman he loved more than anything else in this world. Kneeling between his legs with swollen lips wet from spit, tears staining your cheeks from gagging around him earlier, eyes glossy while still looking up at him with adoration.
You looked devastating like this.
Like temptation itself. Like every beautiful sin wrapped into one person.
And Seungcheolâ
God, Seungcheol would gladly spend the rest of his life worshipping at your altar if you let him.
â§Â SUMMARY: Your fledgling career as a music journalist is finally going in some kind of direction that must be on the path to success. Your coworkers like you enough to invite you out on Fridays, your boss is starting to think youâre competent enough to let you score a few bylines, and youâre finally getting the hang of InDesign. All of your hard work, late nights, and complete lack of a social life are starting to pay off⌠Even if it all came at the expense of the longest relationship of your life. Fine. Youâve accepted the fact that romance isnât for you, under any circumstances. You wonât risk your career for anybody. Not even Min Yoongi.
â§Â TAGS: (kind of) slow burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, fluff, light angst, humor, producer!yoongi, music journalist!reader, neighbors to friends to lovers? youâll see, reader is bad at feelings, reader is post-break up, now back and better than ever (excluding yijeongâs bitchass), original series can be found here
â§Â WARNINGS: explicit sexual content (MINORS DNI), miscommunication, angst (warnings listed for each individual chapter)
â§Â WORDCOUNT: 43.1k
â§Â STATUS: complete
â§Â CHAPTERS â§
CH 1: turn a bad night to a good time [3k]
CH 2: really nice to talk to you [3.9k]
CH 3: i wanna fold clothes for you [3.6k]
CH 4: sittin' in the studio [6.4k]
CH 5: i think i need your help [7.5k]
CH 5.5: i'm not done yet [2k]
CH 6: y'all ainât never been to a party before? [5.6k]
CH 7: can you have a little trust in me? [8.8k]
CH 7.5: wanna do it all over again [1.9k]
â§Â EXTRAS â§
01. coming home [2.8k]
02. everything i want [7.6k]
03. happy birthday, baby [9.3k]
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The Fun Sun
Wonwoo x f! Reader | Single Dad x Teacher
Mature | Explicit | MDNI
After choosing the peace of fatherhood over the roar of the stage, a former idol finds his simple life electrified by a vibrant teacher who sees the powerful man hidden beneath his quiet soft 'dad' image.
The amber sunlight slanted through the high windows of Shining Diamonds Daycare, painting long, lazy rectangles across the freshly mopped linoleum floor. The air smelled of wax crayons, wood polish, and the faint, clean scent of baby soap. Silence. A rare, precious commodity in a place usually buzzing with the chaotic joy of toddlers. You perched on a tiny, bright blue plastic chair, your knees tucked up almost to your chest, feeling that familiar burst of end-of-day energy despite the quiet.
Across from you, on a chair identical in size but dwarfed by his presence, sat Jeon Wonwoo. Miguelâs dad. He looked like a gentle giant folded into a childâs world, wearing a soft, oversized charcoal cardigan that swallowed his frame. His thick-rimmed glasses were clean, his dark hair slightly messy, and his hands were folded politely on his knees. The picture of an unassuming, slightly weary single dad. Youâd exchanged pleasant nods at drop-off and pickup a handful of times, but he was a ghostâalways slipping in and out with a quiet, polite smile, never lingering for the gossipy chatter that clung to the other parents. Other teachers would pause when he passed, their eyes following him down the hallway. You didnât get it. Sure, he was tall. And objectively, very good looking. But there was something else in their gaze, a weird, lingering reverence you couldnât decipher.
You leaned forward, your chin resting in your hand. Your paint-stained overalls and the messy ponytail escaping its elastic band were a stark contrast to his neat, muted aesthetic. âSo,â you began, your voice cheerful in the hushed room, âI wanted to show you something amazing from todayâs playtime.â
You slid your phone across the low table, the screen already glowing with a video. âWatch.â
The video played. Little Miguel, his face a picture of serious concentration, was leading a group of four other toddlers in what appeared to be a flawlessly synchronized dance routine. They stomped, clapped, spun in little circles, their movements surprisingly coordinated for three-year-olds. Miguel was at the front, his tiny arms cutting through the air with precise, high-energy gestures. It was adorable, hilarious, and oddly professional.
You laughed, a bright sound that bounced off the quiet walls. âSee? I mean, the stage presence! The leadership! Iâve never seen a kid command a âtoddler troupeâ like that.â You grinned up at Wonwoo, teasing. âWere you a theater kid? Or is there a secret performer gene in the family I should know about?â
Instead of a dad-joke or a sheepish grin, Wonwoo went incredibly still.
His gaze stayed locked on the phone screen, but his expression shifted. The soft, tired-dad look evaporated. A flicker of something intense and melancholic crossed his faceâa sharp pang of memory, a deep, resonant pride that seemed to ache. His jaw tightened slightly. The roomâs quiet suddenly felt different, charged.
When he finally looked up from the screen, his eyes found yours. The âtired dadâ was gone. Replaced by a sharp, piercing focus that made your breath hitch in your throat. His gaze was heavy, deliberate, seeing you in a way he never had before.
He answered. His voice had dropped an octaveâa low, resonant rumble you could feel in your own chest, a vibration that seemed to travel through the table. âHe gets it from his mother.â
The words were simple. But his eyes, fixed on yours with an unwavering intensity, felt far too heavy for a parent-teacher meeting about dance routines. They held a story, a pain, a depth you couldnât begin to understand.
A flush warmed your neck. You nodded, suddenly aware of the vast space his quietness had been filling. âOh. Right.â You reached for your phone, your fingers extending to retrieve it from where it sat near his large, folded hands.
As your hand moved, the side of your pinky brushed against his knuckle.
He didnât pull away immediately.
His skin was unexpectedly warm, a heat that seeped into your own. His hand was large, the bones prominent, the skin smooth. For a fraction of a second, his hand seemed to cover yours, not aggressively, but just⌠there. A solid, warm presence.
The air in the room thickened, pressurized. The scent of crayons faded, replaced by the clean, subtle scent of his wool cardigan and something elseâsomething faintly masculine and clean. Your pulse thumped against your ribs. You pulled your hand back, clutching your phone like a lifeline.
âSo,â you said, your voice a little higher than before, âI just wanted to ask⌠if itâs okay with you, Iâd love to nurture that. The dancing, the leadership. Heâs got a real spark. We could do little performance games, let him lead the music circleâŚâ
Wonwoo just nodded. His movements were minimal, controlled. âNo problem,â he said, his voice still that low, velvety rumble. The piercing focus in his eyes hadnât dimmed; it had simply softened into something more⌠appreciative. He was looking at you, really looking, as if youâd just revealed something fascinating about yourself, not his son.
The front door bell jingled, a sharp, cheerful sound that shattered the spell.
Wonwoo stood up.
It wasnât the slightly clumsy, dad-like shuffle youâd seen before. It was fluid. Graceful. He unfolded from the tiny chair with an effortless economy of motion, his height suddenly reasserting itself as he rose to his full stature. He loomed in the amber-lit space, the oversized cardigan seeming less like a cozy shield and more like a drape over a powerful frame.
He gave you a small, enigmatic nod. âThank you for showing me.â His eyes lingered. Not on your eyes this time, but lower. On your lips, just for a second too long. The focus there was differentânot analytical, but⌠contemplative. Warm.
Then he turned and walked toward the door. His stride was smooth, quiet, each step measured. He disappeared into the hallway, the soft sound of his footsteps fading away.
You were left alone.
The quiet classroom felt vast and empty. The plastic chair felt even smaller. Your heart was hammering, a frantic beat against the silence. You stared at the space where he had sat, the empty child-sized chair.
You didnât know who âJeon Wonwooâ used to be. You had no context for that flicker of melancholy, for the sudden drop in his voice, for the graceful, powerful way he moved when the mask slipped.
But youâd just realized something.
The quiet man in the oversized knits, the polite single dad who kept his hands folded neatly on his knees, was hiding a very powerful, very masculine energy just beneath the surface. And for a moment, when your hand touched his and his eyes held yours, that energy had brushed against you. It hadnât been scary. It had been⌠thrilling.
You let out a shaky breath, running a hand through your messy ponytail. Okay. You gathered your phone and the daily report sheets. The afternoon was over.
The next day, Miguel was his usual bright self. Wonwoo dropped him off. He was back in the soft, beige knit sweater, glasses, messy hair. The gentle giant. He gave you the same polite, quiet nod. âGood morning.â His voice was back to its normal, subdued tone.
But this time, you saw it. You saw the careful stillness. You saw the way his eyes scanned the room, not nervously, but with a calm, assessing gaze before landing on you. You saw the slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his head when you said, âMorning, Mr. Jeon! Miguelâs already talking about being the dance captain today.â
A faint smile touched his lips. Not the tired dad smile. Something smaller, more genuine. âHeâs excited,â he said. Then he paused, as if considering something. âYou⌠have a lot of energy for the mornings.â
It wasnât a question. It was an observation, delivered in that low, calm voice.
You grinned, wiping a smudge of paint from your overalls strap. âGotta match the kids, right? Theyâre basically tiny, caffeinated tornadoes.â
He watched you for a second longer, his dark eyes behind the glasses holding a quiet, thoughtful light. Then he nodded again and left.
The observation stuck with you. You have a lot of energy. It felt like heâd actually seen you, not just the teacher in front of him.
Days passed. The dance games became a highlight. Miguel flourished, and you found yourself watching for Wonwoo at pickup with a new, nervous anticipation. He was always polite. Always quiet. But the interactions changed, deepened in tiny, almost invisible ways.
One afternoon, you were helping Miguel put his shoes on at the cubby area near the door. Wonwoo arrived, standing a few feet away, waiting. You were kneeling, talking animatedly to Miguel about his âawesome robot dance,â your voice full of its usual enthusiasm.
You felt a presence behind you. Not a sound, just a shift in the air.
You turned your head slightly. Wonwoo was there, closer than he usually stood. He was looking down at you, not at his son. His oversized sweater sleeve brushed against the cubby shelf near your shoulder.
âHe talks about you at home,â Wonwoo said softly. âYour energy. He says youâre âthe fun sun.ââ
You blinked, looking up at him from your kneeling position. The height difference was staggering. He towered over you, the soft fabric of his sweater creating a gentle wall of beige above you. His face was serene, but his eyes were focused, intent on your reaction.
âThe fun sun?â you laughed, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks. âThatâs⌠thatâs adorable.â
âIt is,â he agreed, his voice a low murmur. His gaze drifted from your eyes to your smiling lips, then back up. The focus was warm. Appraising. âItâs a good description.â
Miguel tugged his shoe. âDone!â
You stood up, suddenly aware of your proximity to Wonwoo. You were close enough to smell that clean, subtle scent again. Close enough to see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the sharp definition of his jaw beneath the soft facade.
âAll set,â you said, your voice a little softer than usual.
Wonwoo reached down to take Miguelâs hand. But as he did, his other handâthe large, warm hand youâd briefly touched beforeâcame up. He didnât touch you. He just gestured slightly toward a smudge on your overalls, near your hip. âYouâve been busy,â he observed, a faint, almost invisible smile playing on his lips.
You looked down at the paint smear. âOccupational hazard.â
âIt suits you,â he said quietly. Then he turned, leading Miguel toward the door. But before he stepped out, he glanced back at you. âThank you, MissâŚâ He paused, as if realizing heâd never used your name.
âLena,â you supplied.
âLena,â he repeated. His voice wrapped around your name, giving it a weight, a resonance it never had before. âThank you.â
He left.
The fun sun. The words echoed in your head. Heâd said them with a quiet, deep appreciation that felt⌠intimate. Not parental. Not polite. Personal.
Friday arrived. The end-of-week chaos was amplified. You were tidying the art station, sleeves rolled up, ponytail a wreck, singing a silly song to yourself as you wiped down tables.
The door opened. It was later than usual pickup.
Wonwoo stood there, alone. No Miguel. He was dressed differentlyânot in an oversized knit, but in a simple, dark grey turtleneck that fit him more closely. It didnât hug him, but it hinted. It hinted at the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his torso. The glasses were still there, but his hair was less messy, more deliberately tousled.
âHi,â you said, stopping your singing abruptly. âMiguelâs already gone? His grandma picked him up earlier.â
âI know,â Wonwoo said, stepping inside. He closed the door behind him, shutting out the hallway noise. The daycare was empty, bathed in the late afternoon gold of the sunset. âI came to⌠discuss something. About the dance nurturing.â
âOh,â you said, setting down the sponge. âOf course.â You gestured to the tiny chairs. âWant toâŚ?â
He didnât move toward the chairs. He walked closer to you, to the art station. He stood near you, looking at the colorful chaos of dried paint and paper scraps. âYou create a good environment here,â he said, his voice back to that lower, resonant register. âItâs⌠vibrant.â
âItâs a daycare,â you said with a laugh, but your heart was starting that familiar, frantic beat.
âIt is,â he agreed. He turned his head to look at you. His gaze was direct, unguarded. âBut the vibrancy comes from you.â He paused. âYou donât⌠treat me like the others do.â
The statement hung in the air. You blinked. âThe others?â
âThe other teachers. The parents.â He said it simply. âThey look at me with⌠a certain expectation. A memory. You look at meâŚâ He trailed off, his dark eyes searching your face. âYou look at me like Iâm just Miguelâs dad.â
You swallowed. âWell⌠you are.â
A slow, deep smile spread across his face. It wasnât broad. It was subtle, but it transformed him. The quiet intensity softened into something warmer, more genuine. It made him look younger, yet more mature. âYes,â he said. âI am.â He took a half-step closer. The space between you reduced. You could see the texture of his turtleneck, the way it draped over his chest. âAnd you are Lena, the fun sun.â
Your breath caught. The nickname, said in that low, velvet voice, felt like a caress.
âIâŚâ you started, but words failed.
âMy son is happy here,â Wonwoo continued, his eyes holding yours. âBecause of you. I⌠appreciate that.â He seemed to be choosing his words with immense care. âI would like to appreciate it⌠more properly.â
The implication hung in the golden, silent room. More properly. Not a parent-teacher conference. Something else.
He reached out, not toward you, but toward the art table. He picked up a discarded, brightly painted paper star a child had made. His large, elegant fingers held the fragile paper with a surprising gentleness. âYou inspire this,â he said softly, looking at the star, then at you. âThe creativity. The joy.â
He set the star down. His hand lingered near yours on the tabletop. Not touching. Just⌠close. The warmth of his proximity was a tangible force.
âWould youâŚâ he began, his voice dropping even lower, almost a whisper, ââŚlet me thank you? Not here. Somewhere⌠without tiny chairs.â
The air in the room felt like it had been physically sucked out, leaving only the scent of his sandalwood cologne and the lingering vibration of his voice in your ears. Your mouth was slightly open, a sharp reply or a breathless yes sitting right on the tip of your tongue, when the heavy wooden door groaned open.
"Hey, are you almost done?" Jihye, the toddler-room teacher, stuck her head in, her keys jingling loudlyâa jarring, metallic sound that shattered the tension like glass. "The janitor wants to lock up the east wing. Oh! Sorry, Mr. Jeon, I didn't realize you were still here."
The transformation was instantaneous.
Wonwoo didn't jump or look guilty. Instead, he simply straightened his spine, the predatory stillness in his eyes vanishing behind the familiar, polite fog of 'Minjun's Dad.' He stepped back, creating a respectable three feet of distance between you in a single, fluid motion.
"Just finished," Wonwoo said, his voice back to that soft, humble murmur. He gave a small, formal bow to Jihye, then a brief, unreadable nod in your direction. As he walked past you toward the door, the sleeve of his heavy cardigan brushed against your armâa final, scorching touch of wool that felt like a brand.
"See you tomorrow," Jihye called out as he vanished into the hallway. She turned to you, oblivious, popping a piece of gum. "God, heâs so quiet, isn't he? Itâs like heâs trying to be invisible. Anyway, you coming? Iâm starving."
You stared at the empty doorway, your hand instinctively clutching the edge of the tiny, primary-colored table. Your skin was still tingling where his hand had covered yours, and the phrase somewhere without tiny chairs was looping in your brain like a forbidden mantra.
You weren't starving. You were electrified. You had spent months thinking Jeon Wonwoo was a puzzle with missing pieces, but youâd just realized he wasn't a puzzle at all.
He was a masterpiece hidden under a dusty tarp, and for the first time, heâd let you see a corner of the canvas.
pairing: non idol single father!seungcheol x nanny!reader
genre: strangers to friends to lovers: fluff, found family, smut
cw: smut (mdni!), tooth rotting fluff!!, technically employee x boss, reader gets brutally fired at the beginning, seungcheol is a fashion designer, seungcheol is a widower, if you've seen the nanny you'll know what to expect (if you haven't, go watch it), jeonghan is seungcheols butler, joshua is seungcheols business partner, jihan is technically implied (if you squint), hirai momo appearance (can you tell shes my twice bias?), dino is quite literally seungcheols child in this.... more may be added when the fic is fully released
synopsis: after being fired from your corporate 9-5, you're forced to look elsewhere for work. which is how you find yourself working for a very rich fashion designer in dire need of a nanny.
total wc: 5k+
teaser wc: 464
release date: April 4th
smut warnings under the cut :3
smut warnings: unprotected sex (dont be like them), oral (m&f rec.), fingering, marking, body worship, etc. more may be added once the fic is fully released.
a/n: oh lord im so excited about this one. i've been obsessed with the nanny literally my entire life, and i started rewatching it recently, so obviously i had to write a fic. also, to those who have seen it, please confirm my delusion of coups as mr sheffield. in case you haven't seen the show, each of the guest appearances are meant to represent the nanny characters, jeonghan = niles, joshua = c.c, momo = val, dino = maggie, and so on and so forth. the taglist for this fic is open, so please comment if you'd like to be tagged, or join my perm taglist by responding to the form on my navi page!
Something inside of you recoiled the second your boss said the words, âweâre like a family here.â Youâve heard it a million times before and youâre sure youâll hear it again. You knew the minute those words were uttered that youâll be thrust into a family more unstable than the one you were born into.Â
You were used to corporate 9-5âs, used to doing jack shit to get paid even less, but what you werenât used to was dealing with asshole coworkers who actually acted in their asshole ways. No one could really blame you for what you did, even though you didnât actually do anything.Â
It started on a fateful Wednesday, approximately three months since your first day on the job. You were sat at your desk, mindlessly replying to emails and organizing Microsoft excel sheets, when you received an urgent email from your boss. Inside contained four documents that were meant to be filed yesterday, so as a corporate boss typically does, he offloaded it all onto you. You quickly sent the files to be printed and stood from your irritatingly squeaky desk chair. At the printer was a coworker of yours, one that you were on decent terms with.
He leaned against the printer, talking almost obnoxiously loud into his phone about something that was definitely not work related. You walked up behind him and gently tapped his shoulder. He glared over his shoulder at you, âI need to use the printer.â He turned around fully, shaking his phone. You simply pointed at the printer as it whirred to life, very loudly beginning to print out the documents. It was then he dropped his arm to his side, the call seemingly having been hung up.
âCan you not use that right now? Iâm clearly on a call.â He scoffed, placing his free hand on his hip and tapping his foot like he was your father who caught you with your hand in the cookie jar.Â
âA call thatâs not work related, what if the boss heard you? The same man who Iâm currently printing files for.â Okay, maybe you werenât on that good of terms with him, but no one in the office really liked him. You suppose you shouldnât have said that because that was when shit hit the fan. You had never heard anyone yell that loud and of course, since noise travels and all, the boss heard him.
Of course, you were the one blamed for the whole fiasco and you found yourself trapped in your bosses office for about three hours trying to explain that breaking up with your side-piece didnât qualify as an important enough call to take during work hours and that you were truly just trying to print out his documents.Â
You got fired.
đˇď¸ : @eskoupe @codeinebelle
as i said before, the taglist is open! if you're interested, please comment and let me know, or join my permanent taglist using the form linked on my navi page <3
â CHERRYS-TEAS Š 2026 ||
NO TRANSLATIONS. DO NOT RUN MY WORK THROUGH AI. DO NOT CLAIM MY WORK AS YOUR OWN. VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.
PAIRING:Â Ferrari Driver!Jihoon x Journalist!Reader
SUMMARY:Â Jihoon is suffering through a heartbreaker of a season with Ferrari. The car wonât cooperate, his teammate keeps outpacing him, and nothing seems to go right. Worst of all is whatâs happening off the track. It seems racing is slipping through his fingers - and so are you.
WC: 18,786
AU:Â Formula One
GENRE: Angst, Exes to Lovers, Smut
RATING:Â 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: Angry Jihoon being miserable, things just not going right for him, a lot of self angsty, some petty arguments between reader and Jihoon, a lot of reflecting on the past and angst over a past relationship, a lot of awkward tension and just tension in general between Jihoon and reader, explicit language, a lot of race jargon shout out to google a lot of this might be wrong because the fuck if I know what some of these things are called only have a vague concept of tire strategy, explicit sexual content including oral (m. rec), vaginal fingering, sex where others can overhear it but who cares, multiple positions, multiple orgasms, a hint of dirty talk but not really, Jihoon is an Ass Guy.... um. I think that's it.
A/N: This is a piece for the Lights Out Collab hosted by @studiosvt! Apologies this is being posted late, Tumblr ate the scheduled post and I am on day 7 of 13 of full work days in a row and I do not even know what day or reality I'm in as I rush to post this. This is not beta'd I am so sorry.
A/N 2:Â This fic is a part of my Paddock Club Collection.
PADDOCK MAP:Â MAIN M. LISTÂ |Â ASKÂ |Â PADDOCK PLAYLIST
YOU'RE A HEARTBREAKER, DREAM MAKER
LOVE TAKER, DON'T YOU MESS AROUND WITH ME
-
LEE JIHOON FUCKING HATES PAT BENATAR SONGS. Not because she's a bad singer - she really isn't. But every time he hears one of her refrains from a distance, he's forced to think of you, and thus, it ruins his fucking day.
He'd like to go a single day without it being ruined. Today doesn't feel like the day. Neither had yesterday, or the day before that, an endless cycles of bad days and things that remind Jihoon of you everywhere he goes and everywhere he looks.
Jihoon swears the looming cloud over practice and media day for Day One of the Australian Grand Prix has followed him all the way from Monaco where he took his single reprieve between preseason testing and the start of the Formula One season. It hadn't been much of a rest, considering testing in Bahrain had been so bad that it had haunted him every night. What should have been warm days by the pool and runs down by the water had turned into hiding in the dark of his apartment, going through simulations and data and about a million other things to prep for this weekend.
This weekend that Pat Fucking Benatar is kicking off.
Australia blurs by on the other side of the window. As many times as Jihoon has been here, the sun never gets any kinder. He can feel its oppressive heat even behind the tinted glass of the car, and his sunglasses do almost nothing to keep the brightness at bay. Still, the sparkling blue of the ocean and the swath of blue sky above him is a nice break from the grey interior of his gloomy apartment back in Monaco.
"Can we change the radio station?" Jihoon asks.
The man in the front makes a questioning sound and Jihoon curses internally. He knew he should have committed to studying Italian in the off season. He's been a part of the Ferrari Formula One team long enough to need a better grip on the language, but he'd been uncommitted in the off season to learning it. He'd been too busy sulking over the poor end to last year's racing season and the very abrupt end of your relationship.
Soonyoung turns around the the front seat of the car, face dubious. "You don't like Pat Benatar?"
Jihoon is surprised his new teammate even knows who Pat Benatar is. Soonyoung, though older than him by a few months, doesn't seem to know much about music beyond the thumping techno and house that is often coming through his headphones or the hiphop that he swears he knows every word to.
Kwon Soonyoung has taken a bit for Jihoon to get used to. As the new driver for the second Ferrari seat, he is a personality that Jihoon can only categorize as wildfire and uncontrollable so far, but he begrudgingly doesn't dislike Soonyoung, which is a surprise. He thought he was going to hate the reckless upstart, but he actually kind of finds him refreshing. Plus, he's got an infection personality about him that reminds Jihoon of Chan, who had only been his teammate for a year, but he'd liked nonetheless.
Soonyoung is the kind of driver in F1 that is in the headlines for his behavior as much as he is his wins. It had surprised Jihoon when they signed Soonyoung after Chan moved to Williams. Soonyoung wasn't exactly the refined, classic Ferrari brand, but he was a good driver, and the long-standing Formula One name needed good drivers, particularly after Jihoon's not-so-great season last year.
"She's not my favorite," Jihoon responds, looking back out the window.
Hobson Bay gleams in the distance. Boats bob in the distance, random pops of colored parasailers dragging across the sky, the people in them the size of ants against the vast blue. As afraid as he is of heights, Jihoon would rather be tangling from one of them right now than heading to the first practice session of the season. He has no idea when he became so adverse to his own career, but the knot in his stomach only tightens the closer they crawl to the circuit.
"Oh man, you're missing out!" Soonyoung puts his hand to his face like a fake microphone and proceeds to belt, "You're a heartbreaker! Dream taker! Love taker!"
"Soonyoung."
"Yeah, yeah." He turns to the man in the driver's seat. He's grinning, apparently as easily charmed by Soonyoung as everyone else always is. "Puoi cambiare la musica? Grazie."
The driver nods and flips it to jazz and Jihoon sighs, leaning back in the seat and closing his eyes behind his sunglasses. Of course the new addition to the team speaks perfect Italian. Why wouldn't he? There seems to be a world of things that Soonyoung can do that Jihoon can't, including driving the impossible cars that Ferrari has given them this year.
Preseason testing had gone well for Soonyoung. He had the kind of testing sessions that made the Tifosi hopeful again, article after article talking about how he was bringing the spark back to Ferrari after a challenging last season that had ended up with Jihoon finishing outside of the top three and Chan losing his seat to shift to Williams.
Ferrari is a tough team to drive for. Jihoon knows that. He knew that when he started his rookie year with Alfa Romeo three years ago. He's going on his third season with Ferrari now, and the only thing that seems to stick is that he chases Red Bull and Mercedes for World Championships.
Still, Jihoon has been the closest Ferrari has been to consistent podiums in a while and he knows that. He's sacrificed everything - including being able to listen to Pat Benatar - to help lift Ferrari back to its former glory. To do so would be any drivers dream, and Jihoon was on track to take it until the tail end of last year. Preseason hadn't been kind to him either, leaving him with a dangerous sense of foreboding for what this season has to offer him.
The car this year is a beast, hard to control, hard to steer. Jihoon spend most of the practice sessions trying to muscle it to make the turns he wanted and grip it to death when it wanted to make turns he didn't want. It was like he was in personal conflict with the car, and while the car isn't sentient, Jihoon can't help but feel like it's purposefully chosen to work against him.
If Jihoon's relationship with you had taught him anything, it was that he liked stubborn. Stubborn girl, stubborn car, stubborn driver. Thankfully, Soonyoung doesn't seem to know what the word stubborn is, going with the flow and doing whatever Ferrari asked him to do. Mostly.
Australian sun beats down on Jihoon as he steps out of the car. He can already hear the fans screaming in the distance, the echo of their voices carrying over the black asphalt. He cringes internally, pulling the hat on his head down a little lower, trying to hide from wandering eyes. Soonyoung seems to come alive in front of fans, yelling back at them with his hands cupped around his mouth, making them go nuts. Jihoon resists the urge to smack him, knowing it isn't fair to steal Soonyoung's excitement just because he's miserable.
The garage smells the same as it always does, like rubber mixed with the slick scent of grease. The glare of the sun reflecting off the cherry paint on the car nearly blinds him and he holds up a hand, shielding his eyes. Jihoon steps inside and feels the familiar prickle across his shoulders. It's like stepping backward into a house that used to be his but has sold, a stranger in his own house.
Mechanics pause mid-motion when they see him, nodding and giving him tight smiles. Members of his team clap him on the back as he goes, and the tension bleeds out of him when he sees familiar faces. These are the people who want him to win most in the world. Despite the very passionate fan base Ferrari has, the men and women of this garage put just as much time and effort into wins as he does, and the tension eases a little when he remembers that the people her want whats best for him.
Soonyoung bounces in behind him, already waving at people he met for five minutes during testing, marveling at the gold painted Ferrari on the nose of his car. Jihoon ignores him, strolling over to gaze at telemetry screens that line the back walls. Numbers and graphs make more sense to him than people do, and he likes to find comfort in the data, to dive deep and puzzle out what he needs to do next.
It hadn't always been that way. There had been a time in Jihoon's racing career where how he felt behind the car had mattered more than the data. Those were the years that he was finishing inside the top ten with a car no one expected to do well, and before he'd been moved up to Ferrari where he felt more pressure to win, where he felt like he needed more than instinct. Having an instinctual edge for the car wasn't enough - he needed to understand. To be in control.
Data had been the worst thing that ever happened to him, you'd told him once. Jihoon had thought it was ridiculous at the time, but now as he stares at the wall of all the adjustments they've made from Bahrain, he isn't so sure you were wrong. You rarely were.
Matteo spots him first, the senior race engineer grinning as he walks over. Matteo has the look of someone sharp and scary, his dark hair threaded through with grey and wireframe glasses perched on a hawkish nose. Thankfully, Matteo's looks are deceiving. He's warm and loud, a riot in the garage as bright as the paint on the cars.
"Jihoon!" He claps his hands, sound ringing out. "Ready to make the data team cry again?"
Jihoon exhales sharply. Matteo's sense of humor is only appreciated sometimes. "Maybe it'll be tears of joy."
"CosĂŹ ti voglio!" He claps Jihoon on the shoulder. "That's the spirit!"
After walking around the car a few times and killing time, they head to the motorhome. With his head tilted down, Jihoon heads to the team meeting room on the second floor where there are people sitting inside already through he frosted glass, including the team principal.
Unlike Matteo, Nico isn't as easy on the humor. He's serious and driven, his frown lines deepening when Jihoon sits down. Nico is also Matteo's opposite in appearance, his warm brown eyes and light brown hair making him seem kind and approachable. Jihoon had learned early on that it was deceiving, discovering Nico was clipped, to the point and direct. Jihoon doesn't mind it, but it makes for uncomfortable conversations when Jihoon is under performing like he had in Bahrain.
The table is covered in print outs of historical track data, schematics, tire degradation curves and overlays that probably make more sense to the people surrounding the table than they do to Jihoon. He picks a paper up and frowns when he sees a map of energy deployment in the car that failed him in Sakhir. Energy is a confusing thing in Formula One, especially as the FIA and the teams make new rules about how to be environmentally friendly while being cost efficient.
Matteo doesn't waste anyone's time, tapping the first sheet to start the meeting. The room goes silent, employees leaning forward with their elbows on the table to listen to the man that's supposed to lead them all to victory.
"Front wing adjustment was too aggressive," Matteo starts. He looks at Jihoon. "You were fighting the adjustment too much, so that needs to be accounted for. We made some adjustments that should give you more more control without over correcting."
Jihoon nods once. Clinical. Logical. He's good at this when the alternative is screaming into a helmet to fix problems no one can handle as he drives 200 mph.
"What about rear suspension?" He asks. "It was a mess."
Matteo flips a page. "We're running you two millimeters higher than Bahrain to start."
"Can we drop it back if it's too much understeer?"
"Yes. Better than bouncing like a kangaroo, no?"
They move on to the power unit and show him the revised energy harvesting maps and their strategy to conserve energy on the corner exits to leave him with more juice when he needs it most. He nods, detailing each thing they've change, knowing he'll stay up tonight overthinking about it in that same way that he always does.
As the sun dips outside, the rest of the meeting carries on like that, the team firing data and adjustments at him while he tells them about how the car felt. When the meeting concludes, Jihoon feels a little better, but he has a laundry list of things to report back on for the day's practice run, and he's already trying to commit to memory all the adjustments he needs to make when driving the car.
Soonyoung is waiting outside for his own meeting with Nico and the engineering team, leg bouncing as he sits on the couch. He grins at Jihoon as they exchange places, Soonyoung's team swapping for Jihoon's. Like most teams, they only share a few personnel, keeping the driver's goals, teams, and strategy separate to ensure for clean, fair racing.
Jihoon spends the next hour in his room watching his races in Bahrain, flicking through his notes. The room in the motorhome is small, but it's got good air conditioning, a soft couch that he likes to doze on, and TV screens that he can use for leisure or data. He almost always picks data, touching the mousepad on the computer in front of him to flip screens.
By the time he's entering the garage for his first practice session, the garage has come to life, a full world of life and sound and smells. His personal race engineer Luca waits for him, arms crossed over his chest as he orders something in rapid Italian to the man handling tires. Jihoon likes Luca. He's built like a fire hydrant and manages pressure like one two, keeping most of his feelings bottled up until they come exploding out when Jihoon blows a tire or when someone puts him into the wall. Thankfully, his outbursts are often well-timed and never pointed at Jihoon.
"We'll start with mediums today," Luca says when he sees Jihoon. "We'll do softs after twenty minutes if the track allows."
Jihoon nods, listening as Luca fires off some technicalities about the car. It's hard to listen with Soonyoung's side of the garage turning into a circus, the driver shaking hands with every single one of his engineers and mechanics. Jihoon notices there's a tiny tiger pin clipped to his race suit and decides e doesn't want to open the can of worms by asking about it.
A calm settles over Jihoon as he readies to get in the car. The mechanics swarm around him and someone hands him his balaclava. He pulls it down over his head, noting that it smells faintly like laundry detergent. The helmet goes next, the squeeze of it familiar against his skull, tight and secure. He's field of vision narrows to the oval of the open visor, and he knocks on top of the helmet out of habit, the solid sound good.
Jihoon climbs the car and gets in, the sun glinting off the visor of his helmet as he sinks into the seat, body molding to it immediately. He leaves the visor up for now, reaching up as someone hands him the wheel to the car so he can plug it in. The dashboard lights up like Christmas, numbers colors, readings that are green. Green is good, though he doesn't expect to see red from the jump.
The garage doors are open now and Australian heat pours in, the sun vicious as it bounces off every shiny surface in the garage. Outside, the grandstands are starting to fill in for fans watching practice, team flags everywhere. Jihoon watches the clock on the wall, counting down the seconds until he can get out of the car again.
He runs through the start procedure in his head over and over again, reciting everything that he needs to do and everything tiny thing that can go wrong in the first five minutes of a season. Already he feels like he's forgetting what he talked about during the strategy session, but he'll just have to make do. If the car wants to fight with him today, he'll fight back. Jihoon is stubborn like that.
When the car's engine finally roars, Jihoon comes to life. He changes entirely with the sound of the engine humming and the vibrations climbing up through his legs, the steady buzz making him a little itchy and jumpy. The heat soaks through the carbon body of the car and the faint smell of brake fluid reaches him as he shuts the visor to the helmet, rolling his shoulders to ready himself.
"Radio check," Luca says, voice crackling over the comms.
"Good."
"Pit lane opens shortly. You're P2 in the queue."
"Copy."
"All good?
"Yeah," Jihoon says.
What Jihoon doesn't say is how hard it is not to think about how badly he fucked up in Bahrain. He doesn't tell Luca that he can still feel the understeer even though he hasn't started yet, and he doesn't say that it feels like the car hates him and that he hates the car back just as much.
Instead of telling Luca all that - because what the fuck would Luca say - the board goes green and mechanics step away from the ca so Jihoon can shift to idle the car forward, slow and easy out of the garage and into the blinding light of Albert Park.
The radio crackles again. "Out lap. Bring it in nice and slow."
Jihoon doesn't reply. He's already sinking, going deep into the icy, quiet place where the rest of the world falls away and there's only the car, the track, and the thin line between glory and utter disaster. Here, the only thing that can hurt him is himself.
Taking in a shaky breath, Jihoon starts his race weekend with the out lap. It's always the slowest part of the weekend, but Jihoon tries to treat it like the moment before the storm, taking his time to feel the car and see how it's doing. He grips the wheel tight, then let it slides, the hiss of his gloves against the wheel lost to the engine of the car. He feels the vibration of the drive, every bump and drag of the tires against the asphalt, every snag and pull.
Albert Park in March isn't as hot as it could be, but the track's surface is already hot enough to make the car feel stifling. He ignores it, his focus turning to a laser point as he eases into his first practice session, the heat and the nerves secondary to everything else.
Sector one is forgiving, Turn One a long, sweeping right that rewards his patience, and as Jihoon feathers the throttle and lets the car settle, he smiles as he takes it easy, no red on the dash, no losing power.
"Tires at 71 front, 68 reader. Good for now," Luca tells him.
"Copy."
"How's the understeer?"
Jihoon pauses, feeling the way the car takes a curve. "Not bad."
"Good."
At Turn Three, the car fights back a little and Jihoon feels the twitch through the rear, just enough to remind him that he's got new flooring. He notes it and continues to drive, pushing through the turn and leveling out the car.
By Turn Nine, he's relaxed, sliding into a rhythm he was terrified he would never find again, as irrational as it was. He flies down the straight, the wind and the force of the car pinning him to the seat. He feels alive, grinning for real as he remembers why he does this stupid, dangerous job in the first place. He brakes late into the chicane and takes the corner perfectly, the relief so suddenly that he nearly lets out a shout.
"Nice," Luca says. "Brake temps good."
Jihoon exhales. Its' the first time all week he hasn't felt like he's dragging his car by the balls toward the finish line. He settles in deeper, pushing the throttle faster, the car picking up pace as the crowd blurs, the smear of clouds and blue overhead a watercolor backdrop.
"Alright, let's go flying lap."
"Copy."
Turn One and Turn Two are nice to him, the car gliding and letting him feather the throttle again. There's no sudden loss of power and the tires feel good, and Jihoon feels a sense of relief as he starts to eat off half a tenth from his benchmark in 2024.
Then the circuit bites back.
He turns into Turn Six and the front loses its grip, the nose of the car pushing wide and causing the tires to protest. Jihoon corrects the snag of the car, but it costs him momentum as he lets go of the throttle for a moment to avoid going off track. It doesn't shake him at first, but the car continues to fights back as he nears Turn Seven, the rear end stepping out and causing him to break too soon. He curses, losing more time as he shakes his head and curses.
Turn Eight turns into a mess as he rear steps out again and Jihoon jerks the wheel, relieving the throttle for a split second too long. It immediately breaks his flow and he curses, feeling the fear from Bahrain creeping in on him. He'd managed not to think about it for a few laps, but now it's there, looming behind him like the final boss music from the video games Chan likes to play.
Jihoon brakes at Turn Fifteen late like he always does, but the car understeers and runs wide. He curses and corrects again, giving the feedback to Luca in a clipped, frustrated tone. Luca notes the understeer but Jihoon has to keep driving, so he does, despite the fact that he suddenly would rather stop the car, get out, and walk into the fucking ocean to be eaten by the sharks.
When he finally crosses the finish line, he waits. Jihoon already knows it's not great when Luca's feedback takes a beat too long before he says, "Alright. P8 on times so far. Soonyoung is on pace for P3 on time for reference."
Jihoon doesn't answer. He breathes through his nose, jaw locked, staring straight ahead.
Luca, knowing Jihoon, says, "We'll make the adjustments. P8 isn't terrible."
"Noted."
He peels into the pit lane and heads to the garage. When he stops the car, he doesn't move as the mechanics swarm around him like a school of red fish. Instead of getting out, he kills the engine and sits there, staring, staring, staring.
He knew Pat Benatar was going to ruin his day.
-
FP2 is somehow worse.
The changes they made after the morning session should have helped in theory. On paper. On a whim. On track, though, Jihoon spends nearly twenty-five minutes chasing a balance that refuses to stay put, fighting the wheel and the tires and the engine and the entire world through the entire session, and he gets absolutely nothing out of it.
His best lap puts him at P11 when the practice session ends. Meanwhile, Soonyoung floats his way to P4, the younger driver laughing and clapping someone on the back as Jihoon crawls out of the car in the garage, glaring at the back of Soonyoung's head as he greets some girl with a brief kiss. Of course Soonyoung is also in a successful relationship - why wouldn't he be? He's everything Jihoon isn't, apparently.
It isn't Soonyoung's fault. Part of Jihoon his happy for his teammate, but he knows how bad this looks for him specifically, and it eats at him despite how much he likes Soonyoung. Giving a poor performance as the team's senior driver when the fresh blood can handle the car no problem is a tale as old as time in this sport, and Jihoon has no desire to make it a permanent reality.
Jihoon is still damp and simmering when his media responsibilities pull him toward the press conference room. The public relations team walks beside him, rattling off instructions with a tablet in hand: fifteen minutes in the pen, then the main presser. Sky, F1TV, then the big room. You're third.
It's clinical. Rote.
The media pen is the usual circus of cameras, mics, and reporters jostling for position. The sun is lower now, slanting across Albert Park in burnt oranges and faded pinks while the asphalt simmers behind, a black mirror of heat. Jihoon pulls his hat low and steps into the chaos, swallowing thickly as he puts on a brave face and a polite smile that probably looks more like a grimace.
"How do you feel about your performance today in the second practice session?" Someone asks, leaning forward.
He takes it in stride. "Still working through balance issues. We made changes between sessions, but the car's not giving us what we expected. We'll keep digging."
"Frustrating day?"
"Frustrating, sure. But it's Friday. We'll reset and head into qualifying tomorrow."
He keeps his answers short and clipped, nothing short of professional. The anger is there, coiled low in his gut, but this swarm of reporters ask him fair questions. He hates that most of all, how the critique is fair and warranted, how each question is posed with the real question - are you worried?
Jihoon is worried, but he can't say that. So he keeps his frustration leashed, answering each questioning with unfaltering precision that Ferrari loves him so much for. Honestly, interviews and professionalism might be the only place he surpasses his teammate, who had gotten in trouble last year with Williams for mouthing off during an interview.
The rest of the questions pass Jihoon in a blur of more questions and more clipped answers. He's aware he sounds short, but he doesn't care. He gets through it until he's being ushered toward the media room where he lets someone hook him up to a mic on the collar of his shirt and he's instructed to sit between Choi Seungcheol from Red Bull and Chwe Vernon from McLaren, both who had done much better than him today.
One leg crossed over the other, Jihoon waits as the conference starts. He's both relieved and irritated to be sitting between Red Bull's shining star and the man who had blown everyone else out of the water during practice session, everyone wondering what the hell Vernon has brought to the team in orange as the new driver at McLaren. It gives Jihoon the respite he needs to collective his thoughts, but it also gives him just the right amount of time to look at the crowd of media personnel, which is a mistake.
He spots you immediately, his eyes drawn to where you're sitting like second second nature. Perhaps it is still an instinct to look for you after all this time. He's spent so long doing it that he doesn't know how to train himself not to, doesn't know how to forget that you'll be in the room for every single one of these.
You look the same as you always have. Same focused expression, same slight tilt to your head when you're listening hard. You scribble answers down on a notepad - old school, you used to joke - your quick hand visible from where he sits. He already sees parts of the pages where you've torn them, a nervous habit you obviously haven't gotten rid of, and he notices the prong on your pen cap has been snapped off. You never did have still hands, tearing bits of paper and snapping caps whenever things were too quiet around you.
It knots his stomach and he forces himself to look away, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. He hates that he knows so many things about you. Last season, he would have been watching you ask other drivers questions, trying to hide the smirk as you grilled them on strategy and performance. Now it's been months since you walked out on him in Austin, and he hasn't spoken to you since.
When it's your turn to ask questions and you fix your gaze on him, Jihoon thinks he's doing to die. If looks could kill, yours would certainly cut his beating heart right out of him. There's no warmth in your expression today, no secret smile as you're given a mic to ask questions, the cool sharpness of your stare so sharp he almost doesn't hear you over the pounding on his own heart as you start talking.
"Jihoon, two questions if I may," you say. He wants to say no, but even now, he can deny you nothing so he nods as if he has a choice. "After two difficult practice sessions, how confident are you that Ferrari can still fight for podiums this weekend?"
The question isn't unfair. It's not even particularly mean, but the way you phrase it in that infuriatingly calm and measured voice, almost clinical, makes it land like a slap. He feels the heat crawl up his neck as he stares at you, rage simmering under the surface immediately. You've always been the only person who can get a rise out of him, and it seems that hasn't changed.
"It's not where we want it," he answers, voice low and controlled as he can manage. "But we've got time. Podiums are still the target and are within reach."
âEven with the gap to Red Bull looking bigger than last year?â
"Weâre not here to talk about gaps. Weâre here to close them. Next question.â
Your eyes narrow, just a fraction because you are here to talk about gaps. He knows it, you know it. Vernon who is scratching the back of his neck and pretending to avert his gaze knows it.
âSecond question, then," you continue. "Youâve spoken before about how important mental reset is after a tough preseason. How are you handling the pressure personally, given that your teammate has adapted to this year's car much faster?â
Jihoon wants to scream. He wants to say a lot of things. Wants to ask why you're asking that question. Wants to ask if this is revenge, if this is what happens when the pressure and his career gets in the way of being with you and if this is punishment for putting you second one time too many.
His answer comes out dangerously low. "I'm handling it the way I always do. I drive the car I'm given, and the rest is noise. I focus on the data, I do the work. The only pressure is from myself to do what I've been tasked to do."
You hold his gaze for a beat. It can't be more than a second, but he swears you cut down to the fucking core of him, your gaze a scalpel he cannot fight.
You nod. "Thank you."
Even though you've asked your questions, Jihoon is so acutely aware of you that he can barely focus on anything else. You stand there in the back, almost hidden behind a taller reporter, but you've opened the floodgates now - not just to the dam holding back his rage, but to the audience of reporters who were waiting for someone to poke him first.
"Jihoon," a reporter from Motorsport.com asks. "A follow up question for you. Given the performance gap to your teammate today, do you feel like the team's development direction still suits your driving style? Or maybe there's a risk that Ferrari has built a car that suits a different style?"
Jihoon scoffs. He can't help it because he hears the question for what it really is - do you think Ferrari has built the car for your teammate. Even Seungcheol makes a face, trying to cover his expression by putting his chin in his hand. It's a bold move to imply that a team has built a car for someone specific, and someone like Seungcheol who has that exact narrative year-after-year recognizes it the same way Jihoon does.
"I think the team is building the fastest car they can," Jihoon shoots back. "My job is to drive the car. If I can't drive the car, I need to adapt. Ferrari does not build the car for the driver. They build the car, the driver drives it. That's it."
No one asks him another question and he's glad. He doesn't want to answer more questions about the car and he doesn't want to answer questions that are the same questions you already asked him organized in different ways to make it sound like it's not a repeat question.
He knows it isn't fair to be upset with you, but he is all the same. He hates that once upon a time, he knew there wasn't malice behind your questions, knew that there was warmth and love instead of this this cold, calculated precision of a journalist and nothing more, asking him questions like he was just another driver.
But that's what he was to you now. Just another driver.
Back on the paddock, the sun is almost gone. The rrange light bleeds across the garages as Jihoon walks fast, cap low, shoulders up. He glances at the sky once and begrundingly acknowledges that the spill of tangerine light is beautiful, but when he nears the Ferrari motor home and hears your voice, he forgets all about where he is and appreciating his surroundings.
He looks up and sure enough, you're standing there with Soonyoung. From the distance you're standing from the motorhome, it's obvious you had just been walking by - not looking for him. Not waiting for him. Just passing through like anyone else, probably heading back to your hotel room to write a feature on how god fucking awful he was.
Soonyoung is laughing, his head thrown back, and you're smiling - not the polite, press smile you give everyone else - but the real kind that's genuine. The kind of smile that Jihoon used to get in hotel rooms at two in the morning when he showed you a funny video next to him in bed or when you woke up in the morning to find breakfast waiting. The kind of smile that you gave him and made anything and everything feel possible.
The sight hits him like break failure at 180 MPH.
Jihoon changes direction without thinking and he's in front of you before he can talk himself out of it, cutting off whatever Soonyoung is saying to ask, "Soonyoung, can you give us a minute?"
Soonyoung's laugh dies immediately. He looks at you and then back at Jihoon, suddenly unsure of the atmospheric change happening now that Jihoon is in the equation. "Uh⌠yes."
"No," you answer over Soonyoung. You stare at him, eyes flashing. "I'm in the middle of a conversation."
"It'll take two minutes."
"I'm not doing this here."
Jihoon steps closer, not crowding, bust enough that you canât pretend heâs not there. âThen where? Because you had plenty to say in there.â
âThat was work.â
âWork,â he repeats. The word tastes bitter. âRight.â
Soonyoung is frozen, looking like he wants the ground to swallow him whole. Jihoon ignores his teammate, watching as you try to look anywhere but at Jihoon directly. Rich, considering you'd looked at him sharp as ever in the media conference.
"I have to go." You step around him. "I have a deadline."
The urge to try and stop you nearly takes over. Jihoon doesn't move though, knowing he can't, a boundary he is unwilling to cross. So he stands rooted to the spot, watching you storm off into the dying sun, your silhouette blazing like the inside of his chest.
Silence stretches. Jihoon can feel his heart pounding just as hard as it does when he watches the lights go out at the start of the race, the adrenaline rush making him dizzy in the dying Australia evening. He wants to scream, his hands tight fists, walking you turn and vanish from his sight before he can muster up something to shout at you.
Soonyoung clears his throat awkwardly and Jihoon glances at his teammate, who is desperately fumbling for something to say. "Umm. Bad day?"
"Yeah."
"Look, I donât know whatâs going on with you two, but she knows me from my time at Williams. Nothing weird. She's cool but I'm not - nothing weird here, alright? I'm not trying to step on anything. I have a girlfriend. Kind of. It's really complicated, to be honest."
Jihoonâs laugh is short and hollow. "Youâre not stepping on anything.â
Soonyoung nods slowly. âOkay. Good. Cool.â Another beat. "You wanna grab a drink?"
Jihoon stares at the spot where you disappeared. He wishes you would re-materialize, that the sun's heatwaves will conjure a mirage of you, smiling and happy and looking at him the way you had Soonyoung.
"Yeah," Jihoon sighs. "Yeah man. I need a drink."
Soonyoung claps him once on the shoulder, light and tentative. "How many drinks until you tell me your beef with Pat Benatar?"
"In your fucking dreams, Soonyoung."
"No biggie. I can tell you about my fake girlfriend."
"Your what?"
-
Jihoon loses the Australian Grand Prix faster than he can conceptualize. One second the lights are going out, the next he's crossing the finish line in P12. It's not dead last, but P12 in a Ferrari at the start of the season feels like swallowing glass, especially with Soonyoung on the podium with a P3 finish after a ruthless drive that turned the crowd into roaring red flags and a thunder of noise.
First podium of the season for Ferrari, and it's Soonyoung's.
Jihoon kills the car and sits. Doesn't move. Mechanics swarm but he stays strapped in, visor down, breathing harshly. The radio doesn't crackle with Luca's voice because he knows there's no sense in a pep talk now. Everyone who knows Jihoon knows that a silver lining won't help cool the sting of reality cutting through Jihoon for the first finish of the season, not that there's any silver lining to pull from today's disaster.
Eventually, Jihoon unclips and climbs out of the car. The heat hits him like a wall, the Melbourne evening still thick and sticky even after the sun has faded beyond the track somewhere, the afternoon still raw but dying. He yanks his helmet off, balaclava soaked through while sweat runs into his eyes and he lets it, trudging toward weigh in before he has to cool down and head to the media pen.
He doesn't speak. No one speaks to him either. Seungcheol from Red Bull glances at him with a single brow arched, but says nothing. Jihoon doesn't expect the golden driver of Red Bull who snatched P2 behind Chwe from McLaren to get it. How could he? Seungcheol has done what Jihoon hasn't - fixed a team clawing for championships.
As always, the media pen is chaos. Jihoon walks through it with his head down, cap pulled low and race suit half-unzipped and hanging off his hips. The PR handler murmurs reminders that are lost to the pounding of his pulse in his ears and the sound of voices and questions and the post-race whirring of machines.
He barely stops walking before someone asks, "How disappointing is P12 after such high expectations from Ferrari this weekend?"
Jihoon stops and forces the corners of his mouth up in a mock smile. "Disappointing. We didn't extract what the car was capable of. That's on me and the team. We'll need to fix it."
"Your teammate just earned Ferrari's first podium of the season on his first race with the team," someone points out. Jihoon pivots toward them, staring. "How much does that result change the mood in the garage for you personally?"
"Soonyoung drove perfectly. He deserved podium. The mood in the garage is fine. I'm focused on why I wasn't there with him. Nothing changes and the goal is to be a team."
He keeps moving, giving short answers with no elaboration. The anger sits low and hot behind his ribs like old oil that won't clear, clogging up everything and making him overheat. Every question feels like someone pressing on a fresh bruise, and now half of them are laced with congratulations for Soonyoung that land like insults even though they're not.
The press conference room is blessedly cold when he enters. He drops to the seat on the far left with Soonyoung in the middle, still flushed and grinning from his race. Seungcheol sits to his right, relaxed and leaning back as Jihoon crosses his arms and stares at the sea of faces with unseeing eyes.
When the moderator starts, Jihoon barely hears her. Soonyoung gets a generic opening question and Jihoon listens to his teammate talk about the management of the car and the strategy, his easy energy making the room laugh. Jihoon has never been able to do that, but he admires Soonyoung for being able to command a room full of sharks.
"Jihoon."
He looks up and sees you're standing near the front row this time, not hidden like before. Your notebook is open, pen poised old school, just like you like it - and your expression is unreadable, save for the slight tightening at the corners of your mouth.
"Two questions," you say. It's the same calm delivery that used to make hotel rooms feel safe after bad races and now just makes him sick to his stomach. "After finishing P12 on a day when Ferrari still earned a podium, how do you assess the performance gap within the team, and what does that say about the car's direction?"
The room quiets or maybe that's just how it feels. It's a similar question to the one you asked after practice on day one, but now you've got a race to use against him and the poor performance as justification.
Jihoon hears his own heartbeat in his ears and notices the way Seungcheol shifts, a small uncomfortable movement. Seungcheol knows who you are and knows what you mean to Jihoon, and for some reason the empathy that comes from another driver that Jihoon considers a long-time friend makes him more irritable.
Jihoon leans into the mic. âThe gap is real. We saw it all weekend. Soonyoung maximized what the car could do today. I didnât. My job is to close the gap. We'll keep working."
You donât flinch or soften. âYouâve been vocal in the past about the importance of mental reset after difficult sessions. Clearly that reset didnât happen between FP2 and the race today. With your teammate delivering under the same conditions, what specifically prevented you from finding the same level of performance?â
The question isnât cruel, but Itâs surgical. Fair. Asked the same way youâd ask any driver who just threw away twenty points while his teammate stood on the second step. Butt it's you who's asking the question and it' Soonyoung who is sitting right there, proof that the car wasnât the problem. Jihoon was.
He exhales through his nose. âPressure. Expectations. Execution. Same things everyone deals with. I didnât handle it well enough today and Soonyoung did, thatâs the difference.â
You nod once. âThank you.â
He wants to laugh. Or throw the mic. Or ask why the fuck youâre doing this - why you're sitting there looking at him like he's just data on a screen. But he doesn't. He sits through the rest of the questions and lets Soonyoung charm the room with humble gratitude and jokes, lets Seungcheol talk strategy like the golden boy he is. Jihoon stays quiet unless directly addressed, and when it ends, he stands first.
He doesn't go straight to the motorhome. The buzzing in his veins won't let him. Instead, he stands outside the narrow service corridor behind the media center and leans against the wall, arms crossed. He knows you'll walk this way because you always used to cut through here to avoid the main paddock and the crowd crush when you were on a deadline.
Knowing things like that about you is agony. He hates the way he knows your quirks and tells, hates the way it's instinct for him to know what you'll say or do. Hates that he knows you were being fair in the media conference but he's angry anyway, rage and something like heartbreak simmering just under the placid surface of him.
You appear a few minutes later, phone in your hand and notepad tucked under your arm, typing away at your phone. He says nothing but you sense him, pulling up short as you jerk your attention up to see him. Surprise briefly flickers across your face before it settles into a cool, unreadable mask.
"What, Jihoon?" You sigh, sliding the phone into your pocket.
"You're nitpicking," he says.
"I'm asking questions."
"You don't have to phrase them like I'm the only person who failed today."
"Maybe you didn't notice, but you were on the stage among podium winners and people who finished inside top ten. Bitch at the moderator for the shitting press window, not me."
The laugh that comes out of him is sharp and humorless. "Right. And you've got a story to write, yeah? Am I getting a villain edit?"
"I'm not writing fanfiction, Jihoon. I'm writing what happened. Ferrari got a podium and it wasn't you. The why is relevant. This is my job."
âYour job,â he repeats, the word tasting like bile. âAnd what exactly is your job now? Because it feels a lot like following me around and twisting the knife every time I open my mouth while everyone else gets to clap for the new guy.â
"Get used to it." You storm passed him and he fights the urge to reach out and stop you. "I've been assigned Ferrari full-time this season for a feature series. I will continue to twist the knife, since apparently asking appropriate interview questions is a crime now."
Jihoon feels something crack inside his chest when the words hang. Knowing you will be in the garage to write about his every failure and Soonyoung's every win makes the room spin as he puts together what you're telling him.
"So I get to see you every race," he grits out. "Every time I fuck up, and you get to write about it."
You watch him with an unreadable gaze before you dismiss yourself. "I'm not hunting you for sport, Jihoon. Stop acting like it. Thankfully for you, your teammate has a lot to write about and is a lot less of an asshole when I ask him about his mistakes."
Jihoon says nothing. He stares at you as you walk away, never looking back to him. The service hallway is cold against his still-damp skin. He stays there even after you're gone, back against the wall, head tipped back, eyes staring fluorescent lights until his vision is swimming in coalescing lights.
The sounds of the paddock are distant - laughter from hospitality, someone singing off-key, the hum of engines as people break down the race. Normal Sunday night noises after a race, except nothing feels normal to Jihoon. Not anymore, not when he's P12 and you've gone somewhere he doesn't know how to reach.
Fucking heartbreaker.
-
The Jeddah Corniche Circuit is one of Jihoon's least favorite tracks. He doesn't hate it because of the walls that come out of nowhere or the straights that punish any ounce of hesitation, but rather hates it because last year when he'd been here, you'd been fighting. Maybe he should have known then that the fighting happening between closed doors wasn't going to mend itself. Now you're here in the garage and he feels that familiar fight or flight hammering under his ribs, your presence in the garage bringing back to life the bickering you'd done in hotel rooms just a year ago in this very city.
He hates seeing you around, the awful sense of desire and frustration clashing inside him every time he sees you, the newest permanent fixture in Ferrari's garage. You move through the garage with the same quiet authority you used to have when you were dating, and he hates how normal it is to see you here, how easy it is for you.
You ask Matteo questions while leaning over Luca's shoulder at the telemetry wall, scribbling notes while you skirt around mechanics and team personnel. You fit in so well that it makes him want to scream, and worst of all, everyone likes you. They had liked you when you'd been around in a less official capacity last year, but seeing the way you make Soonyoung laugh and the way the mechanics stick close to you is just proof that you're not the problem.
Jihoon is.
This will be the fourth race in with you in the garage and Jihoon still flinches when he sees you. He tries to compartmentalize when he sees you with his visor down in the car or headphones on in the garage, but sometimes he can't avoid you, like right now when you're standing in hospitality in front of the coffee machine he was heading toward.
He swallows. Your back is to him, head ducked as you scroll on your phone, the espresso machine churning as it processes your coffee. You're dressed in the black jeans that used to - still - drive him crazy, your media pass dangling around your neck.
"Settling in nicely?" His voice makes you startle and you whirl, looking at him with wide eyes. "Sorry."
You don't answer immediately. "I guess."
He leans a shoulder against the wall a few feet away. Arms crossed. âGarage suits you. Youâre practically living there now.â
"Yeah. Now Iâm just like you.â
He pauses and let's the words settle. For a second, he doesn't know what you mean. Then he sees the immediate wince on your face, instant regret that tells him it's a barb. He narrows his eyes, arms tightening a little.
"What's that supposed to mean?" He asks evenly.
"Nothing. I shouldn't have-"
"No. Tell me what you mean."
For a second, you don't answer. Instead you take the coffee from the machine and put a sleeve and lid on, doing anything you can to delay an answer. You've always been good at. taking time to choose your words. It's the single quality you have that makes you stick out among the other journalists, thoughtful and careful in your questions, never stupid, never rage baiting.
"It means," you answer carefully. "That I'm here because the job demands it. No space for anything else. I assumed it would be familiar to you."
"That's not fair."
âIsnât it?â You tilt your head, the same way you used to when you were trying not to cry in hotel rooms after he missed another anniversary dinner. âYou were never really there, Jihoon. You chose the garage. Every time.â
He opens his mouth but nothing comes out because youâre right, and the truth tastes acidic. This isn't how he imagined starting a Grand Prix day. Outside the room, team members drift past like nothing is wrong, carrying about their day without a care in the world while Jihoon feels like someone is ripping the scab off of a wound he was hoping was finally healing.
It was a futile hope and he knows it. Jihoon has known from the moment he saw you that he isn't healing, and hearing you say why you left so plainly turns his thoughts to static. He doesn't know what to say or do - he never does. That was part of the problem too. You'd wait for him with tears in your eyes looking defeated and he'd come home tired, unsure of what to say or how to make it better. So he just didn't.
You swallow thickly and shake your head. "I apologize. We shouldn't be talking about this. You have a race and I was out of line. I apologize."
"No," he says, though his voice feels distant. "I asked for honesty."
Silence stretches for a moment before you nod and clear your throat. "Good luck today, then."
Jihoon doesn't follow you out when you leave. Doesn't watch you go. Doesn't do anything. He stands and stares with unseeing eyes, his thoughts grinding like the failing engine of his car in practice two days ago.
You were never really there.
It's all he can hear when the lights go out. He starts clean but his head is a mess, the car kissing the wall at Turn 22, him feathering the throttle too early exiting Turn 13. Every fuck up he makes, your voice echoes over and over again until it feels like he's talking to you through the headset, not Luca.
You were never really there.
Despite the haunting drone of your voice, he fights anyway, trying to defend hard against Xu into the final sector on lap 12, managing to hold the inside to force him wide. He even manages to overtake Lee in the Williams car with a late brake down the inside of Turn 1 that makes Luca praise him over the radio, but it's lost to the static of his mind.
You were never really there.
Jihoon finishes in points, but it feels hollow. P8 isn't anything to brag about, but at least he's inside the fucking points for the first time this season. It should feel like a weight off his shoulders, but its not. He still has work to do, the gap between him and Soonyoung at P4 not much smaller than it has been the last four races.
The press routine becomes rote. Jihoon climbs out the car, yanks the helmet off, lets the sweat burn his eyes, and eventually pulls a cap low over his sweaty hair before following PR out to the pen. It's the same wash, rinse, repeat of every race before this one, a time loop he can't break.
"P8 from last weeks P11 - is this a step forward?"
No, he wants to scream. Instead, his voice is clipped and efficient. "Points are points. Car is improving. We keep pushing."
"Mentality still good, then?"
Absolutely fucking not, he wants to holler. "Focused as always. We reset. We move on."
The press conference is a haze of questions and rehearsed answers. He barely hears the questions he's asked, but he somehow manages to ask them. You ask him no questions - pity or resentment, he's not sure - but he's grateful anyway.
Jihoon goes through the motions of finishing a race weekend, sitting through debrief silent and offering feedback when asked. His team looks at him sideways, but no one pushes. No one wants to be too hard on him, like he's fragile. It makes him want to throw something, to scream to stop treating him like a child.
He doesn't. He just gets through it with gritted teeth and steely focus until he's sitting in a hotel room that's too quiet and too clean, too empty.
Jihoon showers to escape the silence, the heat of the water burning away the residual anger and turning it into something else that hurts just as bad. He stays under the spray of water until it runs colder and his fingers prune, reluctantly getting out only to sit on the bed in a towel, staring down at his phone in his hand.
A blank thread with your name stares back at him, the blinking text cursor waiting for him to type. So he swallows and types, fingers moving haltingly.
I'm sorry about this morning.
Deletes.
You were right but I don't know how to do this with you around
Deletes.
You're fucking up my head.
Deletes.
The problem is me. I miss you.
Deletes.
Jihoon locks his phone and throws it onto the armchair across the room. He lies back, still damp as he stares at the textured ceiling. The room smells like generic hotel soap and the faint scent of the cologne you bought him two years ago.
Outside, the city thrums, the traffic and distant thrum of bass from a car echoing toward his window. Inside, your voice loop on repeat, haunting him like that stupid Pat Benatar song you love so much.
You were never really there. Heartbreaker.
You were never really there. Dream maker.
You were never really there. Love taker.
-
Rain beats down on the garage, the wind coming off Biscayne Bay blowing sheets of it across the track, turning it into a black mirror. Jihoon watches the radar with arms crossed in the motorhome, still in his fireproofs, suit tied around the waist. They expect a long delay and he blows out a sigh, hating the waiting game, his nerves frayed and the after burn of lost adrenaline making him itchy.
Mechanics kill time by playing cards and engineers scroll data on tablets while Soonyoung sits on the ground playing his switch, chatting with his race engineer. Soonyoung laughs at something she says, corner of his eyes crinkling when he smiles. Jihoon gives them a wide berth, staying away from that ticking time bomb of a PR nightmare as much as he can.
Jihoon spots you coming his way and his heart starts to hammer on instinct. You look toward an empty meeting room and jerk you're head toward it, half a command, half request. Jihoon should say no, considering the last time he spoke to you one-on-one fucked with him so bad he could barely drive the car. But the same desire to be close to you and to hear your voice overrides any logic he has and he nods.
You enter the room first, dropping yourself into one of the armchairs. He sits on the couch across from you, elbows on his knees, watching you fidget as you settle. You don't have a notebook or anything for an interview, so he realizes whatever this conversation is, it's personal. It makes him brace for the worst, muscles locking like he's going in for a fight, heart racing.
"You need to stop fighting the car."
He blinks, momentarily stunned. "What?"
"The car. You're muscling the shit out of the car, and that's never been your style of driving. You're bleeding time in sectors because you're not trusting yourself and you're over-correcting before the rear even steps out."
Jihoon stares. The words land like cold data readouts that are clinical and accurate, brutal in their simplicity. He wants to snap back and tell you to save it for the article, but you're not doing an interview right now. You're starring at him with the same analytical gaze you used to give him when talking strategy on a plane while heading to the next race.
He swallows hard and looks away toward the rain hammering on the window. The sky is gunmetal beyond the glass, Miami turning into a canvas of grey and purple, lightning cracking.
"I don't know how to stop fighting it," he sighs. "Every time I ease off, it feels like I'm losing grip or giving up."
You hum thoughtfully. "Remember Imola last year?"
He nods. Imola last year was one of his best races, a beautiful performance clawing his way from P14 to P1. You'd both celebrated well into the early hours of morning, you pinned under him, him drunk off of the high of winning and the heat of your mouth.
"That was a race you won on pure instinct," you point out. "You just locked in and didn't fight the car. You just drove.
He exhales long and slow. The advice sinks in and he thinks about every race prior to this season, all of his feathering too early, snapping the wheel, the way the car in Bahrain testing had started out like a dialogue but ended up as a confrontation.
Jihoon meets your eyes. You're watching him, fingers fidgeting in your lap, and he realizes you're nervous and that maybe he's not the only one who regrets the conversation in Saudi Arabia.
"You really think that's it?"
"I know it is." There's no hesitation when you answer. "I've watched every single part of your racing. You're fast when you let go. You lose it when you start to overthink."
"I guess."
"You never used to overthink."
You're right. Jihoon have never been someone who was over-controlling on the car or strategy. He was often calm and collected, absorbing the problems as they came. He'd been like that with you too, though. He didn't overthink your problems, didn't dig his heels in to try and figure out each one.
And then you'd left and he realized that maybe he hadn't thought about it enough.
Jihoon wants to tell you that, but he doesn't know how to say it in a way that doesn't make it sound like his failures this season are your fault, because they're not. He just wishes you understood his newfound obsession with control, how he doesn't know how to let it go because the last tie he had, you'd walked out of his life.
Rain taps on the window as he nods, exhaling long and slow. "Alright."
You nod and stand, wiping your hands on your jeans. "That's all I came to say."
"Thanks," he murmurs, voice soft beneath the patter of rain. "For telling me instead of making it a headline."
"I'm not your enemy." He nods but says nothing. "Good luck."
Then you're gone, leaving him with nothing but the rain until the delay ends an hour later.
It's a shortened race, the track wet and slick. Jihoon climbs into the car, a new energy humming in his veins, and for once, it isn't nervousness or the determination to control the car - it's confidence. Confidence in himself and in the car., confidence that he's driven on wet tracks and worse cars than what Ferrari's given him.
So he tries not to think about it too much when the lights go out and the spray is everywhere. The car feels different immediately and even though he starts to tighten his grip, he takes a deep breath and lets the car slide into Turn 3 instead of forcing it. He lets the rear slide a little, heart leaping until it catches and he's out the turn.
Jihoon grins a little, pressing the throttle to gain pace, the water on his helmet slicking off as he hunts the McLaren in front of him, the brake lights a smear of color in the mist off the track.
Luca's voice crackles over the radio. "Good pace. Keep it tidy."
Jihoon keeps it squeaky fucking clean. No over-corrections, no white-knuckles on the wheel, and he breathes through the turns, feeling the hum of the engine and the drag of the tires. He trusts the tires to catch when they need and by lap 12, he's up to P5 after overtaking Lee in the McLaren and Hong in the Mercedes.
Soonyoung is ahead of him, fighting with Choi for P3. Jihoon doesn't worry about chasing him. He drives his own race, cruising into Turn 1 with a late break and beautiful exit, defending against Hong desperately trying to retake P5 behind him.
And then he crosses the finish line inside the top five for the first time since last season. For the first time this season, Ferrari has two cars in the top five and Jihoon starts to laugh, Luca's excitement bleeding through the radio.
It is far from perfect and it's not on the podium where he wants to be, but its so much better than P8 or lower. So much better that he feels like he drove better, not grinding the brakes or bumping the wall on his exits, too tight on the control. For the first time all season, it felt like it was instinct, like he just drove without worrying about trying to control the result.
He rolls the car slowly down the pit lane, engine dropping to a soft purr as his adrenaline bleeds out. Jihoon kills the engine in the garage and sits for a second longer than usual, letting the post-race high crash a little.
He unclips, pushes the steering wheel up and out, and climbs onto the halo. He yanks the helmet off, balaclava peeling away with it, and shakes out sweat-soaked hair. Soonyoung is already out of his car, arms raised as he jumps down from the car and gives Jihoon a feral grin.
"Fuck yeah!" He bellows over the noise of mechanics and dying engines. Soonyoung meets him in the garage, clapping Jihoon hard on the back. "You drove like your old self today. Fucking loved it."
Jihoon swallows and nods once, not trusting himself to say more without his voice cracking.
The media pen is mercifully under cover as the rain picks back up, water streaming off the edges of the canopy in steady ropes as Jihoon stands with a towel around his neck, hair still dripping. He sees you before you see him, speaking to a Sky Sports producer, gesturing with your notebook the way you always do when youâre working out angles in real time. Black jeans. Ferrari media pass. Hair damp from the rain you must have crossed without an umbrella. You look focused. Professional.
Beautiful. So beautiful its like a knife to the ribs.
When your eyes finally meet his across the pen, you donât flinch or look away. You just give a single, small nod and he returns the gesture, not friends but not enemies. It eases the pressure a little bit, but doesn't ease the ache.
Media goes better today, as it so often does when he's not sucking behind the wheel. Jihoon answers just as short and to the point as usual, but there's less bite today and he doesn't feel snappy, doesn't feel tired and poked and prodded. He just feelsâŚ. good, which he hasn't in a long time.
By the time he's back in the garage, you're coming his way, calm and collected. He pauses, brows raised as rain beats down on the garage roof.
"You have a moment to spare for an interview?" You ask.
He nods and gestures toward his dressing room. You look like you want to protest - the dressing room feels too personal - but it's you and him and he charges down the back hall without looking back, knowing you'll follow him.
You do, slipping in and closing the door behind you with a metallic click. He sits on the small couch, melting into it as he closes his eyes, thankful for the cool, dry air to fight of the wet Miami heat. You sit down on a folding chair where his trainer usually sits, crossing one leg over the other.
"Ready when you are," he murmurs.
"Alright." You tap your phone. "I'm recording today."
"No note pad?"
"No, I still have my notepad. It just makes it easier for the longer pieces."
"Got it."
"So," you start. "P5 today. First top five of the season for you personally and Ferrari's strongest team result so far. Walk me through what made the difference."
"Track was tricky," he admits. "But the car felt good but predictable. For the first time in a while, I could learn on the rear without it loosing control. The team gave me a good balance before the restart, and once I stopped trying to fight the car, the pace came naturally."
"You mention you stopped trying to fight the car. Was there a specific moment it clicked today?"
Jihoon opens his eyes and looks at you. He can tell you mean the question honestly - you're not asking him if what you said made a difference. You're asking if something happened during his drive, if the feedback on the radio or the data helped him figure it out.
"Yes," he says. "Someone reminded me that I've never been fast when I'm fighting the car. I took their advice. It had nothing to do with anything else but that."
You hold his gaze for a beat longer than necessary after his answer before nodding. "Team radio was pretty quiet on your drive today, you had less changes and corrections. Was that deliberate or did the drive just go that well?
"Bit of both. Drive just started right from the beginning and Luca and I just sort of reached a flow state. Didn't need to talk much. Sometimes I just need to shut up and drive."
The corner of your mouth lifts just enough that he knows you're amused. He stares at it, heart skipping a little, and for the first time in a long time, this feels like familiar territory. You've interviewed him in every corner of every track for years, but the two years you were together were the best of them.
This feels almost like that now. Almost. You've reverted back to the polished, calculated interview style you had before you'd started dating, but there's something softer there that has stuck, even after the breakup, something personal. Something in the way you look at him, like it takes you a second to remember that you're not together when you're asking him questions.
Jihoon realizes how much he wishes you were. He enjoyed interviews more back then when it felt like you'd dissect his race because you cared about what was going on in his head and less to piece together a story. It helped that most of them were followed by him pressing you into the mattress until neither one of you thought about racing anymore, but things had been easier then.
Until they hadn't.
As much as he misses it, not every night was perfect. Most nights you'd sit in a hotel room and pore over telemetry together, head on his shoulder and he'd lean into your insights without question, nodding along. You strategy had always been - and still is - sharp as ever. He used to joke about you becoming a race engineer, but you like journalism and the challenge of a story.
But then there were other nights. Missed calls, reschedule dinners, him prioritizing workouts and strategy sessions over planned time with you. Jihoon has no idea when he started making you secondary to the garage, but you'd walked away from him before he figured it out.
"So," you start. "Soonyoung's been the benchmark for Ferrari so far this season with consistent top-five pace. Today you matched him more closely than you have all season. Does that make it feel like pressure is easing internally with the team?"
Jihoon looks down at his hands for a beat, thumbs tracing the edge of the couch cushion. This is the kind of question that could be spun a dozen different ways in print, and he knows you know that. Still, you've asked it anyway - not to hurt him, but to get something out of him that you probably know is there.
So he thinks about the question before he says, "Soonyoung is a good driver. His start reminds me of my first year with Ferrari. He's hungry and adaptive. The pressure isn't to match Soonyoung or catch up, but to drive the car the way I know I can. Today I showed that I can. It doesn't mean the job is done, but it means I'm capable when I apply myself."
Surprisingly, you do smile at that. It's like watching the first spill of pink into a morning sky as the sun rises, warm and startling. He feels his heart race a little faster as you look up, holding his gaze longer than you have all season. You nod once, acknowledging that you like the answer, before dropping your gaze back down to your notes.
"Last question," you tell him. "You've talked a lot in the past about instinct being your strongest weapon. Would you say you're getting that version of yourself back?"
Jihoon leans back, letting his head rest against the couch. He stares up at the lights, blinding by the fluorescent, color swimming at the edge of his vision as he chews on the question. Instinct is how he used to drive - it's what made him stand out from other drivers as he climbed his way through F2 and into F1. Where others spent years getting the mechanics and feel for racing, Jihoon just instinctively raced.
It's what initially drew you to him in the first place. His raw, uncalculated drive on the track was something you appreciated. You'd always told him there was a kind of honestly about it, that Jihoon was never trying to beat anyone else or be anyone else. His biggest competition had always been himself, and he was only ever trying to drive how he knew he could.
Somewhere in the last year, he'd lost that and started comparing himself to his teammates, to the other drivers on the grid that were younger and fresher. He had started thinking that if he just spent more time in the garage, if he just looked over the data more, he could keep up. That he could keep pace with where he wanted to be - needed to be.
Now, Jihoon see's the gap in the logic and sees your question for what it truly is: do you get it, Jihoon. Do you see where you've lost your way?
"Yeah," he croaks finally. "I think I get it now."
You let the silence stretch while you lean back, watching him as he drops his gaze down and looks at you. There's no follow up question. You just stare at him with an unreadable expression, and just when he thinks you're going to say something, you nod and lean forward to stop the recording.
"Thank you." You lean back for a second, finger tapping on your thigh. "It'll be a good piece. Honest without being brutal." You stand then, sliding your phone in your pocket. You hesitate just before you reach the door, turning a fraction to glance at him. "You looked good out there today. Like the old Jihoon."
The compliment makes his heart race. He nods, a tired smile splitting his face. "Felt good."
Before the moment can stretch too long, you slide out of the room, the door clicking behind you. Jihoon stays seated, staring at the door. The absence of you feels heavier than it used to, the ache behind his ribs steadily rising when he realizes that now you'll go back to a hotel room that isn't his and work on a piece without any chances of him distracting or interrupting you. No late night coffee date with your fingers intertwined, no shower hot enough to melt metal to ease the tension of a deadline.
Just you. Without him.
Fucking heartbreaker.
-
The streets of Barcelona past midnight are nice. It's quiet but not empty, making Jihoon feel like he has just enough room to breathe without being entirely alone. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie as he walks, the streetlamps casting pools of light on him as he wanders, the smell of the bougainvilleas strong, the violet flowers spilling over iron balconies and gates.
Jihoon had been stellar today. Not just stellar - he'd made his first podium of the season, securing P2 with a clean start and flawless driving. He'd been held off from winning by the McLaren, but for the first time in his career, Jihoon doesn't care about P1. He cares about his drive - about himself - and the trust he's had to put into himself to make the drive possible today.
After having to retire the car in Ferrari's first home circuit of the year at Imola, it's a fucking relief. While he'd done fine afterward in Monaco, being the heartbreaker of the home race had been weighing on Jihoon since slamming his head on the wheel and screaming as the car's engine gave out. Soonyoung had been Ferrari's only pride that day, making podium as a sea of red exploded in the Italian grandstands.
Seeing all that red again today in Spain had lessened the sting of it all. It had been a long time since he stood on a podium with the Tifosi screaming his name, red flags rippling in a sea of fans. Soonyoung had finished in P4, grinning like an idiot when Jihoon had wandered back to the garage, saying welcome back as though even Soonyoung knew the real Jihoon had been found again.
Jihoon turns left, walking toward a string of shops and late-night restaurants. He's still buzzing from the win, restlessness and a little hunger driving him from the quiet luxury of the hotel room onto the familiar streets of Spain.
He looks up and stops dead when he sees you.
You're learning against the low stone rim of a fountain that gurgles quietly, the lights strung between buildings casts a soft, gold light on you that makes you glow. You're in jeans and a soft grey hoodie that Jihoon realizes is his, making him jolt.
Sensing his gaze, you look up at him. You seem confused for a split second before you realize it's him and freeze. "Jihoon."
"Hi." His voice comes out a little more unsteady than he means it to. He clears his through, heart doing that stupid thing that it does whenever it sees you recently. "What are you doing out here?"
"Couldn't sleep." You pocket your phone. "You?"
"Same. Too much adrenaline."
You grin - a real grin, full of warmth that makes Jihoon want to burst at the seams. "Congratulations again. You raced clean today."
"Thanks. Felt good."
"I bet."
He hesitates a beat, the fountain bubbling as the two of you stare at one another. "I'm kind of starving and trying to find something open. Do you want to come?"
Surprise followed by hesitation flickers across your face. He braces for a polite no, realizing that he has over-extended beyond the polite fencing you've put up between the two of you.
"Sure," you say finally. He blinks in surprise. "I skipped dinner to make a deadline."
The two of you walk in silence for the first two blocks. The alleys narrow, forcing you a little closer, shoulders nearly brushing. Jihoon is hyper aware of your warmth and the soft smell of sandalwood perfume you like to wear, the one he bought you when you were in Singapore the year before. The scent nearly undoes him, his hands flexing in his pockets as he keeps himself from reaching over to close the distance and pull you closer.
You discover a tiny bodega tucked under a low archway almost by accident, the stripped awning sagging but the neon on the door flashing that its open. The tables outside are mismatched, some with wicker chairs some with metal, but the smell of hot oil and something spicy drifting from the door is too hard to resit.
A server gestures through the window to take one of the tables so you do, chairs scraping silently against the night. When the server appears, Jihoon panics for only a moment before remembering you are the Spanish speaker between the two of you, relief flooding him as you order two glasses of wine and plates of garlic prawns, bread and thing slices of jamĂłn.
"Wine, huh?" Jihoon grins. "Are we celebrating?"
"Maybe." You take a sip and hum. "Better than podium champagne."
"Everything's better than podium champagne. You learn to hate the smell and taste after a while."
"Still crave being showered in it though, yeah?" He nods, sipping the wine. It's dry, the taste of cherries rich on his tongue. "You looked happy up there today."
"I was. The car felt good. Didn't have to fight the car."
"The car or yourself?"
As always, your question is sharp and to the point. You always had a way of voicing the real issue, of asking the right question. When Jihoon first met you, he thought maybe it was because you were a journalist, but now he knows its because you're good at seeing through the bullshit, your instinct for truth better than anyone else he knows.
"Both, I guess."
When the food arrives, your conversation lulls. Not in a way that feels awkward, but it feels nice. Jihoon watches you bite into a garlic prawn and make a little noise that does things to his stomach and chest, his eyes going to his plate as he steals a slice of jamĂłn.
It melts on his tongue and he makes an equally obscene noise that has you laughing, leaning back in your chair as you nod and sip your wine. "Yeah. It's good."
"Remember Singapore?" He asks, peeling back the shell on a prawn. "That hole in the wall that we loved to go to with the laksa that almost killed me?"
"You mean the one that made you cry?"
"I did not!"
"You absolutely did, Ji."
The nickname is so sudden that it pulls both of you up short. Jihoonâs fingers freeze around the prawn shell. He doesnât look up right away. He canât. If he does, heâs afraid the careful distance youâve both been maintaining since Miami will shatter, and he doesn't know what will spill out of him if it does.
âSorry,â you murmur. âOld habit.â
When he lifts his faze, your eyes are fixed on the table. You look embarrassed, like the armor you've been wearing all season with him has as single weakness and you've just pressed on it yourself.
"It's okay." He swallows, still frozen. "It was nice hearing it. I know we're not-" He stops and shakes his head, putting the prawn down and wiping garlicky fingers on a napkin. "I know we're not together anymore, but hearing you say it just now felt nice."
You pick up a piece of bread, tear it in half, then tear one half again. Youâre not really eating it, you're just giving your hands something to do. Jihoon has seen you do it a hundred times, usually with pens or pieces of paper, snapping caps and ripping corners of notebooks.
"I've almost used it before this," you admit, not looking at him. "It's an adjustment. You're not the only one who thinks of places like Singapore."
Jihoonâs throat closes as he nods. It's both heaven and hell to hear you say it, to know that you remember the smell of the hotel shampoo on skin, the way you'd lay in bed while you read over a piece as he dozed against your side.
"I fucked that up," he admits.
It's not a question and you don't rush to correct him. Jihoon feels his stomach hollow out, heart dropping to his ass. You're nice enough not to agree, but your silence is somehow worse, like you're trying to spare him.
He hates it.
"You can say it. I know. I did."
You lift a shoulder. "You chose something else. Over and over until I decided I wanted to make a choice for once, so I chose me."
âI thought if I gave everything to the car, I would be able to catch up. I guess I just thought you'd understand."
"I did - I do. But I'm not a pit stop, you don't get to come and go as you please."
Jihoon remembers the night you left so clearly. He remembers the exact shade of gold of the Austin skyline, the live music drifting from Rainey Street. You always liked it better than Sixth, and it was closer to the river. He'd almost made podium that day, finishing P5 after Ferrari finally began clicking after Jihoon had spent the entire first half of the season grinding himself to dust to chase Red Bull and Mercedes.
He remembers the way you'd come out of the bathroom fully showered, voice soft as you tried to spark up a conversation. Jihoon was staring at data, looping on how he could have done better, how he could have pushed the car a little harder. P5 was fine, but it wasn't good enough. Wasn't right.
The fight had started softly at first - you asking him if he was listening, him insisting he was. You never raised your voice, but you did that night, your anger sharp against the buzz of Austin traffic, accusing him of making the relationship too low-priority.
He remembers you pacing the room as he yelled back at you, raw and angry. This was his career, his life, you knew what you were getting into. If you didn't want someone who worked hard, what were you doing there? It had been the wrong thing to say, and as he remembers it now, he winces.
You'd packed by morning, pale grey light spilling across the Texas sky as Jihoon watched you numbly. You'd folded your clothes with shaking hands, your silence a wall of ice meant to keep him out. And he'd let you keep him out. He hadn't fought. Hadn't begged.
"Yeah," Jihoon sighs. "Yeah I know. I get it."
Your eyes soften, but thereâs a guarded edge too, like this kind of honesty scares you more than it helps. "I know you do. It doesn't make it easier."
For a moment, the two of you stare at one another. Jihoon opens his mouth to take a risk, heart pounding, to apologize and tell you to let him try and fix it. But before he can, he watches you straighten, the softness in your eyes shuttering, replaced by the cool mask you've kept all of this season.
"It's late," you sigh, signaling for the check. "Early flight tomorrow."
Jihoon slams into your wall of ice at 200 MPH. He reaches for the check before you can, waving off your soft protest. You say nothing as he signs for it, the silence pressing in as you both stand, chairs scraping.
The lights of Barcelona hum softly in the night. He thinks of Austin again, the dim lights reminding him of the same strip of restaurants and bars burning outside the suite, the absence of your voice pressing in on him as he lay on the hotel bed staring at the ceiling.
When you part ways, Jihoon's blood is buzzing. He feels it in his hands and arms, a nagging feeling that he can't stop as he murmurs a quiet goodbye. You give him a small smile and head off. Just like in Austin, he doesn't stop you. Doesn't know what to say.
Somewhere, music is drifting through an open window of an apartment, the crackling sound of Pat Benatar's voice drifting on the wind, a constant phantom that always drifts behind him.
Heartbreaker. Dream maker. Love taker.
-
The roar of the Tifosi is a living thing. Sound crashes over the Autodromo Nazionale Monza, so loud that Jihoon can barely thing. Jihoon's car gleams under the Italian sun, the sea of red flags rippling in the grandstands visible as the heat presses in.
Visor down, the world narrows to the inside of the car. He doesn't let the crowd get to him. Breathes in. Breathes out. Wills his hands to stop shaking. Monza is just like any race, but it feels like more than that today. This is the home race, bigger than Imola, with higher stakes and a louder crowd.
There's no room for error today. Not with Seungcheol on pole, untouchable all weekend in qualifying. Jihoon is slotted at P3 behind Chwe's orange McLaren, and Soonyoung is just behind Jihoon in P4, the energy of two Ferrari's starting so high up palpable.
Beneath him, the engine hums. It feels like an extension of his own body, nervous and edgy but ready. Jihoon knows every straight here, every turn - knows that power and clean exits will reward him here if he just lets the car do what needs to get done.
Today, the goal is simple - finish the race where he started. He's not chasing Chwe and he's not trying to jockey for position with Soonyoung. Jihoon's only goal is to finish the race under his own terms without fighting the car, without forcing it.
Jihoon sucks in a sharp breathe. The grandstands are a blur of crimson, but he focuses on the five lights ahead, thumbs brushing over the wheel. He breathes out as the first light illuminates, then the second. He breathes in. The lights go out, and he exhales.
The launch slams into him immediately. He's careful as the vehicle shoots forward, holding the inside line to Turn 1 as Vernon's McLaren goes wide on the exit. Jihoon attacks without thinking, surging into P2 and peeling off as Luca says something encouraging in Italian. It's lost in the roaring blood in Jihoon's ears, eyes laser-focused on Seungcheol's car ahead.
Jihoon falls into a rhythm of feathering the wheel and braking late. The car feels good under him, each bump of the chicane smooth. His hands grip the wheel as he sails through the sectors, narrowing the gap between him and Red Bull.
"Gap to leader 0.8 seconds," Luca says. "Push push."
Jihoon doesn't respond. He's too focused, the world reduced to turns and braking points. He hardly registers the passing of time until he's debating pit maneuvers with Luca while he defends Soonyoung from overtaking him.
"Solid," Luca says and Jihoon grins, putting space between him and his teammate on the straight. "Gap to Soonyoung 1.2. Can the tires handle more?"
"Yes."
"Keep up the pace and stay out as long as you can. Box for hards on lap twenty four."
"Heard."
On lap twenty, Seungcheol makes a tiny mistake and locks up going into a turn. Jihoon presses the advantage, diving around the outside through the second part of the chicane to overtake. The car slides close enough to the gravel that he feels the rocks kick up and rattle against the metal floor, each ping of the stone on metal that he cut it too close to going out of bounds for an overtake.
He pulls out in front of Seungcheol and grins, pushing the car harder. He knows the heat is building in his tires as Seungcheol heads to the pit lane. The front tires are staring to wear, and the car pushes too wide through a turn, fighting him. Behind him, Soonyoung pits, the orange McLaren hunting Jihoon down.
"Gap to Chwe 3.2"
Jihoon feels the pressure in his shoulders, feels the wheel fight back. He doesn't grip it harder. He breathes deeper and lets the car slide a fraction more than usual, trusting it to catch the edges of each turns. It does, and he exhales, fending off Vernon until Luca calls for new tires.
The mechanics are a blur in his peripheral. He barely registers the stop before he's peeling back out onto the track again, narrowly sliding out in front of Choi to slot himself in P3 behind Soonyoung. But now Jihoon has fresher tires, closing the gap between his teammate on an inside overtake at Rettifilo that forces Soonyoung wide with a late brake.
Jihoon grins, hunting down the back of Chwe's car until he rolls across the finish line in P2 with Soonyoung narrowly behind him in P3.
"Belissimo!" Luca screams, his voice peaking the radio mic. "Fucking beautiful! What a drive, Jihoon. Kwon is in P3, forza!"
Grinning, Jihoon rolls the car into parc fermĂŠ and kills the engine. His hands are shaking like he just finished pole, and for Ferrari, it may as well be. He sits for a long second, chest heaving, sweat burning his eyes and soaking through the balaclava.
Outside, the roar washes over him like a wave crashing onto the cliffs. The Tifosi are so loud the air vibrates, smoke and flares of red drifting across the crowd as he rests his head on the back of the seat. Something cracks open inside of him, relief and joy spilling out that he hasn't felt in weeks.
Jihoon unclips and pushes the wheel away, climbing onto the halo to rip of his helmet and balaclava. His hair is plastered to his neck with sweat but he grins, raising his arms as he jumps down, the Tifosi screaming.
Soonyoung is there in an instant, helmet gone, grinning like a madman as he grabs Jihoon and kisses him on the head.
"Double fucking podium at Monza!" Soonyoung screams. Jihoon laughs, shoving Soonyoung off. "What a fucking race!"
Jihoon sees Chwe running to his crew as he launches into them, celebrating another win in what has to be the best season McLaren has had in years. Jihoon is happy for Vernon - happy for himself, jogging toward his crew as he and Soonyoung both celebrate with them, the sound of the crowd swelling even louder.
The podium ceremony is chaos, the fans so loud that the speakers become irrelevant. Champagne hits Jihoon in thick, foamy sprays as Vernon turns to shoot it right at his face, Jihoon choking on sweet fizz as he steps off to shake his bottle in retaliation. He laughs in delight as Soonyoung dumps half the bottle of champagne on Vernon's head in retaliation, screaming wildly like a kid.
A pressure releases in Jihoon's chest. Every missed point, ever bad turn of the car, every night spent staring at the ceiling of a hotel room - it all pours out of him as he yells, spraying the rest of his champagne in white arcs.
Jihoon is buzzing by the time the formalities end and he's jogging back to the paddock, heart hammering, blood buzzing. He waves to the crimson see of fans, holding a fist up in the air as he goes.
And then he sees you.
You're standing at the edge of the paddock, media pass flickering around your neck in the breeze. Your notebook is clutched to your chest like always, and Jihoon is surprised to see the smile on your face. For once, you look unguarded, and the small smile that used to light up dim hotel rooms at three in the morning cuts right fucking through him.
He doesn't think. He doesn't warn you. He just takes six long strides across the asphalt, cups your face in his hands, and he kisses you like he's been starving for it because he is. He pours every apology he never said out loud into the kiss, every regret from last season but especially Austin. Every follow race that felt empty without you comfort him after.
You freeze for half a heartbeat, your hands frozen near his hips like you don't know if you want to push him away or pull him closer. Jihoon's heart is hammering and he pulls back a fraction, lips still tasting like champagne and your lip balm - birthday cake, he thinks.
"You told me to stop fighting myself," he murmurs. "So I am. I'm not fighting the fact that I'm an idiot and an asshole or that I fucked up. I did. I'm sorry. I know I don't have to put you first all the time, but I can't make you a permanent second. I won't anymore. Even if I never make another podium again."
Your breath catches, eyes flaring with surprise. Your hands land on his hips, not pushing, but holding, your fingers curling into the sweat-dampened racing suit. Your eyes search his, wide and more vulnerable than they've been in months, looking for any hesitation that he doesn't mean it, any fault in his words.
Jihoon sees the indecision flicker through you. He knows you remember the sting of missed dinners, the lonely nights waiting for him, the way he'd chosen other things over you. But he sees the warmth there too, knowing that there is room for you, knowing that you trust him to be capable of doing both.
Then you're kissing him.
He grins into it, sighing as you press into him. Your kiss is softer than his, hands sliding up to his neck, fingers tangling in his damp hair to pull him closer until the champagne staining him is soaking through your clothes.
Love swells in his chest so much he thinks he might not be able to breathe. He crushes you to him, lost in the heat of your mouth and the sweetness of your birthday cake lip balm and the sweep of your tongue. He groans, a shiver rippling through him.
And then Soonyoung's wolf-whistle cuts through the haze and Jihoon breaks the kiss, glancing over. Soonyoung stands with his eyebrows raised, a swarm of mechanics around him, the girl that is Soonyoung's fake girlfriend standing next to the race engineer Soonyoung wants to be his real girlfriend, all of them watching.
Then they start cheering and you laugh covering your face with your hand as Jihoon cracks a smile, laughing as his team yells at him in Italian. He doesn't care, he just turns to you again, hand sliding to your waist as he keeps you close.
"I'm sorry."
"You're still an idiot. And we have talking to do."
"I know."
âAnd Iâm still writing about Ferrari. Full season. That doesnât change.â
âI know that too.â
You study him for several long seconds and he doesnât look away. Then you lean up and kiss him again, short and sweet.
"You have press to do. Let's go."
Press is a breeze for once. Jihoon can hardly stop looking at you. For the first time in a long time, when you ask him questions, he trusts that they're not meant to hurt him. They never had been, but it's one thing to know something than it is to feel it. He answers them easily, a small smile on his face as he answers other questions.
Honestly, he barely hears them. His gaze goes back to you every time, watching the way you rip the edges of your notebook to keep your hands busy, watches the way you scribble things down on the corner of the paper. He wants nothing more than to finish this press conference and steal you away, to take you somewhere behind closed doors.
Jihoon is good at waiting. He waited most of his life to earn a seat in an F1 car, and waited again to get promoted to Ferrari. Now, he waits through the rest of a press conference, media responsibilities, a post-race strategy session, and some sponsorship related handshakes and greetings.
It's nothing compared to how many times he's left you waiting, he's sure. He intends to make up for it, spotting you near the coffee machine of hospitality, leaning against the counter with your head cocked. He doesn't say anything - doesn't have to. He nods toward the stairs and you follow, slipping behind him as he leads you toward the small, but clean room that belongs to him in the motorhome.
He doesn't want to wait anymore. Neither do you.
The door to the room clicks shut behind you. The space is small, filled by a single couch pressed against one wall, a coffee table, a mini fridge and two TV's directly across from the couch. The paddock hums faintly outside, but right now he's not worried about that. Right now he's turning to you, the post-race adrenaline humming in his veins.
Neither of you says a word a he closes the distance, hands finding your waist to pull you toward him. His mouth finds yours, desperate and hungry, all teeth and tongue, the past melting as soon as his tongue brushes against yours. He spins you toward the couch, careful as he cradles your face and walks you backward.
"Fuck I've missed this," he breathes against you. His fingers dig into your hips briefly as you tug at his team polo. Your hands peel it upward and off, fingers dancing along the taught muscle of his stomach, his heart hammering. "I've missed you."
"You never said so."
"I didn't think you wanted to hear me."
You press a palm to his jeans where he's already hard and straining. He makes a sound that's strained, lids fluttering as you drop to your knees and look up at him through your lashes. "I guess I didn't. I want to hear you now, though."
Jihoon's heart leaps as you tug the zipper of his jeans down. He doesn't dare move, watching with shaky breath as you hook your fingers into the waistband of his jeans and briefs and pull down just enough to free his aching cock. He shivers, the air cold, the tip of his cock flushed and hardening as you wrap your hand around the base, stroking gently.
"Oh fuck," he groans, tilting his head back, lashes fluttering.
You laugh. "Look at you."
Jihoon can't help it. He feels himself grow harder at just the touch of your hand, velvet around his shaft, stroking agonizingly slow in a way that makes his knees a little weak. He presses a hand against the wall, trying to keep himself steady when he feels the heat of your tongue slither up the underside of his cock.
A broken sound escapes him. His free hand threads in your hair, not pulling or pushing, but grounding himself, trying to gain some sort of semblance of control over himself. Your tongue is devilish, rolling around his swollen tip, and Jihoon swears he sees god.
"Fuck," he whispers.
"You're so fucking hard for me already," you tease.
He doesn't respond. He doesn't think he has the words. His hips twitch of their own accord when you take him into your mouth, slow and deliberate. He shivers, pressing his fist against the wall as he lets out an agonized sound. It feels so fucking good he can't think straight, and when you hollow your cheeks to suck him deeper, he thinks he's going to die.
"Shit," he swears. "Like that. Please. Fuck."
Your free hand grips what you can't swallow down, twisting as your spit drips down to ease the slide of your hand. Jihoon squeezes his eyes, trying not to come as you bob your head and suck him leisurely, humming lightly as your tongue scrapes the vein on the underside of his shaft.
The wet sounds of your mouth nearly break him. You take him deeper, throat relaxing as you swallow around him and his hips twitch. He grits his teeth, growling to stop himself from busting, feeling you gag around him and pull back a little.
"Sorry," he rasps. "You're gonna make me come if you do that again."
He glances down at you and thinks he's going to pass out. You're looking up at him with wide eyes, wet with want, mouth covering in spit and come, tongue darting out to wet your lips as you take a breath, hand sliding up and down his length.
"Come here," he growls, yanking you off the floor to crash your mouth into his.
The kiss is messy, spit and come mixed with the taste of you. He doesn't care. He'll take you anyway he can have you, his hands peeling your shirt away, your bra - anything that stops him from palming your warm skin.
Jihoon sinks to the couch and pulls you with him, your knees straddling his thighs. You're warm and soft in his hands, making him groan as you kiss him, fingers tangled in his hair, pussy pressed to his slick shaft. He grunts, fingers digging into your ass as he encourages you grind on him, the friction turning his stomach to static.
He slides a hand between your legs, fingers finding you slick and ready. He let's out a whimper as he circles your clit with feather-light touches that make you crumble, your head falling to his shoulder as your hips chase the friction of his fingers.
"So fucking wet, huh?" He asks, grinning as he kisses your neck. You nod, clinging to him like a life line. "Missed this pussy gripping my fingers. Can I stretch you out, baby?"
You whine and nod, rocking against him. He sucks greedily at the spot underneath your ear as he presses a finger in, the slide easy. You whine and a shiver ripples through you when his finger presses against your front wall, pressing against that spot he's learned over and over.
"Yeah?" He asks. "That the spot?"
"Please."
He doesn't make you wait. He presses another finger in, pumping slowly as you roll your hips to meet his fingers, pussy gripping him hard. He let's out a sound that sounds strangled as he fucks you with his fingers, grinning at the way you writhe for him, still sensitive just like he remembered.
Your mouths tangle again and Jihoon is spinning, his thoughts turning to a staticky mess as he strokes you, loving the way you drip into his hand, loving the way you whimper and can't focus on kissing him, your brows pinched tight, mouth open as you breath hard.
"Feels good," you whisper.
"Good. Come for me like this, baby. Let me hear you."
It doesn't take you long. His fingers are relentless and you shatter around him with a muffled cry in his neck, walls clenching around him. He works you through it, his heart hammering as he presses his mouth to your ear, tongue darting out to ease your lobe.
"That's it, just like that," he whispers, grinning when you nod, dazed.
Before you can catch your breath, you're lifting yourself and grabbing his cock, positioning him at your entrance. He barely registered you've pulled off his hand when you're sinking down on him, his brain whiting out as the heat of you wraps around him.
"Fuck," you swear. "You feel so fucking good."
Jihoon grips your hips, guiding your movements as you start to ride him, slow rolls turning into urgent bounces. His hands roam everywhere he can grab - your ass, your thighs, your tits - he can't keep his hands off of you, like if he lets go he might lose you again.
"Just like that," he groans, planting his feet on the ground to thrust up into you. "Fuck I missed this. Missed you so much."
You lean forward, foreheads pressing together, your breath fanning his lips as you quicken your pace. The couch leather creaks beneath you but he doesn't care, the heat of your skin sliding against his driving him insane, the smell of your skin and the sandalwood driving him to madness.
He wraps his arms around your waist, barring you to him as he fucks up into you hard, knocking you into his chest, your hands sliding against his sweaty shoulders. You make a loud sound and he lets you, uncaring who hears.
"Right there," you gasp. "Please don't stop, fucking asshole - oh my god."
"Yeah?" He grits. "I'm an asshole?"
"Yes!"
He laughs and shifts, lifting you off him. Your surprise is evident but he smiles and turns you around. "Ass up."
You comply, knees on the couch, hands braced on the cushions as he kneels behind you. You look over your shoulder, smirking as he presses the crown of his cock against your entrance.
"Still an ass man?"
He thrusts in hard and your smugness is knocked right out of you as his hands squeeze the globes of your ass. "Yes. Especially for this ass in particular."
Your head drops down as he thrusts in slow, grinding his hips each time he slides in fully. He presses forward, leaning over you to keep his chest pressed to your back, craving the nearness. You lift your head and lean into him, eager to press back as he fucks into you hard, hands grabbing at your hips.
When you beg him to go harder, he does, driving into you as one hand reaches around to toy with your clit, deft fingers circling as you turn into a mess underneath him. He loves the effect he has on you, loves to watch the ice between you all season melt, loves that he can have you like this.
"Come with me," he murmurs, breath shaky. "Please baby."
You nod, the two of you sliding together until you clench around him, squeezing him tight until he spills. Your name is broken on his mouth, his lips pressed to your shoulder, tasting the sweat on your skin. Your hand is reaching back, digging into his wrist, nails leaving crescent moons as you shake underneath him, coming undone.
Carefully, the two of you collapse together, both on your side. His back is against the couch, one arm slung around your waist to keep you from sliding off the couch, the other under your head. The couch barely fits the two of you - made for relaxing, not desperate sex - but neither of you moves to get up.
Jihoon noses the curve of your neck, still damp with sweat, lips brushing the tender spot beneath your ear. He kisses you lazily and you press into him, making him smile into your warm skin.
"Still alive?" He asks, voice rough.
"Barely. You?"
"Dead. I think you killed me." His teeth graze your earlobe playfully. "Worth it."
"Hmm."
He tightens his hold around you, desperate to keep you closer than you've been in months. "I meant what I said earlier. I won't be perfect, but I'll never put you as a permanent second again."
You turn your head just enough to catch the corner of his eye. You examine him before you nod and say, "That's all I've ever asked for."
âIâll set reminders to not be a dick to my girlfriend. I'll make it a recurring alarm.â
"Girlfriend? Haven't heard that in a while."
He presses a kiss behind your ear, lingering. "Get used to it. I don't make the same mistake twice."
You twist in his arms until youâre facing him, noses almost touching. Even this close, he can't help but think you're the most beautiful woman on the planet. He grins, watching you through his lashes as you reach up to brush strands of sweaty hair from his face.
"You're sticky from champagne," you note.
"You're sticky from cum."
"Ji!"
He laughs deeply for the first time in forever, squeezing you close. You settle against him, the room falling quiet for a bit with the low hum of the air conditioning and the murmur of post-race activity beyond the door. Jihoon almost drifts to sleep when he hears a sound drifting through the door, muffled at first. When it gets louder, he cracks an eye open, recognizing the unmistakable voice of Soonyoung belting at top volume somewhere in the motorhome.
"You're a heartbreaker! Dream maker! Love taker don't you mess around with me!" Soonyoung shouts, the faint sound of the song on speakers somewhere muted somewhere beyond his yelling.
Jihoonâs entire body goes rigid behind you. Then you start laughing, slapping a hand over your mouth to muffle your voice as you lose it. The tension bleeds out of him as Soonyoung continues into the second verse, his voice moving around the building, a traveling circus.
"Of course he's singing that fucking song," Jihoon groans."
âHeartbreaker! Dream maker! Every time I think of you-"
You're laughing so hard you're nearly doubled over in his arms, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Jihoon groans as you clutch your stomach, Soonyoung's voice cracking beyond the door.
"I hate him," Jihoon sighs.
"I actually think he's really good for you. He looks up to you, you know?"
"I guess."
"Come on," you tease, trying to free yourself from his arms. "Let's join."
"No!"
"Team bonding."
"I bonded when he kissed my forehead already."
"Jihoon."
He sighs and lets you stand, staring at the ceiling. "Fine."
Looking up at you, Jihoon can't help but smile, his entire world finally settling, the pieces falling back into place where they belong. All he had to do was stop trying to control it and let it happen. He watches you get dressed, entranced with the way you move, the way you smile at him.
Jihoon decides he doesn't hate Pat Benatar so much anymore.
Summary: Chris has become a spoiled brat when it comes to washing his hair.Ever since you did it for him that one time after commenting about how dry and fried it looked, heâd made you his personal hairdresser. Heâs grateful really, his curls have never looked better and he even now appreciates his curly hair more. However, what he really appreciates more, are your tetas all up in his face whenever you take care of his hair.
Warnings: bang chan x f.reader, friends to ???, smut! mdni!, kissing, oral(m&f.rec), sex on the bathroom counter, unprotected sex(this is fiction,donât be stupid in real life), Chris calls you nena like itâs your government name, slightly questionable hair care routine, lowkey munch/perv!Chris, Chris has a slick mouth,some dirty talk and teasing,some hair pulling, thereâs some plot somewhere in there, curly haired Chris supremacy because I refuse to shut up about it, may have missed something as usual
W.C: 7.1k
Chris had never been particularly fond of his curly hair, often opting to straighten it since it was easier to manage and deal with. The constant heat styling and bleaching had become routine; a small price to pay for the convenience of low-maintenance mornings and predictable styling. That changed, however, when he met you.
You took genuine pride in your curls and your hair care routine, no matter how long or expensive it was. Heâd watch in fascination as you worked through each step with the precision of a scientist and the care of an artistâleave-in conditioner(not always), curl creams and moisturizers,defining brushes, defining gels, diffusing, oils amongst other things he definitely forgot. You spoke about porosity and protein moisture balance like they were actually important and somehow, you made him believe they were.
He remembers the first time heâd let you wash and style his hair. Heâd been at your place, running your fingers through it absently while you watched a movie together, when youâd suddenly sat up and declared that his hair felt âabsolutely friedâ from all the bleaching and straightening. Before he could protest, youâd already pulled him into the bathroom, armed with an arsenal of products and unwavering determination.
That first experience had been revelatory. The way your fingers had massaged his scalp, the careful attention youâd paid to every strand, the genuine excitement in your eyes when his natural curl pattern started to emergeâit had been intoxicating. Needless to say, Chris had become thoroughly spoiled after that.
Now, whenever his hair needed a breather or some pampering, youâd become his personal hairdresser. Heâd show up at your door with that boyish smile and puppy-dog eyes, asking if you had time for a âquick wash,â though you both knew there was nothing quick about your process.
Not that you were complaining. You hadnât paid for your own hair care products in the longest time and that was entirely because Chris insisted on covering the costs. âIf Iâm benefiting from them too, I should pay,â heâd argued, waving away your protests as he added yet another expensive curl cream to the online cart. The arrangement had quickly evolved into him replacing your products before you even ran out, his bathroom slowly accumulating its own collection that mirrored yours.
Itâs what has you in your current situation; standing in his bathroom with his head leaned back over the sink as you work shampoo through his dark curls. Water runs through your fingers as you massage his scalp in slow, deliberate circles, working the product into a luxurious lather. His hair is longer now than when you first met, the curls springy and healthy after months of proper care.
âStop looking at me like that,â you chide, catching his gaze fixed upward. âI told you to close your eyes because you always get soap in them.â
âIâm looking at your tiddies if Iâm being honest.â The corner of his mouth quirks up in an unapologetic smirk, his eyes still very much open and not at all focused on anything resembling your face. âYou donât really expect me to keep my eyes closed for long when theyâre all up in my face, do you?â
Heat rushes to your cheeks as you realize the somewhat compromising position; you leaned over him, the neckline of your shirt offering a view you hadnât considered when youâd started this whole operation. You flick water at his face in retaliation.
âChristopher!â you gasp, trying to sound scandalized despite the laugh threatening to escape. âYouâre impossible. Close your eyes or Iâm going to get soap in them on purpose.â
âWorth it,â he declares shamelessly, though he does finally let his eyes flutter closed, that self-satisfied grin still playing on his lips. âBut for the record, this is my favorite part of wash day.â
âGetting your hair washed?â
âHaving you take care of me,â he corrects, his voice softer now, more sincere. âThough the view doesnât hurt.â
You roll your eyes even though he canât see it but you canât quite suppress your smile as you continue working the shampoo through his curls, your touch perhaps a bit more tender than before. âYouâre lucky youâre cute.â
âAnd that I pay for your products,â he adds helpfully.
âThat too,â you agree and his quiet laughter vibrates through your fingertips where they rest against his scalp, warm and familiar and entirely too comfortable with making your heart skip beats.
âYouâre still staring, Christopher.â
The use of his full name makes his grin widen rather than diminish. He doesnât even pretend to look apologetic.
âYouâre pretty.â
The simple statement, delivered with such casual sincerity, makes your breath catch for just a moment. You try to recover quickly, focusing intently on working the shampoo through a particularly stubborn section of curls near his temple.
âFlattery wonât get you anywhere,â you manage, though your voice comes out softer than you intended, betraying the effect his words have on you.
âAre your lips as soft as they look?â
Your fingers pause in his hair as you look down at him, soap suds forgotten. His eyes are already on you; not wandering anymore but fixed with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken. Thereâs something different in his gaze now, something that transforms the playful banter into something heavier, more charged. The bathroom suddenly feels smaller, warmer, the sound of running water fading into background noise.
âYouâre teasing me,â you say, your voice barely above a whisper. Your fingers slowly start back massaging but itâs almost automatic now, your mind entirely focused on the way heâs looking at you.
But heâs still staring; not at your chest anymore but at your lips with an attention that feels almost tangible. His tongue darts out to wet his own lips unconsciously, and you track the movement despite yourself.
âIâm really not,â Chris replies, his voice lower now, rougher. Thereâs no trace of his earlier playfulness. âIâve been wanting to know for a while now, actually.â
The confession hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication. Water drips from his hair, running down the side of his face but neither of you move to wipe it away. Your hands are still buried in his curls, his head still tilted back over the sink but the position that seemed so innocent moments ago now feels intimate in an entirely different way.
âChrisâŚâ you start, though youâre not sure what youâre planning to sayâa warning, an encouragement, something to break the tension or maybe give in to it.
âCan I?â he asks and thereâs a vulnerability in the question that makes your heart stutter. âKiss you, I mean. Iâve been thinking about it every time you do this. Every time you touch my hair, every time you get close, every time you smile at me when my curls turn out good.â He pauses, swallowing hard. âActually, I think about it pretty much all the time.â
Your breath hitches. The bathroom feels impossibly warm now, steam from the running water curling around you both, or maybe thatâs just the heat of the moment. His eyes search yours, patient despite the wanting written clearly across his features.
âYou still have shampoo in your hair,â you point out weakly, even as your hands slide down from his curls to cup his face, your thumbs brushing along his cheekbones.
His smile is soft, hopeful. âI donât care.â
âItâs going to get everywhereâŚâ
âI really donât care,â he repeats and thereâs such certainty in his voice that you canât help but believe him.
You lean down slowly, giving him every opportunity to change his mind, to laugh it off as a joke. But he doesnât. Instead, he lifts his head slightly from the sink, meeting you halfway with an eagerness that makes you smile against his lips just before they touch.
The kiss is soft, tentativeâa question and an answer all at once. His lips are warm and gentle against yours, moving with a carefulness that makes your chest ache. One of his hands comes up to cup the back of your neck and you canât even bring yourself to care about the mess.
When you pull back, itâs only barely, your forehead resting against his as you both breathe unevenly. His eyes flutter open, dark and warm and full of something that looks a lot like wonder.
âSofter,â he murmurs, his thumb stroking along your jaw. âDefinitely softer than they look.â
You laugh, the sound breathy and a little unsteady. âYouâre going to get soap in your eyes after all.â
âWorth it,â
Somehow youâve movedâor been movedâfrom standing over the sink to straddling him on the computer chair heâd dragged in from his bedroom earlier, claiming he wanted to be comfortable during the âlong process.â Your fingers are still buried in his shampoo-lathered hair, working through the curls more on instinct than conscious thought now, while his hands have found their home on the curve of your ass, holding you firmly against him.
The kiss starts slow, almost sweetâa gentle exploration of lips and breath but it doesnât stay that way. Chrisâ fingers flex against you, pulling you closer and you respond by pressing down into his lap, feeling the growing evidence of his interest beneath you. The small noise he makes against your mouth sends heat pooling low in your belly.
His tongue traces the seam of your lips, requesting entry and you grant it without hesitation. The kiss deepens, turns hungry. Your fingers tighten in his hair and he groans; whether from the scalp massage or the kiss or the way youâre grinding down against him now, youâre not sure. Probably all three.
âFuck,â he breathes against your mouth when you pull back for air, his pupils blown wide, lips already kiss-swollen and wet. His hands slide up your sides, under your shirt, palms hot against your skin. âYou have no idea how long Iâve wanted this.â
âShow me,â you challenge and his eyes darken further.
He kisses you again, harder this time, all teeth and tongue and desperation. One hand tangles in your hair while the other grips your hip, guiding you to rock against him in a rhythm that has you both panting. You can feel him hard and thick beneath you, the friction even through layers of clothing making your head spin.
Your hands slide from his hair down his neck, his shoulders, feeling the muscles flex as he holds you. Soap suds transfer onto his shirt, onto your arms, neither of you caring about the mess. His mouth leaves yours to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down your neck, finding that sensitive spot just below your ear that makes you gasp and arch into him.
âChris,â you whimper and the sound of his name seems to undo something in him.
He sucks a mark into your neck, his teeth grazing the skin before his tongue soothes the sting. Your hips roll against him with more urgency now, chasing friction and his grip tightens almost to the point of painâgrounding and possessive and perfect.
âYou feel so good,â he groans against your throat, his breath hot and ragged. âSo fucking good and weâre not evenââ He cuts himself off with another kiss, this one filthy and demanding, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes you clench around nothing.
Your fingers find the hem of his shirt and slip beneath it, nails dragging up his abs, feeling them contract under your touch. He hisses against your mouth, his hips bucking up involuntarily and the pressure against your core makes you moan.
âWant you,â he pants, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes squeezed shut like heâs trying to maintain some semblance of control. âBeen wanting you so fucking bad.â
You grind down harder, deliberate and his control visibly frays. His hands slide to your thighs, gripping hard enough to leave marks, encouraging the movement. The chair creaks beneath you with the motion and some distant part of your brain registers that youâre making a complete mess; soap dripping from his hair onto both of you, water spots on your shirt, the whole situation absolutely ridiculous.
But then Chrisâ mouth finds yours again, his tongue sliding deep and you forget to care about anything else. One of his hands moves between your bodies, palming himself through his sweats before his fingers find the button of your jeansâ
âWait,â you gasp, pulling back with what feels like superhuman effort. Youâre both breathing hard, lips swollen, pupils dilated. His hand freezes where it is. âYour hair.â
He blinks at you, looking dazed and thoroughly debauched. âWhat?â
âThe shampoo,â you manage, your voice wrecked. âI need to rinse it out before it dries. And we havenât even done conditioner yet.â
For a moment, he just stares at you like youâve spoken another language. Then he laughs, the sound breathless and slightly hysterical. âYouâre thinking about my hair care routine right now?â
âIâm always thinking about hair care,â you counter, though you make no move to get off his lap just yet. âAnd you dragged me in here to wash your hair, so weâre finishing what we started.â
His hands slide up your back, still under your shirt, his touch possessive even as his expression turns playful again. âWe can finish other things after?â He nips at your neck, teeth grazing skin thatâs already sensitized from his earlier attention.
The promise in his voice makes heat flare through you again. âAfter,â you agree, finally climbing off his lap on unsteady legs. âNow lean back over the sink before I have to clarify your hair all over again.â
He groans but complies, adjusting himself obviously in his sweats before leaning back over the sink. The outline of him is impossible to miss and you watch his hand linger there for just a moment, applying pressure before he forces himself to grip the arm of the chair instead. âYouâre cruel,â he informs you, tilting his head back under the running water.
âAnd youâre about to have the best conditioned curls of your life,â you reply, trying to ignore how your hands shake slightly as you begin rinsing the shampoo away, white suds swirling down the drain. Your fingers work through his hair methodically, making sure to get every trace of product out. âSo stop complaining and maybe Iâll show you what else my mouth can do.â
The words hang in the steamy air between you and you feel rather than see the way his entire body goes taut. His hands grip the armrest of the chair so hard his knuckles go white and when he speaks, his voice is strained.
âYou canât just say shit like that and expect me to stay still.â
âI expect you to stay still because you want your hair to look good,â you counter, your fingers working through his curls with practiced efficiency, even as your heart races. âAnd because you know good things come to those who wait.â
âIâve been waiting,â he grumbles, but thereâs heat in his voice rather than real complaint. âFeels like Iâve been waiting forever.â
The water runs clear, all traces of shampoo finally gone but you keep rinsing, taking your time, making him wait just a little bit longer. Your fingers massage his scalp in slow, deliberate circles and youâre rewarded with a low groan that he doesnât quite manage to suppress.
âThatâs not fair,â he mutters, his eyes still closed, though whether itâs to keep water out or because heâs trying to maintain his composure, youâre not sure.
âWhatâs not fair?â
âYou know what youâre doing to me.â His voice is rough, edged with frustration and want. âYouâre dragging this out on purpose.â
âI have no idea what you mean,â you reply innocently, even as your fingers trail down to the nape of his neck, nails scratching lightly. âIâm just being thorough.â
His hips shift against the chair and you know heâs seeking friction, trying to relieve some of the pressure. The knowledge that youâre affecting him this much sends a thrill through you.
When you finallyâfinallyâreach for the conditioner, your movements are deliberately slow. You pump the product into your palm, the soft scent of shea butter and coconut filling the bathroom and take your time warming it between your hands.
âAre you serious right now?â His eyes open, fixing on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. âYouâre really going to make me sit through the entire routine?â
âYou asked me to wash your hair,â you remind him, beginning to work the conditioner through his curls, starting at the ends like you always do. âAnd Iâm going to do it properly.â
âIâm starting to regret that decision,â he says, but his eyes flutter closed again when your fingers reach his scalp, working the product in with the same methodical care you always use.
âLiar,â you murmur, leaning closer. Your breath ghosts across his ear and you feel him shiver. âYou love this.â
âI love you touching me,â he corrects, his voice dropping lower. âI love your hands in my hair. I love the way youâre looking at me right now, like you want to devour me but youâre making yourself wait.â
Your hands pause for just a moment before continuing their work. âAnd what if I do want to devour you?â
His eyes snap open, dark and heated. âThen stop torturing me with hair care and do it already.â
âPatience,â you chide, though your own voice has gone breathy. You work the conditioner through another section of curls, your movements perhaps a bit less steady than before. âGood curls require time and attention.â
âSo do I,â he counters and thereâs a hint of a whine in his voice that makes you smile despite the heat pooling in your belly.
You let the conditioner sit, your fingers playing idly with his curls, no longer pretending thereâs a technical reason for the touch. His eyes track your every movement, watching the way your hands move through his hair, the way your teeth catch your lower lip in concentration.
âYouâre killing me,â he says quietly and this time thereâs no humor in it, just raw honesty. âStanding there looking like that, touching me like this, saying things that make me want to throw you over my shoulder andââ
âAnd what?â you prompt, your fingers stilling in his hair.
He holds your gaze, something challenging flickering in his expression. âAnd make good on every promise in that pretty mouth of yours.â
Heat floods through you at his words, at the way heâs looking at you like heâs two seconds away from doing exactly that. The air between you feels charged, electric, heavy with anticipation.
âLet me rinse this out,â you say, your voice steadier than you feel. âAnd then weâll see about those promises.â
âHow long does it need to sit?â he asks, and thereâs definitely a whine in his voice now.
You glance at the bottle, then back at him with a smile that you know is pure wickedness. âFive to seven minutes.â
The groan he lets out is so pained, so genuinely frustrated, that you almost take pity on him. Almost.
Instead, you lean down, bringing your face close to his, your lips barely an inch from his own. âTick tock, Christopher,â you whisper, and then you pull back, leaving him staring after you with an expression caught somewhere between agony and anticipation.
You make a show of washing your hands, of checking your phone for the time, of doing absolutely anything except acknowledging the way his eyes bore into you. Every second stretches out, thick and heavy with tension, and you can practically feel the restraint itâs taking for him to stay still.
âTimeâs up,â you finally announce and the speed with which he tilts his head back over the sink is almost comical.
Your fingers return to his hair, working out the conditioner with the same care and attention youâve shown throughout the entire process. But this time, thereâs an urgency underlying your movements, a barely contained anticipation that matches the tension radiating from him.
The conditioner rinses away, leaving his curls soft and perfectly defined beneath your fingertips. You run your hands through one more time, making absolutely sure thereâs no product left, before reaching for a towel.
âDone?â he asks and his voice is so hopeful, so desperate, that you canât help but laugh.
âAlmost.â You wrap the towel around his hair, gently squeezing out excess water. âJust need toââ
But before you can finish the sentence, heâs standing, turning, backing you against the bathroom counter. His hair is still wrapped in the towel, water droplets running down his neck and heâs never looked more beautiful than he does right now; thoroughly disheveled and looking at you like youâre the only thing in the world that matters.
âHairâs done,â he says, his voice rough. âNow, about those promisesâŚâ
âChris, I still need to add products and dryââ
âTurn around.â
His voice has dropped to something darker, more commanding and it sends a shiver down your spine despite the warmth of the bathroom. You hesitate, your hand still holding the towel wrapped around his head.
âChrisââ
âWhatâd I just say, nena?â
The endearment rolls off his tongue with an edge that makes your knees weak. His hands find your hips, firm and insistent, and suddenly youâre being guided to turn, to face the mirror above the sink. Your breath catches as you meet his eyes in the reflectionâdark, heated, filled with intent.
âYour hairââ you try again but your protest sounds weak even to your own ears.
âWill still be there in ten minutes,â he finishes for you, stepping closer until his chest is pressed against your back, until you can feel every line of him against you. His hands slide from your hips to splay across your stomach, holding you in place. âRight now, I need you to stop talking about my hair and start making good on what you promised me.â
His lips find the side of your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat and your head tilts back automatically, giving him better access. In the mirror, you watch his hands move up your body, watch the way your own breath quickens, the way your pupils dilate.
âI didnât promise anything,â you manage, though your voice comes out breathy and unconvincing.
âNo?â His teeth graze your earlobe, and one hand slides higher, fingers ghosting just beneath the swell of your breast. âSo you werenât suggesting that your mouth could do other things? Because Iâve been thinking about thatâabout you on your knees for meâfor a while now.â
Heat floods through you, pooling low and insistent. Your hands grip the edge of the counter, knuckles going white.
âTell me you want this,â he murmurs against your ear, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror. Despite the command in his voice, despite the way his hands are mapping your body like heâs memorizing it, thereâs a question there. Consent wrapped in dominance. âTell me you want me as much as I want you.â
You hold his gaze in the reflection, see the want and the restraint warring in his expression. The towel is still wrapped around his hair, slightly askew now and thereâs something absurdly endearing about it; this moment of raw desire interrupted by hair care, now resuming with even more intensity.
âI want you,â you breathe and watch the way his eyes darken further, the way his grip on you tightens. âI want this.â
âGood,â he says, his voice rough with satisfaction. His hand slides up to cup your jaw, turning your face toward him so he can capture your lips in a kiss thatâs all heat and promise. âBecause Iâm done waiting.â
When he pulls back, youâre both breathing hard. His thumb traces your lower lip, his eyes following the movement with rapt attention.
âNow,â he says, his voice dropping even lower, âget on your knees for me, nena. Show me what that pretty mouth can do.â
The command sends liquid heat straight through you. Your legs feel unsteady as you turn to face him fully, his hand falling away from your jaw but his eyes never leaving yours. Thereâs something intoxicating about the way heâs looking at you; like heâs been starving and youâre the first meal heâs seen in days.
Slowly, deliberately, you sink down to your knees on the bathroom mat. The tile is cool through the fabric but you barely notice, too focused on the way his breath stutters, the way his hand reaches out to brace against the counter like he needs the support.
From this angle, heâs overwhelming. Youâre eye-level with the very obvious bulge straining against his grey sweats, the fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide how affected he is. Your mouth waters at the sight and when you look up at him through your lashes, you find him staring down at you with an expression thatâs pure hunger.
âFuck,â he breathes and the rawness in his voice makes you clench. His free hand comes up to pull the towel from his hair, tossing it carelessly aside. Damp curls fall around his face, messy and perfect and heâs never looked better. âYou look so good like this. Been dreaming about this.â
âYeah?â You lean forward, pressing your palms against his thighs, feeling the muscles tense beneath your touch. âTell me what youâve been dreaming about.â
His hand moves to your hair, fingers threading through it, not pushing but holding a promise of control. âYou really want to know?â
âEvery detail,â you say, your hands sliding higher, fingers hooking into the waistband of his sweats.
He groans, hips shifting forward involuntarily. âI think about this every time you touch my hair. Every time you lean over me, every time your fingers massage my scalpâŚI imagine them somewhere else. I imagine your mouth on me, those pretty lips wrapped around my cock while I watch in the mirror.â
Your breath catches at his words, at the explicit honesty of them. You look up at him, finding his eyes blazing, his jaw tight with restraint.
âI think about how good youâd look with tears in your eyes because Iâm too deep but you take it anyway because you want to make me feel good,â he continues, his voice getting rougher with each word. âI think about how sweet youâd sound choking on it, how pretty youâd be when I come down your throat.â
âChris,â you breathe and youâre not sure if itâs a protest or encouragement or just his name torn from you by the sheer want his words inspire.
âToo much?â he asks and despite the dominance in his voice, thereâs genuine concern there too.
You shake your head, your fingers tightening on his waistband. âNot enough. I want it all.â
Something in him breaks at that, what little restraint heâd been clinging to snapping like a thread pulled too tight. His hand tightens in your hair, not painful but firm, guiding.
âThen take them off,â he commands, his voice steady despite the way you can see his chest heaving. âAnd show me how good you can be for me.â
Your hands tremble slightly as you pull at his sweats, dragging them down his hips along with his boxers. He springs free, thick and hard and already leaking, and the sight of him makes your mouth water. Heâs bigger than you expected, flushed and pretty, and you canât help but lean forward, pressing a kiss to his hip, then lower, teasing.
âDonât tease,â he warns, his grip in your hair tightening just enough to make your scalp tingle. âYouâve made me wait long enough.â
You look up at him, holding his gaze as you finallyâfinallyâwrap your hand around him. Heâs hot and heavy in your palm and the sound he makes when you stroke him once, twice, is absolutely obscene.
âFuck, yes,â he hisses, his free hand bracing harder against the counter. âJust like that.â
But you want more than that. You want to see him fall apart, want to reduce him to nothing but sensation and need. So you lean forward, maintaining eye contact and drag your tongue along the underside of his length, base to tip, feeling him pulse against your lips.
âHoly shit,â he gasps, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. âYour mouthââ
You cut him off by taking him in, wrapping your lips around the head and sucking gently. The taste of him floods your tongueâsalt and skin and pure Chrisâand you moan around him, the vibration making him curse again.
âLook at you,â he groans and you realize heâs angled himself so he can see in the mirror; can watch you on your knees for him, can watch the way your lips stretch around him. âSo fucking perfect. Taking me so well.â
Encouraged by his words, you take him deeper, relaxing your throat, using every trick you know. Your hand works what you canât fit and you set a rhythm that has him panting above you, his fingers flexing in your hair.
âThatâs it, nena,â he praises, his voice strained. âJust like that. So good for me, so fucking goodââ
You hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, and his control visibly wavers. His hips start to move, shallow thrusts that you encourage by relaxing further, letting him take what he needs.
âCan Iââ he starts, then groans when you take him particularly deep. âCan I fuck your mouth? Please, I needââ
You pull off just long enough to gasp, âYes, use me,â before taking him back in and the sound he makes is somewhere between a curse and a prayer.
His grip in your hair becomes purposeful now, holding you steady as he starts to thrust. Itâs slow at first, careful but when you look up at him with watering eyes and moan around him, his restraint cracks further.
âYouâre gonna kill me,â he pants, moving faster now, deeper. âFeel so good, so perfect, fuckââ
Tears are streaming down your face now, your jaw aching in the best way and youâve never felt more powerful than you do in this moment; on your knees but completely in control of his pleasure, reducing him to desperate sounds and broken praise.
âClose,â he warns, his movements becoming erratic. âIâm so close, whereââ
You double your efforts, sucking harder, taking him deeper, making your intentions clear.
âFuck, fuck, fuckkkââ His words dissolve into a groan as he comes, spilling hot and thick down your throat. You swallow around him, working him through it until heâs shaking, until his hand in your hair goes gentle, almost reverent.
When you finally pull off, his eyes are glazed, his chest heaving and he looks thoroughly wrecked. You sit back on your heels, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and the way heâs staring at youâlike youâve just given him religionâmakes every second worth it.
âJesus fucking Christ,â he breathes finally, reaching down to help you to your feet. Your knees protest the movement but then his mouth is on yours, kissing you deep and dirty, tasting himself on your tongue. âYouâre incredible. That wasâŚyouâreââ
âGood?â you supply with a smile, your voice rough.
âTranscendent,â he corrects, pulling back to look at you properly. His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away the tears there with such tenderness it makes your chest ache. âBut now we have a problem.â
âWhatâs that?â
His eyes darken again, heat already building anew despite what just happened. âI need to return the favor. Need to make you feel as good as you just made me feel. And thenââ his hand slides down your body, cupping between your legs and even through your jeans the pressure makes you gasp, âI need to fuck you properly. Think you can handle that?â
Your breath catches at the promise in his voice. âWhat about your hair?â
He laughs, the sound bright and genuine, before kissing you again. âFuck my hair. It can air dry. Right now, the only thing I care about is getting you out of these clothes and making you scream my name.â
And with the way heâs looking at you, the way his hands are already working at your button, youâre inclined to let him do exactly that.
âLemme at least put some moisturizer in it.â
âDo it with my head between your legs âcause Iâm not waiting.â
The words are barely out of his mouth before heâs moving, hands gripping your hips and lifting you onto the bathroom counter in one fluid motion before pulling up his chair and dropping onto it.
âChrisââ
âReach for your products,â he interrupts, already working at the button of your jeans with practiced efficiency. âYou wanted to do your hair routine? Fine but like this.â
Heat floods through you as he yanks your jeans down your legs, taking your underwear with them. The cool air of the bathroom hits your overheated skin, making you shiver but then his hands are on your thighs, spreading them apart, resting them on the armrests of the chair and suddenly you canât think about anything else.
âChris, oh my godââ Your hand fumbles behind you for the moisturizer bottle on the counter, nearly knocking it over in your haste.
âThatâs it,â he encourages, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses up your inner thigh. âGet what you need but donât you dare ask me to stop.â
You manage to grab the bottle, your hands shaking as you pump product into your palm but the moment you reach for his hair, the moment your fingers make contact with his damp curls, he leans forward and licks a stripe right through your center and you nearly drop the entire bottle.
âFuck!â The word tears from you, your free hand immediately flying to grip the edge of the counter for stability.
âKeep going,â he murmurs against you, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh. âWork it through my hair like you always do. Nice and slow. Thorough.â
âYou canâtâI canâtââ Your protest dissolves into a moan as his tongue finds your clit, circling it with maddening precision.
âYou can,â he counters, pulling back just enough to speak before diving back in. âYouâre good at multitasking, remember? All those lectures about proper technique?â
Your fingers thread through his curls, trembling as you try to work the product through like you normally wouldâsectioning, smoothing, scrunching to defineâbut itâs nearly impossible when his mouth is doing sinful things to you, when his tongue is alternating between broad strokes and focused attention that has your thighs shaking.
âBaby, pleaseââ Youâre not sure what youâre begging for anymore. For him to stop so you can concentrate? For him to never stop? Both seem equally urgent.
âPlease what, nena?â His words vibrate against you, and the sensation makes you gasp. âYou wanted to finish the routine. So finish it.â
Thereâs a challenge in his voice, even muffled as it is, and something in you rises to meet it. Your hands move with more purpose now, working through another section of his hair, smoothing the product from root to tip, combing the defining brush through then scrunching to encourage his curl pattern; all while heâs eating you out like a man starving.
âThatâs my girl,â he praises when you manage to complete a section and the words combined with a particularly wicked flick of hisââââââââââââââââ tongue has you crying out. âDoing so good for me. Keep going.â
Your head falls back against the mirror, your free hand fisting in his hair; less for styling purposes now and more to hold on, to ground yourself. He doesnât seem to mindâif anything it spurs him onâhis hands gripping your thighs harder, holding you open for him.
âAlmost done,â you gasp out, your movements becoming more erratic as pleasure builds hot and insistent in your core. âJust need toâay dio, right thereââ
He hums in acknowledgment, focusing his attention exactly where you need it and your hands are shaking so badly now you can barely hold the bottle. You manage to pump out more product, manage to work it through the final section of his hair with movements that are more instinct than technique.
âThere,â you breathe, dropping the bottle carelessly. âDone, Iâm doneââ
âGood,â he growls against you and then both his hands are on you, one sliding up to palm your breast while the other joins his mouth, fingers teasing your entrance before sliding inside. âNow you can stop thinking about my hair and focus on this. On me. On how good Iâm making you feel.â
And god, he is. His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes you see stars, while his tongue works your clit with relentless precision. The combination is overwhelming, devastating and you can feel yourself hurtling toward the edge embarrassingly fast.
âThatâs it,â he encourages, feeling you clench around his fingers. âLet go for me. Wanna feel you come on my tongue, wanna taste youââ
His words, combined with the addition of another finger, the way he sucks your clit into his mouth, send you flying over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your back arching off the mirror, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, a curse, a benediction.
He works you through it, gentling his touch as you come down, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip bones, anywhere he can reach. When you finally open your eyes, still panting, you find him looking up at you with the most self-satisfied smirk youâve ever seen.
âHowâs my hair look?â he asks and you canât help but laugh, breathless and slightly hysterical.
âLike you just got fucked,â you manage, taking in his thoroughly mussed curls, some sections clearly more defined than others, the whole thing slightly chaotic. âBut honestly? It works for you.â
âYeah?â He rises from the chair, settling between your legs and you can see heâs already hard again, heavy and flushed against his stomach. âWell, itâs gonna look even worse in a few minutes.â
âOh?â You reach for him, wrapping your hand around his lengthâafter you wash itâand revel in the way his breath stutters. âAnd whyâs that?â
âBecause,â he says, capturing your mouth in a kiss that tastes like you, âIâm about to fuck you right here on this counter and I have a feeling youâre gonna pull it pretty hard.â
The promise in his words sends another wave of heat through you. âBold of you to assume Iâm a hair puller.â
âNena,â he says, positioning himself at your entrance, the head of his cock teasing through your wetness, making you both gasp, âafter what we just did? I know exactly what you are.â
And then heâs pushing inside, slow and steady and so perfectly filling that you do exactly what he predicted; your hands fly to his hair, gripping those carefully moisturized curls, and pull.
The sound he makes is absolutely worth ruining your styling work.
âFuck,â he groans, his hips stuttering as he sinks deeper. âDo that again.â
You oblige, tugging at his hair as he bottoms out and his forehead drops to yours, his breathing ragged. âYou feel so good,â he mutters, pulling back only to thrust in again, harder this time. âSo fucking perfect around me.â
Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, urging him deeper, faster. The counter is hard and cold against your ass but you barely notice, too focused on the delicious drag of him inside you, the way heâs hitting that perfect spot with every thrust.
âMore,â you gasp, your nails scraping against his scalp and he responds immediately, his pace becoming punishing, desperate. One hand braces against the mirror beside your head, the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise and the slight pain only adds to the pleasure.
âThis what you wanted?â he pants against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. âWanted me to fuck you like this? Ruin you on this counter?â
âYes,â you moan, your head falling back against the mirror with a dull thunk. âGod, yes, Chrisââ
His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your sounds, his tongue sliding against yours in rhythm with his thrusts. Itâs messy, desperate, perfectâall teeth and tongue and shared breath.
âTouch yourself,â he commands, pulling back just enough to watch your face. âWant to feel you come around my cock.â
Your hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit and the added stimulation combined with the angle of his thrusts has you trembling, teetering on the edge already.
âThatâs it,â he encourages, his voice strained. âCan feel you getting tighter. Come for me, baby. Lemme feel it.â
A few more circles of your fingers, a few more perfectly angled thrusts and youâre shattering around him, crying out his name as pleasure whites out your vision. Your walls clench around him rhythmically and the sensation pulls him over the edge with you.
âFuck, fuckââ His hips stutter, burying himself as deep as possible as he comes, spilling hot inside you. His face is buried in your neck and you can feel his lips forming words against your skin; a mixture of your name and curses and praise that makes your chest tight.
You stay like that for a long moment, both of you trying to catch your breath, hearts pounding in sync. Eventually, he lifts his head and the look on his faceâsated and soft and a little awedâmakes you smile.
âSo,â you say, your voice rough and thoroughly used, âhowâs the hair?â
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours and reaches up to run his fingers through his curls. They spring back, perfectly defined despiteâor maybe because ofâyour rough handling.
âActually looks pretty good,â he admits, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm. âMight need to incorporate this into the routine.â
âWhat, the sex or the multitasking?â
âBoth,â he says with that devastating grin.âDefinitely both.â
You shake your head, still smiling but when he leans in to kiss you againâsoft and sweet this time, a contrast to everything that just happenedâyou melt into it, already looking forward to the next wash day.
pairing : gamer! wonwoo x kpop fan! fem oc "kwon haru"
summary : Haru didnât expect to reunite with her childhood friend on the first day of her new job. Years apart havenât changed how awkward they both are or how naturally they fall back into each otherâs orbit. They decided to date, but with Haru being a passionate K-pop fangirl and Wonwoo as socially awkward gamer, navigating a real relationship proves harder than expected.
genre : childhood friend au, semi socmed au
tags : fluff, romcom, cringe and cheesy? lot of Genshin Impact references, wonwoo's a smoker, heavily inspired from 'Wotakoi : Love is Hard for Otaku' and a little pinch of 'My Love Story with Yamada-Kun at Lvl 999'
playlist : khloe rose - fictional, the ambivert song - chris adrian yang, the cutest pair - regina song, friend to lover - standing egg, bestfriend - rex orange county
[profile (UPDATED!)] [masterlist]
LEVEL 2 ; sorry
(the 2 likes coming from both wonwoo's account)
"So, you dated him?"
The sudden question made Haru's fingers freeze over the keyboard of her laptop. She blinked, caught off guard before turning to her supervisor, who had her chin propped lazily on one hand, lips curving into a teasing smirk.
Currently, they were isolated inside the meeting room to arrange some documents since the intern that was given the task called for a sick leave due allergy reaction.
"That guy." Jiho jutted her chin subtly toward the glass window of the room, directing Haru's gaze to a familiar figure outside.
Through the clear panel, Haru saw Wonwoo seated at his desk, his posture awkwardly stiff with his eyes narrowed in deep concentration at his monitor. His brow furrowed slightly as if he were solving world peace instead of preparing reports.
"Ah. Well, yeah. Sort of."
"Sort of?" Jiho raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't sound very exciting."
Haru chuckled lightly, shrugging her shoulders carelessly. "It just... happened. I'm not even sure how to explain it."
"Who confessed first?" Jiho pressed, clearly invested. "I'd be surprised if he did because let's be honest, he's cute but he's a bit emotionally constipated, don't you think? Are you the one initiated the first move?"
Haru swallowed, unsure of how to answer to those questions.
The so-called 'confession' was more like a casual pact made over two working adults at a bus stop after hours of gaming under a street drinking tent. Jiho would definitely found it ridiculous if Haru chose to be truthful.
But before she could make up a believable lie, a knock on the meeting room door interrupted the conversation. Wonwoo stepped in with a black file in hand.
"New file in," he said flatly.
Jiho waved him off. "Just place it in front of Haru with the rest."
He complied without question, neatly aligning the file on the growing stack.
Then Jiho, still riding the wave of nosy energy, grinned devilishly. "Hey, Wonwoo!"
Wonwoo straighten up to meet her, brows slightly arching at the sudden call out.
Out of the blue, Jiho wrapped an arm around Haru's shoulders and squished their faces together, her cheek pressing into Haru's in exaggerated affection. "Haru's cute, right?"
...
"She's... okay," Wonwoo responded.
Plainly. His face muscles barely moved as he answered to it that even Jiho looks offended on Haru's behalf.
The male doesn't even wait for any reaction as he simply turned his heels around and walk out the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.
There was a moment of stillness. Even the sound of the clock ticking on the wall behind them louder than anything else. Jiho turned to her, scandalized. "What was that!?"
Haru blinked. "What was what?"
"Just look at him!" She half yelled, her hand gesturing wildly towards the door where his ghost remained. "He didn't even blink! Not a flinch, not a twitch like...! I-Is he emotionally sedated or are you two just messing with me!?"
A sheepish grin tugged at Haru's lips as she decided to keep everything to herself where she agreed to date Wonwoo simply because he's willing to be her personal chaffeur to any of her fan event. So, she just let her supervisor to fill in the blank herself.
"God, I can't believe it!" Jiho scoffed in frustration, now turning to resume organizing the files and documents in front of her. Haru chuckled.
"It's okay. I grew up with him. I'm used to it," She said, not paying attention if Jiho even bother to hear her.
Then as if its on cue, her phone rang with a reminder for their lunch break of the day.
"It's lunch time. Shall we go somewhere to have lunch together?" Haru suggested. Jiho reached for her phone, scrolling for a bit before she nod.
"Yeah. Cheol had to join a lunch meeting outside the company so I guess I'm available,"
Cheol? Haru assumed that he probably the same guy who was with Wonwoo during that first cafeteria encounter on the other day.
Without another word, the two gathered their things and stepped out from the meeting room, walking into the hum of the office hallway towards the company's cafeteria.
****
****
The next morning, Haru pushed through the glass doors while balancing her iced Americano in one hand and her tote bag slung over her shoulder. As she made her way to her desk, she instinctively glanced over at the adjacent row, expecting to see Wonwoo hunched over his monitor, probably wearing those noise-cancelling headphones he lowkey bragged about for how good quality it is and that it is one of his best purchase he had done in his lifetime.
But, she met with an empty seat instead.
Haru blinked, and blinked again.
'Maybe he's late,'Â she thought at first and decided to shrug it off for now.
An hour ticked by. The working hour has long started and yet, the sight of his unattended desk felt bizarrely unsettling for her.
She finally turned to Jiho, who was halfway through sipping on her own 3-in-1 coffee she had stole from the pantry earlier, her eyes busy scrolling through rows of texts on her monitor.
"Sorry for asking but... is Wonwoo on leave today?"
"...Yeah, I can see that," Haru muttered, lips curling in a dry line. "Do you know why?"
Jiho shrugged, spinning her chair slightly. "Nope. Didn't mention anything since yesterday either. Maybe he took a sudden leave? He's not the type to ghost work, though." She said.
But then, Jiho sent her another confusing look, brows knitting together. "Wait, why are you asking me this? You're his girlfriend. I thought you're supposed to know,"
"I tried texting him but there's no reply," She admitted.
Jiho leaned slightly against her seat, arms crossing across her chest. "Honestly, I couldn't make up any possibilities. Maybe he just slept in and forgot to inform you?"
Haru let out a laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yeah. Hopefully."
But even as she tried to shake it off, her mind still spiraled. She sat back at her desk, pulling up her phone. Her fingers tapping the screen few times before she came across the tweet replying to Jiho a few days ago.
The one mentioning that her ideal type is more of a man like Choi Seungcheol rather that him..
Even after she had replied to his quote tweet, he never respond afterward.
God, no way he's being petty about that, right? she thought, her teeth biting the tip of her nail. No way he's that dramatic. Is he?
She remembered one of her exes who once ghosted her for two days because she praised a male actor during a movie night. It was petty and possessive and completely absurd but somehow, jealousy could make people irrational no matter how ridiculous it sounds.
Was Wonwoo the jealous type? He never struck her as one. But then again, she never really understood him either even if she already knew him for years as a kid.
****
After a long consideration, Haru decided to take a taxi all the way from her home to his that weekend. She has to see him. To confirm it with her eyes, to hear it verbally from his own mouth.
Haru found herself standing in front of Wonwoo's apartment by the evening, her palms already turned clammy, her heart drumming inside her chest due to the ovewhelming nerves. She knocked softly at first.
"Wonwoo?"
There is no answer. She tried again, this time a little more harder with her voice calling him out a little more louder.
"Wonwoo! It's me! Can you open the door please?"
But once again, she was left with nothing. And for some reason, the anxiety overpowered her that she began to bang her fist mercilessly against the door.
"Wonwoo, I'm sorry okay!? I swear I didn't mean it like that! I'm sorry if my tweet offended you badly, I promised I'll try to read the room, okay!? Please! Open the door! I don't want this to be the reason you ended up dumping me!" She cried. From one fist, she now had both of them hitting the surface repeatedly that the sound literally echoes through the empty hallway.
Before she could spiral further into her emotional breakdown, the door creaked open with a soft click. Haru stumbled backward in surprise, almost losing her balance until she came face to face with the man himself.
Wonwoo stood there in casual house clothes, his dark hair slightly messy and a pair of headphones still hanging around his neck. His eyes were wide behind his glasses as he blinked at her, confused and a little dazed.
"Haru?"
Her body react before she could even second guess herself. Haru threw herself into his arms and clung to him like a koala as she blurted,Â
"I AM SO SORRY. I PROMISE I WON'T SAY THAT SEUNGCHEOL IS HOTTER THAN YOU OR THAT YOU AREN'T MY TYPE. I'M BEGGING YOU PLEASE DO NOT BREAK UP WITH ME!"
Wonwoo stood frozen on the spot, arms hovering awkwardly in the air, completely baffled. He looked down at her, lips parting slowly.
"What...?"
*****
"Livestream?"
Haru echoed, eyes wide in disbelief as she stood awkwardly inside Wonwoo's bedroom, still holding onto the strap of her handbag like a lifeline.
Wonwoo sighed and sank into his chair, ruffling his already messy hair. "Yeah. I was in the middle of it until I heard... well, everyone heard, someone banging on my door like a maniac."
He reached for his phone and tapped the screen a few times before turning it toward her. "Here. See it for yourself,"
Haru squinted at the screen, where a replay of the stream played back. There was the calm voice of Wonwoo explaining something about some gaming mechanism, until suddenly the audio interrupted with a sharp BANG! BANG! BANG! followed by a faint, but unmistakable voice yelling tons of apologize and something about him dumping her.
The chat was exploding with countless "WTF?!" and "BRO GO CHECK THE DOOR" while his camera shook faintly from the echo of her furious knocking and screaming. The final moment showed Wonwoo pulling off his headset with a look of sheer confusion before abruptly ending the stream with a tired "I'm sorry. I'll be back later..."
"Oh my god," she gasped under her breath, her palm wiping her already flushed face. "OH MY GOD-"
"Technically, the clip's already being clipped by a few people on Twitter," Wonwoo added casually. "But don't worry. They think you're my roommate or something."
Haru covered her face. "I AM NOT REASSURED. Also, these clips got thousand of likes! Literally how famous are you?"
He casually shrugged before turning his chair towards his monitor. "I have quite a followers. 125k at most?"
"THAT MANY!?" Her jaws almost touched the floor.
"I did it for fun. People watch my livestream for fun too,"
"But stillâ" Her words died on her tongue, sighing. "You know what? I came just to check if you're alive or not and seems like you are doing very well so I guess I'm going to take my leave,"
But before she could even turn and leave, a hand gently tugged on her wrist.
Wonwoo looked up at her, his eyes behind the thick rimmed glasses gone unusually soft. "It's fine. Stream's already over. You came all the way here to see me so I guess it's important to you. What's going on?"
His tone was so gentle it made her knees wobble a little. She blinked at him, lips parting before her brain caught up.
"I just..." she began, biting her lip. "I thought you were ghosting me because of that stupid tweet. You didn't answer my call, you didn't reply to my text. I don't even know that you were on a leave even though I'm your girlfriend!"
Her hands flailing around as she continued with her ranting, "I know I said you weren't my type but I didn't mean it likeâ! I mean, obviously you're good-looking, and smart, and sometimes even too smart it's annoying, but you'reâ"
Wonwoo stared at her. "You... thought I was mad about that?"
"...Yeah?" She shut her eyes, her shoulders slumping as a huff escaping her lips. "I really thought that you're upset with me,"
A beat of silence stretched between them before she felt his grip around her wrist slowly loosening as he leaned back just so he can properly see her.
"I didn't reply to your texts or calls because I didn't see them," he finally said, tone softening. "I caught a cold. Been staying home since, and... yeah, I don't really update people when I'm sick. Forgot I was dating someone now."
That line hit her square in the chest like an arrow.
"...Oh. Right," she said, voice small.
"Didn't mean anything by it," he quickly added. "I just never had to think about someone else waiting for me before."
She nodded quietly.
"I'm sorry for not telling you. I didn't mean to ignore you. I guess I'm still figuring things out,"
There was a beat of silence before he added, more hesitantly this time, "I did think... maybe I shouldn't be doing this. Maybe it was not a good idea and we're rushing into things that I'm obviously not good at. I mean, I never been in a relationship. I can't communicate really well and because of my lacking, I have made you feel like I disappeared."
Haru looked at him for a moment before she shook her head. "No, Wonwoo.."
Haru heaved a deep breath, letting her brain to process everything properly before she finally spoke.
"I... I want to try," she said. "I want to learn more about you. If you'll let me."
Wonwoo blinked.
"Honestly, maybe I'm not great at navigating a relationship. All this time, I'm the only one doing the chasing. But with you, it was different. You're the first one trying to understand me and my interest. No one have ever done that to me before,"
"Yet, I barely know anything about you and... I'm willing to learn it. I want to know more about you. Your interest in gaming, your livestreaming routines. Everything. I want to figure this out with you, even if it's awkward or slow or confusing for both of us,"
Wonwoo froze.
Literally froze. They both stared each other for a good ten seconds before she noticed it.
His ears turned pink first. Then the blush crept up his neck, blooming across his cheeks like a fast-forwarded sunset. His hand flew up to cover the lower half of his face, eyes widening behind his glasses.
She blinked. "Wonwoo? Whaâ Why are you covering your face?"
"Nothing,"Â He turned away dramatically, mumbling something incoherent into his hand.
"What? I can't hear you! Talk to me!" She gasped. "Are you blushing?"
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