📸 【FAME】 your popular boyfriend is ready to be your assistant ｡ ｡ ｡ ◞ #𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐊
celebrity ! s.jy x celebrity ! 𝑓 reader ◜ᵕ◝ 𝟱𝟬𝟲 ≧ᗜ≦ DOWNBAD jake kissing established relationship
it's kind of funny, jake thinks, how the universe really cooked when it decided to make you you. he swears the best thing he’s ever done in life—aside from learning how to make scrambled eggs properly—was meeting you before you blew up. like, back when your biggest gig was doing a off-brand soda ad.
fast forward three years, and you’re everywhere. magazine covers, talk shows, a literal walking glitter bomb of success. jake thanks god every single day (and sometimes his manager, for once dragging him to that stupid event) because now he gets to say, very casually,
''yeah i'm y/n's boyfriend.''
does he say it too often? absolutely.
is he insufferable about it? yes.
does he care? not even slightly.
and every time someone brings you up around jake? he lights up like a golden retriever that just heard the word ''walk.''
''yeah,'' he says, puffing up his chest like it's his job, ''she's my girlfriend.''
people laugh, every single time.
he doesn’t get it. did he miss the joke?
like, what's funny about a man being proud of his girlfriend?
and then there’s always that one interviewer who tries to go gotcha-journalist mode.
''so, jake, do you ever feel overshadowed now that y/n's… well, her?''
he blinks at them like they just asked if the sky is green.
''why would i be mad?'' he says. ''i won, man. i get to date her. do you? i mean she's like the coolest person on earth. i'm lucky she even looks at me.''
the interviewer laughs. the audience laughs. everyone laughs.
jake doesn't.
he stares around, confused, like he missed the joke entirely—which he did—and then just continues talking because nobody on earth is stopping him.
he didn’t understand why the photographers laughed when he asked if he should carry equipment. he thought he was being helpful. he genuinely would drop his career to be your personal assistant and he said this often enough that your team started giving him tiny fake tasks just to keep him entertained.
and every time someone pointed a camera at him in public and joked, ''jake, when's y/n letting you be her full-time assistant?''
he'd brighten like a sunrise:
''i mean if she says yes i'll pack my things tonight—what, why are you laughing?''
every little comment about whether him having to ''worry'' about your success growing day by day only led to replies like
no. it bothers me that she doesn't let me carry her shoes too.
you tease him for it later, curled up together on the couch, his head tucked into your neck like it’s programmed there.
''you know people think you’re whipped, right?''
''i'm supportive,'' he corrects, frowning slightly.
you laugh, kiss his cheek, and he melts instantly—brain shutting down like a cheap computer.
he'd follow you anywhere. to any shoot, any event, any red carpet.
trope/au » social media/texts format, established relationship au, non-idol au
genre » fluff, (yet another attempt at) comedy, some of them are jelly, some of them are cute, some of them are...hm-
warnings (lmk if i missed anything!) » pet names (babe, baby), mingi is taller than reader
navi/masterlist!! 🤍 ateez masterlist
this idea came pretty randomly but i was trying to decide if i should get the aniteez dolls or not but even if i do, i know i'll never take it out the house because i would be so scared of losing it (all my the boyz sunwoo dolls are at home too and he's never seen the light sdfjkskdfjhf). so then this was born!! this is my personal opinion and i did struggle with some members since i still consider myself somewhat of a baby atiny but i hope you all enjoy this one!!
navi/masterlist!! 🤍 ateez masterlist
join the taglist here » @k-films @kflixnet @k-vanity @starlit-network @kstrucknet @blossomnet @pirateeznet @haneul-and-clouds @svzllts @yerimacoustic @ffenjoyerdazme
genre: angst. fluff. smut (NSFW 18+ MDNI). childhood friends to enemies to lovers.
wc: 10.6k
content warning(s): super angst! yn is angry. talks about parental death. unprotected sex it (wrap it tf up!), oral (f! receiving), f1 so fast driving, reckless driving (please drive safe and responsibly!)
🏎️ author's note!
f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu 👹👹 that is all.
There are some names you never really outrun.
In Monza, mine is whispered like a ghost story.
"YN's back?"
As if I were a curse.
It was as if I hadn't been here the whole time. Just hidden in the shadows of champagne flutes and pit lane secrets.
It's been seven years since the crash. Seven years since my father's car went up in flames on lap forty-two, since I stood in the paddock and watched the marshals throw up the red flag, my throat raw from screaming. Seven years since I promised myself I'd never set foot near a racetrack again.
And yet
I'm sitting in my apartment in Barcelona, staring at the black envelope the courier sent this morning. My name... MY name, is handwritten across the front in sharp, arrogant strokes.
The seal on the back is red wax. Embossed with a crest I know too well: MGK.
Kim Mingyu.
I don't have to open it. I already know what it is.
An invitation.
It's not the first time he's tried.
Mingyu's been sending messages for months. Quiet ones, clever ones. I ignored them all. The roses in Maranello? Trashed. The paddock pass in Milan? Returned. His call after the driver's gala last winter? I let it ring until the sound died.
He doesn't take rejection well.
He never has.
But this... this is different.
This is personal. The handwriting tells me that. Mingyu could've had a PR assistant draft something polished, clean, and cold. He didn't. He wanted me to know it was him. That it's always been him.
God, he's insufferable. He was always so sure of himself. The face of MGK Racing, the most aggressive driver on the grid, the fastest pit exit on record, and the charm that makes even my most jaded friends blush.
But beneath the swag and the tailored suits, there's something else. I see it every time his name flashes across the ticker. Every time he clutches a champagne bottle on the podium like he owns the world.
He wants to be a legend.
And legends always come with ghosts.
I open the envelope before I can talk myself out of it.
"Monza
Saturday. Pre-qualifying. I want you on the balcony.
Come see what a real legacy looks like."
– M
My teeth grit around the nerve of it. I can hear his voice in my head.
Deep, amused, cocky.
Come see what a real legacy looks like.
What a bastard.
I should burn it. Rip it into a hundred pieces and let the ashes swirl over my terrace like the memory of my father's last race. But I don't.
I set the letter down on the counter and pour myself a drink. Neat. No ice.
Because here's the thing about running. You can only go so far before someone catches up. And Kim Mingyu? He's fast. Faster than he looks. Faster than he has any right to be. And for better or worse, he's the only driver who's ever looked me in the eyes like he knows.
He knows what it costs.
Knows what it takes.
Knows that underneath all my disdain and quiet exile, I miss it.
I miss the sound.
The roar.
The rush.
I miss my father's world, even though it tore mine apart.
And maybe, just maybe, I miss Mingyu.
Not that I'd ever admit that. Especially not to him.
I set up the private jet for the next morning. One-way.
I pack like I'm going to war. Black sunglasses, leather jacket, zero patience. If he wants me at Monza, fine. I'll show up. But I'm not coming back as some wide-eyed fan with nostalgia in my throat.
I'm YN.
Daughter of the greatest to ever touch the wheel.
Raised in pit lanes and championship parties.
Trained to spot a liar in a sponsor's suit before he finishes shaking your hand.
And if Kim Mingyu wants to play this game, he better be ready to lose.
Because I may have left the track, but, I never left the fight.
⸻
I land in Italy under a bruised sky. The airport car is already waiting. Matte black, sleek. The driver barely says a word as we weave through traffic and out toward the circuit. Every kilometer closer, my pulse climbs. It's muscle memory, adrenaline, and fury.
Nostalgia is dangerous.
So is desire.
I spot the MGK paddock before we even pull in. Bright red with gold trim, obnoxiously regal. Just like him.
And there he is.
Kim Mingyu.
Leaning against the railing like a goddamn movie poster. Fireproofs around his waist, white shirt clinging to sweat and arrogance. Sunglasses tucked into the neck like he doesn't need them to blind you.
He sees me before I step out of the car. Of course he does.
A slow, knowing grin cuts across his face.
"Thought you'd be taller," I say, chin high as I step into view.
He laughs, low and amused and pushes off the rail.
"And I thought you'd keep running."
I smile without warmth. "Guess we're both disappointed."
But the way he looks at me.
Like I'm the finish line and the starting gun all at once.
That's the problem.
That's what will ruin us both.
The paddock smells like rubber and adrenaline.
It hits me the moment I step past the barricades, heat rising from the asphalt, the thrum of engines testing their limits, the unmistakable pulse of a sport that's more religion than competition. A place where gods are made in milliseconds and ghosts live in the shadows of tire marks.
I shouldn't have come.
I feel how the staff look at me. Half recognition, half disbelief. Like they're not sure if I'm real. I keep my sunglasses on and my expression locked, but it's all muscle memory now. Every step toward the MGK garage pulls something tight in my chest.
The last time I stood here, I was a daughter mourning a legacy. Today, I'm just trying to survive one.
"Still walking like you own the grid," Mingyu mutters beside me, voice smug as sin. He's close, closer than he needs to be. "Nice to know some things haven't changed."
I don't look at him.
"I walk like someone who knows where the hell she's going," I reply, cool and clean.
"Right. Right into my garage," he says with a grin.
"Temporary lapse in judgment."
He laughs. "You keep saying that like you didn't get on a plane for me."
I stop and pivot to face him. "Let's get one thing straight, Kim. I didn't come here for you. I came for the car. For the circuit. For the noise. You? You're just the distraction in the driver's seat."
His smile doesn't falter, but his eyes narrow just a little. "And yet, here you are. Watching me work."
I hate how calm he sounds. How sure. Like he's already won some battle I didn't agree to fight.
We step into the garage, and the world sharpens.
The MGK car. His car is a brutal, beautiful machine. Polished red with razor-edge aerodynamics and barely contained fury. She looks fast even when standing still, the kind of car that doesn't ask for forgiveness, just blood.
I run my fingers across the rear wing casually. Careless.
"You really trust her?" I ask.
Mingyu leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching me like I'm part of the engine. "With my life."
"Big words."
"Big machine."
I glance over my shoulder. "She won't save you from a mistake."
"I don't make them."
That gets my attention. I turn, eyebrows raised. "That's a bold thing to say in front of a legacy."
His gaze drops to my mouth before snapping back up. "You think you know this world because you were born into it."
"No," I say, stepping closer just to see if he flinches. He doesn't. "I know this world because it burned itself into me. I know the way engines scream before they seize. I know the color of smoke that means a fire's already started. And I know when a driver is tempting fate just to see if it flinches."
"You think that's me?"
"I think you want to be a myth. And you're arrogant enough to die trying."
We're too close now. There's a beat of silence so thick it hums.
Mingyu's voice drops. "You sound a little like you care."
"I don't."
He leans in, so close I can feel the breath between us. "Then why are you shaking?"
I shove past him without answering.
⸻
The balcony is tucked above the paddock, and there is a private viewing box with tinted glass, which is the best line of sight to the Ascari chicane. The seat they've reserved for me still has the waxy shine of never having been used. Mingyu's initials are stitched into the headrest beside mine.
Of course they are.
He wants me here. Wants me to see him. Wants me to choke on the legacy he's building, lap by lap.
Petty.
Arrogant.
Exactly the kind of man who shouldn't interest me.
But when the pit lights go green, and he pulls out of the garage like the devil himself is chasing him, I can't look away.
He's so fast.
Not just in speed but in intention. Every corner he devours is personal. Every straight is a dare. The way he handles the car. It's not finesse, it's command. A raw, ruthless kind of beauty.
He pushes wide at Parabolica, kisses the edge of track limits, and instead of correcting, he leans into it. Dancing with danger like he's immune to consequences.
Jesus.
I hate how impressed I am.
Worse. I hate that I expected it.
Because no one talks about Mingyu's hands without also talking about what he does with them behind the wheel, he doesn't just drive, he hunts. He takes every apex, every braking zone, and every rival on the track like they owe him something.
I lean back in my chair, teeth clenched.
This isn't a boy playing at F1. This is a man building an empire.
And god help me, I understand exactly what that costs.
⸻
After practice, I stay put.
I don't go down. I don't clap. I don't run to the garage to praise him like the other engineers and PR vultures. I sip my drink. I watch the replays. And when someone knocks on the glass behind me, I don't have to turn around to know it's him.
The door swings open.
He walks in like he owns the air I'm breathing. Sweat-slick, flushed, radiating heat and pride and something untouchable. He's still in his suit, gloves half-peeled, fireproofs unzipped to the waist.
"You came," he says simply.
I nod. "You drove."
He walks over, grabs a water bottle, and downs half before speaking again. "What did you think?"
I don't answer right away. I let the silence stretch, let it bite.
"You're fast," I admit, finally.
He grins.
"But you already know that."
"Sure," he says, closing the gap between us. "But I wanted you to say it."
I narrow my eyes. "Careful, Mingyu. If you keep needing validation from me, I might start thinking you care what I think."
His smile fades. Not completely, but enough.
"I do," he says quietly.
It's too honest. Too soon. I look away.
"No, you don't," I say, smirking. "You care about being seen. You care about the myth. And I'm just a convenient mirror for your ego."
He takes a slow step forward, then another. His voice is lower now. Steady. "You think this is ego?"
"I know it is."
"I think it's something else."
"Let me guess. Fate?"
"No," he says, voice like gravel. "Obsession."
My throat tightens.
He doesn't touch me. Just stands there. Looking.
"You don't hate me, YN," he says. "You hate that you left. You hate that I'm here. You hate that you still feel something when I drive."
I breathe through my nose. "I hate a lot of things, Mingyu."
"But not me."
I don't answer.
Because I don't know if I can lie to his face when he's this close.
The spell breaks when the second knock comes. This one sharper, more insistent. Mingyu doesn't move at first, but then the door creaks again.
"YN?"
A voice I half recognize. I turn.
It's Marcus, a mechanic from a neighboring team. Fresh out of the garage, still wiping grease from his fingers with a rag tucked into his waistband. His eyes widen when he sees me.
"Holy shit," he says, breathless. "You're here."
"Looks that way," I murmur, stepping away from where Mingyu had been moments before. He's gone again, vanished like smoke.
"Didn't think I'd see you at a race again. Especially this one."
I give him a one shoulder shrug, careful not to show my cards. "Monza’s hard to resist."
More people show up. Word spreads fast in this world. First one of the engineers I used to work with. Then a junior team manager. Then a marketing intern I think I once shared a cigarette with on a balcony in Singapore. They come in waves, all with the same expression: half shock, half curiosity.
"What brings you back?"
"You working again?"
"Writing a piece?"
"You here with someone?"
I deflect. I smile. I lie through my teeth and offer just enough to sound real.
"Freelance consulting. Just dipping back in. One-off project. Not sure if it'll stick."
They nod like they understand. They don't.
Someone snaps a photo. Then another. I barely register it, floating through small talk with the grace of a politician and the detachment of a ghost.
Then a voice cuts through the noise.
"Drivers, to your cars."
Everyone perks up. The energy shifts. A ripple of anticipation floods the paddock.
I excuse myself and make my way to the balcony. Elevated, just removed enough from the chaos. I slide on a pair of sunglasses and settle against the railing, heart rate rising despite myself.
Pre-qualifying. Twenty laps. Track temperature is brutal. Pressure higher than most of them admit.
The pitlane opens, and one by one, the cars snake onto the grid. Engines purr and roar and scream in protest. Mechanics scatter. Strategists bark last minute data through radios.
And then there's him. Car #9.
He rolls into his slot like he's settling into a throne. Calm. Collected. Untouchable.
The lights count down. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red.
And then
Out.
The sound is instantaneous and deafening. They shoot off like bullets, hugging corners with ruthless precision. I watch from above, tracking their formation. The front pack jostles for position, tires squealing as they brake too late, accelerate too early.
Mingyu hangs back for the first few laps. Watching. Calculating.
It's lap seven when he starts his climb.
A clean overtake at Sainte Devote. A bold move at Mirabeau that earns a gasp from the crowd. By lap ten, he's top three. By lap fourteen, he's trading seconds with the leader. And by lap seventeen, he makes the move.
A slingshot on the straight, barely legal. Inches to spare. DRS wide open.
Pole.
Just like that.
The final lap is pure theatre. He doesn't need to prove anything, but he does anyway. Throwing sparks through the tunnel, flirting with disaster at the chicane. Showboating. Glorious.
When the checkered flag waves, the name on the board is his.
Pole position: Kim Mingyu.
Time: 1:11.330
The box explodes in celebration. His team goes wild. I hear it echo even from here.
I watch the replay. Frame by frame. Slow-motion heroism. Precision, madness, beauty.
The paddock buzzes with post-qualifying static. Reporters crowding around flashing cameras, pit crews celebrating in their own corners, and the air practically vibrating with ego and exhaust.
And at the center of it all, like always, stands him.
Dripping sweat, champagne, and audacity.
His suit's peeled down to his waist, his fireproof undershirt sticking in all the right places, dark hair pushed back like he just walked out of a photo shoot instead of a cockpit. Every angle is clean, curated. The smirk, the wink to the camera, the stupid little fist pump.
I don't move.
I don't clap.
Not when his name lights up the leaderboard, not when the pit crew erupts like someone detonated joy, and definitely not when he glances over his shoulder like he's looking for someone.
Because I know exactly who he's looking for.
And I'll be damned if I give him the satisfaction of meeting that gaze first.
⸻
I'm leaning against the side of the hospitality tent, holding a bottle of water and a chip on my shoulder sharp enough to slice through carbon fiber.
He finds me anyway.
"Didn't see you in parc fermé," he says, approaching.
"Didn't need to be there," I reply, cool. "The cameras were doing enough worshipping for the both of us."
He grins like it's a compliment. "You sound jealous."
"Of what? Your thirst trap victory lap?"
He steps closer. Too close. "Of being the fastest on the grid."
"I've been the fastest," I say, looking him dead in the eye. "And I didn't need a camera crew to validate it."
"Ouch," he laughs, one hand over his chest. "Still bitter?"
"No," I say smoothly. "Just bored."
His smirk twitches, and I know I've landed a hit.
But Mingyu, the arrogant bastard that he is, never backs down. He tilts his head, dark eyes narrowing with something almost curious. Or maybe hunger.
"You still talk like you're the one with a seat," he says.
"You still talk like you're untouchable."
"I just secured the pole at one of the most technical tracks on the circuit. If I'm not untouchable, who is?"
"Someone who doesn't throw away a lead at Monaco."
That wipes the smirk off his face for a half-second. Good.
But then, he laughs. Quietly. Like he's indulging me.
"Still keeping tabs on my stats, huh?"
"I keep tabs on hazards," I say, voice low. "And you drive like you're one bad decision away from becoming one."
He leans in. "Funny. I always thought I reminded you of someone."
The words slice, even though I see them coming.
I stand straighter. "Don't."
His smile turns razor sharp. "Why not? You've been pretending this weekend is just a casual drop by, like you didn't grow up in these paddocks like your blood isn't still fifty percent ethanol and carbon brake dust."
"You think bringing up my dad earns you points?"
"I think it's the truth," he says, quiet and cutting. "And I think it scares the hell out of you."
I say nothing. Not because he's right, but because I know if I open my mouth, I'll say something that tastes too much like grief.
He must sense it because instead of pressing harder, he pivots.
"You remember Spa?"
Of course, I remember Spa.
The humid summer heat. The taste of victory is one lap away. The night before his first junior race, when he couldn't stop pacing, I told him to either get in the car or get over himself.
He thinks bringing that up softens me.
It doesn't.
"You mean the weekend you nearly totaled your car trying to impress the media?" I ask. "Yeah, I remember."
"You were in my garage the entire time," he says, stepping closer. "Even when everyone else left."
"I stayed because you wouldn't shut up," I say. "Your whole team looked like they wanted to throttle you."
"You didn't."
"I should have."
"You called me a glorified kart driver with a God complex."
"And you still asked me to sit in your car the next morning."
He laughs, and for a second, it's too easy to remember that summer sun and his stupid grin, the way he looked at me like I already belonged in his world.
But I don't now.
Not in this one.
I take a step back. "Spa was a long time ago."
"Not for me."
I narrow my eyes. "Still clinging to every compliment I gave you before puberty finished hitting?"
"You weren't exactly stingy with them."
"You had one good overtake."
"It was beautiful, and you know it."
"It was reckless and nearly illegal."
"That's how I knew you'd notice."
The air tightens between us.
He's toeing the line. Not crossing it, but daring me to.
"I'm not here to relive Spa," I say. "And I'm not here for you."
Mingyu nods once, jaw tight. "Keep telling yourself that. You still showed."
I turn to leave, but his voice catches me mid step.
"You know," he says, voice cooler now, "you can pretend all you want. But you're not bored, and you're not above it. You still feel it. The adrenaline. The pull. The need to win. You're just pissed it's me in the seat and not you."
I freeze.
He knows exactly what he's doing.
"Here's the difference between us," I say slowly, turning back. "You drive to be loved. I drove to win. I don't need to be anyone's poster child."
"And I don't need to dig up a dead man's legacy to prove I belong here."
That hits harder than he expects.
He knows it. I see it in the brief flicker of regret that crosses his face.
But I don't give him the satisfaction of seeing it land.
I smile. Cold. Clean. Surgical.
"Pole position suits you, Kim," I say. "Let's see how long you hold it."
Then I walk off, my spine straight and my heart a war drum.
Because the worst part isn't that he's good.
It's that I still want to see how far he'll fall.
And worse, how much of me would go with him.
⸻
Rooftop parties in Monza are always overdone.
Too much champagne, too many rich boys pretending they aren't terrified of crashing tomorrow, and music pulsing just loud enough to drown out the fear of failure. Everything glitters here. Skin, sweat, ambition.
I almost don't come.
But when a media liaison sends me a smug little "Hope to see you at the rooftop party tonight ;)" text, I throw on my sharpest heels and arrive ten minutes late with a perfectly timed smile and someone else's arm around my waist.
Not a date. Not really.
Just someone dangerous looking enough to make people look twice when we walk in.
Including Kim Mingyu.
I feel his stare the moment we step out of the elevator. It latches onto me before the doors even fully open. Across the rooftop, flanked by half the grid and a circle of admirers, he stands with a drink in his hand and fury behind his eyes.
Good.
I tilt my chin, ignoring him. My companion, Luca, some former endurance driver turned influencer, leans down to say something near my ear. I don't catch all of it. I'm too focused on the way Mingyu's grip tightens around his glass.
Petty? Maybe.
But if he gets to walk around this circuit like he owns every inch of it, then I get to remind him I'm not one of those inches.
I mingle, laugh at things that aren't funny, and dance with Luca, knowing full well who's watching. The music pulses through the rooftop, rich bass and heat twining through my bloodstream like jet fuel. But after a while, it becomes too much. The noise, the humidity, the attention.
So, I slip away.
Out onto the balcony where the air is finally calm, quiet, and mine. Below, the streets of Monza glint like they're made of diamonds. Somewhere out there, the race track weaves between buildings like a heartbeat.
It still lives in me. The pulse of it. The memory.
I close my eyes.
"You like bringing someone new to every event?"
I don't turn around.
"Do you like policing who I arrive with?"
His voice is closer now. Still sharp, still smug. But a little quieter.
"I just think it's funny," Mingyu says. "You say you've left this world behind, but you keep showing up to these things like you never left."
I finally face him. He's leaning against the railing, looking too good in a black button down and sleeves rolled just high enough to show his forearms.
"Maybe I just missed the champagne," I say flatly. "Or the egos."
He chuckles, gaze flicking down before finding my eyes again. "Is that why you brought Luca? To stroke yours?"
I cross my arms. "He's harmless."
"Yeah," he says, voice sharper than before. "Exactly."
We're quiet for a moment. The wind lifts strands of my hair, and neither of us moves.
Then, softer
"I shouldn't have brought up your dad."
I freeze.
It's not the apology that catches me off guard. It's the way he says it. Like it's been sitting in his chest too long, getting heavier every time he breathed around it.
"I was pissed," he goes on. "You got under my skin. You always do."
"Not a great excuse."
"I know."
I study him. He's not hiding behind a smirk now. There's something almost raw in the way he looks at me.
"You think it scares me," I say. "This place. The cars. The legacy. But it doesn't."
"Then what does?"
I look at him.
"You."
That wasn't supposed to slip.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, but it's already in the air between us, hanging heavy like mist before a storm.
Mingyu stares at me like he's afraid to breathe wrong.
"You mean that?" he asks, and it's the most unsure I've ever heard him sound.
I laugh, but it's hollow. "God, don't get cocky about it."
"I'm not."
"You will."
"I won't if you stay."
"I'm not staying."
"Then why did you come?"
"Because I'm an idiot."
He takes a step forward. "You're not."
"I can't do this."
"We're not doing anything—"
"No," I snap, stepping back. "You want to pretend like it's all part of the game. Like the flirting, the fighting, the looks, they're just banter. But it's not, Mingyu. It never was."
"I know that."
"Do you?"
"Of course I do," he says, and it's breathless now. "Why do you think I'm always looking for you? In every damn room? Why do you think I hate it when you're with anyone else? Or when you act like none of this matters?"
I shake my head. "You don't get to say that. Not after Spa. Not after last year."
"That wasn't—"
"You don't get to make me feel like I walked away from something sacred when you're the one who turned it into a circus."
He flinches.
"I'm not some ghost hanging around the paddock for nostalgia," I add, voice rising. "I loved this once. I loved you once. And you let the spotlight eat both of us alive."
He's quiet. Too quiet.
And the silence is suddenly unbearable.
"I shouldn't have come," I say, stepping away.
"YN—"
But I don't stop.
I push past the door and back into the party, slipping into the noise and crowd before he can see how much my hands are shaking.
⸻
I wake up to sunlight bleeding through unfamiliar curtains and a hangover of emotion I can't shake.
Three missed calls. Five unread messages.
MINGYU:
I shouldn't have let you walk away.
Can we talk?
Please.
You still there?
I didn't mean to hurt you.
I toss the phone face down on the hotel bed and press my hands to my face.
The night plays back in flashes. His voice is softer than I've ever heard it. My own, sharp and cracked at the edges. The look in his eyes when I said you scared me.
I shouldn't have said that.
I shouldn't have said any of it.
But it's too late to take it back and too soon to face what it means.
By the time I reach the paddock, it's already alive. Mechanics are moving like clockwork, engineers are barking data, and fans are pressed to barricades in a blur of color and flags. Race day in Monza is unlike any other, with tight corners, blind apexes, and no room for error.
I know this circuit like muscle memory.
I know Mingyu better.
He's usually calm on race days. Sharp, focused. He jokes with the crew and leans against the pit wall like it's just another day in paradise. But today? Something's off.
He barely glances at the camera during his grid walk. He doesn't even acknowledge the announcer calling his name. His jaw's tight, mouth a line carved in stone as he slides into the cockpit.
I stand off to the side, arms crossed, sunglasses hiding everything I can't control. I tell myself I don't care. That I'm just here because my name still gets me into these places, not because I'm holding my breath as the lights go red.
But when they go out...
He launches like he's chasing something he'll never catch.
Lap after lap, he's off.
Late on turn in. Snapping into corners, pushing too hard on exits, and overcorrecting in ways he never does. He's still fast, of course he is, but it's not the way Mingyu drives. It's frantic, reckless. Emotional.
And that's what scares me.
"He's not listening to strategy," someone mutters near the pit wall. "Keeps overriding."
"Tyres won't last at this rate."
I inch closer, ears straining for the radio feed I know too well.
"Box, box, box," comes the call.
He doesn't answer.
On the next lap, he finally peels into the pit lane. Too hot, too fast and skids a little over the line.
When his car screeches to a halt, someone reaches for my wrist.
"Team principal wants you in the garage," they say. "Now."
"I'm not—"
"He asked."
I don't ask why.
The second I enter the garage, the air shifts. Controlled chaos. Tire guns scream. Mechanics swarm. Mingyu's helmet reflects the lights above like a mirror, but I don't need to look at his face to see how angry he is.
He won't look at me.
Not once.
He pulls out of the pit box with a screech and a flash of red taillight, leaving black streaks behind.
The pit wall murmurs.
"His sector time dropped again."
"Something's wrong."
No one says my name. No one asks why I'm here. But I see the looks. I feel the unspoken tension curl around my ribcage like wire.
I turn to the monitor. The feed tracks his car as it dances through Casino Square, close, too close to the barriers. He's fast. Too fast. Trying to bleed something out of himself with every turn.
"He's going to bin it if he doesn't calm down," a voice says behind me.
I press a fist to my lips.
This is my fault.
I shouldn't have gone to the party. I shouldn't have brought someone else. I shouldn't have let things go that far on the balcony. Shouldn't have said his name like it meant more than it should.
Because it does.
And I know that. I've always known that.
Lap 42.
He clips the inside curb through the Nouvelle chicane. A puff of tire smoke, but he recovers.
Barely.
The engineer tries again. "Mingyu, you need to cool the tires. Ease through Sector 2."
Silence.
My heart thunders like a race start.
The camera angle shifts and catches him through the tunnel, just a blur of speed and shadow, and I swear, even in that silence, I can feel the weight of his fury.
This isn't about the race anymore.
This is about me.
I turn away from the screen and press my back to the wall, chest tight.
He's trying to outdrive a heartbreak we haven't even admitted to and trying to put distance between what we said and what we meant. But this track doesn't forgive emotion. It doesn't give you space to figure it out mid lap.
It punishes.
It ends careers.
It took my father.
And if Mingyu doesn't get out of his head, it might take him too.
I press the headset closer, voice shaking. "Tell him to stop driving angry."
The engineer glances at me. "He's not listening."
"Then make him."
He hesitates.
I close my eyes.
"Tell him," I whisper, "I'm still here."
The air in the garage is suffocating.
I can feel the tension crackling through it like static. Engineers hunch closer to monitors, eyes darting between telemetry and tire temps, sector splits and radio chatter. Everyone's whispering, but no one's saying the only thing they're all thinking.
He's going to crash.
Lap 65 of 78.
Monza is unforgiving. It always has been. One lapse, one moment too late or too early, and it's all over. Mingyu's been walking that razor-thin edge for almost an hour now, and each lap is just sharpening the blade.
He still hasn't responded to strategy.
Not since Lap 42.
Not since he saw me in the garage.
I stare at the screen in front of me. My fists clenched, feeling every heartbeat in my throat as his car screeches into Tabac, too close, his rear end twitching dangerously.
"He's overdriving," someone says. "He's gonna cook those mediums before the flag."
"Mingyu, box if you can't stabilize the rear," the race engineer tries again. "You're losing the back every other turn. We can adjust."
Silence.
Again.
They're running out of options.
I'm already moving before I realize it.
The headset's warm from someone else's head, but I don't care. I snatch it off the rack, and the team principal turns toward me like I've grown a second head.
"He's not listening to anyone," I say. "So let me try."
There's a pause, half a second of hesitation, then he nods once.
I don't wait.
My thumb hits the comm switch, and I speak before I can talk myself out of it.
"Mingyu."
Nothing.
"Why are you driving like a damn idiot?!"
Still nothing. But I know he hears me. I know he's probably gripping the wheel harder now, jaw clenched, cursing me inside his helmet. I press harder.
"You're throwing away a podium because of me? Seriously? Because you can't get your head out of your ass long enough to breathe through a corner?"
A hiss of static. Not a response. Not yet. But I feel the tension rise from the track through the screen.
I close my eyes. Lower my voice.
"I know why you're doing this."
Sector one—green.
He's pushing harder. Too hard.
"You think I don't see you? You think I haven't seen you from the beginning?"
"I've spent my entire life running from this world. From the noise, the risk, the pain—"
My voice wavers.
"I watched it take someone I loved and twist it into a legacy I didn't want. And then you... God, then you…”
"You were arrogant, infuriating, loud as hell, and you made me remember what it was like to care."
The garage is dead silent now. Every screen, every eye, locked on the feed. No one's even pretending to look away.
"You made me care about something again, and I hate you for that."
I exhale through my teeth. Every part of me is shaking.
"But if you crash that car, Mingyu, if you throw it away, don't you dare think for one second I won't hate myself more."
A breath.
Then, finally, after laps of nothing—
"You had me at Mingyu."
His voice is breathless. Rough. Like gravel over a fire. But it's there. And he's there.
I press a fist to my mouth as tears threaten the corners of my eyes.
Lap 73.
He steadies.
His cornering evens out, his braking returns to rhythm, and suddenly, he's in Sector 2 like he owns it. Purple time. Fastest lap of the race. He overtakes in the tunnel with a clean sweep that draws a gasp from the team.
Someone cheers behind me. The garage erupts.
He's back.
He's himself again.
"Mingyu, you're P2 now," the engineer says quickly. "Perez is 1.3 seconds ahead."
"Copy," Mingyu breathes. "Let's go get him."
Lap 76. The fight is on.
I stand frozen, watching him dance through the circuit like the car is an extension of his spine like nothing ever went wrong. A clean overtake in the hairpin. One wheel to the inside at Rascasse. He's right on Perez's tail now.
Final lap.
The crowd is on their feet. Cameras flash. My heart is in my throat as Mingyu comes down into Mirabeau—
—and that's when it happens.
A puff of smoke.
"Yellow flag, Sector 1."
I slam the headset against my ear. "What the hell happened?!"
"Left rear," the engineer mutters. "Tyre failure. He's still moving. He's trying to hold on."
My knees nearly give out as I see it.
Mingyu's car is dragging. The rear's gone soft, wobbling dangerously as he limps through the turn, still trying to defend P2. Sparks fly from the undercarriage. He's still driving.
He's still fighting.
My voice breaks. "Just finish. Please, just get across the line."
He doesn't answer.
He doesn't need to.
He's never stopped.
And as he crosses the finish line. P4, holding on with sheer grit and fire in his chest. I realize I've been holding my breath for the last minute.
The garage explodes around me. Mechanics shout. Hands are on heads. Everyone is debriefing and analyzing.
But I'm frozen in place, staring at the screen, watching his car slow, watching the replay again and again.
He heard me.
He stayed.
But I can't help the thought clawing up my throat like guilt—
What if I hadn't said anything at all?
Engines still roar in the distance as the last few cars trickle into the paddock. The smell of rubber and fuel clings to everything, metal, asphalt, even my skin. People shout in five different languages around me, team radios squawk with chatter, mechanics wave carbon fiber flags in the air, and photographers are already climbing barricades like vultures.
And then I see him.
Helmet off. Hair sweat-damp and curled at the nape. His suit unzipped just past his collarbones, the fireproof undershirt clinging to every muscle in his chest like it was poured on. His jaw's locked, mouth tight, eyes cold. Sunglasses hang useless in his grip.
P4. Dragged a car home on one tire like it was war and he refused to lose.
He hasn't seen me yet.
He's surrounded by engineers, people slapping his back like a war hero, cameras in his face, boom mics chasing his voice as he mutters answers to media questions I can't hear.
I should leave.
This is his moment. Not mine.
But I can't move.
I'm not sure I could even if I wanted to.
And then he turns.
Our eyes lock.
Everything else goes silent.
He doesn't look triumphant. He doesn't even look relieved. He looks like a storm holding back landfall. Tight, too still, like one wrong move could shatter the restraint he's holding onto by sheer will.
I watch the muscle in his jaw flex once. Twice.
Then he starts walking toward me.
The crowd parts for him like it knows.
Suddenly, I can't breathe.
His footsteps echo against the pavement, steady and brutal, until he's just a few feet away. We're still technically inside the barrier, but this is Mingyu, so rules bend the second he decides they should.
He stops.
Too close.
He doesn't speak.
So I do.
"You didn't even flinch."
He raises a brow, voice rough. "You did."
I blink, throat tight. "You were about to lose the rear at Mirabeau."
"I did lose the rear. You just didn't notice because you were too busy yelling at me through the headset like you were calling a damn opera."
My mouth falls open. "I was trying to save your life."
"I was trying to win a race."
"And almost died doing it."
His mouth curves, but it's not a smile. It's something dark and sharp.
"Worth it."
I shove his shoulder. Hard.
He doesn't budge.
"Stop saying shit like that!" I snap. "You think it's brave? That it's romantic? It's stupid, Mingyu. It's arrogant and reckless and selfish."
His eyes narrow, something slipping behind them.
"You're mad because I drove on the edge," he says quietly. "But you don't get to be mad about why."
"I'm mad because you thought throwing it away would prove something."
"It did."
The words slam into me.
He takes a step forward, voice lower now, eyes locked to mine like we're the only two people in the goddamn paddock.
"I needed you to see what I am. Not the pretty parts. Not the press conferences and grid walks and champagne. This. The worst of it. The fear. The obsession. The part of me that chooses the edge because it's the only place I feel real."
My breath catches. His voice cracks just slightly.
"And I needed to know if you'd still be there after that."
I blink.
And blink again.
"You're insane," I whisper. "You're insane if you think you can weaponize my feelings against me like that."
His face doesn't change. "What feelings?"
I grit my teeth. My hands curl at my sides. I want to scream. I want to kiss him. I want to never see him again.
I step closer.
"Don't play dumb with me now, Kim."
He exhales a laugh, humorless. "You think I don't know what it meant, hearing your voice in my ears? Do you think I didn't feel it in my spine when you said my name like that? I've been begging you to say anything to me that wasn't soaked in venom, and now that you have, now that I've heard it—"
He cuts off.
I stare up at him.
He's shaking. Only a little. But it's there.
And for the first time since I met him... Mingyu looks scared.
"Mingyu," I whisper. "You could've died."
"I know."
"You could've—" My voice breaks. "You would've left me before I ever got to tell you..."
I clamp my mouth shut.
But he hears it.
God, of course, he does.
Like instinct, his hand lifts halfway to my cheek before he catches himself. Drops it. There's too much air between us and not nearly enough at all.
"You were everything I never wanted," I say quietly. "But then I saw the way you fight. The way you fly. And I hated you for it."
He steps forward again, barely a breath from me now.
"I've been in love with you since Spa."
I suck in a breath.
"You had grease on your cheek," he continues, "and fire in your eyes, and told me to stop smirking before you 'rearranged my entire goddamn personality.' I knew then."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because you'd spit it back in my face."
"I probably would've."
He laughs under his breath.
I can't look at him.
But I also can't not.
We're so close now, the crowd is fading again, and my heart is a war drum in my chest.
"I can't do this right now," I whisper. "Not here. Not like this."
"I know," he says softly.
And then, finally, he steps back.
The space between us is unbearable.
"Find me later," he says.
I don't answer.
But my heart's already chasing him down pit lane.
The second he's gone, the air collapses around me.
I don't move. Can't. I'm standing in the shell of a conversation that ripped more out of me than I want to admit, and all I can hear is what I didn't say.
I'm still catching my breath when I hear him.
"Rough night?"
I don't even have to turn around.
The accent. The smooth, condescending lilt. The casual arrogance I know too well.
Julius.
"What do you want?" I ask, voice flat.
He steps closer as if this is some kind of reunion. Like we've ever been anything other than a mistake born out of loneliness and distraction.
"You looked like you needed an out," he says, gaze flicking in the direction Mingyu disappeared. "Thought I'd offer one."
I finally turn to face him. His smug half-smile is already pushing every wrong button.
"I'm fine."
"You sure? Because you looked like you were about two seconds away from unraveling."
I roll my eyes and push past him.
He follows, of course.
"Touchy," he says with a laugh, matching my stride as I head for the stairs. "Is it because lover boy stormed off without a proper goodbye?"
I stop short.
"Don't call him that."
"Oh, come on," he scoffs. "The whole paddock's been buzzing. You think people haven't noticed the way he looks at you like he's already bled for you?"
My jaw tightens. "I'm not interested in gossip."
"No," Julius says, stepping in close, "you're just interested in fucking with people's heads."
I see red.
"Excuse me?"
"You reel him in, then you push him away," he says, calm and measured. "It's your favorite game, isn't it?"
I don't answer.
Because I don't owe Julius a single goddamn truth.
But that's when I feel it, that flicker at the edge of the garage. My head snaps up.
Mingyu.
Standing just across the paddock.
Watching.
For a split second, our eyes lock.
And whatever raw, unfinished thing we left between us, whatever shaky, hopeful tether we almost built, it snaps.
Because all he sees is this.
Me and Julius. Too close. Too familiar.
I can see it on his face the moment the assumption sinks in like poison.
I move.
Fast.
"Mingyu—"
But he turns.
Gone.
Just like that.
Shit.
I whirl back toward Julius, fury sparking behind my eyes. "Did you follow me out here on purpose?"
He raises his hands like he's innocent. "What? I saw a moment and took it. That's what you do, too, isn't it?"
"I'm not playing games."
"No," he says, cool and cruel. "But you are playing him."
I don't even realize I've shoved him until he stumbles back a step.
"You don't get to talk about him," I snap.
Julius straightens, brushing imaginary dust off his designer jacket.
"You always were more fun when you were angry."
I don't give him the satisfaction of another word.
I storm off, heart pounding, throat burning, brain screaming at me for letting Mingyu walk away thinking something I should've fought harder to stop.
⸻
I don't remember getting back to the hotel.
I remember the slam of the door behind me. The weight of my phone in my hand. The pressure building in my chest like something was going to break open if I didn't do something. I kicked off my heels somewhere near the closet, peeled out of the dress like it was choking me, and dropped onto the edge of the bed in nothing but a black slip and regret.
The image of Mingyu walking away wouldn't stop replaying in my mind.
That look on his face, like I'd confirmed the very thing he was always afraid to say out loud. Like I'd chosen wrong.
Again.
I grabbed my phone.
Can we talk?
No response.
Please.
Still nothing.
I stared at the screen until the texts blurred. My thumb hovered over the call button.
I pressed it.
It rang once.
Twice.
Voicemail.
I hung up before it could finish.
The party was still going downstairs, celebration rolling on without him, without me. Music echoed faintly through the walls, like a reminder that the rest of the world was moving and I wasn't.
I chewed the inside of my cheek, bouncing my leg, nerves sparking like faulty wires. Maybe I shouldn't go. Maybe he didn't want to see me. Maybe this was all one big, tangled mess I'd made worse.
But the part of me that chased him down pit lane wouldn't shut up.
I pulled on a fresh dress. Simple, black, low-cut and tied my hair back with trembling fingers. No makeup this time. No armor. Just me and whatever was left of this thing between us.
On the elevator ride down, I texted Jinho.
Is he there?
A pause.
Jinho: Rooftop.
But... maybe don't push it tonight.
I stared at that for a long moment.
I'm already on my way.
The rooftop was quiet.
Not the romantic kind of quiet. Just cold, sharp, and a little too still. The skyline flickered in the distance, but all I could focus on was him.
Mingyu.
He stood with his back to me, elbows braced against the railing like he'd been standing there forever. His jacket was half-zipped, collar ruffled, and hair a mess. He didn't move when I stepped out.
He didn't have to. He knew it was me.
"I wasn't going to come," I said quietly.
Still nothing.
"But I needed to explain."
"You don't have to explain Julius," he muttered.
"I want to."
He turned slowly, his expression unreadable. Not angry. Just... closed off. Like a door halfway shut.
"He showed up out of nowhere," I said. "I didn't want him there. He said something, and I pushed him away. That's all it was."
Mingyu looked at me, jaw tight.
"I saw him touch you."
"I didn't touch him back."
"But you didn't pull away."
I took a step closer. "Because I was frozen. Not because I wanted him."
His stare didn't waver.
"I don't want him, Mingyu. I haven't for a long time."
"Then why is it so easy for you to run to everything that isn't me?"
That cut deep.
I opened my mouth, then shut it again. My heart pounded.
"You say I scare you," he said, voice low, almost bitter. "But you're the one who keeps turning away. I already told you how I feel. I stood there in the middle of a goddamn pit lane and told you I was in love with you. And you—" he shook his head, laughing once, without humor—"you just walked away."
"I didn't—"
"You didn't say it back."
I froze.
"You never do," he said. "You feel it, but you never say it. And I can't keep guessing, YN. I'm not asking for promises. I just want the truth."
I stared at him.
He stepped forward. Close. Closer than I could handle.
"Tell me," he said. "Tell me you don't feel anything, and I'll walk away."
I opened my mouth.
Closed it again.
He waited.
The silence stretched between us, unbearable.
"I can't," I whispered.
He stepped even closer. "Can't what?"
"Say it."
"Why?"
"Because if I say it—" my voice cracked, "then it's real."
"It's already real."
I shook my head. "It'll ruin everything."
"No," he said, voice rough. "It'll finally make it mean something."
My chest felt too tight. My breath was shallow.
He stared down at me, eyes blazing. "Say it, YN."
I shook my head. "I'm scared."
"I know," he said. "Say it anyway."
I blinked, eyes stinging.
He stepped in.
His hand found my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth like he was daring me not to hide.
"Say it," he whispered.
I couldn't.
So he kissed me.
Hard.
No hesitation. No room left for fear or reason or anything except him. His mouth was fire, his grip unrelenting, like he'd waited too long and lost too much to hold back now.
I gasped, and he swallowed it whole, one hand in my hair, the other curling around my hip. I clung to him like gravity, like his kiss was the only thing keeping me upright.
When we finally broke apart, breathless, his forehead pressed to mine.
"You don't have to be ready," he whispered. "Just be here."
I didn't answer.
I just took his hand.
His fingers curled around mine, warm and steady, like he didn't care that I hadn't said the words.
Like this was enough.
We left the rooftop in silence. No one stopped us. The hallway lights buzzed overhead as we moved past the closed doors, our steps too fast to be casual, too charged to be calm. My heart beat so loud I could barely hear the music downstairs anymore.
Mingyu hit the elevator button. The doors opened.
We stepped inside.
The second they closed behind us, I was against the mirrored wall, his mouth crashing into mine with a force that knocked the air right out of me.
There was no hesitation this time. No slow build, no delicate approach. Just teeth and tongue and hands everywhere. His fingers threaded into my hair, tugging my head back so he could kiss deeper, rougher like he was trying to erase the hours we'd spent apart.
"You don't know," he growled against my mouth, "how long I've wanted to touch you like this."
I moaned into him, hands gripping the front of his shirt, yanking him closer. "Then don't stop."
The elevator dinged.
He pulled away just long enough to drag me down the hallway, fingers tight around my wrist, not looking back once.
Room 1427. Keycard. Click.
The door shut behind us.
And then I was on the wall again, breathless, my dress hiked up around my waist, his thigh wedged between mine as he kissed me like he was starving.
I gasped as his hand slid under the hem of my dress, dragging up my leg, squeezing hard.
"You wore this for me?" he asked, voice low and wrecked. "This little thing with nothing underneath?"
"Yes," I breathed.
He groaned deep in his chest, mouth dropping to my neck as he bit, kissed, and licked across every sensitive inch of skin. My back arched. My fingers tangled in his hair.
"I need to see you," he murmured. "All of you."
I let him pull the dress over my head and toss it aside.
Then he stepped back.
And stared.
His chest rose and fell like he couldn't breathe.
"Fuck, YN," he whispered, eyes dragging down my body like he didn't know where to start. "You're so beautiful."
I crossed the room, took his hand, and placed it on my waist.
"Then touch me."
That broke him.
He kissed me again, slower this time, more controlled, but just barely. He peeled his shirt off, his skin warm against mine, muscles flexing under my palms as I traced over his chest, stomach, and waistband line.
He laid me down on the bed like I was something sacred.
Then covered me with his body, hands exploring every inch of me like he had to relearn it, memorize it, own it.
"Fuck," he murmured as he kissed down my chest, my stomach, lower. "I love you."
"Mingyu—"
"I know," he said. "I know."
He spread my legs slowly, reverently. Kissed the inside of my thigh, then again, higher, teasing. My breath hitched.
"You're already so wet for me," he said, voice like a prayer and a curse all at once. "I didn't even have to ask."
"You never had to."
Then his mouth was on me.
I cried out, hands flying to his hair as he licked deep and slow, fingers gripping my thighs to keep me open. His tongue moved with purpose, with practiced reverence, curling just right until I was shaking under him.
"Come for me," he murmured against me. "Let me feel it."
I broke. Loud. Unfiltered. And he didn't stop. Not until I was breathless and trembling, thighs still twitching around his shoulders.
He kissed his way back up my body, licking into my mouth like he could taste me on his tongue.
"Do you want me?" he asked, voice thick, eyes dark and wide. "Tell me."
"I want you," I whispered. "I want you so bad."
He fumbled out of his pants, cursing under his breath, and I helped him, fingers desperate, hands greedy.
When he finally pressed into me, slow and deep, I gasped.
So did he.
"God," he choked out. "You feel like fucking heaven."
We moved together like we were making up for lost time. His hips met mine with force, his hand gripping my thigh, the other holding my wrist to the bed as he fucked me.
Deep, intentional, raw.
Each thrust was a confession.
Each moan, a word I couldn't say.
"I love you," he groaned into my skin. "Even when you can't say it. Even when you push me away."
I whimpered. "Don't stop. Please."
"I'm not going anywhere," he said. "Not this time."
He moved faster, harder, our bodies slamming together in rhythm, the heat building, the pleasure blinding. I felt him everywhere, his breath on my neck, his hand in my hair, his heart pounding against mine.
"Come with me," he whispered, voice trembling.
"I'm—Mingyu—"
And then I shattered.
I came with a cry, clinging to him like a lifeline, and he followed, groaning my name, spilling into me with a shudder, his whole body pressed against mine like he was trying to crawl inside my skin.
When it was over, we stayed there.
Naked. Twined together. Breathing hard.
His forehead rested against mine.
"I'm still scared," I whispered.
He kissed me softly. "Me too."
"But I'm here."
His arms wrapped tighter around me.
"Good," he said. "Stay."
He shifted just enough to look at me, eyes searching mine like he wanted to believe it but couldn't let himself. Not yet.
"Stay," he said again, quieter this time. A plea. A promise.
I cupped his face with both hands, running my thumbs gently over the angles of his cheeks. His skin was warm. His lashes fluttered when I touched him like that.
"I'm not going anywhere," I whispered back. "Not anymore."
Something in him cracked then. I saw it happen.
His mouth crashed into mine, not desperate like before, but slow and deep. It was a kiss that felt like surrender. His hand slid into my hair, the other cradling my jaw, holding me like I was fragile like I mattered.
"I need you," he murmured between kisses. "Not just like that. I need you. All of you."
"You have me," I said, voice shaking. "You always did."
He rolled us gently, his body settling between my legs, and everything about him shifted. There was no rush. No urgency.
Only feeling.
He kissed me like I was the only thing that had ever made sense. Every inch of skin his mouth touched, he lingered. Worshipped. His hands mapped me like he needed to relearn me from scratch.
And I let him.
"I'm going slow," he whispered against my throat. "I want to feel all of it."
"Okay," I breathed. "I want that too."
When he finally entered me again, I gasped. Not from the stretch, but from the emotion of it. From the way his eyes locked on mine like he wanted to watch the moment he became a part of me again.
His hips moved gently, deeply, every roll of his body syncing with mine like we'd been built for this.
He kissed my cheek, the corner of my mouth, my shoulder, like he couldn't choose where to stay.
"You feel like home," he said, voice trembling. "I didn't know I could miss someone like this."
Tears stung my eyes.
I wrapped my arms around him, clinging to him, pulling him in deeper.
"I'm here," I whispered. "I'm so sorry I didn't say it before."
"Say it now."
My throat tightened. But I didn't look away.
"I love you, Mingyu."
His breath hitched. His thrusts stuttered.
I kissed the corner of his mouth. "I love you. I love you. I love you."
His forehead dropped to mine, eyes wet, breath shaky as he moved inside me, slow, our bodies rocking together like they were speaking in a language we finally understood.
The build was soft. Gradual. The kind that crept up on us until I was gasping his name into his mouth, nails dragging down his back as my orgasm hit with the weight of everything I'd held in for too long.
"Come with me," I whispered. "Let go."
He did, moaning my name like it was a prayer, hips pressing deep as he spilled into me, burying his face in my neck.
We stayed like that for a long time.
Breathing. Holding. Crying, just a little.
And when he pulled back, eyes red and raw, he kissed me again like I'd saved him.
"You mean it?" he asked quietly.
"I've never meant anything more."
He smiled,messy and perfect.
He kissed me again.
Softer now. Slower. Just warmth, breath, and the lingering weight of everything we couldn't say until now. His thumb stroked gently across my cheek as he pulled back, searching my eyes like he wanted to make sure I was still here.
I was.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't want to be anywhere else.
He eased out of me with a soft groan, his touch careful—reverent, like he didn't want to hurt me after everything we'd just shared. I winced slightly at the sensitivity, and he was already moving, grabbing a warm towel from the bathroom.
"I got you," he murmured, kneeling beside the bed.
I watched him in the low hotel light. The way his brows furrowed in quiet focus as he cleaned me up, as he pressed a kiss to my thigh when he finished. He didn't say much. He didn't need to.
He slid back into bed behind me, pulling me into his chest like he was scared I might disappear if he let go. My head tucked beneath his chin, our legs tangled together under the sheet. His palm found the curve of my waist, and fingers splayed like he was claiming the right to hold me.
I let the silence settle.
Until I whispered, "What happens now?"
He exhaled slowly. I could feel it against my temple. His hand moved up, brushing hair from my face.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "I didn't think I’d ever get this far."
That made me smile. A small one. Tired. Real.
"I mean it," he continued. "I don't have a script for this part. For you. But I know what I want."
I looked up at him.
He met my eyes. Serious now.
"I want you," he said. "I want this. Whatever it looks like. But you have to know something."
I waited.
"This life. The races, the danger, the travel, it's not going away. It's who I am. It's what I've worked for my whole life."
I nodded. "I know."
"But I also know it scares you."
My throat tightened.
"You don't say it, but I see it every time I step on the track. You hold your breath like I might not come back."
"Because sometimes I think you won't," I whispered.
He didn't flinch.
"I get it," he said gently. "But I need you to be in this with me. Fully. Not halfway. Not with one foot out the door. I want you to be my person, YN. I want to come home to you. But I can't do that if you're always running."
I blinked hard. Swallowed even harder.
And then it broke.
The words, the weight, the years I'd held it in.
"My dad—" I started, voice cracking.
I felt him nod. Felt his lips press against the top of my head.
"You'll never go through that again," he said, voice firm. "I won't let you."
"You can't promise that," I whispered.
His hand cupped my cheek, gently turning my face toward him.
"I know," he said. "But I can promise this. I'll never stop coming back to you. No matter what. You're it for me."
I closed my eyes, tears slipping free.
He kissed them away. One at a time. Slow and steady.
"Stay with me," he whispered. "Be scared. Be messy. Be mad at the world. But stay."
I nodded, voice too broken to speak.
And he held me like he'd never let go.
Our bodies cooled. Our breathing evened. The city outside kept moving, but in here, it was just us. Safe. Bare. Real.
I buried my face in his chest and let the exhaustion take me.
(안건호) fluff — hcs⠀ 𓈒 ⠀ ⠀clingy! keonho x reader⠀⠀ ୭ idol au – est. relationship⠀ ᵔ ⠀ ⠀cw language – skinship wc 300
𑄽𑄺 clingy boyfriend! keonho who quite literally needs to be attached to your hip 24/7, he swears a part of him is missing whenever you’re not around.
𑄽𑄺 will not leave your house/will not let you leave his dorm until you give him a goodbye kiss, cause why would you even think about leaving without it?
𑄽𑄺 trust that keonho’s arm will always be draped over your shoulders, or a hand on your waist, or an arm hooked around yours. He might die if he’s not constantly on contact with you idk.
𑄽𑄺 expect texts from him ranging from the most useless information ever to him describing how much he misses you, there’s never a waking moment where you aren’t on his mind.
𑄽𑄺 constant face time calls too!! when touring it’s hard to get used to new time zones, so hearing your voice always soothes him to sleep.
𑄽𑄺 keonho who is clingy but not to the point where he smothers and overwhelms you!
𑄽𑄺 he literally sees god when going on his first tour, being away from you for the first time, and barely being able to talk to you?? He swears he was just put on death row.
𑄽𑄺 of course you make sure to cover his face in kisses until he’s a giggly mess when saying goodbye.
𑄽𑄺 please let him sleepover when you both are free, he cannot get enough of them. He loves cuddling with you, feeling your warmth against his body, and your hair tickling his cheeks.
𑄽𑄺 FACE MASKS WITH HIM AT THE SLEEPOVERS, ohh my god the amount of pictures he will take of you both and especially you. He smiles at those everytime he’s away from you, his members tease the shit out of him.
𑄽𑄺 free backstage pass each time you come for a show, no matter how sweaty he is, he WILL give you a giant bear hug, and ignore your protests.
𑄽𑄺 literally obsessed with kissing you, he cannot get enough of it. You look cute? he’s kissing you on the cheek. You got him a gift? He’s giving you a fat kiss on the lips. He just loves you so much.
𑄽𑄺 wants to post you on his socials SO badly, he has to convince himself everyday not to boast about you and show you off to his fans.
𑄽𑄺 when he’s allowed to get a private acc on any platform, TRUST your face will be littered across his page.
𑄽𑄺 clingy boyfriend! keonho who loves you so much it hurts.
a/n : keonho my goober,… my shayla…. I hope ygs are liking these daily posts
genre: smut
synopsis: one confession later and you could have sworn that was the best head you've ever received.
warnings: oral (f receiving), fingering, begging, language, alcohol
pairing: bff!nicholas x fem!reader
wc: 1.2k
The air between you and Nicholas felt thick, charged. You’d been friends forever, but tonight, after too many beers and a stupidly honest game of truth or dare, everything shifted. Now you were on his bed, your heart hammering against your ribs.
“So, you’ve really never…?” His voice was low, closer than you expected.
You shook your head, looking at your hands. “No. Not… not like that.”
“Not like what?” he asked, his finger tilting your chin up. His eyes were dark, focused entirely on you.
“Not with someone who knows what they’re doing,” you whispered, the confession hanging in the air.
A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “Good. I want to be the one who shows you.” His thumb brushed your lower lip. “I’m going to taste you, alright? I’m going to put my mouth on your pussy and learn exactly how you like to be licked.”
You just nodded, a shaky breath escaping you.
“Tell me you want it.”
“I want it.”
He kissed you then, hard and possessive, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as his hands pushed your shirt up and over your head. His touch was everywhere, stripping away your jeans and panties until you were bare beneath him on the comforter. He knelt between your legs, his gaze drinking in the sight of you.
“Fuck, look at you,” he muttered, his voice rough. “Your lips are so puffy, so swollen already. And you’re dripping.” He dragged a single finger through your folds, collecting the slickness that gleamed there, and held it up for you to see. “All for me.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He lowered his head, and the first hot, wet stroke of his tongue from your entrance all the way up to your clit made your back arch off the bed.
“Oh, god!”
“Just like that,” he growled against you, his breath warming your soaked skin. “I want to hear every fucking sound.”
He settled in, his mouth a relentless, wet heaven. His tongue was flat and broad, lapping at your juices, circling your entrance before zeroing in on the tight, aching bundle of nerves above it. He didn’t just suck; he flicked, rapid and light, then pressed down with the firm flat of his tongue, making you writhe.
“I’m going to make it fucking pulse.” he said, his words vibrating through you.
He was a man with a plan. His fingers joined the party, two sliding into you with no resistance, your walls instantly clutching around them. They curled inside you, searching, and when they found that spongy, textured spot deep inside, he pressed.
Your hips jerked. “Nico!”
“There it is,” he said, his voice muffled by your flesh. He began a rhythm, his fingers rubbing that spot in slow, firm circles while his tongue worked your clit in counterpoint. The dual sensation built a pressure low in your belly, a coiled, hot spring winding tighter and tighter.
It climbed fast, too fast. The pleasure was a blinding white heat, rushing towards a peak you’d never felt before. Your thighs started to shake, your toes curling into the sheets.
“I’m—I’m gonna—”
Just as the first tremor of release began to spark through your nerves, he stopped.
He pulled his mouth and fingers away completely, leaving you empty, throbbing, and desperately exposed to the cool air.
You cried out, a sound of pure frustration. Your eyes flew open. He was watching you, his chin glistening with your arousal, a cruel, beautiful smirk on his face.
“Not yet,” he said softly.
“Please,” you begged, your hips lifting uselessly off the bed.
“Please what?” He leaned down, blowing a cool stream of air over your hypersensitive clit, making you gasp. “Use your words. Tell me what you need.”
“I need to come,” you whimpered.
“I know you do. Your pussy is clutching at nothing, it’s so fucking empty. But you have to ask better than that.” He dipped a single finger back into your soaking heat, gathering more of your fluid and painting it over your swollen lips and clit. “Beg for it.”
The denial was an agony. The need was a physical ache, a deep, relentless throb. You were dripping onto his sheets, your entire body trembling with unfinished tension.
“Please, Nicholas. Please let me come.”
“Mm, getting warmer,” he teased, replacing his finger with the very tip of his tongue, tracing your slit once, twice, a torturous mimicry of what you needed.
It broke you. “Please! Please, just let me cum! I need it so bad, I can’t stand it! Please, let this pathetic… let this pathetic whore cum!”
The words hung in the air, shocking you with their filth, their truth.
His eyes flashed with dark triumph. “Good girl.”
His mouth descended on you again, voracious this time. His tongue speared into your entrance, fucking you with it as his thumbs spread your lips wide. Then he sealed his lips over your clit and sucked, hard, while his fingers found that spot inside you again and pressed, unrelenting.
It took three seconds.
The orgasm didn’t crest; it detonated. It tore through you with a violence that stole the air from your lungs. A raw, screaming sound ripped from your throat as your back bowed, your hands fisting in his hair. Your walls clamped down on his fingers in rapid, rhythmic pulses, milking nothing.
And then came the flood.
You felt it building, a strange, deep pressure different from the clenching need. Nicholas felt it too. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core, and he sucked harder.
“That’s it, soak me,” he grunted. “Let it all the fuck out.”
A gush of hot fluid erupted from you, drenching his chin, his mouth, the sheets beneath you. It wasn’t a trickle; it was a release, a burst of pent-up sensation that kept coming in waves alongside the convulsions of your orgasm. He drank it, lapped at it, his tongue collecting every drop as you shook and sobbed above him.
The sensations finally, slowly, began to recede, leaving you boneless and hypersensitive. He gentled his mouth, licking you softly through the aftershocks, each tender stroke making you flinch.
When he finally lifted his head, his face was a wreck—wet, shining, utterly satisfied. He crawled up your body, his weight settling over you, and kissed you deeply. You could taste yourself on his tongue, salty and sweet and uniquely you.
“Fuck,” you breathed against his lips, your voice shattered.
“You have no idea,” he said, his own voice gravelly. He shifted his hips, and you felt the hard, insistent length of him press against your still-quivering thigh through his jeans. “That was just the start. I’m not nearly done with you.”
His hand slid between your bodies, his fingers slipping through the mixed wetness on your stomach. He brought them to your lips. “Taste. Taste what you did.”
You opened your mouth, and he pushed his fingers inside. The flavor was intense, musky, electric. You sucked them clean, your eyes locked on his.
“Now,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper as he began to work the button of his jeans. “Where were we?”
SYN. | first year pediatrics resident kim leehan is running on three things: an americano for breakfast, two hours of sleep, and a six-year-old crush on you that refuses to die
PAIR. ノ kim leehan x fem!reader | TAGS. ノpediatrics resident!leehan, ob-gyne resident!reader, workplace romance, mutual pining, medical jargon, some cursing | FEAT. ノ bnd, le serrafim eunchae, illit minju, riize anton | WC. 6.1k
( 연서 ) ノ its me being self-indulgent again. i may or may have stolen @lovehakie's doctor!leehan idea muwahaha. enjoy everyone! (esp kati and rosy who love it when i talk like a nerdy ahh medical student n i might have went overboard). reblogs are appreciated!
I'M GOING TO QUIT.
Leehan sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as he slumped into the chair at the nurses' station.
It had been another brutal day in the life of a first-year pediatrics resident, another day that made him question every single decision that had led him here.
He thought he’d finally caught a breather after updating his consultant on an admitted patient’s labs. The conversation had gone better than expected. No scolding. No passive-aggressive sighs. He even had time to sip the cold coffee he’d abandoned three hours ago.
But that illusion of peace vanished within minutes. A patient’s IV line infiltrated, another developed a fever spike, and before he knew it, he was calling a different scarier consultant.
She had almost yelled at him.
Almost.
If it hadn’t been for his quick thinking and bravely suggested a change in antibiotics on top of the existing workups she previously ordered, he was sure he would’ve been flayed alive over the phone.
I’m going to quit. For real this time.
Maybe he’d take a break for a year. Maybe he’d switch residencies. His second choice had been surgery, and Sungho mentioned they had an opening after one of their residents left.
Why did he ever think pediatrics was a good idea?
Still, deep down, he knew it wasn’t that simple.
He loved pediatrics. He loved the tiny hands clutching his finger when visiting newborns in the neonatal ICU. He relished in the soft laughter that made his gruesome thirty-six-hour shifts worth it. He loved the joy of seeing a child finally discharged with a smile. But lately, the exhaustion outweighed the reward.
If something you loved drained you this much, wasn’t that a sign to let go?
He was still lost in thought when you walked into his line of sight.
Then, his vision tunneled so fast, it almost gave him whiplash.
You were a vision of calm amid chaos.
In crisp scrubs underneath your white resident coat and a patient’s chart in hand, you walked beside your consultant as you discussed a case. He couldn’t make out anything from your conversation, which was surprising since your consultant’s voice carried across the halls. You, on the other hand, held yourself in a cool and collected manner, completely unbothered by the exaggerated way your consultant talked.
You and Leehan had been batchmates in medical school. He’d been the average type, floating through rotations and surviving exams by spite, sheer will, and more americanos that he could count, while you, quiet and seemingly reserved, excelled in most of your subjects without batting an eye.
The first time he noticed you was during a clinical rotation, when you were paired together for patient interviews. You had this way of making patients feel heard, of explaining complex things in simple, human words which even the best of them struggled with. And when your patient thanked you for simply listening, you were kind to them in return, and Leehan felt this overwhelming sense of pride for witnessing it.
That was when it started.
The attraction.
He found himself looking for you during lectures, craning his neck to scan over a hundred of his other batchmates in the crowded audiovisual room. He went to the places you usually frequented, sitting on the same library table under the guise of staying close to the charging outlets. He joined your cramming sessions early in the morning, when everyone sits in a circle in the exam hall with you in the middle, rapid-firing questions he could barely answer.
It slowly built from admiration to fascination, then finally he realized, ah, I like this person.
I really, really like this person.
Unfortunately, he never got to confess, not even after graduation. You both went your separate ways, and he assumed that was it. Residency matching was never guaranteed, after all. His pediatrics application to KOZ General had been a long shot.
That was until his first day of pre-residency, when he saw you again standing by the bulletin board, wearing a neat ponytail and holding your pre-res form for obstetrics and gynecology. His heart had nearly stopped.
You were also applying in the same hospital as an ob-gyne resident. You were both doing pre-residency at the same time. And what a stroke of luck had it been that you matched each other medically. Obstetrics and pediatrics. What were the odds?
You would be an absolute power couple (oh how he wished!)
And when you both got accepted, turning into fully-fledged first year residents, he had been overjoyed.
That was a little over six months ago.
Now, Leehan was deep in the trenches. He was sleep-deprived and overworked. His only solace was the sight of you during rounds. And soon, if he were to stop in his ministrations of quitting, he’d be rotating in the neonatal ICU, which meant he’d see you in the operating room too.
Leehan’s shoulders relaxed slightly at the thought, his gaze lingering on you.
Okay, maybe he did have some attachment to this place. All thoughts of quitting were chucked into the backseat compartment of his mind for future use.
He was content just watching you for a moment, his notes forgotten on the table. Then, as if sensing his gaze, you looked up.
Your eyes met his, and Leehan swore your entire face brightened, or maybe that was just wishful thinking. Why would you look happy to see him, anyway?
“...Doctor Kim!”
He flinched and tore his eyes away, nearly knocking over his pen.
Nurse Jaehyun stood beside him, holding a chart. “Uh, sorry to interrupt, but could you clarify this order? I can’t read what you wrote here.”
Leehan groaned inwardly, cursing his own hieroglyphics handwriting. He could almost hear Taesan, his fellow first-year pediatrics resident, scolding him in his head to write more legibly.
“Right, sorry. That’s Paracetamol oral solution, 250mg/5mL, give 5 mL orally every 6 hours as needed for—”
“—temperature over 38 degrees Celsius. Got it.” Jaehyun scribbled it down, but hesitated before walking away. “Uh, Doctor Kim? You okay? You look more tired than usual.”
“I’m fine,” Leehan muttered, though his tone was anything but convincing.
He spared another glance in your direction, catching physical cues of the ending of an endorsement. When your consultant made her way to the elevator, Leehan knew you'd be on the way to the nurse's station.
He suddenly sat up.
This did not go unnoticed by Jaehyun, who quickly caught on when your voice filled the nurses' station.
“Good morning, Jaehyun!”
Jaehyun brightened. “Good morning, Doctor L/N. Always lovely to see you in the morning.”
His eyes briefly skipped to Leehan’s, mischievously twinkling in a sort of Aha! moment.
“Right, Doctor Kim?”
Leehan froze mid-note, pretending to write something while studiously avoiding the nurse’s teasing grin. “Uh. Morning.”
You smiled. “Morning, Doctor Kim.”
His pen was barely moving now, tracing meaningless lines while you leaned over the counter to jot down your orders. You made small talk about the ward census and he tried to respond in kind, anything to appear like a normal, functioning colleague and not someone who forgot how to breathe every time you were within five feet.
“Right. Gotta go,” you said eventually, straightening up. “We have two moms in labor right now. It’s Doctor Han helping with the deliveries today, right?”
Leehan had never been so jealous of Taesan, even in the professional context.
“Yeah,” Leehan replied, forcing a grin. “Good luck.”
You gave a small nod before hurrying off toward the delivery room.
He watched you leave, a quiet sigh escaping him before he could stop it.
“So that’s what everyone’s talking about,” Jaehyun commented under his breath, smirking. “You should make your move someday, Doctor Kim. Or, you know, stop staring like a lovesick intern.”
Leehan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You want extra tasks today, Jaehyun? Because I can make that happen.”
Jaehyun laughed nervously. “Nope, all good, Doc.”
“Good,” Leehan said, handing him three more charts. “Then go endorse these. And check the vitals for the last three admissions. Oh, and make sure the discharge summary’s printed for Bed 7.”
Jaehyun’s grin faltered. “You’re evil.”
Leehan leaned back with a smirk, eyes flicking once more toward the corridor you disappeared into. “Call it divine punishment.”
THE EMERGENCY ROOM was oddly quiet for a Monday afternoon, not that Leehan minded. He had just finished working up a 6 year old kid with productive cough and another 7 year old with non-projectile vomiting, both of which were likely to be admitted much to his dismay.
Leehan was trying to remember the last time he’d blinked for more than half a second when his clerk Woonhak appeared beside him, looking a little too cheerful for someone who’s on back to back 12-hour shifts.
“Doctor Kim,” Woonhak said, setting down the IV tray and throwing away his used materials. “I just inserted the IV line for Bed 4.”
Leehan nodded, skimming his orders for the two patients like it’ll magically write itself. “Good. Let’s just wait for the prelim labs for Bed 2, then we’re good.”
He rubbed his temple. His head felt heavy in that dull, persistent way that only consecutive calls could produce. His body was here, but his soul had clocked out somewhere around 3 A.M. yesterday.
Still, he couldn’t help but be faintly impressed by Woonhak. The kid was quick. Confident with lines. Smarter than he had been as a clerk. Probably slept more, too.
Leehan leaned back in his chair, letting his pen roll across the table. For a brief, blissful second, he let his brain idle. Everything else became background noise. The rhythmic beep of monitors that once traumatized him as a clerk and the chatter of nurses calling out meds drowned out every bit of anxiety he held for the entire shift.
Even Woonhak settled on one of the chairs, arms folded, eyes fluttering in an attempt to nap.
That was until Riwoo, one of the ER nurses, called from triage.
“Woonhak, new patient!”
Leehan watched his clerk jerk upright, the light in his eyes dimming as they exchanged glances and sighed in unison.
Woonhak stood up and scurried away to the triage. Minutes later, he came back grinning. Leehan felt his shoulders relax. Not pedia.
“It’s ob-gyne, Doc. Abdominal pain.”
Across the counter, nurse Minju was dialing the ob-gyne resident line. “Good afternoon! This is Minju, ER. May I ask who's the resident on duty today?" She nodded a few times, humming. "Oh, hi Doctor L/N! You have a patient here at the ER. We'll just bring her in. Thank you!"
And that was when Leehan sat up straight yet again.
You were on ER duty. Oh boy.
He wasn’t proud of it. He wasn’t even subtle about it. One second he’d been slouched, borderline horizontal. The next, he was upright, flipping through patient charts as if he suddenly rediscovered his sense of purpose.
When he ushered Woonhak over, his clerk blinked. “Yes Doc?”
Leehan cleared his throat, pretending to check the progress notes. “Let’s... run through the different possible cases for Bed 4 again. Just for review.”
“Uh, sure,” Woonhak said slowly, caught off-guard. “The... the one with vomiting?”
“Mm. Yes. Go ahead.” He nodded, tapping his pen as if in deep thought.
Woonhak blinked, then launched into an explanation of acute gastroenteritis. It was fine, textbook even, except Leehan wasn’t really listening. His brain had split in two: one part nodding along, the other sharply tuned to the sound of the ER doors opening.
Because you were coming.
Ohhh, boy.
“Doctor Kim?”
“Hm?”
“The management, Doc. I said we’re just monitoring for dehydration and waiting for labs?”
“Yes,” Leehan said, a little too quickly. “Correct. Good. Very... good.”
Woonhak gave him a suspicious side-eye that Leehan was awfully familiar with. It was something the clerks only used when they sensed their resident was being weird but weren’t brave enough to ask.
Before Leehan could come up with another fake quiz question to hide behind, the sliding ER doors finally hissed open.
As nonchalantly as he could, he took a glance.
You walked in with your own clerk—Eunchae, according to Woonhak, who quickly said "hi" in excitement—beside you, discussing something about triage flow and abdominal pain. You barely spared a glance at the chaos of the nurses' station, too busy explaining to Eunchae the difference between surgical and gynecologic causes of pain.
Leehan tried not to stare. Really, he did. But it was like his body had developed its own gravitational pull toward you.
Riwoo, who had already ushered the new patient to one of the beds, noticed immediately (because of course he did) and nudged Minju with a smirk. Both of them exchanged a knowing look.
Leehan caught it in his peripheral vision and shot them a warning glare, which only made them grin wider.
You finally glanced their way, offering a polite smile. “Afternoon, everyone.”
Leehan somehow forgot how to speak Korean for a split second. “Uh, afternoon,” he managed, nodding a little too fast.
Then you were already moving on, scanning the board and heading toward your patient.
Leehan turned back to the desk, trying to focus on his charting, but the pen was trembling slightly in his hand.
“Doctor Kim,” Woonhak said under his breath, trying not to laugh. Of course his clerk had also caught on. He wasn’t exactly subtle about anything. “You’re red.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re very red.”
“This is insubordination,” Leehan muttered, flipping a chart just to have something to look at. “You should start writing your notes for the two patients before I make you answer another case.”
Woonhak grinned but wisely shut up.
Across the ER, your voice carried softly as you spoke to the new patient, reminiscent of when he was first paired with you during your medical school clinicals. When his patients’ lab results finally flashed on the monitor, Leehan muttered a tiny thanks into the universe for the distraction.
Unfortunately, it only served him for a short while. After he made another call to his consultant outside, he walked back into the ER to find you and Eunchae discussing at the same table as Woonhak, who looked too engrossed in a discussion unrelated to his current rotation.
Leehan cleared his throat. "Woonhak, come here please."
He tried to keep his attention on his clerk, ignoring your and your clerk's gazes on him. Woonhak quickly excused himself from his conversation, then sauntered over with a grin.
"Yes, Doc?"
"We're admitting both patients. Come on, I'll teach you how to write an order."
Without waiting for a response, he moved around the nurses’ station, taking the open chair beside Minju, who was in the middle of a phone call with admitting.
She looked back and forth between you and Leehan, the corners of her mouth twitching upward in amusement. When she ended the call, confirming the status of Leehan's patients' admission, she dropped her voice into a teasing tone.
“Doctor Kim,” Minju said, grin widening. “I think you should check your vitals. You kinda look feverish.”
Leehan's eye twitched. “Chart, Minju,” he deadpanned. “Go chart something.”
But she just laughed.
He took one last look at his previous seat, now occupied by you as you bent slightly over your patient's chart with a pen tucked behind your ear. Your clerk left to get the latest vitals from your new patient, so Leehan was safe to look at you without prying eyes.
Or so he thought.
Across him, Woonhak was still grinning, the little traitor.
“Doctor Kim,” he whispered. He leaned his elbows on the desk, covering his mouth with his hands as if he's sharing confidential intel. “You’re staring again.”
Leehan wanted the ground to swallow him whole. “I’m not.”
“You are. You were doing that squinty thing.”
“I wasn’t squinting—”
“Doc, you were squinting.”
Before Leehan could deliver a well-deserved scolding, Riwoo called out from the triage again. “Doctor Kim, another patient for pediatrics.”
Another one?!
All signs of teasing vanished from Woonhak, who stood up and sighed at the thought of more possible paperwork. “Doc, I think you should seriously leave the ER. You’re a magnet for trouble.”
“Just interview the patient.”
Leehan watched his clerk jog toward triage. With a resigned exhale, he reached for his phone and dialed the number of another one of his first-year pediatrics colleagues, Anton, who was stationed in the wards.
The line connected quickly.
“Hey, Anton,” Leehan began, as he rubbed his temples, already feeling the beginnings of another migraine. “I’m endorsing two new pedia admits. Both were febrile, one with poor intake, the other initially presenting with respiratory distress, but they're both stable now. I sent the clinical histories in the group chat. Lab results are out, both have neutrophilic predominance on blood count so I asked the consultant which antibiotics to start with and—”
Before he could finish, movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. You had stood up, chart in hand, approaching the nurses’ desk to where Minju was.
“Minju,” you said politely, offering the patient’s chart. “The new gyne patient’s for admission. Orders are complete, and I’ve already informed her watcher. My clerk Eunchae will update me when the patient's already transported."
Minju accepted the folder with a nod, and you turned briefly toward Leehan, your expression softening into a smile.
“I’ll go ahead,” you murmured.
It was barely audible, but it short-circuited him all the same. Leehan froze, phone still pressed to his ear, and managed only a shy nod in response.
“...Leehan? Hello? Did I lose you?” Anton’s voice broke through the line, faintly exasperated. “You just stopped mid-sentence, man.”
Leehan blinked, realizing only then that he hadn’t said a word in several seconds.
“Right, sorry. Uh, where was I?” he mumbled, dragging a hand over his face as heat crept up his neck.
From the table nearby, Eunchae giggled behind her hand, clearly having witnessed the entire exchange. Leehan wanted nothing more than to fold into himself.
He finished his phone endorsement, turning off his phone and releasing a long and defeated sigh.
That was when Woonhak reappeared beside him, who had bowed to you as you left the ER to presumably continue your rounds or go back to the labor room.
Woonhak looked at Eunchae, and they appeared to have some telepathy thing going that clearly involved him and you, because Woonhak had another shit-eating grin on his face.
“Doctor Kim,” he said, tone dripping with amusement. “I’m starting to think you like her more than you like your patients.”
“That’s an HR violation waiting to happen,” Leehan muttered, rubbing his forehead.
“So is staring.”
Leehan stared at him blankly. “Do you want to spend your next duty counting diapers in Pedia Ward B?”
“...No, sir.”
“Good.”
But despite the threat, Woonhak grinned. “You should still make your move, though. What if she gets stolen by another resident?”
Leehan clicked his pen. “Insubordination," he repeated in a sing-song manner.
“Reality check,” Woonhak countered.
He groaned. “Why did I get assigned the talkative one?”
“Because the quiet clerks are scared of you,” Woonhak said innocently.
Leehan barked a laugh despite himself, shaking his head. “You’re lucky you’re competent.”
“I learned from the best.”
That earned him a faint smile. “Alright, enough of that. Tell me about the new patient.”
As Woonhak launched into his patient endorsement, he tried his best to focus but his thoughts had already drifted elsewhere.
Maybe his clerk was right. He'd wasted the entirety of his medical school life without confessing his true feelings for you, and now, he's just going to let another three years pass without doing anything? What if someone else would step into that space he'd been too cautious to claim? Then, what?
The idea lingered longer than he wanted it to. Yet, he found himself oddly fired up.
He was done just watching from afar.
He was going to make a move. One way or another.
He’d survived worse, after all. Like back-to-back admissions. Or Taesan’s morning scoldings.
Though his step one should really be to stop turning red whenever you say hello.
YOU LOVED YOUR JOB.
Most days, it didn’t even feel like work. Sure, the hours were long, and the sleep deprivation was starting to make you hallucinate coffee cups where they didn’t exist, but you genuinely loved being an ob-gyne resident.
Where others in your batch had gravitated toward the—for lack of better word—“cleaner” fields like internal medicine, radiology, and anesthesiology, you’d found your heart in the constant frenzy of deliveries and the thrill of managing two lives at once. There was something deeply sentimental about it, about being there for people at their most vulnerable and their most joyful.
You’d fallen in love with it during clerkship, the first time you’d assisted in a delivery and held your breath as a baby’s cry filled the air. That sound never left you. It stitched itself into your memory and refused to leave, even after you rotated in other departments.
So when you matched into the residency program of your dreams, you cried in relief. KOZ General Hospital, your top choice. Everything you wanted.
And then, there's the icing on the cake.
Because as fate would have it, there was another reason you found yourself smiling a little too much after the high of being officially accepted into the program and that was a certain first-year pediatric resident named Kim Leehan.
You’d gone to med school together in same batch and same group rotations. He was the quiet one—or at least, that's what you thought at first. He didn't push himself into the spotlight the way their other batchmates did, all eager to impress residents and consultants during clerkship.
Leehan was the type to stand a few steps behind, listening more than speaking, his brows knit in focus as if the world beyond his patient didn’t exist.
But there were rare moments when that calm exterior cracked. When something, or someone, managed to pull him out of his silence. You learned that early on, during your rotation in the public hospital’s pediatric ward, when in the middle of the thick hospital noise, Leehan had found a pocket of light in it.
He’d crouch beside the beds of the children, stethoscope forgotten around his neck, voice soft yet animated as he asked about their favorite toys or showed them how to make balloon animals out of gloves.
His face came alive in those moments. His eyes bright, curved into crescents. His gestures uncharacteristically wide. You remembered thinking that it didn’t seem fair, how someone usually so reserved could suddenly glow like that, as if the world made a little more sense when he smiled.
And when you saw him genuinely laugh for the first time, it completely caught you off guard. From then on, you couldn’t quite look at him the same way.
Now, months later, you saw him in the hallways sometimes. His coat was always slightly wrinkled, hair a little messy, yet he still smiled at you when you cross paths despite the obvious exhaustion. And every single time, your heart did that thing where it folded in on itself.
You were reviewing charts at the OB station when your phone buzzed.
Pedia Clerk Eunchae: Good morning, Doctor L/N! Referral from Pedia at 3A! Teenage patient with abdominal pain, possible gyne problem.
You smiled, already typing back.
You: Good job! I’ll head down in a bit. May I ask who's the pedia resident-in-charge?
Another ping came almost immediately.
Pedia Clerk Eunchae: Dr. Kim Leehan hehe
You blinked. Then exhaled slowly.
Of course it was him.
Of course the universe had decided to make you deal with your crush before lunch.
You were a professional. You could do this. You’d seen uterine ruptures and assisted breech extractions. Surely you could handle one very nice pediatric resident without combusting.
You had made your way up the ramp towards the wards when Eunchae greeted you midway, a knowing grin already on her face. “Doctor L/N, you’re smiling.”
You scoffed. “I’m always smiling.”
“That’s your Dr. Kim smile,” she teased, voice dropping into a whisper.
You raised a brow, trying to look stern, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you. “You’re lucky you’re my favorite clerk.”
Eunchae grinned, triumphant. “I know.”
By the time you reached the wards, you’d forced your expression into your usual calmness. Professional. Resident mode.
You only made it halfway towards the station when you caught sight of him.
Leehan sat on one of the swiveling chairs, chatting with some of the nurses. His laughter carried lightly over usual ward noise. He looked exhausted, of course—he always did—but he still managed to smile like that.
You were never at the receiving end of that smile. It had always been polite. Everything had always been polite, and you wondered if you should let go of the crush you've been harboring for four years because really, why would he ever smile at you like that?
A soft ache began to bloom in your chest, yet you shoved it away. You had a job to do.
You approached the counter, your clerk trailing behind you. As soon as you came into his line of sight, his posture changed completely. He always did this when you were around, and you wondered if it meant something. But deep down, whether good or bad, you were too scared to find out.
“Doctor L/N,” he greeted, voice a touch too formal.
You nodded, forcing yourself to focus. “Hello, Doctor Kim. You’re the resident-in-charge for this patient?”
“Yes,” he said quickly. “Sixteen-year-old, right lower quadrant pain, low-grade fever, some discharge. We were thinking pelvic inflammatory disease versus appendicitis, but her labs lean more gynecologic. Ultrasound pending.”
You tried to keep your eyes on the chart, not on him. Not on the faint shadow under his eyes or the way his lashes curled when he blinked. He smelled faintly of something woody and clean, like cedar and soap and it made your pulse skip a beat.
Professional. Stay professional.
You cleared your throat. “Good work catching this early. I’ll take it from here, thank you.”
He nodded. “Of course.”
You glanced once more at the notes. You hesitated for a moment, lingering by the desk as you fiddled with the edge of the chart. There wasn’t anything left to say but part of you didn’t want the conversation to end just yet.
Should you ask about the complete history of the patient? But then, you'll do your own interview anyway. Would it be weird if you asked why they considered those differentials? Well, yes, because you already knew why and it would only make you look like someone who didn't understand cardinal manifestations.
Resigned, you settled with a tiny smile, and turned to leave.
“I can go with you?” he blurted out before you could take a step.
You blinked, half-turning toward him. His expression was earnest, maybe even hopeful.
For a split second, your mind scrambled for meaning. Did he just say that because he was being polite or did he actually want to? The thought made your heart skip traitorously. You suddenly felt the urge to giggle but you swallowed it back before it could escape.
“I’m good, no worries!” you said lightly, managing your smile. “Thank you, Doctor Kim.”
And before you could betray how much that look in his eyes was doing to you, you turned and left.
You didn’t see the way his shoulders dropped the second your back was turned.
At your side, Eunchae caught up with you as you sped-walked towards your referral's room, smirking. “I think you just broke Doctor Kim’s heart.”
You nearly tripped over your own feet at that. Maybe she was exaggerating, but the image of Leehan's face when he offered to go with you flashed in your mind again. You told yourself not to overthink it, that it didn’t mean anything, but that tiny, dangerous hope refused to fade.
You shot her a look. “One more from you and I’m letting you assist me every delivery.”
Eunchae’s grin only widened. “You’re threatening me with a good time, Doc.”
You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of you anyway.
Maybe you shouldn't give up on that crush just yet.
"CUTTING," your senior said, and you reached for the retractor, your gloved hands stable.
You were assisting a cesarean section that afternoon with your senior and Eunchae, and despite the lack of lunch and the ache in your feet, you were in your element.
Everything was routine until you glanced toward the warmer and did a double take.
Leehan was standing there in his scrubs, checking equipment, his mask pulled up to cover the lower half of his face. His clerk stood beside him—Woonhak, who joyfully introduced himself to you that one afternoon in the ER—already carrying the sterile linen to catch the baby.
What was he doing here?
You knew his schedule by heart, not that you’d ever admit it aloud. His pedia ward rotation was supposed to run until the end of the week, and you’d been quietly counting down the days until he moved to the NICU, where your paths would finally cross again.
You expected Taesan, the usual resident on rotation for deliveries, but instead, Leehan stood in his fellow pediatrics resident's place. And seeing him now, days earlier than you expected, it felt like fate had decided to play a little joke on you once more.
His hair was slightly mussed under his cap, eyes crinkling as he caught you looking.
Then, without warning and completely out of character, he winked at you.
He winked at you.
Your brain stuttered, the world narrowing down to that split-second flicker of movement. For a moment, you forgot where you were.
It didn’t make sense. Leehan wasn’t the type to flirt, let alone wink across an operating table. Yet, it happened. And you didn't miss the unmistakable curve of amusement in his eyes.
“Doctor L/N,” your senior’s voice snapped you back. “You spacing out? Did you eat lunch?”
“Not yet,” you said quickly, hoping your flushed ears weren’t visible behind your mask. Eunchae was biting back a grin beside you, and you’d bet anything she’d seen it too.
The baby’s first cry sliced through the air. Relief, always relief. You helped lift the newborn, checked the cord while Eunchae helped dry the baby and turned toward the warmer.
Leehan was already waiting with his towel and stethoscope. The amusement in his crinkled eyes never left. You passed the baby to him, careful not to let your gloved fingers brush his.
But of course, they did.
His eyebrow lifted in amusement and you shot him a warning glare that only made his eyes curve further.
You were too distracted to notice how both clerks saw the entire thing.
By the time you were back in the labor room, peeling off your gloves and updating the chart, Eunchae had disappeared somewhere. A few minutes later, a hesitant knock came from the doorway.
“Doctor L/N?”
You looked up to see Woonhak holding a chart. You watched in mild amusement as he looked around before walking into the labor room with all the confidence of a pediatrics clerk.
"I'm here to report the anthropometric measurements for Baby Girl Jung."
"Alright."
You jotted down the numbers for the baby's height, weight, and the like as Woonhak recited them. When he finished, you thanked him for his help and was about to ask if he saw Eunchae when he suddenly tucked the clipboard behind his back.
“By the way, Doctor L/N, Doctor Kim is asking if you’d be available for lunch,” he said innocently. “To discuss the referred pedia case.”
You narrowed your eyes, suspicion flickering immediately. The tone and the barely contained grin tugging at the corner of his mouth was all too familiar.
It wouldn’t be the first time your clerks tried to play matchmaker. Eunchae had been far too gleeful lately whenever Leehan’s name came up, and now Woonhak was acting like he’d been coached. You had a feeling they were conspiring, and for a brief second, you couldn’t decide whether to be exasperated or amused.
You arched an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Why couldn’t he tell me that himself?”
Woonhak shrugged, eyes too wide, too fake. “He’s… shy?”
You snorted. “Right. Tell him I’ll think about it.”
Meanwhile, a few doors down from the labor room, Leehan was leaning against the NICU counter in the middle of writing a doctor's order. Confusion was plastered on his face as Eunchae marched up to him with a clipboard and too much enthusiasm.
“Hi, Doctor Kim!” she chirped. “Doctor L/N would like to discuss the gyne case over lunch.”
He blinked, unsure if he’d heard that right. For a moment, he just stood there, pen hovering midair as his brain tried to process the words.
Lunch? With you? Initiated by you?
That didn’t sound right, even if you wanted to 'discuss the gyne case.' You're the type to discuss in the wards, not over lunch.
It had to be a mistake.
Or maybe a prank.
God, was this a prank?
“Really?”
“Yup! She said she’ll see you by the labor room entrance.” Eunchae waved and disappeared before he could even question it.
Leehan stared at his doctor's orders, still in disbelief.
He’d spent the entire morning convincing himself that his impulsive decision to switch shifts with Taesan had been purely logistical, not because he wanted to see you again sooner.
But then he’d gone and winked at you in an operating room, of all places. In front of your senior, your clerk, and an entire team. He definitely did not think it through.
Still, if somehow this lunch thing was real, maybe the universe was cutting him some slack. Or maybe it was setting him up for a new kind of embarrassment. He honestly couldn’t tell anymore.
Which was how, twenty minutes later, Leehan found himself standing outside the labor room, still not entirely sure if he’d walked into a setup or a miracle.
He’d spent the entire time, from changing out of his scrubs and into his work clothes, rehearsing possible conversation starters.
But when the doors swung open and you stepped out, hair flowing freely as if it hadn't been confined behind an itchy scrub cap and eyes bright even after hours on duty, every practiced line in his head vanished.
“Let’s go?” he managed, scratching the back of his neck.
A faint smile tugged at your lips. “I’m surprised you had to ask your clerk to tell me to meet up.”
His brows drew together. “Wait, didn’t you ask me to meet up for the case?”
Your smile didn't cease and you looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for something to click. Slowly, realization dawned into him, and he let out a soft laugh.
“Guess we were both fooled by our clerks,” he said. “I’m giving that little runt Woonhak an extension.”
You stared at him, a little bit in awe about something. Leehan felt self-conscious for a second, until you mirrored his laugh.
“Careful, Doctor Kim. They might actually enjoy that.”
"Leehan," he murmured. "Just Leehan is fine. Like when we were still classmates."
Your smile had never been so gorgeous in that moment. "Alright, Leehan. Lunch it is, then. Since our clerks apparently conspired for academic collaboration.”
“Right,” he replied, falling into step beside you as you started down the hall. “Strictly for the case.”
“Of course,” you said, eyes fixed ahead but Leehan could see the faint color blooming on your cheeks, and he couldn’t stop smiling.
Because for once, the quiet between you wasn’t awkward. And maybe, it was the start of something neither of you would need your clerks’ help to arrange again.
BY THE TIME Woonhak started his last week in OB-Gyne, he’d learned two things about KOZ General Hospital: one, the elevators would never work when you needed them most; and two, Doctor Kim Leehan and Doctor L/N Y/N had no idea how to hide their affection from each other even in the most professional setting.
Not that he minded. After all, Woonhak had been the mastermind behind the lunch date plan, no matter how much his partner-in-crime claimed otherwise.
He stood outside the OB-Gyne nurses' station with Eunchae, who was now a proud pedia clerk. Both of them were ready to endorse the incoming batch of fresh-faced clerks, all of whom looked nervous as hell.
“Okay,” Woonhak said, straightening. “Rule number one: Never skip breakfast. Rule number two: If you ever get a referral from Pedia, double-check the resident’s name before you deliver it. Trust me.”
Eunchae snorted beside him. “Yeah, especially if it’s Doctor Kim. You’ll end up third-wheeling without even knowing it.”
The new clerks blinked, confused, but Woonhak just smiled and pushed open the door to the nurses' station.
He could never get tired of seeing his former pediatrics resident and his current ob-gyne resident.
Doctor Kim was leaning casually against the counter, one hand braced near Doctor L/N’s chair as they discussed, presumably about another case.
You were both in scrubs and resident coats—yours less wrinkled than Doctor Kim's—both clearly exhausted, yet grinning in that way people do when the world around them has quietly disappeared.
“So you’re saying your patient’s ultrasound results came in normal?” you were asking, flipping through the pages.
“Normal,” Leehan confirmed. “Which means you owe me coffee.”
“On what grounds?”
“On the grounds that I called it.”
“Kim Leehan, you call everything.”
He opened his mouth to retort, but the sound of the door opening made both of you turn.
“Doctor Kim, Doctor L/N,” Woonhak greeted, trying not to smile too wide. “Sorry to interrupt. We’re here to endorse the new clerks.”
“Ah, perfect timing,” you said warmly, straightening up as Leehan stepped aside.
Eunchae gestured to the two newbies beside her. “This is the new batch. They’ll be rotating under us for OB-Gyne and Pedia respectively starting tomorrow.”
Leehan turned, his easy smile in place again. “Welcome to clerkship. Try not to cry too much in your first week.”
“Doctor Kim,” you said dryly, “please don’t scare them on day one.”
“I’m setting expectations.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’ll be fine,” you reassured the clerks. “Just listen to your residents and nurses. Especially Nurse Jaehyun, he knows everything.”
Jaehyun, from behind the counter, gave a peace sign.
Leehan glanced at Woonhak. “So, be honest. Were you a better clerk under Doctor L/N than with me?”
You shot Woonhak a mock glare, but he only grinned, playing along. “Doctor L/N was an excellent preceptor. She taught me how to think, not just memorize. This is why she’s my favorite resident of all time.”
Eunchae clapped her hands in agreement. “Seconded. No offense, Doctor Kim.”
“None taken,” Leehan said, though his chuckle was tinged with mock offense. “At least she’s your favorite for the academic reasons.”
You smirked. “That sounded like jealousy, Doctor Kim.”
“Maybe it is,” he replied lightly, and Woonhak was pretty sure the new clerks weren’t breathing.
“Alright, that’s our cue to leave,” Eunchae said quickly, ushering the newbies toward the hallway before the flirting became part of the formal endorsement.
When they were finally outside, one of the new clerks whispered, “Are they… like… together?”
Woonhak smirked as the doors swung shut behind them.
“Together? Oh, they’re definitely together,” he said, lowering his voice. “They’ve been doing this whole slow-burn, coworkers-to-lovers thing since the start of our clerkship days. It was only a matter of time.”
“You should’ve seen them back then." Eunchae laughed. "Always pretending it was just about case discussions. Now look at them, still flirting in front of patients and clerks like it’s part of the hospital protocol.”
“They’re basically the departments' power couple at this point. Brains, composure, and chemistry? Unfair combination.”
“Yeah,” Eunchae agreed, smiling as she peeked through the narrow window in the door. Inside, you were still standing close to Leehan, laughing at something he’d just said. “Kinda makes you believe in timing, doesn’t it?”
“Timing... and maybe a little clerical intervention.”
Eunchae laughed again, shaking her head as they started down the hall. “Guess we did good, huh?”
“Yeah,” Woonhak said, glancing back one last time. “We really did."
TAGLIST. ノ@taestulipss @lovehakie @ilysungho @ivxae @amnellsia @wensurr @wnouzi @luckiihan @silvervalley101 @mochamvgz @parkpenghoonnn @nemoihan @kazukazukiiii @gentiliana @en-dream @omlhyck (pls send an ask to be added or removed!)
"Tsk.. you don't even know whose cock you’re taking, do you?"
~ "Reader makes a joke about their sizes so they play a game to see if reader can tell who's fucking them" - req. by anon
pairing: yungi x fem!reader
genre: 18+, filth
summary: you just love testing these two... until they test you to the verge of snapping, making you beg.
wc: 4.9k
warnings: rough!yungi, teasing, blindfold, multiple orgasms, lots of cum, kissing, fingering, double penetration, double fingering, dirty talk + degrading (slut), possessiveness, intent of free use, let's say they're fwb, they switch way too many times, begging, multiple rounds, unprotected (boo use protection irl!!!), completely consensual, for sure forgot something, might edit later.
Author's Note: tysm anon for this request hello... i need holy water now ty 🤡 it was *insanenly intense*. hope to see you again around !!!! if you request again lmk if it was up to your expectations ^^ or simply lmk in the request form love youuu
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and does not represent the reality of the members in any way.
The night had started out innocent enough—at least, as innocent as things ever got between the three of you.
You were wedged between them on the couch, Yunho on your left, Mingi on your right, warmth seeping from their bodies into yours. A movie was playing, but none of you were watching. Not with the way their hands had started to wander.
Yunho’s fingers were tracing slow, absentminded circles on your thigh, just barely under the hem of your shorts. Mingi was less subtle, his palm resting on your hip, fingers occasionally squeezing as if reminding you of his presence. You could feel the tension crackling in the air, thick with anticipation. It was always like this with them—slow, drawn-out teasing before one of you finally snapped.
But tonight? Tonight, you were feeling bold.
You shifted, letting your hand drift casually onto Yunho’s lap. His thigh tensed beneath your palm, and you smirked to yourself. Without hesitation, you let your other hand move to Mingi, your fingers pressing lightly against his inner thigh. The way he stiffened under your touch made a spark of satisfaction flicker through you.
"Mm," you hummed, nails lightly scraping over Yunho’s clothed thigh before giving Mingi the same treatment. "I don’t think you guys understand just how well I know you."
Yunho exhaled sharply, his grip tightening around your leg. "Oh?"
Mingi raised a brow, his hand pressing more firmly against your hip. "Is that so?"
You bit back a smirk, fingers inching higher on both of them. "Mhm. I know you both so well… I could probably tell who’s fucking me with my eyes closed."
Silence.
Then Yunho laughed, the sound dark and low. "Oh, really?"
Mingi scoffed, tilting his head. "That’s a bold claim, sweetheart."
You shrugged, feigning nonchalance as you lightly squeezed their thighs. "It’s not a claim, it’s a fact." You leaned in slightly, voice dropping to something more sultry. "I’ve been fucked by you two enough times to know the difference."
That got their attention.
Mingi’s grip on your hip turned bruising, his fingers digging into your flesh. Yunho’s hand slid further up your thigh, pushing the fabric of your shorts higher. They shared a look above your head, something dark and knowing, before Yunho turned back to you, his smile slow and dangerous.
"You sure about that?"
Your smirk widened. "Positive."
Mingi hummed, his fingers trailing up your arm. "That so?"
Yunho exhaled, amusement laced with something far more sinister. "Then we should test that."
You blinked, the weight of their words settling in. "Test—?"
Mingi’s lips brushed against your ear. "If you’re so confident, baby, let’s see you prove it." Yunho’s other hand came up, fingers gently tracing your jaw. “Let's… blindfold you.”
Your breath caught, but neither of them gave you a chance to react.
"Then we’ll take turns fucking you," Mingi continued, his voice dropping lower. "And you’re gonna guess who’s inside you."
Yunho’s lips curled into a smirk. "And only when you get it right will we let you cum."
Your stomach clenched, heat pooling low in your belly.
Mingi chuckled at your silence, his palm sliding down to squeeze your thigh. "Oh, what’s wrong, sweetheart?"
Yunho tilted his head. "You were so confident just a second ago."
Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Mingi and Yunho didn’t stop smirking at you, their amusement growing as Yunho leaned closer. Before you had a chance to react, his hand slipped down your body, moving with a slow confidence that made you shiver.
"Jesus, you’re already so wet…" Yunho’s fingers slid past the waistband of your panties, the soft fabric brushing your sensitive skin before diving straight between your folds. He barely gave you a chance to adjust, slipping two fingers in slowly, stretching you open just enough for him to feel your heat.
You gasped, your body tightening at the sudden intrusion. "What’s the matter, baby?" Yunho’s voice was low, almost smug, as he dragged his fingers deeper, forcing you to grind down onto his hand. "Did you think you could just tease us and get away with it?"
Yunho’s thumb moved up to circle your clit, pressing firmly and teasingly as he kept his fingers deep inside you. "So, you were saying," he purred, his gaze flicking to Mingi, then back to you. "You think you can tell who’s fucking you, huh?"
You couldn’t stop yourself from whining, the pressure building in your core. You blinked up at Yunho, trying to focus, but your head was spinning. "I-I’m sure…"
"Sure about what?" Yunho taunted, curling his fingers inside you to make you jerk against his hand. "That you’ll know exactly who’s who by our cocks?" He added, his voice turning darker, rougher. "We’ll see about that."
Mingi chuckled, the sound deep and amused. "She thinks she knows? Interesting." he said as his hand slipped beneath your shirt, cupping your breasts.
Yunho started pumping his fingers in and out, each stroke rough and punishing as he continued to work you open. "You think you can guess?" he growled, his lips curling into a twisted grin. "Because if you’re wrong… we won’t let you cum.."
You moaned softly, squeezing your eyes shut, your hips moving of their own accord. "I’ll guess," you said, breathless. "I can tell."
Mingi moved closer, dragging a finger lightly down your jaw, tilting your face so that you had to look at him. "Tell us, then," he purred, the challenge clear in his voice. "Tell us how badly you want us."
Yunho’s fingers slid in deeper, harder, his thumb circling your clit in rhythmic, relentless movements. "Tell us, sweetheart," he grunted. "Who’s got you this wet, hm?”
Your answer was nothing but a soft gasp, your body moving involuntarily as Yunho fucked his fingers into you, curling them at just the right angle.
"You don’t even know, do you?" Yunho hissed, suddenly pulling his fingers out of you, leaving you wanting more. “Such a little slut… Guess you’ll have to find out the hard way."
Mingi’s eager hands gripped your waist as he effortlessly lifted you off the ground, spinning you around and throwing you onto the bed with a slight chuckle. Your breath caught as you bounced on the mattress, heart racing in anticipation of what was to come. He towered over you in an instant, a hunger in his eyes that sent a shiver down your spine.
"Ready to play, sweetheart?" he growled, a wicked grin curving his lips.
Before you could respond, Mingi reached over to the nightstand, his movements swift and practiced, pulling a black silk blindfold from the drawer. He was already stripping it open, his eyes never leaving yours as he tied it around your head, blocking out all sight and plunging you into complete darkness.
A soft, teasing chuckle escaped Yunho’s lips as he leaned against the doorframe, eyes sparkling with amusement. "Look at you, Mingi," he teased, "as eager as she is. I guess she’s rubbing off on you."
Mingi shot Yunho a playful, half-resentful glare before positioning himself on the bed. "I can’t help it," he muttered, hovering over you as his hands roamed your body. "She’s so fucking irresistible."
You could feel the heat of Mingi’s body hovering just above yours, his breath tickling your skin as Yunho slowly walked closer, smirking at the scene unfolding. Mingi slid his hands to your hips, pinning you down, his fingers digging into the soft skin. "Don’t worry," he murmured, his voice low and full of promise, "we’ll get this game started real soon."
Yunho chuckled again, shaking his head, but the amusement in his gaze was unmistakable. "You think she’s ready for what we’re about to do?" he teased Mingi, his voice soft but dripping with intent.
Mingi smirked, his hands gently trailing up your thighs before resting on your hips. "Oh, she’s ready. Isn’t that right, baby?" he whispered, before planting a gentle kiss against your neck, moving slowly, deliberately.
You shivered, nodding your head even though you couldn’t see them, feeling your pulse quicken as the tension between you three thickened. The anticipation, the waiting, was almost too much to bear. But then, Mingi’s fingers traced over your body, touching you everywhere, making you ache for more.
"Tell me, sweetheart," he teased, voice dipping low. "You ready to play along? Guess who’s fucking you?"
You swallowed thickly, already trembling under the touch of their hands, knowing the game had just begun.
The rustling of clothes fills the room, each piece hitting the floor with a soft thud. Even blindfolded, you can hear them, sense the way they move around you like predators circling prey. Then, Yunho’s hands are on you—strong, demanding.
"Up." His tone leaves no room for hesitation. He manhandles you with ease, lifting you into his lap as he leans back against the headboard. Your back presses against his firm chest, his legs spread wide beneath you, forcing yours open. His hands grip your thighs, keeping them in place. Trapped.
"There we go, baby," he murmurs, his voice dripping with amusement. "Right where we want you."
Then there’s Mingi.
Settling between your legs, he lets out a low groan at the sight of your soaked panties. He presses two fingers against the damp fabric, dragging them up your slit slowly, teasingly.
"Look at this mess, Yunho." His voice is thick with mockery. "She’s already dripping onto your thighs."
Yunho chuckles, his breath hot against your ear. His hands move up, palms grazing your stomach before sliding to your chest. He cups your breasts, thumbs flicking over your already sensitive nipples.
"Of course she is," he muses, rolling one nipple between his fingers, tugging just enough to make you whimper. "She loves being used."
Before you can protest—not that you’d ever dare—Mingi hooks his fingers into your panties, dragging them down your thighs. The cool air barely has a chance to touch your soaked core before he pushes two fingers inside you, knuckles deep without warning.
A gasp rips from your throat, your body jerking, but Yunho tightens his hold, keeping you locked against him.
"Tsk, tsk," Mingi murmurs, curling his fingers inside you. "So fucking tight, and we haven’t even started."
"She can take more," Yunho says smoothly, his free hand sliding down your stomach. Before you can even process it, his fingers press against your entrance, slipping inside beside Mingi’s.
Your body tenses—overwhelmed, stretched, full—but neither of them give you a moment to adjust. They move in tandem, pushing deeper, working you open with no patience, no mercy. Your moans come in breathless little sobs, hips twitching between them.
"That’s it," Mingi coos mockingly, his thumb rubbing slow, taunting circles over your clit. "Take it like the desperate little thing you are."
Yunho’s lips graze your ear, his voice dangerously soft. "Who’s gonna break you first, baby?"
Mingi smirks, watching your body tremble.
"Doesn’t matter." His fingers pump harder, faster, sending shockwaves through you. "She’s gonna take us both anyway."
Yunho’s fingers keep working inside you, matching Mingi’s pace, stretching you open without an ounce of patience. The two of them are relentless, their movements synced—one thrusting deep, the other pressing against that sweet spot inside you that has your legs trembling.
Your moans are ragged, breath hitching every time their fingers push deeper. Mingi’s thumb flicks over your clit, teasing, taunting.
"She’s getting close," he murmurs, watching the way your body reacts. "Think we should let her cum?"
Yunho only smirks, locking eyes with him. A silent message passes between them.
Who’s taking her first?
Mingi tilts his head, considering. Then, he chuckles darkly. "Go ahead.” he signals.
The second the decision is made, they pull their fingers out at the same time. The sudden emptiness makes you whimper, thighs twitching as your walls clench around nothing. But before you can even process the loss, Yunho is already moving.
He grips your waist, lifting you with ease before placing you on the bed, your body sinking into the mattress. Both men hover over you, their eyes dark, predatory.
"Fuck, look at her," Mingi murmurs, raking his gaze down your body. "Completely ruined, and we haven’t even started."
Your chest rises and falls with uneven breaths, the blindfold still robbing you of sight. But you can feel their eyes on you—devouring, consuming. The way they hover, the heat radiating off their bare skin, the way Yunho’s weight dips the bed as he moves between your legs.
Then, a soft metallic clink.
One. Then another.
They’re taking off their rings.
Your lips part, realization hitting you hard. They’re making it impossible for you to tell who’s inside you.
"That's fucking mean," you whisper, barely audible.
Mingi clicks his tongue, fingers tracing over your trembling thighs. "Aw, baby, you look so nervous." His voice is laced with amusement, but there’s nothing comforting about it. "What’s wrong? Can’t tell who’s about to ruin you?"
You open your mouth to say something—anything—but then one of them moves between your legs.
No warning. No words.
Just the thick, aching heat of a cock dragging through your soaked folds, teasing, testing.
And then—he thrusts in.
Your body shatters around the stretch, a sharp gasp ripping from your throat as he sinks in deep. No patience, no hesitation—just one smooth, brutal thrust until he’s buried to the hilt, your walls tightening around him as you struggle to adjust.
He doesn’t make a sound.
No moans, no teasing, not even a sharp inhale. Just the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress, the heavy grip on your thighs keeping you spread wide.
Your lips part, breathless and dazed. "M-Mingi?"
A dark chuckle comes from beside you, but the man inside you? Silent.
Mingi’s fingers brush your jaw, tilting your head towards him. "Is that your guess?" His tone is smug, knowing. "Are you sure?"
Your mind is foggy, thoughts scrambled from the way he’s filling you—slow at first, dragging back just enough to make you feel every inch before slamming back in. Your breath hitches, nails digging into the sheets.
It has to be Mingi. Right? The way he’s holding you down, the way he—
Your thoughts disintegrate when he moves.
The next thrust is ruthless. Deep. Precise. The kind of stroke that knocks the air from your lungs, that makes your back arch off the bed as a cry rips from your throat.
You can’t even think straight.
You try again, voice barely a whisper. "Y-Yunho?"
Silence.
No confirmation. No denial. Just another brutal snap of his hips, deeper this time, dragging a moan from your lips before you can stop it.
"Tsk," Mingi coos, his fingers sliding down your throat, pressing just enough to make your head spin. "You don’t even know whose cock you’re taking, do you?"
You try to focus—on the grip on your waist, the way he moves, the way he stretches you. But it’s useless. He’s fucking you too hard, too deep, your body bouncing with each thrust, your moans breaking into incoherent little sobs.
And the worst part? The man between your legs still hasn’t said a damn thing.
Just fucking you into the mattress, watching you come undone, knowing you’ll never guess right.
And you don’t.
Because at this point, it doesn’t even matter.
The man inside you—Yunho (you think, you hope)—doesn’t hold back. His thrusts are deep, brutal, every stroke sinking to the hilt before pulling back just enough to make you feel the loss, only to slam back in harder. Your body jerks with every movement, helpless beneath him, completely at his mercy.
And he still doesn’t make a sound.
No moans, no taunts, nothing but the sound of skin slapping against skin and your breathy, desperate whimpers filling the air. You hate how easily you’re unraveling, how your body is already tightening, clenching around him, the pleasure coiling low in your stomach. You’re close—so close—your fingers gripping the sheets, legs trembling as your orgasm creeps up fast.
"P-Please," you whimper, not even sure who you’re begging. "Let me cum."
You can feel Yunho smirk against your skin. But he doesn’t answer.
Instead, he pulls out.
A sob rips from your throat at the sudden emptiness, your walls clenching around nothing, the pleasure fading into sharp frustration. You try to squeeze your legs shut, to chase something, but a firm hand grips your thighs, spreading you wide again.
Then you hear it.
The subtle shift of bodies. The rustle of movement.
And then—a new cock presses against your entrance.
Mingi.
Or at least, you think it’s Mingi. You don’t even have time to guess before he thrusts in, just as deep, just as brutal, splitting you open like you were made for this.
A strangled moan escapes your lips, your brain scrambling to figure out who it is, to recognize the way he moves, the way he fills you. But it’s impossible. You can barely focus with the way he’s pounding into you, each thrust hitting exactly where you need, dragging you right back to the edge of pleasure.
Your body tenses, tightening around him, ready to snap—
And then he pulls out too.
"No," you cry, voice breaking.
A deep chuckle. "Poor thing," Mingi murmurs, but you can’t tell if it’s him who was just inside you or if he’s sitting back, watching.
Your head is spinning, your body aching, but there’s no time to think—because once again, a new cock presses against your entrance.
Yunho.
Or maybe Mingi.
You have no idea.
The stretch is immediate, the fullness almost unbearable after being denied twice, but you can’t even bring yourself to care anymore. Your mind is nothing but static, your body trembling as they take turns with you, switching again and again, keeping you on the edge but never letting you fall.
Your thighs burn, your skin slick with sweat, your voice hoarse from begging.
But then—
When the next body presses against you, when the next cock slides inside, you feel it.
The way he angles himself. The way his hips roll slightly different.
Your body is trembling, every nerve alight with overstimulation, your mind fogged by the endless cycle of pleasure and denial. You don’t even know how many times they’ve switched, how many times they’ve pushed you to the brink only to rip it away at the last second.
But this time—this time, you know.
The second he thrusts back in, the stretch, the curve of him—it clicks.
"Yunho," you gasp, your voice wrecked from begging, from moaning, from taking.
For the first time, he makes a sound. A low, dark chuckle rumbles from his chest, and his grip on your waist tightens.
"Finally," Mingi muses from beside you, his tone laced with amusement. His hand ghosts over your jaw, tilting your face towards him. His lips brush against your ear, breath hot. "You really are a good little slut, huh? Figuring out who’s using you like this?"
A wave of heat washes over you at the praise, your thighs twitching, desperate for friction. But before you can get lost in it—before you can even think of chasing that pleasure—Yunho pulls out.
Your whole body jolts from the loss, a strangled sob escaping your lips.
"Shh," Mingi soothes, though there’s nothing gentle about the way he grips your throat, forcing your head back. His thumb strokes over your pulse, feeling how erratic it is. "You don’t think we’d let you cum that easily, do you?"
You whimper, shaking your head, because you already know the answer.
"Good girl," he purrs, pressing a slow, taunting kiss to your jaw before pulling back.
Then, his next words make your stomach drop.
"Yunho. Pick her up."
A rush of air fills your lungs as strong arms hook under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly. Your body is weightless, dizzy with exhaustion, but you feel the way Yunho settles back against the headboard, the broad expanse of his chest supporting you as he spreads your legs wide over his lap. And then—Mingi moves between them. Your breath stutters.
You barely have a second to react before Mingi’s hands grip your thighs, pushing them even wider as he presses himself against you. The slick drag of him against your already stretched entrance makes your head spin, the reality of what’s about to happen sinking in.
"Oh," you whisper, voice shaky.
Mingi smirks, dragging the head of his cock over your swollen, ruined cunt.
"Oh," he mocks, his voice dripping with amusement. "She finally gets it."
You barely get a chance to prepare before Yunho tightens his grip on your waist, and the pressure between your legs doubles.
And then—
They sink in together.
Your vision whites out, your body convulsing from the impossible stretch, the overwhelming fullness, the way they force you open, taking everything they give.
"Fuck," Mingi growls, voice strained. "She’s taking us both so fucking well."
Yunho doesn’t say a word. He just moves.
And the last coherent thought you have is that they still haven’t let you cum.
And you have no idea when they will.
The world outside your body seems to disappear as they continue, the overwhelming sensation of being stretched in both directions, filled and claimed in ways that make your head spin. The steady rhythm of their thrusts has your body writhing beneath them, and your chest rises and falls erratically with each deep push. They’re relentless. Neither one of them lets up, their hips slamming into yours with a force that has you gasping for air, your nails digging into the sheets beneath you.
You can barely keep track of who's inside you anymore. Your body’s giving itself over completely, the pressure building relentlessly as both men move in perfect harmony. Their pace never falters, pushing you to the brink of overwhelming pleasure, but they don't let you reach it. Not yet.
Every thrust is deeper, harder, until it feels like you’re being driven into the mattress, your body lifted slightly with each savage movement. The relentless pounding has you gasping for breath, your legs trembling with the intensity of their touch. You’re on the edge—so close—but then it happens again: they pull back.
You whimper, lost in the pleasure and the frustration, your body trembling with need.
"Please," you beg, your voice breaking, barely able to form the words. "Please... let me... please..."
Mingi chuckles low, his grip tightening around your hips. "Begging already? You’re a desperate little slut, huh?" His words are a mixture of praise and command, teasing you with the harsh edge of his tone.
Yunho doesn't respond with words, but the way he drives into you next, the sheer force of his movement, speaks louder than anything he could have said. You cry out, tears filling your eyes from the overwhelming sensation. The sounds of their movements and your moans fill the room, each thrust pushing you closer and closer to the edge. But still, they don’t let you tip over.
"You're gonna beg for it, aren't you?" Mingi murmurs, voice hushed but full of dark amusement. His hands roam over your body, touching, teasing, leaving you desperate for more. "Beg for us, baby. Beg us to let you cum."
You shake your head in disbelief, the frustration building to an unbearable point. "Please, please... I need it," you beg, voice trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks. "I need to cum... please."
Yunho grits his teeth, his hips snapping faster, deeper, forcing you to take every inch. The way he pushes into you, the way his body moves against yours—there’s no stopping it, no controlling it. You can feel the tension coiling tighter in your stomach, every thrust driving you closer to the edge, but the denial is unbearable.
Then—finally—they relent.
Mingi leans down, his lips crashing against yours in a rough, passionate kiss, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, claiming you as he thrusts harder. At the same time, Yunho’s hand slips between your legs, finding your clit, and his fingers begin to work it in tight, controlled circles.
Your body jolts at the touch, the sudden rush of sensation overwhelming, and without warning, the pressure in your core snaps. You’re spiraling, tumbling over the edge as they push you past every boundary. Your body trembles beneath them, your cries of pleasure swallowed by Mingi’s kiss, the heat and the relief washing over you in waves.
Yunho doesn’t stop, his fingers never ceasing their movement as your orgasm wracks through your body, leaving you gasping, panting, writhing in the aftermath.
Mingi pulls back from the kiss, his grin dark and satisfied. "That’s it," he murmurs. "Good girl. You did so well."
Your body is trembling, raw from the intense pleasure and the overwhelming teasing, but they’re not done with you yet. You’re spent, but still, the deep, relentless pounding continues, pushing you to the edge again. The air is thick with their dominance, their control over you, and it leaves you gasping for breath, struggling to keep up with their relentless pace.
Mingi leans over you, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re taking us so well, little slut,” he growls, his hands gripping your hips as he drives into you harder, deeper, pushing you further into the bed. The sensation is almost too much, and yet, you can’t help but want more. Every inch of you craves it—more of them, more of their control, more of the feeling of being filled and used like this.
But then—Yunho.
You hear the soft click of a drawer beside him. You can’t even process it before he pulls something small from the drawer—a vibrator. A small, sleek bullet, cold against your skin for a split second before he presses it against your clit.
You gasp. The sensation is too much. Your body tenses, already sensitive from the constant stimulation, and Yunho doesn’t waste a moment. The tiny vibrator buzzes against you, sending shocks of pleasure that make your body jolt. You can barely think as Mingi keeps fucking into you with no mercy, your body being pounded relentlessly, your mind spinning with the overload of sensation.
Yunho’s fingers work the vibrator over your clit with precision, each pulse sending you closer and closer to the edge. You’re shaking, completely at their mercy, unable to do anything but moan and beg as they continue. Your walls tighten around Mingi, and the pressure is almost unbearable.
And then, as the vibrator presses harder, the combination of the pounding and the stimulation hits you like a wave. Your body tenses, and a cry escapes your lips as your orgasm crashes over you. It’s intense, overwhelming, and your entire body clenches, the sensations rippling through you as you come.
But they’re not done yet.
As you tremble, still recovering from the overwhelming wave of pleasure, Mingi growls in satisfaction, his grip tightening around you, forcing you to stay in place as Yunho never stops, his fingers still pressing the vibrator against your clit. The pressure builds again, too much to bear, but you can’t pull away—you're trapped in this endless cycle of pleasure and denial.
They move together, pushing you past every limit you thought you had. The intensity is almost cruel, and they’re relentless in their control over you, taking their pleasure while you give in to theirs.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, they both cum, filling you up with their warmth. But even then, they don’t let up. Yunho pulls the vibrator away, but only for a second, making you shudder at the sudden absence before he presses it back, causing another wave of pleasure to pulse through you.
After everything, the room is thick with the weight of what just happened. Your body feels heavy, spent from the overwhelming pleasure. They both stay still for a moment, allowing the warmth of their thick cum to settle deep inside you. You can feel the mess, but neither one of them makes you move just yet.
Yunho pulls out first, his release dripping from you onto the mattress beneath. Mingi watches closely, his gaze dark with satisfaction. The moment is quiet, but the tension in the air is palpable.
“Look at you,” Mingi says softly, a slight smirk on his lips. His hands move to your thighs, gently soothing the tense muscles, his fingers gliding over your skin in slow, comforting strokes. “You did so well, baby.”
Yunho leans down to kiss your forehead, his lips soft against your skin. His hand brushes away the stray strands of hair clinging to your face. “You’re amazing,” he murmurs, his voice low, soft, and full of praise. “You handled us better than we expected.”
They give you a moment to breathe, their hands gentle against your skin. Yunho slowly reaches for the blindfold, carefully pulling it from your eyes. As the fabric slides away, you blink against the light, your gaze meeting theirs. Your eyes are still teary, and they drink in the sight of you—exhausted, yet somehow still aroused.
Mingi leans in, his fingers softly tracing the outline of your jaw. “How are you feeling, baby?” he asks, his voice laced with concern despite the teasing edge. He’s still watching you carefully, his fingers gentle as they rub the tender skin of your inner thighs. “We didn’t go too far, did we?”
Yunho smiles at the sight of you, his thumb brushing over your lips. “Good girl,” he says, his words soft but full of meaning. “You’re so beautiful when you’re completely ours.. completely for our own use.”
They both stay close, offering tender aftercare, letting the intensity of the moment fade as they care for you. Their hands, their words, their presence—everything about them is gentle, grounding you after the storm.
𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑 十二月 yunho didn't seem to care if someone walked in 정윤호 𝑒𝓈𝓉. 𝓇𝑒𝓁𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅 🎐 warnings: oral, squirting 597HUN drabble, smut CLICK4MORE
에이티즈─────welcome back user loserlvrss
The sound of a door opening caused your hand to fly up towards your mouth, clasping down over it. The other pushed on the head and arms, in alternation, that had been attached to your lower half for about fifteen minutes now. Your boyfriend hadn’t even gotten the rest of your clothes off before he was holding you in place, tongue fucking you into submission.
Reality hit again, “Fuck, Yunho—wait, someone—I think someone,” You were cut off by a particularly powerful suck of your clit, almost as his way of telling you to shut the fuck up. Your head lulled back into the pillow, focusing on him for only a moment. You were trying so hard to suppress the moans he drew out of you with the circles and kisses and licks against your cunt. But, there was no doubt he was skillful.
He didn’t care if someone walked in though; his roommates or friends or, God forbid, his family. He didn’t care, but you did. And that’s why you bit your lip, using both hands to try and pry him away from you.
“P-please I’m gonna—I can’t,” You felt a bubbling sensation within your lower stomach, all the pleasure finally adding up. This is what he wanted from you and he was going to get it.
He pulled you closer to his face, legs fully pressed into the creases of his arms, which caged you against his lips. He grabbed both of your wrists with his hands, locking them down. He made you stop moving, and took away your fail-safe noise control all at once.
“Yunho…” You practically sobbed under your breath, eyes shifting to the door. What a compromising position you’d have to explain. What an embarrassing memory you’d have to suppress. You didn’t want whoever it was to see you differently, however, your boyfriend was the only one to actually see you like this. “Don-don’t make me,”
But it was the desperate, lovesick look in his eyes that made you want the opposite when your head shifted back. It was the slight panting, and grinding hips that made you want to come undone for him. And at this rate, it seemed inevitable over your willpower.
Nobody’s ever wanted you this bad, and frankly the thought of being caught was kind of hot.
Your back arched against his hold suddenly, mouth threatening to fall open; the moans and whines cascading with it. Your orgasm was strong, stronger than usual, and it spasmed every muscle in your body. Your head was fuzzy, and it felt like the world was about to go dark.
And when you came to, you barely recognized what happened. Not only did he almost get you to pass out from the intensity, but you squirted against his chin and neck as well.
Panic set in, and you looked around through the white-dots that scattered your vision, frantically in search of whoever could’ve walked in—oh, what an even more embarrassing sight for them to see. You didn’t even care about your soaked boyfriend who was kissing your thighs, trying to calm you down.
“Angel,” He said, trying to gather your attention, “Look at me.”
Those familiar words awoke something primal in you, and you did as you were told. He crawled up your body, leaving kisses against the skin he could get to underneath the hoodie that had ridden up. He finally let your arms free in the process, palms coming to rest against your blushing cheeks.
“Stop worrying,” He kissed your lips, a mix of yourself on his taste, “The door’s locked.”
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