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8TURN: stagefright

~🤤After The Race With 8TURN🤤~

Street Racer 8TURN x Fem reader

Smut

18+MDNI

Content warnings:

Jaeyun

The rumble of engines still vibrates in your chest as Jaeyun’s car tears past the finish line, tires smoking and lights blurring around him. You and your friends watch from the sidelines—heart hammering—when he kills the engine mere feet away, steps out like he owns the night. Leather jacket hanging off his shoulders, hair mussed from the wind, he fixes you with a smug grin that makes your pulse spike despite your best efforts to look unimpressed.

He saunters over, every stride oozing confidence. “Thought you were too good to be seen at a street race?” he drawls, voice low and teasing. You cross your arms, chin lifted in false bravado. “I never said that,” you snap, but his laugh is rough, hungry. “Is that so?” he challenges, eyes flashing with dare.

His hand clamps around your ass—iron‑strong—and he yanks you behind the lot where no one else can see. The cold night air does nothing to cool the heat between you. He shoves you against a chain‑link fence, body pressing hard into yours. “You think you can act entitled towards me?” “Don’t forget, I know you.” he wipers in your ear with a growl, mouth crashing down on yours. His tongue ravages your lips while his free hand buries itself in your hair, tilting your head back.

One heavy hand slides under your shirt, nails dragging across your ribs before cupping your breast with bruising force. He pinches your nipple, watching it harden beneath his touch. “You’ve been dripping for me since I crossed that line,” he hisses, teeth grazing your collarbone. His other hand snakes down your jeans, two fingers diving between your folds. He finds you soaked—slick and ready—then circles your clit with rough, deliberate strokes until you’re trembling.

Without warning, he scoops your panties off in one swift yank and steps back to take a look at your dripping cunt. He strips off his own pants, cock stands thick and throbbing in the cold air. He grabs your hips and gives your pussy a harsh smack that has you screaming out in pleasure and pain. He lines himself up, and slams into you from behind. Fast, brutal, no hesitation—each thrust drives you harder into the fence, skin slapping against metal and flesh. You choke out a cry, gripping the gate as he groans your name.

He keeps pounding you, deeper, harder, until your vision swims. “That’s it,” he pants, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your waist tight. “Take it all, you filthy little slut.” Your orgasm rips through you like lightning—body shuddering, cunt clenching—right as he shudders above you, pulsing his cum deep inside. His growl vibrates through you as he rides out both of your highs.

When he finally pulls out, he doesn’t give you a moment to recover—just presses you back against the fence, breath mingling in harsh pants. “Never try to play hard to get with me baby, I already have you.” he murmurs, voice dark and promising. Then he steps away, slick and steaming, tossing you a crooked grin. “Make sure you see me tomorrow.”

Myungho

The roar of Myungho’s engine still thrums in your ears as he blows past the finish line, tires smoking and headlights flashing like warning beacons. You and your friends press against the guardrail, adrenaline surging, when he kills the engine and steps out—lean, dangerous, and utterly scorching in his leather jacket. His gaze sweeps the crowd until it lands on you. Your pulse leaps as he smirks, hair mussed from the wind, eyes glinting with challenge.

He strides over, every movement measured confidence. “You looked like you couldn’t keep your eyes off me,” he purrs, voice low and teasing. You roll your shoulders back, chin high. “I could say the same about you,” you fire back, tone brittle. Myungho’s grin widens, teeth flashing. “Big mouth,” he murmurs, stepping so close your breath mingles. “Let’s see how long you can talk back when I shut you up.”

He grabs you—surprisingly hard—and he hauls you behind the pit wall, into the deep shadows where the night air is cool on your skin. He shoves you against a stacked tire, body pressing so tight it takes your breath. His kisses you, biting your lip, tongue slamming in. You try to break free, but his other hand snakes under your shirt, dragging it up and exposing your heated skin to the chill concrete.

He rips your jeans open and yanks your panties down in the same motion, discarding them like trash. Two fingers plunge between your soaked folds, dragging slow, deliberate circles over your clit. You gasp, hips bucking against his hand, and he chuckles, dark and low. “Already dripping for me,” he growls, thumb rubbing your slick entrance. “Fuck, you’re so ready.”

Suddenly he spins you, presses you face‑first into the tire, and positions himself behind you. His cock—thick, red‑veined, absolutely throbbing—slams into you. You cry out as he rims your walls with one deep, brutal thrust, spreading your wetness deep inside. He holds your hips tight, hips snapping forward in savage rhythm, each strike making your body tremble. He reaches for your clit and rubs it harshly, making you squirt and scream out.

Your moans echo between the tires as he hammers you relentlessly, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your waist. “That’s it, take every inch.” Your orgasm rips through you—waves of bliss that shudder your spine—while he buries himself deeper, shuddering with his own release, spurting hot and heavy.

When he finally pulls out, you’re both slick and trembling. He presses you against the tire one last time, and grabs your face like he owns you. “You won’t get to talk back next time. He steps away, jeans half‑zipped, tossing you a crooked grin. “I’ll pick you up for class from now on. See you tomorrow baby.”

Minho

The growl of Minho’s engine still vibrates in your chest as he tears past the finish line, rubber burning and headlights cutting through the night air. You and your friends press close to the guardrail, adrenaline slamming through your veins, when he kills the engine and steps out onto the pavement. Leather-clad, hair wind-tossed, he scans the crowd until his gaze locks on you—bright, predatory, daring you to look away.

He walks over to you, “Watching me, princess?” he drawls, voice low and dangerous. You fold your arms. “Just watching a show,” you snap, tone brittle. Minho’s lips curl into a wicked grin. “Funny,” he murmurs, stepping so close his heat washes over you. “I thought you said you didn’t care.”

Before you can walk away, his fingers clamp around your waist—hard enough to sting—and he yanks you behind a line of parked cars, into the shadowed space beneath the pit lights. Your breath hitches as he shoves you against the cold metal door of his ride, hands landing on your hips with bruising force. He crashes his mouth onto yours, tongue crashing against your teeth, pulling a sharp gasp from your throat.

One hand snakes under your crop top, dragging it up and over your chest in one smooth motion. His other hand slams your skirt up around your waist, exposing your cotton panties to the chill night air. He presses his palm flat against your stomach, pinning you as his thumb circles your hardening bud through the fabric. “Already this wet,” he growls, thumb brushing over your folds until you shudder.

Then he yanks your panties to the side and lines himself up, cock slick—thick and throbbing in the dim light. With one brutal thrust he drives into you, hips slamming forward so hard you cry out. Skin meets metal as he pins you against the car, your back arching beneath him. His hand tightens on your hip, the other tangles in your hair, forcing your head to the side.

He fucks you with savage, unrelenting force—each thrust deeper, harder, echoing in the empty lot. Your moans fill the space, mingling with the slap of flesh on flesh. “Ride me, baby,” he snarls, voice ragged. “Show me how much you love this.” You dig your nails into his shoulders, matching his pace, and your orgasm rips through you in hot, shuddering waves, shaking and overstimulated, just as he groans, hips jerking in one final, explosive release.

He pulls out, still buried halfway, cum dribbling down your thigh. He brushes a strand of hair from your face. “Don’t act cold with me,” he whispers, voice thick, “Ever again.” Then he steps back and bleed to a kiss. “See you in class tomorrow, sweetheart.”

Yoonsung

The night air still thrums with the echo of roaring engines as Yoonsung’s car burns rubber across the finish line. You and your friends lean against the concrete barrier, adrenaline and the sting of cool air on your flushed skin. He kills his engine right in front of you, headlights cutting you in half like a spotlight. Leather jacket unzipped just enough to peek at a bare chest, he steps out—hair wild, chest heaving—and locks eyes with you. That slow, predatory grin tells you he knows you’ve been watching.

He strides over with silent confidence, boots echoing against the pavement. “You couldn’t keep your eyes off me,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. You square your shoulders, lifting your chin. “I was watching the race,” you retort, tone cool. He laughs softly, dark and amused. “Keep lying,” he growls, close enough that you can feel his breath. “I saw your hand slip between your legs every time I drifted around that corner.” “What were you checking for?,” “Did I get you too hot?,” He smirks.

Before you can protest, his fingers clamp around your wrist—painfully tight—and he yanks you behind the row of idling cars. He shoves you against the cold metal side of one of the rides, chest to back, and crushes his mouth onto your neck. His tongue licking over and soothing the bite marks he’s leaving, and you moan into him, surprised by your own eagerness. One rough hand threads through your hair, tilting your head back, while the other snakes up under your shirt to grope your bare ribs.

He grabs your hips and spins you, pinning your back against the car’s hood. His hands rip your top up in one motion, freeing your breasts to the chill air. He leans down, buries his face between your breasts, and sucks a bruise into your skin before biting gently. “So good,” he pants, pressing your body flush. “So fucking good for me.” His fingers slip between your thighs, pushing your panties aside to dip into your wet heat. “God, you’re dripping,” he rasps, circling your clit with two slick fingers.

You tremble as he plays with your clit. His other hand yanks your jeans and panties off in a brutal tug, scattering denim across the asphalt. He straightens, unbuckles his belt, and his cock springs free—thick, red‑veined, already leaking. He lines himself up at your entrance and slams in without warning. The brutal impact steals your breath, metal scraping against your cheek, and you cry out.

Yoonsung wastes no time. Each thrust is savage and relentless. He grips your hips, pulling you into him, filling you completely. Your moans fill the silent lot, mingling with the slap of flesh on metal. “Look at you,” he growls in your ear, voice husky. “Such a filthy little slut for me.” You clutch at the hood, nails scraping paint, body clenching around him as he speeds you toward the edge.

Your orgasm hits like a lightning strike—hot, shuddering waves that squeeze him tight—while he snarls and pounds through his own release, spurting cum deep inside you. Feeling overstimulated, you start to squirt. He collapses against you for a moment, chest heaving, before pulling out and pressing you back against the. He smirks. “Keep acting like you don’t want it,” he whispers, voice thick, “and you’ll be begging before the engine even starts.” Then he straightens, zips up, leaving you with a tender kiss.

Haemin

The hiss of burning rubber still echoes in your ears when Haemin’s car skids to a halt, rear tires smoking in the dim light. You and your friends lean over the guardrail, pulses racing, as he steps out—leather jacket unzipped to reveal that sculpted chest, hair slicked back, chest heaving. His eyes sweep the crowd until they lock on you, and that predatory smile flashes like a promise you can’t—and don’t want to—ignore.

He strides over, boots clicking against the asphalt, every movement dripping with confidence. “Thought you didn’t give a damn about racers,” he purrs, voice low and dangerous. You lift your chin, crossing your arms. “You’re just a guy with a fast car,” you snap, trying to sound unimpressed. Haemin’s laugh rumbles through his chest. “Is that so? Prove it—walk away.”

Before you can blink as you try to take one step, his hand clamps around your wrist—iron-strong—and he yanks you behind the stacked concrete barriers where the pit lights don’t reach. The night air turns cold against your skin, but Haemin’s mouth is scorching as he crashes into yours, teeth grazing your lower lip, tongue raking over yours with fierce hunger. One hand threads through your hair, jerking your head back to deepen the kiss, while the other plunges beneath your crop top to press bruising fingers against your bare ribs.

He spins you around, pressing your back flat against the cold concrete. With one brutal tug, he rips your shorts down and yanks your panties aside, exposing you completely. His eyes darken at the sight of your flushed, heaving body as he takes one look at your wet and sticky pussy. “So fucking perfect,” he growls, fingertips pinching your nipples until they pucker and harden. You gasp, arching into his touch as he circles your clit with a heavy thumb, drawing out a needy moan.

Two fingers slip inside you, slow and deliberate, curling to brush that perfect spot. He pumps them in and out with mounting urgency, thumb grinding your clit in vicious circles. “God, you’re dripping all over my hand,” he rasps, pressing you into each stroke. Your hips buck, chasing the friction, and he rewards you by sinking a third finger in, stretching you open with ruthless precision.

Abruptly, he drops to his knees and shoves his face between your thighs, mouth devouring your wetness. His tongue slides thick and rough across your folds, teeth grazing your clit, and you cry out, body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you. He sucks you down harder while still pumping his fingers in and out of you, savoring every slick, slurping sound, before pulling back with a dark chuckle. “Taste so good, baby,” he murmurs, standing and positioning himself at your entrance.

With a savage thrust, he buries himself deep, hips slamming into you without mercy. You choke out a cry as his pace builds—fast, hard, relentless—each stroke jarring your body against the concrete. He fisted his hand in your hair, pulling you back so he can whisper against your ear. He repositions himself to the hood of his car and places you on top of him. “Ride me, slut. Show me how much you want this cock.” Your walls clamp around him, moans echoing off the barriers as you start to ride him. You shatter into your climax, and he follows, growling your name while he spills his cum deep inside. When he finally pulls out, he grants your chin forcing you to look at him. He gives you a gentle kiss on your cheek then your lips, breath hot against your skin. “Next time you try to act like you don’t want it,” he whispers, voice thick, “you’ll be begging before the engine even starts.” Then he kisses you once more, gets dressed, and steps back into the shadows, leaving you trembling and awaiting the next time he claims you.

Kyungmin

The roar of Kyungmin’s engine still thrums through your bones as he rockets past the finish line, taillights glowing like embers against the dark pavement. You and your friends lean over the barrier, pulse hammering, when he kills his engine inches from where you stand. He steps out—jacket slung low on his hips, hair plastered to his forehead—and sweeps the crowd with a predator’s gaze until he finds you. Your breath hitches under that hungry stare.

He strides over, boots crunching gravel, grin cocky as hell. “Didn’t think you’d stick around,” he drawls, voice rough and teasing. You square your shoulders, chin high. “I was bored of watching losers,” you snap, trying to hide how his nearness makes your pulse spike. Kyungmin’s grin widens, eyes flicking to your mouth. “We’ll see how long that attitude lasts.”

Before you can retort, his hand clamps around your wrist like steel, yanking you behind a line of parked rides where his car was parked and the lights don’t reach. The night air chills your skin, but his mouth is fire as he slams you into the metal side of his car. His lips crush yours—teeth grazing, tongue ramming deep—while one hand knots in your hair and the other snakes up beneath your shirt, dragging it over your head in one brutal yank.

He spins you around, pressing you face‑first against the hood, and rips your skirt up around your waist, ripping your panties in half as he does it. The sight of your naked lower half under the orange glow sets something wild in his eyes. “So fucking vulnerable,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your slick folds. Two fingers press into you, hard and merciless, curling to stroke that spot that makes you see stars.

Your body jerks at the intrusion, breath catching as he slams a third finger in, keeping you stretched and trembling. He leans down and bites gently at your shoulder blade, eyes never leaving your trembling backside. “You like that?” he rasps. “Like being used right here on my car?” You whimper, aching for more, and he chuckles, dragging his fingers free just enough to watch you drip.

Without warning, Kyungmin pulls back, undoes his belt, and his cock—thick and leaking—slashes against your back. He positions himself, then drives in from behind with one savage thrust that makes you choke out a gasp. Skin slaps against metal in percussive beats as he hammers into you, each thrust deeper, harder than the last. One hand grips your hip bone, the other pins your shoulder, holding you exact while he fucks you raw.

Your climax crashes over you, hot and merciless, walls clenching down on him as he growls your name. He follows in seconds, spurting deep inside you, chest heaving. When he finally pulls out, he presses you down onto the hood by the neck. “Next time you think you’re too cool to watch,” he breathes, voice low and dangerous, “you’ll be begging me before the checkered flag drops.” Then he steps back, zips up, kisses your lips, and melts into the night—leaving you trembling, sated, and already craving the next race.

Yungyu

The roar of Yungyu’s engine still thrums in your chest when he rockets past the finish line, neon brake lights glowing like embers in the dark. You and your friends lean over the barrier, adrenaline pulsing through your veins, as he kills the engine mere feet away. He steps out—leather jacket half‑unzipped, sweat gleaming on his collarbones, hair falling into his eyes—and scans the crowd until his gaze locks on you. That slow, predatory smile tells you he’s claiming you already.

He saunters over, boots echoing on the asphalt, every movement radiating dangerous confidence. “You can’t hide those eyes,” he murmurs, voice low and magnetic. You lift your chin, arms crossed. “I wasn’t staring,” you snap, though your throat tightens. Yungyu chuckles, stepping so close you feel his heartbeat. “Don’t lie to me. I felt you watching every drift.”

Before you can pull back, his fingers clamp around your wrist—iron‑strong—and he drags you behind the row of parked cars where the floodlights don’t reach. The night air chills your skin, but his mouth is hot as he crushes his lips to yours. His tongue rips into your mouth, teeth grazing yours, and you gasp, caught off‑guard by the raw intensity. One hand tangles in your hair, tipping your head back, while the other unhooks your bra beneath your shirt, exposing your chest to the cool breeze.

He flips you around and shoves you against the cold metal side of his car, crushing his mouth to your neck. His teeth scrape over your pulse point as his hands go to work—one ripping your shirt up and over your head, the other yanking your jeans down in one jagged motion. You’re exposed, nipples hard in the dim light, and Yungyu’s eyes darken with hunger. “So perfect,” he growls, thumbs pinching your hardened buds before sliding lower to find your slick wetness.

Two fingers plunge between your legs, curling inside you without warning, and you moan, hips rocking back into his hand. He presses his thumb to your clit and pumps his fingers relentlessly, each thrust drawing out your deepest whimpers. “Dripping for me,” he rasps, face inches from your core. “Let me see how much you need me.” You tremble, overwhelmed by the delicious friction and his relentless command.

He pulls his fingers free and drops to his knees, yanking your panties aside and capturing your folds with his tongue. His mouth slurps and sucks with brutal precision, teeth grazing the bundle of nerves until you’re arching and crying out. Your hands claw at his shoulders, gripping him as wave after wave of pleasure consumes you. He hums against your slit, tongue flicking over your swollen clit, before standing and lining himself up at your entrance.

With one savage thrust, he buries himself deep inside you, hips slamming forward so hard you gasp for air. Skin meets metal as you fold over the car, and his firm grip on your hips drives you into the rhythm—fast, hard, unrelenting. “Moan for me,” he growls in your ear, voice thick with control. “Let me see how bad you want to cum.” Your orgasm rips through you, body convulsing around him, just as he follows with a guttural groan, spurting hot and heavy inside you. When he finally pulls out, he presses you back against the car, breath mingling. “Next time,” he whispers, voice dark and promising, “you’ll be begging before I even hit the gas.” Then he steps back into the glow of the lot lights, leaving you trembling, spent, and utterly his.

#8turn #kpop bg #8turn minho #yang minho #8turn yungyu #lee yungyu #kpop idols #gifs #gif #cute boys #metal detectors #abs of steel #fur hat #faux fur #kpop gifs #kpop #kpop boys

after office hours : sung hanbin

zb1 mlst

pairing — sung hanbin x f!reader

content — fluff, hanbin is an idiot and down bad, matt and taerae there just for the plot, it also takes hanbin 5.7K words to confess because he’s dumb, random ass 8turn minho feature (omg i hated writing that bby like this 😖), this is very long!

syn — hanbin never thought he’d fall for his colleague.

workplace romance hasn’t been hanbin’s thing.

however, that is not to say he is immune to the flirty charms of some of his female colleagues. one-night stands are about as far as he goes in the name of commitment, though the intimacy still eludes him. he doesn’t care much about relationships and romance. he doesn’t have a soft spot for his colleagues either.

he thinks his life is complicated enough as it is. he doesn’t need to worry about someone else’s emotional baggage.

so what if he is twenty-five and his mother is going absolutely nuts trying to convince him to settle down? he is happy where he is. with his glasses perched on and a bowl of instant noodles, the only thing he has been consuming aside from black coffee for months, he is content.

that is why he doesn’t bat an eye when he is introduced to a new intern in the logistics department. during the intern’s introduction, hanbin’s eyes are trained on his phone screen, chin resting in the palm of his hand as he scrolls through the group chat. seok matthew, the hr manager—aka gossip central—is blowing up his phone, talking about the relationship between the head of the finance department and his assistant, which hanbin knows for sure is a breach of company’s guidelines.

he couldn’t be less interested in interacting with new people, especially his juniors. he leaves as soon as the introductions are over, his eyes only flickering once towards the new intern, catching a glimpse of your soft features and round, wide eyes.

he doesn’t dwell much, even if those eyes are seared into his head. he doesn’t do love. doesn’t believe in softness. he’s too awkward for that. then again, he also doesn’t believe in overtime, wearing ties, or getting emotionally attached, and yet, here he is. three for three.

it isn’t until three weeks later, during lunchtime, that hanbin sees you—the new recruit—again. he catches glimpses of you in the past few days, sure. the soft pastels of your clothes, those flowy sundresses that move past him when he’s in the café down the road for his evening coffee.

however, he isn’t expecting you to be sitting at his table—in his and his friends’ place. matthew and taerae, like always, will be five or ten minutes late.

hanbin blinks, then reluctantly makes his way over to you. confusion and frustration line his face—confusion because he doesn’t expect to see you sitting where he and his friends have been eating lunch for years, frustration because he hasn’t been able to catch a break from seeing you and now he is forced to be social against his will.

amazing, isn’t it?

“you,” is the best greeting he can offer as a cynical asshole who doesn’t know how to approach softness.

hanbin watches as your head snaps up to look at him, your eyes wide and startled. he distantly notices the homemade bento box.

“you’re in my seat,” he says dryly, his voice gruff but not unkind. his dark eyes roam over your face for a brief second, and as shameful as it is to admit, he did check you out.

your lips part, though no sound escapes you. for a few seconds, you stare at each other in awkward silence, only the chatter of other employees bustling in and out of the place keeping you aware of everyone else’s presence.

then, abruptly, you are standing up, nervously closing your lunch box. hanbin, against his will, feels guilty for scaring you.

he is about to speak, but you beat him to it, your tone flustered: “i—i’m sorry. there weren't any empty seats today.”

and true, hanbin only now notices how full the cafeteria looks today, as if everyone from the building is suddenly cooped up in one place. he can also bet his life that it has something to do with the hr department and their weekly gossip meetings in random ass places.

he pinches the bridge of his nose. now, hanbin knows he is a cynical asshole, but he isn’t a heartless bastard. besides, he couldn't let a new intern eat alone—especially not with how unfamiliar the environment could be for someone new.

“no, wait—” he starts, raising his hand as if to touch your shoulder to stop you, but he catches himself and instead gestures at the seat awkwardly. “you can sit here,” he says reluctantly.

you blink up at him as if he had asked you to worship satan—or lick an anime character figurine, which he couldn’t even dream of asking anyone to do.

“oh,” you breathe out, slowly sitting down again. hanbin notices that you are sitting on the edge of your seat, as if you are scared he’ll ask you to leave any second. “are you sure?”

a muscle in his jaw jumps when he sees you starting to stand up again. “i am sure,” he responds tightly, then takes a seat across from you. he forces himself to relax, not wanting to intimidate you more than he already has.

he places his coffee—as black as his clothes, and his self-proclaimed dark heart—and his lunch on the table, waiting for matthew and taerae. he notices something else about you—a keychain. a weird, stupid digimon keychain. he suppresses a scoff, because of course you’d have some weird quirks. a beauty like that doesn’t come with all sweetness; eccentric personality is a must.

hanbin, uninterested in watching you eat, glances towards the cafeteria door, wondering how long matthew and taerae will take. he knows your name, though he doesn’t want to interact with someone who is two years his junior.

but of course, you want to talk.

“what… if you don’t mind me asking, what’s your name?” you ask, your voice soft, almost lost in the loud chatter.

hanbin wants to scoff. unbelievable. you don’t know him? who doesn’t know sung hanbin in this building? he is the head of editorial department, for fuck’s sake.

“hanbin. i work in the editorial department,” he responds, a hint of reluctant indulgence in his voice. he doesn’t want to tell you his occupation, so he simply skips it.

you nod, bringing a piece of chicken to your mouth and chewing it thoughtfully. hanbin’s gaze again lingers on that ugly digimon keychain, his eye twitching.

yeah, no. he hates it.

“my name’s y/n,” you say, as if hanbin hadn’t been present during your introduction. “i’m in logistics department. on the seventeenth floor.”

he bites his tongue to stop himself from uttering something rude. he knows everything you just told him. he has been working here for seven fucking years and knows the entire forty-floor building like the back of his hand.

however, as if to save him from making a fool of himself, matthew and taerae arrive, both holding their drinks and lunches. it is safe to say that neither hanbin nor his friends have had a taste of homemade food for a long time—not with their busy schedules and hectic daily lives.

as they notice you quietly munching on your homemade lunch, their eyes go round with surprise. however, matthew, ever the social butterfly, is quick to soften his expression and slide into the empty space beside you.

taerae, on the other hand, is a bit more reserved (or pretended to) as he settles beside hanbin, placing his lunch and hazelnut latte on the table.

“i’m matt!” the guy on your left chirps, effectively startling you.

hanbin watches with thinly veiled irritation. your wide eyes flick to matthew’s chopsticks frozen midair—like you’ve been caught sneaking into someone’s diary. noticing the awkwardness, taerae chimes in:

“kim taerae,” comes his junior’s nonchalant introduction. hanbin wants to scoff. the boy is acting as if he doesn’t cry watching titanic every. single. time.

despite meeting you for the first time, taerae and matthew surprisingly warm up to you faster than hanbin expected.

maybe hanbin really is emotionally constipated.

what hanbin thought would be a one-time thing with you sitting with them, turns into a daily routine. soon, you were a plus-one in their usual trio. matthew and taerae grew attached to you, and did everything they could to fill you in with the gossip.

by the second week, you were invited to their weekend movie nights. it didn’t bother hanbin, really.

he stopped being wary of you when you commented on his coffee, claiming that it would taste better if he added sugar and a little creamer. at the start of the third week, hanbin’s coffee started tasting a bit less bitter, and a little sweeter.

by the end of the third week, his kitchen cabinets were filled with your favorite snacks, your scent lingering on his couch cushions and the blanket you always wrap around yourself with during their movie nights. the start of the fourth week didn’t bring anything new, aside from hanbin becoming your reluctant driver. ever since he found out where you lived, he knew he couldn’t let you go alone—not with how shady your neighborhood is. though, it was expected that you’d live somewhere like this, considering that you are a young graduate who started working less than three months ago.

again, your scent lingers inside his car, clinging to the leather seats. even when another woman sits in his car, your sickly perfume can’t mask your scent.

it is like you have fucking imprinted yourself on him, and hanbin is helplessly drawn to you against his will. you were like a calm to his chaotic thoughts and awkwardness.

he finds himself smiling at your texts. his usually bitter coffee is slowly being replaced by your favorite drinks. when matthew commented about your homemade bento and expressed his desire for a home-cooked meal, there were three extra lunchboxes on their table the very next day.

against his will, hanbin’s walls soften around you, melting like they were never carved out of stone.

“this is my pet,” you say, pointing towards a small… plant? of course, hanbin knew you were eccentric.

it’s week six of… whatever the hell this is. friendship? closeness? emotional sabotage? hanbin is sitting in your small, cozy apartment, his back leaning against the side of your bed.

for someone who lives in a thirty-story high-rise apartment building, your place is surprisingly well-kept, and your neighbors are nice—a detail hanbin couldn’t relate to. he lives in a condo, and his neighbors are stuck-up pricks at best.

his neighbor’s dog also pisses on his doormat because the dumb bitch just could.

in three months, he knew about you more than he should. you are eccentric. beneath those shy eyes, you are a fierce, sharp-tongued brat.

if he thought being your senior would earn him respect, he was terribly, terribly fucking mistaken. your sharp, out-of-pocket responses often leave him gaping. though taerae and matthew absolutely worship you and your homemade lunchboxes.

hanbin couldn’t believe those two dropped their loyalty to him because of your cooking.

traitors. he should’ve known his friends could be swayed by very little.

now, there are so many things he knows about you:

• you have a three "headed" pet cactus named dugtrio. best part is that it started as a single "head” called diglett. hanbin was admittedly impressed about the obvious reason to change its name. • you have a massive sweet tooth. • you cry during titanic, too. • you have a knack for collecting those creepy anime figurines and ridiculously large band t-shirts. • your favorite food is gyudon. • your favorite dresses to wear during summer are floral-print sundresses. • you love going on picnics. • you hate winter because you catch colds easily. • you are afraid of bugs. • you like three pumps of hazelnut in your coffee.

simple enough, except it is not. not for someone like hanbin, who is so used to preserving his peace and running away from getting deeply attached.

it’s another day at the office when hanbin sees you walking towards the elevators, your bag slung over your shoulder. you are wearing a white sundress with blue floral prints. the fabric looks light and soft, and the way it wraps around your body makes hanbin’s fingers itch.

now, he wouldn’t mind being holed up inside an elevator with you. he never takes the elevator with you—not when it’s only the two of you. however, he saw one of his colleagues—yang minho—and he knew he couldn’t let you deal with that guy’s strangeness alone.

he wasn’t a bad guy, but hanbin definitely does not want his grubby hands to even brush against you. so, he fastens his pace, slipping an arm between the elevator doors to stop them from closing.

thank god the doors didn’t close on his fucking arm. the last thing he needed was to have a witness while he loses his dignity.

he notices how your eyes widen before the corners of your lips curve into a bright smile. and, as shameful as it is to admit, hanbin couldn’t deny he had started developing a strange fondness for you.

“morning,” he grumbles, the back of his neck feeling far too hot for his liking.

beside him, you chirp out your greeting, “morning, hanbin!”

hanbin huffs, pressing the button for the seventeenth and thirty-first floors. from across him, minho offers him a sly smile, as if he knows something hanbin doesn’t.

“hanbin, how’s your hand?” your voice, tinged with barely hidden concern, pulls him out of his thoughts.

“hm?” he leans down slightly, brows furrowed in confusion before he realizes what you’re asking about. his hand—the one he burned after arrogantly claiming that he could cook—makes his ears turn red as the memory of him embarrassing himself in front of you surfaces.

“i—it’s fine,” he responds, tugging at his tie to loosen it a little.

fuck, the accident wasn’t his fault. it had been completely yours. you were standing too close, the scent of your shampoo and sweet perfume was too distracting. then you had to go ahead and touch him, albeit innocently, but it had been enough to rattle his entire system.

hanbin truly hates the way you affect him. he couldn’t even remember when it started, but one day you were all around him. under his skin, on his couch, in his car—you’re choking him. you’ve had him in a chokehold since the day he saw you; he was just too much of an idiot to notice until it was too late.

as hanbin leans against the wall of the elevator, he feels your shoulder brushing against his arm. he is far too aware of your presence, his senses heightened by your proximity. but he doesn’t get to dwell on those straying thoughts when the doors of the elevator open on the sixth floor, and dozens of people enter.

hanbin and you are pushed to the very back, and minho ends up right in front of you. usually, he wouldn’t care for anyone else if they were being cornered in a crowded elevator. but it isn’t anyone else—it’s you. so, before minho’s filthy hands can touch you, excused as an accident, hanbin slips between them, pushing you further against the cool wall of the elevator.

his arm comes to rest above your head to keep himself from pressing his entire weight against you. hanbin watches you flinch, your speech stuttering, eyes wide like a fawn’s. he doesn’t comment, simply leaning his head down until his forehead presses against the crown of your head. the scent of your shampoo wafts in the air—sweet and floral, like meadows bathed in sunlight.

he sighs, his hand balled into a tight fist. god damn you, why do you have to make him feel like this? three months is not enough time to fall for someone—not for someone like him.

someone who doesn’t deserve this kind of sweetness in his life. and that thought terrifies him. he is unfamiliar with this sort of intimacy, where touch isn’t even required. just silent understanding and a presence that is too stubborn to move.

“you,” he breathes out, voice low enough only for you to hear, “what are you doing to me?”

it was a rhetorical question. hanbin knows exactly what you’re doing to him, even if you claim not to understand your effect on him.

it’s the alien intimacy, the urge to just… just be with you that terrifies him.

hanbin is used to fast-paced scenes. he’s used to bodies tangled in fleeting passion, quick and forgettable. he’s used to attraction, release as per his body’s need. but what he isn’t used to is gentleness. this foreign sweetness—that is so you.

you don’t make him want to take you to his bed. no. you make him want to just look at you, to understand you, be with you without touching you, as if you are a piece of art he’d ruin with a single hand.

he’s never cared to learn someone’s smallest quirks. never noticed how anyone speaks, or if they pause mid-sentence when they’re shy. but you? he memorizes everything. but here he is—doing everything he never saw himself doing. if someone told him that he’d fall for someone like you, he’d have punched them before asking the source of their nonsense.

“i…i don’t know what you’re talking about,” you whisper, your voice so quiet and soft, and hanbin wants…

he could feel the warmth of your body, soft against the hard planes of his muscles, the gentle caress of your breath against his neck.

god fucking damn it.

“fuck it—” just as hanbin is about to do something reckless, like kiss you or lay his heart bare in a fucking elevator of all places, their small bubble is rudely popped by someone.

…yang fucking minho.

and then—minho taps his ass, as if that piece of shit hadn’t realized it’s hanbin he’s touching.

a goddamn cockblock. but hanbin is glad minho did that; otherwise, he’d have confessed in an elevator like some lovesick fool. or worse.

annoyed, hanbin pushes himself away from you, though the cramped space doesn’t allow him to go far. reaching behind, he grabs minho’s hand, a disappointing sigh leaving his lips.

“that’s my ass you’re touching,” hanbin deadpans, and suddenly the entire elevator falls dead silent. he slaps his hand away, rolling his eyes. “learn the difference between a man’s and a woman’s butt.”

minho’s face turns red in an instant, his eyes widening in horror as if he has now come to an abhorrent realization.

you, on the other hand, are still pressed against the elevator wall, your shoulders trembling as if the moment a few seconds ago never happened.

“s—sir!” minho sputters as the doors slide open on the seventeenth floor.

hanbin’s gaze flickers over to you, and he tilts his head to the side, gesturing for you to get out. you offer him a smile that’s far too cheerful for hanbin’s mood, but he doesn’t say anything and nods in acknowledgment. as you move past him, your hand brushes over the underside of his wrist. he knows it’s not an accident—he saw the way your fingers hesitated before making contact with his skin.

however, that doesn’t stop him from feeling his skin burn from that single touch. as you step out of the elevator and the doors close behind you, he is left to stare at the empty space, while a flustered minho stammers out apologies.

oh, what a fucking day.

as he gets off on the thirty-first floor, minho follows him like an obedient puppy, his dark hair only making the flush on his ears and cheeks stand out more. hanbin stops mid-step, and minho nearly crashes into his back.

“next time i see you pulling things like that,” hanbin starts, turning to face minho with a disapproving scowl, “i’ll put you through a door, understood?”

minho nods, keeping his head down to avoid hanbin’s hard gaze. the day hasn’t even started, and hanbin feels a headache growing just behind his eyes.

sighing, he rubs his forehead. “if you understand, then go finish your article and bring it to my office, okay?”

another nod, and minho scrambles like his ass is on fire.

hanbin watches him for a second, then turns to walk over to the huge glass windows, the city skyline as alive as ever. grey clouds move over the city like a blanket of smoke, and he wonders if it’ll rain. all he knows is that this is going to be a long, torturous day.

true to his speculation, hanbin never got the chance to have his lunch. matthew, taerae, and you texted him, but he hadn’t responded. some files and progress reports on the company’s products were missing, and despite it not being entirely hanbin’s responsibility, he knew the chief operating officer would come after his ass because he’s the head of the editorial department.

it’s close to six in the evening when he gets a text from matthew—a simple invitation: movie night at your place. hanbin pinches the bridge of his nose, grabs his coat from the small couch pushed against the wall beside the large windows, and leaves his office.

his fingers move across his keyboard, typing a message—not for matthew, but you. it sounds more like an order when hanbin sends it: meet me at the parking lot. we’re leaving together.

hanbin passes a very focused yang minho on his way to the elevator, who, upon seeing him, stands up hastily, almost knocking over his chair.

“sir—!” hanbin pauses, looking over his shoulder toward minho and raising a single, questioning eyebrow. “i arranged the files and informed our team to be ready for a presentation tomorrow!”

by the way minho is speaking—like a trained soldier—hanbin half expects him to throw a salute. instead of responding verbally, hanbin nods, amusement flashing in his dark eyes.

“you’re a good boy, aren’t you?” hanbin drawls, pressing the button for the elevator. his amusement mounts as minho grows visibly flustered and turns back around to fix his table nervously. shaking his head, hanbin looks back at the small screen as he waits. after a few seconds of silence, he adds, “you can take a day off, yeah?”

he doesn’t bother looking back at the flustered boy as the elevator doors slide open. hanbin steps inside and presses the button for the ground floor. he distantly catches a loud, albeit nervous, “really?!” as the doors close.

hanbin will have to text minho later to assure him. in all honesty, he only took minho in his team because the boy is easy to rile up. he is perhaps the same age as you, which really explains his efforts to make friends with you. hanbin just hopes he won’t pull anything weird, or he’d have to fire his ass.

as the elevator descends, hanbin slumps against the wall, exhausted, his head hanging low. the stiffness in his back nags at him—subtle but irritating. for someone used to standing strong—or at least pretending to—he’s been feeling a little too vulnerable lately. it’s a weakness he wouldn’t dare admit to himself, let alone anyone else.

the elevator halts at the ground floor with a soft ding, and hanbin steps out. his eyes scan the underground parking lot, searching for any sign of you. it doesn’t take him long to find you. you’re standing right in front of his black honda civic type-r, your hair pulled up, skin slightly dewy under the dim lights.

an irrational thought slips into his head, whispering a compliment he doesn’t dare to voice.

you’re ethereal. especially in that damned sundress.

you notice him before he can even speak, your gaze lifting to meet his as his footsteps falter to a stop in front of you.

“oh,” the word leaves your lips in a soft breath, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of your mouth—sweet, yet knowing. it makes something twist deep in his chest. “you’re here.”

it’s a simple acknowledgment, but it lands heavier than it should. there’s something beneath it—a warmth, a familiarity—that coils through the silence between you. hanbin’s chest tightens, not from unease but from that slow, maddening spark that always seems to ignite when you’re near.

“yeah,” he mutters, his voice low and rough, adam’s apple dipping as he swallows hard. his eyes don’t leave yours. “i’m here.”

his gaze flickers away from you, a stubborn heat creeping up his neck. being this close feels too intimate, too much for his non-committing self.

hanbin steps back, tilting his head toward the car. “let’s go,” he mutters, clearing his throat with forced casualness. he hesitates for a heartbeat before moving to open the passenger door for you. his dark eyes catch a small, nearly invisible scratch on his car; his ears burn red with embarrassment.

fuck, why can’t he act normal?

once you slide inside, hanbin shuts the door gently and rounds the car to slip behind the wheel.

clicking his seatbelt into place, he starts the engine and glances at you. “do you need anything before we head home?” he asks, pulling the car out of the parking lot and onto the bustling night streets.

you hum thoughtfully, eyes flickering to the passing scenery, the city lights passing by in a fluorescent blur. “would you mind if we make a small stop at the bakery?” you turn to look back at him, and for a brief second, you think you saw his grip tightening around the steering wheel, leather creaking under his fingers.

after a second, he exhales, then shakes his head. “not at all,” he responds.

the drive to the bakery takes less than five minutes, the silence inside the car interrupted by the screeching of tires. hanbin gets out first, rounds the car to open your door before your fingers can even brush the handle. it startles you, but you step out with a warmth creeping on your cheeks.

inside the bakery, it’s warm. the sound of ceramic dishes clinking together fills the air, an old, eighties song playing over the brown radio placed on a wooden rack. the scent of sweets hits you as soon as you step inside, hanbin hovering behind you closely. he guides you towards the counter, a hand resting comfortably on the small of your back.

as you busy yourself with choosing the pastries, hanbin merely watches you, his expression soft. the exhaustion from earlier melted into something tender—adoration, and a sense of unease. he knows he shouldn’t feel stupidly jealous when someone tries to hit on you. you two weren’t even dating. hell, you probably don’t even like him like that, but fuck it—the second he saw a sleazy dude standing a little too close to comfort and murmuring something, he acted before thinking, and in a blink, he is squeezing into the small space between you and that guy, his back facing you as he glares at the dude. “she’s fine,” he grumbles, eyes narrowing, “you might wanna step back.”

that sleazy guy glared at him in return, but stepped back nonetheless. as the guy leaves, hanbin’s shoulders slump a little. he turns to look at you, his heart giving a treacherous leap when he finds you staring back at him.

“he…he didn’t touch you, right?” he asks, feeling his face heating up a little. you only offer him a nod, lips curving in a soft smile before you turn to place your order. when your order was packed, hanbin paid for it, claiming that it’d be his treat.

the drive back to your place is mostly silent—disturbed only by the song playing on the radio and your occasional humming. hanbin keeps stealing glances at you, his body relaxed and expressions serene. he almost forgets when was the last time he felt so…calm in someone else’s presence.

once in your apartment, you change into something comfortable—a loose t-shirt and cotton shorts. when you walk into the living room, you find hanbin taking out the snacks and blankets.

a text from taerae lit your phone, reading: we’ll be a little late. matt’s girlfriend is throwing a fit. literally.

you respond with a simple reassurance. you’ve met his girlfriend once, and she’s extremely kind—though she keeps matthew on his toes. she has joined you for movie nights, even offered to arrange them at her place, but her schedule leaves her little to no time.

“taerae said they’d be a little late,” you tell hanbin, walking over to help him puff up the pillows.

hanbin offers you a small nod of acknowledgment. his tie is already loose, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, suit jacket hung neatly on the hanger as if it’s always belonged there. the two of you move around the kitchen, preparing snacks and a light dinner in easy silence.

under the butterscotch glow of the kitchen light, you’re plating kimbap rolls while hanbin arranges the desserts. the quiet stretches until you speak, voice low and teasing.

“you were weirdly heroic,” you say, noticing the subtle clench of his jaw, the twitch of a muscle in his cheek. “back at the bakery, y’know?”

“are you sick, hanbin?” taerae asks, and from the corner of his eye, hanbin notices you turn to look at him too. “your face is all red.”

before he can respond, matthew’s girlfriend chimes in from where she’s perched on his lap. “he’s probably frying in shame. you know how easily he embarrasses himself.”

hanbin bristles, narrowing his eyes at her.

she giggles, slumping further into matthew’s hold. she’s like a wildcat, and hanbin can’t help but wonder what matthew even sees in her.

as the room quiets, broken only by the movie’s dialogue, hanbin shifts closer to you—subtly. or at least, he tries to be subtle. his hand brushes against yours, and for the first time, he doesn’t pull away. instead, he threads his fingers through yours, holding on softly but sure.

hours slip by, the laughter fading until the room is bathed in the pale glow of the ending credits. hanbin leans back against the couch, eyelids heavy, but when you glance over, his gaze is already on you.

the silence between you feels different now—not tense or uncertain, but easy, full of something neither of you can name.

your friends are already half-asleep—taerae curled up in a fetal position with a baby blue blanket wrapped around him, while matthew and his girlfriend are doze off, tangled together on the couch.

you rise from the floor, gathering empty dishes and snack wrappers to carry into the kitchen. hanbin stays behind for a moment, pulling a blanket over matthew and his girlfriend, ever aware of his friend’s fragile immune system. then he joins you.

neither of you speak as you work side by side—you washing the dishes, him drying and stacking them neatly on the rack. the silence is comfortable, filled only with the low hum of the tv and the distant sounds of the night city.

“about earlier,” you say quietly, and you can feel him tense beside you.

the dish slips a little in your soapy hands; you rinse it, setting it gently on the rack before looking over at him. hanbin’s still holding the towel, frozen mid-motion, eyes fixed on the sink as if it can save him.

you take a small breath, voice barely above a whisper. “i like you too, if you’ve been wondering.”

he blinks, shoulders relaxing as the words sink in. the corner of his mouth curves up slowly, almost shyly, before a soft laugh leaves him—relieved and disbelieving. he sets the towel down and leans against the counter, watching you with that boyish grin you haven’t seen in a while.

“yeah?” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. “then maybe i can finally ask—go out with me? a real date this time. a picnic and dinner, not just takeout and friends.”

you smile, the warmth of his words sinking deep. “i’d like that.”

for a moment, neither of you move. the city hums beyond the window, the faint flicker of the tv painting both your faces in blue light. hanbin lets out a quiet sigh and reaches over to wipe soap that had somehow managed to get on your cheek.

“saturday, then,” he says, voice low and certain.

you nod, heart light. “saturday.”

he lingers a little longer before stepping back, turning off the kitchen light. the two of you head toward the living room, the soft glow of the screen guiding your way. taerae’s already snoring, matthew and his girlfriend murmuring in their sleep, the smell of butter and sugar still hanging in the air.

as you settle down to sleep in the living room, surrounded by the people you’ve come to cherish, you couldn’t help the smile curving on your lips. it’s idiotic at best, but you couldn’t help it—and by the looks of it, neither can he.

when you fall asleep, huddled by the foot of the couch, hanbin’s hand finds yours under the blanket. before you could fully go out, you feel the warmth of his lips on your temple.

8turn fanart dump (mostly myungho)

#8turn #art #fanart #8turn fanart #kpop #artists on tumblr #ji myungho #moon jaeyun #yang minho #cho kyungmin #lee seungheon

#8TURNinBerlin

#8turn #minho #yang minho #kpopccc #kpopedit #mgroupsedit #malegroupsnet #dailybg #kpopco #ultkpopnetwork #nugudom #kflops #8turn: minho #m:gifs

8TURN FANART LET'S GOOOO

Minho and Kyungmin I'm not your strongest turning;;;;

Some no bonus lighting and no bg versions plus yap under the cut ☆

#8turn #kpop #kpop fanart #8turn minho #8turn kyungmin #cho kyungmin #yang minho #minho #minho 8turn #kyungmin #kyungmin 8turn #8turn fanart #krita #art #my art #digital art #artists on tumblr

guess ill have to post all of them separately now </3

rover minho pt1 😋😋

#jaeyun was like ‘yea we originally performed another cover but we switched to a different one for OBVIOUS REASONS’#love him so bad #☆ ; the archives ?#yang minho #minho 8turn #8turn