Yenas Bread Toaster

Jongho x Seonghwa x F/reader

MDNI 18+

The low crimson embers of the hearth cast a deep, fractured light across the room, painting their skin in shades of copper and shadow.

Outside, the rain had settled into a heavy, rhythmic drone, sealing the loft off from the rest of the world. Inside, the quiet was absolute, broken only by the sound of catching breaths and the friction of skin against fabric.

Seonghwa laid back against the deep velvet cushions, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven intervals. The psychological walls he had spent the evening reinforcing had completely collapsed, leaving him entirely exposed, his skin flushed and sensitized from the sudden rush of heat.

Jongho moved over him with a slow, deliberate gravity, shifting his weight to prop himself up on one elbow. The sheer physical mass of him blocked out the rest of the room, narrowing Seonghwa’s entire reality down to the intense, dark focus in Jongho’s eyes. He reached out, his broad hand sliding up the column of Seonghwa’s throat, his thumb pressing firmly against the pulse point vibrating there.

The touch was possessive but unhurried. He traced the line of Seonghwa’s jaw before dipping lower, his fingers unbuttoning the remaining links of his shirt, parting the fabric to expose the warm expanse of his chest to the cool air of the room.

"Still spinning?" Jongho murmured, his breath hot against Seonghwa’s lips, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that felt entirely tactile.

Seonghwa swallowed hard, his hands coming up to grip Jongho’s forearms, feeling the hard flex of muscle beneath his fingers. "No," he whispered, his voice strained. "Just... you."

From behind, you shifted, your movements fluid and predatory as you slid upward. You pressed yourself flat against Seonghwa’s back, your front molding to his spine, your warmth instantly bleeding through the thin cotton of his clothing.

Your hands slid around his waist, your fingers splaying flat across his lower abdomen, pulling him tightly against you. You buried your face in the crook of Seonghwa’s neck, your lips parting against his skin as you nipped lightly at the sensitive cord of his shoulder, drawing a sharp, ragged gasp from his lips.

"Good," you breathed against his skin, your hand sliding upward, your palm flat against his ribs, feeling the erratic hammer of his heart.

"Stay right here. Don't look away from us."

Jongho leaned down, closing the remaining distance to press his mouth to Seonghwa. The kiss was deep, heavy, and demanding, a deliberate extraction of Hwas focus. Seonghwa arched into it, his lips parting instantly as Jongho’s hand slid from his throat down to tangle firmly in his hair, angling his head to deepen the pressure.

At the same time, your touch grew more urgent. Your fingers traced the line of Seonghwa’s hip, your nails digging slightly into the fabric of his trousers, anchoring him firmly between them.

You shifted your weight, sliding your thigh between Seonghwa’s legs, creating a friction that sent a sharp jolt of static through his entire frame.

Seonghwa was completely suspended between the two of them—the solid, crushing heat of Jongho pressing down from above, and the tight, unyielding coil of your body wrapped around him from behind. Every point of contact felt magnified, the boundaries between where his body ended and theirs began blurring into a single, heavy rhythm.

Jongho broke the kiss just an inch, his lips still brushing Seonghwa’s as he spoke, his breathing ragged. "We've got you, Hwa. Every inch of you."

Your hand slid beneath the hem of Seonghwa’s shirt, your bare palm pressing flat against his heated skin, tracing a slow, agonizing path upward. Seonghwa let his head fall back against your shoulder, his eyes closing as a low, involuntary groan escaped him, completely surrendered to the overwhelming, dual tide of their touch.

“Fuck” he moaned.

The night was far from over. You and Jongho wanted to show him exactly what he meant to both of you.

A/N: pt 3 coming soon

SEONGHWA x JONGHO x F/READER

MDNI 18+

The rain drummed a steady, rhythmic cadence against the high windows of the loft, blurring the city lights outside into streaks of amber and charcoal. Inside, the only illumination came from the amber glow of a dying fire, casting long, dancing shadows across the hardwood floor.

Seonghwa sat on the edge of the low velvet sofa, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers laced tightly together. His shoulders were hunched, a physical manifestation of the thoughts spiraling through his mind. He had always felt like the observer in their trio—the quiet anchor to Jongho’s effortless, magnetic warmth and Y/N’s sharp, vibrant brilliance.

Tonight, the weight of his own perceived inadequacies felt suffocating.

Jongho noticed first. Dropping the log he was about to add to the hearth, he walked over, his movements fluid and unhurried. He sank onto the floor directly in front of Seonghwa, crossing his legs and looking up.

"You're spinning again, Hwa," he said softly, his voice a low, grounding rumble. "I can hear your thoughts from across the room."

Seonghwa let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh, keeping his eyes fixed on his own knuckles. "Just wondering what I’m doing here, honestly. You two... you dominate every room you walk into. And I’m just the background noise."

A soft rustle of fabric announced your approach. You stepped out from the adjacent kitchen, setting down two mugs that you completely ignored as you slid onto the sofa right next to Seonghwa. You didn't hesitate; you immediately pressed the length of your thigh against his, leaning your head onto his shoulder.

"Background noise?" You repeated, your tone gentle but fiercely rebuking. You reached down, wrapping your slim, warm fingers around his locked hands, coaxing them apart. "Hwa, you are the music we’re listening to. Without you, Jongho and I are just loud. You hold us together."

Seonghwa felt a knot form in his throat. He looked down at Jongho, whose amber eyes were steady, completely devoid of judgment. He reached out, placing a broad, calloused palm over Seonghwa’s knee. The heat of it radiated through Seonghwa’s jeans, instantly tethering him to the present moment.

"She’s right, you know," Jongho murmured, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles over the denim. "I spend half my day trying to see the world the way you do. You think your quietness is a flaw, but it’s exactly what draws us to you. It’s intoxicating."

The sheer sincerity in his voice made Seonghwa’s breath hitch. You then shifted, rising slightly on your knees so you could face him. You reached up, your cool palms framing his jawline, forcing him to look at you. Your dark eyes searched his, full of an intensity that made his heart hammer against his ribs.

"Look at us," you whispered, your thumb brushing over his lower lip. "We are entirely yours. Both of us. Do you really not see that?"

Seonghwa looked from Y/n’s parted lips to Jongho, who had risen to his knees, closing the distance between them. The air between the three of them grew heavy, thick with a sudden, charged electricity that shifted the room from a sanctuary of comfort into something deeply intimate.

"I see it," Seonghwa breathed, the last of his defenses crumbling.

Jongho leaned in, closing the final inch between them. His kiss was deliberate, a slow, deep pressure that tasted of warmth and reassurance. It wasn't rushed; it was an anchor, a physical manifestation of everything he had just promised. Seonghwa let out a shaky breath into Jongho’s mouth, his hands automatically finding their way to his jacket, pulling him closer.

As they kissed, your hands slid down Seonghwa’s neck, your fingers unbuttoning the top links of his shirt, your lips finding the sensitive skin just beneath his jaw. A low gasp escaped Seonghwa’s throat at the dual sensation—the solid, fierce demand of Jongho’s lips and the soft, teasing warmth of your mouth trailing down his neck.

“Y/N.” He whined

The boundaries of who was comforting whom dissolved entirely. Jongho broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, but he didn't pull away; he rested his forehead against Seonghwa’s, his gaze dark and focused. You slipped your arms around Seonghwa’s waist, pulling his back against your chest, your chin resting on his shoulder as you watched Jongho.

"We've got you," Jongho whispered, his hand sliding up Seonghwa’s shirt to press flat against his racing heartbeat.

Seonghwa leaned forward, entangling his fingers in Jongho’s hair to pull him back down, while simultaneously reaching back to pull you closer into his space. In the heat of their shared breath and tangled limbs, the lingering whispers of doubt in Seonghwa’s mind were utterly silenced, replaced entirely by the tactile, undeniable reality of their devotion.

A/N: should I make a part 2?

Wooyoung x Reader

MDNI 18+

Pt 2 will have smutty scenes

Pt 1

The salt spray of the Atlantic was a far cry from the sanitized air of a Seoul stadium, but for ATEEZ, it was exactly where they belonged. To celebrate their "World A" anniversary, the group had bypassed traditional arenas for a custom-rigged, black-sailed galleon anchored just off the coast.

The Stage: The Crimson Rig

The "Destiny" wasn’t just a ship; it was a floating pyrotechnic marvel. LED screens were woven into the rigging, and the main deck served as a hardwood stage that groaned rhythmically with the tide.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the opening notes of *Wonderland* thundered across the water. The members emerged from the captain’s quarters in distressed leather and gold-tasseled coats, looking less like idols and more like the lords of the high seas they’d spent years portraying.

The Encounter: Main Deck, Stage Right

While the performance was high-octane, the logistics were intimate. Only a few hundred fans had won the "Golden Compass" lottery to board the vessel. Among them was Y/N, a local marine biologist who had spent the last two years following the group’s discography as an escape from the quiet solitude of her research.

During the bridge of *Wave*, the choreography slowed, and the members dispersed to the edges of the deck to interact with the crowd. Wooyoung, breathless and wearing his signature mischievous grin, leaned against the heavy oak railing.

He wasn't just looking at the crowd; he was looking for a connection.

A Shared Moment

Y/N was standing near the starboard shroud, holding a vintage film camera. As Wooyoung reached out to high-five the fans, the ship hit a rogue swell. You stumbled, your camera slipping from your grip.

Before it could clatter against the deck, Wooyoung’s hand shot out—not to catch the camera, but to steady your arm.

"Careful," he laughed, his voice raspy from the performance. "The sea is a bit restless tonight."

He didn't pull away immediately. Instead, he reached down, retrieved your camera, and handed it back with a playful wink. He noticed the weathered sticker on the casing: a small, hand-drawn map of the constellations used for maritime navigation.

"You know the stars?" He asked

"Only the ones that get me home." You grinned

"Then you’re a real pirate. Stay close to the rail, okay?" He laughs

The Aftermath

As the final sparks of the *The Real* faded into the night air, the members stayed on deck to watch the shore lights. Wooyoung lingered by the starboard side, looking out at the dark water where you and the other fans were being ferried back to the mainland.

He turned to San, who was leaning against a mast nearby.

"The stage felt different tonight," Wooyoung said, adjusting his damp sleeve. "Usually, we’re showing them our world. Tonight, it felt like we actually stepped into theirs."

The "Pirates of K-Pop" had finally found their harbor, if only for a few hours, leaving behind a girl with a film camera and a memory that was far more vivid than any concert DVD could ever capture.

The next morning, the *Destiny* sat anchored in the quiet mist of the harbor. While the rest of the members were catching up on sleep, Wooyoung was restless. He found himself scrolling through the group’s tagged location on social media, looking for a specific aesthetic: film photography.

He found it under a small account. The photo wasn't of his face; it was a blurred, artistic shot of his hand reaching through the stage lights, the dark Atlantic water churning in the background. The caption read: *“The stars that get us home.”*

Wooyoung didn't want to cause a scene, so he threw on a heavy oversized hoodie, a bucket hat, and a mask. He told the staff he was going for a "morning walk" to find local coffee, but his feet led him toward the marine research station he’d seen from the deck the night before.

He spotted you near the pier, checking a series of tide gauges. You looked different in the daylight—no glitter, just a practical windbreaker and a messy ponytail.

He approached cautiously, holding two steaming cups of coffee he’d grabbed from a nearby stall.

"You're better at navigating during the day, I see," he said, pulling his mask down just enough to reveal that unmistakable smirk.

You froze, blinking against the morning sun. "Wooyoung? What are you doing here? You should be resting before the ship sails for the next port."

"I realized I never got a look at those photos," he said, handing you a coffee. "And the Captain—Hongjoong—is complaining that the ship feels too quiet now that the fans are gone. We’re doing a small acoustic recording on deck this afternoon. Just us and the crew."

The Invitation

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a secondary "All-Access" lanyard, the heavy plastic clinking against his rings.

“For you” he smiled.

"Come back to the ship for a few hours," he invited, his tone softening from playful to sincere. "No cameras this time—unless you want to take some. Just come listen to us sing with the wind instead of the speakers. I'll make sure the boat doesn't rock too hard this time."

You looked at the lanyard, then back at the massive black sails in the distance. "I have data to log," you said, though a smile was already tugging at your lips.

"The ocean isn't going anywhere," Wooyoung countered, stepping back toward the dinghy waiting at the dock. "But the *Destiny* leaves at sunset. Don't miss the boat."

An hour later, a small motorboat pulled up alongside the galleon. Wooyoung was already leaning over the railing, waving frantically like a kid who’d just won a prize. As you climbed the rope ladder, you were greeted not by a world-famous idol, but by a young man who looked genuinely thrilled to share his world with a kindred spirit.

The deck was draped in acoustic guitars and warm blankets, and as the first chords of *Mist* rang out into the open air, the line between performer and sailor finally disappeared.

The sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in bruises of violet and burnt orange. The acoustic session had long since wrapped, and the other members had drifted below deck to escape the sharpening evening chill. On the stern of the *Destiny*, the world felt impossibly small—just the creak of timber, the rhythmic slap of waves against the hull, and the two of them.

Wooyoung had found two heavy, fleece-lined tour blankets. He draped one over your shoulders before settling onto the wooden bench beside you, wrapping the second one around himself.

For a long time, they didn't speak. In the K-pop world, silence was a luxury; every second was usually filled with choreography, fan chants, or the hum of a camera. Here, the silence was thick and salty.

"Is it always this loud in your head?" You asked softly, watching the lighthouse on the shore flicker to life.

Wooyoung leaned his head back against the railing, his dark hair ruffled by the breeze. "Usually. It’s like a song that never stops looping. But out here..." He turned his head to look at her, his expression stripped of his usual stage persona. "Out here, I can actually hear myself breathe."

You pulled your vintage camera from your bag, but you didn't aim it at him. You pointed it at the horizon. "My grandfather taught me that if you're lost, you don't look at where you're going. You look at what's constant."

You reached out, your fingers cold from the sea air, and traced a line toward the first few stars appearing in the East. Wooyoung didn't hesitate; he reached out and caught your hand, not to stop you, but to keep you warm. He tucked your hand into the fold of his own blanket, his palm warm against yours.

It wasn't the practiced fanservice of a hi-touch event. It was steady, grounding, and laced with a quiet sort of wonder.

He leaned in closer, their shoulders touching through the thick fabric of their blankets. He smelled like expensive cologne and the raw, bracing salt of the Atlantic.

When you turned to thank him, you found him already watching you. There was no mischievous glint in his eyes this time—only a soft, searching sincerity.

"I spent so many years pretending to be a pirate," Wooyoung whispered, his voice barely audible over the wind. "I never thought I’d actually find something in the middle of the ocean that made me want to stay still for a second."

As the ship’s bell tolled, signaling the final call for the shore boat, Wooyoung didn't let go of your hand immediately. He took your camera, turned it around, and snapped a single photo of the two of them—shadowy figures against a darkening sea, faces barely visible, but the closeness unmistakable.

He handed the camera back, his thumb lingering against your wrist for a heartbeat too long.

"Keep that one for yourself," he said, a small, genuine smile curving his lips. "So you remember that even when the ship is gone, you’re not the only one looking at these stars."

He stood up and helped you toward the ladder, his hand steady on the small of your back—a silent, protective anchor in the vast, shifting dark of the harbor. There was no kiss, no grand declaration; just the lingering warmth of a hand held in the dark and the shared knowledge that for one evening, the idol and the scientist had found the same frequency.

A/N: Hope you enjoy🤍 DO NOT COPY.

Jeongin x Reader

Fluff/yearning

The stage lights of the Seoul arena had finally dimmed, leaving behind only the ghost of high-pitched cheers and the scent of ozone and pyrotechnics. For Yang Jeongin, the transition from the adrenaline-fueled "I.N" of Stray Kids back to his 25-year-old self usually happened in the quiet of the vanity mirror, removing layers of glitter and stage makeup.

This time, however, the transition happened in the back corner of a quiet, 24-hour library cafe in Hannam-dong.

He sat across from you, a freelance archivist he had met through a mutual friend months prior. While the world saw the sharp angles of his choreography and the precision of his vocals, You saw the way he obsessively organized his bookmarks by color and how he preferred his chamomile tea at exactly a temperature that wouldn't scald his throat.

Your relationship with Jeongin wasn't a whirlwind of cinematic gestures. It was built in the "in-between" spaces of his idol schedule—the 1:00 AM phone calls and the shared digital folders of music recommendations.

That night, Jeongin didn't talk about the setlist or the missed note in the second chorus that had been bothering him. Instead, he watched you meticulously categorize a stack of vintage film negatives.

"You're staring again," you said, not looking up from your light box.

"I’m observing," Jeongin countered with a signature fox-like grin. "There’s a difference."

"The difference is that one helps me work and the other makes me tilt the scanner," you teased, finally looking up.

In the hyper-saturated world of K-pop, where every move is documented, you were Jeongin's "off-switch." You didn't treat him like a finished product; you treated him like a work in progress.

He reached across the table, his fingers tracing the edge of a photo you had just filed. It was a candid shot of a park in autumn—no people, just light hitting the trees.

"Sometimes," he said softly, "I forget that the world is this quiet."

You reached out, covering his hand with yours. Your skin was cool, a grounding contrast to the lingering heat of the stadium lights still thrumming in his veins.

"The quiet is always there, Jeongin. You just have to know where to sit to find it."

As the sun began to peek over the Han River, you and Jeongin walked toward the car. There were no cameras, no managers, just the crisp morning air. Jeongin pulled his hoodie up, but he didn't hide his face from you.

He realized then that their story wasn't a "non-fiction" epic of grand proportions. It was a collection of small, honest data points:

* The way you always saved the last bite of dessert for him.

* The way he learned to listen to you talk about history for hours, genuinely fascinated because you were the one telling it.

* The mutual understanding that his career belonged to the fans, but his silence belonged to you.

"See you after the next tour?" You asked as he opened the car door.

Jeongin leaned in, the dimples in his cheeks deepening as he smiled. "I'll bring you a bookmark from every city."

He watched you walk away, a normal girl in a normal coat, carrying a bag full of old memories. He realized that while he spent his life performing for thousands, he was most himself when he was just the boy in the library, waiting for the tea to cool.

The air inside Jeongin’s apartment felt different—thicker, somehow, than the sterile breeze of the library cafe. It was the first time the world had truly narrowed down to just the four walls of his living room and the person standing within them.

The adrenaline from the tour had finally ebbed, replaced by a heavy, grounding exhaustion that made every movement feel deliberate. He didn't turn on the overhead lights; the amber glow from a single floor lamp cast long, soft shadows across the floorboards.

You were standing by the window, looking out at the distant, flickering lights of the city. When Jeongin stepped up behind you, he didn't say a word. He simply rested his forehead against the back of your shoulder. He could feel the steady rhythm of your breathing, a stark contrast to the frantic beat of the music he’d lived inside for the past month.

"You're tired," you whispered, turning in the circle of his space.

"The good kind," he murmured. He reached up, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. In the low light, the sharp stage-ready angles of his face seemed to soften. He wasn't looking at you as a performer looks at a camera; he was looking at you with a quiet, hungry focus that sought to memorize every detail he’d missed while away.

Intimacy, for them, wasn't found in grand declarations. It was in the way Jeongin’s hand moved to the small of your back, drawing you in until there was no air left between them. It was the scent of his skin—faint citrus and the lingering warmth of a long day—and the way your hands found their way into the hair at the nape of his neck.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against your temple before trailing toward your ear.

"I spent the whole flight thinking about this," he admitted, his voice a low vibration that you felt more than heard. "Just... the quiet. Just you."

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. There was a vulnerability there that he never showed the world—a stripping away of the "I.N" persona until only Jeongin remained. When he finally kissed you, it wasn't the practiced perfection of a music video. It was slow, deep, and slightly desperate, tasting of months of distance and the relief of finally being home.

You both eventually migrated to the sofa, tangled together under a heavy knit blanket. Your head rested on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow down to match your own. Jeongin’s fingers absentmindedly traced patterns on your arm—not choreography, but a silent language of presence.

The comfortable pressure of you leaning against him, letting him know he didn't have to hold himself up for a while.

No monitors, no earpieces, just the sound of the wind against the glass.

The realization that while his life was built on being seen by millions, he felt most visible in the dark, held by the only person who knew exactly who he was when the lights went out.

"Y/N, Stay?" he breathed, his eyes already half-closed as the safety of your presence pulled him toward sleep.

"I'm not going anywhere," you promised.

Jeongin tightened his hold, a small, contented sigh escaping him. For the first time in weeks, the constant noise in his head was silent, replaced entirely by the warmth of you hand in his.

A/N: Do not copy.

MINSUNG FIC

MDNI 18+

It was past midnight at the JYP center, and the mirrors were fogged from hours of sharp, relentless movement. While the other members had long since retreated to the dorms, Han Jisung and Lee Know remained, caught in the gravity of a routine that wasn’t quite finished.

Jisung slumped against the mirrored wall, his lungs burning. He watched Minho through the reflection. Minho wasn’t finished; he was never finished. He was marking the bridge of their new choreography, his movements fluid and feline, even in his exhaustion.

"Hyung," Jisung rasped, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Give it a rest. You’re going to vibrate out of your skin."

Minho stopped mid-pivot. He turned, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, eyes tracking Jisung with an intensity that made the younger man’s heart skip a beat. Minho didn’t say anything. He just grabbed a water bottle, took a slow drink, and walked over, dropping down uncomfortably close to Jisung.

The air between them changed instantly. The ambient hum of the AC felt deafening.

"You're falling behind on the count," Minho murmured, his voice low and vibrating. He leaned in, the scent of cedarwood and salt clinging to him. "Your hips are late. Do you want me to show you how to find the rhythm?"

Jisung’s breath hitched. "I know the rhythm."

"Do you?" Minho reached out, his hand sliding behind Jisung’s neck. His skin was hot, his thumb grazing the sensitive skin behind Jisung’s ear. It wasn't a dance correction anymore.

Minho leaned closer, his lips hovering just an inch from Jisung’s. "Because from where I'm standing, you look distracted. You're looking at me instead of the mirror."

"Hard not to," Jisung whispered, his bravado crumbling into something much more honest.

Minho chuckled, a dark, velvet sound. He shifted, pinning Jisung against the glass. The cold surface of the mirror was a sharp contrast to the heat of Minho’s body. Minho’s other hand found the hem of Jisung’s oversized shirt, sliding upward to find the damp skin of his waist.

"Let’s see if we can get your heart rate up for a different reason," Minho breathed, closing the gap.

The kiss was desperate—a collision of teeth and tongue that tasted like bottled lightning. Minho’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into Jisung’s hip, pulling him flush against him. Jisung let out a soft, broken sound, his hands tangling in the damp fabric of Minho's hoodie, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them.

In the hollowed-out silence of the studio, the only sound was the rhythmic friction of fabric and the heavy, synchronized gasps of two people who had spent too long pretending the tension was just about the dance. Minho pulled back just enough to look Jisung in the eye, his gaze hooded and predatory.

"Better?" Minho asked, his voice a ghost of a dare.

Jisung could only nod, his chest heaving. "Yeah. Much better."

Minho didn't wait for a second invitation. He surged forward again, his mouth reclaiming Jisung’s with a feral sort of hunger. This time, there was no hesitation. Jisung’s back pressed harder against the cool glass of the mirror, a sharp contrast to the furnace of Minho’s body.

Minho’s hands, calloused from years of dance and weighted with intent, slid from Jisung’s waist to his thighs. He hooked one of Jisung’s legs around his hip, hoisting him up just enough to wedge himself firmly between Jisung’s knees. The friction was immediate—a heavy, grounding pressure that sent a jolt of pure heat straight to Jisung’s core.

"Hyung," Jisung gasped into the hollow of Minho’s throat, his fingers clenching in Minho's hair.

"I’ve got you," Minho muttered, his voice dropping into that dangerously low register he only used when they were alone. He bit down gently on the sensitive cord of Jisung’s neck, right where his pulse was thrumming like a trapped bird.

Minho’s hand wandered, bold and certain, sliding beneath the waistband of Jisung’s sweatpants. The contact of skin on skin was electric. Jisung threw his head back, hitting the mirror with a dull *thud* as Minho’s fingers found him, sure and demanding. Minho watched him through hooded eyes, mesmerized by the way Jisung’s face crumbled, his usual sharp wit replaced by a dazed, raw wanting.

"Look at me, Hannie," Minho commanded, his thumb stroking a rhythm that made Jisung’s knees go weak.

Jisung forced his eyes open, finding Minho’s gaze in the dim light of the practice room. The older man looked devastating—sweat-slicked, dominant, and entirely focused on Jisung’s pleasure. Minho increased the pace, his movements as precise and relentless as a choreography, driving Jisung closer and closer to the edge.

The friction of their bodies, the sound of labored breathing echoing off the walls, and the sheer intimacy of the moment became too much. Jisung’s breath hitched, a soft, broken groan escaping his lips as he reached his limit. He clung to Minho, burying his face in his shoulder as waves of heat crashed over him.

Minho didn't let go, holding him steady until the tremors subsided. He leaned in, pressing a final, tender kiss to Jisung’s damp temple.

"There," Minho whispered, a smirk playing on his lips despite his own heavy breathing. "Now you’re perfectly in sync."

MDNI 18+

Hyunlix x Reader

The neon lights of the practice room reflected off the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, casting long, rhythmic shadows as the music finally cut to silence. Felix leaned forward, hands on his knees, his blonde hair damp and sticking to his forehead. Beside him, Hyunjin was a study in fluid exhaustion, his long dark hair tied back in a loose, messy tie as he drained a water bottle.

They had been at it for hours, refining the footwork for their latest choreography. But the air in the room felt different tonight—thick, charged with a tension that had nothing to do with the dance.

"You're late on the second turn, Lix," Hyunjin murmured, his voice low and raspy. He stepped closer, his presence looming in the mirror.

"I know," Felix breathed out, his deep Australian accent vibrating in the quiet room. "The floor is slick. I can’t get the grip I need."

You were sitting on the bench against the back wall, your laptop forgotten on your lap. You had come to drop off dinner, but the intensity between them had kept you pinned to your seat. Watching them move was art, but watching them interact in the aftermath was something more intimate.

Hyunjin turned his gaze toward you, a playful, sharp glint in his eyes. "What do you think? Is he being lazy, or is it really the floor?"

You felt your face heat up as both of them focused their attention on you. Felix straightened up, a slow, mischievous smirk spreading across his face. He walked over to you, his movements predatory and graceful, and stopped just inches away. The scent of salt, expensive cologne, and pure effort rolled off him.

"Well?" Felix asked, his voice dropping into that impossible basement register. He reached out, his thumb catching a stray lock of your hair and tucking it behind your ear. His skin was hot.

"I think..." you started, your voice slightly breathless, "that you both need to rest."

"Rest isn't what I'm feeling," Hyunjin said, closing the distance. He didn't stop until he was standing behind Felix, looking over his shoulder at you. He placed a hand on your cheek, his fingers cool against your skin, contrasting with Felix’s warmth.

The two of them were a coordinated front, flanking you in the dim light of the studio. Felix leaned in, his lips hovering just past the shell of your ear. "We’ve been working so hard," he whispered, "don't you think we deserve a reward for getting it right?"

Hyunjin’s grip on your neck tightened ever so slightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to make your heart hammer against your ribs. He leaned down, his chin resting on Felix's shoulder, his eyes locked onto yours.

"We could show you the routine one more time," Hyunjin suggested, his voice a velvet purr. "Up close. So you can tell us *exactly* where we need to improve."

Felix’s hand moved from your hair to your shoulder, his fingers tracing the line of your collarbone. "Or," he countered, "we could just stay right here. The others are already back at the dorm. No one’s coming back tonight."

The silence that followed was heavy with the sound of three sets of uneven breathing. The mirrors captured it all: the golden glow of the room, the sharp angles of their features, and the way you were caught perfectly between them.

Felix leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, his eyes searching. "What do you say?"

The word "yes" had barely left your lips before the atmosphere in the room shifted from heavy tension to an electric, focused heat.

Felix didn't pull away; instead, his smirk deepened, his eyes darkening as they tracked the movement of your throat when you swallowed.

He leaned in, the tip of his nose grazing yours, before he finally pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the corner of your mouth. It wasn't a question anymore—it was an anchor.

"Good choice," he rumbled, the vibration of his voice felt more than heard against your skin.

Behind you, Hyunjin let out a low, shaky breath. His hand, still resting at the nape of your neck, slid downward, his palm flat against your spine as he guided you to stand.

Hyunjin leaned down, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear. "You have no idea how long we've been waiting for you to say that," he whispered, his voice hitching slightly.

Felix’s hands found your waist, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of your jeans, pulling you just an inch closer until there was no daylight left between you. He looked over your shoulder, meeting Hyunjin’s gaze in the mirror. There was no jealousy there, only a shared, silent understanding—a choreography they knew better than any dance.

"The mirrors," Hyunjin murmured, his eyes fixed on your reflection. "Watch."

He reached around, his long fingers intertwining with yours, lifting your hand so you could see the contrast of your skin against his. Felix followed suit, his hand covering both of yours, his rings cold against your knuckles.

"Look at how well you fit with us," Felix said, his voice dropping into that lethal, gravelly tone. He began to trail kisses down your neck, finding the exact spot that made your knees go weak.

Hyunjin’s other hand wandered, tracing the curve of your hip with a proprietary touch, his movements as fluid and calculated as his center-stage solos.

He pressed his forehead against the back of your head, grounding you as Felix’s touch grew more insistent, his hands sliding up under the hem of your shirt, his palms hot against your skin.

Dom/Lee Minho x F/Reader

MDNI 18+

The heavy velvet curtains of the Seoul arts center muffled the roar of the crowd, leaving the backstage corridor in a state of ringing, expectant silence.

Lee Minho stepped out of the bright stage lights and into the dimness, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins like a live wire. His breath came in shallow, ragged hitches, his chest heaving under the damp silk of his performance shirt.

He leaned against the cool concrete wall, closing his eyes as he peeled the damp fabric away from his skin. The shirt was nearly translucent now, clinging to the sharp lines of his torso and the defined ridges of his abdominals.

Every muscle felt tight, coiled from the hours of precision and power he’d just poured onto the stage.

You were waiting in the shadow of the equipment trunks, a bottle of water in hand. As he looked up, his gaze caught yours—intense, dark, and entirely unfiltered.

The usual playful mask he wore for the cameras had slipped, replaced by something raw and demanding.

He didn't take the water. Instead, he took two long strides until he was crowding your space, his heat radiating off him in waves.

The scent of his expensive cologne had deepened, mixing with the salt of his skin to create something intoxicatingly earthy.

"Did you see?" he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated in the small space between you.

"Every second," you whispered.

Minho reached out, his hand sliding behind your neck. His skin was hot, his thumb tracing the sensitive line of your jaw with a slow, deliberate pressure that made your breath hitch.

He leaned in, his lips hovering just a fraction of an inch from your ear. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your own chest—a rhythmic, driving force.

"I wasn't dancing for them," he said, his breath hitching as his fingers tangled in your hair, pulling just enough to tilt your head back. "I was watching you the whole time."

He pressed closer, his body molding against yours, firm and unyielding. The friction of his damp clothes against your skin sent a jolt of static through the air.

He didn't kiss you—not yet—instead, he let his nose brush against yours, his eyes searching yours with a hunger that promised the night was only just beginning.

The roar of the encore started up in the distance, but in this narrow, shadowed hall, the only thing that mattered was the heat of his skin and the heavy, charged silence of what came next.

Minho didn’t wait for an answer. His hand tightened in your hair, a firm but controlled grip that forced your gaze to remain locked on his.

He maneuvered you backward until your spine hit the cool metal of a storage locker, the sharp clang echoing through the narrow hall.

"You have no idea how distracting it is," he growled, his voice dropping an octave, "seeing you watch me like that from the wings. Thinking you can just stay in the shadows."

He pinned your wrists above your head with one hand, his grip like iron. With his free hand, he traced the neckline of your shirt, his fingers grazing the skin of your collarbone with agonizing slowness.

The contrast was maddening—the dominant, immovable strength of his hold versus the feather-light touch of his fingertips. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling sharply.

He didn't just kiss you; he claimed the skin there, his teeth grazing your pulse point until you were breathless and arching into him.

Minho shifted, pressing his thigh between yours, his weight heavy and intentional. Every time you tried to find your rhythm, he changed the pace, his movements calculated to keep you on the edge of a precipice.

He was a perfectionist on stage, and he brought that same ruthless precision here—knowing exactly where to touch, exactly how hard to press, and exactly when to whisper those low, demanding commands that made your knees weak.

"Look at me," he commanded, pulling back just enough to see your blown-out pupils. "I want you to remember exactly who is doing this to you."

The intensity peaked in a blur of friction and stifled gasps, the air in the corridor turning thick and humid.

When the tension finally snapped, Minho held you through the tremors, his forehead pressed against yours, his own breath coming in ragged, uneven bursts.

The fire of the moment gradually cooled into a soft, glowing warmth. Minho released your wrists, his fingers immediately lacing with yours to bring your hands down.

The predatory sharpness in his eyes had melted away, replaced by the familiar, cat-like softness he usually reserved for quiet mornings.

He tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch now incredibly tender. "I might have gone a little overboard," he admitted, a small, sheepish smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He reached for the forgotten water bottle, took a quick sip, and then held it to your lips, making sure you drank first. Once he was satisfied, he pulled you into a proper hug, burying his face in your shoulder.

He smelled like fading adrenaline and safety.

"Let’s go home," he whispered, swaying you gently from side to side in the dim light. "I want to order way too much fried chicken, put on a bad movie, and fall asleep on your lap. Deal?"

He pulled back just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead—a silent promise that no matter how intense things got under the lights, he would always come back to this.

Skz x Ateez x F/Reader

Han x Hongjoong x Reader

MDNI 18+

It was the night that you were going to see a long awaited collab between Stray Kids and Ateez. You were gifted VIP tickets, Section B. Up close where you could practically catch drops of sweat off the stage.

It was about to start. The lights went down, both leaders stepped out, but you only noticed him. Then the rest of the members came out and you saw Jisung. Your heart skipped a beat.

The bass from the final encore was still vibrating in the floorboards of the Seoul Olympic Stadium when Ateez and Stray Kids ducked behind the heavy velvet curtains. Sweat soaked through their silk shirts, and the adrenaline of twenty thousand screaming fans was a hard drug to come down from.

"Did you see Section B, Row 4?" Hongjoong panted, grabbing a water bottle and dumping half of it over his head. "The girl with the handmade lightstick? Not the official one—the one that looked like a literal galaxy in a jar."

Han laughed, wiping his face with a towel. "I saw her. She wasn't even screaming. She just looked… mesmerized. Like she was watching the moon land."

"She’s still there," a staff member muttered, passing by with a headset. "Security says she’s just sitting in her seat, staring at the stage. Won't move. She's not causing trouble, she just looks lost."

Hongjoong and Han shared a look. Usually, they were whisked away to black sedans within minutes, but the post-concert high made them impulsive.

"Let's go get her," Han said, his eyes glinting with a bit of mischief.

The stadium was eerily quiet compared to the chaos of ten minutes ago. In the middle of the sea of discarded confetti sat a girl named Y/N. You weren’t a "super-fan" with a camera lens the size of a bazooka; you were just a university student who had saved six months of tutoring money for this one night.

The footsteps echoing against the concrete made you look up. You expected a security guard with a flashlight telling you to head for the exit.

Instead, you saw two short silhouettes in shimmering stage outfits.

"The galaxy lightstick," Han said, his voice smooth and friendly. He pointed to the jar in your lap. "That's custom work. Did you build the circuit yourself?"

Your breath hitched. You didn't scream—you couldn't. "I… I did..”

Hongjoong leaned against the railing of the stage, looking down at you with a soft smile. "It was the brightest thing in the room. Come on. The guards are going to kick you out in five minutes anyway. Want to see where the magic happens?"

Backstage was a controlled hurricane. Stylists were packing away racks of leather and sequins, tech crews were gathering up miles of cable, and the smell of ozone and expensive hairspray hung thick in the air.

You felt like you had stepped into a different dimension.

They led you to a small plastic table in the corner where two lukewarm containers of tteokbokki sat.

"It’s not five-star dining," Hongjoong said, handing you a pair of wooden chopsticks. "But after three hours of dancing, it’s the best food on Earth."

For thirty minutes, the barrier between "Idol" and "Fan" dissolved. They didn't talk about chart rankings or world tours. They talked about your engineering degree, Han’s fear of spiders, and Hongjoong’s secret obsession with vintage jazz records.

"Why didn't you leave with the others?" Han asked quietly, leaning back in his chair.

You looked at your handmade lightstick, still glowing softly on the table. "I just didn't want the feeling to end. Life is… loud. This was the first time in a year I felt like I could just breathe."

Han reached out, gently patting your hand. "We feel the same way up there. The stage is the only place it’s quiet for us, too."

The manager eventually cleared his throat, pointing at his watch. The dream was ending.

Hongjoong took a Sharpie from a nearby desk and signed the base of your galaxy jar. “To the girl who builds her own stars. Keep shining.” Han added his signature right next to it.

They walked you to the side exit where a staff member was waiting to escort you to a taxi.

"Y/N," Han called out as you stepped into the cool night air. You turned back. He flashed you a peace sign and a wink. "Don't study too hard. The world needs more lightsticks like yours."

As the taxi pulled away, you looked back at the stadium. It was just a building again—dark and silent. But in your lap, your little galaxy was glowing brighter than ever, and your cheek still shimmered with silver dust.

The fan-sign at the COEX Mall was a sterile, brightly lit contrast to the smoky shadows of the stadium. Hundreds of fans moved in a synchronized line, but for Skz & Ateez, the afternoon had been a blur of rehearsed smiles—until a familiar, soft glow appeared at the end of the long table.

You were wearing a simple cream sweater, your hair tucked behind your ears. In your hands, you carried the galaxy jar.

As you reached Stray Kids table first, Han’s posture shifted instantly. He didn't just take your lyric book; he reached across the table and covered your hand with his, his thumb grazing your knuckles in a way that felt far too lingering for a public event.

"You actually came," Han murmured, his voice dropping into a register meant only for you. He didn't look at the cameras or the hovering managers. He looked at the silver shimmer you had meticulously applied to your cheek—the same spot where he’d touched you weeks ago. "I was worried the stars we gave you had burnt out."

"They haven't," you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs. "I keep the jar by my bed. It’s the last thing I see before I sleep."

Han leaned in closer, his bangs brushing his eyelashes. He took the Sharpie and, instead of signing the book, he took your hand again, drawing a tiny, perfect star on the inside of your wrist. The contact was electric—his skin was warm, smelling of expensive sandalwood and the faint metallic tang of hairspray.

"Keep it there," he whispered, squeezing your fingers before he said bye and sent you to the Ateez table.

Hongjoong didn't wait for you to speak. As soon as you were within reach, he leaned forward, hooked his fingers into the hem of your sweater sleeve, and pulled you gently closer to the edge of the mahogany table.

"Han told me he’s been distracted lately," he said, his dark eyes searching yours with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. "I think I know why now."

He picked up a polaroid from his personal stack—one taken during a private rehearsal—and slid it toward you. On the back, he had written a phone number, but he kept his palm over it so the cameras couldn't see.

"The stadium was too loud for a real conversation," Hongjoong said, his voice a low, honeyed vibration. He reached out, his fingers lingering on your chin for a heartbeat, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. "And this room is too crowded. But I’d like to hear more about those jazz records you mentioned. Somewhere where we don't have to whisper."

Your heart was pounding

The security guard signaled for the line to move, but Hongjoong didn't let go of the polaroid until your fingers brushed his. For a second, both yours and Hongjoong’s hands were entwined over the glossy paper—a brief, hidden knot of contact in a room full of thousands.

"See you soon, Y/N," Hongjoong said, his smile turning from 'idol-perfect' to something dangerously genuine.

At the table next to him, Han leaned back, watching you walk away with a look of quiet hunger that had nothing to do with the stage. You stepped out into the mall, your wrist tingling where Han had drawn his star and your pocket heavy with the secret Hongjoong had given you.

The "magic" hadn't stayed behind the curtain. It was following you home.

The rain was drumming a frantic, rhythmic beat against the soundproof glass of the private studio. Inside, the only light came from the glowing red "Standby" lamp and the soft, neon violet of your galaxy jar, which you had set on the mixing console.

Hongjoong and Han didn't look like idols anymore. They wore oversized black hoodies and gray sweatpants, their hair messy and damp from the dash from the van. But the way they looked at you—trapping you between the leather swivel chair and the edge of the desk—was far more intense than any stage persona.

"You actually called and showed up," Han murmured, his voice a low vibration against the shell of your ear. It always seemed like he had doubts about you showing up. But when He leaned in, his chest brushing your shoulder, the scent of rain and expensive cologne enveloping you, that feeling suddenly went away.

He reached out, his thumb tracing the star he’d drawn on your wrist days ago, his touch firm and lingering. "I’ve been thinking about this since the fan-sign. About how small you looked in that big stadium... and how much I wanted you somewhere private."

Your breath hitched as Hongjoong stepped into your line of sight. He didn't say a word. Instead, he reached out and hooked his fingers into the belt loops of your jeans, pulling you an inch closer until your knees were slotted between his.

"You're trembling, Y/N," Hongjoong said, his dark eyes hooded, tracking the rapid pulse in your throat. He leaned down, his lips ghosting over your jawline but never quite touching. The restraint was agonizing. "Is it the cold? Or is it us?"

The air in the small room felt thick, charged with a heavy, magnetic tension. Han’s hand slid from your wrist up your arm, his palm hot through the thin fabric of your sweater, finally resting at the nape of your neck. His fingers tangled in your hair, pulling back just enough to expose the line of your throat to the dim light.

"We spend our whole lives being watched," Han whispered, his breath hitching as he pressed his forehead against yours. "But right now... there are no cameras. No managers. Just the three of us."

Hongjoong’s hand moved from your waist, his palm flattening against the small of your back, pressing you firmly against the cool metal of the console. He leaned in, his lips finally finding the sensitive skin just below your ear. He didn't kiss you—not yet—but the heat of his breath made you gasp, your fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie.

"We’ve been sharing you in our heads for weeks," Hongjoong groaned, a raw, low sound that vibrated through your entire body. "I don't think I can wait until the next concert to see you again."

Han’s grip on your neck tightened slightly, grounding you, while his other hand wandered to the hem of your sweater, his fingertips grazing the bare skin of your stomach. The contact was electric, a sharp contrast to the cold rain outside.

You looked from Han’s hunger-filled gaze to Hongjoong’s dark, focused intensity. You were the center of their shared orbit, a secret held between two of the most famous men in the world.

"Choose," Hongjoong challenged softly, his lips brushing your cheek, though his eyes told you he had no intention of letting you go.

"Don't make her choose," Han countered, his voice dropping to a gravelly command as he leaned down to bridge the final inch between their lips. "We’ve always been better as a unit."

The air in the soundproof studio was stifling, the heavy scent of rain and adrenaline clashing with the faint, sweet smell of the vanilla perfume you had dabbed on your pulse points.

Han’s hand moved from your neck, his fingers sliding under the hem of your sweater. The heat of his palm against your bare skin made your back arch, pushing your chest flush against Hongjoong’s. The contrast was overwhelming—Han’s touch was feverish and demanding at your spine, while Hongjoong’s was steady and possessive at your waist.

"You have no idea how loud it’s been in my head," Hongjoong breathed, his lips finally crashing against yours.

It wasn’t the polite, curated kiss of a K-drama lead. It was deep, desperate, and tasted of the coffee he’d been drinking to stay awake for you. His tongue swept against yours, claiming your space, while his hands slid down to grip your hips, lifting you onto the edge of the cold mixing console.

You gasped into the kiss, your legs instinctively wrapping around Hongjoong’s waist. The friction of your denim against his sweatpants made a low growl break from his throat.

Behind you, Han didn't wait. He leaned over your shoulder, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of your neck, leaving a mark he knew would have to be covered by a scarf tomorrow. His hand wandered lower, his fingers finding the button of your jeans and undoing it with practiced ease.

"Look at me, Y/N," Han commanded, his voice a gravelly friction near your ear.

You pulled back from Hongjoong, your eyes blown wide and glassy, looking up at Han. He looked back at you with a raw, unvarnished hunger that no fan had ever seen. He leaned down, his mouth replacing Hongjoong’s on your lips, while Joong’s hands moved to your thighs, spreading them wider, his thumbs stroking the sensitive inner skin.

The red "Recording" light flickered on the wall, a silent witness to the way the three of them blurred together. In the silence of the studio, the only sound was the frantic hitch of your breath and the rustle of clothes being discarded as the idols finally broke every rule they had ever been taught.

Han’s fingers slipped inside you and it made you gasp. The moan that slipped from your lips was nonetheless unholy.

Hongjoong giggled “She’s so needy, Hanji.”

And you were. You’ve wanted them since the Fan Sign.

Han’s fingers moved faster and Hongjoong attached to your neck. Leaving marks, like Han, that would need extra makeup the day after.

Hongjoong finally slips off his sweatpants, pulling Han’s fingers from you to wrap them around his length. Once ready, he slides into you. Not rough, but more like he didn’t want the moment to end.

Han grabs your throat, pulling you in for a kiss. It was pure hunger, like it was the last thing he’d get to do tonight. He then rids of his sweatpants and guides your hand to him.

With your high closely arriving, Hongjoong slips out and moves behind you. Allowing Han to kneel between your legs. “You taste like heaven” he growls. You suddenly feel ourself let go, your body spazzing, grinding your hips into Hans mouth as Hongjoong kisses your neck.

“Wow” they say in unison.. and you knew the night was just getting started.

A/N: DO NOT COPY!

Special thank you to @acousticvoid for this request🤍 I hope you enjoy! My requests are now open! And I’m getting together a tag list if anyone’s interested!

Minho x Reader

18+ MDNI

The rain drummed a steady, rhythmic pulse against the window of their small apartment, blurring the city lights into a smear of amber and violet. Inside, the world felt much smaller, reduced to the circle of warmth coming from the kitchen.

Minho was leaning against the counter, he had finished practice early. He waited for the kettle to whistle, when you walked in. You were exhausted. The kind of soul-deep weariness that comes from a dozen deadlines and a long commute, but your eyes softened the moment they landed on him.

"Rough day?" he asked, his voice low and grounding.

"The longest," you breathed, stepping into his space.

Minho didn't say anything else. He didn't need to. He reached out, his hands finding your waist, and pulled you flush against him.

You let out a long, shaky exhale, resting your forehead against the hollow of his shoulder. The scent of him —tangerine and the faint, crisp smell of the evening air— acted like an anchor.

Intimacy wasn't always a grand gesture for Minho; it lived in the quiet, deliberate ways he reclaimed you after being apart for so long.

Minho knew exactly what you needed. He shifted his stance, tucking your head under his chin, his large palms splaying across the small of your back to pull you even closer.

You slid your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in the short hairs at the nape of his neck. You felt the steady, powerful thrum of his heart against your chest—a rhythm that eventually slowed your own. He was your HOME.

He pulled back just an inch, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a feather-light touch before tilting your face up. "I've got you," he whispered.

He leaned down, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that wasn't rushed or demanding. It was slow, tasting of home and shared secrets. It was a promise that for the rest of the night, the world stayed outside the door.

As the kettle finally began to hiss, neither you or Minho moved. The tea could wait. The rest of the world could wait. Right here, in the dim light of the kitchen, you and Minho were the only two people who existed.

The kettle’s whistle climbed to a sharp peak before he finally reached over, silencing it with a click. But he didn't move toward the mugs. Instead, he turned back to you.

He reached out, his fingers hooking under the hem of your damp sweater. His touch was a question, his eyes searching yours for the answer. You nodded softly, your breath hitching as he pulled the fabric over your head and tossed it onto a nearby chair. Exposing the lace bra and panties you wore.

The air in the kitchen suddenly felt several degrees warmer. Minho’s hands, calloused and warm, found the bare skin of your waist. He lifted you easily, seating you on the cool granite countertop. You gasped at the contrast—the cold stone beneath her thighs and the searing heat of his palms sliding up to your ribs.

“Y/N” he whispered. “Minho” you said back quietly.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him firmly into the space between your knees. The friction of his sweatpants against your skin sent a shiver straight down your spine.

Minho leaned in, his lips finding the sensitive pulse point just below your ear. He lingered there, his breath hot against your skin, while his hands wandered higher, mapping the curves he knew by heart but treated like a new discovery. Your head fell back, fingers clenching in his hair, guiding him closer. Every brush of his lips against your neck made your pulse hammer.

Minho noticed.

"Bedroom?" he murmured against your skin, his voice roughened by a sudden, jagged edge of desire.

"Too far," you whispered back, your voice barely a thread.

He let out a low, guttural sound of agreement. His hands moved to the hem of your skirt, his movements deliberate and focused. As he worked, he didn't break eye contact, his gaze dark and heavy with an intensity that made you feel completely seen.

The rain continued to lash against the glass, but inside, the rhythm had changed. It was no longer about comfort or the end of a long day; it was about the desperate, beautiful friction of two people needing to be as close as physically possible.

He pressed your back against the cabinet doors, his weight leaning into you, and as his mouth reclaimed yours—deeper this and more urgent—the rest of the apartment faded into a blur of shadows and heat.

The air in the kitchen was thick, tasting of rain and the sudden, sharp scent of salt and skin. As Minho pressed your back against the cabinet, the wood biting slightly into your shoulders, the pretense of the "long day" evaporated.

He moved with a sudden, predatory grace, his hands sliding under your thighs to hitch your legs higher around his waist.

“Let me take care of you” he whispered

You let out a choked sound, your nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just short of a bruise.

Minho’s hands were everywhere at once, Mapping your body with an intensity that felt like a claim.

He reached down, his fingers fumbling with the button of his fly until it gave way. When he teased you couldn’t help but let out a soft moan.

“Min, I need you” you begged quietly.

Minho didn't wait. He guided himself to you, the first slick, sliding contact making your back arch off the counter. He moved into you with a slow, agonizingly deep thrust that forced a long, broken moan from your throat. He braced his arms on either side of your hips, his biceps bulging as he began a steady, punishing pace. Each time he drove forward, the heel of his palm pressed into the countertop, the wood creaking under the force of his movement.

“I’ll help you forget the day” he hummed.

You gripped his forearms, watching the way the veins corded under his skin with every rhythmic surge. You were slick, trembling, and entirely undone by the way he looked at you—eyes blown wide, dark with a raw, primal hunger that was somewhat new.

"Min," you gasped, your voice breaking as the tension coiled tight in your lower belly, a physical ache that demanded release.

He didn't answer with words. He reached down, his thumb finding the small, buzzing center of your pleasure, adding a sharp, rhythmic friction to the deep slide of his body.

You came undone. Your eyes snapped shut as a violent wave of heat crashed through you, your muscles seizing around him in a desperate, rhythmic pulse. Minho let out a low, guttural growl, his head dropping to your shoulder as he shuddered, his own release hitting him with a force that left you both breathless and clinging to each other in the fading light.

The violent rhythm of moments ago collapsed into a heavy, ringing silence, broken only by the frantic sound of your competing breaths and the distant, rhythmic tapping of the rain.

Minho didn't pull away immediately. He kept his forehead pressed into the crook of your neck, his chest heaving against yours. His arms were still braced on the counter, trembling slightly from the exertion, acting as a cage of warmth that kept the cooling air of the kitchen comfortable.

You leaned your head back against his collarbone, your eyes closing as the adrenaline faded into a warm, buzzing hum. The kitchen smelled different now—heavy with the scent of musk, spent energy, and the faint, forgotten aroma of the tea leaves still sitting in the pot.

"You okay?" Minho whispered, his voice a gravelly wreck. He pressed a dry, lingering kiss to the top of your head.

"Better than okay," you whispered, your hand reaching back to tangle your fingers with his. "But I think the kitchen counter is definitely due for a scrub tomorrow."

Minho let out a short, huffed laugh that vibrated through your spine. He turned you around in his arms, his thumbs tracing the dark circles under your eyes—circles that looked a little less heavy than they had twenty minutes ago. The urgency was gone, replaced by a profound, bone-deep familiarity.

“Shall we continue this in the bedroom now?” you ask. Minho picks you up and carries you to the room where you’re both in for a long night.

A/N: DO NOT COPY. Please interact!