#lee know fic
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𝐛𝐨𝐥𝐝 - college au american footballers!lee minho & han jisung x cheerleader!fem!reader
wc: 14.3k
cw: some boy x boy action, mc is inexperienced but a secret perv, mc is dumb and forgets what polyamory is, subsequent polyamorous relationship, reader is described to be smaller than minsung, smoking weed, getting drunk, hyunlix are menaces, SMUT MDNI.
synopsis: you’re not too experienced in the world of dating, parties and talking to people, but these two american footballers that you cheer for just seem to get it.
a/n: SORRY :D! as usual, smut warnings under the cut :3
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
sw: making out when drunk, spit kink (a lot of it), cumplay, making out with cum involved, rimming (m rec), boys kissing, anal fingering (m&f rec), oral (m&f rec), threesome, handjob, A LOT OF DIRTY TALK, minho’s mean but affectionate, painplay, degradation, slight? humiliation, breeding kink, pet names: jagi, baby, kitty, gorgeous
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
Throughout high school, and everything that came before it, you were never into sports. You were the girl that got shouted at by the rest of the team in P.E because you’d flinch as soon as the ball came near you. You had a sick note every lesson towards the end of high school. You’d walk the mile instead of run. You just weren’t cut out for physical activity.
It was the same reason you’d been so unpopular in school. Popularity went to the athletes, the girls who were svelte and toned, and although your mother would swear you were beautiful, you never had much luck making friends or getting boyfriends growing up.
Of course, when you came to university, you chose a non-bodily exhausting major. Fine art was a fair bet for you since you’d always been good at drawing, and you decided you could go for something you were skilled at so you could still enjoy the university experience. It was a win win. Then, you’d surprisingly befriended Hyunjin, an ethereal man with the beauty of a model out of a magazine - and then came along Felix, his other best friend who studied computer science. They’d actually helped you lose your virginity with your first - and thus far, only - one night stand. Although the experience was less than enjoyable, more awkward, you were still thankful.
It was a month later that they told you they were both cheerleaders for the American football team. You grinned and said how cool it was. They’d asked you to join. You said no. They were popular, too - always going to parties and events, and you considered that would be your fate if you joined. It was terrifying. This went on for the rest of your first year. The trauma from high school P.E lessons prevented you from even considering it, even while they told you that it wasn’t really that tiring. Cheering was still a sport, and that’s what kept you back from joining.
Until you finally gave in.
“I don’t know, isn’t the skirt a bit… Too short?” You mumbled. You stood in front of the full-length mirror in Hyunjin’s room, letting Felix fiddle with your hair and slide a red and white bow on it. It matched the rest of your uniform, a bright crimson mixed with a more subtle ivory. It was your university’s colours, and the same colours the American football players would wear. Felix was behind you and Hyunjin stood beside you - both in their matching uniforms, skirts and all.
Felix looked like he was about to ascend with the happiness on his face. You felt like you could die from the anxiety.
“It’s meant to be short, darling,” Hyunjin quipped, smoothing down the pleats on your skirt. “You need to look so good for tonight.”
You squeaked. Felix rolled his eyes, glaring at Hyunjin. He’d given away the secret. “What’s tonight?”
Felix sighed. His face appeared next to you in the mirror, half of his hair pulled up with a bow matching yours. His hands stroked down your shoulders with a soft smile, as if he was scared to release this information unto you. You stared at his button nose, covered in freckles, too anxious to look into his eyes. “So… there’s an initiation when you join. Sort of a ritual, it happens every year with the new recruits.”
Hyunjin was now sprawled on his bed, hands fiddling with some rolling papers. A baggie of weed was on his lap, over his pleated skirt. You grimaced at the audacity, despite knowing you were inevitably going to ask for some.
“It’s a party,” Hyunjin said, sprinkling weed into the paper. “It’s nothing terrifying. Just that the new recruits have to all be handcuffed to a member of the football team, and they have to play Truth or Dare to be set free.”
“Well, I just won’t play then,” You decided, nodding your head at the reflection in the mirror. Felix bit his lip, staring at you. Hyunjin’s movements paused. “… What is it?”
“We already nominated you. There’s an uneven number of recruits, too, so… you’re handcuffed to two.”
“Two?! No, you’re both deranged. It’s not happening.” Hyunjin simply raised an eyebrow at your words.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
It was definitely happening. That much was clear when you all arrived at the party, adequately stoned and just as tipsy from your pregaming at Hyunjin’s. You were fiddling with your skirt, trying to pull it down just a bit lower, but Felix slapped your hand away with a playful glare. Felix pushed the door open and entered as if he owned the place. The location of the party was some massive house on campus, full to the brim of sweaty, gyrating bodies in different sports uniforms. You were out of your depth.
Felix and Hyunjin noticed your awkward demeanour almost immediately and dragged you into the kitchen. Once he’d found a bottle of alcohol, Hyunjin poured all three of you vodka shots each to drink. He was hoping it would get you out of your shell, a wistful smile on his plump lips.
You grimaced as the burn hit your throat, nose scrunched. Felix giggled, and then he spun you around, hands on your waist. “Okay, so. We’re going to steal this bottle of vodka, take it into the living room, then you get handcuffed to your American footballers of choice.”
You blinked. “Choice? Who chose?”
“Jihyo,” Hyunjin replied, appearing on your other side. He handed you a plastic cup full of a strange coloured concoction before pushing his long, dark hair out of his eyes.
You knew Jihyo, actually. She was the captain of the cheerleading team and had been nothing but lovely to you since you joined. She’d even saved you the embarrassment of auditioning in front of the vice captain, letting you just cheer in front of her alone with the routine Felix and Hyunjin drilled into you. You hoped she’d be lenient on who she chose for you tonight.
Letting yourself be dragged into the living room by Hyunjin, you clutched your cup to ensure you didn’t spill it with the jostling. It tasted bad, but you drank it anyway, ignoring the taste. It would cure your anxiety - or at least act like a placebo effect.
The living room was even more crowded than the hallway and the kitchen. It had you on edge, fingers quivering around your cup despite Hyunjin and Felix hanging off of your either arm. These were the exact types of parties you hadn’t been invited to in high school, and now you were there. Honestly? It was kind of underwhelming, despite the amount of people.
“Okay, it’s time to meet your two footballers!” Felix sounded excited, almost bouncing. When you turned to him, Hyunjin was standing on his other side with blushing cheeks and a just as excited smile. You sighed. This was going to be awkward. There was a circle of footballers and cheerleaders sitting around in a circle, an empty bottle being spun around and landing on whoever was going to be asked truth or dare. The other new recruits were already handcuffed - oh, no. Were you late?
“You’re late!” Jihyo shrieked, shooting up from her spot on the floor. That answered your question. Her skirt was just as short as yours, which made you feel better. She wore it as if it was meant for her, though. You knew you just looked weird. She flicked her short, dark red hair out of her face before pointing at two males in the circle. “You’re partnered with Jisung and Minho.”
“Who?” You whispered, before Felix giggled loudly.
“Jihyo, that’s evil. Not those two! Especially not Minho!” Felix yelled, making your jaw drop.
You were suddenly very intimidated. You already were, but now the guy you were forced to be handcuffed to was, well… you’d have to ask. “Oh, no. Is he nasty?”
Jihyo shrugged, a smile playing on her lips. “Ask him yourself.”
All of a sudden, you were being pushed down by Jihyo into the large, uneven circle of people into the gap between the two football players. You could literally feel your hands sweating and just hoped to God that the two boys beside you couldn’t feel it. Felix and Hyunjin had moved to the opposite end of the room, not part of the circle but still monitoring the situation. Jihyo kneeled in front of you, fiddling with two sets of handcuffs until they were successfully attached to both of your wrists.
It was time to bite the bullet. You looked to your left as Jihyo was attaching the other end of your handcuffs to one of the football players. You were met with feline-like eyes, plump lips and broad shoulders appearing even broader with the shoulder pads from his uniform. His eyes flitted to you and he looked to be holding back a grin. Were you that ridiculous? The guy was beautiful. It made you feel slightly insecure even just sitting next to him.
Turning to your right, you saw your other assigned football player. You were met with softer features this time - round, chocolate brown eyes and a doll-like mouth, surrounded by the cutest pouty cheeks. Unlike the first guy, this one raised his spare hand with a little ‘hello!’ and you smiled, waving back. He was cute when he smiled at you, his teeth gleaming in the low light. He seemed friendly, so you introduced yourself.
“Hi! I’m Jisung, that one on your other side is Minho. He’s kinda grumpy, but he means well,” Jisung told you, making you giggle. Minho tried to reach over you to swat Jisung, but the handcuffs prohibited his movements. “Damn! Okay, okay, he’s not grumpy.”
“I’m really nice,” Minho said, smiling softly at you. You took a mental note of his cute bunny teeth. “I’m definitely not grumpy. Not to pretty girls, anyway.”
You could literally feel yourself blushing.
“Um, okay,” You blurted. Jisung choked on a laugh. “So, what’s the rules of this whole thing? How do I get set free?”
“You have to drink every time you refuse to answer a question or do a dare. Once you’ve answered five questions or when you’ve done five dares, we get set free,” When you turned to Jisung upon him speaking, it seemed like his face was closer. You blushed. His hair was long but pushed relatively back, and his red and white uniform looked to be cinched around a very slender waist. He was fucking hot. It had you imagining - would they both fuck you if you asked? At the same time? They seemed to come as a package deal. “It’s super simple. I bet it’ll only take, like, an hour.”
“An hour?!” An hour of being locked up to these two sexy men. You’d die.
“Yep,” Jihyo chirped. When she spun the bottle, sitting on the other end of it to you, it landed on you as if she’d planned it. You groaned. Jisung was pouring extra vodka into your cup. “Okay, truth or dare?”
Truth seemed the safest. “Truth.”
“Do you think anyone in this room is sexy?”
A giggle brought your attention to Hyunjin, legs splayed over another football player. You thought it was Chan, one of the Aussies that Felix was close with. “She obviously thinks I’m hot. I mean, everyone does.”
“Hyunjin, shut up,” Minho said, but he sounded fond. Interesting. So your best friends knew these sexy ass guys, and didn’t introduce you to them. How selfish.
“I’m going to have to drink, unfortunately. I don’t really want to make it awkward..” You mumbled, taking a large gulp from your cup. Unfortunately, Jisung had poured vodka in it and nothing else, so you grimaced as the burn travelled down your throat. Jisung giggled again from beside you. Evil. He was evil. “Jisung!”
Jisung only laughed louder, refilling your drink after the massive amount you’d downed. Minho, however, was still staring at you with an unreadable look.
“Really?” He questioned. “You won’t even admit it?”
You blushed. “I-“
“Leave her alone, Lee Minho! If she wants to drink, she can drink,” Felix shouted to your defence. You gave him a smile, very thankful. You didn’t want to be interrogated by the exact person you found sexy. Well, one of the two.
Unfortunately, the rest of the game went quite similar to the first round. You’d be asked a personal question, or told to do a dare that was definitely too unruly for you, and then you’d drink. Always drinking the straight vodka that Jisung gave you had an impact, too - before you knew it, you were slurring your words and your head was fuzzy with the effects of being tipsy. Jisung was laughing at you, just as drunk, and Minho was looking between you two with an amused expression.
Minho being a tease was another thing you managed to work out. You grumbled at one point, yanking on the handcuffs. “Jihyo, can I be let out now? I’ve drunk more than anyone else and ‘m tipsy, please!”
Minho chuckled, inching closer to you. “You don’t wanna be attached to me anymore? That’s a shame.”
“Never said that,” You mumbled, making your own cheeks blush as you looked at your hands. On your opposite side, Jisung was just as tipsy as you and looked to be giggling at something Felix had said. All of the other recruits were free and had left, but there you were - still looking dumb sat cross legged in your little cheerleader skirt.
“Bestie, should we take you and Hyunnie home? I’m sure you can set her free now, Jihyo,” Your eyes flitted to Felix, and then to Hyunjin, utterly stoned next to him. His eyes were a hue of red and he had a permanent smile on his face. He needed food, and then sleep.
Jihyo nodded hesitantly in response to Felix, and with a swift move, she undid your shackles. You were more than thankful to be free, but - oh. You didn’t want to go. You were kind of having fun drinking with Minho and Jisung. They were easy on the eyes, and all.
“I don’t wanna go!” You whined. “Can I stay? Minho and Jisung will look after me, right?” You knew you were slurring your words, but the way Jisung slung an arm around you made you feel content. Minho even laughed, shaking his head in a fond manner.
“We’ll look after her if she wants to keep drinking, Lixie,” Minho said, his tone hushed. “You know we won’t do anything weird.”
Felix shrugged. “I trust you both. Okay, have her back safe later! I’m gonna carry this lug to get food. Jihyo, you coming?”
When the rest of the room left, you suddenly realised that you were left with Minho and Jisung. You’d only met them that night, and in all honesty - it was kind of awkward now that it was just the three of you. Clearly you were the only one feeling the awkwardness, though. Minho stretched out leisurely like a cat, and Jisung was already in pursuit of a few ciders he found in the corner.
“So, my vote is that me and you wind down with a few ciders, and then Minho rolls us a joint,” Jisung chirped, settling in closer to you. “I’m so buzzed right now, I’m having such a good time. Hey, why have I never seen you around before? You’re friends with Lix and Hyunjin.”
“Ah, parties aren’t really my whole thing. I’m… I’m not very good with lots of people in one place, to be honest,” You felt like you were admitting way too much, too quickly, but Jisung nodded in agreement.
“I’m the same. It’s a bitch, but I’m glad you joined cheerleading. You can knock back vodka like a pro! Even Minho thought so,” Jisung points at Minho. He’d been quiet until now, but the tips of his ears burned a tell-tale crimson.
“It was quite impressive, I have to admit,” Minho nodded. “What made you join cheerleading? Sorry about the twenty-one questions, but you didn’t answer any during the game.”
“Yeah. That’s to do with the whole ‘not good at talking to people’ thing, y’know? But… Now that it’s just the three of us, I think that I’m okay,” You gushed, words slightly slurring together. The two footballers nodded their heads understandingly anyway, Jisung handing you an opened cider. You took the drink gratefully, sipping on the bitter apple taste. “Hyunjin and Felix convinced me to join, to answer your question. I wasn’t a big sports person in school.”
“Same here. I used to do boxing, but never football,” Minho leaned back on his hands, legs stretched out in front of him. Jisung still sat cross-legged, much closer to you than Minho was. “I only really took up football in my senior year of high school, because I knew I wanted to come here and they have a pretty good football team.”
You nodded, humming. “What about you, Jisung?”
“I’ve always played,” He swigged back a large amount of cider. His fingers played with a loose thread on his uniform top nervously, until Minho swatted his hand away. Jisung giggled, then carried on talking. “Me and my elder brother play. It’s kind of a family thing, I suppose. Hey, Minho, what’s the status of that joint?”
Minho groaned, stretching his arms above his head. “My weed’s in our room,” Minho’s eyes flickered between you and Jisung, and then he bit his lip. Bunny teeth dug into plush skin, and you found your eyes settled directly on it. Minho soothed the bite with his tongue, and then he nodded decisively. “Do you wanna come up and get high, watch a movie with us? No funny business, I promise.”
You shrugged. The alcohol had made you considerably less shy. “Why not? I chill with Felix and Hyunjin like this a lot, it’s all good.”
“Yay! You’re actually going to roll one?” Jisung looked elated, grinning at Minho. Minho sighed, standing up.
“Why don’t you just roll one yourself, Ji?” You elbowed Jisung playfully. You had no idea where the nickname came from, but Jisung pouted anyway at your statement.
“I can’t roll. I’m so bad at it. Do you roll?”
You tried to suppress a smile, but it was impossible around these two. “No. Hyunjin rolls for me.”
“God! You’re both like weed princesses. Like pillow princesses, but with weed,” Minho’s fake-insult made you and Jisung fall about in a fit of giggles. “C’mon. I may have something that you can wear, so that you’re more comfortable.”
You and Jisung stumbled up the stairs behind Minho, still giggling when you arrived at their room. It was bigger than you expected, two twin beds pushed apart with one side of the room reasonably clean. You assumed that was Minho’s, because the other side contained an unmade bed and rap artist posters that just screamed Jisung’s energy to you. There was quite a large TV situated in the middle of the room, between the two beds and pushed against the wall.
“Are we pushing the beds together?” Jisung asked, as if this was a normal occurrence. Minho hummed dismissively, starting to dig through one of his drawers. Jisung started moving the beds in front of the TV just as Minho pulled out a decent looking t-shirt and shorts, passing them to you.
“You can change in here, we’ll turn around. I’ve gotta roll us a joint anyway,” You nodded at Minho’s words. You watched as Minho walked over to the desk, back facing you and you wiggled out of your uniform. You had to remember to bring that home the next day - it was the first game tomorrow.
It hit you that you were in the shared room of two boys you’d met for the first time that night. Jisung was laid on the bed solemnly with his eyes shut so he couldn’t see you, and Minho was facing away while he rolled the joint. They were respectful, but nonetheless this was so, so out of character for you - you were even putting one of their t-shirts on while you were having an internal breakdown. Weirdly, you trusted them. They were open, friendly with you from the get go.
“I never do stuff like this,” You admitted, blushing. When you finally turned around, now fully clothed, Jisung was only in pyjama bottoms. You had to avoid the urge to freak out because where was he hiding that body? He was broad but lean, the hint of abdominal muscles on his tummy. He was sexy, and his waist was just as slender as you thought. You shrugged it off anyway, and Minho turned to face you, licking the joint. That almost also caused an internal freak out, because why is he keeping eye contact while he’s licking it like that?
“Like what?” Minho mumbled, staring at his work of art.
“I’m normally first to leave the party. I never stay late and chill with people in their homes. I’m just… not like that.”
“I get it,” Jisung agreed, shifting on the bed sheets. He patted a space next to him and you climbed onto the makeshift double bed obediently, laying down with your hands folded over your tummy. “It’s the people thing, right? But, you’re being bold. We’re about to get high. The most important thing is… are you having fun?”
Were you? God, you were. Two attractive men were about to smoke weed with you, one of your all time favourite pastimes to get rid of your anxiety, and you were going to chill and watch a movie too. That’s your top idea of fun. You found yourself smiling, nodding up at Jisung, to which he smiled back. He understood.
When you finally turned away from Jisung after a second too long, Minho had changed too, into some grey shorts and a t-shirt. You stared at his thighs while he cracked open a window, and then he was on the bed in front of you.
“The guest of honour should light the joint,” He mused, handing it to you. “It’s the rules.”
“Um.. I need an ashtray. Is it really okay to smoke in here, like-“
“Everyone in this house smokes in their rooms,” Jisung comforted you. After that, he was handing you a small transparent dish. “Ash it in here. We’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
The first inhale of the joint was delicious. You much preferred being high and open minded than drunk and open minded - it was more fun that way. You tended to just brush things off with a laugh rather than overthink them. After a few tokes, you passed it to Minho, and he asked the most important question.
“What film should we watch?” Jisung looked at you. You looked at Jisung, and then you were both looking at Minho. Minho sighed, exhaling smoke in your direction. “You’re both going to make me choose.”
“Yup!” Jisung chirped, snatching the joint out of Minho’s hand. Minho grumbled, displeased but still smiling as he reached for the remote. Within a few minutes, he’d clicked on some random comedy film on Netflix. The joint was passed around until the room was sufficiently hazy and all three of you were laying on the bed, you in the middle.
You felt a little trapped, but not in a claustrophobic sense. The boys were so, so close to you, and even though you three were all relaxed and laughing at the film, the secret pervert inside of you couldn’t help but rear its head. You could make out with them right now. You won’t, but you could. It’d be way too bold for you to do that, and-
“We should make out,” Jisung’s voice cut through the giggles. Minho swatted him, still laughing but chiding as if Jisung was a child. You, however, were wide-eyed.
“M-Make out?”
“Making out is better when you’re high,” Minho explained, his cheeks blazing red from the effects of the weed. “He always asks me to make out too.”
You blinked. Your eyes flitted between the two men, Jisung still gazing at you. “You two..?”
“We make out all the time. Sometimes we fuck, no strings attached. It’s fun,” Jisung said, shifting on the bed so that he was closer to you. “You wanna make out?”
Could you? You’d been extremely bold, and that was even further than bold. You couldn’t lie and say you hadn’t been thinking of it all night, though, and if Hyunjin and Felix could see you now, they’d be so proud.
You answered Jisung’s question by grabbing his head, one hand on the back of it and yanking him down to kiss you. He squeaked in surprise, but he was quick to let his tongue press into your mouth, pouty lips wet against yours. He was half-laying on top of you, the position a little awkward but God, he was right. It felt so much better making out with someone when you were high. You let your tongue press against his, the kiss more of a sloppy exchange than a real, precise kiss.
You pulled away with a wet noise, humming. “‘S better, you were right.”
“Yeah?” Jisung asked, his eyes trained on your lips. “Again, then?”
“Yeah.” This time, he was initiating the kiss, his hands going to your waist. His touch was light, but you squirmed to feel more of his hands on top of you. You wanted more, especially when his teeth lightly nipped on your bottom lip and his lips sucked your tongue into his mouth. It was filthy, and it had something burning in your gut in the most delicious way.
“You two look fucking amazing,” Minho. You’d kind of forgotten he was there. When you pulled away again, you turned, staring at him. His eyes were dark and his cute teeth were biting into his bottom lip again, looking pillowy and plush.
“Min,” You murmured, grabbing his hand. Jisung let out a puff of air, amused. “C’mere. I wanna kiss you too.”
“You sure?” Minho asked, but he was already moving from his place on the pillows to where you were, just a bit further down. Jisung moved off of you, obediently letting Minho take his place. Minho’s hand came up to your face, one thumb swiping along your bottom lip. It was still wet from Jisung’s mouth. “I’m not going to fuck you. You’ve had too much to drink, and smoke… But I’ll make out with you, is that okay?”
“Mm, yeah. This is super bold for me,” You giggled. In the same breath, you took Minho’s thumb into your mouth. You sucked on it, just a soft suction, but Minho still sighed deeply, eyes trained on your mouth.
“I think you’re sexy when you’re bold. You’re cute otherwise, too,” Jisung chimed in, making you smile. Before you could answer, Minho was leaning down, his dark hair tickling your forehead as he pressed his tongue into your mouth. He was more calculated than Jisung, his hand that was on your face previously now enveloped in your hair, pulling the strands just a little. It made you whine against his mouth, squirming, and he replied with a bite to your lip. “Is it good? He’s a good kisser, isn’t he?”
You hummed, still pulling Minho in for more. His shoulders were shaking as if he wanted to laugh at how eager you were, but he continued with kissing you filthily instead. When you started to squirm again, he pulled away, his thumb pulling your bottom lip down instead.
“I think you need a little more,” He mused, nose still brushing against yours. His eyes were enrapturing, as if they held a thousand secrets behind them. You wanted to know more about him, and more about the cute Jisung who was just as anxious as you. Could you be greedy and have them both?
“I want more,” You agreed, nodding. Minho hummed, and then he was collecting spit in his mouth. He let it drop into yours, and you heard Jisung whine, before he was shimmying back towards you. He gently pushed Minho out of the way, and you kept Minho’s spit on your tongue as if you knew what Jisung wanted to do.
“Oh my God, ‘s so hot,” You heard Jisung mumble, before he was pressing his lips against yours again. You felt him lick the collected spit out of your mouth, before he was pushing his own onto your tongue. He sucked your tongue again, whining into the kiss. You could feel something moving on the bed, and eventually, you worked out it was Jisung pushing his hips into the mattress impatiently. When he pulled away, his lips went to your neck instantly, sucking a deep red mark into your collarbone.
“Sungie,” Minho mumbled. “You need to calm down. She’s drunk a lot tonight. Maybe another time, yeah?”
Jisung looked at Minho with stars in his eyes. You nodded, hands gripping Jisung’s biceps. His skin was delicate, honey-toned and muscly, showing the effects of the sport he played. He was fucking sexy. You wanted Minho to be shirtless too. “Another time,” You agreed. “I want you both another time. Can I…? Is that too much, I-”
“We want you too,” Jisung turned to you, his forehead pressed against yours. Now that he was closer again, you let your legs spread, welcoming him to press against you. He was hard, solid in his cute pyjama bottoms, and you wanted to whine. “We want to have you. But, tonight isn’t the best idea. You may regret it.”
“I’d never regret it-”
“Gorgeous girl,” Minho cooed at you, soft as he pressed a kiss into your hairline. They were both enveloping you, warm, soft bodies that were just as toned as they were delicate. Your heart rate was so fast you were convinced you could die. “Gorgeous fucking girl. We’ll take you another time, yeah? Not tonight. You can sleep tonight.”
All of a sudden, sleep sounded amazing. You let yourself hum in agreement, and Jisung moved off of you, curling around your side. “‘M actually quite sleepy, yeah.”
“Thought so,” Minho chuckled, sidling up to your other side. He let you wiggle closer, head on his chest, and Jisung followed you, his chest pressed up against your back. It was comfortable, cosy on the two beds pushed together. “Go to sleep, gorgeous. We’ll be here when you wake up, okay?”
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
You woke up delirious. You could feel your head pulsating with the beginning of a hangover, and you were just so confused - where were you?
It only took one look at Jisung, lips parted and soft snores coming from his chest to remind you. Oh, yeah. You looked towards your other side, seeing Minho stretched out and full, heavy breaths reverberating around the room from his deep slumber. You’d made out with them both. You didn’t feel any regret, either. You’d done something that was so unusual for you, and it had worked out brilliantly. You’d had the best time.
You knew you’d be embarrassed when they woke up, though. You managed to detangle yourself from the two boys, wiggling out of the makeshift bed and finding your uniform quite easily. You’d tried to make as little noise as possible, but the sound of sheets rustling from the bed caught your attention.
“You’re leaving?” Minho. You turned around, blinking at him. He looked almost insecure, leaning up on his hands and tilting his head at you in question. “Do you… regret what happened?”
Shaking your head quickly, you moved back to the bed. You let one hand caress his cheek and he leaned into the touch, eyes soft and bleary from sleep. “I don’t regret it at all, Min. I had the best time. I just… I need to get home, and see Hyunnie and Lix, you know? But, um…” You felt awkward, anxious again. One look at Minho convinced you that you didn’t have to be. “I want to see you both again. Is that… a little weird? I just, I really enjoyed, and I-”
“Absolutely,” Minho agreed. He moved to sit closer to you and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you onto his lap. “Give me your phone.”
You blinked. Where was it? Digging through your uniform, you found it tucked into one of the inside pockets of the skirt, and you triumphantly handed it to him. You watched him make two contact names, and send both a quick ‘hi’ text so that they had your number, too. It was still shocking. You couldn’t quite believe it. Could you be greedy, and have both? Jisung was still asleep and snoring, and you found yourself smiling at him. He was bundled up in the blanket like a little burrito.
Minho handed your phone back, kissing your forehead. “Let me know when you get home safe.”
You practically ran out of the house, in all honesty. You were still dressed in Minho’s clothes, and once you’d slid your shoes back on, you started to walk back to your own home. You were pretty sure it wasn’t a long walk, and it wasn’t, all things considered - you were back home within five minutes, and you swung the door open.
Wait. It was unlocked? It was unlocked the whole night, while you’d been out acting like a fucking celebrity, and now someone had probably broken in, and-
You tiptoed into the living room, almost terrified, and then you saw Hyunjin and Felix. Both were eating cup noodles, staring at the TV where some random drama was on. Do hangovers just not exist for those two? Why hadn’t they even text, to see how you were? What the fuck was wrong with them?
“You’re home!” Felix said, cheerful as always. You furrowed your eyebrows, staring between the two. They have their own homes. Why were they there? They were showered, wet hair visible and with fresh clothes on. Your clothes, you noted. The t-shirt was a little too tight on Hyunjin’s shoulders.
“Why aren’t you at your own fucking houses, guys?” You scoffed, sprawling on the sofa. Your head landed on Hyunjin’s lap, and he spoonfed you a serving of noodles. You chewed it happily. You did love them, deep down.
“You’re confident after last night,” He mused. With his spare hand, he yanked down your - no, Minho’s t-shirt, and you were too slow to stop him from seeing it. Bright as day, the mark that Jisung had sucked into your skin was darkening as the time went on, a perfect giveaway of what you’d been up to the night before. “Oh my God. Felix, look!”
Felix leaned over, the three of you intertwined like a pretzel, and then his jaw dropped. “Oh my God. Who- which one was that?!”
You felt almost smug as you sat up, pulling the t-shirt back into place. “That was Jisung.”
Hyunjin gasped. Felix was grinning, wide and blinding. “That leads me to believe you may have had fun with both of them, right?” Hyunjin giggled, poking at your side. You scoffed, kicking him in the leg.
That brought back your anxiety, however. You’d had fun with both of them, made out with both of them, and they were both fucking gorgeous and so, so kind to you. They both seemed interested. They had to be, or why would they both kiss you? “Um… Yeah, I did, but… I want to see them both again. I can’t, though, like… it’s not logical.”
Felix tilted his head to the side. “Why not, sweetie?”
“Because there’s two of them? Like, what kind of a question is that-”
“What kind of a person are you if you’ve never heard of polyamory?” Hyunjin berated you through a mouthful of noodles. Your eyebrows raised in shock. He had a point. That had never even crossed your mind. “I mean, they have their own thing going on. They’re soulmates, everyone knows that.”
“But.. they’re not together. Sungie told me it was just a no-strings-attached type of thing-”
“Sungie?!” Felix squealed. “That’s so- so cute!”
Hyunjin glared at Felix, trying to get him to shut up so he could speak. “They’re soulmates, but they’re not together. It’s like best friend soulmates, except they make out and fuck sometimes. It makes sense for them both wanting to date the same girl is what I’m saying,” Hyunjin shrugged as if you’d thought of this before. You felt dumb. Why hadn’t you thought of that, actually? “The game’s tonight, too. You’ll see them again.”
“So… I should go for it?” You asked, feeling slightly insecure. You’d gone for it last night, and nothing ended badly. Could you do it again, though?
“Absolutely,” They both agreed, literally at the same time. You sighed, before nodding. You could do this. But you’d forgotten to text Minho, so that had to happen first.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
[11:31am] Minho: Looking forward to seeing your ass in that skirt again tonight.
That text had been running circles in your head all day. Felix and Hyunjin had screamed when you showed them what he’d said. If anyone asked, you’d never admit that you’d put on some nice pink lace underwear underneath your skirt just in case. You felt a blush spread across your face as you reread his text.
A feeling of anticipation spread through you as you waited for the game to start. Cheerleaders were meant to take to the field first, and then the footballers would come on afterwards. It wasn’t a serious game, just one of the preliminary ones against another university team that could be considered as amateur. You could still feel your heart rate picking up as you all flooded onto the field, Felix dragging you along with his arm wrapped around yours comfortingly. The pom poms were literally almost slipping from your hands with how nervous you were, clammy and hot under the stadium lights.
As it wasn’t a serious game, the stands weren’t that full, which made you feel a little more relaxed. Jihyo had chosen this game for you to start for a reason, clearly. You were still yet to get used to having eyes on you, eagerly awaiting a cheer to sprout from your mouth. It was anything but ideal, and you would have rather been anywhere else at that moment.
Thankfully, your cheer routine to introduce the game went without a hitch and Hyunjin high fived you afterwards. When the subsequent clapping and cheers from the stalls died down, you nervously anticipated the footballers’ arrivals. They were like kings in your university, after all, and now you’d found yourself embroiled in something sexy and almost… heartfelt with two of them. You felt a little bit silly. You were definitely reading too much into things too quick.
Then, the captain arrived. Chan was someone you were vaguely familiar with, since he was extremely close with Hyunjin and you’d actually seen him the night before. He didn’t spare any of you a second glance as he bounced onto the field, the cheers starting back up again, but you hadn’t expected anything different. In all honesty, you’d expected Jisung and Minho to ignore you all, too, because it was game time. They needed to have their game faces on, quite literally. Waving at the cheerleaders would distract from that.
You could literally hear Felix and Hyunjin both snickering at you as your two love interests bounded onto the field. You elbowed them both sharply, making Hyunjin groan and attempt to fight back before Felix was yanking him back by his hair.
Surprisingly, Jisung halted on his journey across the field. He was almost directly in front of you. You stared at him with a confused expression while he used his hand to cover the massive lights dotted around the university stadium, spinning around in a circle until he saw you. Your expression quickly morphed into shock as he dropped his helmet on the floor, grabbing Minho by the arm and bounded over to you.
“You left before I woke up,” He pouted, out of breath from running. Minho was just snickering beside him, arms crossed over his chest with his red helmet still in hand. You gaped, jaw dropped.
“I- Jisung, you have a game to play,” You hissed, pom poms now dangerously close to slipping from your sweaty hands. Jisung simply laughed, inching closer to you.
“Don’t care. Can I come over after the game? Minho’s busy with an assignment, he’s such a smarty pants,” Jisung reeled off statements, each one as quick as the last one. Minho just watched him, staring at you both with an amused look. You just stood there, staring at Jisung. Felix and Hyunjin were giggling. You could hear them. Pricks. Everyone on the stalls had started to murmur amongst themselves, wondering why two of the star players were talking to some random cheerleader. “Oh my God, I know I’m being weird but stop staring at me. I promise I’ll shower before I come over.”
“Jisung! Yes, you can come over but people are starting to stare, please go to your team-”
“Alright! See you later,” In the most shocking turn of events to date, in all of history actually, was that Jisung pressed a sweet peck to your lips and skipped back to his team. That was bad enough. What made matters even worse was Minho kissing you, too, just as chaste as Jisung’s kiss. He ruffled your hair and followed Jisung off to the other end of the field.
“Well, that answers our question,” Felix said, resting his head on your shoulder. “You’re all dating.”
Hyunjin swatted Felix, still staring in the direction of Minho and Jisung. “Don’t say that. They need to actually ask her first. She’s not settling for less than that, you know?”
Unsurprisingly, the boys won. Minho and Jisung were grinning at you when the score was official, 22-16 to your university. You watched wordlessly as they bounced towards the locker room, everyone cheering and slapping each other on the backs. You knew what would happen now. Jisung would shower, and then he’d wait for you outside for you to get changed, too.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
“I got loads of sweets from the vending machine,” Jisung babbled once you reached your front door. You had wondered what the plastic carrier bag in his hand was, slapping off of his jogger-clad leg while you walked home. “I wanted to show you this super cool documentary I found. It’s about this really small cat, but it’s really brave. Minho liked it.”
He was so fucking endearing. He was still going on about the documentary as you just smiled and nodded, leading him to your room. Your room was slightly embarrassing, something you noted as he stepped inside of it. It was very pink, very girly and the double bed had multiple cute pillows scattered all over it. He picked up a heart shaped one anyway, sprawling on the bed with it clutched tightly to his chest.
“So,” you began, throwing yourself onto his bed next to him. You were glad you’d taken comfortable clothes to change in after the game - you still had the nice underwear on, y’know, just in case. “Tell me more about this little cat.”
“Oh my God,” Jisung gushed, thrashing around as if he couldn’t handle how cute the cat was. You giggled, grabbing his arm to stabilise him. “It’s this little cat. He's so tiny, but he’s really brave. He’s all spotty too, like a little leopard. He’s so cute but he’s really daring. It- it kind of-” Jisung trailed off, staring at the wall.
He was getting shy. You rubbed your hand over his arm, smiling softly. “Kind of what, Sungie?”
“Kind of reminded me of you,” Jisung mumbled. His hands clenched around the pillow. “Like, it was really cute, but so brave. I showed it to Minho this morning, and - he agreed. It’s like you. You’re so brave, and cute, and you’re quite small, too. Smaller than us, I mean. You were really brave last night. I could tell you’re kinda shy, but you still spoke to us, and opened up to us. It was nice to see. I’m- I’m interested in you. I like you, I guess, we both do. I know it’s early, but-”
You cut him off with a kiss to his lips. When you pulled back, he was wide-eyed, fingers tight on the pillow. You smiled, nuzzling your nose against his. “I am shy. But I don’t feel that shy around you and Min, because… I guess I like you too. I enjoyed last night way too much to be healthy. It is early, but I’ve decided I don’t care.”
“Yay,” Jisung mumbled, and then he was kissing you again. He threw the pillow to the side, hands enveloping in your hair and pulling you closer. Kissing Jisung was like heaven. It just felt right, and it felt like a reward both times you’d done it. You wanted to do it a lot more. When your thigh shifted to get closer to him, to feel him more, you felt a solid obtrusion in your way. You blinked, forehead against his so you could stare down at his pants.
“You’re hard..?” You questioned, staring at the sizable tent in Jisung’s trousers. He blushed crimson at your statement, and yanked on his trousers to try and cover it.
“Yeah, I’m hard because you’re fucking hot,” He mumbled, looking up at you with dark, round eyes. You tilted your head, confused.
“I’m… hot?”
“You’re even hotter because you don’t know it!” He huffed, finally giving up on hiding it. He sprawled back against your bedsheets, hair fanned around his head. Now that he’d stopped moving, you could really look at it. It was clearly hard, length pressed tightly against his joggers and a spot of precum leaking through onto the grey fabric. “I came over just to talk to you, just to chill and tell you about that cute cat, and now… my dick is fucking hard.” He sounded distraught, and you giggled. Time to bite the bullet, yet again.
“Want me to help?” You asked, shifting so that you were on top of his lap. He jolted, hands coming to grab your hips with wide eyes. He moved so that he was leaning up against your pillows, and his t-shirt rose a little with the movement, exposing that delicious honey toned skin. Your eyes were fixated on it immediately. “I want… I want to fuck you, so bad. I can ride you. If you want.”
Jisung huffed again, blowing hair out of his face with the puff of air. “We can’t. Minho will want to be here the first time all three of us fuck properly.”
“Oh?” That was cute, actually. It was nice knowing that he did like you as much as you liked him, this quick, after just one night of chatting and making out. You were all down bad, all three of you. “I can jerk you off though, right?” You were talking a lot of smack for someone who’d never actually jerked off a guy before.
“Oh God, yes, please,” He whimpered, and you rolled your hips down on top of him teasingly. It made him gasp, before he was pushing you off, yanking his joggers down impatiently. You almost choked on air in shock - no wonder you could see everything, the fucker had gone commando after his post-game shower. He gripped his cock, a tight ring around the base as if to show you just how hard it was. When you looked at him, now positioned on his thighs, his eyes were watery and pleading.
“I… I’ve never done this before, so you’ll have to guide me. Tell me what you like, ‘kay?” You ordered, and Jisung nodded, releasing his cock so you could grab it yourself. The head peeked out from beneath his foreskin, wet with precum and dripping onto the smattering of pitch black hair at his base. It was thick, not overly long but a perfect length, actually. It had you dripping into your nice panties, and you internally grimaced. They’d be ruined after this. You wanted him to see the effect he had on you, and you gripped his shaft tightly, pumping experimentally.
“Oh,” Jisung whined, “tighter around the head. And- and, please, spit on it, make it wet, I-” You obliged, spitting on the head and wrapping your fingers around it just a bit tighter. It was noisy after that, making a slick noise every time you got to the head and pulled a bit more. His hips were kicking up, fucking up into your fist as he let out unabashed whines.
“You sound so pretty,” You admitted, kissing his cheek. He managed to catch you in a kiss, whimpering as your tongue swiped over his. His eyes were even glassier when you pulled back, clear tears adorning the dark chocolate colour. “I want to fuck you so bad, Jisung.”
“Yeah? You do?” Jisung asked, his hands reaching out to grab your wrist firmly. You barely managed to continue pumping past his tight grip, grinning when you saw the head of his cock get wetter. You gasped as you felt his grip on your wrist tighten even more, the pleasure-pain radiating through your body. You felt an electric shock when you felt his breath on your neck, his soft lips leaving a trail of kisses as you continued to pump his erection. You watched his thighs clench, partially obscured by the fabric caught beneath you, and his eyes shut as he let out an incoherent moan. “I’m- gettin’ there. Gonna cum soon, gonna-”
It was sloppy and messy, but you didn’t care. You felt yourself getting wetter the more you pumped, and Jisung moaned in response. His thighs clenched and unclenched as he got closer and closer to orgasm, and you knew he was about to cum. All of a sudden, you had a wanting inside of you to taste his cock, and you shifted down his legs to engulf the head in your mouth. It had a slight salty taste, not unpleasant but unfamiliar. The look on Jisung’s face was worth it. His eyes were wide, jaw dropped as you swirled the tongue over his head.
“Oh, yeah, look at me,” You obliged, looking up with doe eyes as you sucked harshly on his cockhead. You used your hand to continue pumping, and as if it was unexpected, he gasped and let out a loud whine. “So beautiful, what the fuck? I can’t handle it- oh. Oh, I’m cumming-”
The taste flooded your mouth, hot cum hitting your tastebuds. Again, it wasn’t unpleasant, just unfamiliar. You had many plans to get used to the taste. Jisung’s hand clutched your head as he writhed throughout his orgasm, deep sighs and pants coming from his lips. You ran your tongue around him one more time, before pulling off and smiling at him.
“Jeez, that was- what? You swallowed?” You nodded. Were you not meant to? You thought you were. Jisung whined, covering his face with his hands. “That’s so sexy. You’re so sexy. Can I eat you out, please?”
“Is that… will Minho be okay with that?” You replied, but you still let Jisung push you back into your sheets. Jisung nodded, yanking down your trousers. You’d almost forgotten about the underwear. The second delicate, pink lace met Jisung’s eye, his jaw dropped, and he was gasping as if he’d only just finished his match.
“Is it… does it match?” Jisung asked, and you nodded. You hesitantly grabbed your shirt, yanking it up to show the pink balcony bra that matched your thong. Jisung looked like he’d seen God, eyes wide and almost comical with the way his soft cock was pressed against the sheets. He was looking at you like you hung the fucking moon. “I gotta FaceTime Minho. Can I? He’s gonna fucking die if I show him this.”
“Woah-” You jolted as Jisung reached over, grabbing his phone from the joggers at the end of the bed. You got a nice view of his ass as he bent over, peachy and with a cute little hole begging to be teased. Okay. You’d need to address that mentally later. “You can call him, but isn’t he working?”
“Yeah, but he’ll wanna see this,” Jisung mumbled. You watched him flick through contacts until he was phoning the other counterpart to your love triad, and it only took two rings for Minho to answer. “Minho. Look.”
You wanted to hide, exposed with your top pulled up above your tits and your core clenching around nothing. Jisung hadn’t even given Minho a chance to speak, but you could hear Minho’s sharp inhale of breath through the phone.
“You better not have fucked her, Sungie.”
“No, he- we didn’t have sex, Min, promise,” You said, urgently trying to make sure the other man wasn’t angry at you. Jisung flipped the camera around again, nodding solemnly at him. “He- he wants to, um…”
“I wanna eat her out, and I’m going to. You wanna see, hyung?” Jisung was cocky when he said it, waiting for Minho’s reply with a raised eyebrow. You were baffled - you could’ve sworn you’d never heard Jisung address Minho like that. Perhaps it was only a bedroom thing? Minho obviously gave his affirmation to seeing you, because Jisung handed you the phone. You were kind of hazy from the whole conversation, and you looked confusedly at the camera when it showed you and not Jisung settling between your legs.
“Hey, gorgeous. You look tasty,” You giggled at Minho’s words. He had glasses perched on his nose and his hair was pushed back, a casual grey hoodie over his shoulders. He was so fucking cute. “Wanna turn the camera so I can see Sungie eating that pussy?”
“Mm, yeah, okay,” Jisung was nosing over your underwear when you flipped the camera around, and you obediently kept it at an angle where Minho could see your tummy and your lace-covered core. He groaned when his eyes focused on the expanse of your skin, soft under the lighting of your bedroom.
“Sungie’s really good with his tongue, gorgeous,” Minho said, and you hummed. You’d never been eaten out before and you were on edge, thighs shaking. On Jisung’s phone, you could see where the camera had started to shake from your nerves and Minho’s hand had crept into his trousers.
“Min, I wanna see you,” You groaned, head falling back against your pillows. Jisung snickered between your legs, and then he was hooking his thumbs into your underwear, pulling them down. Minho shook his head, groaning at the sight of your swollen clit pressing against Jisung’s lips.
“You can see me another time, I need to see that pussy. Is she wet, Sungie?”
Jisung ran his tongue through your folds and you jolted, legs automatically spreading wider. The sensation was so intimate, so personal and so fucking hot. “She’s fuckin’ soaked, hyung. Tastes amazing,” Jisung murmured. Then, like a man starved, he was diving into your folds. His tongue drew zigzags along your slit, licking up the accumulated slick and letting it lube your clit when he got to it. Pouty lips wrapped around the little button and sucked hard, and you whined, hips bucking into his mouth.
“He’s good, isn’t he?” Minho asked, and you hummed, eyes fixated on the mop of dark hair between your legs. Jisung looked up at you, eyes round and blown with lust, and you felt yourself gush onto his tongue. Minho groaned, clearly feeling the effects of seeing Jisung’s eyes so dark. “Tell me how it feels, jagi. I want to know what he’s doing.”
Jagi? Oh God, you could die. “It’s- he’s licking my, um, hole, and then he’s licking my clit, and it’s- ah, ‘s so good, so good, never had this before, I-“
“No one’s ever eaten that sloppy cunt before?” Minho questioned, and you moaned, letting out a small confirmation. Jisung was ravenous, head bobbing as he let you ride his tongue with the bucks of your hips. “That’s a shame, jagi. You’ve got us now, yeah? Jisung loves eating pussy.”
“I do,” Jisung added, pulling away. Then, two fingers breached your entrance and Jisung was curling them up, rubbing right against your g-spot. You hadn’t even managed to reach this spot when you were alone, let alone with the one guy you’d slept with, and you let out a squeal, almost dropping the phone. Jisung hissed, kitten licking over your clit. “This pussy’s tight, hyung.”
“Yeah?” Minho’s voice was strained all of a sudden, and you watched as he threw his head back against his computer chair. “I can’t wait to fuck you, jagi. I can’t wait to fuck you, and I’m gonna- gonna fuck you raw, and-“
“Oh my God, I’m gonna cum if you keep talking,” You whined, thrashing around on Jisung’s fingers. He didn’t pump his fingers, only rubbing his fingertips against your g-spot and sucking over your clit. It was like he knew your body, playing it like it was an instrument until it made the most beautiful noise.
Minho groaned, and Jisung had the biggest grin on his face as he watched you get closer to your climax. “Yeah? You like the idea of me fucking you raw? Maybe- maybe I’ll fucking breed that cunt, yeah?”
“Oh, fucking- shit, shit, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna- hnng, Ji, Sungie, please don’t stop, I’m gonna-“
“You’re kinda dirty, y’know, about to cum to the idea of hyung breeding you,” Jisung mumbled, but the look on his face signified he knew what he was doing. You clenched on his fingers and let out a stuttered breath, just balancing precariously on the edge of your orgasm. “Maybe I’ll fuck you raw too. Then you can have both of our loads dripping out of this cunt, yeah?”
That did it for you. The idea of them both taking you raw, fucking you until their cum spurts inside of you, both loads of cum - you wailed, sent headfirst into your orgasm. You had stars dancing all over your clenched shut eyes, the arousal leaking over Jisung’s fingers in the most powerful orgasm you’d ever had, including when you’d make yourself cum. Oh, well. You’d just have to come back for more.
When you opened your eyes, Jisung slid his fingers out of you with a wet noise, popping them into his mouth and sucking them clean. Heavy breathing directed your attention to Minho who still sat on the call, but now with his chest heaving and cum splattered on his hoodie. He grimaced, looking down at the fabric.
“Oh, no,” Jisung whined, staring up at you. You raised an eyebrow in question. “I didn’t even get to take your bra off!”
You giggled, kicking him playfully. “Are you a boob guy, Sungie?”
“Yes! Minho likes ass, I like tits. That’s why you need us both.”
You rolled your eyes. “I guess I can’t argue with that reasoning.”
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
Your life was turning out to be a fairytale.
You hadn’t seen the boys for a week at that point, the night of yet another party. You insisted you weren’t going, but of course Hyunjin was Hyunjin and had roped you into the tightest skirt you owned and made you come. It was only made relatively comfortable by the fact you, Minho and Jisung had been texting in your recently made groupchat, and they’d be attending the party too. You could hopefully sneak away from the party with them, since you knew it wasn’t Jisung’s preferred scene either.
You pulled at the hem of the skirt, reminding you of the way you had behaved the night you first met your love interests. Hyunjin swatted your hands away this time, and Felix threw a pair of fishnet tights at your head.
“Put these on,” He commanded you. “Minho will go insane.”
He did, when you’d arrived. Felix and Hyunjin had made a beeline for the kitchen when you got to the massive house - which you now knew was Minho and Jisung’s, along with the rest of the football team. You’d wanted to psych yourself up a bit, get yourself ready to see the boys, but you’d come face to face with them as soon as you’d entered the room.
“Oh,” Jisung blurted, eyes trained directly on your thighs. Minho was engrossed in conversation with Chan, but when Jisung grabbed him by the arm to turn him towards you, his jaw dropped. His eyes scanned down your body, completely bypassing the skirt and fixating on your semi-exposed legs.
It had you staring at him, too. You had Jisung in a sexual context, but you were yet to see what was hidden between Minho’s legs. They were both dressed in tight leather trousers, Jisung pairing his with a sleeveless black blazer and nothing underneath. Minho, however, was in a sleeveless khaki tank top, and you thought your heart had stopped. You needed to take it off. He looked built underneath, now that you weren’t seeing him in his baggy football jersey or a comfy t-shirt.
“Oh,” You returned Jisung’s statement. Minho had tits, built pecs that deserved your teeth sinking into them. You couldn’t believe you were being such a pervert, but when you finally looked up at Minho’s face, he was smirking.
Jisung giggled. “Okay! I think we need to get you two upstairs. Lovely to see you, Hyunjin, Felix,” You watched Jisung nod at the two in greeting. The two bastards you called best friends were grinning, elbowing each other in glee as Jisung linked arms with you and Minho. You let yourself be dragged upstairs, and it took everything in you not to fall over drooling at the sight of Minho’s thighs in those tight trousers. When you arrived at their shared room, Jisung shut the door behind you, before staring at you and Minho with an incriminating look. “Are you two in fucking heat or something? Like, damn- oh. Okay.”
He was cut off by Minho throwing you against the wall, one hand yanking your hair back to force his tongue into your mouth. You whined, letting him dominate your lips with his own, and your hands came up to grip his biceps.
When he pulled away, you chased his lips only for him to reach up with one hand and wrap it around your throat, pinning you back to the wall. “Please tell me you’re going to fuck me,” You huffed, eyes flickering to Jisung. “Both of you. I haven’t drank anything, you stole me before I could.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re a brat,” Minho retorted, his nose nuzzling against yours as if he was about to kiss you again. He didn’t, only a teasing brush of his lips. “I’ve already got one bonafide brat to deal with.”
Jisung gasped. “Hey!”
Minho shrugged. “It’s true,” His eyes turned back to you, blown with lust. You could see his erection pressed against his pants, and you fixated on it, licking your lips. He chuckled. “Alright, gorgeous. I’ll be nice to you today. Get on the bed.”
You blinked, moving over to the makeshift bed. They’d pushed them together again, and you weren’t sure if they’d just left them like that after last time or if they’d done it tonight. Either way, you were pleased at the idea of you all curling up and sleeping together again.
“Sungie, c’mere,” Minho mumbled, and then in a scene that could have only come from your wet dreams, he was kissing Jisung. His hand was on the back of his head, and the other rested on his waist, pulling him close to kiss him deep and hard. It was filthy, and you squirmed against the sheets, pouting. You wanted to kiss Jisung too.
“Me next,” You blurted. Jisung pulled away, giggling, and then he was climbing onto the bed to loom over you.
“Greedy. I told you I like it when you’re bold, ‘s so sexy,” His lips met yours with a wet noise, tongue automatically pushing into your mouth. The way Jisung kissed always enraptured you - dirty, filthy and open mouthed always, whereas Minho was more precise. You liked the way they balanced eachother out.
“Sungie, you can fuck her first. I want to find out what she likes,” Minho commanded, joining the two of you on the bed. He managed to position you so your back was to his chest, and Jisung was in between your legs, crotch pressing against yours in those fucking leather pants. “I’m guessing you like me talking to you, gorgeous.”
“Yeah, ‘s hot,” You replied, shifting so your hips grinded up against Jisung’s bulge. Jisung sighed, moving to join you in the teasing push and pull. His shaft brushed up against your clit, and you could feel everything from his base to his cockhead. Even just dry humping him felt fucking delicious.
“She likes the idea of being filled up with cum,” Jisung contributed, his lips moving to suck marks into your skin again. He seemed to love doing that.
“My question is, do you like it rough? Would you want me to slap you around a bit, hurt you?” Minho said. His lips were brushing against your earlobe and you whined, bucking up into Jisung sharply.
“I dunno- I dunno, I’ve never tried it,” You admitted, and Minho hummed. Then, with a swift move, his hand was coming down to smack sharply onto your thigh through your fishnets. You gasped, and a gush of wetness flooded your panties. “Oh.”
“She liked that, I fucking felt it,” Jisung mumbled, hair floppy over his eyes. His lips were wet, and you grabbed his head and traced the pouty flesh with your tongue. His hands went up to your top, pushing it up and exposing your bra to both of the boys. Minho was helpful in unclasping it and dropping it from your shoulders. You felt like a doll, lying there surrounded by them both while they touched you all over. It was worth it for the look on Jisung’s face when he saw your tits, and then he was sucking one of your nipples into his mouth.
You were so on edge it didn’t take long for you to babble. “Oh, fucking God- Ji, Sungie, harder, suck harder, bite them-“
“Bite them?” Minho scoffed. “You do like pain, huh?”
Jisung’s teeth nipped at your bud teasingly, and you squealed, chest arching to meet his mouth. He pulled away, grabbing both tits in his hand and burying his face in between them. “These are magnificent.”
“I’m really happy for you that you like them, Sungie, but I think she might die if she doesn’t get anything inside that cunt soon,” Minho sighed, and you wanted to kiss him in gratitude. You really were about to die.
Jisung nodded obediently, and then he was giving Minho another chaste kiss before inching your skirt up your legs. He struggled with the tight material of it, before he finally got it situated at your waist, and then he couldn’t get the fishnets down. He was struggling, you could see that, and Minho reached over with a sigh and positively ripped the fishnets open.
“Jesus, Minho! They were Felix’s!” Minho shrugged, and then he took the extra, most annoying step and ripped the lace of your panties open, too. Jisung sat there slack jawed, palming his erection over his tight trousers when your pussy was revealed to him, glistening wet in the light.
“You’re soaking, my baby,” Jisung murmured, eyes fixated on your folds. You wiggled eagerly, making Minho pin your hips down. “Do you want my cock?”
“Yes! Wan’ it, wanted it since I saw it,” You whimpered, and Jisung grinned. You watched as he yanked his blazer off, revealing that tiny waist, and then you moaned when he pulled his trousers down and his cock sprang out. It was leaking for you once again, hard as a rock and he pumped it twice, moaning. “Stop teasing, Jisung.”
Minho leaned over, running two fingers through your slit before humming. “Jisung, fuck her. She doesn’t need any prep.”
“You sure, hyung?” Jisung looked at him with wide eyes. “I don’t want to hurt her.”
The way they were talking about you like you weren’t even there had more arousal burning in your gut. Minho just grinned, pinching your thigh again just to hear you squeak. “I’m pretty sure the pain will only make it better for her.”
Jisung nodded, and then he was positioning his cockhead at your entrance. You were wet, embarrassingly so, and he teasingly rubbed his cock against your slit a few times. “You still want it raw?”
“Please, oh my God,” You simpered, whining as his tip breached your hole. It was a stretch, but you loved the feeling of it, the large vein on his cock providing the best friction you’d ever felt. The hair on his pubic mound grazed your clit once you’d bottomed out and you gripped Minho’s forearms from where he sat behind you.
Jisung immediately started thrusting feverishly, his hair hanging over his eyes as he felt your drippy hole clench around him. You could feel yourself gushing, covering his pubic hair and his shaft with an embarrassing amount of wetness. You whined when Minho pinched your nipples, his chuckle shaking his chest where it pressed against you.
“Look at my greedy kitties, huh?” Minho cooed. Jisung whined in response, leaning down to suck more marks into your neck. You arched your back, trying to get more friction on your tits. “Fucking each other so desperately like that. It’s so fucking cute. Should I play with these?” He brushed his fingers over your nipples again, and you nodded eagerly, jolting when his fingers pinched the buds meanly.
“Hyung, ‘s so wet, oh my fucking God,” Jisung’s voice was high pitched, his eyes rolling back into his head. “You’re gonna fucking die when you get inside, I can’t- can’t handle it, I-“
“I think you’ve driven him pussy drunk, kitty,” Minho mumbled in your ear, making you giggle. “Is it good for you?”
“Hnng, yeah, he feels so thick,” You were sure you had a permanent, blissed smile on your face while you let yourself get fucked up into Minho. Minho grinned back at you, kissing your hairline. Jisung was drooling into your neck now, thrusts uneven but still feeling so, so good inside of you. “Mm, I want it deeper, please, Ji.”
“D-Deeper? Yeah, yeah, I’ve got you baby,” He nodded, pushing your legs up against your chest. “Hyung, hold ‘em. Please.” The ‘please’ seemed like it was added as an afterthought, but Minho chuckled and held your legs up anyway. You felt a bit disappointed his hands weren’t on your tits anymore, but when Jisung began to thrust again, it hit your g-spot incessantly with his quick pace. You whined, throwing your head back against Minho. The jolt of ecstasy that you’d felt when Minho slapped you was something you were absolutely desperate to feel again, however.
“I- I wanna be slapped again, please, Min-“
“My hands are busy, filthy girl,” Minho hummed. “Jisung. Slap her across the face.”
“The- the face?! Hyung, oh my God-“ Jisung looked wide eyed between you and Minho, but you didn’t miss the way his hands tightened on the bed sheets next to you.
“Slap me, Sungie, please. C’mon, I know you’ve got it in you, I know you want to-“ You were cut off with Jisung’s hand raising and slapping you clean across the cheek, and then you were cumming. You gushed around Jisung’s cock, wondering why it felt so, so wet all of a sudden, and Jisung let out a deep moan.
“You are a fucking menace. Greedy, filthy, oh my God, squirted all over my cock, like what the fuck?” Jisung whined, and you lifted your head up, looking down. You had, actually, and you’d had no idea. “I’m going to cum. ‘S too wet now, hyung, I’m gonna cum.”
“Cum then,” Minho sighed. “But you better be eating that cum straight out of her pussy and letting her taste.”
You whined, nodding, and then Jisung was cumming. His hips stalled as he came, one long, drawn out moan falling from his pouty lips. You felt the warmth fill you up, and you looked up at Jisung with doe eyes. He pulled out, his cock softening, and you expected Minho to let go of your legs - he held you further up, instead, baring your gushing hole to Jisung’s mouth when he shifted down to stare at it.
Then, his tongue was licking through your hole with intensity, scooping up his own cum and holding it in his mouth. He leaned over you, and you let your tongue loll out of your mouth to accept the mixed flavours of you and him. It was so fucking dirty, but you could feel your pussy getting wet all over again. Just when you thought you were meant to swallow, Minho was pulling you back by your jaw and kissing you filthily, swallowing the taste of yours and Jisung’s cum. You moaned, shifting to move onto Minho’s lap and straddle those beautiful fucking thighs.
“Need you, now,” You murmured against his lips, licking along the seam of them. Minho smirked, before he was pulling your head back by your hair.
“I think I decide what you fucking need, don’t I?” He replied, eyes dark and staring into yours. Jisung snickered from next to you, sprawled leisurely and with a now-hard cock again. What the fuck? Did his refractory period not exist, or?
“You’re in for it,” Jisung chirped, and you blinked hazily.
“Are you going to be mean to me, Min? Haven’t even seen your cock yet,” You pouted, and Minho laughed, shoulders shaking. That answered your question.
“Why don’t you take it out then? Have a look at it, kitty,” He laid back, and you nodded. You felt a little silly, fishnets ripped all over, tits out and your skirt in a strip of fabric around your waist, but you didn’t care. Minho was looking at you like you were the best meal he’d ever seen. You shifted backwards, undoing his trousers and trying to yank them down his thick thighs.
Woah. That was the first thing you thought, looking down at the massive bulge in plain black boxers with a small amount of precum leaking through. Fucking big. Thick. You wanted to make grabby hands and throw a tantrum, but you held onto the last bit of dignity you had and pulled his length out of his underwear. Fuck. His shaft was flushed, long and thick, with a perfectly shaped mushroom head leaking small pearlescent drops all the way down onto the shaft. The dark, coarse hair was perfectly trimmed above his length as if he'd planned this. How could his cock be pretty too? No wonder he walked with such an air of confidence.
“I’m g’na sit on it,” You blurted, staring at his length. Jisung chuckled, and when you turned to him, he was pumping his cock again. Seriously, what the fuck?
“You’re going to do what I fucking tell you to do, kitty. Face down, ass up. Put your head by Jisung, c’mon,” Minho commanded you. When you moved to get up, you watched him rip the rest of his trousers off and pull his vest top off, exposing the expanse of his body. He was ethereal - dusky pink nipples on built pecs, and his arms were so fucking big when paired with the rest of his slight frame.
You flipped over nonetheless, trying to calm the panting breaths flooding from your lungs. Jisung spread his legs and let you rest your head on his thigh, only a few inches from his cock. Oh. That’s why Minho wanted you like this. Jisung grinned down at you, and when you tried to get his cock in your mouth, you were alarmed by the sensation of Minho’s cock pressed against your hole.
“Ready for me, kitty? Are you ready for me to breed this slutty fucking hole? I am going to be a little mean to you, you know,” Minho said, his tone low. You nodded, nuzzling against Jisung’s thigh affectionately. He returned it with a soft scratch to your scalp, one hand still pumping his cock. You watched the muscles of his tummy clench as he did so, humming in appreciation. They were both so sexy.
“Give it to me, Min, I can take it,” You murmured, and then he was bottoming out. He was longer than Jisung, hitting your g-spot with minimum effort from the position you were in, and you whined out, legs thrashing.
“I thought you could take it,” Minho scoffed. “You’re talking big for someone with such a tiny little fucking hole, huh?”
“I can take it-“
“Occupy your mouth with something else instead,” He interrupted you, and then he pointed at Jisung. “I don’t want to hear you whining, either. Legs up.”
Jisung’s eyes went wide. “Hyung-?”
“Do you want to make your Sungie feel good, kitty? It’s not fair he has to jerk off while watching his two loves fuck, right?” Minho cooed. His hips were slapping against your ass, making you gush and moan around him. You hated the way he sounded so unaffected while you were struggling to put sentences together. “There is something he really likes.”
“Yeah, y-yeah, I wanna make him feel good-“
Minho rewarded you with a slap to your ass, before yanking your head up by your hair. “Jisung. Legs up.”
Jisung obliged, pulling his legs up and apart. From this angle, you could see his hole, fluttering around nothing. It was as if he realised what Minho was planning the same second you did. “Oh, a-are you gonna lick me there, baby?”
“Mm, I want to,” You moaned, trying to escape Minho’s firm grip on your hair. “Min, can I?”
“Good kitty for asking,” He dropped your hair, moving his hand underneath you to rub your clit in precise circles. It heightened the pleasure tenfold, and you gasped, pushing your hips back against him. “That’s it. Fuck your hips back on my cock and lick his hole, fucking slut. Our slut, yeah?”
“Your slut, both of you,” You confirmed, nodding, before your head was delving between Jisung’s legs. He squealed as soon as you licked over his hole, something you’d wanted to do since you saw him grab his phone in your room. You let your ass bounce on Minho’s cock, his hand slapping your flesh every now and again and the other massaging your clit.
You realised very soon that you were going to cum for the second time, and you broke away from Jisung’s ass to look at Minho with pleading eyes. “Please, please, Min, m’close, need it…”
“What do you need, kitty? Do you need more?” Minho asked. You nodded, laving your tongue over Jisung’s balls and making him whine. You felt his hand move from your asscheek to trace his thumb around your second hole, making you jolt, until you were closing your eyes in anticipation. Minho chuckled. “Oh. You want this?”
“I- I’ve never…”
“It’s fuckin’ amazing. Hyung, finger her ass. She’ll love it,” Jisung contributed, and when you looked at him, his hand was pumping his cock again. You let your head delve down to lick over his asshole once more, with renewed fervour this time, and you giggled when Jisung moaned loudly. You were glad the party was still going on, music drowning out any noises that could fizzle from the room.
Minho slid his thumb into your ass, and you felt your legs tremble. Being filled like this was insane, his cock still bullying into your pussy and you couldn’t help but imagine it being the both of them - Jisung in your pussy, Minho in your ass, or vice versa.
“God, we’ll have to both fuck your holes at some point,” Minho grunted. The noises from your pussy were erotic, slapping wet noises and keens coming from your mouth, too. “That ass looks so fucking tight. Would you like that?”
You nodded, whining. “I want you both to cum in both holes, fill me up- oh, oh my God, I’m gonna cum, Min!”
“Ah, really? You want one of us in each hole? That’s fucking dirty, kitty,” Minho’s hand slapped your clit, one, two, three times, making you gasp and lean upwards to suck on Jisung’s cock. It made him jolt, and he pushed it into your mouth, groaning with a tight grip on your hair. “C’mon, then. I think you deserve to cum. You’ve been such a good girl, taking my cock like this, huh?”
You let yourself pop off of Jisung’s length, drooling on the tip. “T-Thank you! Thank you, Min, I’m gonna cum so hard, for you, for you both-” The orgasm exploded in a more full-body sensation than your last one, but you could feel your wetness leaking all down Minho’s shaft. It still pistoned in and out of you, lengthening your orgasm and making you squeal in delight. It felt like you’d been coming for about ten minutes straight, until Minho was leaning over you, pressing his chest to your back. Jisung was pushing your hair out of your face and still pumping his cock steadily, staring into your eyes.
“I’m gonna breed this fucking hole. Such a slut, letting me go raw,” Minho mumbled, almost to himself, hips making you shift up the bed. You took Jisung’s cockhead into your mouth again, sucking hard, and then he was jolting. “Cum in her mouth, Sungie. I’m going to fill up this fucking pussy, so perfect for me, molded to my fucking cock…”
You moaned when you realised you’d be taking two loads that night - probably even more from them both when the party was over - and then Minho was bottoming out, filling you up. It dripped out around his cock with the sheer amount of it, and when you caught sight of him over your shoulder, his ears were flushed a crimson red and his lips were parted, letting out a deep sigh. He looked gorgeous.
Unshockingly, Minho wasn’t at all talkative after he came, and he collapsed on you with an ‘oomph’, cock still inside you. He watched you jerk Jisung’s cock, and chuckled when Jisung whined and his toes curled.
“Need’a cum again,” Jisung moaned, his chest dewy with sweat. “Fuckin’ need it, hyung, baby, shit, please help me, I need more-“
In another brief moment of confidence, you kept pumping Jisung’s cock and sucked one finger into your mouth, slipping it into his hole beneath heavy balls. It only took one, two thrusts of your finger before he was gasping, and cum spurted out like a fountain over your fist. After you kept pumping steadily, he pushed your hands away with a whine from the overstimulation.
“That was…” Jisung spoke, chest heaving. “Jesus. So good.”
“I loved it,” You cooed, running your hand through Minho’s hair where his head leaned on your shoulder. “Minho, your mouth is fucking dirty, you know that?”
“I wish I could talk like that in bed. I get too shy, I just blabber,” Jisung admitted, and when you looked at Minho, his cheeks were burning the same shade as his ears. His eyes were flickering between you, and then he bit your shoulder softly, playfully.
“You’ll both learn!” He chirped, pulling out of you and walking over to get some towels from the shared wardrobe.
“C’mere. Cuddle time,” Jisung chirped, and you giggled, sidling up to his side with your head on his chest. He still had cum on the bottom of his tummy, and you still had cum dripping out of your pussy onto the bed, but you didn’t care. You didn’t even care you were still in most of your clothes. Minho did, however, and he groaned in exasperation with a white towel in hand when he turned around and saw you two.
Minho crept onto the bed, wiping your folds and then Jisung’s tummy. You both giggled when he kissed both your foreheads before tossing the towel onto the floor, cuddling in behind you. You were in the middle again - just the way you liked it. Minho ripped your fishnets the rest of the way off and somehow managed to get the skirt detangled, leaving you in just your top, now rolled down. You shifted onto your back, letting them both cuddle into your chest.
“I get too shy too. I just beg, apparently,” You murmured. “I wish I was better at talking. Inside the bedroom and outside.”
“Do you ever wish… that someone could fix you? Like, fix what’s wrong with you?” Jisung asked, eyes staring at the ceiling. “I always wished someone could fix the way I am. How awkward and shy I can get, and stuff.”
“I don’t want someone who’s going to fix me,” You said, head falling onto Minho’s shoulder. Jisung stared at you attentively, eyes wide. “I just want someone who’s going to hold my hand while I try to fix myself.”
Jisung looked at Minho. It was like two seconds of unspoken conversation, then he spoke up. “How about two people?”
Right, that’s what you’d wanted to ask.
“Guys, I wanted to ask… are we… dating, like all three of us?” You mumbled, twiddling your fingers.
“I thought we were, yeah,” Jisung responded quickly, kissing your cheek. Minho scoffed.
“I want to ask you both properly. God knows neither of you are going to ask me,” Minho pulled you both into him, and you turned over and sidled up to him obediently. His chest was still flushed, a blotchy rash on his skin from the intense bedroom activities.
Jisung, however, tries to push him away, resuming his position behind you. “Hey! I totally would have asked.”
“No you wouldn’t, and that’s okay,” He kisses Jisung’s forehead, and then yours. “I like both of my shy babies.”
#juno’s fics ♡#stray kids smut#skz smut#lee minho smut#lee know smut#lee know fic#lee know fanfic#lee know fanfiction#stray kids fic#stray kids fanfic#stray kids imagines#stray kids x reader#stray kids scenarios#stray kids fanfiction#minsung x reader#minsung smut#han jisung smut#han jisung fic#han jisung imagines#han jisung x you#han jisung x reader#han jisung scenarios#han jisung fanfic#han jisung fanfiction#lee know x reader#lee know x you#stray kids x you#fics: bold
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Peach to my Mario
pairing — idolbf!leeknow x f!reader (From the Unveiling Love series!)
word count — 2.7k words
warnings — she/her reader, tiny bit of angst, stress, tooth-rotting fluff
summary — Minho always avoids showing affection to you in public which makes his friends and members worry about his relationship, thinking it might not be healthy. However, in private, Minho’s a completely different person. One day, he comes home early and takes the chance to invite you over. During a little gaming sesh, his members accidentally walk in on him being overly sweet with you.
It was just part of Minho's nature to avoid PDA. He never showed affection when you were out with friends, and he wasn't the type of guy to show you off or post you on social media, even on his private account. When you first started dating, you went out to dinner with Minho and some of his members and their partners. It was the first time you were out with him around other people. Whenever you tried to initiate any contact with him, he'd gently push you away and give you a look that said, "Not here," which, at first, bothered you.
This constant habit didn't go unnoticed by his members. They saw how he acted with you around them, which made them worry about your relationship. Some even talked to Minho, suggesting he show more affection, but he always replied with, "I know what I'm doing." This left them wondering, "Are they even a happy couple?" because that's all they knew. They were never shown the real side of Minho in a relationship.
You eventually got used to it over time, as he had a way of making up for it. When you two were alone, he was the sweetest. He showered you with love, and he wasn't afraid to show emotion. It was fascinating to see how different a person he could be depending on the setting, and as his girlfriend, you somewhat liked this duality. When he'd get home from an outing with you, he'd immediately pull you into a hug and smother you with kisses, becoming a completely different person than he was a minute ago.
You didn't complain about the lack of PDA anymore because you were grateful that Minho saw you as someone he could be vulnerable with. He wasn't afraid to share his struggles and ask for your help, and you appreciated the connection you had with him in this way. It was so rare for him to have such a bond with someone, which made it so precious.
One day, Minho arrived at his dorms earlier than usual, and it was a particularly stressful day. They were approaching a comeback, and the choreography needed to be finalized with a tight deadline. A professional choreographer was scheduled to review their dance, and they had to have it perfected by then. The pressure was especially heavy on Minho, as he was responsible for everything, being the main dancer in the group. Comeback season always brought a lot of stress for all of them. The producers had to handle the tracks, and they had to attend numerous meetings discussing potential concerts and promotions.
Usually, during this stressful and overworked period, he would be staying late at the company, leaving little time at home. So, it was rather unusual for him to arrive home early. When Minho reached the door of his dorm, he tossed his bag onto the couch and slumped into a seat. He unscrewed a plastic water bottle and downed it in a few gulps. Minho buried his face in his hands, threw his head back, and released an exasperated sigh.
He took his phone out of the front pocket of his backpack and texted your number.
"y/n, do you have a minute?"
right after he sent it out, it showed as "read," with an icon popping up indicating that you were typing.
"yea, of course. is everything alright?"
"i just wanna see you. and no one's home yet."
It shocked you that he was home already. You hadn't seen him for two weeks, given how busy he had been and how little time he had for himself. So, to you, it was surprising that he had texted you. You responded with a simple "kk" before getting up and preparing to leave. You were wearing gray sweatpants and one of Minho's shirts, but you decided not to bother changing, as it looked presentable enough. After all, it was just Minho.
You grabbed Minho's keys and phone, locking your own door as you left your apartment. Even though you had a car, navigating the busy downtown Seoul intersections often took longer than walking. Luckily, Minho's dorms were only a few blocks away, making it a short five to ten-minute walk. Upon reaching his building, you scanned your keycard at the lobby and opened the door after hearing the click. Minho had given you an extra keycard so you could visit him, although his roommates were unaware of this, as it wasn't something they would necessarily know.
You rode the elevator up to his floor, which was located quite high up, just one floor below the penthouses. Minho's apartment was notably larger compared to the others in the building, as he shared it with three of his group members. You went down the hallway and stopped when you saw his unit number.
You gently knocked on the door, not wanting to startle him. There was silence, so you decided to try the doorknob, and it turned out to be unlocked. You entered, taking your shoes off at the entrance before quietly making your way to the living room. As you entered the room, you found Minho sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the floor.
"Minho" You called out.
He jumped, snapping out of his thoughts and turned his head towards you. "You scared me"
"Did you not hear me come in?" You chuckled.
Minho shook his head, a small smile forming on his face. "I guess I was too lost in my own world."
You walked over and sat beside him, giving him a gentle smile. "Long day?" He nodded and leaned into your touch.
You wrapped your arm around him. "What can I do to help you relax?"
Minho sighed, looking at you with gratitude. "Just being here is enough. I missed you."
You smiled, feeling a warm flutter in your chest. "I missed you too, Minho. "
"Thank you for coming," he said.
"Anytime," you replied, snuggling closer to him. "Why are you back so early, hm? Where's everyone else."
"They're still at the company, working on their own stuff now. I needed a break from the choreo, I couldn't think straight anymore," Minho confessed, rubbing his temples.
It was rare for him to take breaks for himself so you were glad he reached out to you in this moment. You continued to comfort him, running your fingers through his hair soothingly.
"You know you don't have to carry all the weight on your own, right?" you reassured him.
Minho nodded, appreciating your support. "I know, it's just... sometimes I forget."
"Well, that's what I'm here for – to remind you," you said with a soft smile.
Minho leaned into your touch, his shoulders relaxing as he let out a deep breath. "I'm lucky to have you," he murmured.
The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a while, letting the weight of the day slowly lift off Minho's shoulders. You could sense the exhaustion in him, not just physical but also the mental strain of the responsibilities he carried.
I gave a him a gentle squeeze. "Wanna play something?"
Minho looked at you, exhaustion still lingering in his eyes but a genuine smile playing on his lips. "That sounds good."
You made your way to the Nintendo Switch (Felix's, obviously) and powered up Mario Kart. As the game loaded, you handed Minho a controller, and soon, both of you were engrossed in the competition. The colorful characters on the screen and the playful banter between you and Minho helped to lighten the atmosphere in the room.
As you played, you couldn't help but notice the transformation in Minho. The stress lines on his face seemed to fade, replaced by genuine smiles and occasional laughter. It was moments like these that made you appreciate the private side of Minho that he rarely showed to the outside world.
"You're gonna lose so bad, Y/n, you don't know," he teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Yea sure," you shot back, a smirk playing on your lips.
The races became more heated, with Minho throwing himself into the game, making exaggerated gestures as he maneuvered his virtual car. Every time you pulled ahead, he'd let out a theatrical groan, clutching his heart.
"I can't believe you'd do this to me!" he'd exclaim in horror, slumping dramatically in his seat.
You couldn't help but burst into laughter. "Come on, Minho, it's just a game!"
But for Minho, it was more than just a game. It was a battle, a challenge that he took very seriously. When the races got particularly close, he'd lean in closer to the screen, his eyes narrowing in concentration. And when you crossed the finish line first, Minho faked his death right on that couch. He'd plopped onto your lap and stick out his tongue.
As you and Minho continued playing, the atmosphere lightened, and the stress from earlier seemed to dissipate. The room echoed with laughter as the two of you engaged in a fierce Mario Kart competition.
However, little did you both know that the other boys had finished their work and were on their way back to the dorm. As two of them approached the door, they exchanged glances, wondering if Minho was still immersed in his work or if he had finally decided to take a break.
As the door creaked open, Minho was in the midst of a loud cheer, having won a close race. Your lips formed a fake pout, teasing Minho for his impressive gaming skills. Before you could utter a word, Minho grabbed your face and planted a sweet kiss on your lips. With a satisfied grin, he plopped back down onto your lap, his eyes shifting to the TV which displayed his victory.
His eyes were fixed on the screen, and he didn't notice the entrance of his fellow members. Seungmin and Felix stood frozen for a moment, taking in the unexpected scene before them.
Minho, still admiring his victory, suddenly felt a shift in the atmosphere. His eyes flickered from the screen to your face, and then he followed your gaze to the open doorway. There, standing in various states of shock and amusement, were his friends.
Minho's cheerful expression faltered as he registered their presence. He quickly disentangled himself from your lap, clearing his throat awkwardly and avoiding eye contact.
"Hey," he mumbled, attempting to regain his composure.
Minho's sudden change in behaviour didn't go unnoticed by them. The two exchanged puzzled glances, silently communicating their surprise at witnessing a side of Minho they had never seen before.
Seungmin smirked. "Didn't know playing video games could be so... intimate."
Minho's cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he tried to brush off the situation. "No, just taking a break from choreo. Y/n happened to drop by."
You offered a friendly wave to the members, trying to diffuse the tension. "Long time no see."
"Didn't know he had such a soft side for you." Felix looked in your direction.
Seungmin raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, Minho, you've been keeping this hidden from us."
Minho avoided making eye contact with anyone. "It's not a big deal. We're just hanging out."
Felix interjected, "Alright, alright, let the man breathe. Maybe he's just trying out a new gaming strategy."
Seungmin smirked, "Yeah, because everyone knows that cuddling enhances your Mario Kart skills."
Minho sighed, realizing he was caught in a situation he couldn't easily escape. The members, still amused, decided to join the gaming session, pulling up chairs and grabbing controllers. The atmosphere lightened up again as everyone got immersed in the races. Amidst the gaming chaos, you felt a subtle shift beside you. Glancing at Minho, you noticed a small smile playing on his lips as he looked at you. Seizing the opportunity, you casually leaned against him, and to your surprise, Minho didn't pull away. Instead, he subtly wrapped his arm around your shoulders, bringing you closer.
Felix, ever observant, caught the moment and exchanged a knowing look with Seungmin. A mischievous grin spread across Felix's face as he nudged Seungmin, who raised an eyebrow in response. It seemed like the members were enjoying this unexpected revelation of Minho's softer side. Minho's hesitancy towards PDA seemed to going away slightly. He didn't shy away when you rested your head on his shoulder, and he even tickled you a little during one of the races.
The night turned into a fun and lighthearted gathering, with laughter filling the air as everyone bonded over Mario Kart. The initial surprise at seeing Minho in a more vulnerable and relaxed state slowly faded, replaced by acceptance and genuine enjoyment of the moment. As the clock ticked away, the group decided to take a break from gaming and sat together in the living room, sharing stories and enjoying the dinner Jeongin had eventually brought. It was during these moments that you could see a different side of Minho showing the side that wasn't afraid to be affectionate in front of his friends.
The members of Stray Kids, who had initially been concerned about Minho's reserved nature in public, began to see the depth of his relationship with you. They witnessed the way he looked at you, the way he smiled, and the subtle gestures of affection that spoke volumes about the connection you shared.
After dinner, as the night wound down, the members bid their goodbyes, as you went over to the door to leave. Minho stood up, indicating that he would walk you home. The others exchanged knowing glances, teasing smiles playing on their lips.
As you and Minho stepped out of the dorm, the cool night air greeted you. The city lights illuminated the streets as you began the short walk to your apartment. The atmosphere was comfortable, a companionable silence settling between you and Minho.
"I appreciate you coming over," Minho said, his tone sincere. "It's been a hectic few weeks, and tonight was exactly what I needed."
"I'm glad I could be here for you," you replied, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. "You don't always have to carry everything on your own, Minho. It's okay to lean on others, especially those who care about you."
He nodded, a grateful smile on his face. "Thank you,"
"Anytime," you replied, giving him a soft smile. "It was nice spending time with everyone."
Minho nodded, his hand finding yours. "I guess they know now," he added with a hint of playfulness.
You chuckled. "Well, it's not a bad thing. They seem to like this side of you."
He smirked. "Yeah, yeah, I can't escape their teasing now. They're gonna tell the other dorm all about it"
You squeezed his hand. "You'll be alright. Besides, it's nice to see you letting your guard down a bit."
Minho leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "I guess you have that effect on me."
As you reached your apartment building, you turned to face Minho. "Well, this is me. Thank you for tonight."
Minho smiled, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your lips. "No, thank you. I needed this more than you know."
You both exchanged a loving gaze, the unspoken understanding between you deepening. With a final goodnight, you entered your building, watching as Minho waited until you were safely inside.
As you settled on your couch, you decided to check your social media accounts before getting ready for bed. As you scrolled through your feed, you noticed a notification on Minho's private Instagram account. It surprised you because Minho rarely posted anything on his private account, and he had never posted a picture of the two of you before.
Opening the post, your heart skipped a beat as you saw a candid shot one of his members must've taken from tonight. It perfectly captured the essence of the night – both of you smiling at each other, a shared blanket over your laps, and controllers in hand.
The caption read: "Peach to my Mario"
Feeling a mix of emotions, you couldn't help but smile at the post. It was a small but significant step for Minho to share a piece of your relationship with the world, even if it was just on his private account.
"Photo credits?" One of the comments read, from Seungmin.
As you liked and replied to a few comments, you couldn't shake the feeling that this marked a subtle shift in Minho's approach to PDA. Maybe, just maybe, the night had not only been a release for him but also a realization that sharing moments of vulnerability with you and his friends wasn't something to be afraid of.
#lee know#lee know one shot#lee know skz#skz lee know#lee know fluff#stray kids imagines#stray kids fluff#skz fluff#stray kids comfort#lee know fic#lee know imagines#soft#fluff#lee know fanfiction#lee know fanfic
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PIECE BY PIECE | minho
first date series. friends to lovers.
pairing: minho x fem!reader
word count: 6.2k
genre: college au, mutual pining, fluff, angst
warnings: drinking, referenced injury (very minor)
summary: minho, on a drunken whim, asks you out on a date.
chan | minho | changbin | hyunjin | jisung | felix | seungmin | jeongin
· · · ♡ series masterlist · · · ♡ taglist · · · ♡
a/n: finally!! the minho part!! i’ve been sooo excited about this one since i first got the idea. i hope you guys enjoy! once again any and all feedback is appreciated, happy reading <3
“Dude, I think it’s clean.”
Minho looks up from where he’s scrubbing the counter, eyes narrowed. So what if it’s his third time going over every surface in the kitchen?
“Are you going to help me or are you just gonna sit there and make more crumbs?”
Jeongin’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline. He holds up his hands in surrender, the bag of chips in his lap crinkling. “I’m just saying. You’re acting like she’s never seen the place before.”
That’s the problem. You’ve seen his place. Minho has to stop the shudder that threatens to overtake his body at the thought.
“So you’re not helping? Great. Get out.”
“I live here!” Jeongin whines. “Why do I have to get out? You can’t banish me like this.”
“I can and I will. Now leave. I have two hours to make sure everything is ready and I am not going to vacuum for a fourth time.”
“Yes mom,” Jeongin rolls his eyes as he unfolds his legs from underneath him.
He stops just short of the kitchen counter, points an accusatory finger at Minho’s disheveled figure still hunched over an imaginary stain.
“For the record, Chan hyung would never do this to me. He loves my crumbs.”
Minho throws the scrub daddy at him.
🏠
The night it happens, all it takes is approximately three shots and a pep talk from Hyunjin for Minho to finally find the nerve to ask you out.
“You’ve got this,” the younger boy says, words slurred, his hands steady on both Minho’s shoulders. The bass thumps loud in the other room, drowned out by the walls of the kitchen until it’s nothing but garbled nonsense going in one of his ears and out the other, vibrations low in his chest.
“I’ve got this.” Minho repeats, the thrum of alcohol already spreading to his fingertips. He feels warm, light on his feet. His limbs are starting to loosen up and his insides are turning to jelly. He might even be floating.
“You look hot.”
“I look hot.”
“She’s gonna say yes.”
“She’s gonna say yes.”
“You’re gonna venmo me twenty dollars.”
“I’m gonna venmo you twenty dollars.” Minho parrots before he can even process what he’s saying. Changbin, who’d been watching the entire thing unfold from where he stands with his back pressed against the sink, snorts.
“Wait, what the f—”
“Go get her!” Hyunjin screams, pushing him through the door of the kitchen with one last pat on the back, “And send me my money!”
Minho stumbles over himself, just barely able to stop in time before he goes crashing into a group of people. The living room is crowded: there’s furniture pushed up against the walls, bodies pressed front to back in the middle of the floor, a makeshift DJ stand in the corner where Chan is controlling the music from his laptop, drink in hand. Minho catches his eye from across the room, the glow of the LEDs reflecting off the toothy grin he shoots his way, dimples on full display.
“Hey!” Minho feels someone grab his arm, and he turns to find you staring up at him. “Where’d you go? You said you were gonna get a drink.”
Minho follows your eyes down to where you’re staring at his empty hands. “I—uh, well. I ran into Hyunjin and we took a few shots.”
The pout you give him does nothing but spur on the fluttering of his chest, his brain still hyper aware of the way your hand was resting on his elbow. “Shots? I want shots!” you whine, and Minho has to avert his gaze from staring at your lips when your pout only worsens.
“How much have you had?” he tries to ask over the music. There’s a shitty pop song playing, high pitched and wonky. If he remembers in the morning, he’ll make sure he berates Chan about his DJ-ing abilities.
“What?” you scream back, tiptoeing to bring your mouth closer to his ear.
Minho is only a man. A man who's been in love with you since the moment you accidentally spilled your coffee all over Hyunjin in the quad during freshman year. He remembers that day well, remembers the way your eyes went wide and your lips parted. He also remembers the way he wished it was him with the large wet stain on his shirt, that way it was him that was offered to have his lunch bought as an apology.
He’d never admit it, but sometimes really late at night, when the moon is high in the sky and he’s feeling oddly sentimental, he counts his lucky stars that Hyunjin had been in a relationship at the time. Minho doesn’t know what he would’ve done had he been forced to watch the two of you hit it off—some form of arson, presumably. Anything to take the edge off. But because of the fact that Hyunjin was not trying to have his head cut off by said girlfriend at the time, he invited Minho along as some sort of collateral damage. That’s when the two of you became friends. Kind of perfect if you ask him.
With the jumbled mess of butterflies in his stomach that he gets whenever you’re near him, and the threat of the alcohol slowly seeping through his skin, his brain short circuits the minute your breath grazes the shell of his ear. When your hand follows not long after, fingers gripping the nape of his neck to hold him in place, he almost passes out.
“Min? What’d you say?”
Minho is rendered completely useless by you. Absolutely ruined. Your existence has thrown his entire plan to woo you off course and now his mouth is opening and closing like a badly programmed robot. Pathetic. Nuts and bolts for brains.
By the grace of God (or some other higher being that Minho’s never bothered to believe in until this very moment) he finds his voice, but not before you’re pulling back with a confused look on your face.
“I asked how much you’ve had to drink,” he says, straining against the music.
A saccharine sweet grin that has him seeing stars spreads across your face, “Not enough!”
Minho is not an enabler. Never has been, never will be. There was one time, back in that fateful freshman year that also introduced the two of you, that he let Hyunjin get blackout drunk. A terrible decision on his end, if the earful he got from Chan the next morning was anything to go by. And as if that wasn’t enough, he was finding remnants of the resulting hacking session for the following week. So yeah, never again.
But while Minho isn’t an enabler, he is smitten, and the way your hand feels wrapped around his wrist as you drag him into the kitchen has his soul threatening to leave his body. He thinks that maybe he could do anything as long as you asked. He also hopes you can’t feel the way his pulse is rabbiting beneath his skin, right under the press of your thumb.
“There’s, like, nothing here.” you say as you rummage through the cupboard near the window, nose scrunched and a frown on your face.
Minho laughs, rounds the kitchen island to crouch down and open the cabinet under the sink. “That’s because you don’t know where to look,” he smirks, pulling out a fresh bottle of tequila. “Also, Chan hyung is greedy. He knows people like you will go scavenging his supply if he isn’t careful.”
“I resent that.” you frown, taking the bottle from him. “Besides, people like me deserve to have fun too.”
“Mhm, sure.” Minho says, grabbing a solo cup. He holds his hand out for the bottle, pours just the right amount before sliding it over and following it up with a can of coke.
“A man after my heart.” you joke, holding your cup up to him in a mock toast before downing it in one go. Minho watches with so much focus, fighting against the way his head spins. He doesn’t even know if it’s the alcohol anymore, it might just be the effect you have on him. Dizzying—you flip his entire world on its axis in the best way possible.
Minho’s gonna be seeing your exposed neck in his dreams later, he’s sure of it—it’s branded into his memory.
“That…is so fucking bad.” you giggle, holding your cup out. “Another one.”
Minho clicks his tongue. “I don’t know…”
“Pleaseeee Min,” the lilt in your voice sounds oddly familiar. Minho holds his breath just in case you—yup. There it is. There goes that pout again.
It’d be so easy for him to lean down and kiss it right off your lips. He could blame it on the alcohol, maybe, but then that takes away from how he actually means it.
He sighs instead. “It’s gonna cost you.”
“An arm and a leg?”
“What? No—I meant some water.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Three shots and a full bottle of water later, Minho knows you’ve hit your limit. Cheeks flushed pink, a dopey grin on your face, pupils blown wide. Even in this state, Minho is certain that you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“Anotherrrr,” you slur, waving your cup in his face.
Minho shakes his head. “No can do. You’re cut off.”
“Please,” you whine, placing both hands on his shoulders, “I’ll do anything.”
Minho, completely taken back by the sudden closeness of your body to his, freezes.
“Anything?” he asks before he can stop himself.
This is stupid. You’re drunk. There’s no way you’re going to remember anything in the morning, much less within the next thirty minutes. He’s pretty sure that you’ll lose control of all your senses soon, which is why he’s already texted your roommate Jiwoo to unlock the door so he can carry you inside. Nothing he hasn’t done before.
“Anything,” you repeat, eyes going cross-eyed where they’re fixing on the mole he has at the tip of his nose.
This is stupid. But then again, so is Minho. A big, stupid fool that blames everything on the fact that he’s so in love with you it hurts. This might be the only chance he gets to shoot his shot.
Minho takes a deep breath, says something similar to a little prayer that’s more like Hey, if anyone’s listening, help a guy out, and hopes that the twenty bucks he sent Hyunjin works.
“Go on a date with me.” he says slowly, wincing when your eyes snap up to meet his gaze.
Well, there’s really no going back from that. The only thing that could possibly grant him redemption now is banking on the fact that you don’t remember anything in the morning.
Minho waits with bated breaths, watches as your eyes search his for a long while. He waits for the anger, the disgust, the visible repulsion that he starts to think might happen the longer the silence continues.
He’s about to backtrack, quickly conjuring up an excuse about how Oh, haha, gotcha! when your hands suddenly drop from his shoulders. You grab the cup, your chin tipped upwards, and hold it out for him to fill.
“Okay.”
“O…kay?”
“Yeah. Okay. Pour me another one.”
The next morning, when Minho all but drags himself into the kitchen in search of water and something to soothe the throbbing in his head, he nearly spits a mouthful at Jeongin, the poor guy too busy eating his cereal to realize he’s gotten a front row seat in the splash zone.
Y/N [10:34am]
so
when do you want to do that date?
🏠
Are candles too much?
Minho has options: clean linen, lavender breeze, ocean mist, warm vanilla. He really just needs something to get rid of the smell of cleaning spray.
He thought that having a night in for a first date would be ideal—less pressure, no unwanted attention, a bathroom that he can run into when he starts to hyperventilate if you smile at him for too long. But now that it’s happening, he’s convinced that every surface of his and Jeongin’s shared apartment will scare you away if anything so much as looks off-putting.
Minho is, to put it simply, freaking out. All the other times you’ve been over to his place were on a completely platonic level. Movie nights with all the other guys in tow, dropping off food that you felt generous enough to buy every once in a while, one time because you’d accidentally worn Minho’s jacket home from a party and needed to return it to him.
But this is different. This is a date. Minho’s not dreaming—he already pinched himself a dozen times in the bathroom mirror, tiny red marks on the inside of his forearm to prove it. He’s going to open the door, invite you in, cook for you, and then proceed to resist the urge to tell you how beautiful you are for however long the night continues on after that. He can practically hear Jeongin’s laugh in the back of his head, sneering at how pathetic his inner monologue sounds right now.
He needs to find another stain to scrub.
By the time you’re knocking on his door, Minho has changed his outfit seven times. Sweats were too casual, a button up was too fancy. Should he not have done his hair? No, that’s just lazy, the way his fringe is swept up and out of his forehead adds a nice touch that doesn’t scream Hey! I’m trying to woo you! You’ve never been the type to be impressed by grand gestures and shows of confidence anyways, he knows that well.
One time, when a guy from one of the frat houses hired the campus quartet to sing a song for you in the quad as he stood there with big beady eyes and a bouquet of roses in his hand, you’d all but ran from the scene, Minho following close behind as you called out to him over your shoulder. It’s one of his fondest memories. As soon as the two of you made it around the back of the science building, you’d doubled over in laughter, the both of you in disbelief at what had happened. Minho has had that information tucked into the deepest parts of his brain ever since, saved just in case he needed it.
(Later that night, in the safety of his own bed, he’d laughed maniacally at the situation. Something about watching you reject another guy filled him with a sense of joy he couldn’t explain. He just hoped he was never going to be on the receiving end of it.)
He does a quick once over of the kitchen: double checks that all the ingredients are out, blows a speck of dust off the glass stovetop, spins the tiny floral arrangement he bought so that it’s sitting at just the right angle. When the doorbell rings, the chime bouncing off the walls of the apartment, he visibly pales.
He has to reel it in, to remember that it’s just you. You might not even be here with any intentions other than to fulfill your end of the deal; one date in exchange for the extra three shots he poured you the other night. Minho takes a deep breath, grips the doorknob with conviction, and decides that he’s determined to show you the way you deserve to be treated. The opportunity is there, and he’s gonna take it.
As soon as the door swings open, every nerve that had somehow crept its way into his brain disappears, the sight of you standing on the other side immediately sending the anxiety scrambling and replacing it with fondness instead.
“Hi,” you smile, and Minho sees images of you coming home to his apartment flash across his mind. After class, after work, in the winter when it’s cold and your nose is tinted pink, on rainy days where the ends of your hair are damp and you have a wet umbrella in tow. He could get used to it. He’s so in love that it hurts.
“Hey,” he breathes out, stepping aside to make way for you, “Come in. Are you hungry?”
“Starving, actually. Been saving myself all day since I don’t always get to have your cooking.” You hop on to one of the stools, your attention momentarily stolen by the flower arrangement. One point for Minho.
I’d cook for you every day, he wants to say. But that’s weird, right? So instead, “Well then I guess today is your lucky day.”
“Yeah, I guess it is.” You say softly.
Minho can’t see you with the way his back is turned, hands moving to grab out the knife and cutting board, but if he could he’d see the way your eyes are staring softly at his back, the ghost of a smile on your lips.
Conversation flows easily after that, despite Minho’s original worries about it being awkward. You’re not necessarily treating it as a date, and he isn’t really either. It feels more like a glorified hangout, just the two of you spending time together with the added glances and smiles that normally wouldn’t be there.
Minho finds it easy to get lost in you. He finds himself craving to know more about your day, about the things that’ve been on your mind lately and the hobbies you’ve picked up. Most of the conversation is a continuation of stuff that’s fallen through the cracks during the times you see each other, but he doesn’t miss the way you ask about him too, your eyes shining with genuine interest. It makes his heart slam against his ribcage.
“How are your cats doing?”
Minho looks up from the cutting board, follows your gaze to where it’s fixed on the scattered pictures that litter his fridge. “They’re good,” he says, smiling down at a head of garlic, “My mom sends pictures all the time. She says they claw at the door to my room when they miss me.” He smashes the garlic under the knife’s blade by hitting it with the heel of his palm. “It’s cute.”
“You’re cute.”
Minho, in a very flashy demonstration of what it means to be cool, calm, and collected, slices his thumb mid-chop.
“Shit.” he mutters, dropping the knife.
It’s not that bad, just a little nick, the surprise was mostly what scared him. He probably doesn’t even need a bandaid. But despite how small it is, nothing stops you from hurriedly walking up to him and taking his hand in yours, his thumb held closely to your face for inspection.
“Are you okay?” You turn his hand over between your fingers, the soft pads of them against his calloused ones. Minho is dumbfounded, struggling to find the words to say.
“Yeah—um, it’s fine. My fault. I was distracted.” He stammers out, pulling his hand back and holding it up. He wiggles his fingers, making a show of bending and twisting his thumb that, at most, has just a small cut on the side. “See? Perfect.”
Your face relaxes, and then you’re laughing. Why are you laughing? Either Minho looks like a complete idiot or he’s suddenly the funniest person in the world for being clumsy and reckless and almost ruining the night by losing a finger. Whichever one it is, he doesn’t care, as long as he gets to hear that sound again.
“Let me help cook, please? I know you said you would do it all but clearly you’re a threat to the integrity of this meal.” You say, bumping your hip against his to move him away from the cutting board.
Minho scoffs. “I wouldn’t have done that if you didn’t catch me off guard.”
“So what? You admit that I make you flustered?”
Oh.
Minho wasn’t prepared for this. He wasn’t prepared for the—the flirting that’s clearly happening. You’re flirting with him, right? Why else would you have called him cute or given him that suspicious side eye after you asked that question?
You and Minho have joked around like this before, but it was always empty with no real feelings attached—as far as he could tell. You’re a naturally friendly person, getting along with others comes easy to you. He’s seen the way you talk to the other guys and has always just assumed he was no different in your eyes than they were. Sure, there were moments where maybe your hand lingered on his arm for a little while after he made you laugh, or the two of you would steal glances across the room. Sometimes when Hyunjin said something stupid you’d both catch the other’s eye and make a face, just another funny way of proving that you were both on the same wavelength most of the time. It’s kind of why Minho is so taken with you—he’s never met anyone that gets him the same way.
Reluctantly, Minho puts his pride aside and allows you to help. And as it turns out, you’re actually really good at cooking. Minho doesn’t have to instruct you much, and before he knows it you’re both working like a well-oiled machine, scooting past one another as you switch places between the stove and the sink, reading each other’s minds without even having to ask.
“Taste this.” You say, holding the spoon up to his mouth. Minho leans forward, front teeth poking out, and brings the spoon into his mouth. You cup your hand under his chin to catch any droppings, watching in anticipation as he smacks his lips together.
His eyes light up, big and brown and twinkling under the light of the kitchen. “Perfect.” He smiles.
“Oh you have—uh,” you stop him with a hand on his forearm just as he’s about to turn back to the sink, your other hand hovering next to his face hesitantly, “It’s just, um, your—here.”
Minho’s eyes go wide when your thumb swipes against the corner of his mouth, your touch feather light. It’s so intimate, the only sound being the music playing low from the speaker on the counter. He’s half convinced that you’re able to hear his heartbeat, blood pumping loud in his ears.
“You had some sauce…on your face.” You say shyly, your palm still pressed to his cheek.
“…Oh.”
Minho’s never really looked into your eyes from this close up before. He’s always known they were beautiful, the shape of them soft, full of nothing but the world. He can see himself in them from here, and, selfishly, he hopes you can see yourself in his, too.
He might be imagining it when your gaze flicks down to his lips for just a fraction of a second, but there’s no time to unpack any of that when the sauce starts bubbling over the edge of the pot, spilling on to the burner as loud sizzling and smoke fills the kitchen.
It’s chaos. The bottom of the pot is burnt and there’s only so much of it that’s salvageable. He only bought the exact amount of ingredients too, because this is a self-proclaimed no-food-waste household (as explicitly stated in the napkin contract he has with Jeongin, much to his dismay). So, hooray for conscious consumption of goods!
At the end of it all, there’s no one to blame. You’re both guilty of…whatever that was.
Minho tries to reassure you that it’s okay as he dials the number for the pizza place just down the street, simultaneously shutting down all your attempts to pay as an apology. It doesn’t matter to him, he’d do anything as long as it means he gets to spend time with you. At the end of the day, it’s another memory that he’ll hold close to his heart.
“Listen,” you say, swallowing down a mouthful of pizza, the both of you seated on his couch with a half-eaten box of pizza open on the coffee table, “I know you wanted to cook and all—which, by the way, I’m still sorry—but this is so good. However I’m sure whatever you made would’ve been better.”
Minho chuckles. “Stop lying,” he wipes his hands on a napkin, “I can guarantee you that whatever I cooked wouldn’t be as good as this anyways.”
“Stop selling yourself short, Min. You’re good at everything you do.”
The words fall from your lips so easily, like it’s something you’ve convinced yourself of long ago. Minho’s never been the type to bounce around from one thing to another, always choosing to stick with it until he has it down to a science. Cooking is one of them. Jeongin can attest to all the times Minho has berated him with tasting his latest dishes, chasing him around the apartment with a spoon. The words tighten themselves around his heart.
“I’m not,” he rolls his eyes, “But nine times out of ten, grease and mozzarella cheese are gonna win. I know that for a fact.”
You laugh, and the conversation gradually diverts into a debate about the top ten best greasy foods in existence. You’re heated, half kneeling on the couch with a finger pointed at him as you plead your case for onion rings, when your eyes go past Minho’s head and settle on the shelf of games in the hallway.
“You have games?” you ask, suddenly giddy with excitement as you hurry over to inspect the selection.
Minho watches with fond eyes, collects the plates and napkins to throw away. “Yeah, most of them are Innie’s. We don’t really use them. Sometimes when we’re drunk, other times when we’re bored and decide to wager money for fun.”
You hum, not really paying attention. Monopoly, Chutes and Ladders, some decks of cards, Uno—you scan the shelf until your eyes light up at what you find hidden at the bottom.
“Min! Can we play Jenga?”
“Jenga?” Minho asks, re-entering the living room. The coffee table is clear now, and he sits between it and the couch, his back against the cushion. “Isn’t that kind of boring? We have other stuff there.”
“It’s only boring if you play it the way it’s supposed to be played.” You roll your eyes. Minho turns to you when you situate yourself on the floor beside him and only momentarily contemplates running to the bathroom when your knee knocks against his. He’s been holding it together pretty well so far, however The Sauce Incident had him ready to book it if anything had gone further.
“Well how else are we supposed to play it?” He frowns.
“We make up our own rules.”
The pieces scatter across the wood of the coffee table, clacking as you diligently begin putting them together. “This is a date, right?” You ask, stopping for a moment to turn and assess his response.
Minho stills. He genuinely forgot the grounds on which tonight had even happened in the first place. Spending time with you makes him forget everything else. And, despite his fears in the beginning, being on a date with you has felt so natural that it almost seems like you’ve done it a thousand times before.
Your eyes meet. For a moment, Minho lets himself wonder what it’d be like if he went for it right then and there. “Yeah,” he says slowly, unblinking, hoping you can see the sincerity on his face, “A date. One of the best ones I’ve ever been on, actually.”
He almost cries out in victory when your face flushes pink. “Now who’s a liar?” You ask quietly, going back to piecing together the game.
Minho has learned something new tonight: he really likes seeing you flustered.
“Why do you ask?” he decides to cut you the slack, “Or what does this being a date have to do with Jenga rules?”
He waits as you finish the stack, your tongue sticking out in concentration. You’re so cute. Minho mentally pockets that image for safe keeping.
“Sorry, okay, it’s done. But basically, if we pull out a block, we get to ask the other person a question.”
“And if the tower falls…?”
“Hmm,” you think for a moment, chewing on your bottom lip, “Oh! I know. If you lose you have to tell me why you asked me on a date.”
Minho’s stomach flips. “Okay. If you lose you have to tell me why you accepted the date.”
Something unreadable passes over your face, but it’s gone in an instant. You hold your hand out for a shake, and Minho wraps his fingers around it gently.
“Deal.”
“Why are you taking all of the middle pieces?” Minho pouts.
The two of you have gone through a couple turns by now, throwing out random questions for the better half of fifteen minutes. Favorite colors, childhood foods you wouldn’t eat, the best memory you have from high school. Minho’s learned a lot, has fallen for you a lot more. But that was always a given. It’s impossible not to when he can feel the warmth from your body where you’re seated next to him, your presence overtaking all of his senses.
“Because I’m trying to win,” you laugh, putting your freshly pulled piece at the top. Just a little crooked, too. To piss him off. “Favorite movie?”
“Ponyo. Easy. My turn.”
“Seriously? Why Ponyo?”
“One question at a time, princess.”
He means it as a joke, really. He doesn’t even realize what he’s said until after the fact, the nickname making your heart skip a beat. Minho notices, the corners of his lips tugging downwards as he suppresses a smile. He manages to flick one of the side pieces until it gives way.
“What’s one thing you regret?”
“Ooh, getting deep I see.” You laugh, taking a sip of your soda. There’s a long pause, and then, “I regret spilling my coffee on Hyunjin that day.”
Minho’s brow furrows. You…regret it? He runs through all the possible reasons in his head. Surely it can’t be because you regret becoming friends with them, friends with him, right?
“Why?” He chances.
“One question at a time, princess.” You echo, laughing at his shocked expression.
You remove the last middle piece. “On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate our first date?”
Minho’s brain is going a thousand miles a minute. “A ten. Wouldn’t trade it for the world.” He says it fast, wastes no time in moving forward to remove his own piece. He doesn’t even notice that your cheeks have gone pink again, too busy itching to ask his next question.
“Why do you regret spilling your coffee on Hyunjin?”
Minho watches you, lets his mind wander to the worst possible thing you could say in this situation, and mentally prepares to book it to the bathroom.
You take a deep breath, “I regret it because I wasn’t supposed to spill it on him. I was supposed to spill it on you.”
Wait, what?
Minho blinks. “What are you talking about?”
This is humiliating for you. A terrible thing to have to admit. Up until this moment, you’d thought that this information would follow you to your grave. You press the heel of your palms to your eyes, “This is so embarrassing,” you groan.
Minho pulls one hand away. He’s not really sure what to say, mostly because he’s confused, but, “You can tell me.”
“I had…” you start, looking up at him slowly, “A plan. With Jiwoo.” Minho nods for you to continue. “I’d seen you and Hyunjin walking through the quad a few times, and I thought that you were cute, but I didn't know how to approach you. So I did something stupid and decided that I would literally just crash into you. But I fucked it up.”
I thought that you were cute. The words echo in Minho’s ears like a bell. All this time, all those stolen glances and lingering touches, all the ways you would make hope spike in his chest that maybe you felt the same—they were real.
“So you, wait—” Minho shakes his head, “So you’re telling me that all this time…”
You roll your eyes. “Yes, Min, really. All this time.”
Minho’s never been skydiving, but he imagines that this is what it feels like. Free falling—his soul hurtling towards earth at a horrifying speed, slamming back into his body right here in his living room with a force so strong it would knock him off his feet if he wasn’t already sitting on the floor. You were interested in him first.
Wordlessly, you lean forward, pulling out a piece with practiced ease. Minho waits with bated breaths.
“Can I kiss you?”
Minho feels like he might pass out. “Am I dreaming right now?”
“You didn’t pull out a piece.”
He scrambles forward, clumsily nudging a piece on the side that ends up sending the entire tower toppling over. You smile at him, soft and sweet. “Looks like you have to pay up with an answer. You know, since you lost.”
Minho doesn’t care. “Because I like you,” he breathes out, “I asked you on a date because I like you. I like you so much, ever since I saw you that day. And, funnily enough, I’ve always wished you’d spilled that coffee on me instead, too.”
The confession feels like a weight lifted off his shoulders. He’s spent so long pining after you, laying awake at night thinking about how this would go down if he ever got the chance. He never expected for it to happen like this, much less for you to possibly feel the same.
Panic slowly starts to rise in his chest when you don’t respond. He watches as you reach an arm over, build a small tower out of a few pieces, and then knock it over. You turn to him with a small smile, “Oops, I lost too.”
Minho is so in love with you that it hurts.
“I accepted the date because I like you, Minho. I’ve just been waiting for you to ask.”
He doesn’t think twice before he’s surging forward, cupping your face with one hand and kissing you with a tenderness that has you melting into his touch.
There’s no fireworks behind his eyes, no big bang or grand display of whatever it is that happens in the movies. But there’s a warmth, it starts out small in the center of his chest and spreads throughout his entire body, lights his skin aflame and travels all the way to his fingertips. You’re like that. A gentle presence, someone who worms their way into the very essence of his being and burrows into the deepest parts of him, like it was never his to begin with. Kissing you is slow, and deep, and right. He wouldn’t want it any other way. Minho doesn’t ever want to stop.
He lets his other hand fall to your waist, pulls you closer until you’re practically straddling him with his back against the couch, your knees on either side of his hips. Minho lets out a long, drawn out groan when you tilt his head back farther, his lips parting and allowing you to lick inside of his mouth. It’s so good. So good. He can’t believe he ever lived without knowing what this felt like; lived without ever having you this close before.
After a while, Minho reluctantly pulls back, holding you by the shoulders. When he looks up, your eyes are half-lidded. You look utterly debauched, cheeks pink and lips swollen from how hard they’d been pressed against his own. “We should probably slow down.” He tries hard to convince himself, too. “Talk about it all, you know? I don’t—this isn’t a one time thing for me. I don’t want it to be. I like you. I want you to know that.” He says softly, reaching up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear.
You lean into his hand, smiling when he flattens his palm to let your head rest there. “You’re like, so perfect that I want to kiss you until you forget your own name.”
Minho’s ears go red, his head falling forward until it rests against your collarbone. The feeling of his breath against your skin makes you laugh and run a hand through his hair, rubbing at the back of his neck fondly.
“This is gonna be so bad now that you say stuff like that.”
“Bad? No, I think it’s cute. You’re cute.”
“Shut up,” he whines, but there’s no bite to it. Not when he can look up and press a kiss to your lips. A dream come true. The entire world in his hands, exactly where it was always meant to be.
🏠
In the morning, when Jeongin comes back home, one hand covering his eyes just in case, he calls out,
“Everyone better be dressed! Or else I’m ripping up that napkin and making a new one with No fornicating on the furniture added into the fine print.”
When he doesn’t get a response, he rounds the corner, and finds the two of you nestled into the couch. Minho’s back is pressed into the cushions, his arms wrapped tightly around you as you nuzzle your face into his neck.
Jeongin huffs out a laugh, sends a quick text to Hyunjin that reads: Negative. Clothes are still on. But they’re so cute it’s almost sickening.
He snaps a picture to send to the group chat, grabs a piece of cold pizza, and retreats to his room.
Yang Jeongin Fanclub
jeongin: [Attachment: 1 image]
chan: AWWWWWWW
jiwoo: i’m gonna cry
changbin: dude is that the good pizza from down the street?
hyunjin: FINALLY
hyunjin: wait
hyunjin: does this mean i have to send back his $20?
[tags: @palindrome969 @summergirlsmj @n1staytiny @strwbrrychannie ]
© all rights reserved. godslino 2024. please do not steal, translate, or re-upload.
#lee know x reader#first date series : minho#lee know fluff#lee know angst#skz x reader#lee know fanfic#skz fanfic#lee know fic#skz fic#lee know fanfiction#skz fanfiction#stray kids x reader#stray kids fanfic#stray kids fic#stray kids fanfiction#lee know#godslino#first date series
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Begged & Borrowed
Copyright Ⓒ 2023 by Moonjxsung
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner. Doing so will result in a legal takedown per the Digital Millennium Copyright Act and is subject to legal action.
Pairing: Lee Minho x fem reader
W/c: 30.2k
Warnings: infidelity, drinking, smoking, use of pet names, unprotected sex, breast/nipple play, dry humping, clitoral stimulation
Synopsis: A turn of events causes you and your longtime best friend Minho to confront your true feelings for each other- except you’re already getting married to somebody else.
[this work was based off a request from “🌷” anon - thank you for requesting!]
18+. Mdni!
•
For as long as Minho has remembered, he’s been in a constant state of grieving. But no one’s passed, nor is there any reason to believe something should happen. Nonetheless, the feeling remains, a cruel reminder of the phenomenon when it hits him suddenly, eating away at his thoughts and boring into his flesh.
Like a seed planted deep in his body, one that suddenly sprouted, and won’t stop growing, and growing. And in his mind, this grieving takes its form in viridian hues of ivy, thin stringy stems that wrap around his bones and constrict him to a life lived within the cage of his own body. Rubbery leaves of green with venules that mirror his own veins and seem to mock him as they replace what’s left of him. And Minho can do nothing except coexist with this heavy sense of grieving, let the ivy strangle him in its unsuspecting embrace and rob him of his last breaths. He’s still in there, trapped somewhere, breathing in labored breaths and stiff at the limbs. But he can’t breathe, and he fears one day this grieving is going to kill him.
*
Minho exhales deeply, balancing a small cardboard box which houses a white cylindrical cake in his hands, his eyes darting nervously over the crowd inside. There seem to be 20, maybe 30 people, already acquainted with the space, chatting amongst themselves with glasses of champagne in hand. He’s tried your cell phone twice, to no avail- of course he knows you’re probably making your rounds, chatting with guests and double checking the hors d’oeuvres are to your liking. But he tries one more time just in case, bringing the phone up to his ear and letting it ring once, twice, three times- voicemail.
There’s no way around this but to go inside and socialize for the next hour, Minho’s personal idea of hell on earth. He grips the box a little firmer with one hand, using the other to slip his cell phone back into his pocket and make sure he can access it easily, just in case he needs to look busy. And with one more deep sigh, he begins the journey inside, mentally preparing to pretend as though he cares about any of this.
The venue interior is spacious, and admittedly a breathtaking view at this proximity, much to Minho’s stubborn dismay. Round white tables line the wooden floors, wrapped in velvety cream tablecloths and glowing in the dim lightning of tea candles. Similar cream-colored lanterns line the ceilings in neat rows, parallel to the strings of bohemian bulb lights that serve more as decoration than to actually brighten the place. And by the marble wall fountain at the back of the open space, there’s you, all dressed up and chatting enthusiastically with a group of women. Minho pauses for a moment, not yet proceeding, as he takes in the sight of your elegant appearance. Your figure is hugged delicately by a slim-fitting dress, a pair of strappy heels complementing the loose curls and simple makeup you sport. And he sighs again, feeling as though this is all going to be in vain the second he approaches you.
Yet he doesn’t even have to- you spot him from across the room first, whispering something in another woman’s ear before making your way toward him, an enchanted smile on your face and such purpose in your step as you near him. Minho’s heart quickens in his chest the way it always does when he’s around you, though his demeanor seems to relax fully once you’re in front of him, your arms extending for a hug as he shoots you a saccharine smile and pulls you into his embrace.
“You made it!” You exclaim enthusiastically, your arms wrapping around the broad shoulders he flaunts under his white collared button-up. He smells familiar, a comforting mix between fabric softener and his musky cologne, and it brings you right back to your days spent alongside him in college, catching late-night movies together and hitting up all your favorite fast food joints.
“I wouldn’t have missed it for anything,” Minho replies sweetly. He chuckles a little as he speaks, lost in the striking glow of your eyes at this proximity, your long eyelashes fluttering as you smile in response and nod.
“Thank god you’re here,” you voice, glancing around the room inconspicuously. “I think Jung’s friends have had one too many shots. And I asked for pink flowers on the centerpieces- do these look pink to you?”
You gesture to the bouquets of very magenta floral arrangements, shaking your head as Minho laughs in response.
“Hey, remember this is just to celebrate everything being finalized. You can get nit-picky when the wedding rolls around- for now, let’s just enjoy the magenta flowers.”
You smile up at him, always endeared at the way Minho finds the good in everything. He has a special way of taking your fears or reservations and making them seem so insignificant in contrast to the world around you. And he’s been that way for as long as you can remember, quick to fix things and stay by your side through the hardships whenever they crept up on you.
Like the time your car got impounded and he walked nearly two hours with you to get it back because neither of you could afford a taxi. Or the time your holiday office party was all but sleep-inducing, and he didn’t hesitate to drop what he was doing to take you out for burgers, instead.
And of course, being by your side throughout this very burdening wedding process. Minho’s the first person who got the news of the engagement when it happened, nearly shattering the dish he washed during a session of old cartoon reruns and fast food while you were out at dinner with Jung. And it was the last thing he’d expected, too, remembering how the week prior was spent lending a kindly ear to you as you ranted about Jung’s stubbornness and his poor temperament.
“Married?” He’d spoken into the phone, like the proposition of getting an engagement ring implied literally anything else.
And when you saw him again an entire week later, the marquis diamond hugged by delicate prongs and a sterling silver band around your fourth finger confirmed the words, as if your excitement over the phone hadn’t done so already. At first Minho was angry, declining invitations to hang out and forcing himself to stay asleep so as not to feel the sheer pain and regret that came with the news. What does she even see in him? He’d asked himself a dozen times a minute, mapping out the factors you complained about to him and weighing them against the likelihood that you’d actually follow through with this wedding.
He’s messy. He doesn’t like spending money on fancy dinners, so sometimes we’ll only do sides. My parents think he’s a little arrogant and when he’s with his friends, it’s like I don’t exist.
All signs point to negative. There’s no way you’d actually follow through with marrying Jung- at least not if it’s up to you. Maybe you had stars in your eyes, couldn’t say no to the sparkly ring and had thought back to the first date when he first got down on one knee. That has to be why you said yes.
The prospect of marrying him contractually is a headache when Minho thinks about it- and that’s not even inclusive of the idea that comes with spending the rest of your life cooped up in a house with him, with children and in-laws. It would mean years of him talking back to you, undermining you and rubbing his superiority complex in your face. Minho isn’t sure he could stick around for a lifetime of that.
At least he wasn’t sure before- and now, with just two months out till the wedding, Minho is panicking. It feels like some race against time to knock an ounce of sense into you, but the stars in your eyes are still there when he catches you glancing at your ring, or moved by Jung’s actions that scream the bare minimum.
“Did you see the champagne glasses? They’re iridescent! Jung got them just for tonight.”
Maybe that’s what you see in him. His noble trait of picking iridescent champagne glasses over clear ones.
“Cool,” Minho responds, giving you a small nod.
“What’s in the box?” You ask, gesturing to the small white box in Minho’s hands still.
“Oh, just a little something,” Minho replies a little softly, watching as you slowly lift the thin cardboard lid and peer inside. And the smile that grows on your face makes everything worth it again.
“From our favorite bakery? Minho! That place is so expensive, you shouldn’t have!”
“It’s a special evening,” Minho replies with a smile, watching as you admire the intricate icing display for a moment. White fondant ribbons and candy pearls line the frosted surface which enreathes decadent layers of chocolate- all your favorites. As Minho begins to close the box, he’s rudely interrupted by a finger prodding itself into the dessert, swiping across the frosting and moving the carefully placed cake toppers into complete disarray.
“Is this chocolate?” A voice asks from behind Minho, coming forward to sprawl an arm over your shoulders and lick the frosting off his finger. “Damn, that’s good!”
And Minho can practically feel every ounce of hope in his body dissipate as he watches you giggle enthusiastically.
“Hi, Jung,” Minho says flatly, observing your destroyed cake briefly before shutting the box again.
“What’s up, man? Thanks for the cake. Hey, wedding’s in two months- I hope you have your tux ready!”
Minho responds with a thin-lipped smile, not saying anything as Jung laughs loud enough to fill the awkward silence amongst the three of you.
“What do you say we go cut some real cake?” Jung asks, turning to face you as his grip around your shoulders tightens.
You smile back at him, turning to Minho and cocking your head toward the table by the wall fountain.
“You wanna join? We got a variety of pastries, too. There’s those little cream puffs you like, and macarons from the French bakery.”
Minho extends his arms, passing the box of cake to you and giving you both a small bow.
“I actually just stopped by to gift you the cake. I have a work thing really early tomorrow.”
“You’re leaving?” You question, a small pout on your face as Jung scans the room around you, desperate to ditch the two of you, but also stubborn about maintaining his dominance in front of Minho.
“We’ll catch up soon,” Minho replies, trying his best to convey a smile that will make it seem like nothing’s bothersome.
“Okay, okay,” you respond, separating from Jung’s hold on you and pulling Minho in for another hug.
“Thanks for the cake, anyway. I’m still glad you stopped by.”
“Of course,” Minho says, averting his gaze from Jung. “And congrats on finally getting all the wedding plans finalized. That’s a really big deal.”
“She’ll be hitched in two months!” Jung chimes in loudly from behind you. “And then we’ll be on an island celebrating married life!”
Minho just nods at him, shooting him the same thin-lipped smile and bowing to both of you.
“Catch you later,” he says, finally pivoting to exit the way he entered. And he can still hear Jung’s obnoxious laughter from halfway across the room.
*
Fridays were always your designated days with Minho. In college, they meant movie nights and greasy takeout food. Post-graduation, they involved bars and gossiping about your entry level positions and your bosses. And after Jung came into the picture, they quickly became every other Friday, which soon turned to Sunday brunch on a monthly basis, which then transitioned to catching up over the phone or in brief passing. Jung made sure you were always busy doing something with him, his arm slung possessively around your shoulders and speaking far too loudly about your relationship for the whole world to hear.
Minho began to ditch the Friday group dates when Jung started inquiring about his own relationship status, getting drunk off one-too-many jägermeisters and slurring questions and demands about when he’d finally bring a girl to the function. And Minho never had the heart to tell you why he stopped showing- he simply conjured intricate excuses for every instance you invited him out.
I have a headache. I have an early day tomorrow. The cats are lonely these days.
Of course, perhaps Jung could see right through him into the green leaves of ivy that enwreathed his bones and swallowed him whole with this grieving. Grieving for you, grieving for himself, grieving for this life he knew was bound to come to a close the minute Jung made his move. Which Jung did, practically setting the relationship in stone so that Minho would now be subject to a lifetime of his offensive slurred speeches and unsettling presence. And although the grieving grew heavier after the engagement, it’s always been there, perhaps even longer than Jung’s even been in the picture.
“Jung said no male strippers at the bachelorette party, which is a bummer if you ask me. But we are having an open bar, so I’ll be too drunk to care about naked men anyway.”
Minho chuckles softly, bringing the straw in his iced coffee up to his lips and taking a sip from the corner of his mouth.
“But he’s having strippers at his bachelor party, isn’t he?”
You shrug casually, brushing off the question as you take a sip of your coffee, too.
“I don’t really care, either way. I mean we’ll be getting married regardless, so he can look at whoever he wants. I just need him to show up in a tux on the day of, and stand at the end of the aisle crying when I come to meet him.”
Minho doesn’t reply, a string of questions circling his mind, which he chooses not to ask in order to maintain the peaceful silence that now falls over you both. It’s one of the only days this month you two have been able to get some time alone, although it did require Minho taking off work early and you lying to Jung about your whereabouts. You find yourselves at the coffee shop you’ve been meeting at since your college days, an iced americano in Minho’s grasp and a latte in yours.
As Minho takes in his surroundings, everything feels vastly different than it used to- the distance between you two feels much greater, like there are miles separating the beverages you consume at this proximity to each other. The baristas don’t shoot you curious looks like they used to when they were certain you two were an item. And the shiny ring on your finger makes an appearance every sip you take, glistening under the beams of sun that dance through the windows and fall over your enthusiastic figure.
“What are you up to this weekend?” You ask finally, meeting his shy gaze as he taps his fingers on the wooden surface of the table.
Minho shrugs, toying with the lobe of his ear as he thinks of a random commitment to voice back to you.
“Oh, you know,” he stutters. “Moving stuff.”
And he’s completely unsure, himself, of what the words imply as they escape his lips.
“Moving stuff? To where? Where are you moving?”
“I’m not moving,” he emphasizes. “Just… moving stuff. Things. I want to rearrange some picture frames. And maybe reorganize my bookshelf.”
You sigh in response, a small smile tugging at your lips as Minho does his best to maintain the bogus narrative.
“Minho, you never leave the house anymore. Why don’t you go out with Jung or something? He’s doing a golf thing with some of-”
“No, thank you,” he interrupts quickly. “I’m not a golfer.”
And you sigh again, cocking your head at him.
“Okay, mister ‘moving stuff.’ Will you at least call me when you’re done moving your stuff and your things?”
“I’ll call you,” Minho reaffirms.
“I mean it. I’m gonna call you when I get home from the party and you better not be asleep on the couch again.”
“I promise to answer,” he echoes.
You smile at him again, and Minho mirrors the action with a small smile of his own, his skewed teeth exposing from behind his plump lips as he grins sheepishly.
“Moving stuff,” you repeat, mocking his excuse.
“Moving stuff and things,” he emphasizes, chuckling lightly across from you.
*
Bachelorette parties are supposed to be one of two things: freeing, and cathartic. Luckily for you, yours checks both boxes, the two-day retreat to a luxury hotel in the city providing ample time to relax, and the shots you down at the open bar in your venue fulfilling the cathartic part of it. Your girlfriends shower you in presents, ranging from expensive dining sets and clothes, to humorous sex toys for you and Jung to try on your honeymoon. Even the bartenders join in on your two nights of dancing, parading your event with handmade signs and getting everyone in the bar to sing to you. And for the first time since the stress-inducing year of planning has begun, you feel excited, ready for your new life as a bride alongside Jung.
Husband and wife have a nice ring to it, you think to yourself, as you kick off your shoes and lie back on the thick white duvet of the hotel bed. And though you’re still a little tipsy, you keep your promise, selecting Minho’s contact in your phone and giving him a ring. The phone rings once, twice and then three times, before you conclude he’s definitely fallen asleep on the couch again, probably while moving around his stuff and his things. But you’re proven wrong on the fourth ring, a gentle click echoing in your ears as you hear him press the phone to his ear and speak in a tired voice.
“Hello?”
“You’re asleep on the couch, aren’t you?”
“…no,” he responds, after a short pause.
“You’re so predictable,” you chuckle back at him, shaking your head as you sigh into the phone.
“How was the bachelorette party?” He inquires, sitting up on the couch he definitely wasn’t asleep on, to speak a little clearer into the receiver.
“It was amazing,” you reply with a dreamy sigh. “We did karaoke, and danced and even the bartenders were wishing me good luck. It was like something from college.”
“I’m glad,” Minho responds, nervously picking at the hem of his ratty old t-shirt.
“I’m a little drunk,” you say with a gentle laugh. “But I couldn’t help but wish you were there. The girls are great, of course, but I feel like bars were our thing.”
Minho blinks nervously a few times, pondering your words and keeping his gaze locked on the array of neatly-placed picture frames on the wall across him.
“Yeah,” he settles on replying, his breath hitching in the back of his throat.
“Do you miss me?” You query, twirling a strand of hair around your finger. And Minho can’t comprehend what’s got you acting like this, flirting with him in the phone line while Jung isn’t around.
“I do,” he responds after a brief pause.
“I’m serious, Minho. As your best friend, I’d hope that you miss me sometimes.”
There it is- the clarification is enough for him to exhale the deep breath he’s been holding in all this time.
“Yeah,” he says again. “I miss you, as a friend. And I’m glad the night was enjoyable.”
“You hate bars,” you say to him. “But you used to let me drag you out to them. I miss you.”
And he nods on the other end, repressing the real emotions that eat away at him like, you might see them over the phone if he feels too deeply.
“I miss you, too. Get some sleep, okay? We’ll talk in the morning.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you say sarcastically. “Goodnight. Thanks for answering.”
“Sure thing,” Minho replies before ending the call. And the room is eerily quiet now that he’s awake, the clock on the living room wall ticking with the passing seconds, as the ivy in his chest constricts a little tighter now.
*
Jung’s bachelor party is nothing short of insufferable. It’s loud, it’s rowdy, and it’s neither relaxing nor cathartic. Unless you define the two as getting lap dances in a smoke-filled limousine driving down the freeway a million miles a minute.
Minho sits quietly on one side, refusing every advance from the female strippers as they flaunt their beautifully-sculpted breasts in his face and dance to the loud rap music. He pretends to use his phone, having no service in this part of town, and yet still resorting to switching frantically between the compass feature and the weather app. And then he tips each stripper a generous amount, apologizing to them profusely as he gets off at the first stop and orders a cab. Where exactly the limousine is taking them, he doesn’t even care to know. Jung questions no part of it, not even having wanted to invite Minho in the first place. And while Minho waits for his taxi, he calls you, frantically wishing he could remind you Jung’s possibly the worst person you could have chosen to marry.
“Hi Minho,” you speak into the phone, shuffling about on your end as you tend to some household work. “I thought you didn’t get reception wherever you were going?”
“I found a way,” he responds, lying through his teeth.
You narrow your eyes, pausing your work to listen in to the phone call a little more closely.
“Minho, did you… leave?” You question, taking note of the way there’s not a sound in the background of the call- not Jung’s booming laughter, nor any music of any kind.
“No,” he says quickly, and you let out a deep sigh.
“Now you’re lying,” you remark.
“I’m not-”
“You’re talking in short responses, and I can’t see you but I know you’re doing that blinking thing. Why would you leave?”
Unfortunately for Minho, you know him like the back of your hand, always quick to clock when he’s lying to you through his nervous habits. The same habits you’ve studied since your days together in college, and ones he’s never been able to stop doing no matter how hard he tries. Minho lets out a deep sigh and runs a hand through his hair.
“Look, it’s just not my scene, okay? I’m still going to the wedding, it’s not like ditching a bachelor party is going to ruin your marriage.”
You shake your head and pinch the bridge of your nose in annoyance.
“What am I going to do with you? Why are you so opposed to just bonding with him?”
“I’m not!” Minho exclaims. “He wanted to go swimming. I can’t swim.”
Another lie.
“Look,” you begin. Would you just come over if you’re not going? We can talk about it here.”
Minho nods eagerly, the idea of spending time by your side sounding much more appealing than a weekend with Jung.
“I’m just waiting on a taxi,” he says. “I’ll be there soon.”
And when he hangs up, you stare briefly at the contact phone of you two, running your fingertips over the dimly lit screen. It’s an older photo, of you guys in college out at a bar, Minho smiling enthusiastically and giving you a piggy-back ride. And although it’s still Minho, it doesn’t feel anything like the version of him you know now.
*
“I don’t want this to set the precedent for the rest of our relationship.”
“Don’t want what to set a precedent?” Minho questions back.
“This! You running away from Jung every chance you get so that we’re only able to bond when he’s not around! You’re my best friend, Min. Why can’t you guys just make it work so that I don’t have to divide my time between the two of you like this?”
“You had no problem learning to divide it when we were in college,” Minho says frustratedly. “Now that you’re engaged it’s like I’m engaged to him, too. I don’t like the guy, okay? Whatever we make of that as friends isn’t in my hands, but it also doesn’t mean I’m gonna jump at the chance to go golfing with him every weekend.”
You’re quiet for a moment, his frustrated speech circling your mind as he remains sprawled out on your couch. He’s right, to some degree- you know very well that the two of them never got along well. And try as you might, they’re just incompatible in every way possible. Jung’s loud, he’s stubborn, he’ll never say no to a social outing and he’ll only make an effort to get along with someone for a finite amount of time before he’s disregarding their existence, much like he does Minho’s. And Minho is quiet, soft-spoken, only social when it comes to you and takes his stance on a person just minutes after meeting them. They’ve already reached the stubborn conclusion that they despise each other, and at this point in your life, there’s little you can do to change it.
“I just want to know things are okay between us,” you remark.
“Things are okay between us.”
“We haven’t had a proper hangout in months, Minho. I get married in a few weeks and then I’m afraid we just won’t see each other.”
Minho seems to understand the seriousness in your tone, sitting up from the couch to finally meet your gaze. You look disheartened, an expression Minho is used to seeing when you try to set him up with a date or when he can’t make it out to an event. But this time it seems like it has more weight to it, the way you sag your shoulders as you slouch over one of the barstools in the kitchen, completely terrified at the prospect of losing your best friend.
“I’ll tell you what,” Minho breaks the silence. “How about we plan something, just us? It’ll be like old times, and we don’t have to worry about Jung or your friends or anyone. Just for a weekend.”
You meet his gaze, too, promptly glancing at the ceiling as you think over his proposal.
“I don’t know, Jung probably wouldn’t like it-”
“This is exactly what I mean!” Minho interjects. “Everything you do is based on what Jung likes or doesn’t like. We used to go out together all the time- if you only want to hang out when he’s around then yeah, things might be a little different from here on out.”
And the words pierce through you like a dagger, yet again filling your mind with all the regrets that will come with shutting him out for the purposes of pleasing Jung. Minho is right- he’s been your best friend for years. Jung might be your future spouse, but that doesn’t mean your relationship with him has to be any more important than the lifelong commitment you’ve made to your best friend, too.
“Where would we go?” You ask reluctantly.
Minho shrugs casually, lying back down on the couch with his hands behind his head.
“Anything,” he responds. “Your pick.”
And you think over his offer again, mentally mapping out your schedule at work and what you guys might be able to do on a quick weekend together.
“Camping,” you say suddenly, straightening your posture.
“You hate camping,” Minho retorts, chuckling lightly.
“Yeah, but you love camping. I’m just doing this to spend time with you, Min. I already spent my weekend in the city. Let’s do something you like and we can have an old friend trip like we used to.”
Minho can’t help the grin that tugs at his lips, endeared by the way you always let him drag you to his favorite places just like you used to drag him. And he knows you’re a city girl through and through- you’ve always been very vocally opposed to accompanying him on his camping excursions. But maybe going together, you’ll have some change of heart if it means you won’t have to listen to Jung share all of his unwarranted opinions.
“Let’s do it,” Minho says confidently. “You’re gonna love it.”
“I’m only doing this for you,” you reply with a smile. “I still maintain that I’m going to hate it.”
*
A yoga retreat.
Jung is made to believe you’re at a yoga retreat, three hours out from your shared apartment, with a close girlfriend you haven’t seen in months.
And maybe it’s because he genuinely believes you, or he simply doesn’t care, but he doesn’t press you for any information about the event, sending you off with a chaste kiss and turning his attention back to the sports he watches on television. He doesn’t even inquire about why you fail to bring your yoga mat, leaving it folded neatly in the closet of your bedroom alongside all your workout clothes.
You do pack warm clothes, blankets and even a matching set of flashlights for when it gets pitch dark like you know the mountains do at night. And as you make your way to Minho’s house with your backpack slung over your shoulders, you’re actually a little excited, the idea of getting some fresh air sounding like a well-deserved treat after the week you’ve had in the city.
“Well aren’t you all ready to go camping,” you say to Minho in an amused tone, admiring the outfit he’s put together for the occasion. He sports a simple white t-shirt and a loose-fitting pair of jeans, coupled with a black cap he wears backwards over his brown hair. He looks a lot simpler than usual- in fact, you’re not sure you’ve ever seen Minho in a cap before today.
“You look nice,” you voice to Minho, as he loads his duffel bag in the trunk of the car.
“Me?” He questions, furrowing his brows in genuine confusion. “I’m just dressed for comfort.”
“Yes, you. That cap looks good on you. God forbid I compliment my best friend.”
He chuckles lightly, helping you load your backpack into his car and closing the trunk when he’s finished.
“Ready?” Minho asks, turning to you with a small smile.
“Ready,” you echo, climbing into the passenger seat beside him.
The drive to the campsite is just over an hour long, taking Minho’s vehicle through narrow paths of dirt roads surrounded by trees. The treacherous drive doesn’t seem to faze him at all, as he keeps just one hand on the wheel, while the other rests casually on the car console. You can tell he’s done this drive a number of times before, judging by the way he needs no form of navigation and doesn’t stop to read the directional signs at any point.
“Do we need to pitch a tent when we get there?” You ask, and Minho laughs in response.
“That’s how I can tell you’ve never come here before.”
“What?” You reply with a chuckle of your own. “It’s a totally valid question.”
“Yeah, maybe if we were on Survivor. There’s tents all over the campsite. And picnic tables, and bathrooms and I think there’s a gift shop somewhere.”
You nod at his response, a little more intrigued now that you know it’s not going to be as hands-on as you thought. And when he pulls into the parking lot, he’s right- there are cabins that span the perimeter of the parking lot, presumably bathrooms and information centers about the place.
Minho puts the car into park as he helps you gather your bags, and then you both enter the cabin closest to you, being greeted by an older woman who sits at an information booth.
“Welcome!” She exclaims in a cheerful tone. “Are you folks staying overnight?”
“Yes,” Minho answers, hoisting his duffel bag further up his shoulder. “We’ll be here for two nights.”
“Wonderful!” she replies, gathering a thin stack of pamphlets. She uncaps a red pen, circling a little graphic that indicates a tent, and then slides it over to Minho along the counter.
“You two will occupy this location here- it’s just a few minutes up the hill there. The bathroom is attached to the unit, and there are a few clean towels in the drawers there.”
She slides him two more pamphlets, gesturing to their titles and keeping her gaze on the infographics.
“There’s a guide on plants to avoid, and some wildlife you might run into. Any questions?”
Minho shakes his head, stuffing the pamphlet into his pocket and giving her a small nod.
“No, thank you,” he says, looking over at you.
And the woman shoots you a smile now, gesturing to your hand.
“That is a beautiful ring,” she states, clasping a hand over her heart emotionally.
“Thank you,” you reply with a smile. “I’m getting married.”
She laughs lightly, shooting Minho a thumbs up.
“Enjoy it while you can!”
You’re quick to shake your head at her, taking a step away from Minho.
“Oh god, no, he’s not my fiancé. He’s just a friend.”
And Minho takes a step away, too, giving her a nod.
“We’re just longtime friends,” he echoes your words.
“My apologies,” the woman is quick to say. “Enjoy your stay regardless.”
*
“It never ends,” you say to Minho as you exit. “I can’t believe people still think we’re a couple when we go out.”
“It’s just a common equation,” Minho responds. “Two people. Engagement ring. Camping trip.”
“I know,” you emphasize. “It’s just so weird being so close to my own marriage and still having to tell people we’re not a couple.”
Minho swallows nervously, not entertaining the discussion any further as he takes your aversion to the idea of it as answer enough.
“It’s just up here,” Minho says, gesturing to the narrow dirt path that leads up to your tent.
The tent is a long, rectangular space, the beige tarp even accompanied by clear vinyl windows that zip up for added privacy. The inside houses a small birch wood table pushed against the side, two white folding chairs, and a single bed, just larger than a twin-sized one.
“One bed?” You say as you scan the room, dropping your bags and looking nervously back at Minho.
“All the units have one bed,” he explains casually. “I’ll take the floor.”
“You’re not taking the floor, Minho. It’s freezing.”
“I’ve done it before,” he says, unzipping his bag and pulling out a smaller pouch. “I’ll be fine.”
“But it’s so awkward to have you on the floor while I get a whole bed to myself.”
He disregards your concerns, tossing the pouch to you, which you catch in two hands and examine.
“Bait,” he says with a small smile.
“Bait?” You echo. “You mean like…”
“Fishing,” he says confidently. “We’re catching our dinner tonight.”
*
It’s a fair assumption to say you hadn’t taken Minho’s liking to camping very seriously. Sure, you knew he was partial to the great outdoors and to catching his own dinners. Of course he knows how to pitch a tent and gut a fish. But seeing him do it in action, string a spinnerbait onto his fishing rod and cast his line, watching meticulously as the bobber pulls underwater and he checks if he’s caught a bass yet, you’re admittedly pretty impressed. He looks completely in his element like this, uttering remarks about his “monofilament fishing line” that you don’t understand in the slightest, but you listen to regardless. For a brief moment, you can’t help but feel bad, seeing how much this interests him, when all you’ve ever done in the span of your friendship is drag him to clubs and get takeout together. Maybe you should’ve taken this whole thing more seriously. Maybe you should have accompanied Minho on one of his offers for a fishing trip when you still had the chance to do it without being under Jung’s watchful eye.
“We may need a smaller hook,” Minho says, as he adjusts his rod and stares out at the lake. The atmosphere is lazy and restful, the gentle lull of the lake’s deep blue water sloshing against the rocks that line the shore and swaying with the breeze. There’s a distant buzz of cicadas at this hour, and the swallows circle the vast green trees overhead that rustle in syncopation with the water. You and Minho remain seated on the flat rocks that line the shore, a cooler of ice and a small pouch of bait between the two of you.
Minho’s gaze remains set on the lake, attentively watching the bobber and praying for a bass to latch onto it so that he can instruct you on the de-gutting and cleaning process. But there seems to be no sign of fish anywhere, the only movement being the little ripples that vibrate with the sporadic activity of water bugs.
“When was the first time you went fishing?” You ask Minho suddenly, catching his gaze as he turns to you.
“First time?” He echoes. “I don’t know, maybe age seven? My dad taught me.”
You nod in response, picturing a little Minho alongside his dad, learning the ropes of monofilament fishing lines and all that jazz. You can’t help but smile at the thought of it, knowing Minho was probably so quiet, yet full of curiosity, the same way he is now.
“I wish I would’ve come,” you say finally, letting out a small sigh as you speak. “I wish I came with you on one of these trips.”
Minho shakes his head and waves you off. “Solo camping is one of my favorite things in the world. I didn’t need it to be ruined by all your city girl antics.”
“Hey!” You exclaim with a small laugh, hitting him lightly, and Minho hits you back.
For a moment, the two of you say nothing, admiring the way the sunlight glares overhead and sets the water aglow with glints of light that make it almost hard to look at. Minho takes notice of the more casual look you sport, too, void of any makeup and your hair tied back loosely. Similarly, the little imperfections that mark his skin remind you of the Minho you met in college, back when you were both riddled with zits and drank cans of soda for breakfast. And now across from you, acne scars and a handsome face he’s grown into so well, you can’t help but feel your heart swell at the fact that he’s still here, this many years later, regardless of the roadblocks your relationship has taken you through. It’s a miraculous thing to have someone stick by your side knowing you’re getting wed to a person he despises. And you refuse to part ways with him, too, despite the amount of outings he declines in the name of nothing important. What a fascinating prospect, to be reminded that your most unconditional form of love comes in the form of a best friend more than even your fiancé on most days.
You open your mouth to say something, being promptly interrupted by the reel of the fishing line being pulled back, the rhythmic buzzing of the handle startling you both as it’s pulled in circular motions to indicate a catch.
“Oh my god, what do we do?” You exclaim to Minho, a sense of urgency present in your voice as you await his instruction.
“I’ll teach you,” Minho says, as he rises from his spot and gestures to the fishing rod. “Grab the handle, like- yeah, just like that.”
And you do as you’re told, approaching the rod to steady the handle in your grasp. He guides you through the careful motions, steadying your hands a comfortable distance away from the reel seat, pulling back the handle with slow, yet purposeful movements and raising the fishing line away from the gentle current of the water.
“There’s a lot of resistance,” you comment, as you pull even harder.
“Really?” Minho remarks, his hands on his hips as he looks out upon the water. “I wonder if it’s going to be a big one. Keep pulling.”
And you do, heaving the rod desperately away from the water to pull in your catch. There’s heavy resistance at first, and then a generous amount of give to the force, as the line finally glides across the water and begins to pull up toward you.
“Get ready,” Minho says excitedly. “It’s probably going to be a little skittish, just hold tightly and don’t let go.”
As he watches you pull, he takes note of the way the line struggles to move past a barrier in the water, sending ripples down the shore as you continue to pull, to no avail.
“I need help,” you voice frantically. “Minho, take the rod-”
“Just relax,” Minho echoes, coming around behind you and placing two hands over yours. He stands close behind you as he helps steady the rod, gripping tightly and helping you reel it in.
The two of you watch with bated breath as the line finally begins to move again, erratic ripples of water vibrating in the otherwise still lake as you reel in the catch.
“Here it comes!” Minho exclaims, as he continues to reel over your hands with his, his veins protruding with every slight motion as his slender fingers work around yours.
And then the fishing line is promptly pulled out of the water, swinging in front of your view and slowing its swaying motions as you take a gander.
It’s a large, juicy, vibrant hunk of moss.
No fish in sight, no catch of the day, unless for a bottom feeder. Minho says nothing for a moment, placing his hands on his hips again as he takes in the sight of the forest green mass. And then you break the silence with laughter, doubling over and clutching your stomach as you laugh at the ridiculous view.
“What’s so funny?” Minho inquires with a breathy chuckle, transitioning into his own fit of giggles.
“It’s fucking moss,” you exclaim, gesturing to the fishing rod and laughing again. “We’ve been here for hours and we haven’t caught anything besides a fucking byrophyte.”
Minho laughs, too, setting the rod down to clutch his own stomach.
“It’s not funny,” he says between laughter. “We don’t have dinner tonight.”
“Yeah we do,” you say breathlessly. “We have moss.”
And the two of you almost collapse on the gravel, holding your stomachs as you laugh endlessly at the ridiculousness of the situation. The fishing rod remains propped up against the rocks, the slab of moss dangling and dripping murky water back onto the gravel.
When your laughter dies down, Minho sprawls out onto one of the big rocks, the palms of his feet flat against the warm stone as he meets your gaze again. You occupy the spot beside him, your knees bent too, keeping your gaze locked on his as you smile.
“I missed this,” you say after a moment of silence. “I missed hanging out with you.”
Minho responds in a breathy chuckle, running his hands through his hair and rolling his eyes in a joking manner.
“You should’ve come camping with me ages ago,” he says. “We could’ve been eating moss for dinner instead of fast food.”
You chuckle too, and the sunlight beams over your listless bodies sprawled out on the rocks, glints of light hitting Minho’s golden-brown hair and his sparkling eyes. He looks so angelic in this atmosphere, so at peace with the nature around him and in tune with his emotions. For the first time in a long while, there’s nothing present between you and Minho that hinders the relationship you have to each other. He’s just as important to you in this moment as you are to him. And not even the knowledge that you’ve lied to your fiancé to be here with him can come between that.
*
Lucky for you, Minho always comes prepared. Of course he’s dealt with the situation of catching nothing while fishing and needing a plan to fall back on for dinner. So it’s no surprise to you that his backpack contains cups of instant ramen and bags of chips.
“Shrimp or chicken?” Minho asks, as water boils on his portable kettle.
“Surprise me,” you shoot back, getting comfortable in one of the two camping chairs across the bed. You feel a wave of tiredness wash over your body instantly, but you also feel fulfilled, having bonded with Minho more in the last few hours than any of your double dates with Jung and one of Minho’s picks from a dating app.
Minho shuts off the kettle, tearing open packets of vegetables and mixing them with your noodles as he pours hot water in both cups.
“Careful, it’s hot,” Minho remarks, handing you a cup and sliding a pair of chopsticks across the table to you.
“Today was fun,” you say to him, as you blow on a generous serving of noodles and guide them into your mouth with the wooden chopsticks.
“You’re not half bad at fishing,” Minho states. “I think it’s just emptier this season. But your technique’s good.”
“Really?” You query. “I feel like you did most of the work.”
Minho shakes his head, slurping a portion of his noodles before speaking.
“Maybe if you ditched your lame golf nights with Jung and came camping with me more, you could get some practice.”
“Ha ha,” you muse sarcastically. “His golf nights aren’t lame, they’re actually pretty fun. You’d know if you came out to one.”
“Please,” Minho retorts, gathering more noodles with his chopsticks. “Artificial grass and polo shirts aren’t really my thing. Of course they’d be Jung’s, though.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means even his favorite sport is as fake as he is.”
“Minho!”
“What?” He says in a breathy chuckle. “You asked what I meant.”
You shake your head, stirring broth around in your cup with your chopsticks. You normally don't entertain Minho when he insults Jung like this, knowing he’s just going to get mad and list everything he despises about him. But tonight, being so far away from Jung, it somehow feels permissible. It’s not like Jung is going to materialize out of thin air and find out about his little remarks. You don’t get cell reception out here, and it’s possibly one of your last few intimate moments with Minho to just let loose and joke with him. So you don't say anything, allowing him free reign as he cracks jokes about Jung at his expense. And you don’t feel bad about it, either, knowing Jung wouldn’t hesitate to do the same back at Minho.
The tent falls quiet for a moment as both of you finish your meals, the only noises present between the two of you being slurping the remainder of your noodles and setting the cups aside. Minho runs his hands through his hair and spreads his legs out in front of him as he slouches back in his camper chair.
“I can’t believe you’re getting fucking married,” he says with a breathy chuckle. “That’s still so weird to me.”
“Imagine how I feel,” you emphasize. “The word ‘wife’ still kinda grosses me out.”
“Well you have about a month to get used to it,” Minho replies. And then he gets quiet, averting his gaze from yours as he blinks. “Or a whole lifetime, I guess.”
You stay quiet, too, pulling up your legs to cross them in your chair and nodding reluctantly.
“Yeah. ‘lifetime’ kinda sounds like a scary word, too.”
Minho purses his lips, and then he turns to meet your gaze again, a solemn smile on his face.
“It doesn’t have to be,” he voices. “It can also imply a lifetime of happiness. And of love. Permanence isn’t a bad thing.”
You smile at him, comforted by the optimism he brings to the atmosphere, despite his dislike for Jung, and especially the prospect of you getting married to him. He doesn’t change- he’s still the Minho you know very well, the one who takes your problems and makes them seem so small, so unimportant, until you can’t, in good conscience, worry about them anymore.
“You’re right,” you say back at him. “I’ll remember that when I say my vows.”
You think over his words momentarily, and then you meet his gaze with a knowing smile.
“Do you remember when we had to write an essay about where we’d want to travel if we won the lottery? In our literary analysis course?”
Minho’s eyes roll to the ceiling as he thinks for a moment, and then he nods.
“Yeah. You wrote about Europe or something.”
“I did,” you recall. “And you wrote about that one historical town. What was it called again?”
“Shirakawa,” Minho responds. “Small mountain village in Japan where it snows a ton and there are little farmhouses everywhere.”
You chuckle lightly, remembering the countless images Minho had shown you when he was producing his paper on the subject. You can still picture the little brown houses and the vibrant green hills in the summertime. And the winter photos looked like something out of a Christmas movie, fresh snow blanketing the village and painting the town with bright hues of white.
You think over his essay for a moment, remembering just how many times you’d peer edited each other’s papers, and Minho wound up getting the best grade in the class for how poetically he spoke of Shirakawa. He talked about it for several months after the assignment, too, always voicing his desire to visit one day and see all the farmhouses for himself.
“I wish we still had time to go,” you say finally. “I always pictured we’d go one day.”
Minho purses his lips in a thin line, your statement echoing in his ears and the words stinging. It’s moments like these he’s especially regretful you’re getting married to Jung- all the stupid, likely intangible plans you made together and promised you’d fulfill sometime down the line. And now with Jung’s obnoxious presence indicating that of permanence, Minho knows there’s zero possibility you’ll be able to fulfill any of the plans you made together.
“You have a whole honeymoon planned on a tropical island,” Minho says somberly. “That’s far better than little old Shirakawa.”
You say nothing in reply, nodding at his words and thinking back to the plans you and Jung have already booked for your honeymoon.
Honeymoon. Even that word sounds foreign.
“Maybe we’ll plan for when I get back,” you tell Minho. “Little camping excursion in the farmhouses. We can get shitfaced and pet all the little goats.”
He laughs lightly, giving you a smile.
“Sure,” Minho affirms. “We can do that.”
And then his gaze darts to his backpack which sits on the floor, his eyes widening as he sits up.
“Speaking of shitfaced,” Minho says. “I think I brought boxed wine.”
“Boxed wine?” You repeat with a chuckle. “Jesus, we really might as well be back in college.”
He rises from the camper chair to make his way over to his backpack, unzipping the larger pouch and pulling out two small black cartons of wine, giving them a small shake before scanning the room as though he’s looking for something else.
“What?” You query, waiting for him to say something.
Minho says nothing, standing up again and taking long strides to where his fishing rod is, grasping it in one hand and fiddling with the hook.
“What are you doing?” You ask, watching as Minho’s expression turns serious again. His slender fingers toy with the small hook, the two cartons of wine balanced in his other hand.
You watch as he unfolds one tab on the box of wine, and then brings down the fishing hook to pierce it through the thin cardboard and string it through securely. When he’s finished, he gives it a little tug, and then raises the box of wine as he lifts the fishing rod once more, reeling the handle in the counter direction to move it out toward you.
“What the hell are you doing?” You ask again, chuckling softly as you watch Minho struggle to balance the carton of wine.
He reels the carton out further, and then slows as he drops it into your lap, moving the rod around in erratic motions and pretending to stabilize the line.
“Get it!” Minho exclaims. “It’s getting away, you have to get it!”
You play along, grasping the carton of wine in your two hands and pretending to steady its slippery grip as it flaps around helplessly.
“It’s slippery!” You exclaim back, holding it up with two hands and angling it toward Minho.
Minho gasps, and then sets his rod down to applaud you generously.
“Congratulations,” he says in a proud voice. “Your first catch. You caught your own dinner.”
And the dark night around you seems to be set aglow as laughter fills the entirety of the tent.
*
Two hours later, it’s half past midnight, empty cartons of wine on the table between you as you talk through your starkly different lives.
Minho shares tales of work you’d missed out on, dating app horror stories and recounts days from college when you’d go to nightclubs together and use fake IDs. You listen attentively for the first time in a long time, no sense of urgency present, nor the desire to set him up with somebody else. It’s you who wants to be here alongside him, rekindling your friendship and reliving your glory days. And Minho feels the same way, a gentle buzz swirling his mind from the cherry merlot and your sweet laugh in response to his tales.
“They so thought we were lying when we turned 21,” you say through laughter. “In hindsight, it’s pretty lucky we didn’t get thrown in jail for a night.”
“Yeah, only because you flirted with the bouncer,” Minho says. “I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t throw you in jail after offering you a drink.”
You laugh lightly, remembering the bizarre encounter, and then you slouch back in your chair as you shut your eyes.
“We should get to sleep,” you say to Minho. “It’s late.”
“Yeah,” he responds. “I’ll get my sleeping bag on the floor.”
“Don’t be such a fucking drag,” you protest.
“What?”
“Just sleep on the bed with me. It’s big enough and there’s less of a chance that you’ll wake up with a broken back. I’m not listening to you complain about your fucked-up joints on tomorrow’s drive home.”
Minho laughs lightly, and then he gestures to the bed.
“If you snore, I’m throwing you to the bears,” he says plainly.
“Yeah, well you kick me, I’m dumping you in the lake.”
*
Minho brushes his teeth over the small steel sink in the corner of the room, swapping out to fix the bed sheets while you brush your teeth, too. When you’re finished, you meet him at the foot of the bed, pulling your corner of the blanket down and climbing in beside him. The ceiling of the tent is barely visible in this level of darkness, just an indistinguishable outline of fabric visible as you cross your hands over your chest and exhale deeply. Minho does the same, and though he’s right beside you, he feels miles away, his exhale sounding distant as he focuses on the ceiling of the tent, too.
“It’s really dark,” you comment.
“Yeah,” he says back. “That’s the outdoors for you.”
He thinks for a brief moment, and then he breaks the silence that washes over the two of you.
“Are you excited for the honeymoon?” He asks quietly.
There’s no answer for several moments, the only sound coming from the gentle sway of the trees just beyond your tent.
And you are excited, but you’re more nervous, uncertain and disappointed knowing that everything will be so different upon your return. It’s like exchanging an old life for a new one- one that could be far worse, for all you know.
“I’m nervous,” you say candidly.
“Why?”
“Because marriage is a big deal. Sometimes I don’t know if I’m even doing the right thing.”
It’s Minho’s turn to remain quiet now, his hands folded over his chest as he ponders your words.
“Are you happy?”
There’s no response from you. Not now, not after a minute and not even after several minutes have passed. And you are happy, but you’re still much of the same- nervous, uncertain and disappointed that this new life implies change.
“Jung hates me,” Minho says suddenly.
“He doesn’t hate you-”
“He hates me,” Minho reaffirms a little louder. “The way he looks at me, or interrupts us whenever we’re talking. I’m sorry that I’m so distant from you when he’s around. The guy hates me.”
You stay quiet, knowing he’s right, but not wanting to fuel the fire that burns between the two of them.
“He probably thought we had something going on,” Minho says. “He’d kill me if he knew I was in the same bed with you.”
You scoff lightly, dismissing Minho’s claims with a wave of your hand.
“Please,” you emphasize. “He hasn’t even touched me in a month.”
And you regret the words the second they leave your lips, bringing two hands up to cover your mouth as Minho props himself up to look at you.
“What? Why?”
“Nothing,” you say quickly. “Forget I said anything.”
“No, I genuinely want to know,” Minho reiterates, keeping his gaze locked on yours. “You’re getting married and you haven’t had sex with your fiancé in a month? Who does that?”
“He told me it was a punishment,” you say in exasperation. “We had a fight, and he told me he wouldn’t touch me if I didn’t admit to being wrong.”
“What?” Minho says, turning audibly irate. “Are you serious? What kind of cruel and unusual punishment is that?”
“Look, I don’t know, okay? Let’s just not talk about it-”
“There go your excuses,” Minho says. “Your future husband won’t touch you, and you’re still defending him. Jesus Christ, it’s worse than I thought it was.”
“Would you stop?” You say to him, sitting up as he slings his elbows around his knees and shakes his head.
“Stop what? Stop being concerned for my best friend who’s clearly suffering at the hands of her own fiancé? Not gonna happen.”
“I’m not suffering,” you relay to him.
“Sure,” Minho says sarcastically. “So you never wanted to have sex in the whole month he’s kept this punishment going.”
You say nothing, swallowing nervously as you keep your gaze locked on Minho’s. He’s at a painfully close proximity to you right now, one strand of hair falling loosely in his face as his eyebrows furrow together in anger. His plain black t-shirt hugs his broad shoulders as he sits up, his basketball shorts riding up to expose a generous amount of his toned thighs. And his lips remain parted, waiting for you to say something, which you don’t. You simply stare at him blankly, your eyes darting over his gaze, down to his lips and then back up to his eyes.
Minho’s expression turns serious, too, unable to look away from your conflicted expression as you watch him.
“Not… really…” you manage to say in short words.
“Maybe not…” you continue, leaning into him a little as his arms loosen around his knees.
He somehow looks so tantalizing right now, in a way you’ve never seen him before. Sure, you’re aware Minho is good looking, and he always has been. And maybe your fleeting crush back when you first met him was short-lived, quickly moving on to date somebody else you met at a party. Maybe you were a little jealous the time his former girlfriend remarked how good he was in bed, or that she got to touch him when he wore that suit you loved so much at graduation. Maybe you even touched yourself once or twice to the thought of him, conjuring some stupid fantasy in your mind for the sole purpose of getting off to it. But nothing was ever going to come to fruition, not when he’s been your friend for years, you have Jung and you’re about to get married.
…At least not with any intention besides being fucked by him the way Jung has neglected of you for a month now.
“Maybe not until now,” you finally breathe out, your heart beating erratically in your chest as you await an answer from him.
Minho’s gaze flickers down to your lips, and then back to your eyes, furrowing his eyebrows as he makes sense of your words.
“Are you drunk right now?” He asks simply.
“No,” you’re quick to respond, shaking your head to affirm the answer.
“Good,”’Minho says. “Me neither.”
And the two of you meet in the middle, his lips crashing against yours roughly as you kiss him for the first time, hands flying to tug at his t-shirt as he brings to hands around the small of your back.
He tastes like wine, transferring the robust flavor of cherry merlot back onto your lips as you kiss him, his plump lips working perfectly against yours as you pull him closer. You want so badly to position yourself differently, to adjust your body’s awkward spot on the bed so that you can be a bit closer to him, so that you can cup his face and pepper it in breathless kisses. But you fear that the minute you pull away, Minho’s going to somehow realize that it’s you he’s kissing, his best friend of so many years, one who’s already engaged.
It’s Minho who pulls away briefly first, getting a little closer to you, while you scoot further back and lie flat on your spot on the bed.
“This is just to prove a point,” Minho says breathlessly, as he hovers over you now and steadies himself over your body with one strong arm. “It’s not cheating,” he emphasizes, and you nod eagerly at the words, suddenly aware that it’s not even the cheating aspect you were worried about. It was solely the possibility of ruining your friendship with Minho, who’s always been so vocal about his distaste for disloyalty.
“It’s just to prove a point,” you repeat, tangling your hands in his hair and pulling him back down to kiss you. “Nobody has to know.”
Minho grins against your lips, pressing repeated, chaste kisses to your already swollen lips and trailing down to paint a line of kisses down the column of your neck. Your heart beats in ways you’ve never felt before, a rapid arrhythmia brought on by the sheer terror of being found out, by the knowledge that this is the one person who could single handedly ruin your engagement to Jung. And yet you couldn’t care less in this moment, as his teeth take your flesh between them and suck bruises down your neck, a generous purple color painting the goosebumps that rise upon your skin.
Are either of you in any place to return with hickeys painting your skin like you spend the weekend at a frat house? Not in the slightest. And yet you can’t help but feel this is what you missed in college all that time, the same actions Minho repeated with the few girlfriends he ran through. Fucking them sweetly in his dorm bed, roping scarves around their necks when he’d send them off and his ears turning a bright shade of red when you’d point them out in your 7am college lectures.
Was there ever a hint of jealousy present between the two of you? Maybe, you think to yourself, as a string of spit connects Minho’s lips to your bruises, peppering them in light kisses. You could never help but wonder what it was like, what those girls had experienced each time they disappeared from his dorm in the early hours of the morning. And Minho, being the gentleman he was, was never one to kiss and tell. The sex was intimate, private, the details living and dying with him only, even if the relationship went awry or fizzled out suddenly.
“We probably shouldn’t go any further,” Minho interrupts, pulling away from you to maintain eye contact. His eyes are hooded with lust, his lips pink and swollen from kissing you so passionately. And his eyebrows arch up in a state of concern, mostly worried you’re going to protest him taking it any further than this. But it’s all you’ve occupied your mind with now, wanting so badly to know what little tricks Minho wears up his sleeve, if he’s just as intrigued with the idea as you are, if he even wants to have sex with you.
“It’s not like we’re dating or anything,” you say to Minho, desperately searching for the words to indicate how badly you want this. “It’s just… some drunken hookup. It’s probably nothing Jung didn’t do at his party last week.”
“But we’re not-” Minho begins, promptly silencing himself. He begins to tell you that he’s not drunk, and you aren’t either- but he’s already caught on to your little plan.
“Yeah,” Minho then says. “I’m a little tipsy.”
“Me too,” you say with a soft chuckle. “Too much wine.”
“Yeah,” he says, leaning into kiss you again. “And I get really horny when I’m drunk.”
“Me too,” you say between kisses. “It’s not like we can just leave each other hanging. Unless you want me to rub one out beside you, and that would be more awkward.”
“Yeah,” he replies. “Might as well… help each other out, right?”
“Right,” you affirm, pulling down your panties as Minho separates to pull off his shirt.
It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, already having witnessed him in this level of undress at every pool party and when you’d come over to his dorm unannounced. But it feels different at this proximity, his tanned skin hovering over yours and brushing against your flesh with every eager kiss.
Minho begins to ask you if he can touch you, but you’re faster than he is, taking his hand in yours and guiding it to your aching clit, letting him circle two fingers around your bundle of nerves as he pulls back to look you in the eyes.
“Jesus,” Minho remarks. “You are wet when you’re drunk.”
And your breath hitches in the back of your throat as he rubs you gently, a smirk growing on his face as you let out little whimpers. It’s been so long since somebody’s touched you like this, Jung hardly even giving attention to the foreplay on most days. His nimble fingers rub at a steady pace, his eyes boring into yours as he makes you writhe in pleasure beneath him. Minho’s eyes are sparkling at this proximity, his big brown pupils exuding curiosity and tenderness as he gauges your every reaction to his touches.
“Minho,” you breathe out desperately, arching into his touch to chase the friction.
“What?” He asks sweetly, his expression shifting into that of concern as he waits for you to speak. But he knows what you’re going to ask, also aware of the tent pitched in his boxers as he works you.
“Don’t make me ask,” you say with a sheepish chuckle.
He chuckles softly, too, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to your lips before pulling his hand away.
“Let me get a condom,” Minho says in a serious tone. And you’d completely forgotten about protection, not even having used a condom in ages, since your only partner for several years has been Jung.
With the painful ache between your legs, you wish so badly you could ask him to fuck you raw and help ease the weeks of waiting you’ve had to do just to feel some sense of relief. And a part of you can’t help but think back to your days of college, when Minho would always ensure he kept a new one between the crisp bills in his wallet. Ones that were put to use with other women, Minho always so careful not to make any stupid mistakes or take risks the way you and Jung often did.
But you can’t let him fuck you raw, being in the middle of nowhere, no access to pills and admittedly not the most punctual at remembering to take your birth control. The last thing you can do right now is show up to your own wedding with Jung- pregnant with Minho’s child.
Minho’s cock is fully erect as he fishes around his backpack for a condom, pulling out his wallet and sorting through the bills for one. You briefly wonder what would happen if he didn’t have one- you’d likely ask him to fuck you anyway, and to finish on your face or your tits. But it’d be such a waste not to let him finish inside of you, not when you’re both this aroused and desperate for some sense of relief
You silently pray he won’t think too hard about any of this. Don’t think about who I am to you. Don’t think about how this will complicate things, and don’t think about the fact that I’m engaged to another man. Just fuck me, and we’ll deal with whatever consequences arise tomorrow.
“Got it,” Minho voices, and you feel yourself exhale the breath you’ve been holding this whole time.
Minho approaches you again, pinching it between his two fingers, tearing open the silver packet with his skewed front teeth and pulling out the white rubber. You watch with bated breath as he rests a knee on the bed beside you, steadying himself with one hand and rolling the condom onto his length with one hand.
It’s the first time you’ve properly taken note of the appearance of his cock, and he’s bigger than you’d imagined. His thick, veiny girth is tinted a bright shade of red in anticipation, his head leaking a bead of precum as the rubber grazes his tip and coats every inch of his flesh. You’re a little disappointed at the sight being obscured by the protection, but you take a sharp breath, anyway, wanting nothing more than to just feel it inside of you.
“Are you sure this is okay?” Minho asks, as he hovers over you again and props himself up with two hands. “If you think we’re making some mistake-”
“We’re not,” you say quickly. “It’s not a mistake. I promise you I’m not drunk or out of my mind or anything. I’m just really fucking horny.”
Minho chuckles lightly, and then he leans into graze his lips over yours just barely, delivering a painfully light kiss as he positions himself in front of you.
“Just tell me if you want me to stop,” he says, pressing another light kiss to your lips. “I promise I won’t get mad or anything.”
You nod eagerly, wrapping your arms around his neck, and then you both maintain eye contact with his hands as he carefully guides the tip of his length inside of you. You feel like you could cum at the sensation of his tip alone, your walls contracting around him desperately as he shuts his eyes in pleasure.
“Jesus,” Minho breathes. “You’re tight.”
“It’s been a month since he fucked me,” you admit shyly. “I haven’t even touched myself.”
And Minho takes it as a signal to snake a hand down between your bodies, latching the pads of his fingers to your clit once more and rubbing in gentle circles.
“He’s a fucking idiot,” Minho says plainly. “What a fucking joke.”
You weave your fingers in his golden brown tresses pulling him in for another kiss as he begins to thrust in and out of you with gentle movements so as not to hurt you. And it feels heavenly, like nothing you’ve ever felt with Jung before. There’s so much fear circling your mind, but it simply elevates the arousal you feel at the same time, your mind and body contracting in syncopation to echo the same sentiment that maybe you have indeed, been jealous of some of the other girls he’s fucked. Maybe your jealousy forced you to shut out the idea of anybody being pleasured like this by your best friend. You silently pray it never felt half this good for any of them, that he simply couldn’t get hard for them or maybe he’d neglected the same parts that drive you crazy in this moment. Because the thought of his cock inside of anybody except for you drives you mad, it feels so unnatural to think about when he’s fucking you so sweetly in the privacy of your tent, here in the middle of nowhere. Virtually impossible to feel an ounce of guilt when the nearest human is likely miles away, made even harder considering the only man who’d even care is much, much farther.
And Minho hopes you can’t feel that he’s been trying to stave off his own orgasm for the better part of 20 minutes now. His cock twitching with every thrust, his eyes shutting tightly to give attention to the sensation of your cunt clenching desperately around his thick girth. He can’t remember how he’d imagined it all those years, but he knows this feels much, much better than any fantasized version of you that ran rampant in his thoughts. One he had to stop himself from staring at a little too long when you’d opt to wear short skirts and tight little shirts to the clubs you’d frequent. A version of you he swore would one day come around to the realization that Jung isn’t meant for you, that he doesn’t fulfill you emotionally, or intellectually or even physically. Even a version of you that found exhilaration in fucking Minho behind Jung’s back, because having any version of you belong to Minho in one form or another would always take precedence over your inevitable absence following the wedding.
“Talk to me,” Minho says, as his thrusts slow a little. “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”
“You,” you’re quick to respond. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Minho captures your lips in a drooly kiss, gasping into your parted lips as he thrusts in again and holds it there for a moment.
“Is it still okay?” He asks, like he hasn’t already been fucking you for several minutes now.
“It’s more than okay,” you respond, folding your leg at the knee beside him so that he’s hitting an entirely new angle.
“Jesus Christ,” Minho breathes, squeezing his eyes as his cock grazes your cunt even deeper.
Your breaths are labored now, involuntary gasps escaping your mouth with every thrust inside of you. His cock is completely buried to the hilt inside of you, the condom completely coated in your juices and working out of you with complete ease as he fucks you.
And he fucks you like he’s yours, like he’s the one getting married to you, perhaps subconsciously to prove a point to both you and Jung. He could never fuck you like this. I’m willing to bet he never has. He could never want you the way I do so passionately and unrelenting.
“Minho,” you call to him, arching into his touch as he moves a strand of hair out of your face.
“What is it?”
“This is okay, right?,” you state, though your tone takes the form of a plea, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “It feels so good, I don’t want to ruin things-”
“It won’t ruin things,” Minho emphasizes. “We’re drunk, remember?” he says with a light chuckle.
His face is promptly buried in the crook of your neck, peppering kisses along the flesh and whispering promises against you that exist only in the intimate space of your shared tent.
“I’m just helping you out while we’re here,” Minho repeats. “And then you have a wedding to run off to.”
You smile up at him, fingers massaging his scalp lightly as he stays still inside of you, his cock pulsating lightly inside of the rubber as you take him.
“I would’ve asked for help a lot sooner if I knew it’d be this good,” you say with a saccharine smile, allowing your fingers to loop in his hair and tug lightly.
Minho chuckles down at you, his smile instilling an almost immediate sense of comfort once more as he begins to move again, his cock grazing your cervix with every slight movement as he lets out little gasps over you.
“I think I’m gonna cum,” you breathe through labored pants. Your tone sounds surprised, almost, at the prospect of your best friend coaxing an orgasm out of you.
And maybe you are, never having thought that this camping trip would end up with him inside of you, making love to you the way you picture the events of your honeymoon to unfold. Your best friend since college, and the most vocally displeased person at the reality of your engagement to Jung.
And the moment Minho’s been fantasizing since he first confronted his own feelings for you, a time completely unbeknownst to him now. Maybe it was the time you let him stay in your dorm bed when he wasn’t feeling good, or the time you baked him his favorite cake for his birthday most people seemed to have forgotten about. But the pinpointed time doesn’t matter right now- he’s here, your entire being is his for the night, and love or not, he’ll take any form of you he can grasp so desperately at.
“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, too,” Minho says back, his hands digging into your waist as he moves a little faster.
For several moments, nothing else is said between the two of you, only the echoing sounds of skin and drool and his toned body working itself in and out of you teeming around the dinky little tent like an erotic film on low volume. The sounds are muffled, both of you doing your best to remain hushed in your words and your breathy exchanges to each other, almost as if it’ll all be too real if you voice it any louder than this.
But all of this is very real, the actions serving as a sealed promise between the two of you to maintain this remarkable relationship you’ve developed with him. One in which you traverse the complexities of dating a man who’s never quite fulfilled you the way Minho caught on to very early on. And in turn, Minho uses the opportunity to fulfill you in every way he’s able to, whether it means being there at 3am to lend a kindly ear, concocting your favorite dishes after waking up hungover as a result of drinking to mask Jung’s shortcomings. And even to fuck away the stress Jung instills inside of you. To meet you halfway with his version of intimacy, one Jung has withheld from you for so long, and to remind you that although the marriage implies permanence, things could still be so, so different.
“Cum for me,” Minho says to you, leaning in to keep his lips pressed to yours. “Just let go of everything. Don’t think about him right now.”
And somehow it’s those words that assist you in reaching your finish, the subtle command to eject Jung from all your thoughts and replace him with Minho and Minho and more Minho.
It’s Minho easing the pain, Minho kissing you so tenderly, Minho thrusting his hardened cock in and out of your soaking cunt as you whimper helplessly beneath him.
And it’s Minho who finishes first, squeezing his eyes tightly as he feels his tip releases strings of cum into the constriction of the rubber condom, the finish feeling as though it’s the heaviest he’s had in months.
And the gentle pulse against your flesh coaxes out your own release, contracting around his wet girth and dribbling cum along the length of the condom as he fucks you through your fervent moans.
“God, you’re amazing,” Minho voices, as he pulls you in for a much gentler kiss. He holds his lips there momentarily, grazing them softly over yours, every part of him wanting to stay right here inside of you.
But as his cock begins to soften against him once more, he pulls out without another word, stripping off the condom while you watch him.
Strands of sweaty hair hang loosely in front of his face, framing his flushed appearance as his nimble fingers work to tie the condom off. He looks so attainable, so forgiving as he moves, and every part of you wants nothing more than to pull him close again and keep him tangled in your needy embrace.
“Minho?” You ask, as you sit up on the palms of your hands to meet his gaze.
“Hm?” He hums in response, discarding the condom and running two hands through his disheveled hair.
“Would you stay like this?”
He chuckles softly, occupying his spot again and pulling the blankets up to his chest.
“I’m not taking the floor anymore, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“No, would you stay... close to me?” You ask shyly, your eyes flickering over his figure as he lies beside you.
He sits up to meet your gaze, reaching a hand out to you, his palm facing upward as he shoots you a sweet smile.
“I can stay close to you,” Minho reaffirms, pulling you close to his chest as he lies flat again, your head resting on his broad chest.
His chest rises and falls with every breath, his eyes shutting gently as he revels in the sensation of you seeking comfort beside him like this. And he can’t help but press a series of soft kisses to your temple, smiling when he hears a soft giggle escape your lips.
When the tent falls quiet once more, your listless bodies welcome the sleepiness that washes over you, euphonious melodies of crickets engaging in the sounds of nightfall outside. And Minho’s hand rubs gentle back and forth motions along the small of your back, reassuring for one last time that you have nothing to feel guilty about.
*
It’s like a moth to a flame, the way you’re drawn to Minho in the morning, despite the promise of it being just one night with him.
You’re hypnotized by the way he pulls on his sweatpants, chuckling as he nearly trips over himself in the confined space of the tent. His veiny hands working nimbly to chop vegetables and crush herbs as he prepares you one of his signature omelets. The silence that falls over you both while you eat, two fascinated gazes stuck on each other knowing very well you’d let him do it all over again if you weren’t so pressed for time. And when he’s helping you hoist your heavy backpack over his shoulders, the pressing urge to kiss him is present again, as though you seek a reminder that what occurred was indeed real and not some lucid dream conjured up within the darkened campsite.
An urge which you act upon, leaning into press your lips to his as he turns to ask if you’re all packed. And one which is reciprocated with a smile from him, grinning against your lips as he takes his time cupping a hand to your cheek and grazing his fingertips along your skin tenderly. With no real purpose, no sexual implication, no rush. Simply a kiss to conclude the trip, which may very well have been everything you needed as it precedes the wedding.
And with shared smiles between the two of you, Minho leads as you make your way back through the informational center. The same woman is sat at the desk, except she says nothing as you pass her by, a scowl on her face at the sight of you. You watch as she bows politely to other guests, inquires about their stay and offers them hard candies from the glass jar in front of her. Except she says nothing to you, almost appearing to shake her head as you pass her by.
“She was nicer yesterday,” you voice to Minho, your concerned gaze scanning his expression for a reaction. But he doesn’t give one, shrugging lightly as he holds the door for you on the way out.
“She’s probably having a bad day,” he says back. “Don’t worry about it.”
And it’s not until he takes your hand in his again that you realize it- this woman who you’d so confidently corrected on the fact that Minho is not in fact your fiancé, has witnessed you kissing him and holding his hand on your way out. Like a scarlet letter you wear upon your chest, except it’s you who put it there. Confirmation that you’re disloyal- a cheater, simply put. You want to defend your actions, but realistically, to whom? Not to Minho, who actively facilitated it. Not to Jung, who would kill you both if he knew.
And not even to the elderly woman, who you can’t explain it to, because it’s different. It’s not cheating, not when it’s Minho. He’s not some drunken hookup from a dive bar, or someone who’s relentlessly pursued you despite your protests. He’s your best friend, one who did you a favor in the absence of your fiancé’s desire to satisfy you. It’s different, you want to say to her. It’s not cheating with Minho- he’s different.
But you settle on the uncomfortable silence that remains when you climb into the passenger seat of Minho’s car, watching the trees melt into a blur of green hues as he backs out of the parking lot. And his hand meets yours over the center console, intertwining your fingers to put your mind at ease like he can somehow read your mind.
Perhaps he can, being the person who’s known every one of your thoughts so intimately since your time in college. And he also reads into your dismissal of the event when you finally let out a gentle sigh, lacing your fingers with his and allowing him to press a kiss to the back of your hand.
*
The arrival home is a non ceremonious one, Minho dropping you off a block before your shared apartment with Jung to avoid the interrogation he knows he’ll get.
He assists in gathering your bags, consolidating your items to ensure you can comfortably carry them up the block. And for a minute, the two of you say nothing as he sends you on your way, a kind of sparkle present in his eyes as he stares at you. He looks different today, a saccharine smile on his face and a much calmer demeanor overall. Every bone in your body wants to jump him and pepper him in kisses, to thank him for relieving the pent up sexual frustration in you and affirming that your fears surrounding this wedding are valid, but they don’t imply that you won’t enjoy married life, either. They’re just… feelings, ones you often find trouble confronting in the presence of Jung, and ones that you realize you’ve probably never confronted at all, if not around Minho.
The fears are valid, and they’re not fleeting in the slightest. But they are lessened with the reminder that Minho’s beside you every step of the way- regardless of how it manifests in your relationship. And the silence remains, as Minho shoots you a small wave, his eyes flickering briefly over the distant outline of your apartment.
“Hey,” you call out to Jung, who’s lazily sprawled out over the sofa, his feet laid flat upon the coffee table.
“How was the trip?” He asks enthusiastically, not taking his eyes off the sports channel that echoes loudly in front of him.
“Oh, you know,” you reply casually. “Just yoga. Always good to see old friends, though.”
“I’ll bet,” Jung replies, chuckling sarcastically as he speaks. “Seems like the only person you’re around these days is Minho.”
And then he reaches for the remote, lazily flipping through channels as you set your bag down.
“He’s my oldest friend,” you say casually, hoping he won’t notice the audible shakiness in your tone. It feels like he can hear how loud your thoughts are, the fears circling your mind, an expression on your face painted with incrimination. You think of your heart racing while Minho kissed you, the way his cock felt inside of you, your clit pulsating gently at the mere memory of it.
“Yeah, well, change is good,” Jung finishes. As you turn the corner, to meet him in front of the couch, you take note of his lap- a small, white cardboard box propped upon his sweatpants, the top ripped to keep it open and his hands working and out of it in rushed motions.
It’s the cake, you quickly realizing, your heart sinking a little at the sight of the frosting in complete disarray, almost half the dessert either smeared around the sides or piled on the fork he brings up to his lips.
“Listen,” Jung says, between a mouthful of food. “I have a golf thing this week and I want you to come see a couple buddies of mine.”
“This week?” You echo, your mind pondering all the potential excuses you can use against him. But nothing comes to mind, as Jung sets the box of cake aside and stands up from the couch.
“Yeah,” he says casually. “My buddy from college is gonna be in town, and he wants to get together before the wedding.”
You want so badly to protest his offer, knowing very well that Jung’s friends are nothing short of insufferable. They very seldom like you, openly voicing their concerns with your flaws, and they’re protective of him, as though Jung is the one who’s sacrificing more by being wed to you.
“Do I have a choice?” You ask, a small smile on your lips to offset the anger that could very well erupt in response to your statement.
But Jung just brings two hands up to your shoulder, rubbing the sides as he turns his attention back to the television.
“Not really. Hey, the game’s on again but make sure to clear your calendar on Thursday for me. And let’s bring that wine we got recently.”
“The white one?” You question, sagging your shoulders a little at his lack of hesitation to offer your favorite wine as a housewarming gift to his friends.
“Yeah, that one,” he says plainly, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead and slinging his body back over the couch.
“By the way,” Jung voices, motioning for you to move out of the view of the tv screen. “Where’s the cake from? Shit’s good.”
Your gaze lands on the box again, completely torn apart, the icing letters indistinguishable and the fondant ribbons in disarray on the cardboard. You can’t help but think of Minho and his careful attention to detail- the way he picked all your favorite colors, the flavors he knows you love, all from your favorite bakery you very seldom even visit because of the steep price points.
“Babe?” Jung calls again, spooning a layer of frosting into his mouth. “I asked where the cake was from.”
And you shrug casually as you pivot on your heel to exit the room.
“Minho picked it,” you say as you stride away from his still-slouched figure. “I wouldn’t know.”
*
“You have to freeze your cake and eat a piece of it every wedding anniversary,” Jung’s friend Kwang explains, as he brings a cigar to his lips and inhales generously. “That’s what we did, and we still have enough red velvet to last fucking years in there.”
“I love it,” Jung replies in a chuckle, slinging an arm over your shoulder and nudging you harshly. “Course, I’m not sure this one could stop herself from eating the rest of our cake for a whole year. She’s got a bigger sweet tooth than I do.”
You distance yourself from Jung a little, fiddling with your golf club as the men share echoing laughter between puffs of smoke.
The golf course Jung frequents is massive, spanning several hectares of land, which means you’re often stuck here for a long while during his golf sessions. His friends are the same detestable group of men he’s usually out with, all old friends from college you’ve since been forced to get acquainted with. And together they talk each others’ ears off about sports, food, making subtle digs at their own wives or partners, and of course, golf. The blinding shade of green hills contrasts harshly against a pale blue sky and depicts an almost cartoon scenery, and you can feel the headache in your temples worsening with every loud chuckle that escapes Jung’s lips.
He hasn’t asked once about your yoga retreat- which may be a blessing of sorts when you recall the events that unfolded. But you know it’s got nothing to do with that, and everything to do with the fact that he doesn’t give a shit.
He probably doesn’t even remember you were gone, nor does he care to fill you in on the details that unfolded while you were away. And it wouldn’t matter, because you know it would be exactly some version of this- his obnoxious friends, golf, sports on tv and bragging about his proximity to a married life with you. Strangely enough, you’re normally able to stomach these conversations when you’re forced to go out with Jung. But somehow today, every word he utters aggravates you, and you’re desperate to find some excuse to make it home again.
Except you also know very well that it’s something else eating away at your mind this afternoon.
“Y/n?” Kwang questions, and you snap your head to look at him, realizing you’ve tuned out most of his talking points up until now.
“Yes?”
“It’s your turn,” he says, gesturing to your golf club. Jung watches you and chuckles, almost embarrassed with you, as he mirrors Kwang’s gesture.
“Go on,” Jung says condescendingly. “Remember how I taught you last time.”
And with the golf club in your timid grasp, you approach the tee, positioning your club out in front of you and doing your best to mimic the way Jung taught you. Or rather the way he yelled at you to memorize, always taking his sports endeavors far too seriously.
The club head rests gently against the golf ball, pulling back momentarily as your hands shift and tighten around the grip again. And Kwang exhales another puff of smoke, a light chuckle escaping his lips as his eyes bore into your standing figure.
“Her form’s gotten a little better,” he remarks to Jung.
“Yeah, because of me,” Jung says back.
“And good thing, too,” Kwang voices. “If she’d gotten better without your help it’d mean someone else was helping her.”
He laughs as he finishes speaking, transitioning to a coughing fit as you turn to meet Jung’s gaze. But Jung doesn’t look back at you, he simply pats Kwang’s back and exchanges laughter of his own.
“That’s true!” Jung echoes through a fit of laughter, like it’s the best joke he’s heard all century.
“Could you imagine if she pulled up here better than you?” Kwang says, flicking stray ashes off his cigar. “Some other man doing your part for you?”
Jung chuckles again, pulling a box of cigars from the pocket inside of his blazer and thumbing at a fresh one. You watch as he flips open a small bronze Zippo lighter, a small metal clink emitting from behind his cupped hand, as he brings the cigar head to the little yellow flame and holds it there momentarily.
“Fuckin’ A,” Jung remarks with the cigar hanging between his lips.
When it’s lit successfully, he pockets the lighter again, taking a generous puff and blowing smoke just past the direction of Kwang’s still-laughing figure.
“They say that’s how you know your wife’s disloyal,” he remarks. “Her sports form never worsens.”
You stand awkwardly, your fingers grazing the rubber of the golf club grip as you say nothing. Their laughter continues to swirl the atmosphere around you, the sound of the birds and the buzzing cicadas drowning out amidst their cackles. The sun beams entirely too bright down over you, the artificial grass seeming to turn an even more obnoxious shade of green as you wait for them to finish.
“Better hope this one’s not disloyal,” Kwang says amidst his jokes, nudging your upper thigh with the tip of his own golf club. “That’s a lot of planning down the drain.”
And somehow the words trigger the familiar arrhythmic beat in your chest, flashbacks of Minho crossing your mind instantaneously. It’s like they know, the way their jokes seem to run on forever, their wicked cackling taunting you with every passing second. They speak of your form and your position, and you can’t help but picture the way Minho had you sprawled over the bed for you, his toned body looming over yours as he fucked you like he was consummating a marriage.
Beads of sweat trickle down your forehead as the sun glares over you, and the feeling is reminiscent of your sweaty bodies tangled together in the confined space of the tent. Was it you who came first? Was it Minho? The details are a little blurry right now as you try to steady your breathing, every single fear coming to life as you use your golf club to keep upright.
Disloyal. Another man. Cheater.
Their words replay in your mind and produce offspring of new ones, alluding to implications of broken trust and shattered plans. Hypothetical talks of one whole year of planning down the drain, another man with his hands all over you fulfilling Jung’s role in his absence and improving your form.
They know. They know you cheated, this is Jung’s way of humiliating you in front of his closest friend before he publicly calls off the marriage. He’s going to confront you about it any second now. He’s going to drag Minho’s name through the mud, and possibly also his corpse when he’s done with him-
“Y/n?” A voice interrupts, and your head snaps in the direction of their still gazes. The atmosphere is quiet now, birds chirping overhead once more, cicadas buzzing rhythmically in the distance again.
“Huh?”
“You want to forfeit your turn?” Jung asks with a chuckle. “We’ve been waiting for you to start for ten minutes now.”
Your gaze falls down to your hands, gripped tightly around the rubber of the club still, the ball remaining immobile on the little red tee.
“Uh, sure,” you reply, handing the golf club to Jung as he shakes his head.
You watch with an embarrassed expression as Jung grasps the club skillfully, pulling back and twisting his heel as he produces a robust hit, the ball lifting off its tee and soaring into the distance over the green hill.
“She can’t be disloyal,” Jung says with a chuckle, as he prods you with his golf club for the nth time today. “She can’t even complete one round successfully. Any other man would’ve taught her that’s not how you golf.”
*
At the one week mark since you’ve seen Minho, he’s aware something is wrong. You haven’t picked up his calls, haven’t responded to a single one of his texts, and you feign tiredness or some made up illness when he offers to stop by at hours he knows Jung isn’t home. But you don’t entertain any of it, fearing still that Jung knows, and that this is going to be the end of your marriage.
A fleeting physical endeavor caused by your fiancé’s stubbornness, and yet it’s effectively going to be the end of what was supposed to be your entire future. Seeing Minho will only reignite every fear present inside of you, causing it to coax the truth out of you and confront your fears in the presence of Jung.
The fear of what a lifetime of marriage implies. Are you meant to feel like teenagers in love for the entirety of it? Do the fights last a lifetime? Are you supposed to find a middle ground, or will there always be a need for somebody like Minho to provide some clarity and help you rekindle things to the best of your abilities?
What if in a week, you hate the cake flavor you’ve picked? What if you find yourselves so comfortable it doesn’t feel like love anymore? What if you spend a lifetime picturing it’s Minho fucking you instead of Jung, just to get off at night?
What happens to the marriage then? Does the love fizzle out until it’s a comfortable state of tolerance, one in which you’re sacrificing happiness for stability? Or does it simply exist somewhere else- or with somebody else? What’s implied by a lifetime of this?
Minho’s always been a worrier at heart, though, and he won’t let up until he’s certain your relationship to him isn’t at risk of dissipating, too. So at 11pm on a Friday, when he knows Jung is out with the same group of friends, he makes his move to confront you.
The living room is completely quiet at this hour, a soft ticking noise from the clock overhead as you flip past a page in your book. A romance novel, one littered with smut and cheesy dialogue, true to the lonely housewife you’re already conditioning yourself to be. And as your gaze falls over the first sentence of a new chapter, a knocking at the front door interrupts you.
It’s not Jung- it can’t be at this hour, his return home always signaled by his loud stumbling through the doorway, the jingling of his keys and drunken steps over the shoes he so conveniently forgets to put on the shoe rack.
You wrap your arms around the knit holes of your sweater, approaching the door hesitantly. It’s likely one of Jung’s friends, late to the party, or even one of your own girlfriends, here for a late night gossip session. But when you unlatch the door and pull it open, your heart drops at the sight of Minho, his hands shoved in his pockets and his figure standing slouched as his head looks up to meet your gaze.
“Hi,” says Minho, giving you a thin-lipped smile.
You give him a small nod, unsure of what to reply.
He looks handsome tonight, in a dark denim jacket and a pair of jeans. His golden-brown tresses fall loosely around his chiseled face, and his eyes look a little tired, like he hasn’t gotten much sleep.
“Minho,” you say plainly, fidgeting with a loose hem on the inside of your sleeve. “What are you doing here?”
Minho shrugs, peering into the doorway behind you, and then his eyes lock on yours again.
“I never taught you how to gut a fish,” Minho replies.
“I was just- what?”
“A fish,” Minho repeats. “I never taught you how to gut one.”
“Yeah, because we didn’t catch any,” you reply, a short chuckle escaping your lips.
“I know,” Minho says. “I was wondering if you wanted to come over and gut one.”
“Now?” You reply, glancing at the darkened street behind him. “It’s late.”
“Yeah, and Jung isn’t home until early morning. There’s a salmon defrosting on my counter as we speak, assuming the cats haven’t gotten to it. And I was wondering if you wanted to gut it.”
And he’s doing that thing again, where he takes the problem at hand and makes it so much more miniscule than it actually is. This state between disloyalty and tension you feel toward Jung, and the conflicting feelings you have toward Minho and the trip’s subsequent events. But he doesn’t address any of that- instead, he takes issue with you never having gotten to gut a fish. And that’s a relief, when you think about the other option of verbally confronting the emotions you keep at bay.
“Is it messy?” You ask with a little smile.
“It’s messy,” Minho replies.
“What if I’m bad at it?”
“Then you’re bad at it. But I’ll help you. Mess and all.”
You turn around to peer back into the hallway, at the book lying open and flat on the couch, the second hand on the clock moving painfully slow and the dim lamp illuminating the room around you. There’s not much of anything to stick around for, not when Jung’s still going to be out for hours on end. And not when a part of you is dying to confront the situation with Minho in the privacy of his place.
“You can’t laugh if I’m bad,” you say to Minho as you turn back to face him, slipping on your shoes in the process
“I won’t laugh,” he retorts. “No promises, of course.”
*
Two hours later, the kitchen is littered with napkins, plates, gloves, filet knives and scales. Minho walks you through how to remove the roe and the milt, discarding them for you as you prep your filet knife. He verbally instructs you how to descale the fish, and when you make minimal progress, he guides your hand up and down the length of the salmon with his, giving a little nod as the scales fall off with ease and uncover the smooth finish beneath.
He’s understanding when your reluctant hands fail to cut through to the back bone, chuckling lightly as he helps you cut that, too. And when you successfully pluck the remainder of the pin bones with tweezers, he nods proudly, giving you a thumbs up as you dispose of the fish parts and slide the plate of pink slabs to him across the counter.
“You did really well,” Minho says comfortingly. “You’re very attentive to detail. I don’t think there’s a single pin bone still on there.”
“It’s a little gross,” you say, shaking off your hands and chuckling lightly.
“But the end result will be worth it,” he replies. “Somebody plucked the pin bones off every filet you’ve eaten.”
You hit his arm lightly, as he laughs, coating the slabs in seasoning as you pull your gloves off.
“Minho,” you voice nervously, as he keeps his attention on the plate of fish in front of him.
“Hm?”
“Should we… talk about what happened?”
He sprinkles dried parsley atop the filet, not looking at you as you hold your breath for an answer.
“We can talk about it,” Minho replies simply. “Or we can choose not to. It was just a favor I ran you.”
You nod in response, watching as he swaps out parsley for onion powder and sprinkles lightly.
“Can we talk about it?” You say finally, twiddling your thumbs together.
Minho sets down the glass jar, turning to face you and pulling off his gloves, too.
“Sure,” he says, leaning back against the counter and giving you his undivided attention. Your heartbeat quickens momentarily at the sight of him focusing solely on you, and you struggle to find the words to say. But Minho is faster, taking reins of the conversation and breaking the deafening silence between you two.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Minho finally says, a kind of sadness evident in his tone.
“I was scared,” you reply. “I felt like Jung knew. It could ruin all of our wedding plans.”
“There’s no way he can find out,” Minho says. “I haven’t said a word to anyone. Unless you felt inclined to say something-”
“God, no,” you reply quickly. “I wouldn’t dare say anything.”
“Good,” Minho then says. “Then it was just a mistake in the heat of the moment. There’s nothing to worry about.”
And somehow the words sting a little, this conclusion that the affair was a mistake. Was it a mistake? You’re not sure- though you are sure of the complete sense of ease it instilled in you, and the fact that it hasn’t left your mind in a whole week.
“Are we okay?” You ask him, a nervous expression painting your face as you wait for an answer.
And Minho nods confidently, pulling on a fresh set of gloves as he reaches for the salt and pepper shakers.
“We’re fine,” Minho reassures. “If you think anything is getting in the way of a decade of you being stuck with me, then you’re mistaken.”
You laugh lightly, pulling on another pair of gloves too and joining Minho in front of the plate of fish.
“You want to pan fry this?” Minho asks, changing the subject. “I’ll walk you through it.”
Your eyes scan the well-seasoned strips of salmon, and then Minho’s comforting figure beside you, as he slides you a pair of tongs.
“Yeah,” you say to him. “Let’s finish this thing.”
Minho’s right- the end result is worth it. The fish is tender, well-seasoned, paired beautifully with his favorite bottle of white wine over an old comedy movie.
And everything feels like it’s back to normal once more as you sit beside him, your plates completely void of food as you finish your glasses of wine and sit back comfortably.
As the end credits roll, Minho lowers the volume, but he doesn’t shut off the television yet, taking another sip from his glass as your gazes fix on the names disappearing on screen.
Your eyes scan Minho’s mostly-vacant walls, at the things and the stuff he’s moved around. And he has, a couple new photographs displayed neatly on the wall in gold frames.
Most of them are black and white photographs you recognize to be cityscapes. And among the collage, placed right in the middle, the only photo with an ounce of color catches your eye.
“Shirakawa,” you say to Minho, cocking your head at the photograph.
It’s a wide shot of the town, bright green grass contrasting the traditional brown farmhouses that span the entirety of the landscape.
“Mhm,” Minho affirms, giving a little nod as he looks over the photograph, too.
You remain like that for a moment, reveling in the view, and then you finally break the comfortable silence once more.
“Could you tell me about it?” You ask him sweetly. “Just anything.”
Minho thinks back to the facts of Shirakawa he stores in the corner of his mind for a moment, sorting through facts and tales he’s held onto since college. Little stories he’s always wished to pass along again one day.
“Those are called Gasshō-Zukuri houses,” Minho says. “Which directly translates to hands in prayer.”
You cock your head in the other direction, nodding at his words, and seeing exactly what he speaks of. The houses do resemble two hands in prayer, the triangular thatched roofs almost reminiscent of a church’s.
“The roofs were designed to prevent heavy snowfall,” he continues. “Which the town is notorious for receiving. But apparently it’s like a little winter land when you’re there.”
His voice trails off a little at the last syllable, getting quiet again as he folds his hands in his lap.
“Which is pretty cool,” Minho finishes, pulling back from divulging too much information about the town he could go on about forever.
And he doesn’t know you’d gladly listen to him talk about it forever, being continuously fascinated with his appreciation for the centuries-old town across the world from you two. You nod in response to his words, imagining the winters those tucked away in that little town must experience- blankets of snow and freezing temperatures, and yet so warm inside those historical homes loved by people all around the world.
“We’ll go one day,” you say to Minho finally, turning to meet his gaze.
He turns to look at you, too, a somber expression on his face as he listens to you speak.
“We’ll go to Shirakawa one day. I promise it.”
Minho swallows nervously, well aware of how close you are to him on the couch now. Your face at such a close distance to him, your limbs resting right beside each other as his eyes flicker over your parted lips.
Minho engages in the nervous habits he always does, blinking nervously a few times and toying with the lobe of his ear. But he doesn’t act on anything, not wanting to push the boundaries you’ve practically just set in place. The same boundaries that concluded it was a mistake in the heat of the moment. So then why do you feel so inclined to kiss him all over again, let your body tangle with his and ease your stress as he assists in confronting all your fears preceding the wedding? Why does the idea of a lifelong commitment feel so much less intimidating when you’re in the presence of Minho? And what are you doing having these thoughts about your best friend when you’re getting married to somebody else in a month?
Thoughts that fail to induce an answer from you- instead interrupted and subsequently silenced by your lips on Minho’s again, kissing him with such desperation the way you did before.
And though desperate, it's still tender, his eyes shutting instinctively as his hands cup your cheeks and pull you closer. And you’ve nowhere to go but his lap, straddling his waist with your legs as you refuse to break away from the kiss, your kisses turning hungrier by the second as his hands find your waist.
This implication to fuck you is far greater this time, a pressing urge between the two of you to mirror the night’s actions and confirm it really did happen. That he did fuck you that night in your tent, and that you both came with each other and for each other, your bodies releasing the pent-up frustration you’re now certain has existed for years.
“Is this okay?” Minho begins to ask, his hands grazing your sides, and your kisses trail down his neck to provide a clear answer to his concern.
“Please,” you plead, nibbling a light bruise into his flesh. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”
“I don’t want you to feel guilty-”
“I don’t,” you say, moving to meet his lips again. “It feels so right with you. Please, could we do it again?”
Minho’s breath hitches in his throat as you palm him over the fabric of his jeans, his erection already visible for you.
“I want to,” Minho gasps. “But you’re getting married. I don’t want you to make another mistake-”
“It was never a mistake,” you say breathlessly. “Not the first time, not now. It feels so different with you. Do you feel it too?”
You pull away momentarily, hands cupped around the back of his neck as you wait for his answer. And Minho shoots a nervous smile in response; sheepishly toying with his hair as he struggles to voice his feelings.
“I… do,” Minho begins. “But I want you to-”
“Don’t worry about me,” you say, leaning in to resume pressing kisses along his neck. “Just fuck me like he doesn’t exist,” you finish, your lips working against his once more and guiding his hands down to your waist.
Although you were the one worried of getting found out, you can’t keep your distance from him, wanting nothing more than to feel him inside of you all over again. Coaxing your own arousal out of you, encouraging you to forget all about him the way you’ve been trying to do in the absence of Minho. But with him here in front of you, you know the only way to shut Jung out of your mind is to fill it with thoughts of Minho, and Minho and more Minho.
“I… can do that…” Minho says with another nervous chuckle, as you unzip his jeans and palm him through his boxers.
“Call me something other than my name,” you say to him, pressing a series of chaste kisses to his lips. “Say it like I’m yours.”
And Minho reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, pulling away again to look into your eyes.
“Baby?” He questions nervously, eliciting a smile from you.
“Yeah. Like that.”
“Yeah, baby?” He says again, reciprocating confidently now as you stroke him over his boxers. “You want me to make you forget about him?”
“Please,” you beg again. “You’re so much better than him.”
And amidst the ego boost, Minho can feel his cock swell, painfully hard in your firm grasp now as you stroke him.
“Wait,” Minho says, wincing slightly as you slow your movements. “I don’t want to cum yet.”
“Then hurry up and fuck me,” you smirk down at him, looping your fingers in the waistband of his jeans and tugging slightly. And Minho sits up straighter, smirking back, as he moves to press you down against the couch and hover over you.
“You want me to fuck you?” Minho asks, using one hand to tug his jeans down to his thighs. “God, you haven’t stopped thinking about it, haven’t you?”
“Not once,” you admit, wrapping two arms around his neck and pulling him down toward you. “I would’ve asked you to fuck me years ago if I knew what I was missing out on.”
The two of you share giggles as his jeans are discarded on the floor, followed by his t-shirt, and then your pants and your t-shirt, leaving him in just his boxers, and you in your bra and panties.
Minho lowers himself against your clothed core, rubbing ever so gently against you to provide some relief to his aching shaft as he works his kisses against your drooly lips. And he smiles in between every slight movement, completely satisfied at the fact that it’s him rubbing against you like this and taking care of you instead of Jung. For the second time this month.
The idea that Jung is completely clueless to this game you play behind his back, that he still comes home thinking you belong to anyone except Minho. Both in mind and body, your entire being is intertwined with Minho in every way possible.
And you both know it, judging by the way you grab at each other like a pair of horny teenagers on a first date, trying everything in your ability to hold onto the feeling. Also by the way he’s so patient and forgiving with his movements, stil careful not to move too fast in case you decide you want to stop. And an unspoken promise between the two of you, that no matter what happens, the friendship will remain, that it simply can’t slip through your fingers after a decade of promises to each other.
“Let’s go to Shirakawa,” you say to Minho in a whisper, finally tugging his boxers down and freeing his erection against abdomen.
“You want to?” Minho asks, tugging your panties down, too.
“Yes, I want to,” you reply. “We’ve talked about it for so long. Tell me what we’ll do there.”
“Well we’ll definitely go fishing,” Minho begins, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips as he discards your panties on the floor beside you. “And I’ll help gut all the salmon with you.”
“Mhm,” you voice in a dreamy tone, massaging his hair with the tips of your fingers.
“And then we can see all the animals there,” he continues, positioning himself over you and lifting your leg a little to get a better angle. His hand massages gentle circles in your inner thigh, careful not to enter without ensuring you’re comfortable first.
“And when it snows,” Minho says. “We’ll be trapped inside. But we can occupy the little attic space, where the walls slant inwards. And I promise to make love to you until it stops snowing.”
“When does it stop snowing?” You ask, as Minho pumps his cock gently over you and positions himself in front of your entrance. He chuckles lightly as he leans in to kiss you, your entrance quickly swallowing his tip and caressing his girth with your arousal as he leans in to push himself even further.
“It doesn’t,” Minho replies finally, thrusting himself into you and letting his hands find the small of your back to steady himself. You let out a fervent moan at the sensation, quickly drunk on the feeling all over again. The mesmerizing sensation of his body hovering over you, of his cock inside of you, exactly the way you remembered it from the other night.
And it’s not right, but it feels so right to have him those close to you again, your best friend closing the gap of uncertainty between you and shutting you up with the confirmation that your souls have always belonged to each other this way.
“Fuck, Minho,” you breathe out, beads of sweat dripping down your temples as he buries himself to the hilt inside of you and holds it there, pulsating harshly against your cervix.
“Will you go faster?” You ask him, running your fingertips down his back in encouragement.
“Are you sure?” he says between labored breaths, still careful not to hurt you.
“Please,” you practically beg. “I’m so eager for you, please just do something about it, baby.”
Minho’s eyebrows raise a little at the utterance of a pet name. He’s never heard it from you- not in all your years of friendship. He’s hardly secured a nickname from you in all that time. And yet here you are now, taking him so fully obediently, throwing words like baby at him and begging him to fuck you so that you won’t have to think about Jung.
“Baby?” Minho says curiously, capturing your lips in a kiss.
“Baby,” you reply, rutting your hips up against his as he begins to move a little faster. “Baby, and honey, and fiancé.”
Minho chuckles a little at the last word, cocking his head as he digests your response.
“Fiancé?”
“Yeah,” you say back between little moans that escape your lips. “If we were in Shirakawa I think we’d be engaged. And you could fuck me whenever you wanted to.”
Minho feels his cock twitch at your words, his mind running rampant with the fantasy of being engaged to you. The implication of a lifetime of this, fucking you sweetly in the comfort of a shared home and coaxing all your stress out of you. And furthermore, a lifetime of you- of being dragged to all your favorite bars, takeout meals and cheap comedy movies, camping when the leaves turn orange and gutting salmon alongside you.
A lifetime of security, stability. One of sheer, unwavering happiness.
“What a dream that would be,” Minho voices, moving a little faster at your words now.
“You think?”
“I know,” he affirms, his hands finding the mounds of your breasts and cupping them gently to unclasp your bra.
“What a fucking dream it would be to have you like this every night.”
Your bra is promptly discarded alongside you on the couch, the cool air grazing your erect nipples as he brings his mouth down to latch around one in gentle sucking motions. You can feel yourself clench around his cock, taking in the sight of his drooly lips wrapped around your chest and working you in eager motions. It’s still the same Minho you recognize from years ago- still the dorky, yet handsome figure of permanence always present somewhere in your life. And it feels even less unnatural than the last time you slept with him, simply instilling another wave of eased stress and tranquility deep inside of you. It’s like this is supposed to be the relationship between the two of you now- you live your life catering to the stubborn, unmoving personality of Jung’s. Minho tends to his monotonous life away from you. And when you reunite once more, relishing in tales of your separate lives from each other and laughing over glasses of chenin blanc, he concludes the night with a slow, intimate session of love-making, one to seal the promise between your souls that regardless of where the future takes you, this is still permanent.
Neither the college girls Minho’s fucked so well, nor the shitty men you promise yourself to could come between that. And it’s a comfortable truth you both come to terms with as he gives himself to you so lovingly and wholly.
“Are you close?” Minho asks, moving to your lips once more and indulging you in a slow, sensual kiss.
“Yeah,” you breathe out, wrapping your arms around his neck a little stabler and bringing your gaze down to his cock, where he disappears inside of you with complete ease.
“Where do- fuck- where do you want me to finish?” Minho asks, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily. “I don’t want to pose any risks to you right now.”
And he’s right, both of you knowing very well that just because you’ve addressed your mutual attraction to each other, doesn’t mean you can run around with Minho’s arousal catching in your walls like you just aren’t engaged.
You still have a wedding to tend to, another person to return home to and a promise in the eventual holy sanctity of marriage that Jung is your only lover. But right now that no official certificate holds you to that, you can’t find it inside you to care, wanting nothing more than to be filled by Minho, and Minho and more Minho, and yet knowing it’s simply not a possibility.
“Wherever you want,” you finally breathe out, placing the option in the hands of Minho. Your breasts, your mouth. Inside of you. You don’t care- all you care is that he’s here, and he’s upholding his end of sealing the permanence between you two.
Minho gives a few particularly harsh thrusts, and then he brings a hand to the base of his cock, pulling out carefully and wincing as he staves off his orgasm. Your hands remain wrapped around the back of his neck, your gaze fixed on his as he works himself in quick strokes and leans in to kiss you.
“Can we go to Shirakawa?” You ask him again tenderly, as he continues to pump himself over your lying figure.
“Of course we can,” Minho responds with a sweet smile, his breaths labored as he nears his finish. “We can go wherever you want.”
“As long as you’re there,” you say to him, smiling up at him as he leans forward to kiss you again.
“As long as it’s the two of us,” Minho clarifies. “We can go anywhere.”
His eyes shut once more, his long eyelashes grazing his eyelids as his lips part open, and then he lets out a whimpered moan as he finally reaches his finish, coating your stomach in the milky white release of his orgasm. He kisses you when he finishes, smiling against your lips as he brings a hand down between you and rubs your clit in gentle, circular motions.
Your moans turn whimpered, too, as you reach your finish, clenching around what you wish was his cock and letting go for him.
And the credits on the television reach their end, transitioning to the hushed echo of a commercial playing. But neither of you are in any rush to leave or clean up just yet, allowing your listless bodies to intertwine lazily on the sofa as your giggles fill the quiet space between you and reverberate off the walls with such mutual fondness.
*
Mondays are heavy with work. Tuesdays, Jung works late. Wednesdays and Thursdays are dedicated time for his friends from college, and every day after that is a toss-up, but they’re often days you spend with Jung, watching movies in your apartment, going on little dates or in uncomfortable silence alongside him as he spills details of his work and his friends.
And he believes this to be your schedule, because he’s clueless otherwise.
Mondays are really for late-night phone calls with Minho, where you run off to the patio for a few minutes of privacy while Jung catches up on sports broadcasts. Tuesdays, Minho cooks you intricate meals at his apartment, alongside old comedy movies and concluded always by his gentle love-making to you. Wednesdays and Thursdays feel like college again, Minho finally agreeing to accompany you to all your favorite bars again and paying for your drinks as he watches you dance for him, his hands all over you as the two of you exchange needy kisses for everybody to watch.
And though the lights by the bar are far too dim for anybody to recognize you’re out with somebody beside your fiancé, a part of you doesn’t care.
Bastard. Facilitator of cheating. Homewrecker.
Sometimes you and Minho joke about the names they’d call him if they found out. Every derogatory term under the sun, like they haven’t already thought it of him for being quieter than Jung’s douchebag friends. And yet they also fail to see he’s more kind, more attentive and more loving than any of them could ever bring to the table in the presence of their own wives.
You also know they won’t find out- not when you’re virtually invisible to Jung and his friends when he’s not showing you off like some trophy to be won. When corporate holiday parties arise, or the need for an even number of golf participants makes itself known, Jung’s there without hesitation, grasping your hand between his clammy fingers and recounting days of when you’d met.
And yet none of his stories involve the present you. They fail to include your successes at work, or the books you’ve taken a liking to recently, or even the valiant efforts you’ve put into decorating your shared space with him, despite his complete lack of assistance. His stories of you exclude the liking you’ve taken to “yoga retreats” recently. And they definitely don’t know you can gut a fish like your life depends on it.
“This wine is better than the last one,” you say to Minho, as he pours himself a glass and slips a crystal stopper into the spout.
“It cost me less than the loaf of bread,” Minho replies with a breathy chuckle. “I don’t think we’ll ever stop favoring cheap convenience store wine.”
You swirl the cherry red color around in your glass, admiring the way the liquid forms a little whirlpool and settles once again, the strong scent wafting upward in the process.
“Notes of cherry, wood, french vanilla and… pocket money,” you say to Minho wafting the scent up even further with a wave of your hand.
He laughs at your words, taking a sip from his own glass and smacking his lips together once.
“Undertones of fruit and nuttiness. And maybe penny pinching, like in our college days,” Minho replies, the two of you chuckling as you set your glasses down.
You look out at the view from his balcony window, the darkened sky providing little to see at this hour, but still outlining the silhouettes of the trees and the bushels that line his apartment terrace.
“The time passed us by so fast,” Minho says in a somber tone, not turning to face you. You keep your gaze on the trees outside, thinking over your shared actions over the past few weeks. It’s been nothing short of thrilling going behind Jung’s back the way you do, but you’re also aware that with every meetup, you’re a day closer to tying the knot with Jung, preparing for a lifetime of permanence alongside the same person you’ve never felt so unsure about before now.
You turn to face him finally, a sad smile on your face as he waits for your answer.
“I wish we did something about this earlier,” you respond finally, taking note of the glow in his eyes as you speak. He looks marvelous at this proximity to you, so attainable and so enchanting all at the same time.
“Did something about what?”
“This,” you emphasize. “Us.”
Minho blinks nervously a few times, and then he cocks his head slightly as he waits for you to continue, too scared to affirm your words with thoughts of his own first.
“All this time I was trying to validate the fears inside of me surrounding this wedding,” you explain to him. “And then there was you, the same person who makes them nearly nonexistent. I wish we did something about it earlier so that maybe the fear was just lessened to begin with.”
Minho nods nervously, as he understands very well now that you’re on completely separate pages.
Minho, who wishes he could shake some sense into you and confess that this isn’t just some physical endeavor soul-searching the way it is for you- that he’s so madly in love with you, and that he chases the reminder of your permanence because the ivy that constricts his veins will surely kill him in your absence.
And thus, he takes what he can get- you, at your most vulnerable moments, unloved and uncherished by Jung, just seeking a kindly ear and maybe a warm body to remind you that there is some semblance of comfort to be felt in the interim.
And yet you, who only partakes in this fleeting act of physical yearning because you’re scared of commitment to Jung, who maybe doesn’t fulfill you every way you wish he would all the time. So you go behind his back, and you chase the fulfillment yourself, and you act upon the fears and the anxieties that have always circled your mind in the presence of Minho.
Maybe he likes you, maybe he’s jealous, maybe he wants to fuck you.
Statements you’ve heard throughout the entirety of your friendship, ones you couldn’t help but ponder, too, as Minho would grow painfully quiet with Jung in the room. But ones you always brushed off, telling yourself that the two just don’t click. And yet the arousal present with the fear makes for some of the most pleasurable moments together in the privacy of Minho’s home, albeit for Minho, on time begged and borrowed from you. The affair with Minho is not indicative of permanence in any form, and yet it exists to confront your very fear of permanence.
Selfish? Surely. Contradictory? In every sense of the word. The concerns raised to you by Minho himself in any way? Never.
So it remains, this tragic cycle of sleeping with your best friend behind your fiancé’s back, blind to the fact that he’s irrevocably in love with you, in a comfortable state of mind knowing that at least you’ll have felt this state of peace for even just a finite amount of time before you give yourself away to the marriage completely.
And yet it’s a beautiful thing in essence, this shared love between the two of you. A trust instilled so deeply on both sides to give yourselves away to each other every night and close a chapter of what once was, regardless of the differences in how it’s perceived.
The incandescent glow Minho’s tender embraces bring forth in you, no matter the fact that he’s simply grieving a very real, living love that still exists between the two of you. Green leaves of ivy that constrict his throat and force words back down them again, so that he may never admit that he’s jealous, and it’s you, it’s always been you. The same suffocating feeling he ponders late at night, asking himself why he’s been so magnificently cursed to only love you under these circumstances, and never in ones that promise him your permanence in return.
But when you're across from him, a glass of cheap wine in hand and your gentle laughter accompanying his, he can’t help but embrace the grand feeling- tarnished, but still grand.
“Maybe it worked out the way it was supposed to,” Minho settles on saying. “Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be more than this little period of time.”
And there’s a pang of pain in his chest as he utters the words, but he’s met with your small nod in response, visibly comforted by the prospect of his implications.
“Hey,” you say after a moment of silence, sitting up straight and swirling your glass of wine around in your hand again. “There’s a dinner thing Jung’s hosting with some people from the guest list. Don’t say you didn’t get the invite.”
Minho exhales with an audible groan, slouching back in his chair and running his hands through his hair.
“I don’t even like his cooking,” Minho admits frustratedly. “He’s just going to make me feel like an idiot the whole night.”
“But I want you there,” you say to him in a pleading tone. “You’re my best friend. I can’t do this stuff without you.”
“I know you can’t,” Minho replies. “And I don’t want you to have to. But it’s going to be awkward, and painful.”
“I won’t let him cross any boundaries,” you reason with him. “I’ll diffuse anything that comes up. I just want you there, even if it means you’re going to sit there and say nothing. Even that would make me happier than seeing your empty chair all night.”
Minho groans again, swirling his own glass of wine around in his hands and averting your gaze. He’s quiet for a long moment, and then he speaks again, in a reluctant voice.
“He would kill me if he found out, you know. We would never see each other again.”
You feel your heart sink at his words, even the thought of it beyond unnerving to you.
“Why do you say that suddenly?”
“Just… thinking,” Minho finishes.
“Well he has no way of knowing,” you console him. “And I promise to keep things civil.”
Minho thinks for a moment, wanting to press you for more answers about what this even is, about why you’re choosing to let him waste his time like this and what possessed him to agree to attend your pre-wedding dinner as the other man.
But he says nothing, letting a generous sip of alcohol serve as the answer to the requests you press him for- yes, of course he’ll be there, albeit with his long list of fears and reservations. But he’ll do anything, twice even, at your behest.
*
The ebony wood dining table looks particularly elegant when it’s set up for guests. You line the seats with ceramic white platters, shiny silverware and iridescent glasses, paying special attention to even minute details, such as the direction of the prongs for each fork you place on white nylon napkins. Mixed peonies and birchwood make up the long centerpiece, and tall white taper candles are lit in the bronze candleabras.
And the mood is largely set by the guests, who laugh loudly around the table with glasses of expensive beverages in their hands. They speak of their jobs, and their spouses and pop culture references you can’t be bothered to pay attention to. Your eyes scan the emptiness in their eyes, most of them living lives you can tell they’ve simply settled for. And you wonder, briefly, if they’ve ever experienced the unwavering happiness you do in the presence of Minho. Do they ever crack open a bottle of convenience store wine? Do they still let loose at clubs every now and then? Could they gut a fish if they caught one?
You respond to their stories with little nods and fake chuckles, and your head snaps in every direction past your guests to the front door.
Minho’s fashionably late tonight, or at least you hope he is, still holding on to the promise that he’s going to be here. And Minho’s many things- but he’s not dishonest. He’ll show if he says he will, albeit for a few minutes each time when it involves Jung. But he’ll still show, dropping by with a timid smile and greeting the audience before sending you off with a lousy excuse again and leaving his spot vacant for the remainder of the evening. But tonight is different- tonight he’s here as the other man. And you can’t decipher whether that indicates a change in his subsequent actions, that perhaps he won’t show after all, and you’ll be left to your own devices with Jung and his obnoxious friends.
“… And one of our clients is an intern this quarter,” Jung says loudly, as he rants about his work in typical fashion. “Which means I’m going to be carrying most of our partnership.”
The guests laugh and raise their glasses, and you can’t help but wonder how on earth the comment warrants even an ounce of laughter. As Kwang’s wife begins to voice a response, the doorbell rings once, and your head snaps in the direction of the echoing bell.
“I’ll get it,” you say quickly, rising from your seat and smoothing down your skirt. “Excuse me.”
The guests glance briefly in your direction, and then turn their attention back to Jung, who begins to voice another chronicle of his inadequate colleagues. As you march down the hallway, your heart quickens in your chest, admittedly a little nervous to confront Minho after the recent events. You wonder if he’s going to be more awkward, or maybe even shut down entirely around the group. Maybe he’s just here to drop off another cake and send you off with a wave. Endless possibilities you’ve never had to consider when you weren’t actively sleeping with him. You unlatch the front door, taking a deep breath, and then pull it open, your gaze falling instantly onto the standing figure.
And it’s a wave of comfort when he smiles at you, his eyes forming little crescents as he grins and exposes his endearing set of skewed teeth, a breathy chuckle escaping his lips as he does. He’s much more dressed up tonight, in a black collared button down and a black tie, his light brown tresses framing his chiseled jawline so well. And seeing him is more exciting than any other guest you’ve seen tonight, a present urge to pepper him in kisses and remain right here alone, with him.
“Hey,” Minho says in a shy voice.
“Hi,” you respond, trying to stifle the giddy expression on your face from the guests around you who might be looking. “I saved you a seat,” you continue. “Come on.”
Minho enters reluctantly, glancing around the room and giving a small nod to the guests as you direct him to the vacant seat beside you. And somehow, he looks a little more confident, his posture much straighter and a knowing smile on his face as he occupies the seat beside you.
“Hi,” he says to the guests as they meet his gaze, and he even gives a small nod to Jung, who shoots him a subtle scowl.
“Jung,” Minho voices, gesturing to the table. “Pleased to be here.”
Jung just nods at Minho, and then goes back to telling a story of his business accounts.
But your attention is everywhere except for Jung’s story, hardly even able to take your gaze off Minho’s. His eyes sparkle under the hanging pendant lamp, his lips pulling into a little smirk as you watch him with such fascination. There’s something so enticing about the prospect that nobody here knows he’s fucked you, several times since the last time they saw him, and he’ll likely do it tonight when Jung thinks you’re out with a group of girlfriends. They don’t know the world you two have effectively built together, romantic nights of cooking intricate dinners together over glasses of cheap wine. And they don’t know the history you two share, years of walking through your fears and uncertainty alongside one another and bettering yourselves in the process. He’s your other half in so many ways, and you’re not sure it’s something anybody except the two of you could even begin to comprehend.
You watch as Minho picks up a bottle of wine from the table, rotating it in his grasp and examining the contents. It’s one of Jung’s favorites, an expensive bottle of zinfandel he picks up from a special market a few hours out of the city. And it all tastes the same to you anyway, pairing just fine with steak or fish or even fast food at 3am. In fact, it’s subpar in comparison to Minho’s favorites, which taste like safe intimacy, laughing at comedy reruns and love-making under the warmth of his blankets.
“Anyways,” Jung voices loudly, finally garnering your attention from beside him. “We’ve never been more ready for this honeymoon. I need tropical weather and some margaritas.”
“Amen to that,” Kwang chimes in, raising his glass for the nth time tonight.
I hate warm weather, you want to say. I wish it was Shirakawa, under the safety of the prayer hands thatched roofs and blankets of snow.
“If we don’t come back, just know we opted to stay,” Jung then says. “I’ll stay golfing on the beach and you guys can tough out the rest of winter here.”
Cue the obnoxious laughter, fake smiles, raised glasses.
“You’ll have the whole trip to help on her form,” Kwang says loudly, gesturing over to you with the wine bottle in hand.
“We went golfing the other day, and let’s just say there’s ample time for improvement.”
Roaring laughter, unsightly grins and clinking glasses.
And Minho glances over at you, who keeps a smile on your face at the stupid remark.
It’s exactly this that keeps him from acting upon the urge- you look content. You don’t argue, you don’t maintain a blank expression. Instead you smile, and you agree with his friends and your eyes look like they’re still on the same page of devoting entirely yourself to this less-than-desirable relationship you flaunt. Minho knows he’s just a stepping stone in this chapter, and that he’s going to come out of this hurt. But he also knows that despite your fears, you’re content, and he’s not going to insert himself between the love that you deserve, though it may take a while to materialize fully.
You glance over at Minho with a nervous smile, silently hoping he’ll say something. Just ask me to run away with you, you want to say. Tell me to run, and I’ll meet you there. Wherever.
But you know he won’t dare, too set on the idea that this is still what you want. So he’ll remain like this, in the unfamiliar atmosphere of a dining table you share with another man, and he’ll let himself face what becomes of it in due time.
“Are you okay?” Minho asks quietly, leaning in to fill your glass with more expensive wine.
“Peachy,” you say with a smile. And one he returns, shooting you another gentle smile and nodding at your confirmation.
The two of you listen as Jung segues into another story about his business client, and Minho’s leather heel finds your ankle under the table, grazing it softly as you stifle a smile.
There’s no sexual implication rooted in his actions, maybe not not even romantic implication, as his heel moves up and down the back of your bare calf. It’s just a reminder to say this will always be of permanence.
*
Minho’s hands work up and down the sides of your waist as he kisses you, smiling against your lips as you slot yourself between his legs and grasp the back of his neck.
He kisses Jung’s expensive wine back into your mouth, the flavor complementing the mouthwatering look he sports this evening, and you have to remind yourself several times to slow down.
“This looks so good on you,” you say with a smile, fidgeting with his tie and loosening it from around his neck.
“It’s the same one I always wear,” Minho says with a chuckle. “I can’t be bothered to buy a new one.”
“Don’t buy a new one. I want this one. I want it to be this one every time.”
Minho laughs lightly, a form of verbal agreement, and then he pulls you a little closer to him, rubbing little circles in the small of your back as you stay close in his embrace. He’s sprawled out on his couch, strands of hair hanging delicately in his face as he steadies you in his hold over him, his pink lips visibly swollen from having kissed you for the better part of an hour now.
“Tell me something about Shirakawa,” you ask him innocently, unfastening the first few buttons of his collared dress shirt.
”Anything?” Minho responds, bringing an arm up to rest casually behind his head.
“Anything. Something dreamy.”
“Hm,” Minho hums in response. “There are rice fields, and lily ponds and green orchards,” he says finally. “We can walk through all of them without a care in the world, and we can get drunk off little glasses of sake.”
“And the whole town can be ours,” you chime in, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to his toned chest.
“The whole town,” Minho echoes. “It can be whatever we want it to be.”
“As long as you’re there,” you tell him, trailing your kisses lower and undoing the line of buttons as you near his navel
“Anything you want,” Minho exhales in a dreamy tone. “Say it and it’s yours.”
His eyes shut instinctively as the last of his buttons are undone, exposing his chest to you and promptly covered in eager kisses as you trail down to his hardening cock in his pants.
And his arms rest lazily behind his head, feeling completely taken care of, so needy always for your delicate touch. Your nimble fingers work to graze in slow back and forth motions over his flesh, and then you hoist yourself up a little higher to straddle your hips over his crotch.
“Thank you for showing up tonight,” you say to him in a sweet voice. “It means everything to me.”
“Anything you want,” Minho says for the second time tonight. “Say the word and I’m there.”
“You’re my best friend,” you voice to Minho. “I couldn’t do any of this without you.”
And the utterance of a friend doesn’t even sting for him anymore. It’s fact- you belong to each other, time and time again, as friends, and lovers in the evening, and everything else in between. He doesn’t fight it, because he’s grateful for any role he can play amidst the grand role you play in his.
“Are you hard?” You ask a little quietly, a knowing smile on your face as you rock your hips gently over his.
“A little,” Minho replies, though he’s in no rush to have you take care of it. It’s enough exactly like this, your bodies intertwined together and infatuated with each other in the secrecy of his home.
“You want me to take care of you?” You then ask, one hand trailing up to wrap lightly around his throat.
And as your slender fingers graze the column of his neck, it’s clear to you at this angle. Sticking out like a sore thumb, so glaringly wrong and indecent from this proximity.
Your left ring finger, completely bare, your engagement ring nowhere to be seen.
At first you’re sure you’re hallucinating, pulling your hand back quickly to examine the thin tan where your finger meets your knuckle, one that’s usually covered by the gleaming jewelry. But as you rotate your finger around under the dim lighting, you confirm it’s not in fact some illusion- your engagement ring is gone.
Minho sits up a little, craning his neck a little to examine your worried expression.
“Y/n?” He questions, taking note of the way your eyes remain fixed to your hand. “Is everything okay?”
“It’s not here,” you say simply.
“What? What’s not here?”
“My ring,” you say a little more panicked, climbing off him and glancing around the coffee table.
“Where’s my ring?” You question, moving aside stacks of books and magazines atop the glass table. Minho sits up, glancing around too, searching desperately for the little piece of silver jewelry.
“Let’s stay calm,” Minho says as he stands up. “It has to be around here. When was the last time you saw it?”
“I can’t remember,” you say in a panicked tone, now scrambling to the kitchen and searching the marble counters.
“Okay,” Minho says calmly. “Was it- do you ever take it off to wash it?”
“I never take it off,” you reply. “I never take it off, why the fuck isn’t it on my finger?”
“Let’s stay calm,” Minho repeats. “It has to be in here-”
“Calm?” You finally retort, turning to face him with tears pricking your eyes. “You want me to stay calm? Jung’s going to kill me, do you know how fucking expensive that thing was?”
“Of course,” Minho says, buttoning up his shirt as he continues to search. “Which is why we’re going to find it.”
And you don’t reply for several moments, still frantically scanning the kitchen counters for any sign of your ring. But it’s a moot point, every napkin you unball containing nothing, nothing in the trash cans Minho searches through, even the dishwasher thoroughly searched, to no avail.
And you can’t help but to cry, tears falling nonstop from the corners of your eyes as you rush about the kitchen and think of every worst-case scenario. This is it. Confronting Jung about it means he’s going to know what’s been going on, chew you out about the cost of the ring and your carelessness toward it. And then call off the wedding, and every single one of your friends will know you’re a cheater and a liar.
“It’s not fucking here,” you cry out to Minho, halting your movements to bury your face in the palms of your hands, letting yourself emit muffled sobs into the sleeves of your sweater.
“It has to be,” Minho says, glancing once more around the room, and then approaching you to pull you in for a hug.
“Don’t,” you order, pushing him away from you, and Minho furrows his brows together. “Just don’t fucking touch me right now.”
Minho gives a breathy chuckle, thinking at first you might be joking, and then his expression softens as he realizes you’re being completely serious.
“What- seriously? That’s it?” Minho questions.
“What?” You say with a choked sob. “I can’t find my fucking engagement ring. The one I was given to get married, in case you forgot. Sorry I’m not in the mood.”
Minho scoffs lightly, placing his hands on his hips and shaking his head. And then he meets your gaze once more, a solemn expression on his face.
“What are we doing?”
“What?” You query in response.
“What the fuck are we doing?” Minho repeats. “What the fuck are you doing here if you’re getting married?”
You shrug frustratedly, wiping tears with the back of your hand and saying nothing in response.
“No, answer me,” Minho commands, his voice raising a little. “What are we doing, going behind his back like this? You come here almost every night spewing your bullshit about Shirakawa and suddenly it’s my fault that you can’t find your fucking engagement ring? I mean, who even cares?”
“Who cares?” You retort. “I do. I’m getting married-”
“Exactly,” he interrupts. “So then what the fuck are we doing? Go get married, for fuck’s sake. Will you just leave, for good then?”
“You want me to walk out of your life just because I’m getting married?”
“I want you to leave because I’m in love with you,” Minho says finally, and a deafening silence washes over you two.
For a moment, all that’s heard are your echoing sniffles and Minho’s heavy breathing, as he struggles to find the words to continue.
“You really don’t see it in the way I look at you? You really haven’t realized I’m only okay being the other man because I’ll take any fucking version of you I can get at this point?”
Your gaze fixes on his, taking note of the way tears prick at the corners of his eyes, too.
“I’ve been in love with you for all these years,” Minho says, his voice coming out in a choked sob. “And what a waste, all these talks of Shirakawa when I’ve known all along it was always going to be him in the end.”
His words circle your mind with a sense of urgency, as you struggle to respond.
You have known it, maybe even reciprocating by this point, but knowing that you can’t, not when you’re getting married in mere weeks. You’re happy, and you’re safe here with Minho. But in terms of love, this isn’t permanent. It’s a fleeting thing, one that has to end like this as you approach the next chapter of the rest of your life.
And yet it hurts, like a knife pierced deep into an existing wound, like thick vines of ivy that caress your veins and pull tightly with every thought of it being Minho all this time, all these years.
“I love you,” Minho says almost sheepishly, throwing his hands at his sides in defeat. “I’ve always loved you. I love you in loud bars and over cheap bottles of wine. And I’m jealous- god, I’m jealous,” Minho admits in a choked sob. “And it’s killing me. I can’t do anything about it except watch you plan a life with somebody I’ll spend the rest of my life wishing was me instead.”
Your lips part to say something, but you can’t, simply wiping the tears that fall onto the sleeve of your sweater.
“I love you in the hands of another man and I’ll still love you if you choose him. But I can’t do it at this proximity to you anymore.”
“Minho, please-”
“There’s nothing else,” Minho says, gasping back his tears. “This is it for us.”
You watch as he exhales deeply, wiping his tears and gesturing back to the kitchen.
“Did you check the soap dish?” Minho then says in a quiet voice.
“What?”
“The soap dish,” he clarifies somberly. “For your ring.”
And Minho watches as your gaze falls to the stainless steel soap dish across the room, a bristle pad sponge occupying the rectangular dish, alongside the familiar glint of your silver engagement ring.
One you removed to ensure you didn’t lose it among the plate of pin bones from the cod you helped Minho prepare. And one you hadn’t even realized has been missing from your finger for several hours now.
Your gaze falls back to Minho’s before you retrieve the ring, and his eyes are swollen and mournful. There’s not a glint of hope present between you two- not in friendship, and certainly not in love.
And neither of you say another word as you pivot on your heel to collect the symbol of yours and Jung’s ode to permanence.
*
The polyester-spandex mix of your reception dress is much itchier than you remembered it to be. It’s a simple white piece, long and cascading behind the heels you’ve chosen, a generous v-cut enhancing the curve of your breasts as you adjust the hem in the mirror.
“Is it more comfortable than your wedding dress?” One of the bridesmaids questions with a smile.
You shoot her a somber smile, nodding at her and fidgeting with the long sleeve of your dress.
“Yeah. It is.”
“It should be,” she responds kindly. “Remember, try not to step on the bottom or we’ll have to get it cleaned off before the real thing.”
You nod at her, checking your reflection once more in the full-length mirror across from you. You love the woman you embody- she looks elegant, and sure of herself and well on the path to a lifetime of stability and happiness.
And yet the girl inside of you can’t feel further from the perception.
You want nothing more than to climb out of the tight-fitting dress and leave all of this, damn this rehearsal dinner to hell and call off the wedding. But this is it- the final stretch. Guests at every corner assume their positions and practice where they’ll stand and how they’ll move about so elegantly as you say your vows.
Jung seems so sure of himself, adjusting the cuffs of his suit and shooting you a wink from across the room as you stare blankly. And you can’t reciprocate, still far too preoccupied with the events of last week to care about any of this. Minho sending you off, the ultimatum to choose between your fiancé and the best friend you’re in love with.
Of course you couldn’t choose Minho, whose role in most of this has been to help lessen your fears and prepare you for a lifetime of giving yourself to Jung. And yet somewhere along the way, you couldn’t help but wonder if that was even true, completely smitten with every part of him, too. The fact remains that you’re in love with him, and yet you’ve both been so magnificently cursed to keep it at a comfortable distance and pray that in some version of this story, it’s you guys in the end.
Your family saunters about the venue in their fancy dressed and suits, and your guests chat amongst themselves and sample the foods that have been laid out for them. And your mind circles with images of Minho, and Minho and more Minho. And what he would look like, instead of Jung, waiting at the end of the aisle for you with a toothy grin and tears in his eyes. The cheap wine you’d choose to cater, just a handful of guests the way you know he’d want it. And an innocent, undemanding love shared between the two of you, sealing your promise to each other with a tender kiss and his breathy laugh.
Yet the fantasy is fleeting, it’s rooted in the delusion of a cheater, in every sense of the word, and it would effectively ruin your life had it come to fruition.
“Which way do we go from here?” Jung questions loudly, and your head snaps up in his direction.
“From here you’ll go to the right, just past the foyer there,” a coordinator responds. “Make sure to smile when you’re walking down an aisle at any given point.”
Stupid. The whole thing feels stupid.
“Did you get that?” Jung questions, and you nod meekly.
“Sure.”
“Let’s take five,” a coordinator says, clasping her hands together.
Jung resumes a conversation with the groomsmen beside him, and your eyes fall to the vacant seat across the table, where Minho’s meant to be sitting. A small white folded card rests delicately on a white platter, his name scribbled in loopy cursive to reserve his spot.
Lee Minho.
And you read his name over a dozen times, replaying every last word of your conversation in your head and wondering what he’d do if he were here. Probably criticize the wine, or make faces at Jung’s phony speeches. And love you from afar, but with his entire heart, regardless.
“What do you think so far?” Jung leans in to whisper.
“Yeah,” you reply, nearly evading the question altogether.
Your eyes scan the room at the carefully placed decorations- rows of lantern lights, white tablecloths and organized dishes for the guests, tapered candles are lit at every table. And in the center, bushels of magenta flower arrangements in cylindrical glass vases.
Magenta.
Your eyes do a double take, carefully examining the color as you furrow your brows. Magenta. Neon, obnoxious shades of magenta at every table. Nothing within the realm of the baby pink you requested. Harsh on the eyes and contrasting repulsively against the rest of the decor.
“The flowers are magenta,” you say to Jung quietly.
“Hm?”
“The flowers,” you repeat. “Are magenta.”
“Yeah,” Jung says, audibly a little confused. “They’re nice, right?”
“I said pink,” you respond. “Baby pink. These aren’t pink.”
Jung furrows his brows together, and then he cocks his head at the floral displays set upon each table.
“You’re right,” he then replies. He snaps his fingers at a staff member, and then he gestures to the floral displays.
“These aren’t pink,” he says harshly. “She requested pink and not magenta. Could we get these swapped out, please?”
A coordinator jots something down in a small notepad, and then gives him an understanding nod.
“That’s what we’re paying you guys for, right?” Jung asks sarcastically. “Come on, don’t let us settle for magenta flowers.”
And when he turns back to you, his chuckles get quieter as he observes the displeased expression on your face.
“Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” You ask him quietly.
“What?”
“Why are you ordering them around like that? They’re just flowers.”
“What? But you just said-”
“You never make things feel like less of a big deal,” you say quietly, a little scoff escaping your lips as you speak.
“What are you talking about?”
“You just take something and run with it. You don’t make things feel like less of a problem than they are. You’re supposed to comfort me, or find the good in magenta flowers. Not yell at the service workers.”
Jung laughs nervously, taking your words for a joke at first, and other guests begin to stare across the table as they watch you rise from your seat.
“And why is the wine so fucking expensive?”
“Please, sit down,” Jung says nervously, waving the guests off as they shoot him concerned looks.
“No, I don’t want to.”
And as you search for the words to say, your heart beating erratically, you realize it’s exactly this that you’ve stopped yourself from doing all this time. Fighting back. Using your voice the way Jung so comfortably weaponizes his against you. Letting your emotions spill out from the years they’ve been bottled up inside of you, and finally coming to terms with the fact that this isn’t the life you want at all.
It’s Minho you love, it’s always been Minho and it’s always going to be Minho.
“I don’t want this,” you say to Jung, as you smooth down your dress and stand up.
“Please, sit,” he says through gritted teeth.
“You don’t know the first thing about me,” you say in a shaky voice. “You don’t fulfill me, you haven’t touched me in weeks, I don’t think you even know that I asked for baby pink flowers, because you’re too busy showing off to all the shitty people you call friends. I don’t think we have ever been friends.”
All of the guests keep their gazes on you, taken aback by your words, but you don’t care, continuing your rant while they watch in horror.
“I hate expensive wine,” you say to Jung. “I want to go on a honeymoon somewhere it snows. I want to watch comedy movies, and go camping and be so madly in love it hardly feels like it some days, because we’re also such good friends when we’re not completely infatuated with each other.”
Jung doesn’t say anything, glancing nervously around the table as the coordinators maintain their silence, too. Your chest rises and falls with gasped breaths as you try to hold back from crying in front of them. And then you shrug, before finishing your speech.
“At the end of the day, there’s the man who tells me how to golf,” you say in a shaky voice. “And there’s the man who guts a fish alongside me, mess and all.”
Jung frowns at your words, visible confusion painting his features.
“What?”
“I have to go,” you say to him, sparing him any sort of explanation.
The hem of your dress is balled into the palms of your hands and pulled up to give yourself room to walk, as you kick off your heels and begin to exit the venue. And before you do leave, you pivot around one last time, letting your gaze meet Jung’s visibly irate expression.
“Here,” you announce, pulling the silver band off your ring finger and setting it down on the tablecloth.
“If you’re going to make a big deal out of anything, at least let it be this.”
*
The polyester-spandex mix of your reception dress isn’t made to run in. It’s much too long, the fabric bunches up at the sides and its bright white color begs to be kept indoors only. And yet you run- and you don’t stop, not even for a second, until the reception building is completely out of your sight, disappearing beyond the trees and the tall grasses that surround it.
Your bare feet scrape the squelching mud that surrounds the grassland after the recent rains, and overhead, the piercing blue sky and a harsh sun beams down over you in encouragement. And you normally hate blue skies and green grasses like this, always equating them to Jung’s stupid golf courses and the corporate events he’s dragged you to for years.
But today it serves as a sort of blessing, like the world is brighter, lighting your path and guiding you to the beacon that is Minho, and all his unconditional, unwavering love for you. Maybe it took you years to finally acquaint yourself with your emotions like this, and maybe you hadn’t even realized what true love was until Minho. And there’s the possibility, of course, that you’re also too late, and that Minho has already settled on the tragic fact that Jung would always remain a part of you.
And that’s true- he will maintain a role of permanence in your life. He was your first serious boyfriend throughout college, your first fiancé and your first true love before you understood it in a less superficial form. And yet he will also permanently remain the man whose life you walked out on, because he helped you realize he’s nothing near what actually fulfills you.
Once the paved roads are in view again, you waste no time waving down a taxi and uttering Minho’s address to the driver with such urgency. Your dress is caked in mud up to the ankles, and your hair is in complete disarray as you glance out the window at the rows of cars, all belonging to guests here for your dinner rehearsal. And you chuckle briefly, at the thought of them emptying the lot and walking out of your life forever.
Contrastly, Minho’s apartment is in complete disarray, too, as he hoists the last of his immediate belongings into a leather bound suitcase and latches it shut.
What a waste, he thinks to himself. What a waste to have spent so much time comfortably in love with the idea of a finite soulmate, and at such close proximity, too. You’re probably off at your rehearsal dinner, sampling finger foods and laughing at all of Jung’s surface-level conversation.
And he’ll never know you the way Minho knows you. He will never comprehend your fears, your reservations, all your little quirks and the things that make you tick. He’ll never fully understand the prospect of being so bound to somebody in both friendship and love that it’s almost indistinguishable what you are to each other. Perhaps that’s where you went wrong, too- because Minho knows it, that his role in your life has always been to love you, near, far and at every point in between. And yet you deem it just a fleeting thing, one implying an end.
There is no discernible point between the end of my friendship and my love for you, Minho wishes he could tell you. Just like the promise of my friendship to you, it’s a blossoming thing, this beautiful phenomenon. And we can run with it, or we can let it die like this- but it will always remain of permanence.
The chestnut suitcase is hoisted into the trunk of his car, also littered with boxes and duffel bags of his belongings. It’s a vulnerable feeling, to pack up and move on like this. Not forever- just for the duration of which you’ll be uttering your vows to Jung. He can’t bear to be in the same city as any of it, he refuses to let himself love at the proximity of you dolled up in a wedding dress, in the sacred environment of a church surrounded by your family. How could a higher power accept the felicitations of the same man who’s been fucking you behind the groom’s back? Within the four walls of which transforms hate to love, and sin to virtue?
What a waste, Minho concludes again. What a waste to have loved this deeply, and to pacify your fears only for another man to reap the benefits. Try as Jung might, he’ll never know you the way Minho does. And the vast trench that separates you from Jung, one which paints a clear divide of friendship and his superficial love for you- that will remain permanent, too.
As Minho starts up the engine, the last of his belongings all packed and ready to go, he glances around the neighborhood with a somber expression. The sun glares down on the empty concrete roads, birds circling the sky like there’s any reason to celebrate. Maybe they’re ravens, and maybe they circle in a mourning ritual. The only event fitting for an afternoon like this one, as Minho prepares to leave for his parents’ house- like the coward he knows he is.
His apartment grows smaller with every passing inch he drives down the concrete road, and a trembling hand reaches up to adjust his rear view mirror, letting out a deep exhale as he prepares to leave all this behind.
And as the faint outline of his apartment grows smaller, a white figure behind him grows bigger.
It starts as a fleeting blur, maybe a shadow, or perhaps the glint of the sunlight in his mirror. But as he quickens the push of his foot to the gas pedal, it grows faster, too, catching up to the drag of his car along the concrete and approaching him with such purpose.
An apparition of sorts, he thinks momentarily.
I’m fucking seeing things. I’ve officially lost it.
But as the frantic call of his name floats through the air and into the crack of his car window, his eyes widen, the lag of his brain finally reaching a halt as he slams on his brakes and throws open the door.
And in rushed motions, he’s climbing out to face you, doubled over as you catch your breath and hold a hand up in surrender.
“Stop!” You shout, waving your hands and motioning for him to cease his movements.
And Minho’s eyes don’t get any smaller, maintaining their shocked expression as he waits for you to speak.
Your white dress, tainted brown up to your knees in mud and grass. Even your face is muddy, streaks of it painting the otherwise stunning face of makeup you flaunt. And you speak in pleading gasps as you finally break the silence between the two of you.
“It’s you,” you say to Minho sheepishly.
“What are you-”
“It’s you, it’s always been you,” you breathe out. “I was so stupid, and I left as soon as I could comfortably come to terms with it. It’s you I love, Minho. Not Jung and not the idealized version of that life I created in my head. I can’t do any of this without you, and I can’t live the rest of my life without having said something. I love you- now, and in ten years time and I want to spend the rest of my life gutting fish alongside you- mess and all.”
Minho doesn’t say anything for a moment- in fact, he wears a poker face as he watches you continue to catch your breath. And then he scoffs lightly as he shakes his head.
“You waited until the day of your wedding to say something?” Minho retorts frustratedly.
“Rehearsal dinner,” you correct him. “This is just a dinner dress.
“Regardless,” Minho says. “I mean, what are we doing? There’s another man waiting for you, and we’re here doing something we should’ve done years ago if it was meant to be in the slightest.”
You feel your heart drop at his words, confirming the theory you’d feared the most. Too late.
“Please,” you beg, and Minho shakes his head.
“We’re terrible people,” he then states, his voice trembling in the process. “Cheaters, and liars. And this is far too rooted in dishonesty and selfishness to be love.”
Tears prick the corners of your eyes as you watch Minho scan your expression. And perhaps he’s right- but it can’t be anything except for love, not when it feels this right with him.
“Where are you going?” You ask Minho quietly, moving a strand of muddied hair out from your eyes.
“My parents’ place,” he replies.
And you give him a small nod, pivoting on your heel to walk out of his life, forever.
Except it’s the realization of this that causes you to turn back around-
There is no forever in the absence of Minho- not when he plays a role of permanence.
He will forever be the man you fell in love with, the man you’ve been in love with for years, one you risked your life to come find and one who’s defined the limitations of what it means to be a best friend and simultaneously a lover.
That will remain with you always, and near, far and everywhere in between, the love will exist the way it always has.
“Loving me was the most selfish thing you ever did,” you call out to Minho, and he turns back around to meet your gaze.
“And yet you did it anyway,” you continue. “You made love to me and you drank my fiancé’s wine and we’re in love so selfishly at this proximity to each other. But it doesn’t change the fact that we’re in love, and that I’m not going back to Jung. And leaving here- depriving yourself of the love you’ve wanted for so long, that’s also a selfish move. You can go as far as you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that the love is still here between us.”
Minho’s lips part to say something, but he doesn’t, instead blinking nervously as he waits for you to finish.
“And at the end of the day, there’s the man who tells me how to golf, and there’s the man who teaches me how to gut a fish, mess and all,” you finally finish.
Minho stays silent, pondering your words, and scanning your expression.
And truth be told, he wants to take you in his arms and run, hearing the words he’s longed to hear all his life. But he stops himself, instead emitting a breathy chuckle from his lips and shaking his head.
“Well what do you propose?” He finally asks, cocking his head as he awaits your reply.
And his response is a weight off your shoulders, as you sigh deeply and shrug in his direction.
“I propose we let ourselves be selfish,” you say to him. “And we spend the rest of our lives seeking forgiveness together.”
Minho chuckles, taking careful note of the way your eyes sparkle as you approach him. He’s not sure he’s ever seen you so relaxed before, and certainly not so sure of yourself. You look like the woman he’s loved both near and far, exuding confidence and passion and unwavering comfort in your demeanor. His best friend and his lover, he thinks encouragingly, as he cups his hands around your cheeks and pulls you in for a tender kiss, one that confirms your proposal and implies all of this permanence.
The roads are still empty in the dull afternoon of the hour, Minho maneuvering the car with one hand as you sit beside him in the passenger seat, your hands intertwined over the center console as the harsh blue sky and bright hues of green grass melt into blurs of color beside you. And he speaks only of Shirakawa as he drives, promising you beautiful snowfalls and chilly walks along the lily ponds upon your arrival.
You can picture everything as the tales escape his lips, full of life as you imagine the brown farmhouses and green hills, where you and Minho promise to love selfishly under the prayer hand thatched roofs, the very place your forgiveness will coincide alongside the permanence.
And as he brings the back of your hand to his lips for a chaste kiss, he can feel the green vines of ivy loosen around his soul, but this time you feel it too, viridian leaves finally putting distance between your venules and their harsh grasp. And perhaps it wasn’t grieving all along, but love for you- love which you’re full of, too.
The vines tangle themselves beautifully between your seated figures, blossoming flowers and color and placing life back into you both.
And for the first time in a long, long time, Minho can finally breathe.
#stray kids#skz#skz smut#lee know fic#lee know smut#lee know scenarios#lee know x reader#lee minho x reader#stray kids hard hours#skz scenarios#lee know stray kids#lee know#🌷 anon#request#Spotify
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another year with you — lee minho. established relationship. extreme fluff (0.5k words)
“Dori, you’re gonna wake him up.”
Your whispers mix together with your giggles as Minho stirs in his sleep. There’s a tickle on his nose. Dori’s tail, he assumes.
He simply nuzzles his face deeper into his pillow in response to the commotion, grip tightening around your waist to keep you in place.
It’s one of his first day offs in a while, and he fully intends to spend it in bed all day with you.
“Minho.” You sheered, running a hand through his hair. He habitually leans into your warmth. “Happy Birthday.”
Dori keeps kneading at the pillow he’s using. Soonie and Doongie seem to have joined not long ago, pooling just by your legs.
Minho grumbles, moving his head so he’s facing you. Though, he doesn’t think he could have ever prepare himself for the sight he’s subjected to.
The sunlight pouring through your shared room bathes your face in a beautiful hue, soft smile on your face.
“Hi.” Your voice is still in a whisper, not wanting to startle him out of the small comfort of your bed. You can see the way his eyes start to open wider, blinking away the sleep. Slowly.
“What do you want for your birthday?” You ask. His lips look plump, pressed together as he keeps his eyes on yours.
He has tells when he’s deep in thought, tongue running over his bottom lip with a slight furrow on his eyebrows. His hand moves from being draped around your waist in favor of tracing the moles on your face.
Dori meows from next to him. Soonie and Doongie have moved to occupy the space between you.
“I have everything I need.” He finally mumbles, leaning down to press a gentle kiss on your lips. Soft, romantic, and lovesick.
You pull away, though unsuccessfully as Minho chases after your lips. “‘M not done kissing you.”
“Mmm.” You hum against his lips, hand moving to play with the ends of his hair. He grew it out recently, admits he likes the way you pull on it.
It lasts a few heartbeats, and Minho exhales when your lips leave his. His eyes are still closed as he cements this moment. He’d film it if we could, running it over and over and never getting sick.
Quiet mornings with you and his cats on his birthday. He feels his heart grow.
“I love you.” The boy rarely says it first, loving in the shadows, but he ponders over saying it more when he sees the way your eyes light up and the way you have to bite down on your lips to suppress your smile.
You feel too fumbly to respond right away. Though, Minho doesn’t take too lightly at the silence that follows.
“Say it back.” He whines, and the pout on his lips solicit a breathy laughter from you. You gently reach out to cup his face, running a hand over his bottom lip.
“I love you too.”
He smiles. Slow blinking from his doe eyes.
“You’re twenty-five.”
Foreheads pressed together. Noses nuzzling. Soonie meows.
“Another year with you.”
Minho wouldn’t want it any other way.
#stray kids fic#lee minho x reader#minho x reader#lee know x reader#stray kids lee know x reader#stray kids au#lee know x you#skz x reader#minho fic#lee know fic#stray kids fluff#lee know fluff#stray kids scenarios#stray kids oneshots#stray kids drabble#stray kids blurb#lee know blurb#lee know scenarios#stray kids imagine#stray kids fanfic#lee minho fluff#minho x you#stray kids x you#skz imagines#skz fluff#lee know blurbs#lee know drabble
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pat down (l.k)
this tik tok is the reason this was written 🫢 i hope it's okay 🫶🏻
feedback is greatly appreciated 🥰
~
You're waiting for Minho to step back into the waiting room of the studio, knowing they should be here in a few moments. Stray Kids just finished their recent comeback on Music Show Core, and you came to support your boyfriend.
You glance back at the television in the room, seeing the MCs talking to the camera. The door to the room opens up as Minho walks in first. A smile graces your lips, and you take a step towards him.
“You guys did so well!” You almost squeal, throwing your arms around his neck to hug him.
Minho wraps his arms around your waist, and you feel his lips kiss your shoulder. “It looked good?” He asks you, pulling back from you.
Sweat rolls down his cheeks and neck, and you turn to grab a paper towel. His eyes meet yours just as you pat his face. Your gaze travels to his, and you instantly feel flustered.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” You ask him in a whisper, bringing the towel down to his neck, patting it gently.
“Like what?” Minho whispers back, his hand resting on your waist.
The tips of your ears burn, and your eyes widen slightly. “There's no way this is how you look when your stylists pat your face,” you mumble and bite your lip.
A smirk comes to his lips, his grip on your waist tightening a bit. “And what if it is?” He raises an eyebrow, looking down at you.
“If I was your stylist and you looked at me like this, I'd want you to kiss me,” you say to him, bringing your free hand to his face.
“That's against the rules,” Minho whispers, leaning his face closer to yours.
Your eyes flutter shut when your noses brush together. “I'll have to resist then,” you mutter while running your fingers through his hair.
He laughs and he tugs your body close. “But can you? You love it when I kiss you,” he grins, placing a feathery kiss on your cheek.
“Do you two have to do this?” Seungmin asks with a disgusted look. Neither of you replies to him, too caught up in each other. He shakes his head, grabbing his water before leaving the room.
“Keep dabbing, baby,” Minho's voice snaps you from your daze. “I need to go back in a few minutes.”
You clear your throat, beginning to pat his skin dry. “You're enjoying this too much,” you giggle while shaking your head.
His hand glides up your back, a chuckle escaping his lips as well. “You like it too,” he mentions, his free hand resting on your heart. “Your heart is racing.”
“How can it not?” You ask, double checking that you got all of the sweat. “You're so handsome, and you're staring at me with this look that I can't explain.”
“Believe it or not, I wouldn't look at a stylist,” Minho tells you, grabbing the towel from you. You furrow your brows, watching him throw the dirty item away. “I'm usually reviewing what we just recorded when they do that. So, that look I gave you was just for you.”
You tear your gaze away from him, getting flustered again. Minho hooks a finger beneath your jaw, lifting your face. Your breath hitches in your throat as he kisses you.
Your fingers grip his shirt, tugging his body toward you. You kiss him back with no hesitation, loving the way his lips feel against yours.
“Minho!” Chan's voice comes through the closed door, knocking echoes off the walls. “We gotta go!”
He pulls away from you, an annoyed sigh leaving his lips. “Never enough time,” Minho sighs, both of his hands squeezing your waist.
“If you're not too tired tonight, you can stay at my place,” you offer, stroking his cheeks with your thumbs.
“I'll gladly take you up on that,” he smiles, kissing your forehead. The two of you walk over to the door, and he opens it up before stepping into the hall.
You lean against the door frame and cross your arms over your chest. “I love you,” you say to him before he walks away.
Minho turns to face you, grinning ear to ear. “I love you, jagiya,” he beams and kisses you one last time.
~
tagging: @strawboorybunny @reddesert-healourblues @spacegirlstuff @moon0fthenight @foxinnie8 @like-a-diamondinthesky @prettymiye0n
#lee know#lee know imagine#lee know imagines#lee know x y/n#lee know x you#lee know x reader#lee know fanfiction#lee know fanfic#lee know fic#lee know fluff#lee know drabbles#lee know scenarios#stray kids#stray kids imagines#stray kids imagine#stray kids x reader#stray kids x you#stray kids x y/n#stray kids fanfiction#stray kids fanfic#stray kids fic#stray kids drabbles#stray kids fluff#stray kids scenarios
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no nut november — lee know (winner)
pairing: lee minho x fem!reader
warnings: swearing, smut (18+ mdni), oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex
a/n: part of @gimmeurtmi's and i’s collab <3
word count: 4.3k
series masterlist
“God, that feels so good,” you whine.
Minho’s head pops up from between your legs and he grins, chin shiny with your arousal. “You close?”
“I was until you stopped,” you grumble.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says with a pout.
You push his head lightly. “You’re not sorry.”
“You’re right, I’m not.”
You roll your eyes. “Just because you can’t cum doesn’t mean I can’t.”
“I thought we were in this together,” Minho whines.
“You really want to deal with a girlfriend who hasn’t cum in a month?”
“Good point.”
With that, Minho gets back to work. He’s teasing you purposely, this time, dragging his tongue up and down your slit without staying in one place long enough to be effective.
“Minho.”
“Hm?”
“Please...”
“Please what?”
“Need more.”
“Use your words, baby- hey. Don’t squirm.”
He presses down on your hips to keep you still, basically wrestling you into place. You surrender to him but only because you know he’s stronger. Minho smacks your cunt twice, each time making you jolt slightly.
“Let’s try this again. Use your words to ask for what you want.”
“Can I- can I have something inside? Like your fingers or your tongue?”
“What about my cock?”
“What about it?”
“You don’t want my cock inside of you?”
“Of course I do, I always do. I just... didn’t think that was on the table.”
“Why not?”
“Are you really going to make me say it?” you groan.
“You don’t think I can control myself?” Minho accuses.
“No, actually, I don’t!”
He sits up, hand over his heart in mock offense. “You wound me.”
“You just get very... passionate when we have sex.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that once you start, you can’t stop.”
Minho narrows his eyes at you like you’re challenging him, even though that isn’t your intention at all. You don’t want him to lose on your account, but you can only resist your irresistible boyfriend offering you his dick on a silver platter for so long.
“I can’t believe you think that little of me!”
“It’s not that you can’t last, Min- we both know you can. You just like to... finish something once you’ve started.”
“Is that supposed to be a pun?”
You grin. “Sorry, couldn’t help myself.”
He rolls his eyes at you. “You’re such a loser.”
“That you’re in love with.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re lucky that’s the case.”
“And here I was thinking you’re the lucky one.”
“Oh, I definitely am. Listening to your terrible jokes is a small price to pay for getting to be your person.”
You push his chest bashfully. “Don’t get all cheesy now.”
“Why not? Can’t take it?”
“No, actually. I can’t. If you keep pouring your heart out to me like that I’ll die on the spot and then you’ll go away for my murder. “
“Worst they could get me for is manslaughter,” Minho scoffs like he’s brushing off the possibility.
“So comforting to hear when you have me pinned underneath you.”
He smirks. “Did you want to get fucked or not? I do have to work later tonight.”
You sigh, shrugging. If he was so insistent about it, you weren’t going to fight it anymore. You were only trying to do him a favor in the first place. His funeral and all that.
“Give it to me.”
Minho’s smirk turns into a genuine grin and he rubs your thighs in excitement. “I know you wanted something inside but did you want me to make you cum before fucking you?” You shake your head no. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, just put it in.”
“So romantic.”
Despite the sarcasm in his voice, Minho scoots up so that his face is just inches above yours and kisses you deeply, getting you to moan so that he can slip his tongue into your mouth. He tastes like you, unsurprisingly, and like the strawberry jam you put on your toast in the mornings.
“Spread your legs a bit more for me, baby,” he whispers. You do, and he praises you for it. “There you go.”
One of his hands comes down in between your legs to rub your clit as he eases himself inside of you. The fit is perfect, like always, but the stretch is obviously a little more intense than usual.
“You alright?”
“Yeah, just give me a minute.”
While he waits, he just lies on top of you, ignoring your complaints when you tell him you can’t breathe. Then, you tap him on the back twice to let him know he can move so he does.
Minho isn’t one to jump right into fucking the life out of you, preferring to start slow and build gradually build the pace, and today is no different. He’s even slower than he normally is, being extra considerate of your disposition.
“You can go faster,” you urge him. “I promise I won’t break.”
You see him hesitate, almost like he wants to ask you if you’re sure, but he doesn’t. It’s something he’s been working on, trusting you to be honest about what you want in the bedroom, much like you’ve been working on telling him what you want in the bedroom. “Wrap your legs around my waist, baby.”
You moan as soon as you lock your ankles behind his back, the angle already pushing him deeper inside of you.
“Oh fuck,” you gasp.
“Atta girl. So good for me when you wanna be, huh?”
You nod, whimpering.
He keeps his fingers on your clit as he fucks you, wanting to get you to the edge as fast as possible. You assume he’ll draw back, slow down and edge you just like he had when he was eating you out a few minutes ago, but he doesn’t.
“Fuck, I’m going to- I’m cumming!”
You sob as it hits you, wrapping your arms around your boyfriend’s neck and pulling him close. He makes a sound of surprise as he falls forward into you but easily accepts his fate and begins to kiss and nip at your neck.
Minho’s still fucking you even after you come down, even though your legs are trembling and tears are staining your cheeks. He seems entirely unaffected by the way your pussy’s clenching relentlessly around him. Meanwhile, you’re falling apart every time the head of his cock nudges your g-spot. Curse his dancer’s hips and performer’s stamina.
“Think you can give me another one?” he asks. You can hear the smirk in his voice and it’s infuriating.
You don’t get the chance to respond before you’re cumming again, whining his name and biting your fist so hard you think you’ve drawn blood. It isn’t unlike Minho to fuck you into a second orgasm right after the first, he loves overstimulating you almost as much as he loves edging you, but it always catches you off guard.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he grunts.
“Yeah, I just c-came twice.”
“You’re always tight,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Thank you?”
“You’re welcome.”
You snort and roll your eyes while Minho kisses your nose.
“One more?” he asks, rolling his hips experimentally.
Your eyes roll to the back of your head and you moan. “Yes, please. Please make me cum again.”
Minho tries to gently coax the third orgasm out of you, taking his time instead of fucking your brains out like he just had been. You can tell he’s getting close too. He’s trying not to show it but he has a tell that’s a dead giveaway every time.
“So good for me, letting me do whatever I want to you,” he pants. “So fucking warm and tight and perfect. God, you can never get enough of this cock, can you? Just have to have it all the time.”
“Yes, always!” you agree even though you aren’t entirely sure he’s expecting an answer.
“That’s my fucking girl.”
You cum unexpectedly, shocking both yourself and your boyfriend. It’s all Minho’s fault, really. He can’t say shit like that and expect you not to gush everywhere.
He tries to make the most of it by thrusting deep as he fucks you through the orgasm. You clutch him to you, digging your nails into his back as your thighs tighten around his waist.
The cries of his name and the pulsing of your cunt drive Minho right to the edge and he’s suddenly frantic, whimpering and grunting in your ear as he desperately begs you to say the things he needs to hear.
“Tell me you love me,” he whines. “Please, baby tell me you’re mine.”
“I love you! I love you, baby. I’m yours, I’m yours. ”
It hits him hard- body going tense, eyebrows knitting together, mouth falling open as he cums inside of you. He looks so pretty like that, it’s a view you’ll never get tired of. It’s almost enough to make you cum again. You can feel it, feel his cock throbbing as he fills you up. You hadn’t used condoms with Minho for a long time now, didn’t need to when you were taking twice the typical dose of birth control for your awful periods. And you had been dating for long enough that you could trust each other with something as intimate as this.
Minho gives you and himself a moment to recover before he’s pulling out and rolling off of you. He feels around for one of the washcloths you always kept on the nightstand and finds one, cleaning himself and your thighs off.
“I’ll wet go wet another one with warm water for the actual mess,” he assures you. “Don’t want to use a dry washcloth on that. Your PH balance is already fucked up enough after what we just did.”
You wrinkle your nose at him. “Can you not say stuff like that until at least twenty minutes after we fuck?”
“You don’t think it’s sexy that your boyfriend cares and is knowledgeable about vaginal health?”
“I do, but I don’t think I would classify the subject as bedroom talk.”
“Agree to disagree.”
It isn’t until you’ve both showered and are laying in bed together that you bring the bet back up. Minho still has about an hour before he needs to be at the JYPE building and he’s trying to spend as much of that time with you as humanly possible.
“Min, the bet,” you sigh.
“What about it?”
“You lost. You guys shook on it like... a few hours ago.”
Minho shrugs. “Oh well.”
You sit up, detaching yourself from him to give him a look.
“What?” he asks.
“You’re the most competitive person I know..”
He grins. “Thank you.”
“That wasn’t necessarily a compliment, but you’re welcome, I guess. I just mean you’re not even a little upset about being the first out?”
Another shrug. “Meh. You win some, you lose some.”
“Have you told them yet? What did they say?”
“I’m just gonna let them figure it out on their own,” he says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like.”
You narrow your eyes at your boyfriend as it dawns on you. “You were never going to play, were you?”
Minho smirks. “Oh, I’m playing. I’m just playing a different game.”
-
“I’m not lying to our friends!”
“It’s not lying! It’s just not telling them.”
“It’s called a lie of omission for a reason, Minho. Because it’s a lie. And what if they straight up ask me about it? What am I supposed to say then?”
“Just change the subject.”
“Yeah, because that’ll work fine and not be suspicious at all.”
“Babe, please,” he pleads.
“It seems mean!”
“It is mean,” he agrees. “But it’s funny.”
“What if they all hate you after this?”
“They contractually can’t hate me. They still have to be in a group with me for the next two years and if we renew then even longer. Besides, this is me getting back at them for volunteering me to MC for Music Core. I was sick the day the representative came around to the company and they all recommended me knowing I wouldn’t want to do it because they thought it would be funny. Next thing I know, I’m in the audition room and they’re telling me I have to wear stupid hats and do aegyo every Saturday-”
“I thought you liked the hats.”
“They’re okay sometimes,” he huffs, refusing to admit what you both know to be true. “But it’s the principle of the thing.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, Mr. Drama King. What do I get in return for participating in your little revenge plot?”
“What do you want?”
“The rest of the SKZOOs.”
Minho purses his lips, holding back a scoff. The only SKZOO you owned was Leebit, obviously. You actually had a couple of Leebits around your apartment but Minho had jokingly banned you from getting any of the others because, in his words, he was supposed to be your favorite member.
“Having the others doesn’t mean you’re not my favorite,” you’d argued. “Do you want Leebit to be lonely?”
“Leebit doesn’t need friends,” Minho had insisted. “He’s happier by himself.”
You weren’t convinced but you also didn’t feel like arguing with your very stubborn boyfriend on the subject. You were content with Leebit for the time being- until now, that was.
“That’s really what you want?” Minho asks.
“Mhm.”
He sighs, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Fine. Deal.”
You grin triumphantly and kiss him on the cheek. “Pleasure doing business.”
“You’re a menace.”
“And that’s why you love me. We’re made for each other.”
-
Your plan was to simply avoid the members and their partners for the entire month. If you didn’t run into them, you wouldn’t have to lie to them. Easy peasy. Right?
“Jisung did what?” you gasp, standing dumbfounded in the middle of your bedroom as your boyfriend gets dressed.
“Planned a surprise birthday party for me,” Minho repeats.
“Why would he do that?”
“Because he’s my best friend?”
“But... your birthday was last month. And how is it a surprise party if you already know about it?”
“You know he’s not good at keeping secrets. Or planning ahead.”
You sigh and put your hands on your hips as you watch Minho button his nice dress shirt.
“Do I have to go?”
He pauses to look up at you. “What do you mean do you have to go? You don’t want to?”
“It’s not that,” you explain, “I’m just worried about someone bringing up your stupid bet and having to lie to them.”
“I’ll do most of the talking,” he assures you. “Just stick by my side.”
Thankfully, the party Jisung had planned was on the smaller side. Only Minho’s closest friends were in attendance which meant that you knew almost everyone there. Han had admittedly outdone himself with the setup, too. You couldn’t even recognize the JYPE ballroom with all of the decorations and lights strung up everywhere. You told him as much when you saw him.
“If only the guy was actually surprised,” he grumbled to himself, “but thank you. I’m glad you like it.”
The ‘sticking by Minho’s side’ method only worked when he was actually by your side. Midway through the party, he excuses himself to go talk to one of his friends, leaving you to fend for yourself until he returns.
“Oh my god, I feel like it’s been forever!” a familiar voice echoes from behind you.
You turn to see Hyunjin’s girlfriend holding her arms out to you for a hug, and quickly reciprocate, briefly wrapping your arms around her in greeting.
“It’s been too long,” you agree.
“Where have you been?” she asks. “The other girls have been asking for you.”
“Oh, you know,” you mumble, “work has really picked up lately so I’ve just been swamped.”
It’s not technically a lie, you have been swamped, but you’ve also been actively avoiding your friends at the same time.
“Ugh, that sucks. It must be so stressful,” she sympathizes, then lowers her voice. “How have you been doing with... you know?”
Fuck.
You take a deep breath and swallow the guilt that threatens to claw its way up your throat as you scramble to come up with a bullshit answer. “About as well as any of us, I figure.”
“Fucking tell me about it,” she groans. “I nearly killed Hyunjin when he told me about it. I still might.”
You laugh. “If he goes missing, I won’t say anything.”
Suddenly, Minho’s back by your side, his hand resting on the small of your back. He greets Hyunjin’s girlfriend warmly. She wishes Minho a happy birthday and then excuses herself to go find her own boyfriend.
“What were you two talking about?”
“Who’s asking?” you ask in response.
“The birthday boy.”
“He has no authority here, sorry.”
Minho’s jaw drops in faux shock. “You’re really not going to tell me?”
“She just asked me how I was holding up through all of this No Nut November bullshit,” you admit.
“Wait, she actually asked you about it?”
“Yes, she actually asked me about it. Girls talk about this stuff.”
He winces and rocks back on his heels. “Damn, I’m sorry, baby.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, just don’t fucking leave me again. What was so important you had to ditch me for in the first place?”
“I went to go say hey to that girl Jeongin likes,” Minho explains, nodding in her direction.
You look over to where she was now sitting with Jeongin and nod in understanding. “That’s her?”
She was one of the guests you didn’t know super well. You had only seen her at a few group functions and she mostly kept to Jeongin and some of the other younger members.
“Yeah, that’s her.”
“What did you say to her?”
“I just thought she might be interested to know that her crush on Innie is mutual.”
“What?”
“She likes Jeongin back.”
“No, I know she does.” One of the other girls had told you about Jeongin’s little crush and how the two were practically shooting heart eyes at the other all the time but were completely oblivious. You just hadn’t been able to put a face to the name until now. “How do you know that?”
“It wasn’t hard to figure out,” Minho mutters defensively.
“But why would you try to meddle in their business? Shouldn’t you let them figure it out for themselves?”
“If I didn’t interfere they’d never act on their feelings,” he argues.
“And why did you decide to ‘interfere’ now of all times?” you push.
Minho smirks, knowing you’re on to him. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
You roll your eyes and shove him lightly. “Why are you trying to make him lose? You’re already out so why does it matter?”
“I’m just trying to keep it interesting!”
“You’re being an asshole, is what you’re doing!”
“You’re hot when you’re mad.”
“Don’t change the subject!”
“What do you say we get out of here?” he suggests, completely ignoring what you’d just said.
“You can’t leave your own birthday party early!”
“Says who?”
“It would be rude, Minho.”
“Fine, then let’s find a closet or something.”
“You really want to fuck like twenty feet away from everyone you’re up against for No Nut November?”
He shrugs. “Who doesn’t like a little challenge?”
-
Jeongin loses next, then Hyunjin. Changbin follows not long after, then Chan, then Felix. All the while, you continue to have sex with Minho. He comes over a lot more often, fucking you in every room of your apartment and then falling asleep in your bed just to go again in the morning.
You can’t risk being at the dorms because neither of you are very good at keeping your hands off of each other, but you don’t want to raise suspicion by not being around so you drop by a couple of times throughout the month under the guise of bringing Minho dinner or picking him up for date night.
When the boys ask about you, Minho gives them the same excuse you’d told Hyunjin’s girlfriend about work. They don’t pry, thankfully, probably too intimidated by your boyfriend to invoke your name more than once every three to five business days. Minho could be a little possessive at times, even around the friends he’d known longer than he had known you, and that was working in your favor this month.
The other six having lost meant that Seungmin was the only one left standing. Technically, he had already won. But he doesn’t know that. Only you and Minho know that.
You expect Minho to tell him the good news as soon as Felix announces his failure, but he doesn’t.
“November isn’t over yet,” he points out.
“You’re just going to let Minnie suffer?”
“He’ll be fine.”
“He’s going to kill you.”
“Probably.”
-
Minho feels a little bad about having you lie on his behalf, but not bad enough to stop you from doing it. You’re just as much of a little jerk as he is, which is why he knew you’d agree in the first place. Sure, your moral compass is a bit more aligned than his, but that’s what makes you such a great pair. You’re there to reign him in when he goes too far, and he’s there to push your boundaries.
“You’re having fun, aren’t you?” he asks when you come back from a girls brunch all giddy and breathless.
You hadn’t even wanted to go in the first place to save yourself from lying to them all morning but Seungmin’s girlfriend had begged you to, seeing as you were the only two whose boyfriend’s hadn’t caved and therefore weren’t getting laid like the other girls were.
You didn’t want to leave her hanging like that, so you went. And now, you’re practically glowing with adrenaline as you recount the last two hours to Minho.
“I said that you won’t even touch me,” you exclaim, making Minho’s smile falter. “And that you’ve resorted to sleeping on the couch when you stay over so you don’t accidentally get too close to me in your sleep.”
He scoffs. “Did you have to make me sound like a total fucking loser?”
“Would you rather I have told the truth?”
“Okay, okay, you’re right. Thank you for doing that.”
You take a seat on Minho’s lap and hum happily. “You’re welcome.”
-
When the clock strikes midnight on December first, Minho’s surprised by the radio silence from Seungmin’s end.
“Do you think he’s asleep?” he asks you.
“Maybe he’s fucking his girlfriend into oblivion,” you suggest with a shrug. “I hope he is for her sake. Poor girl was desperate for dick.”
Minho isn’t really sure how to respond to that so he doesn’t. He just hums in acknowledgment and turns the lamp by your bedside off so that your room is doused in darkness. You pat his thigh comfortingly under the blankets.
“We’ll find out tomorrow, babe.”
“I guess we will.”
Seungmin doesn’t text the groupchat until the afternoon, hours after Chan’s texted asking who won. Minho shows you the texts and you read over his shoulder as the messages roll in.
Kim Seungmin SKZ: lost an hour or two before midnight. congrats minho.
Lee Felix SKZ: minho won??? Why am i not surprised at all lol
Hwang Hyunjin SKZ: I think we all saw this coming.
Hwang Hyunjin SKZ: pun intended.
Bang Chan SKZ: so where are you going to take your gf?
Minho: actually, you all should congratulate Seungmin.
Bang Chan SKZ: what?
Hannie: what? did you lose yesterday afternoon or something?
Seo Changbin SKZ: ???
Minho: I was the first to lose.
The groupchat is silent for a single beat before it starts blowing up with messages from all of the members furiously cursing Minho out. He laughs as he scrolls through them.
Bang Chan SKZ: all in favor of voting lee know out of the group?
Kim Seungmin SKZ: i think it’s unanimous.
Minho: Relax, Minnie. You won. You’re getting the trip.
Kim Seungmin SKZ: RELAX? YOU’RE GOING TO TELL ME TO FUCKING RELAX??? I COULD HAVE BEEN FUCKING MY GIRLFRIEND THREE DAYS AGO AFTER FELIX LOST BUT NOOO YOU THINK YOU’RE SO FUNNY MAKING THE REST OF US LOOK LIKE IDIOTS
Yang Jeongin SKZ: i mean it is kind of funny
Hannie: you’re not mad innie?
Yang Jeongin SKZ: i was out second... or i guess technically third so i was never going to win anyway. minho got me a girlfriend out of this so i can’t really complain too much
Minho: Listen, I’m happy to be the sole contributor to Minnie’s vacation since I was the one to orchestrate all this. The rest of you can donate to that nonprofit we talked about at the beginning of the month. I’ll make a donation too obviously but don’t worry about the trip.
Kim Seungmin SKZ: I don’t want your pity money
Minho: it’s not pity money, it’s sorry for being an asshole money
Seo Changbin SKZ: if he doesn’t want it, i’ll take it
Kim Seungmin: don’t you fucking dare
Minho: anyway, if you guys are done bitching I’m going to go spend some time with my girlfriend now. I hope you’ve all learned your lesson.
Hwang Hyunjin SKZ: our lesson???
Lee Felix SKZ: wym?
Bang Chan SKZ: oh don’t tell us you’re still mad about that
Minho: not anymore. we’re even now.
Minho puts his phone down on the counter as soon as it starts to ring with a call from Seungmin. He swipes the decline icon and turns his attention to you.
“Was it worth it?” you ask.
He opens his mouth to answer but his phone rings again, cutting him off. It’s a call from Chan this time. He declines it and turns the phone off completely so that no one else can bother the two of you.
He leans forward and kisses you hard, taking your bottom lip between his teeth as his hands settle on your ass.
“Was it worth it?” he repeats, smirking. “I’d do it again in a fucking heartbeat.”
sorry again for the wait- as you all know i've been going through a lot lol
nnn tags: @doesthismeannothingtoyou @yellowroses-world @allyoops @thelostverse @karlitaburrito @lydataylorsversion @septemberkisses @caticorn61 @multifandomtrash-dree @cixrosie @mchslut @cutiequokka @fairygemss @multistancheck @lady---boner @stay-bi @compersian @raspbinniecreme @skzgallll @strawberriesandknives @laylasbunbunny @goddessofhiddenpleasures @brit97 @jonaticdragon @linobuns @vampcharxter @skizzel @sillyrabbit76 @sahazzy @kpfly @zerefdragn331 @wonuziex @sirleeknow @ashcapybara
#no nut november stray kids#no nut november skz#nnn skz#stray kids smut#skz smut#lee know smut#lino smut#lee minho smut#minho smut#stray kids x reader#lee know x reader#stray kids x female reader#skz x reader#skz x female reader#lee know fic#lee know fanfic#lee know fanfiction#stray kids fic#stray kids series
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Author's note ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚: Just some thoughts about husband Lee Know being a clingy/needy baby :(
☆ genre: SFW HEADCANNONS
☆ warnings: curvy reader codded (?)
needy!minho who can't fall asleep without clinging onto you. His face nuzzled deep between the valley of your breasts, arms wrapped snuggly around your waist. You know he's had a long day at the studio, do you really have the heart to tell him to move the fuck over?
needy!minho had a rough day and just needs your comfort. He needs your fingers in his hair, nails lightly dragging along his scalp. He needs to listen to your beautiful voice read to him. This man is in his mid-twenties, but god does he adore being babied.
needy!minho will hold your hand and pepper the sweetest kisses, looking up at you through his thick lashes. he will admire your scars, and ask you how you got each one. He thinks every bruise and added childhood scab has a story, and God does love stories.
needy!minho loves wrapping his arms around you, his hands slipping beneath your shirt, relishing in the warmth of your skin. especially when you're baking his mother's recipe of Hotteok. it's nearly impossible to get this man off of you're baking Hotteok.
needy!minho will call you when he's on tour, he knows it's late but he needs to hear your soft breathing and warm voice over the speaker or he might break. he needs to hear you call him jagiya, yeobo. and gwiyomi. he loves how sweetly the words roll off your tongue when you speak to him.
needy!minho who can't get his hands off of you when you wear his favorite dress. who can't help but trace his hands along your curves, his bright brown eyes blown wide. muttering softly under his breath. even with your advanced understanding of Korean, you really have no idea what this man is saying. though, but you have no doubt in your mind that he is exceedingly pleased by what he sees.
needy!minho who can't stop kissing you. his hands cupping your face, his breathing slow and heavy. fingertips reaching for every bit of you. your eyes fall shut, cherishing every slow kiss.
needy!minho who breathlessly chuckles at the sight of your teary eyes, and trembling lower lip. he loves it when the sensitivity gets to your head, the aftermath of your intimacy. "자기야…넌 괜찮아." (Baby…you're okay) He softly shushes you, his hand tenderly resting on your neck, pulling your head into his chest. "You'reeee fineee." He attempts in English, making you laugh a little. "You're so mean Minho-ah." you sniffle, tugging at the newly dyed purple strands of his hair."순무" (turnip) you mumble, earning yourself a stern glare. "말 조심해" (Be careful what you say). You can't help but flick his forehead, causing the little act to falter, and of course, he tries to stifle his smile.
I'd really appreciate reblogs, interactions & likes! Thank you :)
#head empty no thoughts#lee know#lee minho#lee know fic#lee know headcanons#skz fic#stray kids headcanons#kpop fic#lee know drabbles#lee know fanfic#lee minho fanfic#lee know is cute#sfw headcanons
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Rodeo | lmh (m)
𓆩⟡𓆪 Pairing: hitman!Minho x arms dealer! F. reader
𓆩⟡𓆪 Summary: Minho’s relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. He likes it that way. When you appear on his target list, his relationship with you becomes quite the opposite - complicated, rough, and unreliable.
𓆩⟡𓆪 Word Count: 18,249
𓆩⟡𓆪 Genre: Cyberpunk | Smut | Angst | Peers to Something
𓆩⟡𓆪 Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
𓆩⟡𓆪 Warnings: Violence, world building, murder, discussion of murder, depictions of blood and fight sequences, brief mentions of drugs, depictions of wounds and treating them with syringes if you don’t like needles, explicit language, depiction of an anxiety attack, angst and self-doubt, Minho being an idiot, gun fights and scenes with weapons, some vague terms and references specific to the world building, sexually explicit content featuring oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected sex, cum eating, bodily fluids, and mentions of spit in several places. I think that covers everything, for the most part.
𓆩⟡𓆪 A/N: This is what happens when writers just write what they're inspired for. After almost two months of being unable to write, I got this random idea and I just went with it and took advantage of the moment and... genuinely had so much fun writing this. It got so much longer and more complex than I meant to, but I hope you enjoy.
𓆩⟡𓆪 A/N 2: This work is heavily inspired by Fallout 4, Blade Runner, Altered Carbon and the lovely song Rodeo by WayV. I imagine Rodeo playing during the shootout scene at the bar. Additionally, a fun fact: I use the nato alphabet to communicate Minho's targets and reader's target in this spells out 'reader' in the nato alphabet :)
𓆩⟡𓆪 Posted: Sunday, March 3 2024
𓆩⟡𓆪 Disclaimer: All members of Stray Kids are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.
| Masterlist | Ask | Tag List Request Form | Song Inspiration
Any work is good work.
Minho isn’t so sure that his father would say that as he crouches down next to the body on the living room floor. His thigh muscles protest, aching and tight from hours of sitting crouched across the street in the chill of a high-rise building waiting for his prey to enter this very building.
Neon light bleeds through the foggy window behind him. The room is awash in watery pink as he pulls out his scanner with one hand and leans forward with the other, pressing his gloved fingers to the man's chin to push his head to the side. It rolls easily, giving a fleshy sound that might make someone squeamish as the man’s cheek hits the floor.
Any work is good work, Minho thinks as he scans the man's non-existent pulse with his watch. He sees the blue ring of the biochip flash beneath cooling flesh, his watch flashing green with a soft buzz. The man’s entire life flashes on the screen - full name, date of birth, ID number, blood type, and place of work. Everything about him casts a sickly green glow on Minho’s sharp face.
Tapping a few buttons on the watch face, he waits, holding his wrist near his mouth as the sound of a dial tone chimes once. It’s silent in the apartment, though he can hear the hum of airborne traffic a few blocks off as the roar of adrenaline winds down.
“Receiving,” a male voice answers. Minho doesn’t know who it is - he just knows he’s one of any of the Delegators who work for Collect Co.
“Collection request number alpha-echo-tango-delta complete, served by Collector 102598.”
“Collected alpha-echo-tango-delta confirmed. Please place a beacon before you leave. All credits for this Collection have been transferred to your account. Please wait five to seven business days before funds are available for use. Your next collection is in four hours, seven minutes, and eight United Seconds.”
The line goes dead. The glow of the watch makes him squint before he can lower his brightness, scrolling to his bank account. He sees the credits added with a transaction pending. When he was a kid, the number glowing at the bottom of the screen to indicate his balance might have excited him. Now, it’s just a number on a screen that confirms the power won’t go out at his apartment and that he won’t go hungry.
Minho’s knees crack as he stands. He groans and leans backward, pressing his hands into the small of his back. A series of cracks slither up his spine, making his eyes roll back as he shuts them for a moment and shivers.
He’s so goddamn sore.
Leaving the body on the carpet of the living area, he goes over to pick up the handgun resting on the counter. The energy weapon glows at his touch, syncing with his interface briefly before he holsters it inside his jacket.
While he is technically within the law to eliminate targets for Collect Co., Minho finds that most people find it unsettling when Collectors walk around with weapons. He hasn’t given much thought to what people think about him, but it certainly causes a lot less trouble when he looks like an average businessman going to and from work instead of a licensed killer.
The gun isn’t technically legal, either. He would probably get away with it if a United Enforcer stopped him. The hitmen of the privately funded but government-sanctioned Collect Co., do not technically outrank the government’s militia, but no one with a badge is going to tell a Collector no. Not if they can help it, anyway.
Tossing a beacon on the counter for the cleanup crew to track to the apartment and get rid of the body and clean, Minho heads outside into the rain. He ducks his head down against it, water sliding off the slicker jacket he hugs a little tighter. He feels warmth kick in and his mouth twitches at the sign of the heating system in the body armor on his chest is doing its job. A nifty little upgrade from you, he knows.
At the thought of you, Minho turns north toward the speed train, remembering that he needs an adjustment on his armor that is out of sync with his watch, and JumpPacks. He already used the last one about five hours ago and he feels the numbness of exhaustion buzzing at his edges, a warning sign that if he doesn’t get a jump or sleep he’s going to pass out.
Whichever comes first.
Smears of color splash across the wet sidewalk as he jogs down the steps to the train. It smells wet and foul, making him tuck his chin to his chest as he rushes to the fast-closing door of the train. He steps over the threshold just as the doors clang shut, the hissing of an airlock barely finishing before it launches forward.
He tenses to avoid being pitched forward into one of the standing railings. As the train rocks, the fluorescents above nearly blinding him, he finds a seat toward the back of an empty car. This late at night, there are only two other people in sight, both of them curled heaps of clothes on a seat, fast asleep.
Sleep tugs at him the moment Minho sits down. He has a twenty-minute ride to North Ward Three, dropping his head against the back of the seat and closing his eyes.
The light still hums behind his closed lids, making a splash of colors. There’s no sound save for the whine of the magnetic rail beneath his feet and the occasional mechanical creek as the vehicle sways.
He melts into the seat a little, limbs loose. Fuck he needs a JumpPack. The last forty-eight hours awake are wearing him thin at the edges, stretching him like fabric over a surface far too wide. The forty-eight-hour mark is when he starts to decline, and as soon as he starts to creep toward seventy, he knows it’ll get messy.
Minho is a lot of things, but he is ultimately human. The JumpPack can help him push beyond shaky hands, imagining things that aren’t there and the foggy thinking, but they won’t keep him sharp forever.
As if proving his point, Minho hangs somewhere between awake and asleep, suspended in a dreamy space where he can still feel the rocking of the train but doesn’t feel the ache in his limbs or the pressure growing behind his eyes.
He flinches when the chime echoes above him at the next stop, eyes flying wide for a moment as his gaze sweeps the train car, his hand on the inside of his jacket where he grips the handle of a very nice knife.
No one enters the car. It’s just him and the other two sleeping people - he isn’t sure they’re even alive, really - and he relaxes, cursing at himself. This time when he drifts, he does so with a little more awareness, hand tucked warm against his chest and wrapped firmly around the blade.
It’s a unique little knife, snug in the sheath that’s buckled to the leather harness under his jacket. The handle is firm and made from non-conductive material that fits his exact grip from the meticulous measurements you took of his hand. You crafted the blade from a metal alloy you’d been playing around with and lined it with a highly conductive silver alloy you’d perfected.
When the button on the end of the handle is pressed, 5,000 volts of lethal electricity pulses through the sliver, finishing off a victim if he manages to fuck up a killing blow. It’s saved his life a few times in situations like now when he’s exhausted and his guard is blurry, or when someone has decided to make him the target for robbery.
A lot of your little gadgets have saved his life. You like to remind him every time he visits you. He doesn’t mind, though. You’re an easy enough arms dealer - easier than anyone else in the city, really. You don’t ask the kind of questions that he doesn’t want to answer, and you’re always two steps ahead of him. Even your prices are fair, which he used to find suspicious.
But Changbin and Jisung both swear by your tech and your business, and Minho is just happy that he doesn’t have to worry about you trying to give him a shitty deal or fuck him over.
The Collection industry is made for fucking over. He knows the system can be fucked with, especially the closer to the top you get.
Almost everyone tries to fuck Minho over. More than once he’s shown up as a Collection Request. He doesn’t know if it’s the system trying to clean up after itself or someone pulling strings to get him out of their way. It’s probably both, but every time it happens, he’s managed to evade it.
A Reverse Collection, those in his industry call it. In a way, it’s sort of like a pop quiz. He gets attacked or shot at, and if he wins, he passes the test and reverses the Collection, earning him more time without any coworkers trying to murder him. The Delegators don’t seem to care which Collector murders the other, and he’s never suffered for coming out on top.
Any work is good work.
Minho snorts at the thought, feeling the deep twinge in his extremities as he rouses himself, the train coming to his stop.
Rain sluices the streets in North Ward Three. Here, the streets are busier with an assault of people, smells, and sounds. LED umbrellas float along like jellyfish as people walk from pleasure house to food stand to fight arena. The hologram advertisements and neon signs are louder here, inescapable.
“The United Republic stands for justice, equality, prosperity and freedom, bought by the noble sacrifice of the United Church. Join us today-” Minho presses the ad blocker on his watch.
Immediately the holograms vanish and there’s just the neon watercolor reflecting off the umbrellas as he walks down the stairs of Neon Rodeo, the orange lights making his eyes throb as he reaches the door manned by two guards.
They know him immediately but they scan the biochip in his neck anyway. When they’re pleased, they step aside and the door slides automatically, the base vibrating his ribcage as he steps into the dingy light, hesitating to let his eyes adjust.
True to the name, there is neon fucking everywhere. The servers are dressed in chaps with LED lights and glittering tassels, their cowboy hats flashing smiling faces on top of their head. The neon here is low-grade and covered in layers of dust, giving the air a dusky, burning sort of glow as he walks around tables.
Eyes follow him as he goes. The regulars are familiar with him, tipping their head in greeting though he doesn’t do more than watch them from the corner of his eyes. The servers all slow-smile at him, teeth too white and too glittering. He finds them more unsettling than attractive, and he quickens his step to the unmarked door at the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool.
Hyunjin is perhaps the most unsettling thing in the Neon Rodeo. His eyes are a strange grey, looking at Minho as he approaches. There is a predatory gaze in Hyunjin’s eyes that never fades, a sort of knowing in them that Minho can’t shake. Minho knows Hyunjin is entirely human, but every time he approaches the man, Minho is suddenly unsure.
Nightcrawler.
Minho has heard the whispers about Hyunjin. He believes them, too. Everything about Hyunjin is like a carefully balanced blade, ready to tip in either direction. His senses are honed to perfection and he has a habit of both blending in and standing out depending on his mood.
And he can kill. Minho has seen the lethal man in action a single time when someone tried to push past him into the Builder’s sanctuary. Hyunjin had been so fast that even Minho had a hard time keeping up, struck by how efficiently and quickly the former assassin moved.
Unnatural. Everything about him is uncanny, which is in line with everything Minho has heard about the underground sect of killers. What Minho does is legally sanctioned murder. The Nightcrawlers do something far more sinister, their skills going beyond the natural desire for order in the United Republic.
Agents of disorder and chaos. That’s what some say. Minho isn’t sure where his opinion lands on the spectrum, but he gives them a healthy distance and respect either way.
Even the way Hyunjin sits on the barstool is unnatural, one foot kicked up on the bar between his legs, the other stretched out in front of him as he leans forward, his hand on the front lip of the seat.
“Hello, Cowboy,” Hyunjin greets, voice deep and smooth.
His hair is blonde today, slicked back out of his face, the ends touching his shoulders. He’s dressed in a black button-up with a cow print pattern across the shoulders and white, beaded tassels outlining the pattern. His dark pants are tight and he makes no effort to hide the gun on his waist or the knife handle peeking out the top of his cowboy boot.
“I don’t like when you call me that.”
Hyunjin’s smile makes the hair on Minho’s arms stand on end. “I know, but I like it.”
The guard makes no move to let Minho in and he tries not to show he’s irritated. By the way the grin spreads on Hyunjin’s face, Minho can safely assume he isn’t doing a great job. “Is the Builder in or not?”
“Who is to say?”
“Just tell her I’m here.”
“If she’s in, she already knows.” Hyunjin nods toward an empty stool at the bar. “You can wait, Cowboy.”
Gritting his teeth, Minho turns on his heel to sit on the stool a few feet away. Hyunjin’s uncanny eyes follow him, never leaving him once. Minho ignores him in favor of asking for water at the bar, the headache pressing behind his eyes growing more intense with the loud music and the choking smell of cigars.
When the water comes back, it’s warm without ice. He glares at the bartender who has already moved on to paying customers. The water is tepid and a little sour, making him cringe. He’s pretty sure it came from the faucet, but he sips on it anyway, eying the grimy fingerprints on the glass.
A cowgirl slides up next to him, her pink vest pulled tight across her chest, showing sweat-slick skin. She smells like vanilla, the scent overpowering as she leans in, lacquered lips grinning.
“Don’t,” Minho grunts, sipping the water. “Not interested.”
“But you’re so pretty.”
A severe reprimand dies on his tongue as Hyunjin appears like a wraith, leaning in close to murmur, “Builder is ready for you, Cowboy.”
The cowgirl cowers away from the Nightcrawler, pressing up against the counter and fleeing as soon as he slinks away. If Hyunjin is offended, he doesn’t show it. He slips back onto the stool with that same eager lean, watching Minho through narrowed eyes as the Collector gets up and walks briskly to the now-open door.
Minho doesn’t turn around when the door shuts behind him, immediately cutting off all sound. The door leads to a step of steps, mirrored walls on either side with glowing orange light strips above them. He climbs the stairs as quickly as he can, his head swimming a little as he gets to the top.
The entire second floor is a massive, open-concept workshop. Tables covered with papers and instruments are placed in a chaotic maze, glowing screens with slow-spinning schematics and drawings giving the space a clinical, blue light. Workbenches with user interfaces hum along the corners of the room. Closed metal doors and offices stretch down a hall toward the pack, all under high-tech padlocks and surely protected with some sort of weapon system, if Minho had to guess.
Amid the organized chaos is you. The Builder.
Minho hates calling you that. He thinks it’s a little ridiculous of a title, but it suits you. There is nothing in this room you haven’t built and no weapon on his person that was not carefully crafted by you. He hesitates to watch you, standing at the edge of your luminescent domain as you lean over something, a small welding tool in your hand.
“Do you need a formal invitation, Cowboy?”
He doesn’t mind the name from you. He tells himself that it’s because, despite his predisposition to not liking people, he doesn’t dislike you. You’re easy to deal with, sort of like the weapons you make. You make his life functional and you’re to the point. He admires that, and he’s willing to take a little bit of prodding and joking from you as a trade-off.
Wordlessly, he floats toward you. You don’t look up to greet him, but you kick your foot out and hook the toe of your boot underneath the leg of a stool to pull it out for him to sit on. He can smell a hint of jasmine and amber wafting from where you sit, making him clench his jaw as he fights a shiver.
“I don’t have long,” he says, forgoing the seat. “Just need JumpPacks and wanted to drop off my armor. It’s having trouble connecting with the interface of the watch. I hit it pretty hard last night and I think I damaged the receiver.”
That gets your attention, drawing your sharp gaze up to him. But instead of dropping your eyes to his chest where the flexible armor stretches across his chest, you zero in on Minho’s face.
Your silence is uncomfortable, but he remains unmoving, willing himself to stay in place under your calculating gaze. You lean forward, eyes drinking him in, examining him the way you would a schematic for a weapon or a complicated piece of data.
Minho busies himself with looking at you in return. There’s a crease growing deeper in your brow and your pretty mouth - he doesn’t remember when he started thinking it was pretty - begins to dip, displeased at something you find in his face.
“When is the last time you slept?”
“Are you psychoanalyzing me?” You level a stare at him and he feels his mouth twitch. Minho thinks besides the occasional joke from Jisung - which he defines as Jisung accidentally hurting himself - you might be the only person who makes him want to smile. “Fifty-two hours, eighteen minutes and forty United Seconds.”
“No to the JumpPack,” you say finally. “Sleep.”
“I have another target in three hours, twenty-eight minutes and fifteen United Seconds.”
“Down the hall and second door on the right. Sleep for two hours. It won’t kill you.” He opens his mouth to protest you cut him off, “I’ll be done by the time you’re up. Take off your armor.”
His hands open and close. You’ve never declined a JumpPack before. You’ve definitely never offered sleep before. He stands buoyed by his confusion before he reluctantly sheds the jacket. It crinkles in the silence as he shucks it from his shoulder and neatly folds it, placing it on the stool you had intended for him to sit on.
Next, he sheds the holster, his gun, and a few knives clanking as he does. You seem amused by the amount of weapons he’s managed to shove in the leather straps and he shrugs a little at your arched brow.
Minho’s shirt is more armor than a shirt. It’s made from highly coveted synthetic material with hard but flexible geometric pieces stitched in that sync with his watch to turn on a light energy shield, pulse when there’s an energy weapon aimed at him, and generally keep anyone from being able to stab him. You’ve also added little things like warming sensors and anti-theft.
Delicately, Minho peels off the shirt. He marvels as it moves, surprised at the give and flex of the material every time. He hands it over and you snatch it, tossing it on your work counter as if it’s not the most expensive piece of technology he owns.
Immediately he’s covered in goosebumps. Your studio is bitter cold and you always wear sweaters and jackets with sleeves pulled over your hands. You’re dressed as such now, the too-long sleeves on your arms pooling over your hands as he stands there, trying not to shiver.
You pay no mind to his armor, instead standing up and twisting your mouth in a frown as your gaze skirts his chest and stomach. For a second he feels self-conscious, which he thinks is a little ridiculous as he glances down his chest. He realizes there is bruising blooming across him, spider webbing across to show when the armor unsynced and he took a few hard punches.
Minho holds his breath when you lift your hands, as though you’re going to brush the tips of your fingers over each wound. Your hands are smaller than his and far more delicate, nimble fingers reminding him of artists. His mother was an artist. Her slim hands and careful brushstrokes are one of the few things he remembers about her.
That, and that she chose to leave him.
Minho finds himself so hypnotized by your hands that your voice startles him when you say, “Three hours, twenty-seven minutes and five seconds, Cowboy.”
You drop your hands and step away. He nods and sheds his watch as well, handing it over. “Alright.”
With heavy footsteps, he follows the directions to the appointed room. He’s a little off balance, his hip catching the corner of a table as he goes. He curses loudly, hands shooting to his hip where pain blooms from the jab. Your laughter trills behind him and he scowls over his shoulder at you, but you’re unfolding his armored shirt.
Muttering under his breath, he goes to the hall to the second door on the right. He’s never been in the hall before, but there are several doors lining each side. He carefully tries the handle, glancing up at the ceiling where a camera stares at him.
The handle gives under his hand easily and he swings the door open to what looks like a very small and well-kept medical room. He raises his brows as he steps in and closes the door behind him. There’s no lock on the door, his finger brushing across the handle to find one. He thinks about grabbing the chair tucked into the desk and sticking it under the handle, but the thought evaporates as quickly as it forms.
He’s not in danger here.
Slowly, he trods to the cot. It’s a standard size with a thin mattress and scratchy blankets. Carefully, he sits down and immediately his body sighs. Minho’s eyelids flutter as he sags for a second, shoulders rolling inward as he curves in on himself, exhaustion pressing in.
He needs to take off his boots, but his arms feel heavy. He promises himself that he’ll do it in five more minutes before he gives up and lays down on his side, kicking his feet up boots and all onto the cot. The room is cool so he reaches for the blankets, uncaring that they scrape against his bumps and bruises.
The last fifty-some-odd hours begin to press in on Minho, a physical force that squeezes everything out of him until he’s fading fast into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
-
A gentle knock pulls Minho from a heavy sleep. He feels the dregs of it like a weighted shadow he can’t shake off, groaning and blinking at the ceiling a few times. His limbs feel heavier than ever and his neck cracks as he rolls it to the side to look at the room he’s in.
He suddenly remembers where he is, flinching a little as he sits up, movements jerky with nervousness. The room is still dark and cool, the itchy blanket falling to the floor as he sits and stares toward the door where there’s another knock.
“Come in,” he rasps, voice deep and rough with sleep.
A crack of light appears in the doorway as you slip in. You’ve got your arms full of stuff, using your elbow to smack the touchpad near the door. Dark orange light fills the room, gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt his vision but bright enough to see that the stuff you’ve brought in is food and several bottles of water and some sort of blue liquid.
Minho eyes all of it warily, straightening as you stand in front of him, holding it out. He doesn’t move to take it and your mouth presses in a flat, firm line. “I know Collectors don’t have to be smart, but I do assume you know how to utilize the main food groups of the pyramid.”
He can smell the jasmine and amber again, soothing. “Why did you bring me food?”
“Because you look like shit, Cowboy. Don’t go losing your mind over a small gesture of goodwill.”
Chagrined, he snatches the items from your hand. He immediately realizes that there are energy bars, protein bars, and packs of gel that will replenish immediate levels of hormones and vitamins. He eyes you curiously as he sets the pile on the bed next to him, ripping a foil back open with his teeth.
You cross the room to lean against the medical table in the corner, crossing your arms over your chest. When he doesn’t eat right away, you raise your brows, waiting. He pops the end of a gel back in his mouth and squeezes, immediately tasting blueberry and lemonade. It’s not half bad, making him hum in fascination.
That gets a grin from you, his mouth twitching at the corner again as he works the gel in his mouth to break it apart.
“Fixed your armor. How hard did you knock the watch?” His guilty expression tells all and you scowl. “It’s made with durast carbonate. It’s pretty shockproof.”
“Didn’t mean to. Some guy’s goons jumped me when I was calling in the Collection. It um… took a bullet.”
“How did they get the jump on you, hmm?” He stares. “Were you tired?”
Instead of answering, he tosses the empty gel back on the bed and picks up a protein bar. He looks at it, squinting his eyes in the dim light. It’s peanut butter flavored, which he enjoys. He rips it open with his teeth and tears into it, realizing just how hungry he is.
Minho has no idea when his last meal was. He thinks you know his line of thinking, but you don’t say anything more. You’ve already gotten your barbs in and you don’t intend to poke until he’s truly annoyed or embarrassed, which he appreciates.
Without another word, you push off the desk and head to the door, slipping back through to leave him alone while he chews absently.
Alone, Minho realizes the importance of accepting food from you without second-guessing it. He slows his chewing, contemplating about that.
Minho’s relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. Your tech has never failed him, you’ve always been reliable for a fast turnaround time or understanding of what he’s asking for, and you’ve never sold information about him.
Ever. He had tried to buy information from you on himself through multiple channels and pseudonyms just to see if you would, but he’d been met with steely silence each time.
He eats with a little more enthusiasm as he realizes he does trust you. You’re as steadfast as the guns you build, and there is a confidence in that that he can at least resonate with.
Examining the contents of the blue liquid, he realizes it’s electrolytes and mineral compounds. As he takes long gulps, he realizes he feels infinitely better already, senses sharp, aches a little less terrible, and his headache is gone entirely. He’s not at a hundred percent, but he’s a hell of a lot better than if he had waited around for his next Collection.
When he finishes, he crumbles the trash together and tosses it into the incinerator. He hears the fire hiss as it destroys the waste and sends the fumes somewhere to be turned into energy.
In the main part of your lab, Minho spots you. He hesitates in the hall for a moment, watching you play with his watch. Movement in the corner of the room makes him tense up, hand going to the knife in his boot. He realizes it’s just Jeongin sliding across the room on a rolling chair, pushing away from his computer to examine what you’re doing.
Minho only relaxes marginally. He’s still getting used to seeing your apprentice in your workspace, and though the youth is excitable and intelligent, Minho refuses to let Jeongin near any of his builds. The trust he’s established with you over the last three years does not extend to apprentices he’s only known for a few months, no matter how much you trust them.
You trust the Nightcrawler too, and Minho cannot fathom why.
As though sensing you on the edge of the room, you turn and look at him over your shoulder. The corner of your mouth lifts up and you beckon him eagerly before hunching over whatever you’re working on again. He strolls over, crossing his arms over his chest to lean against your worktable on the other side of you, eyeing Jeongin on your other side.
“Hello, Collector. How are you today?” Jeongin asks politely, giving Minho a smile that touches his eyes.
Minho says nothing. You elbow him sharply in the ribs and he coughs, clutching his stomach as he mumbles, “Fine, you?”
“Doing great, thanks! This piece of tech is a marvel.”
“My watch?”
It is his watch. A green light flashes on the underside of the face, the bio scanner that connects with the one with his neck to monitor his nervous system. You push the watch toward him and he carefully picks it up, brushing his thumb across the cool, glass screen.
An interface lights up again. He can’t figure out what’s so special until you gesture for him to put it on. It fits nicely, the perfect size. As he slides it into place and looks at the watch face, a diagram of thin body armor comes up, spinning. Except it looks different than the diagram that he’s used to, giving you a questioning look. You point to the corner of the room at a mannequin.
He walks over to it, cocking his head to the side as he stops in front of it. It’s far different from the armored shirt he wears. The contraption is equal parts ribcage and the thorax of a spider. The material looks like leather but feels hard to the touch like metal.
Skirting his fingers to the hem, he bends the bottom of the shirt, watching as it flexes easily. It makes no sense to him how something could be so hard and flex immediately. If he were to guess, whatever the cloth is made from is a newer technology than he has access to. Perhaps more bio-engineered spider web.
Minho’s fingers skirt inside of it, brushing across a strange, prickling fabric. It doesn’t hurt, but he brushes his fingers back and forth, rubbing the material between his fingers. It’s abrasive, but he can’t imagine what it is.
Blue flashes on the diagram on the watch. He pauses and presses his fingers to the needle-thin fabric. The watch flashes again and lines of color light up on the diagram, showing his nervous system in different, complex colors. He raises his brows. It’s far more sophisticated than what he came in with.
“The needles,” he calls, not taking his eyes off the contraption. “Do they connect with me?”
“Yes. When you put it on, it syncs with your biochemistry.” You get up and walk toward him. “You won’t even feel them. They’re the smallest on the market right now, and incredibly accurate. They use them in military armor to report back live health reports and status during enfighting. They’re more accurate than the sensors lined in your last one.”
“What’s the point, though?”
You reach out and tap the watch. He watches curiously as a series of icons pop up, each a different color. “Inside of this,” you instruct, tapping the hard shell, “Is a series of chemical compounds. When you have on the armor underneath your shirt, you can tap to inject what you need. The needles don’t push deep, but they’re high-grade enough to break the barrier needed to disperse the compounds.”
Minho looks up at you, silent. You don’t notice his trepidation, carrying on as you go into salesperson mode, explaining everything. “Blue is elektrolytes,” you instruct, pointing to it. “Green is a chemical compound of cortisol and adrenaline. Yellow is endorphins and an incredibly high-dose painkiller.”
“And purple?”
“Jump,” you deadpan. “But a compounded version Jeongin and I have worked on that lasts longer with less damaging effect. You should be able to sleep easier after using it. And you won’t need several JumpPacks a day to keep going. I can give you refills too, since it’s non-addictive.”
Minho stares. “What?”
“What part didn’t you get?”
“This is for me?” You scowl but he immediately notices the way you divert your eyes. You glance up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to food. “This is worth a million United Credits at least. I can’t afford it.”
“Do you see a price tag?”
“You can’t give me this for free.”
“Of course I can. It’s just a prototype, so if it accidentally malfunctions and sends all injection options to your body at once and kills you, well…” You shrug. “At least you didn’t pay me. Consider yourself a test subject. I’ve never integrated the needle network into armor before. I don’t have the builds the military uses, just intel. I had to do it from scratch, so it might not work. Your current armor doesn’t protect you from plasma. This does.”
Minho doesn’t buy your bullshit for two seconds. He knows you wouldn’t give him this if it would risk killing him. For all your jesting and affectation, Minho has learned how to read you pretty well, and the way you blow him off and scoff tells him everything he needs to know.
It is a favor and a gift, and a new sort of olive branch that he is unsure how to accept or take from you. Taking this gift worth more than his entire salary complicates things.
Did you make this specifically for him? He’s not sure. But the fact that he wants the answer to be yes is worse than anything else he can think of.
Minho has peers. You’re a peer. Always have been. Anything else would complicate the simplicity of the relationship, and Minho immediately steps back and removes the watch. You watch him with razor-sharp intelligence, drinking him in as he holds out the watch to you.
“The one I have is sufficient enough, Builder.”
You snatch the watch from him, pivoting on your heel and walking with a ramrod-straight spine back to the table. For a second he thinks you’re going to kick him out but then you take a breath and melt into a smile, though a little sharp at the edges and not reaching your eyes.
“Fixed the connection. I also reinforced it again. Give me a moment to sync to your old armor.”
Old armor. As if the new one is still his. His stomach flips and he grimaces.
The affectation in your voice makes Minho uncomfortable. He doesn’t move, watching you tap viciously against the screen on your work desk. Jeongin spins a pen in his hand, glancing between the two of you nervously. When he notices Minho glaring at him, he grins awkwardly and pushes his chair behind one of the clear screens, his face distorted by blue lettering and diagram.
Wordlessly, you hand him the watch and turn away when he takes it. You say nothing else, moving on to a different project as Minho delicately picks up the shirt. He slides it over, feeling the warmth seep into his cool skin. He meticulously pulls the hardness with weapons on, followed by his jacket.
Fully dressed, he waits for you to say something. He doesn’t know what he expects - or wants - you to say. But he pauses anyway, eyes on your bent shape. His gaze flits to your hands, delicate fingers typing wildly, tense as you wait for him to leave.
It feels like a stone has sunk to the bottom of Minho’s stomach. He doesn’t move for a few minutes, torn between walking out and preparing for his next Collection and staying to… what? He doesn’t know. He has no idea what to say or do, but he feels the palpable shift in your mood.
So Minho chooses the easiest option. He nods to himself and heads toward the exit. You don’t spare him a second glance but he certainly looks at you out of the corner of his eye. Your jaw is clenched and you tap with a ferocity that thinks might shatter your desktop interface.
As soon as the door opens, Minho is drowning in thumping base and synth again. Hyunjin leans on the stool, this time with his back against the wall and his glittering eyes focused on Minho. Though the former Nightcrawler wasn’t in the room, Minho has a sneaking suspicion that Hyunjin knows everything that happens in the Builder’s workshop.
Hyunjin’s smirk is all-knowing and Minho storms by him, hating him for it.
Rain no longer falls from a dark sky. Opaque, charcoal skies stretch above him, lines of moving air traffic creating layers of latticework. Looking at the watch - which shows his normal armor once more - tells him it's in the early morning hours now.
The streets are not as busy as the night before. There are still glaring advertisements and he spots a group of cloaked United Church members walking around to accept alms and recruit, but the energy is muted outside of the clubs and pleasure houses.
Morning commuters fill the speed train tunnels. United Travel Agents lurk in the crowd, watchful eyes on anyone causing trouble or trying to double up on the scanners as travelers pass through, machines charging their United Credits as they go.
Minho falls into the dull buzz of morning travel. Glancing at his watch, he knows he has enough time to go home and change. He likes to receive his calls while he’s at home anyway. He tries not to replay the last conversation between the two of you. The offer you’d made him. The meaning behind it, whatever it may be.
It’s nearly impossible, but he manages. Especially once he gets into his apartment, sinking into the routine of showering, changing, and sliding back into his clothes like a second skin. As soon as he reties his boots, his watch begins to ring.
“Receiving,” he answers, straightening up.
“Collection echo-tango-foxtrot-bravo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.”
“Collection accepted.”
The line goes dead. Minho slides his weapons into their holsters, then pulls on his rain jacket. It always rains in the city, like God is weeping for what he has become.
Any work is good work.
Minho leaves the apartment to take another life.
-
The water runs red in Minho’s shower. He stares it for a while, hot water rushing down his neck, shoulders and back in rivulets. It turns pink the longer he stares, the wound on his leg bleeding less and less.
The irony is not lost on him that if he had accepted your gift, he might not have taken a gnarly hunting knife to the thigh. He was lucky that it was an energy weapon, the blade cauterizing the wound immediately. He’d had to pick the wound back open to flush out the dead, burned skin and pour burning antiseptic on it.
Shifting, Minho examines the wound. Pain blooms in his thigh as he turns, making him suck in a sharp hiss. The wound is to the bone. He knows he’s lucky it was not a well-made weapon, the ion pulse too weak to sever his limb. Still, it’s a deep wound and it would surely fuck him up if he didn’t have the next twenty-four hours to himself.
If the knife had been one of yours…
A pulse of frustration echoes through him. He presses his closed fist to the old tile of the shower wall, feeling the dissonance between the scalding water and cool tile steady him. His knuckles are sore from the last Collection - which had gone wrong in every way possible - and he’s brutally aware of just how much everything hurts.
Yet the ache isn’t what bothers him. His Collection target getting the jump on him from inside intel isn’t what bothers him. Minho has had that happen enough times that he no longer feels surprised when a Collection knows he’s coming.
What fucking bothers him is the ripple effect of his rejection of your offer made.
Minho shuts off the water and steps out the water carefully. He can barely put weight on the leg, gritting his teeth as he grabs a towel and hobbles out of the bathroom, the steam billowing out into the tiny apartment and dissipating.
Blue neon lights from the shop across the way burn in his window. He hardly needs to turn the lights on in his own home to see in the dark, the ever-present glow of blue guiding the way.
Carefully, he sits on his bed. Another pulse of pain from the wound makes him shiver and take several deep, steadying breaths. He peels back the towel at the waist, revealing a single, thick thigh with a horrible cut right in the meat of it.
“Fuck,” he whispers. Walking around has made it bleed again, scarlet trickling toward the towel.
Trying not to disturb the wound, he reaches for the medical kit under the bed. The metal is cool to the touch as he flips the latches, rummaging around the bandages, antiseptics, and gels until he finds what he’s looking for.
Minho takes the single, long syringe and uncaps it with his teeth, spitting the cap on the floor somewhere. He flicks his hand a few times, holding it up to make sure there are no bubbles in the vial. Holding his wound carefully with one hand and with the syringe in the other, he inserts the needle deep into the flesh, the sting minor compared to the throbbing ache the cut itself emanates.
The compound burns as he injects himself. He clenches his teeth, pushing down on the plunger with steady pressure. He can already feel the numbness spreading in his leg as the local anesthesia takes root. He knows he’ll be itching when it wears off, the tiny nanobots working to stitch the muscle and tissue back together already making his skin crawl.
DeepStitch is an expensive thing to have. He pulls the syringe out carefully, glancing at the medical kit. It only came with one, meaning he was going to have to replace the vile. Medical compounds made for healing abnormal wounds cost a fortune, especially the type with micro-technology to assist the process.
Tossing out the empty syringe, Mingo lays on his bed, uncaring if he’s damp and in a towel. The numbness in his thigh spreads, making him shiver. He tries not to think about the fact that there are thousands of microscopic bots working on internally stitching his muscles an tendons as quickly as they can before the blood in his body deteriorates them.
The medical advancement of this world is beyond Minho, but he’s grateful for it as he drifts in a half-sleep. He finds it harder to sleep after using JumpPacks, his body unable to adjust from the constant state of false energy and adrenaline.
It makes him think about your stupid fucking offer again. A piece of armor that could sync with him and balance his hormones and chemical compounds at the tap of a wrist. Something that high caliber for a low-level contract killer was beyond him.
There was crazy, and then there was that.
Minho wonders if you’ve been charging him fairly, suddenly. He’s always thought the weapons and tech you provide him with were good prices. They were well-made but always within his budget, albeit he stopped looking at what you were billing him a long time ago. Now that he knows you’re willing to offer something that he’d only find on a United Praetor in the military, he wonders if you’ve been cutting him deals.
He’s never asked the others. Changbin and Jisung seem friendly with you, enough to make Minho wary about asking them questions. Though they’re the closest things that Minho has to friends, he doesn’t trust them whenever it comes to you.
Jisung already thinks it’s sweet that Minho is nice to you, and he hates that. Even if it’s true.
Time fades away as Minho circles his conversation with you over and over again. He examines every moment of it. When he can surmise nothing else of the interaction but you offering an olive branch of friendship, something a step beyond peers, he goes back to all of his other interactions.
He remembers almost every one of them.
Minho’s memory is fine-tuned. It has to be in his line of work. But the memories of you are particularly sharp. He’s able to recall the way you always poke fun at him to the exact line of his tolerance, the way you always know how to get in a good jibe without actually pissing him off. The way that you let Jisung and Changbin have it in front of him for his benefit, especially after they’ve irritated him, like you’re giving him a gift or saying I’m on your team.
Thoughts of you ultimately lead to other things like the way your eyes reflect the blue light of your many screens. Or the way you always smell like jasmine and amber. The way you pull your sleeves over your hands in sweater paws because it’s bitter cold in your studio to avoid explosions and corrosion of items. The way the nickname Cowboy runs so smooth off your tongue, making his toes curl.
Minho’s fingers twitch when he thinks about brushing the backs of his knuckles against your soft skin. He’s thought about it before and immediately cringed at the fantasy. Now, between exhaustion clinging to him and the numb limb, he doesn’t jerk away at the idea.
He finally falls asleep thinking of you and what it would be like to accept that olive branch.
-
The ringing of Minho’s watch wrenches him from sleep. He sits up straight in bed, gasping and hand shooting toward the nightstand where there’s a draw with one of his guns. He realizes that his wrist is vibrating and when he looks at the screen, he sighs with equal parts tension and regret as he realizes it’s work calling.
Fuck. He slept for almost twenty hours straight.
Clearing his throat, he answers. “Receiving.”
“Collection romeo-echo-alpha-delta-echo-romeo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.”
Information flashes on Minho’s watch and he feels the world disappear from underneath his feet. Your name, age, permanent place of residency address, and anything the government has both legally and illegally obtained flashes before him. He’s never even seen your full name before and there it is, glowing on his watch as he stares at the information.
It feels obscene to know any of this. He flicks his wrist, turning off the display. He doesn’t want to see any of it, doesn’t want to see when you were born, doesn’t want to see what ward you pay taxes in, doesn’t want to know your criminal history.
Minho’s ears are ringing. The Delegator does not confirm that Minho has heard or received the assigned target for Collection. Minho stares at the wall, his vision blurring at the edges as the name - your name - echoes in his mind over and over again. He hears it at the same rhythm as his pounding heart, pumping blood through his system as his watch flashes a high heart rate warning.
Your name. Your full government name and ID number. He’s only ever known your first name, but you’ve always been Builder to him anyway. Minho can’t remember if he’s ever said your name, and suddenly he wants to. He wants to know what it sounds like shaped by his mouth, what it tastes like on his tongue. Wants to say it so many different ways, laughing, smirking, sighing–
Three years and he can’t believe he’s never so much as said your name, and now that very name is on his list to kill.
Indecision roots his feet to the spot. This isn’t like a Reverse Collection where other hitmen try to kill him and he can get away with killing them instead, clearing his name for a little longer. This is a direct and finite order to eliminate you. There is no alternative to this Collection.
Irreversible.
Running his hands through his hair, he looks around his apartment. It looks unlived-in and completely impersonal. Just like the impersonal way he calls you Builder, as though not using your fucking name makes it more sterile. As if it keeps you further away from earning his trust.
Which you have earned. Implicitly. Minho can think of no one else he would let take care of him. That he would sleep or eat in the presence of. That he trusts not to kill him in his sleep while he’s unarmed.
Now he’s supposed to murder you?
Bile turns in his stomach. He hears the ticking of the clock on the wall. Every second inches closer to the decision he has to make.
Will he or won’t he?
Minho grabs his gun from the nightstand and walks toward the door.
He’s only a few steps toward it when he realizes he’s not dressed or prepared for whatever he is about to do - what is he about to do? He has no idea. All he knows is that he is dazed and his hands are starting to shake and his heart rate is climbing, his watch flashing a warning.
The room begins to tilt as his breathing comes out in haggard breaths. He stumbles a little bit, the blood pumping through him roaring in his ears. He belatedly realizes he’s having a panic attack, blindly trying to get back to his bed where he can sit.
What does one do during a panic attack? He has no idea, he’s never had one. He thinks of the last time he saw someone panic and immediately bends over to put his head between his knees, gulping air through his nose and out through his mouth.
What was it that Jisung said about panic?
It’s hard to remember. He thinks maybe there was counting involved, so he breathes in for seven seconds and then out for seven seconds. Does it again. And again.
Slowly, the world swims back into focus. He can feel the twinge in his thigh as he comes down from the momentary lapse of panic and judgment. When he trusts that he’s not going to vomit on his bare feet, he slowly sits upright, looking around the neon-blue room.
Quiet blankets the apartment. The world outside is faint. He can hear the clock on the wall as the minute hand moves, each marking the passing of a United Second. With a deep breath, he moves.
There are no thoughts as he goes. His mind is a single list of action items, marketing them off as he goes. Get dressed. Check his weapons. Arm himself to the teeth with things you’ve made him. Message Jisung a cryptic, one-word text that only the other Collector will understand. Arm a bomb. Leave.
It’s clinical.
Minho had always understood with absolute clarity the reality of his line of work. He’s always had a failsafe - or a killswitch, so to speak. From the first day of work, Minho’s only purpose was to kill until he died. He was always meant to die. And he tells himself that the single, little safe space he has in the world he started saving for… well. If you ever needed it.
Any work is good work.
Clouds hold in their rain. The night feels ominous. Minho glances up at the choked clouds, wondering what they’re up to. The Ministry of Weather controls the atmosphere in some parts of the city. Minho does not travel in those parts of the city - those assassinations are beyond the abilities of a Collector and reserved for Nightcrawlers.
Paranoia is imminent, but Minho tries not to look over his shoulder every five seconds. The mysterious nature of Collect Co. is still something he doesn’t understand, so it’s difficult to unravel the nature of his assignment. Without a doubt, whoever placed Minho as the Collector knows you supply his weapons.
That simple fact branches out into multiple possibilities. Perhaps the person who wants you gone simply thinks Minho is the best person for the job because he’s in your tentative circle of trust and a familiar enough face to slip through you’re defenses. Or perhaps the problem is him and they know he won’t complete the Collection, earning a job termination and his name showing up on the Collection list.
Either way, it’s on purpose. Of that, he knows for sure.
From his years working for Collect Co., there are only a few things that Minho is sure about. Delegators do exactly what their title suggests - they delegate kills. Callers are a tier above Delegators, calling the shots working the network of requests that come in for contracted kills. Legals do all of the paperwork and research before agreeing to a contract, and at the very top of the chain is the Floorman.
Beyond that, Minho has no concept of the hierarchy or who is hiring Collect Co. for jobs. There are obvious manipulations to the system and it’s impossible to work objectively within a private company that works with but not for the government, and Minho has little doubt that the financial benefactors are who really control assignments.
Which leads him back to the root of the question: why you? Is Minho the problem, or do you have enemies so large that they hold sway in Collect Co. He doesn’t consider that your deeds are nefarious enough to warrant a hit. What you do is illegal but you sell to the military, too.
So it begs the question: is it you or him who they really want gone?
Maybe it’s even a combination.
Still, he attempts not to seem paranoid. It’s easier than it should be, Minho’s mind so singularly focused on getting to you as he takes the train and traves to North Ward Three that he doesn’t have time to look around every corner or see if he’s being followed. There are other ways of keeping tabs on him, anyway.
The rain still holds as Minho gets off the speed train and ducks into the street. He keeps to the sides, activating his ad blocker as he’s immediately slammed by a screaming neon world. His gaze and gait must be sharper than he realizes, because people veer away from him, his energy repelling them.
From the corner of his eye, he notes Watchers - people responsible for keeping an eye on what’s going on in the street for their employer - take note of him. Some melt into the doorway of their workplace, and others call for runners.
Trouble. Minho looks like trouble and he can sense the shift as they catch wind of him.
The Watchers are no threat to him. Their entire purpose is to close the doors and pull back when they catch a sense of danger in the air. They’ll stay out of his way and won’t engage with him unless he threatens their clubs and shops.
Minho has little intention of doing that. He wants to make this as painless as possible.
Neon Rodeo burns like a dying sun. The orange falls over him as he jogs down the steps and lets the guards scan him. If they notice anything is off, they say and do nothing. Neon Rodeo is perhaps the only business without a Watcher, and it’s only because no one would dare interrupt the business with the Nightcrawler inside.
Synth rattles Minho from the ground up as he steps inside. The cowboy hats and their little smiling faces float like phantoms in the night. He only has a singular goal and he looks at no one else as he heads towards the back, sidestepping sweaty bodies and perfumed hair.
It’s full tonight, the weekend crowd packing the bar from corner to corner. It’s no matter. He cuts his way to the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool. Today, Hyunjin’s hair is blood red and his eyes are sharp, unnatural green. For a moment, Minho thinks of a chameleon before Hyunjin kicks a leg out and blocks the hall leading to the door.
“Your patronage has been terminated, Cowboy.”
Minho’s heart flips. Are you that angry with him? He drinks in Hyunjin’s dress and slowly his anxiety turns to understanding. Hyunjin is dressed in all black today. His shirt is armored and in place of pants with tassels are tactical trousers with pockets and weapons strapped to his thighs.
An assessment of the Nightcrawler tells Minho that there are weapons he doesn’t see. There’s a plasma pistol on his hip, a bandolier of small knives strapped across his chest, knives in his boot, and another plasma pistol on this calf.
Hyunjin’s fingers drum against his thigh as he watches Minho with those unsettling eyes. “Want to try, Cowboy?”
“I need to speak with her.”
“No.”
“I’m not-” Minho grits his teeth. “I’m not Collecting.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
Hyunjin knows. He doesn’t know how the Nightcrawler knows you’re a Collection on Minho’s list, but it’s clear in the way Hyunjin leers.
“Look, you can go in with me. Let me get her to safety.”
“And what do you think safety is, Cowboy? Even if you’re not lying, they’ll come after you too.”
“Listne, Nightcrawler-”
Hyunjin grins. It’s unnerving, and there isn’t much that unnerves Minho. “No, you listen. I tolerate you because I am ordered to. Now, I don’t have to. My only orders were to say no and to not harm you.” He leans back and spreads his hands and shrugs. The neon lights catch his blood red hair. “I’m always within my right to make a judgment call.”
“I’d never hurt her.”
“You’re not friends, last I checked.” Hyunjin cocks his head to the side. “You don’t have friends, right? That’s why you reject acts of faith?”
“What do you know of acts of faith, Nightcrawler?”
“You’d be surprised, Collector.”
Hyunjin is unmoving. Minho’s fingers twitch and Hyunjin’s eyes follow the movement. For a second, Minho wonders if he could beat his adversary to the draw. They could do it like an old fashioned movie, the bar the perfect setting for it. Hyunjin is totally unmoving and relaxed, not moving his hand toward his weapons.
He’s that confident in beating me.
United Seconds are ticking by. Every minute Minho doesn’t make his collection is time lost. He licks his lips ready to mount another argument when Hyunjin’s eyes flicker and look over Minho’s shoulders. His eyes narrow a fraction as they dart back to Minho.
“Here’s an act of faith. Let’s see what you do this time.”
The energy in the bar shifts. He feels the tremor go through the air and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. Minho turns his head to the side, not enough to fully look back over his shoulder but enough to see the group of Collectors disperse in the crowd.
Both, Minho realizes. The Collection had been for them both, and it was a good excuse to get them in the same place. He grits his teeth as he realizes how predictable he is. They might have come even if he didn’t arrive, but they might have sent a smaller force.
Glancing at Hyunjin, Minho watches as the Nightcrawler does nothing. He waits for Minho, raising his brows and smirking.
Act of faith.
Normally, Minho doesn't believe in public acts of violence. Collectors are mostly prohibited from killing in public or endangering the lives of United Republic Citizens unless entirely unavoidable.
Now, though, he causes a scene and pulls his gun, swiveling around and leveling it at the nearest Collector he has a clean line of sight on. He feels the hum of the weapon and the click of the safety as he squeezes the trigger, the pulse of the weapon barely perceptible as it fires.
Plasma weapons are bright when they fire. It’s nearly blinding in the dark as he shoots, screams shattering the bar as the world turns into pops of energy and sizzling air. He ducks down as someone shoots at him, instincts kicking in as he grabs the leg of a table and yanks it toward him.
Behind him, Hyunjin lets out a manic laugh and stands from the stool. He drops a small device next to Minho, drawing his attention for a second. Minho watches as it expands with a shimmer of translucent energy - a shield. He looks at the Nightcrawler who crouches with him, grinning as he peers over the table and shields with his green eyes.
“There are eight. They’re just going to pin us here and shoot at us like fish in a barrel.”
“Is there a way through that door?”
“Sure there is. If they want to melt it down, I’m sure they have plasma blades, judging from the look of their very nice weapons. They can’t blow it without leveling the street.”
“Does she have a way out the back?”
“No, then I would have two doors to watch.”
A spray of metal and plasma ricochets off the shield that has molded to the shape of the table. Hyunjin gestures as if to showcase his point and Minho grits his teeth. Peeking around the table, he can see patrons hiding under tables and covering their heads. Collectors stand spread out, fanning the entrance and blocking the way, but they don’t come any closer.
They want to make the Collection, but they don’t want to face a Collector and a Nightcrawler together.
“Aren’t you some sort of unmatched assassin, Nightcrawler?” Minho asks, checking the mag on his plasma gun. “Can you just take them all out? That should be light work for you.”
“I’m good at not being seen, Cowboy. I’m not inhuman.”
“Oh good, so you’re actually useless when visible?”
Hyunjin’s face darkens. “You’d be surprised how often you don’t see me.”
The threat isn’t lost on Minho but it doesn’t have time to sink into its full effect as bullets rain down on them. They cringe together to ensure they’re behind the shield, which whines under the plasma assault and flickers. Minho thinks it will hold, but it’s only as wide as the table it molds to and the table isn’t very large.
Hyunjin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a grenade. Minho grabs it, looking at him with wild eyes. Hyunjin pulls his hand away. “It’s a flash grenade,” he snaps. “I’m not going to kill everyone.” He pauses and smirks. “I don’t do that anymore.”
“That’s hardly less settling.”
“You know,” Hyunjin muses, pulling the ring from the grenad. Green light pulses on it slowly, counting down until it starts to release blinding white flashes. “One day you and I are going to have a talk about why you think your profession is so much different than mine.”
“One is legal, for starters.”
Hyunjin lobs the grenade. “Right, so what you’re doing right now? This is legal?”
Minho is spared from having to answer as the world explodes in white. He and Hyunjin move at the same time, letting the memory of where the Collectors stand as they close their eyes and shoot. Minho’s shot blind thousands of times and it usually pays off.
It does for the most part now, the pair of them dropping Collectors as they shoot. The white light fades and there’s only a single Collector left standing by the door, his gun aimed at Minho. He swivels to shoot, but a bullet hits the Collector in the shoulder, twisting him backward from impact as he squeezes the trigger of his gun.
The shot catches Minho in the shoulder, knocking him back a step. He curses but keeps his weapon trained on the fallen Collector until he hears high-pitched screaming. It stops his heart, the sound of the Collector’s voice reaching a level of madness that echoes even after he gargles and goes silent.
Minho looks at Hyunjin with an accusatory glare but Hyunjin juts his thumb behind him in answer, pointing to where you stand at the door with a heavy pistol in your and. Minho blinks a few times in surprise.
“I think the nano-tips work, Jeongin.” You glance over your shoulder where the younger boy stands on the stairs behind you, armed to the teeth. “Remind me to write that down.”
Silence stretches in Neon Rodeo, save the soft quivering crying and sparking sign that’s been shot over the bar. From the corner of his eye, Minho sees it flash between Rodeo and Odeo over and over again, bouncing between the two words as the ‘R’ tries to fight for its life.
Then there’s you.
You stare at him with a guarded expression, drinking him in. Your gaze lingers on his arm, reminding him that it does in fact burn where the plasma bullet graze his shoulder. Next to him, Hyunjin shifts. The Nightcrawler barely moves forward, sliding part of his body between Minho and where you stand in the doorway to your studio, Hyunjin’s hand resting on top of his gun.
“You gonna kill me, Cowboy?” Your voice wavers when you ask. By the twitch in your lip, Minho can tell you’re upset that it does.
“No. I want to help.” Hyunjin snorts and Minho is reminded of his earlier question. What do you think safety is? “Consider it an act of faith,” Minho offers and Hyunjin’s snickering turns to curiosity. “I’ve rejected yours in the past. Let me off you the only one I have.”
No one moves. Minho slowly lifts his wrist toward Hyunjin, displaying the information. The Nightcrawler looks it over and raises his brows, looking back at Minho. “What strange turn of events, Minho.”
It’s the first time Hyunjin has ever used his name. He says nothing as the Nightcrawler heads over to you, murmuring quietly. Your face is inscrutable as you nod and look over your shoulder, saying something to Jeongin. He nods fiercely, face set in determination that makes Minho’s mouth twitch a little.
The three of them join Minho wordlessly as he turns on his heels and heads up the stares. Hyunjin’s watch flashes and lets them know that the United Enforcers are three minutes out and they need to get where they’re going.
You take the lead then, hurrying out the door but not out into the street, ducking into a noodle shop three doors down from Neon Rodeo. You shout in United New Mandarin at the woman behind the counter, shocking him - not that Minho knows anything about you at all - and the woman waves you off.
Through the shop and into the stock room you lead everyone, hoping over bags of flower and starch until you reach a table that you climb up on and pull a vent from a ceiling. It’s far too large to be a normal vent, and his questions are answered when he realizes it leads to a small garage that faces the next street over.
Once into the garage, Hyunjin takes the lead out into the street, weapon up. Minho brings up the rear, falling into a defensive unit as you go. Jeongin walks closely behind Hyunjin, his steps a little clumsy but his head on a swivel.
Good, Minho thinks. Jeongin is alert.
“Decided not to kill me?” you whisper as you skirt out into the street and hug the building face.
Minho can barely hear you over the fabric you’ve pulled up over your face. He blinks and thinks to do the same, pulling the hood up on his jacket and sliding up a black gaitor over the lower half of his face.
“I was never going to kill you.”
“Hard to tell with you.”
“I… don’t have an argument.”
And he doesn’t. He realizes that he’s kept you at arm's length despite your best attempts to spark some sort of friendship. What reason could he do that other than sparing himself if he had to kill you one day? It makes the most logical sense.
“I thought we were friends.” That makes him pause. You notice a few steps ahead of him that he’s stopped, looking at you. “We stopped being just business acquaintances over a year ago, Collector. My normal clients don’t get to test my new hardware or request as many JumpPacks as you do on the house.”
“They’re on the house?”
“Of course they are!” you snap at him. “Do you not look at your billing, Collector? How do you know I’m not overcharging you?”
“I stopped looking once I trusted you weren’t robbing me.”
“See, that’s a funny word coming from you. Trust.”
A whistle catches Minho’s attention. You both turn to see that Hyunjin and Jeongin are nearly three-blocks away at the entrance of a nondescript shop. Color floods Minho’s face when he realizes the pair of you had stopped walking to have your argument and he curses himself as you start moving again.
“I do trust you.” You say nothing to his comment. “I’m sorry I didn’t accept the armor.”
“It wasn’t about rejecting the armor, Collector.” The world Collector sounds dirty in your mouth. He suddenly wants to hear you call him Cowboy again. “It was about rejecting me when I thought we were already friends. I was wrong.”
Hyunjin leads them down into an alleyway that is void of anything besides dumpsters and murky puddles. The smell turns Minho’s stomach but he resists the urge to gag as Hyunjin bends down to pull up a sewer grate. He flashes his flashlight inside and nods before jumping down and vanishing. There’s a light splash as he lands and calls up for Jeongin.
Minho crouches close to you as Jeongjin adjusts to follow Hyunjin down.
“You weren’t,” he says as Jeongin jumps. You turn to look at him, confused. “Wrong. You weren’t wrong.”
You look him up and down, hesitating. Hyunjin calls your name and you turn away from Minho, checking your legs and arms to make sure your pockets are zipped. Minho watches as you jump. He realizes his holding his breath until he hears your feet splash.
Quickly, he scrambles to the grate, pulling the top with him. Looking through the hole, he sees the orange light of glowsticks as you and Jeongin crack and shake them, lighting up the tunnel in a very small ring of light. Hyunjin has turned off his flashlight and looks up at Minho, gesturing for him to hurry.
Minho holsters his weapon and jumps down, bending at the knee as he lands to absorb the fall. His boots splash loudly in the tunnel, echoing for a few seconds. His shoulder wound aches as he straightens up. Hyunjin is already lifting Jeongin up to pull the great back over the hole. The scrape of metal on the concrete sounds much louder in the watery tunnel, making Minho cringe.
Looking both ways, he sees the sewer is less of a sewer and more of a tunnel. The cloth pulled over his face does little to keep out the rancid smell, and he winces when he sees fat, black rats scattering on the edges of the orange light.
Something touches his arm and he jerks, hand going to his gun. You lean back and apologize, holding out a glowstick. He relaxes and takes it, fingers brushing yours as he does. He instantly gets a chill down his spine, though his fingers are warm where they brushed yours.
Minho clears his throat and holds the glowstick up, looking around the tunnel. He can hear the faint echoes of dripping water and every movement of the group feels loud in the pressing silence of the dark.
“What is this?” he asks, looking at you.
It’s Hyunjin who answers, “Nightcrawler shit. You’re welcome.”
“Should we expect any of your former coworkers, then?”
“They’re not so bad.” Hyunjin unholsters his weapon as he begins walking south down the tunnel, throwing Minho a sharp grin. “It’s the Darklings I worry about.”
You fall into step behind Hyunjin immediately, ducking your head to murmur something to him as you go. The glow of your light gets farther away as Minho stands staring at Hyunjin, unsure if he’s serious or not.
Jeongin steps up next to Minho. “He was joking about Darklings, right? The People Underneath are a myth?”
“Have you ever heard Hyunjin tell a joke?”
Minho leaves Jeongin thinking about it before the younger rushes to keep up with him, feet splashing wildly.
-
Whether Hyunjin was joking about the Darklings or not, they don’t run into anything except rats and roaches in the underground tunnels. Minho finds himself itching to ask the Nightcrawler questions and demand where they’re going, but he doesn’t,
An act of faith.
It was an act of faith when Minho showed Hyunjin the safehouse on his watch. It was one of the few things that Minho protected more fiercely than his life, and he was hoping that when Hyunjin saw the coordinates, title of ownership, and Minho’s information, he’d gain a little trust.
Minho had been right. Hyunjin, though still sharp at the edges, has become unnervingly benign with Minho, addressing him by his name. It’s not much to most, but he knows among killers it’s a huge step. One that means a little more trust, if not at least peers.
You remain quiet for the most part. Your eyes stray toward Minho often and when he catches you looking, you don’t look away. Your gaze is hesitant and questioning, as though you’re trying to figure him out like one of the schematics on your screens.
Biting into a protein bar, he quickens his pace to fall into step with you. “What will you do with your lab?”
Your lips twitch. “Chemical fire. There’s a stop-line in the frame of the building so it should be controlled. I promised not to burn down Neon Rodeo when I established my office there.”
“Who owns that place, anyway?”
“Bangchan.” The name sounds familiar. “Reformed Nightcrawler.”
“You keep unusual company.”
“Better than none.”
That gets a little bit of a laugh from him. You smile when he does and he swears it’s brighter than the glowsticks you carry. “I deserved that one. I’m working on it, alright.”
“How do Jisung and Changbin deal with you?”
“The same way I deal with them.” You hum, nodding in understanding. For a few minutes, it’s just wet steps echoing in the tunnels. “What made you decide to come with me? I assume you have your own fallback plans.”
“I do, but I don’t know. I wanted to accept your olive branch.” You look at him. “I wanted to trust you.”
He nods. His gut twists a little at that, both anxious and pleased. He’d been right about offering an act of faith in return for the one he scorned. Now, he just has to keep you alive, which he grows more confident in doing.
“Where are we going?”
He looks up at you. “Hyunjin didn’t tell you?”
“No, just said to trust you.” Minho’s brows shoot up and you snort. “I know. Whatever you showed him convinced him.”
“It’s a safe house on Isla de Suenos.” You look up at him sharply and he gives a soft grin. “My mother belonged to a very well-off family. I’m not supposed to exist, and she had to decide at a young age whether or not I was worth throwing away her family and their power. A single safehouse purchased with offshore accounts and through a network of money-changing and bought secrecy is the only thing she could give me.”
“She didn’t choose you?” He shakes his head. You think about that for a second and he lets the words sink in, waiting for the pity, which he hates. Instead, you hum. “No wonder you don’t choose people either.”
Your candor is a relief. You don’t tell him sorry or try to comfort him. You accept this as a fact of life, a normalcy that a mother would choose wealth and power over a child. “There are no records tying us together, but the title of the house is under what my name would have been if she’d taken me. Lee. My family name would be Lee.”
“What is it now?”
“I don’t have one. My father was servant-class. We don’t have family names.”
“He worked for your mother’s family?” Minho nods. “Lee. I like it. Will you keep it?”
“Maybe. It’s who I have to be, now.”
“No longer the Collector?” He shakes his head. “Good. Perhaps I like you more as just Lee Minho.”
Minho bites back a grin.
By the time they get to the surface again, they’re just outside of the city-proper on the northeast shore. Here, the night is bitter cold as the salty air blasts off the ocean, dark waves rushing and receding against the shoreline.
They take a brief break once their topside, Minho gasping deep breaths of fresh air in as he gulps down water. Now that they can see without the glowsticks, they toss them into the trash and breathe in silence.
Carefully, Minho peers at the wound on his shoulder. It’s caterized from the heat of the plasma, but the burn hurts something vicious. He has no medical supplies on him, and he examines the chawed flesh with mild concern.
Seeing the injury, you get up wordleslly from the rock where you sit and come over. Your hand digs in one of your pockets and you produce a packet of burn gel and antiseptic, wordlessly gesturing to the wound. He nods and you offer a tentative grin before ripping the antiseptic open with your teeth, spitting the crinkling material on the ground.
With steady hands, you squeeze out the translucent gel on the tips of your fingers and peel the damaged parts of Minho’s shirt away from the flesh. He sucks in a breath when you apply the cool gel to the wound, the stinging of the antibiotic catching him off guard. You shoot him an apologetic wince before continuing to press it lightly into the burned flesh.
You smell like jasmine and amber. Minho breathes it in deep, a soothing scent mixed with the salty air of the seat just a few yards away. His eyes flutter shut as your fingers work his shoulder, deft and skilled like an artist.
“My mom liked to paint,” Minho says automatically, unsure where the comment comes from. “That’s one of the few things I know about her. She had artists hands. You have hands like hers. Graceful.”
“Hmm, I wouldn’t say I’m an artist but I do draw designs for weapons a lot.”
“It’s a kind of art.”
“I suppose it is.”
Your closeness makes Minho dizzy. Instead of chasing you away in the past, he lets you linger and spread the burn gel on his shoulder. He doesn’t open his eyes, letting the sound of the ocean and the press of your steady fingers lull him into a moment of relaxation.
He can almost pretend you both haven’t thrown your life away to head to some house he’s never been to with little to no plan but to arrive there alive.
“Does it hurt?” he shakes his head at your question. You voice is soft and raspy, rising the hairs on the back of his neck. You’re so close he can feel the heat radiating from you, making him lean in on instinct, seeking the warmth. “If you let me give you better armor, plasma won’t hurt you.”
Minho’s eyes flutter open. “You brought it with you?”
“Of course I did.” Your face is inches from his, eyelashes fanning your bright, glittering eyes as you look up at him. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Hyunjin’s voice shatters the moment before Minho can respond. “Hello, yes, the child and I are still here.”
“I’m not a child!”
“The child and I need to leave, however. Seungmin and Felix are waiting to escort us. I believe your friend left transportation for you, Minho.”
You whirl around. “You’re leaving? What do you mean you’re leaving?”
“I have some Nightcrawling to do with Bangchan and Seungmin. I’m taking the child to stay with Swan.”
Minho has no idea who Swan is. He sees the uncertainty color your face as you regard your guard - your friend. “You would do that? Take him to stay with her?”
“Of course. Swan likes strays.”
“I am right here,” Jeongin reminds everyone, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I’m not a child.”
Hyunjin grins at him. It’s real and not a leer, something that Minho doesn’t think he’s ever seen. Hyunjin grabs Jeongin by the shoulder, pulling him along before flicking his poison-green eyes toward Minho and you. “Enjoy your evening. I’ll be around, Minho.”
“Wait!” you bolt over to them, catching everyone by surprise as you throw your arms around the two of them and squeeze. The smile on Hyunjin’s face is so soft that Minho has to look away, equal parts something like jealousy and feeling like he’s intruding. “Here.”
You divest several items from your pockets, shoving them into their hands. Medical gels, a few gadgets, and a little Scorpion figurine that you shove into Hyunjin’s hands. He raises a single brow in amusement but you say nothing to the Nightcrawler, rushing back to stand at Minho’s side.
Hyunjin and Jeongin lift their hand in waves to Minho before turning and heading down the beach at a slow pace, their feet sinking into the sand. Cold wind whips at Minho as he stands watching with you silent by his side, waiting.
Without a word, he turns and beckons you, heading up the rocky coast before heading back down precariously to a tiny cove with a boat buoyed between the rocks. It’s hardly a safe-looking boat and he realizes it probably wouldn’t have carried them all, but it’s something.
Minho climbs into the boat carefully before helping you step down into it. The rocking water throws you off balance and he steadies you, hands tight on your waist. You mutter an apology but he doesn’t let go until he’s sure you’re okay, eyes searching.
A moment of tension passes, his fingers pressed into the fabric of your hips, your closeness overpowering the sea air again. You clear your throat and it passes. Minho lets you go as he finds the key and plugs it in to turn on the engine.
You busy yourself with untying ropes, your steps unsteady as the vessel moves unpredictably beneath your feet. Once you manage to get rid of all the lines, he begins to navigate out the cove backward, turning the wheel violently from side to side as he fights the tide.
Thankfully with every swell that pushes the boat into the cove, it drags it back out. It takes about three swells before the craft is pulled into the ocean proper and he throws the throttle in reverse, water rooster tailing for a moment as he does.
You join him at the helm and stand close as he turns it around and drives. Wind rips at his jacket, blowing back the hood. He’s thankful for the face cover fighting the icy wind, squinting as he drives in the late hours of the night across a rippling black ocean.
The water gets rough as he turns to the east, glancing at the coordinates on his watch every once in a while. Your hand shoots out to grab his forearm on a particularly violent dip. He curses, pain radiating from his shoulder as you do. You immediately shout an apology and let go, but Minho snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you tight.
For a second, you stiffen, looking up at him uncertain. He remains steadfast in his hold, willing his heart to slowdown as he drives, determined to keep you from falling off the boat and into the water before you can even make it to the safehouse.
You relax into him after a second, pressing closer and letting him hold on as you go. He relaxes when you accept his help, breathing out a slow breath that he didn’t know he was holding.
It takes almost forty five minutes, but the dark shadow of Isla de Suenos materializes in the night. The city is a spec of light on the misty horizon as the waves begin to slow down until he can let down on the throttle, bringing the boat to a troll instead of a plane.
The collection of islands that surround the massive, man-made mountain in the middle of the seat are all only about seven acres in size and are privately owned. The level of exclusivity is something Minho is incredibly unfamiliar with, and he gets nervous as they approach the barely visible shield surrounding the collection of islands.
“Minho, there’s a-”
“It’ll let us through.” He squeezes your waist on instinct, hoping it’s true. As the boat passes, he holds his breath. He feels the biochip in his neck flicker and then they’re through the shield. The water is falt calm on the other side of the energy wall, tapping gently against the hull. “It’s biometric.”
“And you were sure that was going to work?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly is not a great attitude in the invention field, Minho.”
It takes a second, but he realizes you’re calling him by his name and not Cowboy. He likes the sound of it on your tongue, though he doesn’t mind the diminutive.
Even in still waters, he doesn’t remove his arm around your waist, the protective instinct still high as he steers the boat according to his watch. Islands with lights hidden behind thick jungle and rockface slide past them.
The beacon on his watch flashes and he turns the boat, trolling to a long, empty dock ahead of them. The island is no different from the rest, covered in sprawling jungle and foliage that look monstrous in the ominous night.
Quickly, you tie off the boat and disembark. Your steps on the dock feel loud in the quiet night, the two of you hurrying along and up the shore until you hit the stone stairway that leads through the trees. Though he isn’t holding you close to him anymore, you still keep yourself pressed close, the back of your hands brushing as you begin the climb up the island.
Minho has no idea what the house looks like. He only knows that it’s coded to his biochip and that it’s always been there if he needs it. He doesn’t know if it’s stocked or if the electricity is on, or if it’s been raided and taken over. He doesn’t even know if there are codes to get access.
It is the most unprepared he has ever been.
A large estate springs up among the trees. The entire building is constructed on a platform with foliage and trees brushing along the foundations. It’s made up of windows and metal framing, the windows dark and hiding whatever exists within.
It is exquisit. Minho has never seen an estate or a luxury home before in person, but he knows that’s what this is. The thought seems a little silly as he leads you toward the modular home, steps quiet as he glances around. He cannot imagine that anyone but he and his could enter the grounds, but he’s still on edge.
At the door, there’s a single bioscanner. He leans his neck toward it, letting it flash over his biochip. The scanner turns green and he hears the hiss of an airlock. Glancing at you and shrugging, he tries the handle and pulls the door open toward him.
Inside, the air is cool. He steps in first, hand on his gun as he looks around the interior. It’s sparkling clean and decorated with dark wood furniture and greenery. He takes a few steps inside, flinching when automatic lights come on and cast a warm, gold glow in the house.
“You’ve been living as a fucking Collector when this existed the entire time?” you deadpan from the door.
No kidding, he thinks, turning to look at the multi-story wonder that is the home. It’s three levels of tropical opulence, making his head spin at all of the possibilities.
“I didn’t know what was here, honestly.” He turns to look at you and nods. You step inside and pull the door shut, tapping the screen beside it. The locks click in place again and with another tap, he sees the windows darken to privacy mode. “I assumed she didn’t leave me something grand.”
“It’s a good start on an apology. She’s still a bitch for leaving you and I think you should let me fight her.”
A ripple of fondness goes through him and he smiles at you, uncontrolled and large. You shoot a shy one back before looking away at the wonder of the home.
Unlike him, you seem to relax immediately, kicking your shoes off to wander around the house. He follows suit after a moment of hesitation, peeling the cover off of his face and kicking of his shoes. He leaves his holster open on his weapons, hands hovering near them as he follows you.
The house is extravagent. Smaller than he originally thought, with only three bedrooms and two bathrooms, but the spaces for each are massive and sprawling with greenery. It feels like the jungle is a part of the house - and he realizes it is, at least in the atrium. There’s a large pool and something that looks like a hot spring behind the house, hidden from the world by think palms and palmetto.
Each room is richly designed and cleaned, as though it has been kept for him all this time. He’ll have to worry about that at some point, unsure who has kept the house in such a presentable state while it’s existed.
After you’ve fed your curiosity, you drift to one of the rooms with a private bathroom. He takes the room across from you, feet dragging as the exhaustion hits him. His limbs feel heavy and peeling off his shirt with the injure arm makes him curse and hiss. He doesn’t bother looking in the mirror, knowing the old bruises from a few days ago are still there.
Steam fills the bathroom. He’s a little put out when he realizes that the stone shower has a wall of glass to reveal the jungle on the other side, but he realizes there’s no one to watch him. He shakes the uneasiness and steps under the scalding water, moaning as he closes his eyes and lets it run down him.
A screen with a dozen or more settings sits in the rockface of the shower, but he doesn’t know how to use them. He hits another button hoping for what is more water pressure and instead gets a heavenly waft of eucalyptus. He leaves the settings alone, settling for tranquility over scrubbing himself.
Minho doesn’t know how long he stays in the shower. His fingers prune and the crust and blood eventually peel away. He spends a short amount of time scrubbing his own skin, eager to get out of the shower and check on you.
Now that he has you, a new sort of stream of conscious has made itself permanent, always wondering where you are and if you’re okay.
Steam clouds the bathroom as he steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist. Water clings to him as he ruffles his wet hair, strolling out into the bedroom. He walks toward the table by the door, rifling through his things looking for medical gel.
A knock draws his attention and you open the door a crack, making a sound of surprise when you don’t expect to see him standing right in front of you. Your eyes dip down to where the towel is on his waist and back up, immediately opting to look at the ceiling.
Minho’s lips pressed into a firm line, trying to eat the smirk threatening to take over.
“Sorry, I assumed you were still in the shower. I - um - brought more gel for your shoulder.”
He steps away from the door, leaving drips of water as he does. “Come on in.”
“Are you sure?”
He shrugs and then winces, the burn pulling taught as he does. You enter immediately, shutting the door behind you and ripping the top off the packet as you do, eyes focused on the wound. You’ve got your fingers slathered in gel and pressing to his shoulder before you realize the forwardness, pausing to glance up at him.
Now, Minho does smirk. “I’m at your mercy.”
“Sorry. I know it’s hurting you and…”
“You don’t want me to hurt,” he fills in, remembering your words from earlier.
You nod and chew your bottom lip as you work. He studies you closely. He doesn’t know if it’s his acceptance that you’re more than just someone he buys weapons from, the exhaustion or the little sliver of feeling he’s always pretended wasn’t there, but Minho suddenly feels a little bolder.
A little braver.
“I never had a chance to thank you.”
“For what?” You throw the antiseptic on the table and rip open the burn gel. “Anything. Everything. I don’t think I’ve ever said thank you.”
“There’s a lot of things you haven’t said.”
“So let me.” You dart a look at him, nervous. When you don’t interrupt he continues, “You were right. We stopped being industry peers a long time ago, and I’ve purposefully ignored multiple favors from you to keep the illusion that simple relationships meant I couldn’t be hurt. Or hurt others.”
“And now?”
“I realize it was silly.”
“Hmm. At least you admit your faults, Cowboy.”
He smiles. You finish applying the gel, but you don’t move away from him. You linger, looking up through silky lashes at him. Your face takes on a dreamy look, mouth parted a little and he feels heat coil in his stomach at that look.
“Why’d you offer me that armor?”
“I was afraid of how often you were working. I knew you were getting hurt and I wanted to help. Why’d you reject it?”
“I didn’t want to hurt you.”
There’s a long pause. Your gaze drops to his mouth. You’re only a few inches away, the ghost of your breath against his neck. “What if I want you to?”
Minho needs no other permission. It’s like a dam giving way, the past few days able to wedge their way in and open him up to let the rawness spill out of him. He surges forward, catching your mouth against his as he does so, hands shooting to your waist.
You don’t push him away. Worse, you melt into him like it’s natural, hands skating up his arms and around the back of his neck to pull him in closer to you. Your mouth is warm and minty and addicting, scattering his thoughts to the stars as your lips move against his.
Heat is trapped between your bodies. He feels like he’s burning up from the inside, squeezing your hips as his tongue brushes against your bottom lip. You open up for him easily, like you were always made to and he groans.
Every time he has ever held back from you fuels him forward. He presses into you, turning you to push you on the mattress. You go willingly, opening your legs to let him slot between them. He leaves over you, mouth hungry. Devouring. Ravenous.
You gasp between kisses, nails grazing down his flexing arms. He wants to fucking drown in you as he bites the edge of your jaw, tasting the soap on your skin. You smell like jasmine and amber, though now he can smell the eucalyptus too, driving him insane.
You.
The one thing he’s let himself trust. The one person he’s let in, even when he didn’t want to admit it. The one person he wants to have more than anything else.
Greedy hands scrape up his chest. Your fingers are warm and searching as he nips the tender flesh of your neck, tongue laving over the bite to soothe it. The sounds dripping from your mouth are so pretty, driving him inside as he traces his desire with tongue and teeth.
The fabric of your shirt scrapes against his skin, itchy and in the way. His hands pull at the hem and he hesitates, looking down at you through a heavy-lidded gaze and panting. You not frantically, hands pulling at his to guide the shirt upwards and off, revealing warm skin.
Minho wants to taste every part of you. You create art with your schematics and your weapons, but you are art. He worships you with tongue and teeth, hands brushing up your stomach to cup your chest. His tongue pulls a languid moan from you as he flicks it over the peak of your nipple.
Fuck.
He’s greedy, sucking gentle on your pert bud, ensuring to scrap his teeth along the sensitive flesh. You writhe underneath him, unable to remain still. His other hand works you too, tweaking your stiff peak as he trails spit-slick kisses across your chest to wrap his lips around that nipple too.
Minho looks up at you through his lashes. You’re a rendering of pleasure, head pressing into the bed, chest pushed up, a sheen of sweat on your collarbones and neck. It drives him wild, cock throbbing heavily as he trails his mouth toward, fingers pulling your pants as he goes.
Your fingers twist in the sheets. Everything he does affects you and he’s drunk on it, heart thudding in his chest as he drops down to his knees. His towel falls and the cool air makes him shiver. He feels the sticky tip of his cock brush against his leg but he ignores the ache between his thighs, fixing his eyes on what’s between yours instead.
Pretty and wet, all for him. For him. He gets to have you. But he doesn’t yet, making you wait and feel the personal hell it’s been for him to pretend he wasn’t yours as he kisses up your thighs, licking warm skin and digging his teeth in.
“Minho,” you half gasp, half wine. He smiles against your knee, giving it a gentle peck. “Please.”
“Yeah?” he switches legs, biting your calf. “Want it that bad?”
“Need it.”
He brings a hand up to your dripping cunt, dragging a curled knuckle through your wetness. You let out a keen and he grins against your leg even more, hypnotized by the way your petty little hole clenches at the contact.
Minho drags it out. Plays with you, dragging that knuckle slow-soft through your folds, avoiding your clit. You let out a sound that’s almost a sob and he chuckles, bringing his hand up to suck at the stickiness on his finger.
“Hmm. Sweet.”
“Bet it’s better from the source,” you shoot back, trying to make a jab and failing with how weak your voice is.
“True,” he agrees, leaning forward.
Your taste blooms on his tongue as he licks up your center, slow and patient. He savors the taste, humming as he does. You buck under his mouth and he grips your thighs, pulling you open. You’re warm and wet and perfect, and he listens to your breath hitch as he licks you slowly, making sure to circle around your clit each time.
One of your hands shoots to his hair. He doesn’t mind as you pull. The sting feels good and spurs him on, eating you out properly. He loves the sounds you make for him, loves the way your thighs twitch as he sucks your click into his mouth, tongue flicking over it.
It’s wet and messy and just the way he likes it, slick dripping down his chin as he presses himself in further, desperate to fuck you into sanity with just his mouth.
He doesn’t have a problem doing it. You buck against his face and he lets you, holding his tongue flat for you to grind against. Your fingers in his hair have him in a vice grip and he moans, a steady stream of mhmmm dripping sweet from his mouth into your heat.
“Fuck,” you gasp. “Fuck fuck fuck.”
“Come on,” he mouths against you. “Take what you want, baby.”
The endearment slips from him more natural than anything he’s ever done. His fingers squeeze your thighs as you undulate against him, his entire attention fixated on you as the begin to shake. Your hand twists in his hair and he groans, equal parts pain and pleasure as you come apart.
He hums in satisfaction, keeping his mouth working on you, drinking you in as you continue to tremble. The power trip that comes with seeing you come is unmatched, lighting a fire in him as he licks you to oversensitivity.
“Minho,” you beg, voice squeaking. He grins, kissing your cunt before he mouths his way back up to you, capturing your mouth with his. You’re eager to taste yourself, tongue licking at him more than anything, smearing your slick on his lips. He feels his eyes roll back. You’re going to kill him. “More.”
Minho would conquer the world and call it yours if you wanted him to. There’s nothing he wouldn’t give you. Pretending otherwise was the great folly of man, he realizes, as he shuffles you up the bed and climbs between your legs, standing up on his knees.
You watch him, pupils blown and fucked out as he heaves. He can hardly catch his breath as he reaches down to take his cock in his hand, pumping leisurely as he watches you. The way you look at him like you’ll consume him whole makes him shiver. He wants you to. Want you to burn him up until there’s nothing left.
Leaning down, he drops his cock out of his hand in favor of sliding a hand between you’re legs. You’re a mess of spit and cum, making the glide easy as he slips a finger into your heat to work you open. Your head falls to the side, giving him access to suck at your jawline as he fucks you open with his finger, adding a second when he knows you can take it.
Your hips roll up to meet his thrusts as he scissors his fingers open, pressing against your warm walls to push the stretch further. You’re putty in his hands but he’s a mess in yours, too. He’s shaking by the time he slips his hand from between your legs to press the crown of his cock at your entrance, hesitating.
Minho looks up at you. He already knows there’s no going back for him, three years of his own stubborn delusions robbing him of what could have been. But he asks, anyway. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve been sure for a long time. It was you who needed convincing.”
“What a stuipd man I am.”
“Yes,” you agree. “But mine.”
That drives him wild. Simple words and yet the very action of you claiming him erodes the last bit of resistance. He pushes into you and goes slow with a considerable amount of effort, shaking and panting as he tries to keep it together.
You’re warm and tight and twitches of pleasure ripple through him from cock to stomach. Minho swears he comes alive for the first time as he seats himself in your cunt to the hilt, barely able to catch his breath as he ducks down to press his mouth against yours.
It’s not delicate, but it isn’t the same ferocity as earlier. It’s something else that lingers between madness and relief. He only begins to move when he feels your hips wiggle. He smiles into the kiss, retracting his hips before surging forward again.
Delirious. That is the only word that comes to mind as he starts to fuck you slow and deep. Your mouths bump together but you’re both breathing raggedly, shaking together. Your hands card through his hair, soothing and soft. His lashes flutter as he drops his head further. You press your lips against his forehead as he picks up the pace, letting your hands worship him as he fucks you.
How could he ever think he was sparing you from him? How could he ever make the mistake that if he kept on the fringes, you wouldn’t leave him ruined like this? It seems unimaginative now. Like something that was always meant to happen.
No wonder Collect Co. knew he would go running to you like a dog when they assigned you to him. Everyone else could admit it except him, an egregious error on his part.
But Minho has you now. Gasping his name and moving in his arms. Rolling your hips to meet his, your cunt clenching on his cock as he fucks you harder. He wants to dig into you and never let go. Wants to sink in to the very core and live there.
“Mine,” you growl as though you can read his thoughts. “Even though you tried not to be. You are mine, Lee Minho.”
When you say his full name like that, voicing the boy who could have been and now who is, he starts to come apart. His pace quickens as he chases your second release, holding you tight to him as he feels you clench longer and longer around him until you’re sobbing his name and spilling down his shaft.
Minho all but growls your name as he comes. Never again will you be Builder. You’re his. First and last name his to say. The acknowledgment almost makes him cry as he slows his thrusts, gasping for air as he tosses his head back, heat escaping between the two of you.
Finally, he stops fucking you, hands linked with yours as he leans up to catch his breath. He’s still seated in you, feeling the cum drip between where your ass is pressed against his thighs. He doesn’t care, feeling the sweat and the water from his shoulder drip down his back.
His arm burns where he’s used it. He’d been unaware of the pain while lost in you, but he feels it now, throbbing. He doesn’t care. He’d do it again a thousand times.
Slowly, he unravels from you. Your hands don’t let him go far, pulling him down next to you to roll toward. He smiles, tired and dreamy at the edges as he lets you. The bed is soft against his balmy skin, the cool air helping calm him down.
Finally, both of you can breathe. He knows that he needs to shower again, but he doesn’t want to get up. He wants to keep you near. Now that he’s all in, he wants to stay all in.
“We should call this place the Jungle Rodeo.” He cracks an eye open at you to realize you’re hiding a grin as you look up at him. “You know, since we can’t go back to Neon Rodeo.”
“What is it with you and rodeos?”
“You find Cowboys at the rodeo.”
“Oh?”
“And you’re here… so… it’s a rodeo.”
He blinks at you. “Your intellect is astounding.”
You laugh and it’s like taking a JumpPack straight to his bloodstream, a rush of energy and euphoria driving him upward and toward you. He smothers you with kisses, driving by the need to taste you again. You let him, giggling.
“What do you say then, hmm?” he growls, nipping your bottom lip. “Want to go for another ride?”
“That joke was terrible.”
“You know what they say. When at the rodeo.”
You laugh again and Minho is a goner once more, just like he was the first day he met you at Neon Rodeo.
-
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pairing: idol!minho x fem!reader
genre: fluff, drabble like thing
warnings: established relationship, kissing, minho tries to get freaky 💃
a/n: here's my 500 follower special!! hope u like it even though it's shit- I had to rewrite it but the original was 2K words- so this is short pls don't kill me-
credits: dividers by @cafekitsune ♡.
You don't know what it was honestly. Maybe you drank too much chilled water? Went to bed with your hair still wet? Or, well maybe it was the iced coffee you had in the morning and then another in the night. I mean, you did have a night filled with passion before sleeping and Minho did leave the AC on a high setting before sleeping, but you couldn't really pinpoint what it was. But it was definitely one of those.
You woke up this morning with a splitting headache, body shivering even though it was summer, your boyfriend walking out of the bathroom without a shirt. "Wow," He said as he watched you groan, sneezing as you wrapped the blanket around your naked, shivering body.
"You look like shit." He completed, crawling into bed as he placed his palm over your head, hissing as his hand warmed up from your high temperature. "You need medical attention," He said, placing a chaste kiss to your shoulder as you scoffed, rolling your eyes. "Yeah, no shit Sherlock." You called out as he shouting at you to shut up, making you smile.
Your relationship was always like this, cat and mouse, cat and dog, always barking and teasing each other. It was your love language now, it always has been. From the time you became friends till now, nothing as changed. Despite the constant teasing and barking, you both obviously loved each other, knowing when the teasing should stop or when the other gets offended or uncomfortable. You both knew each other like the back of your hand.
You shivered, reaching out to turn the AC off as you quickly covered yourself with the blanket, groaning as your muscles ached. The door flew open moments later, Minho standing there with a plate which had a glass of water and pills, a few crackers layed out neatly as he placed the plate on the table. He drew the curtains shut, the sunlight disappearing as he helped you get out of bed.
He walked you into the bathroom, taking out one of his old shirts and a pair of underwear for you as you brushed your teeth. He helped you change, hitting him whenever he tried to spread your legs apart further. "I'm sick Minho!" You nearly yelled as he laughed, apologizing as he patted your head. Once you were out of the bathroom you ate the crackers slowly, listening to Minho talk about his new comeback. Once you were done, he helped you take the pill, kissing you and whispering words of encouragement which made your heart flutter.
He placed you down onto the bed, making himself comfortable next to you as he wrapped his hands around you, closing his eyes. You turned around, his eyes fluttering open as you caressed his face. He looked so beautiful, his deep brown eyes boring into yours as your heart swelled with love for him. "Yes, jagi?" He asked, eyeing your lips as you smiled. "Kiss me, please?" You pleaded. He smiled, leaning forward as he pressed his lips to yours, his hand moving to cup your cheek as your hand rested on his chest.
Your lips moved in sync, like as if you've been doing this from the time you were born, it was so natural. So right. So... perfect. Like your lips were made for each other.
He pulled away first, making you whine as he laughed. "Now I'll get sick!" He exclaimed as you gasped. "Then why did you kiss me?! Naurr!" You groaned, mimicking the australian accent as he smiled. "No it's ok," He said, pulling you closer to his chest as you buried your face into him. "I don't mind getting sick with you. The more time I take taking care of you the happier I get." You looked up at him, smiling as he caressed your lips.
"Better?" He asked.
You smiled. "Better."
@cafekitsune i used ur dividers but i made them black and white to match the aesthetic. hope u don't mind 😅
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#stray kids#stray kids fluff#stray kids x reader#skz#lee know#lee know fluff#lee know x y/n#lee know x you#lee know x reader#lee know skz#sick reader#lee know imagines#lee know fic#skz imagines#skz x reader#skz x you#skz x y/n#tots didn't cry while writing this
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kinktober !
kink: period sex
pairing: lee minho x fem!reader
wc: 2.6k
period sex: sexual activity that happens while at least one partner is menstruating or on their period.
It was the worst form of torture. Every month, your period would leave you feeling the horniest you’d ever felt, and it was even worse when you had a sex god boyfriend who would walk around looking so tasty. In all honesty, he could walk around wearing anything and it’d still have you wanting to shove your hand down your panties and get yourself off. But you couldn’t. Not while he was there, being so lovely and caring for you through the most horrible cramps you’d ever felt in your life.
“How are you feeling now, baby?” Minho murmured. You’d been laying practically on top of him, a cat shaped hot water bottle trapped between your stomachs as you half-watched the movie that was on. You’d been too horny to even pay attention to it, and you weren’t even sure what the fucking thing was called. Minho had been watching, though. He was a stranger to your internal suffering.
“I’m comfy, thanks, Min,” You replied, kissing his cheek. You didn’t miss the way the tips of his ears still burned red, even after so long. He was so cute, but you wanted his dick. Time to change the subject. “I hate cramps. They’re awful, y’know? They say dark chocolate helps.”
“Want me to get you some? I can drive to the shop,” Minho asked, his hand rubbing circles on the small of your back. You hummed, shaking your head.
“I don’t even like dark chocolate, it was just something stupid I saw years ago,” You said, and Minho chuckled, shaking his head fondly. Then, he turned to you, his eyes soft as he looked you up and down. He always looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen - even when you were suffering an intense period-caused acne breakout and wearing one of his t-shirts and a pair of fluffy pyjama bottoms.
“I heard something similar,” He began, biting his lip. “I heard orgasms help. Have you tried getting yourself off, baby?”
Oh, he was too sweet. Always looking for solutions to make you feel better. “Well… Min, I can’t exactly get myself off while you’re here. That’d be weird.”
“I’d love every second of it,” He was serious, but you still giggled, poking his cheek playfully. “Baby, in all seriousness, if you want me to fuck you, I will. A bit of blood will not bother me.”
You blinked, leaning up. “You’d really do that?”
Minho chuckled, kissing you chastely. “It’s blood, baby. It’s really not a big deal. I’ll lay a towel down.”
You stared at him for a moment, and he stared back, raising an eyebrow in questioning. Then, you yanked the fluffy cat hot water bottle out from between you and kissed him. He just deserved a kiss for that, but he still let out a little ‘mmph’ in shock at your boldness. “Minho,” You mumbled against his lips, and he hummed in response. “I’m so fucking horny, you don’t even understand. Every fucking period, you walk around looking so hot, and I could’ve just asked this whole time?”
“Baby, I look like this all month,” He chuckled, kissing you again. “Honestly though, yeah. You could’ve just asked, dummy.”
“Oh my God,” You sighed, curling into him more to kiss his neck. He let you mouth your way down his soft skin, and you sucked a mark into his collarbone where you knew it wouldn’t be seen. He scoffed out a laugh, his hand moving to rub over your ass instead. “Oh my God, Minho, get a fucking towel.”
He was still laughing when he stood up, shaking his head as he grabbed an old towel from his wardrobe. You belatedly realised that oh, he’d see the blood, and you were starting to feel a little less confident. When you hadn’t moved from the bed to let him lay the towel down, he tilted his head at you in confusion.
“You can’t look, okay?” You gushed, jumping up from the mattress. Minho bit his lip, hiding a laugh. You pouted, stomping your feet in a mild tantrum. “I’m going to pull my pants down, and you have to close your eyes, because there will be blood on my pad. Okay?”
“Baby,” Minho shut his eyes, shaking his head. When he opened them again, you could see the amusement in them, and it made you pout even harder. “I’d be shocked if there wasn’t blood on your pad, y’know? Given that you’re on your period.”
“Well, yeah, but still-”
“Come here,” He commanded. You couldn’t deny that tone of voice, even if you were mid-tantrum and shy. You walked over to him, and he tossed the towel onto the bed, wrapping his arm around your waist. You let him kiss down your neck like he’d done to you, biting at the skin and humming when you let out a choked noise. “I think you’re so fucking sexy, you know that?”
“You’re sexy,” You protested, and he shook his head against your skin. He pulled away from your neck, using two fingers to get you to look into his eyes. You were practically melting.
“I’m gonna get you naked the way I always do,” He said, and his tone was firm. You wanted to protest, to make a big deal, but he shook his head before you could even speak. “I’m going to get you naked the way I always do. I’m gonna take my time worshipping those tits, and then I’m going to fuck you and get you to cream nice and wet on my cock. I do not care about blood. Okay?”
You blinked. You couldn’t even argue with that, really. “Okay.”
“God, you’re so good for me, aren’t you?” He murmured, his eyes dark and staring directly into yours. “Letting me fuck you like this. What a good fucking girl, huh?”
“I need you so bad,” You whimpered, and Minho chuckled. You gasped when he wrapped his hand around your throat, a light pressure but there nonetheless, and then he was kissing you. It was different to his soft, loving kisses on the bed, his tongue demanding dominance inside your mouth and making you whine. You couldn’t protest when he ran his hands up your back underneath your shirt, and you definitely couldn’t protest when his hands gripped your ass firmly. He was such a fucking wet dream.
You watched in awe as he yanked his shirt off from behind his neck, revealing planes of milky skin and toned biceps. You didn’t even hide your gaze, your eyes running over him in delight as you felt the arousal pool in your stomach. He pushed you back against the bed, somehow landing you directly on top of the towel as he made quick work of your shirt. You weren’t wearing a bra for comfort purposes, and he made a sound akin to a growl as he saw your tits, nipples pebbled against the cold chill of the room.
“Baby, these tits,” He moaned, grabbing them both with his hands. “They’re fuller, huh?”
“It’s the period,” You gasped, letting him tweak your nipples with his fingers almost painfully. He knew how you liked it. “You like them?”
“I like them every fucking day,” He responded quickly, wrapping his lips around one of the buds and sucking. You let out a choked noise, feeling the sensitivity of them from your current state. Minho perked up, grinning. “Are they sensitive?”
“I think every part of me is fucking sensitive, God, please fuck me,” You gushed, spreading your legs and letting him get between them. Minho chuckled, letting his tongue run over your nipple again.
His fingers went to the waistband of your fluffy rabbit pyjama bottoms, playing with the fabric. He raised an eyebrow at you, and his facial expression was soft, fond. “Can I take these off, baby?”
You bit your lip. “Only if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure I want to fuck you all the time, so yes,” He said, grinning. You held your breath as he pulled your pants down, taking your underwear with them and tossing them to the floor. He hadn’t looked, and you knew he did it to make you feel comfortable. You loved him so much it made your heart swell. His eyes dragged down your body, his hand stroking softly over your tummy and eyes landing on your pussy. Oh, God. “Fucking beautiful. You’re so beautiful.”
“Can you get naked now?” You shifted impatiently. Minho smiled, nodding, and then he was pulling his own bottoms down. You were more than delighted to see he’d foregone underwear, cock springing out and looking solid. You leaned forward instantly, letting your lips brush his as you wrapped your hand round the base of his cock, the trimmed hairs tickling your skin. “This fucking cock. It’s so amazing.”
“He likes you too,” Minho mumbled against your lips, kissing them chastely. “You gonna jerk me off a bit, baby?”
You sighed. “I wanna suck it, to be honest.”
Minho shook his head, letting his hand fall to yours and moving it on his shaft. “I will cum instantly if you suck me off right now,” He admitted, leaning down to run his tongue over your nipple again. You jolted, moaning and starting to pump his cock steadily. You tightened your hand a little bit more at the tip, just the way he likes it, and his cock leaked just a bit of precum in approval. “Something about this, baby. The way you trust me so much. I think I could die.”
You giggled, moving your hands to pull him in at his waist. “I think I’ll die if you don’t fuck me. I need to cum on your cock so bad.”
“Yeah?” Minho asked, but the look on his face told you he was very aware. He positioned his cock at your pussy, letting the tip run through your folds teasingly. “I think I’ll fuck you then.”
“God, do you want me to beg?” You huffed, wrapping your legs around his waist. “I’m not above begging.”
“I know, I have you begging for it every night,” He mused, and then he was pushing inside. The stretch startled you, and you moaned loudly, making Minho chuckle. He bottomed out easily, the slide wet and your pussy more than pliant for him. You were sure your pussy was moulded to the shape of his cock at that point. “How do you want it? Tell me, baby.”
“I- oh, deep, hard?” You said, voice lilted as if it was a question. “Give it to me the way I like it, you know.”
“Yeah?” Minho asked, starting to thrust into you steadily. You moaned, clenching tight on his cock. You were so sensitive, unabashed moans and whines falling from parted lips and echoing around Minho’s room. “You want me to call you my slut, so desperate for my cock? You want me to fuck you senseless?”
“Oh, oh-” You keened, and Minho laughed, kissing your neck. His cock was solid, hard inside of you, and the way he was thrusting into you was such a smooth, slick slide that it had you wanting to cum instantly.
“Yeah, you are my slut, aren’t you?” He murmured against your skin, and when he pulled away to look at you, you were left breathless. His hair was dark, flopping over his forehead but not obscuring his beautiful features, his pouty lips parted and exposing his cute bunny teeth. They pressed at his bottom lip as he fucked into you, and when you looked into his dark, feline eyes, all you could see was love. You couldn’t help but moan, nodding. You let your fingers grip onto his biceps for stability. “I know, I know, baby. Let me take care of you.”
You gasped as he pushed his thumb into your mouth, and you were quick to suck on it dutifully, running your tongue over his digit. He pressed it in deep, swirling it around your tongue and staring at you with half-lidded eyes. You startled when he reached down, rubbing your clit with his thumb. “Min, the blood-”
“Ssh,” He urged you, shaking his head. He pushed one leg back with his other hand, letting it fall over his shoulder and fucking you deeper with his thumb massaging circles into your sensitive bud. “I know how to make this pussy cum, don’t I?”
“Yeah, yeah, you do,” You agreed, nodding. His chest pushed your thigh into your tits, leaning over you to kiss you once, filthily and deep. His thumb didn’t let up and neither did his thrusts, his cock bullying into your hole over and over and making you whine. “Jesus, Minho, your cock is fucking amazing.”
“It’s all yours, baby,” Minho’s voice was strained, hips stuttering against you. “Baby, you’re so wet, I don’t know if I can hold out.”
“Min, please,” You begged, eyes bleary. “I’m- I need to cum, Minho.”
“Fuck, fuck, yeah, I know,” He gasped, eyes rolling back into his head. It was a rare sight seeing Minho pussydrunk - he normally held out for a lot longer than you did, but clearly the added wetness on his cock was a little bit too much for him. “Feel me, baby. Focus on my cock. It’s so fucking hard for you, yeah?”
“Yeah,” You gasped, bucking your hips into his thrusts. He pinched your clit meanly, smirking when it made you squeal. Your chest heaved, a sheen of sweat forming on your skin.
“Gorgeous fucking girl. Your little pussy always needs me, kitty,” He moaned, grunting into your neck with every thrust. You were getting close, his ministrations too much to handle when combined with his filthy words. “Fuckin’ slut. My slut, yeah? Always needing me, needing my fucking cock inside of you.”
You whined, nodding. You’d started to bounce on his cock now, letting him pinch and rub your clit to send you into oblivion. “Always need it, oh, oh, Min, mean, be mean-”
“Be mean, kitty?” He scoffed. You gasped when he moved his hand from your thigh, and then he was slapping you across the face, a light slap but definitely there nonetheless. Your eyebrows furrowed, lips parting. “Got me pussydrunk, kitty. Fucking minx.”
“‘M gonna cum, Minho,” You warned, your sopping walls fluttering around his cock happily. “I’m gonna fucking cum, you’re gonna make me cum, oh-”
“Yeah?” He moaned, his noises getting higher in pitch. He was getting close. “I’m gonna cum with you. Do you want it? Do you want my cum?”
“Always want your cum, oh, breed me, Min, I’ll soak your cock-”
You let out a loud whine, digging your fingernails into his shoulders almost painfully as you came. You felt your pussy gushing on your boyfriend’s cock, soaking his length and moaning like a fucking pornstar all the way through your orgasm. Minho tensed, his hands grabbing your hips. His hips stopped completely, cock bottomed out inside you as he filled you with his cum.
He collapsed on you, his weight a welcomed addition. “I’m not g’na pull out yet ‘cause I know you’ll get shy,” He mumbled, kissing your sweaty skin. You giggled, nodding.
“Do you wanna take a bath?” You asked, running your fingers up his back.
“I can’t think of anything better, baby,” He sighed. “I said I was going to fuck you senseless but I think you’ve just fucked me.”
“On the upside, my cramps are gone,” You grinned. Minho looked up at you, kissing your nose fondly.
“Let me know if they’re back,” He said, eyes earnest. “I’ll just have to fuck you again, since you don’t like dark chocolate.”
“Really hate the stuff,” You hummed, nodding. “I like you though.”
Minho giggled, his nose scrunching up cutely. “I like you too, baby.”
#lee minho smut#lee know smut#lee know fanfiction#lee know fic#lee minho fanfiction#lee minho fic#skz smut#stray kids smut#skz fic#stray kids fanfiction#stray kids scenarios#stray kids imagines#skz scenarios#skz imagines#skz x reader#lee minho x reader#hyunsvngbinitober !
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consort vi | minho
pairing: lee minho x reader
word count: 17.1k
genre: historical au, arranged marriage au, enemies-to-lovers
warnings: period-typical sexism, a boatload of family issues, a rapidly increasing amount of sexual tension, like reader is starting to go the tiniest bit feral about it
series masterlist | one | two | three | four | five
summary:
Minho paused, the lingering traces of cheer disappearing before your eyes. The shift in his mood was almost tangible, and it felt as if you had made some sort of misstep in a dance, thrown yourself and your partner out of rhythm.
His gaze flickered upwards, so very briefly, to look at you, before moving downwards. Down to your notes, down to where the space between your bodies was at its narrowest, barely a few fingers’ width between your skirts and his thigh. He took a breath.
An uneasy sleep must have reclaimed you in the night, because you awakened to soft morning light streaming through the windows – and chambers entirely devoid of Minho.
You sat up, unsteady, the beginnings of a headache already forming. Your thoughts were scattered, muffled as if wrapped in cotton, barely intelligible under the dull throbbing.
An empty bedchamber. Did that disappoint you? The sheets beside you seemed undisturbed, indicating that he hadn’t joined you at any point in the night, hadn’t risen from the couch he’d been sleeping on last night when –
Embarrassment – hot, ugly flashes of it – flared within you, so violent that you physically shuddered in an effort to suppress it. You wouldn’t be so careless again, risking something so mortifying and so vulnerable as being caught in a position like that.
A tiny voice in your mind uttered thanks for Minho’s order to keep servants out of his chambers without specific request. You didn’t want to imagine having to untangle these awful thoughts in front of an audience waiting to dress you for the morning.
The more you dwelled on the situation, the more you could feel something in your chest twist. Shame, perhaps. You couldn’t help but picture last night again and again, your awful thoughts painting over your memories, imagining Minho’s eyes open instead of closed, imagining the curl of his lip as he watched you in disdain, maybe even in disgust–
No.
You felt your expression harden, breath expelling from you in one sharp burst. You hadn’t realised how much anger you could summon at merely an imagined Minho. Already, even at just the thought of him, you found yourself itching to rebuke him, to challenge the contempt you had imagined yourself.
There was a danger that you could spend the whole day in this bed, imagining all the ways in which you could argue with Minho.
So, instead, you forced yourself out of bed, determined to focus on the rest of your day and leave last night firmly in the past.
It was strange to realise just how quiet these chambers were. They were so far removed from the bustling of the palace’s lower floors that even now, as scores of nobles and servants alike rose from their beds and began their days, you could almost mistake the palace for being empty.
The spring morning air was no longer a shock of cold, but pleasantly mild. Perhaps you should make use of the weather today, you thought. It would be good to get some fresh air.
And then, you came to a sudden halt – as a flash of orange caught your attention out of the corner of your eye.
You turned your head, startled, to find a tabby cat perched on the low table of Minho’s chambers, staring you down.
This was not the pampered sort of housecat you had seen in the houses of your mother’s friends during your youth. While this cat seemed well-fed, there were tell-tale signs of the fights it must have gotten into. There was a pea-sized chunk missing from its left ear, and a faint scar on its little orange snout.
Perhaps this was a kitchen mouser? But how had it wandered so far into the palace, all the way into Minho’s chambers? How had it gotten past those heavy wooden doors, not to mention the guards stationed nearby?
You dared to take a step towards it – to no response. The cat continued to stare. Its tail twitched from one side to the other, slowly, almost lazily.
It didn’t move as you approached, instead continuing to eye you with an expression so distinctly unimpressed for such a tiny face.
Of course, the second you lifted your hand towards it, it jumped away from you in the blink of an eye. There was no panic to its retreat, just a vague sense of disdain as it withdrew from your reach.
For one brief second, you were bizarrely reminded of Minho.
To your own surprise, laughter bubbled up in your chest, slipping out between your lips. It lifted a weight off of your chest, leaving you feeling just a little lighter as you observed the way the cat shot you what could only be described as the feline equivalent of a scowl before it padded over to the bed and disappeared beneath it.
Deciding against following the cat and disturbing its hiding place, you chose to head for the door and request breakfast be served outside.
It seemed only right that the lingering worries of the previous night’s events would disappear in the light of a warm spring day.
There was something so calming about the palace grounds in the morning. At your request, a table and chair had been set up at the base of a hill, just by the long winding steps back up to the palace itself, in perfect position for you to gaze out at the huge expanses of land in front of you.
Morning dew budded on the still blades of grass. Clouds slowly drifted across the sky above, the sun hiding behind them, only reappearing at just the moment the air grew too chilly. In the distance, a light layer of fog lingered amongst the trees of the royal forest, retreating further and further with each moment.
There was nothing but peace and quiet.
You breathed deeply, savouring the morning air, as you reached for the last slice of bread. Beside it, in a tiny porcelain dish, sat a little pat of creamy butter. You scraped the last of it up with your knife to carefully spread onto the bread.
Your plans for the day were the same as always. Studying, mostly. You were eager to crack open the most recent council records you could find, already making plans to note down the stances of each member, the factions that might have formed, anything that might be useful.
How soon would Minho talk to his father? How much time did you have to prepare? You should have pressed for more details.
You could ask him at dinner this evening, you realised. It was still such a strange idea, to think that you and Minho could talk to each other so…often, now.
Because you shared a bedchamber, a voice in your mind – one that sounded suspiciously like your mother – reminded you. You should be doing so much more than just talking.
A mouthful of bread lodged itself in your throat mid-swallow, making you cough and splutter as you reached for your tea.
Not that you were particularly eager for that, of course. Last night had been a brief moment of insanity, a sudden break from rational thought, brought on by returning to the bed that held so many strong memories. It had infected your dreams, and even seeped into your sleep-addled actions in the dead of night, but now you had recovered.
Now, once again, you were just as uninterested as he was. Moving to his chambers was good enough to mend your image as a successful, stable pairing. It didn’t matter what happened behind closed doors, because you had gotten what you wanted.
But before you could make an effort to divert your thoughts back towards the day ahead, the peace of the morning was broken.
You watched as a group of palace guards marched into sight, descending the palace steps – and you stilled when you saw the person they were accompanying.
Her Majesty, the Queen.
You sat up a little straighter, as your eyes met across the wide-open space of the palace lawns. She always seemed so perfectly put together, her long dark hair twisted and braided neatly into a bun, the soft and sweeping fabrics of her dress somehow spotless even when brushing against the ground.
In her fine features, there was so much of Felix. You almost wanted to look away.
Instead, you followed protocol to the letter, rising to your feet and bowing your head at her arrival. “Your Majesty.”
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she replied, and there was a genuine soft note of surprise to her voice that reinforced her words. “If you’re finished with your meal, would you like to accompany me across the grounds?”
You blinked, lifting your head in shock. You’d barely spoken to this woman in weeks. You’d half-expected her to ignore you. You’d half-given up on the affection the two of you had grown for each other during your childhood.
“Y-yes,” you replied, and cleared your throat. “Yes, I’d love to.”
She gave you a smile – one so deeply familiar that it made your heart ache for just a second – and inclined her head, silently offering you the place by her side.
You moved quickly, almost without thinking, barely retaining the grace expected for a lady of your position, as you tried to join her before she could change her mind.
Before the two of you could start walking, however, she first turned to glance at the guards behind her. With a firm, clear voice of a queen, she told them. “I trust I’m accompanied by guards possessing the respect of allowing two ladies some privacy while they talk. Am I not?”
The nearest guard’s eyes widened slightly in understanding, and he hurried to nod at her. “Yes, Your Majesty. Of course.”
“Delightful to hear. The usual twelve paces behind will suffice,” she said, her voice so casual that the comment could almost be described as offhand, before she finally set off. You had to quicken your steps slightly to catch up with her.
And, sure enough, the guards waited until you were twelve paces ahead before they followed – at the perfect distance to remain out of earshot.
This was the woman you remembered from your childhood. Always polite, always charming, and just a little cleverer than she seemed.
You fell into step beside her, searching for something to say to start the conversation. “I heard a delegation from the Lakelands are on their way.”
“Yes,” she said, nodding with a warm smile. “Most of the delegates only came to their position after I left, but I know a handful. Among them is a prince I last saw as a young boy. I look forward to seeing the man he’s now grown to be.”
“That will be nice,” you remarked, looking for something else to say. Something clever, or funny, or charming. It used to be so much easier to talk to her. “Do you miss the Lakelands?”
“Occasionally. Especially in the winter. I’ve never developed a taste for the cold that sets in here,” she said, but there was no trace of sadness in her voice. Nothing wistful. “But what about you? Are you keeping well?”
“Yes,” you replied – but it felt like a half-truth at best. “As well as can be.”
“I’m sure you’ve had so many pleasantries asked about your marriage,” she said. “That’s usually all people can think to talk about, with women like us.”
Her words struck something in you, hooking something strange and raw and tugging it out into the open.
“That’s usually the topic of conversation, yes.”
Her lips twitched, the briefest flicker of a smile. “Then we’ll speak about something else. Are you still keeping to your studies?”
“Yes!” you exclaimed, unable to keep your excitement from rushing out. “Practically every day. Mostly, I’ve been focusing on my histories and geography, but I like to brush up on my languages every so often.”
“You did always love studying your histories,” the Queen nodded, and for the first time in your conversation, you picked up on the slightest hint of sadness in her tone.
It sparked a vaguely familiar feeling. An old desire to cheer her, the feeling so ingrained that it felt like slipping on an old favourite coat.
“My new tutor has helped quite splendidly,” you said, with a smile just a touch forced. “I hadn’t realised how much more I could learn with someone following me in my interests, instead of just telling me what I should be interested in.”
The Queen smiled back at you, and hers seemed entirely genuine. “There seems so much to catch up on. I’ve been meaning to talk to you sooner.”
Her words, as light and carefree as she had offered them, managed to hit something deep within you. Your expression faltered, as you felt the words dig into you, like claws gripping your flesh, piercing you.
You blurted out your only thought. “Why didn’t you?”
The question came out in a rush, an outpouring of emotion that you had tried so hard to keep dammed. You watched the way she paused, caught off-guard by your sudden harsh words.
You swallowed, trying frantically to recover some sense of manners. “I mean, I…it’s just I’ve been…I’ve been so alone since…”
“…I know.”
Her gaze grew so soft, as she watched you sadly. There were moments, occasionally, when her eyes were so expressive, just as Felix’s were.
For a moment, you pictured what it must have been like for her, all those years ago. Newly married to a stranger, not just alone but alone in an entirely different kingdom. A kingdom that her father and her father’s father and his father before that had been at war with. A kingdom with a people who mistrusted her, who still mourned for her husband’s first wife, the beloved wife, the wife she must constantly be compared to in public and in private.
You wondered how long it took her to learn to hide those expressive eyes. You wondered if it saddened her to look upon her son, and see those same bright eyes shining back.
“I missed you,” you confessed. “I miss how it used to be.”
“So do I, sweetling,” she murmured. There were only two people in this world the Queen called ‘sweetling’. One was standing in front of her. The other was half a kingdom away, quiet and aching by the coast. “But that’s precisely why I’ve stayed away.”
“What?” You asked, sharp in your confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“There are whispers at court,” she began, before pausing. You detected the faintest of eye-rolls as she continued. “There always are. Right now, they are centred on you.”
“Me?” You repeated. “I haven’t heard anything.”
“Oh, the subjects never do,” she said, her tone sharpening just a touch. You knew she’d had her fair share of experience with court rumours. “It’s no fun for them if the rumour gets dragged into daylight and exposed for the nonsense that it is. Better to whisper in secret, and give their empty brains something to spin from nothing.”
“What are they saying?” You asked. You’d half-expected something like this to happen, but you’d always thought your first reaction would be worry, or fear – and yet, right now, the news filled you with nothing but anger.
“They’re harmless, for now. Idle gossip. But if any fuel is added to them, they could prove dangerous–”
“What are they saying?” You repeated, cutting her off. You needed to hear it. You already had an inkling, but you needed it in words.
She sighed. “…You and Felix. I’m afraid my son will always be a subject for scandal in your future.”
Felix.
You turned away, eyes searching for the horizon, for something to fix on in the distance.
You hated that this didn’t surprise you. You hated that your paranoia, your constant insecurity about how you were perceived, about how your issues with Minho were perceived, that constant nagging feeling of your marriage being forced under a magnifying glass, was partially justified.
“Anything in particular?” You finally managed to ask when your voice returned to you.
“The stories change every week. Nothing has truly taken hold, which is a good thing,” the queen reassured you. “But until you and Minho…well, when your marriage seemed on shakier ground, I thought it was wise to keep my distance. I thought it would make things easier for you.”
Easier.
Right.
A lump was forming in your throat. You did your best to swallow it down.
“I thought you were angry at me,” you admitted. “For marrying Minho, instead of your son.”
“You did marry my son.”
There was such strong feeling in her voice that it forced your gaze back to her. The queen’s jaw was set, her mouth curved downwards slightly. Years and years of learned authority, of power however scant it might be, radiated through her as she stood firm.
“Minho is my son. In every way that counts.”
You stared, silent, as the faintest hint of guilt began to warm your cheeks.
The queen continued to walk, her gaze softening as she fell back into old memories. “He was so tiny when I entered the palace. I helped him take his first steps. I helped him learn his letters, I selected his tutors and I watched him grow.”
She slowed her steps, as you reached the edge of the forest that surrounded the palace. The two of you would have to turn back soon, but you took a moment to observe the quiet of the trees, the way that sunlight filtered through the newly-grown leaves.
“I might not be called his mother, but he is my son,” she finished, quietly. “And I’m very proud of him.”
She blinked rapidly a few times, clearing her throat, and turned to flash you the briefest of knowing smiles. “As mule-headed as he can be sometimes.”
You couldn’t help but laugh – albeit quietly, softly, as the emotion of the conversation still kept its grip on you.
There was a pull in you – that familiar one, the one that urged you to please others, the one that pushed you to say exactly the perfect thing – to praise Minho to the Queen. To call him a good man. You knew she would want to hear it, she would want to hear how happy you had turned out in spite of it all, that by pure serendipity, your marriage to Minho was just as splendid and happy as the marriage with Felix you had been awaiting your whole life.
But the words stuck in your throat. You practically choked on them. Not just because they were untrue.
Because for a second – for such a brief, unthinking second – you had wanted them to be true, just as badly as she did.
Something cold began to take hold of you. It started in your gut, unfurling his long icy fingers, grabbing and twisting and squeezing as it slowly dragged the rest of you into its grip.
Betrayal. In that moment, you felt – you knew – you had betrayed Felix.
Did it show on your face? The queen was watching you now, and you couldn’t imagine the expression you must have had.
You swallowed, trying with all you had to shove that awful pain away.
You needed to say something. Anything.
“Minho…he’s always…he never seems to care when people believe the worst in him,” you said, the words stumbling out of you, as if your mind was two steps behind your mouth. “It’s almost like he prefers it. I don’t understand it.”
The queen took in your words. After one long pause, in which her eyes studied you so intensely that it felt they were about to burn through you, she turned to look up at the palace on the hill. Even from this distance, it seemed to loom over you, waiting so impatiently for you to return.
“This place…” she trailed off. Her jaw tightened - and in that one instant, as her eyes flashed, you saw the teenage girl that had first stepped foot into this court, so far from home and facing such a nest of vipers. “It pulls something out of the people here. A way to protect themselves. My husband already had his ingrained when I came here. I felt it take hold within myself. I watched it form in Minho, that desire to push people away. And you…” she turned to you, briefly, and you blinked at the twist of amusement in her lips. “What opposites you and he are. How perfectly you mirror.”
You stared. Her words were vague, cryptic…and yet, you couldn’t help feel as if you had been insulted. You opened your mouth to protest, but the queen had already turned away back towards the palace.
“You can’t live in a place like this without growing a few thorns,” the queen sighed. “Like the roses in my gardens, I suppose. The ones without thorns are the first to be eaten.”
There was something layered in her words, something sad, something resigned.
You realised then that of all the members of the royal family she had just mentioned, there was one obvious name left unsaid.
“Let us return,” she said, finally. “Before those guards grow too curious and drift too close.”
Not only did Minho keep his promise of returning for dinner again that evening, he arrived even earlier than you.
You almost stopped at the door, thrown by the sight of him at the table, as perfectly poised as he always was, flicking through a sheaf of papers by the side of his plate. He looked up at your arrival, eyes meeting yours, and something caught in your chest.
You hadn’t realised how strange it would be to see him in person after last night, how…affecting.
Clearing your throat, you gave him a tight smile and made your way to your seat across from him – unfortunately for you, as it gave you a clear unobstructed view of Minho at a time when you very much wished for anything but that.
You reached for the decanter in front of you, eager to pour yourself a drink to deal with this building lump in your throat. To your surprise, you found it to be filled with water, not wine.
“How was your day?” you asked, finally speaking, hoping to sound calm and collected.
Minho eyed you carefully, as if you’d offered some sort of complex riddle, and not a feeble attempt at small-talk. “…Slow. Until the Lakelander delegation arrives, there’s nothing urgent to take care of. I’ve been looking over budget proposals for the harvest season.”
The harvest season was months away. In fact, you were almost certain that the fields had only just been sown at all. That truly did seem like a slow day. “I see.”
You knew you should try to continue the conversation, to ask him more about his work. Instead, you let your eyes drop to the plate of food in front of you, words dying on your tongue as you tried and failed to push down the memories of last night.
It felt so…deeply indecent, to sit across from Minho, and pretend you hadn’t touched yourself just a few feet away from him. And it was only made more indecent by the fact that he didn’t know.
It was all you could think about when you looked at him. You knew a secret, and he didn’t.
For dinner, the kitchens had prepared some sort of fish beautifully. Perfectly cooked, tender and soft and practically melting in your mouth.
You barely tasted it. You just kept eating, preoccupied, eyes trained on your plate. You were certain that if you looked up at Minho for too long, you would give yourself away.
In fact, the longer you sat there, the more uncertain you became.
Were you acting unnaturally? Were you too quiet, too reluctant to make conversation?
But, then again, what exactly did acting ‘naturally’ in Minho’s presence entail? You might have finally found yourselves on better terms, but…
“Something on your mind?”
Your eyes jerked up to meet his, caught off-guard.
How long had Minho been observing you? It looked like he hadn’t even touched his food yet, one hand resting on top of his papers, his other arm propped up on the table, hand curled under his chin as he looked at you.
You made an effort to swallow down the food in your mouth, despite how dry your throat had become, and reached for your water with all the nonchalance you could muster. “Not particularly. I was just…”
Think of something, think of anything.
“Wondering about those budget proposals. The harvest season must be months away. Was there really nothing else more pressing?”
Minho was quiet for a second, just long enough to spark the tiniest flicker of nerves in the pit of your gut, before he let out a sigh. “My father likes to drip-feed me responsibilities, one at a time. If there is anything else more urgent, I won’t know until my next meeting with him. And that won’t be for several days.”
There was an edge of frustration in his voice, something long-suffering, as if this were the topic of multiple arguments in the past, arguments that never seemed to resolve themselves in his favour.
He reached for his water, taking a sip, before his gaze returned to you. “That will also be when I talk to him about you joining the council.”
For a brief moment, all thoughts about the previous night and your embarrassing secret disappeared from your mind entirely. You leaned forward, intrigued. “What do you think his response will be?”
Minho tilted his head slightly in thought – and it filled you with surprise at the fact that you recognised this subtle shift in Minho’s body language, that at some point you had come to learn how to read him, even slightly – and replied. “…I won’t mince words–”
“Do you ever?” You retorted, almost without thinking.
Minho’s lips twitched, fighting a smile, but continued without acknowledging your mildest of jabs. “It will be a hard sell. My father is not a revolutionary. A large part of his popularity has come from his upholding of tradition. But he’s been dragging his feet on filling this council seat for months now, and for good reason. It’s a political minefield, and you are the best compromise. I hope he’ll see that.”
Minho was right. Your appointment to the council, however perfect a resolution to the infighting between your father and the blue-blooded nobility, would not be an easy sell at all. “I hope so too.”
The rest of your dinner passed in relative quiet, but the little calm you managed to gain in that time soon evaporated when you exited the dining room – and found yourself confronted yet again with the question of sleeping arrangements.
Minho’s bed was now the site of two of your most scandalous transgressions. Both of which involved Minho, both of which rendered you almost completely unable to look him in the eye whenever you thought of them.
In contrast to your internal strife, however, Minho seemed perfectly at ease.
He transported his sheaf of papers from the dining table to the couch, seating himself comfortably and setting them down on the low table in front of him.
Actually, perhaps ‘stack’ of papers might be more accurate a description than ‘sheaf’. Just how much work went into preparing these budget proposals? Had he done so little in his office all day to bring so much work to do in his chambers? Or was this a far more demanding responsibility than you had assumed?
All evidence seemed to point to the latter, as Minho worked silently throughout the evening, brow furrowed just a hint in concentration. He didn’t look up once, not when you rose to start preparing for bed, not when you returned in your nightclothes, not even when you wished him good night. He returned the words with a quiet murmur, clearly too enwrapped with whatever he was working on.
He was so engrossed, he didn’t see the way you hesitated by the bed.
Should you invite him over? He might have had work to do, but this would be yet another night that you went to bed without him. You were sharing a bedchamber now, surely the two of you should…
At least once, you should…
You tried to decide on the words of the invitation, of how to phrase it. A suggestion that he should bring his papers to bed, if he had so much work still to do? That was a reasonable question, wasn’t it? If he refused, you could press him on it, demand to know why it was beginning to seem as if he were still avoiding you…
“Yes?”
You blinked, emerging from your thoughts, to find Minho had glanced over to you. You likely made a strange sight, hovering by the bed, still yet to get under its covers.
The words were on the tip of your tongue, carefully crafted, ready to ask.
And then, traitorously, you thought of last night again.
Minho had been on the other side of the room, able to sleep through it, but if he’d been next to you…
You pictured it. You pictured jostling him awake in your sleep, the embarrassing sounds you might make. What you might do.
An awful, awful wave of embarrassment crashed through you because what if you tried to grab at him in your sleep?
You swallowed, turning away without even attempting to reply to Minho, and slipped under the bedcovers without another word.
In the morning, you woke to find that Minho had already risen long before you. The bedchamber was empty, and again the sheets by your side were untouched.
When the third night elapsed in just the same way, and the fourth, it became clear that this couldn’t be mere coincidence. Minho didn’t just happen to be so enthralled in his work that he fell asleep on the couch four nights in a row.
He was refusing to sleep beside you. You might have forced his hand in letting you share his chambers, but apparently he would not let that extend to his actual bed.
You were half-convinced he still held that early contempt for you, that he was still stubbornly maintaining that unconquerable distance between the two of you out of disdain.
And yet, he still sat with you at every dinner. He talked with you about his day, about your studies, telling stories about a particular odious noble that had done something to irk him, or listening to you talk passionately about a particular historical figure or event that had come up in your research. He’d even teased you once, when you confessed that you didn’t have the patience to read through the handful of art history books that Seungmin had added to your list.
The two of you were very slowly developing some odd sense of…well, perhaps friendship was still too strong a choice of word, but at least an understanding around each other that definitely hadn’t been present in the first few weeks of your marriage.
Nowhere else had this become so apparent than on your fifth evening in Minho’s bedchambers.
For a change of scenery, you had decided to spend the afternoon catching up on your research in these chambers, taking lunch there with your books, enjoying the little pocket of quiet in which Minho’s bedchambers were nestled within the palace.
To your surprise, and delight, the cat was back.
Initially, it was just as sullen as you remembered. It eyed you from across the room, perched on the low table yet again, sat as tall and imposing as it could make itself.
That was, until you called for a plate of kippers to be brought to you.
Despite its surly appearance, the cat barely needed convincing before it wandered over to you and the plate of fish, taking each offered kipper from your hand without hesitation. After three fish, it allowed you the softest of pets between its ears. After six, it drew closer, jumping from the table to the seat next to you, a little more relaxed as it took yet another fish from your hand.
To your delight, once the plate was empty, the cat did not abandon you immediately. In fact, it curled up near you – not quite close enough to be within easy reach, but enough that you could lean over and give it slow and gentle strokes as you continued to read. It even began to purr, just a little, whenever you scratched just beneath the base of its ears.
The more attention you gave the cat, the more you realised just how cared for it seemed to be. How comfortable it was with being touched, how well-fed it was, how soft its fur was. Even in a palace, this was not at all typical for a kitchen mouser.
“Someone spoils you, don’t they?” You murmured, giving the cat more strokes. “I can see why, you’re lovely. So cute.”
The cat, while not acknowledging your words, leaned its head up into your hand a little, chasing after those little scratches.
You were close to abandoning your studies entirely for the day, ready to devote your full attention to this adorable little creature, when the bedchamber doors swung open.
The cat jolted a little, jumping from its place on the couch – but to your relief, did not run out of the room. Instead, it lingered by the low table, ready to disappear under it, and stared down the sudden arrival.
Minho, mouth still parted slightly in whatever greeting he’d been about to give you, was silent as his gaze flickered between you and the orange cat eyeing him from the floor.
“We have a visitor,” you told Minho, solemnly, gesturing to the cat.
Minho nodded, briefly, still looking between you and the cat. “Yes. Yes, she seems to like it in here.”
“‘She’?” You repeated, raising an eyebrow.
Minho’s expression immediately smoothed into the perfect neutral, refusing to give even the slightest bit of emotion away. “…I assume.”
“Mm. Well, she seems to be a sweetheart.”
“Does she?” Minho repeated, glancing at the cat again, who seemed to have now relaxed. She began to approach Minho’s feet, sniffing familiarly at his boots.
“I may have had to bribe her with a plate of kippers,” you admitted, increasingly amused by the way the cat began to weave her way between Minho’s legs, but managed not to let it show too obviously in your face. “She seems very well-fed, for a kitchen mouser.”
Minho made a non-committal sound in response, not meeting your eyes. “…Yes, well, I imagine people must toss her dinner scraps here and there.”
“I suppose so. But who would be so soft-hearted in this palace, to feed a kitchen cat from their own plate?” You wondered aloud.
Minho’s face was a mask at this point, unmoving, perfectly calculated. He made his way to one of his armchairs, attempting to ignore the way the cat followed him happily, jumping up and perching herself on the arm of his chair.
You continued. “In fact, I wonder what a mouser would be doing here, so far away from the kitchens. That’s quite a distance for a cat to wander unprompted.”
“I suppose so,” Minho stated, perfectly neutral, even as the cat moved from the arm of the chair to seat herself in his lap.
You continued to stare at him, wordless, eyebrow raised – and finally, he relented.
“I might have given her some scraps, once or twice,” he admitted, even as the cat nuzzled into his hand from where she rested nearby. “I suppose she can’t help it if she isn’t good at mousing, and goes hungry.”
“True,” you allowed, thoroughly unconvinced by his façade. “And do you know if this failed mouser has a name?”
“…I think I’ve heard someone call her Soonie,” Minho said, and finally let his hand drift over to Soonie and begin to give her gentle scratching behind her ears. She purred loudly enough that you could hear her from where you sat, utterly content to receive affection from someone she was clearly very familiar with. “Somewhere. At some point.”
“How odd. Not many kitchen mousers have names.”
“Mm,” Minho hummed, noncommittal, but when his eyes dropped down to glance at Soonie, he couldn’t hide the slightest of smiles.
You took in the sight, this cold and prickly prince melting as he pet the scruffy little tabby cat. Minho was still in his usual daily prince attire, all high-necked and formal. His legs were clad in those familiar riding leathers that you never let yourself look at for too long, so you moved your attention instead to his jacket. Instead of a royal scarlet, this one was a dark blue, the fabric glinting in the candlelight from the clusters of beading embroidered within it. It suited him, you forced yourself to admit, far more than red did.
In fact, you tried to remember the last time Minho had worn the colour red, but nothing recent sprang to mind. Perhaps…
“I’m meeting with my father tomorrow,” Minho told you, and immediately your attention was captured.
Tomorrow.
The word sparked something in your gut – not quite dread, or alarm, but something akin to that. Urgency.
You swallowed back your excitement, remaining as calm and neutral as you could. “And you’ll talk to him about the council?”
“That’s the plan,” Minho replied, enigmatic.
You paused, and a quiet fell over the room. It wasn’t as if Minho was expecting you to reply – in fact, as Soonie settled completely in his lap, chin dropping to rest on his knee, he was looking down and away from you.
But something still just…tugged at you. Just a little bit.
Your eyes darted down to the book in your hands, and as nonchalantly as you could, you spoke. “…Thank you.”
You saw Minho move out of the corner of your eye, head raising to look at you.
“…I’m just doing what I’m supposed to,” Minho said, his voice detached and light. “One of my duties is to recommend the most capable candidate I can find. Don’t think of it as a favour.”
His words rendered you speechless, heart beginning to pound in your ears.
Most capable.
You were the daughter of a rich, powerful man. You had been given many compliments throughout your lifetime.
None of them had ever caused the same kind of lump to form in your throat as you felt now. None had caused this kind of strange heat to bloom behind your eyes, this way your heart swelled.
Most capable.
And just like that, you were spurred into action. If you had only one night left to prepare yourself and construct the perfect defence to prove why you deserved to be on the council, you would take full advantage of it.
You began combing through the papers you had with you, reading voraciously, consuming every piece of information available to you. You did this throughout dinner, chewing absently as you turned pages and scrawled notes. You were so devoted to your studies, you made your way through two full cups of tea before realising, upon looking up, that it was Minho who poured it for you each time.
Your eyes met, just as he held the teapot over your cup to pour a third time, and your gaze held long enough to note the flicker of amusement in his before he looked away.
When dinner was over, you retreated back to the couch with more reading to finish. Minho did the same, taking up the same spot he did every evening, that familiar pile of paperwork set in front of him. There was a strangely companionable silence as the two of you worked into the night.
You almost forgot he was there, despite the sounds of his writing and the crisp sounds of paper-shuffling, slipping into a quiet rhythm of reading and re-reading until words began to blur together.
As the candles burned low, and the hours grew later and later, you felt your concentration start to slip. Your eyes would close, just for a few moments, and the will to open them again slowly began to elude you. Exhaustion crept up on you, an old friend, and you found yourself repeating paragraphs, reading over the same sentence again and again and unable to take in its meaning.
Your eyes closed again, and you vaguely remembered telling yourself it would be just for a moment.
Sleep found you instead.
Blissful, calm. Warmth from the fire. Papers slipping from your hand, but never landing on the floor. You felt safe, wrapped in the quiet.
Something brushed your arm. Soft. Fur. Soonie?
Your eyes opened, bleary, only to find grey instead of orange. The wrongness of it jolted you, your hand darting out to grab at something pale and moving.
Skin.
A hand. Soft.
Except for a callus on the edge of a knuckle on the middle finger. You recognised it, for you had your own on the very same finger. It was where the pen sat whenever you wrote.
Your gaze wandered, still sleep-fogged, and there was no surprise when you saw the hand attached to a Minho.
Your grip on him relaxed, fingers slipping from his, and you barely mumbled a half-formed thought. “Your hand matches mine.”
Your eyes closed again, just as Minho stilled, and you drifted back to sleep.
You woke up, neck aching, still upright on the couch. Your books and papers lay scattered around you, from where you’d been too tired to put them away properly. Morning light streamed in from the windows, and despite the ashes in the fireplace indicating that it had long since burned out, you found yourself unusually warm.
Ah. You had fallen asleep in the previous day’s clothes – and with very familiar furs draped over you.
There was a brief flash of a memory, of Minho’s hand pulling the furs over you. You dimly recalled saying something, perhaps, but the details escaped you. You pushed the furs off of you, your movements unusually gentle as you handled the blanket, as if it commandeered an unthinking respect from you. Sentiment, maybe.
As always, Minho had risen before you and left your chambers, but today this observation filled you with equal parts excitement and nerves.
Were they discussing it right at this moment? Did their meetings take place in the mornings? Or in the afternoons? Would other items be brought up first?
It was maddening, to have so many questions and no way to pursue the answers.
With a night’s worth of sweat sticking to your skin, you made up a bath for yourself, even heating the water entirely on your own. The only oils in Minho’s bathroom were lavender, suited for relaxation in the evenings rather than energising in the mornings, but you made do.
The water was a touch cooler than how you usually liked it, but you didn’t have the patience to heat more water. Instead, you stripped and climbed into the bath with as much grace as you could muster and set about cleaning yourself.
This wasn’t the first time you had bathed entirely without servants – in fact, since you had moved into Minho’s chambers, the only times a servant had been permitted to enter was to bring them dinner each evening.
You found yourself becoming…amenable to that arrangement. It gave Minho’s chambers a sense of quiet, a private solace, that could not be found anywhere else in the palace.
Perhaps that was why it was so jarring, almost invading, when you heard knocking from afar, the sound of a door swinging open, and a woman’s voice ringing out hesitantly. “Your Highness?”
You startled, upsetting the water, letting some of it slosh over the side of the bath and onto the floor. “Yes? Is something wrong?”
Footsteps approached – timid, rushed – and the voice drew closer. “You’ve been summoned, Your Highness. By the king.”
Your stomach dropped, your breath cut short.
“He…said it was urgent, Your Highness, but I can let them know you’re still bathing–”
“No,” you blurted out, quickly, sharply. You got out of the bath hastily, dripping water all over the floor. “Help me change into something quickly, and I’ll go now.”
There was only one reason you would be summoned by the king on this particular day, and from the sounds of it, it wasn’t to congratulate you on your new position on the council.
You needed to stand your ground, to explain your reasoning in the face of his refusal. And if there was any chance of persuading him to grant you the position, to ignore the concerns of your gender…
Well, telling the king that he needed to wait to discuss urgent business until the princess finished drying her hair was not the kind of image you wanted to present to him.
And so, you were laced into a dress with impressive dexterity by your maid, the luscious fabric increasingly dampened from your dripping hair. Was it an uncomfortable sensation? Absolutely, but it was difficult to dwell on it when all you could think of was why you were be summoned, what could have happened between the king and Minho to warrant such an urgent demand for your presence.
Discussions must not have gone as smoothly as Minho intended – but not so disastrously as to be dismissed out of hand.
As you slipped on a pair of shoes, your maid gave one last attempt to persuade you to wait. “Your Highness, are you sure…”
You turned, smiling politely at her. “Yes. I’m sure it will dry soon enough. Thank you for all your help.”
She returned your smile, somewhat nervously, eyes darting to the dishevelled aspects of your appearance, but seemed a little more assured. Marginally. Barely.
Before she could protest again, you marched straight for the door.
Of course, as was so often the case with grand gestures, there were certain factors you didn’t think through entirely.
The palace halls were unforgivingly cold, especially as your hair continued to slowly drip water down your neck, soaking into the back of your gown. It made every step uncomfortable, as every little drop of water that landed on the nape of your neck was another reprimanding shock of chill.
You made sure to stand tall, proud.
If your head was bowed, if your shoulders were slouched and your steps more resembling a scurry than a stride, you would have made a pitiable sight. It would look as if you were caught off-guard, as if you were panicked, incapable, scared.
But with your chin held high, with your shoulders back and a confidence steeling you, this was intentional. This was a statement. An image fit for songs, for stories, a princess devoted to her role and to the orders of her king.
As you drew closer to the king’s chambers, navigating through the ever-narrowing hallways, you felt your chest begin to tighten. You realised you might genuinely hate it here, this deep within the very depths of the palace, its cold little stone heart. A king might be well-defended here, the walls witness to nearly a thousand years of history, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were descending into a tomb.
And then, you heard the voices.
The last time you had been summoned by the king, you remembered catching a snippet of conversation at the very doorstep of his chambers. That was how close you had to get before Minho’s and the king’s voices could be heard through the thick wooden door.
But now? You heard them in the corridor - because they were loud.
Not quite a screaming match between father and son, but–
“–talk of duty, but what’s your solution, Father? Burying your head in the sand, that tried and tested trick?”
You almost stumbled, shock rendering you clumsy, because did Minho just say that to the king?
“Caution, boy, is not ignorance. How do you mistake the two? You’re well-versed in the latter.”
The two guards in front of you exchanged a glance. You noted that they did not share your horror. In fact, you could almost mistake it as…resigned.
“Was it age that turned your belly yellow? Is that my fate too? Cowardice?”
“I will not be lectured by a son still wet-around-the-ears on age.”
Not just resigned.
Long-suffering.
They’d heard this all before. Frequently, by the looks of things.
And then, as if that knowledge had unlocked something, had lifted the veil over your eyes, you could hear it. The hint of familiarity, the ease with which the two hurled insults at each other.
This was not the first time Minho and his father had quarrelled. In fact, you’d wager this wasn’t the first time this week.
The argument paused when the guards knocked at the door, announcing your arrival. As the doors swung open, you caught sight of Minho and his father – not a hair out of place, not even a flush of anger to their cheeks – glaring at each other with familial exasperation.
Minho looked away first, turning to look at you – and paused.
His Majesty followed his gaze, and you watched those regal eyes blink in surprise at your appearance.
You must have made a sight, your gown on its way to being ruined, your hair still slick and dishevelled, trying hard not to shiver in the cold of these chambers.
“Your Majesty,” you greeted, not even the slightest bit affected, and bowed low. You straightened up before offering Minho’s greeting. “Husband.”
“My dear,” the king spoke, just the slightest bit alarmed. “If my summons caught you at an inopportune time, I assure you it’s perfectly reasonable to delay answering until you’re presentable. Don’t concern yourself so thoroughly.”
You smiled brightly. The picture of obedience, of devotion. “I hated the thought of keeping you both waiting. I imagine I know what this conversation is about.”
The king’s gaze flickered between you and Minho at this, a frown soon beginning to form. Still, there was a subtle note of surprise in his voice when he spoke again. “I see. The two of you are conspirators in this…”
“Proposal?” you supplied, gently.
“Attack?” Minho offered, bitterly.
“…Folly,” the king said, finally, turning back to you.
You dipped your head, keeping your voice soft and sweet. “I’m sorry to hear that you see it that way. I believe it to be a fair compromise, to ease the tensions at court.”
“Yes, Minho said the same thing,” the king sighed, dismissive. “Both of you are blind to the same issue. Any conflicts that your position on the council might resolve are outnumbered by the discord it would certainly cause.”
Minho sighed, eyes darting up to the ceiling. You wondered how many times he had heard that argument this morning. “And yet, a good king prioritises the future of his kingdom above all else, is that not so?”
The king shot Minho a look. It didn’t take much to realise that those were likely the king’s own words that had come out of Minho’s mouth, not his own.
“Son–”
“Talk to her,” Minho interrupted, gesturing to you in pure exasperation. “Listen to her. Ask her anything. She’s more than qualified to be on the council.”
After a moment’s hesitation, in which it looked as if the king was debating whether to indulge his oldest son or nip this matter in the bud entirely, he turned to you.
“…Very well,” he said, giving in. You watched as he made his way to the splendid-looking chair behind a monstrosity of a writing desk, sinking into it. For a brief moment, you thought you caught something of a grimace in his expression.
Exhaustion? Perhaps. It must have been tiring work, running a kingdom. Let alone arguing with Minho too. You had first-hand knowledge of how that could drain your energy.
The king’s eyes became fixed on you, almost pinning you to the floor, as he spoke. “Suppose you were on the council, and a message was received, warning of a great army about to invade. What would you advise?”
Your brow furrowed as you considered the question. You needed to remain calm, measured, and use every scrap of information you had studied.
“Which border is the army advancing toward?” you asked, thoughtful.
The king’s face remained unchanged. “The one we share with the Lakelands.”
Interesting. No cardinal direction given – you assumed that must have been on purpose – but still plenty of information to form an answer. The Lakelands were in the north, and under treaty with your kingdom.
“I would advise you to send missives to Lords Kim and Geum in the north with instructions to muster their forces and man our security garrisons along the border. I would also–”
“Which garrisons?” the king interrupted, gently but firmly.
“Yalrock and Banna. Yalrock is the largest garrison on the northern border, Banna is strategically advantageous because of its position on the river plains. You’d be forcing the army to march along the mountain passes instead.”
The king’s expression remained cold, neutral – and you realised, in that moment, exactly where Minho might have learned the same habit. “Continue.”
“I would also advise you to send word to our allies in the hills and across the Sunrise Sea, informing them that the Lakelands have broken our treaty pact.”
“Broken the pact?” the king repeated. “I never said the Lakelanders were the ones invading.”
“The treaty pact also forbids the harbouring of any forces with aggressive intent towards treaty members. In this scenario, the Lakelanders would be doing just this – unless they themselves were invaded by this army too, which I doubt if we received no summons for aid or word from our ambassador there,” you said. Was this too much detail? Were you rambling? You did your best to keep your words steady, unrushed. “Therefore, the treaty would be broken.”
From out of the corner of your eye, you caught Minho watching you, a hint of a smile on his face.
The king, while perhaps a touch surprised at your answer, pressed on anyway with another question, changing the subject entirely.
“…Suppose Lord Sun’s lands are failing to produce the amount of grain demanded of them. How would you advise me?”
“I would be confused,” you admitted, “because Lord Sun’s lands produce fish, not grain.”
“And why is that?”
“Because his lands are in the east, along the coast. The land there isn’t arable.”
“Why?”
“The weather is too hot in the summer, too dry. There isn’t enough freshwater for crop-growing.”
The quickness of your answer was rewarded with the smallest – almost unthinking – of nods from the king. He paused once more, and spoke again. “Suppose I wanted to–”
“Another question?” Minho interjected, sighing, as he wandered across the room and took a seat by the window. He rested his head against his hand, elbow planted into the plush armrest of his chair.
The king shot him a look, either for the interruption, or for the flippant tone Minho had used, or perhaps even for the way he was lounging in the presence of his king, but he made no move to reprimand him. Instead, he turned back to you. “Suppose I wanted to offer a gift to the Lakelander delegation when they arrive next month to renew the treaty. A personal one, not a grand spectacle of an offering. What would you suggest?”
You paused. This wasn’t a question that could be answered with any of your recent studies of war or economics or geography. This was a question of hospitality, knowledge you needed as a queen, not as a councillor.
It took a moment, longer than it took with the first two questions, but soon there was an answer in your mind. “When the last Lakelander delegation came to this country to sign the treaty, one of the gifts they gave Your Majesty were wild rose seeds. Wild roses that were native to the Lakelands, difficult to grow in this climate, meant to symbolise a new peace and the care needed to maintain it. Her Majesty, the queen, still grows these roses in her private gardens, does she not?”
The answer to your question did not come from the king, but from Minho. “She does.”
“Then, I would suggest a bouquet of these roses. It would be symbolic of the care this kingdom has taken to nurture this new relationship with the Lakelands, a sign that we do not take their gifts for granted.”
The king eyed you carefully for a moment, silent. “…You weren’t present at the first signing of the treaty, were you? You’re too young for that.”
“You’re right, I wasn’t present, Your Majesty,” you replied. “But the queen graciously allowed me to play in her gardens when I was a child, and taught me the origins of those roses.”
Not quite. The queen allowed you and Felix to play in those gardens. She told you the origins of the roses when Felix tried to pick some for you, and accidentally cut open his palm on the sharp thorns of their stems. You remembered him, tears in his eyes, sniffling as Her Majesty held the both of you close and warned him gently that these roses were wild, were Lakelanders just like her and a little like him, and because of that, they were fiercely protective.
You remembered sitting and watching the two of them exchange smiles, and silently wishing that you were a Lakelander too. You wanted to be protective. You wanted to be like the roses, like them.
“Any more questions, Father?” Minho asked, jolting you from your memories. “Or has she proven our point? Impressively?”
And again, just as they had last night, Minho’s words stirred something within you. A kind of warmth, filling your chest.
The king regarded the both of you, silently, before sighing. “Your education is…indeed, as Minho says, impressive.”
Your heart soared, mind so entirely filled with elation that you almost missed his next words.
“But I’m afraid that still does not change the obvious. I did not secure decades of unprecedented peace under my reign by breaking with tradition. A woman sitting on the council is not tradition.”
You swallowed, heart sinking just as sharply as it had risen just moments ago.
“…There is precedent,” you pointed out, softly. “I found records of Princess Jiyoon on the royal council, less than two centuries ago.”
“That is true,” the king conceded, before tilting his head slightly. After a moment of consideration, he pushed himself out of his chair with the same half-grimace glimpsed earlier, and crossed the room towards a bookcase stuffed with leather-bound volumes. His hands hovered over them, fingertips brushing their spines, until he found the one he was searching for and pulled it from its stack with ease.
He made his way back to the two of you, opening the volume and thumbing through the pages as he walked, before offering the volume to you.
You took it, uncertainly, and looked down at what exactly he had handed to you.
Council records – but unlike the ones you had studied with Seungmin, you were shocked at just how much more detail this version contained. You supposed that made sense. The records in the library were likely censored, or edited for public consumption. These were private, a king’s own personal records, passed down from ruler to heir most likely.
Jiyoon’s name was there, listed amongst the other councillors, but these records included a strange symbol next to her name.
You frowned, and the king spoke again.
“I imagine you found no records of any contributions she made, correct? No votes cast, no motions brought to attention?”
“…No,” you admitted, reluctantly, looking up at him as dread began to curl in the pit of your stomach.
“There is a reason for that. Jiyoon filled a particular role. If you scour through the legal treatise of the time – dry reading, all of it, but it is there – you’ll find it. Jiyoon was not granted the role of an adviser, but of an observer. A silent one, there only to watch the council proceedings so that she could better educate her heirs in service of her husband. That is the precedent that Jiyoon set.”
Silent. Heirs. Husband.
Of course.
Of course. You should have known. That was what it always came down to. Centuries of royal women, millennia of royal women, and it was always the same.
Silent. Heirs. Husband.
You should have known. You should have known not to get your hopes up.
“What are you saying?” you heard Minho ask, dimly, as these thoughts repeated endlessly in your mind.
“The observer is required to be silent. She cannot vote, she cannot dissent, she cannot speak even when called upon to do so in session. She observes.”
Minho made a sound of disdain, maybe even disgust. “Then, what’s the point? Why have that great of a mind on your council if she can’t even use it? What a waste.”
“Perhaps, but that is the precedent you argue for. If you seek a compromise, that would be it.”
“A compromise? What–”
“I would accept it,” you interrupted, quietly. Your eyes were trained on the floor, voice barely above a murmur. Your brain still thundered with those three words, again and again. Silent. Heirs. Husband. “If Your Majesty were so gracious as to offer this role, I would accept it.”
You didn’t have to look at Minho to know the way his mouth was parted in surprise, astonished and outraged in equal measure. You could sense it in his tone when he spoke. “You can’t be serious.”
You raised your eyes to look at the king, purposefully avoiding Minho’s stare.
“I hope His Majesty knows that I don’t ask for this council seat out of personal ambition,” you said, softly, lying through your teeth to your king. “You said Jiyoon took the role as a duty to her husband and her children. If anyone objected to my position on the council, I would ask you say the same of me.”
“…You would take the council seat in service of Minho,” the king said, and even he sounded sceptical. You weren’t sure what that said about your marriage, but it wasn’t exactly promising.
“And our future children. We both take that duty very seriously.”
“Do you?” the king questioned, sharply, pointedly, but surprisingly it wasn’t you he was addressing – it was Minho.
You might have tensed at such an insinuation, but Minho practically bristled.
“Don’t,” Minho warned his father, straightening up in his seat. No, more than warned, he practically spat out the word. “I thought we agreed.”
Agreed? Agreed what?
You glanced between Minho and his father, sensing a tension that remained unspoken as the two eyed each other, jaws both set.
You were clearly missing something vital to this exchange, some secret piece of information – and, as always, the idea chafed at you.
And then, with a quiet and cold anger that you hadn’t heard in weeks, Minho told his father. “You owe me this.”
The king’s expression twisted. It was guilt, you realised. “Minho–”
“You owe me something.”
Another pause.
And then, finally, the king broke this staring contest with his son to look at you. “…The role requires complete silence. If I decided to grant you the seat on these conditions, and you flout them immediately, I will not look kindly on it. Do you understand?”
“I do,” you replied, solemnly.
“…Very well,” the king said, eventually. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”
You did it.
It was a hollow victory, yes, but a victory nonetheless.
You couldn’t quite muster happiness about it, or even gratitude, but there was a sense of achievement.
You nodded, quietly, and curtsied low before the king. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
When you lifted your head again, you found the king glancing between your face and Minho’s before he spoke again.
“You do have quite the mind,” the king said, gaze still shifting between the two of you. “You might not be able to speak in the council room but…well, you share bedchambers now. Whatever you might discuss in there is your own private business. Is it not?”
Within days, news of your appointment to the council spread across the palace like wildfire.
You expected this, to some extent. Precedent or not, observer or not, this was still an undeniably shocking development. You knew there would be whispers about it, gossip passed around, growing and contorting with each telling and retelling.
All of this, and still you did not expect the conversation you happened upon one evening as you took a shortcut through one of the palace courtyards on your way back from a tutoring session with Seungmin.
The sun had just descended below the horizon, casting the square into shadow wherever the dim glow of torchlight did not quite reach. You caught snatches of voices as you walked, whenever you passed doors to parlours, to sitting rooms, to the dozens upon dozens of meeting places for the elite that resided within the court. Some of these doors were cracked open to enjoy the fresh air brought by the open-air courtyard on their doorstep, unaware of any passers-by.
And then, one particular comment caught your attention.
“Perhaps the poor girl is simply bored,” a haughty voice said, with a hint of laughter. “That council room might be a dreary place, but I’d wager it’s a damn sight better than her bedchambers.”
You froze, half within shadow, half without.
There was only one person that comment could possibly be referring to.
Immediately, you slipped behind one of the stone pillars lining the courtyard, heart pounding.
Finally, after all this talk of rumours, of whisperings at court behind your back, you finally had the chance to listen for yourself.
“Careful, Park,” another voice cautioned, although sounding more amused than concerned.
“A prince too scared to share a bed with his wife for weeks after the wedding,” the first voice – Park – scoffed. “What, did he hope no one would notice?”
A third voice chimed in, low and gleeful. “You want to hear something good? My wife heard a maid talking the other day. They change the sheets of that marriage bed every day. And they’re always pristine.”
Your face heated, something approaching bile threatening to burn the back of your throat. There was something about hearing your privacy be so…violated, and said so casually. Your bedsheets? They all talked about your bedsheets?
“You know my theory,” the third voice spoke again.
“Your wife’s theory,” Park corrected, sounding dismissive.
“It makes sense. She’s saving herself for the other brother. Traded one for the other before, maybe she’s waiting to trade back when he comes home.”
Felix.
Traded one for the other. Is that how they saw it? Is that how they all saw it?
“He’s not coming back,” Park scoffed. “Not for a long time. Not unless His Highness fancies looking down and wondering why all his children have the Lakelander look to them.”
Your heart stopped. You felt the blood in your veins freeze, matching the ice-cold anger settling into your bones.
“Gods be good, close the door before you say horseshit like that. Moron.”
This was more than fury.
This was wrath.
You stepped out of the shadows, just at the right moment to lock eyes with Lord Park as he stood by the doors, his too-late hand stilled on the handle.
“Good evening, Lord Park,” you said, voice so syrupy-sweet and cloying, and watched the blood drain from his face as he stared back at you in horror. You craned your neck to peek over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the two other men with him. “Oh, I see Lords Song and Ryu have joined you. How nice.”
“Y-Your Highness,” Park stammered, and there was genuine fear in his eyes.
He knew what you had heard. He knew the words that had come out of his mouth, and how close those words danced along the line of treason. It would take you only one conversation with Minho, or with the king, and his career would be done. His family. His fortunes. Possibly even his life.
You smiled brightly at him. “I look forward to seeing you next week at the council. I’ve heard you’re quite the contrarian. You’ve voted to reject the last, what is it, seven bills put forward by my husband?”
Park didn’t answer. Perhaps it was more accurate to say Park couldn’t answer. You wondered what could possibly be going through his head at that moment. You wondered if he had ever felt this afraid in his entire pampered little life.
You tilted your head slightly, eyeing him. “Perhaps from next week, you might find yourself second-guessing a decision like that. Don’t you think so?”
Park’s face, still pale, twisted into something approaching realisation. He seemed to grasp exactly what you were hinting at – the threat that remained unspoken.
“…Y-yes, Your Highness,” Park agreed, nodding erratically.
“And your companions? Perhaps they’ll have similar changes of heart?”
From behind Park, his friends stammered their assent, just as rattled.
You beamed.
“Perfect. Have a nice night.”
You attended your first council meeting the very next week, finally taking that last empty council seat that had remained vacant for so long.
Sixty-two members attended the session in total.
You felt sixty-one pairs of eyes on you throughout.
You recognised quite a few of the faces in this meeting. Lord Young, as delightful as ever, sat just a few seats removed from the royal family – a position of great honour, especially for a man with neither blood nor marriage ties to the crown.
Lord Park had also made an appearance, and blanched the moment your eyes met his.
Good.
You paid the stares little notice, attention completely and utterly captivated by the debates that took place. Every idea proposed, every motion considered and accepted and denied, every opinion volleyed back and forth, you noted down.
You might have been silent, but you wrote feverishly. Pages and pages of scrawls, near indecipherable as you worked to keep pace with the spoken word of the other council members.
Minho was seated next to you. Of course he was – he served as a visible explanation for your presence there at all. To be useful to him, to educate his heirs and better his legacy. In the eyes of everyone else, your seat on the council was essentially just an extension of Minho’s.
You weren’t sure what to expect of him during these council meetings. You knew just how seriously he took his position as heir, and his duty to the kingdom – but you also remembered that carriage journey home from Lord Young’s orchards, the disdain he had for politicking, his derision in his voice when he talked of strings attached.
It turned out that in council meetings, Minho kept up the same perfect princely mask he always did in public. Never once raising his voice, never slipping into anger or mockery. Exemplary behaviour from the first second of the meeting to the last.
Except for one moment, when an old lord from the Tan family had loudly proclaimed an argument so poorly constructed, with parts so moronic that you made sure to underline his exact wording for its stupidity, that you heard the quietest of noises from Minho. When you glanced up at him, he was watching the debate with apparent rapt attention. If you weren’t sat so close to him, you would have missed the slightest way his jaw clenched, as if to fight a look of disdain as he watched Lord Tan blather on.
Minho proposed only one new bill – investment in a new mill, to be built in one of the kingdom’s slowly-dwindling rural villages, in the hopes of creating employment opportunities. You paused your notetaking to watch each council member cast their votes for or against the bill.
Most supported it. Some rejected it. Your eyes sought out Lord Park again, and you watched as he reluctantly raised his hand in favour of the bill, gaze nervously flickering towards you as he did so.
What an astonishing change of heart from the man. Who could have predicted?
Still, despite it all, the council meeting ended without incident. The issues tabled for the next meeting were fairly standard: a new maritime trade deal with a kingdom across the Sunrise Sea, preparations for next year’s census, the ongoing reports from the Lakelander delegation slowly making its way to the palace. You made note of it all, jotting down your own thoughts on each matter when you were able to, and kept the notes closely guarded on your person.
You made sure to take them straight to your bedchambers as soon as the meeting finished, intending to lock them away in your desk until dinner that evening, when you could discuss them with Minho.
To your surprise, instead of making his way back to his office to spend the rest of the working day, Minho followed you back to your shared chambers. You tried and failed not to focus on his footsteps, how they matched your pace precisely, echoing along the empty corridors.
The slightest sense of frustration sparked within you. If you had to be watched by gossiping onlookers, why couldn’t they at least see this? Minho ignoring his usual duties to accompany you back to your bedchambers? Let them whisper about that, sordid or not, that could at least be useful.
You pushed away the thought with one last scoff at your own poor luck, reaching your chambers without so much as a single pair of prying eyes to witness you.
“So,” Minho said, as the doors swung shut behind the two of you. “How did you find it?”
Frustrating. Exhausting. Borderline insulting.
“Informative,” you replied, collapsing into a seat. Your hands ached from how feverishly you had written throughout the meeting, and you began to clench and unclench your fists in the hopes of relieving the pain. “I made a few notes.”
“I noticed,” Minho commented, eyebrow raising as he appraised the pile of papers at your side. “They look…detailed.”
“They are,” you confirmed, picking the papers up and beginning to flick through them. “If I can’t speak my mind in that room, writing will just have to do.”
For now, you added internally. You refused to accept that this silent role would last forever.
“Can I…read them?” Minho asked, and his question came out hesitantly, almost cautiously.
You looked up, surprised. You weren’t sure how much use these notes would be – you were both just at the very same meeting after all – but there was something about the request that was almost…endearing.
Minho. Endearing.
Hell had truly frozen over.
“Of course,” you replied, holding the notes up.
Minho paused for a moment before, slowly making his way towards you. When he sat next to you, he was close enough that his jacket sleeve brushed your bare arm.
You cleared your throat, focusing your attention on anything but how close he was. “These pages are about the logging site proposals, this one was on the Lakelanders’ progress, this…oh, this page is actually about Lord Tan.”
“Lord Tan?” Minho repeated, one eyebrow raised.
“Yes. He’s…” you trailed off, trying to think of a polite way to phrase it. “…He’s a blithering idiot, honestly.”
Minho, to your surprise, laughed. Openly, loudly, with a note of genuine delight. A few weeks ago, you wouldn’t have thought him capable of producing such a sound.
“Do you know how many hours of my life I have wasted listening to that old man ramble incoherently?” he asked. “There were moments I was driven half to madness. But he was my father’s first real supporter when he became crown prince, so he’s adamant on keeping the man around.”
You watched as Minho turned the page over, half-smiling to himself.
“He’s a sentimental old fool like that, sometimes,” Minho said, too lightly to really be considered critical – or treasonous.
“Who was your first supporter?” You asked, curiously.
Minho paused, the lingering traces of cheer disappearing before your eyes. The shift in his mood was almost tangible, and it felt as if you had made some sort of misstep in a dance, thrown yourself and your partner out of rhythm.
His gaze flickered upwards, so very briefly, to look at you, before moving downwards. Down to your notes, down to where the space between your bodies was at its narrowest, barely a few fingers’ width between your skirts and his thigh. He took a breath.
“…Felix,” Minho said, softly, discreetly shifting away as he held your notes out to return them. “He was the only one to never doubt me. Not even for a second.”
Yes. Yes, that sounded like Felix.
You took back your notes, and tried not to notice how Minho avoided your touch as your notes exchanged hands.
A new silence fell between you.
Stifling.
Deafening.
You tried to take a deep breath, and stood up, making your way over to your desk to lock away your writings from prying eyes.
From behind you, Minho’s voice brought you to a halt.
“We haven’t talked about Felix,” he noted. “…And we probably should. At some point.”
He said it so plainly, so devoid of nuance or emotion. As if it were a mere observation, a comment about the weather and nothing more. As if his words didn’t strike something deep and vulnerable within you, like fingers clumsily probing a freshly-formed bruise.
You hated his apparent nonchalance. You despised it, and you envied it because you might never be able to do the same. To speak Felix’s name as if it meant nothing to you.
To speak his name as if…
To speak…
You…
Realisation – cold, violent realisation – hit you at once.
You had not. Not once. In months.
It had been months. And you had not spoken Felix’s name.
Not since your wedding day.
Others had. Countless others had. They murmured it gently and sweetly like Her Majesty, or they crowed it before you mockingly like those noblemen, or they threw it at you, cold and cryptic and horrifically empty like Minho.
They dragged him out of your memories where you kept him locked away.
Away, where he was safest to you. Safest from you. Safest for you.
“…No. We haven’t,” you said, and the words were quiet. Pained. Final.
The two of you did not speak again that day.
Soon enough, your father found you.
Your mother, all those weeks ago when she summoned you for that painfully awkward afternoon tea, had at least shown you the decorum your new status demanded and sent you a formal request.
Your father, a proud man, a pragmatic man, had no patience for such etiquette.
You were in the library, sat with Seungmin and poring over budgetary records with tired and bleary eyes, when he came marching in. He was flanked by two panicked guards, too fearful of your father’s status to lay their hands on him, too mindful of their duty to let him wander freely.
They fixed you with beseeching looks. “Your Highness, we – no one told us…y-your father…”
“Desires to speak with his daughter,” your father finished, in a tone you’d never heard from him before. “Urgently.”
Usually, your father was calm, collected, never one to show even a hint of vulnerability.
Now, here, he was impatient. Almost rattled.
You rose to your feet, so thrown off-kilter by the situation that you were a touch unsteady. After a moment, you nodded to your guards. “Very well. Please leave us.”
They did just that – and so did a third guard who had been sat just a few paces away from you and Seungmin.
Your father’s eyes darted to your tutor. “Him too.”
Seungmin, however, stayed seated. Slowly, he laced his fingers together and rested his hands on the table in front of him, returning your father’s glare with an unimpressed stare.
“It takes a bold man to order around a princess,” Seungmin remarked. Gently, as always, but firmly.
Your father’s expression hardened. He opened his mouth to speak back, but you cut him off at the pass.
“He’s right, Father,” you said. You couldn’t quite shake the nerves from your voice. You supposed that was only natural, after a lifetime of loyally following his orders and keeping your mouth shut in the process. “What’s wrong? Has something happened to Mother?”
Your father stared at you for a moment, almost…bewildered. He recovered quickly enough. “Your mother is fine, which is more than I can say for the state of your…of…” he gritted his teeth, swallowing back whatever he desperately wished to say, and instead cut straight to the point. “You took a seat on the council?”
His question, and the venom behind it, almost took you aback.
Still, you lifted your head, trying to stand firm. “Yes, I did.”
“How could you be so…foolish?” your father demanded to know, anger giving way to frustration. “I could have protectedyou there.”
It took you mere moments to read between his words.
You didn’t take a seat on the council.
You took his seat.
“Could you?” you said, swallowing. “Or would you have protected your own interests?”
Your father’s eyes blazed at the accusation. You knew the look. Your own temper was a family trait – and it certainly didn’t come from your mother.
He thundered his response. “You are my daughter! My interests are your interests!”
“Are they?” You shot back, your voice rising to match his.
“We are family, we are blood–”
“And what have I done, except increase our family’s legacy?” you interrupted him. “I did that, I secured our first council seat.”
“And what seat is that?” he replied, incensed. “A mute councillor, never to vote, never to speak?”
Your face burned, as you tried to think of a rebuttal to his questions. Something began to twist in the pit of your stomach.
Your father sighed, fixing you with a stern look. “Let me be frank, girl, if you’re so eager to play politics. Your position is not secure.”
You swallowed. “I know–”
“No, you do not,” he snapped, briefly raising his voice, before dropping his voice to a more controlled volume. “You inspired the love of the people, but what else? I know half a dozen lords are plotting your annulment, and another dozen with their own girls waiting in the wings. What will you do with that council seat, when a proposal comes to terminate your marriage? Watch silently when they vote to cast you aside?”
You stared at him, as that twisting sensation in your gut finally earned a name: dread. You tried to respond. “Royal marriages are a king’s prerogative, they can’t–”
“Yes, they can,” your father said, simply. “Any silver-tongued politician could convince the king that your marriage is a matter of the state. Perhaps if you were married to the younger prince, you’d be safe, but you’re married to the heir–”
At those words, coming out of your father’s mouth of all people’s, your vision turned red. Your response, when it came, hung heavy in the air.
“And whose fault is that?”
Your father’s eyes widened, and he hissed. “Mind your tongue.”
“I did,” you said, your voice cracking. Before you could top yourself, words began tumbling out of your mouth, every secret silent thought that had festered in the darkest, most vulnerable corners of your mind, spilling to the surface. “I was happy and content and loved, and I still bit my tongue and let you scheme to take it away. I married the right brother for you, are you still not satisfied?”
In an instant, your father stormed his way towards you, eyes blazing as he loomed over you. “Be careful, girl.”
For a moment, you thought he was threatening you. Your own father.
And then you watched his body crumple slightly, panic and concern finally bleeding through all that pomp and anger. “Especially about…that. Him.”
You watched him take a deep breath, rendered speechless. You had never – not once, in all your life – seen your father like this.
He seemed almost…scared.
“If there are plots to annul your marriage, there are plots for something far darker. Annulment would be catastrophic, but bearable. But any whispers of adultery, of treason? To see you executed…”
Gently, he lifted his hand to cup your cheek. And for a moment, you were four years old again, showing your father your very first letters, beaming as he called you his little princess, long before the rest of the kingdom was obliged to.
“You are my child. My only child. Doubt my intentions, if you must, but do not doubt my love.”
You were stunned into silence. His words should have been touching, and you supposed on some level that they still were. But you felt almost numb as you absorbed them. Was it shock, hearing your father speak of his emotions so plainly? Perhaps.
There was a small part of you that whispered if this was all just too little, too late.
Your father dropped his hand and stepped away from you, silence filling the air between the two of you.
Then, he paused, and turned his attention to something behind you.
For a moment, you felt confusion, turning to follow his glare – before embarrassment consumed you.
Seungmin, of course, had been sitting there the whole time.
“And you,” your father interjected, his voice cold and bordering on menacing, pointing at your tutor. “If you breathe a word of this–”
Seungmin, despite showing the very clear signs of awkwardness one would expect from someone who had just witnessed such an intense and private family dispute, managed to keep calm as he replied with unfailing honesty.
“I am no fool. This position keeps my family fed, and will see my sisters marry well. I am only here at Her Highness’s request, and if the princess goes, this job goes with her,” Seungmin said, fiercely. “…And if nothing else, I know about your reputation, sir. I would rather like my tongue to remain inside my head.”
Your eyes widened.
That was a bold insinuation on Seungmin’s part. Tongue mutilation had been outlawed years ago, deemed too brutal a punishment when death was a surer way to guarantee silence.
You half-expected your father to deny this with bluster and offence. And yet, all he did was eye Seungmin silently, before nodding once and turning to the door.
As he approached it, your father spoke one final time to you.
“Keep your wits about you. You’ve made a dangerously bold move, and your enemies will use it against you,” he warned, before finally leaving, letting the heavy door slam shut behind him.
The echo of it reverberated across the library, as you stared after him with far more questions than answers.
It was Seungmin who first broke the silence, clearing his throat with just a touch of unease. “…Well, I imagine you’re no longer in quite the right mindset for last year’s harvest calculations. Would you like to finish our sessions early today, Your Highness?”
You didn’t speak. You barely looked at him, in fact, as you silently sank back into your chair.
Seungmin waited a moment or so longer, beginning to tap nervously on the smooth wooden surface of the table in front of him. “…Your Highness?”
“I…” you trailed off, as you realised the incriminating words that had fallen from your own lips just moments ago, and your head jerked towards Seungmin in panic. “Don’t… I don’t know how much you report to Minho about our lessons. But…please don’t tell him what I said about being…you know, about…”
“Biting your tongue?” Seungmin supplied for you, but his tone was heavy, knowing. He knew that wasn’t the offending part of your outburst.
“Yes,” you replied in the same tone, and when your eyes met, you knew you had an understanding. “He’s a smart man, I’m sure it’s nothing he doesn’t already know, but…it just seems cruel. I think. To hear it directly.”
Seungmin observed you for a moment, brow furrowing just a touch. He opened his mouth as if to say something, hesitated, before speaking anyway. “Actually, you should know that I don’t ‘report’ anything to Minho. Sometimes, he asks questions about what we study, and I answer them. Nothing more.”
You blinked, and before you could stop yourself, your curiosity won out. “What kind of questions?”
Seungmin eyed you again, and for a split-second, you could have sworn something akin to amusement quirked the corner of his mouth. Whatever it was, it disappeared in an instant, as he replied. “He asks about what interests you. Once, he asked about a book he’d seen you reading, and took a copy for his own use.”
“Oh.”
Whatever you were expected, it wasn’t that. A strange, unbidden feeling began to spread in your chest, warm for just a moment before common sense returned and drove it away.
“Well, I suppose that makes sense. Minho sometimes takes an interest in my education. Perhaps he wants to test me on it, make it a competition or something.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Seungmin said, perfectly politely. “Or something, indeed.”
Soon after that, the first move was made against you.
Details were leaked about the maritime trade deal discussed in the council meeting. Confidential details that were now freely gossiped about, within the palace and without. No one could say for sure who was the source of those leaks, but the evidence was damning.
Before you joined the council, there hadn’t been a single leak in years. And now, after you attended your first meeting, sensitive information was being bandied about within days.
There was only one simple conclusion to be drawn about the identity of the leaker.
You.
Your father was right. Whoever your enemies were, they’d been scheming, and they did use your position on the council against you.
Perhaps the library would have been a better place to take a breath, dwell on the knowledge a little longer, turn it over in your mind alone to work out the whos and whys and how to press forward.
But your feet drew you to your chambers, through the doors, and even once inside they refused to let you sit idle. You paced, backwards and forwards, going over the situation, the accusations about to be levelled at you, the defences you might need, the evidence you had and did not have to prove your innocence.
You paced and paced, and thought and thought, until your head spun and your feet threatened to leave its imprints in the stone beneath you, until it became clear to you exactly what you were doing.
You hadn’t chosen these chambers for silent contemplation.
You were waiting here.
Because when you imagined defending yourself, you didn’t picture a faceless mob before which to protest your innocence. You didn’t picture the king, and his councillors, and the lords scheming behind your back.
You pictured Minho. His expression flickering between accusing, betrayed, angry, cold, pitying, wounded. It was him you wanted to convince before any others, as illogical as it was.
It was hurt, perhaps, maybe, at the idea that Minho thought you would betray his trust. You knew how he’d pushed hard for your position on the council. You would never throw it back in his face like this, and you needed to make sure he knew that.
You questioned just when Minho’s good opinion of you had become so…important.
Eventually, the chamber doors opened, and your words came spilling out at the mere sight of Minho in the doorway.
“I didn’t do it,” you declared. You wished you could be calmer. You feared that the panic in your voice would mislabel you guilty.
Minho, blinking in surprise for a moment at your sudden outburst, regarded you calmly. “Ominous words to hear when entering a room.”
“I’m not the leak,” you clarified, with little patience for his cleverness. “And don’t pretend you haven’t heard about it. I know the information being spread, and I know fingers are pointing in my direction. With some reason, I suppose, but it was not me.”
“You seem agitated,” Minho remarked, maddeningly, all but ignoring your words as his hands moved to begin undoing the fastenings of his jacket. It was some sort of rigid construction, high-necked and broad-shouldered, and perhaps once the imposing princely sight of him in it might have intimidated you. Now, there was a familiarity to the sight – and a bizarre comfort that came along with it, perhaps. “Usually I’m the one to spark it. It’s actually quite bemusing when something else is the source.”
You stared at him for a second. Off-guard, waiting for any kind of actual response to what you were saying. When none came, irritation sparked in your chest. “Minho–”
“You’re innocent,” Minho said simply, halting you in your tracks. “I know. I told my father as much.”
It took you a moment to register exactly what he said, your head too full of practised arguments to leave much room for the recognition that Minho didn’t need to hear them.
He believed you without them.
It felt as if you had been barrelling towards something at high speed, a runaway horse, only to come to a sudden jarring stop. Air left your lungs in one unconscious breath, like a weight that had crushed your chest had been lifted.
“…Good,” you said, haltingly, and then relief struck you with such a violence that your eyes began to sting with tears.
At the sight of them, Minho’s expression shifted instantly from flippancy to something bordering on horror.
Frustrated, and more than a little mortified, you wiped them away impatiently. “Don’t. I’m fine.”
Minho opened his mouth, about to speak–
“No,” you interrupted, pointing at him, embarrassment warm in your cheeks. “This is just a serious allegation to be faced with, and I’m…relieved that I don’t have to waste my time defending myself.”
You managed to regain your composure, with no more tears threatening to make an appearance and humiliate you further. Taking a deep breath, you refused to look at Minho, refused to know if he believed your words or if that damned expression still lingered on his face.
“People are talking,” you said, finally.
“…People always talk. We’ve discussed this before.”
“It’s different now. I thought it was just idle gossip before, but…” you trailed off. “My father came to me a few days ago. He believes some of the nobles are scheming to dissolve our marriage. Free you up to marry a daughter of their own, and have me removed.”
Or worse.
You hadn’t fully comprehended what your father had hinted to you that day, not until now. You could see it all now. The image of your execution, a hundred smirking noblemen awaiting it, ready to thrust their own girls into your role. Perhaps to perish after you. Their scheming would not end with your death. They would simply turn on each other, try again and again, a dozen dead brides falsely accused and outmanoeuvred and doomed from the start.
And then, you snapped out of your dark thoughts when you realised that Minho had closed the distance between you, standing almost toe-to-toe.
His eyes sought your gaze, and held it.
“They can’t do that,” Minho said, firmly, gently. Certain. “We are married, and nothing can change that now.”
“It could. It would be easy, really,” you argued. “There’s no real proof of our consummation. You could say it never happened, and our marriage could be annulled by day’s end.”
“I would not,” Minho said, firmly. “Believe what you will about me, but I would never break off our marriage with a lie like that. Those are a craven’s actions, not mine. I swear it.”
Perhaps to your surprise, you found that you believed him. Minho could be called a great many things – indeed, you have called Minho a great many things – but ‘craven’ was not one of them.
Minho’s lips set into a grim, serious line. “Is that what concerns you? That I would set you aside?”
Would he?
Even after so many years around Minho, after weeks of being married, you still could not guess his true intentions.
“…I don’t know,” you confessed.
Something small flashed in Minho’s eyes. It looked like hurt.
“You have done a lot for me these past few weeks. More than I ever expected. More than I could ever ask for, truthfully. I think…I hope that we are friends, or at least something approaching it,” you told him, because it was true, and the lastthing you wanted was to destroy this budding trust you had developed between the two of you. Still, he deserved total honesty. “But I know you didn’t want this marriage, Minho.”
Minho was silent for a moment. You knew he couldn’t refute it, and he didn’t try to.
Instead, to your surprise, his hands lifted to rest gently on your shoulders. You could feel their weight on you, and how warm it was. Solid. Grounding.
He held you there and when he finally spoke, his tone was serious – grave, almost.
“…The night before Felix left for the coast, he came to me,” Minho admitted. “He made me swear – on my life, on his, on my mother, on my crown, on everything I have ever valued – that I would protect you from harm.”
Your lips parted in shock.
Felix.
“I love my brother, more than anything. He was once my only friend, in all the world. The very best of me,” Minho said, words beginning to pour out of him, as if finally freeing thoughts he had kept buried deep inside for months, perhaps even years. “I didn’t tell him how much he meant to me, not really. And now…”
Minho swallowed, eyes closing for a brief second, before meeting your stare again with a quiet intensity.
“He will never forgive me for marrying you. Never. The least I can do is honour the last thing – the only thing – he has ever asked of me.”
You didn’t know what to say.
A sudden realisation hit you. A small piece of an inscrutable puzzle, revealed.
“Is that what you meant, when you told your father he owed you something? For making you marry me?”
Minho swallowed, pausing for a second, and answered.
“Yes, in short. My father and I have had our squabbles but this marriage…it was the first true fight we had. The first time he’s ever had to order me to do something as a king, not asked me as a father. We haven’t seen many things eye-to-eye since. He doesn’t…understand,” he said, and then, almost to himself, “but he doesn’t need to. I know I’m doing what is right.”
There was a terrible sadness in his eyes, a shocking vulnerability. It was almost alien to see such an expression on Minho’s face, to glimpse beyond the walls he so skilfully kept up.
Unthinkingly, you surged forward and wrapped your arms around him.
He stilled in your hold, tense with surprise. You ignored it, squeezing him tightly, pressing your face into his chest. It was an awkward embrace, perhaps. The hard edges of the embroidery on his jacket dug into your cheek, stitching rough against your soft skin, and Minho’s movements were stiff and unpractised as he returned the hug.
But it didn’t need to be perfect. It only needed to prove the one thing you intended to show him.
Trust.
That night, when dinner was cleared, Minho retreated to his couch and paperwork. You left to change into your sleepclothes in private, as usual, and returned to slip quietly into bed.
There, however, you fidgeted and fumbled with exactly what to say before finally, bravely, breaking the silence. “…You can sleep in the bed. Next to me. If you were…unsure about it.”
Minho’s stare in response was indecipherable. But he nodded once, and when he finished whatever report he had picked up from the pile of papers, he disappeared to the bathroom and reappeared dressed for bed.
White linens. Thin, soft. You remembered them from your wedding night.
It was enough to make your breath hitch – and, embarrassed, you rolled to your side to avoid looking at Minho, lest you stared too openly at him.
You heard him pull back the covers on his side, and felt the weight of him sink into the mattress. He seemed to keep his distance, as not a single part of you touched, and yet you were painfully aware of his presence there.
Silence fell over the two of you, interrupted only by quiet breaths in tandem.
Something squeezed gently in the pit of your stomach. You recognised it as something like anticipation, which was bizarre, as you knew nothing was going to happen.
Nothing would happen.
…And yet, you supposed it would be easy for Minho to shift closer towards you. You could imagine him reaching over, and setting his warm hand on the curve of your hip.
Would he turn you, so you were facing him? Perhaps, but you could also see him keeping your back to him. Letting you hide your face, a small mercy, because he would probably know how embarrassed you would be.
Your eyes drifted shut.
It would be easy for him to press his face into the back of your neck, his mouth into the crook where your neck and shoulder met.
And perhaps he would whisper, soothingly, as his hand travelled lower, seeking the hem of your nightgown, sliding it up your thighs and…
No.
Your eyes snapped open as you scolded yourself, a mixture of excitement and shame heating your face. You banished every remotely inappropriate thought from your mind, turning to lie on your back and stare up at the ceiling.
You wondered, briefly, if Minho was looking up at the same thing too. You refused to glance over at him to check. The thought of seeing his face after all…that that had been swirling in your thoughts? Absolutely not.
It took far longer than usual to fall asleep in the deafening silence, but eventually you managed to.
The next morning, you awoke and realised, for the very first time, you had woken up before Minho. He was sleeping peacefully, unaware that the two of you must have turned to face each other in the night, bodies still a careful distance apart.
With one exception – Minho’s left arm lay outstretched, the knuckles of his hand just barely kissing the delicate skin of your wrist.
You stared at where your hands touched, skin-on-skin.
And you did not move your hand away.
#straykidsland#stray kids#stray kids fanfiction#lee minho fanfiction#lee know fanfiction#stray kids fanfic#stray kids fic#skz fanfiction#skz fanfic#skz fic#skz minho fic#skz minho fanfiction#skz minho fanfic#lee know fanfic#lee know fic#historical au#arranged marriage#enemies to lovers#minho fanfiction#minho fanfic#minho fic
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me and @astraysimp are excited to announce our first collab!! 🥳🩷 as the name implies, it will be a small novel of dad!stray kids fics - 16 chapters in total, 8 smut and 8 fluff. whether unplanned or not, they realize they love their new roles as dads and we're overall really excited to merge our two ends of the spectrum-fluff and smut. this is really exciting for us and we hope you’ll enjoy our works 🫶🏻
♡
han jisung : part 1 ; part 2 ;
seo changbin: part 1 ; part 2 ;
bang chan: part 1 ; part 2 ;
lee know: part 1 ; part 2 ;
hyunjin: part 1 ; part 2 ;
seungmin: part 1 ; part 2 ;
felix: part 1 ; part 2 ;
i.n.
♡
this is the order in which we’ll be posting our fics. the taglist is currently open, comment or dm us to be added!
🏷️: @mellhwang ; @autumn583 ; @hyunsvngs ; @hotchnrz ; @galamxy ; @ebbaskz ; @turtledove824 ; @galaxycatdrawz ; @fawnpeaks ; @bigsobs4skz ; @143lix ; @bangchans-babygirl ; @aaasia111 ; @reid-deiri ; @tenshimara ; @dancerachaslut ; @peachygirlsthings ; @saturnandgold ; @justscrollinthrough ; @jesuisstay ; @shinywolfbears ; @lewoh-ot8-wh0re ; @alnex05 ; @mixtape-racha ; @shujohajohaminnie ; @heartheartisa ; @skzstaykatsy ; @manuosorioh ; @whosanaanyway ; @cvntywonyo ; @lilinaskzz ;♡
-> reblog to show us your support! “it’s good for motivation” a man named chris bang once said.
also, make sure to follow @astraysimp bc her fics are soooo good and they always make me tear up (always happy tears)!! 🩷
#stray kids masterlist#skz masterlist#skz#stray kids#skz smut#stray kids fanfic#stray kids smut#stray kids fic#stray kids hard thoughts#stray kids fluff#skz fluff#skz soft thoughts#skz soft hours#skz hard thoughts#bang chan fic#lee know fic#changbin fic#hyunjin fic#han jisung fic#felix fic#seungmin fic#jeongin fic#bang chan fluff#lee know fluff#lee know smut#bang chan smut#han jisung smut#changbin smut#changbin fluff#han jisung fluff
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MINHO’S LOVE IS | minho
drabble.
Minho’s love is quiet. It’s lingering touches and wandering eyes from across the room. It’s shared glances when someone says something funny, your eyes immediately finding one another with a knowing look. It’s his back against the headboard as he scrolls through his phone, his other hand playing mindlessly with your hair while you watch tv. It’s the damp soil of the plant you swear you’ll be able to take care of all on your own, already watered by the time you wake up in the morning, Minho long gone for a day of practice. It’s the way he orders for you at restaurants, already knowing what foods you’re comfortable with. It’s the extra french fries that keep showing up on your plate, an innocent look on his face when you catch him in the act.
Minho’s love is warm. It’s the feeling of his jacket being draped over you when you fall asleep in the car. It’s his breath against your neck at night when he pulls you into his chest and tightens his arm around your middle. It’s the soft skin of his stomach when you shove your cold feet under his shirt, laughing as he shakes his head but still lets you get away with it. It’s his hands when he maps out your body, the blankets pulled tight around the both of you, fingertips trailing every dip and curve of your figure like he’s seeing it for the first time.
Minho’s love is loud. It’s laughter when he chases you down the hallway after you refuse to hug him, his body covered in sweat from the gym. It’s music blasting from a speaker in the kitchen while he cooks your favorite meal. It’s him screaming at the other guys to quiet down when he’s on facetime with you, the ocean-wide distance not enough to keep you apart. It’s the way he calls out to you, an excited “I’m hoooome!” when he gets back from a long day of work.
Minho’s love is gentle. It’s the press of his lips against yours when you open your eyes in the morning. It’s the tug of his fingers on the sleeve of your jacket when he pulls you towards the inner part of the sidewalk and takes your place instead. It’s his hand on the small of your back whenever you’re out in public, a reminder that he’s there. It’s his thumbs swiping the tears off of your cheeks when it all becomes too much to handle. It’s the way he holds you like he means it, like you’re something he’s scared of losing, as he promises over and over that he’ll never break you.
Minho’s love is quiet, warm, loud, and gentle. Minho’s love is more than just three words whispered into the space between your lips. Minho’s love is immeasurable in size and unexplainable in essence.
Minho’s love, to you, is everything.
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#minho drabble#skzstarnet#working hard or hardly working on my wips#slowly but surely making progress on counterpunch#hyunjin first date is also going well#please wait for me everyone#lee know x reader#lee know fanfic#lee know scenarios#lee know fluff#lee know fic#lee know imagines#lee know drabbles#lee know au#lee know fanfiction#skz x reader#skz fluff#skz scenarios#skz imagines#skz drabbles
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Where the Storm Looms
Copyright Ⓒ 2023 by Moonjxsung
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner. Doing so will result in a legal takedown per the Digital Millennium Copyright Act and is subject to legal action.
*This fic is part 2 to “When the Rain Stops.” You can read part 1 here.
Pairing: Lee Minho x fem reader
W/c: 13k
Warnings: smoking, drinking, mention of cheating, mention of masturbation, mention of casual sex, brief mention of calories, nipple play, unprotected sex, bulge kink, creampie, squirting
Synopsis: Now living in the city he despises, Minho is determined to find you again- despite the sacrifices he’ll have to make.
18+. mdni!
•
They say if you love something, you have to set it free. And if it comes back to you, it’s yours.
So what implication can be drawn if you go searching for it- for three months and 13 days straight?
Minho isn’t sure.
The city is just as grimy as he remembered it- teeming with the sounds of pushy street vendors, bumper-to-bumper traffic and conversations of plummeting stocks at every corner. The coffee is overpriced, and the people dress in gray slacks even on laundry day. The girls are pretty- they’re decent in bed, they work good jobs and they can carry a conversation well as long as it involves their respective companies or an ex-boyfriend.
But none of them are you.
Minho feels stupid for thinking about it this extensively. A random hookup in his bar as a result of bad weather conditions- one you never even bothered saying goodbye to him after, and yet he’s still hung up on you.
That stupid game. He should've never let you fix that arcade game. Maybe then you wouldn’t have stayed so long, wouldn’t have kissed him back even though he’s the one who initiated it. Wouldn’t have let him fuck you on the pool table, moaning his name over and over again like a prayer permanently etched into his memory. But he didn’t stop any part of it- in fact, he didn’t want to. Minho knows he wouldn’t have been able to deny you anything you asked for that night, not with the way you looked at him through wide sparkling eyes, scared you’d angered him, when all he really wanted was to keep you safe. Safe from the storm, safe from people with ill intent. He’d pour you a hundred cups of Diet Coke on the rocks if you asked, or be a chance card in another game of pool you’d inevitably lose at. He’d make love to you repeatedly on any surface inside the dive bar, kissing you every chance he got like it would be his last. Because you changed something in him that night- and he’s determined to find you again.
*
“Still waiting on that garlic bread. And we have another order for fettuccine.”
Minho nods once, drizzling a pan with olive oil and prepping the ingredients that sit in disarray on the counter in front of him.
Tales from the hotel kitchen.
So maybe getting his job back as a private chef was a harder feat than he’d originally anticipated it to be. But Minho’s sudden assimilation back into city life meant he had to make adjustments- sacrifices. And although he’s still technically the owner of the little dive bar 6 hours out of the city, he recently signed co-ownership off to Jeongin, who’s been practically running the place while Minho does some soul-searching in the city.
Of course, the soul he’s searching for is nowhere to be found.
Coffee shops, bookstores, convenience shops, dive bars... Minho recently read there are nearly 2 million people in this godforsaken city at any given moment of the day. That’s a 0.0000005% chance he’ll run into you again. Coupled with the fact he’s already run into you once before, and slept with you, the odds are considerably lower. But nonetheless, the objective remains.
Sometime after the initial run-in, Minho also realized he knows nearly nothing about you. You never spoke of an occupation, or a significant other, or even your favorite color. He does know you live in the city, you’re vulnerable against married men and you can use a screwdriver like a cellphone. The rest is left to his wandering imagination.
“Minho, your bread is burning,” a voice interrupts, and he snaps out of the daze he’s in to lower the heat on the oven. Minho’s sous chef Seungmin sighs in irritation, practically pushing Minho aside to retrieve the loaf from the oven himself.
“Do you want me to take over for the evening? You seem really distracted and we’re super busy out there.”
“No, I’m fine,” Minho says, his eyes darting briefly to the window across from him.
Dark rain clouds loom over the afternoon sky, but it doesn’t rain- in fact, it hasn’t rained once since that night. At first, he sees it as some sort of blessing, attributing the mostly-clear skies to your presence somewhere in the city. Perhaps where you go, the sun follows.
But he quickly realizes that it’s more of a curse, this constant storm looming over him, taunting him with promises of darkened clouds and rainfall, only for the nighttime to bring clear skies once again.
It never rains anymore. Sometimes Minho thinks he imagined you, that night in his bar.
Maybe he imagined the rain, too.
*
The ceiling of this apartment is in desperate need of some TLC, Minho thinks, as he lays in bed that night with hands folded over his chest. It’s riddled with cracks and imperfections, running along the drywall like a design choice. But it’s not a design choice- it’s a result of the shitty architectural integrity of this crowded city. Everyone’s so desperate to live out here they’d put up with leaky roofs and cockroaches before they’d live in the suburbs. Minho thinks back to his apartment in the suburbs, where his three cats are currently being taken care of by a friend, and the biggest pain point is patching up thumbtack holes when he moves things around. It’s spacious, a lot bigger than this dump, and it’s a hell of a lot cheaper.
There’s no set time Minho has dedicated to being out here. “When the time is right, I’ll leave,” he told his friend, averting his gaze to avoid raising suspicions about his intentions out here. But to most, it’s clear Minho is going through something. His hair is visibly longer, the silky ends of it now resting just above his shoulders. He can’t be bothered to care about what he wears, knowing very well that he doesn’t blend in with the other city-dwellers when he’s in jeans and a baggy t-shirt. But without the bar to dress up for like he used to, he doesn’t find reason in trying.
Minho’s also well aware that he looks like a complete lunatic, coming out to the city like this to search for a hookup. If your paths do cross, there’s a likelihood you’ll call the police and have him arrested for stalking. You could also have zero recollection of who he is, or that you ever hooked up with him. You could have a boyfriend, be married by now, or just not interested in Minho. Maybe you regret that night. Maybe you lied about being from the city. You could be on the other side of the world by now, and he’d have no clue.
But he feels it- he feels you, in this city, at every corner he turns. He sees traces of you in the people who smile at him when he passes them by. He sees you in the people who hold doors open for him, the baristas who make foam hearts in his lattes every morning, even the businessmen when they catch themselves admiring the beauty of the buildings on a smoke break. He sees you in all things good, when he’s reminded momentarily that the world has more to offer than boxing him in the confines of a dark bar out in the suburbs. And while he’s not completely in love with life all over again, it’s a start.
The hotel patrons give their compliments to his cooking, and he’s reminded of his days as a private chef again, chasing the sweet high of people fawning over his entrees and desserts. When he calls Jeongin to check up on the bar, he remembers the view out the window by the kitchen- nothing but a parking lot, empty most days, or plagued by truck drivers and prostitutes.
Sure, his apartment window in the city faces a brick wall, but he can escape at any given moment of the day to be part of the towering skyscrapers and city lights that stay on all night. It’s then that he feels bad for Jeongin, who doesn’t have the same luxury all the way out there.
Of course, Minho also remembers the sex from that night. It plays in his head on a loop, often echoing in his brain at the worst of times. The way you’d called out his name was all but intoxicating, chanting it in the empty space of the spare room like you’d done it a hundred times before. Your fingers looped through his hair, massaging his locks in praise while your moans did the rest. Your lips on his, smiling when he teased you about the game of pool- teasing him back, like the complex woman he knew you were.
He remembers the way your hardened nipples felt between his fingers, memorizing their feel with his nimble hands while he pressed his third erection of the night against you, a confession that this is what you do to me.
The way you took him with complete ease, undoubtedly craving him, too, gushing with arousal as he fit so perfectly inside you.
“You’re so big,” you’d said to him, and Minho isn’t sure he ever felt confident in his girth until it was inside of you, thrusting in and out like he was trying to make his semen catch, painting your walls white while you squirted on his still-hard cock.
He can’t get off with girls from the city unless he’s thinking of you and him, in the bar, bent over the pool table. He also avoids the spare room of the bar now, getting hard almost instantly at the sight of it.
It’s embarrassing, and he knows it, tucking his now-softened cock back into his boxers and reaching for tissues on his makeshift cardboard box nightstand. The shame washes over him as he folds his hands over his chest again, eyes locked with the shitty drywall ceiling. Have the cracks gotten bigger? He’s not sure of the large one to the left, caving in toward the window in the shape of a backwards L. If it rains, the roof will surely leak. How do you fix a leaky roof? Is it ever going to rain again? Where are you?
*
On a random Tuesday in the middle of the month, Minho runs into Jisung again.
He’s out by one of the tall buildings in the financial district, one hand shoved in the pocket of his suit while the other brings a turquoise-colored vape up to his lips.
Of course he vapes, Minho thinks. He’s just as predictable as he’s always been.
“Is that the Lee Minho?” Jisung says, blowing a cloud of strawberry-scented smoke into the air. Minho shrugs, saying nothing as he approaches Jisung.
“What are you doing all the way out here? Lost ownership of the bar or what?”
“No,” Minho replies, a stoic expression on his face. “I’m living here.”
“You’re living here? You? Avid hater of city life and all things that inhabit it?”
“Yeah,” Minho says, counting black spots on the concrete below him. “Not permanently. Just looking for something.”
“What are you looking for?”
Minho swallows momentarily. He knows he could bring up your name, and Jisung would probably know where to find you. After all, the two of you bonded over your love of the city before you almost went home with him that night. But he refrains, suddenly feeling a little jealous and overprotective. It’s the reminder that Minho was technically a second choice- maybe you’d just slept with him to get some relief for the sexual tension you felt with Jisung. You did lecture him when he cockblocked you, after all.
“Seeing if the apartments are better out here,” he settles on saying. “They’re not.”
Jisung chuckles. “Yeah, well, I could’ve easily told you that.”
He slides his vape back into the pocket of his suit, adjusting the buttons as he begins to speak again.
“When was the last time I saw you, anyway?”
Minho blinks nervously. His mind races with options of what to reply, but Jisung is faster.
“That storm!” He finally exclaims, clapping enthusiastically. “When we were stuck there while it rained fucking cats and dogs out there. You, me and Miss ‘hard to get’.”
“Right,” Minho says, his pulse quickening a little at the mention of you.
“Can you believe she backed out like that? I went back to that hotel with blue balls like you wouldn’t believe. I bet she’s a good fuck, too, the way she’s persuaded so easily.”
Minho grows irate, doing his best to refrain from lashing out at Jisung to defend you. The way he speaks about you like you’re disposable, like you weren’t only swayed by him because he puts on this act, one where he’s single and nice. Both polar opposite of the sleazy man standing in front of Minho right now.
“Doesn’t matter,” Jisung says. “I ran into her like a week after that, anyway.”
Minho feels his heart stop. He finally makes eye contact with Jisung, voice hitching in the back of his throat as he searches for words to say. What were you doing? What were you wearing? Were you with anyone? Did Jisung try to pursue you again? Was there any trace that you were as changed by Minho as he is by you?
“You did?” Minho queries.
“Yeah. She remembered me, for sure. Said she googled me and found out I was married. That’s the problem with women these days- they fucking google you. Who does that?”
Minho observes the way Jisung snorts with laughter, shaking his head like he’s not a serial cheater himself.
“Where was she?” Minho asks, quickly aware of the way the question comes off as a little too bold.
“Uh… I can’t remember. Think we were in the parking garage off 7th. She was all dressed up like she was going to work or something. Must be a private investigator with the way she stalks her potential hookups.”
Minho laughs internally at the irony.
“Why do you ask?” Jisung chimes in again, sounding a little skeptical of Minho’s behavior now.
“Nothing,” Minho says quickly. “Just curious.”
Jisung nods slowly, not taking his gaze off of Minho. He’s visibly tense, thoughts circling his mind as he tries to recall the buildings on 7th.
“I should get going,” Jisung says, pulling his vape back out to take another hit, much like the nicotine-addicted cheater Minho sees him for.
“Good catching up,” Jisung finishes, exhaling a cloud of smoke into his face. “Catch you later.”
And as Minho leaves, he turns back around to Jisung, pausing momentarily before speaking again.
“Oh, Jisung?”
“Yeah?”
Minho cocks his head slightly.
“Your wife really deserves better.”
*
The parking garage on 7th is a shithole. It’s a narrow, almost cylindrical building, filled back to back with rows of fancy cars. Minho remains parked on the third floor, sat in his car like he’s staking out the place, eyes darting over every passerby in hopes you’ll be one of them.
But they’re all middle-aged folks, blabbering into their cellphones with briefcases in hand, no sense of purpose for the life they’re living aside from money, and maybe their fancy cars.
He sighs, reaching for a cigarette and cupping his hand over the lighter to set it ablaze. Smoking is a recent development. Minho doesn’t think he’s chain-smoked like this since his culinary school days, when he’d spend late nights preparing for exams and practicing his plating techniques. It’s not that the cigarettes relieve him, nor does he even care for the flavor. But he does it as a form of sacrifice. The city keeps you from him, and consequently, he’s pulled back largely from things he actually enjoys, choosing to mirror the actions of the city-dwellers. Smoking, casual sex, drinking, dressing down, hardly ever eating full meals. He’s become reduced to a product of the disdain he feels for himself, spiraling further with every cruel reminder that you’re not his.
When his car stakeout passes the three hour mark, Minho is all out of cigarettes. He’s also starving, and dying for a beer. So he pulls out of the lot, most of the spaces vacant now, anyway, and starts the painful trip back to his apartment. The streets smell like sewage with his windows rolled down, but his own car reeks like a cheap casino. With one hand hanging loosely over the door of his car, Minho speeds down the crowded streets, groaning when he’s promptly halted by a red light. Cars press their horns impatiently as nobody seems to move. Minho glances to the right of him, scanning the streets that begin to darken as night falls. And then he sees it- a dive bar. It’s a city dive bar, of course, tainted by its rustic gentrifying decor and teeming with hipsters. But he’s sure you’re in there, knowing you probably regularly finish work and hit up the nearest bar to down Diet Cokes and chicken wings. In a frantic motion, Minho puts the car in reverse, using one hand to steer as he makes an illegal u-turn. The cars around him honk angrily, shouting profanities and pulling up to fill his spot. But he crosses several lanes to reach the bar, a sense of anticipation bubbling inside him already.
*
The place is much fancier than Minho’s, albeit much smaller. An open bar makes up most of the dive bar itself, a sleek laminate wood finish surrounding the series of draft beer dispensers. The wall above the bar is plastered in license plates from all different regions, and the patrons around all appear to be tourists judging by the way they take photos of it. There are several bartenders working tonight, the nearest one to Minho being a heavily tattooed gentleman with bleach blonde hair.
“What can I get you?” He asks enthusiastically, holding a pen and pad in his hand. Minho’s not sure he’s ever seen a bartender write down an order for a single beer.
When the bartender makes his way to the tap, Minho sits on one of the circular red stools. They’re a little too tall for his liking, swiveling around erratically while he catches his balance and glances around at the patrons. He’s the only one alone here, standing out even more in his loose jeans and an old jersey.
“That’s $12,” the bartender says when he returns.
“Can I just run a tab?” Minho asks, scoffing internally at the steep price.
“First drink’s upfront payment,” the bartender replies, flipping a tablet around to Minho for his payment details. Minho swipes his card and confidently smashes the ‘no tip’ button, earning a little eye roll from the bartender. These bars are nothing like his back home.
When the bartender moves away to attend to another patron, Minho swivels around on his stool, scanning the bar for a sign of you. There’s not a single cup of coke on any of the tables here. Everyone’s happily sipping away at whiskeys and vermouths, their drinks clutched closely in hand as they chat about their boring lives. Minho tunes in briefly to a conversation about someone’s broken toe and sighs, wishing so badly he had you to converse with. You’d probably laugh at all of Minho’s jokes about the people here, agreeing with his presumptions of them. See him? He’s definitely compensating. That guy there needs to cool off the vodka seltzers. She’s definitely not interested in him.
As he takes a sip from his mug of beer, it suddenly catches his eye. The arcade game, tucked away in the back of the bar like a little secret. It’s neglected, probably no one around old enough to know how to operate the thing. Minho rises from his seat, making his way to the game and smiling at the sight.
It reminds him of you, the giant black display of Galaga, decorated with whimsical drawings of aliens and Galaxian Flagships. He pulls out a quarter, slotting it in the machine, because of course you have to pay at this one, and slots it in, waiting for the thing to start up.
Only it doesn’t, the game not even emitting so much as a hum from the monitor. He smacks it a few times, partly in efforts to start it up, and partly to reclaim his last quarter. But it’s a moot effort- the game is completely dead.
Minho makes his way back to the bar, frustrated at the deja vu of broken arcade games and the memories they bring back to him.
“Your game’s broken,” Minho says to the bleach blonde bartender.
“Huh? Oh, yeah. That thing’s been dead for months now.”
“I put a quarter in. Swallowed it and won’t spit it out.”
“Yeah, it does that. Sorry, man.”
“Sorry? You should be. That thing shouldn’t be down here if it isn’t working.”
The bartender narrows his eyes as he mixes another drink for a patron.
“Yeah, well, people don’t usually try it. Again, sorry man. Not really anything I can do about it.”
Minho is angry now, his ears flushed a crimson shade as he speaks, not in any mood to reason with the bartender.
“Look man, just give me my quarter. Can’t you key the machine or something?”
“We don’t have access to it. It’s from some local vendor. You’re welcome to go find a few pennies on the ground if the 25 cents means so much to you.”
“What the fuck kind of behavior is that for a bartender?”
The other patrons and bartenders have noticed now, quieting down as they watch Minho down a few more sips of his beer angrily.
“Look man, you’re gonna have to leave. I can’t have you in here acting like this.”
“I want my quarter.”
“I can’t get your quarter, dude. It’s gone. Get out before I call the police.”
“Why don’t you hire someone to fix the machine, then? There are people in the city who do that, you know. I know someone who’d get it fixed in seconds. She’d be able to get the fucking quarter out, too.”
“Call the police,” the bartender says to another, and Minho raises his hands up in surrender.
“Relax, I’m leaving.” He chugs the rest of his beer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as the other patrons look on in shock. Nearby, a different bartender has a phone clutched in his hand, ready to dial the cops like they’d requested.
“Tell me one thing,” Minho says before turning around.
The man says nothing, eyes narrowed in fear as he waits for Minho to finish.
“You guys sell Diet Coke here?”
The bartenders look around at each other nervously, confused at the question.
“We only have Pepsi,” one chimes in.
And Minho nods, understanding.
“Take care,” Minho says, waving them off as he finally exits the bar.
*
“I need you to come back for a little bit,” Jeongin says into the receiver one morning. He sounds panicked, like he might break down at any moment. Minho knows he wouldn’t request this of him if it wasn't something serious.
“Okay,” Minho replies. “What happened?”
“The place was robbed last night. By a group of guys. Nobody’s hurt, but they did have a knife on them. Cleared out one of the registers.”
Minho sighs, suddenly feeling awful about being out here. What is he doing out here when the business he owns is being threatened? Even worse, putting Jeongin and the other staff at risk while he embarks on the futile task of searching for what’s already gone? There’s no good explanation for it. It’s selfish- sure, he’s finally chasing after what he wants, but it’s a selfish task nonetheless.
“I can be there this evening,” Minho says, already mentally preparing himself for the six hour drive out there. “Just close up for the day. Make sure everyone gets home safe and knows they’ll be paid for the day anyway.”
Jeongin understands, hanging up on his end of the line and closing up the bar.
As Minho tosses his cell phone aside, he looks around the apartment, sighing heavily when he observes the state of things. His stuff is still stored away in cardboard boxes, the apartment looking more like a showroom than a space lived-in by him. The walls remain bare of any form of decorations, the tiny excuse for a kitchen is void of dishes and cutlery, even his toiletries are in travel bags, like he’s ready to go home at any given moment. And he just might be, after this week’s events.
*
The drive home is as excruciating as he remembers it. Exiting the city means sitting in miles of traffic, alongside impatient city-dwellers who somehow voluntarily make the commute everyday for their jobs. Minho briefly wonders if you’re in the traffic, too. You’re a little impatient, he remembers, thinking about how you demanded a phone charger from him that night in the bar. Only your impatience is something he’d gladly put up with in traffic like this, probably taking the opportunity to play his favorite songs for you and listen to you talk his ear off. He sighs to himself, wishing so badly you could fill the empty leather seat next to him, currently inhabited by empty cigarette boxes and discarded takeout boxes.
Six agonizing hours later, the sun’s beginning to set as Minho pulls into the familiar parking lot of the bar. Waning beams of sunlight reflect off the old bar sign, almost luring Minho inside as the nighttime chases closely after. When he unlocks the door and makes his way inside, it’s like he never left. The red booths are vacant, the peeling vinyl of their seats still scattered across the floor like he remembers. Bottles of alcohol neatly line the shelves behind the counter, which don’t reside far from the shiny mugs and glasses inside the cabinets. Minho runs a finger over the counter, well impressed with the state of the bar since Jeongin’s taken over. It’s impeccable, almost better than it was when Minho first left.
“Minho?” A voice calls, and a figure peeks from around the corner.
It’s Jeongin, who looks different in casual wear for the day, sporting a pair of sweatpants and a simple black t-shirt. He’s wearing his signature pair of thick framed glasses, running a hand through his hair as he takes a seat on one of the barstools.
“It was this register,” he says, gesturing to the one closest to Minho. “I think it was roughly $300 in there. They all had dark jackets and I couldn’t see their faces.”
Minho nods, opening the register to investigate, and then slumps back in the stool behind the counter.
“I’ll take the remaining cash to the safe. Let’s stay closed for a few days while I file a police report. They’ll probably want to poke around in here, and I don’t want any of the patrons to panic.”
It’s Jeongin’s turn to nod, making a mental note of Minho’s instructions. After a brief pause, he speaks again.
“How’s the city?”
“The city is…the city.”
Jeongin chuckles lightly, shaking his head.
“Are you working?”
Minho nods. “Not my private chef gig. But it’s a restaurant. I have a sous chef, which helps. It’s nothing special, though.”
There’s a moment of silence as Jeongin traces the table pattern with his fingers. He wants to ask more from him- he wants to know why Minho’s out there in the first place, why he even agreed to sign co-ownership off to Jeongin when this was his bar he was so proud of for all those years. But there’s seemingly no courteous way to go about it- any which way, he feels like he’s overstepping. Minho is usually on the quieter side, only confiding in his colleagues when it’s something that affects the business.
“Minho, are you…” he begins, his voice wavering in fear that he’ll unintentionally offend.
“Have you found what you’re looking for?”
Minho is silent, and for a second, it’s hard for Jeongin to gauge his reaction. His eyes remain locked on Jeongin’s pupils, trembling in discomfort as he thinks back to you. He thinks of the city, of the bar fight, of the hours spent in a dingy parking garage and the cracks in his apartment ceiling.
Jeongin begins to take back his question, disappointed in himself he’s even chosen to utter the inquiry. But Minho finally does give an answer, albeit a vague one.
“Not yet,” he replies, swallowing nervously before continuing. “You’ll be the first to know.”
When Jeongin leaves, he takes the cozy atmosphere of the bar with him, and the place now feels colder, more unfamiliar. Minho looks out the window at the darkness that envelopes the parking lot, feeling a sense of unease in knowing he’s going to leave it all behind again. This bar needs him, it needs stability. It needs someone to look out for the people who are vulnerable to sleazy married men or robbers. As he pockets the cash to transfer to the safe, he glances at the yellow Pac-Man game, sitting proudly where it has for the past three months since its repair. Little ghosts dance along the display screen, prompting users with ‘press A to start’.
Minho simply walks past it, knowing very well there’s little joy in a game that only brings back painful reminders. He makes his way to the back office, where the red leather couch and desk still remain. The cash is deposited in the safe, and the keys in the file cabinet- third drawer from the top.
Minho feels a gravitational pull to the spare room upstairs- he knows he shouldn’t, very well aware that he’s only hurting himself by picturing you up there. But still he does. Hands shoved in his pockets, he makes his way up the creaking stairs and through the little hallway.
The room is just as suffocating as he remembers it. The same old pool table sits in the middle of the room, and at the back where the arcade game previously lived, there’s a rectangle on the carpeted floor where it once sat, contrasting a bright untouched green to the older, worn down carpet. Minho doesn’t leave the doorway; he just stands, observing the room in all its mundane appearance. His eyes remain on the spot you’d previously hoisted yourself up to sit on the pool table, and he can almost see himself looming over you, too. From this angle, it doesn’t feel like it ever happened. It plays more like a cheap movie where a famous scene was shot. Like a figment of his imagination.
Have you found what you’re looking for?
He hasn’t, not yet. But seeing the potential of this old room, in the bar he owns, Minho knows it’s finally time to stop searching.
*
Back in the city, Minho’s days are numbered by the countdown. Two days until he’ll leave all this behind, for good this time.
The kitchen is busier than normal on this gloomy Thursday, more staff than usual working floor while others make trips up to hotel rooms for delivery.
Minho drizzles pans with olive oil in between plating a shrimp scampi, tonight’s special. The air is thick and fragrant with seafood and Parmesan cheese.
“I need a lava cake for room 302!” Seungmin exclaims to Minho in a rushed tone.
“On the cart by the door. Second row.”
Cooks work diligently in their respective areas, and Minho wipes his brow with the back of his sleeve. It’s a stressful role, no doubt, but he still feels a sense of sadness knowing he won’t be back to cooking like this once he’s back in town. He tries to mentally prepare himself for days of mixers and signature cocktails again.
“Minho, get out of here and go take a lunch,” Seungmin says as he reappears from behind the door. “That way the schedule doesn’t rearrange.”
Seungmin is a blunt sous chef, but he’s dedicated to his work. Minho knows he’ll have no problem working his way up to a head chef role one day. He appreciates his attention to detail and ability to work with difficult patrons, and he’d certainly entertain the idea of bringing him to work at the bar back home if he liked.
“On it,” Minho says, already pulling off his apron.
“Oh, and can you bring a Diet Coke to table 6 out there? I brought regular on accident.”
“Yup,” he says plainly, grabbing a clear glass from the clean stack and filling it at the fountain.
Minho thinks back to his apartment- this might be his last day at work, but he still has a generous amount of packing to do when he gets home. He’s relieved he kept most of his stuff in boxes, or else he’d easily be stuck here another week.
Minho counts boxes in his head, balancing the glass in one hand and his apron in another as he exits the kitchen to the seating area. He’s seldom out here, only really passing through when he gets in for the day. But he’s not in charge of serving guests, and the whole thing suddenly feels a little uncomfortable to him. Quiet jazz music plays overhead as tables fill the room with noise of their conversations, everyone dressed up with legs crossed neatly under white tablecloths.
Minho looks around frantically as beads of condensation on the glass wet his hand- where the hell is table 6?
A family sits at the back, every member paired with their drink of choice. An older couple sits closer to Minho, two cups of coffee steaming in front of them.
And by the window, two women deep in conversation- one of them passionately sharing tales of work or perhaps a lover.
And the other one, you.
Minho thinks he’s hallucinating for a moment, when he first observes you sitting there. You’re nodding as the other woman talks, a smile pulling on your face as she exaggeratedly makes a hand motion during her story. You’re not dressed like the other city-dwellers here, looking starkly more beautiful in a sweater and a pair of jeans. You’re the only one in here wearing jeans, aside from Minho. He smiles when he takes notice.
Another server passes Minho in a rush, shoving by him with a tray of food in hand.
“Oh sorry,” he says, eyeing him a little confused. “Did you want me to take that? I know you’re on lunch.”
Minho grips the coke firmly in his hand, shaking his head almost immediately. He’s never refused something so fast in his life before.
“No, I got it,” he says, finally taking the first step toward your table.
Minho glances down at his appearance briefly, fixing the collar of his shirt as he approaches you. He’s a little more dressed up for his last day here, a pastel blue button-up tucked into his jeans, his now long hair parted down the middle. He wishes he could tuck back into the bathroom and see himself more clearly, but he knows he’ll lose you if he doesn’t make his move now.
Minho’s thought of this moment so many times, replayed the conversation in his head like a speech he’s been waiting to give. He wants to proclaim his adoration for you, giving you a romantic explanation of how he’s searched for you all these months and never stopped thinking of you. And in an ideal scenario, you’d say the same, kissing him in front of all the restaurant-goers here and leaving back to town with him to live happily ever after.
But he’s never considered the idea of a friend being present. Or being crunched for time on a 30-minute lunch break. It’s all happening so fast, and his head spins with anxiety as he approaches you.
You’re still in conversation when he sets your Diet Coke down at the table a little too hard, hoping to get your attention. You don’t so much as look his way as he does, and he lingers by your table for a moment as he thinks.
“Do you need a straw?” Minho asks, eyes darting over your face briefly. Your hair is a little longer, too, but you look the same. He’s sure you’re not a hallucination.
“No thank you,” you say, finally glancing over at him to give a small nod.
And just like he’s lost for more words, you seem to be too, lips parting slightly as you keep your gaze fixed on his.
*
“Thank you for lunch,” you say to your colleague at the end of the meal, who’s been passionately talking about her recent project at work for the last hour.
You tuned her out after the first 15 minutes, being completely awestruck when the server delivered your requested Diet Coke to your table.
Either the brain fog from work is finally starting to catch up with you, or you’re simply too tired. But the server looks exactly like Lee Minho, the bartender you slept with a few months ago. Normally, you’d tuck away and hide at the sight of running into a hookup again. But Minho wasn’t just a hookup to you.
He’s lingered amongst your thoughts for the better part of those three months, the polite action of protecting you from sleeping with a married man and letting you seek shelter in the storm remaining some of the nicest things someone’s ever done for you.
He wasn’t just a hookup, not with the way he spoke of his hopes and dreams and asked about all of yours. And then he fucked you like a husband, the feeling you got from him bending you over the pool table like that still sending chills down your spine.
Your colleague pulls her scarf and coat on, nodding as she gestures to the door. The lunch rush has died down by now, and most of the tables are vacant as the streets bustle with people returning to work.
“I’m gonna grab a meal to-go,” you tell her. “I’ll meet you back at the office. Thank you again for lunch!”
Fortunately for you, she doesn’t question it, leaving you to order as she heads back to the office.
Minho is nowhere to be seen, only one server present on the floor as it’s more empty now.
“Can I help you?” A voice asks, and you’re met with the warm smile of the singular server.
“I… I wanted to give my compliments to the chef,” you say, sounding a little unsure of yourself.
“I’ll be sure to do that, thank you very much,” he replies, bowing when he finishes.
“I meant my personal thanks,” you clarify, and he furrows his brows in response.
“Uh… sure, I can ask him. Do you know if it was the head chef?”
“His name’s Lee Minho,” you say with a smile. “He’s probably the head chef.”
*
Minho’s sous chef runs his kitchen like the navy, you quickly learn, as he ushers for you to leave soon after Minho exits the kitchen due to the impending dinner rush.
There’s no time to catch up with him, only being able to utter a short “thanks for the meal,” as he waits for you to speak.
But he recognizes you, his gaze staying on yours a little too long as he nervously bows.
“Y/n,” he says in response, the action saying nothing and yet so much at the same time.
And you smile back at him, relieved he still remembers.
As Seungmin calls for him a second time, you pull a pen from the pocket of his apron, scribbling your address on a napkin from one of the tables.
He nods back at you, napkin clutched in hand, as he makes his way back to the kitchen.
And for a brief moment, neither of you can make out the implications of the action. An invitation for sex? A date to catch up? The details are blurry to both of you. But you hope he shows, and Minho already knows he wouldn’t miss it for the world.
*
As you fix your hair in front of the mirror that evening, memories of Minho play in your mind like they did after the night you spent together. You know you had to leave- it wasn’t something you decided lightly, but you and him are fated for different things. And who are you to intervene where the stars align? Minho deserves someone who will be available for him, someone uncomplicated and willing to inhabit the place he loves so dearly.
You, on the other hand, have a historical bad run with men, and so pursuing Minho would be uncharacteristic. But also unfair to him. It’s clear from that night that your worst traits will always remain the most significant parts of you- impatience, judgment and naivety. And while Minho comes off as curt, he’s anything but. He’s too good for you. You’re just a byproduct of this city- everything he despises. It would be over before it even started.
Minho shows at exactly a quarter to nine, knocking twice at the door as he waits out in the hallway for you.
When you unlatch the door, he perks up from nervously staring at the carpeted floor, adjusting his collar and clearing his throat. He looks more casual than you’ve probably ever seen him before, in a striped gray and black top, layered with a black collared shirt and dark ripped jeans. He also looks particularly handsome tonight, but also different, noticeably thinner in his face where his cheekbones protrude generously, his hair a little longer now.
“Hi,” Minho says plainly, his gaze fixated on yours in an almost trance-like state.
“Hi,” you reply, unsure of where to start. “Come in, please.”
You step aside, ushering him into your apartment and shutting the door behind you both. Minho looks around, impressed with the state of your apartment in comparison with his. There are cherry wood bookshelves lining the walls, filled top to bottom with stacks of old novels and textbooks. Colorful modern paintings decorate the walls, which are admittedly much taller than his own, and cozy lighting fills every room in the space.
Minho bows a little, handing you a bottle, and you smile in amusement as you scan the contents. A single liter of Diet Coke.
“You remembered,” you say, endeared by the simple action.
“So you don’t waste your calories,” he replies with a small smile, echoing the statement you told him so many months ago.
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” you tell him. Minho takes note of the shakiness in your voice, a little relieved that you seem to be as nervous as he is. It’s certainly not a matter of picking up where you left off when you both have your walls up like this, but he prefers the silence to your absence any day.
You disappear into the kitchen, pouring both of you glasses of Diet Coke as Minho settles on the edge of the couch. He folds his hands in his lap and blinks nervously, trying so hard to remember everything he’s wanted to confess to you since returning here. But in this proximity to you, in your own home, everything suddenly seems like a bad idea. He feels dramatic, overbearing, trying to make sense of this. Maybe he shouldn’t have come.
When you return, Minho takes a deep breath, quietly thanking you for the beverage when you place it on the coffee table in front of him. And then as he feared, a silence washes over both of you.
You take a sip of your coke, waiting for him to speak, and similarly, he waits for you. You’d forgotten, briefly. That Minho is inherently a quiet guy. It’d been you who brought his walls down, challenged him to a game of pool and even instigated the argument when he told Jisung to leave the bar. As he blinks at you a few times, you realize it may be his way of asking you to do it again, to help him feel comfortable again.
“Your Italian food is on par with your chicken wings,” you say to him, finally breaking the silence. “Think you need to add shrimp scampi to your bar menu.”
Minho smiles, and the whole room seems to brighten up when he does. His eyes turn to little crescents, his grin flashing you the skewed front teeth you were so endeared by when you first met him. His presence feels like the bar did- safe, familiar.
“It’s not my best work,” he replies. “It’s just a temporary job. But I do have a sous chef here, which is a plus.”
“The one with the nice smile? I know, he almost kicked me out for asking to see you. He’s very deceiving.”
You and Minho share laughter, recalling how Seungmin yelled at you several times at the restaurant today. When your laughter dies down, he swallows nervously, unsure of how to proceed.
“Thanks for… giving your compliments today,” he says. He really wants to say ‘thank you for seeing me again’.
“I knew I recognized you,” you say back to him. “I was surprised to see you here in the city. I guess I just wanted some confirmation it was really you.”
“It’s me,” Minho says sheepishly. You smile at him, feeling a little sorry at the way his tone sounds so unsure.
“What are you doing in the city, anyway?” You ask.
Minho isn’t sure what to say. In an alternate timeline, he’d like to tell you he came for you. But he knows he’ll come off as a creep, and the last thing he wants is to lose you again.
“Just wanted a break from the suburbs,” he settles on saying.
“Do you like it?”
He toys with a frayed hem on the throw pillow beside him, shaking his head a little hesitantly.
“If I say no, you’ll think less of me.”
He regrets the words as soon as they leave his lips, not wanting you to think he came here for you to pity him. In fact, the reality is quite the opposite.
“I would never think less of you,” you assure him with a gentle smile. “You’re allowed to have your opinions.”
Minho nods, not entertaining the subject anymore.
“How’s the bar?”
“It’s okay,” Minho says, sighing a little as he thinks back to recent events. “It was robbed just the other night.”
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you say to him with widened eyes. “Is everyone… okay?”
“Everyone’s okay,” he affirms. “Just lost some money. I’m working with the police on it, so hopefully we’ll have someone arrested if we’re lucky.”
You nod at his words, feeling disheartened at the mention of the robbery. Although you’re not particularly fond of the suburbs, the bar is a sacred space for you, and knowing he and the staff were put in that situation makes you uneasy.
“How’s work?” Minho asks, and you chuckle at the question.
“Nothing special. I did get a promotion last month, but I’m only making a few dollars more than I was last time we met. Nothing to write home about.”
“We’ll congratulations anyway,” Minho says, raising his glass of Diet Coke. “Well deserved.”
“Thank you,” you say, clinking your glass against his and letting the cool carbonated beverage soothe the nerves still present in your demeanor.
“Oh, you’ll never believe it! I ran into Jisung out here,” you say to Minho with a scoff. “He tried to pursue me again, the bastard. I’m pretty sure he was even wearing a wedding ring this time. I had to tell him I found out he was married on-”
“On Google,” Minho finishes your sentence. “He told me.”
“You saw him too?”
“Yeah, just the other day. He’s just as obnoxious as he was three months ago.”
You smile at Minho, briefly reminded of the way you were able to bond with him as a result of Jisung’s antics.
“I never got to say thank you,” you say a little quietly, averting his gaze. “For that night. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you there to help me.”
He looks down, pondering your words for a moment.
“You left without saying goodbye.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to. Trust me. But I figured…” your voice trails off, trying desperately to decipher how to word your sentiment politely.
“Figured what?” He says, looking back up at you. His eyes tremble a little in anticipation for your reply.
“I figured we’re just different people.”
Minho nods, pursing his lips together as he replays your words.
“And by that you mean that you’re a successful member of the city, and I’m just a bartender.”
Your face drops at his words, suddenly panicked that he’s come here because he’s angry at you. You would never think less of him for being a bartender- hell, you wouldn’t even think less of him if he was unemployed. You’re not sure you could think less of him if you tried.
“That’s not what I mean. And you know that.”
Minho narrows his eyes a little, challenging you.
“Then what do you mean?”
“I mean,” you begin, sighing before continuing to speak. “That I’m everything you despise. I let people down. I’m not inherently a good person, the way you are. You know how I stormed in there demanding a phone charger? Fighting you at the bar because you wouldn’t let me sleep with a married man? That’s the kind of person I am. I’m impatient, and naive and I’m nothing like the girls you’re used to.”
“How do you know what I’m used to?”
“Come on, Minho,” you say, and the conversation finally begins to sound a little more natural between the two of you. “You said it yourself- I’ve never lived without the notion of wanting to migrate as soon as possible. Who’s to say that doesn’t apply to people, too?”
“You’re nothing like you say you are,” Minho interrupts, and you can feel yourself getting frustrated at his words.
“How would you know that? Because you slept with me in a bar? I’m not this dream girl you think I am, Minho. I was looking out for you. You deserve better.”
Minho says nothing for a moment, swirling Coke around in his cup and watching the bubbles fizzle away as they hit the rim of the glass. He shakes his head a little to himself, and then he begins to speak again.
“You want to know why I came out here again?”
You remain silent, already knowing what he’s going to say. But to your surprise, his answer is a little more complex.
“I came out here because I wanted to. I wanted to work as a chef again. I wanted new colleagues, I wanted a different view and I was tired of being stuck in that little bar.”
You don’t reply to his statement, waiting for him to continue.
“And do you know why finding you was something I held onto so dearly?”
“Why?” You ask, the question coming out in a shaky tone. He takes a deep breath before he answers.
“I wanted to thank you. I wanted to tell you all about it. To tell you that you were right- sometimes, simple isn’t better. Sometimes you have to go back and make amends before you can move forward again. I wouldn’t have done any of this if someone really cool didn’t walk into my bar and make it clear to me. I guess part of me just hoped you were changed by it, too.”
Your expression softens at his words, feeling awful for the way this conversation has gone so far. It’s not your intention to hurt him- in fact, you feel particularly protective of Minho.
“I came looking for you, too,” you say after a moment of silence, and Minho perks up at your words.
“You did?”
“Mhm,” you nod. “I visited your bar. Twice since that night. I asked for you both times. The guy said you weren’t there anymore. I think after the second time, I took it as a sign to stop trying.”
“Jeongin?” Minho says, furrowing his brows together in visible confusion.
“He was blonde, a little small. Freckles.”
“Felix,” Minho says, chuckling lightly. “He’s a new hire. Jeongin would’ve told you differently. I have co-ownership with him now.”
You nod, folding your hands in your lap.
“I was changed by it,” you say, finally letting your gaze meet his. “I never stopped thinking about you. But it scares me. In so many ways, you’re everything I tried to run from when I left the suburbs. I don’t think I was ever good enough for any of it- all I cared about was money, and my work and finding an apartment with a nice enough view of the city. I didn’t care about the memories I made there, or that there’s genuinely good people. I didn’t even visit my parents very often. You reminded me that there’s more to it than just that. There’s more to the past than its negative aspects. So thank you, too.”
Minho is quiet for a moment, his mind racing with thoughts of what to do- how to keep you around. But in this moment, it’s clear to him- he has to let you go. He said what he had to say. He’s done the search, all three months of it, and he found you. He validated his own emotions and made sense of yours- you were just as changed by it as he was. But maybe that’s enough- perhaps the rest is just wishful thinking.
“Looks like we felt the same about it, then,” he says with a small smile, sitting up from the sofa and making his way to peer out the large glass window in your living room.
“And by the way, you definitely succeeded with the view out here. Mine’s just a brick wall.”
You chuckle, making your way over to the window and standing next to him to take in the view, too.
“It’s nice, right? All of the east side is visible from up here.”
“See that down there?” Minho points. “Visited that dive bar the other day. It sucks if you’re wondering.”
“CJ’s? Yeah, it’s kind of a shithole. They don’t even serve Diet Coke.”
Minho chuckles lightly, a little sadness evident in his tone.
“You know, maybe if you swung by and fixed their little arcade game, they’d supply you some. Probably something to do with all the ABC’s.”
“The what?” You query, furrowing your brows together and chuckling as he speaks.
“The little gidgets inside. You know, with the pins.”
You pause to think for a moment, mentally mapping out the circuit inside.
“The EPROMs,” you say finally.
Minho feels his breath hitch in his throat as you utter the acronym. It sounds so unfamiliar, and yet so familiar to him at the same time. He suddenly remembers that night, in the spare room, hearing you say it for the first time.
“The what?” He replies gently, not removing his gaze from the window.
“The EPROMs,” you clarify, a little louder this time.
“Say it again,” Minho breathes, a small smile painted on his face now.
“EPROMs?” You question, turning to face him, visibly confused.
“Yeah, those. What’s it stand for, anyway?” Minho finally asks, turning to face you. You face him, too, endeared by the curiosity he’s displayed for that game repair since the first night you met.
“Erasable programmable read-only memory,” you explain, aware of how close he is in proximity to you now. His eyes flicker down to your lips and then back up again, his plump lips pulling into a knowing smile as you speak. He knows he’s wandering into dangerous territory now, but he can’t help it- not when it’s you who makes him feel like this.
“God, it sounds so sexy when you say it,” Minho says sheepishly.
And he knows he shouldn’t entertain it- he’s well aware that his intention is to walk out of here and get on with his life, comfortable with the knowledge that you’d sought him out, too. But he can’t help himself when you’re this close to him, talking circuit repair so intelligently and erotically.
So without another question to stutter, or a fight to be had, he closes the gap between you two, pressing his lips onto yours and kissing you one last time.
You don’t protest the action, instantly tangling your hands in his tresses and reciprocating with the same hungry, passionate kisses he delivers. Maybe it’s the long hair, or the ripped jeans, but part of you also wonders if he’s been dying to kiss you tonight as badly as you’ve been craving him. The flavor is reminiscent of the bar to you, on that pool table like the first time you kissed him. He tastes like mint, enveloping your tongue with hints of Diet Coke while he nibbles on your bottom lip between kisses.
Without any sort of end goal in mind, your hands snake down to his collared shirt, which you tug on hungrily, and then begin to push off his torso. Minho smiles into the kiss, reaffirmed that you want him just the same, and he pulls away momentarily to complete the task of pulling off his button down.
Underneath, his striped t-shirt is cut off generously at the shoulders, completely exposing his arms to you. You almost gasp at the sight of his toned arms jutting out, veins running along his forearms and flexing with each movement. Minho chuckles softly when he takes notice, amused at your reaction.
When his button down shirt is fully off, he kisses you again, hands finding their way to your waist as he pushes himself against you, desperate to feel you against him. You walk backwards, cupping his face between your hands and leading him toward your bedroom.
For a fleeting moment, you’re nervous to take it any further than this, the last person you slept with being Minho himself. You can’t remember which undergarments you wore, or what your bedroom decor looks like to anyone except yourself. But Minho’s kisses shut you up, his lips moving against yours with desire and passion, and you don’t want to do anything except this, right here.
When you’ve made it to the bed, you pull away, crossing your arms over your torso and pulling your sweater off over your head. You’re in a lacy black bra, you realize, because of course you thought to dress for him. Minho blinks a few times, crossing his own arms over his torso and finally pulling his shirt over his head.
It’s then that you realize you’ve never seen Minho without his shirt before- he wore that white button down in the bar, only allowing you to see a generous amount of his collarbones. But standing in front of you like this, he’s breathtaking, his toned torso and his sharp collar bones complementing his sculpted thighs and arms so perfectly.
When he takes notice of you staring at him, one hand flies down to his mid-torso, where he spreads a palm out over the skin, seemingly in an attempt to cover something. You take one step forward, gently placing a hand over his and moving it so that his torso is exposed again. And across his tanned skin, a pale pink scar catches your eye, not very noticeable from your previous distance, but definitely perceptible when you observe his body long enough.
“Minho,” you coo, running your hand along the scar and tracing it with your fingertips. “You’re beautiful,” you say to him after a moment, smiling up at him sincerely.
Minho’s heart almost stops in its place, overwhelmed with his emotions for you, to be here with you, the desire to make love to you eating away at his mind like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.
And if it is, he’d die a happy man.
His lips crash against yours again, hands snaking down to your jeans, where he unbuttons them, your hands meeting his to help pull them down. While you take over, he unbuckles his belt, snaking the leather out from around his waist and undoing his buttons. It’s then that he pushes you gently against the bed, hoisting your legs up so that you’re at a comfortable angle, finally propping himself above you and working kisses down your neck. He nibbles your flesh between his teeth the way he did before, beginning to work purple bruises around your throat. And you let him, without protest, because you’re desperate for a reminder that he’s here, that he’s yours. Minho smiles against your neck when he feels you moan softly at the sensation, satisfied with the way you melt at his touch.
“Minho,” you call, and he brings his lips to press a chaste kiss to yours again.
“What is it, baby?” He coos gently, pressing a series of kisses to your lips before you speak again.
“I never should have left,” you reply, toying with a strand of his hair around your fingers in a pleading manner. Your chest is heavy with guilt, tears almost pricking at your eyes as he looms over you like this.
He chuckles softly, kissing you for a moment before grazing his lips over yours again, speaking just above a whisper.
“I’m here,” he says. “I’m right where you left me.”
And it’s your turn to kiss him, crashing your lips against his again as tears fall from the corners of your eyes. Minho takes notice when the salty taste of them dance along his tongue, kissing them back up your face and holding you a little closer to him. His hands wrap around the small of your back to find the clasp of your bra, skillfully undoing it with one hand and pulling away from you to discard it on the floor. It’s Minho’s turn to stare, running one hand down your clavicles until he’s grazing your nipples with his fingers.
You feel your breath hitch in your throat with anticipation, before he finally dips his middle finger down over one of your hardened nipples, earning a stifled gasp from you. He works little circles over your nipple with one finger, the gentle stimulation making you gasp into his mouth as he kisses you again.
And then he moves back to your neck, kissing over the bruises he sucked into your flesh, trailing lower and lower until he’s just above your breasts. You look down at him with bated breath, almost clenching at the way his lips exhale little breaths against your nipples, making them even harder. With his eyes on yours, he finally lowers himself, latching both lips around your breast and sucking.
Your back arches up into him instinctively, the feeling of his teeth grazing your skin sending divine shivers up your spine. In a sudden motion, his tongue swirls around your bud, the cold sensation causing you to moan fervently. He smiles with your flesh between his teeth, while your hands tangle themselves in his hair and massage him encouragingly.
It feels so primal, so natural to have his mouth all over you, your legs pressing together to calm the ache between your legs. He takes his time on one breast, only coming up to press a kiss in the valley of your breasts and then moving to give attention to the other one. You could stay here for hours, like this, if it wasn’t for the pulsing reminder in your groin that you want to feel him inside of you.
“Please,” you say gently, pressing your legs together and squeezing in efforts to relieve yourself.
Minho chuckles softly, letting go from your nipple with a gentle sucking sound, a string of spit hanging from his lips as he looks up at you with hooded eyes.
“I want to feel you inside me again,” you admit shyly, tenderly running your nails along the back of his neck. Minho’s lips meet yours again, and his hands quickly find their way to the hem of your underwear, sliding them down and pulling away to discard them on the floor.
He’s promptly reminded of how needy and vocal you are, smiling down at you as you pull his face back to yours and swirl your tongue around his. But truth be told, he’s just as needy as you are, equally reminded of how much he’s touched himself to the thought of this and secretly prayed he’d be able to make love to you again. And now here, his lips on yours, it’s finally happening, his rock-hard erection proof that it’s always been you.
As you arch up into him, one leg wrapping around his to push him even closer against you, your hand snakes down to his erection, palming him through his boxers. Minho groans at the contact, his lips parting a little as he winces in pleasure.
“You’re so hard,” you say with a smile, pleased at his evidently equal desperation for you.
“All for you,” Minho replies, running one hand down your stomach to rub little circles on your clit, causing you to moan in pleasure.
“Ah- fuck,” you breathe out, contorting against him, desperate for him to fill you up. “Please, Minho, want to feel you inside me,” you pant against him, pleading for the second time now.
He remains like that for a moment, working little circles onto your clit as he observes the way your eyebrows arch up in pleasure.
“Want me to fill you up?” He asks, cocking his head with yours as you grasp his forearm.
“Yes, please,” you reply, trying your best to stave off your orgasm until he’s inside of you.
And without teasing you any further, Minho pulls away from you to slide off his boxers, his cock springing up against his abdomen in anticipation for you. You prop yourself up on your elbows, in awe at the sight as he tosses his boxers aside and leans down to kiss you again.
“Lay down,” Minho orders sweetly, and you do as you’re told, exhaling once to calm your steadily beating pulse.
“Is this still okay?” Minho asks, caressing your shoulder with concern as you wait for his next move.
“Yes,” you say, giving a half smile to him when he rubs his thumb along your cheek lovingly. He smiles back at you, giving one small peck to your lips before hoisting himself up and wrapping one hand around his cock.
You watch as Minho wraps his slender fingers around the base of his cock, pumping a few times before leaning down to kiss you tenderly. The sensation causes him to breathe a few gasps into your mouth, Minho also trying his best to stave his release until he’s inside of you.
“Gonna put it in now, okay?” He asks, breaking away to part your thighs. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
But you don’t- not when you’re this wet for him, this desperate to finally feel him fill you up again, like you’ve fantasized for so long.
A strand of his hair falls into his face as he finally guides his cock inside of you, rubbing your clit as he thrusts in fully and bottoms out. You gasp at his size, almost having forgotten just how thick he is, the stretch making your head spin with pleasure. When he gauges your reaction, he begins to move with you slowly, giving gentle thrusts while you wrap your arms around his back.
The bed creaks as he moves in and out of your sopping pussy, emitting lewd sloshing sounds as he leans down to kiss you, your tongues and mouths doing much of the same. You can hardly kiss him back, your lips already dribbling strings of drool in fucked-out satisfaction from him filling you up like this.
“Fuck… baby… you’re so tight,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut in pleasure.
“Feels so good,” you breathe back, gripping his shoulder a little bit when he picks up his pace. “No one fucks me the way you do,” you say to him, and his cock twitches inside of you at the admission.
“Fuck,” Minho says again. “I dreamt of you for so long,”
“Me too,” you say, reaching up to move a stray piece of hair out from in front of his eyes between your heavy breathing. “I wish I came looking for you again. God, I wasted so much time.”
Minho kisses you, burying his lips in the crook of your neck to caress the bruises he’s already left.
“I never stopped searching for you,” he breathes out against your skin. “It’s you, it’s always been you.”
His words make your heart flutter as he continues to thrust in and out of you, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix with every thrust now. Your moans get louder as he picks up the pace, digging his nails into your waist as he holds you in place. Between kisses, he caresses your thigh with his hand, positioning it up and bending your leg at the knee beside him. You moan instantly at the new angle, his length caressing every inch of your pussy, his girth stretching you out with every thrust inside of you and tickling your pulsing clit as he moves against your hips.
“Good girl,” Minho says, smiling against you as he kisses you. “Take me so well.”
Your nails dig into his back as he thrusts a little faster now, the rhythmic motion sending shivers up your spine.
“I’m close,” you breathe out, and judging by the way Minho’s cock twitches inside of you, he is too.
“Will you do that thing again?” You ask in a shaky voice between moans, and Minho lets out a breathy chuckle.
“What thing, baby?”
But he knows very well what you’re referring to, having replayed it in his head every time he got off without you. You don’t respond to him, instead intertwining his hand in yours and bringing it down to your abdomen, where you sprawl his palm across your navel and give it a little push. Minho groans at the feeling of your warm abdomen under his palm, remembering the way you reacted last time. And he’s eager to please you, to do it exactly how you liked it before.
Without teasing you any further, Minho presses down on your stomach, observing the way you moan when he does, and then thrusts a little faster. He can feel his length sliding in and out of you under his touch, locking his gaze on the bulge in your abdomen that appears with every thrust.
“Min, I’m so close,” you say, gasping desperately and digging your nails into his back.
He presses down a little harder, burying his face in the crook of your neck and moving even faster, moaning every time he can feel himself move against your abdomen.
And as he brings his lips up to meet yours, you finally let go around him, making a mess of your sheets as you cum around his cock, your clit pulsing in syncopation with your entrance as he fucks you through your orgasm. Minho finishes just seconds after, emptying his milky white release inside of you, both your juices spilling into each other and coating the bed in your arousal. He doesn’t pull out immediately, slowing his thrusts for a few minutes as he kisses you much gentler this time, your lips still glistening with the exchange of saliva.
When he feels you shiver against him, Minho finally slides out, turning over to lay on his back and catch his breath. The two of you remain like that for a few minutes, catching your breath and wiping beads of sweat off your forehead as you do. After a moment of silence, he turns to you again, a worried expression on his face.
“I promise I didn’t come here to have sex with you,” Minho says. “I wasn’t lying about wanting to tell you all about it. I guess I just happened to-”
“Min, I know,” you say with a small smile. “I didn’t think that’s why you came here.”
He lets out a silent chuckle, and you mirror the action, smiling back at him before laughing silently. The two of you remain sore and wearied, your languid bodies a comfortable distance away from each other on the soiled duvet.
Still, Minho extends a hand out from beside you, palm facing up and shifting his gaze onto yours out of his peripheral vision.
Your hand meets his, intertwining your fingers together, the delicate embrace a reminder that he’s here, right where you left him.
*
“Can’t you just stay another week?” you say to Minho, leaning down to press another kiss to his already swollen lips.
You lie on top of him as he lays back on your couch, his hands tucking strands of hair behind your ear as he smiles up at you.
“It’s just for a little bit, I promise. I just have some unfinished business out there.”
“I don’t want to lose you again,” you say in a whisper, tracing the bridge of his nose with your fingertip.
“You won’t lose me,” Minho replies, his tone turning serious at your words. “You’ll never lose me.”
“What am I going to do without you?” You ask him, feeling yourself grow increasingly more panicked at the thought of being away from him again. You’ve spent the better part of three months searching for each other, desperate for some closure to this fleeting thing- and now he’s leaving, and you can’t help but feel like you’re doing something wrong by letting him leave like this.
“You’re going to be the woman you always have been,” Minho says with a smile, stroking your hair gently. “You’re going to work your job, and fix things and be absolutely remarkable wherever you go. And I’m going to finalize a few things out there and then meet you right back here in the city. And we’ll lie on this couch, and we’ll pick up right where we left off.”
You smile at him through pricking tears, feeling them begin to fall as he reaches a thumb up to wipe them off your cheek.
“Hey,” Minho says to you reassuringly. “You know- I was thinking a lot about the bar.”
You nod at him, trying to hold back the rest of your tears as he speaks.
“We have contract negotiations coming up next month. And I was thinking of… maybe…handing it off to Jeongin.”
You sit up a little, eyes widening at his words.
“Complete ownership? But you love that bar, Min.”
He shrugs a little, blinking a few times as he pauses.
“I want to cook. And I think being out here made me realize I need a change of pace again.”
“You mean like… moving out here? To the city?”
He lets out a breathy chuckle, throwing his head back a little before meeting your gaze again.
“Maybe. Just something I’ve been thinking about.”
You chuckle too now, cupping his face in your hands as you sit up to look at him.
“You know,” you begin, thinking for a second before continuing to speak. “This really cool bartender told me once that sometimes you have to go back and make amends before you can move forward again.”
His lips flicker down to your smile and back up to your eyes as you speak, a visible sparkle in your pupils as you look down at him. “Whatever you decide to do back there, I’m here with you when you go forward again. As a bartender, or a chef, or whatever you decide. I’ll be right where you left me.”
And he doesn’t have to ask you twice, knowing in his heart, you’re already here with him- every step of the way.
*
Minho leaves bright and early that morning, grasping your hand firmly in his as you make your way down the concrete steps of your apartment building to where his car is parked.
He looks more angelic than you’ve ever seen him, his smile illuminating the space around you as he holds you in his gentle embrace on the sidewalk. The two of you say nothing, only speaking through the tender touches of your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, face tucked in the crook of his neck as he holds you. He presses kisses to the top of your head, reminding you through hushed whispers that he’ll be back as soon as possible. And you know he will, feeling completely enveloped in his loving trust as he holds you, as he promises not to lose you again.
When he pulls away to look into your eyes, tears prick at the corners of your eyes for the third time this morning, and Minho chuckles lightly, reaching up to wipe them away with his thumb.
Before he can say anything, he feels it, finally.
The gentle caress of droplets on his face- not your tears, not his, but the sky above, showering you with little raindrops for the first time in three months and some days.
At first, Minho thinks he might be hallucinating it, when he looks up to squint his eyes back at the cloudy sky. You do the same, feeling the familiar kiss of raindrops on your skin. And then, as if the sky’s taking notice, it begins to pour, warm rain showering you both in the hazy atmosphere of the city sidewalk.
Minho laughs up at the sky, shaking his now damp hair as he looks down at you again. All this time he’s waited for the rain, thinking maybe he’d imagined it that night in the bar- the same night he ran into you. But as the raindrops graze his skin and glisten under the light of the city, he realizes it was very much real, as are you, standing right here in his arms. And like everything falls into place, so does the rain over the city, washing away the doubts he held onto for so long.
“It’s finally raining!” Minho exclaims, holding you closer to him as he tilts his face up to the sky again.
You watch him in admiration, laughing at the way he embraces the sudden downpour, also remembering the first night you met him because of the storm like this.
The city-dwellers around you begin to seek shelter under the cement roofs of the high rises, but you remain there on the sidewalk, warm in each other's embraces, content with the sudden turn of the weather. When he looks back down at you, his hair is now completely soaked, stringy pieces falling into his face as he continues to laugh.
“Minho,” you say through gentle laughter of your own. The rain comes down violently now, drenching the two of you as he holds you closer to him.
“Where have you been all my life?”
And he smiles down at you, the familiar beam of his giggle instilling the same safety and comfort as the first night you met in his bar.
“Right here,” Minho replies, leaning in to kiss you again.
“I’ve always been here.”
This time, you make no effort to escape the rain, comfortable in the way it looms over the city, much like how Minho looms over you- fortuitous, and with promises of new beginnings.
#skz smut#Lee know#Lee know smut#Lee know fic#stray kids hard hours#skz#stray kids#skz scenarios#stray kids x you#Lee minho#lee know scenarios#Lee know x reader#fanfic#smut#stray kids hard thoughts#stray kids x reader#stray kids x y/n#Spotify
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new year’s day — lee minho. established relationship. just quiet and fluffy love. (0.8k words)
“i’ll be cleaning up bottles with you on new year’s day” inspired by taylor’s new year’s day
It’s nearing 2am, and your friends have just left your apartment.
You can still hear them chattering outside, heels discarded in favor of walking barefoot as they wait for their taxi. Chan’s coat is weighing heavy on their shoulders, and the poor boy is making it seem as if he’s unaffected by winter’s harsh winds as he waits for a taxi with them.
The confetti on the floor from your little get-together earlier sticks to Minho’s feet after having rid his shoes. He’s sure he’d have been irritated if he wasn’t too busy looking at you, flipping through the dozens of polaroid photos you’d taken of the night. There’s a soft smile ghosting on your features, and it’s enough to pull the boy in and sit next to you on the couch because there’s something about this—something about you and starting the new year with you that has him impossibly flustered.
Minho wishes to have all your midnights.
And he’s not used to this, not so used to having his heart out on his sleeve like this. He’s normally unfazed, tough and cold and easy to run away. But there is something about the glitter and the candle wax on the hardwood floor, something about the way you look at him, and something about the way you smile that has him feeling things only you could ever bring out.
The room is still cold from turning on the airconditioner earlier, but his heart feels warm. Strings of decorations are hanging loosely now, swaying gently with the wind. Minho turns his attention to the empty wine bottles on your living room table when you make a move to clean them up.
“Hey.” He calls out softly to get your attention. “You look tired. You can go ahead and wash up if you want. I’ll clean this up.”
“Hm? No, it’s alright. It’s more time spent with you, isn’t it?”
Normally, he’d brew up a witty response, something like how you’re so obsessed with him, but he can’t. Not when his chest is tightening from the sincerity of your words—because you would willingly stay up to clean if it meant spending more time with him, even if you were tired.
“Can’t believe Seungmin got so drunk tonight.” Your laughter echoes around the room, crouching down to grab a knocked over wine glass on the floor.
“Yeah. Something about being more out there for his new year’s resolution? Honestly, it’s great for me because it’s more material to blackmail him with.” Minho chuckles quietly to himself, recalling the numerous videos he’d taken of his drunk friend just a few hours ago.
You hum, nodding your head as if you finally understand his sudden interest for alcohol when Seungmin has always been rather picky with its taste in general. “That explains it then.”
And then it’s quiet for a few heartbeats. Minho sweeps the floor, and you arrange your misplaced furniture. There’s the sound of shuffling and decorations being put away and the moment is so sweet and domestic.
“What’s your new year’s resolution?” Your voice cuts through the silence, and Minho pauses at the question, hands hovering over a few take-out containers that need to be thrown out in favor of thinking for a second.
There’s something in his eyes while he thinks, and then he opens his mouth to say something.
“To stay.”
The thumping of your heart speeds up tenfold at his response because the boy who has always kept his mind on running away all his life is considering to stay, despite his baggage, despite his fear, despite being startled so easily.
And it’s so late in the night that these simple two words have you feeling content and warm where the loneliness usually is.
The beating of your heart doesn’t calm down, even after you’ve finished cleaning and are preparing for bed, and especially not now when he’s leaning in to kiss you in your dimly-lit bedroom—not when he pulls you against him, hands firmly planted on your waist and his lips on yours with an intensity you’ve never felt from him before. At least, not this much. Almost as if he was pleading please, please, please, let me stay.
His fingers sink into the skin of your waist, and your heart bursts at the immense genuineness of how much he really wants you.
“Thank you.” Minho is close enough that you can see the uncharacteristic softness in his eyes, just inches away that you can hear his inhale and exhale, and the affection in his voice. You’ve never wanted to wish for time to stop then at this very moment.
“What are you saying that for?”
He doesn’t answer, but you think you already know.
“Let’s go to sleep, hm? I know you’re tired.” He asks, lips pulled up into the softest smile with his half-lidded eyes. He easily pulls you into bed with him, his head immediately finding home in the crook of your neck. He falls asleep a few minutes later, not without a lingering kiss on your chin, and you drift away a little after.
And maybe if you were more awake, you’d notice the way he reaches for a small box on your bedside table. But instead, you fall asleep and Minho holds you in his arms the entire night.
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