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[ladylexis]

one little lie | hyung line (part 1)

Pairing • FWB!Minho x Fem!Reader x Hyung Line A/N • This is part 1 of the fic! There's going to be 3 parts total (if everything goes according to plan)

Summary • The boys have one rule in their shared apartment. Don't bring girls over for sex. So when Chan, Hyunjin, and Changbin walk in on Minho fucking the living daylights out of you in the living room, he has to lie to save his own skin. His excuse? That's not a girl under him... you're a sex robot. And now they all want to try you out.

Genre • smut, sci-fi ish? (sex robots are a thing in this world that people know about and use)

WC • 3.6k

Content • reader pretends to be a sex robot, free use, dubcon, piv penetration, clit stimulation, groping, orgasm denial, creampie, unprotected sex

"You like that?" Minho says, pounding his cock into your pussy over and over until you see stars. You're too fucked out to respond. You're lying naked on top of the coffee table in his apartment, feeling nothing but the cold wood on your back and his throbbing hot shaft inside you. The lewd noises of his dick slipping in and out of your sopping wet cunt fill the room, along with heavy panting and moans that escape your lips. He thrashes against you, hitting your g-spot again and again until you're a twitching mess under him.

You've known him for about a year, through your mutual friend Jisung, but Minho suggested this friends with benefits situation only recently. Normally, you went to your place for sex, knowing the rules his roommates had about bringing people over for it. He told you about a one night stand gone extremely wrong, so it made sense why they would ban it altogether. But, you found out, Minho liked a little bit of danger, so he brought you over when all the guys would be away.

His pace is uncoordinated and relentless, but your mind is too clouded to care. You just want to feel him go deeper and faster against your sweet spot. You moan his name, and his bucking gets stronger until he's almost ramming his entire body into you. You can feel your orgasm coming, and your walls clench around his cock as he keeps slamming into you.

And then you hear the door unlock. You both freeze. His dick is fully inside you, frantically throbbing and twitching, but the man it belongs to is still as a statue. He looks you in the eyes, and mouths the words 'stay still'.

Three men you don't know walk in, chatting amongst themselves, until they see your naked body on their table and Minho with his pants down on the other side.

"Minho, what the fuck," one of them says, and slams the door shut. He's shorter than the others, but way more muscular, and you think you recognize him from the photos he showed you of his roommates. You think that must be Changbin.

"Guys, it's not what it looks like," Minho says.

He quickly pulls out of you, and you resist the moan that threatens to escape. He scrambles to pull up his pants and look presentable. You can't say the same for yourself. You're entirely exposed in front of these four men, and now that your only heat source has left, you're very cold as well.

"Ok, well, it looks like you brought a girl home and were fucking her on the table," another man responds. He has long hair and a pretty face, and you assume that must be Hyunjin. Minho didn't let you look at his pictures for very long, for fear that you'd swoon over him instead of Minho (not that he'd admit that, of course).

"N-no," he stammers, "let me explain." Changbin folds his arms, but they let him continue. "This is actually... a sex robot. Yeah."

A sex robot. That's why he wanted you to stay still. He wanted you to pretend to be a sex robot.

It's not like sex robots don't exist, or are even uncommon. In fact, you saw a viral tweet about a guy who 'married' a sex robot just the other day. The technology is getting better and better every year, so it's certainly plausible.

That didn't mean you thought this was a good plan, though.

The third guy, who you assumed was Chan, cocked an eyebrow.

"You bought a sex robot?" he asked, and walked over to inspect you. You kept your eyes straight ahead, and tried to control your breathing.

"No, uh, I'm just borrowing her. From a friend. I have to return her later," Minho says. He's clearly flustered in his lie, but he plays it off as embarrassment for being caught in the act.

The other two walk over to inspect you as well, and you do your best to lie still and emotionless. Your heart feels like it's beating out of your chest.

"What friend? What kind of person would let you just... borrow a sex robot?" Changbin asks.

"Jisung," Minho answers, and they look oddly satisfied with that answer.

"That makes sense," Changbin says, and you wonder what kind of relationship they have with Jisung that makes this believable. You've known him for a long time, and he's a normal guy. What has he done to make them think that?

You can't wonder for long, because Hyunjin grabs your boob and pulls on the flesh. You almost yelp in surprise, but you bite your tongue to stop yourself.

"It's surprisingly realistic for a sex doll," he says, and gropes your breast some more, admiring how 'real' you felt.

"Ew, don't touch that," Chan says. He smacks Hyunjin's hand away from your chest. "Minho was just fucking it, you don't know where that's been."

Hyunjin quickly yanks his hand back to his own body and wipes his hand on his pants.

"She's a sex robot, not a sex doll," Minho corrects, "I have some class."

Hyunjin rolls his eyes. You're not looking at anyone directly, but from the corner of your eye you can see Changbin scanning your body, exploring every inch of you by sight alone.

You tried not to think about how exposed you were to these men, who talked about you and touched you and looked at you like an object. Minho managed to get out of trouble, but now you had to lie here and just take all this to protect him. You don't know why you did. By all means, you should've gotten up, put your clothes back on, and left Minho forever. That's the normal thing to do.

But as they talk about the sex robot in their room, Minho gives your thigh a reassuring squeeze and his guilty expression bores into your soul. His pleading eyes say sorry in a thousand unspoken words, and you resign yourself back to lying there and being pretty.

"Well," Minho says, patting your thigh, "I should probably bring her back to Jisung now. I'm sure he misses her dearly."

At least it would be over soon. It was smart to bring up Jisung; now he has an excuse why you can't stay here. Good thinking, Minho.

"Wait," Changbin says. All eyes go to him, and he coughs awkwardly before finishing his sentence. "I've never seen a sex robot this realistic."

Your heart almost stops. You were almost home free, and he managed to figure it out. It would be super embarrassing if you had to just get up and leave after all this.

Changbin scratches the back of his head, and looks away from the boys.

"Jisung can just pick her up later, right? She looks... really real."

The other two men look back at you, and their eyes look over every curve of your body.

"What are you trying to say..." Minho gulps, and you dread the words that come next.

"Don't make me say it, man."

"You want to use Jisung's sex robot?" Chan says in shock.

"I kind of want to try it out too," Hyunjin says, sheepishly.

Chan's face turns bright red, and he looks back and forth between the two of them.

"Are you guys serious!?"

"Come on Chan, what's the harm," Changbin says, slightly more confident now that he knows he's not the only one that wants to take you for a spin. "When life presents you with an opportunity, you take it."

"When life gives you a sex robot, you fuck it," Hyunjin adds.

Minho is unforgivably silent. He's sweating bullets, racking his brain for some sort of solution to get you out of there. Under normal circumstances, he'd be able to solve any problem on the fly. But these are not normal circumstances, and he appears to be short-circuiting.

"You guys are crazy," Chan says, but his eyes travel down your body to the sticky mess that is your pussy. "You should, uh, clean her up before we- THEY use her."

Hyunjin laughs at his slip of the tongue.

"Yeah, I'll go do that now," Minho says, desperate to end this conversation.

He lifts you up off the table, and your back is stiff from lying flat on it for way too long. Fortunately, it helps sell the robot look. With one hand under your arm, he pretends to hold you up, and he walks you over to the bathroom.

Changbin whistles in amazement.

"Wow, it can kind of walk. Technology is amazing."

You enter the bathroom, and Minho sets you down on the closed toilet seat. He quickly shuts the door and locks it. He turns around and leans his back on the door, out of breath from nerves.

"What the hell was that!?" you whisper-yell. You had every right to be angry in this moment.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know what to do!"

"You could've just told them the truth! A sex robot!?"

"I know. That was the only thing I could think of. But I can fix this. I'll call Jisung and tell him what happened, and he'll come pick you up."

"No. You can't tell him any of this."

"I have to. I can't risk him saying something like 'Hi, I'm here to pick up my friend that I've known for years and is definitely a real person and not a robot.' I have to tell him."

"Fine," you say, and your heartbeat finally calms down. Minho can stall in here until Jisung arrives. Everything is going to be alright.

Minho takes out his phone to call Jisung. The phone rings... and rings... and rings... and you finally hear a voice on the other end.

"Hey!"

"Jisung, I really need your help-"

"I'm really busy right now, probably hanging out with some babes at the beach. Leave a message at the tone and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Or not, who knows."

A long beep plays out over the speaker.

Of course it went to voicemail. It's a weekday. He's at work, like a normal person on a Wednesday afternoon.

"Jisung, call me back ASAP. It's an emergency," Minho says, and hangs up the phone.

"Why did he have to be a functioning member of society today," you complain.

"Do you know when he gets off work?"

"Around 5, I think."

Minho looks at his phone clock.

"It's 1:07."

"God damn it," you whisper, and bury your face in your hands.

"Look at the bright side," he says, and you turn your head to squint your eyes at him. "You came here to get fucked, right?"

You don't say anything, hoping the silence and the irritation on your face spoke for you.

It clearly didn't, because he continues.

"Even I can tell they're good looking guys. Well, they're not me, but still good looking."

"Minho, I came here to be fucked by you. I know who you are, it's different."

He gets down on his knees and begs.

"Please please please do this for me. I'll literally do anything. I'll fuck you whenever and however you want for the rest of your life."

"That's all?"

He hesitates, searching for an answer that will convince you to get fucked by his roommates. There's not a lot that would convince anyone, but thankfully, this time he has an answer.

"I'll pay your rent this month."

"You'll pay my rent this year."

"I don't think I make enough for that..." You tsk at him, and he gives you a better answer. "What about every other month for a year?"

"Deal."

You shake hands.

Finally done talking, he cleans you up with a wet towel. You stand up, take a deep breath, and when you're ready, Minho opens the door and pretends to walk you back to the living room.

"That took a while," Hyunjin said.

"Yeah, I had to, uh, refill the liquid."

"The what?" Chan asks.

"She's self lubricating and has the ability to orgasm, but I used up all the liquid when I was... you know. So she had to be refilled." It's funny how quick he thought of that lie, but he couldn't think of something earlier to get you out of this mess. And by funny, you mean not funny at all.

"Whoa," Changbin says, "what other functionality does she have?"

Minho doesn't miss a beat. "She has realistic moans. You've got to hit her sweet spots to hear them, though."

"She's got a speaker?" Chan asks. He's starting to get interested in the idea of fucking a sex robot, much to your dismay. "Can she say other stuff? Like..." he pauses, flustered at what he wants to say next. "Can she say your name?"

"Yup! She has this really cool recognition software." You want to elbow him in the ribs. He has too much free reign with your 'features', and he makes it worse the more he talks.

"So what you do is, insert your dick in her and say your name. She'll recognize your unique dick patterns and remember the name you set. Any time you use her in the future, she'll know it's you."

What the hell is he talking about.

He's clearly having fun with this. Hopefully, that's all you can do.

"That's... actually really cool," Chan admits.

"Ok, I need to try that out. What else can she do?" Hyunjin asks excitedly.

"Oh, she can-" Minho starts, but you kick the back of his foot to stop him from saying anything else. "Actually, I'll let you find out for yourself. All the stuff she has is very realistic."

"I call dibs," Changbin says. Hyunjin whines, but Changbin is already lifting your body, throwing you over his shoulder to take you to his room. He drops you on his bed, and you do your best to stiffen your body against the impact, but you bounce on his springy mattress. His eyes are glued to your chest as your back hits the bed, and watches as your boobs bounce a second time.

He spreads open your legs, and you realize this is really happening. You're going to get fucked by multiple men who think you're an advanced fleshlight. Just the thought of that makes your core pulse, but you don't know why. His fingers trace a line down your pussy from top to bottom, and you shiver under his touch. "He said you're self lubricating, but you're not wet yet..." he starts, before realizing what else Minho told him. "Oh right, you're supposed to be realistic. Maybe this will do the trick."

He draws rough circles around your clit, and your eyes flutter closed at the feeling. After everything that happened, you forgot you were seconds away from an orgasm. Your body is still hungry for someones touch, and it doesn't care who gives it to you.

The more he rubs, the deeper the feeling in your core gets. It doesn't take long for you to start rocking against his hand, and he admires how your body reacts to him. He's already getting hard just watching you writhing under his fingers. "I can't believe I get this pretty thing all to myself," he says, and those words only strengthen the orgasm starting to build. His fingers slide more easily around your clit, and he realizes you're wet enough to stop.

You whimper at the loss of contact when he takes his hand away. He pulls down his pants, then his boxers, and he can finally start using you the way he intended. He drags his fingers down your sensitive core, collecting your juices. He rubs it over his cock, pumping it a few times, and you can feel him stretching you open with his fingers.

"Let's test out this name recognition thing," he says, and you feel his dick prodding at your entrance.

He slides it in, and you're overwhelmed by how thick he is. He puts it in slowly, and you can feel him stretch you out. Your walls clench around his girth, and he fills you up inch by inch as he pushes deeper inside. You can't help but moan as he reaches the end, his tip pressing against a sensitive spot when he bottoms you out.

"Changbin," he says, and it takes a moment for you to remember what he's doing. "Changbin," you repeat, slightly moaning his name. His dick throbs inside you, increasing the pressure against your walls. "Oh, fuck. That's hot." He pulls most of his cock out of you, and you feel it drag along your walls. He pushes it back in, slightly faster. He pumps in and out of you, and the bed creaks as he pushes his way back in. You're tight around his massive girth, and with each roll of his hips he stretches you out more.

He rocks into you with a steady rhythm, feeling every inch of you around him. They way he can barely fit inside you turns him on more. Your wet cunt wraps around his dick perfectly, and the slight pressure makes him groan as he feels his orgasm building. His rocking gets slightly more frenzied when you moan his name, and each time he buries his cock in you, it hits you with more force.

He speeds up his pace, and he can't control the rhythm anymore. He's panting over you, holding on to your waist while his cock pounds into you over and over. His can feel his climax coming, and he bucks into you harder to chase the feeling. Every time he slams into your g-spot, you moan his name louder, and his head rolls back as each moan takes him closer to the edge. The pleasure takes over your mind completely, and you don't care that you're shouting his name every time his massive dick rams itself deep inside you. He hits your sensitive spot one last time, and you moan loudly as you gush around his cock. You spasm under him as your orgasm washes over you, and your erratic movements are what finishes him off. He gasps, and hot liquid spurts out inside you. He slows down his rocking, and you lay in exhaustion as he rides out his high. When he finally pulls out, his semen drips out of you, overflowing down your pussy and onto his bed.

He collapses onto the bed next to you, and you hear his ragged breaths in your ear as his heartbeat slows down. You come back to reality, realizing what just happened. A part of you can't believe you let this happen, let a stranger fuck you until you came all over him, all because you covered for Minho.

The other part of you can't believe how thick Changbin was, and how good he felt when he was inside you. You almost want to beg him for more, beg him to fuck you again and again until you can't move the next day, but you can't. You're a sex robot, and you can't break the illusion. You wish you met him under different circumstances. "Fuck... I need to steal this thing from Jisung," he says, finally catching his breath. That's an idea. If Minho brings you back here, Changbin can use you as much as he likes. Suddenly, your rationality comes back. You can't seriously be thinking of doing this again, right?

When Changbin is finally able to stand, he leaves you dripping on his bed and goes to the door. "Hey Minho?" he yells, loud enough for the guys to hear it in any room of the apartment. "You might want to come refill her." He leave you in the room by yourself, and a moment later Minho comes in. Seeing you splayed out on another mans bed with his cum leaking out of you... it does something to him. He resists the urge to rub his crotch, fearing it might make his growing erection more visible. Changbin comes back with a wet towel, ready to wipe you down, but Minho gets to him first. "I'll take care of that, don't worry," he says, and grabs the towel from Changbin's hands. "You sure? I can just do it myself." "She has specific care instructions. And I have to check how much fluid she has left anyway. I got it." Changbin shrugs, and watches as Minho lifts you up and walks you back to the bathroom. You take your seat back on the closed toilet, and Minho locks the door again. You're still breathing heavily after that interaction. "You ok?" he asks. You're not sure how to say yes, it was amazing and I hope he does it again without embarrassing yourself. "I'm good," is what you finally settle on. "I'm just-" you start, but Minho brings the cold towel to your core, and you twitch at the sudden contact. "Still sensitive?" he asks, and you nod. "I'll let Hyunjin know to be gentle with you." "Is he next?" "Yeah, he wouldn't stop grumbling about how it wasn't fair that Changbin got to go first." He wipes Changbin's fluids off you, pressing the towel softly against your body so you're not overstimulated.

"I'll give you a more thorough wash when Jisung picks you up." Your eyes light up at Jisungs name. "Did he call back?" "Yup. And he found the whole situation extremely funny." You groan. You're never going to live this down. "But he'll come as soon as he can," Minho continues, and you breathe a sigh of relief. A knock on the door makes you jump. "Are you done in there?" you hear a voice ask, and Minho's eye twitches. "Give me a sec, Hyunjin. Just wait in your room." When you hear his footsteps getting farther away, Minho's face relaxes. "Guess you better get going before Mr. Impatient has an aneurysm."

[ladylexis]

Screen Identity: Mismatched Passion | EP. 1 PAPILIO ULYSSES

— contains adult content, minors do not interact 🔞 —

“I know we don’t like each other,” you’ve made that very clear, Y/N, “but I will always make sure you’re safe, yeah?”

[ abstract ]: After a rough break up during semester break, you’re put in a class with none other than your longtime academic rival Han Jisung once university starts again. Things don’t get any easier considering he’s your older brother’s best friend and destiny decides to assign you two to a partner project. Luckily, you can distract yourself a little by chatting with the mysterious guy you met online a couple of months ago, getting closer both emotionally and physically with him, absolutely unaware he might be nearer than you would expect…

[ general ]: jisung + fem reader, gamer + stoner jisung, gamer reader, academic rivals/enemies → lovers, brother’s best friend, minho is reader’s slightly older brother, college au, smut + angst + fluff, accidental online dating, inexperienced jisung + inexperienced reader [ real life ] vs simp jisung + brat reader [ online ] so they act a lot differently while chatting, please refer to series m.list for more info

[ warning ]: explicit sexual scenes [includes sexting and video sexting, masturbation (m + f), reader gets called doll, praise kink, mention of choking ], consumption of alcohol and being drunk, mention of break up, cheating and slut shaming (?)

[ words ]: 7.3K

[ note ]: I'm so sorry for the long wait but the first part of my new series is finally here. In case you liked it make sure to leave a comment, reblog or slide into my asks or DMs. I always appreciate any kind of kind interaction and feedback. Also, make sure to read The Experience Project, my other series that is part of the same universe!! Lots of love, Cece 🩷

— Two months ago —

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: gg

You stare at the message. Why is the person you just beat in the last round texting you privately instead of using the group chat?

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: uhm wrong chat?

You have never talked to them before let alone engaged outside of the huge server you’re on, so it confuses you. It’s nothing out of the ordinary but it still surprises you.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: we’re on the same gaming server and you just won the game again, so gg 

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: why are you texting privately to tell me good game?

Seeing the person typing, you wait for an answer before the notification sound echoes through your bedroom.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: no, not gg as in good game, gg as in good girl ;)

Oh, God. You should have seen it coming. Well, it’s better than the usual insults you get on a daily basis for the lame fact of being a woman and men’s ego—or dick size—being so small they can’t handle a female gamer’s existence. 

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: what if I was a 50 year old dude

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: i don’t discriminate by gender or age

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: are you tho

You chuckle. For the first time in several hours. You don’t have a reason today after all. Seojun—your now ex boyfriend—broke up with you out of the blue, not really giving you any good explanations except for it’s not you it’s me or we don’t match as well as I thought.

Since you don’t want to annoy your best friend Hannah who is currently working on her thesis, you decided to drown your sorrows in freshly baked cheesecake, sugary lemonades and a couple of rounds of your current favourite video game.

You feel pathetic but you allow yourself to be that way for some time. It’s better to let feelings out and deal with them before they can turn into a bigger mess or else you end up like your older brother—a wannabe tsundere who starts crying at any slightly emotional scene during a movie marathon.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: No, I’m a woman. That just beat you in a game three times in a row.

You decide to tease that mysterious guy. After all, there’s nothing to lose and you can use a little distraction.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: yeah this is why I decided to text you

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: kinda hot ngl

Perhaps you’re in fact a little pathetic, considering the fact this comment just made you feel flustered.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: Thank you? You’re actually the first guy to say that. Usually, I get insulted on here for being a girl. 🥰

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: sorry about that, some men are just insecure I guess 🤷🏻‍♂️ sometimes I am embarrassed about my own species

Okay. So the person is a man.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: how old are you btw?

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: if it’s okay i’m asking ofc 

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: i’m 22 and you?

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: 23 :)

You just decide to trust him here. Sure, there are lots of creeps out there but this guy seems to be rather decent.

Noticing something else—regarding his username—you keep the conversation going.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: What’s your name about?

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: J.Zero-N-E? Is that some hint at 2NE1?

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: j.One. it’s the letter O.

Huh? You catch a closer glimpse of the name on your screen, shining in bright letters on the dark background. This is definitely not an O.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: But you used the number zero.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: perhaps I’m saving that letter O

The hell is he talking about?

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: For what?

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: it’s what your mouth will be shaped into when I make you come on my dick, baby 

What a fool you are for thinking this man wasn’t like all the others. 

It’s funny though. Or your humour is just broken at this point.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: 😂😂😂

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: Oh, pretty boy please. Don’t think you have a chance here. Has this ever worked on someone?

He types. Then he stops. He types again and sends his message.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: okay, tbh J.One with an O was already taken. but I’m not. i’m single and ready whenever you are.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: Why are you such a simp? Jesus Christ…

For a long time in your life you thought that there’s nothing less attractive than a man that runs after a woman, doing everything to gain her attention while making a fool out of himself.

Until Seojun said something so devastating to you earlier that you realised there’s a worse type in men when it comes to flirting.

Those who make you feel small for your interests and desires. You can instantly sense yourself spiralling again, thinking back to how he told you that you’re too weird and too openly minded all the time, admitting he realised he prefers women who are reserved and perhaps even virgins.

The craziest thing of all this is that you’re inexperienced too. Your body count hasn’t managed to get past the number one but Seojun made it seem as if you were the opposite. He was the one to take your virginity, which just makes this even more fucked up.

But you decide to focus on the conversation with the somewhat funny stranger instead.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: tsk what

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: i’m not a simp wdym

Says the simp. He’s entertaining, that j.0ne guy. You should just see where this goes and make the best out of your evening by chatting with this mysterious gamer.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: you are

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: and a pretty bad one lmao

You notice something else now. He’s got a cute little emoji attached to his odd username and you soon realise it’s an animal too, just like your butterfly one.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: why the squirrel tho?

You see him typing while you take a sip from your lemonade and grab a handful of the crisps that you put in a bowl some time ago, soon realising it’s almost empty again.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: I’m fast ;)

A laughter bursts out of you and you almost swish the crisps bowl down the table.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: sexually speaking this isn’t a good thing…

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: oh god this is not what I meant

You can imagine what he looks like right now—face as red as a tomato while the colour reaches up to his ears. Although you have no idea what he looks like in general. Not that it would matter, though. 

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: you’re calling me god already? 😌

You’ve missed this version of you. The teasing, flirty one that only ever comes out when you feel comfortable around a person. With Seojun it was like this in the beginning too, until he became weirder and weirder with every approach you made towards him.

You’ve been pushing those thoughts aside but thinking back—what if there was another reason for both the breakup and his change in behaviour? You don’t want to believe it, but the bubbling pain inside your stomach tells you there might be a slight chance that he has met someone else. Perhaps even dating another person while still being with you.

Nausea takes over your body. You take another sip from the lemonade and from your water bottle that’s on top of your desk as well, before your eyes shift towards the screen again.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: don’t get flustered, doll. you haven’t told me your name after all.

Doll. You hate to admit but you kinda like that he calls you by a pet name instead. This makes this whole situation even more forbidden. Although nothing about this is forbidden at all. You’re single, you don’t have any history with that stranger, so why the ongoing thoughts?

Still, you decide to lead him on some more, rile him up. He for sure doesn’t deserve to know your actual name just now and besides that, you’re always careful with what information you hand out to literal strangers online.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: you’ve gotta earn that. I don’t give such private information out to anyone :)

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: oh? you want me to beg for it?

You gulp. You’ve always thought you’re more on the submissive side. Well, there was a situation when you asked your now ex boyfriend if you could try switching roles and he looked at you as if your words just made his fragile masculinity crack like a raw egg.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: I’m not surprised at all you’re offering that

That j.0ne guy does give off vibes that fit some submissive agenda. You can tell just by this little interaction with him.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: i’m not. i usually prefer to be the dominant part, you know.

You laugh out loud. Yet again. Wow, you really didn’t expect some random dude online to distract you from that horrific breakup you went through just half a day ago. You could get used to this.

Okay, calm down. Perhaps anything could put a smile on your face after all this shit.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: I don’t believe you lmao

Because you don’t. Not if this man has been nothing but the textbook definition of a simp so far. Not that you complain, though. It’s nice to have someone to give you all their attention despite how selfish it sounds. You allow yourself to be this way for tonight and j.0ne seems to be willing to grant you exactly this.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: want me to prove it to you?

A smirk forms on your lips.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: isn’t this the most subby thing to say

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: i-

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: you’ll see, doll

The use of the name lets adrenaline rush through your veins.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: looking forward to it 🤭

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: well, and until then I’ll just keep calling you doll 😏

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: and show you what I actually mean with being fast

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: fast to make you come

Your ex never called you any pet names—neither when on dates with you nor in bed. If any, he made you feel bad for the kinks you were wanting to explore, always making you feel weird or different about your desires. Almost ashamed, if you’re honest. A shiver runs down your spine at the thought of it. How he made you feel humiliated—not in the good way as you suggested to him, rather mentally and not sexually speaking at all.

You’ve been wondering if something is wrong with you and you’re aware that this guy you’ve been chatting with for—a quick glimpse at the time—half an hour can’t answer that question for you either. But you first wanna start with finding yourself again and trying to figure out what it is that you want in your life. Generally speaking but also from a potential future partner that hopefully isn’t anything like Seojun.

It would be ridiculous to say that you think of j.0ne that way. You literally met thirty minutes ago, he could be lying about his whole identity and live on Pluto for what you know. So, you decide to slow it down, always with the idea lingering in the back of your mind that you want to keep this conversation going for just a little longer.

Despite the fact that this little use of pet names and teasing does in fact turn you on. God, Y/N, you’re touch deprived as it seems. Not surprising at all after these past weeks with your ex.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: what happened to getting to know each other first?

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: why not both?

— Today —

You feel as if someone injected bleach straight into your veins. Perhaps, this would hurt even less than the scene that your eyes are currently witnessing.

His arm is snug around her shoulder, pulling the beautiful girl towards him as if they’ve done this a thousand times before. It seems as if this gesture is familiar, common to them.

You should have known. Well, deep down you did know. Especially since Hannah has been telling you nothing but these exact suspicions for the past two months. Then why is the pain so humiliating if you’ve already grasped it?

Seojun didn’t just break up with you because you didn’t match. He ended things because, apparently, he’s already had another girlfriend. Sure, you can’t prove that he cheated on you and you feel your insides turn out at the sheer thought of it but it hurts nonetheless.

Kim Nabi. Yes, her name means nothing else than butterfly. Your favourite animals. And it seems as if you weren’t good enough for Seojun. But how are you supposed to compete with a girl that looks like a literal fairy and is an A+ medical student?

Meanwhile you’re here, barely passing your classes and cursing yourself for majoring in music production. It’s lots of fun, sure, but you could have done something that’s less exhausting and time consuming for sure.

But Y/L/N Y/N never takes the easy path. And you know you’re gonna be okay. Regarding your studies. Regarding Seojun. Regarding anything else.

“Watch where you’re going,” you hear a familiar male voice spit out, right after the source of the noise bumps his shoulder right into yours, fully on purpose.

You roll your eyes and scoff, “Good morning to you too, Han.”

Calling your brother’s friend by anything but his family name is weird. It’s not as if you’re trying to be extraordinarily formal with him but he should know that you’re nothing close at all besides the fact that he’s been besties with Minho since you all were in kindergarten.

Han Jisung has many faces and personalities of which all of them manage to annoy you on a daily basis. When you were children, he used to either steal your plushies and hide them or tug your hair just for the fun of it. Once you were older, entering your teenage years, he started becoming both a bit distant but also began his manipulative strategies that included scaring off any male individual that came too close to you. Whenever you called him out on it, he babbled something along the lines that your older brother told him to do that. Since Minho isn’t that fascinated about you—his younger and oh so innocent sister—having a boyfriend either, he played along.

So, now you find yourself here, in your third year of college, severely confused and fed up about the fact that the only guy you’ve ever been in a relationship with and went beyond kissing is Seojun. Yikes. Perhaps, if Minho and Jisung had allowed you to have some dumb and even hurtful experience a few years ago you would be a bit better at categorising which men to date and which to stay away from. And you for sure wouldn’t spend all your nights chatting and sexting with a stranger on Discord for the past two months.

“Is he bothering you again?”

Your best friend has been standing next to you for God knows how many minutes but you didn’t notice her.

“What’s new?” you say, rolling your eyes.

Hannah pulls you into a quick but thoughtful hug, “How’re you, dear?”

“Just… I just saw Seojun holding hands with Nabi,” you blurt out, knowing that you won’t be able to hide any emotions or secrets from your best friend. Except for a single one. A very particular one that includes a certain guy you met online and whom you haven’t told anyone in your close circle about.

“What a fucking asshole, I swear if I see him–“

“No violence, Hannah,” you interrupt her.

She gasps. “Who are you and what did you do to my best friend?”

“Funny. Shall we get to class?”

“Sure,” she giggles before she reaches for your hand and intertwines it with yours, pulling you towards the lecture hall.

Once you’re there, you place your bag down and tell your best friend that you need a minute in the bathroom. It could have been an illusion—you wouldn’t be surprised—but you think you received a message from the one and only j.0ne on Discord and for sure you have to see what he’s up to. Since he’s a college student too, school is starting for him today as well and you’ve been thinking about a naughty little gesture that should motivate him to get him through the day. After all, you’re very thankful for what he’s given you these past weeks—endless talks about anything bothering you in life but also hot pics and videos that made it kind of hard for you to not slip your fingers past your pyjama shorts whenever you’ve been having trouble falling asleep at night.

You disappear inside one of the stalls and reach for your phone. You were right. He texted you and it takes every strength inside you to not start giggling in a public place.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: have a good first day of uni, doll 🩵

Conversations with him have been kind of versatile. User j.0ne has many faces and personalities of which all of them manage to excite you on a daily basis. Sometimes the two of you are teasing each other with no end, then you get back to philosophising about life. He’s helped you a lot regarding getting over your ex these past weeks and you wouldn’t want to miss it.

That’s why you’ve prepared something for him. You open your phone gallery and choose the media in question, before you hit ‘send’.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: [ attached image ]

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: you too 😘

It doesn’t take him less than half a minute to bombard you with text messages.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: doll

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: fuck me

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: I’m in the middle of a lecture are you fucking kidding me

Goal achieved.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: you’re welcome ;)

You wait for him to reply again and what follows is everything you ever needed from your number one SIMP. It’s not as if you have anything going on with anyone else, but receiving attention from j.0ne keeps you excited, no questions.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: i indeed am 🥵

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: you’re literally unreal 😫

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: a gift sent from heaven

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: supernatural almost

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: should start calling you an angel instead 😇 

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: or a witch regarding the fact I’m trying hard (pun intended) to hide my boner in class 🫣

A smirk is plastered all over your face and you wished you could see him right now, sitting in a lecture, cheeks and ears flushed red, his cock definitely hard as rock being neglected inside his pants and there’s nothing he can do. Because you’re not there and you won’t be. Besides the fact that you both realise that you live in the same city, you haven’t agreed on meeting—yet. Which makes this even more fun to tease him.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: that red lingerie suits you best

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: everything suits you best tbh with those pretty tits 🤤

The boost this gives for your ego—especially after seeing Seojun and Nabi—is out of this world. However, you shouldn’t miss your own lecture either, so you wrap this up and decide to come back to him later.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: pay attention to the class, j.0ne 🙂

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: text you later!! ❤️

When you get back to the lecture hall, Hannah is already waiting for you, her gaze fixated on a certain someone.

“What the fuck is this idiot doing here?” she asks, pointing at Chan in the distance who is just about to approach you two.

“Your brother?”

“Yeah, or do you see someone else who qualifies for that position?”

“Since Minho isn’t here, no,” you reply.

“We will forever suffer as the younger sisters, hm?”

You probably will. Perhaps, this is one of the reasons Hannah and you get along so well since you both know the struggles too damn much.

“Hey, Hannah,” Chan says, getting closer, “hey, Y/N, how’re you?”

“Fine, fine,” you answer, meaning it. While Hannah—for obvious reasons—doesn’t get along with her older brother that well, Chan and you have been becoming friends throughout the last year since he is helping you a lot with uni because he majored in the same field as you. You’re glad to have him in your life, it’s almost as if he is your older brother too. Not in a way that Minho is, for sure, because you talk about topics with Chan that your actual brother isn’t aware of—for instance the Seojun drama.

“You’re still up for studying tomorrow?”

“Yeah, sure! I didn’t forget in case you’re implying that,” you say with a wink.

Chan places the palm of his hand on his chest, “I would never. Also, just to clear things—I’m here because I work as a tutor with the class that you guys have to take for this lecture and that’s why I listen to the lecture as well.”

Hannah’s older brother has already graduated college, now working as a tutor while partaking in his PhD programme. You look up to him, without a doubt. You barely know anyone who is as hardworking and talented as him and you can always learn a lot from Chan. He says a quick goodbye to you, before he approaches the professor that has now reached the lecture hall and starts discussing something with him.

“So,” Hannah starts, once her brother is out of sight, “you’re up for drinks tonight? The other girls are there, too.”

You’re not sure. On one hand, you love nothing more than a girl’s night. On the other hand, it still feels so fresh to go outside and live life again after the breakup. But perhaps that’s what you need to do to finally get over your ex.

“Count me in.”

“It’s so fucking loud in here, I can barely hear the shit you’re saying,” you scream into Yuna’s ear and she nods. Your choice of words isn’t the prettiest but all the alcohol in your system does your thinking tonight. After all, you saw Seojun and Nabi again, which resulted in your friend group and you changing clubs and heading to this crowded place instead. It's loud, your boots are sticking to the floor and you’ve been dangerously close—three times—to getting someone’s beverages downed all over your black dress.

“Sure, I’ll get another drink for you, darling!” Yuna yells before she leaves you standing there.

Yeah. She obviously did not understand anything you said but you’re not here to complain. You’re already a few too many drinks into the night. Another one won’t do any much more harm, right?

You decide to take a step away from the crowd, walking towards the entrance of the club to go outside for a bit and catch some air. In order for Hannah and Yuna to not worry about you, you text a quick message to the three friends group chat with a weird name. Yunjin, Lily and Minjeong already left half an hour ago, being the responsible part of the group while your best friend, your roommate and you decided to stay here a little longer.

Once you’ve made it outside, you take a deep breath, closing your eyes. It’s nice to calm down for a bit. The situation with your ex let the common anxiety bubble up in your stomach and head but the amount of alcohol managed to push it away for some time. Until you’re sober again tomorrow.

“Y/N.”

You open your eyes again just to roll them in annoyance when you see him. Of course, he had to be here too. Perhaps, your brother isn’t straying that far from him either. It sometimes really feels as if he’s following you and trying to keep an eye on what you’re doing. Chan and his friends aren’t like that. You envy Hannah for that.

“Han,” you say in a monotone voice.

He scoffs, his arms crossed in front of his chest and you can see—thanks to the tank top he’s wearing—that he’s been hitting the gym more often with Minho again. “Still calling me by my family's name after all these years?”

“Well, I wasn’t aware we’re friends,” you shrug your shoulders and look away in the distance.

Jisung chuckles and takes a few steps towards you, until you’re almost caged between the brick wall behind you and his body. You gulp, watching the reflection of the moonlight inside his eyes. Or perhaps it’s just a streetlight. What the hell do you know when you’re in a state like this?

“We’re not? That’s devastating to know,” he bluffs, giving you a pout. Jisung loves the makeup you’re wearing tonight. He always adores all the creative things you do with your face—from the black thick eyeliner wings to the glitter that often decorate your face, but it’s the bright red lipstick that’s threatening to hypnotise him tonight. Fuck, what he’d do to kiss those pretty lips of yours, just to shut you up for once whenever you talk back to him.

Jisung and your history goes far back, almost as old as his friendship with your brother. Despite all the teasing stuff and pranks he’s pulled, your brother’s best friend and you have always been in some rival dynamic. Similar hobbies when growing up and now majoring in the same field made you stay together, soon becoming something other people call enemies. You’re constantly competing with one another and you’re sure most of your motivation in college comes solely from your desire to be better than him in everything.

However, during the past years there has been blooming another aspect between you that’s a bit different. Sexual tension. Although none of you two would ever admit that. Not even while being as drunk as you are right now.

You roll your eyes again. “What d’you want, hm?”

His demeanour suddenly shifts, and does a full turn. Jisung blinks a few times and takes a closer look at your face.

“Fuck, how many drinks did you have?”

“Uhm, three?” You question, while holding up four fingers and squinting one of your eyes.

“God. Drink this here,” he hands you his glass.

“What’s it? Vodka?”

You just take a sip without waiting for an answer, realising his choice of beverage tastes pretty bland.

“Close. Water. I’ll go find Yuna and Hannah,” he says while tilting his head towards the entrance of the club.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom in the meantime,” you announce, before a hick up follows.

“Okay, then wait there, yeah?”

“Okay, Ji,” you say, nodding.

He gulps, before he reaches for your hand and brings the two of you inside the building again.

Once you’re in the bathroom and inside a stall, you grab out your phone and send a message to the man who’s been occupying your mind for some weeks now.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: heyyy you’re up?

You immediately get a few messages back.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: sorry I’ll be right back doll

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: i’m out with friends and one of them needs my help

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: doesn’t know how to handle drinks and all

J.0ne could really be the man of your dreams. Or that’s just the alcohol talking. You wonder what he would be like if he took care of you that way. You’re sure you’d instantly feel safe in his presence. You’re sure he’d make you feel comfortable. You’re sure he’d protect you from all the evil in this world.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: you’re such a sweetie sometimes j.0ne

You can feel heat rising to your cheeks, thinking about him.

Until he sends two more texts and the being flustered gets turned into pure jealousy.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: i’m literally doing the bare minimum

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: she’s had too much and i’m looking for her friends

Hm. So he’s got someone in real life to take care of the way he should be protecting you, huh?

Your toxic thoughts get interrupted, when Yuna and Hannah find you—also severely drunk—ready to take you home. Catching a last glimpse of Jisung—not expecting him to be the one to get help for you of all people—you wave goodbye to him and leave the venue.

Once you reach your shared apartment, Yuna and you take off your makeup and head to each of your bedrooms. When you plug your phone into the charger, you realise you received a message some time ago, probably when you were still at the club.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: i’m back doll

Perhaps it’s the fact you’re still drunk and over emotional from today, but you’re in the mood to start a fight. And user j.0ne is your victim.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: why you textin me when you have a gf

You know this is unreasonable of you but you want to know how he reacts, as fucked up as it sounds.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: gf?

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: i don’t have a gf?

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: why do you say this?

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: The friend you’re takin caer of

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: Is she nt your gf

You feel ashamed. But you’ll apologise in the morning.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: doll…

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: 1) she’s just a friend and I’m just doing the bare minimum so that no men will take advantage of her when she’s wasted in a bar. i won’t be justifying myself for this.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: 2) you’re drunk too aren’t you?

You immediately feel bad for being like this. You feel sorry.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: 1) I’m soryr this was shitty of me. Youer rgiht yea 

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: 2) no I’m as sobre as tomato 

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: the fuck is that supposed to mean??

Well, if you only knew. But nothing makes sense any more after all the emotional torture you’ve been put in and all the intoxication swimming inside your veins.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: I don’t know my head s sipnning lol 

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: Drink some water.

Your Discord man rarely texts with correct grammar and in combination with the dominant vibes he’s giving off, you could get used to such behaviour. Fuck. Why are you getting turned onby some gamer boy telling you to drink water? Is this really how low you've dropped, Y/N?

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: I like wehn you get domniant kike this yu know ;)

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: Doll, I think I just had a stroke reading this sentence.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: Despite that, stop flirting with me when you’re drunk.

You let out a laugh and blame it on being drunk. However, you’re also sad about the rejection you’re receiving although the—currently absent—rational part of your brain tells you it’s the right decision.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: Why???? ;(

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: The fact I have to explain this to you. No sexual comments whatsoever if you’re under the influence, okay? We have an agreement.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: What a shame ;( wuold lov to be with yu rn ngl 

During the past two months there have been some occasions of the both of you dropping hints here and there that you should meet. Still, you haven’t managed to see each other in real life since j.0ne and you are too shy to do that.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: Yeah, me too, so I can make you drink some water and sober up.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: One question: are you at home or still out?

You roll around in your bed, reaching for your pillow.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: At home ;) wear8ng that skimpy red pyjama that yiu love and nothin underneth 

You still can’t live a day without teasing him.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: I’ll ignore this one.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: Do you have some water with you?

There’s a full bottle on your nightstand table which is why you snap a quick pic of it and send it to him.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: [attached image]

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: Okay, drink all of it.

You do as you’re told, chugging down tthe liquid, as you start panting once you’re done. This was a great idea. Your head will thank you for it tomorrow morning. You decide to add another pic of the now empty bottle to the chat with the mysterious guy.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: [attached image]

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: Done!!

And the next message from him starts sparking something inside you—if you weren’t both so drunk and tired.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: Good girl.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: You’re mean J ;((

He is. He knows what he’s doing.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: J? You’re calling me J now?

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: Hmm you like it??

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: I’d like it more if you put yourself under your blanket so you don’t catch a cold and go to sleep. We can always talk tomorrow, okay?

You roll your eyes but do as you’re told.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: Okay fine,,, then I’ll go to sleep and the j.0ne thta alway visits my draems will take care of me isntead hihi 

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: Sweet dreams, baby ❤️

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: Goodnight 🦋😇

You wake up with the worst headache known to mankind and you don’t wanna imagine what it would feel like if you didn’t have the bottle of water before falling asleep.

Unfortunately, you still remember everything. How you saw Seojun and Nabi at the bar. How Jisung talked to you. How your friends brought you home. And how you started a fight with j.0ne for no reason.

You reach for your phone and open the chat, staring at the letters before you switch down the brightness of the screen and activate ‘night shift’ mode.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: good morning

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: I wanna apologise

Of course he’s online, already texting you back.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: for what?

You take a deep breath before your fingers start hitting the phone screen.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: for the comment i made about you having a gf. i was drunk and a little jealous but i’m super happy you’re helping your friend like that. i shouldn’t get jealous over you just doing something any man should do in a situation like this. you did everything right and i hope your friend is okay??

It doesn’t take him long to answer.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: thank you, doll

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: she’s fine, no worries. her best friend brought her home.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: how are you tho?

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: hungover 😅

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: but it’s fine

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: what about you??

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: i’m always in a good mood whenever we’re texting

You roll your eyes while a smirk is decorating your face.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: simp

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: and not even ashamed of it 😌

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: i have something for you

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: a little revenge for what you pulled yesterday morning

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: [attached image]

He put a spoiler warning over the message, so that you only see what picture he sent once you tap on it. Which is what you do. You get surprised with a view that should be forbidden. It’s a picture of him—his toned and tanned abs are visible, while he’s groping his bulge through the grey sweatpants, visibly hard.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: holy shit

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: i have to get up and get ready for uni 

However the hell you’re supposed to do that in the state you’re in and your Discord boy sending you semi-nudes.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: me too baby but i thought this would help you wake up

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: i’m very much awake now thank you

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: fuck look at those abs

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: i’m also very much horny now thank you for that one too

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: that makes two of us

It seems as if j.0ne is always horny. At least whenever he texts you. But you don’t mind. It’s great to finally have someone to live up to your fantasies and dark desires, although it’s not happening in real life. He’s helped you a lot with your… sexual frustration and insecurities that Seojun has caused and you’re thankful for that. In many ways.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: not even surprised tbh

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: you wanna make up for yesterday?

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: i didn’t do anything wrong 😇

You don’t even notice how much you’re grinning, as you turn around on your back and impatiently wait for another text.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: we both know that’s a lie

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: i thought you wanted to be a good girl for me at all times hm

and now look at you being a brat

Oh, if he could only see the pout on your pretty face right now.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: i’m not a brat !!

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: just desperate :(

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: always here to help you darling

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: why don’t you touch yourself a little for me hm

You get up, still sitting on your bed as your ass crashes down on your calves and your knees hit the mattress. Opening your camera app, you switch to selfie mode and guide the focus to your upper body. One hand comes up and starts squeezing one of your tits, while you snap a picture.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: anything for you ☺️

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: [attached image]

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: fucking hell

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: take that thing off

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: i need to see the full view

Just a little bit—you tug down the fabric, revealing your naked chest to the camera.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: [attached image]

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: like this? :)

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: yeah

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: oh god

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: what id do to have my face squished right between these two

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: simp

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: but my favourite one 

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: i need more pls

You know that user j.0ne is already stroking his pretty cock—you’ve done this a couple of times before by now.

Adjusting your position, you lean back and part your legs, placing your phone against your blanket that’s turned into a makeshift wall to stabilise the device on its own. You click on ‘video’ and start filming yourself for a few seconds. The touch of your own fingers will do, at least you hope so, when you start grazing over your mound and wander down to brush over your soaked but covered pussy. 

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: [attached image]

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: you’ve been warned

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: fuck you’re soaking

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: drenched

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: absolutely wet

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: for me hm?

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: just for you

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: [attached video]

Another video follows, you’ve pushed the pyjama shorts aside and j.0ne can watch you play with yourself, just like he asked you to.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: baby

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: what you’re doin to me should be illegal 🥵🥵

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: i wish it was your fingers inside me :(

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: [attached video]

The squelching sounds are echoing through your room and in the video, as you’re trying to fit a finger after another, soon realising it won’t ever be enough. He could make you feel so much better with his pretty hands—one of them pleasuring your pussy while the other is wrapped around your throat, adding pressure to the sides. What you’d do for this to happen in real life.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: i’m so hard doll

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: [attached video]

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: need your lips wrapped around my dick

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: you’d look so pretty choking on it

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: your eyes watering while you’re drooling all over it

The video is like a free five star meal. The grey sweatpants are pulled down enough for his erection to spring free and j.0ne doesn’t waste any time to start stroking his length, squeezing it and letting out little whimpers and moans.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: id make you come so fast i promise

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: over and over again

You keep rubbing your clit with your thumb while three of your fingers are dipping inside your hole, stretching you out just right.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: video call?

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: [incoming video call]

Your heart stops.

But your brain has turned into mush and you can’t think properly anymore. So, you accept.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: yes please

A live version of all those videos is even better. You keep fingering yourself as you watch him stroke his dick faster and less than a minute later, he is the one to observe you coming all over your hand. You let out the prettiest moan his ears have ever witnessed, triggering his own orgasm in the process and you wish he was in the same room with you right now, so you could fully take care of each other.

Heavy panting is reaching the microphones, before he ends the call again.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: sorry for ending the call so abruptly 

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: i’m still shy and all

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: you just came all over your stomach for me and call yourself shy??

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: with talking, doll

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: yeah makes sense :D

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: it’s okay don’t worry

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: we will do everything at our pace yeah?

It’s not as if you are ready yet, either. You adore what the both of you have.

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: of course

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: you were so good for me btw

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: such a good girl

[ j.0ne 🐿️ ]: good luck with uni and have a nice day, baby ❤️

A smile forms on your lips.

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: thank you 😇

[ baby_butt3rfly 🦋 ]: you too ❤️

You’re somewhat normal again when you reach the classroom of your first course today. Sure, the hangover is still unbearable but you’ll manage to get through the day. There are already many people when you arrive, so you just drop down on one of the chairs in the back of the room that isn’t taken.

“How are you?”

Oh, fuck. Perhaps you should have paid at least a little attention when choosing a seat, since you are now right next to Han Jisung.

“Uhm, I feel like shit,” you confess. “Thank you for last night, though.”

It feels weird to be kind to him. Jisung and you don’t like each other. But you think back to what j.0ne said and maybe you’re apologising for your own sake and because you still feel bad for starting a useless fight with the other man.

“Don’t thank me for that. It’s the bare minimum. I know we don’t like each other,” you’ve made that very clear, Y/N, “but I will always make sure you’re safe, yeah?”

Before you have a chance to react, the prof storms into the class and starts with the lesson.

However, you don’t seem to be able to focus at any time during those ninety minutes. Your head is way too far gone—the hangover is getting the best of you, j.0ne is still on your mind and Jisung sitting next to you is confusing you a little too.

Your gaze switches towards his fingers, while you’re watching him take notes. His hands are… pretty. You’ve never noticed. Until now. He keeps tapping the wooden surface and at any normal moment you would be annoyed—after all this is Jisung doing something distracting.

“So, now that you know about the task and project for this class,” you hear the professor speaking, “I want you to pair up with whoever is sitting next to you and come up with a concept by next week.”

You look to your right, noticing only Jisung is sitting next to you since the chair on the other side is empty.

Oh, fuck. This is gonna be an annoying semester.

© leeknowsallyoursecrets 2024 — copying, stealing or translating my work is prohibited

[ladylexis]

"I've got you"(18+)

Synopsis: Caught in a stressful situation, you do the only thing you can think of - texting your friend's older brother, Chan. However, was that really the better option?

Content info: Chan x afab reader, one-shot, idol Chan, friend's older brother trope, fluff/smut/slight angst

General Warnings: Smut (specifics under the cut), unwilling drug use and comedown, swearing

Word count: 10.5k

Strayerthings Masterlist

a/n: Hey readers! Long time no see - hope your holidays were fantastic. As promised, I'm releasing this in January. Please let me know your thoughts and don't forget to reblog! There is a sensitive scene filled with macho bullshit at the start but it doesn't last long. I must say, writing for Chan is always such a ride. Anyways, enjoy! 🖤🌻

Smut: dom/sub dynamics, dry sex, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (don't), dacryphilia (crying/begging kink)

Explicit content - minors do not interact.

“Look at Y/n for example, she’s hot but also a gaming nerd obsessed with Kpop so she hardly gets any. We should be going after girls like that since they’re not the sluts showing their tits on OnlyFans.”

You slid further into the couch, trying to make yourself look small. Your mind was a haze and you could hardly stand up for yourself like you normally would. Your colleague was making the most ridiculous, sexist statements that screamed ‘Andrew Tate’ but all you could do was try and hide your shaking nerves. It had gotten so bad that your teeth were chattering. Jack had always been nice to you and you thought he was a solid guy but a different side was brought out when he revealed the party favours. You had accepted the invitation to his house warming without worrying about what the night would hold - your plan was to show up, act impressed at the large space, have one drink and then bounce. It couldn’t have been further from the truth because now you were sitting in a room with around six people, coming down from the coke they had pressured you into taking (you were too inebriated to say no) and he was spouting all this bullshit about how women were always out to get each other and kissing you all over your face. The more invasive he got about your body, your sex life and the inferiority of women, the more you froze up. You had never felt so unsafe before so you stumbled to the bathroom, trying to think fast - who could you message to come get you? It was 3 am in the city and most people were either too drunk or asleep. Who could you count on to always answer the phone? Who would you feel safe with whilst coming down? The questions were racing through your brain and you were about to give up when a name hit you square in the face. He was here. You thought hard about this - he had arrived the previous day and you hadn’t seen him in years. Would you really want your friend’s older brother seeing you high? Yes, you had kept in touch over the years - he had even gotten you a VIP ticket at a discount price - but this was too much. Suddenly, a knocking startled you out of your reverie.

“Y/n?”

It was Jack.

“What are you doing in there? Do another line with us because you’re looking way too sober, you can stay over!”

Oh fuck no.

You texted Chan.

You didn’t know how much time had passed - perched miserably on the couch, staring into space when a banging was heard over the music. The others looked at each other warily and a girl proceeded to open the door, widening her eyes. In strode a medium-length, broad-chested man wearing a tight black t-shirt, ripped jeans and a black cap pulled low over his face. His silver earring glinted in the soft lighting. He tipped his head at her slightly and then looked up, serious eyes searching for something. When they landed on you, his jaw clenched. Hard. You struggled to focus but you were pretty sure you looked wrecked. Crossing the room, he knelt down at your side, glaring at the guy next to you who shifted further away. 

“Y/n.”

“Channie,” you breathed out, relief etched across your features.

He cupped your cheek softly and sucked in a breath, finally taking note of the situation. When he saw the white lines of powder on the mirror in the middle of the table, his head whipped back to you with a questioning frown - you could only nod in response, too ashamed to admit to it verbally. His frown deepened and you instinctively cowered back in response - why did you think it was a good idea to text him? But, as if he knew what you were thinking, he grabbed your hand and rubbed soothing circles into the back of it, trying his best to school his expression. 

“Knew it was too good to be true.”

Why couldn’t he just shut up? Chan shifted himself so that he was facing the rest of the room, scowl deepening with every second. 

“What?”

Jack eyed him from where he was pacing, “I said it was too good to be true. Here I was, thinking that Y/n was so innocent - I was actually telling her to go to Korea to hook up before she grows old in order to satisfy her curiosity. With that hair, those tits and face - they would definitely notice her! But I had no idea she had already found herself one. Careful, Y/n, don’t turn into one of those loose bitches.” 

There was so much to unpack here and your eyes widened in horror, frustrated tears pooling in your eyes. How dare this asshole speak about a culture like that? All you did was appreciate Kpop, the fact that he had implied it was a fetish for you had your brain spiraling. You didn’t even care about the remarks about your body - he had insinuated that you were sleeping with Chan and that you were only sleeping with him because he was Korean. You didn’t know where to look, humiliated and furious beyond belief. You opened your mouth, about to rip him a new one, but the man next to you had stood up, hands balled lightly into fists and eyes stern.

“Say one more thing to her and I’ll tear your head off.” 

You couldn’t look up, too anxious to lift your head but the tone of his voice sent a ripple of fear through you. You could see it mirrored in the others’ faces because they immediately grabbed Jack and whispered in his ear. He casually sat down with a grin.

“I’m just messing around, man, what you do with your free time is not my problem. You sound like you’re from around here - have a line with us, let’s chat. What’s your type?”

Oh, this guy was deranged. Chan turned to you again, trying to meet your eyes in order to assess the damage. When he saw the panic he gently helped you up, pushing past the others with an arm around your shoulders. He silently led you down the stairs and while you waited for an uber, he held you close. You shook in his warmth, his strong arms encircling you - you were too embarrassed to look at him and he knew this so he whispered soothing words into your ear. He helped you into the car and when the driver set off, he started to talk.

“You all right?”

You studiously avoided him and he gently touched your hand, waiting a while before trying again. 

“Y/n, look at me.”

You sighed and looked at him from the corner of your eye. He noticed something outside the window and straightened up.

“We can talk inside.”

Inside? You saw that you were entering an underground carpark of a hotel and turned to face him fully with an eyebrow cocked. 

“You can’t honestly believe I would drop you off at your place after all that’s happened, right? Especially in this condition…” His voice had softened and he was back to stroking your hand. You just blinked and turned away again, feeling his hand retract. 

When the car stopped, he opened the door for you, guiding you in with a gentle hand on the small of your back. He pulled out a keycard and you were ushered into an elevator. A thought struck you and you forced out a hushed question.

“Chan, we’re not going to your room, are we? What if the others found out?”

“Don’t worry, I booked another room as soon as you texted.”

Oh. You felt something that you couldn’t identify. Why would he do all this for you? Where was the boy who would push you into the pool as kids, who’d lock you out the house when you came over? You studied him surreptitiously - at least, you thought you were discreet. It had been years since you’d last seen him - you had obviously seen photos and videos, being a fan of their music, but nothing compared to the real thing. His shoulders had broadened, his face had become more defined and the look in his eyes had matured. When did his arms turn into those? Even in your beaten down state, you could appreciate this evolution. But you shook your head, you would not think of him like that. You hadn’t really spoken to his sister since you grew apart in first year but it was still slightly odd to find her brother attractive. You’d had a puppy crush on him back then but wasn’t that normal? It didn’t feel normal right now. You felt like a creep and tried not to let your admiration show. He and Lily only had a few years between them and you used to go over there quite often as kids which is why you had exchanged the odd message every couple years or so. He must have seen you as the annoyance of his childhood - especially now. He led you to your room at the end of the corridor, keeping his hand on you. You wished he would let go and just step back.

When you were inside he turned to you.

“Have a seat and I’ll be right back.” 

You grabbed his hand as he tried to walk past you, silently asking him not to leave you. He removed his hand carefully and cupped your face, murmuring, “Don’t worry, I’m just getting you some clothes. Take a shower and I’ll be back before you know it.”

You slowly nodded and took a deep breath, watching him leave then you looked around. The room was magnificent. Everything was lit up in a soft, golden glow and the furniture was plush and new. The bed was monstrous and looked like you would sink straight into the mattress. But none of that registered with you - you felt disgusting. A dark cloud of insecurity had settled over you, chilling you to the bone. You had never done that particular drug before but the comedown was bleak. You felt so vulnerable, convinced that no one would be there for you. If Chan hadn’t been in the country, how would this night have ended? The chill had numbed you, made you apathetic - you were upset but couldn’t get the emotion out. You wandered into the bathroom, hoping the heat from the shower would warm you up and get you to feel something.

A soft knock on the door had you startling out of your thought process. Chan’s voice came through, telling you he had left the clothes outside the bathroom. You heard his footsteps retreat back into the room. When had he gotten back? You realised you’d been in the shower for a while, trying to get the heat back into your bones but it hadn’t worked. You felt cold. Cold and alone. You wrapped a towel around your shivering shoulders and cracked the door open, swiping an arm out for the clothing. You pulled on the navy blue t-shirt which was wonderfully baggy and settled on your thighs but the pyjama trousers were way too uncomfortable so you decided to forgo those. You were now faced with a dilemma - do you don your underwear or do you go commando in order to separate yourself from the night’s events? You skipped the panties. The shirt was so long that he wouldn’t notice anyway - at least, you hoped not.

You exited the room, still feeling nothing but the biting cold. Chan was settled on a champagne coloured armchair on the other side of the room, freshly showered and dressed in a black t-shirt and soft, cotton shorts. His dark hair was still damp and he was busy running his hand through it, looking tired. As soon as he saw you he froze, eyes raking down your bare legs. You almost felt a spark. Almost. When he noticed you shudder, he nodded towards the bedside table closest to him where a steaming cup of tea sat. You gingerly walked around the bed to his side and opened the duvet, sliding into the bed and propping yourself up against the headboard as gracefully as possible - your mind was still numb yet full of images, you needed this cloying frost to dissipate. 

“Y/n.”

You lifted your mouth from the cup, sighing in defeat as the hot water still did nothing for your nerves. You wanted to scream but the emotion was so deeply embedded into your chest that you couldn’t claw it out. 

“Y/n.”

You met his gaze timidly. He was bent over, resting his elbows on his muscular thighs to be closer to you and you took in every detail. Tired but warm eyes, curly hair, prominent nose and a plush mouth. A plush mouth that was pulled down in a concerned grimace. Again, you almost felt something stir. 

“How are you feeling?”

You cleared your throat and willed yourself to speak but only a whisper was heard, “Better now, thanks to you.”

He narrowed his eyes but did not refute you.

“What happened tonight?”

“I went to a housewarming party and took drugs, that’s all.” You couldn’t bear to go into details, it was all too raw. 

“Did you accept the coke willingly?”

You thought about it, did you consent? To be honest, you couldn’t remember much of how it started.

“Well, I didn’t say no…”

“Were you drunk when they offered you some?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever taken it before?”

“No.”

“Fuck.” 

“I’m sorry..”

Chan snapped his head up from where he had been glaring at the floor and looked at you in confusion, “For what?”

You didn’t want to talk about it but knew you had to since you owed him that much, “For what he said. About you. You have to know - that isn’t - I would never…” Chan made a furious noise at the back of his throat.

“Don’t apologise for that asshole! You have nothing to feel guilty about - how long have we known each other? I know you. You have a kind and beautiful soul. God, when he said those things about you, about your body - I thought I was going to have to bury a corpse. You don’t go near him again, got it?” 

You didn’t respond, looking down at your hands until you felt him remove your cup. 

“Hey. Don’t cry, I’m here now - you’re safe.” You hadn’t even registered the icy droplets running down your cheeks. He grabbed your hand and looked into your eyes, “How are you feeling? Are you sober?”

You numbly nodded your head and stated in a small voice, “I can’t feel anything except the cold - I can’t warm up.” 

“Here, move up.” He slipped into the bed and tugged you down, coaxing you into turning on your side and wrapping his arms around you - effectively spooning you. Your breath hitched in your throat as you finally felt a spark of heat run up your back. Turns out, you needed to feel safe in order to heat up. But it was still not enough. Chan felt you shiver and pulled you closer, not an inch of space between you. He then started talking in order to distract you.

“Are you still a horror fanatic?”

“What?”

“I remember you and Lily being obsessed with those god-awful movies about possession and zombies - remember thinking, how could these munchkins enjoy that stuff? But then, your true colours revealed themselves and I was more terrified of you two, to be honest.”

You chuckled weakly along with him and bit back, “Hey, it’s not my fault you were scared of your own shadow - you made it way too easy to get back at you for all the times you’d bully us.” He shifted behind you with a sound of incredulity, “Excuse me, how was I able to be the bully when two vicious girls were ganging up on me all the time. If anything, I’m the victim here.” He giggled, hugging you tighter instinctively and you bit back a gasp. His face was now buried in your neck and you suddenly lost the ability to breathe. 

“Do you ever talk to Lily?” He murmured against your skin.

Sighing, you felt yourself grow sad again. “No… I let us drift at uni, didn’t make enough effort with all the shit I had going on. I feel so guilty, she must hate -” He cut you off, turning you to face him.

“Hey. No, she doesn’t. I know my sister and she has a tendency to get swept up in her own life, she is just as much to blame and she’ll come around if you reach out. Besides, no one could ever hate you.”

 He stared into your eyes for a couple seconds and you felt yourself heat up some more. But it was still not enough. The frost would dissipate for a few moments and then insidiously pull you back in again. At this point, you didn’t know what to do and he must have recognised the insecurity in your eyes because he gently brushed your hair away from your face. 

“Y/n…” he breathed. “What’s up?”

Your lip trembled. 

“I’m so cold.”

“Still?”

The frustration pulled at his features as his mind raced. He entwined his legs with yours and stroked your hair and then… And then he softly pressed his full lips against your forehead, lingering. The warmth trickled from that point all the way to your toes and you let out a relieved sigh. He took note and rested his forehead against yours - the calm gradually stretched until it twisted into something else, something heavy. It built until he tilted your face up slowly but instead of stopping there, he searched your eyes carefully and found whatever he was looking for because his own widened and you felt his heart race as he pressed his nose against yours. 

You felt dizzy but this was the boost of emotion you were chasing so you closed the distance and brushed your lips against his. It wasn’t fireworks, not by a long shot. It was the comfort you needed which was a million times better. You moved slowly in tandem, experimentally angling your heads and applying different degrees of pressure - when you accepted his silky tongue he melted into your mouth, hand moving down to your hip.

You couldn’t believe this was happening - kissing Channie after all these years was never on the agenda. You were so lost in your head that when he made a strangled noise and pulled back, staring at you in a panic, you were thoroughly confused. Did you do something wrong? Were you a bad kisser? 

“You’re not wearing any underwear!”

Oh. Right. Fuck.

You looked down quickly, realising he had been stroking your naked hip under the shirt. Where his fingers trailed, a line of fire was left in their wake - the desire was clogging your throat. Not enough. He made to disentangle himself but you weren’t about to let that happen so you pulled him back, swinging your leg over his hip, grinding up against his clothed erection. You both keened hard into each other’s mouths, caught up in the situation. The frosty darkness had started to seep from you entirely and you felt the knot unravel in your chest but all of a sudden, Chan pulled back, panic flitting across his face again. His chest was heaving in exertion and something else, you weren’t sure what.

“We can’t… we can’t do this.” 

“Why!” Your outburst shocked the both of you but you didn’t care. Anything to feel. Anything to get rid of the gnawing ache of fear inside of you.

“Please, Chan, please, I need this. I need to feel warm, I need to feel safe, I need to get rid of this pain, I can’t….” You didn’t even notice the tears running down your face in absolute devastation. He quickly moved back in and cupped your face, whispering, “Hey, sshh, sweetheart, you’re okay. You’re okay. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

You quietened down, soft whimpers falling from your lips as he gently pushed you onto your back and caged you in. He lifted up to rip his shirt off and then leaned back over you, bringing his lips down to yours. When you tried to remove yours too, however, he grabbed your wrists to stop you.

“If we’re doing this, we’re doing this my way.” Never breaking eye contact, he parted your legs and settled between them. He brushed your hair to the side and when he started to softly suck a mark into your neck, his hips started rolling. And rolling. And rolling. 

“Fuck, Channie!” 

You were in agony. There was so much, almost too much. His strong arms kept you close, the heat from his shining chest washing over you - you were separated by the thin layer of his cotton shorts but nothing could prevent you from feeling his enormous, leaking member grinding against your pulsing clit. You begged to remove your shirt but he wouldn’t let you, hands staying over the material - he didn’t even caress your breasts. You couldn’t worry about it though, not when he was giving it to you so good. 

“I-I think I’m gonna cum,” you panted against his skin to which he groaned a response. 

“Yeah? You gonna cum for me, baby?” He started sucking harsher marks onto your collar bones, speeding up his movements. 

“Cum for me, sweetheart.”

The orgasm ripped through you - it was unlike anything you had ever felt before, the fire spread over you, burning everything in its wake. 

You were finally safe.

When he was sure you had come down from your high, he lifted his head, looking at you. Simply looking at you with blown pupils and you had no idea what he was thinking but, at that moment, you didn’t mind. He kissed you sweetly and rolled off you, spooning you again. Before you drifted off, you heard a faint murmur into your hair.

“Good night, baby girl.”

The sun was high in the sky when you woke up. When you woke up alone in a hotel room, to be exact. You tried to rack your brain in your sleepy state and it took you a few moments but boy, did it pay off when the memories came rushing back. Chan had brought you here. Chan had brought you here and you’d had dry sex. But wait… You sat up swiftly. Where did he go? Did he not enjoy it? You remembered your mindblowing orgasm but couldn’t remember his. Oh god. You had embarrassed yourself. You had begged him to fuck you and he hadn’t even enjoyed it. You had taken advantage of him in your desperate state and it was a pity fuck. Quite frankly, you wanted to disappear. As you turned around to bury yourself into the pillow, two foreign items on the bedside table caught your eye - a coffee cup and a paper bag. There was no note. Good old Chan, despite thinking you were pathetic, he still took care of you. You grabbed your phone off the table, checking for messages but none were from him. What was interesting was the notification you received about a concert that night - a certain Stray Kids concert you would be attending as a VIP. You sucked in a deep breath and then let out a huge..

“FUCK!”

“What’s he staring at?” 

“I don’t think it’s a what, I think it’s a who.”

“I can hear you.”

Chan turned around from where he had been standing backstage and the two who had been observing him, Hyunjin and Jisung, took the opportunity to sneak around him. They craned their necks as they located the object of his scrutiny. The smaller crowd had walked in to see their soundcheck and so it was easy to spot you.

“Ahhhh is that the girl you raced to help last night, Ch-rizz-topher?”

“Ooh I can see why, she’s hot!”

“Shut the fuck up, Hyunjin.” Chan rubbed his temple and stared at you again, brows furrowing as he noticed a young guy lead you to your seat, hand on your lower back. He couldn’t blame him though - you looked amazing. You were wearing a tight contraption in your skin colour with red outlines tucked into black jeans, and a black leather jacket thrown over. The corset gave the impression that your torso was bare with blazing streaks across your body and he visibly twitched. Why did you have to wear that? The guilt was eating away at him already. 

“What are you guys staring at?” Minho and Changbin had just joined the fray.

“Chan-hyung’s girl!”

Minho moved closer, “The girl from last night? She’s hot.” 

Changbin eagerly nodded along and Chan could feel his blood pressure rising.

“Guys, she is not my girl. Simply Lily’s friend who needed help.”

“Hey Seungmin! Check out Chan-hyung’s hot girlfriend who happens to be Lily’s friend!”

“Jesus Christ, Jeongin!”

Chan had had enough. He couldn’t have this distracting them right now. They were about to go onstage in a city near his home and they needed to focus. He decided it would be best for everyone if he ignored you so, squaring his shoulders, he said something that he thought would end the discussion.

“She’s like a sister to me.”

“So you mean she’s available? OW, WHAT THE FU-”

You were right. You had embarrassed yourself last night. There were a number of factors that led up to this conclusion. Firstly, he hadn’t texted you since the incident. You chalked it up to his schedule but you were slightly hurt by the notion that he didn’t want to check up on you. Despite your mortification, you had dressed up really nicely - you weren’t sure why as you would not let it get to you. He was just busy. But now, as he walked down the stage, right past you, he kept his eyes carefully trained away from you. You knew he was aware of you, it was obvious by the way his jaw was clenched. You sighed inwardly - this was awful. Would you get the chance to apologise or would he shut you out completely? At this thought, your throat closed up but you were getting ahead of yourself. One step at a time. 

The concert was incredible. You had never had so much fun in your life despite feeling the underlying stress of the situation. The boys were so talented and gorgeous. You admired Chan and even though you knew you shouldn’t, the events of the previous night flitted through your mind. When he hugged Minho tightly from behind, you felt his arms around you too - soothing you to sleep. When he brushed the hair from Felix’s eyes, you felt his featherlight touch as he dried your tears. When he lifted his shirt you were reminded of the smooth, hard muscles rippling under your fingertips as he brought you to your demise; and when he turned around, you remembered the firmness of that ass, clenching in your grip. Fuck - this was not happening. You were not growing feelings for him, were you? He had simply helped you out platonically and the way he was ignoring you proved that. But you found yourself questioning everything when he pulled his tight pants lower surreptitiously, showing his happy trail and briefs. You saw him look at other girls and your heart dropped - his dimple was on full display for everyone but you… You were shaken from your maudlin thoughts, however, when the other members drew your attention. They seemed to have taken quite a shine to you, completing hearts and throwing big smiles your way. It didn’t seem like a coincidence by the way that Chan visibly tensed up and pulled Hyunjin away from your side of the stage or smacked Changbin over the head when he sat down and stared at you during a speech. How much did they know? They were quite obviously getting a rise out of him and you were kind of enjoying it immensely. You were about to give up hope completely until something finally happened. It was during Red Lights. Chan was directly in front of you when he was doing his floor work and when he lifted himself up somewhat, his eyes locked with yours. You felt the air escape your lungs. The way his revealing jacket gleamed in the red spotlight, making his firm chest glow; the way the sweat trailed down his neck; the way his pretty pink mouth parted. All that made you dizzy but what had you wet was his stare. His stare. The way his dark eyes drove into you, the way his brows furrowed in consternation. You couldn’t decipher what he was feeling but you needed him. You hoped he craved you too. You were royally screwed. 

The members were backstage while the audience was watching a video, getting ready for the final number. Minho saw Chan nervously darting his eyes to the wall, as if he had suddenly received the gift of X-ray vision. Chuckling lightly, he rested his chin on his shoulder and proceeded to play the part of the devil.

“How you doing?”

“Fine.”

“She’s alone here, right?”

“Yeah. Wait, I mean, I think so?”

“She staying at the hotel again?”

“How did you know where she stayed?” Chan turned to him in confusion. Minho merely smirked which annoyed him further and he turned back around, moving to catch a glimpse of you. His second in command zeroed in again.

“So? She coming with us?”

“No.” Chan grit his teeth, wanting nothing more to do with the situation. Nothing more to do with you.

“But… how will she get home? You can’t expect her to wait outside, in the cold, in the dark, alone, for a random taxi?”

Chan faltered at that. What kind of person would he be if he left you alone without checking up on you? He thought back to how small, vulnerable, scared you looked sitting on that couch and his heart clenched, the anger stirred. He still had your room since he didn’t know how much time you needed to rest so what was stopping him? He didn’t want to think about the answer to that question.

“Fine.” We probably have something to discuss anyway.

You were singing along with the final number when you heard a voice in your ear, shocking the bejeezus out of you. You turned around to find the young, attractive usher from earlier hovering - he beckoned you closer and told you to meet him by the side door as soon as the audience started filing out. You tentatively agreed, knowing what this meant and wondering what the fuck you were going to say when you were face to face with the man you simultaneously wanted to kick and kiss. As you turned back to the stage you caught him quickly turning his gaze away from the two of you - did you perhaps affect him in the same way? No, surely not. He was probably just annoyed at his protective instincts - that’s what landed you in this mess in the first place.

You realised you had zoned out because when you came to, most were cheering and moving around to leave. This was your cue. You moved to the door behind you and loitered a bit until the staff member came to get you. His name was James and he really was very nice but you couldn’t reciprocate his flirting - not when you were about to meet him. He led you through the corridor all the way to the back of the building and knocked on the door of the green room. You felt a warm sensation on your lower back and noticed his hand resting there - before you could ask him to remove it the door opened, revealing a wet-haired Changbin in fresh clothes. He opened the door with a wide smile and stepped back to let you in. You looked beyond him and saw Chan staring daggers at the man behind you who dropped his hand reluctantly. You thanked him gently and walked in. 

You knew this was a mistake the moment you did because Chan went back to ignoring you, making you feel very out of place. The room was big, couches settled against the walls and make-up stations set up in the middle but, because of the absolute rejection, you felt the walls squeeze you in from all sides. Your heart stuttered and you started to instinctively move back. This was worse than you thought. How would you two ever be able to go back to normal? You wanted to be alone to mourn your childhood but, just as you were about to make your excuses and leave, a hand guided you to the couch where you were gently pushed down. The man followed you swiftly and sat by your side - it was almost invasive. You turned your head and found yourself staring at the most beautiful pair of lips. Hyunjin. His voice was like molten silk, sliding over your nerves, settling you. 

“So what’s your name?”

“Y/n.”

“A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

You heard a scoff from somewhere and straightened up, refusing to appear vulnerable. Minho jumped into your line of sight and towered over you, gripping the couch. 

“So. You’re the girl Chan valiantly rescued last night.” He smirked evilly, shooting a look at him who had his back to you, shoulders tensed. He still hadn’t acknowledged you. Minho, undeterred, was on a roll.

“How long have you known each other? Because he was frantic when he got the message from you. You two must be awfully close. Isn’t that right, Chan? I think he’d practically do anything for you.”

You schooled your breathing and answered without thinking, using his childhood nickname, “Well Channie and I -”

“Of course, I would. She’s basically my little sister.”

He didn’t look at you as he cut you off and you fought to swallow down the bile comprised of hurt, shame, anger. You knew he was in the right since you forced him into what had happened but you couldn’t help it. You needed to be wanted, you needed to be seen as a woman so you decided to fight fire with fire and focus on the members instead. You let a mask slide across your features.

 Leaning back, you smiled demurely up at Minho, saying nothing in return. You took in the other boys - they were all so striking, so unique. Jeongin was staring at you shyly, Seungmin was maintaining nonchalant eye contact and Jisung was adjusting his belt. Good god. Felix had made himself comfy on the other side of you and thrown his arm around your shoulders, murmuring into your ear with his deep voice.

“If I may be so bold, I love your outfit. The red really pops against your smooth skin.” At this point, your face had started to match said colour. What were they playing at? You couldn’t say you weren’t relishing in it, however, as your inner brat was trying to rear its ugly head.

You crossed your legs and pushed your chest out slightly, noticing that Chan had now turned around and was staring balefully at the others. You couldn’t help but stare at him, his annoyance rolling off him in waves. The way the black tank hugged his torso as he crossed his arms really had you pulsing. 

“Thanks, I am feeling a tad warm right now though so I might take off this jacket - could someone help me?”

 Changbin appeared out of nowhere, pulling you upright and helping you out of it. You practically purred out a thanks and pretended not to notice how Chan’s scowl had deepened dramatically. The boys raked their eyes unabashedly over your body and when you turned you heard an appreciative gasp. You felt someone’s fingers trail over your shoulder and realised what they had seen.

“Your tattoo... So fragile, so delicate, so dark.” You realised it was Hyunjin and shivered when he brushed your hair to the side, seeing that it flowed up the back of your neck. It wasn’t a big tattoo by any means but you looked over your shoulder and caught Chan staring at it, eyes wide. You felt a quiet sense of satisfaction which was masking your lingering hurt so, clinging onto it, you gave Hyunjin a cheeky smile and reached out to touch his new piercing, eyes locked on his. His hair was shorter, shimmering maroon and his shirt was showcasing his collarbones. He was beautiful.  He seemed just as entranced by you so he leaned in.

“Are you single then?”

“All right, Jesus! Stop acting like horny teenagers - she’s here because we’re helping her, what use is that when you’re harassing her? Y/n, put your damn jacket on - I can see the goosebumps from here.”

Chan started aggressively gathering his things, muttering under his breath. Hyunjin’s eyes gleamed at you and it all fell into place. They were all baiting him…and it had worked. As everyone got their bags, you moved to slip past them to the door.

“And where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

Chan was grimacing at you, arms crossed.

“You guys are getting ready to leave? Didn’t want to be in the way. Have a safe flight and well done for the great concert.” He was being an absolute prick and you realised that a written message three years from now would be sufficient. But as you started to open the door, a strong hand kept it closed, an arm effectively caging you in. You turned your head slightly and was met by his hard stare. Fuck me. You quickly looked behind you to see all the boys simultaneously turn and stare at a particularly ugly painting. 

“I like the…brush strokes.”

“Yes, the mustard yellow is quite…prominent.”

Chan lowered his voice, “You’re here because the hotel room is still available and we don’t want you going home alone. Please… just go there.” 

You grit your teeth and tried to tug at the door but his hand wrapped securely around yours and held you still. He leaned in, face unreadable, “What’s going on with you? I’m getting worried.” Your heart clenched painfully and you schooled your expression.

“Oh, don’t worry about me big bro - I’ll be fine.” He flinched and you cast your eyes down, feeling slightly guilty. You sighed, adding, “But I’ll take you up on your offer as I’m too fucking tired to find an uber in this madness.”

Everyone was quick to gather their things and when it came time to leave, you received your instructions.

“We will head out first, draw the crowd in and so forth. Once we’re on the road, you’ll follow us in a company car. You have your room key card?”

You nodded mutely and stared at the ground - so he wasn’t going to talk to you later. The disappointment and relief twirled into a glutinous mess and you felt sick. Someone approached you with a black cap and face mask, and you looked up to see Hyunjin in front of you. He gave you a gentle smile and silently asked if he could apply them. You nodded again and he slowly slid your mask into place, fingers trailing across your cheekbones. A hiss came out of nowhere and suddenly a new person had taken over. From behind you, Chan ran his fingers through your hair - you had seen him approach you but even if you hadn’t, you would recognise those fingers anywhere. The way they raked across your scalp had you seeing stars, the sensation threw you back to the bed where this had all started. You thought you might be imagining it but you could feel his heart race through his shirt and you shivered. After he had balled your hair up, under the cap, you were ready. He stepped back and avoided your gaze. You noticed Jisung clutching his chest, expression cooing and Jeongin blushing in the back. You rolled your eyes and watched the members move towards the van. Just as you started contemplating making a run for it, a harsh voice whispered in your ear.

“Don’t you dare think about it. Stop being a brat and go to the hotel.”

“Come on, Channie! The car is waiting!” Minho cackled and Chan jogged on, scowling the whole way.

Once in the car, Chan’s mind raced. He felt like absolute scum. He had hurt you. He had hurt you the night before and it was evident in the way you interacted with him. He knew he was being standoffish but he was scared to look you in the eyes because everytime he did he was reminded of the tears glistening there as you begged him to fuck you. He didn’t even know he had a crying kink until you outright sobbed, clutched onto his shirt and stared beseechingly into his eyes. God, he had never been so hard in his life. He had let himself get swept up and now he was paying the price. He had acted like a frat boy and taken advantage of you in your vulnerable state. You. You, who knew who he really was, who had grown up with him - he was supposed to protect you, you fucking trusted him. He’d let one of the most important people to him down and he couldn’t bear to face you. He’d seen the hurt etched across your features while he was onstage and, like the coward he was, he ignored it. Like the coward he was, he had slipped out of your bed and fled. Like the coward he was, he didn’t message you, no matter how much he wanted to. And like a pervert…he had gotten himself off in the shower as soon as he could. How could he not when he noticed the patch of arousal you had left on his boxers? You probably hated him and he couldn’t face it. He instinctively gripped his seat as he remembered how you looked in the changing room. His heart had stuttered seeing you up close, your hair tousled, your eyes shining as you looked at the other members. He thought about that tattoo, when had you gotten that? It might quite possibly have been the sexiest thing he had ever seen. It reminded him of how you’d grown up without him, how you had bloomed into this gorgeous creature, how you were different yet not. He wanted to trace his fingers over it or better yet, his tongue but Hyunjin had beaten him to it and Chan had to hold himself back from strangling him. He didn’t know how you felt about him, he wasn’t supposed to want you but he couldn’t help it. When did he start liking you in this way? Did you like Hyunjin? The jealousy had flooded him when you touched his piercing with a smile. You had smiled at him like that when you were in his arms. Right before you cried and begged him to fuck you. Fuck. He was an absolute fucking mess. 

He had to apologise to you, he had to make this right.

When you opened the door to your room, you froze. There, sitting in the same armchair as the night before, was Chan. He was staring hard at the carpet, saying nothing. After a while you slowly closed the door and shifted from one foot to the other, not sure what to do next - you didn’t particularly want to sit on that bed in front of him. 

“Are you just going to stand there?”

His face was impassive as he looked at you, it made your heart hammer in your chest. He was angry at you - you wanted to melt into the carpet but knew it was better this way. You wanted him to just get it over with - yell at you and then leave. You didn’t deserve anything less. So, mustering up your courage, you made your way to the bed and perched on the side of the mattress closest to him. His eyes were dark and you forced yourself to maintain eye contact - he was really angry. Your lip trembled as you realised there was no going back for the two of you. This was the end of everything.

“Y/n. I need to say something to you - fuck.”

He hissed the last word as he noticed your eyes glinting. Scrambling out of the chair, he moved to the massive windows, back to you.

“Please stop crying,” he gritted out.

Embarrassed at how pathetic you must look to him, you hastily wiped your cheeks and stood up, moving towards him. When you placed a hand on his arm (you had to apologise to his face) he jerked away as though electrocuted, muttering, “I can’t do this.” 

You turned away in defeat and made your way to the shower, thinking you would make it easier for him to leave. You found his pyjamas on the sink and choked back a sob, why was this so hard? 

After scrubbing your skin for fifteen minutes, you ventured out. You wanted to curl up into a ball and berate yourself further for jumping the man who’d always been there for you in one way or another but you came face to face with Chan again. He hadn’t left, he was sprawled in the chair again. Why won’t he just leave? I would much rather send him a fruit basket than do this. You steeled your shoulders, opened your mouth, but before you could say something he cut in.

“I’m sorry.”

What?

He repeated it and looked you dead in the eye. It confused you so much that you stood there, gaping like a fish for a good few seconds. When you were finally able to get words out, your voice sounded shrill.

“Chan… what are you apologising for? I’m the one who should be doing that.”

His brow furrowed and he tilted his head questioningly.

You stepped forward slowly, it was now or never.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for last night - I forced myself on you. I begged you to sleep with me and you gave in. I assaulted you. I’m so fucking sorry!”

Now it was his turn to gape - he felt even worse than before. 

“Is that the impression I gave you? That I didn’t want it?”

“You were hardly touching me, wouldn’t take my shirt off and you didn’t come!”

“That’s because I was forcing myself to stay calm and not lose control! You have no idea how incredible you looked under me, how fucking much I wanted to ruin you. I am so sorry. Even though I tried to restrain myself somewhat, I violated your trust in me. You were coming down from cocaine for god’s sake and I took advantage of you. I don’t even deserve to be alone with you right now.”

“No.”

You started to panic, hands shaking and breaths shallow. You couldn’t believe he was trying to do this again. To protect you and make you feel better about you assaulting him. Typical Chan. You’d had enough. Angry tears pooling in your eyes, you strode forward until you were standing right in front of him.

“You don’t get to do this. Not again! I fucking attacked you and now you’re trying to make me feel better? Chan, stop hiding your feelings - I know you’re resenting me right now and I need you to be honest. You’ve been ignoring me all evening, acting aggressive when I approach you. Saying you ‘can’t do this’ a moment ago. Stop being so nice!”

He had stood up by this point, towering over you. 

“Being nice? I’m being nice? Do you want to know what I actually meant when I said I can’t do this?” There was no trace of empathy on his face and it made you nervous. Were you wrong? He continued on, moving even closer.

“You had just started crying and it turned me on. It fucking turned me on. Apparently I’m into that. If I didn’t shake you off, I would have taken you against the window for everyone to see. I’m disgusting.”

Your breath caught in your throat. God, you wanted him. He was about to move away in shame when you caught his wrist. He studied you carefully and noticed your dilated pupils, mouth parted and cheeks flushed. You loved his confession and it twisted something in his chest. He wrapped a hand around your hair and lifted your face up, admiring the silvery sheen of tears glistening on your cheeks. He groaned and with his free hand, wiped them away with his thumb. When he slid it into his mouth and sucked at the salty residue, you felt your guilt wash away. He wasn’t joking. And you were going to lose it.

Gripping the back of your neck, he bent down to lightly brush his lips against yours but you both stopped before sealing the deal. His eyes danced.

“Tell me to stop.”

“No.” 

You mirrored his words, “Tell me to stop.”

His reply came fast and breathless.

“Never.”

The kiss was immediate, it was forceful with teeth clashing and lip biting. 

He pushed you onto the bed and, this time, ripped your shirt off. 

“As much as I love seeing you in my clothes, I just need to fucking check something.” He turned you onto your front and roughly brushed your hair out the way, stilling for a moment as he took in the sight. Your painted shoulder was glorious.

“When did you even get this?”

“Back in uni, six shots of tequila helped me gain the confidence to share my design with an artist.”

“So you’re saying, I leave you for a couple of years and you go wild? Shit, I’ll have to keep my eye on you in case you come back with a nose ring.” You felt his arousal through his shorts and smirked to yourself.

 He bent his head down and finally got to slide his tongue slowly over the clean lines, causing you to shudder and arch your back. He licked up your shoulder, to your neck where he bit down. Hard. It had you bucking in his grasp and he sternly pushed your hips down.

“Oh baby - settle down unless you don’t want to come. At all.”

Your eyes rolled back into your head and you quietened down, panting in anticipation. 

“Good girl.”

Fuck. When did he get so authoritative? He gripped your hair and bruised your mouth with his, licking into you. The pace was rough and you suddenly became aware of how gentle he had been with you when you needed him the previous night. He had gone at your pace, fluttered his fingers over you and made sure not to make you uncomfortable. You smiled into the kiss as you truly realised that he wasn’t reluctant, he was respectful - he was treasuring you. You were both idiots. He quirked a brow, feeling your smile and pulled away. 

“What’s on your mind, baby girl?”

“Channie, you could never hurt me - not even if you tried.”

He understood your meaning, giggling shyly (how?), but decided to take your words literally. 

“You sure about that?”

He bit the shell of your ear sharply and your eyes darkened in response. Now was not the time for sentimentalities. Ripping his shirt off, he flipped you over and nestled between your legs - his eyes trailed down and his lips quirked.

“You didn’t learn the last time?”

“I have a thing against wearing dirty undies after a shower.”

“Who are you?” His face tightened in thought and you needed to bring him back.

You cupped his face, “Chan, I need you to understand that I’m not the girl from your memories anymore. I’ve grown up - which you can clearly see - so please, don’t be gentle and don’t regret this. I want you and I realise I’ve kind of always wanted you - you were just either too thick to see it or you didn’t want to. I’ve grown up, I’ve dated and I still want you. Tell me you want this and then stop worrying about hurting me, if you’ll have me - I’m all yours. At least for tonight.” You swallowed thickly with nerves and waited for his response - would he finally see a beautiful, worldly woman (like the ones he must hang out with) or would he not be able to get past his impression of you, his little sister’s friend. You hoped it was the first. He took a few moments and you thought you might just cry which you did not want to happen as it would, apparently, just persuade him to fuck you.  

He sucked in his bottom lip with a sigh and stared up at you from below his lashes. His warm brown eyes narrowed in something akin to concern. He opened his mouth and then thought better of it, leaning down to place a warm kiss against your forehead. You shuddered and waited, heart sinking.

“Y/n. I can’t promise that I’ll be able to separate you from the girl I knew when I was little. In fact, I don’t want to.” Your shoulders tensed and you waited for the inevitable rejection. What an unfortunate position to be doing this in. 

“When I saw you on that couch yesterday, scared and so alone, an image of you crying in the rain hit me. I don’t know if you remember but you were sixteen - your parents had had a fight and gone to bed, forgetting to unlock the front door for you. I pulled you to your feet and cuddled you on Lily’s bed while we waited for her to get home. Anyways, you looked exactly the same, lost and feeling abandoned. I wanted to gather you in my arms again, I needed to protect you again. You mean so much to me and I wouldn’t want you to be anyone else. Just be Y/n, the annoying neighbour who I had a massive crush on before I left. Why do you think I kept in touch all these years? I needed some semblance of normalcy, I needed the comfort of home. I needed you. And I still do. So, stay with me as you. Yourself. Be mine.”

You let out a relieved laugh and he cradled your face again, whispering,“But you gotta stop doing this, darling, as you’ll send me to an early grave and you wouldn’t want to disappoint my fans now, would you?” 

He was kissing a stray tear away and you decided you would indeed try your best to shed a few everyday if it meant getting this treatment. 

Suddenly, you felt his breathing grow ragged as he looked you over.

“Now call me Channie again and let me have you.”

You bit back a whimper as he lowered his mouth to your neck and then, realising you were stark naked under him, you tugged at his waistband. He broke away for a second to rip both layers off and then captured your lips with his. It was a slow, deep kiss this time - as though you were savouring this pivotal moment together. His hands softly entwined in your hair again and yours slid leisurely over his back, running your nails over the tight planes of flesh. He hissed and you felt woozy, arousal dripping from your core. He slid his cock through your folds gently and held eye contact - it was almost too intense for you so you turned your face away, only for him to grip your chin and bring you back.

“Look at me. Please.”

You blinked and nodded dumbly, watching as he slid his fingers down to your begging hole. You were sopping, ready, and he knew this but a cheeky smile flashed across his features and you narrowed your eyes at him as he slowly made his way down your body. He trailed his tongue across your collarbones, flicked your nipples, grazed his teeth along your ribs and when he reached your pelvis he bit down on your hip. All while maintaining eye contact. You yelped and jerked your hips up from the bed but he easily draped a muscular arm across your torso, glaring at you.

“What did I say about moving?”

“Sorry…” you murmured, head in the clouds. You felt him chuckle, breath ghosting over your pussy. He hummed quietly and kissed your folds. It felt so good that you knew you’d be begging for more later. When his tongue swept over your slit you keened loudly, forcing yourself to stay still. He sucked your bud in between his plush lips and you felt your waterline pleading to release. No, this is too soon! You tried to keep your impending orgasm at bay but it was as though he knew all the right spots on you so as soon as his tongue slid inside you and lapped at your walls you lost it, thighs locking around his head and mouth open in a silent scream.

You felt him nip at your thigh and position himself over you, waiting for you to return to him. You lazily smiled at him, combing a hand through his messy locks and he kissed you all over your face, making you push at him.

“Tell me to stop before I make you scream.”

You widened your eyes as his confidence swept back at full force and choked out, “No.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He gripped your hip with one hand and sheathed himself in you, apparently deciding he couldn’t hold back anymore. And scream, you did. 

“Fuck, Channie!”

He said nothing, starting off at a punishing pace and you felt the breath leave your lungs. You held onto his biceps, honestly trying not to pass out. You realised he adored edging you because the heat in your belly would build up at the abuse you endured by his thick cock slamming into your walls but, at the last minute, he would feel you clenching and change the pace. It was frustrating the hell out of you and you wouldn’t have it any other way. He had monumentally slowed down his pace when he started talking. 

“How are you still so tight, baby girl? I’m so deep inside you and your wet cunt is still trying to suck me in. Fuck. Is this good for you? Do you like it when I take you like this?”

You let out an embarrassing noise, too fucked out to speak. At this, he slowed down even more.

“What was that? Speak to me - what do you want?” His face hovered over yours, smirking devilishly at you. God, you hated this man. You tried your best to glare at him and pulled your lips firmly shut, two could play at this game. He stopped completely and gripped your face hard, pushing his thumb into your mouth - you felt your eyes roll back as you instinctively clenched around him.

“Stop being a fucking brat, Y/n, and tell me what you want. Beg for it or I’ll make you cry.” He clearly was not going to move and your pussy ached so much as you had been going for quite a while. You realised that if you were going to sleep with him again, you would need to learn to hold your own but it wouldn’t be tonight. He heard a sound around his thumb and pulled it out.

“Hmm? What was that, sweetheart?”

“Cum. I need to cum. Now.” Your voice broke around the last word and he sucked in a breath, eyes darkened to black. He rose up on his knees and folded your legs up against his chest. You had thought it would be impossible but he was even deeper than before.

“If I see even one more tear, I’m going to stop.”

He started up his brutal pace, watching your face contort in the most delightful way. Your eyes took him in as much as you could - the furrow between his brow, his mouth hanging open, sweat trickling down his neck and shoulders. The way his arms bunched around your legs and the way he was breathing was coaxing you to the edge - when he started to feel you contract he licked his thumb and swiftly brought it down onto your clit. It sent you hurtling to your destruction, taking him with you.

Later, whilst facing each other on the bed, arms and legs tangled, you searched his eyes. The sparkle was there, no hint of regret in sight. You felt a surge of relief until you heard his next words.

“The sun’s not out yet and we are far from finished.”

Fuck.

Your body was sore. Really sore. It felt as though he had split you in two, you shuddered at all the positions you had tried (successfully). But you had been over-ambitious and now you were paying the price. Opening a weary eye, you looked around. It was morning, the sun was gently washing in from behind the light curtains…and there was nothing blocking it. Chan wasn’t there, Chan was gone. You struggled to sit up but managed to slouch against the headboard. Was something wrong? Had you fucked up again? You got nervous - when he said “be mine” did he mean “just for tonight?”. You racked your brain, trying to remember what time his flight was but the sound of your discarded phone ringing had you scrambling to reach for it. When you looked at the caller ID, the air returned to you. 

“Channie?”

A warm chuckle met you and you sighed in happiness - until you realised he had destroyed you physically and ran. Was he already at the airport?

“Where are you?”

“I’m at a cafe, getting us some breakfast. In fact, I’m currently fighting over a Pain au Chocolat since I remember you liking those.”

“ …oh.” 

“Baby, did you think I’d left you again?” You imagined him softly smiling into the phone and you mirrored his action as you heard his next words.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ve got you.” 

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[ladylexis]

A little death never killed anybody

Synopsis: As lead curator at The Egyptian Museum of Cairo, you would think you’d be treated with respect at The National Museum of Korea. Especially as guest lecturer on one of the most valuable artifacts in the world. Apparently not, you realise, while you’re being chucked out the door by the most obnoxiously gorgeous man you’ve ever seen. Oh, he has no idea what he’s in for.

Coming soon...

[ladylexis]

Swim - [ Lee Know ]

🎸 SYNOPSIS : After a nasty break-up with your loser ex, you head to your favorite club to let loose, when the bartender catches your eye. He's managed to make you laugh more than you had all week and slowly you find yourself losing focus on his words and more on his veiny hands.

GENRE : smut, strangers to potential lovers

PAIRING : lee know × fem!reader

CONTENT WARNING : smut (warnings under the cut!), cocky minho, mentions of cheating (not between minho and reader), drinking

WORD COUNT : 1.7K

AUTHOR'S NOTE : (Part of my Stray Kids × Chase Atlantic series special for their sixth anniversary). Lee Minho. Where do I even start with this man. I think I started to notice more of him during the Oddinary Era videos (because of his purple hair 🧎‍♀️). I feel like out of all of them, I'm very much similar to him. I like him a lot because of that. Also his cats :( I think seeing him transformed me into a 75% cat person now lmao.

minors dni. if you click read, you agree to nsfw content

SMUT WARNING : hand kink, fingering, unprotected sex (don't be stupid), piv, semi-public sex, use of nicknames (doll, bunny), choking (fem receiving), clothed sex (?), reader drinks a little but no drunk sex, everyone is sober and consenting!

“Three shots of vodka please.” You said as you slid onto the bar stool, eyes on the bartender's back as he nodded and prepared your drink, handing you three shot glasses and leaned against the counter. You adjusted the hem of your short dress once you noticed a guy eyeing you with a hungry gleam in his eyes.

“Rough day?” The bartender asked, watching you down a glass.

“How do you know?” You asked with a chuckle.

“Everyone's out here drinking gin tonics and beers. Call it a hunch, I guess.” He shrugged, making you chuckle and thread your fingers together, watching the man with newfound interest. Brown hair hung over his eyes, the middle part showing a bit of his forehead. His lips were rosy (and very kissable at first impression). His biceps strained against the black button up he was wearing, the sleeves rolled up giving you a perfect view of his veiny arms and hands… Oh god — his hands. “So what's gotten the fine lady in a bad mood?” He asked, his big eyes focused on yours.

You drummed your nails against your glass. “I'll let you guess.”

“Let's see…” He cocked his head to the side, “boss yelled at you? Fired? Friends?” You shook your head. Finally, his eyes light up, “Ah… vodka, hanging out at the bar instead of the floor, your phone's practically a vibrator at this point — broke up with your man?”

“He's an asshole.” You huffed and took another shot, the burning liquid flowing down your throat made you cringe but you welcomed the floating feeling that followed afterwards. You weren't a lightweight, a few vodka shots weren't going to make you dead drunk, but you felt better. “He went out to a party, got wasted and fucked someone — two someone's as per his friend. And then had the fucking audacity to beg for another chance.”

He laughed. “Sounds about right.” A song started to play in the background — most likely by the performing group (3RACHA or something?) of the night since there were cheers all around. He turned around and then back again, placing a glass of ice cold beer in front of you. “On the house. That guy is an asshole. You deserve much better.”

“You don't even know me.”

“Any girl like you deserves better than a cheating bastard.”

You laughed, the smile brightening on your face as you kept talking to the man, who introduced himself as Minho. Minho. You liked that name. You liked your name rolling off his tongue even more when he repeated it after you, saying it again after tending to a few other customers. You stole glances at his hands when you thought he wasn't looking, the prominent veins underneath his smooth skin made your face flush as dirty thoughts clouded your mind.

“Do you stare at everyone's hands, or is it just mine?” The smug smile on his face paired with the glint in his eyes — he knew what you'd been doing. You turned red, trying to stammer some sort of response but it died out once you noticed that he didn't look like… he was bothered by it. “I feel honored.” He leaned forward, fingers pulling out some invisible leaf from your hair as he whispered, “wanna tell me what you were thinking about, doll?”

You gave a very intelligent response. “Uh…”

He smirked, looking away from you to tell one of the other bartenders that he was going to get more glasses from the back before telling you in a low voice, “Wait here for a few minutes and then go through the employees only door in the back.” You couldn't muster an answer before he winked and left.

Your heart was thudding in your chest. Were you actually going to do it? Follow a bartender you met a few hours ago? Something inside you was telling you to go for it. Sure, there was a possibility of you walking straight into a trap, but there were so many times he could've done something to you the whole night and he did nothing but lift your spirits. He'd managed to make you laugh more than you had all week.

You downed your last shot before getting up and going to where he instructed you to. No one batted an eye as you slipped through the clearly labeled employees only door and carefully walked into the dimly lit place that looked to be a janitor's closet when a finger tapped on your shoulder and you were met with Minho's big eyes again.

“Now that we're alone…” The muffled sound of music still played from behind the door, “what were you thinking when you were staring at my hands, hm?” You swallowed, Minho's finger traced your jawline before resting underneath your chin, making you look straight at him.

“W-Well…”

“Words, bunny.”

The nickname turned your ears red. “Y-You might be right…”

“Might?”

“Fine.” There was no going back anymore. “I was thinking… certain things about your hands.”

“Like what?”

“How they'd…” You bit your lip. “How they'd feel inside me… or… around m-my neck.”

“Good bunny.” He smirked. “Can I kiss you now?”

“Please.”

He wasted no time joining his lips with yours, practically devouring you as he pushed against the wall, tongue sliding into your mouth and meeting yours. His hands rested on your waist, squeezing the flesh as he deepened the kiss. Sloppy and messy, things only got more heated as the minutes flew by. He detached from you and instead peppered kisses along your jaw and down your neck. Your palm was flat against his chest, feeling his muscles tensing beneath your skin. He nipped at a spot on your neck that made heat pool between your thighs, an unintelligible sound leaving your mouth.

“Oh, you liked that?” He bit down again in the same spot, hard enough to leave a mark before smoothing over it with his tongue.

“Please…” You whimpered.

“Please what?”

“N-Need you. Your fingers.”

“Where do you need them bunny?” He was teasing you. You could see that. But you had just about enough of it. You took his hand and guided it between your parted legs, right onto your covered crotch. “You're soaking. Just thinking about my hands did this to you?” You nodded. He rubbed your clothed pussy, making your head fall onto his shoulder, the feeling nearly making your knees buckle and he barely even did anything. He pulled his hand away and tapped his finger against your lips, “Suck.”

You wasted no time in doing exactly what he said, wrapping your pink lips around his two fingers and coating them with your saliva. He chuckled, taking them out and slipping off your panties from underneath the short dress you were wearing, rubbing over your folds and your clit. You moaned at the simple touch which made him chuckle. He prodded at your hole before a digit entered inside you and you could've cum from just the feelings. “Oh god…”

He inched his finger inside and slowly began moving it in and out, adding another finger when he heard the sweet, sinful sounds escaping your lips, scissoring you open. “Look at you. Already fucked out from just my fingers. How are you even going to be able to handle my cock, hm?”

“I-I can do it. Want your cock. W-Want you to fill me up, Minho, p-please —” You were cut off by your own whimper as he pressed his thumb against your bundle of nerves. You were clenching around his fingers, almost able to taste your orgasm when he stopped and removed his fingers. You whined at the loss, your climax crumbling away.

“The only way you're cumming —” He undid his belt and pulled his pants down along with boxers so his dick could spring out. “On my cock.” And it was big. Fuck. You drooled at the sight of his thick cock, the leaky mushroom tip and the vein that ran along his length and then his heavy balls — holy shit. “Get on that table for me.” He nudged his head towards the small desk table. You scrambled to get there, laying down on the cold wood, your wet pussy on full display for him. “Such an obedient bunny.” He ran the tip of his dick along your folds, only entering you slowly after you whined for him to just put it in.

And he was big. He just kept going and going until you felt the head brush against your cervix. You felt impossibly full, head swimming in ecstasy. Through your half-lidded eyes, you could see he was struggling to keep his composure, eyebrows taut as he held your hips down. Once you gave him the go ahead, he wasted no time in setting a quick pace. Your moans echoed off the walls. The music from outside was like a background track for the sinful deed you were doing.

The water's getting colder, let me in your ocean, swim.

“Pussy so fucking tight — even after I stretched you out with my fingers —” Minho grunted, angling his hips so that he was hitting that spot inside you that made you see white with every thrust. You were babbling incoherently, much to his amusement. “Did I fuck my bunny dumb already?” One of his free hands reached up and wrapped around your throat. You opened your eyes again, the sight of his veiny arms making you clench impossibly tighter. He let out a groan, squeezing your neck to restrict your breathing a little.

You could feel your orgasm approaching again, your moans turned into high pitched whimpers, his name leaving your mouth like a mantra as you convulsed, cumming around his cock, milking him dry. He let put a string of curses as his thrusts turned sloppy and uncoordinated before he came inside you, fucking his seed into you until he was spent and slowed down.

The two of you were silent, panting to catch your breath.

“Block your loser ex. I'm the one who's going to make you feel like this. With my mouth. With my fingers. And with my dick. Over and over again.”

©hanjsquokka | copying, translating or republishing my work is strictly prohibited

[ladylexis]

Screen Identity: Mismatched Passion

— contains adult content, minors do not interact 🔞 —

[ abstract ]: After a rough break up during semester break, you’re put in a class with none other than your longtime academic rival Han Jisung once university starts again. Things don’t get any easier considering he’s your older brother’s best friend and destiny decides to assign you two to a partner project. Luckily, you can distract yourself a little by chatting with the mysterious guy you met online a couple of months ago, getting closer both emotionally and physically with him, absolutely unaware he might be nearer than you would expect…

[ parts ]: EP. 1 — PAPILIO ULYSSES [ coming soon ]

[ general ]: jisung + fem reader, gamer + stoner jisung, gamer reader, academic rivals/enemies → lovers, brother’s best friend, minho is reader’s slightly older brother, college au, smut + angst + fluff, accidental online dating, inexperienced jisung + inexperienced reader [ real life ] vs simp jisung + brat reader [ online ] so they act a lot differently while chatting

[ warning ]: explicit sexual scenes [ will be individually specified for each chapter ], consumption of alcohol and weed, [ I might add more during the writing process and pls always make sure to read the chapters’ individual warnings and remember you’re responsible for your own media consumption ]

[ words ]: ?/?

[ note ]: a huge thank you @palindrome969 for helping me figure out the title and everyone else who suggested ideas! this is the long awaited and promised spin off series to The Experience Project [ minho x a different reader than this one ] so it might include the tiniest spoilers but nothing huge! make sure to check out the original story too. Tag list is open. if you wish to be added in order to engage meaningfully with this little story just let me know! If you asked me before under some other post please comment here again, I couldn’t keep track of all wishes to be tagged since I didn’t have a list at this point. I hope you will like this story 🩷

© leeknowsallyoursecrets 2024 — copying, stealing or translating my work is prohibited

[ladylexis]

The Play of You and I | bc

❝𝐋𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝…❞

↳ There is nothing time leaves untouched. It changes all, as it changed you and him, and though those sepia days of childhood seem so far now, you cling to them fondly. When sudden grief tears the man you know - the boy - from himself, it falls to you to bring him back. It was nice to play pretend for a while.

↳ Bang Chan x female reader

↳ Childhood friends to lovers romance trope. Angst and hurt/comfort, budding romance and yearning, grief and loss, referenced drug use and severe addiction/withdrawal the consequences therein, slow burn.

! Mature content, adult themes, 10.2k, suitable for 18+ readers only !

「Part of the skz tropes collab w @yoongihan」 「main contents list」 「© February 2024 by jl-micasea-fics」

Twenty-eight years

There once was a boy.

He wasn’t a remarkable boy. Wouldn't be recorded in the annals of history for any great feat of bravery or wonder of strength. He wouldn’t change the world or its archaic institutions. He wouldn’t break records or revolutionise or rally or do much of anything other than live his quiet, small life, because he was just a boy. A perfectly ordinary boy. And you liked him that way.

You liked his dimples and his mop of ochre brown curls and his Australian twang. You liked the games he invented and the ‘let’s pretend’ that would excitedly precede every occasion of play. Most of all, you liked the hour just after school where, from your childhood bedroom window, you would watch him trot across the sunlit street to knock on your door and steal you away to the treehouse his father had constructed in the very nearby woods, whereupon you lived in a world of carefree creation and make-believe.

It had always been just him and his father; a sad fact that as a child both confounded you and compelled you to quiz:

“But where is your mummy? You don’t have one? Why? My mummy says everyone has a mummy. She says I came from her tummy. Where did you come from?”

Chan only ever shrugged and ran off to play, as complacent of your questioning as ever he would be. As childhood faded and adolescence rolled in with all the gentile of a marching brass band, you learned that his mother had passed when he was a mere six weeks old. He told you that he was glad he’d never known her. He thought it spared him the pain of loss. You rather disagreed, and told him as much; wasn’t it better to have loved and lost?

“No way,” he had said. “I’d rather spend my whole life alone than lose everyone I love.”

“But you’re not alone. You have me and your dad,” you had argued.

Chan shrugged and took a drag of his cigarette— a habit you detested. “That’s different. I’ll never lose you two.”

Rain cascaded from the rim of your black umbrella, soaking the turfed and trimmed grass. Your heels sank to the softening ground the longer you stood.

“O God, who by the glorious resurrection of your Son Jesus Christ destroyed death and brought life and immortality to light—”

The ache in your calves threatened cramp, but you found no real complaint in it.

“— Grant your servant Jaehyun Bang to your never-failing care and love, and bring us all to your heavenly kingdom.”

Physical pain took something away from the distress which you tried with utmost composure to conceal. He needed you today, of all days.

“Almighty God, we entrust all who are dear to us to your never-failing care and love, for this life and the life to come, knowing that you are doing for them better things than we can desire or pray for—”

To break down would be to fail him.

“— through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.”

Through tear strewn eyes you watched the boy you’d grown up with—now a man, tall and beautiful—step forward. Concealed by his own umbrella, he stooped to gather a handful of the moist, freshly dug earth, and tossed it atop the wet casket as it sank ever lower into the ground. The lump in your throat solidified. It seemed too cruel. Too cold. Too lonely. Jae deserved a better end than this. Chan deserved better.

And with a final blessing on the few gathered, it was all over. So many weeks of pain all amounted to this: walking with your childhood friend in a cold and quiet cemetery. The rain had eased to a fine drizzle and Chan had abandoned his umbrella. His fair brown curls were haloed with the frizz of humidity, his expression drawn vacant and haggard. He’d lost weight since Jae’s admittance. Even more since the terminal diagnosis. To think about it too much was to fall sick with worry. You’d already fallen once. A second time would make a fool of you.

“Shit day for it,” he sighed, hands in his cheap suit pockets.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Chan tutted, and from his inner jacket pocket pulled a mangled, half-empty carton of cigarettes. Shoving one between his dry lips, he then offered the packet to you.

“When have I ever taken you up on that?” You laughed gently; as much as one may ever laugh after saying such a goodbye.

He shrugged. “Worth a try. Special occasion and all.” He lit the cigarette with a few preliminary puffs, the smoke disappearing behind his teeth. “I’m allowed to smoke in a graveyard, right?”

“I don’t think anyone will object.”

“No? Not even you?”

You shook your head. “Not today.”

Chan hummed, took a deep drag, the smoke seeping from his lips. Gravel crunched softly beneath your feet, the sky a great gathering of grey so lifeless it seemed to drain the very colour from the flower arrangements marking the headstones— peach roses gone dull, sweet freesias withered. Tributes to ‘MUM’, ‘DAD’, and ‘SON’ meant something to someone once upon a time; how sorely they’d surely upset to see them all so neglected.

“It was a nice service,” you said quietly.

Chan scoffed. “He would have hated it.”

“What? Why?”

“He wanted to be set out to sea,” Chan said, and then in a shockingly accurate impression of his father, “‘Shove me in a box and let the whales have me’.”

“He was never serious about that, Chan.”

He glared at you.

“Alright, maybe he was, but public health might have had a thing or two to say about us rolling a corpse out across the beach.”

Chan flinched; the briefest and only moment of vulnerability you had seen in him since this whole thing began. He hadn’t shed a tear. Hadn’t even choked back a sob. Almost as if it hadn’t been happening for him. Realisation of your blunder hit with the force of a bus. You stopped, reached for his arm.

“Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

Chan shrugged you off. “No. Don’t be. That’s what he is now, right?”

He walked ahead and with the wisp of cigarette smoke curling around him like a comforting arm.

No doubt it was of more comfort than you.  

*

Sunday nights were reserved for the ritual of film, as they had been since you both were old enough to understand the attractive taboo of an ‘R’ rating.

B-movie horrors and predictably lacklustre ghost tales filled the late hours, as did a takeaway of Thai or Chinese. Never once had Sunday’s sanctity been interfered with; never a cancellation, never a back out. No matter how horridly busy the working week had been, so malicious as to keep you apart, Sunday night could be relied upon to reunite you.

Seven o’clock came and went.

Eight o’clock ticked by.

Nine o’clock approached, and sick with anxiety you could no longer wait. You texted him first:

<< everything okay? it's sunday

Thirty minutes with no response, and so you called him. It rang through to voicemail. “Hey, it’s me. Are you— You’re coming over, right? I’m waiting for you. Call me.”

And a further ten minutes passed with no sign. You video called him, startled by the image of your stressed reflection in the camera; you promptly turned it off. It rang and rang, each one a heftier weight on your worry, until the static of connectivity and flickering video announced him.

“Chan?”

The incoming video was dark, the indecipherable din so blaringly loud you grimaced to turn down the volume.

“Chan! Where are you?” you called, but to no more response than the phone tilting and shaking in his apparent grip, the video catching only thin streams of coloured light and anonymous silhouettes. You would get no sense from this, you knew. No sense other than the gut instinct that occasioned to tell you Chan wasn’t coming over tonight. Chan was otherwise occupied. Chan had defiled the sanctity of Sunday.

And that was merely the beginning.

*

Eight years

“Come on, quick!”

“Wait for me! Wait!”

Chan sprinted ahead, his trainers thumping the well-trekked earthen path that wound deep into the woods; not that you ever followed it that far.

The treehouse lived a few hundred yards beyond the woods threshold, nestled in a great beech tree with weeping branches that hung around and embraced the little structure in a leafy veil of green and brown. From the platform proper, you could see straight through the clearing of trees to Chan’s house: when the porch light flicked on, it was time to come home.

“The ladder!” You shouted up to the treehouse when you reached it; Chan always got there first. “Channie!”

A head popped out from over the deck, curls bobbing about. “What’s the magic word?”

“Please?”

“Nope!” He giggled.

“Pretty please?”

“Nope!”

“Pretty please with a cherry on top?”

“Nope!”

“Channie!”

“It’s a magic word!” He cackled. “You have to say it magically.”

You racked your brain, then said, “Abracadabra?”

Chan clapped and dropped down the ladder, the ropes and planks swinging wildly until you settled them. Climbing up was never easy; it never kept still, and so you strained and grunted your way up until close enough for Chan to grab. He took your hand and pulled you the rest of the way, dragging you into the warm, wood shelter. It was modestly decorated with blankets and old cushions donated by Chan’s dad, crayons and felt-tip pens with the lids off, magazines and crumpled newspapers and colouring books and toys and props and everything a child may want in their personal kingdom to allow for a litany of games and adventures.

Chan yanked a yellow plastic sword from the stack of cushions it was buried in— his very own Excalibur.

“Let’s pretend I'm a knight!” He beamed.

“Okay!”

“You can be the princess,” he said, running to a box chest and rifling inside. He pulled out a silky red cape (it once made him a superhero) and threw it at you.

“Can I have a sword?” you asked.

“No! Princesses don’t have swords.”

“Why not?”

“Because knights have swords.”

You pouted and put on the cape, buttoning it around your neck. “That’s dumb.”

“It’s a knight’s job to save princesses.”

“From what?”

“From—” He looked around, frowning as he walked to the window whereupon his face lit up. He hopped back to you and took your hand, dragged you to where he stood before. He pointed alongside your head. “See there?”

You followed his direction, squinting through the trees. “What?”

“There!” He emphasised, pointing harder. “On the hill!”

“It’s just a—”

“A dragon lives there,” he whispered. “A big, red scaly dragon that breathes fire and eats princesses!”

You gasped and stared at the quiet, distant hill, barely visible above the tree line. Chan’s descriptions brought to life a huge, red dragon, its scales glinting in the sunlight as it reared its long neck and puffed smoke from its gaping nostrils.

“I don’t want to be eaten!” You declared, but on turning to Chan, realised he was gone. “Channie?”

“Don’t be scared princess!” You heard him call. You ran out of the shelter and to the deck, looking down at the forest floor where Chan stood poised with his sword drawn towards the hill.

“I will kill the dragon!” He cried, hopping from one foot to the other. “It’s coming! It’s coming, princess!”

“Save me, knight!”

With a great cry of bravery, Chan leapt towards a nearby tree, thwacking and chopping his sword against the thick trunk. He dodged and rolled around it, picking up a pinecone and throwing it at the snarling beast.

“Look out princess! It’s coming for you!”

You shrieked in horror and ran back into the shelter, rifling through the chest and under pillows to find a weapon. Chan continued his assault, hacking and slashing at trunks as he ran after the beasts’ legs. “My sword isn’t strong enough!” He shouted. “I need something else!”

“Here!”

Over the decking you threw to him what you’d found: a plastic bow and arrow that to your mind, was the key. Chan cried out with joy, “Thank you, princess!” And threw his sword to the earth, dashing to collect the toy. He clumsily drew an arrow back on the string; it bounced harmlessly from the dragon’s back and dropped into a thicket, never to be retrieved. Chan huffed, but persevered. He ran about the treehouse for a better angle, and the second arrow he fired pierced its chest and elicited a thunderous roar from the creature: it reared and puffed plumes of smoke, its scaly body glowing a deep, threatening orange.

“I hurt it!” Chan yelled.

“You made it mad!”

“Hide, princess!”

He darted behind a blackberry bush just in time to spare himself from the molten heat of dragon’s fire: the monster bellowed and shook the earth as its destructive flames singed the forest and razed the soil, the residual heat scalding the very air. When it had passed, you shouted down, “Shoot him again!”

Chan scrambled out from the bush and clambered to his knees, frantically drawing an arrow and with a final yell of victory, shot the beast straight through the heart. It groaned and with its last breath, puffed thin wisps of flame that soon diminished. It fell to the ground with a terrible thud, alive no more.

Chan jumped for joy and laughed and ran to the treehouse, calling up, “Throw me the ladder, princess! It’s safe now!”

You quickly did so, watching in awe as your rescuer climbed up, his bow on his back.

“Thank you, knight,” you beamed, clapping. “You saved my life.”

“You need to give me a reward.”

“A what?”

“A prize. For killing the dragon.”

“Oh! Okay. Like what?”

Chan shrugged and looked at the floor. “Some princesses give their knights a kiss.”

“A what?”

“A kiss.” He tapped his cheek. “Here.”

You wrinkled your nose. “Do I have to?”

Chan shrugged again. “No.” He yanked his bow off and tossed it, glancing out of the small shelter window. “The porch light’s on,” he said. “We have to go back.”

“But your prize—”

“I don’t want it.”

He rushed out to the deck and stooped to the ladder, securing his feet on the first plank.

“Channie—”

“Dad’s making egg rolls for dinner. Bye!”

*

Twenty-eight years

He reeked of sickly-sweet fruit.

Each whiff you caught of it made your head hurt. It grated on your temperament like an incessantly dripping tap in total silence: much more and you’d be tempted to rip it from the basin.

Uncaring—or perhaps simply oblivious—Chan relaxed on the leather suite, legs kicked to the coffee table. Sporadically he would whistle a soft tune that further stirred your awful mood, as did his occasional chuckles. You watched him from the kitchen, as your open plan apartment allowed, and mindlessly bodged the simmering stir fry vegetables around the wok with tongs. You had no appetite. Just needed to keep yourself occupied.

“You can put limiters on those apps, you know,” you said flatly.

Chan frowned, glued to his phone. “What?”

“Time limiters. So you can only use them for, like, an hour a day or whatever.”

“Okay? And?”

You shrugged. “Just saying.”

Chan huffed, locked his phone, tossed it to his side where it landed with a plop. He rose from the sofa, stretched out his long arms and legs, the wide sleeves of his thin, black vest gaping to reveal the pale expanse of rib and lean muscle. You drew your eyes away, heat spoiling your nape.

“Smells good,” he mumbled as he approached and leaned over the counter. Even through the salty soy and tang of chow mein, he stank of it. Sickeningly sweet perfume.

“You can have it,” you said, knocking the tongs on the wok and setting them aside. You turned from him to open the fridge, glad of the subsequent embracing chill.

“You don’t want it?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Then why cook?”

“Habit.” You closed the fridge, having retrieved nothing. “You have a few of those yourself, so you’d know.”

Unable to meet his discerning gaze you fussed about the sink, rearranging nothing other than the discomfort that wracked you from head to heart.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’re being weird.”

“No I'm not.”

“Yes, you are. You’ve done nothing but passively aggressively criticise me since I walked through the door.” He rounded the counter and leaned against the fridge with arms folded. “Did something happen today?”

You turned to him, meeting his defensive stance. “Why don’t you tell me what you did today, Chan?”

Witnessing in person the moment the colour drains from one’s face is as profound an experience as it is melancholy. Chan blinked as his complexion greyed, his tightened jaw loosening.

“I—” he began, then fumbled. “I told you what I did today.”

“Mhm. You visited the cemetery? Then picked up groceries?”

“Yes.”

“And did you stop by the women’s perfume aisle when you were at the store?”

Chan swallowed. His eyes morphed from the uncertainty of doubt to the surety of guilt, dark browns glistening. Such a small thing that only years of intimate acquaintance could tell of. That only a soulmate could tell of, by his estimation. Your heart sank to dismal depths.

“Didn’t think so,” you muttered, unfolding your arms and moving to the wok that sputtered erratically. You took it off the heat and set it to a cold ring, where it steadied and settled. With no more energy to quiz him or think of it any longer, you turned thoughts to fonder things.

“Did you talk to your dad?” you asked, yet before the question settled, warm arms encircled you tightly.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, breath warm on your nape.

A flurry of want so expertly tucked and buried surfaced in a burst of heat; to be held by him was to let yourself imagine a plethora of impossibilities, not one of them becoming of the decade long friendship. Yours was not an easy battle, but a successful one. You’d conquered the love. Squashed the desire. You had.

“I just...” he hesitated. “I was lonely.”

He came to you in a gale of sickly sweetness: a tell that he had never been yours, and never would be. He owed you no such romantic allegiance.

“Don’t. Don’t explain,” you said, voice cracking. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. It wasn’t my place to—”

He turned you in his arms, the counter a brace behind, his strong frame in front. Surely awestruck in any other circumstance but instead overpowered by the nauseating fruity concoction that lingered on him, you grimaced and shook your head. “Chan—”

“Are you jealous?”

“What?”

“She meant nothing. She was just a Tinder hook-up. I needed something to distract me.”

Your heart throbbed. “God, stop. I don’t want to know.”

“You do, though. I know you do. I know you.”

You shoved against his chest. It was too strong. Too sweet. Too sick. “Give me some space, Chan—”

He stepped back, some colour having returned to his blushed cheeks. His chest rose heavier on the next breath, and with a puff of what seemed like exasperation, he announced, “I should go.”

“Yeah.”

He turned on a step, raked his hands through his curls, then turned back swiftly. “You know, you could just—” He gesticulated wildly, then sighed. “Whatever. Call me when you salvage your head from your ass.”

Not moments after he’d left were you dumping and scraping the cooling contents of the wok into the bin, frustrated and on the brink of inexplicable tears. The apartment stunk of it for hours.

Better that than your childhood friend’s conquests.

*

Twelve years

“Let’s pretend we’re hunting for treasure.”

“We’ve played that game,” you complained.

“We’re playing again!” Chan exclaimed excitedly, darting across the treehouse shelter to the chest his dad had gifted him for his eleventh birthday, new and improved and twice the size of the old. Crammed with the all the old toys and fresh additions, Chan shoved through them until he retrieved a sturdy hardwood ship wheel polished to a fine shine, the rounded spokes inlaid with brass. One of his dad’s finer feats of craftsmanship, and his new favourite toy. Affixing it to a perfectly shaped and sanded branch that stretched out over the treehouse decking and through the shelter window (another feat of Bang senior), he gave it one great spin and watched with delight as the spokes blurred and melted into a rapid, satisfying flurry.

“Where’s my first mate!?” He cried.

Prior complaint forgotten, you hopped to your feet and into a salute. “Captain!”

“There you are!” He marched across the shelter and from the wall dedicated to crafts plucked a pinned pirate hat fashioned from folded newspaper, sporting a raggedy skull and crossbones drawn in black crayon. He unfolded the base and shook from it an eyepatch—also fashioned from coloured-in newspaper and string—which he tossed to you. He put the pirate hat on and with a gruff clearing of his throat, said, “I hear there be treasure here!”

“Arrr,” you replied, laughing. “So do I!”

“Shall we find it?”

“Aye, Captain!”

“I can’t hear you!”

“Aye, aye Captain!”

Chan burst into laughter and sang, “Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?”

“Spongebob Squarepants!”

A fit of giggles interrupted the play, and after a moment, when ribs ached and cheeks were sore, Chan went back to his wheel. “Okay, okay— Pirates, remember.”

“Yes, Captain.” You saluted.

He spun the wheel again, squinting against the broken beams of afternoon sun as he looked out through the forest.

“The sea be choppy today!”

“Choppy, Captain?”

“Aye!”

“What does that mean, Captain?”

“I, uh—” Chan shrugged. “I don’t know. I just heard it.”

You shrugged in return, then ran to the window, leaning over the wood and pointing to the ground. “There’s something shiny down there, Captain!”

“That’s the treasure!” He stilled the wheel and ran out of the shelter. “Let’s go! Bring the spades!”

As he clambered down the rope ladder you quickly threw the net sack of plastic buckets and spades over your shoulder and followed him. At the bottom, he took the sack from you, hastily emptying the contents.

“Here.” He gave you the pink set, took the blue for himself. “Remember; ‘X’ marks the spot.”

You crept a few paces behind him as you carefully scoured the forest floor. Through thin twigs and stray berries, conifer needles and pinecones you wandered, the sun beating down on your backs through the leafy canopies. The beech leaves had warmed from green to orange and yellow, the occasional one drifting quietly from the weeping branches to the ground on a strong gust of wind. One such landed on Chan’s shoulder as he hunted; you plucked it from him, blew it off your palm, watching as it glided lazily to the floor, whereupon it landed daintily over a formation of (more or less) crossed twigs, then tumbled away.

“Captain!” You called. “Look!”

Chan bounded over and on sight of your discovery, broke into a wide smile. “Well done, first mate!”

Both crouched beside the fated spot, you began to dig, burying your plastic spades into the earth that easily crumbled and gave way to your efforts. Some minutes of this revealed nothing much more than wriggly worms; Chan sighed.

“Maybe ‘X’ doesn’t mark the spot.”

“No, wait.” You dug your small spade into the soil, forcing it down and retrieving what had caught your eye; your brought it up on the tool and held it to Chan’s face.

“A lump of gold!” He whispered in awe, taking the unearthed acorn in his palm and clutching it tightly. “There must be more!”

With frantic delight he began digging again, discovering more and more acorns to add to the impressive collection you soon amassed. The spades were eventually abandoned and the search site widened until the immediate area surrounding the treehouse was littered with holes and small piles. How much time passed couldn’t be known, but with hands and nails encrusted with dirt, you counted your precious treasure in the treehouse shelter.

“One for you,” Chan gave you an acorn. “One for me.” And took one for himself. “One for you,” he continued. “One for me. One for you, one for me. One for you—”

“We’re rich, Captain!” you said.

“We can buy a new boat!” Chan laughed.

“New hats!”

“New eyepatches!”

“Aye!”

“Aye!” you giggled.

Over your shoulder, something seemed to catch Chan’s attention, his smile dampening. You followed his glance, and your heart sunk. Had it been that long already?

“Porch light’s on,” he mumbled.

“I don’t want to go home yet.”

“It’s okay,” Chan said. “We can play again tomorrow.”

“But tomorrow is so far.”

“Dad says if you go to bed early, tomorrow comes faster.”

“Really?”

Chan nodded.

“Alright,” you huffed, then hopped up, dragging your mucky hands over your shirt. “Let’s go straight to bed!”

You made a start for the decking, stopping just shy of the ladder.

“Can we play pirates again tomorrow?” you asked.

A streak of waning sunlight caught Chan’s irreverent grin in an amber glow.

“Yeah,” he said. “You can be Captain.”

*

Twenty-eight years

And the conquests became so many that it hardly felt apt to refer to them so. A full-scale occupation would have been more proper, and in truth, it offered you some amusement to think of it that way, albeit short-lived.

Less frequent his visits had become, Sunday nights and every other night that might have occasioned even a fleeting visit spent in dimly lit solitude. For all your lecturing as to Chan’s habitual Instagram addiction, you sheepishly took to the platform as a means of monitoring him: his feed had morphed from beautifully crafted reels of nature, music and pluviophile aesthetics to a dark and debauched affair. Selfies with strangers and drinks in hand, each one a deterioration of state that pained you to look at. Your texts went rejected and calls ignored, and on the precipice of sinking into debilitating fear, you recalled the most obvious, most basic of things.

Before the feelings or the murky boundaries or the longing or anything else, Chan was your friend. So intricately had he woven himself into your life, his presence made up part of the very basic fabric. Without him you’d be something less than whole, as would any who suffered a major loss. Chan had suffered a major loss. Chan was less than whole. He could feign togetherness, keep his eyes dry and his expression calm, but you knew better. Was it not your obligation as his friend and your want as his confidant to bring him back from the treacherous cliff side he teetered on? Would he not do the same for you? Do soulmates not go above and beyond for each other?

A shrill notification pinged your phone: Chan had updated his story. With a deep breath you tapped the pink circle, the seconds-long video loading with a torrent of bassline that brought you to cringe. A purple neon sign flashed bright: ‘Eden’. The bold white caption read: ‘#bestlife’. If ever there was a redder flag, you couldn’t have imagined it.

Resolved to action, you swept into the bedroom and changed into the most passable nightlife attire you possessed: a pair of black denim shorts and satin spaghetti strap top. Paired with heeled boots and finished with a dusting of makeup, you supposed that, at the very least, you’d not be turned away at the door.

You hoped.

*

Eden felt to you to be far from any sort of acclaimed paradise.

The weight of smoke both from cigarette and stage machine and the stale tang of alcohol overwhelmed what fraying nerves you had left, courtesy of the uncomfortably prolonged taxi ride. Bodies writhed on the elevated dance floor, an anonymous and unsettling orgy of sweaty movement that not a single part of you anticipated joining: you wished only to find Chan.

The garishly lit bar too packed to reasonably consider asking the tender if they had ‘seen this man’, you took to a sweep of the floor, navigating through the inebriated and keeping a keen eye out for a familiar head of curls; a familiar anything. Eden was deceivingly larger than the exterior suggested. It stretched far, far back and over three floors of height, each one boasting a unique theme. The ground floor appeared to be what most associate with a typical nightclub of sorts: strobe lighting, loud EDM, no inhibitions. The second—while equally lacking in inhibitions—eased on the strobe lighting in favour of a soft and constant pink hue. It retained an almost dreamlike quality with its binaural beats, those that occupied the booth seats engaged in chatter or rather more exhibitionist activity from which you quickly drew your eyes. None of it was him. Nothing beyond that mattered. On the third floor the music picked back up; not of electronica but a rather grungier scrape that oddly did something to comfort you. It inspired memories of teenage angst and nineties rock culture; a time in which both you and Chan happily thrived in black. Regardless, he wasn’t here, and so your search continued. If not inside, he must be outside. Following the signs for the smoking area led you up to the roof, where high chain link fences had been erected. Warmed by the glow of orange heat lamps at their backs, people huddled amidst great swathes of cigarette smoke and thought you of no more consequence than a passing fly as you walked among them.

Oh, Chan and his habits. You’d have smiled if not so burdened with cold dread. At the rear of the smoking area, your childhood friend sat on the rusted crimson metal of fire exit stairs. A black button-down buttoned down to his navel hung open on his svelte, trim physique, the smear of makeup not belonging to him glittered his cheeks and lips. On his lap was perched a girl, her dress so short it revealed dainty lace. She ran her claw-like nails through his curls, and he offered her a bleary-eyed smile around a burnt-down cigarette. He smiled at you that way when he was tired; when he’d been fed and watered and was content. Jealousy, hot and unashamed, wound around you to squeeze dignity from your person like warm toothpaste from a tube. Single-mindedly you stormed towards him, vitriol surging up your oesophagus—

If only your eyes hadn’t met. If only through the smog his soft browns, so eroded by pain of loss, had not been so clear. The cigarette fell from his lips and the girl was shoved unceremoniously to stand. “Clear off,” you heard him say, her compliance not without complaint. When close enough to address, he did just that.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I came for you.”

“For— What?”

“I can’t watch you self-destruct anymore. Enough is enough.”

He laughed, dry and scratchy. “Self-destruct? Clubbing is self-destructive now?”

“It's not the clubbing, Chan.” You spat it like a dirty word. “You can dance and drink and fuck strangers all you want; it was never about the clubbing. It’s about you and me. You’re distancing yourself. I feel you slipping through my fingers. None of this—” you gesture around vaguely, “— is you. You’re not this person.”

“What would you know about the kind of person I am?” he hissed, stumbling forward. He steadied himself on the adjacent chain link, the height he had on you seeming more so with the hostility rolling from him. “You think you’ve got some— some special fucking connection to me just because we’ve known each other forever? Because we’re soulmates?” He drawled the word, stretched it, made it mean. “What a load of bullshit.”

Wounded, you drew your gaze from him. What pain had been in his eyes had warped to a defensive rage.

“You’re lashing out,” you said, voice thick. “You’re angry. You’re in pain. That’s normal. I get it.”

“You don't get it. How could you possibly get it?”

“Chan—”

“Go home,” he huffed, turning into the chain with both hands, his forehead pressed to it.

“Come with me.”

“Is that invitation?”

You swallowed, hesitated.

“Of course it isn’t,” he scoffed. “God forbid you ever tell me how you really fucking feel.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means what it fucking means. We’ve danced around this bullshit since we were sixteen.”

This bullshit.

“It’s like if either of us ever acknowledged that we— That there’s— That we’re not just—” He took a deep, frustrated breath, closed his eyes. “It’s like the world will end or something.”

“Chan...”

“At this point, I wouldn’t even give a fuck if it did.”

“Don't say things like that. We were... We were kids, Chan. Back then. We didn’t know—”

“Do not tell me that I didn’t know what I was doing. I knew damn well what I wanted. You’re the one that wanted to pretend nothing ever happened.”

“It wasn’t like that, Chan.”

“No? Then what was it like?”

“You were going through a lot. You know that. You and Jae started fighting so much, you were getting into trouble at school, you stopped coming by the treehouse. You just— You changed, almost overnight. It didn’t feel right to try to talk to you about... what we did. I didn’t feel like I could.”

“Right.” He shoved off the chain link, ran a hand through his curls. “So, it’s my fault we’re stuck like this.”

“That’s not what I said—”

“Go home. And don’t ask me to come with you again. Not unless you mean it.”

With that, he drew himself up and strode off into the smoke, leaving you to dissect that which he apparently knew to be true.

A shiver of chill took you, a sudden gale sweeping over the roof. You wrapped your arms around yourself and sank into the sadness.

A special connection indeed.

*

Sixteen years

The woods had shrunk since you were a child.

You walked the muddy, winding path with your hood drawn close, the patter of winter rain dampening your shoulders. A wild breeze picked up through the trees, a shiver of chill that pinched your cheeks and urged you to jog.

The great beech tree defied such elements as it always did, its bare branches a skeletal cage around the treehouse shelter. The rope ladder swung gently, knocking against the trunk; you grabbed and steadied it, bracing your foot on the lowest rung so as to test its strength. Confident that it should probably hold, you began a slow and unsteady climb to the top. Pulling yourself over the soaked decking and stooping to enter the shelter, you were glad of the protection from the rain, such as it was and despite the gaps of erosion that had worn the wood. Moth-eaten blankets and sodden cushions, forest debris and the musk of damp spoiled what had once been a childhood kingdom: so age infected all things.

“Didn’t think you’d come.”

Chan sat beneath the window, his long legs stretched out, an unlit cigarette tucked between his fingers. His damp, brown curls were drying out at the ends, his black hoodie concealed just how soaked he was.

You glared at him. “I said I would.”

Chan shrugged, popped the cigarette between his lips. From his jeans pocket he retrieved a lighter you recognised as belonging to his dad.

“Do you have to do that in here?” you complained.

“Relax,” he said around the cigarette as he lit it and took several puffs. “Second-hand smoke is a myth.”

“It isn't, but okay. I actually meant that you just shouldn’t smoke in our treehouse.”

“The wood’s wet. It won’t catch.”

“That’s not what I—” You sighed. “Whatever.” And sat at the opposite side where the toy chest once lived, its rectangular outline forever having marked the wood it rested on.

“We could have hung out at your place,” you eventually said, bringing your knees to your chest.

Chan shook his head. “Nah. Dad’s being a fucking asshole.”

“What happened?”

“He found my stash.”

You shot him a quizzical look, to which he tapped the cigarette in indication.

“Oh,” you muttered.

“I told him I’ll just quit when I get bored of it,” he said, wisps of smoke drifting from his lips. “He doesn’t get it.”

You said nothing, supposing he wouldn’t want to hear which side of things you landed on, because it wasn’t his. Watching Chan smoke was one of many new things you found yourself adjusting to since adolescence—awareness—had come around: the details of most everything about him you’d committed to perfect memory, and in your admiration, had come to quietly understand. You were in love with him.

“You sat by yourself at lunch today.”

You shrugged, drew your knees to your chest, wrapped your arms around them. “So?”

“So, where was your friend?”

“Sam.”

Chan rolled his eyes. “Where was Sam?”

“He was sick.”

“Oh yeah? What’s wrong with him?”

“He said it was a twenty-four-hour bug. He’ll be fine.”

Chan hummed, took another drag of his cigarette. “You should have sat with us,” he said after a while.

You scoffed. “With you and your merry band of minions? No thanks.”

“Rude. They’re not minions.”

“If you were so concerned you could have come to me.”

Chan blinked.

“But the minions wouldn’t have liked that, right?”

“Maybe they’re scared of you.”

“Scared?”

He shrugged. “You’re not the easiest to approach.” He rolled the cigarette between his fingers slowly. “You can be intimidating.”

“It’s called a resting bitch face. You have it too, Chan.”

“Right. I know.”

“So tell them that.”

“Thought you didn’t want anything to do with my merry band?”

“I don’t. I have Sam.”

Chan grimaced.

“What? You don’t like him?” you snapped.

“He’s not who I'd have chosen to be friends with.”

“We choose our friends?”

“I did,” he shrugged.

“Right. You did. You’re the one that went off and found new friends the minute we started high school. So don’t blame me for doing the same fucking thing, because I had no choice. Sam is there for me all the time. You’re only there when nobody else is watching.”

With that, you climbed to your feet and stormed out of the shelter, to where the rain poured relentlessly. A grip on your wrist dragged you out of the torrent and back inside, into Chan’s waiting arms. Not wishing to fight the embrace, you simply stood there, face buried to his cold, damp hoodie, reeking of cigarette smoke, heart yearning for that which it would never be allowed.

“I didn’t know you felt that way about it,” he said after a moment. “You should have told me.”

“Couldn’t,” you mumbled into his clothes.

“Don’t be stupid. You can tell me anything.” A hand soothed your hair, he dipped his head to speak in your ear. “I just figured that we see each other all the time, at home and after school. New friends couldn’t hurt. It’s not like they’d come between us. Not us. We’re soulmates.”

Your chest clenched. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“I know.”

“I’ll be more present at school.”

“Don’t force it. If you don’t want to—”

He pulled back, hands on your shoulders, brown eyes sincere as they searched your face. “I do want to. I want to be with you all the time.”

“Your minions might have something to say about that,” you laughed softly.

“They can say what they want. You mean more to me than anything they can even fathom.”

Oh.

You swallowed firmly; he was so close. Close enough to map out the pores on his nose. To trace the dry lines in his lips. To see the sparks of hazel in the chocolate irises.

“Sam is...” He hesitated, then asked, “You two are just friends?”

Confused, you nodded. “Of course.”

“Just friends.”

“Just friends,” you repeated, bemused. “Why do you—”

“I just wanted to be sure. That’s all.”

“Oh. Okay.”

The hands on your shoulders wandered down to upper arms, to elbow, to forearms, to your hands, where chilly fingers locked and held. Over the pounding of your heart you hardly heard the crack of branches succumbing to the stormy gust beyond the shelter, the downpour of torrential rain that whipped and lashed at all in its wake. Chan blinked softly, the pale of his cheeks warming with blush. A flick of gaze from your eyes to lips, then back again, an unconscious lean that you met with your own and in the next unthinkable moment: a brushing of lips so soft it hardly constituted a first kiss. Good thing that the second, after a wary moment of comprehension in which he searched your face, felt to be a truer account— a firm bracing as he caught you in his arms while the world outside raged war against the elements.

“Chan!”

A deep, worried voice carried through the trees, over the hiss of wind to let the world back in. Immediately, Chan released and stepped from you, his features hardening.

“Chan, are you up there!?”

He made no move to reply or give sign of presence, and so gathering yourself as best as possible, you offered him a small smile, hoping he saw the apology. Out of the shelter and over the decking you waved down to the wet ground, where Jaehyun Bang stood with a yellow umbrella.

“Hi, Mr Bang!”

What concern had been etched to Jae’s brow melted away. “Oh! Hi honey! Chan’s up there with you?”

“Yeah, he’s here. He’ll be right down.”

You turned back to Chan; he’d pulled his hood up, lit another cigarette. Without a word he stalked out of the shelter and stooped to the rope ladder, cigarette between his lips. Catching only the briefest glimpse of the storm that clouded him as he began his descent, a sharp kick of worry drove you to the edge, where you reached over and down to grab his sleeve.

He stilled on the ladder, gaze fixed downwards.

“You’re my soulmate, Channie.”

He looked up. You plucked the cigarette from his lips, and in an uncharacteristic bout of bravery no doubt encouraged by earlier heroics, kissed his cheek.

“Please be good for your dad.”

Chan’s eyes narrowed, his lips still parted in what you presumed to be annoyance at your thwarting of his habit. His cheeks warmed and he looked as though to say something, when—

“Chan! Come down here!”

His jaw clenched, and he merely nodded, climbing off down the ladder and out of your reach. On the ground you watched as Chan sheepishly approached his dad, who took him under his umbrella with an arm about his shoulders.

“Don’t be late getting home, kid! It’s about to storm!” Jae called to you.

“I won’t! Promise!”

The two started off down the path, until you could no longer see the yellow through the trees. Alone in the shelter, a weight began to encumber you. A cold melancholy too unnatural to be a child of winter churned your stomach and unsettled your feet with anxiety, and in a bid to shake it you began to pace, slow and controlled, the old boards creaking at their weakest joints.

On one such circuit from under a dirty, woven blanket, peeked something small and black. Bending down to inspect, you realised it to be a crayon: a smile came to you. Your inner child clapped with glee. You began to scribble on the wood: Chan had been right. It was too wet. And so you felt around the small structure with your palms until you happened upon a dry patch in the leftmost corner, protected from the elemental onslaught by a particularly hefty branch above. Pleased when the melty crayon stuck, you drew what your inner child, what your high school child, what every woman in love has thought of when the daydreams marinate in their mindless, warm content: your initials and his, ensconced in a heart.

“Let’s pretend I’m a knight!”

“Let’s pretend we’re hunting for treasure!”

You were skilled at pretending.

Perhaps you wouldn’t need to anymore.

*

Twenty-nine years

When next you saw Chan, it was entirely by accident.

For however much had changed since Jae’s passing, it seemed that even a year later, Chan remained a creature of habit, and so the shock that initially came upon you when you saw him in the quietest patch of the bookstore passed quickly.

Above him read the sign for ‘graphic novels’, its vibrant shelves and eclectic gathering of Mangas and comic books a stark backdrop to his all-black façade. He held a comic book open in his right hand and turned the page slowly with his left. His hood was drawn up tightly, his cheeks puffed with a faint smile. His tired eyes scanned the images and bolded words. His clothes draped him, and so deceived as to his welfare. From what you could glean, he looked entirely at peace: like he was far from the confines of the musty bookstore and in another place that occasioned to take him on one adventure after another, as he had so always loved. It was kinder to let him stay there; so you tried.

Confound your clumsiness, then, when your backwards step into a display pile of sale books sent them tumbling with some weight to the ground, disturbing all who perused nearby. Chan looked up and towards the ruckus: how his face fell on the sight of your apologetic scrambling. He pushed the comic into its slot on the shelf and approached.

“Need a hand?”

“Hey!” You hastily replaced the last book and gathered yourself. “Fancy seeing you here!”

Chan stared at the messy display, his hood concealing much of his face.

“How— How are you?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Better than ever.” And kept his gaze fixed elsewhere.

“Do you... What you have been up to? It’s been a— I haven’t seen you in so long.”

“Nothing.”

“Right. Okay.”

“You?”

“Oh, same. You know.”

He nodded. Every part of you yearned to wrap him in your arms.

“Would you maybe want to grab a coffee? Or something to eat? There’s a place nearby that—”

“Sure.”

*

Chan bodged the now cold sausage around his plate with a fork.

His hood served a purpose beyond simple comfort, you realised, as did his pointed avoidance of eye contact. What glimpses you had managed to catch of his features roused in you the sort of dreaded alarm you’d only felt on one other occasion, in a hospital room with consultants throwing around eight-letter words and percentages. Chan’s eyes were pink and polluted, so severely bloodshot it was a wonder he could see. Sunken into their sockets and decorated with brown, bruised bags, they were an accoutrement to the gauntness of his cheeks and the sallow, sickly, utterly deficient complexion of his skin, almost translucent when the light kissed it, and he only shied from that. Even his hands took to a tremble as he tried to eat, and what little he managed seemed to sit uncomfortably. Several times he excused himself to the bathroom, which only left you with time to wonder what could have caused such extreme deterioration. Had he done nothing but neglect himself for a year?

On his return you pasted back the smile, swallowed down the concern, bit back the welling emotion. Yet that was only until Chan returned to the table with his sleeves rolled up to elbow: he looked down and startled, hurriedly began dragging them down. Frantic enough was he as to draw your eye to where he fussed: to the scars and sore pinpricks that marked his once flawless forearms.

Bile rose in your throat. You reached over the table and snatched at his thin arm, extending it much to his protest, but too weak was he to physically withdraw. Disbelief sour on your tongue and hot, raging tears in your eyes, you breathed, “No.” You looked at him. He had closed his eyes, his head hung low.

“Tell me this isn’t—” You caught on a sob. “It’s not what I— what I think it is. It’s not.”

“Let me go.”

“Why?” Your heart throbbed, panic becoming you. “Why would you ever do something so—”

He snatched his arm back. Rolled his sleeve down. Sunk into his chair. “Because it’s easier this way.”

“Chan, fuck, no—”

“It takes me somewhere else. Somewhere I can see my dad.”

Incapable even of another word, you rose and moved to him, winding your arms around his neck and pulling the frail, cold figure against you.

“It’s fine,” you whispered against tamed hysteria.

“Everything is going to be fine.”

*

Here you slogged through what was easily the most trying six months of your life.

The issues ran deeper than you had ever speculated, but soon came to discover. What modest inheritance had been left to him from his father, Chan had spent with abandon. Tracking the online statement from the funeral to the present detailed a sad but sure spiral into destruction. Bar tabs and lavish venue bills, splurging on vanity, partying expenses in the thousands. Cash withdrawals grew in value and frequency until essential direct debits went unsatisfied, and so Chan had been quickly rendered homeless, evicted from his much-loved apartment to surf sofas and wander streets. It pained you to suppose that’s where the habit started; something to warm him on the chill nights, offered to him by an opportunistic hand that saw his vulnerability. Why did he not come to you? Was he so bent on destroying himself? The state of his mind and body attested to the truth all too clearly: his father’s death had broken him, and he had not the first on how to put himself back together.

And so it fell to you to. Under your roof and watchful gaze you nursed the man; sat at his bedside and held his hand tightly as for the first months, the violent sickness and cool sweat of withdrawal wracked his body with such implacable agony as you’d never seen; his screams and pleas for death would haunt you for years to come. He would threaten you and lash out at you, wail bloody murder for the torture you dared to impose upon him: “Just give me one hit, one fucking hit and I’ll be fine! Please, please! Make it stop! Make it fucking stop!” And never once did you seek to tell him it was for his own good. That he was healing. That he’d soon be free of the poison and would be able to walk without hunching, talk without stammering, eat without nausea. You would tell yourself, indeed. But not him. He heard nothing beyond what the demons of his plight whispered.

Two weeks ago, Chan had moved from the bed to the living room. He could do most things without assistance, though so used to being in his shadow you found it rather difficult to let go in that respect. For as horrid as it had all been, it felt nice to be close to him again. To be needed. Colour had returned to him with the nutritious, easily digested diet you kept him to, and the healthy swell of weight had begun to emerge around his face and through his middle. Not so much as to consider him fully healed, but enough to be content with. His hair regained a lustrous shine and curl, his smile—though rare—was familiar. Most gratefully, it was his eyes that gave the firmest embrace of relief. No longer bloodshot and sunken but clear and soft brown, they relaxed on the television as you prepared the evening’s dinner of soup and crusty bread. The hearty scent of simmering vegetables and stock filled the apartment, the mumble of the television a lull of background noise.

Throat dry and with an urge for the sweetness of white zinfandel, you reached into the topmost cabinet and retrieved the bottle you’d stashed away: better to keep it out of sight. Just in case. Winding off the cap and pouring yourself a glass, the first sip bathed your tongue with the refreshing, crisp notes of grape, and just like that, what tension perched on your shoulders began to thaw.

“Smells good.”

The soft voice from behind you startled; you turned to see Chan on the other side of the counter, arms folded as he peered into the boiling pot.

“It’s vegetable,” you said, approaching and lifting the lid for swathes of steam to escape and plume up. Chan hummed, looked at you through the steam, then at your wine glass, blinking slowly.

“Sorry.” You put the glass down. “I didn’t think—”

“It’s fine. Drink if you want to.”

“But I—”

“It’s fine.” He rounded the counter and opened the cupboard, pulling out another glass. He held it out expectantly.

You shook your head. “Chan—”

“I was a drug addict, not an alcoholic.”

“I—” You hesitated. “I know. I just... Will you be okay?”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “It’ll take the edge off. Just a little. I’ll be okay.”

Loath to press it, you tentatively poured him two fingers of wine, heart pounding as he brought it to his lips. He sniffed firstly, a deep inhalation. Eyes slipping closed he tipped the glass back and the first drops touched his tongue. A contented sigh and slight smile saw him relax: he opened his eyes again.

“Thank you.”

You cleared your throat. “Sure.”

Chan blinked.

“Go sit down, dinner won’t be long.”

 He set his glass down on the counter, took yours from you to do the same.

“What are you—”

And in the next moment he wound his arms around your middle, curling over you to hold you in the warmest hug he’d offered since you were but children. His chin in the crook of your neck and curls tickling your cheek, he kept you firmly locked, the strong thrum of his presence, his heart, his being, surrounding you.

“Thank you,” he said again.

So overwhelming was the surge of emotion that, immediately, tears pricked. Silently they rolled from your eyes as your chest caved under the weight of half a year of indefatigable perseverance and the belief that, no matter how he swore or kicked or screamed, it would be worth it in the end. A moment would come where he would smile and say ‘thank you’.

This moment would come.

You weakened in his arms and felt it all. The strength of joy and the ice of despair, the hopelessness and the endless, endless worry. The guilt for allowing him to slide so far, so quickly. The rage at his refusal to seek solace. The love you nursed for him so warmly and in silence. The desperate wish only for him to be happy as he once was, when everything was whole and well.

“Let’s pretend we’re somewhere else,” he said quietly. “At a posh hotel near the sea, but it’s just us. We have the best room. The nicest view. When we look out the window, we can see nothing but clear, blue ocean that glitters and goes on forever.”

He held you still. Gently. Your tears alleviated slowly.

“It’s just a few minutes before sunset, and the sky is streaked with orange and pink. Our room glows like it’s on fire. We’re getting ready for dinner. You’re wearing a dress that brings out your eyes. I dig out my old suit, but don’t hold a candle next to you.”

The ache of yearning pained you; you clutched him tightly.

“We go to a fancy restaurant on the nearby pier,” he continued. “We sit by the window overlooking the sea; it’s dark now, but the streetlights make it so we can still see how deep it goes when we look down. We joke that maybe fish-men will trudge out of it when we’re sleeping. You have the sea bass. I order the ribeye, medium-rare. We share a bottle of white zinfandel and a hot fudge brownie for dessert and stay until they’re turning chairs onto the tables and flicking on the lights.

“When we get back to the hotel, we order another bottle of wine. We sit on the deck; the night is warm. The air smells like sea salt. The sea doesn’t glitter anymore, but the waves that lap the shore turn an endless reflection of stars. We talk for hours. We talk about my dad. We talk about our treehouse and the dragons we slayed and the treasure we found. We toast to him and you... you tell me he’d be proud.” His voice broke sharply. “You tell me he’s looking down on us, raising his own glass. You can feel it. I tell you wish I could, too.

“In the small hours of the morning, we go to bed. You wish me goodnight and kiss my cheek. Just like you did when we were young. You smell like—” He breathed slowly. “Wine and chocolate. My second-hand smoke.”

He pulled back, his eyes wet and wide. He brought your hand to his cool cheek, lids fluttering against the touch. “My cheek is warm where you kissed it. I take it to bed with me, but I can’t sleep. I keep touching my cheek, tossing and turning. Just like I did when we were young.”

“Chan...”

“I think about how you smelled. I think about how beautiful you looked tonight.”

Your heart pounded painfully, chest heaving with shortness of breath.

“Eventually, I can’t take any more,” he whispered. “I get out of bed and cross the suite to your room. At your door, I raise my fist to knock, but...” He swallowed. “Something stops me. Fear. I know what I want and for how long I've wanted it, but I've never been sure of your feelings. Sometimes I... Sometimes I’ve thought that you felt the same way. Other times I've convinced myself it’s impossible. It’s crossing a line. It could destroy everything. We grew up together. There’s nobody so connected to me as you. We’re soulmates. Can I risk that?”

He searched your face, seeking his answer, and continued.

“As I'm hesitating, the door opens. You’re standing there. You’re right in front of me in sweats and moonlight and you’re the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. You look confused at first. I tell you I’m sorry, that I couldn’t sleep. You ask if I want to come in. I tell you that I can’t— I shouldn’t. I’m sorry.” He licked his lips. “I turn away and you grab me; just my wrist. You’re warm. Every part of me aches and I know this is it. I don’t have the power to resist.” He cupped your face with both hands. “I take you in my arms; you were always supposed to fit there.”

You could hardly breathe.

“I wait for you to tell me to stop.”

Immobilized. Captivated.

“But you don’t. You just stare at me, and in your endless eyes I see the reflection of a man so riddled with yearning I have no choice but to take pity on him. All he’s ever wanted is for someone to take pity on him.” He drew his thumb over your cheek. “What happens next?”

On a shaky breath you merely whispered:

“Let’s pretend they kiss.”

With a rush of wanting the man pressed his lips to yours, such a violent release of decade-long yearning that the only response was but to weep in his kiss. A maelstrom of heat and desire beneath what was a rapidly crumbling pretence had been allowed to fester for so long, it was only ever going to be painful. Only ever going to destroy you. Fortitude abandoned and allowed to finally, finally imagine that this could truly be, you wound your arms around his neck and felt the gentle brace as he turned you into the counter. Parting from you to catch his breath, Chan’s tear-streaked cheeks were in perfect symmetry to yours. 

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he breathed, his voice a pitch broken.

“So am I.” You cupped his cheeks and kissed him again; cheek, forehead, lips. “So am I, Channie.”

“I— I miss him.”

Warm tears rolled anew. “So do I.”

He choked a sob. “Please don’t give up on me.”

“Never.”

And he fell into an embrace, head buried to your neck. “Is he looking down on us?”

“Of course.”

He gathered himself, straightened and held your hands. A glance upwards and a deep breath, his teary eyes found their focus. As did his mind.

As did his heart.

“I love you. I have always loved you. And I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 >

𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙖 𝙣𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙? 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚 ♡ >

𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙘𝙠 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙠𝙯 𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 ♡ >

[ladylexis]

Girl Code - HHJ - OneShot

pairing: art professor hyunjin x admin femreader

genre: office au, university au, coworkers to lovers, angst, fluff,

romantic trope: enemies to lovers (I DID MY BEST OKAY?)

word count: ~4k

rating: T (for at least one objectifying comment)

warnings: hyunjin in glasses, with paint streaks on his clothes and person; mc is kinda rude to him; someone is actually a horrible person in this; characters drink but everyone is of age; hyunjin is older (about 28), mc is 24; probably some cursing because it's me and cursing is my native language;

a/n: story #5 in the skz as romantic tropes collab with @jl-micasea-fics. this is a little bit of her fault too as when the magic school photos dropped she mentioned hyunjin as an art professor. i chose this trope (e2l) to challenge myself as it's not my regular jam annnnnnd i don't know if i really did it all that well. i did try. please be kind to this chronic f2l writer. i apologize for any typos or mistakes. i am my own editor.

-----

Pretty Privilege.

It’s not a thing you personally have experienced, to your knowledge. Maybe you have. Maybe once amongst your friend group, you were considered the stand out and someone gave you a pass because they liked the way your eyes are shaped, or how you smile with teeth, or whatever.

You’ll allow that.

But generally, you hate that it even exists. Pretty privilege. Isn’t it enough to get to be pretty in this world? Without the world groveling at your feet and simultaneously pushing any obstacle out of the way for you? 

So when Professor Hwang is hired as the new art professor at the university where you admin, you take an immediate dislike. After, at first, the overwhelming surge of attraction because he truly is the prettiest human you’ve ever seen outside of screen. 

Even when your work friends discuss romance, and when Juhye from the Performative Arts department (she has basically the same job as you, just different department) mentions that she thinks he might be interested in her, you join in that yes, he’s very attractive and seems nice, and of course he’d be a great partner for her.

Even if you kind of hate him. 

And since you admin in the same department as he teaches (Fine Arts, obv), it’s your job (according to your friends and the unspoken rules that you really wish were spoken and written down) that you hype her up when he’s in the vicinity. You have to.

Girl Code: requiring you to promote her, and not be too friendly with him because one does not want to violate Girl Code.

Once in undergrad was enough and you would do anything not to experience that ostracization ever again. 

Unspoken rules that make life more difficult that it already is. You feel very much like you hyping Juhye is as subtle as a truck, and in doing so you are as awkward as well, whatever is very very awkward.

“You locked yourself out again?” You do your best not to hiss at him, but in over one semester of him being on the faculty, the man has locked himself out of his Canvas account at least a dozen times.

Hyunjin, Professor Hwang, as he is to his students, gives you the most sheepish smile, and deep down you acknowledge that it’s cute as hell. This man who could be art himself, looking self-conscious that he can’t be trusted with the basics of technology. 

“I know. I don’t know how I do this.” He shrugs, straightening his wire-rimmed glasses. “Isn’t my laptop supposed to save that info for me, so I never have to try and remember?”

“It is.” You think to offer that he can bring his laptop and you can look to see if Google, or whatever browser he uses (probably like Firefox or something equally horrendous), is saving his passwords, but you don’t. Because it’s not in your job description and: “Juhye’s pretty good at that kind of stuff. I’m sure she could make sure it’s doing that. Saving your passwords, login info.”

He hums in lieu of a response, moving from in front of your desk to behind you to see what you’re doing. He doesn’t ask, which makes you bristle, but you’re not doing anything confidential and he’s not really breaking your personal bubble, so you can’t say anything. 

“I’ve never asked,” he begins as though talking to you while you’re working isn’t annoying. “But I assume, this isn’t what you went to school for. Did you study tech…stuff?”

You’re mildly amused that he doesn’t use the official term ‘computer science’. But just mildly. You can still dislike someone and still find them amusing on occasion. 

“No.”

There’s silence, minus the sounds of your typing and mouse-clicking. 

“What did you study?”

You don’t like lying. It’s not a thing you prefer to do in life. You do, everyone does, but you try avoid it as much as possible. So even though you know this might interest Hyunjin and you know you should not interest him, ever, you tell the truth.

“Photography. I mean, I studied business, too, but mostly photography and mixed media art.”

There’s silence yet again.

“Which is why I’m here. In this department.” The silence has become unbearable. 

“Photography?”

He’s going to ask to see something.

“You good at it?”

You turn to look at him. He seems genuinely curious, not like he’s about to pass judgment. But, he’s hard to read. That perfect face can look very RBF according to Juhye (which she thinks just makes him all the more mysterious and sexy) and even blank which gives you less on which to assess him for. 

His hair pulled back in a ponytail and black textured turtleneck make him seem even more aloof, like the rich pretty boy in an anime. 

“My grades and graduating GPA said I was.” You put very little stock into quantifying art and creativity into numbered grades, but you did graduate well enough to please your parents. 

He rolls his eyes. “Oh okay then.” 

God, he’s annoying. 

“Anyway.” You turn back to your computer. “Everything is reset. Your email has the links to come up with a new password. Try to write it down somewhere, or you know, memorize it.”

“No space,” he replies. “No space for memorizing meaningless words and numbers and symbols.”

“Really? What’s your brain full of then? Creative genius?” You don’t even hide your sarcasm.

He laughs. “I hope so. Mostly just images of all the greats I studied. And then my students and what they do. It’s a photo album that never ends and changes order. Often.”

He’s slipping by you toward the door that leads out of the Fine Arts offices. You stare at him, his words lingering. 

“Thanks again,” he says, halfway through the door. He smiles at you, a small one, a polite ‘this is how we socially interact’ type smile.

It’s still so stupid beautiful. You hate it.

–

At the next day’s lunch, you dutifully let Juhye know about how you encouraged Hyunjin to bring his laptop and technology woes to her and she brightens and preens, and you almost feel like maybe you don’t hate him. 

It’s a small consolation. 

One of the benefits (there are just a few) of working at the school that you attended, in the department you majored in, is use of the facilities. Not whenever you want as the current students and professors get first claim on any studio, extra supplies, or the dark room. 

In two years of working post-undergrad, you’ve learned when the down times, the lesser claimed times were. Certainly not before midterms or finals. Nor right when the semester begins because all the overachievers feel like studio or dark room time will somehow make all the difference. 

But right now, in the in between times, you can book some dark room sessions which encourages you that someday you might ‘make’ it as a professional photographer, that you aren’t losing your skills. 

You’d taken a day to drive up to the nearest mountains to one; soothe your soul with nature (and pollen sadly) and two: take a new set of photos. As with everyone else in the 21st century, you use and manipulate digital photographs as well, but you also do film because it’s its own thing. 

As you turn on the red light bulbs in the darkroom, negatives now fully developed, you smile because film and the process of getting from undeveloped roll of film to tangible photo makes you happy. It’s a comforting process that you can almost do in your sleep. With how late it was when you went to bed last night is a good thing because two cups of coffee is not doing its usual thing. 

There’s a knock on the door of the dark room and your smile immediately drops. 

Damn students (it’s a fruitless grievance because it is their right as they are paying a ridiculous amount for this education, but ugh, it’s annoying to be on the bottom rung of the hierarchy).

“Occupied.”

“I left something in there that I need.”

It’s like every muscle of your body tenses, and every nerve sets alight. 

“Professor Hwang?” Like you need to confirm. 

There’s a pause, like he’s registering your voice before he says your name. 

“Yes, I’ve got the safe lights on, but if you make sure everything is off out there, I can open the door.” Sooner he comes in, the sooner he can leave. 

There’s a low chuckle. “I know the drill.”

You bristle at the patronizing tone.

“Everything is off.”

You open the door and mentally curse him. Even with the lights which you’d considered an unflattering shade of red, he still looks like art. 

Art like a rendition of a fallen angel or romantic vampire with the shadows on his face and red tinge his neck-length brown hair takes on. His glasses are horn-rimmed today, his white shirt pink in the light and sleeves rolled up, black slacks. There are at least three paint smudges on his forearms.

He nods and gives you a polite smile. It’s the most reserved he’s ever been with you, at least since first meeting. You would never describe him as outgoing by any means, but certainly friendly, amiable. He doesn’t hold any of the underlying snobbery of other art professors who have lived so long in the ivory towers of academia and the art world, that any one not well-versed is unworthy of such allowances as kindness or care. 

For all his faults, Hyunjin is not the worst. 

You step back, aware that you are essentially, just staring at him like a moron. He slips in, glances at the negatives out that you’ve just developed.

“Pleased?” he asks as he moves toward the shelves of chemicals and random items (things left and abandoned by years of students and professors - your favorite is a tiny figurine of the black cat from Kiki’s Delivery Service. No one has taken it back, as though left here on purpose by someone in the past six years. He’s the official mascot of this particular dark room and therefore your favorite). 

“Pleased?” you repeat.

“With your work?” He grabs some acrylic paint tubes off the shelf. “What you just developed?”

Now you feel stupid. Obviously that’s what he’s asking about. Not if you’re pleased to see him. That would be stupid. You aren’t. Surely even he can see that.

“Um, not sure.” You return to the film and its small images. You set one image over the projected enlarger so it’s visible to the both of you. It’s not much, a solitary tree, slightly off center in the frame. “Haven’t had a chance to see if it was a total waste of roll or not.”

Even though you don’t look to see him move, you feel him stand slightly behind you to also take in the image. 

You hold your breath for a number of reasons. 

One; because you don’t need to breathe in his cologne which is actually really lovely (so you hate it).

Two; because his nearness is off-putting as he’s not really breaking any social rules by being too close and darkrooms aren’t exactly spacious, but dammit he’s close. 

Three; because you actually want to know what he thinks.

That last one pisses you off the most. You and he don’t dabble in the same medium (he’s painting and drawing; you always stuck with photography, sometimes mixed media) so who is to say his thoughts are at all valuable.

Not that he isn’t skilled. Every professor in the Visual Arts department is, even the ones you dislike the most.

Like him. 

“It’s lonely.”

You flinch at his words, his voice seeming loud in the quiet of the room. 

“Being asymmetrically composed, the tree feels even more out of place and lost.”

You force yourself to continue staring at the project and not turn to see his expression. Because you might show your thoughts and those don’t need to be discoverable by Professor Hwang Hyunjin.

“I like it. Even if it’s a bit out of focus.”

You lean into the projection to see that he is correct. There is a slight blur to the edges, fuck it all. 

You straighten back up. “Intentional.” Not that you moving in and checking it wasn’t a damn giveaway that you are lying like a lying liar, but maybe he’s stupid.

“Ah.”

Maybe a little. Or he lies too. 

“Are you entering any contests or doing a showing?”

Does he truly want to have a normal conversation right now? In the dark room? Alone? When you are working on your own stuff?

You take a few steps away, turning off the projector. 

“I don’t have anything specific in mind. Just keeping a hand in, you know?”

He nods, the shadows lengthening then shortening on his face. “Not that this subject matter is relevant, but you know our theatre department is looking for a photographer? Dr. Kim mentioned it just yesterday.”

“They are?”

“You can do action and work with that type of lighting?”

You work hard not to sneer. “Yes. The photography program here is pretty thorough.”

He shrugs. “I would hope so, though I must admit I know little of Dr. Cha’s work with students. And only the bare essentials of the craft.” He’s smiling, looking far less like a work of untouchable art and more like someone who regularly laughs; at himself and at the absurdity of the world. 

The dried paint on his cheek is wrinkled and breaking with that smile. 

You mentally shake yourself. 

When you don’t say anything, making the silence veer on awkward, he clears his throat. 

“You should apply. I think you’d do well.” He laughs now. It’s silly. “Not that I have much understanding the ins and outs of course, my recommendation is probably worth little.”

“You’d say something?”

“To Kim? Sure.” 

“With one photo?”

He now looks amused. “I’ve seen your instagram, too. Dr. Cha often shares his former and current students’ work and I follow her.” He starts to the door. “I’ll say something.” He holds up the paint tubes. “Thanks for letting me in.”

He opens the door before looking back. “Have a good night.” And disappears through it. 

The room feels strange now. The red hue seems not as striking, and the air carries that hint of piquancy of his cologne.

You do a physical shake of yourself now before returning to make some prints. 

–

When you see Juhye out for drinks with the rest of your compatriots Friday night, you ask her. 

“Why didn’t you tell me about the theatre photographer position?” She works in the Performative Arts department, even updates the website. Of all people, she would be one of the first to know. 

She’s had about two more cocktails than you which means her eyes take several moments to focus on you. You lean against the bar next to her, waiting. 

“Why would I?”

You bite your tongue to retort. “Because I’m a photographer.” 

She wrinkles her nose, saying your name in the most patronizing tone you’ve heard since high school. “They want professionals.”

You jerk back as though she swung a dagger at you. 

But you try again. Because friends. And Girl Code. “I applied though. Would you say something to Dr. Kim please?”

She takes a deep breath that you can hear despite the loud house music pumping in this bar. “Honey,” The sickly sweetness of the condescension makes you want to gag. “We’re friends and all, but I am not risking my name just because you think you can do something like this. Real friends tell each other the truth.”

As she finishes this quasi-sermon, the bartender produces another drink for her, and a receipt to sign. She does, scrawling also her snapchat username. He takes the slip, makes eye contact with her and smirks before moving to another patron. 

“What was that?” you ask, still processing her apparent disregard for your dreams and talent. “I thought you were ‘in love’ with Professor Hwang?” You are petty enough to do finger quotation marks. 

She rolls her eyes and shrugs, already looking past you for the rest of your group. “I am. But wanting a luxury car doesn’t mean that one can’t ride in a station wagon.”

If you’d had more liquor, maybe you could have thrown up on her as you currently feel ill, both disgusted and horrified. 

To equate humans to cars reeks of objectification and lack of seeing someone as a whole person. 

And you might hate Hwang Hyunjin, but you know he’s more than just a beautiful (on the surface) man. 

Juhye slips by you to find the others as you realize how incredibly shit of a friend she is. Of a person. In fact, you turn to stare at her back in astonishment because you thought you were good at reading people, at sifting through the kinds of people you want to surround yourself with. Juhye has never been someone you were incredibly close to, but you thought she was decent, even if her taste in men was lacking.

“I didn’t know you came here.”

As though your life is a full-on drama, you turn back to see that in her place is Hyunjin. He’s got a martini glass in hand, the liquid a vibrant green. 

“Rarely,” you answer tonelessly, your brain still trying to understand the revelations of the last five minutes. You nod to his drink. “What’s that?”

He grins, alcohol having warmed his smile. “Appletini.”

A surprised laugh exits your mouth before you realize it. You assumed he’d probably drink something like fancy single malt scotch or absinthe (the green). Here he is, this impressive and young art professor, one who has had an extolled art showing in the last year (you might have researched him some when you realized how much you hated him), drinking the equivalent of Apple Jacks in a martini glass. 

His smile is a little cute.

He isn’t wearing glasses right now, which is a shame, but his t-shirt and jeans give him less of that art prof vibe, and more of the cute guy you meet at a bar. 

“Good?” you ask, finding yourself bewildered and amused.

He nods emphatically, offering it to you as though you’re friends who share.

You shake your head, even though you sort of want to. 

“Thank you. I should go.” It might be the lighting, but he looks way too cozy with his hair tucked behind his ears, the wind from outside making it tousled. 

You look around to see Juhye and several of your friends over at a booth. They are watching with piercing eyes. 

Juhye whispers to another.

You feel it. The momentary terror of doing something wrong, the violation of the code in talking to your friend’s crush.

“Before you do.” He sets down his drink, inching a bit closer to you. “I talked to Dr. Kim. About the job? I can’t say for sure, but I think he was definitely looking forward to talking with you about it. I showed him your series with the cyclists by the Han River, from your insta. One of my favorites of yours.” 

You feel your eyes itch all of a sudden, a sudden tightness in your throat. You force back the tears that threaten. 

“I…thank you.”

His smile gets even bigger, his eyes nearly squeezed shut in his joy. 

You need to go. Like now. 

“Of course. What are friends for? Or at least, coworkers.” He giggles. 

Friends. The spike of anxiety lessens. Because you know what real friendship is. And it’s not in whispers and unspoken rules and carelessness. 

It’s thoughtfulness, it’s giving without asking for anything back. 

“If you get the job, I expect you to buy me a drink.” His playful words make you tense all the more, because you see it. You see how kind he is.

He sees you.

“I’m kidding,” he says almost as quickly. “I just–”

“I know.” You meet his eyes and smile though you imagine it’s more teary than warm right now. “I’ll definitely buy you another appletini if I get it.”

There’s no RBF right now. Only sparkling eyes, turned up lips, and kindness. 

And you need to go.

“Sure. Um, bye.” You race out of there like being chased by a supervillain. 

–

It’s the end of the school year, and even though you still work during the summer (a lowly admin’s job is never done), you feel the excitement.

Because you’re changing departments. After photographing and doing promotional shots of the university’s spring musical, Dr. Kim wants you on staff full-time, to capture all of the Performative Arts department; the classes, the productions, even the silly open mics that the students and professors do every month. The website, the newsletter, the alumni magazine; all have a credit of yours by the time May ends. 

You feel like maybe you haven’t been treading aimlessly post-university as much as you thought. 

“So,” Hyunjin says, before taking a sip of his luminescent green cocktail. He leans on his elbows across from you. “We aren’t in the same department any more.” There’s a pout at the end, a small, silly thing that makes you roll your eyes, but deep down, you think it’s (he) is adorable. 

“I know. You’ll have to bug someone new when you forget your password. Again.”

His pout doesn’t leave. “They might be nicer to me.”

In the months that followed that night at the bar, you decided to apologize to him. It was in his office, when he was sorting through papers and you were nearly on your way home for the day. You had succeeded in avoiding Juhye and him for three days when you got the email from Dr. Kim for a quick interview. 

So you stopped by to thank him, then apologize for being rude.

“You hated me? Huh. I thought you were just kind of grumpy. It’s cute.”

To say you were simultaneously both flattered and outraged (he’d not even been offended, once?) would be understatement. 

He likes to tease you about it now.

“But to go back to my original thought,” he continues, reaching out to steal a fry from your plate. “No longer in the same department. We’ll have to try and see each other instead of just happening to run into each other.” He raises one eyebrow at you.

“Yeah. Ugh, are you a clingy friend?”

“Not really.” He pauses, taking another drink before setting it back down. “I am…a little bit of a clingy boyfriend.” 

You’re holding your breath again. 

You can acknowledge that you and Hyunjin aren’t just coworkers, he’s not your enemy (if he ever was) anymore. You’re definitely more friends with him than anyone else from work (you’ve pulled away from Juhye and her little group and honestly, you don’t miss them). 

Being friends, being friendly and open with Hyunjin has its own drawbacks because now you have to contend with how lovely a person he is; how talented, funny, goofy, and compassionate. Which makes it difficult. When you hated him, he was easy to keep at a distance.

Now that you like him, you might really like him.

“Uh, we aren’t dating.”

“What do you call this?” he asks, nonplussed that he’s brought up your entire relationship as a topic of conversation, as though you’re discussing the weather, or the latest student’s project. He points at your mostly empty plates, his martini glass, your half-full gin and tonic. Then he points at you and then himself.

“I’m paying though.” Spring in academia is a sprint to the finish and though he’d been joking about you owing him a drink if you got the job, you are currently owning up to it now that the semester is over. 

“So? Is it only a date if I pay?” He tsks at you. “I thought you were a feminist.”

Your glare doesn’t have the same bite as it used to. It’s too fond. 

“This is a date?”

He leans across the table, adjusting his glasses as though it’ll help him see you better. Even with familiarity, you still feel a bit overwhelmed by him. 

“I want it to be.”

There is no policy about coworkers dating at your university, just that professionality reigns at the school. There is no reason why you and Hyunjin cannot date. Even though you often feel like professors are on another level compared to the administration. 

He’s not even that much older than you. 

Perhaps it’s remnants of being so worried that you might break ‘Girl Code’ if you’re at all nice to him because of Juhye’s ‘claim’ that you are hesitant. Maybe you need to acknowledge that he is so much more than what you or Juhye reduced him to in the beginning.

Maybe you realize that you have been ‘dating’ him awhile without even comprehending it.

Maybe you also lean across the table, letting your lips brush against his stunning ones (if you painted like him, those lips would probably show up in a piece) and hear his soft exhale as though he relaxes. Because he realizes it too.

You like each other. A lot. 

His soft kiss in return gives you actual heart flutters.

“I guess I don’t mind a clingy boyfriend. Especially one who is still marked with paint on a date.” You point to the streak of white at his jaw. 

He takes your hand in his, gaze dropping to look at his drink, but his smile can’t be hidden.

“Good.”

---

(c) yoongihan 2024. please do not steal, translate, repost, or whatever. stray kids belong to themselves and all idols used in this piece are just the inspiration for characters and do not in any way reflect the actual humans.

[ladylexis]

Romance Tropes | skz ensemble

║ Introduction ║

「A collaborative event between @yoongihan and @jl-micasea-fics. We write stray kids members as their unique romance tropes! Contains mature and adult themes, fluff, angst, explicit content and a whole world of romance simply dying to be delved into. See individual fics for specific warnings, word counts and genre types.」

「release schedule: one fic every Friday, alternating between thea & mica」

「credit to these insta reels for inspiring us: (x) (x) links open to instagram!」

「© February 2024 by jl-micasea-fics」 「© February 2024 by yoongihan」

key: mica's fics are in pink brackets, thea's in blue. clicking the link will take you to their blog.

𝙗𝙖𝙣𝙜 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣 ♡

〖 The Play of You and I 〗-- childhood friends to lovers

There is nothing time leaves untouched. It changes all, as it changed you and him, and though those sepia days of childhood seem so far now, you cling to them fondly. When sudden grief tears the man you know - the boy - from himself, it falls to you to bring him back. It was nice to play pretend for a while.

RATING: mature, smut-adjacent

𝙡𝙚𝙚 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 ♡

〖 Love Said to Soul 〗-- enemies to lovers

When the God of Love is tasked with humiliating a beautiful mortal girl, he finds himself much vexed to discover her immune to his skills. Determined to discover the root of the problem, he takes to mortal form and embarks upon a dastardly ruse that requires his getting close to her. The God of Love thinks he knows all. The God of Love knows nothing.

RATING: explicit, mdni

𝙨𝙚𝙤 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙗𝙞𝙣 ♡

〖 Happenstance 〗-- love at first sight

You don’t really mind being alone. It’s a lot easier to just pack up your stuff, yourself and go on your adventures when you don’t have to consider another person and their preferences.

It gets lonely, but it works for you.

At the train station with your backpack and one rolling suitcase, waiting for your train in London at Kings Cross station that will take you to Edinburgh. It’s a long journey, over eleven hours, but you saved up and for the very first time, got yourself a sleeper cabin. There weren’t any singles available, as the classic cabin comes with twin bunk beds, but you figure the extra space can’t hurt. 

Who’d go with you anyway?

RATING: explicit, mdni

〖 Deeds of Desire 〗-- best friends brother

Much bemused with love and all facets of it, you are none bothered by the idea of spending your days unattached, for you're never truly alone with your best friend by your side. Yet in meeting a handsome young bartender, your plans begin to change. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to let someone in, after all. If only you knew the whole truth of him.

RATING: explicit, mdni

𝙝𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙮𝙪𝙣𝙟𝙞𝙣 ♡

〖 Girl Code 〗-- enemies to lovers

Pretty Privilege.

It’s not a thing you personally have experienced, to your knowledge. Maybe you have. Maybe once amongst your friend group, you were considered the stand out and someone gave you a pass because they liked the way your eyes are shaped, or how you smile with teeth, or whatever.

You’ll allow that.

But generally, you hate that it even exists. Pretty privilege. Isn’t it enough to get to be pretty in this world? Without the world groveling at your feet and simultaneously pushing any obstacle out of the way for you? 

So when Professor Hwang is hired as the new art professor at the university where you admin, you take an immediate dislike. After, at first, the overwhelming surge of attraction because he truly is the prettiest human you’ve ever seen outside of screen. 

RATING: teen +

〖 Midsummer Love 〗-- fake relationship

Much taken with the romance of finding a husband, you have looked excitedly to this season since you were a girl, only to find all you thought it would be ruined by your overprotective brother. Enter the handsome Duke of Hastings, who possessed of his own ulterior motives, presents you with an arrangement to yield you a love match. This season shall be the most scandalous yet. RATING: mature, smut-adjacent

𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙟𝙞𝙨𝙪𝙣𝙜 ♡

〖 Not Friends 〗-- the boy next door

His family moved into the house next door when you were only a year old (so you’ve been told, it’s not like you have any memories of that time) and he was a year old. Your moms started talking over the small fence that lay between your two backyards, so somewhere in your infantile mind, there is an image of one chubby-cheeked Jisung, probably falling over from his seated position then crying loudly because his balance was always circumspect, especially during the dreaded middle school years.

So when in school, someone asked if you knew Han Jisung, you said yes. 

Friends? No. Not friends.

Boyfriend? No, ew. He’s just the boy next door.

RATING: teen +

〖 Be My Groupie 〗-- best friends to lovers

You'll be there for him until the day he forgets you, his biggest and most dedicated fan. Only he'll never forget you. He just needs to tell you.

RATING: explicit, mdni

𝙡𝙚𝙚 𝙛𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙭 ♡

〖 You Left a Mark 〗-- soulmate

Part of your professional attire sometimes includes heels and as it is a particularly nice day that doesn’t require too much traversing, you wear heels. Which give no stability when being bumped by someone careening down the street.

“Hey!” you hear Chan say but you can only concentrate on trying to keep upright (a losing battle) and you hold onto the microphone because compared to your body, the mic will cost more to replace.

But you don’t fall. You don’t feel the hard smack of the concrete against your skin. Hands are wrapped around your upper arms, grip firm and steady.

“You okay?” 

RATING: explicit, mdni

〖 Soft, Strong and Very Long (Distance) 〗-- long distance love

He goes to school a thousand miles away, and takes a piece of you with him every time he leaves. The struggles are real, but so is your love. RATING: explicit, mdni

𝙠𝙞𝙢 𝙨𝙚𝙪𝙣𝙜𝙢𝙞𝙣 ♡

〖 Congratulations 〗-- best friends brother

He looks a lot different like this. The Seungmin you know usually looks very put together, no hair out of place like even the wind obeys him. He doesn’t iron his clothes or anything, but he does fold each piece really carefully (you and Soomin once watched him spend nearly four minutes on folding a polo shirt, after which you both made fun of him for a good half hour). His skin, like Soomin’s, is flawless 99% of the time, and you think you’ve seen him flush only in anger over the years. And it was never like he is now, skin almost mottled with varying hues of red and pink. His hair is all over the place, the black strands defying gravity. 

There’s definitely the beginnings of a bruise on the side of his neck.

RATING: mature, smut-adjacent

𝙮𝙖𝙣𝙜 𝙟𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙞𝙣 ♡

〖 Melt 〗-- summer love

[ladylexis]

This is fantastic! I couldn't stop reading for a moment. The imagery and characters are so, so beautiful.

Love Said To Soul | lmh

❝𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮?❞

↳ When the God of Love is tasked with humiliating a beautiful mortal girl, he finds himself much vexed to discover her immune to his skills. Determined to discover the root of the problem, he takes to mortal form and embarks upon a dastardly ruse that requires his getting close to her. The God of Love thinks he knows all. The God of Love knows nothing.

↳ Lee Know x female reader

↳ Enemies to lovers romance trope. A retelling of the Greek myth Eros and Psyche. College au, angst and conflict, developing romance and yearning, quest and high stakes, Greek mythology and frequent reference to gods/goddesses etc, fantasy and myth meets modern day, mild drug use, smut throughout.

! Explicit content, adult themes, 20.1k, suitable for 18+ readers only !

「Final part of the skz tropes collab w @yoongihan」 「main contents list」 「© April 2024 by jl-micasea-fics」

“Thus, my dearest son, I charge you with this quest.”

Minho knelt reverently before his mother, head bowed low. Rarely did he question her whims or ways, for what the Goddess Aphrodite coveted, the Goddess Aphrodite claimed, and may the Fates help anyone who stood in her way, kin or otherwise.

Still; this all felt too bizarre.

“May I ask why, mother?”

Aphrodite smiled gently, her eyes—an infinite silvery galaxy of lovers’ souls—trained to him. As self-assured as he was, even Minho’s composure wavered under the gaze of the most apocalyptically beautiful of the twelve Olympians.

“It just seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to for a mortal girl,” he hastily added.

“You are correct, dear child. It is awful trouble. Trouble that I would not have you go to if it had not been ordained that this girl’s beauty will inspire a cult of worshippers that will revere her as the most beautiful creature to ever have lived. As more beautiful than even the Goddess of Love herself. They will make to her sacrifices and votive offerings and pray to her as though she is divine. I cannot have that, child. There is a natural order to things, and we must maintain it.”

Minho supposed that was answer enough.

“Relay to me again what you must do,” Aphrodite said.

“I am to go to her bedroom while she sleeps, and take with me a hog.”

“The hairiest and foulest you can find,” Aphrodite added.

“Yes, mother. I am to shoot her with one of my arrows and ensure that the first thing she sees when she awakes is the beast.”

Aphrodite smiled, her golden skin shimmering under the vast, heavenly sun. “She will fall in love with the monster, thus disgracing herself and ensuring that her Fate shall never come to pass. No mortal shall ever worship a pig-lover!” She laughed, melodic and triumphant.

Compassion in his very nature, Minho could not help but feel a sliver of sympathy for the girl that, for all intents and purposes, was innocent. She could no more control the beauty she was born with than her Fate— now it would be a sad and lonely one. She would be reviled by other mortals and mocked by the Gods, and spend her life in misery.

But an order was an order.

“Go now, my son,” Aphrodite commanded. “Take your bow and quiver, and make without delay to the girl.”

“Yes, mother.”

Minho stood, bowed, and from his divine palace retrieved his golden bow and quiver of enchanted arrows. Forged by Hephaestus and blessed by his mother, the arrows could pierce the heart of any mortal or deity with true, unbreakable love.

Such was his onus, his purpose, his charge as Eros.

--

Minho always enjoyed visiting the mortal world.

It was true that his reason for spending much of his time there pertained to the never-ending demands of love’s machinations, but even on the days when he sought to take a small break, he lounged in the warm waterfalls and on the snowy mountains and near the pellucid oceans, marvelling at the luscious spectacles of Mother Gaia— a different sort of ephemeral elegance to that of his heavenly home.

Mortals entertained him endlessly; such funny, flighty creatures. They warred and fucked and loved and killed and worked so hard for ultimately trivial reward. He often wondered what would have become of them, had Prometheus never gifted them fire. They certainly wouldn’t have built up centuries of civilisation and developed what Minho now overlooked from a wisp of cloud: the University of Oxford. So far as he understood it, this was a place where mortals gathered to learn— a little like the Mouseion, which he was admittedly less familiar with than he ought to have been. More importantly than any of that, however: this was where his charge resided.

Securing his bow and stepping off the cloud, he drifted down and over the sprawling campus on plush, white wings. The cool midnight air flowed through his onyx hair; starlight kissed his deep, rich complexion. A peaceful glide to the ground it would have been, had the ghastly pig strapped to his back not squealed for the duration.

Landing softly on the dewy lawn, Minho wriggled his naked toes on the grass and looked around. The building ahead, domed and Victorian in grand architecture, was signposted ‘Goodhart’. Being the dead of night, there was no sign of life from any of the single-paned windows; just as he had hoped. Invisible as he was to mortal eyes, the pig remained very much discernible. Nothing like a floating farm animal to incite panic.

With a short, sharp hop he glided gracefully up and away from the grass to the top floor, three stories up. Through each window he peered into dark rooms in which girls softly slumbered, until he came upon one that wasn’t: she was sat at her desk, illuminated by the amber glow of a tabletop lamp. Before her was spread textbooks and notepads, pencils and post-its, an open laptop and cold mug of coffee. Minho watched for several moments. She scrawled something to a cluttered page, tapped her laptop and scrolled. She dropped her pen and raised her arms, stretching out her spine and shoulders with satisfying cracks. She yawned and checked the time, then groaned: “Oh, god.” Her head fell to the desk with a heavy sigh.

Minho had counted on her being asleep. This was due to take much longer now that she wasn’t. Resigned to a wait of indeterminate length, he perched on the rooftop ledge above her window, pig tucked between his legs as he laid back and gazed up at the stars and constellations that decorated the now cloudless sky. There was Hercules, favourite son of Heracles, raised up to the heavens by the Cloud Gatherer himself in honour of his father’s legendary labours. There was Aries, the ram to whom the most coveted Golden Fleece once belonged. There was Andromeda, the wife of the great hero Perseus, who saved her from an unthinkable fate at the hands of the foul sea-dwelling monster Cetus. And in admiring these constellations and recounting the tales of ancient times gone by, Minho drifted into a contented sleep.

It was warmth on his skin that stirred him to the twitter of birds and chatter of mortals. Opening his eyes and rubbing them of their crust, he—for a moment—forgot entirely where he was. Indeed, it was the sore twinge to his skin that firstly informed him he was on Earth, and secondly, that he had Helios to thank for the sunburn. Immortality does not equal invulnerability. With a mean glare skywards, he clambered to his feet and stretched out his joints, possessively checking his bow, relieved to find it still where it should be.

It was at that moment that a wailing screech pierced the air, most alarmingly offensive to Minho’s sensitive ears. More commotion stirred and drew him closer; he crossed the ivy-laced rooftop of Goodhart House with nimble proficiency, peering down at the lawn where it seemed a dozen or more students had gathered.

“What do we do?!” He heard a girl cry out.

“Kill it!”

“We can’t kill it, idiot. It’s huge.”

“W— Well, just, get rid of it!”

“How do you suggest we do that?”

“Call security! Call someone!”

Intrigued, Minho hopped from the rooftop and fluttered to a nearby oak on whose thick branch he gently perched. From the gathering of girls, a familiar squeal and snort erupted: Minho froze. With a stroke of bewilderment, he looked down between his legs, then back to the lawn.

Shit.

The girls screamed and parted from their tight cluster as a splotchy, hairy hog barrelled towards them, slavering drool that splashed them as it passed. Over the lawn it charged and across the campus to yet more cries of distant fear and panic, until it disappeared entirely from view. Aflutter with confusion and fright, the girls drew back together, as though expecting yet more horrid creatures to spring from the ground. Luckily for them, Minho was fresh out. In fact, he was just considering where he might obtain a second beast when from the Goodhart building lobby, a girl strolled out. Confidence in her stride and an easy smile on her face, she was rushed by the gaggle of girls, every one of them relaying to her with varying degrees of dramatics what had just occurred. Minho watched intently; she laughed and hugged them, offered assurances and validation. By no small feat she managed to calm them, after which she took her leave, jogging across the lawn and towards the path with books bundled in her arms. Minho followed, from treetop to rooftop across campus until she entered where he could not, disappearing from his sight into a grand school building.

His mother had been right, he thought. She was beautiful; that was, for a mortal girl. After all, Minho had indulged with deities and nymphs the beauty (and flexibility) of which mortals could not utter into words, and so yes; she was beautiful, for a mortal girl. Rather astoundingly beautiful, for a mortal girl. But that was neither here nor there. He had a quest to complete, and was now distinctly lacking the beast required to complete it. He would just have to find another and bring it back. If not a hog, then something equally as detestable.

Something that would appease mother.

--

In the small and dark hours, Minho returned once more to Goodhart.

Pleased this time to see that the girl was slumbering soundly, he braced himself on the sill of the window and pushed it carefully. It gave with no resistance, as did all things he impressed upon. He climbed through it and into the girl’s room, and found himself immediately taken with what he caught wind of: the sweet and tantalising scent of honey— a substance that had something of a catnip-like appeal to Gods and deities in all forms. Minho paused, his mouth watering. The room itself was of no remarkable make: he had visited the habitats of mortal girls before, their comforts and wants manifesting in soft things, light things, warm things, pink things.

In his hand the creature he plotted with stirred and unsettled; he opened his palm and hushed the spindly tarantula softly. Besotted, it twitched its mandibles and allowed Minho to place it at the foot of the bedspread, where it waited. With a grace of movement unique to the Goddess of Love’s offspring, Minho drew his bow from his back and prepared an arrow, aiming at the sleeping girl. This was usually his favourite part; the anticipation, the thrill, watching how his efforts panned out in those few and rare seconds after his arrow struck and the love searched for a home. Perhaps that was why his heart hung heavily as he took a deep breath and loosed the arrow; in this, there was to be no thrill. He acted solely in service to his mother, and while other deities would surely press that that was ample reward in itself, something inside him ached.

Ever sure in its path, the arrow struck the girl in her breast, setting upon her a heat that woke her immediately. She gasped and made a sound akin to a moan: Minho stiffened, struck by it. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, her sleep-warm skin and bed hair appealing to him in ways he had erstwhile made fun of mortals for admiring. Groggy but seemingly able to perceive enough, she blinked at the end of her bed; at the patient tarantula that sat there. She shook her head, rubbed her eyes again, grimaced and took another look. The tarantula shimmied its eight legs. Certain that his mission had been a success, Minho could bear to watch no longer; he moved to the open window, braced himself upon the sill.

“How on earth did you get in here?”

He turned back. The girl rose carefully from bed and retrieved the glass of water from her bedside, rushing to the window where he stood. A mere inch from him and yet completely unaware, she tossed the water over the sill, the streaming moonlight briefly bathing her face. Minho swallowed and watched as she grabbed a slip of paper from her desk. With care and precise technique, she slipped the paper under the spider, poised the glass atop it, and trapped it.

“You don’t belong here,” she said softly, moving back to the window; back to Minho. “Here, little one. Go home safely now.”

Stretching across him, she leaned out to a gathering of strong ivy that crawled across the close facia. She released the creature onto it, smiling as it clicked its mandibles and scuttled away.

Several things crossed Minho’s mind as he held his breath and waited for the girl to move away. The first was that something, somewhere, had clearly gone awfully wrong. What just happened was not the work of a woman obsessively in love with a horrible spider, but rather that of a pitying Samaritan. The next thing he considered was perhaps more confounding than his failure: he had broken into a clammy sweat, his heart pounded, his vision swum with her nearness. The God of love loves all, loves unconditionally, loves fairly. He does not fall in love.

Thirdly and finally, he thought the worst of all.

He had failed his mother.

Aphrodite was not to be failed.

--

“What is it that you mean to tell me, exactly?”

Aphrodite sat poised on her regal throne of curved ram’s horns and silk, her infinite beauty radiating beneath her golden skin and through her calm, silvery eyes. Her hair, braided intricately and woven with wildflowers, seemed to throb and glow with the very essence of life and love. Minho knelt before her and summoned his courage.

“I mean to say, mother, that I failed.”

Aphrodite brought her palm to her chin. “I do not understand, dear child.”

“I failed to curse her, mother. It just... It didn’t work.”

“So you said. Therein lies my perplexment. You said your arrow struck her?”

“Yes, mother.”

“And yet she remained unaffected?”

“Yes, mother. She didn’t fall in love at all.”

“You must have missed.”

Minho looked up, about to voice his protest when Aphrodite spoke again, “The arrows of Eros cannot be defied. Whomsoever is struck by them must fall in love with the first creature they then see. That is, and always will be, the way of things.”

“But, mother—”

“You must go back down to Earth. Back to the girl. Make sure your aim is true this time.”

“Mother, it wasn’t my aim that was off, it was something else—”

“Are you suggesting there is a defect in Hephaestus’s weapon?” she asked. “Should we visit your uncle together and put this to him?”

Minho swallowed. “No, mother.”

Aphrodite smiled. “Very well then. It is decided. You shall go back to Earth and do a thorough job of things.”

Minho stood from his kneel, anxiety turning over in him. Whatever help he had sought to gain from his mother clearly wasn’t his to take, and so he would have to figure this one out on his own.

“And, darling?”

“Yes, mother?”

“Do not come back until the deed is done.”

Minho nodded dutifully, his heart sunk low.

“Yes, mother.”

--

Now, things were personal.

Not only had the mortal girl somehow resisted his arrows, embarrassed him in front of his mother—a woman whose opinion mattered to him above anyone—but she had also earned him effective banishment. There was no doubt in his mind that his mother’s warning was to be interpreted literally: he would not be allowed to return to heaven or his palace until his task was complete, and so what had begun as a run-of-the-mill task was now a quest of redemption. Minho simply despised working harder than he had to.

So, yes. This was personal.

The more he thought on it, the more he supposed his mother to be right. He must have missed. Yes, it looked an awful lot like he struck her clean in the breast— before this he’d have sworn his immortality on it. And yes, he had never been known to miss a shot, ever. And yes; she reacted as he had witnessed every other mortal react in the afterglow of the landing shot. But still. He must have missed. There could be no other explanation.

Resigned to a third attempt, Minho returned at night to Goodhart. This time, he would watch a while longer. He most definitely wouldn’t take to the (rather comfortable) rooftop and admire the constellations; this was serious business, and he ought to treat it as such. Gliding up to her window and perching on the exterior sill, he was surprised to see the room empty. It was late: late enough for most mortals to be going about their quaint evening routines, such as they were. The desk lamp was switched on and a gathering of clothes was strewn about the unkempt bed alongside an open, transparent toiletry bag. A closed laptop balanced atop the bedside table, where also rested stacked books of romance fiction. White, fluffy slippers peeked out from beneath the bed’s skirt, the small wardrobe door had been left ajar. It was curiosity that drove him to crack open the window, and from inside he once again caught the delectable scent that had so tempted him the night before: honey. It warmed him and made his mouth water, the sweet notes inspiring a rumble in his gut that he mentally hushed—as though it could be heard—when the door opened and the girl walked in. Robed in merely a thin towel, her hair wet about her shoulders, he held his breath and gawked. Something about her—something he couldn’t explain but most desperately wished to—was inexplicably appealing. On her entrance the smell of sweet nectar strengthened, and Minho widened the gap in the window to steal a stronger whiff. She shivered and wrapped her arms about herself, glancing to the window that, to her mind, was swinging loosely.

“Thought I’d closed you,” she mumbled, crossing the room and leaning again into Minho’s space. His heart thumped as she reached out to close it: confoundingly annoying, but what good was it to deny?

And then, something quite unfathomable happened.

She froze mid-reach, and stared at Minho.

--

You had never been the type to much believe in fairy tales, myth or folklore.

Being a student of the arts, you were aware enough that such tales were always a product of their time and culture, born to serve one purpose or another. Urban legends to keep folk from the woods at night, fables to sow the seeds of conformity, myths to elevate men to the status of Gods, for hubris and ambition does much to produce good literature.

So does insanity, for its part, and that was precisely what you felt to be stewing in as you looked upon the barely corporeal form of a creature—a man? —perched daintily on your windowsill. He was naked save for a thin white skirt that seemed not to touch him, but float about him. A broad and firm chest tapered to a svelte waist and thick, muscled thighs. Hair of impossible black framed features that you could not entirely comprehend for their beauty, and as though to that end, his face remained a blur save for the shimmering silver of eyes that stared back. A pair of feathery, white wings closed around and under him, and this, you promptly decided, could not be real. If you were to touch him, he would disappear. And so you reached out, hand trembling and warming the nearer you got, as though pushing your arm into a pocket of hot steam. The angel(?) watched, statuesque, and as the very tips of your fingers grazed the smooth upper chest that you were sure you would simply pass through, a pop erupted, as though piercing a vacuum. An extraordinary bout of colour bloomed and spread across his skin, the opaque veil giving way to an iridescent, dazzling gold that shimmered and sparked under the moonlight, yet where your fingers had touched was a deep, purple blotch— a scar on perfection. His features cleared and you saw him with perfect clarity: sharp yet feminine, strikingly gorgeous with plush lips and strong brow. Like nothing you’d ever seen; nothing that ever should be seen. Despite your wants you cried out in shock, recoiled, and slammed the window shut. The angel flitted from the sill, great wings beating gracefully as it hovered for but a moment, spun around, and darted away into the night.

Sleep did not come that night.

Nor did the angel, ever again.

--

She saw him.

She tried to touch him.

Never in all his centuries had Minho experienced such a thing, and were he not on such frosty terms with his mother, he would have turned to her for advice, for he found himself utterly confounded.

A mortal girl saw him.

Had a part of him somehow broken? Was she not mortal after all? Had there been some cosmic imbalance that simply happened to allow for the veil between worlds to thin with comically inopportune timing? Minho had no answers, and knew his frantic worrying would produce none. Thus, he resolved to a plan. The way he saw it, all attempts made so far had depended on his stealth and gentile as Eros, God of Love. Therefore, perhaps a different approach was called for; an approach that would put him in direct contact with the girl that he might work her out— he would have to if he hoped to curse her and appease his mother. Working in the shadows had earned him nothing but a headache.

It was time to step into the light.

--

The Oxford university cafeteria was not a place one went to eat their lunch.

No; the cafeteria was a grand old affair more fitting the pages of Hogwarts, and was treated as such. A hub of activity for passing students that would meet between lectures or seminars to spread the campus gossip like Burberry-clad town criers. It amused you to play a small part in it; you would listen when the girls from your house clucked and fussed over the slightest thing that, if nothing else, distracted from the general stresses of undergraduate life. Ever aware of the way you carried yourself—mother had made sure to drill that one down since birth—you received all news with a complacent smile, unaffected.

Such was the plan today— to pass through on your way to your next class, touch base with the latest triviality, and carry on your day. Yet as you stepped into the high-ceilinged cafeteria and looked around, something struck you as distinctly different.

The whole place was abuzz, humming with chatter and the excited exclamations. Students gathered tightly around the benches and tables, those newly arrived being swarmed upon by peers that sought to be the first to tell them the great news: news you would soon come into possession of.

“Hey!” Your good friend and classmate, Gina, called to you. “Over here!”

You rushed to her, backpack tight to your shoulder. “What on earth’s going on?” you asked. “Half the student body must be here.”

“Girl, you haven’t heard?”

“Haven’t heard what?”

“Oh my God—” She turned to the girl behind her, tapped her shoulder. “She hasn’t heard yet!”

The girl gasped. “You haven’t?! Everyone’s talking about it!”

“Talking about what?”

“I can’t believe you haven’t—”

“Gina.” You pinned her with a stern glare. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Gina drew closer, her voice no lower despite the closed distance as she said, “There’s a new student.”

“A... What? Is that it?”

“He’s not just any student,” she added.

“I heard his biological mother owns Gucci,” a nearby girl added.

“I heard he’s a self-made billionaire,” said another.

“You’re both wrong. He’s the Dean’s son,” Gina tutted.

You held a hand up, head spinning. “Wait. Time out. All this fuss is over a new student?”

“Gucci heir.”

“Billionaire!”

“Dean’s son—”

You rolled your eyes at the objecting chorus. “Whatever. He’s still just a student.”

Gina shook her head. “You clearly haven’t met him.”

“I don’t need to meet him.”

“Oh yeah?” Gina stared over your shoulder. “That’s too bad, because you’re about to.”

You followed her gaze, as did every other student present. The cafeteria burst into a fuss of noise, whispered elation and an air of giddy delight that infected even you with the way your heart pounded indiscriminately. Through a convenient gap in the crowd you looked across to the gently swinging double doors where a person had just entered: a man. A man that met your eyes as soon as yours did his, through tinted sunglasses that utterly failed to conceal the liquid mercury beneath. Under your skin bloomed a molten wanting unlike anything hitherto felt, and in the next breath, a dizzy spell of desire. Mid-length hair the colour of onyx and skin near unsettlingly flawless, it felt merciful to look away from him; to right yourself and steady your feet. Leather jacket tight about his broad shoulders, the man grinned and with no more than a single stride attracted to him the swarm of students that each sought to introduce themselves and make friendly, Gina included. At home amongst the chaos, the man took it all in and with apparent gratitude, unphased by the riot he incited. It took all possible strength to turn and briskly cross the cafeteria, the more distance put between you and them, the better.

Outside and with the summer sun offering a calming warmth of clarity to your head and shoulders, you diverted from the path to the lawn and stopped near a willow tree for breath. It had been all too much. All too reminiscent of your own experience as a naïve Fresher— how the ‘hottest girl on campus’ had been so violently hitched to her pedestal.

“Hello.”

With a shriek you whirled around: there he was. Sunglasses removed and sitting backwards on his head, silver pools of liquid metal pinned you from under strands of thick black.

“Wh— What?”

The man smiled; white, dazzling. “I said hello.”

“Hello?”

“Isn’t that what people say when they meet for the first time?”

You shook your head, scrambling for sense. The shadow of the leafy canopy above danced over the grass, disorienting. As though nature itself responded to his very presence as your peers did.

“But this...” You swallowed, summoned the nerve to look at him. “This isn’t the first time we’ve met.”

--

Minho’s ichor ran cold— a first for a man whose heavenly blood was perpetually warmed by divinity.

“We’ve never met,” he said flatly, as much to convince himself as her.

In truth, he thought she’d be purged of the memory of that murky evening by now, humans so fickle in their recollection. It had been over a week ago. She blinked, the dazzlement in her eyes such that it made Minho wonder if his mortal shell was sufficient in containing his glorious beauty.

“I know you,” she muttered. “I know your face.”

Minho’s heart throbbed.

“I thought it was a dream, but—”

Seeing an opportunity, he leapt at it. “Funny,” he smarmed. “People do like to tell me I’m the stuff of dreams.”

And just like that, she appeared to snap to herself. She grimaced and turned away, starting over the lawn.

“It’s rude to walk away from someone without even asking their name,” he said, keeping up with her.

“I already know your name.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. It’s all anyone in the cafeteria was saying.”

He laughed. “You sound upset about that.”

“Not nearly as upset as I am about being followed.”

“You could always ask me why I’m following you.”

She stopped abruptly and huffed, “Why are you following me, Minho?”

Never had a mortal addressed him by human name— it felt somehow more intimate than the acts he’d indulged in a hundred times or more.

He cleared his throat, stood tall. “You’re the student superintendent for Goodhart, yes?”

She cast a wary eye over him. “I am.”

From his pocket, he retrieved a small, silver key with a wooden tag attached. The number on the tag read ‘307’.

“I’m moving in,” he beamed.

It was her turn to laugh; melodic and bright. Somehow cutting. “Goodhart is a girl’s only house,” she said.

“It was.”

“Excuse me?”

“It was a girl’s only house. Up until about six hours ago.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Cool. You don’t need to. I just need you to show me to my room. It’s this way, right?”

He started off over the lawn, hands in jacket pockets, thoroughly pleased with himself. With a little luck (and maybe an offering or two to his mother), things would continue to go according to plan. He’d have this mortal worked out and trussed up in love with a snake before teatime.

How pleased Aphrodite would be.

--

It was all so wrong.

How was it that a centuries-long tradition could be so readily abandoned for the sake of a rich boy that apparently possessed more connections than the London underground?

Walking briskly down the halls of Goodhart—halls that you had come to love for their quirky colourings and touch of lived-in neglect—you nursed the mortification that swirled about you. It didn’t help that every girl you passed looked on Minho with abject delight and warm welcomes; he was already at home in a place he had no business calling home.

You pointed down the third-floor hall from the top of the connecting staircase.

“Your room is down there,” you said. “On the left.”

Minho hummed. “Cool. Let’s go.”

“I have a lecture.”

You spun on your heel and started down the stairs, only for the man to jump into your path.

“Don’t you have to give me some kind of induction?” he pressed. “As the superintendent, it’s only right you tell me where the fire exits are.”

A hot whirl of irritation barely suppressed the urge to tell him where he could stick his fire exits: you forced a smile instead, and nodded.

“Right. Sure. This way, then.”

Heading down the third-floor hall with him in close pursuit, you began upon a cold realisation. Perhaps the onslaught of emotion had befuddled you enough that you completely missed what was easily the most horrifying thing of all this: room 307 was next to yours.

Minho was your neighbour.

You stopped outside 307’s door. “This is it.”

Minho grinned. “Excellent.”

He took the key from his pocket and unlocked it, stepping inside what was a typical space for university accommodation. A modestly sized room with nothing more than a desk and bed supplied. It fell to the students to make it theirs, so to speak. The white-framed window looked out to the summery lawn, just as yours did. He strolled inside, hands in his leather jacket pockets, peered out of the window and inspected the ceiling, the bed and then you. 

“Fire exits are at both ends of the hall,” you quickly said from the door. “And there’s an emergency escape connected to 301. Got it?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“There’s no curfew and, uh,” you cleared your throat. “No rules on who you can bring back and such. Just remember you’re not the only one who lives here.”

He scanned you coolly. “I’m well aware of that.”

“Good. Well, then.” With a curt nod, you went to leave.

“You’re 306, aren’t you?”

You stopped short, seized with disbelief. “What?”

“You live next door,” he repeated. “We’re neighbours.”

“H— How do you even know that?”

Minho shrugged. “Am I not supposed to know?”

Confounded, you were lost for words. He strolled leisurely around the bed.

“You’re popular on campus,” he said. “I hear people talking about you.”

“Really?” You scoffed. “I’m shocked you could hear anything beyond what everyone seems to be saying about you.”

“It’s funny,” he continued, ignorant of your remark.

“What is?”

“That they say so much about you without actually saying a thing.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Well,” he sighed, perching on the bare mattress. “They say you’re beautiful. Gorgeous, even. That you’ve got an ass to die for and a killer smile.” He raked his gaze over you. “You’re the hottest girl on campus.”

“They can say what they want, I really don’t care. I’m used to it.”

“Right. But it’s all so... vapid. Don’t you think? There’s no substance to it. Seems to me like not a single one of them actually know you. They just know you for what they see. They’re not interested in peering beneath the tight ass and lovely smile.”

You stared at a patch on the brown carpet.

“Is that their fault, or yours?” he asked.

“I’m done with this conversation,” you snapped, turning back to the door.

“I heard about the Fresher’s ball.”

You stopped and swallowed, heat warming your face. “The Fresher’s ball was a mistake.”

“Yeah. You would say that. Getting so drunk you made out with the entire rugby team?”

“That’s not true,” you snapped. “I got drunk, yes, and I know I made a fool of myself, but nothing like that happened. It’s just a nasty rumour.”

Minho shrugged. “Not for me to judge, darling.” He pursed his lips, then added, “Regardless, your peers seem to adore you. The way you look, anyway.”

“Are you done? I don’t know who the hell you think you are but my life is not a soap that you can just tune into for your own amusement. I don’t care what people say about me; I never have.” You turned away from him. “Leave me alone.”

And with an abrupt slam of his door, you left his room to rush to your own. In the solitude and quiet and after deep breaths taken to ease the dreaded panic that had begun to sink in, it was to your own irritation that tears pricked and streaked your cheeks. Nothing he had said was new; you were aware enough of the reason boys smiled at you and girls flocked to you, somehow hoping your acclaimed ‘beauty’ might rub off on them in however shallow a manner. Such had always been the way of things, ever since you were young. Overfamiliar uncles cooing at your pretty face, jealous aunts shunning you. High school friends lost to petty crushes that turned eyes on you, strangers that stared and whispered. You had hoped for a new start with the chapter of university, and for a while, things had been better. You’d been just another student of low profile, had kept to yourself, had protected your peace.

All until the damn Fresher’s ball.

One moment of weakness and indulgence in excess had ruined it: all eyes had a reason to turn to you as you revelled and danced with more suggestive intonation than you would ever have otherwise dared, and they hadn’t turned away since. Rumours abounded of your state and activity after the ball, ranging from those Minho had heard and of far more explicit affairs, none of them true. Unwilling to dig to the root of the whispers, you simply turned away from it, choosing above all else to carry yourself the way you had always done under lustful eyes: with quiet dignity.

Who was this man to throw all that in your face? To so brazenly trample on your boundaries? Whether Dean’s son or Gucci heir or self-made billionaire, it was clear he possessed an appalling level of entitlement, and was someone to be avoided. Just what he hoped to gain from such rash treatment of a stranger, you couldn’t be sure, but promptly decided it was not worth your energy to work out.

You would carry yourself the way you had always done.

--

The mystery of Minho’s identity prevailed for longer than you cared to acknowledge.

He hefted his wants around campus with reckless abandon, and by now it was certain that you were the only one mourning the all-female occupation of Goodhart House, for the other girls were nothing but pleased by the male addition.

Indeed, neither an eye was blinked nor a question asked as to his means of securing a place at Goodhart, much less Oxford on the whole. The man seemed to don the shroud of myth— every word passed around and about him painted a thrilling picture: he was everything the students wished him to be and more, for never once did he deny a rumour. An image forged in gossip is one susceptible to warping, and if Minho played into that, it was lost on the student body. Rather, he was welcomed with more abject favouritism than you had ever witnessed; you might have drowned in the second-hand embarrassment of your peers if not for the glowering contempt you stewed in upon for the fact that the detestable man was now your neighbour.

And yes, you were self-aware enough to admit a pull of attraction that you kept as close to your pride as your dignity. You’d rather be seen dead than join the gaggle of groupies that worshipped his every move and hung on his every word.

Thus far, you had done a stalwart job of avoiding him. A fortnight with no run-ins had confirmed that, inasmuch as you could tell, you had no classes together nor crossover seminars, no reason to interact. Yet through all this, the glimpses you would catch of his jet-black head and the trill of his laughter from next door provoked an unease: what was this familiarity you felt? Why were you the only one that seemed to notice how his eyes shimmered with the light of a cosmos?

Best to put it out of your mind, lest your mind put out of you.

On the Friday evening you nursed your well-loved copy of Wuthering Heights, contemplating between long paragraphs just what Heathcliff’s redeeming qualities were intended to be. While all for reading between the lines, it seemed to you that any virtue of character should not be so difficult to find.

Situated comfortably on the inner sill of your bedroom window and looking out, it was another fair night. The moon hung bright and clear over the distant woods and town of Oxford, the sky utterly clear of a cloud. Perhaps it had been a cloud that night, that you saw. A cloud in the form of an angel, sent to you by sleep deprivation and an overdose of caffeine.

A knock on your door drew your attention; supposing it would be one of the regular girls stopping by to regale you with their Friday night antics, you rushed over and threw it open.

How your heart seized in your chest.

Eyes of mercury assessed you from under damp raven strands.

“Good evening,” Minho said.

Too bewildered to much reply, he breathed a soft laugh at your dazzlement.

“May I come in?”

“What?”

“Can I come in?” he asked again, emphasising a glance into your room that reared a bout of self-consciousness.

“N— No. Go away.”

“I come with offerings,” he said, tapping the plastic Tupperware box tucked under his arm that had somehow gone unnoticed. “Fudge brownies. A little birdie told me they’re your favourite.”

You folded your arms defensively. “Did they now?”

Minho cocked a brow. “They were wrong?”

“N— No. I suppose not.”

He grinned, utterly disarming. “I feel like you and I got off on the wrong foot, so to speak,” he said gently. “I’d like to start again. Get to know each other. Clean slate. We’re neighbours, after all.”

“I don’t think—”

He held the Tupperware box up. “Please?”

You huffed an indignant sigh.

Might have to strangle a birdie or two.

--

Minho had no experience with human narcotics.

Indeed, the closest divine equivalent was the concoction of ambrosia, and that—if the Sky Father’s behaviour was anything to judge by—induced the sort of buzz that mortals gained from an excess of wine. There was no substance in heaven or on Earth that could so impact the Gods the way he had seen man-made narcotics impact humans; though he desired no such extremity tonight. He had simply taken the advice of those keen mortals that surrounded him, given when he had subtly enquired as to the real nature of his target: “She’s uptight, man. Super hot, but uptight. She needs to relax, smoke a little. It’ll help her unclench. Man, can you imagine her high? No, yeah, I know she doesn’t smoke, but like— She likes brownies, right? She always buys those little fudge ones from the cafeteria. I’d love to see her eat a moon cake. I bet she’d get totally wild, just like that one time at the ball.”

Thus, a plan emerged.

Stepping into her room was the first hurdle overcome: he had been fully braced for a door slam to the face. Instead, he found himself pleasantly surprised, and then somewhat concerned, for it was clear by now that that not even his mortal disguise could completely conceal his divine appeals from her. Where other mortals saw a dark and handsome man, she saw beyond it. The way she stared and how her heartbeat quickened told of it all. Worse still that he seemed to respond in kind— but no, he could not even entertain it. His visit carried a purpose, and that was to get to the bottom of what made her so special.

“Nice place,” he said as he looked briefly around, not to impress discomfort upon the girl.

“Thanks. It’s the same as every other in this building.”

Minho chuckled. She was possessed of a sense of humour, at least.

“You were reading?” he asked, idly flipping the cover of Wuthering Heights that sat on the bedside table. He hadn’t read it himself, but recalled the sister Muses’s boasts from the time of its inception: what promising devotees they claimed those Bronte’s would be.

“Yeah.”

“A touch on the heavy side for a Friday night, no?”

She shrugged, arms wrapped around herself. “I like it.”

“You read a lot?”

“I mean; yeah. English Lit student.”

“Ah. A romantic, then.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“All arts students are romantics, darling.”

He sat at the foot of the bed, Tupperware box in his lap, quietly pleased with how her heart sounded to have skipped a beat at the endearment.

“Join me?” he asked, tapping the space at his side.

She cleared her throat and swallowed, moving stiffly to the desk where she pulled out the chair. Minho watched in amusement, but did not contest. He snapped open the Tupperware box to the velvety rich scent of chocolate, humming in delight: a deity he might be, but just as susceptible to the serotonin of indulgent food. Neatly sliced brownies sat on paper towel, and he offered the box to her first. She eyed it warily.

“They’re just brownies,” he lied.

A purse of her lips and she contemplated something: whatever it was, it quickly passed.

“Thank you,” she sighed, dipping into the box and retrieving the topmost brownie.

“You’re welcome, darling.”

Minho helped himself to one, wishing almost that he could join the girl on the trip she was about to take. It’d be fun to witness, nonetheless. With inhibitions lowered and her true state of mind brought to the forefront, he’d surely discover what it was that blessed her so. What it would take to make her fall in love with the most horrible thing he could find. What he had to do to—

“Mhm.”

A small but sure groan of appreciation made Minho’s fine hairs stand on end: he paused his own consumption to watch her, her face aglow with warm delight. Chocolate on her lips begged to be illicitly removed; Minho swallowed, yearning thrumming under his skin.

“Is this why everyone on campus adores you?” she asked after a moment.

“W— What?”

“You bribe them,” she said, pointedly glancing to the Tupperware box.

Minho scoffed. “I don’t need to bribe people into liking me. It comes naturally.”

“Does your modesty come naturally too?”

“You know; you’re awfully abrasive with me. Did I do something to offend you?”

She shrugged, took another bite of brownie. “No. You’re not that powerful.”

He smirked. “Then what is it?”

“I suppose I just don’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

“You.” She licked her lips. “Nothing about you seems real. There are so many rumours about you and you don’t deny or correct a single one.”

He quirked a brow. “You think I should?”

“I think anyone that puts any value in their identity should, yes. I have a past. A home. I know where I came from and who I am. If I heard people saying otherwise, I'd want to put them right about it.”

She licked her fingers, one by one, the sweet and tempting chocolate coating her tongue. Minho crossed his legs.

“Tell me about them,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Tell me about your past. Your home. Where you came from and who you are.”

“We weren’t talking about me—”

“We are now.”

She blinked, swallowing the last bite of brownie and, once again, darted her tongue out over shiny lips. Minho followed the movement of it slowly, wondered how sweet she’d be to kiss, drew his attention back to her eyes where she, too, had been watching him. She cleared her throat abruptly.

“I, uh...” She shrugged a shoulder. “Well. I was born in a small village. There was nothing much to do growing up, so I read a lot. Too much, my mother used to say. She never really understood why I liked it, and I never really had the energy to explain.”

Minho nodded. “What did your parents do?”

“Mum was an artist. A sculptor, mostly, though she did paint too.”

“And your father?”

“I never knew him.”

“Never?”

She shook her head.

“Your mother didn’t tell you anything about him?” he pressed.

“Nothing I could have believed.”

“Such as?”

“It’s not even worth talking about—”

“Humour me.”

She hummed. “Well, she... I mean, you have to understand that Mum wasn’t a well woman. She had strange beliefs. Acted oddly. It got worse as she got older. Towards the end, not a thing she said made sense. She told me that...” She hesitated.

“Go on,” Minho encouraged.

“She said that my father was a god. As in; an actual god. He pursued her relentlessly, apparently. Sent her gifts and showered her with affection. Was obsessed with her. Eventually she caved and fell in love with him, then they made me, but he had to return to... wherever the hell he came from. I don’t know.”

Minho’s palms grew clammy; he set the Tupperware box on the bed. “I see.”

“I told you; she was completely delusional.” She stood and reached for another brownie, breaking a piece off and popping it into her mouth. “The story changed every time. Sometimes he came to her as a man, sometimes as a snake, or a stallion. For all her berating of my reading, she had a wicked imagination of her own.” She swallowed the brownie piece, broke off another. “I’m pretty sure he was just someone from the village. I really don’t care either way.”

Minho did not hear much of what was said after— he couldn’t over the rush of ichor that deafened him. It could not be true: it made no sense to be true.

“As for who I am,” she continued, oblivious. “I’m nothing special.”

“I very much contest that.”

She scoffed, breaking off yet more brownie and eating it. “You don’t know me even nearly well enough.”

“I’d like to,” he said.

She eyed him. “Why?”

“Why not? Can't we get to know each other?”

“Alright then,” she smacked her lips, set the brownie chunk aside and dusted her hands against each other. “Your turn. Dispel the illusion for me.”

Minho chuckled. What earlier cold dread had settled on him began to thaw.

“I could just feed you a pack of lies,” he said.

“You could.”

He held her gaze, the dim moonlight streaking her features.

“Swear that you won’t,” she muttered.

 Swear? To swear was to forge an oath; to forge an oath was divine. Under normal circumstances he would shy away from such a hefty obligation, but this...

“Alright.” He nodded. “I swear.”

With a slight smile, she asked, “Where’s home?”

“Far from here.”

“Where do you come from?”

“I was born in the mountains.”

“You swore you wouldn’t lie.”

“I’m not.”

She pursed her lips. “Okay... Who are you, Lee Minho?”

“I am the God of Love, sent to Earth by my mother Aphrodite to curse you for being too beautiful.”

She blinked, her shoulders drawn tight. A moment of tense silence passed, and in the next instant, she burst into laughter, doubling over herself on the chair. She cackled and guffawed until she cried, and Minho found himself not only enraptured with the sound of her joy, but elated at being the cause of it. If indeed, he truly was.

“It’s a zero for originality,” she whimpered on a laugh. “You can’t just steal my stories like that and twist them!”

Minho watched in amusement.

“Also— you promised no lies. That’s an even bigger zero.”

She picked up the last chunk of brownie she’d set aside, pushing it past her lips with a giggle that carried for long minutes as she chewed contentedly. She swallowed and sighed, brought her legs up to cross under her, swivelling gently in the desk chair.

“Imagine being the God of Love,” she mumbled. “Must be bloody awful.”

Minho hummed. “You think so?”

“Yeah. For sure. Imagine being surrounded by love all the time— every second of every minute of every day.” She shuddered dramatically. “Couldn’t be me.”

“But you are surrounded by love,” he said. “It takes many different forms, you know. Friends, family, faith.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Fornication.”

She coughed suddenly, looking anywhere but at him. Endearing warmth pooled under the simmering yearning that resided in Minho; how much longer he could keep it wrested, he wasn’t sure.

“I imagine being a God of Love to be great fun,” he said. “I imagine they might get into all sorts of mischief.”

“I don’t like mischief.”

“Everybody likes a bit of mischief.”

She shook her head. “Not me. I’d much rather—” She yawned. “I’d much rather live a quiet life.”

Minho hummed, watching as she wilted on her seat. She sat bolt upright on feeling herself sag, blinking rapidly.

“I don’t, uh...” She put a hand to her forehead. “I don’t think I feel very well.”

“What’s wrong, darling?”

“I...” She slipped her legs from under her, made an attempt to stand that ended futilely; Minho quickly rose and caught her weight. To restrain what burned in him; what the God of Love so easily took when the urges presented, was a goliath task.

“S— Sorry,” she mumbled, and tried to move from him, only to stagger once more.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “Want to lie down?”

“No. I just—” She gripped his arms tightly, let herself lean into his strong frame. The thin cotton of clothing under her hands seemed to fascinate her; she released the grip and, transfixed, began to stroke softly, her touch wandering from bicep to shoulder to chest. Minho hoped she could not feel the way his heart throbbed under her hand; she looked up at him, eyes glassy and rounded with adoration.

“You are... so pretty,” she mumbled, touching softly his cheek, his jaw. “So, so pretty.”

Heat flared under his skin, singing what sense he possessed.

“I thought you—” She grinned lazily. “I thought you were the angel. It came to me, you know. Right to my window. It was the prettiest thing I've ever seen. Then I saw you.”

He sucked in a sharp breath; much more praise and the swelling in his groin would not be so ignored.

She cupped his face with warm hands. “I don’t really like you. But I do like you. You make me—” She narrowed her eyes, blinked slowly. “You make me want to do things I’ve never even thought about before. Bad things.”

“Bad things?”

She nodded, then pressed a finger to his lips. “I’ll never admit that to you, though. Just so you know.”

The already abused thread of Minho’s self-control frayed and worried; he gently removed her hand, took her wrists in hold. To remove himself was the wise thing to do; she was not herself, and he was not so virtuous as to resist much longer.

 “It’ll be our secret, then,” he said.

“Mhm.”

“Why don’t you lie down for a bit, darling? You’re not feeling well.”

“I’m fine.”

“Of course. Just try it. For me.”

She shook her head, about to protest when in the next instant, a sallow and sickly look of panic came over her.

“I— I think I’m going to be—”

And with a short, retching heave, she threw up over Minho’s slippers, sweats and the rest of the brownies in the open Tupperware box.

There was hardly a shred of grace to be found in the rest of the evening, the responsibilities of caregiver taken on board. Minho cleaned both of them up, set the girl to bed with surprising lack of resistance on her part, and once sure that she was free of cramps and convulsions, retired himself to the roof of Goodhart.

Wired and utterly unable to sleep, he watched the constellations until he could think without the red mist of lust impeding him. In doing so, the cold realisation he had earlier felt on hearing her mother’s story returned to him. He would not have entertained it had the finer details not rung so true to a certain Olympian King and Cloud Gatherer’s famous behaviour. Indeed, it would certainly explain her invulnerability to his arrows and her uncanny intuition as to Minho’s nature: not much would escape a daughter of Zeus.

But then; if true, how had it gone unnoticed by Aphrodite? Surely she would know of the girl’s lineage. Surely all Olympians would know, for Zeus made no secret of his bastards and indeed, cultivated a long line of offspring from mortals, demi-gods, minor deities and nymphs all, much to Hera’s (equally as famous) wrath.

He would think on it, he decided. If nothing else, he was further along in working her out than he had been several hours ago, and with no thanks to the moon cakes. A stupid idea, to attempt to relax her through such unpredictable means in the hopes she might talk or reveal some mystery.

He would apologise tomorrow. Perhaps find her a gift.

All for the quest, of course.

--

You awoke feeling distinctly like a beaten piñata.

Your head throbbed steadily and a nausea lingered, rolling dangerously on your attempt to get up and out of bed. Trudging to the window, you threw it open and gulped in the fresh mid-morning air, warmed by summer’s sun and redolent of the nearby woods, earthen and faintly floral. A musk hung about your room; not one that was generally familiar to you, but it was reminiscent of the night before; of a sudden drowsy warmth and hands touching things they most definitely shouldn’t have. With a grimace and under the chill of mortification, you got dressed and tried to make presentable, quietly leaving your room and heading next door.

A deep breath preceded your soft knock: for a moment you thought it too soft to be heard, but it quickly opened to reveal a shower-fresh, modern-day Adonis— not even your sickly state could perturb the way you stared. A wet towel was slung over his sloped shoulders, the twisted ends hanging over curved pectorals. The rest of him was entirely naked, his skin still wet and catching the gentle light of the morning that shone in streaks through the half-drawn blinds. Dripping, dark strands framed rosy, handsome features. Veined biceps flexed as he held the door, and following the line of his body, you saw a wave of slight abs, svelte waistline, shapely hips, a fine dusting of hair that crept from his groin to his navel; a happy trail, so delightful as to make your mouth water.

As for what hung between his legs— well, it seemed to you on first glance that he possessed three of them.

Minho cleared his throat, apparently as mystified as you.

“H— Hi.”

“Sorry—” You snapped back to yourself. “Jesus. Sorry. I, uh— I’ll come back.”

“No, don’t. Just give me a second?”

He quickly disappeared, though left the door ajar, the sounds of rummaging and changing heard. When he reappeared, he was mercifully clothed in sweats and a black shirt.

“Come in,” he said.

“I... I really can come back if it’s a bad time—”

“It’s not. Come in.”

Compliance came courtesy of his authoritative tone, and in stepping into his room, you were surprised to see it so sparse. Aside from the wardrobe and larger than average bed, there was nothing that denoted even an ounce of personality; no posters, no books, no belongings. Nothing to suggest it was even lived in at all, if not for the presence of the man himself.

“I haven’t had time to decorate yet,” he said intuitively.

You nodded, though quietly doubtful, and wandered to the open window where at least you could call on the fresh air to keep you grounded. While clothed, he was no less dazing to be around.

“I just wanted to—”

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Not great.”

Minho, holding position at the other side of the room, looked downtrodden.

“Nothing a few paracetamols won’t fix, I'm sure,” you added lightly.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“What? I’m the one that should be apologising, I behaved like a—”

“You have nothing to apologise for. You were only like that because of me. It’s my fault.”

Confused, you watched as he came closer, raked a hand through his slowly drying hair.

“There was, uh...” He licked his lips. “There was marijuana in the brownies.”

Dumbfounded, you could only blink.

“I thought they might loosen you up,” he continued.

“Loosen me up?”

“It was a stupid, ridiculous idea. I know that. I’m so sorry. If I'd known how badly you’d react to it—”

“You drugged me!?”

Minho flinched. “I... I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”

“That's what it is, Minho. You drugged me. You fed me drugs without my knowledge or consent. I’ve never taken any kind of drug, let alone eaten it. You—” Too enraged to find the words, you gesticulated wildly. “Fuck. You.”

Storming past him with a succinct shoulder barge, Minho caught you by the wrist, an earnest apology on his gorgeous face.

“I’m so sorry, darling. It was never my intention to hurt you.”

A wave of bitter resentment accompanied the heat; you snatched away from him, summoning your courage.

“I’m not your darling.”

He caught your other wrist, persistent.

“You could be,” he said.

“Let me go—”

“You like me."

A concoction of embarrassment and want swam around you. “Looks like you can’t keep a secret, either,” you muttered.

And with that, he released you, his silvery gaze dropping in something finalistic; something defeated.

“Stay away from me,” you said flatly.

He did not stop your third attempt at exit, nor did he call on you for the rest of the day.

Nor the rest of the week.

--

It was difficult for a God to experience guilt.

Minho, being a creature of compassion and with love built into his very existence, found that it tarnished everything he hitherto enjoyed about the mortal world. As though being forced to swallow his pride and admit that he had made a mistake was not bad enough, there was the added realisation that he had acted detrimentally to his own quest— she would not even look at him, let alone allow him to get close enough to make amends, to lower guard, to give him opportunity to strike.

And so ensued a cold war of sorts, her avoidance of him going to such lengths as to involve her temporary removal from Goodhart House to stay with a friend on the other side of campus. This ‘Gina’—the girl upon whom she’d imposed—struck Minho as a fickle creature, susceptible to gossip and vapid trends and student body politics insofar as their theatrics. Not a good influence, he ultimately surmised, but nonetheless his target appeared fond of her. Trusted her. To that end, Minho saw an angle. A new opportunity. One that he somewhat wished to have happened upon before he decided on the use of narcotics, but hindsight would do him no good now.

It was as Gina left her last class of the day that Minho sought to introduce himself.

“Hello, darling.”

He was met with the typical starry-eyed wonderment, the blushing and quickening of heartbeat that all betrayed her delight at being so approached by trend #1— if Minho played into that, he was no sorer for it. Neither was he spoiled for choices, which posed his reasoning for offering to escort her to her dormitory, whereupon the worst simply had to happen.

On the stone steps of the grand, old building waited his target, her beauty seeming more so dazzling since he had been denied the sight of her. On seeing him, however, she rolled her eyes and muttered a curse, storming towards her friend.

“What the hell are you doing?” she hissed at Gina.

“Lovely to see you too,” Minho smarmed.

Gina startled, seemingly offended. “What is with that tone? I know you two aren’t on the best of terms—”

“The best of terms? He drugged me, Gina.”

“Right, so you keep saying, but like...” She glanced at Minho fondly, then shrugged. “He hasn’t drugged me.”

Dumbfounded, she stared at her friend, then at Minho. What pain he saw there perplexed him— it shouldn’t have felt like a betrayal, for there was nothing so intimate between them to betray.

“Minho was actually just offering to take me out for drinks tonight,” Gina said. “You can come if you want.”

“No way.”

“Alright, well, I’m not going to stand here trying to convince you. We’ll be at Cherub’s if you change your mind.” With that, Gina whirled on the spot and started off. Minho lingered.

“Aren’t you going with her?” she snapped.

“You should come.”

“And third wheel your date? No thanks.”

“There’s enough of me to go around,” Minho grinned, more amused than serious.

“What a gentleman you are.”

“I like to think so.”

“Do you like to think you’re the kind of gentleman that drugs the dames before he has his way with them, too?”

Minho flinched. “That’s not how it was. I just wanted to—”

“Loosen me up. Because I'm such an uptight bitch. Yeah, I get it.”

“No. Because you confound me. That’s all.”

She almost laughed, clutching her books so tightly the skin of her knuckles drew thin and tense.

“Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds? It makes no sense—”

“Come for a drink with me. I’ll make it make sense.”

She huffed a deep breath. “I can’t. I have plans.”

Minho quirked a brow. “With Heathcliff? How exciting.”

“It— It’s infinitely more exciting than spending a second longer with you, actually” she stammered.

Minho laughed. “That’s simply not true, darling.”

“How many times; I’m not your darling.”

“But you want to be.”

“Oh my god.” She spun on her toe, marching back up the steps. “I’m going inside.”

“I’ll see you at Cherub’s, then,” he called.

“Leave me alone, Minho!”

“Never,” he whispered as she shoved into the building.

And suddenly, things looked up.

--

Not your finest moment, to tiptoe into a bustling Cherub’s with your proverbial tail between your legs, dignity waving you off at the door.

He said he’d make it make sense: that’s what you clung to the entire way here, for there was so much about him—the things he did and said—that didn’t add up. You imagined what it might be like to understand him instead of loathe him as you peered between gatherings of students in search of him and Gina. About as typical a student union bar as one might imagine, Cherub’s was home to beer-soaked carpets and sticky seats, outdated seventies décor and mismatched lighting. Cheap and (not so) cheerful, it did just the trick for instilling a quick buzz, yet its nearness to accommodation meant that said buzz devolved to debauchery more often than not.

Heathcliff was, you rather thought, far more exciting.

You had vowed after the Fresher’s ball never to drink unless circumstances were dire enough to call for it, and so your detouring to the bar should have said something as to the state of your nerves, whereupon you ordered a vodka and tonic. With a weak smile at the tender, you gratefully took the almost-cool glass, a sip of the fizzy concoction neither unpleasant nor particularly enjoyable. It would take the edge off, in a moment.

“Drinking alone?”

The voice behind your ear startled, the glass slipping from your grasp only to be caught deftly by another, not so much as a drop spilled. Minho smiled warmly, ever radiant against the surroundings. Almost unsettlingly so, for all near eyes were trained to him, and in turn, you.

He brought the rescued glass to his glossed lips, a perfunctory sip followed by a sharp grimace. He set it on the bar and slid it away, out of reach.

“Excuse me, I paid good money for that—”

“My condolences,” he sighed, raking slim fingers through silky, dark strands that framed shadowed eyes of liquid silver.

He flagged down the tender with a wave. “One pornstar martini and a Glenfiddich, straight. No ice. Make the martini virgin.”

“A virgin pornstar martini?”

“I am a collection of paradoxes, darling.”

Your heart pounded; hopeless as it was.

The drinks arrived promptly, and Minho took them in hand.

“Where’s Gina?” you asked, realisation of her absence coming perhaps a touch too late.

Minho smiled. “Come on.”

He led you through the student bodies and to the rear of the venue, where a booth table went unoccupied. A folded piece of A4 card with ‘RESERVED’ scrawled on it adorned the polished table; you poorly stifled a laugh.

“They reserved a table for you? At Cherub’s?”

Minho nodded, sliding into the opposite seat and setting the drinks down. “I asked them to, yes.”

“It’s a student bar, not a five-star restaurant. Honestly. Who are you?”

Minho settled, a serene smile on his lips. “I believe we’ve had this conversation.”

You rolled your eyes. “Right.” And took the cocktail glass. The pink concoction finished with a half pomegranate slice smelled sweet and fruity, yet distinctly lacked the tang you wished it had.

“This didn’t have to be non-alcoholic,” you weakly complained.

“Mhm. Well. I’ll not be guilty of the same thing twice,” he replied, swirling whiskey around his own short glass. “Besides; you don’t strike me as a drinker.”

“Do I strike you as the drug taker?”

Minho’s gaze fell. “No.”

You hummed and sipped your drink. In truth, giving him a hard time was beginning to lose its novelty. Not only did you wish to move on from the whole thing, but it was getting harder to withstand the clear guilt in his mesmerising eyes. Whatever his intentions had been, they most certainly were not malicious, which ought to count for something, you thought.

“I’m still sorry,” he said.

“I know.”

“I’d very much like to make it up to you.”

“How?”

Minho opened his mouth to speak, but in place of his alluring tone came a high-pitched screech of your name; you startled and looked to Gina, who was barrelling towards the table.

“You came!” she cried, shoving hastily into the seat beside Minho; he scooted aside as best he could, but was already trapped. She linked an arm through his, settled into his side, utterly at home. She looked you over incredulously.

“I didn’t think you’d show. You know; I actually can’t even remember the last time I saw you out,” she said, her thick, glossed lips sticky with reflective residue.

You forced a smile. Ignored how their apparent familiarity made your stomach twist. “Yeah. Me neither.”

“I’m always telling her she should get out more,” she continued, this to Minho. “It’s like she’s allergic to socialising.”

“I’m not allergic to it, G. I just prefer to—”

“Sit in and read, I know. Hey— I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. You do you, babe. I just find it funny that the only time you actually make the effort to come out is when you know a hot guy is going to be around.”

Your face flamed with heat— why did this martini have to be so horribly prudish? You stared into it, adequately mortified, for she wasn’t entirely wrong in her observations, and that only raised questions as to your character too difficult to answer in the light of day. Or grunge of bar, for that matter.

“You’ve got it all wrong, darling,” Minho intervened lightly. “I insisted on her coming so I could buy her a drink in apology for the... incident. The timing happened to be right for her. That’s all.”

Gina rolled her eyes. “Sure. Whatever.” She unlinked her arm from his, fanned out the ends of her short hair from the collar of her leather jacket. “I’m going to get a drink.”

She planted a brief kiss on Minho’s cheek, and slid gracefully out of the booth. Your heart catapulted to your throat, where it stayed until Minho spoke.

“We, uh—”

“I don’t want to know,” you quickly said.

“There’s nothing to know, darling. She’s just... exceptionally forward.”

“Don’t call me darling—”

“I call everyone darling.”

“I know,” you hissed. “Why do you think I feel so bloody stupid that it makes my heart race every time?!”

A moment of comprehension crossed you both, and where your realisation of emotional confession brought him to a slow smile, it brought you to cold despair.

You stood quickly, gathering yourself. “I shouldn’t have come; this was such a bad idea—”

A swift grip on your wrist stopped your panicked exit.

“Don’t leave.”

“Minho—”

“There’s so much I have to know about you,” he said, pinning you with a softening gaze. “So much that I don’t understand. So much that infuriates me, so much that intrigues. You’ve caused me so much trouble, but even so, there’s something that I... Something about you that makes me just—”

“Everything okay over here?”

Gina’s flat question javelined the moment; you looked to her, saw her unimpressed eye trained to where Minho held you still. She upturned her lips in a sneer, the three drinks in her hand trembling.

“You couldn’t just let me have this, could you?” she snarled at you.

“Gina—”

“Every single fucking time, it’s you. It’s always you. Every boy I've ever liked or that’s ever shown any interest in me— They always fall for you. It’s like you can’t stand to see me happy.”

Gutted with guilt and confusion, you snatched your wrist from Minho.

“It’s not what you think, at all. We were just—”

“You might be beautiful on the outside,” she spat. “But inside, you’re a fucking monster. Everyone will see that one day.”

Minho rose from his seat. “That’s enough,” he snapped, glowering. “She takes no blame in this. She takes no blame in anything you accuse her of. It’s her fate to—” And he stopped himself short, as though stumbling back from a precipice. He straightened himself and took a deep breath.

“It’s not her fault,” he said acerbically.

Gina pursed her lacquered lips. “Right. So, it’s yours then? That's what you’re saying?”

Minho shrugged. “Perhaps I manoeuvred in such a way as to ensure you got me close to her, yes.”

Your gut turned over with hot nausea.

“What does that even fucking mean?” Gina balked, anger wrinkling her. “Sometimes you talk like you’re from a different planet, I swear to God.”

Minho sniffed, then smiled. He licked his lips, and said plainly, “I used you to get to her, darling.”

Gina’s jaw slacked, then tightened. It seemed she understood, this time, and perhaps you saw the next thing coming from a mile away: she swore and brutally tossed the three drinks she held straight at Minho, soaking and swilling his head, face and chest with sticky, sweet alcohol. The man took it well, for all his surprise, and swept his hands down his face stoically.

“You two are made for each other,” she hissed, and with that, turned tail and stalked away.

All eyes in near vicinity watched in tense silence as you, unable to even think beyond the molten mortification of it all, did much the same. Perhaps Minho called after you, and perhaps a small part of you wished to stay and console him, yet the larger part of you seethed with disappointment, for he had once again demonstrated himself to be less than half the man you ever wished to be so attracted to.

Minho, for all his obvious and daunting appeals, was not a good man.

--

Minho was starting to believe that the Fates had something against him.

Every attempt he made to get close to her ended in unmitigated disaster, and as if that wasn’t headache enough, he was now forced to acknowledge that what burned in him when he thought of the mortal girl was not simple curiosity: he craved her.

This called into question everything he knew: his quest, his mother’s wishes, his own existence as the God of Love, for as has been established, the God of Love loves all. He does not fall in love. Until he does.

 Perhaps it would simply be easier to out the truth of it all. Yes, it would shatter her mortal logic and push her to the limits of her comprehension, but what was the alternative? To continue wresting his own desires until such a time as he imploded? There was only so much one could take, even for a God, and Minho felt the tether of his patience rapidly diminishing.

Whatever he decided to do, he could not do it under these circumstances. He would have to, once again, make amends. Somehow.

What small silver lining there was to this whole mess came in the form of her moving back to Goodhart House, presumed discomfort between she and Gina resulting in such separation. Minho knew well what part he’d played in that, but in truth, couldn’t bring himself to feel entirely bad about it.

Two nights later—he had learned that mortals valued their space—saw him timidly knocking on her bedroom door, an uncharacteristic bout of nerves swirling about him. Moments passed before she answered, her vacant expression drawing grim on the sight of him.

“What do you want?”

The afternoon sunlight streaming through the window appeared to halo her, a warmth resonating from her person and within her room that set upon Minho a steady yearning; he could take her in his arms so easily, make her feel things no mortal man could.

Instead, he licked his dry lips, and from behind his back, produced the object he’d been concealing. She glanced at it, brows knitting together.

“What the hell is that? A twig?”

“I couldn’t find an olive branch.”

Just like that, the subtlest of curves to her lips ignited hope. She quickly reset herself into a deep-set frown.

“You’re an idiot,” she said.

“I am.”

“Gina and I aren’t speaking because of you.”

“I know.”

“You used her.”

“I did.”

“I mean; why did you have to be so—” she huffed. “You could have been nicer about it.”

“She knew what was happening,” Minho shrugged. “Sugar coating it would have only wounded her further.”

“You can’t just use people, Minho.”

Minho quirked a brow. “But it worked, didn’t it?”

“What?”

“It worked. You’re talking to me again. You’ve done nothing but talk to me since the minute you saw me with her, in fact.”

She dropped her gaze, wrapped her arms around herself. “You let her believe you liked her.”

“I do like her,” Minho replied.

“Oh.”

“Just nowhere near as much as I like you.”

A small puff of breath from her sweet lips seemed almost to indicate disbelief, and Minho supposed that until now, he’d made no such clear indication of his feelings. Suggestion and vague inference, perhaps, while he tried himself to understand what he battled with, but such roundabout behaviour was not in his nature.

“I like you a lot,” he said softly.

She shook her head. “Stop.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“It’s not— I don’t know. I can’t do this.”

She moved to shut the door, but Minho caught it quickly, stepping inside.

“You won’t even give me a chance to explain?” he pressed.

“I can’t. You don’t get it. Gina likes you. She was so upset about the whole thing, and you’re just— You don’t care at all. If anything, you seem proud of it. I can’t be with someone like that.”

Minho crowded her, for while her mouth said one thing, her body said another. Against the near wall she shrank, the rampant thump of her heart so alluring as to draw him near until barely a foot of space rested between them.

“You’re lying to yourself,” he said. “You claim that you can’t be with someone like me, but you know it as well as I do, darling; there is no one like me. I am the epitome of what you’ve always craved, and pretending otherwise will only push you to madness.”

“Minho—”

“As for the girl,” he interrupted softly, still so near. “She was a means to an end, yes. And you are correct; I am proud that my course of action bore fruit. I would do the same thing again, given a choice.”

She shook her head. “That’s the problem. I told you already; you can’t just use people.”

“I can do whatever I damn well please, and so should you. You have that right.”

“Not if it hurts other people.”

“And what of hurting yourself? Why sacrifice your own happiness for someone that doesn’t value you? Calls you names? Thinks you no more than a heartless monster? You might consider her a friend, but I assure you darling, she holds no such fondness towards you. Who do you think it was began the slanderous rumours that circulated after your Fresher’s ball?”

Pain flashed in her watering eyes; a truth that perhaps she had always quietly known brought to the surface.

“This abstinence from me only serves to hurt you.”

She cast a contemptuous glare cast up at him. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” she snapped. “You don’t know the first thing about me or what I'm feeling.”

Minho pressed in close, strong arms either side of her head. He hummed softly, “I hear how your heart cries out to me. See how your womanhood swells the closer we are; I only wish you’d give it to me, darling. I’d take such good care of it.”

He felt a shiver barely suppressed as she relented, melting by the second. Words of honey in her ears warmed her from within; Minho might die if he couldn’t taste.

“I wish to undo you and put you back together, one delicious, wet molecule at a time,” he said gently, nosing her soft lobe, then along her jaw. Her breaths devolved to soft pants, each one redolent of sweet nectar that further maddened him. “I’d defy the heavens themselves if it meant I could spend a single night with you.”

--

Minho had once said that arts students were hopeless romantics: he seemed none removed from the vagaries of waxing poetic himself.

You would have given it more thought if not so tightly strung with desire for the man that had, by some cosmic or divine will, worked his way into your bedroom. You knew nothing about him— that much had not changed. Neither had it changed that you detested how he carried himself, how he seemed so aloof to the most basic of kindnesses, how confidence and self-assurance came so naturally to him while it constantly evaded you.

It made no sense that a man like him could desire a woman like you, yet here he was, in your space, hot and firm, whispering such sweet and magical words as to make your head spin and your heart throb.

“Your desire for me is so strong, I can taste it,” he said breathlessly; a statement of fact offered as such, and you weren’t of the mind to deny it.

“Will you admit it?” he pressed. “Return my sentiments?”

Your weak nod told it. “Yes.”

He drew his lip between his teeth, a quick glance cast down your frame. “Am I permitted to touch you?”

“Yes.”

He held a cautious hand over your heaving chest. “Here?”

You nodded; his hand swept to your tummy, still at a hover. “Here?”

“Y— Yes.”

He hummed, then held over the curve of your waist, no contact made and yet electricity flitted between the inches. “Here?”

“Anywhere,” you breathed, defeated, a wreck. “Touch me anywhere. Everywhere. Please.”

Minho grinned, the silver ripple of his eyes flashing smug victory. A hand under your chin tilted your head back to present wanting lips, and when he kissed you, all else faded from existence. Near painfully soft was the first explorative brush, the man inclined to feel out your acclaimed desire— when you curled a grip to his shirt, he indulged you deeply, locking plush lips with yours and taking what he—unbeknownst to you—had already decided was his to covet. Bursts of white-hot delight rendered you breathless and dizzy, and when he broke off, you thought only of more.

“Swear to me that you’ll be mine,” he said, voice a thick and husky rasp.

“Minho...”

“Swear it,” he pressed. “Or this goes no further.”

The quiet promise was made in all but an instant, “I swear,” but even tight in his arms it was akin to stepping from a cold and slippery cliff; you felt to be falling, rescinding all control and handing it to this man that you knew nothing of, but craved like water to a dying man.

With a groan of delight, Minho swept you from the wall and about to the bed, where he laid you down and followed your form. Having no such experience with intimacy save for what the pages of your novels told, your expectations were none. The wanton urges held dominion, your chastity looking on in resigned approval as he smothered your neck and throat with attention, lavished your body with his touch, stripped you of all that hindered his touching your skin. In the warm light of the late afternoon, you laid naked beneath him, bared and as vulnerable as ever a soul may be. Minho looked at you, his gentle eyes seeming more so infinite with the awakening of intimacy; soft, patient hands canvassed your skin— waist, hips and thighs. Gentle, moist lips worshipped you at fingers, toes and lips, such reverent attention that swelled your heart to near bursting.

“You’ve never laid with a man before?”

A giggle bubbled out before you could stop it. Minho cocked his head questioningly.

“S— Sorry,” you mumbled. “No. I haven’t. But…” You hesitated, wondered on the timing, then asked anyway. “Did you have to ask me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like a nineteenth century suitor,” you laughed.

Minho grinned and shook his head, seemingly embarrassed. “Sorry,” he chuckled. “I forget sometimes.”

You ran your hands over his. “Forget what?”

For a long moment, he merely admired how your fingers slotted together. He opened his mouth as though to speak, but instead took a deep breath, and smiled once more. “Nothing.”

His kiss this time was insistent, but gentle. The exchange soon forgotten, work was made of stripping him, the act itself seeming dreamlike the more of him was revealed. Skin smooth and flawless, the complexion of which was so deep and rich a healthy glow, it made you shy to touch it. Clothing removed and tossed aside, the naked sight of him was entirely reminiscent of something— something you could not quite put your finger on, but that nagged at the back of your mind.

He returned to you, all silken warmth and firm in the right places. Between your open legs he settled, your inhibitions melting with his attention— kisses and careful touches, each one further devolving until he could no longer exact patience. He touched you where most you ached, assessing your every expression.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered, lips to lips, soft ministrations over your naked centre eliciting groan after whimper. Slow and controlled, he rubbed you, then parted you to run a finger through the wetness. He shuddered and drew tight, a firm kiss pressed to your mouth.

“So beautiful,” he mumbled, wet digits circling you once more. “You’ll make the perfect companion.”

Too far gone to give much consideration to the perplexment his words instilled, you could only cling to him and wave the ride of euphoria as it flooded you, one molten lash after another. Was it normal to be so immediately aroused by so minimal a touch? Normal to feel like body might split from soul after only minutes of such stimulation?

“Don’t fight it. I’ll guide you through it, darling.” He kissed your bared throat. “Mhm, just like that. Give yourself over to it—”

“Ngh, Min, please—”

“Yes, fuck.” He quickened his motions, a gentle but rapid flurry of sensation against your throbbing centre. Thighs parted wider still for yet more of what he gave, you writhed in desperation, panted like a possessed creature, gave in to what he beckoned out of you. With a cry of delight and no shred of a complex, you trembled violently through the orgasm, felt yourself coming undone on the man’s fingers. Minho hummed and kissed your cheeks, your chin, your forehead, ever patient until the violence had subsided and only your tender panting remained. He ran a soft, light finger through your dripping sex. 

“You’re ready for me,” he muttered, and closed the gap between your bodies.

Spent but still yearning, it seemed almost too natural to open to him and trap him between your thighs. Minho smiled as though with pride, angling himself just so that the formerly observed ‘third leg’ could be seen from your laying position— a most intimidating sight, but one that had you clenching around air. Minho took himself in hand, the girth such that even he struggled to maintain a whole grip. A slow drag from his base and over thick, smooth shaft to blushed tip, and he sucked in air through his teeth, let slip a gravelly groan.

“Can you take me, darling?” he asked softly. “All of me?”

Your weak nod in place of words seemed somehow to dissatisfy him, but all the same, he kissed you tenderly. Tracing the line of his body with trembling hands as he aligned himself, the breaching prod stretching you, you drew tight with a gasp. Minho hissed and the silver of his eyes swirled intensely, each inch that he sunk seeming to exacerbate it; pebbles to rock pools.

“S— Slowly,” you pleaded, the warm soreness of his entrance only just beginning to turn dull ache. “Please.”

“I have you, darling. Trust me.”

Fully sheathed and with his hips cradled tightly to your body, he began to move a slow pace. Such bizarre sensation to feel so thoroughly full, almost sated, on the brink of being driven mad.

“Okay?” he breathed, weight on his arms to better assess you.

You nodded. “Yes. K— Keep going.”

Drawing his lip between his teeth, he maintained the motions, the mattress beneath you creaking its rhythmic complaint. Transfixed to where your bodies connected, Minho’s attention diverted, you explored the curious shimmer to his skin as he moved— perhaps it was the fading sunlight, the evening rolling in with its tricks. It seemed as though tiny rivers of silver moved beneath his skin and through his veins, each one snaking beautifully up his arms, over his shoulders, down his chest to— His chest. How had you not noticed it until now? Amidst the otherworldly perfection there sat the smallest of blemishes, faded purple and gently rounded. Proof that he was indeed real, for over the latter minutes you might have begun to doubt it.

Heart pounding and rapidly approaching yet another crisis of heavenly delight, you brought your middle and index finger together, and by instinct, pressed them to the spot that was now not only familiar to you, but that joined the fragmented pieces of puzzle.

It was a perfect match.

Minho, seemingly oblivious, grunted your name, his rhythm now devolved to a frantic rut. He collapsed atop you, held your warmth close, the smooth drive of his thickness made blissfully easy by the second orgasm he gifted that in turn brought on his own— he shivered and clung to you, words of praise and nonsense both flitting from his bitten lips.

The afterglow was as intense and intimate as the act itself, for Minho gently attended to you, putting you together as he so expressed a wish to. He kept you near to his side, curled up, and whispered stories that you soon forgot in contented, restful slumber.

What you would not soon forget, however, was the truth newly discovered.

The angel had returned to you.

--

Minho now profoundly understood what it was the mortal poets clamoured so desperately to capture.

It was with alarming clarity that he realised he had undertaken his duties as the God of Love with no real concept of what love actually was or could be— such a spectacular thing could not be wrested into something simple; something bite-sized and digestible. All his life he had been casting his arrows and looking on warmly as mortals embraced and made love. He heard their romantic declarations and loving promises with the sort of fond understanding a parent might have for their babbling toddler, and gave it no more consideration than that.

How naïve and foolish he had been. How much he’d missed out on! He dreaded to even think of it now, and cursed his aloofness to the power of what he so easily commanded. Love, he had realised, was the whole point. Powerful enough to fell entire kingdoms, but gentle enough to soothe the most septic of wounds. Wondrous and warm yet cutting and cold, the faces of love were mortally unpredictable, and therein laid its allure.

Minho looked to the future; he had failed in his quest, that much was without question, and could not return to heaven if he wanted to. His mother’s wrath would be terrible, and he was aware enough of his own strengths to know that a conflict with Aphrodite would sign off on his demise, blood or not. And all of that was without the terrible considerations of what she might do to his beloved.

There was nothing for it. He had to do something, and there was no way around it being drastic.

No way around any of it, now that the God of Love was in love.

--

Had you been informed several weeks ago that you’d be engaged in an illicit affair with a man you started out detesting, you’d have cried insanity.

Still; that was the truth of things, and waking next to him after what constituted your first night with any man was not half as terrible as you might once have believed. You had marvelled, mostly. All over again. That he had wanted you at all was mystifying, but when he awoke to find you right where he’d left you, he had proved his want all over again.

A week continued just like this, with not so much discussion as heated, stolen moments. You pleaded that what you were doing be kept under wraps, for the attention he commanded was not something you sought. Begrudgingly, he had acquiesced, but made it known that one day he would show you off to all who came within distance.

This night, he reposed under the stream of pale moonlight that shone through your window; following exertions you had slept straight through the evening and to the small hours. The smooth curve of his lean back disappeared beneath your sheets, his muscled leg hung out and over the bed. Plush lips utterly relaxed and face framed by silky strands of raven black, it struck you once again just how—while unthinkably beautiful—very normal he looked like this. Only when he opened his eyes and mouth did it become clear that he existed on a plane above and beyond other simple people, and while unsure of the finer details, the quirky qualities he possessed had begun to vibrantly outshine those things about him that once irked. He was boastful, yes, and terribly proud. He spoke before he gave much (any) thought and had little regard for consequences, both for himself and those around him.

But he was the very spirit of adventure. Thrillingly spontaneous and occasionally reckless, he dragged you out from under your books and away from your comfort zone, making it so that he instead became a security blanket, for wherever he was, there was safety. The wild promises he made ranged from a lifetime of wealth and happiness with him to taking you around the world. Well intended, of course, but ultimately too fantastical to ever truly believe. Whatever this was and for however long it would last, it wasn’t so wrong to enjoy it.

Led by the hand of desire, you reached out to touch him. A gentle trace down the slope of his shoulder and over the curve of his smooth back, firm under your fingers. You thought of the first time you touched him, before you’d even spoken so much as a word to each other. How he seemed the most beautiful creature your dreams had ever chanced to conjure, for that was what you’d believed him to be— a being born of pure gold, floating on magnificent white wings.

But this man was no dream. He was something else entirely.

A soft murmur of breath, and Minho’s eyes cracked open slowly. Calm pools of silver looked upon you, stirring with love. He smiled softly.

“Who are you?” you whispered.

His smile faded, yet he did not move. He blinked sleepily, slowly.

“You know who I am,” he said quietly. “I told you.”

“The God of Love?”

He nodded, just barely.

“Sent here to curse me for being too beautiful?”

He nodded again.

“By your mother?”

“The Goddess Aphrodite.”

The room was silent. There was no urge to laugh. No stroke of cold disbelief. No terrible fear or suggestion of mockery or anything other than a wave of acceptance, bathed in cold, silver light.

A God.

He was a God.

“Why me?” you whispered.

Minho puffed a soft breath through his nose. Amused, perhaps, by your immediate acquiescence.

“I’m nobody,” you added.

He lifted his head from the pillow, propped himself up by elbow. “Do you truly believe that, or are you being modest?”

You blinked at him, the truth of it in your eyes. He sighed gently, took your hand across the bed.

“You are the most beautiful woman to ever have lived,” he said quietly, running his thumb over your knuckles. “Kind of heart and exquisite of soul, you outshine everything and everyone around you. You were born of a God—”

“What?”

“So I suspect, anyway. I intend to find out for certain. But I do not think your mother was entirely mad with her stories.”

You balked at him. “You’re saying she was telling the truth?”

“Perhaps. A version of it, as she remembers it. Mortal memories are ephemeral things. Regardless, your beauty is divine, and that cannot be disputed.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not,” he chuckled. “Had you lived several thousands of years ago, it would have been you that all of Greece warred over and that the Trojans bled to defend. You are fated to be revered and worshipped for your beauty, more so than even that of my mother’s. This is why she sent me. To shoot you with my arrows and curse you to love something so foul it would disgrace you and push you into a solitary life.”

You swallowed over the disbelief— for all your readiness to hear him out, you found yourself stumped.

“You are invulnerable to my arrows. You see beyond the veil of my mortal disguise. You were able to touch me in my true form. Only divine blood could grant such boons.”

“How do you know I'm invulnerable?” you asked, and on his torn face saw the obvious truth of it. You mumbled a quiet, “Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Talk about a lucky escape.” You tried to laugh, though it was a bittersweet reveal. He was only doing as instructed, you supposed. Things were different then, too. He didn’t know you. Didn’t love you.

Keen to change the subject, you did just that.

“Your mother—”

“Aphrodite.”

“R— Right. Aphrodite.” You cleared your throat. “Why would she want to curse me like that? If what you’re saying is true, it’s hardly my fault.”

Minho shrugged. “The Olympians care little for semantics. I love my mother, but she is as susceptible to vanity as anyone. It wouldn’t be the first time that jealousy has driven her hand.”

“But—” You leaned into him. “This is the twenty first century. Things like that don’t happen anymore. I mean; revering and worshipping, or whatever.”

“Don’t they? What are celebrities and influencers if not modern-day Gods? Politicians if not modern-day kings? Wealth and fame might no longer be measured in cattle and heroic deeds, but it is as attainable today as ever it was, and the power it bestows can be terrible. Armies rallied at the tap of a button. Lives ended at the publishing of a post. Times are different, yes, but fundamentally, mortals will never change.”

An element of truth to his words, you shrunk back against the pillows, head spinning. To suppose that it was all real was one thing— to suppose that it was all happening to you, was another.

Minho kissed your hand softly. “Don’t fret, darling. You are perfectly safe with me.”

“How can that be true? You just told me that Aphrodite has it in for me. That Aphrodite is real. That all the Gods are real.”

Minho hummed. “It’s a lot to absorb, I know. But it is fact. As the world changed and mortals developed beyond what even we predicted, we were lost to them. They turned from us. Nobody prays to us anymore. There are no sacrifices or festivals. Our names are told in stories and that is our legacy. We—our flesh and blood and everything that makes us—are myths.”

He whispered the last word, a sadness in his eyes that tugged insistently at your heart. You leaned back to him, pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“You feel real enough to me,” you mumbled.

Minho smiled slightly. “I am glad of that.” And turned into you, a palm on your cheek bringing you back for a firmer kiss. With a soft gasp that turned moan on the sensation of his slick tongue slipping into your mouth, you fell willingly into the hazed content that the God of Love seemed so exclusively able to invoke. Dragged across the bed until tucked underneath him, he shadowed you from the moonlight, raven locks tickling your cheeks. Keen hands slipped down your body to tenderly part your legs, the suggestion of his arousal prodding thigh until he, quite familiarly and with a chaste kiss to your throat, sunk inside you. Clinging to his broad shoulders and moving with the man, for you had come to know the paces he enjoyed, Minho filled you gently and slipped away with each controlled thrust. Silver eyes told a maelstrom of truths and sadnesses that his long years of life had portended, and by the gradual incline of coming undone at his ministrations, you saw them all. He watched your descent into euphoria, and you saw them all— the lovers, the souls, the stories, the worlds that had been touched by Eros’s arrows, generations of lives built on their enchanted tips, civilisations birthed and ended by the snap of his bow string. An existence spent between heaven and Earth of unspeakable loneliness propelled by gratification of servitude brought you to hot tears amidst the release of crisis.

And you saw that he would have been alone in perpetuity, were it not for you.

--

Minho had a plan.

The beginnings of a plan, anyway, which he thought ought to count for something.

He could not call on any of his aunts or uncles for aid without alerting Aphrodite to the state of things, and so he turned his thoughts to what he could do. The things he possessed. After only moments of consideration, he broke into absurd and near hysterical laughter. How foolish he had been, once again! How could he forget?! Of all the things to slip his mind and fall into obscurity!

He had a palace.

Eros’s famed sky palace of jewels and gold— that was what he possessed. That was where he could go, for it was too removed from heaven for Aphrodite or any of the other Gods to be bothered making the journey. They would be left alone there. It was perfect.

The idea had come to him at high noon— a most inconvenient time for ideas to spring upon one. Unable to bear a second’s delay, he burst out of Goodhart and sprinted across campus, drawing heads and attention from all he passed. When he reached the lecture hall, he swept from room to room, offering breathless apologies to the bewildered occupants for his intrusion on finding her in none of them, much to his irritation. It stood to reason that the last he checked should be the place he found her: she looked up from her notebook, mortification freezing her from neck to forehead.

“Excuse me.” Minho flashed a dazzling smile at the Professor, who for all his usual nettlesome temperament, stood flabbergasted.

He strode confidently across the hall and through the projector’s beam, his shadow casting over the bullet point analysis of Austen’s pathetic fallacy. All eyes followed as he approached her and made quick work of closing her notebook, plucking her pen from her hand and grabbing her backpack.

“I’ll just be taking this one,” he said to the Professor, taking her wrist with a gentle tug.

“What the hell are you doing?” she hissed, the eyes of her peers scalding her back.

Wordlessly, he stole her from the lecture hall, and said not a thing until they were out of the building and on the sun-warmed lawn, where he yanked her into a strong embrace.

“M— Minho!”

“I have it worked out, darling,” he said excitedly. “I have it all worked out!” He relinquished her to arm’s length, her flustered state inspiring urges that he swallowed down. “I know where we can go.”

“Go?” she repeated, confused. “Why would we go anywhere?”

“We can’t stay here. We spoke of this last night. My mother is—”

“You said you’d protect me from her. You didn’t say anything about needing to go anywhere.”

“I thought that was implied, darling. I assumed you understood.”

“Understood what?”

“That yes, I will do my utmost to keep you safe, but not even my power can match that of Aphrodite. If she discovers my betrayal, she’ll stop at nothing to hunt us down.”

The fluster of her condition gave way to dreaded realisation; Minho saw it in her eyes, the panic.

“There is one place we will be entirely safe,” he quickly said. “Somewhere she nor any of the other Olympians can set foot.”

“Where?”

“My palace.”

“P— Palace?”

Minho nodded in earnest. “Yes, darling. It is protected, its gates open only to me. We will want for nothing there. We can be together, undisturbed.”

She looked around, as though lost. “But I...” Her voice was weak. “I can’t just leave everything. This is my life.”

“I am your life now, darling. There’s nothing here for you.”

“Nothing here for me?” Her features drew tense and she stepped away from him, shrugging off his touch. “You're saying all this is pointless? Everything I've tried to achieve is worthless?”

“N— No, I simply mean that—”

“I know what you mean. I have no-one to miss me if I should disappear.” Her bottom lip trembled, she wrapped her arms around herself. “And what if I stayed? Would all those worshippers you promised me show up? Would I have something then?”

Minho’s heart ached impossibly; how careless he had once again been. One would think him used to the fragility of mortal hearts by now.

“It’s too late,” he said sorrowfully. “My love for you is a betrayal to my mother. If you stay, she will subject you to terrible punishment before anything ordained for you ever happens. If you come with me...” He reached out to her tenderly, a hand on her trembling shoulder. “If you come with me, I can spare you that fate. You do not have to engage with me or love me in return, but I hope that you will at least allow me to make reparations for taking you away from all you know. I can give you a most beautiful life. I can show you such things as your books will never describe. I can dedicate myself to you, soul and all, and be whatever you wish me to be.”

Tears streaked her cheeks, each one a dagger to Minho’s composure.

“You will never be alone again,” he whispered. “This, I swear to you.”

--

Why were you even thinking about it?

The earth-shatteringly handsome God of Love—Eros himself—loved you. He wished to take you away to his sky-dwelling palace, where he would serve you until your mortal days gave out. He wished to dedicate himself to you. How many women could claim to be on the receiving end of such implacable devotion? How many women turned away from it, especially when the love was reciprocated?

Thus you asked yourself the question again— why were you even thinking about it?

The conflict that raged within you was that of head and heart. On the side of romance and such emotion as brought you to tears, your heart cried out. ‘Go with him,’ it pleaded. ‘See all that he’s promised you. Take a chance on the extraordinary. Be the main character, just this once. You can never go back to life without him now— how it hurts to even imagine it. Only immovable darkness is left in place of such radiant light, and his light is what you must stay in forever. You love him, foolish girl. Go with him!’

On the side of reason and familiar doubt that was in some ways easier to hear, your head told other truths. ‘Run from him,” it commanded. ‘It is madness to believe any of this. What you saw that night was a hallucination; you were overtired. Overworked. He lies to you. Recall what he did to you. He plays on your vulnerability and would have you tripping over yourself for some impossible fairytale that cannot be real. It cannot be real. Screw your head back on, foolish girl. Run from him!’

With a night spent alone you hoped to come upon some form of clarity, but instead spent the long and empty hours tossing and turning, floating between despair and joy. You were at a crossroads, and the next decision you made would forever change the course of your life.

Go, or stay.

Live, or suffer.

Love, or mourn.

--

By the guiding, formless hand of the West wind, Zephyrus, Minho always found his way to his sky palace.

It would be a fruitless task to try to explain, in mortal terms, just where the palace was located. Not even Minho could, had he tried. That was why he needed gentle Zephyrus. Rather, it existed on a plane between those of heaven and Earth, in a pellucid sky of cloudless wonder that cycled through dreamy days and starry, moon-filled nights. The palace seemed always as though to be drifting along, warmed by streams of hot, shimmering air that kept it afloat. Its jewel-encrusted and gold-plated high walls caught the brilliant peaches and pinks of sweet Eos, Goddess of the Dawn. A reflective moat of the clearest still water kept the palace enclosed, magnificent fish and regal sea creatures having made their homes there. Great birds with feathers of virgin white and onyx black soared the length of the battlements and swooped through the palace arches, attracted by the glittering structure. It mattered not how many times Minho visited. It always took his breath away.

He looked at the girl bundled in his arms, her eyes still tightly closed, her head still buried in his chest. His white wings enclosed her safely, kept her from Zephyrus’s inherent chill.

“Won’t you look, darling?” he asked softly.

“No.”

He stifled a chuckle; how endearing she was.

“This would be one of those wonderful things I told you about.”

She cracked open one eye, just barely.

“You’re perfectly safe,” he assured her.

With a swallow and a timid nod, she turned her head out to the view, and Minho saw immediately how her eyes welled up with tears as they caught the rising light. He dared to imagine Eos might be making a special show of things, just for them, for the sky was ablaze with a rich and vibrant beauty the likes of which he’d never seen. Oranges and deep pinks melted into variegated crimson, the horizon seeming as though to glow. The palace was iridescent with life, it walls and towers reflecting and refracting the dawn in such a resplendent spectacle of colour, Minho was sure she would never forget this moment.

She maintained silent awe until Zephyrus had safely escorted them to the palace steps: the West wind twirled and whirled around them, hugging her warmly before departing, much to her delight. She kept close to Minho as the joy wore off, her fear of the near edge demanding it, yet it was her resolve that warned her from holding his hand, from taking comfort.

Such were her terms.

Such was Minho’s pain.

--

Take a chance on the extraordinary, your heart had said.

So it was that ‘extraordinary’ fell catastrophically short of describing what it was you now looked at: an opulent crystal palace at home in the sky, a testament to all things fantastical and impossible. The majesty of it was almost enough to take away from the inherent unease of being so high up; if this was even high, for it hadn’t escaped your notice during the journey that you hadn’t so much travelled up as through. Through what, you were surely unqualified to say, but what was certain was that this place was so removed from what you knew to be true of physics and gravity—indeed any temporal rule—it was pointless to think on it too much.

Minho had indeed promised to show you incredible things, oblivious that he himself was one of them. His feathery wings closed on his back, his raven hair fluttered in the warm breeze. He led you up the crystal steps to a vast arched gateway manned by—you rubbed your eyes—floating spears?

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said intuitively. “They will do you no harm. They’re here to protect us.”

As you passed by them, adequately mystified, the spears hopped and jerked as though in salute, their steel tips polished to a fine, sharp edge. Over the glass drawbridge he took you, a river of water so clear running beneath, you could see every pore of your own reflection in it. Creatures swum in the calm currents, fish and eels and octopi, their scales and skin of such stunning purple and deep green, it amazed you to look at. As you approached the tall and gilded palace doors, they opened before you, a swarm of floating brooms and mops and hat stands and trolleys and all other manner of furniture descending upon you with swift elegance.

On your fright, Minho held a hand up. Everything stopped, and sprung to attention in a neat, formal line.

“Darling.” He turned to you. “These are our attendants.”

You blinked at him; your head was beginning to hurt.

“They are invisible to our eyes,” he added softly. “It was my wish that we be left to our own devices. Entirely undisturbed. Just the two of us.”

“So there are... people? Holding those?”

Minho nodded. “Of a fashion, yes.”

You looked around him to the patient line, where mops fluttered and trolley wheels spun in anticipation. You weren’t sure you wanted to know what ‘of a fashion’ even meant.

“I would have had us here alone, but the palace takes some looking after,” he said. “Not to mention your own needs to be attended to.”

“I can look after myself. I don’t need—”

“Please.” He moved as though to take your hand, but stopped himself short. The strength with which such a small thing smarted seemed ludicrous, yet you held no grounds for complaint. He was only doing as instructed.

“I would like to make sure the very best care is on hand for you. Allow me that,” he said quietly.

At your small nod, he turned away, wings unfurling gently as he entered his palace. The peach light that so radiantly streaked the sky haloed him and made him a breathtaking vision. Was a God truly so different from an angel?

The palace interior was as extravagant as the exterior, its vast halls encrusted with sapphires and aquamarine, pearls and diamonds, emeralds and topaz all trimmed with gold. Wall sconces of blue flame bathed all in a glorious light, the high ceilings finished with intricate murals so lovingly painted, it made your heart ache to simply look upon the heavenly scenes they depicted with Eros at their centre.

Escorted dutifully by the same two floating spears that had seen you inside, Minho guided you through the winding halls. He held them at the door he had led you to with no more than a look.

“These are your private chambers,” he said once inside. They were homelier than what you’d thus far seen, finished with soft furnishings, blankets and comforts and a more natural tone of light offered by long windows and an open fire. It was the fire that you were in the midst of admiring, when a dainty teacup flew up and in front of your face, bringing you to a shriek.

“Your attendants will keep you here,” Minho laughed. “Forgive them. They’re excited.”

The teacup rattled on its saucer, as though in agreement.

“It has been some time since anyone’s resided here,” he added.

Residing here. You were to live here. In this place between places, with a thousands-year old God. It seemed that only now this fact began to dawn on you, for a chill realisation swept over and extinguished the bewilderment that hitherto kept you together.

Minho watched you carefully, distance maintained as he stood at the door. You looked through the grand window, out over the endless sea of multicoloured sky.

“You promised me an answer,” he eventually said.

Your heart sank.

“I know.”

“Will you give it?”

You chewed your inner cheek, tracing the lines of wispy cloud that floated by.

“I have shown you the palace,” Minho said. “I have respected your boundaries of affection, despite how it pains me to act as though we are no more than friends. I have revealed my true form to you. I have done everything you’ve asked.”

“I know.”

“And so? Is your mind decided?”

Exasperated, you turned to him. The God of Love with so sorrowful a look of distress on his handsome face, it made you want to weep.

“My mind has been decided all along,” you said simply. “How could I ever say no to you?”

His silvery eyes lit up. “You mean...?”

“Yes,” you laughed. “I’ll stay.”

Without a second thought, the God of Love on his great, white wings surged across the space and caught you in his strong arms. He braced you against the pristine glass in an embrace of ignited passion, the gasp you emitted was devoured by his hungry mouth.

“How you infuriate me,” he mumbled between kisses, the slick of his tongue wetting your lips. “You have no idea the depth of the madness you would drive me to.”

“I needed time,” you breathed. “To get my head straight, to process it all.”

“I know, darling. I would have given you all the time that time itself possessed if I could.”

You kissed him gently. “Liar.”

He grinned, and with a low chuckle enclosed you in his magnificent wings, the feathers reaching around and curling under you to lift you from the ground. Poised on them as the most comfortable of elegant chairs, the God so close in your space and stood between your open thighs, it became soon apparent the type of mood that descended on him. An inferno of want tainted the silver of his eyes, his deep, gold complexion shimmering with the lust that made Eros so feral as to tear your shirt open and relieve you of your jeans, all that he might touch your skin— finally. Secured in the space of his heat, helpless but to succumb, the dainty cloth that hovered about his hips was torn away to reveal the intimidating girth of what he offered, sprung proud and hard. Lightheaded and too aroused to think much of consequence—you weren’t strictly here alone, after all—you clung to the slope of his shoulders as he aligned himself and with a sharp intake of breath, steadily sunk inside you. Groaning through the sensation of fullness, your delight was caught by his mouth on yours.

“You were made for me, my love,” he whispered. “It is you and I, until the end of time.”

“Minho—”

“Hush, dearest girl. Let me pleasure you the way your tender heart so deserves. Let me serve you as I crave to. Nothing makes me feel so alive as when you allow me inside you like this, sweet thing. Feel me, darling. Feel all of me.”

Sealed with a kiss, the God of Love thrust himself upon you, the slick drive made so much easier by your own steeped arousal. Yet it was not simply lust that brought you to gasps and the stinging tell of tears— to accept such pure and unconditional love, to accept that it was offered so readily, to accept that a creature so objectively perfect as him could be possessed of affection for you— sky palaces and jewels and divine landscapes could not compare to that impossibility.

So it is, the start of your new life.

So it was, in years to come, that the Goddess Aphrodite forgave her errant son and welcomed the mortal girl, gifting to her immortality on her wedding day.

So it ever shall be, that the tamed Eros and his beloved spend their sun-warmed, endless days reigning over love’s intricacies, granting to mortals the divine bliss they themselves found in one another.

One precious heart at a time.

thus marks my last offering for the skz tropes collab! i really hope you enjoyed. this was by far my favourite of the bunch. if you could be kind enough to comment or even buy me a coffee as thanks for the 20k read, i would be super grateful. mica x

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 >

𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙖 𝙣𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙? 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚 ♡ >

𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙘𝙠 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙠𝙯 𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 ♡ >

[ladylexis]

My Pretty Baby

idol!Bangchan x sexworker!reader

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

a/n: final part hehe, sorry if it's not spicy, I really wanted to focus on emotional stuff or whatever

synopsis: Running into 'Koala' outside of work was not on your bucket list for your mini-vacation. The interaction, however, makes emotions you thought you've locked away for good come out. Maybe, with him, you're willing to take a chance.

warnings: MDNI 18+, there really won't be much smut but there'll be mentions of it, suggestive content, kinda angsty with happy ending

2k words

Four days.

You only had four days of relaxation before you went back to work. It's not that you hated your job, quite the contrary. You just liked being your own person. Living in your own flesh without having to worry if your client was also okay with your body.

So you stood in line at a Starbucks waiting for your turn. You were rehearsing your order in your head, repeating the phrase a grande strawberry açaí please, when you felt a pair of eyes searing your skin.

Hesitantly, you look behind you towards the entrance of the cafe to see him staring at you. It took a while for you to recognize him. He was dressed in all black, a beanie and mask covering nearly all his features save for the eyes. You could, however, see the brown curls that peeked through.

This normally wouldn't have bothered you, but the familiarity in his eyes made you feel exposed. More naked than you have in your entire life. The way his pupils expand at the sight of you, how you swear you can see his breath catch in his throat. You confirmed it was Koala when he began walking to you, ignoring the way the people in line shot him dirty glares.

"Shit," you cursed. You whisked the other way around and started on your heels.

You were heading for the exit, ignoring how you could hear his heavy footsteps follow behind you. Koala's identity is further verified when he bumps into customers. His urgent, accented sorry's and excuse me's ringing in your ears.

It's not as though you've never seen your clients outside of work. Despite you working in a big city, it was bound to happen. There was just something about seeing him that you didn't like. Koala is sweet, caring, slightly insecure in a way that makes you want to comfort him.

He's never told you directly, but you can feel it. You can feel it in the way he fucks you. How his shaky, yet soft hands caress your body. The way his eyes light up when you praise him when he hits that spot so good. He lives to hear compliments, to hear that he's worthy of such endearing words from you.

You loved the power trip it gave you. How Koala hung off every word you said. How you could either save or break him from mere sentences. That's what it was at first, power. Control you thought you lost from all the people you had to please for an extra buck. With Koala, you didn't need to act submissive, you didn't need to be anyone but yourself.

He still wanted you.

That knowledge made you ache for him in more ways than physical. His company, his laugh, his kindness. You craved it. Working in the field you did had people forget that you were more than an object of pleasure. Forgetting that you were human entirely. It's why you also hung onto his words. You were also giving Koala that same power you held over him.

That scared you.

It's the very reason why you've been avoiding him. When the bartender would tell you of Koala's arrival, you would shoo him away. Coming up with excuses that you're busy, you didn't feel good, you were leaving early.

When you did let Koala see you, it was brief. You've gotten used to his body, and he yours. You knew what he liked, what made him cum all over himself. It didn't matter if you only let him use your hands, your thighs, Koala was willing to use anything you gave him.

He lost himself in the feeling of pleasure, the feeling of you. He didn't care if his cock was rubbed raw, oh so sensitive to the touch. He would pay extra just to spend more time with you. He would whine, whimper from how you stroked him, but he wouldn't ask you to stop.

That meant the time with you was over, and God knows when he'd see you again. If you'd let him that is.

You reasoned it's why he was shouting for you even when you made your way out of that cursed coffee shop. People turned and raised eyebrows, but you ignored them all. You can ignore Koala, all you have to do is go to your car and-

"Nyx!"

The way your heart fell to your stomach made you stop in your tracks. Your abrupt halt made Koala stumble right into you, his broad chest smacking into your back.

He was apologizing, but you paid no mind to it. Instead, you spun around and gripped Koala by his shirt. His eyes widened as you forced him down to your height, seething.

"Don't," your voice was reprimanding. You could feel your face heat up from the anger that boiled in you. "Don't ever call me that name outside of my work. Fuck is wrong with you?"

Koala nods at you, stumbling and stuttering with apologies. "I'm s-sorry. Really I wasn't thinking! I was just trying to get to you and I didn't know how to-"

"Yeah you weren't thinking." You let go of his shirt take a deep breath. He looks remorseful, anxious. He couldn't stop playing with the hem of his shirt, the material bundling in his fingers. Pity quickly started to take over the anger, and you raised your hands to smooth out the crumpled wrinkles you left on the top of his shirt.

"Why were you trying to get to me?" You ask after a few beats of silence. Your question makes him look away shyly, his breaths shorten and quicken.

"I really don't know how to say it..." He trails off.

His head lift up to the sky, and you mimic this actions. The clouds have turned a pretty pink from the sunset. There's slight breeze in the air that makes you shiver. As if the beautiful sight gives him courage, Koala pushes on.

"That's a lie. I do know how to say it. I...I can't stop thinking about you. I don't think you've left my mind since we first met. Going to that type of...place really isn't my thing. I honestly didn't even wanna go, I was just desperate. I wasn't happy, I haven't been happy for a while now."

He takes a deep breath. You can see the tears in his eyes, it makes you want to reach out and comfort him. Tell him he'll be okay, that everything will be fine. Still, you keep your hands glued to your sides, waiting for him to compose himself before he continues.

"I mean, I am happy. I love my job, I love my friends, my family. I just hate having no one to share that happiness with, no one to come and hold me. No one to tell me that hard times will pass. No one to lean on."

You shift on your feet, anxiousness eating at you. You should tell him to stop, that it's enough. Where he's going, there's no going back. Client or not, feelings with or without, you shouldn't let him go on.

So why does hearing him speak make you so warm?

"It was temporary. It was supposed to be temporary. Pay some money, get a good night, forget the next morning. But I couldn't. I can't. I like how you hold me. I like how you make me feel relaxed. I like when we talk. You ask me about my day, and I actually want to talk about it."

"And don't tell me that's part of your job."

You quickly snap your mouth shut at Koala's words, a blush finding your cheeks. He must know you well if he knew that's exactly what you going to say. It's true though, getting personal is what gets the customers coming back.

Not with him though. That couldn't have been further from the truth.

"I've asked the bartender about you, and he said-"

"Wait you asked about me?" You interrupt him. Your arms cross against your chest. He looks at you sheepishly, a deer-in-headlights look before he nods.

"Kinda sorta, yeah. Nothing weird though! I was curious about you. I am curious about you. He said you were acting different since I came. He said you were also turning me down a lot. That you must like me a whole bunch to be turning down the money."

Next time you go into work, you'll make sure to give Oliver a piece of your mind.

"So you'll go off what a bartender says about me, about you, rather than me myself?" You try to make yourself sound assertive, but your voice is rather shaky.

"Well, that's why I'm here talking to you no?"

You go silent again, looking down to the ground. Your shoes have never looked more interesting. They really need a wash.

"Listen," he speaks gently. "I don't know how you feel, if you feel anything. But Nyx I-"

"See! There you go again!" You don't hide your wobbly voice this time. He, and everyone else in this near-empty parking lot, can hear the nervousness in your voice.

Vulnerability.

"You keep saying Nyx. I'm not Nyx! You don't know me! For fucks sake, all I call you is Koala. You like how I do this and you like how I do that, but you don't like me. You can't when you don't know who I am. You think you like me, but you like the image I am. You like my persona, you like her. Nyx is not me, I am not Nyx. It's an illusion, it's not real. None of this is."

Your chest heaves with emotion. The air you need to breathe seems to escape you.

"Why are you crying then?"

"What?" You touch your face to feet hot streams, your lips tasting the saltiness of them. You sniff and try to use your sleeve to wipe your tears away, but Koala cradles your face in his hands.

"If this isn't real, why are you crying?" His thumbs stroke your tears, an intimate gesture. He looks at you pained, as if seeing you cry breaks his heart.

"You're right. I don't know who you are, I don't know your name. There's nothing about your interests that I actually know about."

Your face falls for a moment, but Koala guides your head back up to his eyes.

"But I know how you make me feel. I know that I want to be around you all the time. No matter what you call yourself, what you are, who you are, I want to be with you. I don't care how we started, or where this goes. Right now, the only thing I care about is you."

You're sobbing now, trying to regain control of your breathing. You both must look insane. You're crying your eyes out in the middle of a parking lot as the moon begins to shine. Even then, Koala looks at you as if you're the most purest thing on this planet.

"Fuck. I'm so tired of calling you Koala. I feel like a fucken idiot." You both giggle at the sudden confession.

"So who are you? What's your name?" You question. He moves his hands away from you timidly. Immediately, your face gets cold from his lack of warmth. He uses those same hands to peel away his disguise, his beanie and mask coming off.

There's a pink hue in his chubby cheeks, shy look in his eyes when he shows you his bare face. His brown eyes stick out against his pale skin, his plump lips twitching in anticipation. Without thinking, you brush the mess of hair away from his face, further exposing him.

"Pretty," You hum.

He blushes at your compliment, his ears turning red.

"You do look familiar though. I swear I've seen you on TV. Singer right?"

He nods. "Yeah. I have a lot of names. Bangchan, Channie, Christopher, Chris."

He grabs your hands and brings them up to his face, his full lips brush against your knuckles. You start wondering how you went so long without kissing him, without knowing what his lips looked liked.

There's no guarantee to what happens after this. There's no way you can go back to work knowing how he feels about you, how you feel about him. It's scary, not knowing what the future holds.

But you're with him, and maybe that's all that matters.

"I think I'll call you my pretty baby. If that's alright."

a/n: and that concludes this mini series of Chris. the last part took a lot of thinking. I didn't know how I wanted it to play out, what scenes I wanted to add. I just wanted this to end on an emotional connection, so I felt like adding smut wasn't really necessary in this instance. feedback is muuuchhh appreciated, I'm not that good at tugging heart strings lmao

[ladylexis]

Poor Baby

Idol!Bangchan x sexworker!reader

a/n: a lot of you guys asked for a part two of this post and I will provide!

synopsis: You need to make end meet with your bills. When your boss gives you a huge opportunity to make big money, you hop at it (even if it impacts your dignity). Lucky for you, your favorite customer happens to be coming in that day.

cw: 18+ MDNI, glory holes, PIV, no protection (use it!), fingering, oral (f!receiving), pussy slapping, cursing, cock drunk reader, reader is called Nyx/Chris is called Koala, mentions of Lee Know, cum eating, Chris is more confident this time, Chris is called 'daddy' and he plays into it, brief mentions of sub-space, idk that's it

3.9k words

"I dunno, sounds too risky," you bite your fingernails as you speak. The offer is a good one, triple your hourly and bonus tips. You were on the verge of not being able to make rent, but your boss literally put this opportunity in your lap. Had you been a higher rating girl, you wouldn't have to resort to being a gloryhole.

"Okay I see what you mean," he starts, "but it's only for the weekend. Five hours tops! I'll give you a 20 minute break in the middle of it." Your boss looks at you with expecting eyes. You would take the deal in a heartbeat, but it goes against the only rule you have. "I don't feel safe letting my clients raw dog me. What if they get me sick?"

Your boss shakes his head profusely, "No! Come on Nyx, you know I wouldn't let that happen to any of my girls. They'll take the test to see if they're clean in advance. I get it, it goes against your morals or whatever, but it's big money. Huge! People with names are going to come, literally, and I know you need this more than ever. It's why I came to you first."

You sigh, looking down at the hands in your lap. He's right, and he's a good boss. You have a good job, nice coworkers, and a boss who genuinely looks after you. That's hard to find in this business. After all, you do need the money. Doing this gig for the weekend will help tremendously, and you might even afford to take a few days off.

Finally, you nod. "Yeah I guess you're right. When should I show up?"

It was a lot sooner than you had anticipated. You and the other girls weren't allowed to know who was coming. Like your boss said, they were well-known, so they preferred to keep their identity a secret. That part did make you a little nervous if you're being honest, but you found comfort in knowing that they wouldn't be able to see you.

It would be better this way. Have half your body in a wall, legs open, let the dude use you until he cuts in mere minutes, and get on with the next. Men cum easily, especially when they used women like a fleshlight. Perhaps time will go fast like that, and you could start planning on what you can do on your mini vacation.

So here you were, upper body laid on a small bed chest down with a bar in front for support. Your lower body was out through the hole, legs standing for support. It was slightly uncomfortable, but you could manage. Other women were in different positions all around you, some higher and some lower. Your boss and a few of other workers helped lube you up. You're thankful for that because you know damn well the men coming in would just rail into you.

A few minutes passed before you could hear shuffling, murmurs, the unbuckling of pants. You tensed in anticipation. You were grateful they couldn't see you, but not being able to see them was an entirely different story. You gasped when you felt fingers explore your folds. They were impatient, violating, and too harsh. You bit your lower lip from barking at the man, trying to think of all the cash you'd be swimming in soon.

It's just for the weekend.

-

Chris found himself, once again, in front of your establishment. He had already gone though the club, the secret sunflower door, the code. The only difference was that he was accompanied by none other than the person who told him about this sex club, Lee Know. They both wore disguises, face masks and hats to conceal their face.

"I can't believe you convinced me to do this again," Chris groans. Lee Know only smiles and laughs. Minho pats him on the back, "You're the one that agreed. Plus they have something special going on. You'll like it." Chris follows Minho from the main floor of the sex club and into the back. It's the familiar path to where he met you, but way further back.

Christopher would be lying if he wasn't anticipating on meeting you again. It's embarrassing, but he jerks himself off at the thought of you. The way you feel, the way you taste, how patient you were with him. He would rather die than tell Minho about you, he would get teased until the end of days. It's silly to think he'd see you here, but he can't help but hope.

"Something special? Is that why I had to get tested for STD's?" Chris questions. Rather than giving a verbal answer, Minho hums. He didn't have to do that before the session with you, and you let him go raw. Maybe it's only for special event, he thinks.

Chris and Minho approach a booth with a person inside. She wears a plastic smile on her face, hair done perfectly and acrylic nails. "Names please?" Her voice is almost drained out by the moans and slapping sounds coming from the other side. It's just a curtain that covers it, so all sounds can be heard.

A blush quickly finds its way to Chris's face and ears. He's so flustered that Minho has to answer, "Koala and Rino." The lady in the booth seems completely dismissive about what's going on behind the curtain. She looks through a few pages before nodding, "Ah I see you right here. Please enjoy your time, the session ends in about 2 hours."

Lee Know nods in response and grabs Chris by the sleeve the drag him behind the curtain. To say he was surprised was an understatement. He couldn't even comprehend the sight at first. Men were covered in sweat, pants completely down. Cum was stained below where the women were placed. The smell was strong, and it made Chris grimace.

He turned to Minho, expecting the same reaction. Instead, Minho was looking as if he was at heaven's gates. "Isn't it beautiful?" Chris stays quiet rather than answering. Minho walks further in and Christopher trails behind. The women have only their lower body sticking out, some in doggy others in missionary position.

Chan has only seen glory holes in porn, never even considering seeing one in person.

"So here," Minho points at the wall above one of the women, "is the name of the hole. They don't provide pictures, which sucks. If you see a name you like or know, you just basically fuck it. Cum in it, don't come it. Touch it, don't. The main rule is to not reach in the cut out. Keep your hands to what's exposed, or you'll get kicked out. They're pretty strict when it comes to shit like this."

Chris doesn't bother asking how Lee Know knows so much, it's in his name afterall. "I dunno," Chris tentatively looks around the room. Other men seem to have face masks on, but some don't. He can recognize people form TV, the news, even some older politicians. Lee Know sighs, "Bro, they don't care about you. No offense. They're just here to get their dick wet and leave. It's only gay if you make eye contact."

Lee Know's joke lightens the mood, and Chris finds himself laughing alongside him. They did pay a pretty dime to be here for the special event, he might as well enjoy it. The two men go off in their separate ways not long after. It feel weird for Chris to window-shop like this, almost uncomfortable. It's not until he comes across a familiar name that makes his heart skip.

Nyx, he almost sings. You have your ass out at the height of his hips. He takes a few steps closer as if he couldn't believe it's actually you. Chris takes note of your of your swollen clit, the gaping hole, the cum that drips down your thighs. Without thinking, he reaches out his ands to rub your ass. Not sexually, but more in a comforting way. He can tell this takes you by surprise because you jolt.

"Poor baby," he says sympathetically. It's not loud enough for you to hear, but he can't help but want to console you. From the description he read of you before, he thought this was the last place you'd be. His hands stay soft, and he finds himself kneeling. He can feel the wet floor staining his pants, but he doesn't care.

To put on a show, you wiggle your ass for him. You think the man behind you is going to shove himself in, but you feel a hot tongue. You gasp as the sensation. Since you first clock in, no one had eaten you out. You honestly didn't expect anyone to. You're covered in other men's cum, who in their right mind would consider such a thing?

Chris would, in a heartbeat. If it's to soothe you, he would do anything. He feels like he owes you something. Sure he paid you after the last interaction, but it still felt like it wasn't enough. Tasting men's cum isn't pleasant, but hearing your muffled moans though the walls was worth it.

It reminds him of last time, how desperate you sounded with his mouth on you. He wished you could see his face, watching as your mouth twisted in pleasure. Even now, he's still wishing for the same. His mask is pulled down under his chin while he devours you. Your legs struggle to keep you up right, but you stay on your tiptoes.

You can hear him slurping behind you, his hands gripping the back of your thighs to keep you spread. His tongue flicks over your bud and goes back to teasing your entrance. You could feel your arousal seeping out, and that seems to spur him on more. Your hands grip the bar above the bed, and you so desperately want to grip his hair instead.

Despite being here for three hours, you haven't came. You've gotten close to finishing, but men always finished before you did. It left you frustrated, yearning. You pray that the man eating you keeps going until you cum, but you know better than to hope for that. Instead, you try to grind against his face with what little movement you have.

"Shit. You like that baby?" You hear him ask. His voice is vaguely familiar, a twist of a distinct accent you swear you've heard before. You nod though he can't see. "Fuck yes. Don't stop," you moan. Perhaps it wasn't smart to command the client to please you, it's the other way around after all. To your surprise, he keeps going. He has his tongue dip inside your pussy, feeling your smooth walls.

It's so unbelievably sexy of him to eat you out. He must look humiliating; on his knees, sucking out the cum of other men into his mouth, the filthy sounds that leave his throat. He's eating you like he's never had a good meal in his life, like he missed your pussy. His tongue is experienced too, and you can't help but think this is also familiar.

That recognizable knot in your stomach gathers, and you begin shaking. If he pulls away now, you think, I'll quit. You don't even have to tell him you're close, he can feel how you tighten around his tongue. He quickly pulls away and shoves a finger inside before you could complain. It's difficult to eat you out now that his finger is in the way, but he can use his other hand to replace his mouth.

Chris rubs your clit in circles while he pumps you with his other finger. You squeal at the impact, feeling how his hand meets your ass when he goes deep. Your toes curl, eyes roll back to your head, and loudly moan when you cum on his fingers. It's been so long, so long since you've cum from a client. The last time was with that Koala guy, the one with the...accent.

Realization hits you quickly. You don't even have the chance to say anything with how he finger fucks you through your orgasm. "Wait! wait wait wait..." Chris immediately stops when he hears you. He gently removed his hand from you and you almost fall limp. His hands catch your waist and he keeps you up.

"Are you okay?" His voice is full of concern, full of care. Yeah, that can only be one person. You laugh breathlessly, body still quivering from your recent orgasm. "Shit Koala. How long has it been? Like three months?" You imagine he's choked up, unable to answer you. You've had a lot of customers, and it's impossible to remember them all. Koala, however, has left quite the impression on you.

He laughs awkwardly, "Something like that yeah. Uh...how ya been?"

You blow a raspberry and chuckle, "I don't think I'm in a position for a little reunion. You came here to fuck no?" Chris is a little stunned with your words, but agrees. "Yes. Well no. I mean yes, but not like-" he keeps rambling. You take pity on him and decide to take the lead, "No no I get it. You came here to fuck my pussy right?"

Chris feels like his face is on fire. He wish he could deny it, but he can't. He did come here with hopes of seeing you, to feel you again. Sure he could have fucked any girl here, but how could he when he knew you were here. All pretty and prepped for him. "What if I said yes?" he teases. "Would that make you happy?"

It's surprising to hear Koala tease you back, but you're more than happy to oblige. "Hmm...maybe. It's been a while since you've fucked me, might not be as good as before." Chris laughs, hands squeezing your ass, "I think you know you're lying to yourself. Got you cummin' on my tongue in minutes. Imagine what I could do with my cock."

His confidence has you horny. Before, he was pliant and submissive. He's a totally different man now, who knows what happened in three months. It could also be the fact that he can't see you properly, so it gives him some courage to be bold. No matter, you find it beyond attractive.

"All this talking and no fucking," you complain. "Maybe you are rusty."

In all honesty, Chris hasn't really fucked after you. He rarely did in the first place, but he genuinely thinks no one can compete with your cunt. He knows you're joking with him, but it still makes him nervous. Three months is a long time, he might have lack in some aspects now that he's the one taking control.

Still, he's given such a golden opportunity to show you that he can please you. Chris's grip on your ass tightens for a brief second before he grabs ahold of the base of his cock. It's already hard, red from screaming at Chris to put it in. He uses one hand to guide his cock into your abused hole and the other to rub soothing circles on your waist.

You can't help but smile. It doesn't how dirty he can talk or act, he's still a gentleman at heart. The nearly forgotten stretch makes you whimper when he puts his tip in. His cock is hot and can easily slide in with no problem. Despite that, he still take his time. Chris really wants you to feel how you pussy stretches around him, how he can glide against your warm walls.

Your knuckles turn while from gripping the bar so hard. You almost want to scream at him to hurry up and fuck you. Instead, you find yourself whimpering the contact. Your hips move against him to try and slip his dick in. It works a little, feeling his cock roughly an inch deeper. You can hear him moan behind the wall, a breathy higher pitched whine that makes your cunt wetter by the second

"You still sound so pretty," you whisper. You doubt he can hear you from the other men and women fucking, but he does. Little did you know, that he has his ear against the wall. Chris just needs to hear how you sound, what noises you make. He knows he must look so pathetic, and he's grateful that Lee Know is no where in sight.

Finally, he fills you up completely with his girth. Your legs twitch and squeeze together at the intrusion. You can feel the tingles that travel up and down your body from pleasure. Whimpers and moans leave you lips when he starts thrusting. You're thankful for the wall that separates you two. Before, you had tried to remain professional. Now you can be as loud as you please without worrying. Well...that's what you think at least.

The combined feeling of your soft pussy and beautiful moans break Chris's sanity. Both of his hands grip your sides so he could bring you to meet his thrusts. It's so loud and wet, he thinks you two must be the loudest in the room. Chris loves watching as your cunt drools on his cock, leaving strings of arousal on your ass and his thighs.

You're on the verge on tears letting this man fuck you relentlessly. It feels so indescribably amazing, you let your mouth hang open. "Oh fuucckk," Chris hears you groan. Heat and pleasure remain in your lower stomach, slowly building. It's torture with how it feels like too much and not enough all at once.

You find yourself wishing you could use your hand to rub your clit, but the wall prevents that. instead, you try grinding your thighs together tightly for stimulation. It works, but at the cost of choking Koala's dick. He whimpers, almost pained from the sudden tightness. He moves his hands to the inner parts of your thighs and spreads them open in response.

"Gonna break my fuckin' cock," he mumbles, lightly laughing. Chris resumes his thrusts, but he notices the constant moving of your hips. So much so that he even slips out momentarily. He thinks that it's getting too much for you, but the way you're begging for him to shove it back in says otherwise.

"What's the matter baby?" His voice is light. His strokes are softer now, giving you the ability to speak properly. You take a few heavy breaths before answer, "Touch me." You sounds so desperate, so out of your character that Chris almost wants to tease you further.

Almost.

He concludes that you must be getting close, just wanting to extra rubbing to really get off. Chris grants your wish and uses his fingers to rub circles on your clit. Your reaction is immediate, bucking and crying out in gratitude. Chris smiles fondly at how your body replies to his touch. Now he can tease you without feeling guilty.

"What do you saaayy?" He speaks in a sing-songy voice. Had you been fully cognitive, you would've cursed him. You headspace isn't working though, and you find yourself expressing your appreciation quickly. "Thank you daddy. Thank you thank you. I needed it sooo bad."

The pet name throws him off, making him stutter his hips for a split second. Chris deeply blushes at the term, unsure if he hates it or loves it quite yet. "Yeah? You like daddy's big cock in you?" He decides to test it out. Maybe it's because you're beginning to enter the sub-space zone, but you cum unexpectedly on his dick.

Chris feels you twitch around him and convulse. There was no warning, save for how creamy his length had gotten from your excitement. He almost praised you for how beautifully you painted his cock. Chris pulled himself in and out of you slowly to watch the white substance spread.

You couldn't stop moaning, fully crying from the orgasm. You normally had a good gauge on when you could cum and how to prolong it, but Koala had proven to fuck you up in more ways than one. You body shook and hugged his cock practically lovingly. Feeling him slide his dick slowly inside of you only make you wail louder.

Once Chris felt like you had come down enough, he fucked you with intent. He doesn't know how he was able to last this long, but he's chasing his own orgasm now. You can do nothing else but to take it. You groan everything he hits your deep, tip touching your womb. You can feel your cream dripping down your thighs.

This only encourages Chris more to finish. He wants nothing more than to mix your arousals together. Chris throws his head back and groans, letting his dick settle fully inside you when he cums. Hot spurt bursts in your tummy and you moan at the warmth. You usually detest having clients cum in you, the clean up was irritating. Koala, however, is an exception. He's invited to cum where he pleased when it comes to you.

Hearing him though the walls is bliss, and you wish you could see his face. He's probably still wearing that stupid mask, you think.

Chris lets himself give a few more good thrusts before pulling out, leaving you empty. He uses his thumb to spread your pussy lips to look at how your cunt pools his cum out. He hums at the sight, and gives your pussy a slap. You jolt and yelp at the contact, still sensitive.

"Guess I'll take you answer as a yes," he suddenly says.

Rather than leaving, Chris keeps massaging his cum and your own around your lower lips. You sigh contently as you feel him explore your folds. He's not doing it hard enough to give intense pleasure, but enough to feel soothing. It must be a mess down there, but Chris is entranced by the sight.

He so distracted that he didn't hear Lee Know's footsteps coming at the side of him. It's not until Chris feels his presence that he turns. They make eye contact for a moment before Chris straightens up, wiping his wet hands on the wall. The men have a silent exchange of words before Chris withdrawals his hands from you.

Before you can protest, Koala gives you brief reassurance. "I'll see you tomorrow."

You hear his footsteps leave along with another pair of feet. His sudden departure leaves you feeling somewhat cold, but you quickly dismiss the feeling. It's business, nothing personal. It's something you've had to remind yourself for years working this job. This particular instance, though, leaves you more than just your pussy empty.

-

"See you tomorrow," Lee Know mocks Chris's earlier words on the way home. Chris has no choice but to put up with Lee know antics. He keeps rubbing in his face how he got to fuck five different girls while Chris only did one. Not that it really matters to Chris, but he knows that Lee Know is much more aware of his little crush now.

After finishing up his laughter, Lee Know throws an arm over Chris's shoulder. "I'm just teasing you man. But I was right you know. That you would like it." Chris can't help but smile upon seeing his friend's cheesy expression. "Yeah yeah, whatever," he playfully rolls his eyes.

"But really," Lee Know questions, "You'd be down to go again? Just for her?" Chris stops walking for a second to think, eyes up to the sky. The night is clear, stars and moon shining down on them. He doesn't know you well, only that your pussy and his cock belong together. Going to that club often would hurt his wallet over time, but he's starting to think that it may be worth it.

"Yeah, just for her."

a/n: really hope you liked it! feedback is appreciated. I am not planning on making a third part to this imma be honest, but I might write an epilogue if it's highly requested.

update!: third part here

[ladylexis]

Quietly

hyunjin x fem!reader

warnings: MDNI 18+, DUBIOUS, fingering, cum eating (brief), public indecency, thigh groping, uni classroom setting,

1.3k words

Class had already started 30 minutes ago by the time he comes in. You hardly so much as spare him a glance when you hear the door open, but you're able to catch his long, dark hair. He's got a pair of headphones wrapped around his neck as he nonchalantly strides into the room, looking for an empty space.

The professor doesn't acknowledge his late student, attendance isn't a part of your grade after all, but you do notice how he chooses the chair right next to yours. 

It makes you slightly frown; the reason you sat far in the back corner was to avoid people, and there were plenty of other seats available. Still, you don't say anything as he pulls out his notebook, the words 'HWANG HYUNJIN' written in silver ink. 

You tear your eyes away from his belongings to focus on what the professor is saying. The quiet atmosphere of the classroom, both from the lack of students and the attending bored students, makes your eyes slightly drop as minutes pass. You can distantly hear the professor explain the difference between monism and dualism before you feel Hyunjin's leg brush against your own.

The fabric of his pants is rough when it makes contact with your bare legs. You jolt awake, briefly glancing at him before adjusting in your seat, and scooting a bit further away. Hyunjin doesn't mumble an apology, not so much as a sympathetic look as he keeps staring ahead. 

You brush it off, but it takes less than a minute for it to happen again. This time when you look at him, you stare in an attempt to get him to notice your slightly agitated expression, but he doesn't return the favor. You're stuck looking at his side profile, taking in how plump his lips are, the pretty curve of his nose, and his long eyelashes. 

You blink, swallowing the salvia that's pooled in your mouth before deciding it's better to ignore him. 

When you feel it again, it's his hand on your knee, warm and overly friendly. You jump in your seat, eyes widening as you force yourself to look at the projected notes in front of the room. Hyunjin's thumb moves in circles, rubbing your hot skin soothingly. 

Your body is stiff, back straight as his hand slowly trails higher until it's under your skirt, groping your thigh. His fingers softly dig into your plush flesh making your legs clamp together. 

You need to say something, anything. You didn't come to class with the hopes of being groped, but any and all words die in your throat. It's like your brain short circuits, unsure if the reason you're not saying anything is because you're too shocked or too aroused. 

Hyunjin's hand grips your thigh so he can pry it from your other leg, spreading them just a few inches. It's enough for his fingers to graze against your clothed core. Two of his fingers rub against your clit, applying just enough pressure to make you involuntarily widen your legs more. 

His middle and ring finger rub the peak of your clit earning a soft gasp from your lips. He dips them low and you lean back slightly to give him more access. Finally, you build the courage to look at him, eyes wide and mixed with emotions to see him smirking still facing the class. 

You're not sure if he can feel how wet you're getting, how hot your cunt feels against his fingers. Your hips begin to try and grind against his hand, but it's hard to move in a way where it's not noticeable. Hyunjin notices though, and places his hand on your thigh to keep you still. 

Don't move. He hadn't said it out loud, but you listen. Your ass glues itself to the seat and your rest your back on the chair, letting this stranger take full rein of your pussy. 

As if in reward, Hyunjin pulls your underwear to the side. Your legs tremble and you bite your lip when he makes contact with your bare sex. He must feel how wet you are now that fingers slide against your cunt. His movements are slow, terribly soft as you try not to whimper in your seat. 

You can feel yourself gushing. Your panties already got the worst of it, but you're hoping that your skirt remains dry by the end of class. Hyunjin doesn't seem to have the same worries as you. He spreads your arousal on the inner parts of your thigh and all over your pussy. As messy as he's making you, he manages to keep the slick sounds to a minimum.

His middle finger slides all the way down to your entrance before he slips it in. You squeak, immediately putting your hands to your mouth and fake coughing. Only a few students turn, but their bored expressions don't linger on your flustered face for too long. You're stuck covering your mouth, eyes slightly rolling to the back of your head while Hyunjin pumps his finger steady in you. 

Now you have something to clench down on, but at the price of being not-so-quiet. The professor is loud enough to cover the sounds of you being finger-fucked, but you're not sure how much longer you can last keeping the moans at bay. 

His palm bounces against your clit every time he thrusts in. You wish you could reach down to properly rub yourself, but you can't risk that. The build of your orgasm is slow, borderline edging as your legs shake. You want to cum. You want to cum so bad that drool has begun to leak from your mouth onto your palm. But Hyunjin doesn't pick up the pace, he doesn't go any harder. 

You can't ask him, it's far too risky, but you want to. You hope he finally looks at you so he can see your needy eyes, the pathetic drool on your fingers. If Hyunjin stood you up and bent you over the shared desk, you're sure you would let him take you in front of everyone if it meant you could finish quicker.

Instead, you let your orgasm slowly make its way throughout your body. Sending chills over your skin and making your stomach feel warm. White cream rings around Hyunjin's finger, a warning that he ignores. He pumps and brushes against your pussy each time.

You think you're going to be stuck just before your climax forever before he slides a second finger in. You finish promptly after feeling the slight stretch, your body going ridged and breathing hard. A low whine sounds from you, but no one seems to notice from an informational video playing that you didn't notice was up. It drowns out your labored breaths, your shaky inhales.

Hyunjin's finger pumps into you at a much slower rate, letting your cunt squeeze around his digit until you grab his wrist as a silent plea. It's now that he looks at you, a glaze over his dark eyes and lips twisted into a sick smile. 

"I think we can end class here," the professor's voice startles you from Hyunjin's terrifyingly attractive face. "I can see you all are bored and we can pick up next time when we meet." 

Papers rustle and backpacks unzip. Hyunjin slides his fingers from your sopping cunt, sticking them in his mouth with a cheeky grin as he puts away the notebook he never opened with his free hand. 

You're still trying to get your body to stop shaking when the professor makes his way to the back end of the room. You don't notice him until his hand places itself on your desk, and you look up at his cat-like eyes behind his glasses. 

"Professor Lee?"

He completely ignores your confused expression, "I'm going to need you and Mr. Hwang to stay behind. I couldn't help but notice you two being...disruptful."

[ladylexis]

the ride ; skz ; chan x reader

original ask: requested by @rosequartsz : chan with the prompt ❛ i want to fuck you so badly. ❜ like the reader is the same age as jeongin so chan kinda feels bad but at the same time he wants to corrupt the reader so bad cushsisjsis

+

original ask: requested by anonymous : Chan and ❛ please. make me feel good. no one else can like you. ❜ ❛ have a little trust in yourself, i know you can take it. ❜

pairing: bang chan/reader content info: friends to lovers, chan is a little older than reader, reader is not actually that innocent but pretends to be and they both get off on it lol. some not very safe driving lol keep ur eyes on the road. car sex, dirty talk, teasing, corruption play, puuuuure smut. word count: 2400 words.

masterlist. part of the valentine’s day stories series. credit to prompts. requests are closed.

enjoy!

-

“That’s not fair,” Jeongin says.  “I called dibs.”

“Too bad.”  You stick your tongue out at him.  “Learn to run faster, loser.”

Jeongin scowls, once more relegated to the backseat of Chan’s car.   You are sitting pretty in the passenger seat for the fourth day in a row and Jeongin is playfully annoyed about it. 

You and your twin brother have been racing into Chan’s car since high school.  You are both at university now, but Chan still offers the occasional lift.  With storm season making public transit a bigger hassle than it’s worth, Chan has been offering more rides. 

Just because of the weather.  Not any other reason.  Of course.      

You smirk, casting a side-glance into the driver’s seat.  Chan is smiling at Jeongin through the rearview mirror, looking less like Channie, the boy of your teenage fantasies, and more like Bang Chan, the man of your adult dreams.  He is wearing a baseball cap and leather jacket, his whole demeanour oozing an effortless masculinity, the bearing of a competent man who knows he can do anything. 

And still, despite his well-earned cockiness, he has an undoubtedly shy side.  When he looks at you, the tips of his ears flame an embarrassed, fiery red, and his dimpled smile is almost boyish in its sweetness. 

“Right then,” he says.  Then, like the endearingly cheesy goofball he is, he adds, “All aboard, ready for takeoff!” 

“Jeongin,” you say, blinking innocently at your twin through the mirror.  “You have your presentation notes, right?  You don’t want to forget them.”

Jeongin double-checks his bag but you already know he won’t find them.  You deliberately took them out and placed them on the kitchen counter.

“Damn,” he says, quickly unbuckling his seatbelt.  “I thought I put them in here.  Sorry, I’ll be right back.” 

Jeongin practically flies out of the car and up the driveway, leaving you and Chan.  It happens quickly, before Chan can even compute it.  You can see the gears turning in his head, but you are faster, sighing melodramatically while gathering the hem of your skirt. 

“Silly boy,” you say.  “What should we do while he’s gone?”  You draw your skirt up your thighs just enough to tease the skin of your upper thighs. 

Chan is staring there with his mouth open, his words evaporating on his tongue.  He clears his throat after a second, ripping his gaze away.  He looks across the dashboard and laughs, a shy, awkward laugh. 

“Your brother will be back in a second,” Chan says.  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, yeah?”

He is white-knuckling the steering wheel, like all his restraint is being poured into that physical grip.  Even so, it is not hard to pry his hand off the wheel.  You know a stronger, more belligerent shove could not bend a determined Bang Chan, but the softest touch from your gentle hands will have him breaking in seconds.   

You are slow, casual despite your racing heart, guiding his hand onto your knee.  He makes a little noise that turns your whole body to pure, liquid heat.  You make a similar sound, a faint whimper in the back of your throat, as you slide his hand up your thigh. 

“Channie,” you say, your too-sweet, too-innocent voice part of your acting, but your breathlessness undoubtedly real. 

“Don’t—”  His voice breaks and he clears his throat.  “Don’t say my name like that.  You know—”  

“What do I know, Channie?” you ask, blinking at him with wide eyes while you curl his fingers around your thigh.  You bring your legs together, holding his hand between them.

He visibly swallows, throat bobbing.  The redness has spread from his ears down his neck. 

“We’ve talked about this, baby girl,” he says, his tone stricter, taking on that darker edge that makes your heart – and everything else – gush.   “We’ve been good so far, okay?”   If stolen kisses, open zippers, and groping touches count as good.  “You’re my – you’re my friend.  You should be like a little sister or something to me… yeah?  Yeah… Yeah!”  He shakes his head, pulling himself out of the distraction caused by you unzipping your jacket.  He squeezes your thigh, a firm, warning grip.  “Don’t make this so hard,” he says. 

“What’s hard for you, Channie?” you ask, reaching into his lap and touching his thigh, then higher, finding the evidence of his words.  A shiver moves across his shoulders, his breath catching as you cup your palm around the bulge in his jeans.  “Is it something I can help you with?”  You lick your bottom lip then smile. 

“Oh,” he says.  His eyes crinkle with amusement but there is a score of different emotions on his face, all of them smoldering.  “You really wanna play that game, huh?” 

There is no chance for an answer because Jeongin returns, hopping into the car with his notes.  You and Chan separate, looking out the dashboard window.  You pat your hot skin and try to slow your racing heart. 

Sensing the oddly silent tension, Jeongin narrows his eyes and looks between you.  Eventually, his expression sours like he smells something bad. 

“Oh my god,” he says, then punches Chan in the shoulder.  “Are you fucking my sister!”

“What!” Chan says, getting redder by the second.  “Jeongin, how could— I wouldn’t— I don’t—”

“What, you don’t fuck?” Jeongin asks, then laughs until he is wheezing.  “You can do better, man.”

“Jeongin, shut up!”  You reach back to smack at him, rubbing your hand all over his stupid face and messing up his hair while he wails in protest.   

“All right, all right!”  Chan says, breaking you up.  “Let’s just… let’s just go, okay?  Okay.” 

“Yes, daddy,” you say, mostly out of spite. 

Chan squeaks. 

Jeongin pretends to gag then slumps against his window.  

“I’m gonna need to start taking the bus,” he says, morose.

-

Fortunately, thanks to the impromptu revelation of your shenanigans, it does not take much convincing for Jeongin to find another ride home.  When Chan pulls into the campus parking lot to pick you up, you approach his vehicle with a grin and a wink.    

You slide into the passenger seat, smoothing down your skirt while he sighs.  It sounds more amused than frustrated.    

“Where’s your brother?” he asks. 

You shrug with theatrical exaggeration. 

“Right,” Chan says, starting the car.  “Got it.”

He puts a hand on your headrest to leverage himself, looking out the rear window as he reverses the car.  That proximity alone gets you hot, the temptation to grab him already strong.  You play a patient game, as always, stealing glances and suggestive smiles while he drives. 

Halfway home, you put a hand on his knee.  At first your touch is innocent, tracing slow circles on the denim, then you get a little more brazen, fingertips brushing up his thigh. 

“Baby,” he says in that warning voice, eyes on the road.  Holding the wheel with one hand, he uses the other to stop your wandering ascent. 

“Yes?” you ask with all that faux-innocence.  Rather than fight his touch, you guide his hand to your lap, placing it on your knee. 

Unlike this morning, he does not play nice.  You make a startled, high-pitched sound when he immediately dives under your skirt, his rough palm pressing down where you are already aching.   Your thighs slam shut out of instinct but his hand is where it wants to be, his fingers curled around your pussy in a proprietary touch. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice playfully mean.  He grinds the heel of his palm against your throbbing clit.  He never takes his eyes off the road.  “Isn’t this what you wanted?”  

“I don’t know what you mean,” you say, though you cannot help but rock yourself against his hand. 

“Mmm,” he says, patting your pussy then stroking your thigh, guiding your legs open again.  “We’ll see about that.” 

You keep your eyes ahead too, pretending not to notice when he glances at you.  Then you gasp because he reaches out and tugs the zipper on your hoodie.  You instinctively clutch it, wearing nothing but a bra underneath, having taken off your other layers to surprise him.  He is the one surprising you, a secret sexy menace under all that shy sweetness.  He unzips the hoodie halfway then reaches past the material to squeeze a handful.  Your body practically sings under his touch. 

“Channie,” you say, breathless again. 

“Don’t worry, baby,” he says.  “Channie’s gonna take care of you, yeah?  Always.” 

“Take care of me how?”  Your question toys with that false innocence, the little game that gets you both hot, but there is genuine curiosity there too.   This game has been escalating slowly over time.  You want more and you are starting to get desperate. 

Chan looks at you.  His gaze moves over your mouth then your body, your skirt rucked up and breasts practically spilling out of your hoodie.  He swears, looking back at the road with that red blush on his ears again. 

“Fuck,” he says.  “I want to fuck you so badly.  You have no idea.” 

His words have a raw, honest edge.  He swallows, hard.  You feel like one tightly coiled ball of tension, ready to snap apart. 

“Please,” you say in that breathy voice.  “Make me feel good.  No one else can like you.” 

You do not make it all the way home.  There is a nearby lookout point at the park, a shrouded parking area that has undoubtedly seen its fair share of hook-ups.  Chan parks there and you dive at each other like randy teenagers.  You climb into his lap, bumping everything on the console on your way, the honking the horn with your backside for good measure.  It makes you both giggle.

Then your laughter is swallowed by hot, desperate, open-mouthed kisses.

“Mmm,” you hum against his lips.  You push his hat off his head and sink your fingers in his curly hair.  “Channie, please,” you say. 

He cups the back of your neck, holding your head where he wants it so he can kiss you thoroughly.  His ravishing touch leaves you shaking with need, rocking against him to no relief. 

“Poor baby,” he says with a little laugh, squeezing your neck then drawing his hand down the curve of your chest.  He unzips the rest of your hoodie.  His mouth follows the same path as his hands, down your chest and back up again. 

He is working you up, deftly and swiftly, using just a few well-placed throat kisses, a few flicks of his fingertips across the sensitive peaks of your breasts.  He seems so composed under you, other than the flush to his complexion, the heat to his skin that has him shedding his leather jacket.   You feel completely undone, half-naked and writhing in his lap.  Your hands tangle together, fumbling around his belt. 

“Let me,” he says.  He gets his belt open and his fly undone, then his hands are on you.  He doesn’t just tug your panties to the side but rips them apart, snapping the seams like they’re nothing.  Then those strong fingers are inside you, finding just how wet and ready you are for him.  He makes a low, guttural sound, thumping his head against the headrest.  “Fuck, baby girl,” he says.  “You know what you do to me?” he asks. 

“I dunno, Channie.”  You pout and bat your eyelashes.  “You better show me.” 

He laughs.  He holds your hips and moves you, positions you where he wants you.  You are pressed so close together, chest-to-chest, so you cannot see when he finally enters you.  But you feel it, hot and hard and filling you, stretching you, almost painful but burning so good.  You slap a hand to the roof of the car, eyes closing as you moan. 

“S-so much,” you say, because it feels like you have been sinking forever and he is still not all the way inside. 

“Yeah, I know, baby,” he says.  His thumb is expertly circling your clit while your whole body seems to soften, changing to fit him, like you were made for this moment.  “That’s it,” he says.  “Have a little trust in yourself.  I know you can take it.”

His thrusts are small, his hands guiding your hips over him, grinding him deep inside you.   Then you are clutching his shoulders, moaning into his neck as he fucks you slowly and steadily.  It is everything you needed and not enough, only spurring more desire.  You know you will need him again, the way he needs you.  Just the way he says your name as he holds you, as he fucks you, as he takes you apart and puts you together again.   It feels like that when you come, when he fucks you through it, saying your name and praising you. 

“Good girl,” he says, barely above a breath.  “That’s it, baby. Just like that.”

When he gets close, he pushes the seat back.   You get on your knees between his legs and take him in your mouth.  He comes with a low groan and another breathless slur of your name.  Then you are back in his lap and his hands are everywhere, clutching you possessively to his chest.  You are both breathing hard, riding the slow come-down of your frantic desperation. 

“Fuck,” he eventually says.  He seems shy again, giggling as he looks at you with a blush on his face.  “We, uh, we just did that, in the car, uh wow, yeah, I, uh—”

“Channie,” you say with a laugh of your own, grabbing his face and kissing him.  He smiles into the kiss, returning it with the same tender softness. 

You kiss for a long time, ignoring the world around you.  Eventually you have to crawl back into your seat and mostly redress yourselves, still smiling and giggling at each other the whole time.  Your phone was buzzing in your bag so you finally check it, rolling your eyes at the message there.   

You show it to Chan who laughs, blushing again, but nods. 

“Right,” he says, “We should probably go get him.”

You laugh too, sending an emoji with its tongue sticking out in response to Jeongin’s message that reads:  My ride fell through.  When you are done not-fucking each other, can you come back and get me?  Thanks.  Sluts.   

[ladylexis]

p. lee know x 9thmember!reader | warnings: unprotected sex, doggystyle, degradation | words: 0.5k ~ (511) 🐰ㆍ₊⊹

request: can you write something like lee know and a female 9th member who are supposed to flirt with each other? Like they are always throwing pickup lines at each other and rizzing each other up, and one day on stage lee know says an outrageous pick up line (like a nsfw one) and the reader is shocked. After the performance, she asks him if he rly meant that and hes all like “what if I did” and then bam! Smut 🥵 and after all that tht realize they rly like each other a lot!!

authors note. here uu go my love , i hope you like it 🫶🏾

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

“yn!!” a male fan yelled out, gaining your attention, you smiled at the fan; he held a ‘lets get married yn?’ you laughed. “should we get married?” you joked, the fan cheered. “yes!” you laughed— lee know jumped in. “yah, yn is mine.” he spoke into the mic.

“am i?” you teased, tilting your head smiling. “i don’t remember that.” lee know smirked, getting closer to you; a little closer than he should’ve, your eyes widened at his next words— “should i show you when we get home?” the crowed gasped, even the boys were bit shocked, they were used to you both “flirting” but this was new; and it shocked you too. “y-yah , stop it.” you coughed nervously.

that shocked you so much, it stuck all the way home; because tone in his voice wasn’t the playful one like it normally way— he sounded serious. “im going to bed.” the rest of the boys dragged their sleeping bodies to their respected rooms, doors closing for the night. “yah.” Minho pushed your shoulders. “get to bed, we have a early schedules.”

“did you mean what you said earlier?” you said, he furrowed his eyebrow; it finally came to him, he smirked. “you still thinking about that?” he slowly back you against the wall, his eyes low as he spoke up— “what if i did?”

that’s how you found yourself, face down ass up; he hand holding the back of your neck as he fucked into you. “sh-shit, what a tight fucking cunt.” he grunted, his hips smacking against your ass, his other hand gripping your ass. “minho fuck!” you bit down on the pillow trying not to be so loud. “ha-harder.”

he let your neck go, grabbing your hips; fucking you harder, your ass bouncing against his abdomen. “look at how your pussy takes my cock, all those times you’ve teased me.” he hissed. “fu-fucking teasing me constantly.” he slapped your ass, fucking into you deeper.

“yo-you tease me too.” you whimpered, he was using your body as his personal toy. “o-on stage, in front of everyone.” he scoffed, pulling out of you. “why— fuck!” you screamed as he pushed back inside of you. “i wasn’t the one flirting with fans was i?” he hissed. “you’re mines.” he slapped your cunt. “this pussy is mines.” you nodded dumbly. “fu-fuck minho im gonna cum.”

“cum then.” he rubbed your clit harshly. “cum all over my cock.” you let out a loud pornographic moan as you came. “fuck you’re tightening around me— fuck im gonna cum.” he cursed pulling out, his cum spurting on onto your stomach. “shit.” he squeezed his cock, tapping the tip of his cock on your clit. “mine.”

before you could even get a word out — there was a bang on the wall. “we get it already, you two finally fucked, now you can stop eye fucking each other on stage.” You heard seungmins face, minho smiled down at your fucked out face, you laughed.

“now shut the fuck and go to bed — we have a schedule tomorrow.”

©️LUVYENI

[ladylexis]

Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙡𝙞𝙞𝙞. 𝙖𝙞𝙣’𝙩 𝙖 𝙥𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚

! fwb, free use ft. all, fujoshi fem reader, poly, enm, angst, smut, dead dove do not eat. <1k wc. 18+ readers only !

「Contents List」 「Act 1」  「© April 2024 by jl-micasea-fics」

It’s a sad thing for a beautiful boy to wallow in a pit of misery.

Chan would know.

He tells himself it’s the typical showcase tension getting to him. Doesn't matter that he’s not involved— the whole company feels it. Trainees shuffle the halls and frighten at their own shadows. Everywhere he turns there’s a pale sack of skin looking at him with sallow eyes that have seen some shit, or so one would think.

He’s definitely not moping because Jia’s all but ghosted him. Nope. Not even. He knew she’d be off limits until the showcase. And that’s fine. This is her chance. When his chance comes he’ll be much the same: too wired to give anyone that isn’t a company executive the time of day, because for that, he’d have to remove his nose from their assess, and that can’t happen until he’s out there.

So he hides in his tiny fifth floor studio. Music is safe. Won’t leave him for... something else. It’s his, just as it’s always been. He stays there until either hunger or bowel movements compel him to emerge, and after addressing the latter with some urgency, he shoves into the humid room to find it occupied. The fuck?

Two young men startle and stare at him. One sits in the desk chair decked out in a jersey and heavy gold jewellery, the other stands behind the microphone, notably skinny even from a distance.

Blinged-out man blinks from under tufts of warm brown. “Hey, man.”

Chan glares at him. “This studio is reserved.”

“Yeah,” skinny man agrees. “By us.”

“This is my studio.”

“Your studio?” He steps out from around the mic. “And you are?”

“I’m your senior.”

His sharp eyes twinkle. Chan wants to poke them out. “Senior, huh?”

Blinged-out man shoots up, the chunky gold chains catching the light and damn near blinding Chan when he bows low and says, “We’re so sorry, we’ll leave—”

“Hell no we’re not,” skinny says. “The teacher said we could use this space whenever we wanted, so we are.” He points at Chan. “This dude doesn’t have the authority to kick us out.”

“Hyung, he’s a senior—”

“Senior my ass. He’s a trainee just like us.”

“What are your names?” Chan asks.

“Why? Going to rat on us?”

“Han Jisung,” blinged-out man blurts. He points to his accomplice. “This is Seo Changbin.”

“Dude—”

Chan commits the names to memory. He’ll need them when he rats on them.

“And your name is...?” Jisung asks tentatively. His eyes are so fucking big they’re giving anime. Chan tries not to look at them.

“You can call me your new worst night—” He stops short, and that’s probably for the best, but it’s not for risk of cringe that he does so. He steps into the room, the door falling closed behind him. “Is that a—” He points to the mic. “Is that a fucking sock?”

Changbin shrugs. “Yeah.”

“That’s disgusting, what the hell are you—”

“We can’t afford a pop filter,” Jisung interjects. “It’s not as effective as the real thing, but it works fine for our shit. Also it’s, like, clean.”

Chan looks around; really looks around. A laptop has been hooked up to his existing sound system, the mic surrounded by acoustic foam taped to cardboard— rudimentary as it is, he can’t deny the resourcefulness. Near the laptop is a compact mixer Chan knows to be worth ten times his own. The audiophile in him takes over.

“Holy shit.” He moves to it, brushes Jisung’s shoulder. “You can’t afford a pop filter but you can afford this?”

“That’s why we can’t afford the filter, man,” Changbin says.

It’s so pretty. So expensive. So—

“Don’t touch!” Jisung shrieks. “I spent so long setting this up, hyung. I don’t want to kill a senior today.”

“Right. Sorry.” Chan backs up, scratches his nape. “I’ve never seen trainees with kit like this.”

“That’s because no trainee is as loaded as Changbin hyung.”

“I’m not loaded, man. I get an allowance like everyone else. Quit it with that shit.”

“A huge allowance—”

Changbin's lips curl back over his teeth, left fist raised. “I’ll show you something huge in a goddamn minute.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, hyung.”

Cute. First impression implies they have a nice relationship. Makes Chan feel all warm and shit. Especially when Jisung smiles at him, crooked teeth and puffy cheeks.

“You two, uh, produce your own stuff?” Chan asks. Cool as a cucumber.

Changbin nods. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah. I mean; I try.”

“Can we hear something?” Jisung asks, eyes alight. Changbin’s brow quirks.

“I’m not—” Chan hesitates. Doesn't like the way they’re looking at him. Too much hope. “I don’t really share my stuff.”

Jisung’s face falls.

“Because, like... I just don’t know if it’s any good. I mean, it sounds good to me, but people can be picky with their tastes, you know? I just don’t want to—”

“Try us, man,” Changbin smiles. “We might surprise you.”

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 >

𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙖 𝙣𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙? 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚 ♡ >

< 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 | 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 >

[ladylexis]

Freak Show Talk | 3racha, lmh

𝙡𝙞𝙞. 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙚

! fwb, free use ft. all, fujoshi fem reader, poly, enm, angst, smut, dead dove do not eat. <1k wc. 18+ readers only !

「Contents List」 「Act 1」  「© April 2024 by jl-micasea-fics」

Chan loves Jia.

He’s heard people say that at nineteen years old it’s hard to know what love feels like. That being sure of love can only come with life experience. Experience of many partners, too. He thinks that’s the biggest load of shit he’s ever heard. Jia is his first and his last. He’ll never want anyone else. He loves her, and he doesn’t need life experience or multiple partners to know that.

 With Jia’s lips snug around his cock and his heart in his throat so loud it threatens to perforate his ear drums— yeah, he fucking loves her. If he didn’t, what would be the point?

He cards through her dark, silky locks, keeps the strands from her face, riveted by the sight of his dick disappearing into her warmth. He wonders how many others will wish they were in his position when she debuts. With her talent and visuals, she’ll be a regular group sweetheart. The idea of watching her on stage knowing the lips she puts to microphone are the very same she puts to pleasuring him with such aplomb gets him hot beyond fucking sense.

On a particularly deep suck, he draws tight, orgasm creeping over him in sultry waves, loosening his muscles but tightening his senses.

“Fuck, Jia—”

She smiles, mouth still full and does just as he taught her— cheeks hollow, teeth mindful. He glows with corruptive pride when he comes down her throat, and returns the favour with fingers and tongue, her whimpers and moans a nascent track that he could easily mesh a beat to; maybe one day he will.

In the afterglow, curled up together on Jia’s bunk, Chan listens to the sound of his breathing. He couldn’t be more content. Wishes sex was always so accessible as this. Trainee life makes it difficult to indulge, even more so with the company’s constant emphasis on male and female segregation. So wrought with frustration was Chan at one point he’d begun to see the prettier sides of his male peers with much more than simply platonic acceptance— imagine! In that respect Jia’s joining was something of a saving grace; one he’s strived for two years to keep close, because his position is one of privilege. A trainee with a girlfriend is unheard of, at least publicly, which is precisely why it’s not. Indeed, common knowledge of the arrangement would threaten both their chances of debuting, and if there’s one thing Chan will spill blood for, it’s that. He’s worked too hard to have it all be for nothing.

Jia sighs gently, runs her fingers over the ridges of his abs, her head on his chest. “Missed this.”

Chan hums. “Me too, baby. One day we won’t have to sneak around anymore.”

“I quite like the sneaking.” She glances up at him from under thick lashes. “Keeps things exciting, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know if I'd call constant risk of your roommates walking in on us exciting.”

“No? You’re not up for putting on a little show?”

“Not for your roommates, baby, no. Not for free, anyway.”

Jia giggles, goes back to tracing Chan’s navel. Silence comfortable, Chan returns to the fantasy he so often falls back on when troubles become him; a future of domestic bliss with Jia. Picketed white and rose tinted, complete with a dog and a lawnmower.

“I’ll be busy the next week or so, babe,” Jia whispers. “Like, more than usual.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm. We’ve got a showcase.”

Chan’s heavy eyes snap open. “A showcase? I didn’t hear about that.”

“Was only announced today. Female trainees.”

“Girl group then?”

“Seems like.”

Fuck’s sake. He adds another year to his already dire service.

“What are you showing?” he asks, intent to stay bright despite the way his gut has sunk like a rock.

“Don’t know yet. We have a meeting tomorrow to discuss it.”

“We?”

“Me, Suji, Minyoung and Fei.”

Chan hums.

“You don’t seem thrilled.” Jia props herself up by elbow. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” he lies. “You’ll smash it.”

“You’ll come watch?”

“Of course.”

“Cheer me on from backstage?”

“From the crowd, probably, but yeah. There’ll be cheering. For sure.”

A tender kiss closes the conversation. Chan swallows over the lump in his throat, stubborn fucker that it is.

She might debut. Like— actually debut.

“It’ll be great, Chan-ie,” she later tells him. “People like you and I are destined for greatness.”

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 >

𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙖 𝙣𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙? 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚 ♡ >

< 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 | 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 >