#happy activation day lee!!!!

[starryficsfinishwen]

𑁍ࠬܓ [activation day special] ᴡᴀʀᴍ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ — lee x reader

ㅤㅤyour whispers, sunlight;

ㅤㅤcold hands feeling for mine

syn. ; lee finds comfort in your arms after a long war.

a.n. - I'm sorry I'm super late TvT its defo my fault bUT HAPPY BIRTHDAY LEE I LOVE YOU THANK YOU FOR COMING HOME TO ME I HOPE U GET A NEW FRAME SO I CAN SIMP MORE!! also I'm really sorry for the slow and bad updates, I was busy for the past few months due to busy sched (eyy thanks uni) and my poor baby lappy unfortunately had her fan broken down so pray she gets her swift recovery soon 🙏🏻🙏🏻 qna: will chrome get his own activation day special? a: HECK YA qna: when? A: yeah imnida

pairing - lee x f!commandant

words - 3,573

content warnings - MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. NSFW content: cunnilingus, handjob soft sex eeeyyy. mostly soft lee cuz he deserves it after *TOOOT* HAPPY BIRTHDAY LEE

divider/s by @/saradika-graphics

Warmth. An unfamiliar word, an evading emotion; one that Lee was devoid of for the remainder of his human years.

It was something hard to find. If ever he had it, he would unconditionally give it to his younger brother, in order to make him safe and happy. Even in the darkest days of his human life, until he breathed his last, it was a feeling that avoided him. Would he ever find it? Who knows.

Maybe someone does. Maybe it would be manifested into someone he was long familiar with, apart from Murray, someone who makes his mechanical heart shake. Someone who was then standing by the doorway, whose figure he had long memorized in his M.I.N.D.

You, his precious commandant of the Gray Raven, stood there, bright eyes brimming with curiosity, shaking a familiar brown bag in hand.

“Lee, what is this?” You sighed, with a little laugh, “Can I have an explanation?”

“Good evening to you, Commandant. I am nearly done with my work.”

Sauntering to your desk, which Lee resided in, you eyed him carefully. “Right. Can I ask why you are here, then?”

He held your eye contact for a few seconds, before looking down at the papers, “I am merely just helping with your paperworks. You seemed to have some problems with it earlier.”

“So you decided to distract me with, this,” Shaking the bag, you continued, “... whatever you planned, it’s working quite well.”

It made Lee chuckle. “I’m glad you think so.”

You mirrored his laugh, before pulling out the little trinket in the bag. It was a little blue robot, L-33, one that seemed familiar—a mixed, mini version of Lee and Punchy—that seemed like a toy.

You tapped its head. “Good morning, Commandant.” Echoed an automated Lee's calm voice, “Here are your mission details for today.”

He smiled. “Oh, you found out its features.”

“Of course I did,” you puffed out your chest with pride, “I spent the whole two hours examining him. Watch this.”

Cerulean eyes intently watched as you expertly pushed around a few buttons, promptly triggering the secret sequence. The amusement on his face dropped.

“You…figured it out.”

“Commandant,” the robot cooed, its next few words that were dreadful for Lee to hear, “there’s something I’d–.”

When you blinked, L-33 had shut off, Lee pushing the off button. “–you heard enough.”

A small laugh escaped your lips, “we’ve been teammates for a long while now, Lee,” you teased with a wink, “You think I wouldn’t know your tricks? I also figured out that you purposely gave me L-33 to distract me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You distracted me so you could do my tasks. On your birthday. Traitor.”

The situation was funny. Activation dates—promptly called that way, not really birthdays—were just like any other day. For Lee, there’s nothing special about it.

“The Science Council may have said it’s considered a small break for Constructs. I took it, didn’t I?”

“And you gave that one to me. This is treachery! You were supposed to use that day to spend it with your loved ones!”

Lee pointed at the robot in your hand. “You can spend the day with L-33. Did you read my letter well? I modified its AI to fit your needs. He can answer well.”

“That’s true, Commandant,” chimed L-33, who somehow woke up halfway through, “Please, hang out with me.”

Lee knew you well. From the way your eyes would sparkle when you’re hit with a good idea, or how your eyebrows would knit together when you’re focused on your battle plan, to the shade of pink in your cheeks when you’re flustered by sweet words. The confusion in your face then was something Lee was also familiar with, and he knew how to counter that.

“You’ve rarely gotten any quality rest, Commandant.” Lee spoke, “please use today as a reward.”

Warmth, again, was something Lee had avoided, and if he had it, he was willing to give it to you.

But alas, like the rock that hindered the gears in your head, you were unshakeable.

“...?”

Putting L-33 on your desk, you stomped your way to the nearest chair, sitting down. Bright eyes still not breaking eye contact to look at cerulean ones.

“Since you won’t heed my request,” Emphasising the word, you grinned, “I may as well just stay here, then. I am not in the mood to argue.”

Lee’s patience strummed a chord. Attempting to change your mind, you quickly raised your hand, shrugging, “Ah, didn’t I say I didn’t want to argue?’

Closing his mouth, Lee decided to just drop it.

It took a few minutes—the scratch of pen against paper, the flickering desk light, the soft hum in your lips, and his little childhood melody—before you shuffled to sit closer to the desk.

“...Commandant?”

“Yes?”

Knowing you, Lee decided to dismissed his thought, resuming to what he was doing earlier. It didn't take long. Your humming grew louder, almost ghosting in his ear. Lee sighed, leaning back to welcome you, slithering your leg across his lap, sweetly smiling at him.

“Lee~,” you purred, hands clasped on his broad shoulders, “thank you for the seat.”

Rolling his eyes, he smiled at you. “Whatever makes you happy.”

You were perfectly slotted in his lap, content in how tiny you were that he could still do his work with you. The smell of vanilla permeated his senses, your breathing music to his ear, even and comforting to Lee. He might have had to lie about it, but you were perfect, you were enough—like the piece in a jigsaw puzzle.

“...But I’m not.”

Lee stopped writing, opting to look back at you. “Really?”

Your lips were in a small pout, lipgloss shining in the lights, “Really. I mean, how could I? Imagine taking a break outside; walking around Babylonia, walking around the streets, but you’re here instead.”

“Commandant,” He shook his head, “We talked about this.”

The hands on his shoulders curled, nails rarely scraping his jacket. Seeing your face turn into a sad frown as you bite your lip, a hint of guilt knocks on Lee’s chest.

“...you gave me a gift even though it's your birthday,” Softly, in the cold light, you muttered, “shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

Lee prides in his stone heart. But oh, it was hard to say no when it comes to you. “Well, in a way, it’s still our duty as Constructs to bring our Commandant joy and happiness.”

You sighed, “But I don’t see you that way.”

Lee looked at you in confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t.” You smiled, “Lee, you may be a construct, but you are different to me.”

Your hands, dragging through his shoulders to his jaw, cupped his cheeks. Lee was a construct—blue blood, robotic joints and bodies, built for destruction. But you, human as you were—simple, frail, fragile—and yet, your warmth was far too contagious. He nuzzled your hand, afraid that he’d lose your heat.

“...[Y/N],” Lee rarely called you by your name, but when he does, his voice breaks, turning to kiss your palm, “[Y/N], you are too kind.”

You leaned closer to him, lips leaving butterfly kisses across his cheeks, “I am treating you the way you should be, Lee.”

Like a piece in a jigsaw puzzle, you were a perfect fit for Lee. Kisses on his cheeks, down to his jaw, to the shell of his ear. You breathed into him, ghosting his ear, that made Lee shiver in your touch. His hands found respite in your hips, kneading the area to aid in your movements.

“...by seducing me though?”

You giggled. “Is it working?”

“Mm, a bit.” He sighed in your shoulder, resting there, “But I still have to finish this.”

“No, don’t.” A small whine escaped your lips as you subtly grinded yourself on his lap, “Can’t you see your birthday gift needs your immediate attention?”

A sly little fox, that you were. You had, unknowingly, slipped closer to him, that your warm core was directly on his semi-hard bulge. As you shifted in your seat, Lee groaned at the friction.

“You will miss a lot of these paperworks if I—ugh—can’t finish this…” Lee’s grip on your hips tightened. “What should I do with you…?”

“Do me,” you purred in his ear, “Do me, your gift, Lee.”

Ah, he’d have to use his gift thoroughly.

Warmth was the feeling, the light at the crack that separated your thighs. One that Lee could drown in as he diligently licks at your cunt.

With a harsh tug of his hair and the sultry whine that slipped past your lips, Lee could die in between your thighs and he’d regret nothing. In the dim light of your room, Lee was nestled nicely down there as you were spread in your bed. Small, kitten lips at your throbbing clit, before lapping at your folds. You forgot how long you’ve been at his mercy, yet the dampness that pooled on your bed could say otherwise.

“L-Lee, ha—haah—wait–” You moaned out loud, “slow down, p-please!”

Pussydrunk, Lee moaned at the feeling, eating you away with no sense. You cried out from the overstimulation, desperately trying to push Lee away. But Lee’s hold in your hips were relentless.

“One more,” he groaned, “give me one more.”

His pants were aching from the tightness, but he was better off rutting his cock at the edge of your bed, focusing on your pleasure first and foremost.

Lapping at your juices, Lee realized why addiction was so potent—if they had seen the way your pussy clenched as he licked you clean, they’d be a devout addict. But he’s lucky, this sight was only his. You, your pretty little, soaking wet pussy was all his. No one else could make you cry out this loud, or the way your face contorted in pleasure—it was all Lee’s.

“C’mon, [Y/N], you can do it, do it for me,” Lee whispered between your soaking wet folds, “be a good girl, you can do it.”

A sharp shiver ran through your spine. Bubbling deep in your stomach, you cried as you felt two of his fingers slip deep in your pussy. “A-ah, Lee, w-wait—”

Sucking at your pearl, Lee’s fingers curled upward, hitting a spongy spot that made your pussy clench hard. With a loud cry of his name, you cum hard for the third time, sticky liquid coating his mechanical fingers. Lee fucks you through your orgasm, mesmerized in the way your eyes rolled back, crying as you arched your back.

“Good girl,” he cooed, “good girl, [Y/N].”

Amidst your orgasm, your pussy answered by squeezing the fingers that were still inside of you. As Lee pulled away, you noticed his chin shimmered with your slick in between the haze, which made your heart flutter. Watching through lust-blown eyes, his cerulean eyes were glowing brightly in the dark, and your only thought was—

“Pretty…”

“Hmm?” Lee chuckled, taking your hand to his lips, “Who is?”

“You,” you lolled, “It’s you…”

You opened your arms to welcome Lee, kissing in spite of his state. It’s hot, brightly burning with passion, humming as you mindlessly kissed Lee again and again, fueled in the heat of the moment. Yet you realized soon that his fingers found themselves grazing your overstimulated cunt, lightly rubbing it.

“A-ah, w-wait,” you whined, weakly pushing Lee away, “not yet…”

“Why?” Lee kissed the shell of your ear, “Is there something wrong?”

Your wandering hands finally found the thing you were looking for. The prominent bulge, sensitive enough that made him groan even as you grazed it with your hand.

“It’s not fair,” you pouted, “let me take care of you, too…”

“[Y/N], I’d much rather help you—”

“—Lee, please,” you pleaded, fluttering your eyelashes, “I want you to feel good, too…”

The fly was already down before he could nod, springing his long, thick cock. Lee breathed out a sigh of relief, but the itch was yet to be itched. Fortunately, your fingers were already running through his shaft, cock twitching from your teasing.

“See,” you sat properly, urging Lee to mirror you, “doesn’t it feel nice?”

You grabbed his shaft, enclosing your hand and jerking him lightly. Lee could hardly contain his moans, cheeks and ears blooming red from your ministration. You couldn't take your eyes off, too—your pretty boy, your Lee, feeling the same kind of pleasure that he had always given you.

“Does it feel good, Lee?” You asked, moving closer, “Tell me if it’s too much.”

“Good, ugh,” Lee managed to say, “You’re doing so—hah, really, g-good.”

You’ve seen him naked a lot of times, no surprise to see his long and hard cock, heavy in your hand that you had to use your other one to help. Watching the way Lee’s face contorted as you jerk him off almost makes your own pussy throb, another set of wetness pooling in your thighs. Thumbing his slit, precum sliding off, you wanted to dip your head down and suck him off.

“You really should let me do this, Lee,” you hummed, leaning closer that your lips were leaving kisses on his jaw, “You should see how pretty you are when I’m touching you like this, mm?”

“[Y/N],” a sensual moan of your name rolling off of his tongue, your pussy clenched around nothing in response, “God—hah, don’t stop…”

Gritting his teeth, grasping your sheets as you jerked him harder. Your heart was beating wildly, like how you were too entangled with Lee—too wild, too indecent.

But your movements were halted, Lee’s hands wrapped tight around yours.

“Huh?”

“No,” Lee shook his head, ignoring his hot red dick throbbing, moving your hands away, “I can’t cum like this…I need to be inside of you to do that.”

For what it’s worth, Lee had always been wanting to bury himself deep in your cunt before the fun was over. Giggling at his answer, you pecked his lips. “Okay, okay.”

Thinking it wasn’t enough, Lee pulled you closer to kiss you better. Blind hands sought for the dip of your hips, leading you to his own. With twin moans, your pussy was pushed flush on the shaft of his aching cock. You even had the nerve to drag your soaking folds against the sensitive pulsating vein on his shaft.

“You’re teasing again,” Lee warned as he pulled away for a moment.

“I’m only letting you know how much I want you.”

With lips never leaving yours, you reached for his manhood, angling the tip to your awaiting hole. Lee helped in grounding you, gripping your hips hard as you shallowly fucked yourself on the tip.

“I can taste how much you want me, [Y/N],” his voice dripped in your ear, making you shiver, “Look how desperate you are for me.”

“I am,” you whined, feeling the bulbous tip finally slip past your tight ring of muscle, “I am fucking desperate for you, Lee.”

You sobbed as Lee’s cock was fully sheathed inside of you, already hitting your sensitive spot. Burying your face on the crook of his neck, Lee took the time to caress your shaking back.

“Even after we’ve done this a lot of times now—ngh—you’re still too tight for me.”

Your pussy fluttered around his shaft. “G-glad you think so.”

Attempting to rock your hips to move, Lee stopped you. You pulled back, noticing his gaze.

“As much as I want to move,” He whispered, “I’d like to take the time to admire my gift, please.”

You awkwardly laughed, “I thought you’ve done that before.”

“Mm, yeah, I have.” He inhaled, “but it’s different like this.”

Thoroughly content like this. Amid the dark room, moonlight found itself splattered on the floor, on your bed. Lee took your hand and held it back to his lips, gently kissing the back of your hand. Without looking away, his glowing cerulean eyes held too much emotion; there was lust, but they were love and adoration. Watching as he kissed every finger, from the pinkie, to the thumb, kissing one particular finger, lips lingering longer there. A display of emotion, one that Lee has long reserved only for you.

“Did you enjoy your gift, Lee?” You whispered, minding the wild flutter of your heart.

“How could I not?” He said, “You are the best gift I could ever receive.”

Despite everything, Lee is yours. All the pain, all the fear—the Tower, the red tide, the war raging outside of your door—and all you could do was rest your other hand to his chest, the metal cool as you feel the mirroring throb of his mechanical heart.

“Do you know why I love you, Lee?” You asked. He shook his head.

“I don’t.”

“I used to think that we wouldn’t be able to have the luxury for love.”

Looking away, you watched the sea of stars outside of your window. They were twinkling, shimmering; somewhere, constellations blanketed the universe, but they were hiding. You couldn’t care less, but the thought made you think so.

“We’re always sent to battle, and you were made to fight the virus. I didn’t think I’d be able to make a valuable connection, unless it was for the better of the majority.”

Flashes of your graduation from the F.O.S., to your first mission, Kowloong, the church, the Tower—it made you curl your fingers, grasping for Lee’s hand.

“But the Gray Raven…but you, it all changed.”

In the haze of memories, the only clear vision was Lee. Cupping his cheeks, thumb grazing the outline of his jaw, you laughed.

“It’s honestly funny. Gray Raven changed it for the better. But you made me believe that love…it exists, even in this damned world.”

Lee mirrored the smile on your face, as you traced his eyebrows, the shape of his eye, the bridge of his nose. Grazing his lower lip, you lightly left a kiss.

“I’m glad you exist, Lee.” You whispered, “Everything you went through was proof of your existence. I cannot imagine how painful it muat have been, but I want to use all the years of my life proving you that you are loved, that you are deserving of it.”

You’re already pressed flush against one another, but if you could, you’d collide closer to Lee.

“I love you, Lee.” You confessed, “I love you, I will live for you. If you stay on Earth, I’ll crawl out of heaven. Wherever you’ll go, I’ll follow. I never want to be apart from you. Just let me spend all the years with you, to shower you with all of my love.”

Lee took pride in his stoicism. But for you, oh, may that be damned.

Warmth was something he’d not have, but sometimes he covets. But you, you who deserves it all, somehow wants to share this warmth with him, out of all the people. You, who selfishly, gave a warmth unlike others. You, you, you—warm blood, flows freely within you, and you were his, as much as he was yours.

“That’s my line.” He laughed, leaning forward to kiss you, “I’ll love you for all the years, too, [Y/N].”

Every kiss with Lee felt like healing. Grasping at whatever to hold, at whatever skin, you never want to be apart from him. Lee started to move his hips, causing you to moan in between your fervent kisses.

Lee loves you. Lee makes love to you, precisely and deeply plunging his cock inside of you, hitting your sensitive spots. It doesn’t take long though, when your pussy spasmed as you cum through the pressure, crying out Lee’s name.

Lee followed shortly, groaning as he painted your walls, filling you full.

Labored breaths echo throughout the room, two lovers entwined, without the need to break away from each other.

“I love you, [Y/N].” Lee nuzzled in the crook of your neck, “I love you so much.”

“Mm, I think you made me lose the ability to walk at the moment…”

“Consider it a reward. Thank you for being my gift.”

It took a while to settle back into your bed, with Lee wanting to wash you up, but you insisted to stay until the numbing feeling in your legs disappeared. For now then, you were content with Lee on his back, and you sprawled on his chest.

The thump of his mechanical heart was a lullaby.

“Don’t doze off, [Y/N]. I still need to clean you up.”

“Lee,” you yawned in response, “Let’s get married.”

“That’s quite random,” you heard him laugh, “Why the sudden proposal?”

You gently brushed his empty ring finger, “Well, I don’t know what will happen next time. I’d rather have the proof that I’m already taken, and I’d rather have the rest of my life with you.”

“...Unless you like another?” You smugly added, looking up.

But Lee, with a chuckle, only pulled you up, kissing you.

“...We’ll get married, then. Whenever you want.”

“What if I want it tomorrow?”

He’d have to humor you for now, noticing the droop of your eyes. “Alright, sure.”

“I love you,” you dawdled, the last echoes of your consciousness drifting into the sea of dreams, “Lee, tomorrow, okay…?”

“Tomorrow.”

“...mm, don’t forget tomorrow, too…spend your birthday with me…”

“...Yes, I will.”

Lucky for you, a certain ring awaits near your table.

God pls give me a Lee I love You

— starry needs a bf

[eld-creative]

a flower for you

[aaa-vixx-aaa]

✨1992.04.06✨

[ao-xingyume1987]

(5 days ago, it was my birthday. Probably one of the best ones so far)

[heeseungsbm]

・₊✧ Kiss Me Thru The Phone‧₊˚☏♡₊˚

lee heeseung

₊˚⊹❥pairing❥: idol ! heeseung x female reader

₊୧ ‧₊❥summary❥: the hardest part of heeseung's job was being separated from you; it drove him physically insane. he was determined to find a way to satisfy his insatiable cravings—his intense desire for you, one way or the other.

❥ genre: smut with plot, fluffy ending :)

⊹₊ ⋆❥warnings❥: sexting, heeseung is very horny, phone sex, masturbation (male & female), dirty talk, edging, fingering (female), orgasms, squirting, overstimulation, nicknames (baby, good girl).

❥ heeseung’s dialogue is in pink.

:‧₊˚ ⋅❥wc❥: 7k.

thank God, the fate tour and its excessive, completely unnecessary extensions had finally come to an end. there wasn't enough of a word to describe how relieved heeseung felt to be done.

don't get him wrong, heeseung loved being an idol. he loved the rush of adrenaline he got from performing in sold out shows, and having hundreds of thousands of beautiful girls losing their composure over him was quite the ego boost.

but tour? uh uh. not heeseung's thing.

while it was an amazing experience in many ways, it had its dreadful downsides; the lack of sleep, the pounding headaches from jet lag, the body sores and bruises from practicing for hours and hours on end, leaving him with literally no energy for anything else. privacy was practically nonexistent, it'd become a distant memory. heeseung literally had no space to himself. everything was a group activity.

however, not seeing you for months was the worst, most agonizing part of it all. who would want to be away from their girlfriend for nearly half the year, and then the longest time they'd get to be with her was 2 weeks? sure you guys made it work, but that didn't make it any less torturous.

at the end of the day, when the arenas went empty and the stage lights grew dark, heeseung was a male with hormones. a man who got horny, just like any other. nothing could fulfill his desires the way you did, he absolutely hated not being able to have sex for long periods of time.

of course there were quick and easy alternatives he could've ran to, but unlike his members who had numerous one night stands and groups of girls signing NDAs to give them a good time in their hotel rooms, heeseung didn't care to fuck anyone who wasn't you. sex to him was intimate, an expression of his passion and devotion that he only took pleasure sharing with one person.

one person he was deeply in love with, which is you.

it was hell on earth having to bust a painfully quiet nut while his members slept in the same room as him, or having to sneak away and jerk off in the bathrooms. even in heeseung's sleep, his filth lived in his fantasies past his eyelids, it's all he could dream about.

sex, sex, and more sex.

every part of you—your lips, your voice, your scent, your body, your touch. it was like a drug to him, and your absence gave him the most excruciating withdrawal. he couldn't wait for the tour to end so he could finally be with you, even if it was just for a little.

he was sick and tired of cumming in his palm.

backstage, heeseung sat criss-cross applesauce on a chair, fidgeting anxiously and taking deep breaths to try to calm himself down. enhypen had just finished their last show in japan which he was more happy about, but the whole day thoughts of you ate at his brain like acid. his erection would not go down for the life of it, no matter how hard he tried.

he did push ups, played mobile games to try and distract himself, but nothing was working. he was so fucking horny that he couldn't think straight, and his body language spoke louder than words.

the more he fed the thought, the more he realized there was one thing he could do. heeseung kept an entire folder in his phone, loaded with your explicit photos & videos for when he desperately needed to get off. you are the only thing that made him incredibly hard, and the only thing that led him to actually finish. he had no interest in porn, it needed to be to you.

he was helpless and desperate, discreetly covering the unsettling sensitivity in his lap. his heart raced rapidly and he felt like all eyes were on him, focusing on the hardening feeling that he longed to ease. after what felt like hours of contemplation, he decided to surrender to it and text you, knowing you were the only person who could fix this.

maybe he could get something new from you to use, and hopefully find a place to use it.

hello lovebug

he texted you, the ding of your phone striking you confused as you applied soap onto your back. you rinsed off your hand and reached out of the shower curtain for your phone to see who it was.

no other than your boyfriend, of course.

oh hey, you're done for the day?

heeseung sat eagerly waiting for your response, his eyes glued to the screen. when your message came through quickly, he let out a sigh of relief, happy that the wait wasn't long.

thank fucking goodness i am😂

are you busy rn tho baby?

the bubbles indicating typing appeared, and after a few seconds your messages sent.

😂hope it went well

and kind of, in the shower

a sly smile spread across heeseung's face, flashbacks of your naked body gleaming with water running through his mind from when you last showered together.

oh wow

can you do me a favor?

his teeth sunk into his bottom lip as he waited in anticipation.

sure what's up

you didn't even have a chance to place your phone back down before you heard another ding, he was replying unusually fast.

can you make me a video while you're in there?

your eyes widened at his text, a mix of surprise and intrigue coming over you at his request.

omg

ok, but what kind? lol

heeseung chewed his inner cheek at your question, thinking of what to say back. he knew exactly what he wanted to see, he just didn't want to come across as... obnoxious.

anything baby

just something to cum to, if that's okay with you?

typical heeseung, always asking for nudes. you didn't mind giving him what he wanted though, it gave you a sense of empowerment and validation to be able to fulfill his need for you with just the simple sight of your body.

you grabbed some more shower gel and squeezed a generous amount of the fruity substance onto your chest, rubbing the suds to create a lather. you posed as you took selfies with your tits in the frame, recording a couple clips for him seductively massaging your bubbly boobs, showing different angles to flaunt your soapy body. after picking the best ones, you pressed send and resumed your shower.

Attatchments: 5 Images, 2 Videos

enjoyyyyy😘😘😘

heeseung felt his phone buzz twice on his thigh as he impatiently shook it on the chair, sending a wave of butterflies straight to his tummy. he scanned his surroundings, and thankfully everyone was busy having their own conversations and doing their own things. but just to surely make sure nobody was looking, he covered the side of his phone screen with his hand as he opened your messages.

damn.

his face lit up at how much you'd spoiled him, gawking at your pretty face complimented by your wet hair, and your plump boobs covered in bubbles. he looked like a dumb dog, his eyes stuck and his lips parted, almost drooling as he watched how your hand fondled your tits.

you're so sexy

i wish i could fuck you right now

he could feel his face getting hot, his palms growing warm and sweaty. his dick pulsed in his pants, he needed to find somewhere to be alone, and soon. otherwise, he was going to cum in his pants.

"hyung, are you okay?" jake asked as he came up from behind, noticing the red flushing of his friend's cheeks and the jittering of his thigh.

heeseung flinched dramatically, nearly dropping his phone on the ground in the process. he quickly shut his phone off and placed it face down on the table, hoping to God that jake hadn't been standing there for long,

"you seem extra tense today," he teased, placing a hand on his elder's shoulder. "your cheeks are as red as a tomato."

"do not fucking touch me," heeseung hissed, removing jake's hand off his shoulder. he released the tension in his body by cracking his neck on both sides, then his knuckles one by one.

"sheesh. somebody needs their dick sucked.." jake joked, bursting into laughter at heeseung's uptight behavior.

well, he wasn't wrong. that's exactly what heeseung needed, actually.

"oh yeah, you wouldn't believe what happened to me earlier," jake exclaimed, his voice full of enthusiasm. "these two girls were hanging out in the lobby, and they would not leave me alone! until i let them give me a 2 for 1 special, if you know what i mean," he elbowed heeseung, a playful grin on his face. "never came so fast in my life. one was twisting with her hand, while the other was sucki—"

"will you shhhhh!" heeseung silenced jake, placing his hand over his mouth. he wanted to gag, he was disgusted by the thought of rotating between multiple girls for pleasure. "im on the phone with my mom, you freak," he quickly came up with a lie, removing his hand from jake's mouth. "do you know somewhere i could take the call, privately?"

jake chuckled, because obviously he wasn't a fucking dumbass. heeseung was the freak here.

"there should be an empty dressing room a few doors down from here. it's down the hall, the third silver door on the left," he said, pointing in the direction of the exit. "hope you and mom have fun," jake shot a wink, before scurrying off to continue flirting with backup dancers.

gosh, what a freak.

heeseung sighed in relief once jake left, thankful that his lie cut the conversation short. it was suffocating having to interact with anyone when thoughts of you would corrupt his mind, especially with someone as oversharing as jake. he got up from his chair and made his way out of the backstage area, squeezing between cameramen and staff, reciting the directions jake gave him in his head.

back at home, you finally finished your shower and skincare, moisturizing your body with butters to seal your routine. you threw on some pink lace panties and a soft silk robe heeseung bought you not too long ago and you entered the room you and heeseung shared, lighting a few vanilla-scented candles, casting a warm glow across the room and adding a gentle fragrance to the air. with the lights dimmed, you yawned in fatigue as you made your way to your queen-sized bed, diving into its cozy embrace. 

even with the room clean and your body refreshed from your shower, you couldn't shake the emptiness you felt without heeseung's presence. you missed the nights he would come to bed and shower your neck with kisses, how he'd hug you tight from behind until you fell asleep. your eyes fixated on his empty side of the bed, a pang of loneliness striking your chest. you moved closer to his pillows and clutched them tightly, as if they could somehow fill the void he left behind.

meanwhile, halfway across the globe, heeseung stood outside what he believed to be the place jake recommended. he frowned as he examined the blank door in front of him, how weird that it had no label, and not even a handle. but it was in fact, the only 'third silver door on the left'. with uncertainty he pushed it open, quietly creeping in and letting it close behind him.

empty dressing room? way to lie to a lie, jake.

heeseung stumbled through the crowded darkness, blindly swatting away at hangers of clothes as they grazed his face. he hugged his body with his sleeveless arms as the AC blasted painfully cold air, and to make his matters worse, there was no light switch. well, at least to his knowledge after feeling around for one. this was clearly not a dressing room, more like an ... abandoned closet.

with the help of his phone's flashlight, heeseung managed to make his way to the very back, the area thankfully warmer behind a rack of performance costumes. he could not believe he'd sunken this low; going all this way to masturbate in such an ominous room like this. but at the same time, anything would be better than walking around with the sexual urge that plagued him all day.

he resigned himself to sitting on the floor, sighing as he sank against the wall. he unlocked his phone and went to your messages, his thumb hovering over the screen as he checked to see if you replied to any of his previous texts. 

he scoffed in a bummer, no text back.

heeseung's mind started to race with possible explanations; maybe you were just asleep. or maybe you were flat out ignoring him, he couldn't help but wonder if he had gone too far with his request for nudes. but his desire for you consumed him, heeseung ached to hear your voice and feel closer to you, even if it meant connecting purely through the phone.

to tell the truth, he'd been fantasizing about having phone sex with you for as long as he could remember. he always craved the idea; how good it would feel to listen to you touch yourself while he did the same, how pretty you'd moan for him, how it wouldn't take long to make each other cum. he thought it was the least you two could do with the distance, he just never knew how to ask.

the need coursing through his body was intense, the only chance he'd have to make his fantasy a reality was now, alone in this closet. who knew how it was ever going to go, but it was worth a try. he began texting you again, in hopes of fast replies like before.

you were lying in bed on twitter, how coincidental that you were searching for a new fancam of heeseung, unaware that you had him on delivered. his flurry of new notifications put an end to your scrolling, literally making you freeze in place.

hey

are you still up baby?

please call me if you are

your heart began to pound out of your chest, your pupils dilating at the words "call me". it'd been roughly a month since you were able to, due to heeseung's hectic schedule and all the time zone differences. at least at the start of his career you two were able to text and facetime throughout the day, he even fell asleep on the phone with you every night. but now that enhypen's popularity was increasing rapidly, you and heeseung barely had any time to talk consistently.

like, ever.

after multiple sets of deep breaths and practicing how cutely you'd speak, you clicked his contact and looked away as you pressed call. you couldn't bear to look at the screen as the phone rang for what felt like eternity, your stomach cartwheeling as you waited for him to answer.

heeseung sat in the dark, his phone serving as his only source of light as he looked through his collection of you, trying to find whatever would help him get off the best. suddenly, his screen flashed and he squinted as it abruptly brightened up his face, following his loud ringtone.

shit, it was you.

with no hesitation, heeseung swiftly swiped the green button to answer, bringing the phone to his ear. he cleared his throat as the call began, with the biggest smile on his face.

"hey, baby," heeseung greeted you.

that sweet word, baby. it was like a warm hug and a loving kiss intertwined into one, it made your insides melt every time. "hello mr. celebrity," you playfully said back into the phone, curled up on his side of the bed. "what are you up to?"

heeseung laughed at your playfulness, your honeyed voice immediately sedating him. he'd missed it terribly. "nothing much, i've just been thinking about you. nothing new, right?"

he sounded so gentle and velvety, making you more shy than usual. to be fair that's how heeseung always made you feel, everything with him gave you first time nerves. "i've been thinking about you too, babe," you confessed.

"how are you feeling?" he asked you, his speech smooth. "it's late over there, isn't it? did you eat dinner yet?"

you sighed. "well i guess i'm okay, you know. just waiting for you to come home." you couldn't help your uncontrollable smile, you felt like a middle school girl on the phone with her crush. "and i had a chicken cesar salad for dinner, with a strawberry-banana smoothie."

"ahh. that's good baby, sounds yummy. we had really good catering today, i thought you would've liked it," heeseung happily shared with a smile. no matter where he was, there was always something that made him think of you, in some way shape or form. "i really wish you could've been here with me, y/n. all i am without you is stressed."

you pouted, also sad that you had to stay home. the plan was for you to come along with him, but the company didn't want to risk heeseung's personal life getting leaked to the public. you spoke back, "well, i'd imagine all the dancing you do helps relieve some of that stress? no?"

heeseung rotated his neck that was sore from performing, placing his hand on the nape of it. "well yes, but no... not enough." you could hear the distress in his voice as it rasped. "honestly, i'm feeling a bit crazy right now." 

dear God above please forgive me, you mentally implored as arousal began coiling within you. and how terrible, heeseung was simply just expressing himself. but damn did he sound good, his voice was deliciously hoarse. something about him sounded so captivatingly different, you just couldn't put your finger on it. whatever it was, you can't lie.. it had you squeezing your thighs together.

you spaced out as he kept talking, staring at the spinning ceiling fan above you. the line soon went silent thanks to your trance, causing heeseung to worry. "um, y/n... h–hello?"

"oh! im sorry," you quickly apologized, coming back to reality. you took your phone off your ear and put him on speaker mode, sitting more upright against the headboard of your bed. "im here, babe. you just... you sound really good."

heeseung smiled to himself, taking great pride in your compliment. "you like how i sound, huh?"

"mhm," you hum in agreement. "i missed your voice."

"i miss you, just.. everything about you." he sounded low and sultry, sending a chill down your spine. "i really wish i could touch you right now."

the corners of your lips curved into a smile at the thought of heeseung's perfect hands, how big they were compared to everything on your body. you missed his touch so badly. "i miss you so much more," you replied, filled with longing. "wish you could touch me too."

those words were just what heeseung wanted to hear, and he was trying so hard to not unzip his jeans and jerk off while you talked. he desperately wanted to tell you how hard you were making him, how bad he wanted to cum, how bad he wanted to listen to you fuck your fingers on the line. but he knew that needed to ease into it gradually, like a gentleman.

heeseung moved his hand underneath his sleeveless top to smooth it over his lower stomach, trying to relax. "you're in bed, right? what are you wearing?" he asked, hoping it was little to nothing.

it caught you off guard, wondering what he could possibly do with that information. "yeah, oh, uhhh... one of the robes you sent me for my birthday," you tell him, your fingers idly playing with the string of your robe.

"oh," he raised a brow, picturing your bare body in the silk. "so, nothing else? just the robe, baby?"

"well, if you're not counting underwear, then i guess.." you nonchalantly replied, looking at your nails.

"mmm, i really like that." heeseung bit his lip, thinking of all the pretty undergarments you'd wear to bed. the lace, cheeky underwear that you'd wear turned him on so much, he always insisted you kept them on while he fucked you. "they're pink, aren't they? your panties, i mean."

"mhmm, they are," you responded with a big smile, as he was surprisingly right. "wow, you know me so well."

"i do, don't i," he smirked. but his cocky smile deliberately faded as he remembered where he was, and how he didn't have much time. he had to get this whole thing over with before someone went looking for him, and found him. "i need to tell you something, baby. it's been on my mind for a while." 

"oh, um..." the suspenseful tone in his words scared you. it felt dramatic, like he was about to break up with you or something. "well go on, please." 

"well, there's really no other way to say this, so." heeseung began, his voice deepening lower than before. "i really miss having sex with you, y/n." he continued, little more confidence in his voice, "since we won't be able to see each other for a while, i was wondering if you'd be interested in trying something."

phew. why the hell was that so hard? he felt like a bulldozer had been lifted off his body.

the way heeseung spoke was rich and penetrating, his voice sending a pulsing feeling to your core, making you clench around nothing. "oh i—i miss it too," you agreed shyly, nearly spacing out again. your mind was flooding with the filthiest flashbacks of those unforgettable, sinful nights of that only the two of you knew about. "what did you want to try?" you asked him with a curious tilt of your head.

heeseung took a deep breath, hoping you'd welcome his proposal. "phone sex," he cleared his throat. "... what do you think of the idea?"

fuck he sounded so hot, goodness gracious. God help you again.

you didn't expect heeseung to ask you something like that, considering the fact that he'd never done anything like that in front of you before. yes, you guys had sex, and he clearly used his hand when he needed to. but you'd never self pleasured together before.

finally, you managed to find your voice after a long pause, your words coming out in a soft, shaky tone. "you... you want to try having it?" you asked, your fingers tracing the contour of your thigh to ease your nerves.

"i do, but what about you, baby? would you like to?" heeseung waited patiently, praying in his mind that you'd say yes. the denim of his jeans brutally outlined the shape of his cock, it was begging to be freed from his boxers.

"to be honest, im not sure how well i can do it," you vulnerably admitted. "it might not be as good as you're hoping for."

but the throbbing between your legs grew stronger as you considered his offer, your mind racing with indecision. heeseung clearly really wanted to try, and it couldn't hurt to experiment a little. you took a deep breath, the thought of pleasuring him outweighing your uncertainty. "since it's for you, we can try."

heeseung was beyond thrilled that you agreed, more than happy. but he knew you more than anyone, and he felt concern at the slight hesitation he could sense. he wanted to make sure you truly felt comfortable, it was important to him for both of you to enjoy it.

"don't feel nervous, i'll be here to guide you through it. you can trust me, okay?" he gently assured you, soft but somehow authoritative. "if at any point you don't like it just tell me, and we can stop."

you smiled at heeseung's reassurance, the nervousness immediately leaving your body at his consideration. "you're so sweet. don't worry, i want to. i trust you," you assured him. "we can start now, if that's what you wanted."

heeseung let out a sigh of relief, feeling calm after hearing your affirmation. "great," he replied, the corners of his lips curling slightly. "give me one second."

he unzipped his tight-fitting jeans, feeling a sense of freedom at finally being able to relax. he reached for his aching cock out of his Calvin Klein boxers, groaning as it sprung straight up and slapped his stomach. his precum spilled from his pink, cut tip, he gulped down a thick swallow of air as he spread the leakage across the head with his thumb. "are you comfortable?"

"mhmm," you hummed, pulling the covers over your lower body, seeking warmth and privacy even though there was no one to hide from.

"close your eyes for me baby, i want you to imagine me there from now on. just trust me, it'll feel better with them closed." heeseung wrestled the impulse to jerk his impressive length that stood proud in his lap, but he wanted to get you going first. "are they closed yet?" he asked you, closing his own.

you closed your eyes, the darkness making his voice seem even more seductive. "mhm, they're closed."

heeseung's breath hitched slightly at the sound of your compliance. "good, baby. i want you to focus on my voice, nothing else matters. okay?"

"okay," you tell him, your heart racing faster now, the intimacy of the moment heightened by your inability to see.

"touch your body for me," heeseung muttered huskily, authority in his voice. "you know where to touch first, right baby?"

"mhm, i think so." you gasped as you slipped your hands inside the silky fabric of your robe, your fingers trailing gently along the sensitive skin of your neck before moving to run along your collarbones, then downwards to gently caress your bare chest.

"where are you touching, love?" he sweetly asked.

"my tits," you responded, massaging your tender breasts and playing with your hardened nipples between your fingers.

"mmm, good girl. spread your legs for me," he lowly instructed, spitting a long glob of saliva onto his cock and smoothing it around the length as he felt it drip down, giving the shaft a firm hold with his fist. "move your hand to where you want me to touch you, baby."

your body responded to his commands like a puppet on a string, unable to resist his allure. you were on your back, slightly propped up by pillows as you opened your legs, wandering your hand down to land between your thighs. "okay, i did," you quietly replied.

"you want to touch it so bad, don't you baby?" heeseung taunted you, his teasing revealing your own longing to touch your sensitive flesh through the fabric. "wanna play with your pussy so bad for me."

"yes please," you begged him. "please let me."

"you can baby, you can touch for me." heeseung granted you permission, and he could already hear a change in your breathing, it became shaky within seconds.

you rubbed your covered pussy, pressing down right where your clit was swelling. your folds left a big puddle on the thin material, your underwear entirely soaked, absorbing all of your arousal. "heeseung," you softly moaned his name as you groped your wetness, "my panties, they're ruined."

heeseung threw his head back against the wall, the thought of your pussy being so wet that it seeped through your panties made his cock grow painfully harder, harder than it already was. it pulsed violently, throbbing as it cried to be stroked up and down. "you wanna be a good girl and touch your pussy for me?" he asked, his voice deep and saturated with his need to touch himself.

your voice cracked as you answered, "yes, want to touch so bad."

heeseung could cum off of how sweet and submissive you sounded right now alone. "go ahead and touch baby, tell me what you feel."

you slid your fingers underneath the damp fabric and massaged the surface of your folds, your stickiness glazing your fingertips. "im wet, i'm really wet."

"that's perfect, baby." his tongue darted out to wet his lips, visualizing running the head of his cock between the wet lips of your pussy. "touch your clit and play with it."

your body twitched as you began to toy at your sensitive bundle of nerves, teasing yourself like heeseung would with his perfect fingers. you took deep, trembling breaths against the mic of your phone, turning heeseung on so much on the other side.

he let out a sharp moan as he finally glided his hand up and down his wet dick, applying immense pressure to his sensitive tip. he didn't need lube, his precum and saliva were just enough. "can you hear it, baby? stroking my cock for you, just for you." he grunted, lowering his phone and bringing the mic near his hands, allowing you to hear every wet, sloppy sound of the friction.

you whined, rubbing delicate circles on your clit as you listened to the slipperiness of his cock. "shhh...it. f-fuck," your teeth sunk down on your bottom lip, in slight shame of cursing.

heeseung's fist rhythmically twisted around his cock, his chest rising and falling heavily with each lubricious stroke. his thigh muscles spasmed at the heavenly, warm sensation from his hand, his toes tingling in his shoes. it felt so fucking good to finally be able to jerk off. but still, nothing compared to how you felt. "put your fingers in your fucking pussy." he demanded it of you, more than ready to hear it.

with your imagination fixated on the thought of heeseung's cock in place of your fingers, you carefully teased your tight entrance, sticky and slick from how bad you wished he was home to fuck you. you hissed as you pushed one in, then another, deeply past your tight walls.

your soft moans let him know that your fingers were inside of you, and heeseung smiled to himself at your obedience. "i need you to talk to me, baby. does it feel good? feel good to finger your pussy for me?"

"feels s-so good," you trembled, spreading your legs further apart as you gradually slid your fingers in and out of your hole. your mouth hung open at the immense pleasure, it was blissful to finally have something penetrating you after so long—you hadn't touched yourself since he left for tour.

heeseung routinely licked his lips as he steadily stroked his cock, your whines and whimpers into the phone bringing him a different type of contentment. he wanted to hear more, he wanted to feel like he was there making you feel good. "moan for me some more, baby."

just the sound of his voice alone guiding you was stimulating, it was hypnotizing. you were completely under his spell, and in your current state, there was nothing you wouldn't do if he asked. you pumped your 2 fingers deeper, moving them in and out of your tightness with care as you let yourself get louder. "miss you, miss the way you fuck me," you whined, trying your best to sound as pornographic for him as possible. "im ... so tight," you squealed, searching and exploring for that sweet spot that he always reached.

"yeah?" heeseung jerked himself off with a more firm grip around his girth, attempting to mimic the tightness of your wet cunt. "tell me, tell me how tight you are for me."

"im so wet, and tight for you," you shakily moaned into the mic as you fingered your pussy, the squelching driving him crazy. "just for you, hee." you switched back and forth between fingering yourself and massaging your tits for more simulation, taking your fingers and spreading the wetness on your nipples, then fucking them back into your pussy.

"such a good girl. keep playing with your pussy for me baby, just like that." heeseung praised you as his adam's apple moved up and down in his throat, breathlessly talking you through your pleasure.

he took his lower lip between his teeth and sucked on it, his breathing growing increasingly heavier. his right hand weakly held his phone against his ear to hear you whilst he thrusted his hips upwards, fueling his desperate grinding into his left hand. he was still a little paranoid about someone coming in and busting him for doing something so immoral, so nasty, but he wanted to vocally please you the best he could. so, he didn't back any sound that came from his throat.

you could hear the ruffling of heeseung fucking up into his hand, it was so intense that you could've sworn you started to feel it. the vulgar profanity that left his lips made your pussy so wet and slick, you completely melted into the mattress at the sound of his filth against your ear.

you couldn't believe how quickly the phone call had changed within a matter of just 7 minutes, here you were playing your pussy on the phone while heeseung moaned like his life depended on it.

you physically couldn't stop, and neither could he on the other side. heeseung relished his salacious fantasy, his mind entirely fogged with lust for you. he never wanted it to end, because you sounded so good. it made his cock so fucking hard, how he was the only one who got to hear you this way; so cute, whiney and breathless, so desperate for him without his touch.

"oh my g—fuck me," you moaned, pumping your fingers faster into yourself. "you're gonna make me cum," you quivered as you pleaded for him, cream dripping from your hole and wetting your sheets.

heeseung let another warm pool of drool fall from his mouth onto his dick, reminiscing how moist and warm you felt in his head, his wet hand picking up the pace. he could feel it in his stomach; he was going to explode if he kept stroking himself at this speed. as torturous as it felt, he slowed down his hand's movements, choking on air as he occasionally let go of his cock to edge it and reserve the buildup.

you tortured your clit with the tips of your creamy fingers, the pleasure becoming so overwhelming that a tear rolled down your cheek. "hee, i-i'm gonna cum," you faintly whimpered, your clit starting to feel too sensitive to touch.

"cumming already, baby?" he let out a stifled moan, his primal desire for you to cum surging. "good girl, cum all over your fingers."

you'd never heard heeseung be this vocal, but you completely submerged in it, loving how careless and expressive he was being. it was a side of him you hadn't known before, and you couldn't get enough.

he mumbled profanity under his jagged breaths and begged you to cum for him, his fist fucking his hand with more force to the thought of being inside you. he could hear the speed of your fingers getting faster and faster, and all that mattered to him was that you were close to cumming—because he damn sure was.

heeseung panted, gripping himself tighter and stroking faster, so fast that his hand began to cramp. he furrowed his brows and his mouth fell wide, his nose scrunching as he felt his sweet release seconds away. "oh fuck... fuck y/n, i'm gonna cum, fuck! im—" his orgasm took over his entire body, spurts of his hot semen oozing out of his tip and dripping down his length, making a thick white mess all over his hand. he moaned in ecstasy as his cock relentlessly leaked, his abs clenching as his seed spilled onto his jeans.

it was disgusting.

you mouth salivated at the obscene sounds of heeseung reaching his peak of ecstasy, and it wasn't long before your own body succumbed to its own waves of pleasure, cumming with him at the same time. you shrieked as you uncontrollably squirted all over the bedsheets, leaving heeseung's side drenched with the liquids from your body. your legs shook violently and you could barely catch your breath, lost in the overtaking overstimulation.

heeseung was far from done, he absentmindedly pumped his cock in a slower, teasing rhythm, milking out his remaining ropes of cum to the sweet sounds of your climax. there was so much, it just kept coming and coming, and coming.

you knees so fell weak that you lost feeling in them. you gasped as you opened your eyes after seeing stars for so long, moaning with heeseung in unison as you both came down from your highs. you slowly removed your fingers out of your pussy, a string of milky wetness following as you brought them into your mouth, tasting the sinful mess you made.

"i j-just changed these sh-sheets," you stuttered as you caught your breath, still shaken from your orgasm. "i made such a mess."

heeseung also was still recovering from his intense release, his breathing heavy and rapid. he let out a long, satisfied sigh, his body relaxing and his cock falling soft as he basked in the afterglow of cumming so much. "let me see the mess you made, baby," he pleaded to see it, desperate for visual proof. "show me."

"you are so freaky," you jokingly snickered, a rasp in your voice from all of the high pitched moans that escaped your mouth. you snapped a picture of the icky mess of cum between your legs and sent it to him, closing and tying your robe back up after.

heeseung's jaw clenched as he opened the photo, his doe eyes round with awe. "woah... that's so hot." he couldn't help but run his tongue over his lips at your downward pov, the sight of the white, creamy essence on your pretty pussy making his cock twitch, despite it falling back tender. his mind raced with thoughts of you and what the two of you had just done together. "i really missed hearing you like that, you're so cute."

"oh stop," you blushed, your heart swelling with affection for him. it was reassuring to hear that he enjoyed how you sounded, you felt a bit better about your performance. "it wouldn't have been possible without you, though."

heeseung chuckled softly, a cocky grin gracing his features. hearing that from you gave him an ego boost. "it felt good, didn't it baby?" he asked, hoping you enjoyed it as much as he did. though he knew you did, there was no way you faked those noises.

"mhm, it felt really good, thanks to you." you nodded with a smile, reminiscing about it already. "i'm glad i tried something new with you."

he grabbed his softened cock that was still hot and sticky, putting it back into his boxers and zipping his jeans back up. "im glad i could help you, thank you for helping me." he mellowly replied, playing with the goopy aftermath of his own release between his fingers. "there's so much i want to do to you, baby. when i get back we'll make up for lost time, yeah?"

"yeah," you softly tell him, getting aroused all over again. you put your finger between your lips, gently nippling on it with your front teeth. a shiver ran down your spine, knowing full well how things tended to get when there was a gap of time in between seeing each other. you didn't know how much longer you could wait. you needed heeseung, you needed the real thing, your fingers could only go so far.

"okay, i have to go now. it's time for you to get some sleep anyways," heeseung said gently as he stood up from the closet floor, shivering from the pins and needles sensation in his legs from his seated climax. "i'll give you a call tomorrow. alright?"

you couldn't help but feel sad that he had to go, you wished he could stay on the phone forever. "okay," you doubtfully sighed, "i hope you know that i don't believe you."

heeseung chuckled into the phone, shaking his head at your insistence. "why? i will call you, you'll see."

you weren't completely reassured, your doubts still lingering. "you promise?"

heeseung's voice softened, his tone earnest. "i promise, baby."

"pinky promise?" you ask him, your voice getting sweeter.

"pinky, pinky, promise." he echoed into the speaker, making you giggle. "double pinky promise. now do you believe me?"

"you pinky promised, so i'll be waiting on it," you smiled, satisfied with his assurance. "goodnight, heeseung."

heeseung's heart wrenched at your words of goodbye. he missed you already, and he too didn't want to go, but he knew had to get back to where he was supposed to be. "goodnight baby, i love you."

"aww. i love you too bubbabear," you say back. "so much."

"but not more than i love you," heeseung's voice turned childish, "never ever."

you got out of bed, still damp between your legs, and the sheets beneath you soaking with your evidence of pleasure. "okay, you can hang up now."

"no, you hang up."

"no you hang up," you spat back.

"no, im not hanging up," heeseung argued with playful defiance, "so you can go ahead, hang up."

"whatever," you rolled your eyes, "just hang up."

"no, you."

"no, you."

heeseung laughed, he knew you'd go back and forth forever if you had the chance. "fine, i'll hang up. but only because i love you."

"oh but that sounds... manipulative?" you replied with sarcasm, "i love you too, by the way."

"sweet dreams," he wished you, before blowing a kiss into the mic. "give me a kiss back, baby," he cutely asked, waiting for you to reciprocate it. "kiss me through the phone."

"gosh, you are so corny," you complained, knowing you'll do it anyway. "wait! let's do it at the same time," you suggest.

"even better," heeseung agreed, full of excitement. "on three."

you counted to three together, both of you bringing your lips to the phone and kissing it, making a long mwah sound.

"aww, i love you," you gush at him one last time.

"you're so cute. i love you more," heeseung sweetly replied, before cutting the line.

𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖽♡₊˚ 🎀・₊✧

♡ྀི hello my beautiful followers, its literally been a year since my last post, i'm terrified😅i feel like i lost my writer's spark but if this does well, i have plenty of filth in my drafts waiting to be posted!😟

[lucyandthepen]

sweet cream, cold brew | lmh ( m )

something about mark lee keeps you up at night, and you’re pretty sure that it isn’t the lingering smell of espresso on his shirt.

alternatively: mark is shy until he isn’t.

read the second part here!

pairing: nerd!barista!mark x reader verse: college au rating: r ( minors, do not interact! ) warnings&tags: unprotected sex, oral (f!receiving), fingering, slightly possessive/jealous dialogue, mark has a thing for tummy bulges because why not, implicitly that also means he has a big dick, a slight???? exhibitionism kink (not actually something that happens, only talked about), johnny exists in this simply to trigger something vaguely feral in mark, reader is a little bit assertive and schemes to get mark's attention, jaehyun is a nosy lil eavesdropper, i think that should be it?? word count: 26.4k

a/n: hello so this was a mess and honestly not a fic i would say showcases my best plot-wise but… what can I say apart from booty wurk mark has me in a chokehold and I needed to release some thoughts and feelings !!! please do not expect too much from the development of the story; i fear it’s quite long and choppy because my ideas were all over the place and i was wringing my hands and brain constantly and i was eager to get to the spicy parts !! this is also not beta’d/proofread, it’s currently almost 1am, and i’ve been writing this on and off for a full week with very few breaks so it honestly felt like a fever dream for me LMAO please forgive any oversights and mistakes; i’ll try to go back on them another day and fix them little by little! finally and …most importantly belated happy birthday, my beloved morkly!

p.s. this will probably be flagged as ‘mature’ by tumblr, which means there’s a high likelihood it won’t appear in tags or searches. please consider reblogging to boost the fic, if you feel so inclined!

You’ve heard tell of how caffeine has inherently addictive properties. 

The more of it you have in your lifetime, the more likely you are to experience symptoms of withdrawal whenever you try to have orange juice for breakfast in its stead. It sounds bad, actually, considering most addictive substances are, but you suppose that its benefits somehow outweigh its milder drawbacks. You’re not much of a coffee connoisseur the way some people — see: your best friends, Yeji and Jisu — are, trying one cafe after the other in pursuit of being able to nominate the winning beans of 2023 (an annual heated debate they participate in for no better reason than their own slow and useless entertainment during their six-hour long breaks), but you do know you’ve only ever experienced good things from having a cup every so often: better energy, a more focused approach to mental activities, and the ability to drive through fifty percent of a road trip without needing pop punk music blasting out of your speakers to keep yourself alert. 

The three of you are generally particular about the coffee you drink, only in different ways. While your friends have a tendency to demand only the best from any establishment — lest the staff hear fiery commentary about the flatness of the brew or the evident coarseness of the grind — you, on the other hand, are a singular individual of rather simple tastes. All you need to survive long days is a glass of vanilla sweet cream cold brew. No modifications to the sugar level or fancy new milk types are necessary; you’ll drink it as it’s served in a grande cup (or a venti, when things prove particularly grueling). 

Of course, you’re strict about other things in the experience of consumption —  like where it’s served and, more importantly, who serves it to you. 

While Yeji and Jisu have rated the Liberal Arts building’s on-campus Starbucks branch as a five with the strict label of POEO — ‘passable on emergencies only’ — branding the menu as “nothing revolutionary” and criticizing most baristas for subpar brewery, you happen to be extremely drawn to the place. Initially, you may have argued that this has to do with the fact that it’s walking distance from most of your classes, confined to the same general compound on campus, so you can always grab a quick recharger whenever needed, no matter how short the timeframe to do so is. Sometime later on, you may have found yourself asserting that the layout of the cafe, albeit small, is very convenient, considering that every table is situated next to an electrical outlet, so you’re never out of battery (important to other students for their laptops and powerpoint presentations, important to you because you have an unhealthy obsession with passing time on TikTok, scrolling past video after video of ASMR girls clicking their twenty-inch long acrylics with their crazy candyland designs), and this makes you feel at ease. 

A month ago, you finally came clean to yourself and, soon after, to your friends, and they came to understand, albeit begrudgingly and with no small amount of amusement, what made this Starbucks unbeatable in your eyes; it had one thing no other coffee shop could lay claim to.

What you know of Mark Lee is accrued from two major sources: long, surreptitious glances in the Modern World History class you share, and irritatingly brief interactions when you place your order from the other side of the counter behind which he stands, long fingers always poised to punch in your order at the speed of light. Sometimes, those encounters get cut even shorter when irate upperclassmen start prattling their orders out before you can even say anything past your own, except even this has its own consolation prize — an apologetic smile at you that seems only for you, although you’re not sure how much of this assumption is true. You’ll just believe it as you feel it. 

And what you’ve learned about Mark Lee has funneled down into two key points for you: first, he is single, a fact you were clued into when a group of his friends came to the coffee shop and sat around the table next to you. You hadn’t been eavesdropping; they’d just been pretty loud, but you’d also perked your ears the moment the one everyone seemed to call “Hyuck” — you aren’t sure if it’s his full name or a nickname, and you don’t particularly care — had leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper about having a vague master plan to set Mark up with an old high school friend’s younger sister that he was just waiting to spring on said Mark, busy slaving away on their six impossible orders near the espresso machine. 

You don’t really know what became of that plan, nor if anyone had telepathically been on your side to outright call it crazy (someone should have had a better reason than you, anyway) since the next moment, Hyuck’s voice becomes significantly louder when it orders the one named Jisung to collect the completed coffee and snacks waiting for them on the counter. However, you feel safe in the assumption that even if it had happened, no repercussions had followed, seeing as Mark still presently comes and goes from his shifts alone and in no clear hurry to meet any cute girls that are sisters of high school friends of his friends. Or, maybe you’re just ignoring what could be truth, but that’s whatever. 

Second, you’ve learned that Mark Lee should not actually be your type — at least, in theory. 

Saying you’re out of his league would be a bit juvenile, but if you had only so many words to describe the situation, you’d say so under duress. It isn’t so much that he’s beneath you in any way, but your interests and general social circles run different routes. Yours tend to be more classically patterned after constantly changing trends, and the people you interact with all seem to have similar goals; you like to call it ‘vibe networking,’ which, from experience, involves connecting with both groups and individuals that are equally aware that they will benefit in some way from any resulting acquaintanceship — whether it be by climbing the social ladder a couple of rungs or being able to call in a quick, off-the-charts favor for something very important and/or very exclusive down the road. You and your friends spend a significant amount of time in a year watching your style and image, something quite a lot of kids in the first couple of years of college tend to do, which means that while you don’t particularly like to spend your time following your grade trajectory, you do have quite a lot of pseudo-friends that all seem to offer something entertaining or helpful to you. 

Mark, on the contrast, prefers to keep his circle very close to his heart, it seems — that which acts as a receptacle for all his interests. You can tell that he likes to be up to date less with trending movies and more with comic books, a separate beast of a world that’s rather unknown to you. More than once, you’ve overheard him chat with his friends about Spider-man Issue Number Whatever-It-Is or engage in somewhat lively (sometimes rowdy, thanks to the Hyuck fellow) discussions about some webtoon you’ve come to understand is called Solo Leveling, which seems to have to do with monsters and hunters — two things you know next to nothing about. You’ve also never seen Mark holding anything remotely close to a magazine; his hands are always filled with either a freshly opened comic or a beat-up textbook. Maybe once or twice, you’ve seen him on his phone, but when you peeked over (surreptitiously, of course) on those occasions, you were met only with brightly colored panels and a singular word: BAM. 

In conclusion — you and Mark Lee live very different lives, likely never truly meant to intersect. 

And yet, you want him — not even in a way that speaks only to your curiosity, but in a manner that feels slightly delusional. More than once, you’ve found yourself having to shut your jaw close after realizing you’ve been watching him steam milk with your mouth slightly agape. Maybe it’s his side profile, which gives you a great view of the way his jaw tenses every time he puts whipped cream on someone’s frappuccino. Maybe it’s his eyes, which always seem to twinkle like he’s harboring some special secret every time someone in line asks for his recommendation on how to spice their order up. Maybe it’s his hands, steady and agile, with just the right showing of veins through the skin to tell you they’ve probably got significant strength to them too. Or maybe it’s just his mind — that thing he always manages to show off in class, working faster than lightning even when the rest of you are in your natural eight-in-the-morning stupor.

Whatever the reason for your interest, Mark Lee makes sure the Liberal Arts building’s Starbucks has you as a regular customer. 

You’re fully aware that this is the twenty-first century, which is why you could, as Yeji and Jisu have so kindly made known, simply ask him out. Under normal circumstances, you would have.

Unfortunately, in this particular area of your life, separate from all others, you’re something of a traditionalist. 

Actually, you just want to know what Mark asking you out would look like. Curiosity has fully gotten the better of you — how can it not, with how he breaks eye contact with you the moment it happens by accident in class, or with how pleasantly and shyly he smiles when you say ‘hey’ to him once you’re about to order? You’d like to see, first-hand, as a recipient of the experience itself, what he would look like taking control of a particular situation like that — something someone like him, so mild-mannered and laid-back, never really seemed to do upfront. 

You’d like to think you’ve given him clear signs. There’s a reason you always come in during his shift times, and it’s the same reason for why you have the same damn drink from the menu over and over again despite not even caring too much about coffee in the first place (something he admittedly doesn’t know and probably wouldn’t puzzle out, given how often you’re in that Starbucks, anyway). It’s that you want him to remember you.

Selfishly, it’s that you want him to think just a little bit more about you every single day. 

But if he does, Mark has never made it very clearly known; apart from taking your order in his genial customer service demeanor or letting a look of brief recognition pass his face over when you cross paths in the hallways, he’s never really shown heightened inquisitiveness about you. For all your differences, only you seem to actually care.

Frankly, that frustrates you, because if you have to think about him unhealthily, it would only be right for him to do that for your sake too. Still, you’ll shrug that hit on your pride off for as long as you can get his attention one way or another.

All you really need is for your plan to pan out as well as you think — and hope — it will. 

The thing is, you’re not even that bad at math. You’ve never really excelled at it, of course, but you wouldn’t go so far as to say you’re in dire need of help from anyone — the kind of help that feels like babysitting, at least.

However, Mark Lee doesn’t know that, and you’re not compelled to make that fact known to him when you notice that he’s leaning on the counter with his elbows, shoulders rolled forward and head bent down. He’s twirling his ballpoint in hand, wrist hovering over a worksheet, and you’re briefly distracted by the rapidly moving shadow underneath it.

His head snaps up when you gently knock on the counter, and the rest of his body follows suit, straightening as he shoves the paper away, one edge crumpling in on itself as it meets resistance in the form of the pastry display glass.

“Hey — hi, _________.” He knows your name, says it easily, and while you’d like to believe it’s because of his unprecedented interest in you, you know that it’s just because you’re always here and always having him write your name on the side of your cup. “Can I get you the usual?”

There’s no particular reason you order what you do; maybe it’s just rooted in the fact that when you first asked Mark for a recommendation, he said that the Vanilla Sweet Cream Cold Brew was pretty good, and you were inclined to believe him (while pointedly ignoring the fact that it was, at the time, a new item all of the baristas were required to push to indecisive, slightly moony-eyed customers such as yourself). Whatever the case, you found the drink generally palatable, and you were also able to score the first of many smiles that fed into your two-semester-long infatuation with him, so it was basically a win-win scenario for all. He even got to do his job by getting some rube (see: you) into trying a new product.

“Hey, Mark.” You’ve long since given up pretending that you don’t know his name and have to check the tag on his cute green apron (why is it cute? You don’t know. It’s the same, standard, Starbucks green, but Mark makes it look homely and natural, somehow). You’ve been here way too many times over the last academic year for a nonchalant, were you talking to me? approach to work, anyway. “That, plus a lemon loaf, if you don’t mind. What’ve you got there?”

His eyes follow the trail of yours over to his wrinkled worksheet. “Oh — no, sorry. It’s nothing.”

“Is it secret?” Your bottom lip juts out, and you see his Adam’s apple bob dangerously, a small telltale sign of minute nervousness before he lets out a short laugh. “Didn’t know we kept stuff from each other.”

You don’t know what makes you say that so naturally. The both of you don’t do much beyond exchanging pleasantries.

“We — uh, well, it’s just a worksheet. For Park Hyosung’s class. College algebra?”

“I’m in Kim Junghwa’s. Can I have a look? I want to know if you’re suffering just as much as I am.”

He pauses, considering your request for a moment, likely wondering if there’s any harm in it before he smooths the paper out and turns it towards you. His handwriting’s a little messy, but his solutions are extremely neat. You see, like, one erasure, max. You also don’t see anything that interests you — except the name written at the top. Still, you can see at a general glance that more than half of his answers are correct; the logic of his organization is way too elegant and his writing’s too sure to be anything else. You whistle low, and his eyebrows shoot up.

“Something wrong?”

“Pretty much the opposite. How is it that you’re doing this without breaking a sweat?”

“Oh, well — it’s not…” He doesn’t even know how to brag. Yet another item in the perpetually growing list of things you find cute about Mark Lee. “I mean, anyone… can?”

“I must not be anyone then.” You meet his quizzical look with a wry smile. “Either you guys are leaps and bounds ahead, or I’m really not going to make it through this semester.”

Another silence passes, just for a fraction of a second — short enough to be passable to others, but long enough for you to wonder if your humor code isn’t up to par with the rest of the world’s — before Mark’s chuckling lowly. His large palm comes down, covering a majority of his answers in the process.

“You’re kidding. I’m sure you’re doing just fine.”

“Mark, look at this face.” You gesture to your evidently dumbfounded, blank expression. “Does this look like the face of someone that’s doing just fine?”

You’re pleased to hear another laugh from him; you don’t know if he really finds you funny or if he’s just the type to be easily amused. You don’t want to know, anyway; assuming is better than actually finding out.

“That bad, huh?” He slides the worksheet away again, like he’s afraid his correct answers are going to offend you into leaving the cafe. Instead, his hands start working on your order, grabbing a cup and scrawling the shorthand of the drink on one of the little boxes. “Ever think about getting a tutor, maybe? If you really feel like you’re drowning, that is.”

“A tutor? I guess that depends. Are you free on weeknights?”

The marker makes a soft screeching sound as he drags it down with too much force, ruining the penmanship of your name. Mark takes a moment to stare at the mistake on the plastic before he looks at you, pointing the rim of the cup towards himself. “Sorry — am I free—?”

“You said I should get a tutor, right?”

“I thought — no, sorry, I was thinking more like one of those department-assigned tutors you can ask the faculty for, or something.”

“Oh. Are you not one of them?” You sigh, albeit a little over dramatically. Thankfully, he doesn’t really cotton onto your acting, too caught up in befuddlement at the turn of the conversation. “That’s a bummer. I was kinda hoping that if I was going to ask for help, I’d get an actual genius. You know — someone like you?”

You can tell by Mark’s expression that he’s torn between denying your compliment again and responding to your actual question; he looks both relieved and miffed when the student behind you clears her throat.

“Sorry, but— you know that there’s a line, right?”

You both apologize, Mark’s much more sincere than your own, and you step aside. His gaze follows you for a moment before it snaps back to the next customer, his voice abandoning that bemused uncertainty it had taken up with you. You don’t really mind; as far as you’re concerned, any dent in his barista persona when he talks to you is a step in the right direction.

You hang around the pick-up area, receipt in hand, watching Mark clear the line before moving to the actual stations near the kitchen area. There’s a concentration on his face that you find all the more attractive; he has a habit of chewing on his bottom lip when he’s trying to focus on getting the drizzle just right inside the cup’s cylinder.

He tends to try his best at everything, you figure. Not an unattractive quality — not by a long shot.

Mark finishes your drink first; the milk’s still only seeping, cloudy, into the coffee when he brings it over. He doesn’t even have to call your queue number, opting to meet your eye — albeit slightly nervously — instead. You reach out to hold the cup, a calculated move that allows you to brush hands against his without him being able to pull back on instinct. He doesn’t, nor does he really seem to want to, but his jaw tightens as a flush creeps along the curve of his ears.

“You really won’t help me?”

Your question’s abrupt, almost a little demanding, even if your voice is sweet. You’re not above asking this much, anyway, even if you technically want him to make the first move. The redness sinks down to his earlobes.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t really say anything,” you tease. The cup’s on the counter now, so he can easily relinquish it to you at this point, but he still hesitates, only one hand slipping out from under the heat of your palm. He uses it to rub the back of his neck, chuckling softly, and you take this as a green light. “What time does your shift end?”

“Five-thirty. You sure you wouldn’t want someone better?”

You pull your cup slowly to yourself, and his hand, still lightly trapped by your own, follows for a few inches before he’s withdrawing, the counter between the two of you forcing the distance. A smile follows the shaking of your head, and you take a small sip of the drink before you respond simply.

“There’s no one better than you.”

Mark is a prompt kind of person; you learn this when, at five-thirty, he comes over to your table, tugging his apron off over his head. Of course, you might attribute that to his overall personality, but the fact that you spend the remaining two hours of his shift casting him glances from the left side of the coffee shop might have also been a contributing factor. The looks you give him aren’t even furtive; they’re deliberately long, so you never miss whenever he looks over to you from time to time.

He doesn’t hold eye contact for very long (he does it well enough when he’s talking to customers, but it’s not like you’re ordering another cold brew from across the room at that point), but you can read snippets of his thoughts through the fleeting gaze exchanges. He’s curious as to why you’re asking for help, now, of all times, when the semester’s more than halfway over. He’s surprised that you asked him, of all people, because he just can’t conceive of a world that isn’t within a television show where this kind of abrupt, overt request makes sense. He’s flattered that you even asked him out of the blue. He’s equal parts anxious and eager to know what’s meant to happen after his shift, once he starts fulfilling your request.

Most of all, he’s unsure if he’s reading you right — if what it feels like you’re doing is something he’s attaching too deep a meaning to. If he’s right in reading your signs.

You don’t really mind it; you like knowing that Mark somehow wears his heart on his sleeve, even if he tries to remain neutral for the sake of appearances. You also bask quietly in the fact that he’s looking at you twice as much as he ever has in the time you’ve loosely known each other. Still, his bubbling confusion and inquisitiveness seem to be interfering with the rest of his work, especially when you notice that he’s been wiping down the surface of a table two down from where you are for more than seven minutes.

In the hopes of easing whatever tension might be in his heart, you offer him a small smile, but that’s only met with his eyes immediately glazing over and inching a couple of centimeters above your forehead, where the story of Starbucks’ origins is drawn out in a faux-manga style. He pretends to find it interesting, as if he hasn’t seen it a million times from coming into this establishment day after day — you know it well enough, and you don’t even have to, considering you don’t work here — and you can’t do anything but hold back your laughter.

A small part of you says you should just give him the affirmative answer to his biggest question, but every other cell in your body says that it’s no fun if he doesn’t ascertain it for himself.

He has his school bag and textbook in tow when he approaches, taking the seat across from you. There’s a steely resolution on his face, like he’s been emotionally preparing himself for such a daunting task, but it eases up the moment you laugh lightly.

“You don’t have to act like I’m going to eat you.”

“I’m still not sure why you’re suddenly asking me to help you,” he admits. He’s also very honest, you note. Again, not an unattractive trait. “I’m not complaining. I just didn’t think you even had an opinion of me.”

“Why’s that?” You’re genuinely surprised. Mark drums his fingers on the front of his textbook, thoughtful — less for the sake of thinking what to say and more for the sake of considering how to say it. It’s clear he wants to avoid calling attention to the fact that before now, you two have had no reason to run the same track, let alone sit together and talk at a coffee shop, as if you’ve always been the best of friends.

“Genuinely just thought I was the guy who gave you your afternoon coffee every day,” he finally settles. Your eyes widen, and another laugh escapes you — a little louder this time, enough to call the attention of a couple of jumpy freshmen nearby.

“Well — let me put it this way.” You lean over slightly, cupping your chin in your palm. “Was I just the girl you made coffee for every day until now?”

There are clear cogs turning in his head; his eyes unfocus slightly as he thinks of the possibilities. His silence suddenly makes you somewhat nervous; your tone had been confident, and you’d only said that to prove a point, to push him in the right direction, but you realize that you hadn’t previously factored in the possibility that he might simply say yes — or, worse, say no just to avoid hurting your feelings.

You watch his lower lip curl in; he uses his tongue to smooth out the skin that’s slightly dried from work fatigue. You would much rather it peeked out, so you could imagine it against your own. His response is mumbled in a lower register, but you catch some key syllables — didn’t… not … stranger — pretty … you?

“Sorry?” You ask patiently, but the fact that he turns red and laughs again — something you realize is not only a trademark of his personality but also downright delicious of him to be doing — is all the answer you need to let the apprehension seep from your shoulders. “I didn’t catch that.”

Mark clears his throat. “No, I… didn’t think of you that way. I mean… you’re my classmate.”

“Sure,” your tone’s breezy, but the somewhat sloppy confirmation of interest in you makes your heart soar. He just needs more of a push. “And we’re basically friends, right?”

“Yeah.” His voice is unsure at first, like he can’t seem to wrap his head around the concept. You can tell that Mark’s notion of friendship is likely based on shared interests, of which you admittedly have none. Technically, if you were his friend, you’d spend less time just telling him the exact same order every single day and more time sitting around a table trying to learn how to play Magic: The Gathering with him. Still, he takes one long look at your grin and suddenly gains confidence in his next words, as if it somehow convinces him that the briefness of your old conversations had been a mutually agreed-upon thing and not the product of social distance between the two of you. “Yeah. We’re friends.”

“Right. Friends help friends, don’t they? I’d definitely feel more comfortable having a friend teach me than some stuffy upperclassman I don’t know.”

You see Mark’s lips move slightly, in such small movements you could have imagined it as breathing if you didn’t care too much (which you do). He mouths, to himself — friends help friends. For some reason, that boosts his conviction even further, and he nods.

“Makes sense. Well — for as long as you don’t mind me, then.”

“Mind? I asked you, so I should be saying that.”

“I’d never mind — I mean, of course I don’t mind.” He’s quick to correct himself, and you have to stop your own hand from reaching out to try to satisfy your curiosity, the desire to know just how hot his cheeks get when he blushes. “More than happy to help, actually.”

“And I’m more than happy to be here.” You beam at him, and he mirrors your smile. You don’t know what it is about the look on his face — the brightness in his eyes, or the slight lift of his eyebrows, maybe — but it gives you the impression that he might be feeling at least a fraction of what you are: the feeling of your heart lifting off a few inches from your rib cage. “Since we’re on the same page, I hope — should we get to it?”

From the moment that Mark opens his textbook to a chapter on inverted parabolas, he assumes a personality you feel you haven’t seen from him before. You realize that you really do know him in only two limited capacities — his classroom persona that seems to really only view himself and the material, focused on the board and the professor’s words (even up until the useless anecdotes) to absorb as much information as possible, and his more genial customer service form, always happy to assist in the trained, easygoing way you’ve come to meet so often.

Right now, he’s a blend of both, yet somehow neither all at once. He’s quick to catch the parabolas you draw, either wrongly or downright poorly. Despite initial hesitation, he always manages to say something; there’s already a pattern to how he does it, from his slightly awkward, “Ah, sorry, actually —” to the way his finger traces over what you’ve written, outlining the right curve. You find his interruptions so endearing that you start drawing them wrong purposefully — not enough for him to realize your schemes in their entirety, but enough to cast you a few amused glances, like he can’t imagine why you’d map out such an absurd graph. You get the feeling he wants to actually laugh at how ridiculous you’re acting, but he can’t tell if you’re seriously struggling or not, so he settles for a smile he thinks he does well in keeping to himself, but that you catch anyway. He’s patient, even when you have to rip out pages from the back of his notebook because of your ‘mistakes,’ like he’s still catering to your request for an extra pump of syrup for your coffee on sleepy days.

But there’s also that side to him that comes out when he suddenly remembers the distance between you that, before today, had felt unlikely to be closed. It peaks at odd moments, like when you’re borrowing his pen because yours is currently holding your slowly unraveling bun up, and your fingers brush against his. It surfaces abruptly when you lean in to watch what he’s drawing until he realizes how close you are, arm lightly grazing his, and his pen freezes, ink blotting on the paper for a second. It’s in those times that you can almost hear his brain churning out questions — like he’s wondering if you’re just oblivious or if you’re doing something on purpose that he can’t quite believe. Like he wants to ask you what’s on your mind, but he just doesn’t know how.

If he asked, you would reply without missing a beat. The answer, after all, is simple (him). But Mark never raises the question, only does something without fully acknowledging what he’s doing — the adjustment of his glasses on the bridge of his nose, the ruffling of his hair as though to shake off his thoughts, the clearing of his throat to normalize his tone before he explains something you’ve just asked about. There’s always that light tinge of pink to his face that makes him look even more endearing, and it fades and returns every so often for the better part of two hours.

By the time he rubs oncoming fatigue out of his eyes, the sun has already set; there are far fewer people around you at this time, and for as much as you like spending time with him and breathing in the scent of his shirt — always a tinge of Downy, barely cutting through the much more overpowering scent of espresso and sugar — your back has begun hurting from your front-heavy posture and determination to have your face as close as rationally possible to Mark’s. Still, you don’t miss out on the fact that the act of him cracking his neck to relieve tension makes your lips curl inward, trying to stifle an inappropriate noise in reaction to the view.

“I feel like I talked your ear off,” he pipes up, sounding a bit sheepish. “Sometimes it’s hard to know when to stop once you’ve gotten started. I’m just hoping I didn’t bore you to death.”

“Meanwhile, I’m here hoping you aren’t sick of my questions already.” You smile, closing your notebook and hanging the clip of your pen on the spiral. Your arms stretch up first, followed by your back, a light twist to relax your posture into normalcy again. Mark’s breathing falls quiet, like he’d been preparing to say something in response but had let it die in the back of his throat instead. You let your eyes drop, expecting to see him looking at you, as he mostly has been — on and off — since his shift ended, but his eyes are far lower than yours, the telltale redness now growing in evident splotches across his cheeks.

The hem of your shirt has ridden up; while there’s nothing outrageous about it, there’s a short expanse of skin that it reveals, for a brief moment. His eyes are slightly glossy, brow furrowed like he’s trying to find a solution to something he can’t fully understand. You’re not even sure about what he could really be looking at, or if there’s something he’s just thinking of that caught his attention while his eyes focused on a rather unfortunate spot. To test your theory, you suck in your stomach slightly alongside an inhale.

It should be objectively funny to watch Mark blink unevenly, left eye going first before his right tries to catch up, but you manage to stifle your laughter — poorly, though, because you end up coughing a little and breaking him out of his strange trance. You avert your eyes quickly enough for him to look vaguely relieved that you hadn’t caught him looking. So he thinks, at least.

“Anyway.” You feel bad that you have to tear his mind away from whatever faraway land it must be trying to burrow a hole in; the dazed expression on his face dims into hastily hidden embarrassment. You don’t want him to feel awkward, so you just busy yourself with packing up, making an unnecessary show of stuffing your notebook back into your bag as if it isn’t half-empty at this point. “I really appreciate you taking the time to help me.”

“Any time.” His first attempt is a little raspy, maybe from overuse of his voice today, so he clears his throat and tries again. A slow smile builds on your lips. “Any time, really. I’m glad that this is actually helping you; you pick things up surprisingly fast.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. Give it a couple of weeks, and you’ll probably be ready to tackle it on your own again, I’m sure.”

He smiles reassuringly, but all you can think about is how that’s not good. You should pretend to be a little dumber next time, or this will end much too prematurely.

The next five minutes pass in silence; you don’t expect to be knee-deep in conversation anyway since, as much as you try to convince him, you aren’t actually anywhere close to being those kinds of friends yet. There’s an unspoken rule to the give and take of things, where he pauses for you to get an item off the table and push it into your bag before he does the same with his own belongings. Neither of you really intersect paths, save for the moment you both grab your phones and stand at the same time.

His jaw falls open like he’s preparing to say something, then shuts as if he’s better decided against it. You decide to take the initiative to say what you’re assuming he wants to. “Same time, same table?”

“Oh — uh, yeah, for sure.”

You want to ask him to walk out with you. You want to lace your fingers with his, tug him out, and kiss him under the green and white glow of the sign outside. You want to know if kissing his collarbone means you’ll taste a hint of coffee. You think about doing it all somehow, especially since he’s fighting back a slight smile at the promise of tomorrow.

But it just isn’t the right time.

Instead, you place a hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. The slow movement of his throat — yet another hard swallow — isn’t lost on you, and his eyes land on where the two of you connect. With a grateful smile, you bid him a soft goodbye, taking your leave first.

You don’t look back — at least, not until you’re fully in the cover of the darkness outside. On the gravel path, just out of reach of the lamplight, you chance one last glance back into the store. Mark is still rooted to the same spot, his backpack slung over one shoulder, staring at the table like he’s dissociating from what just happened — like he can’t believe the last couple of hours.

Your smile grows when you see his own, and his hand comes around to the back of his neck, rubbing it lightly like it gives him small comfort to let him know that it was real.

Baby steps, you remind yourself. You’ve already got one foot in the door, after all.

As the days trickle by, you fall into a more comfortable standing with Mark; there’s a routine to your meetings that seems to eliminate the initial and abrupt awkwardness of that first day. You come into that Starbucks at four, greet Mark, who doesn’t ever have to ask for your order, and spend the next hour and a half slowly sipping on it until the ice has thinned and watered down your drink substantially. In that time, you allow yourself to do whatever you want (as if you’ve ever done otherwise anyway), and what you usually want the most is a good view of him. You therefore use most of the minutes you have on hand to regard him from different angles — from the side when he’s frothing milk, upfront when he turns to leave cups on the pick-up counter, from the back when he’s clearing tables — interspersed with moments of checking your TikTok feed, clearing group chat messages, and sometimes re-curling your bangs with a portable iron from the school’s co-op center, a relatively new purchase you tote around these days. You do essentially anything in between to avoid acting too suspicious while he works.

Sometimes, you catch Mark’s eye too; the more your meetings increase in number over the course of a few weeks, the more deliberately he looks over at you, and the longer it lasts. You feel like you’ve made significant progress when your gazes lock and he smiles slightly, albeit a bit unsurely, instead of turning away like he used to. The other day, he’d even passed by while apologizing for how long you always waited for him — not that you ever minded, something you made a point to clarify with him before he walked away, carrying a couple of chairs from the back room with him to replace rickety ones.

That he’s able to transport them easily, as if he’s lugging a bag of apples from the grocery, does not escape your watchful eye.

What you like the most is that you start to learn more about him in a way that isn’t fueled only by your expectations and, therefore, limited by your imagination. You find out that he’s from a close-knit family with a rather cushy background, and this barista job is just for interest funding and experience, in that exact order. Most of his earnings are funneled into the things he collects, which apparently isn’t limited to comic books and special edition blu-rays with director’s cut but also a rather stupendous amount of PopMart blind box figurines. Apparently, he particularly likes the Skullpanda series even if he hasn’t completed it yet; your last session together had adjourned thirty minutes earlier than usual so that he could catch a pre-rush hour inner circle train to Hongdae, where the flagship store was set to open on that day. He’d promised to show you his pulls (as long as they weren’t embarrassing dupes). You learn that he likes to listen to loud music when he studies to stimulate his mind, and he has a playlist that’s just a jumble of songs from Punk Goes Pop volumes that makes him feel empowered for some absurd reason, like he’s going against the grain. You don’t really get it, but you do like that spiced-up rendition of Ariana Grande’s Problem that he let you listen to once.

Of course, there are things that you find out not through conversation but through continued, closer observation. You notice that he likes to put on chapstick even if his lips aren’t particularly dry, but he does worry on them often, most especially when he’s thinking hard about something. He has a habit of saying honestly… at the start of every other sentence, as if he’s concerned you won’t take his word on anything, even though he’s just talking about how unnaturally hot it was at noon despite it still being spring. He has long eyelashes that you’re equal parts attracted to and jealous of, and he bites the inside of his cheek whenever he wants to pep himself up after grueling shifts. He plays beats you’re not even sure he knows he’s creating against his knee with his fingers, so enthusiastic and consistent in this habit that you want to offer your thigh instead. His shoulders always go first before he laughs, and he does this thing where he raises his hand to cover his mouth at the start of it, which is a shame, because you’d do anything to keep seeing him smile like that — or, better yet, to be the reason for it.

Then there are those things you notice he tries to hide. He always turns his face halfway to the side when he blushes, something he seems to do without fail every time you smile at him. He has to temper the intensity of his grin when you take the time to compliment him on how cool his shirt is, or how nice his hair looks today, or how smart he is, like he doesn’t want you to know how good it makes him feel even if you want him to feel good about it, around you, because of you. Sometimes he denies it for the sake of responding, and his voice always lilts on the first syllable in his refusal to accept what you say, even though he knows you won’t take it for an answer.

And after a couple more careful experiments, you notice that Mark, out of the many things he’s interested in, seems to have a particular thing for your stomach.

You don’t know if it has anything to do with him not really seeing much of it in real life in his own time or if he just has his own kind of fixation on it, but you start to cotton on by the fourth time you meet. An hour of being hunched over a table that’s not at the greatest height in relation to your neck and torso has you stiff, and you’d leaned back in your chair, arms pulling to the air, hoping your spine might feel like realigning if you exerted enough tension pressure that way. Your shirt hadn’t ridden up this time, considering it had been tucked into your jeans, and it was because of this that you’d caught a flicker of something new in his face that you hadn’t seen before.

You could have sworn it looked like disappointment.

Of course, he hides it quickly, as he does with most of his emotional candor, but it’s enough to make you suspicious — enough to make you wonder if Mark is also just keeping something to himself. Or maybe you’re just projecting your own presently secretive nature onto him. Regardless, you think it’s odd that whenever you stand up or stretch, his eyes almost immediately fall to your midriff, like he wants to challenge your clothing into a staring contest before he thinks better of it.

You don’t mind, anyway. He can look as much as he likes. Maybe when the weather’s warmer, you’ll even cater to that interest and wear a crop top. Hopefully, that’ll be the push he needs to act on human instinct and ask you out or, like… bend you over. Maybe.

You’re often plagued with these kinds of thoughts in between the ones you try to keep as family-friendly as possible — now, more so than ever.

Sometimes, it’s easier, especially when you’re caught up in talks with him; despite the fact that he doesn’t seem like much of a conversationalist when it comes to generic matters, when either he or you are enthusiastic about a particular topic, he has a tendency to get carried away. There’s nothing impure about how his eyes light up when you remember to ask him about the movie he saw with his friends over the weekend or the way he hums old Nickelodeon cartoon theme songs under his breath whenever he’s looking for a page in the textbook. It’s more of a situation where you’ll observe something and immediately run with it despite it being an objectively normal action.

Like right now, as you’re watching him turn his pen between his fingers. Now, while he’s shaking his knee in mild impatience, as if he’s trying to will the answer to the worksheets you’ve both been trying to get through for the better part of the day faster. You’d made copies of the problems your professors had assigned and exchanged them under the premise of being able to practice more intensely.

However, whereas Mark is actually focused on solving, you’re just watching him out of the corner of your eye, wondering if he’s ever been told that his fingers are fuck-worthy on a singular, unique level or if it’d feel good for you to ride the thigh he’s currently moving, jeans and all. You consider the feeling of his warm palms on your bare waist as you do it, and you end up wondering if that’s what crosses his mind whenever he sneaks glances at you, too.

You’d know the answer to all those things if he’d fucking ask you out. Maybe you could do it after all. Maybe you should, instead of relying on slowly increasing the probability over such a long period of time. Maybe if you asked nicely, Mark might pull the shades down on the storefront windows and rail you against the glass.

You’re so lost in thought that it genuinely startles you when he plops his textbook over the worksheet, rattling your eraser dangerously close to the edge of the table. You’re still clutching your heart while he rubs his eyes a little too violently.

“Can’t,” he groans, and his neck gives into the weight of his head, allowing it to loll backward. “I feel like the numbers are just melting into each other. I swear, I thought I could read words out of them.”

“Maybe we were a little too ambitious with the double worksheet agenda,” you admit, even though you’ve barely gotten past half of yours and certainly haven’t touched a single item on his. “Should we call it a day for now?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, although he still takes the time to encircle his final answers before clapping his palms to his cheeks (an act that has your mind dangerously close to wandering off inappropriately again) to wake himself up. “Woah. I didn’t even notice how dark it is already. I’d say time flies when you’re having fun, but I’m not too sure about the ‘fun’ part of it…”

You trace his gaze towards the glass; the moon’s already out, surrounded by a smattering of low-light stars. You hadn’t realized how late it had gotten, probably because your mind had been on R-18 mode for most of the afternoon. Also, the days are getting generally shorter, but that fact doesn’t make you feel as embarrassed, at least.

“You got a ride?”

The question once again shocks you out of your small trance, and you turn back to him with wide eyes. “Well — no. Wait, I didn’t know you had a car. Why’d you take the subway, then?”

“Oh — no, sorry, I… don’t.” He looks suddenly sheepish, eyes dropping to the shiny surface of the table for a moment before they snap back up, as if he’s actually actively reminding himself to look at you. “I was wondering if you wanted me to — actually, more than that, are you going home already? Not that you need to stay; it’s not that important, but…”

You try to gloss over the fact that he had just been about to initiate another huge step in the right direction (i.e. offering to walk you home) by beaming at him, maybe a little too widely, if only to mask your disappointment at the sudden shift in conversation. “I have nothing waiting at home for me but a sandwich dinner and Singles Inferno, so hit me with whatever it is.”

“Oh, cool.” His lips turn up, and the corners shake, this show of happiness once again tamped down by his own inexplicable desire to maintain a safe distance. How are you supposed to tell him you’re desperate to bridge that gap without using those exact words? “I came from the flagship store yesterday — the one in Hongdae that I told you about?” He allows the smile to widen slightly when you nod in genuine understanding. “Got the last six boxes of the collection I’ve been trying to finish.”

You whistle appreciatively. “Can I ask you for a loan on my next phone bill? You know, once I’ve upgraded to something pricier.”

“Nah — just itching to complete the set,” he laughs. You wonder if he’s been doing that more often because he knows its crippling effect on you, though you doubt he’s that sly. Again, maybe you’re just projecting too much of your own motivations onto him. “This was probably about two months of saving up combined.”

“No new Iron Man issues to look out for, then?” Your voice is warm even though it takes on a teasing tone; Mark’s hand rubs the back of his neck, and his expression is a little sheepish, but you’re happy that the times he used to go completely quiet, opting only to blush at your attempts to act more familiar with him are pretty much gone now.

“Maybe next month.” You also like that he doesn’t really treat his hobbies as secrets, neither out of shame nor snobbishness. He explains these things to you the same way he does the topics you study — with an air of contentedness, like he’s happy someone listens to him without interrupting. On your end, you have no qualms with listening to his voice for hours, wondering when he’ll stop using it to greet you when you come through the door and when he’ll start saying your name in a way that makes you feel like you’re the only one he sees whenever you’re near. It’s a win-win situation (sort of). “I was actually debating between this collection and a really rare copy of Spi— well, never mind that. I just thought — since you were asking me a bit about blind boxes last time. You know, if you wanted to. With… me.”

As much as he’s become comfortable talking to you about things that don’t involve coffee orders and school, you can’t say that you aren’t doing your fair share of the work in connecting the dots; the demand for your efforts is exponentially higher in moments like this, when you think he’s trying to ask you something but can’t seem to find less-than-eager words to avoid what he thinks might spook you.

Luckily, he augments his fragments with action; reaching into his backpack — which you notice seems to be bulkier than usual — he starts extracting small brown boxes, all with the same design; it seems, for lack of better words, aesthetically gothic, and you reach out to pick one up, turning it over and examining the print on each side with vague interest. Mark starts laying them out on top of each other until there’s a small, somewhat unstable pyramid in front of him, then shifts his attention fully to you, just as you’re putting the box in your hand atop all the rest.

“I’d love to.” You beam as he does, and there’s a wondrous relief in his eyes that tells you he’s glad you manage to catch onto his words — or lack, thereof — surprisingly well. “For as long as you don’t blame me for any bad draws.”

“The contents have already been decided by my own hand — sort of,” he chuckles. “Point is, I would never do that to you. But I won’t lie; I kind of want to rely on your luck a little more.”

“What makes you think I’d have any of that running through my system?”

“Not sure — beginner’s luck, maybe? You just kind of look like one of those kinds of people to me — like… you’re just made of good things.”

You don’t know how to take this compliment; on the one hand, it’s easily one of the sweetest things Mark has ever said to you that doesn’t involve anything with actual sugar content. On the other, you know you’re not as lucky as he makes it sound, considering you’re still striking out on getting past the borderline of friendship with him. All you can do is smile, nodding and making to move closer to him by sliding into the next seat.

It’s hard to ignore the sight of him stiffening; something like surprise mingled with both fear and interest flashes strong across his face, but you don’t do anything to acknowledge the slight change in atmosphere, choosing to settle down comfortably and clap your hands. “So. What are the rules? What can I do, and what can’t I?”

“Uh.” His throat constricts at the right moment, the syllable getting caught and causing him to clear his throat. You know that this is the nearest you’ve ever been to him, the sleeve of your shirt tickling his arm. Upon closer, albeit brief inspection, you note that he’s also rather veiny. That doesn’t do your impurity any favors. “Not… really rules, or anything like that. Just — these are the ones I’ve been looking for. Not that you can really control it, but in case you were curious about that.”

You squint intently at the scaled-down images he points out. There’s one that looks like a penguin caught in an oil spill; another that seems to be in a polar bear costume, dozing; and — “What’s… halo? Halo…bios?”

“It just means marine life,” he answers quickly, like the thought means close to nothing to him to know something that obscure. Whoever said that smart is the new sexy wasn’t joking. “Like… all things that live in the ocean, that kind of thing.”

“And you know this because?”

He pauses, looking thoughtful. “I’m not sure. I guess I must have just learned it when I was curious about what it meant some time ago. Isn’t that how we all learn things?”

You shake your head incredulously, and he smiles a little apologetically. “You never cease to amaze me.” Your nail drums against the silhouette of one with a question mark on it. “What’s this supposed to be? Can you draw your own figurine, or something?”

“No.” He’s clearly amused, but his expression’s still patronizing enough for you to not feel too bad about saying something idiotic. “It’s a secret design — a money drainer, basically. You could buy a full set of this and still not get it. Some people will open hundreds without any luck, so it’s really rare.”

“You don’t want it?”

“I try not to get too caught up in the secret thing,” he admits. “Otherwise…”

“No rare print comic books for the rest of your life, basically?”

He taps his nose, and you both share another laugh. It’s nice, you think, to have come this far — to be someone Mark can share his interests and thoughts with. You may have been stretching the word to its limit when you first punched your way into his social life and called yourself his friend, but it feels more real now, more natural to think about and say. Even if he still sometimes seems to be hyperaware of the gap between the both of you, there’s no denying, at least, that it’s been significantly reduced, and this much is a testament to that.

“Well, leave it up to me. I’ll let all of this beginner’s luck rub off on you,” you announce with overflowing albeit unfounded confidence.

You both decide to open a box each at the same time; Mark suddenly panics and asks you not to unseal the foil bag right away without looking at the card inside first, earning him one slightly alarmed look followed by a burst of laughter at his pained expression when you pretend to rip open the packaging. Comparing pulls, you identify them using the set chart — your luck doesn’t seem to be operating at full capacity yet because you can only offer him the card of one that looks like a floppy pigeon, which he responds to with a slightly apologetic grimace before saying he’s already pulled that thrice in the past. He, on the other hand, is turning the card of the polar bear over in his palm, trying not to make you feel bad for your duplicate pull by slipping it under his textbook when your eyes land on it.

The second round isn’t much better; both of you manage to pull something he’s already added to his collection, and as you’re ripping the seal to your third box, he pauses and watches you. You think it’s because he’s concerned about the obvious shit luck you’ve had thus far and wants to snatch it from you before your negative energy transfigures whatever’s inside into something he doesn’t want, and you’re just about to offer the half-opened package to him before he pushes the one on his end to you.

“No way, Mark.” Your eyes are wide, a palm up to reject it. “If that turns out to be another dupe by my hand, I’m literally going to walk into oncoming traffic.”

He has to control his amusement at your words so that it doesn’t completely shake his voice into incoherence. “I picked all of these while I was there, so if anything, you’re only riding off my bad luck. Besides, this is your first time doing this. I want you to have fun.”

“But,” your voice is pained. “Your money.”

“It’s not a big deal. With how few I need to complete them, I was definitely bound to run into more repeats than new ones.” He taps the front of the textbook — or, at least, the part of it not buried under the figurines and sealing tapes yet. “Probability mathematics.”

“I thought we already ended the study part of the day,” you grumble but concede, putting aside the one you half-opened to tear the top of his. You’re careful when you shake out the foil packaging, making sure to place it upright on the table before extracting the card. Both of your faces fall — yours more than his — when you see it’s a repeat of the polar bear.

“Almost. It would’ve been a pretty lucky pull earlier, so it’s technically not bad,” he tries to reassure you, but you childishly feel like you’ve been the sole source of his disappointment thus far. “Try the last one.”

It’s irrational, but you’re suddenly anxious about it. For some reason, you’re worried that this will topple the carefully constructed ladder you’ve propped up against Mark’s tower of social defense. Even if he’s being genial about your rotten pulls, you don’t know how much of it is just resignation to dismay on his part.

You say a small prayer, then fully rip off the seal; you don’t even take out the packaged figuring anymore. You just shimmy the card out of the box, turning it over when you notice it’s upside down.

For a moment, your shoulders deflate. It’s closest to this pastel purple figurine in the middle of the line-up, its stupid puckered lips almost taunting you. He hadn’t even mentioned it as something he’s looking for, so you almost feel like this has come to a horrible full circle. But then he grabs the box, checks the list, and looks back at your card again. He looks shell-shocked, and you’re not sure if it’s the strong air conditioning directed towards the two of you or if it’s just his hands, but the image he’s holding is shivering slightly.

You look more closely at it, and something just doesn’t feel right. Color palette aside, there are notable differences — different colored lips, a more intricate ear design, and closed eyes. It’s…

“Dream eater,” Mark’s voice is hushed, almost reverent, and very, very close to your ear. “It’s the secret one. You’re… incredible.”

“What are you talking about,” your words are just as raspy; you’re not sure if you’re actually choked up with emotion or something — over a figurine, you have to remind yourself. “You picked all of this. I just ripped open the box.”

The hush that falls over the both of you feels very concrete, weighty on your shoulders. His fingers creep towards the foil packet — the only one he actually opens because there’s no way he’s not keeping it. The shiny purple head gleams under the fluorescent, the glitter around the star and moon designs catching the light as he turns it left to right, like he’s worried it’s a fake. You can tell why people want these things so much; there’s a thrill in you that lingers, makes you feel warm and alert. It’s anticipation, despair, excitement, and triumph all in one sitting.

You’re stroking the smooth curve of the design by the ears lightly when Mark speaks up again and says the most outrageous thing.

“I want you to have it.”

“What?” You actually have to pop your ear canal in front of him with your pinky to make sure he knows how ludicrous he sounds. “This is… you said it was crazy rare.”

“Yeah. And you pulled it, with your magic. That’s like… unimaginable luck. Even more than beginner’s luck.”

“Like I said, I literally just opened the box.”

“No — you have like… the golden touch.”

“Please,” you hiss, a genuine testiness to your voice. “Do not. I was just here for the ride — the experience, and all.”

“Seriously, take it.”

“Absolutely not—”

It’s a chaotic moment of him trying to hand you the figurine and you outright rejecting it, with both your palms working hard to push it back to him. Instead of nudging the plastic back, though, you end up placing the full force of your hands against his fingers.

There’s no actual spark when you touch, but your reactions make it feel like there might as well have been; you even lock eyes in startled unison, like you can’t believe that just happened, before you pull away quickly, Mark drawing the figuring back to his torso while looking away towards the counter, where a lowerclassman is wiping down the stains. You want to scream at your warped reflection in the window. You barely initiate contact with him, but you imagine that if you ever did, you would prefer to not be saying something as abjectly negative as absolutely not while doing so.

Your mind flails in an attempt to mitigate the issue and water down the embarrassment, and clearly he’s struggling to figure it out too, because he pipes up before you can piece your thoughts together.

“No, really.” His tone is a lot milder and, consequently, a lot more persuasive this way. “You should take it. I want you to.”

“It’s not mine. This is your thing — your hobby.”

“That’s why I’m giving it to you. I swear — I want you to keep it.”

“Why?”

He lapses into silence again, but his face is much redder than earlier. His mouth opens in an attempt to say something, but he just manages to uh his way back into a state of quiet, which gives you a chance to speak instead.

“We can… share it,” you suggest. “Shared custody…. ish.”

His eyebrow cocks involuntarily, and his jaw falls again, but all he does in actual response is nod — slowly at first, then with more sureness to the act.

“Yeah. We can share it. I’d… like that.”

You’re glad that the bulk of the awkwardness has fizzled out fairly easily, and when you think about it, this feels like a pretty good course of action; you like that it’s this little link between the two of you now — something you share that no one else can touch.

Mark, you notice, is smiling as well — more to himself than towards you, it seems. His thumb grazes across the face of the figurine, slow across the lips, and you’re once again falling into a pit of nonsense by wondering when he’d do that to you.

“Thanks for staying with me, _________,” he finally says, and your heart jolts and melts all at once. “And for… doing this. For chatting with me. And giving me your luck, and all that. Great way to end the day… with you.”

You say no problem, but you instantly regret it when you realize you could have just said it didn’t have to end just yet.

“__________? Hello? Come back down to Earth?”

“Shut up,” you sigh at the guy seated across you — Seo Youngho, an upperclassman, your Gender Studies classmate, and current project partner, waves in front of your face. You shoo his hand away, which only joins his other one as he throws them in defeat above his head. “Stop moving. Be quiet. Don’t talk.”

“That’s the same thing as shut up and be quiet. What’s up with you?” He demands. “Fifteen minutes ago, you were full of ideas. Now I feel like I’m talking to a wax figure.”

You’d been engrossed in your report for the last hour and a half, and the subject matter is admittedly something you enjoy — the role of gender in Twenty-First Century Korean marketing and advertisement, a title Youngho had taken more than ten minutes to type into the Google Docs header because he was pissed off at how the numbers looked like in the fonts he chose. He’s an enthusiastic classmate and someone you’ve come to be friendly with, not only because he’s genuinely approachable but also because he has fits of nosiness and talkativeness at the strangest moments, so a chunk of your relationship is mostly based on social terrorism on his part. You like him well enough most of the time — save for the last fifteen minutes of this hour.

Because Mark had just come in for his shift fifteen minutes ago, and suddenly Youngho is much too noisy for your taste, and his head is honestly way too big to the point that it gets in the way of your opportunities to see Mark behind the counter. You even resent him for choosing a booth instead of your usual table all of a sudden, because your view of the central barista’s area is much more limited from this angle, especially since the huge espresso machine is in the of your field of vision.

You’re also (currently and abruptly) mad at Youngho because you remember that he’s the reason you’ve had to skip out on a couple of sessions with Mark. Like, it technically isn’t his fault that you have a lot of research to do for the literature review section of the paper, nor is it his fault that this is your final requirement that comprises a whopping forty percent of your grade, but like… you’ll blame him anyway. So you’re much more irritable, and you’ve definitely been missing Mark’s presence. In fact, you kind of just want to shove Youngho’s balloon head away and call Mark over to sit with you, but you’re not that much of an animal to actually do that.

Probably.

There had been inquisitiveness across Mark’s face when he’d come in; his eyes had trailed to the table at which you usually sat, surprised to find two guys hunched over a single phone there instead of the usual you, waiting for him with your eyes bright and your smile wide. You’d like to think it’s because he’s gotten as used to seeing you as you’re used to waiting to see him — like he just expects you to be there.

You hadn’t really known how to call his attention to where you were, especially since Youngho was prattling very matter-of-factly about the academic journal he’d unearthed yesterday and how he thought it would be useful in reshaping the methodology of your paper (whatever). There was a moment in which you briefly considered ordering another cup of coffee just to get in line to talk to him, but your hands were already shaking from the venti you’d had to keep yourself from passing out in front of your partner.

So you’re more than relieved when, half an hour into his shift, Mark finally steps out from behind the huge machine, a mug of water for himself in hand, and turns away from the front of the store to drink it — only for your eyes to lock as he twists his torso in your general direction.

The mug stops just inches from his lips, but you could swear he smiles at you briefly when he recognizes you, so you return the favor. Youngho’s face contorts into abject befuddlement, turning around to see what you’re grinning at.

“Oh, you poor sap,” he snorts, finally letting the puzzle pieces fall into place.

“What?” You’re still distracted even if Mark has taken a gulp of water and is now attending to a gaggle of girls still in the throes of discussing what to order.

“What what? You gonna spend the rest of the day eyefucking Mark Lee from over here? At least let me get a different table.”

“Shut up,” you repeat sullenly, coming back down to his level and finally — albeit reluctantly — meeting his eye (just because Mark isn’t looking your way). “What were you saying about the sample size?”

“That it’s much too large to be feasible, a point we closed twenty fucking minutes ago,” he says pointedly. “Is it a thing for baristas or a thing for smart guys?”

“It’s a thing for Mark Lee,” you sigh, following Youngho’s suit and shutting your laptop close. You’re at least glad he’s not annoyed that you’re delaying work for a crush, or maybe he’s also just equally lazy at this point. “You ever look at someone and think you would give it all up for a chance to hit that?”

“No, because this isn’t a porn movie, and I’m clearly not the main character in whatever’s going on in there.” He jabs at your forehead; you swat his hand away again.

“Well, I would.”

He rolls his eyes. “So do it, dumbass.” He says this so simply, like he can’t imagine why you’d be holding yourself back, which is a valid thing to feel, except it’s not really any of his business.

“Can’t.”

“Because?”

“Because it doesn’t fit into my elegant master plan. Also because I want him to ask me out. I just want that victory.”

“Oh yeah, there it is.” Youngho leans over, wiggling his fingers at your ears like he’s greeting a next-door neighbor. “Hey, delusion. Good to see you. Do you even understand how crazy it is that you’re taking a Gender Studies class while waiting for your dick-in-shining-armor like a damsel in distress?”

“Asshole,” you grumble, violently opening your laptop monitor again. “Get back on Google Drive.”

Thankfully, Youngho complies, and the next two hours pass in relative silence and productivity, with you hammering out a vague references list that he promises to format in your stead so you can ‘spend more time dreaming about Mark Lee between your legs.’ You want to strangle him, but there are far too many people in the cafe for you to get away with it. Also, aforementioned Mark Lee would only be a witness to your criminal record, and while you think there’s something romantic in killing for love, or whatever, you’re not sure it’d make the best impression on him.

“Next week’s my birthday,” Youngho announces as he stands to tug on his jacket.

“Congratulations,” you say wryly, peeking over his bulletin board torso to see Mark tugging off his apron and picking up his school bag. Your heart hammers in your chest as he looks over at you briefly, and something like embarrassment passes over his face before he busies himself with neatly folding the fabric. “Go away.”

“Usually people look uncomfortable for not knowing and then start thinking about what gifts to get the celebrant, but I always felt you were kind of a revolutionary.” He snaps his fingers right in front of your eyes, and you look up at him, a little offended. “I’m having a get-together — and by get-together, I mean it’s gonna be a rager. You should come.”

“When?”

“Next Thursday.”

“Can’t,” you chew on your lip, wondering if Mark is leaving. His movements seem particularly slow, but you wonder if he’s just taking his sweet time because he has nothing better to do. Of course, he would have something better to do if Youngho stopped fucking obscuring you from him and vice versa. “Busy. School… whatever.” Not completely untrue. Most of what you do with Mark has to do with school.

“This moony-eyed thing is just not for you, I fear.”

“Are you going to be here all day?”

“Are you? Why don’t you just fucking ask him out, you lunatic?” You can’t imagine why he sounds so exasperated. It’s not like this is his problem — or his business, for that matter. “Maybe if you did, you could fuck him and move on with your life and be an actual contributor to society’s development.”

“Has anyone ever told you how nosy you are?”

“Constantly.” He brings his palms down on the table, the thud shaking you out of another oncoming stupor. “Think about it. Maybe it’ll make you stop making that stupid face.”

“You’ve got a stupid face,” you mumble, sulking as he pinches your cheek as a goodbye before heading out of the shop.

At least you finally get to see Mark in full, glorious view — and you get to watch him come closer, although his stride is somewhat cautious.

“Hey.” Even his voice sounds unsure — almost like the way he used to sound earlier in your friendship. “I didn’t want to interrupt you and… your friend?”

“Oh. Well, you wouldn’t have been interrupting,” you inform him, completely genuine. “He was spouting a lot of nonsense.”

“You guys seemed pretty close.”

“I guess it’s a proximity thing,” you sigh, and Mark raises his eyebrows slightly in question. “We’re partners.”

“Oh.” The way he draws out the syllable is slow. “That definitely makes sense.”

The silence stretches out between the two of you again, with Mark checking his shoelaces. You almost grab your head; it hadn’t occurred to you until now how damaging missing meetings with him would be to your friendship. You feel like you’re slowly being dragged back to square one, and you want to give him an explanation.

“He’s actually… I haven’t been able to see you because I’ve been working on something with him.” you offer, trying to answer a question he didn’t even ask. “Sorry about that. I swear I’ll be back on track tomorrow.”

“No, no — I completely understand.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Thank you… for telling me, though. I— uh, appreciate that.”

“I’d love to see you tomorrow, though.” You try injecting more pep into your voice. “I’ve really been behind on my algebra. I’ve definitely been drowning without you.”

“Oh, yeah.” A small smile graces his lips, but you can’t tell if the reluctance behind it is from fatigue or something that looks oddly like sadness. “I’m down for tomorrow. Same time, same table, right?”

“Yeah, for sure.”

“Cool. See you, _________.”

You watch him turn on his heel, walking to the front door, and something like fear mingled with desperation clutches your heart. Fuck the traditional route, you think. You don’t know what it is about how he’s acting now, but it’s making you feel like he’s slipping through your fingers. All that hard work — there’s no way you’re letting him go.

“Mark, wait.”

You’re at his side, fingers curled into the sleeve of his jacket before you can figure out exactly what you want to say. You feel as surprised as he looks at your sudden liveliness in action, and his gaze trails from your clenched fist to your face slowly, like he’s trying to memorize this whole position.

Your exhale’s shaky, but even still, you try not to sound overtly self-conscious when you ask, “Do you like Chinese food?”

Something in the furrowing of his brows tells you he can’t seem to see where this conversation is headed, and that slightly bothers him. “I like it well enough. Why?”

“There’s this really good dim sum buffet near my mom’s office. We tried it before — the Xiaolongbao is awesome.”

“Hey, that sounds pretty cool. I love Xiaolongbao. I’ll definitely have to check it out then.”

You want to tear your hair out. “How about — you know, checking it out with me? Tonight? You know… together. With me.” You already fucking said that.

You’ve never seen Mark blink this rapidly; he looks like he’s trying to crunch large numbers in his head. A small part of you actually worries that he’s malfunctioning, but just when you think he’s going to glitch out completely, he clears his throat. It bothers you how uncomfortable he looks. “Tonight? Oh man… it’s my cousin’s birthday tonight. I can’t… reschedule. Well, obviously. Maybe some other… time?”

Your ‘oh, yeah’ is small, and so is the ghost of Mark’s smile. You can’t help but feel like he’s pitying you a little, although he doesn’t seem like the type, but the thought of it alone makes you want to puke. He makes no motion to move, and you think he’s extending this awkward moment out on purpose until you realize you’re still hanging onto him and he has no way of telling you to let go nicely.

Fingers unfurling from his sleeve, you take a careful step back, but when he walks away, it feels like you’ve gone much, much further away.

The worst part is that you can’t even figure out why.

Luckily, the next few times you see Mark, you manage to rebuild a rather shaky bridge back to where you had been. You even manage to strong-arm him into sharing an apple fritter one afternoon, and you know it’s a bit sad to think about it a particular, untrue way, but you can’t help but pattern what you’re doing into some kind of pseudo-date. Pathetic isn’t a word you normally associate yourself with, but you’ve been borderline desperate for progress where there seems to be none, so you take small victories where you can get them.

Unfortunately, you haven’t been able to revisit your stupid dim sum plan; sometimes, he says he has somewhere important to be, but most of the time, it’s actually your fault. No — it’s Youngho’s fault, because he keeps bothering you to finish the project. You’re aware that he can’t do it himself, but since he’s informed of your current plight, he could at least stand to be more sympathetic.

And you hate the way Mark looks every time you splutter out that you have to take a rain check for that reason; it’s not even disappointment, or something, which would be much more understandable. It’s this mysterious kind of faraway look, where his eyes glaze over a bit and he seems suddenly very lost in thought — or completely dissociated. He never strays away from his normal response of “next time, then,” but that ‘next time’ fades into the weekend and into the start of next week, and you have to spend every other evening with an annoying Seo fucking Youngho on a Google Meets call instead of eating soup dumplings loveshot style with Mark Lee.

Thursday night rolls around, and the former performs the most irritating stunt yet: blowing up your phone with so many KakaoTalk messages that it almost buzzes off the table during your session with Mark. Luckily, he seems to have learned a thing or two from his comic books, catching it before it hits the floor.

“You sure you don’t want to answer it?” He asks, gingerly handing the phone to you like he’s afraid it’s going to explode from all the pinging.

“Without the shadow of a doubt,” you sigh, flipping the screen downwards. Buzz.

“It kind of seems important. Or, like… urgent.”

“He’ll live. Unfortunately.”

Mark falls silent, fiddling with the page he’s on. He’s neatly highlighted the formulas on the page with blue ink, and his finger keeps scratching at the slightly wet paper. Buzz.

“Didn’t you say you two were partners?”

“Yes. Also unfortunately.” Youngho is actually a great person, but you kind of hate how Mark’s paying more attention to his texts than to you right now. “What did you get for number ten?” Buzz.

“A hundred and twe— are you really just going to let it keep ringing like that? What if he’s… I don’t know. In trouble? Like, he needs you?”

You smack your phone on its back, hoping that the punishment reaches Youngho because he absolutely is in trouble — only with you. “He’s just making a racket because it’s his birthday and he probably wants a bunch of people to trash his parents’ house, or something.”

“Sounds like fun.” The dubious tone in Mark’s voice indicates that his idea of fun definitely isn’t that. Buzz.

“Not really, but I assume he’ll only pipe down if he manages to get his way.”

“He must really want you there.”

There it is again — that weird, distant expression that makes you feel like he’s trying to free himself from the tethers of the earth. You close your textbook in defeat; it wasn’t even like you got the answer to number ten correct anyway. Buzz.

“He just wants everyone there, I bet. But I probably should show up so he shuts up.”

“Oh — yeah, okay. We’ll call it a day, then?” He’s avoiding your eye as he starts packing his things, which is actually impressive because you have practically nothing but your book to keep in comparison to his pencils and protractor, so you just stare, willing him to look at you.

You want to know what’s going on in his head. You want to know what’s going on in his heart — what he thinks of you, why he seems warm one second then almost like a stranger the next. You want to know if he knows you like him and if him not doing anything even if he knows is a sign that he doesn’t like you back. You want to know if he’d let you kiss him, if he’d kiss you first, if you can meet not because of sweet cream cold brews or algebra but because you just want to be together.

You just don’t know how to ask. For as much as you like him, for as much as you want him, you haven’t figured out the most basic part of this — if you mean anything more than a two hour talk to him at all.

“Mark.” This feels awfully like the dim sum conversation, only somehow ten times more disastrous. “Come with me.”

“Sorry?” The appalled look on his face makes you squirm in your seat.

“I don’t really want to go, but maybe if we go together… we can just hang out a bit and leave once it’s boring… I think it’d be fun,” you explain lamely, deciding at the last second to drop the with you that had originally come with your sentiment.

“I don’t think your… partner will like someone uninvited showing up.”

“I’m inviting you.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works.”

“You’d be, like, my saving grace or something — my excuse to scram. We’ll say we came right from a study session; we only popped in halfway through for the sake of greeting him a happy birthday. Then we can just go. We can say — uh, we’ve got more work to do.” You’re practically begging him at this point, and you don’t even get why. You just don’t want him to leave looking the way he does — confused and a little detached. You want the Mark that had smiled at you while giving you your coffee — the one that had kindly pointed out an arithmetic mistake in the most gentle way possible. You want to open blind boxes with him, whine about your rotten luck, and part ways with his warmth still against your coat sleeve.

You don’t know what comes over you then, but you pluck up the courage and initiative to slip your hand in his. He stiffens a little, but you don’t care; your fingers squeeze his in urging.

Something in his expression breaks — cracks first, then falls away, before he’s nodding, still looking vaguely thoughtful.

“If you think it’ll help you, then… okay.”

The bus ride to Youngho’s neighborhood is uneventful because it’s quiet. You stand close to Mark at all times, but you barely touch, save for the times your knuckles accidentally brush his when you lurch forward slightly as the vehicle comes to a dangerously abrupt stop. He doesn’t ask anything about the party or the company that’ll populate it, which is just as well, because you don’t have a clue.

You know it’s the right house because the door’s wide open and there’s music coming from inside; you can’t make out much more than the deep bass pumping through the concrete, but you’re pretty sure it’s making your heart jump in your chest even more than it already is. There are quite a few people you vaguely recognize on the lawn, and even more that you absolutely don’t; a good number of them glance at you and Mark as you step through the threshold then look away, probably deciding you’re of no real consequence or harm to their moods.

Youngho’s easily spottable because of his massive height; he towers over the rest of his guests, and the red plastic cup in his hand calls even more attention because he’s lifted it over everyone else’s heads. You throw Mark an apologetic glance that he responds to with a short nod before you dive into the crowd alone, trying to weave your way to where you’d last seen Youngho.

“Bro, finally!” Youngho greets you, pretty much shouting over the music. “Where’s the gift? Did you leave it on the table?”

“Happy birthday, Youngho. Do you know how close you were to being blocked?”

“I see you brought mister espresso with you,” he ignores your comment completely, nodding to Mark. When you turn back to see him, you notice he’s squishing his arms closer to his sides, trying to minimize the space he takes up. “So what? Y’all get to hook up already?”

“No. I brought him here because we were in the middle of something and someone,” you stop, offering him a pointed look that’s also ignored. “Wouldn’t stop texting.”

“Cockblock,” the guy next to Youngho, who you now realize has been eavesdropping, singsongs. “Oh, sorry. You looked angry when you stomped through the crowd, so I wanted the juicy details. Name’s Jaehyun.”

You take the hand he offers you briefly, introducing yourself. When you say your name, realization dawns on his face, and he jabs his forefinger at you.

“Oh, dude. You’re that girl — the Starbucks Showstopper.”

“The what?”

“That’s what his friends call you.” He scratches his ear, seemingly racking his brain for more information. “I’m with Mark and a couple of his friends — Lee Donghyuck and Na Jaemin — in College Algebra.”

You completely gloss over the fact that you’ve finally found out the real government identity of the mysterious figure named ‘Hyuck.’ “They… talk about me?”

“From time to time. Not really. Once or twice. Donghyuck only calls you that because Mark apparently keeps blowing them off to hang out with you.”

“How do you know this?”

“I have ears. It’s not hard when they talk like no one’s around.”

You shush Youngho’s exclamation of and you’re saying I’m nosy?, your heart hammering hard in your ears, practically drowning out the music. “What… what else did they talk about?”

“Not sure. Something about not seeing you that often these days. Jaemin teasing Mark about getting dropped now that you don’t need his help anymore. Donghyuck piling on and saying you’ve got a boyfriend.”

“What?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger.” Jaehyun still inches away from you when your voice rises in pitch and decibel. Some people around you start, then move away as well, as if scared you’re going to incinerate them. “They were just teasing him that you probably ditched him after you started dating someone. Your partner in some project, or what.”

“Oh gross.” The realization hits you like a speeding truck. Youngho’s expression is affronted.

“First of all, you bitch. Second of all, as if I would date someone who didn’t even buy me a gift. Or want to come. Or yelled at me after coming. Wow — now that I think about it, you’re terrible, _________.”

“Oh, shit; that someone was you?” The only person that isn’t tense in this conversation is Jaehyun, who laughs point blank at Youngho’s sour face. “I think they were offering to put you into one of their Death Note notebooks. Sucks for you, hotshot.”

“What a smudge on my good name,” Youngho sighs mournfully. “On my special day, too.”

“I desperately need you two to be quiet for one second. I have to — where’s Mark?”

Even when you stand on your tiptoes, you’re not nearly as tall as the two of them; it’s Youngho, with his freakish height, who manages to spot Mark by the bowl of nachos, looking as though he’s trying to decide if they’re safe for consumption. You hardly excuse yourself; actually, all you say is a distracted “later” that dismisses Jaehyun’s cooing that something’s going down and you should clue him into all the mess later as a thank you. Your appreciation of his sudden and somewhat short-lived presence in your life is still up in the air.

Mark’s busy making a sour face at the sip of punch he’d just taken; he only straightens up when you’re right in front of him, putting his cup down next to the nachos. “Hey. Did you get to find… um…”

“That’s not important.” Your hand bunches the fabric of his jacket in a death grip, something he barely has time to register, let alone question, before you’re tugging him through the throng of people. You want somewhere quiet, somewhere private, and you initially consider the lawn, except you know it’s strewn with cups and has stragglers debating whether to go home or not. You can’t risk any of them being expert eavesdroppers like Jaehyun, so you make a beeline for the stairs instead.

“We’re not leaving yet?” He has to shout over the music, but there’s no resistance in his stride; he follows you up and waits patiently, although a little perplexed, as you check the doors on the second floor. Two are locked, one is a bathroom, and the other is a messy, musk aftershave-scented place you can only presume is Youngho’s room. Talking in front of a sink and a toilet doesn’t feel like it’ll be very productive, so you just drag Mark into the bedroom, kicking aside the crumpled shirt on the floor — which you could’ve sworn you’d seen Youngho wear for class yesterday. “_________, what’s going on?”

“Mark Lee,” you burst out, ignoring the fact that his eyes widen slightly at your tone. “What’s your fucking deal?”

You don’t think you’ve ever sworn in front of him before; that much is evident when he continues to gawk silently, unable to find words to respond to your question. Or maybe it’s just the volume and force with which you demand an answer. The problem is that you don’t even know what kind of reply you want. A small part of you nags that this is uncalled for, especially at this level, with you practically caging him into an unknown room. In fact, even now, you’re still embarrassed at your behavior, wondering if you’ve gone too far and stepped over a line between you.

But the source of all your frustrations is, in fact, that line — one so strangely drawn, clear at some points and almost invisible at others. Sometimes, he seems simply content with the barest minimum of friendship: talking to you, helping you, politely laughing at your (terrible) jokes. But there are also times he blushes too hard for it to not mean anything, times that he makes you feel like you could mean a little something more to him too.

Yet, from there, he wavers, stepping back so as not to get entangled in something you don’t understand — like when he grows distant every time you mention Youngho to him. You don’t understand why he would unless he echoed, even just a little, the longing in you. But you also don’t get why he stays and builds more walls around himself, like he’s determined to ignore all the other signs — like he doesn’t want to know if it’s really true and will just accept the assumption that it is. You hate not knowing where you stand with him, and while you could easily ask, you know you don’t want to.

And for a long time, you’ve convinced yourself that it’s because you want to see Mark step out of his comfort zone and initiate something, but the ugly truth is staring at you: it’s simply just that you can’t stand the idea of seeing him come to the conclusion that you can’t be anything more to him than someone he makes a sweet cream cold brew for every so often.

There’s a moment of tense silence between you two, where you’re just staring at each other — him, perplexed, and you, agitated — and the only sound that passes is the faint but unmistakable voice of Youngho going who has the cake cutting knife? from somewhere down below. You try not to get caught up in the fact that Mark still looks cute when he’s dumbfounded.

“Sorry?”

“What,” you repeat pointedly. “Is your deal? Why have you been acting so weirdly around me these days? I thought — I thought we were… getting closer. I thought… we…”

You’ve confirmed it now; you’re the epitome of cowardliness. You can’t even say I thought we liked each other — because you know that you do, but you still can’t honestly, assuredly tell if he does. Maybe you just read too deeply into the smallest things — smiles before he asks for your order, glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking, sharing the dream eater figurine — to fuel your own emotions without really checking the depth of his.

“I thought we were cool,” you reroute your words, and they come out flat and lame. “But just when I think you’re warming up to me, you suddenly pull away. Like… you’re afraid of me. Or you don’t like me. I don’t know.”

“It’s not — I don’t — I’m not afraid of you,” he stumbles over his words, and even in the darkness of this space, you see his face turn bright red, very quickly. His feet shuffle, not because he’s lost his balance but because he seems to want to get rid of a sudden restlessness. “I do like you. We are — we were getting — we’re close. We — we’re friends. You said that, and we are.”

“Is it only because I say we are that you agree?”

“What? No, I—” His hand passes over his face, slowing at the curve of his chin. “I really like being friends with you. I like being around you.”

“Then why do you act so weird these days? Like — you’ll be fine one moment, then you’ll back off, like you suddenly remembered you don’t want to be around me.”

“It’s not like that. I’m — I don’t get…” He takes a deep inhale, recalibrating himself for a moment before his voice comes out again, less strained this time. “I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me.”

“How could I?” There’s something more than confusion coloring your voice; there’s hurt, too, and he looks as surprised as you feel at hearing it. “I wanted to be your friend. I was the one that asked you to hang out. I was the one who wanted you to talk to me, to help me, to go to a goddamn dim sum place with me. Why would I feel uncomfortable? Or are you just using this as some roundabout way to say you feel uncomfortable?”

Mark falls silent, and you don’t know why this speaks volumes all of a sudden. His eyes are trained to the tips of his sneakers, which are rising in soft bumps every few seconds; he’s curling his toes inside them. You feel like you’ve gotten the worst answer possible, and something grows cold in your chest.

“You feel uncomfortable around me.” You rehash, but it’s no longer a question. “You don’t know how to get rid of me.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“You think I’m only using you.”

“No.”

“Then what?” Your voice breaks, no longer out of anger, but a desperate sadness. The moment your eyes feel hot and prickly, you decide you want to end the conversation. It’s embarrassing, you think, for someone like Mark Lee — whom you like, who only ever sees you as a friend — to see you get choked up at a fucking birthday party at someone else’s house.

A beat later, you’re mumbling a half-hearted forget it, and you detest overdramatics, but you hate the idea of being in a room with someone who’ll never return your feelings even more right now; you push past him, already on the thought of calling a cab home instead of taking the bus so that no half-drunk businessmen coming from their company dinners see you crying.

But something warm wraps around your wrist, then closes over your hand, and you’re unable to move, Mark’s palm pressed against the back of yours. When you look back, you notice he’s still not looking at you, but his ears are practically on fire with how red they are, and you feel his fingers tighten slightly, tremble slightly against yours.

“It’s not that. I didn’t ever want you to think — I heard about you two. That you were dating someone. Seo Youngho.”

“What does that matter?” Your words come out a little more bitterly than you expect, and you have to remind yourself to reel it in. “That doesn’t explain your discomfort.”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he repeats, still evidently careful in choosing his words. “Because you wanted to be friends.”

“I don’t understand,” you state bluntly. In the back of your mind, you note that Mark’s grip keeps tightening and loosening, unsure of whether to keep holding on or let go. But there’s something else, too — the soft graze of skin against yours, his thumb gliding over your knuckles.

“That was all you said you wanted to be, right?” He waits for a response, but when you don’t give him one, he lets out a shaky breath and continues. “You kept saying — we were friends. You wanted us to be close like that. I just wanted to respect it, even if…”

“Respect what?”

“That you didn’t want… anything else.”

The music downstairs is a bit tamer now; you hear the door opening and closing every so often, signaling guests leaving here and there, but there are still enough footsteps downstairs for you to know that there’s a crowd Youngho hasn’t gotten rid of and therefore has to attend to. That much is good; you’d get slapped with a homicide charge if he came up here all of a sudden.

“You were jealous.”

Mark’s fingers pinch the bridge of his nose for a moment. “I tried to stop. I don’t have a lot of practice with — well, I didn’t know how to approach the situation. I thought I was still acting normally; I didn’t think… I didn’t want you to feel weird and stop hanging out with me just because… I couldn’t fix it.”

“Your friends are assholes,” you mumble, and he finally meets your eye, equal parts startled and amused. “We aren’t. Weren’t. We never were dating.”

“Even without that, I thought… it was a bit embarrassing. Liking someone like you — someone as pretty as you, as nice as you — I thought it would make you feel weird. Then you’d start avoiding me too. Or, worse, you’d keep doing it just because… you… felt bad for me.”

You don’t know what you find more ridiculous — that you hadn’t seen figured it out or that you could have avoided all of this if you’d just been a little more honest with him too. Mark’s hand starts loosening around yours, a little too much, and you turn your palm and grip his hand before he can escape. He stiffens again, just like earlier, but you now understand better why he does.

“I just wanted to keep hanging out with you as much as I could. I thought… It’d be fine, just spending time with you, and I’d be able to like you for a while, on my own, then…” He looks a little pained. “Then just let you go. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry you couldn’t let go?” You sigh softly, your palm guiding his until they connect, face to face, and you can finally lace your fingers into his. There’s no resistance, but his hand trembles slightly in yours still. “If there’s anything you should be apologizing for, it’s that you ever thought of doing it.”

Something clears in the air, lightens in his expression, and he chuckles, albeit a little shyly still. “It’s because I never thought someone like you would like someone like me.”

“I like you.” And it feels right to say it now, not at all out of the blue, never in fear of an answer he’s already given. “I like you when you smile at me every time you ask for my order. I like that you never get impatient when I’m getting my answers wrong. I like seeing you excited when you talk about a new series you’re looking forward to — something new you really want to collect. When you blush, when you laugh loudly, when you spin your pen in your hand — I like you in all those times.”

“Even when I’m jealous?”

“Especially when you are.” Your free hand comes up to cup his jaw, and you’re reminded of the fact that you’ve wanted to feel the strength of the angle under your palm for ages now. It’s not at all a disappointment, and your heart flutters irregularly in knowing you could’ve done this a long time ago, but it doesn’t matter because you’re doing it now, and fuck if Mark Lee doesn’t look good this close to you. “So be jealous — because now, you know you can be.”

Kissing him is better than you imagined, and you’ve imagined a little too much to be embarrassed at this point; there’s a heat to his lips that matches the one across his face, an upturn to them that makes you smile too. The setting’s not at all an expected one, but you’ll take it, not because it’s dark or because it’s private but because Mark’s in here with you, and you would have kissed him in a brightly lit football field full of people for as long as he’d let you.

You’d like to think he’s flushed for a reason other than shyness when you pull away, even if his laugh is quiet and breathy. In fact, when you murmur not enough, he’s the one that closes the gap this time, offering freely what you ask for with such little eloquence. The natural trepidation in his mouth relaxes, gives way to a curiosity that keeps you locked for so long that you forget you need to breathe, much more intent on finding out if Mark’s tongue tastes as good as you’ve imagined for so long.

It doesn’t; it tastes even better.

It’s still not enough, not by a long shot, but you have to resurface before you pass out like this, and even he looks a little dazed when you pull away — not in a bad way, with a grin on his face that you can only classify as endearingly goofy: slightly lopsided and a little shy, but with an unmistakable air of satisfaction.

“Months,” he mumbles, his lips still dangerously close to yours. Your eyebrows rise in questioning, and he laughs in that infectious way that makes you want to join in without even knowing what the punchline is. “I’ve been thinking of kissing you for months.”

And you do share the laughter this time, not out of amusement but of a happiness that spills without restraint. “But you’re suddenly holding back now?”

“Just letting myself bask in the moment, I guess. Letting it sink in so I remember everything.”

The two of you stand there quietly, still trying to fully parse the progression of events, and a small part of your mind registers that Mark’s thumb is still drawing circles on your skin. It’s also not enough — this touch, this closeness. You know now that he’s been thinking of you for months, and it reminds you that you spent that time dreaming of him too. And you remember you’ve always wanted to be even more familiar with him, and suddenly the desire is overwhelming; he’s right here, and you don’t ever want him out of your grasp again.

“Where are you going?” He’s only curious for the sake of it; there’s no alarm in the question because you keep your fingers tightly woven in his, tugging him along as you walk past him to the door. He’s still staring in wonder after the lock clicks shut. “What’s… happening now?”

“You waited months to kiss me, right?” He nods in response at your question. “I’ve been waiting just as long to have you too.”

His mouth falls open, but he doesn’t manage to say anything; his jaw tightens just as quickly when he feels your free hand trail down his chest, feather-light and asking for a green light. Your index finger stops just above his navel and draws back slowly, but not before you feel the shiver that runs down his torso.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you murmur, giving his hand a little squeeze. “But I just want you to know — I want to. I want you.”

A thoughtfulness settles on his face, and his eyes graze over yours, trying to read your seriousness. You don’t know how honest you look, but your words hold enough truth in them. A silence stretches over the next minute, but to you, it feels like an eternity, and you lose the test of patience somewhat, smiling softly at him.

“You don’t want to?”

“I—” His tongue peeks out, running over his bottom lip. “I do. It’s not that I don’t want to, but…”

“You seem worried.”

A hesitant nod. “I’ve never — well, no, I have, but not — with someone like you.”

“What’s someone like me?” You laugh airily.

“Someone pretty like you — I don’t know. Someone who seems to know exactly what they want. Someone who seems like… they could do better than me.”

“Mark.” You can’t keep the incredulity out of your voice. “I do know exactly what I want. I want you. The rest — I don’t care about. As long as it’s you, I want it.”

He cracks a smile, half of relief, half of disbelief. You don’t miss his hand coming up to press, warm, against your waist. “For real?”

Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt — an anchor to bring you closer, until the tips of your noses are brushing. “For real.”

The third time you kiss is slow, almost careful; there’s lingering worry in the line of his mouth that your lips try to ease until his slightly part under the movements of yours. You feel the tension leave his form in waves — first in his shoulders, then in his arms, until you’re able to press yourself closer and feel the slight give of his frame against your smaller one. He’s radiating an immense amount of body heat that’s pricking your skin and keeping you alert, and you’re hyperaware of the smallest things — the weak tremble in his mouth, the slight roughness of his teeth under your tongue, the ridges of his palate above it.

He tastes nothing like what he smells, you learn. Instead of the air of earthy coffee stuck to clean linen, you inhale a combination of spearmint and mild saltiness that’s made slightly sharper by the lingering splash of alcohol from his accidental sip of punch earlier. You decide then and there that this disparity is important to you; it makes you feel like you’re the only one who can have this experience — that everyone else can know his scent, but now, only you can know what Mark Lee tastes like.

You have to keep your wits about you to avoid this addictive stimulation of your senses; you let go of his hand only to lock your fingers around his neck, and there’s a show of trust in how he lets you lead him backwards, until his knees are hitting the edge of the unmade bed. The kiss breaks as he’s forced to settle on the mattress, and he looks up at you in what can only be described as a quiet kind of awe. He doesn’t complain when you place your hands, heavy, on his shoulders, using his sturdy form to keep you stable as you move to straddle his lap.

“I feel like,” his voice is hoarse as he speaks up. “We should have picked a different location. Someone… could walk in.”

“I locked the door,” you remind him, a light reassurance in your voice. He doesn’t say anything immediately, but it’s clear there are cogs turning in his head, and you think it’s unfair that he’s thinking way too hard about something else that isn’t you, right now, in this position. In a bid to rectify this, your face presses into the side of his neck, breathing in that familiar scent and leaving a light kiss on his skin right after. Your lips mark the moment he swallows hard at the contact. “Besides, would you really be that unhappy if someone did?”

His hands tighten against your waist, prompting you to leave another kiss against his collarbone. “What — what do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t like it if someone — say, Youngho — walked in to see me on your lap like this?”

The silence that follows your words is tense, and you can tell that Mark’s breathing has become shallower. Again, you can feel his throat constricting slightly, and you can’t help but laugh breathily as you nip at his skin, just under his Adam’s apple. He’s surprisingly easy to tease, you realize — quick to turn speechless and prone to hanging onto your words.

To say that you wouldn’t want to use that to your advantage would be a downright lie.

“Tell me,” you urge, your tone deceptively gentle. “You wouldn’t want him to see you kissing me like this? To see me wrapped around you, begging for more, saying your name over and over? You don’t want him to watch you take me — so he knows you’re the only one that can?”

A strangled groan punctuates your words, but it comes from him; his fingers dig hard into your side with barely constructed restraint. “What do you want from me, _________?”

“I want to know if kissing me was the only thing you wanted for months.”

You pull your head away, nudging his chin with the tip of your nose. Another groan escapes him, and his head tilts back slightly, almost like he’s praying. But when his gaze comes down to meet yours at your level again, you see a firm resolution in his eyes that stirs your heart — which takes off the moment he shakes his head, slowly but surely.

“Then,” you whisper. “What do you want from me?”

He doesn’t say so much as shows; he takes from you your breath, steals another kiss that’s now firmer and more openly demanding. Suddenly, his mouth can’t seem to stay still, trapping your lower lip in between his, drawing out your taste until it mixes with his against his teeth. You feel your head growing light again, and you’re pleasantly surprised that it’s suddenly become difficult to keep up with his lips, asking more from you without restraint. A hum of need sounds in the back of his throat, vaguely dissatisfied, and he’s telling you wordlessly that it isn’t enough right before he attaches his lips to the base of your neck, just above your collar. You think he’s just about to return the favor, but a laugh leaves you when you realize he’s taken it a step further, his teeth grazing your skin lightly, soft nips signaling how eager he is to sink his teeth in with only his slowly weakening self-control stopping him from doing it. Mark’s breathing is slightly labored when he pulls his lips away, warm breath fanning over your chest.

“It’s crazy — and stupid,” he croaks out, voice slightly raspy. “But I want it, and I don’t.”

“What do you mean?” Your fingers drag into his hair, combing it upward messily from his nape. He leans in for a quick kiss that’s somewhat misplaced, landing on the corner of your mouth instead of squarely atop it.

“I want them — him to see us. To see me with you, kissing you — fucking you, too. I want everyone to know we’re like this.”

You’ve never heard Mark say anything so forwardly before; a sweet, warm flush builds in your face, pleased at how comfortably he manages to say it — pleased that he’s saying it to you. “Then what’s the problem?”

“I don’t want him to see you.” There’s a bluntness to his words, but hiding behind them is an undertone of pleading — a serious request. “I don’t want him to see how pretty you look. I don’t want him to see you when you’re bare, or how you look when I’m inside you. I don’t want him to see—”

His voice wavers and dies, and you wonder if he’s embarrassed, but when you read his expression, you see an unyielding longing. A smile tugs at your lips, and your hand comes around to cup his chin, thumb extending upwards to drag his lower lip down.

“You don’t want him to see what’s only yours.”

He swallows hard again, but he doesn’t wait long to nod. Understanding passes between the both of you, silently but completely, and Mark presses his face to your throat, feeling the hum resonate as he places another long, firm kiss there.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, in a way that almost feels like he wants to convince himself of something impossible to believe. He doesn’t even wait for your affirmation, prefers to read it in the way you shiver lightly once his lips travel further down. His kisses trail past the collar of your shirt, and his hands are unabashed in how they seek skin, pushing the fabric upward so he can settle the palms of his hands, warm against your waist. Oddly, they don’t travel upwards; they only brush against the dip, down slightly over the upward rise of your hips, then upwards again, almost soothingly. It’s almost like he wants his mouth to meet them, but he stops halfway, sidetracked by the curve of your breasts.

He barely pulls away, only does for a moment, enough to meet your eyes.

“You’re only mine,” he repeats, his voice softer now. You realize he’s still waiting for some confirmation, and when you do, you’re quick to give it to him — quick to erase any doubt.

“I’m yours,” you affirm in the same tone, in the same careful volume. “Only yours, Mark.”

Whatever else he wanted to ask for, he knows you’ve given assent; that much is clear when he buries his face between your tits, inhaling your scent. You briefly wonder if he might feel just as intoxicated around you as you do around him, if your pleasant dizziness in being this close to him, in tasting and smelling him is something he experiences too, but you don’t get much time to dwell on it the moment you feel his lips part, a slight wetness seeping through the fabric. He’s kissing your chest, teeth grazing just above the cup of your bra, nipping without any real objective other than to feel the pad’s slight resistance to his mouth.

You almost miss what he says as he shifts his head, lips brushing over the curve of your breast — another breathless ‘mine’ that isn’t ever punctuated; his lips still stay parted, mouthing at the cloth, like he’s desperate to feel what’s underneath through it. There’s pressure where his tongue presses flush against the shape of your tit, tightness whenever he chooses to nip, attempting to take the flesh and all that’s between you and him between his teeth.

Not enough, you think, even when a whimper of need bubbles out of you; you want to be closer, your thighs pressing against the sides of his. You’re close in almost every way, but you still inch yourself further forward, enough to feel the taut hardness in his jeans. Your hips settle right there, letting fabric ride against fabric as you center yourself.

No sooner do you press yourself flush against him do you gasp; the light sting sends a jolt up your spine when his teeth close around your nipple through your bra, and when you look down at him, you see the corners of his mouth pulled up in evident satisfaction. He’s quick to atone, his tongue dragging your shirt slightly upwards in his attempt to soothe, and for some reason, the push of fabric and the barely-there feeling of motion leaves you tingling.

“Mark.” Your voice comes out in a whine, but in the haze you’re in, you don’t really have a clear idea of what you’re asking for. All you know is that you want more of him, and for as much as he’s already given you in kisses and words, you aren’t even halfway down the list of everything else you wish you could demand from him. You say the only thing that comes to mind — the only thing that really encompasses what you feel. “Mark, I want you. I want more of you.”

His hands on your waist are replaced by the significant tightness of his arms, locked around your torso; you don’t even have the time to take in your awe at the fact that he can easily carry you, turn you over until you’re on your back, until he’s already eased one knee between your legs.

The way he looks down at you is a mixture of hesitation and desire, but the former’s erased when you reach out for him, murmuring another ‘more’ so you can pull him in. With one palm pressed against the mattress, he lets his free hand graze against your side again, bolder in its movements, and his fingers trace a path up to your breast, squeezing the soft flesh through layers. Your back arches upwards in response, eager for more contact, for touch that’s almost there but not quite, and he smiles when you make a noise of frustration from his fingers tweaking the soft nub of your nipple.

“Mark, please—”

“Would you really let him see you like this?” His thumb’s still idly grazing over your breast, following the rise and fall of its curve. You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice level despite the growing want that threatens to break through it. “Would you really let him watch you… get fucked?”

You shake your head, and his brow furrows.

“I’d let him watch you fuck me,” you correct him, and the confusion in his face gives way to pure satisfaction the moment you make this nuance clear. “It has to be only you.”

His grip tightens briefly against your breast again, and he leans down, pressing a surprisingly chaste and brief kiss to your lips.

“Then I’ll unlock the door next time and give him a show.”

You don’t know if it’s what he says or what he does after — his hands bunching your shirt upward until the hem’s just below your neckline — that makes your breath hitch, but you decide it doesn’t matter when you realize you’d much rather be focusing on the journey his lips take, slick against your stomach as he presses languid kisses down to your navel. His fingers hook into the waistband of your jeans, the weight naturally pulling them down, and you see his muscles tighten for a moment as he stops himself from tugging them off completely.

Mark’s mouth is unparalleled in its attentiveness, seemingly intent on making sure he’s covered every inch of your stomach in warm kisses, but you only realize he’s somehow stalling when he starts the cycle again, his nails digging into the taut elastic of your jeans as though to remind himself to curb his desire.

You take the initiative instead, raising your hips slightly to signal your want, acutely aware of the fact that you brush lightly against his thigh when you do so. His eyes lift first, followed by the rest of his face, and he’s watching you quietly. You might have thought he was unsure of what to do all of a sudden again, but his knee pressing closer, an unmistakable pressure against you, is enough to tell you that he’s only curious to know what else you’ll do.

The second time you grind against his thigh, his hands catch your hips, keeping them aloft just long enough for him to tug the band of your jeans downward; he peels them off you with surprising ease, returning to the same position between your legs, hands still firm on your waist. With that done, he only has the thin garter of your panties left to curl his fingers into, bunching it into his fists when you roll your hips up one more time. You manage a shaky noise when you feel the stark difference — the roughness of the denim against you, the stick and drag of flimsy cloth. Mark lets out a low but unmistakable hiss.

“I can’t believe—” his idea is cut short by the movement of your hips again, and his grip tightens, knuckles pressing into your skin. “Can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“What am I supposed to do,” you breathe out, the sound momentarily getting stuck in your throat. “So that you know it’s real?”

His fingers relax their hold, palms now pressed against your thighs; they travel between your hips and your knees, a soothing and thoughtful motion. “God — I don’t know. I just want — I just want you so badly. Like… I’m going to go crazy if I don’t have you now.”

You lean up, your weight resting on your elbow, and your other hand reaches out; Mark meets you halfway, bending just a little lower to press his cheek against your palm. There’s something intimate, something so giving about the way he turns his face to your fingers, pressing a fluttering kiss just under your thumb. The tips of your fingers trace the shape of his lips, even when they pucker again under your digits.

“Take me,” you murmur quietly. “Right now — from now on, every part of me is all for you.”

His exhale is shaky, but his fingers have a sureness to them; they slip under your thighs, cradling the backs of your knees, and lifting until they’re folded over your chest. You don’t even have the time to wonder if you should feel exposed all of a sudden; his breath warms the inside of your thigh as he presses his lips there — not a kiss, just a touch as he speaks.

“I want to taste you,” he mumbles, partly distracted with the act of inhaling the mild scent off of your skin. “Every inch of you — I want to know just how sweet you are.”

He lets his hold on your thighs relax, letting them fall apart; he busies his hands with your panties instead, hooking a finger into the strip of cloth just covering you. It’s clear you’re both aware that the fabric sticks light to your skin, poorly masking your wetness, and interest mingled with hunger flashes across his face as he pulls it aside.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, sounding like it’s a comment more for himself than anything else. His gaze flickers to you for a moment before it moves back to your pussy. “The prettiest fucking girl in the world.”

The pressure of his thumb between your folds causes you to forget what you wanted to say, and you know Mark had been nervous, but you realize that it doesn’t mean he’s supremely inexperienced by any means; there’s a quiet, understated confidence in the way he rubs slow, thorough circles, moving upward towards your clit. Your face, your neck, your whole torso feels flushed, but you power through the instinct to tilt your head back so that you can keep watching him — the minute changes in his expression, the slowly building strength in his touch.

“I want to taste you,” he repeats, looking up at you. “I want to know what you taste like when you cum against my mouth.”

You’re not sure if you’re gawking because you can hardly believe Mark Lee — your eternally blushing, mild mannered campus crush — had said all those words strung together into such a lewd sentence, but you’re sure as hell not going to deny him. Your hand travels down your torso, and he watches, curious at first, then awestruck when your index and forefinger settle against either side of your folds, pulling them apart in offering.

His eyes end up transfixed on your pussy again, observing how your fingers ease your folds further apart the more he massages his thumb against your slit. His mouth is slightly agape, intent on drinking in the sight, unaware that you’re trying to memorize this view of him too — Mark Lee, touching you, wanting you, eager to take you fully.

“I’ve always wanted to see what it’d look like with your face between my legs,” you say in a hushed tone, but he catches it anyway, briefly looking up at you again. “I’ve always wanted to know what your tongue would feel like against my pussy.”

Your index finger bumps against the tip of his thumb, and he stops its motions, allowing you to move his digit down until the pad of it hovers just in front of your tiny hole. You can see one cheek tucked between his teeth, bitten to muffle the groan you wish you’d heard louder.

“Won’t you show me?”

You think you hear him rasp out a ‘fuck yes’ before he bends down, pressing his half-open mouth against your pussy. The squeal of delight that leaves you is half-strangled as his thumb curls, hooking into your entrance. It starts a shallow, distracted motion, with his attention funneled much more clearly into keeping his tongue working. Flush against your slit, it drags up, and he releases a guttural noise at your taste, lips pursing slightly on the way back down — like he can’t stand not trapping every drop of wetness with his mouth.

The intensity of his tongue, the idle thrusting of his thumb — you’re not sure what you want to focus on more, and the result is you whimpering incoherently at the starkly contrasting combination of the two. Mark moves his mouth like he’s never tasted anything as good in his life; the sounds between your thighs are wet, sloppy — almost embarrassingly so — but you don’t have the presence of mind to dwell on that because Mark Lee is eating you out and that’s really all that you can think of.

The tip of his tongue suddenly flicks upwards; you keen, long and low, when it starts to circle your clit in that same intense, circular movement his thumb had gotten you used to. Your sensitivity skyrockets, and you’re completely unable to control the upward bucking of your hips, but Mark stays supremely unperturbed, his free arm winding under your thigh to keep the both of you steady. Your noises are growing embarrassingly loud, and you realize just how needy you’ve become when you vaguely notice that there’s a pattern in what you’re saying — his name, over and over again.

“Did you do that too?” He asks softly, his words slightly muffled against you. “Say my name, I mean — when you thought of me.”

“God, yes.” Your voice comes out strained, teetering on the edge of slurring. “So many times — every single fucking time.”

“Promise me something.” He lifts his head, and you see a fieriness in his gaze.

You nod — at this rate, whatever he’d ask you to do, you would without question. “Anything.”

His thumb presses in deeper, up to his knuckle and you reflexively tighten around his digit, but he keeps it anchored there, pushing down against your walls. He drinks in your gasp, the widening of your eyes, the way you chew on your lip with a singular kind of contentment on his face.

“Promise me — from now on, you’ll make sure I’m always there to hear it.”

The only kind of assent you’re able to make is a moan as he dives down again, mouth buried in your warmth, his nose pressed tight against your clit. His tongue moves in strong strokes, broad swipes that push your folds apart further, and his thumb, while not moving, increases in pressure to the point that you feel a heaviness adding to the growing pleasure. Your hands fly down, seeking some kind of sense and reason, and you thread your fingers into his hair, grip tightening as your climax builds in stride.

“Mark, I’m—” close, you want to say, embarrassingly so, but the moment he hears his name, his lips attach to your clit, and there’s suddenly so much more pressure as he sucks, almost like he’s desperate to draw out your orgasm. He chooses this of all time to start moving his thumb again, and this time, his movements are anything but slow and idle; they’re filled with the intent to drive you over the edge. “Fuck me, oh my god—”

“I want to,” he murmurs, pausing for just a moment to drag the tip of his tongue around the nub. “God, I want to. Let me see you cum first; let me taste how sweet you are.”

His thumb stops, buries deep into your pussy, and you’re not sure why this, of all things, is what pushes you beyond control; you’re only half-sure you say his name when your orgasm hits, the rest of your consciousness much too clouded by pleasure. He doesn’t stop, revels in the way you squirm under him as he hums low and keeps his tongue working against your clit. His licks become longer, more thorough as you come down from your high, your cries softening into whimpers as his tongue both attempts to clean you up and makes you messier in the process. His arm is still curled around your thigh, keeping you from inching away from him, even if instinct and stimulation are telling you to.

You’re barely lucid when you sit up, and Mark inches back, somewhat startled; you grab the front of his shirt, and the sight of his mouth, slick and glistening from your wetness, only makes you more curious to know what you taste like on him. You find out how tangy it is, how rich the two of you are together on his lips, and you’re able to fully appreciate the skill of the mouth that kisses you deeply, leaving traces of you against your tongue and teeth.

“Please — fuck me.” It’s the only thing you can say at this rate, only half-coherent and still trembling with desire, but Mark doesn’t seem to care that you’re stuttering over such a simple request. His thumb wipes traces of saliva off the corner of your mouth, kisses it clean for good measure, then straightens up, his hands working at his belt. You almost miss the fact that his hands are shaking slightly as he undoes the buckle and tugs it out from the loops.

You want to help — it’s the least you can do, after all, and your fingers push the button of his jeans out through the hole, his hands working in tandem to tug the zipper down. However, your movements falter when you hear a noise from just outside the room — the sound of the doorknob being jangled, the thud of a body gently hitting the door, as though worried it’s stuck. You glance up at Mark, ready to reassure him, but he either hadn’t heard or doesn’t care because he’s too busy stepping out from the pool of denim at his ankles, and you get completely sidetracked by the bulge straining against his boxers.

You almost ignore Youngho’s voice grumbling ‘Jesus Christ, now of all times? from behind the door, but you leverage it instead.

“Should we let him in?” You ask, tone innocent despite the evident deviousness in your words. It pays off, though; Mark’s cock twitches unmistakably under thin fabric, and he actually looks like he’s considering it. “You’re just about to fuck me, after all. Weren’t we going to — what did you say? Put on a show?”

He worries on his bottom lip, like he’s unsure if you’re serious, but in the end, he shakes his head, reaching out to smooth your hair away from your face and ushering you to lay back down. The lips that meet your forehead are gentle, almost apologetic.

“Not now,” he murmurs against your skin. “Right now, you’re all mine.”

You laugh lightly, nodding, and he chuckles too, but the sound of it slowly dies down when your finger hooks into the garter of his boxers. You can feel his breathing hitch as you tug it down, the elastic catching when it meets the shape of his cock, but you don’t make any move to free it just yet — for some reason, you want to see him do it.

“Show me.”

He complies without hesitation, one hand dragging the elastic down over his thighs, the other curling around the base of his length, and your face flushes as satisfaction works through your system at the bare sight of him.

Mark Lee is big — not monstrously so, but enough for you to make a pleased noise as your hand joins his, fingers barely wrapping around his girth. You give his shaft a gentle squeeze, and his exhale stutters, watching you stroke him, long and thorough in your movements. Your palm swipes over the tip, leaking precum, allowing it to slick up your hand enough to keep your movements smooth. You’re fixated on the tension in his lips, the throb of his cock against your palm, and the way his gaze never leaves your face, like a small, amazed part of him still can’t believe what you’re doing, even if you’re both half-naked already.

“I want to suck you off,” you plead, grip tightening slightly. He grits his teeth, stifling another groan, but he shakes his head clearly enough for you to slow your movements in mild surprise.

“Can’t — not now. I need to be in you so badly.” His breathing’s sharp and heavy, like he’s trying to keep himself in check. “You don’t even know — how long I’ve wanted to feel you.”

Your hold relaxes, and you let him maneuver you, his renewed hold on your hips dragging you closer to the edge of the bed. In this position, he can spread your thighs further, and you angle yourself optimally — enough for him to get a full view of your pussy, wet and still aching from your last orgasm.

“You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted to know how tight you are,” he continues, and there’s a faraway look in his eyes that makes you think he might be entrenched in fantasy. “How much I would have killed to see you — have you like this. I’m not gonna be able to wait anymore.”

His fingers dig into your sides, thumbs stroking your stomach in a weak pattern. The underside of his shaft presses against your folds, still half obscured by your panties, in a way that’s heavy enough to make you mewl, your hips reacting before your mind can, and he hisses softly as he feels his length glide along your slit before you relax your stance again.

“I can’t wait,” he reiterates, a breaking in his voice that sounds almost tortured. You don’t want him to either, want to see him buried to the hilt inside you, and you raise your hips again in need. “I want you so much it’s driving me crazy.”

“Then take me.”

And you’re not sure if it’s a demand or a plea, but he no longer stops himself; his hand fists his cock a few times, coating the slick of precum along his length before he lines the tip up with your entrance. His other hand’s flush against the inside of your thigh, a light pressure ensuring he always has enough space to fit himself between your legs — enough space to bottom out completely.

Mark’s considerate in his pace — maybe he knows he’s big, or maybe he’s just naturally careful, but he allows you the time to adjust to the stretch. Your nails almost puncture holes into the sheets, your grip so tight you wonder if it’s just to brace yourself or to hang onto the last threads of your sanity. He’s only halfway in, but you’re pushing fullness already, and he stops when his cock meets slight resistance, looking up at you in concern.

“You’re not—?”

“It doesn’t hurt,” you reassure him softly, and it’s true; the adjustment brings about slight discomfort, but it’s almost nothing to you — not compared to how much more you want. “Give me everything; I want all of you inside me.”

He pauses still, trying to read your expression for any lies, but when he can’t find any, he nods, his jaw tensing as he presses both palms against your thighs, keeping you open as much as possible to accommodate him. He doesn’t even stop when you whimper, feeling a tightening twitch in your pussy that also causes him to groan, until inch by inch, you’ve taken him, his hips flush against yours.

He doesn’t move — not yet, his eyes trained to where you’re connected like he’s once again unable to believe what he’s doing. You hear him mumble something to himself that you want to hear too; you squirm slightly, and he hisses through his teeth, looking up at you and finding the questioning in your face. He offers you a small smile, albeit somewhat strained.

“You’re tighter than I thought.”

“You’re bigger than I thought,” you hum, and neither of you is really to blame; the tight fit, the slight breathlessness it leaves you with, is perfect, you think — just what the both of you need. “Did you often think about fucking me?”

“Probably just as often as you’re making it sound like you thought about having me fuck you, I think.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you warn, but there’s no real heat in your voice.

“I won’t. But it makes me feel good — knowing you wanted me just as bad.”

“I still do.” Your gaze is lazy, a little hazy, even if you’re anticipating so much. Even just the feeling of Mark, throbbing inside you, is already slowly building the pleasure in your stomach again; you wonder if you could cum like this, given enough time, given enough patience. “I’m still waiting for you to fuck me. God, Mark— please.”

He chuckles good-naturedly, but even that’s drowned out by the long moan that leaves you once he draws his hips back; your body’s mildly shocked into a new adjustment, feeling a sudden emptiness that’s quickly mitigated by him filling you back up again. The pace is slow, almost torturous, although you know he isn’t doing it to get a rise out of you. He wants to ease you into speed, careful to help you adjust fully; his restraint in his movements is all the more evident on his face, in the furrowing of his brow and the determination in his gaze. Even with that, he can’t help what he says, so intent on controlling everything else he does that he lets his words spill out over your noises.

“Pretty,” he grunts out, and when your walls twitch around him, he accidentally thrusts sharper — just enough for you to whimper a little more loudly, and he has to reel his strength back again. “God, you’re beautiful. I should’ve told you sooner how much I wanted you. All those times I had to imagine you wrapped around me like this, wondering how much tighter you’d get once you came on my cock. All those times you drove me crazy while I was alone, when I could have been in you— I could have found out how good you felt. How pretty you’d look under me. And you’re still even prettier, even better than I ever dreamed.”

There’s an erratic melody of moans under his words, spilling from your mouth, and the fact that he riles himself up enough to increase his speed slightly doesn’t escape you. He’s a little less careful now, seemingly entranced by the view he gets, watching his shaft disappear into you only to come out glistening, and a part of you hates the idea of snapping out of his reverie, but the majority of your thoughts now lean towards wondering how much more you can get him to break free of his own self-imposed restrictions.

“I wanted to ask you so many times.” His eyes snap up, coming back into focus as he takes in the sight of you, flushed, hair tousled, gaze darkened. “Almost every day — I sat there, thinking about how all I could do was go home and fuck myself, frustrated you weren’t doing it for me. I should have taken you home with me right then and there — should have let you watch me touch myself thinking of you, should have let you touch me into cumming on your fingers.”

His breathing staggers as he leans in, eager to see you clearer, to hear your words, slowly becoming airier as they come out. For a moment, his gaze falls, torn between watching him move into you and meeting your eyes, but he ultimately chooses the latter once you speak up again, your tone even more hushed than before — like it’s meant to be a secret between just you and him.

“But there were times I wanted you even more than that, to the point that I almost felt like I couldn’t wait.” His eyes widen slightly, a few precious seconds of wondering if he understands what you mean, right before you confirm what he thinks. “I thought about making a move right then — I should have kissed you. I should have asked you.”

“Asked me what?” His voice is gruff with the effort to keep himself in check despite the fact that it’s clear to the both of you that it won’t last.

Your lazy smile’s illusionary; it hides the triumph swelling in your chest at knowing that he asked exactly what you hoped him to.

“I should have asked you to fuck me in front of everyone there.”

“God,” his eyes squeeze shut, his grip tightening. “Please. I can’t—”

“I should have bent over for you there, begged you to stretch me out right after our session,” you continue, bordering on merciless. “Mark, you don’t know — how badly I wanted to be on your lap, your cock in me, with everyone watching. How much I wanted you to fold me over that table, have people watch you pound me, have them listen to how good you make me feel. No one would ever even wonder; everyone would know I’m yours.”

You pause, allowing his eyes to fly open once again, and there’s a pleading in them that’s begging for release. Your eyes soften along with your voice, but you’re this far gone; you should at least see it through.

“And everyone would know you’re mine too.”

“Fuck,” he growls, and his hips stutter before new resolve fills him, his hips driving into you with the force of a strength you didn’t even know he had in him; your thighs tremble at the intensity, at the renewed impact, and feeling him drive his cock deeper into you has you crying out somewhere between a moan and a sob. “Fuck, _________. If I had known you’d thought about me like that — God.”

It’s your turn to shut your eyes for a while, allowing yourself to focus on his movements, breaching your tightness even faster now. You feel his hands skim up your sides again, fingers digging into the fabric of your bra and pulling them down until your bare tits are cupped in his hands. You shiver as his thumbs pass over your nipples, toying them into firm nubs.

“One day,” he hums out, his voice giving way to a slight hoarseness again. “I’ll do it. I’ll fuck you in front of him — in front of Youngho, in front of everyone. I’ll let them wonder how tight you are, how fucking warm you are, and I’ll let them leave knowing no one can know but me.”

It’ll never happen, you both know, but something about agreeing to something so absurd is what has your body almost shaking in longing, and it’s what causes him to press in deeper, folding your legs closer to your torso. Your hands do what little they can to help, keeping your thighs apart so as not to obstruct his view. You can tell it’s somehow not enough, not really all of what he wants when his brow furrows, and he shifts his weight, pushing into you at a new angle.

The stark difference has you gasping before you can control it. Immediately, Mark stops, and you’re already shaking your head before you even hear him say anything, presuming he’s paused out of concern. But before you can say you’re fine, his hushed voice cuts through the silence.

“Do that again.”

“What?”

“Do it again,” he mumbles, sounding distant. “Breathe in. Suck in your stomach.”

You’re not one to complain at such a simple request, albeit a little odd, so you comply, inhaling enough to tighten your torso. You’re surprised when you feel his cock twitch inside you, and you blow out the air alongside your question. “Mark, what are you—”

“I can see it,” he says in utter disbelief. “When you’re like this, I can — I can see my cock inside you. Just a bit.”

Your eyes follow his gaze, fixed just below your navel. From this angle, without any movement, you can’t see a thing, but you assume he’s not one to abandon fucking you so intently without good reason, so you press your palm against your stomach, just above your pelvis. Nothing really feels significantly out of place — up until the point when Mark draws his hips back again, and you feel the backward slide of his cock.

Your throat tightens, and you don’t really understand the feeling that spreads in you — a unique kind of arousal, knowing how deep he is inside you and how you’re taking all of him in despite the fit, because of the fit. Your hand falls away, allowing Mark’s to take its place, and he exerts just a little more pressure against your stomach in an attempt to get the most out of the experience when he thrusts back in. He groans, feeling the bulge push back up, and he quickly picks up the same pace, renewed in intensity so he can experience the rapid rise and fall he creates under his palm.

The faster he goes, the harder he presses, and you’re not sure if he knows it, but the onslaught of friction is what’s making you whine and squirm even more; you’re trapped, in the best way possible, in his hold, your hands back to clinging to the backs of your knees like a lifeline. Pressure from the outside builds on the slowly growing pressure inside, a knot in your pelvis that’s coiling so tightly you feel like you can’t breathe. If Mark notices how close you are, he doesn’t make it known; he’s busy feeling the outline of his cock against your stomach, and when he looks up at you again, his eyes are hazy.

“I would fuck you every single day, every single hour if I could feel this every time,” he whispers in a way that’s almost reverent. “Let me — I want to keep seeing you like this. I want to feel how deep I am inside you, too. Let me fuck you all the time.”

You nod, and your first attempt to say something is just another choked sob. When you do manage to get something out, it’s broken in tearful stutters. “M-Mark, I’m s— I’m so close… I’m — fuck—”

“Do it.” It’s not a harsh command but an urging made on short breath; through your misty vision, you see tension in Mark’s face and shoulders, like he’s bracing himself for something too. You barely register the ping in the back of your mind, too focused on the way he’s pressing his palm harder on your stomach, the way his hips quicken their pace — he’s close too. “Let me feel you — want to feel you cum all over my cock.”

You inhale, not to speak but to let out a loud whimper; your teeth dig into your lower lip as you try to stifle the moans that threaten to follow, but in the end, you whine out his name. Your thighs threaten to close, trembling as you finally reach your climax, an impossible explosion of pleasure, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut so that you don’t get dizzy from the stars that burst around your vision.

“Fuck.” Mark’s voice is strained, his one hand still firm against your stomach, the other sliding against the inside of your thigh. “You get even tighter — you feel even better when you cum.”

“Mark,” you hiccup, unable to do anything but flutter around him as he pistons harder into you. You don’t even know what you’re asking for when you say ‘please,’ but he somehow seems to, and you trust that your body’s saying something you can’t fully detect in this state, with your mind floating in the aftermath of ecstasy.

“I know,” his tone is soothing in contrast to the intensity of his thrusts. “I’ve got you. Just a little more — where do you want—?”

You blink slowly, his words sinking in at too leisurely a pace; his hips stutter dangerously before you’re able to respond. You barely even do that, your hand gently brushing over the one against your stomach, but he catches onto the meaning quickly enough.

You’ve never heard your name said in such a beautiful way; hearing him moaning it lowly is enough to make you whine again, and that noise is drawn out when he shifts and slips out of you fully. Your brain’s fuzzy, but your senses are at least sharp enough to drink in the perfect sight of him cumming — the way he leans his head back, jaw taut and eyes shut, as he pumps his cock and the heat of his release against your skin, pooling against your stomach once he finally cums. You see a shiver run through him, and then he’s still for a while in this position, the both of you basking in the afterglow of your highs.

You’re still weak and sensitive when Mark finally comes back down, a lucidity you don’t have right now coming back into his gaze. All you can do is smile when he leans in, catching your lips in another kiss — one that’s surprisingly soft and slow in comparison to everything else, but still leaves you breathless when he pulls away.

“Let me clean you up,” he murmurs, and you hum in agreement, your body limp as you watch him move off the bed and pull a handful of tissues from a box on the desk on the opposite wall. Even his hands are gentle when he scoops you up, shifting you until your head can lean against the pillows. They carry a scent you’re not used to, and your nose scrunches, rejecting the change, but that’s quickly overpowered by Mark’s familiar coffee-and-linen one when he presses next to you, careful as he wipes his cum off your stomach and thoroughly cleans between your thighs. From somewhere down below, you still hear hushed voices, and the front door slams shut again. People are still in the middle of leaving, but you know Youngho will likely run out of guests soon, and this makes you feel like the timing’s suddenly become urgent.

“I want to date you properly,” you start, slightly slurred but unmistakably blunt. Mark’s gaze snaps to yours, slightly amused, as he balls the tissues up in his fist. “You never asked me, so I’m asking you.”

He looks perplexed. “I just never thought you wanted me to, so I didn’t try.”

You reach up, locking your fingers into his hair and using your grip to pull him down. Your kiss is a little demanding, with a tinge of excess frustration, and he pulls away laughing lightly.

“Do you still think I don’t want you to?”

Mark hums thoughtfully. “I think you made a lot of things clear tonight. On my end, I was happy enough to be near you.” He smiles down at you, and in the faint light, you can see the flush slowly return to his cheeks. “Having you like this — dating you… there’s no way I’d say no.”

Your shoulders relax, satisfied with his answer, and you beam up at him — an act he easily returns, breathtaking and endearing all at once.

Moments later, you feel his arm wind around your waist; he allows you to lean into his side, his other hand crossing over his lap to stroke your thigh. His face turns, pressing a kiss to your hair, and you feel his lips move, hear the quick rush of a whisper. You tilt your head, eyes slightly wide in questioning. “What was that?”

He shakes his head at first, trying to pass it off as nothing. But when it’s clear your curiosity won’t abate, he chuckles softly, his hand gently cupping your chin so that you can only look at him. His thumb strokes your bottom lip gently, as if trying to coax the same words out of your mouth before he murmurs them to you one more time — and this time, he sounds fully convinced of them.

“You’re all mine.”

[nonuify]

ᝰ.ᐟ — SVT ⟢ aftercare

› nsfw & sfw is included ┆ smut & fluff — mdni ꩜.

CHOI SEUNGCHEOL ;

we all know during intimacy he’s an animal like he will let you see stars while he’s fucking you open, but the morning after he’s the sweetest person ever like he will do breakfast in bed, or like you guys would be all cuddly & kissy with each other, just enjoying one another’s company, I also think cheol will be worried asking you if he did too much yesterday or asking if you are still sore just being the bestest partner known ever.

YOO JEONGHAN ;

you would wake up with hannie in bed, he would give you little kisses here & there after being the teasing little shit he is, but guess what he really does care for you when aftercare is being done, he would be like really boujee, making you a nice warm bubbly-bath with glasses of red expensive wine, treating you like the princess you are, jeonghan might be a mean dom but he does love & cherish you.

HONG JISOO ;

okay now joshuji is the cutest when it comes to the morning after love-making as he calls it, he is the sweetest, he will take you to your fave breakfast place, & probably will buy a huge bouquet for you while on the way to the diner, he will be very sweet & touchy with you, he is not afraid to show people & you obviously that he loves you very so, when you guys are back home, jisoo is gonna have it as a lazy day, where you both enjoy your time together, not caring about anything but each other.

WEN JUNHUI ;

ngl you & huihui would be at it TILL the morning, his stamina is insane, he’s lowkey (highkey) hot for that, but I think after making you see stars you both would sleep, just too tired to do anything so you & junie will lay there together while he’s still inside of you (ps, he would get horny again & wake you up to fuck, you oblige obvi lol).

KWON SOONYOUNG ;

sooni IS the one being taken care of, like his horanghae power will take over you for you to take care of him but I think he just loves cuddling in bed & talking about the most random things but treats it like it’s the most important conversation in the world, while your there just admiring him & everything about your boyfriend, soonyoung will leave also kisses all over you & he will bury his face in your neck meaning that you’ll stroke his pretty hair.

JEON WONWOO ;

I think nonu takes care of you by giving you your favorite snacks & such , letting you sit on his lap while absolutely caging you between his arms, not wanting to let go of you even for a second, I think you would be in a hazy-state by his deep morining voice, you could just listen to his soothing words forever, I think also you guys would sleep while embracing each others warmth, letting your worries for later but for now you just wanted one another.

LEE JIHOON ;

now uji isn’t big on aftercare, but that certainly doesn’t mean he wouldn’t take care of you, normally I’d think you & him would just sit in bed cuddling till you both drift into sleep-land, but there is times where you would ask to run a warm bath or get some breakfast & he would happily oblige to you, uji would do anything to make his partner happy

LEE SEOKMIN ;

we all know that kyeomi is the sweetest of all time, I think his care for you in the morning after doing the deed is him making sure you are 100% comfortable with everything, absolutely spoiling the hell out of you, because we all know seokminnie is such an amazing boyfriend, I think he’d also do those cozy movie in bed activities, cause he will take care of you & make you have fun !!.

KIM MINGYU ;

I think for mingyu, you both would be too tired to do anything, so lazily sitting there in bed is the best way for you both to rest, but there are sometimes that mingyu could spoil the hell out of you, getting all the remedies that’d you need, also even if he doesn’t spoil all the time, he will pepper you with kisses all over you face basically just worshipping you even more than the mind blowing sex he gave you.

XU MINGHAO ;

minghao would let you sit on his lap, you head laying on the comfort of his chest with hao playing with your hair, saying “i love yous” from time to time, you know that he normally isn’t like this but seeing him warming up to you only, melts your heart truly, so yes minghao is absolutely the sweetest with you.

BOO SEUNGKWAN ;

I think seungkwan would be the one tired, like he deserves all the attention he needs & you will happily oblige since I see you taking the lead & having more stamina than him, kwanie wants you to shower him with love & kisses but at the end that doesn’t mean he’ll never take care of you, he will do it equally!! but you do it first.

CHWE HANSOL ;

you & hansol would be a silly couple, imagine after doing it all night, you wake up to each other of course cuddling one another but you both would watch tiktok or insta reels together, constantly giggling with each other about a video you’d find funny, it’s not the normal aftercare but who cares as long as you are with hansol, your alright.

LEE CHAN ;

lee chan is the king of aftercare like he is so dedicated to making you feel comfortable & well less sore from last night, like cheol, chan loves spoiling you, giving you absolutely everything you need & more, he would definitely have a drawer in your nightstand for specially post sex snacks & such because he’s such a pookie for you, also chan is really heavy with pda, so expect a lot of kisses & cuddling.

! 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ thank you for reading >ᴗ< !! [ divders by @/ cafekitsune. ] [ tysm svthub members for helping me on writing this 🫶🏻. ]

[hyunverse]

dad activities ☆ stray kids hyung line

tags. fluff, headcanons. fem!reader. note. long time no update... (nervous giggles.) maknae line soon. enjoy <3

BANG CHAN...

he's a total girl dad. 100%.

chan is soft-hearted when it comes to his little girl. a glance of her puppy eyes and he'll surrender himself completely to her.

often times, you'll find chan sitting cross-legged with little ha-eun on a stool, giving your husband a makeover. no matter what ha-eun does to him, he'll simply let it be — even if she's dabbing a ridiculous coloured eyeshadow on his eyelids and tying a horrendous looking ponytail at the top of his head. if it makes his daughter happy, then he'll entertain it.

you can count on chan to get your daughter ready for school. he's mastered multiple hairstyles! whether it be a french braid or pigtails, chan made sure he's mastered them even before ha-eun was born. he loves preparing his daughter to school, enjoys the morning as he ties up her hair and makes sure she's dressed up nicely.

would not miss any single school event. talent show? sports day? bring your parent day? report card day? he has every event marked on his calendar, and never misses any. all the teachers and moms know him for being so present and sweet.

always has a hairtie on his wrist! ha-eun is a cheeky, cheeky girl — constantly running around. chris makes sure to have a hairtie prepared for moments where the little girl gets tired of her hair sticking to her face and ends up throwing a tantrum. of course, the other hairtie on his wrist is reserved for you. ♡

at the back of his car lays a my melody stuffie. he's proud to have it in his car!! every time someone gets in his car, he proudly says, "oh, that's my daughter's stuffie." the proudest dad around <3

overall, chris is a dependable and sweet dad.

LEE KNOW...

i see minho as a twin dad. a boy & a girl!!

having twins in the house, pranks become a common occurence. one twin would prank the other, then a revenge comes. it becomes a cycle!! you'd try to stop the prank war going on but it cannot be stopped when minho encourages it!!! sometimes he'll even conspire with the twins to prank you. watch out for the sugar jar as you make coffee because it might actually be salt.

i cannot explain this but he makes weird bento boxes. the typical ones would be of animals, or studio ghibli characters but he makes odd characters that are lowkey terrifying but the kids are so used to it that they're unaffected.

they'll never know what's coming for them when they open their lunchbox. it'll be either yet another jureumi-shaped bento or a weird-looking cat.

leaves cute little notes too! odd, and a bit threatening but cute nevertheless. some of the notes the twins have received range from — "fight back when someone bullies you," or "eat well or don't come home." they're all affectionate, but written in a very lee minho way that you can't help but smile when you read them.

you never have to worry about leaving the kids with minho for a long time. he's got you covered! the twins absolutely adore their dad. would spend an entire day building a fort and watching movies while you're out with your friends.

at the end of the day, when you're back from your outing, you'd come home to the sight of minho and the twins curled up in front of the tv, a studio ghibli movie playing in the background. ♡

CHANGBIN...

the ultimate boy dad!!

he would totally raise a gentleman. the kind to teach his son that chivalry isn't dead.

would 100% teach his son things like opening the door for other people, helping a senior citizen cross the road, and to carry mommy's grocery bags.

picture this. you're out buying groceries for the week. changbin and mini binnie are wearing matching jerseys & carrying grocery bags for you. so cute <3

would surprise you with your son!!! every single mother's day, he'd wake up early with the little boy to make you pancakes and scrambled eggs. sometimes they end up burnt but truly, it's the thought that counts.

ensures that his son does not forget your birthday!! you best believe that every single birthday you'll be pampered with gifts and handwritten notes from your hubby and son. <3

changbin has chronic dad jokes disorder and unfortunately, his son has inherited it. the little boy will have fun telling you dad jokes that changbin taught him.

also loves to play fight with his kid. you'd be watching tv and they'd be play wrestling in the corner, giggles filling in the house.

HYUNJIN...

twin dad through and through. a son and a daughter who'd get showered with love <3

hyune's a man of duality. he can go from boy dad to girl dad in one minute.

one moment he's playing soccer with your son in the backyard, giggling as kkami joins in the fun, little barks accompanying laughters.

or he'd be helping the little boy build the coolest train tracks ever. it's so long and loopy, stretches from the living room all the way to the front door.

the next moment he'd be playing tea party with your daughter, learning how to hold a small tea cup with his pinky up.

would end up coming out of the play room with a messy manicure and a tiara on his head. he doesn't complain. might give you a little twirl just to make his little girl happy.

he would even build the prettiest dollhouse for her. it'd be a whole project, would spend days building a dollhouse and they'd have fun painting it together.

i think hyune is the kind to support and encourage his kids to find new hobbies. his son wants to enroll in taekwondo? sure, he'll take the boy to the first class. his daughter wants to try out ballet? he'll sign her up to a class, buy her a tutu and ballet slippers. he's just so supportive <3

often times, he'd take care of the kids while you go out with your girls. you'd come back to him asleep on the couch, while the (very much awake) kids draw on his face with sharpie ^.^

all in all, hyune's a doting, and supportive twin dad. <3

taglist. @zoe8stay @starlostseungmin @hwajin @sleepyleeji @jdopes-recorder @sherryblossom @alyszaen @hyunluvxo @bokk-minnie @ghostyycat7 @fortunatelyhertragedy @yongbokkari @ameliesaysshoo @seoli-16 @jisungsdaydreamer @soobnny @seolboba @in2heartz @jehhskz @astraystayyh @mnwrld @hanjsquokka @pheonixfire777 @sapphirewave @seunghancore

[writeonwhiskey]

the skz house: ch 19 (18+)

a/n: thank you @bahablastplz for editing! i appreciate you 🩵 and thank you, readers, or your patience.

[ read chapter 18 here ]

Chapter 19: Of Christmas & Chokers

Over the next few days, the comfortability between you and Chan deepens. Whether you’re in the room or out being tourists, you remain almost glued together—holding hands, sitting on his lap, hugging each other, kissing. Your conversations flow naturally and without tension. In an alternate universe, perhaps this would have been an ideal trip for a couple in love. As delusional as you may have become in believing this could be a new normal, you keep one foot grounded in reality. Well, maybe not the whole foot…but at least a pinky toe.

Your days are packed with several activities such as a nighttime ATV ride, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. You both have the time of your life letting loose. Speeding, swerving, screaming at the rush of it all. You’ve never seen Chan smile so much. He is different when he’s free of the responsibility of being Chapter President…he’s carefree. You tell yourself regardless of how this ends, you’ll be glad you at least got to see him like this.

You go to a local amusement park where Chan is determined to make you face your fear of rollercoasters. However, after the second ride leaves you nearly in tears, Chan puts that mission to rest.

You venture back out on the water on a jet ski. Chan lets you do most of the driving that day, but you soon realize it’s a set up. When you’re far out enough from the beach, his hands on your hips find their way between your legs. He kisses your neck and tells you to turn off the jet ski. He fucks you with his fingers until you come, whispering in your ear how hard his cock is and what he plans to do to you later.

One of the days while you and Chan are out, the hotel staff add holiday decorations around the room, including a small, 4ft tree in the corner near the balcony windows. It makes you squeal with glee upon seeing it. You assume it’s all the hotel’s doing. Lee Know wouldn’t have done something so nice. Would Chan? He doesn’t claim it, if he had put them up to it. It doesn’t matter, though, it makes you happy to see and feel more of the holiday spirit.

When Christmas Eve comes around, there’s a break in the itinerary since a lot of places are closed for the holiday. You wind up sleeping in quite late for your standards and when you finally open your eyes, Chan is wide awake in the bed next to you. He’s sitting up, back against the pillows, laptop in front of him and headphones covering his ears. He’s consumed by whatever he’s doing, but as soon as you turn to face him, his eyes shift from the screen to you.

“She has risen,” he jokes, moving one headphone away from his ear.

“I needed that,” you reply, stretching beneath the blankets. “How long have you been up?”

“A while,” he says with a shrug. “Just working on our chapter project.”

You smile inwardly. Typically, his response would have finished with ‘a while’, you would have had to dig and pry for any further information. He, for now at least, is freely providing you with further details.

“Chapter project?” you ask. You recall hearing him discuss it months ago, but never knew what it was.

“Just something we have to put together to memorialize the year,” he tells you. He turns the laptop so you can see the screen. You recognize the sight of a music program with tracks and layers but have no further understanding of it.

“Putting your minor to use?”

“Kind of. It doubles as my senior project for the minor, so that’s a plus.” He starts moving things around on the screen, opening a folder aptly titled ‘Chapter Project’. He clicks on a few files, opening them to show you as he speaks. “I want to incorporate songs I’ve worked on with different things from the other members—Hyunjin’s artwork for example.”

You know Chan is a good student. All of the members are, really, but you know some of them drag their feet and procrastinate until the last minute. You’ve caught Hyunjin, Changbin and Jeongin rushing to meet midnight deadlines more than once.

“Can I hear something?”

You sit up on the bed, back against the pillows like Chan. The blanket falls from your chest, exposing your breasts.

“Only if you put those things away,” he says, looking pointedly at your breasts, then up to your eyes, then back down again.

“What things?” you ask innocently, leaning back against the headboard and pushing your chest out even more.

Seizing the opportunity, Chan leans over and captures your nipple in his mouth. You let out a surprised scream as he bites down around it. You push him away, swatting his arm. You promptly pull the blanket up to cover them before holding out your hand for his headphones.

He hands them over with a smile, and you put them on. He shuffles a few things around on the screen before a video starts. You assume the graphics are of Felix’s design as it feels like something you’d see in a video game. A song accompanies the images and you’re surprised to hear Chan’s voice over a jovial sounding beat, followed by Seungmin, then Changbin. You didn’t know any of them could sing.

The video is only about a minute long but you feel dumbfounded when it’s over. You remove the headphones and pass them back to Chan.

“I like it,” you say with a smile. “It’s…surprisingly good.”

“You underestimating me?” he asks teasingly.   

“My mistake,” you say sarcastically, placing a hand over your heart. “Is that a cover?”

“No, it’s an original song,” he tells you, turning the laptop back so it’s facing him. “Just waiting on Felix to finish rendering the rest of the graphics, then that one will be done.”

“You’re doing more?”

“A few more. It’ll be a mini-album.”

“Do I get a copy?”

“Hmmm…maybe. If you ask nicely.”

“Oh, never mind then,” you say nonchalantly.

Chan turns to look at you, biting his tongue between his teeth to keep from smiling as he nods.

“I’ll remember that.”

You slide down against the pillows, then turn on your side so you’re still facing him.

“I had no idea you guys could sing,” you tell him.

“Participating in choir was mandatory at our boarding school,” he shrugs. “We can hold a note.”

Chan is full of so many surprises. Most of them pleasant, these days. You want to uncover all there is to know about him, but you know you’ll never be given the time.

You cuddle up to him as he puts his headphones back on. You just lay there and watch him work, expertly navigating around the screen as he continues composing the song. You want to ask why he’s not majoring in music. You already know the answer to that, though. The choices for his future aren’t exactly his to make. His parents decided he would major in business, and sadly that’s all there is to it.

Your heart aches for him—you can see the work he put in to make something creative, the passion he has for it. And he can’t even pursue it.

It’s now 11:00pm and you and Chan have just returned to the hotel room. After dinner you both wanted to get out of the room for a bit and ended up at one of the only places open—the Magic City casino. The hours spent there are a bit of a blur. It was news to you that anyone playing at the tables or slot machines could get free drinks, so you both decided to indulge. Being so far from the hotel, though, Chan didn’t let either of you get too drunk.

As soon as you’re back to the room, Chan excuses himself to make a phone call and disappears out onto the balcony. You change into your pajamas—a pair of thin, loose fitting shorts and matching top—and return to the living room. You turn on the TV, stopping on the first channel you see playing a Christmas themed movie to entertain you while you wait for him to return. From all the food and drinks, you start to doze off until the sound of the heavy balcony door opening stirs you.

“Everything okay?” you ask when he comes back in.

“Mm,” is his reply, with a small nod of his head. “It’s Christmas day back home. I’m gonna get changed.”

You can only nod as well. His tone sounds a bit sad so you’re not sure what to say. Maybe he’s missing spending the holiday with his little brother and sister. And that makes you sad. It’s your fault he’s not with them.

Chan comes back into the living room clad in a plain black t-shirt and grey sweatpants. He sits down next to you and throws his arm around the back of the couch behind you.

All of your life you had never considered yourself to have a one-track mind but now? With Chan? Seeing him in those grey sweatpants puts one thing at the forefront of your mind, drowsiness and sadness pushed aside. You’ve got to get a hold of yourself.

“Should I open the bottle of wine the hotel left?” you suggest.

“Sure,” is his simple reply.

You stand and retrieve the bottle from the kitchen, along with two wine glasses. You pop the cork and fill both glasses before returning to Chan, handing him one.

“You sure everything’s alright? You seem a bit down…”

You don’t want the tension in the air to linger through the night and this trip has built your courage to address him this way.

“I’ll be fine,” he tells you with a soft smile. He clinks his glass against yours before downing his in one go. “You trying to stay up ‘til midnight for your present?”

You take a sip from your wine glass; happy he’s taking the initiative to change the subject to something lighter.

“I don’t see any presents under that tree,” you say, looking in the corner where the small tree is lit up.

“I haven’t put them there yet.”

“Them?”

As in multiple.

He nods.

“Oh no,” you say, a look of panic taking over your features.

You weren’t sure the two of you would even be exchanging gifts. Not only that, but you don’t feel like you truly know enough about him to get a well thought out present. And you love giving gifts. Hyunjin has a never-ending need for art supplies, so you immediately knew what to get him. You were completely puzzled when it came to Chan.

It was only after the staff added the tree that you thought it’d be nice for him to wake up with something under the tree. Being on vacation, though, you were in a bit of a predicament. All you really had convenient access to was the gift shop.

He must sense your apprehension.

“It’s okay if you didn’t get me anything,” he tries to appease you.

When the panicked look on your face turns into a frown, he takes the wine glass from your hand and places it next to his on the side table. He then pulls you into his lap so you’re straddling him and cups your face with both hands, stroking your cheeks with the pads of his thumbs.

“It’s fine,” he says in a sharper tone that makes you nod in acceptance.

“I would have never imagined I’d be spending Christmas Eve with you, let alone exchanging gifts,” you tell him, leaning your forehead against his. “From English classmates to this? Never in my wildest dreams.”

“That wasn’t our first class together,” he says matter-of-factly. He leans back against the couch and takes both of your hands in his, lacing his fingers through.

You furrow your brow at his statement. You wrack your brain for any other class you may have had with him but can’t come up with any.

“What? When?”

“Freshman year…Anthropology 101. In the lecture hall.”

You think back to freshman year and the classes you took. You did, in fact, take an Anthropology course. In a large lecture hall with something close to 100 other students, including your ex.

“I always sat in the back—you were always somewhere up front. Being a nerd, I guess,” he teases. You try to pull your intertwined hands from his to hit him, but he holds onto them tighter, bringing them to his chest. “You look cute when you’re focused, you know that?”

Your brain feels like mush. None of this is ringing a bell.

“Do you remember the presentation you did for extra credit? A family heirloom?”

Now that, you do remember.

“You were so nervous, but I swear it made you look even cuter. The way you talked about the heirloom…” he continues. “…your grandmother’s bracelet, I think it was…”

“Yes,” you say softly.

The bracelet your grandmother gave your mother, who then passed it on to you, and one day you’ll give it to your own child. It feels odd to hear Chan speak about it. Something so deeply personal to you. Granted, you did tell an entire class of strangers about it. But the fact that he remembers it, remembers you?

The fact that he’s known of you this long? Why hadn’t he mentioned it before?

“Why don’t I remember you being in that class?” you ask, struggling to process this new shared history and the words he’s just spilled about you simultaneously.

“It was freshman year…plenty of stuff going on and…your ex,” he shrugs.

He hits the nail on the head with that comment. That class is where you met him.

“You know, the first few weeks of the SKZ house before we bring anyone in?” Chan asks rhetorically, “I thought maybe I’d work up the nerve to talk to you while I could…but then he was there. Always sitting next to you. Even with the class we had this semester. I thought again, maybe it was a sign, you know? But he was waiting for you outside the door after the first class ended.”

You feel a pang of sadness, hearing that. Maybe in a different timeline if he had come talk to you, things would be different. You imagine getting to know a bright-eyed freshman Chan, eager and optimistic to take on the world. Maybe he would have opted out of having an assignee if it were possible, maybe he really could have been yours.

“I remember one of the last lectures you came in with your eyes all puffy,” he continues, disrupting that dangerous train of thought, “like you’d been crying. You didn’t sit anywhere near him that day. I always wondered what happened.”

You open your mouth to speak but close it immediately. What can you say to that? To any of this? Had he really paid such close attention to you? All this time?

“He used to treat you like shit, you know.”

At that remark, you set your lips in a firm line. You untangle your hands from his and cross your arms in front of your chest. It’s true, but hearing Chan say it hits too close to home.

“And you treated me any better?”

Chan takes in your closed off body language and a silence falls over you. Neither of you want this bubble you’re in to burst yet. Perhaps he’s regretting saying any of this at all.

“The day you showed up at our house…” he speaks up again after a while, “I felt sick to my stomach, y/n. Like the universe was playing some sick fucking joke on me.”

He places his hands on your thighs, squeezing and rubbing them.

“When it came time to choose assignees, I couldn’t let you end up with anyone else. I’ve never pulled rank like that before as the chapter president, but with you I had to…and I knew Hyunjin would be good for you, too.”

You shake your head in disbelief.

The day in the hot tub creeps back into your mind. When you told Chan that your time with Hyunjin had been great and he replied with ‘I know. I’m glad’. You didn’t fully understand it then. Now, it’s as if Chan knew the emotional rollercoaster he was going to send you on and wanted to make sure you had a harness. Hyunjin.

You let out a low breath and place your hands on top of your head, locking your fingers together. This is a lot to take in.

“So, your plan was to selfishly claim me and treat me like shit?” You ask after a moment.

“I wouldn’t call it a plan,” he says in a sad tone. “I knew that I was attracted to you and after our first few nights together I had to do something to keep boundaries in place.”

The conversation you shared on the beach clarified his drive for the spankings and edging. You understand his reasonings. You know that his sexual desires and fantasies with you are kept separate from his emotional connection to you. However, it’s confusing and frustrating to know he clearly felt something for you prior to you joining the SKZ House and still kept that brick wall firmly in place between you.  

“So, you wanted to fuck me and still treat me like shit then?” You can’t help the bitter edge to your tone.

“I didn’t wanna get to close—clearly I’ve failed,” he admits. “It’s just always been in the back of my mind how long I’ve wanted you and now that I get to have you, there’s an expiration date.”

“What happens when we get back? You start treating me like that again?”

He averts his gaze from you.

“I don’t know how to—” he stops abruptly and shakes his head.

“Chan,” you say softly, reaching out to turn his head back to face you. “Please.”

“I don’t know how to be with you and be genuinely happy in this fucked up situation, y/n. I’m not gonna want it to end…but it has to.”

You sigh, resting your hands on his chest. As much as it hurts to admit, he’s right. You don’t like the thought of having to leave either of them. With Hyunjin, though, you know he will move on with ease which makes losing him slightly easier. Chan, on the other hand, after all the ground you’ve broken, the progress you’ve made…having to throw it all away will be hard. On both of you, you’re coming to realize.

But how else could you have gotten to know him? If you hadn’t shown up at the SKZ house, Chan would have once again had another assignee and not been able to interact with you anyways. Perhaps you both should at least be thankful for the time you’ve been given and enjoy it while you can.

“You can’t go back to being an asshole, Chan,” you tell him softly.

“I know.”

He grabs onto your hips and pulls you closer to him until you’re forced to lay against him. You rest your head on his shoulder as he wraps his arms around you, hugging you tightly. You stay like that for a while, the movie playing in the background but neither of you watching it. You want to remember this moment, how it feels to physically and mentally be this close to him.

An alarm suddenly goes off on his phone and Chan quickly silences it. He cups one hand around the back of your neck to guide your head up. His brown eyes bore into yours, still lingering in this shared moment. You hold his face in your hands, staring right back, not backing down. It’s not an intense stare…more like one of silent pleading and unspoken questions. You bring your face to his and place a chaste kiss on his lips.

“Wait here,” he says, kissing you once more before sliding you off his lap.

He disappears into the bedroom and when he comes back, heads straight for the Christmas tree. He places two wrapped boxes under it and you mentally kick yourself again. You hadn’t even wrapped his. Even so, you can’t hide the smile that takes over your face at the sight and the thought he must have put into this.

“Should I get yours?”

“So you did get me something?” he asks with a smirk.

“I did…but seeing that,” you say, pointing to the neatly wrapped presents under the tree, “I don’t even want to give it to you anymore.”

“It’s fine,” he says again. “I’ll wait until tomorrow. Come pick one.”

You stand from the couch and walk over to him and the tree. Both boxes are square in shape, one larger than the other. You deliberate for a moment before reaching for the larger one. You sit on the floor and pull it towards you, surprised by its weight. You look up at Chan and when he doesn’t move to join you, you pull on his hand until he sits.

“Did you wrap this yourself?”

“I asked the housekeeper to help me out with it,” he tells you.

“Resourceful.”

He taps his temple with his pointer finger.

You start ripping away the wrapping paper to reveal a white box beneath. You can’t hold back your smile as you pull the top part of the box off. You set it aside and pull out the tissue paper. When your eyes land on what’s inside, your mouth drops.

A folded, white lab coat with your last name embroidered across the breast area sits on top. You reach out and run a finger across the stitching. It feels surreal to see.

“I figured you’d need it when you go off to vet school.”

You look up at him, still smiling. You will definitely need it. Along with several other items you were already wondering how you would afford, without having to ask your parents for even more money. That’s part of the reason you ultimately decided to join the SKZ house and save the money they were sending you. At least the majority of it would go towards the next steps in your education.

“Thank you, Chan.”

It’s a thoughtful gift. And you feel the guilt of your shitty gift building.

“There’s more…” he nods towards the box.

And the guilt continues.

You lift the lab coat out of the box and gently set it outside the box. The next item is a set of black scrubs, your name embroidered on the shirt as well. You left them out of the box and sit them on top of the lab coat. When your eyes land on the item at the bottom of the box, your jaw drops again.

You reach inside the box and retrieve the stethoscope. This was one of the pricier items you hadn’t been looking forward to purchasing. You bring it closer to inspect, smiling widely. You immediately recognize it as one of the more expensive brands. It, too, is engraved with your name around it.

You feel your eyes begin to prickle and you blink furiously, not wanting to cry, but you can’t help it. It’s a thoughtful gift. One that you’ll get to take with you when the year is over. A reminder of Chan you get to keep with you forever.

You slowly raise your eyes to look at him, shaking your head softly.

“You don’t like it?” he asks, “Is it not the right kind? I wasn’t really sure…”

“It is—it is,” you say, your voice cracking. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand and clear your throat. “It’s perfect. It’s all perfect, Chan. Thank you.”

“Wanna test it out?”

Your smile returns at that and you nod, placing the ear tubes in your ears and sliding closer to him. He pulls you onto his lap once again, putting your legs on either side of him, your butt resting on his folded legs.

You grab the bell end of the stethoscope with one hand and pull at the hem of his t-shirt with the other, lifting it up. You then place the diaphragm end to his chest and he instantly moves back, grabbing your wrist.

“That’s cold doc,” he says, voice muffled and rumbling through the ear piece.

“Sorry, I’m a rookie,” you reply sheepishly.

You bring the diaphragm end to your mouth and breathe on it to warm it up before placing it back over his heart. The digital reader immediately lights up, reading his heart rate. But you’re not focused on it. You’re looking directly into his eyes, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

“Sounding healthy?” he asks.

You nod.

“Well, we should make sure the reading is accurate, too.”

He cups the back of your neck and pulls your face closer, bringing your lips to his. With his other hand, he holds your wrist and the stethoscope in place. You can hear his heartbeat quicken as you kiss. You grind your hips against his, causing the steady thumping in your ear to beat faster. You want to get lost in the sound of his body’s reaction to you.

He uses his hand on your back to assist your grinding, making sure you can also feel his body’s reaction to you.  

Not wanting to jeopardize the safety of your present, you break the kiss and pull the ear tubes out. His hand drops from your wrist allowing you to turn and set the stethoscope neatly on top of the pile of the other presents behind you.

Before you can even turn back around, Chan is changing your position. He holds onto your back tightly as he lowers you down to the floor.

“I won’t write a negative review just yet—but you’ve got some learning to do, doc.”

You like to hear him call you that.

“I’m a fast learner,” you reply.

“Oh, I know,” he says with a wink.

He remains sitting in front of you, his legs still crossed, while you’re lying down. Your legs are draped over his thighs, feet on the ground on either side of him. He pushes your shirt up to expose your stomach and lightly runs his fingers in a zig-zag pattern all the way down until his hand is between your legs. The thin, pajama shorts you’re wearing are a loose fit and don’t do much to keep him out. Not that you’d want that.

He easily moves the fabric aside and his eyes snap to yours when he realizes you aren’t wearing any underwear.

“I only packed so many for the trip,” you laugh and shrug. “I can’t keep messing them up with you.”

He smirks and nods his agreement.

He slides his fingers up and down your slit, teasing your pussy until his fingers become saturated with your slick. He slowly inserts his ring and middle finger inside of you as he places his other palm on your lower stomach. You rock your hips against him in response. He curls his fingers, pressing against your inner walls each time he withdraws his hand, all the while applying steady pressure with his palm.

You can really feel his fingers rubbing against you, and you know he can too. His eyes are on his fingers pumping in and out of your pussy, then move up to your writhing body, then your face. A soft smile plays out on his lips as he watches your reaction. He adds his thumb on your clit into the mix and you let out a moan.

“Tell me what you want,” he coaxes.

You bite your lip between your teeth, arching your back. You’re too caught up in the sensations to formulate a response.

“You wanna come on my fingers?” he asks, slowing them down. “Or on my cock?”

You moan again.

“Both.”

“Greedy,” he says with a soft chuckle, still moving his fingers in and out at an achingly slow pace.

“Mmmm, yes. For you.”

Any part of him you can have.

He moves his fingers quicker, thumb still circling your clit. You sit up a little, placing your hands behind you to hold you up as you move your hips against his fingers.

He arches an eyebrow at this, a devilish smirk on his lips. He withdraws his fingers, and you protest with a whine and pout. He brings his fingers, coated in your slick, to your face and spreads it around your pouted lips. He watches closely as you lick your lips, then brings his hand to his mouth, sucking off the rest for himself.

The sight of him enjoying your taste always sends you off the rails. You grab a handful of his shirt and pull him to you until his lips are on yours. He seems a little startled, but he allows it. You kiss him, taste him, taste you.

Before you can have too much, he breaks the kiss but keeps his face against yours.

“I want you to open your other present now,” he says, lips brushing against yours as he speaks.

“Not in the morning?” you ask, catching your breath.

“No,” he says with a shake of his head. “I wanna see it on you now.”

He stretches to the side to retrieve the present and you wrap your arms around his waist to keep from falling back. He grabs it and returns to his upright position before handing it to you.

You take the present and rip the wrapping paper, much less delicately than you did the first. What could this be? He wants to see it on you? You’re excited to find out. You toss all bits of the paper behind you without a care until just the box is left. You lift the lid from the box and inside is what appears to be…a collar?

You look up to Chan with an arched brow and he just smiles widely, baring all his pearly white teeth. The part of the collar that rests on the back of the neck is black, with a belt buckle-like fastener. On the front is a thick, silver linked chain (much like the one he wears on his wrist) with a silver heart hanging from it. The heart itself has several tiny jewels spread evenly around it. The way they glitter in the light, you hope its cubic zirconia…but knowing how deep Chan’s pockets go, they might just be diamonds. You bring the heart closer for inspection and see the words 'Good Girl' engraved on it.

You’re not sure what to make of it. Both the cost, the phrase and the gift itself. He wants you to wear this? Like a dog?

He takes it out of the box and drapes it around your neck, moving your hair out of the way so he can fasten it in the back. You look up at him as he hooks a finger through the heart and tugs on it. Pulling, pulling, restricting until it’s taught against your throat.

Oh. Oh.  

“This okay?” he asks.

You appreciate that he’s asking. You’re convinced you’d let him walk you through the street with it, so long as he asks first.

You close the distance between you, placing your lips on his to convey your consent. He tugs a little tighter on the collar as you kiss before releasing it fully.

In the next moment, your hands are on his shoulders, pushing on them until his back is now against the floor. He doesn’t resist at all.

You reposition yourself comfortably on top of him. You put your hands on his biceps, squeezing them tightly before sliding up his arms to his hands. You move them up above his head then lace your fingers between his, holding them in place as you kiss him. You grind your hips into his and he lets out a moan. You feel his hardening cock pressed between your legs. You grind against it more, sliding your clit along his length. Your kisses become quicker, sloppier, as you keep grinding on him.

He tries to move his hands, but you squeeze them tighter. He lets out a grunt and uses more force to break free—reminding you that he was allowing you to keep them there. He sits up and wraps one arm around you, pulling you close as he starts to stand up. You wrap your arms around his neck, legs around his waist. He walks you both back over to the couch.

He unhooks your legs and lowers you so you’re standing in front of him. He leans down and claims your lips again, but you want him undressed. You reach for the hem of his shirt and start pulling it up. You break the kiss to get it completely off his head and before he can kiss you again, you push him onto the couch.

You lift your shirt above your head and as you’re reaching back to unhook your bra, you give a pointed look to his sweatpants. He lifts his hips from the couch and pushes them down.

“Does it look good?” you ask, running your fingers along the collar as you kneel in front of him.

He licks his lips in anticipation, “Better than I imagined.”

You reach for his hand and bring it to the collar. He tugs on the heart again, tightening it around your neck. He wraps his other hand around the base of his cock and pulls you towards it. You drop your jaw and take him in your mouth.

He sucks in a breath, watching you lower your mouth on him. He releases the collar and leans back into the couch. You replace your hand with his at the base, stroking his dick as you bob your head up and down.

You alternate between stroking, sucking, taking it out and smacking it against your lips. He moans and groans, body jerking in response to your actions. You love seeing him like this.

You take him out of you mouth fully and continue stroking him, moving your mouth instead to take each of his balls in your mouth, in turn. You glance up to his eyes rolling into the back of his head as he lets out a deep breath.

“So,” you say, returning your attention to his cock, licking slowly around the tip. “You wanna come in my mouth or in my pussy?”

He looks down at you, only able to smile and shake his head at your use of his same words against him. He leans forward and grabs the heart of the collar once more, using it to pull you to him.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” he asks, kissing along your lips.

You giggle and nod playfully in response.

He leans back, pulling on the collar to bring you with him until you’re forced to stand again. His other hand slips between your legs and he rubs your pussy with his fingers.

“I wanna fill you up here.”

You moan against his lips, and he releases the collar. He lightly pushes against your chest, so you stand fully then motions to your shorts. You turn around, bend over and pull them down. You move to straighten yourself, but he lurches forward to stop you.

He puts a hand on your back to keep you bent over. In the next instant you feel his other hand collide with your ass and you let out a surprised yelp. He rubs the wounded area on the right and brings his mouth to the left cheek, placing a wet kiss to it. You feel his teeth dig into your skin, causing you to gasp. He smacks the right cheek again.

He shifts his mouth to the surely reddening cheek, placing another wet kiss there. It soothes the stinging a bit. He slaps the left check, his palm gripping your ass when it lands. He then immediately slides his fingers between your legs, slipping along your wet slit until they find your opening. He pushes his fingers inside, you don’t even know how many, but it makes you feel full.

“Mmmm,” you moan, pushing back against him.

“You’re dripping for me,” he says, lacing kisses along each cheek.

“Always,” you reply. And it’s the truth.

He takes his fingers out of you and places both hands on your waist, guiding you down to him. He positions himself at your opening and you roll your head back as he slowly lowers you on his cock. You remain still when he’s fully inserted, just basking in the feel of him inside you.

You make small movements with your hips first, moving forwards and backwards.

“Fuck,” he exhales, gripping your hips tighter.

You like the way he sounds when you’re pleasing him.

You plant your feet firmly on the ground, your hands on his knees. You start to move up and down, bouncing on him and drawing more delicious groans from him.

He uses his hands on your waist to lift you higher and bring you down even harder. You cup your breasts, pinching your nipples to add to the pleasure you’re feeling. You don’t know if you’ll ever get tired of his cock filling you up. Though, you won’t exactly have the opportunity to find out.

You try to push the thought aside, but you can feel it distracting you.

Chan notices as your rhythm becomes out of sync with his. He pulls you all the way down against him, then slides his hand up your stomach, between your breasts, all the way to your neck. He covers the collar with his hand and pulls you back against his chest. You keep circling your hips on him, not wanting to lose the momentum.

“You okay?” he asks softly in your ear.

“Yeah,” you reply, but it’s a lie. “I want to see you.”

He repositions both of you so you’re lying fully on the couch and he’s on top of you. He guides one of your knees up and hooks your leg over his shoulder as he enters you again.

“Like this?”

You offer a silent nod, sliding your hands up his bare, chiseled chest, locking your fingers together behind his neck.

He starts moving again and you feel him sliding in and out, and you find yourself unable to tear your gaze from his face. His eyes are locked on you too. This feels heavy, but neither of you comment on it. He turns his head to the side to place a kiss to the leg that’s slung over his shoulder, eyes never leaving yours.

Your hands leave his neck to roam through his hair, over his face, touching every part of him you can to commit to memory. You shift your mental focus to the way he feels, beneath your fingertips, his cock inside of you.

You want the Chan you’ve had for the past week for the rest of the time you have him. Open. Earnest. You try to convey this with your eyes as he continues thrusting in and out. He grabs your breast, squeezing it tightly and you part your lips and arch your back in response.

You don’t know if you’ll survive if he goes back to treating you like you don’t matter. You can’t let him do that to you. Can you?

“I know, I know,” he says in response to your unspoken qualms. He kisses your leg once more before releasing it to lay his body flat against yours. He wraps his arms around your head in a hug of sorts, as he continues his deep and steady strokes.

Chan isn’t fucking you tonight. He’s making love to you.

You slide one hand down to where the two of you are joined, finding your clit. He lifts slightly, allowing you more room to rub circles around it.

“Come on my cock, baby,” he commands.

You whimper at his words. Baby.

You rub your clit faster as he picks up the pace of his thrusts, still driving into you as deep as he can. He angles himself so that with each thrust his dick digs against your walls. It’s enough to drive you crazy. You’re whining, moaning, panting.

“Come for me,” he says again. “Come for me baby girl.”

Your hand on his chest goes for his throat. You squeeze your fingers around it and see his eyes darken, but he doesn’t stop you. He moves his hips faster, harder.

“Chan,” you pant, “please. Right there. Don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t.

He keeps the same pace, same angle, same motions until you’re arching your back and squeezing his neck, digging your nails into his delicate skin as you come around his cock. He grits his teeth, grunting and pounding into you furiously as he comes right after.

His movements slow as he finishes. You release his neck and wrap your arms around it instead. He lowers himself on top of you, all but smothering you with his weight but you don’t care. This is a happy way to die, if it comes to that.

You kiss along his collar bone as you both catch your breath. His cock keeps twitching inside of you and you clench the walls of your pussy around him each time it does. His body jerks each time you do it.

“Stop, stop,” he pleads, chuckling softly.

You chuckle in response.

That was different. In ways you hadn’t imagined possible with Chan. The two of you stay on the couch, wrapped up in each other for a while longer.  

The following morning, you’re both woken up by a knock at the door. Chan, just as confused as you, climbs out of bed to answer it. You hear him talking to someone and he returns a few moments later.

“Another Minho surprise,” he tells you. “A couples massage.”

“That actually sounds amazing,” you murmur, pushing off the blankets.

You both go to the bathroom and brush your teeth. You put your hair up in a messy bun then go to the living room while Chan lets in the masseuses. There’s one male and one female. After setting up their massage tables in the open space between the couch and the TV, they leave for the hallway allowing you both some privacy to remove your clothing.

Chan watches you undress with a sly smile on his face, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. You stick your tongue out at him and throw your pajama shirt at his face, but he dodges it and catches it in his hand. He folds it neatly and sets it on the couch before removing his own shirt.

When you’re both settled on the tables, they re-enter.

“You’re with me, sir,” you hear Chan say and lift your head.

He’s motioning for the male masseuse to come to him.

“I need firmer hands,” he adds.

But you know that’s not it. No other man outside of the SKZ House is allowed to touch you in the way the masseuse will need to. You know it’s because of that. But it still makes you feel warm inside to think Chan personally doesn’t want anyone else touching you.

After the massage, you and Chan shower together then order a late brunch. He opens his present that you are now extremely embarrassed to give him. When he pulls out the pair of neon blue swim trunks with “Miami Vice” written on it, you hide your face, and he immediately laughs.

“These are loud,” he says. “I’ll wear them to the beach tomorrow.”

Next, he pulls out a refrigerator magnet with “Miami” written across it with palm trees surrounding it.

“To be fair,” you say, wanting to explain, “I had no clue what to get you. You’re not exactly an open book.”

“That is fair,” he agrees. He looks at you with a soft smile, as if he wishes things had been different. He kisses your forehead. “Thank you anyways.”

You spend your final two days mostly relaxing and staying close to the hotel. You spend time at the beach again, Chan in his neon blue swim trunks and looking fucking delectable in them.

Getting on the plane to go home, you’re hit with an overwhelming sense of sadness. Chan’s behavior hasn’t changed yet, and you’re praying that it doesn’t. That even though you both know how this has to end; he can find it within himself to not push you out again. You lean on him and hold his hand for most of the flight back.

Changbin picks you up from the airport and Chan rides up front while you sit in the back. He asks how the trip was and you both reply that it was good. He then addresses Chan in Korean and you’re left clueless in the back seat. But whatever is said, you can feel the weight of it from Chan’s reaction. He leans back in his seat, slouches, and runs his hand through his hair.

You try not to think much of it, but it must be important. They don’t typically speak Korean in front of any of the assignees unless it’s about something that, to be frank, is none of their business.

The car ride is over far too soon, and they still haven’t filled you in on what’s happening.

Once in the driveway, you notice a black car parked in front of the house with a Rolls Royce emblem on the front. You immediately furrow your brow, curiosity and anxiety spiking through the roof at this point.

Changbin exits the car first. You remain planted in the backseat, waiting for Chan to say or explain anything.

He lets out a low breath and leans back against the headrest, eyes closed.

“My dad’s here,” he announces.

Your eyes open wide, and even more confusion sets in. Is it an unexpected visit? Is he not happy to see his father?

“You don’t want him to be?” you ask slowly, carefully.

“Well, it’s never exactly a cause for celebration when any of our parents show up,” he says dryly. “Just…stay out of his way.”

Chan opens his door and you follow in suit.

Changbin has pulled the luggage from the trunk, he’s holding the handle to yours and Chan grabs his own. You move to walk past them both, but Chan grabs your arm to stop you.

You turn to face him, trying to read his expression but a mask is in place.

“Chan,” you say, placing a hand to his chest.

A glint, a flicker of something crosses over his eyes and you see your Chan for a split second.

He kisses your forehead.

“After us. And then straight upstairs, okay?” he says softly.

You nod your head and wait for them to walk to the door first.

As soon as you enter the house, you can feel the commanding presence of his father. Your eyes are drawn straight to him on the living room couch, looking all business in a tailored black suit, black hair slicked back.

“Appa.” Chan says.

“Hello,” you say politely with a small bow at the waist.

You know he told you to go straight upstairs, but it would feel rude to pass by without speaking to him.

His father spares half a glance at you before staring daggers at his son.

Changbin heads for the stairs with your suitcase and you follow him. You look back at Chan and offer as encouraging a smile as you can muster. Chan doesn’t turn to look at you. He walks towards his father like a man heading to the gallows and the sight of him like that punctures your already fragile heart.

[ read chapter 20 here ]

a/n: oof. thoughts? feelings? a lot to unpack here. thank you all again for your patience! and sorry the tags still aren't working :(

[bts-trans]

240816 Harper Bazaar Korea's Tweet

#제작지원 #SeptemberPreview #CoverStory “요즘 참 행복해요. 군대에 있는 동안 일이 너무나 하고 싶었고, 전역 후엔 매일매일 일을 하면서 바쁘게 지내고 있어요. 지금 이 순간도 일을 하고 있다는 사실 자체가 행복해서 웃고 있고요. 앞으로도 일을 하고 싶고 그걸 통해 ARMY에게 행복을 주고 싶습니다. 나로 인해 누군가가 행복해진다면 이 얼마나 큰 행복인가!” 진과 진심 어린 34Pages, 더 많은 화보와 인터뷰는 <바자> 코리아 9월호와 웹 사이트(http://harpersbazaar.co.kr)를 통해 만나볼 수 있습니다. @/gucci @/sabatods @/BTS_twt Editor 서동범 Photo 목정욱 Stylist 김영진 Hair 한솜 Makeup 김다름 Set Design 권도형(ONDOH) Interview 손안나 Design 한상영 Assistant 이서현 #Gucci #Jin #BTS #JinxGucci #GucciFW24 #BazaarKorea #JINXBAZAARkorea

#ProductionSupport #SeptemberPreview #CoverStory

"I've been feeling so happy lately. While I was in the military, I wanted to work so much, and now that I’ve been discharged, I keep myself busy by doing just that every day. Even at this very moment, the fact that I’m working makes me so happy that I find myself breaking into a smile. I want to keep up like this in the future and bring happiness to ARMY through my activities. What a wondrous thing it is that I can help bring a little bit of happiness in someone's life!"

A heartfelt 34 pages with Jin.

You can find many more photos and interviews in the September issue of Korea and on the official website.

Editor Seo Dongbeom Photo Mok Jungwook Stylist Kim Youngjin Hair Han Som Makeup Kim Dareum Set Design Kwon Dohyung (ONDOH) Interview Son Anna Design Han Sangyoung Assistant Lee Seohyun

#Gucci #Jin #BTS #JinxGucci #GucciFW24 #BazaarKorea #JINXBAZAARKorea

Trans cr; Rinne @ bts-trans © TAKE OUT WITH FULL CREDITS

[batboyblog]

My Super Gay/Queer Reading List

The Long Run by James Acker

Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda by Becky Albertalli

Another Dimension of Us by Mike Albo

Wonders of the Invisible World by Christopher Barzak

Alan Cole Is Not a Coward by Eric Bell

Alan Cole Doesn’t Dance by Eric Bell

The Darkest Part of the Forest by Holly Black

In Other Lands by Sarah Rees Brennan

Felix Yz by Lisa Bunker

Last Bus to Everland by Sophie Cameron

Dragging Mason County by Curtis Campbell

The House of Impossible Beauties by Joseph Cassara

Peter Darling by Austin Chant

Carry the Ocean by Heidi Cullinan

The Love Interest by Cale Dietrich

Half Bad by Sally Green

Half Wild by Sally Green

Half Lost by Sally Green

Heartbreak Boys by Simon James Green

Gay Club by Simon James Green

You’re the One That I Want by Simon James Green

We Contain Multitudes by Sarah Henstra

Totally Joe by James Howe

After School Activities by Dirk Hunter

At the Edge of the Universe by Shaun David Hutchinson

The Past and Other Things That Should Stay Buried by Shaun David Hutchinson

We Are the Ants by Shaun David Hutchinson

The Five Stages of Andrew Brawley by Shaun David Hutchinson

A Complicated Love Story Set in Space by Shaun David Hutchinson

The Boy Who Couldn’t Fly Straight by Jeff Jacobson

Haffling by Caleb James

The Lightning-Struck Heart by T.J. Klune

A Destiny of Dragons by T.J. Klune

The Consumption of Magic by T.J. Klune

A Wish Upon the Stars by T.J. Klune

The Extraordinaries by T.J. Klune

Flash Fire by T.J. Klune

Heat Wave by T.J. Klune

The House in the Cerulean Sea by T.J. Klune

Openly Straight by Bill Konigsberg

The Bridge by Bill Konigsberg

Destination Unknown by Bill Konigsberg

The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue by Mackenzi Lee

Two Boys Kissing by David Levithan

Every Day by David Levithan

Boy Meets Boy by David Levithan

Ryan and Avery by David Levithan

How to Repair a Mechanical Heart by J.C. Lillis

Take a Bow, Noah Mitchell by Tobias Madden

When Ryan Came Back by Devon McCormack

Red, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston

Fraternity by Andy Mientus

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

The Art of Starving by Sam J. Miller

Hero by Perry Moore

I’ll Give You the Sun by Jandy Nelson

More Than This by Patrick Ness

Junior Hero Blues by J.K. Pendragon

The City Beautiful by Aden Polydoros

When Everything Feels Like the Movies by Raziel Reid

Kens by Raziel Reid

Emmett by Lev A.C. Rosen

Jack of Hearts by Lev A.C. Rosen

Camp by Lev A.C. Rosen

Carry On by Rainbow Rowell

Wayward Son by Rainbow Rowell

Rainbow Boys by Alex Sanchez

Rainbow High by Alex Sanchez

Rainbow Road by Alex Sanchez

So Hard to Say by Alex Sanchez

The 99 Boyfriends of Micah Summers by Adam Sass

The Darkness Outside Us by Eliot Schrefer

All Kinds of Other by James Sie

They Both Die at the End by Adam Silvera

History Is All You Left Me by Adam Silvera

More Happy Than Not by Adam Silvera

Grasshopper Jungle by Andrew Smith

Freak Show by James St. James

Ray of Sunlight by Brynn Stein

The Dangerous Art of Blending In by Angelo Surmelis

366 Days by Kiyoshi Tanaka

The Language of Seabirds by Will Taylor

Cemetery Boys by Aiden Thomas

Wild and Crooked by Leah Thomas

Because You’ll Never Meet Me by Leah Thomas

Spin Me Right Round by David Valdes

Always the Almost by Edward Underhill

Hell Followed With Us by Andrew Joseph White

Tumblr got rid of yellow so I couldn't do pride colors, sorry!

If you want help picking something out just send me an ask with what kind of thing you're looking for and I'll select something for you, and if you end up reading something because you saw this list, please let me know

[starryficsfinishwen]

✧。◟ᴀᴅᴏʀᴇ — lee hyperreal x reader [PGR] [Happy Activation Day, Lee!!]

darling, you're the one I want

a.n. - self-indulgent comfort because I badly needed one. ALSO??? IT'S ACTUALLY LEE ACTIVATION DAY?!?! HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABE I LOVE YOU (COME HOME WHEN YOU COME TO GLOBAL, I'M SHARING THIS WITH YOU TOO READERS AND MUTUALS <3 <3 <3) I guess this is also short because I wasn't prepared (unplanned, the other one [NSFW] a little secret is the one who is planned LOL)

words - 1,458

pairing - hyperreal!lee x commandant (no specific genders mentioned, tho implied female)

warnings - none. comfort. super soft fluff with lee hyperreal. lowercase for the aesthetic™ I guess a bit suggestive?? because something happened to y'all the other night 👀

the first light of day cascades through your windows and lands on your outstretched hand.

as the outside world began its usual morning routine — the sound of machines clanking, chattering as the white noise, daylight dancing on the palm of your hand — you should wake up. a long, long list of things to do is waiting for you. Lucia and Liv could be in the maintenance room and you're needed for more paper works. but you don't — all you could think about was the warmth of the occupied space beside you, intertwined with you under the sheets.

Lee is here. Lee's sleeping beside you.

he's on his side, sleeping soundly, as one hand grasped yours, the other draped on your bare hips. both of your legs are tangled, your body nearly leaning onto him. his usual stoic face was relaxed, an expression you rarely see during the war. while the battlefield may have scorned his appearance, only moments like this would allow you to see Lee drop his guard down and show his human side.

propping a hand to support your head, you couldn't help but look at your sleeping lover. you've always known Lee has been so handsome; even when he had his Entropy frame, humans or constructs would approach him and ask for his number. but you couldn't help but laugh at that memory. this man is yours; unfortunate to them, but he's the one who is part of Gray Raven and the one who owns your heart.

was this the first time Lee was with you in bed? you usually see him after you wake up, preparing your morning coffee, the papers on your desk arranged accordingly. right now, he's actually beside you.

pride and love well up in your chest. although he may have given up his humanity years ago, you couldn't help but think about how you've learned to adore him. unclasping from his hand, you lightly touched his face.

tracing his face. from the blonde locks covering his closed eyes, to the shape of his jaw. from the chin, you drifted to the slope of his nose, the softness of his cheek. you tenderly traced the outline of his lips, which made you smile, as the events of last night replayed in your mind, the thought that made you blush and joyful. you may have studied all the lessons the F.O.S. taught you, but no one was there to write a book about Lee. and so, you couldn't help but want to touch every part of him that you could.

as you do, you couldn't help but think now; the war, the punishing virus, the ones you love. fear may be evident as it grows fondly like your endearment for Lee, but you solely believe in hope: in hope that one day, a world where you could roam with Lee and your team, and other people in Babylonia, without anything to destroy life anymore.

you leaned and kissed the corners of his mouth. one kiss turned into little kisses that littered across his jaw, up until the eyelids. your heart is heavy with endearment — you want to kiss Lee without hesitation, without a pause.

fortunately for you, Lee was already awake. the moment you started to touch him, he woke up from his slumber. but hearing you squeaking with joy, he let you have your moment. until you started kissing him anywhere but his lips.

jolting up, he took your wrist and flipped you over: you are under him, wrists lightly held above your head. “good morning, commandant.” said Lee, the raspy, morning voice making you smile with pleasure.

“good morning,” you replied, voice scratchy, “I think you made me lose my voice. how am I supposed to talk to the council now?”

“mm, that's not my fault.” he leaned down to nuzzle your exposed neck, breath tickling your shoulders, “I can tell them to reschedule. you need the rest after all.”

“still your fault. I still have so much to do.”

“why don't you do it then?”

you sighed, playfully rolling your eyes, “a certain someone made me lose the ability to walk.”

Lee lifted his head to reveal a smirk that made you want to wipe off of his face. “oh, really? that's unfortunate. would you tell me who it is?”

He let your hands go, still caging you in between him. deciding to play along with his game, you wrap your arms around his neck, laughing. “mm, well, he's good-looking. definitely an eye candy.”

“mhm, and?”

“he has blonde hair. a cute guy.”

“I think I get the image. what else?”

“a strange guy. he's also really shy but somehow switches personalities when there's no one else around.”

“really? that is a strange guy. I think you should stay away from him.”

“ah, I should, but that's a shame.” you mirrored his grin, “after all, he just told me that I should stay a little longer.”

a faint blush dusted his cheeks. he leaned down, lips closer to yours, that you could feel the thrumming of his heartbeat. “mm...if I told you to stay a little longer, would you?”

you pulled him closer, his body now touching on top of yours. two hearts now mirroring each other's beats. “I would,” you whispered, turning to kiss wherever your lips could reach, “I would stay with you.”

you wish you would. you wish it would stay forever like this: on a bed on a work morning, skipping whatever the hell was out for the both of you. for a split second, the image you had earlier reappeared in your thoughts: a white gown, a floral arc, an aisle, and the man in a suit waiting for you at the end of the aisle.

such thoughts shouldn't happen, but your heart, oh. you could never imagine the future without a Lee — Morian — in it.

“I love you, Lee.”

the three magic words that you've always wanted to tell him all the time. Lee didn't answer. instead, he nuzzles the warmth of your cheek. then the other. aiding him in his ministrations, your fingers tangle themselves in the softness of his hair. the shuffling of the blanket, the tangling of your legs. he moves downward now; kissing the edge of your jaw, to the crook of your neck, the dip of your clavicle. he looks at you, a twinkle in his eye as he kissed the back of your hand, to the inside of your palm.

he straddles you by the hips. you remember a construct's body may be different from that of a regular human, but to see the outlines of his torse, a transparent, glowing blue light from his spine, only made you look back at him with awe. you trace the outline, to which he holds your hand fondly.

“I've always seen you like a god.” Lee confesses. as he held your hand to his chest (his heart was beating erratically now), he spoke more of his feelings. “you have always been too kind to me, even though I can be brash and apathetic. you only show me mercy, and I don't even know how to repay you.”

“being alive and being here is enough for me.” you whispered, the pal of your hand flat against his erratic heart, “I can't imagine a life without Lee. without Morian.”

You felt his heart skip. He only chuckles, “I can't get enough of you saying my name. it feels...unusual.”

“I love you, Morian.”

He exhales. Taking your hand and kissing the palm of it once more, before looking at you with his tender cerulean irises, he whispers.

“I love you more, [Y/N].”

no one is alone here now. only two lovers, laughing under the sheets, incessant touches here and there, that only they can share with one another.

“w-wait!” you exclaimed, prying Lee away from you for a moment, “I forgot to give you something.”

Lee cocked his head, “what?”

you pecked his lips, grinning, “happy birthday, Lee.”

“really? that's it?” he laughs, holding your hips, “thank you, [Y/N].”

“I have a gift for you.”

“oh? what is it?”

excitingly rolling to your side of the bed, you pulled out a ribbon. looking at Lee, you carefully place the ribbon on top of your head. Lee's eyes darken with an expression you're now slowly getting used to.

“I'm your present.”

“...how am I supposed to open my present if they're already open?”

You wink, legs shyly opening. “there's more to come.”

and so, that was how your day goes, as the day bleeds into the nighttime. Lee doesn't know though, the real present that sits on your drawer, waiting for the right time to be opened.

comments, likes, reblogs are appreciated!! please don't copy or plagiarize my work!

[onlymingyus]

Our Dawn is Hotter than Our Day

pairing; kim mingyu x lee jihoon x f!reader

genre; smut (minors dni)

warnings; poly relationship, mlm, unprotected sex, consensual filming of sexual acts, handjob, fingering, oral (m & f receiving/giving) cum play/eating, marking/biting, impact play/spanking, punishment, dom!jihoon, switch!mingyu, sub!reader/brat!reader, brat taming, manhandling (m&f), pet names/degrading names, degrading/praise, aftercare

w/c; 7.3k and some change (1.2k this teaser--i was feeling generous)

a/n; this one is fully self indulgent and my own birthday present to myself. so...happy birthday me! thank you to @wonwussy for proofreading; thank you to @wongyuseokie for beta-ing part of this; thank you to @bitchlessdino, @horanghater, and @wooahaeproductions for helping me brainstorm pet names.

this fic is a Patreon Exclusive subscribe to my Patreon and click here

You could hear their voices before you could see them. Not that you were looking. No, that would mean opening your eyes. You didn’t feel that neither Mingyu nor Jihoon deserved your attention at the moment. Had you spent a little too much time in the sun by the pool today? Probably, but you had been left in bed on your own this morning. 

“The water looks nice.” 

Jihoon just nods as a hum of approval leaves his lips. His eyes moved quickly from the water to where you were resting on a chair. Sunglasses covered your eyes, but he could still tell you were actively avoiding looking at them—ever their brat. 

“Seems like you’d be the first of us to enjoy it, Mingyu. Our little princess isn’t wet at all. Have you been laying in the sun all morning?” 

Huffing out a laugh, Mingyu lifts his brow, giving you a good once over. Jihoon was right. There wasn’t a single sign that you had used the pool without them. Were you that mad? He knew you didn’t like to be left in bed alone, but you also knew they always went to the gym first thing in the morning. 

“Is she not? That’s a shame. Did you at least drink some water, honey?” 

This was supposed to be a vacation for the three of you. It was time to take a break from the mundane schedules, yet they were keeping right up with that schedule. When you don’t answer, Mingyu scoffs, sitting down by the side of the pool. The water is cool against his legs as it moves like tiny waves caused by others playing at the other end, just out of hearing distance. 

Jihoon rolls his eyes. He knew what you were doing, and he knew you were mad. He had known it all day. He had watched Mingyu send you selfies, pictures of him, and even videos while the larger man pouted at his phone, not getting a single response. You were giving them both the cold shoulder, and for what? Leaving you sleeping in a comfy bed on vacation instead of waking you up at the crack of dawn to kiss you goodbye?

Shaking his head at Mingyu, Jihoon presses his tongue against his cheek before pulling his arm over his chest to stretch out the muscle. He was less patient with your bratty side. His hand was already itching, and it was too bad you were all in public. Instead of saying anything, Jihoon sighs loudly, sitting beside you on one of the loungers, to open your water bottle as Mingyu just smirks.  

“Baby…my sweet little marshmallow puff? Are you mad at us?” 

Now, Mingyu was pushing your buttons on purpose. Watching your nose wrinkle at the overly cute pet name, Mingyu grinned and winked at Jihoon before watching the man take a sip from your water bottle. 

“You know she is. She’s got ears. She knows how to listen and how to talk when she wants something. What we should do is just leave her pretty little ass down here and go back up to the room…” 

Jihoon’s threat makes you shoot him a dirty look. They wouldn’t dare go back up without you. The smirk on his lips told you everything. He had gotten what he wanted. Your eyes were open now, and you had acknowledged one of them. Making an "aw..." sound, Jihoon nods at your scowl before he tips your water bottle back once more, taking a sip of it. 

“It’s my water…” 

Your voice is quiet and annoyed, causing Jihoon to smile before licking his lips clean of the water. So you could speak. He had been right. 

“It’s warm water.” 

Shrugging, you start to sit up, trying to take it from Jihoon, when cold water splashes you in the direction of Mingyu. Not a lot of water, but enough that you are startled and yell his name. Mingyu’s laugh is playful, his fingers sliding through the water once more to collect more water as you lift your hand to run it over your hair, checking the damage. 

“He said your water was warm. I wanted to cool you down, princess.”

Pouting, you push your glasses, which were speckled with drips of water, to the top of your head. Swiping your bottle from Jihoon, you put the opening to your lips, drinking some of the warm water with a scowl still on your lips as the two men chuckle. 

“Does he need to splash you again, or can you stop being a brat? Did you even check your phone? Mingyu sent you pictures and videos all morning.” 

Mingyu purses his lips, watching you shake your head. You had heard the notifications going off, but in your pursuit to pay your boyfriends back for their behavior, you had chosen to avoid all contact. 

“That makes me sad, baby. Maybe you’re right, Jihoon. We should go upstairs without her. If she wants to act up.” 

The sound of your water bottle closing and hitting the fabric of the chair under you causes Mingyu to press his lips together in order to keep himself from laughing. You were so cute when you were pouty like this. You were so easy to get riled up, even when you were trying so hard not to be the big, bad brat who could withstand anything either of them said. It was clear that you couldn’t handle the idea of them going to bed without you. 

“That’s what I’m saying. Since Y/N doesn’t care enough to even look at what you’ve sent her, she’s got no idea what she missed already. Stupid, pretty little princess just has her mind on being left in bed alone.” 

Your cheeks were burning with each of Jihoon’s degrading words. You knew he didn’t actually think you were stupid. Not in any real sense of how intelligent you were. This was more about how he could get you to react in the bedroom, yet here you were in public, and he wasn’t being subtle. 

“I don’t like when you do that. It would have taken you like two seconds to wake me up and tell me where you were going.” 

Shaking his head, Jihoon starts to speak when Mingyu leans back on his elbows, doing it first. 

“You knew where we would be. Where do we always go that early in the morning?" 

Scoffing, you go to reach for your phone only to watch Jihoon take it from the table before you get the chance. His lips are pursing in interest as he unlocks it and swipes through the pictures and videos that Mingyu sent you from the gym. 

“Answer his question. You didn’t want this before; why would you want it now?” 

Your eyes move back to Mingyu, who lifts his shoulders, waiting for your answer. In the bedroom and in most aspects of your relationship, Mingyu was the softer of the two. He was your big teddy bear who would look at your pouted lips and fluttering lashes and give in. But there were times, like today, when he was more like Jihoon. 

“We are on vacation, Gyu. You two don’t have to go to the gym every single day we are here. Spend a little time with me.” 

READ THE FULL FIC ON PATREON HERE

© onlymingyus - all rights reserved. Reposting/modifying of any fic, or pieces of original writings posted on this blog is not allowed. Translations not allowed

[skzdarlings]

part ix: bodyguard!felix x reader

masterlist.

PART I ; PART II ; PART III ; PART IV ; PART V ; PART VI ; PART VII ; PART VIII ; PART IX ; FINAL PART.

( READ ON AO3. )

Your father hires an inconspicuous bodyguard to accompany you at school and supervise you at home. What seems like an innocuous change in routine eventually spirals into a forbidden romance that grows more passionate over the years.

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: smut. violence. parental abuse. situations of intense peril overall. forced proximity. enemies2lovers. angst with eventual happy ending. (chapter word count; 11,700 words)

chapter warnings: the usual dynamics. child abuse history. reader in peril. violence and death. explicit sexual content.

(THE SECOND TO LAST CHAPTER! <3)

-

You move back into your father’s house after graduation.  You are surrounded by all your old pains, your childhood and adolescence written into each familiar brick and tile.  Your past overwhelms you at every turn.  It is a fight to focus on your future. 

But you are ready to fight.    

The only question is how, especially when you are battling your own emotions in that house. 

Your reprieves are small.  You find some solace in routine and the distraction of your job.  Your father gives you an internship at his company.  The role is honestly superfluous, comprised of busy work and redundant tasks, but it is clear he is not ready for you to meddle in any real business affairs.  You are not sure if that is because he does not trust you or because he does not trust his business people with you. 

You still see Jeongin and Seungmin, less than you did but often enough.  They are both pursuing higher degrees so when you meet them at that campus coffee shop, it feels like a moment back in time.  But lingering on the past, even the good memories, is no greater help than lingering on the bad ones. 

Because there is also Felix. 

You return to silent, secret communication.  He will make you feel flushed with just a glance, so much thought in his gaze that you feel it to the depths of you.  It seems like he does not even need to touch you to make love to you.  

But when he does touch you, it releases you from the prison of your house and your mind.  You put your body in his hands for a few precious moments and he takes care of it.  And in the long days in which he bears the dehumanizing commands of your father, wearing the identity of a non-person to never arouse suspicions otherwise, then he places his humanity in your hands for safe keeping. You give it back to him with your own glances and careful touches.       

It takes so much effort to take care of each other, so the idea of active offense seems nearly impossible.  Felix certainly thought it was impossible, the one time you asked, but that was years ago.  Things have changed.  You and Felix have changed. 

You do not know what your father is holding over his head.  You only know it is something, and you think it might be time to find out what. 

You want to do this right.  Felix does not have to carry his burdens alone anymore.  You need him to truly understand that you want to protect him as much as he protects you.  You know there is a part of him that still believes he does not deserve it. 

All your plans are thrown into flux the day your father calls Felix into his office. 

Usually when your father summons Felix, it is for routine updates.  But this is a long meeting.  It lasts at least two hours with the office door sealed shut.  Your mind races with the possibility of what is being discussed. 

You find yourself gravitating to that side of the house, anxiety worsening the longer that door stays shut.   As the clock ticks, your nerves get the best of you.  You wander closer, hoping you can hear from the corridor. 

The guard at the door stares at you.  His scrutinizing regard gets under your skin.  Before you can stop yourself, you snap at him, “What?  I’m just walking.”

“You don’t need to walk here,” he says and waves you off, dismissive as always. 

A lot of the men in your father’s employ seem to get some perverted joy out of dismissing or punishing you.  They have since you were a child.  Their surveillant eyes played host in your nightmares for years.  His smug countenance coupled with his threatening stance makes your blood boil in helpless frustration.   

“Fuck you,” you say.  You want to hurl it at him, but it spills out of your lips no stronger than a whimper.  Your fists are balled at your side and your brain is screaming to walk away, but your body goes cold. 

“Do not take a tone, bitch,” he says. 

The unwarranted name-calling feels like a slap.  It is him flaunting the obvious truth: your father has never taken your side and he never will.  You are nothing but a problem that needs to be solved.  You are still just a stupid, emotional child who needs a fist closed around her to keep her safe from the greatest danger in her life: herself.

“I said walk away, little girl,” the guard continues.  “Your presence is not needed.”

“I’ll go where I want,” you say.  “This is my house.”

“It’s your father’s house.  Now walk away or I will escort you myself.”

“I dare you to try.” 

You feel like you are outside of your body, watching this ridiculous scene unfold with no way to stop it. 

He takes a menacing step forward and you stumble back.  You bump into the wall and hit a small mirror, barely a nudge but enough to knock it off its hook. 

It shatters at your feet.  Yu step on a shard of glass and sharp pain lances through your foot.  It feels like someone driving a knife straight through it.  You scream, the sound ripped out of you in surprise. 

The office door swings open and your father storms out.  For a moment, he looks alarmed, eyes wide and brows high, but this only fuels his anger when he sees you are unharmed.  Fury conquers fear in moments. 

“Look!” you cry in protest.  You lift your foot because you must have a massive shard of glass protruding from it. 

Your father does not even look down.  He marches into his office and shouts something that you are too disoriented to register.  Your attention has narrowed to a pinprick of a point, centred entirely around the gash in your foot. 

You only register what is happening when a familiar face enters your vision.   Felix is in a black t-shirt and jeans, his hair in a short ponytail with not a strand out of place.  Whatever transpired in that office was clearly not confrontational.  He is completely fine. 

His thick boots crunch over the glass.  On your father’s order, he swoops you easily into his arms and carries you into the office.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” you say.  Your tears infuriate you.  They are the result of physical pain but it is only exacerbating the hurricane inside you.  “God, it hurts so much. How big is it—”

“A foot wound hurts more than usual cuts,” Felix says. 

He puts you on the couch in your father’s office.  You father is standing by his desk, drinking coffee and rolling his eyes.  You want to shout at him, purely on instinct, but your coherency is shot when Felix pulls the glass out of your foot. 

More tears fall, some in relief.  Then you look down and see an impossibly tiny shard.  You cannot believe how small it is. It truly felt like it went deeper, like it slashed right through your foot. 

“Show me,” your father says.

Felix meets your gaze, his eyes apologetic.  He lifts the glass for your father to see.  Then another glass breaks when your father smashes his coffee mug in a fit of frustration.

“It really hurt!” you protest, feeling as pathetic as you sound.    

“Ridiculous, dramatic child,” your father says.  “Felix, close the door.”

Felix obeys.  He cannot show any hesitation.  He is the emotionless robot that your father wants. 

Felix closes the door as commanded then stands against it.  He folds his hands behind his back and stares ahead, not sparing you another glance.  He looks every inch a waiting soldier.  Someone who would sooner drive a knife through his own hand than disobey an order. 

“You want to cry?” your father asks, as if you are not already hiccupping on half-aborted sobs. “Do you have any idea about the scale of work I have to accomplish this week?  Do you think I play games behind these doors?  For you to – to – to waltz around, acting like a child and throwing a tantrum over nothing—”  

You must be dripping blood on the hardwood but he does not even care to look.  He stalks to his desk where he sits. 

“Felix,” your father says, his rage barely suffused in the address.  He gestures to you and says no more.

You and Felix meet eyes.  He conceals his alarm fairly well.  You doubt anyone else would see fear and concern in the subtle crease of his brow.  He makes it look contemplative, but you see it.  You see him. 

And you know he is making a mistake before he even says anything. 

“Sir?”

Your father, who was looking at a file on his desk, lifts his head. 

You and Felix have been in this office many times.  He has watched your father beat you, and you have watched him take as many strikes on your behalf.  Your father’s instructions are implicit in the environment, under the circumstances.  He is asking Felix to deliver a beating on his behalf.  Experience and common sense should be clarity enough for a soldier like Felix.    

This confusion, feigned to buy himself a moment, is worthy of your father’s furious stare. 

“What?” your father snaps. 

Felix hesitates, then approaches. 

That moment of hesitation is enough. You look at your father.  Just like you can read Felix, you can read that man.  You can see the calculation behind his eye.  Everyone is a thing, a statistic, a number, something that be crunched and calculated, something that can be used and discarded if the calculations are unfavourable.  Things are supposed to function according to his commanded algorithm. 

Felix is not supposed to hesitate.   

You were correct to assume your father would never suspect your affair based on romance.  He does not see or recognize an exchange of true love.   But he understands violence.  He understands its absence.  Felix could kiss you and your father would not notice, but Felix refusing to hit you is worth a second glance. 

With very little time to think, you diffuse those suspicions before they take flight.  When Felix is near, you do not hesitate to swipe at him.  You land a mean smack on his cheek that sufficiently surprises him. 

He meets your eyes.  They are narrowed with righteous anger as you play the part you must.  You know he sees the apology in them.  You hope he sees the forgiveness. 

Felix returns the smack.  He does not hit you anywhere near as hard as he could – even your father would hit you harder – but it is still enough of a crack that your head turns on impact.  You clutch your cheek and your whole body quivers, like it is confused by the alternating directions of pain.

“Don’t you dare touch me again,” you say, looking at Felix.  “You stupid animal.  I hate you.” 

That you know he cannot misunderstand.

And so it is within that mute understanding you hand yourself over, as you have so often done.  Felix does what he can to lighten the severity, just as he always does, but it still requires a few good hits so your father believes your weepy surrender.

You are very quiet after.  You can hear your father’s pen scratching across a paper pad.  He watched it all then went right back to work. 

You remember when you chased the high of his attention just to linger in a pit of despondency for hours after.  You do not feel that now.  Pure, unadulterated rage flows through you, hot as fire and as all-consuming.  You feel no other emotion in that moment. 

You look at your father, unwavering. 

“I despise you,” you say.   

Then pen on the paper stops.  For a moment, he seems struck.  But then he crosses a line on the page and resumes his work, not once looking at you, your bruises, or your blood.  Not acknowledging your anger, the one trait you inherited from him.

“You’ll see,” your father says, with a fair degree of poise and equanimity.  Unbothered, like he is talking about ordinary things.  You suppose he is.  What could be more ordinary to this man than the ominous prophesizing of his self-inflicted horror?  “One day,” he says.  “When I am gone and you really see the world for what it is, you will understand why I did what I have done.  You will be safe and you will thank me.” 

I will kill you before I ever thank you, you think, and realize with a shiver you truly mean it.

“Felix, retrieve Domino,” your father says.

Domino is the guard posted at the door.  When he enters, he gives you a cursory glance, his cheek dimpled, the amusement towards your situation scarcely concealed. 

Your father’s money might afford him influence over this stock of men, but they are all in the business of profitable pain.  Military men, ex-cops: they are a dirty and criminal ilk who are accustomed to holding authority in their own right.  It is little wonder they never liked you and you never liked them.   

“Sir,” Domino says, at attention. 

“Take my daughter to her room and see to it she is tended.  Then send someone to clean up this mess.  I have work to finish here and I will not tolerate any further interruptions.  None.  Do you understand?”

“Sir,” is the reply, affirmative, with a sharp nod.

“Good.  Felix.  Sit.”

Your father gestures to the chair across his desk and Felix moves towards it.  Unlike the perfect boy soldier who once sat in that chair, Felix kicks it because he is glancing back at you. 

You meet his eye for a brief moment, then the world spins as Domino picks you up.  It is a grappling yank, like you grab a thing, with no care for injury or a polite touch. 

You are carried out of the office and back to your room.  One of the crew’s medics patches your foot.  You sit through it with a cold detachment, then your room is empty and you are alone, waiting in bed for Felix so you can ask what is happening and discuss what to do.

Felix never comes.  

-

In your wildest imaginings of what transpired behind that door, a job is not what you anticipate.  It is at once too strange and too mundane.  

A job is not an operation; it is an errand, a sleight of hand conducted in the shadowed crevice of a greater business scheme.  It is not unusual for your father to send his men out on these jobs.  But in all the years Felix has been in his employ, he has never been sent out.  His only occupation is to serve as your bodyguard, and he has proven time and again how he is irreplaceable in that position. 

You do not know what makes this job different.  You glean only a little information from the chatter of the crew, just enough that you know it is a stealth acquisition and a rare, unprovoked move against Miroh.  Your father is known for his defensive tactics, seldom manoeuvring in offense, so you suppose the inclusion of his best solider on a risky venture makes sense.  Felix  is likely your father’s only guarantee.

But you cannot shake there is something else.  Felix is more than just a soldier and Miroh is more than just a businessman.  You know their past is tangled together. 

You do not get a chance to ask.  The next time you see Felix is through a window.  You are in the upstairs corridor, staring down at the driveway as he climbs into a van with a few other agents.  Then the van pulls away and it is just you in that house with your temporary replacement bodyguard team. 

Even your father leaves, though you doubt he will be involved in the physical mission itself.   You overhear him telling your security that he anticipates returning in a week.  You count down the hours until then.

By the second day, you are sick with worry.   Sitting around with your unanswered questions makes the time drag.   Hours pass in dissociation, unmoving and anxious.  You decide that waiting will only worsen your state.  Although you are not keen to wander around town with your security entourage in tow, you cannot sit here either.     

The team is made of three men including Domino.  They are all as subtle as a scream with their bulk and demeanour, and every bit like all the others. 

Though they will undoubtedly report even the most mundane actions, they acquiesce and take you into town.  The campus café is one of your father’s approved locations.   

You are not sure if you want to run into your friends.  The distraction would be a welcome one, not to mention the balm that is a smile from a friendly face, but you also have no idea how you will explain the obvious security.  You are exhausted with lies.  You are not sure you could spin a convincing story even if you wanted, and you do not. 

The café is always quiet before lunch.  There are a few students scattered around so even though you feel ridiculous, no one pays you much attention. 

One guard waits outside the door, one inside by a window, and Domino stays by your side as you order your drink and take a seat. 

You forgot just how invasive and uncomfortable this dynamic was.  If you were not so drained, you would be snapping at them just to relieve the tension drawn tight in your chest.  Instead, you endure.  Every breath feels more strained than the last.  You cannot focus on your work any better here.  The words on your screen are just meaningless letters and shapes. 

You stare at your hands, at their faint, vibrating tremble.     

Then you hear your name.  The guards have been addressing you as girl, sometimes subject or the daughter when speaking to each other.  The gentler murmur of your name momentarily stills the shaking of your fingers, steady as a hand grasping yours.  You lift your head and see Jeongin, his bag slung lazily over one shoulder, his dark hair a shaggy mess, and his concerned eyes flitting between you and Domino.

“Hey,” Jeongin says with that dimpled smile.  “What’s up?”

“Who is this?” Domino asks.  Before you can answer, he turns to Jeongin and says, “Stand back.  You do not have permission to stand here.”

“Oh my god,” you say, slapping a palm to your forehead. 

You are flooded with childhood memories, idiots like this intimidating everyone who tried to speak to you for longer than a minute.  Whether they took the form of a guardian or masqueraded as a janitor or something else, they always made everyone sufficiently uncomfortable.  Even Jisung was often disturbed by them, though he drew the wrong conclusions about their identity.  He was good with weird.

Jeongin must be made of a similar mettle.  He gives your guard a pinched look, lip curled like he smells something bad, but he does not move.   He looks at you with a tip of the head, concern once more creasing his features. 

“Do you need help?” he asks. 

The poor guy must be so confused.  You look like you are being held hostage in a coffee shop by a stupidly inconspicuous thug. 

All you can do is sigh and shake your head.  “I’m fine, Jeongin,” you say, a very unconvincing lie.  “I’ll catch you around, yeah?”

“Move along,” Domino says. 

Jeongin looks at him.  His glance flicks up and down.  Then he says, “Your fly is down.” 

Domino stares at him, unblinking, as if he can vaporize Jeongin with just a glare.  Jeongin stares back. 

“Really, Jeongin,” you say.  A genuine breath of a laugh leaves your lips.  Jeongin could not even throw a punch without smacking a chair, but he is willing to stick up for you.  And his annoyance tactic is the funniest defense you can imagine.    

Jeongin finally leaves, but with a glance over his shoulder.  You fight the urge to throw something at the guards who watch him go. 

“Who was that?” Domino asks. 

“I don’t know his name,” you say.  “He was just a classmate a long time ago.” 

You hope that is enough to make him forgettable. 

You act casual, taking a sip of your coffee.   Then Domino looks down into his lap, quickly checking his fly.  Your snorting laughter sprays coffee everywhere.

Fortunately, this does not impact the report.  You are allowed to return to the same coffee shop the next day.   This time both Seungmin and Jeongin are there, books open but blathering in distracted conversation.  Another young guy is sitting with them, maybe a classmate, though he has no books with him.  He is sprawled in a chair, holding a coffee and grinning at whatever the boys are saying. 

He notices you first, probably because you are staring.  He tips his head as he looks at you, black bangs falling across his forehead.  He is noticeably stocky and broad, but he smiles behind the brim of his coffee cup and it is incredibly disarming. 

He is handsome but the overt flirtation brings only pain.  It makes you think of Felix.  You barely slept last night, tossing and turning with anxiety.  Your stress only worsened when you woke in an empty bed.  

You are so fraught with anxiety, your whole body feels taut like a thread about to snap. 

Something is going to happen, or maybe it already has.  It is bad.  You know it intuitively, the way you know which hand will strike when your father is in a mood, the way you know a black car on a quiet street is an enemy, the way you have always known this life is a death sentence, a slow execution by the brutality of weathering.

You look away from the stranger’s smile.  Then Jeongin sees you and his laughter fades, concern and curiosity drawing his brows together.  He nudges Seungmin who looks too, tipping his head with a questioning look. 

You just shrug and take a seat at a different table. There is nothing else to do.

Domino sits with you, as bored with his duty as ever.  You believe your whole team is annoyed with their job.  Your father would not leave weak soldiers in charge of you, but he also had to take his very best with him.  These men are probably too competent for menial work and are likely offended by their assignment.  They are the worst of the best. 

Which is how you steal a moment to talk to Seungmin.  One guard outside, one at the window, and Domino at your table.  He lets you leave to get some sugar for your coffee, watching with glazed-over indifference as you fuss at the counter.

Seungmin joins you, pretending he is also grabbing sugar.

“You’re keeping some weird company,” he says in a low voice.  “Are you in some kind of trouble?  Do you need help?”

You swallow an unexpected lump in your throat.   Your friendship with Seungmin and Jeongin was only ever casual, so it is quite touching that the two civilians are so willing to defend you, even when standing at an obvious disadvantage against your thugs. 

Your prepared lie gets tangled in that lump.  You swallow it down.  For a moment, your mouth is open with nothing to say.  You both stir your coffee slowly.   Eventually you take a breath. 

“It’s complicated,” you say.  “It’s just to do with my dad.  Thank you, though.”

There is a beat of silence before he says, “We’re friends, okay?  Just let us know if we can help.” 

You have been trapped in solitude for days now. Seungmin provides the comforting reminder that your world is not all bad.  Though he cannot do much to help, the sentiment in his simple offer is enough to temper the worst of your anxiety, at least for the time being.

“Thank you,” you say.  “Really.”   You spare a glance at Domino who is watching you intensely, just waiting for you to slip up and do something that warrants a reprimand or report.  “I better get back,” you say.  “Say hi to Jeongin, and say sorry from me for yesterday.  You guys have fun with your friend.”

“Oh, we don’t know that guy.  He just sat with us out of nowhere,” Seungmin says, laughing.  “He says his name is Changbin.  But he paid for our coffee so he can sit wherever he likes, haha.”

You smile at his playfulness.  He smiles too, then he walks back to his table.  Your eyes follow him and settle on the stranger – Changbin. 

You want to keep smiling, want to imagine the stranger is just an awkward university kid making friends in a weird way.  But Changbin is looking at you again, with the same intensity as Domino.  Your eyes skirt his shoulders and biceps and his too-charming smile.   

You want to chalk it up to paranoia, exacerbated by the extra stress of the last few days.  But something is off about this stranger appearing here, suddenly, at a place you are known to frequent, the week your father is moving against Miroh, when Felix is gone and you are vulnerable.  He is sitting with your friends, like he knows they are your friends, like he can trick you into trusting him by their proximity. 

He is not like your father’s guards who are blatantly out of place.  Changbin is so visible that he is invisible.  Just a friendly college boy. 

Just like Felix. 

You are being ridiculous, you tell yourself.  You cannot walk around assuming everyone is an enemy.   But you cannot shake the feeling of wrongness, the awful premonition that something is going to happen. 

You try to ignore Changbin as you drink your coffee but you are unsuccessful.  Your hackles are raised and will not come down, made worse by the indifference of everyone around you.  Domino is none the wiser.  The other guards have not left their posts.   Your friends are laughing with him like he is just some guy.

You ask yourself what Felix would do.  You imagine he would not cause a scene or confront Changbin.  He would quietly take your arm and usher you to safety, only fighting in retaliation if necessary.  Part of his job has always been discretion, but he has never relished in violence anyway.  It is always a last resort. 

Your instincts have often propelled you into heated action until you freeze, always one extreme or the other.  Now, you calm yourself and steady your shaking hands.  You comfort yourself the way Felix would.  You tell Domino you want to go home.  He makes some agitated remark about you needing to make up your mind, that you only just arrived, but you do not rise to his bait.  You close your laptop and pack your bag. 

It takes one second.  Changbin is sitting with your friends, then you look down.  When you lift your head, he is gone.  The boys think nothing of it.   Your guards don’t notice.   You want to scream but you know it won’t make a difference.   These men won’t listen to you. 

You leave with your guards.  The large campus is practically a city unto itself, separated from the mainland by a stretch of woods.  It is a scenic drive with a deer park in its centre, but all you see is rain ripping through branches and the shadows between each slash of grey daylight. 

You are almost relieved when something thumps heavily onto the roof.  But the relief that you were right is short-lived when all hell breaks loose. 

You close your eyes, arms wrapped around yourself in the back seat.  Glass shatters and the car skids to a rough stop, flying off the road and onto the forest terrain. 

You open your eyes to the windshield in pieces, the driver frozen with his head thrown back.  Domino and the other guard are out of their seats in seconds, making the same mistake as Miroh’s men all that time ago.  You know how this fight will end.

You look through the broken windshield.  Changbin flies into view and knocks Domino onto his knees.  It takes one roundhouse kick for him to fall over, unconscious.  The other guard tries to take a shot but Changbin disarms him with a couple sharp moves.   You close your eyes when Changbin shoots. 

He fights with the same fluidity as Felix.  For a moment, you are back there, eighteen years old and frightened and relieved all at once.  Except when the back door opens this time, you are not quick to rush out.  It is not Felix waiting for you. 

Changbin clears his throat and you slowly look over.  He is wearing jeans and a leather jacket and does not look ruffled in the slightest.  Dark hair falls over his forehead as he tips his head.  He smiles, handsome and charming.  As unassuming as Felix when his eyes crinkle up with delight and he laughs like he has never known pain.  Like he was not raised for the purpose of violence, property of Miroh, of your father, of whoever else, acting as their hand because they won’t get their own fingers dirty. 

Changbin gestures to you, curling his fingers, a mute come here. 

“Hurry up,” he says.  “Time to go.” 

You imagine escaping out the other door, trying to make a run for it through the forest.  You know you will not get far. 

“Are you one of them?” you ask, impulsively.  “Miroh’s?”

You already know the answer.   

Changbin blinks at you, then laughs. 

“It depends,” he says, then tuts like he thinks you are preciously naïve.  “I personally think I’m one of a kind.  But I guess we’ll find out.  Now get out of the car.”

With little choice in the matter, you obey.  Your legs wobble when you stand so you instinctively take the hand he offers. 

You have not yet steadied yourself when he yanks you into his arms.  Though Felix undoubtedly holds strength in his lithe form, he is more dexterous and athletic than outright powerful.  He knows how to use his body to its best advantage.  But Changbin is strong and he does not hide it, the bulge of his biceps crushing you in the hard, ungiving circle of his arms.  Leather and muscle cage you in tightly, so unyielding that you cannot even squirm.  Your heels dig at the ground as he hauls you away from the car.  A belated scream claws its way up your throat but gets strangled in his chokehold.

Then you feel ice, so cold it burns.  Your racing heart propels each freezing shard through your bloodstream. 

You realize he stabbed you with a needle.  It is a flickering thought, only momentarily realized, then you are plunged beneath the surface of that ice, drowned in black waters, and you think no more.

-

You are plunged into an oblivion so deep and so fast that you wake thinking no time passed at all. 

You hear before you see.  The patter of rain overhead is not unlike its tapping against the roof of the car.  Groggy, you think you are still there, your arms wrapped around yourself while waiting for the worst. 

Then your sense of smell creeps in, overwhelming you with damp and something metallic.  A cool breeze pebbles your skin as it washes over you.  It coaxes you out of your bleariness. 

You blink awake, the blurry world taking gradual shape around you.  It is not the world you left behind, no sign of a car or campus or coffee shop.  It looks like an old warehouse or maybe a factory, but the room has been stripped to its bare bone essentials.  The exposed pipes and rotting damp of the high walls account for the smell. 

The breeze blows from your left where a garage door is open.  You squint towards the grey light of the rainy day.  You do not know how long you have been unconscious.  It looks like early afternoon but your body tells you that you have been asleep for longer than a few minutes. 

You try to gather your bearings.  You see a harbour in the distance, past the pavement and the fence and what must be a drop to water below.  Your university is not near any body of water.  So you must have been unconscious long enough to transport this far.  A few hours at least, but given the light maybe it has been a full day. 

That is all you can deduce.  You do not recognize the warehouse or the harbour. 

You do recognize the man in front of you, though it takes a second.  Changbin is no longer dressed like a civilian, wearing a black combat uniform and boots.  His shirt covers his arms but fits like a second skin, his bulk emphasized.  He is squatting on the ground a few feet from you.  He holds a black mask in his hand, one that covers the lower half of his face when he swings it up.  He lifts and lowers it a few times, absent-mindedly it seems.  Then he realizes you are stirring and fastens it in place. 

Your head is pounding. Your petulant side wants to bark a complaint, but even you know taunting this man would be beyond stupid.   Changbin is not just any soldier.  Miroh did not send one of his regular men.  He clearly learned his lesson last time.   Even without asking, you know Changbin is like Felix.  He did not merely train as a soldier; he was born and moulded into it. 

And, unlike Felix, he has had no reprieve from Miroh. 

You come into your body, stretching your fingers.  Your hands are cuffed behind your back and locked to your chair.   One ankle is cuffed to the chair leg.   Metal jingles as you move, testing your bonds. 

You stop when Changbin approaches, your heart thumping as hot adrenaline melts the ice in your blood. 

“Good morning,” Changbin says.  “How did you sleep?”

Your body is still slow to respond, but you manage a decent glare.  It makes him laugh.

“They told me you were funny,” he says.  “That you make your father’s men look like a joke – not hard, to be fair.”  He tips his head, looking at you like he is waiting.  All you do is stare.  “Come on,” he whines.  “Say something funny.” 

Your stomach turns over itself, not because Changbin is taunting you… but because you think he isn’t taunting you.   He does not speak with the sarcastic intonation of your father’s men, dryly mocking your helplessness in his presence.  His eyes are big and resolutely focussed, seeming to genuinely anticipate your retort.  He is almost child-like with his attention.   

This impression only solidifies when he sighs, morose, and crouches again. 

“Do you want something?” he asks. 

“Let me go?” you say. 

It comes out rough but it makes him laugh behind the mask, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

“Aha, you are funny,” he says and slaps his knee.  “Anything but that.  But don’t worry your head.”  You flinch from his touch, but all he does is pat your head like he is reassuring a frightened puppy.  “This isn’t about you,” he says.  “Well, not yet.  Maybe later.  First…  Your father took something from us.  And he won’t give it back.” 

Changbin removes the mask so he can smile, one of those disarming smiles that is so at odds with the rest of him.  Felix might switch demeanours depending on the circumstance, but Changbin flickers between faces from one breath to the next.    

“We just need it back,” Changbin says.  “Then, maybe, we’ll even the score.  Maybe.  Don’t worry about that yet.  For now, you just need to sit.  Are you thirsty?”  

The distinct reverberation of gunfire comes from the front of the building.  You shriek and duck your head, like that will do anything to protect you, gasping as you listen to bullets ricochet off the walls in some distant room. 

When everything goes quiet, you lift your head.  Your chest is heaving with each deep breath, your adrenaline bleeding out your pores so even the air around you feels like it is humming.  You stare at Changbin who has not moved a muscle, still squatting and staring. 

“I think we have lemonade,” he says.  “You want that?” 

You do not even know what to say.  His sincere but stunted peculiarity reminds you so much of a teenage Felix even though Changbin looks older than both of you. 

There is more gunfire.  You duck your head and slam your eyes shut.  Changbin does not move until it stops, his mouth open with another comment, but he silences himself when the far door opens.   Then he is swift, on his feet with his mask secured.  He stands at your side as he silently watches the approach of a small group of men.

You are still reeling from panic, so it takes you a second to realize what is happening.

“Felix!” the cry leaves your lips.

Five of Miroh’s men surround him, suited guards in various states of dishevelment, like they have been fighting for much longer than a few minutes.  Felix is bound with his hands behind his back, a yellow bruise already forming on his chin.  His own dark uniform is singed with bullet holes.  His hair looks like it was slicked back, but he has sweat through some of the product, tendrils of blonde falling into his face.

Despite his state, his attention is all on you.  Eyes assessing, scanning you from head to toe. 

When you meet his gaze, the whole world falls away.  These men, this place, none of it exists for a breath of a moment.   Felix is here and that means you will survive.  Everything will be fine.  You have always kept each other alive.  This time will be no different.  You can see it in his eyes, in that oh-so subtle twinge of a smile.  You can hear him without him moving his lips.

Hello, sweetheart. You’re safe.   

They put him on his knees.  His gaze flits to either side.  You can see him calculating.  Oh, he is here on purpose.  He let himself be caught, you are certain, so he could find you and rescue you and—

“Target acquired,” a man says.  

It takes you a moment to realize he is talking about Felix. 

You look at the man then at Changbin, considering his earlier words. 

Something your father took.  Something they want back. 

It hits you all at once.  You have not been kidnapped as leverage against your father.  You have been taken as bait for Felix.  They don’t want you, they want him.  An irreplaceable soldier your father stole from Miroh a decade ago, that he has paraded in front of him for years at galas and parties.  Using him as a bodyguard for his wayward daughter and not as a soldier, not until now.  Biding his time before using Felix against the house that made him.   

You can see your father’s stupid machinations clicking into place.  He is a perpetual child throwing a tantrum.  His movements are sloppy and immature.  He steals from his enemy, a weapon he does not know how to use, thinking it will keep him safe, letting it make him cocky.  And now he is sitting somewhere as it all blows up in his face. 

Or it would.  In an ironic twist of fate, you are saving your father. 

Because as far as Miroh knows, Felix is here as your bodyguard, acting on your father’s orders to retrieve you.  All Miroh has to do is pluck him from the fray.  And as a bonus, he has you in captivity for future leverage.   

It would have been a good plan.  It would have worked if Felix was an emotionless machine.  If would have worked if Felix was here because of a command. 

But Felix loves you.

He is here to save you. 

In a quick move, Felix sweeps two men off their feet.  He rolls on his back and propels himself to his feet, hands bound under him, leading with his core.  He slams his head into an oncoming guard and the man stumbles back.  Three out of five on the ground.  Then suddenly one hand is free of the cuffs – he must have been picking at it the whole time - and he swings the dangling metal in another’s eye. 

You flinch away from the violence, even while rooting for Felix.  A few more thuds and you know all five men are incapacitated.  You open your eyes and lift your head, watching Felix drop the handcuffs on the floor.  He absently rubs his wrist, his gaze drifting from you to Changbin.  His fingers freeze, his eyes narrowing as he perceives the stoic soldier at your side. 

Felix stares, like he if he looks hard enough, he will see through the mask. 

“You’re new,” Felix finally says. 

Changbin rolls his eyes. 

Changbin reels back and hurls a knife in a swift arc, right at Felix’s face.  Felix is just as fast and catches the handle.  He returns the throw.  The knife clatters on the ground as Changbin surges forward. 

These two are evenly matched.  Watching them fight is terrifying and unpredictable.  They dance around each other, delivering equal blows and blocking similar shots.  In the end, Felix wins in one move miscalculated by his opponent.  With an opening granted, Felix takes Changbin down.  One, two, three hits to the head.  Changbin stumbles backward, his mask falling.  He is disoriented when he looks Felix, but Felix sees him with complete clarity.

You learned to read Felix a long time ago.  You know all his expressions by heart, the crease of each smile memorized, the track of each tear committed to heart. 

You have never seen this face, this mix of horror and bewilderment as a barely conscious Changbin slams onto the ground.  Then it is Felix who missteps, tripping over his own feet as he reaches for the opponent he just threw down. 

“Changbin,” he says.  “You’re alive, I—” 

Changbin swings at him but is too dizzy to land a hit.  Felix catches the punch.  He should throw one back, finish him off, but he hesitates.  His brow furrows.  He grabs Changbin by the neck of his shirt and yanks him close.

“Chris,” he says.  “Chan.  Chris.  Where is he?” 

Changbin laughs.  It turns to choking when a dribble of blood gurgles past his mouth.  He spits it at Felix then heaves a rough breath. 

“Oh, fuck you, Yongbok,” he says.  “’You’re new’ – didn’t even recognize me—”

“It—it’s been so long—and I thought you—”

“Yah, not all of us got to attend pretty parties these last years like you—”

“Stop it, you don’t know anything about what I’ve been doing—”

“Chris he says.  First thing he says.”  Changbin squirms but does not have the strength to rip away, especially with Felix gripping him so hard.  He heaves another aggravated groan.  “You know Chris died because of you.  He’s been gone for years.”

“No,” Felix says, his voice pinched.  His eyes rapidly water, his knuckles white from his death-grip. 

Changbin shakes his head but slips further.  Felix once more catches him when he should be ending him, sniffling hard as he gets on his knees. 

“He’s not dead,” Felix says.  “He can’t be dead—”

“Why don’t you ask your boss?”

As if on cue, your father’s men burst into the room.  Felix looks at them in surprise even though he must have coordinated their arrival. 

Changbin laughs.  “I hope it was worth it, Yongbok,” he says.  He uses one last burst of energy to throw himself forward, propelled away from Felix.  He rolls across the ground then stumbles to his feet, running past the open garage door, into the rain, and disappearing around the corner. 

Felix is too stunned to chase him.  You look at Felix, on his knees and holding nothing, palms up like he expects something to appear in them.  He closes his fists as your father’s men approach. 

Then he slides his figurative mask in place, assuming his usual role.  He kicks the literal mask discarded by Changbin, then finally looks at you. 

“Get the car,” Felix says to the men.  “And check the grounds for anything useful.” 

The men disperse and Felix approaches you.  He kneels at your side and picks at the lock of your handcuffs.  You are crying before you can stop yourself, overwhelmed with everything that just transpired. 

“Shh, sweetheart,” Felix whispers, looking at you with pain of his own.  “It will be okay.  Just a little longer.” 

The handcuffs drop.  He squeezes your hand in his. 

“Just a little longer.” 

-

You are several cities over, hours away from home and even further from the job your father was conducting against Miroh. Miroh was clearly trying to divert his enemy.  He tried to steal Felix back while doing so.

Neither he or your father accounted for you, for Felix, for all the love between you.

You are in a small hotel room away from prying eyes and military men.   You are scrubbing yourself clean in the bath and he sits on the rim of the tub, wiping your back with a cloth. 

You checked in two hours ago.  You spent most of that time blubbering incoherently, catching your breath even hours after freedom.  You have not had a real conversation yet.  Felix has been quiet, his eyes intermittently far away or so intensely focussed on you that it makes you hiccup with more tears.

You hiss when he presses his thumb to the mark on your neck, the little bite from the needle so carelessly plunged into your vein. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, smoothing with a gentle circle. 

“This has been the worst week of my life,” you say.  “And that’s saying something.  Oh my god, and it’s only Wednesday.”

Felix laughs in spite of himself, though it is more of a breath than a sound.  He drops the cloth in the water and you shiver as he caresses the bare skin of your back. 

“I love you,” he says, like it is something he has always said, like it is easy to say.  Like he could say it again and again. 

The room feels so quiet.  His voice is soft but it sounds like a shout, echoing back in this intimate space.  Your breath catches.  You go very still. 

Then he says your name in a breathless murmur that is exhaled with more adoration than the word love itself.  

“No games,” he says.  “No jokes.  No hidden meanings or secrets.” 

“Felix,” you say.  It is all you manage. 

“I know,” he says weakly.  “I know, sweetheart.  You don’t have to say anything, I just…” 

His hair is wet from a quick shower, combed back neatly, more composed than the rest of him.  You look up as he runs his wet fingers through it.  The bruise on his jaw is darkening, a burned gold that looks incredibly painful.  He shed his outer layers, is wearing a black t-shirt and black pants.  He has a silver army tag, or something like it, marked with your father’s name and not his own.  It’s new.  Something the field agents wear.  Good as a collar.

You reach out and take hold, ripping it off his neck.  He looks at it dangling from your fist, as surprised as you that it broke so fast. 

Maybe it really is it that easy.      

His hurt jaw wobbles.  He touches the bruise and looks down, away from you, head bowed as if in supplication.  Worshipful.  Penitent.

“I’m sorry,” he says, lighter than a whisper.  “I will tell you everything.  I just want to be a person for you a little longer.”

“Felix,” you say, dropping the tag on the floor.  You kneel in the bath and reach for him with your wet hands.  He does not lift his head when a silent sob wracks his body.  His shoulders shake when you touch him.  “You have always been a person to me.”

“I know,” he says, voice breaking.  “I know, sweetheart.  I owe you so much—”

“You don’t owe me anything—”

“I owe you everything.” 

He looks at you then, his dark eyes wet with tears, his expression serious.  He breathes a shaky exhale then leans away, grabbing a towel. 

“Come here,” he says, and stands. 

Moments later, you are standing on the floor, wrapped in the towel in his arms.  He bundles you tightly and you rest your head on his shoulder, safe and secure with his strong hold around you. 

“I love you,” he says, his wet cheek pressed to yours.  “Even if you hate me, even if you don’t, even if you can never say it back, I love you and all the life you have in you.”

“I’m a mess,” you say, trying to laugh, but it comes out weak. 

“You’re alive.  I don’t think anyone understands better than you, what it means to have a life,” he says.  “The way your life fills you, the way you hold onto it no matter how many times someone tried to take it away.” 

You are hiding your face in his neck, embarrassed and amorous and teary all at once.  Then he lifts you up and turns around, perching you on the counter.  You wriggle your arms free, tucking the towel beneath them.  You steady your breathing as he picks up a cloth to wipe the smudged vestiges of make-up off your cheek. 

“I remember the first time I saw you,” he says.  “I’ve always been so scared.  I hide it, yeah?  But it’s there.  Miroh, your father, everything about them…  It was like living in a nightmare.  They were bigger than life.  They controlled dangerous people.  I couldn’t imagine anyone standing up to them.”  He smiles now, his thumb smoothing over your cheek.  “Then you burst into the room and started a fight with one of them.  I was shocked.  I thought, is this girl crazy? What have I gotten into?” 

“That girl was crazy,” you say, laughing. 

He laughs too, but shakes his head.  “She was the only sane one,” he says.  “God.  You had more passion in your little finger than I had ever felt in my whole body my whole life.  And I thought… I will never feel that much emotion.  I knew it was too late for me.  I wasn’t living for myself and I was fine with that.  I couldn’t be saved.”  His eyes are teary again.  He takes your hand and looks down at it.  “You took my hand.  Even in your anger, even in your everything, you saw something…  You touched me once and it was like life rushed into me.  And I hated myself everyday after that because I wasn’t enough.  I wasn’t what you needed.  I could take your beatings but I couldn’t save you because I was a scared coward and you were stuck with me—”

“Shh, stop that,” you say.  You run your fingers through his hair, smoothing the pieces he rucked up. 

He wipes his cheeks.  He plants his hands on the counter, on either side of you.  His eyes are closed when he takes a deep breath. 

“Miroh couldn’t kill your grandfather,” Felix says.  “He tried and he failed.  Your grandfather was willing to sacrifice everything for himself.  Your mother died in his place.  You and me were on opposite sides of the world, both just babies.  You never knew your mother.  I never knew my parents.  Miroh decided he needed a new generation of soldiers.  There were a few of us, all over the world.  When we were old enough to speak and run and fight, he recruited the best.  I was one of the best.  So was Changbin.”

“And Chris,” you say, remembering the exchange in the warehouse. 

Felix’s face scrunches in pain.  He nods. 

“Yeah,” he says.  “We travelled together.  We trained together.  We were like brothers.” 

“What happened?” you ask.  You lay a hand on his chest and he takes it, holding it there.   

“I was stupid,” Felix says with a self-deprecating laugh.  “I believed Miroh.  I thought… there are bad guys out there, simple as that.  If we get rid of them, then we won’t have to be scared anymore, yeah?  They wouldn’t have to hurt us if we just got rid of the bad guy. But it wasn’t that easy.  I killed your grandfather and it didn’t end anything.  Chris was right.  Because he always knew.  He said it wasn’t right, what Miroh was doing.  Chris could have been the best if he could let go of who he was, and just be what he was supposed to be… but he didn’t.  I… I felt like I… I couldn’t afford to be that way… If I wasn’t the best, I was nothing.  If I couldn’t kill, I was going to be killed.  And by the time I realized he was right, it was too late.” 

He finally meets your gaze, squeezing your hand in his. 

“I almost died on a job and Chris saved my life.  He wasn’t supposed to.  In Miroh’s order, if something happens to a soldier, you leave them behind.  You don’t waste resources on the weak.  Chris disobeyed orders and all his training to save me.  I told him I wouldn’t have done the same and he said I know, that’s not why I’m doing it.  It’s just the right thing, Felix.  I thought, how can someone like this even exist, after everything he’s seen and done, how does he still try to find the good?  I didn’t know if he was stupid or smart.  Then a commander found out what he did and they took him out of our order for re-training.  I still saw him but we couldn’t talk.  He had so much potential and the organization didn’t want to throw it away.  They tried to break him.  It wasn’t working.  It broke me instead.  I realized I had to get us out or die trying.” 

He looks at you and says, “You get it, don’t you?  The way Jisung saved you.  The way he was your friend.  The way he was just there.  That was Chris for me, yeah?”  His voice is rife with desperation, like he needs you to understand this more than anything else. 

“Yeah,” you say softly, feeling that very heartache all over again.  “I do.  I get it, Felix.”   

“Then you know,” he says, voice breaking, “how I felt when I let him down.  I let everyone down.  I fucked up a job, trying to undermine Miroh.  I thought I could outsmart him but I didn’t.  It just opened a door for your father to get in.  There was a stupid skirmish over a politician in Miroh’s pocket.  Your dad was trying to buy him out and it ended in a fight.  Three of our best men dead.  Including Changbin, I thought.  Just someone else I let down.   I was taken alive.  I knew if I went back to Miroh, I was dead.  If I ran off on my own, Chris would never escape, and they would break him eventually, or kill him trying.  I couldn’t go.  I couldn’t stay.  I couldn’t take Miroh on my own.  So I made a deal with your father.”   

And what I get is a life worth more than mine. 

You remember those words.  Felix once spoke them in an emotional moment, lost to his memories.  You never knew what he meant.  You realize now he meant Chris, the friend he left behind, the friend he sold himself to save. 

“You gave up your life to my father,” you say, “and in return—”

“He would rescue Chris,” Felix says.  “It was a win for us both, yeah.  Take out Miroh, steal his assets.  My friend gets his freedom.  Your father gets a soldier.  I was willing to give up my life.  I figured I never had one.  I wouldn’t miss it. All I knew was how to be a soldier.  I didn’t even know how to want something else.  But then you… You.”          

“Felix,” you say, overwhelmed with his confession and the depth of his feeling. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says.  “I let you down.”

“What?  How?”  You touch his face, cupping his chin in both hands.  “What do you mean?”

“I couldn’t save you,” he says, voice rasping and light again, speaking above a sob.  “At first because I couldn’t leave, not until we rescued Chris.  And there was never an opportunity. I waited years.  Years.  And by then I had to keep waiting, because I couldn’t have wasted all that time for nothing.  I had to save him.  I had to save someone.  Or else I failed everyone.  It had to mean something.  I couldn’t—”

“Felix,” you say.  “It was an impossible situation. We were kids for half of it. I don’t blame you for anything.”

“I do,” he says, barely more than a breath, a faint whisper against your skin.  “I wasn’t good enough.  I didn’t do enough.” 

“We have no way of knowing what else could have happened,” you say.  “We did our best.  And now—”

You cut yourself off.  And now?  What happens next?  You heard their conversation in that warehouse.  You know why Felix looked so torn apart.

“Chris,” you say.  “Is he…?”  Dead.  “Was Changbin telling the truth?” 

“I don’t know,” Felix says. 

Dead.  For years.  Because of Felix.  Because of your father. 

It does not take much to piece together the implications.  Your father is a cowardly, underhanded schemer.  He poisons teenagers and beats his daughter and hides in his mansion except when he’s lashing out for attention.  He put Felix under contract, but the only guarantee of servitude was his honour and one stipulation.  Honour would mean little to your father.  But a person, that he could leverage.  That he could calculate and control.  So long as he could dangle Chris over Felix’s head, then Felix would be bound to him. 

And the best way to guarantee he would never have to fulfill his end of the bargain, the best way to guarantee Chris would never escape, would be to kill Chris himself and never tell Felix.   

You see it written all over Felix’s face, the horror of this very plausible idea.  That in his effort to save Chris, he actually got him killed. 

There is a long moment of quiet.  It is a very empty silence.  There is no way to confirm if Chris is truly dead, and so Felix cannot truly mourn him.  There is also no way to prove he is alive, so he cannot take any action.

You hold his hand.   It is all you can do right now.  You look at where your palms touch, where your fingers lace.  The caress of his skin against yours never fails to touch your heart.  Even this simple touch warms you.  It affects him too, because he exhales and leans in, resting his forehead against yours. 

You want to comfort him but your shiver betrays you.  The heat from the bath is diffusing and you are in nothing but a towel.  Felix laughs and shakes his head, withdrawing. 

“Sorry,” he says.  “Let’s, uhh, get you dressed first.”

“Or at least under some covers.” 

“Someone could come knocking,” he says. 

“Yeah,” you say with a jut of your chin.  “And?” 

He stares back at you.  This silence is not so empty, a heady and contemplative regard as he glances at your lips then the rest of you.  Then he sweeps you into his arms and carries you into the room. 

You kiss his cheek, just above his bruise.  You are not sure if he winces from the pain or the affection.  

The moment your head touches a pillow, you feel your eyelids drooping.  Exhaustion hits you instantaneously.  You groan and snuggle under the covers, quite convinced this plain hotel bed is the comfiest bed in the world. 

Felix hovers at the bedside, folding your towel.  You look back at him with sleepy eyes.  It is early evening but he must be as tired as you, from the physical exertion if not the emotional one. 

“Aren’t you sleepy, baby?” you ask.

He drops the towel and has to fold it again.  It is messier the second time, then slides off the dresser into a lump on the floor.   He ignores it, approaching the bed.  You pull back the cover in offering. 

You think he strips down to his boxers, but you are fast asleep before he even unzips.  You stir a little when he climbs in the bed, but his presence is so comforting that it sends you right back to sleep.  It is the most restful sleep you have had in a while.  But, predictably, falling asleep in the early evening means you wake up in the dead of the night, bright-eyed. 

The room is dark.  The clock reads 2:17 AM, blinking in red, the only light in the room other than a blue wash of moonlight pouring through the translucent curtains. 

Felix is curled up behind you, an arm under his head and the other over your hip.  When you wake, he follows but slowly, shifting and grumbling.  He does not usually sleep so deeply.  It is a testament to the day. 

You sidle up to him, your back to his front.  He is in his boxers and nothing else, bare skin against yours as he hauls you up against him.  You lay your hand over his, resting it on your stomach then on your breast.  It is not especially flirtatious, merely intimate.  He touches you and you sigh contently, too awake to lose yourself but enjoying the comfort nonetheless. 

He exhales.  It sounds a little ragged.  You look over your shoulder, at his dishevelled bed hair and dark freckles, the bow mouth you so missed, the tenderness in those dark eyes when he gazes back at you. 

“Sorry,” he says. 

“Hmm? For what?”  You roll onto your back to look at him better.  

He scrubs a hand down his face then pushes back some unruly hair.  “I think, um.”  He looks up at nothing.  “A part of me always thought a day would come when you would hate me for real.  I’m, uhh, a little… I guess I just… was more prepared to be hated than, um, cared about, after everything.” 

You lean over him, propping yourself on one arm.  He meets your serious gaze, licking his lips under the intensity of your stare. 

“Do you see me that way?” you ask.  “That I would be that unforgiving and fickle?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head.  “Of course not.  It’s not how I see you, it’s… myself.” 

“Well, I don’t want you to see yourself that way either,” you say.  “It offends me.”  You say this was a dramatic air, making a point of shoving your nose in the air. 

It makes him laugh, a real smile pulling at his lips.  You swear it brightens the room. 

“Does it?” he says.  “I’m very sorry.  I’ll have to make it up to you.”  He reaches for your face, strokes his knuckles over your cheek, but you pull away. 

“That won’t be necessary,” you say, in the same playful tone as him. 

“Oh?” he asks, chasing, stroking your other cheek. 

“Yes,” you say.  You catch his hand and lower it.  When you speak again, it is sincerely, without any joke or artifice or double-entendre.  “I don’t just care about you, Felix,” you say.  “I love you.  And you don’t need to thank me or pay me back.  You just need to believe it.”

He blinks up at you, surprise written all over his face.  You feel flushed with heat even though the admission is obvious.  Saying it out loud, truly and honestly, makes your heart flutter anyway.  Love and want tangle together in a knot inside you, making you feel soft and desirous at once.   

His lips part with a breath as he stares at you.  You chase those lips, leaning down and sealing his mouth in a kiss.  It takes only a second for him to kiss you back, cupping your cheek and parting your lips with a swipe of his tongue.  His bruise must not hurt too badly, or maybe he is just ignoring the pain, but you are careful with your light kisses despite his attempt at more. 

You always happily concede to his more dominant guidance.  This time it is a little different.  You are telling him something with your kisses and you want him to hear it, without any games or distractions.  So you take both his wrists and push his hands into the bed, at the same time swinging on top of him.  He looks surprised a second time, looking at where you press his hands into the sheets.  

He could easily buck you off, but he lets you kiss him like that.  You kiss his cheek and under his jaw, avoiding the bruise, then down his neck.  His hips lift under yours, rolling against you to get hard.  You are already wet and naked, making him moan, a low, dark sound as you grind your softest parts against the hardening line in his boxers. 

It makes you want to skip right to it, but you are determined.  You kiss down his chest and he laughs when your tongue swipes his nipple, evidently a little ticklish.  You smile and keep going, until your lips hover above the hard bulge in his boxers.  You kiss him through the material then tug it down.  He shuffles quickly, ripping them off and tossing them aside.  Then his hand is on the back of your neck as you take him in your mouth.

The hotel room affords some privacy.  He makes a little more noise than usual.  Or maybe he truly does not care anymore. 

Yes, you think, loving at him with your mouth and hands, let yourself go. 

He must be getting close because he squeezes the back of your neck and lets out a groan.  “Slow down,” he says.  “Please.  It just—”

“Feels good?” you ask, a little cheekily, but he answers earnestly, with a nod and shaky exhale.  “Mmm, okay,” you say.  “Tell me what you want.”

This gives him momentary pause.  Then he grips your neck more possessively and guides you up. 

You follow his direction, lifting your head until your pretty raw lips are hovering just inches from his.

“Get back on top me,” he says.  “I’m going to fuck you.” 

“Oh. Well.”  He has said far dirtier things in the past, but usually in the context of your role-play, where you are the worst versions of yourselves, the real you just laughing under it.  It is a little different for the real him to so blatantly state his desire. 

It leaves you just as weak in the knees.  It is a miracle you manage to swing a leg over him, but you get there.  He helps line you up, then he holds your hips and slides you right down until he is fully inside you.  It is a lot all at once, especially after time apart.  You did not have many opportunities for sex before that either.  But you are so wet, despite the sharp burn, it is a smooth fit, and you adjust quickly, mostly because he wastes no time rolling his hips up into you. 

“Oh,” you say, hands on his shoulders and mouth falling open. 

“That’s it,” he says, taking complete control even though you are on top, holding your hips, guiding you to match his rhythm.  “Could – uh, yeah – could have you on your knees, begging for it, without doing anything.  So easy for it, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you say, gasping.  “Just for you.”

“Just for me,” he says.  He pushes himself upright, wrapping an arm around you and pushing your face into his shoulder.   He holds you there, fingers stroking the nape of your neck as he fucks you, drawing all those soft, whimpering sounds of you.  “That’s it,” he says.  “That’s my girl.  Just for me.  Hold onto me.  I’m gonna come.  Spread your legs, your pussy can take it.  Good girl.  Just like that.” 

You are wrapped tightly around him, clinging to him as he comes as promised, deep and hard inside you while you tremble and sigh in his arms.  Then he lifts your head to kiss you, a quick peck before he presses your foreheads together to just breathe. 

“Can you…” Your voice comes softly.  “Can you maybe stay inside me, just another minute.”

“Fucking… fuck,” he says, making you laugh.  He smiles too. “Yes. I can do that.”

He keeps you in his arms as he lays back.  You lay against him, his heart pounding against your chest.  You stay like that for a while, almost drifting to sleep when he slides his hand up your spine, reawakening every sensitive nerve in your body.

He says your name, that loving murmur of a sound.  You lift your head to look at him.  His gaze darts to your lips then back to your eyes. 

“I wouldn’t trade places with any of them,” he says.  “I want to be your bodyguard.  I want to set you free.  I want to keep you safe until the day I die.”

“On a few conditions,” you say.  “The first, that you cannot die for a very long time.  The second, I will only be free when you are.  And finally, you can be my bodyguard, but only if I’m your bodyguard too.”

He smiles, his eyes bright and his cheeks dimpled.  His nose nudges yours. 

“All right,” he says.  “Consider it a promise.”   

[whatsk-poppinhomies]

Pairing : dad!Lee Minho x F!Reader TW : childbirth ; slighty suggestive humor once ; it's just fluffy ; it's cute ; Word Count : 1.9k Request : Anonny : okay but i really like that minho pregnancy angst…. do you plan on making part 2 like the after reunited life, her parents’ response or anything? like the post natal life, the moment he held his daughter for the very first time hihi is it too much to ask??? A/N : I absolutely DO plan on making a part two and here it is!! Woohoo!!! Thank you for requesting! It's definitely not too much to ask! Also! I got so choked up writing this, it made me so happy and at the same time so sad that I don't have a man like the fictional Minho in this story!!!

“I’ll be right back, love. I’m just gonna call the guys and let them know she’s here so they won’t make my phone go off all night.” He whispered as softly as possible, not wanting to wake his daughter that he had just laid in the little cot beside your hospital bed. You hummed tiredly in response, already nestling into the pillow that definitely wasn’t as soft as the ones you had at home, but right now, after 12 hours of active labor and a slightly wonky epidural, the entire hospital bed was like laying on a cloud.

 Minho couldn’t be prouder though, seeing you go through all of that, he commended every woman who had ever been in labor, and after checking the time and seeing how early in the morning it was, he made a mental reminder to call his mother and thank her for having him. 

Stepping outside of the room, he leaned against the wall and took a deep breath, his throat still slightly sore from crying when he had first laid eyes on his daughter, tears of happiness streaming down his face, unable to pull his eyes away from her as the doctors carried her over to the little table to clean her up. He was grateful that he had been given a second chance, that he got to hold your hand through the entire process, that he was able to be in the room when his daughter was brought into the world, and he swore that he wouldn’t mess up and he sure as hell would never leave again. 

“Minho…” His name had him finally looking around the hall, meeting eyes with your father and your mother who sat in the waiting chairs beside your door. He hadn’t seen your father since the day he had pushed the door shut against him, and while he had been meaning to meet up with your parents to apologize for the way he had been, he had just never gotten around to it. “How is our daughter and our granddaughter? Are they resting?” 

Minho quickly bowed his head to your parents, acknowledging them with a quiet “Sir…” and “Ma’am”, the awkwardness felt between the two hung in the air like a thick cloud that could be felt by everyone in the vicinity. “They’re both doing great… Y/N is getting some rest right now, yes, and the baby is sleeping.” He kept his head lowered, slightly fearful of looking your dad in the eyes. “I’d like to apologize… For the way that I behaved… For hurting Y/N. I love her so much… And our daughter will take top priority over everything else.” 

He finally raised his head, and when he did, he saw your father staring at him, it almost felt like he was being judged, but your mother shook her head, standing from her chair to embrace Minho in a quick hug. “Now, don’t you pay attention to him right now. He’s just grumpy because it’s past his bedtime.” She teased, and it was strange how your mothers presence and her words, much like your own, could so easily calm him down and make him feel relaxed. “I’m happy that Y/N has you, and that our granddaughter has you as her father. I know that you’ll take great care of them both. Welcome to the family.” 

///

“Are you just gonna carry her around all the time?” You asked lightly as you watched Minho walk by, your daughter seemed to be in a perpetual state of being carried by him in the little sling that was across his chest. “It’s been three weeks and the only time you put her down is when you use the bathroom or when you go to bed. You’re gonna spoil her.” You warned, but you also wanted to hold your daughter as well. Hell, you even had to practically race to the nursery to be the one to get her in the middle of the night since that was the only time you actually got to hold her since being in the hospital. 

“And? Our princess deserves to be spoiled, doesn’t she?” He flashed you your favorite smile before pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Plus I go back to work next week, let me just love her a bit longer. I won’t be able to see her as much.” He was right, and you knew that he was dreading when this week was up, that’s why he stayed up so late, as if the longer he was awake it would keep the coming days at bay. 

You couldn’t blame him though, you’d do the same thing. Neither of you could fully wrap your head around how fast time had gone, you couldn’t believe that it had already been three weeks since you had given birth to her. You could see it in his eyes, with each passing day he’d get sadder and sadder, and you felt the same way. The house wouldn’t be the same without him in it, and you actually grew used to the sight of him walking around the house, doing his daily activities with your daughter strapped to his chest. 

“Well it’s almost her feeding time, can you at least let me hold her for fifteen minutes or so?” You posed, sitting up a little more on the couch and grabbing the little burp cloth off the side to drape over your shoulder as you got ready to have her in your arms. 

“Just whip your boob out and come over here. Or I’ll bring her to your boob.” He said with a snort, and you rolled your eyes as your head fell back against the couch. “Don’t be so shy, love. I was suckin’ on ‘em before she came.” He teased, and maybe it was the fact that you were now a mom that had you growing extremely embarrassed at the mention of your sex life, but you quickly shushed him as your hands moved to cover your face which only had him laughing even more. “I’m like 99.9% sure she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. But, I’ll cover her ears if it makes you feel better.” 

“Oh my gosh, shut up, Minho.” You groaned, but you couldn’t hide the fact that you were laughing as well, and the more you thought about how it would be after the week was up, the more you started to miss him already, and he hadn’t even gone back to work yet. 

///

Pink balloons were tied to every single chair that was set up in the backyard. The buffet table was lined with snacks and drinks for everyone that was there, although you didn’t really anticipate so many people to show up. The grill was fired up already and Bangchan and Felix had begun making the main course for the party while everyone else kind of took turns helping you decorate and ogling at your daughter. 

“Have you seen Minho?” You asked Jisung as he stepped out of the house, multiple beer cans held in both his hands and under his arms as he walked over to you. Your eyes had scanned over everyone that had filled your backyard multiple times and none of those times had your eyes landed on your husband in the crowd. 

“When I came outside he was sitting on the couch. I think he was crying a bit…” Jisung said, his lips drawing together in a thin line after he had answered. This wasn’t the first time he had done it, and according to the guys, the entire week leading up to today he’d disappear during work and one of them would usually find him hiding somewhere and crying by himself. 

“Right… Can you and the boys help finish setting everything up. I’m almost done… I just don’t want to leave him by himself.” Jisung nodded and you quickly scooped your daughter up, holding her on your hip as you walked into the house, and there he was. His head was lowered and you could hear the sniffles coming from where he sat. As you moved closer you could see the photo album of your daughter's first year sitting on his lap, his hands shakily flipping through the pages one by one. “Honey…” You murmured, and his head slowly raised to look at you, his eyes puffy and slightly red when they met yours. 

“Sorry…” He muttered, and you shook your head at his apology, coming closer to sit on the couch beside him, your daughter propped on your lap. His finger slipped into her hand, her own tiny fingers wrapping around it as she waved his hand around, babbling loudly as she looked up at him. “When did she get so big?” He questioned with a small gasp, his head tilted as he watched her with a bittersweet smile. 

You sighed softly, the sudden urge to cry taking hold of you as you looked at him. “She’s not that big yet… She’s still our baby…” You mused, trying your best to not only make him feel better, but to keep yourself from crying along with him. You glanced over at the book on his lap, scanning over the pictures on the page. “Oh, I remember that…” 

His eyes followed yours and he chuckled, although it sounded more sad than usual. “Our tour in Australia and… I refused to be away from you two for a whole month… So me and the guys at the last minute begged the managers to let you both go.” Most of the pictures were of the other members holding her and in most of them she looked like she was on the verge of crying. “She was only 6 months old… It’s only been 6 months since then…” His fingers brushed over the picture of himself holding her, his smile so wide as he sat on the beach with her, his tears freely falling down his cheeks as the memory played over in his mind. 

“And we have so many more months, so many years to keep making more memories with her…” You whispered, using one of your free hands to wipe the tears from his cheeks. “Like today… She only gets a first birthday once, honey. I’m sure that when she looks back at her photos, she’ll want you to be in the pictures too.” 

He took a deep shaky breath, nodding his head before running his hands over his face. “Right… You’re right…” He slowly closed the book, placing it on the coffee table before grabbing your daughter off your lap and lifting her high in the air before bringing her back down and hugging her tight against his chest, eliciting a loud squeal mixed with laughter from her. “My princess is ready to party and so am I, let’s go!” 

His hand held onto hers as he playfully danced his way out to the backyard, the cheers from everyone at his and your daughters appearance were loud enough to be heard in the living room where you still sat, your eyes glued to the back of your husband as he practically skipped down the stairs, innocently dodging everyone who came towards him with their arms outstretched to take the baby. 

Minho was the perfect man, the perfect husband, the perfect father. There was no one else in the world that you could imagine loving you or your daughter the way he did, there was no one else in the entire universe who was everything a man should be, everything anyone would want their man to be… Minho was the most amazing, loving, devoted husband and father, and you were beyond grateful that he had come back into your life, that you had gotten a second chance with him, and more than anything, that your daughter was able to live a life with him as her father.

[astraystayyh]

MASTERLIST

all rights reserved © astraystayyh. all pieces are works of fiction and do not represent the members in real life. do not copy, translate or repost.

OT8

╰┈➤ series.

༊*·˚ SKZ song series masterlist (completed)

༊*·˚ Winter falls | winter themed collab with @forlix (in progress)

༊*·˚ SKZ quotes series masterlist (in progress)

╰┈➤ one-shots.

༊*·˚ All for you- skz wedding vows | f.

༊*·˚ SKZ saying I love you for the first time | f.

╰┈➤ headcannons.

༊*·˚ SKZ as oddly specific love languages | f.

༊*·˚ Mundane activities you'd enjoy with SKZ | f.

༊*·˚ SKZ when you are stressed and overworked | h/c.

bang chan.

╰┈➤ one-shots & series.

༊*·˚ Pieces of you | f. a. singledad!chris. mutual pining. neigbors!au.

⟿ In which you and chan are each other's missing pieces. Alternatively, Chris and his daughter come knocking at your apartment asking for flour, and he's no longer embarrassed when you open the door.

༊*·˚ Vanilla | a. f.

⟿ Breakup with a happy ending.

༊*·˚ Beginning of the end (part 1) | a.

⟿ You are breaking up with Chan, he just doesn't know it yet.

༊*·˚ Bittersweet (part 2) | a. f. exes to lovers.

⟿ Four years later, you are back home and everything has changed.

༊*·˚ Wait for me | a. major character death.

⟿ "I think I might see you soon, my yn. You've been waiting for me, haven't you? Just like we promised."

༊*·˚ The wedding saga | f.

The impromptu proposal.

A few hours before the wedding.

The wedding and the morning after.

༊*·˚ Myth | f. friends to lovers.

⟿ Skimming across the edge of being friends and something more with Chan is a dangerous game. Even more so when you're both sharing the same bed.

"The consequence of what you do to me, help me to name it."

╰┈➤ drabbles.

༊*·˚ chan is tired and you are his sun.

༊*·˚ you're sick and chan takes care of you.

༊*·˚ when you're having a bad day and chan is still proud of you.

༊*·˚ chan comforting you through a thunderstorm.

༊*·˚ chan's hugs.

༊*·˚ chan comforting you through an anxiety attack.

lee minho.

╰┈➤ one-shots & series.

༊*·˚ Invisible thread- 1 | f, a. academic rivals to lovers. slow burn.

⟿ Your studies have been your life line for as long as you can remember, what happens when Minho comes into your life and rips it away from you?

༊*·˚ Invisible thread- 2 | f. a. h/c.

⟿ In which Minho rewrites your entire relationship with love.

༊*·˚ Echoes of love | memory loss trope. a. h/c.

⟿ If given the choice would you love minho again? yes, you would've once said in a heartbeat. but now, you aren't sure of your response anymore.

chapter i. to forget - chapter ii. to remember

༊*·˚ The only exception | strangers to lovers. slow burn. barista!minho.

⟿ Minho was content with straying away as far as possible from love. That is until you stumbled into his café on a rainy night, and unwittingly, into his life.

"Cause none of it was ever worth the risk, but you are the only exception."

༊*·˚ Conversations with Minho | f.

༊*·˚ A cat proposal | f.

╰┈➤ drabbles.

༊*·˚ mine.

༊*·˚ a sun and a moon.

༊*·˚ when you used to feel lonely but not anymore with minho.

༊*·˚ minho comforts you through a storm.

seo changbin.

╰┈➤ one-shots.

༊*·˚ The alternative | brother's best friend!changbin. f. ♡

⟿ You've diligently chased the idea of being with Changbin out of your mind. That is until he picks you up from a bad date, making your steadfast resolve unravel all around you.

"Love is a risk, but what's the alternative?"

༊*·˚ Burning in the winter wind | romcom vibes. (fake) enemies to lovers. f.

⟿ Sustaining an ankle injury during a ski retreat isn't fun. Especially when Seo Changbin volunteers to stay back to tend to you- the one man you can never get a read on.

╰┈➤ drabbles.

when you're feeling sad changbin will do anything (being silly) to cheer you up.

in which jeongin (your brother) catches you making out with changbin in the kitchen.

hwang hyunjin.

╰┈➤ one-shots.

༊*·˚ The snow falls, we fall apart | friends to lovers. roomates!au. a. f. longing and pining.

⟿ when heartbreak looms on your life, and winter becomes a time you loathe, hyunjin helps you rewrite your memories with the season, and with it, everything you once believed about love.

༊*·˚ Starry night | museum guide!reader x idol!hyunjin. f.

⟿ in which you fall in love with hyunjin through paintings.

༊*·˚ Breathe | model!hyunjin x photographer!reader. longing and pining. f.

༊*·˚ Somebody else | exes to lovers. a. miscommunication. happy ending.

⟿ You and Hyunjin have broken up, guilt and blame simmering between you both. He doesn't care anymore, or so he thought. Then why does it hurt him to see you with someone else?

"Don't want your body but I hate to think about you with somebody else."

༊*·˚ You're in the wind, I'm in the water (pt.1) | friends to lovers. pinch of unrequited love (it's very much requited dw)

༊*·˚ Orange (pt.2) | f. my take on The Orange theory.

༊*·˚ Young and beautiful | f.

⟿ How you both said i love you for the first time.

༊*·˚ Snow on the beach | f. implied soulmates.

⟿ You've never said i love you to Hyunjin but you've both always known.

༊*·˚ Say yes to heaven | a. f. (pt. 1)

⟿ Seven minutes in heaven except you're heartbroken and hyunjin has a huge crush on you.

༊*·˚ Say yes to me | f. (pt. 2) ♡

⟿ After your seven minutes in heaven, hyunjin wants to plan out how he'll finally confess to you. except you come knocking on the door of his rented cabin unannounced. at 10:53 pm. the perfect time for love, he comes to learn.

༊*·˚ When I fell in love | f.

⟿ It's your birthday and Hyunjin has a surprise gift for you- all the moments he fell in love with you in.

༊*·˚ You and I | a. happy ending.

⟿ In which you wrongly lash out at Hyunjin and have to mend it back. Human character who makes mistakes and apologizes for them.

༊*·˚ Conversations with Hyunjin | f.

╰┈➤ drabbles.

༊*·˚ serenity.

༊*·˚ mornings with hyunjin.

༊*·˚ nights with hyunjin.

༊*·˚ hyunjin and touch starved reader.

༊*·˚ you've had a nightmare and Hyunjin sings you to sleep while it's raining.

༊*·˚ in which you're in love with hyunjin and you're both swimming in a lake.

༊*·˚ hyunjin with glasses and a tiny ponytail brainrot.

༊*·˚ hyunjin is your friend except you're making out in his car backseat.

༊*·˚ your reaction to hyunjin's new burgundy hair.

༊*·˚ valentine’s with hyunjin.

han jisung.

╰┈➤ one-shots.

༊*·˚ Volcano | Enemies to lovers. slow burn. f. a.

⟿ You've never gotten along with han, your mutual prejudices ruining any prospect of friendship between you both. but you slowly realize that you are more similar than what you originally thought- your darkness recognizing his, and his light yearning for yours.

"I'll take care of you. It's terrible work. Not to me, not if it's you."

༊*·˚ 5422 | a. f.

⟿ Your morning after a fight with Han.

༊*·˚ Backburner | Exes who can't move on. a.

⟿ It's been seven weeks since Han broke up with you. And yet he's still calling you, every saturday night, without fault. And even though you try not to, you still pick up each time.

"You'd think I'd be a fast learner. But guess I won't ever mind crisping up in your backburner."

lee felix.

╰┈➤ one-shots.

༊*·˚ If the world was ending | estranged childhood best friends to lovers. a. f.

⟿ Felix has always been there with you, from the moment you've met him when you were 8 years old. Until he suddenly no longer was, and you were left to grapple with the consequences of his absence- and those of his return.

"If the world was ending you'd come over, right?"

༊*·˚ Scream! | f. h/c.

⟿ When you are overwhelmed by the stress of your studies, your boyfriend Felix will do anything to cheer you up.

╰┈➤ drabbles.

༊*·˚ red lollipop.

༊*·˚ you apply lip gloss on felix but it takes an emotional turn because he's too pretty.

༊*·˚ cooking with felix.

kim seungmin.

╰┈➤ one-shots.

༊*·˚ In my dreams | (Fake) enemies to lovers. a. h/c. slow burn. ♡

⟿ Seungmin has never liked you. You never understood why, but you were slowly coming to terms with it. However, you gradually come to learn that there is more to his feelings than what meets the eye.

"I'm sorry that I misjudged you, until you wiped my tears off away."

༊*·˚ Photobooth | f.

⟿ Your first date with seungmin, except he pretends he's confident when he's just as nervous as you.

╰┈➤ drabbles.

༊*·˚ seungmin's silent comfort.

༊*·˚ when you realize you don't have to be perfect around seungmin.

༊*·˚ enemies to lovers (for a night) with seungmin.

༊*·˚ seungmin thinks you’re the prettiest at your most ordinary.

yang jeongin.

╰┈➤ one-shots.

༊*·˚ You're sexy I'm sexy | friends to lovers. fluff and tension.

⟿ Jeongin is out with his friends, and you. You're tipsy and sitting on his lap, and he doesn't think he can keep his crush for you at bay anymore.

"It could be simple as loving on each other with no strings."

༊*·˚ Please fall before I fall | best friends to lovers. mutual pining but they think it's unrequited love.

⟿ 3 times you saved jeongin's ass and the 1 time he saved yours (and ended up confessing along the way). holidays themed.

╰┈➤ drabbles.

༊*·˚ jeongin when you are sad and don't know why.

༊*·˚ jeongin's duality.