#minho x reader

[leriexoxo]

Wait, Aren’t You Gay?

Bestfriend! Leeknow x Reader

“You crossed a line, He burned the rest”

Tags: Smut, groping, Mutual pining, phone sex, oral (f , m receiving), unprotected sex, dirty talk, fingering, begging, praise, soft dom Minho, tension snapping like a wire, domestic fluff, aftercare, post-sex vulnerability, tit play, friends to lovers

Word count: 8k

Summary: You always thought Minho was gay—so you never held back. Tiny tops, unfiltered stories, late-night cuddles… harmless, right?Until he sees you soaked through one day and finally snaps. And suddenly, your best friend isn’t looking at you like a friend anymore. Until one late-night phone call changed everything. Now you’re at his door—no bra, no excuse—buzzing from the sound of his voice and the filthy things he made you do. He opens the door. He sees you. And just like that, it’s over. The line is crossed.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

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You’d known Lee Minho since you were barely old enough to walk without holding onto his shirt.

Back then, he was just that loud kid who shared his snacks and shoved you into mud puddles. Now? He was your best friend. Constant. Loyal. Always down to pick you up when you were drunk or kill spiders or fake-boyfriend you out of awkward situations.

And also—totally not into girls.

At least, that’s what you’d always assumed.

He never talked about hookups. Never ogled girls. Never so much as blinked when you pranced around in your tiny shorts or ranted about your latest sex-related disaster. You figured he was either the most respectful man alive—or playing for a different team.

So you got reckless. Comfortable.

And today?

You were about to find out just how wrong you’d been.

It started with the kitchen sink.

You were washing dishes, half-dancing to your playlist, wearing nothing but those soft cotton shorts and an oversized white tank with no bra underneath. Your wet hair clung to your neck, and you were humming through a verse when the faucet burst—literally—spraying a jet of cold water straight at your chest.

“FUCK—shit, fuck—” You stumbled back, grabbing at the handle, slipping on the tile as water drenched you from neck to stomach.

And that’s when Minho walked in.

“Yo, I got the charger you—”

He froze.

You blinked at him, soaked and panting, hair plastered to your cheeks.

Water trickled down the front of your now see-through top. The fabric clung to every inch of your skin. And your nipples? Standing out like full spotlight, front row through the sheer cotton. You had no idea though, no time to even think about it before he had appeared.

“Oh.” You laughed, awkward. “Um—hi. Broken faucet. Don’t mind the wet t-shirt contest.”

He didn’t answer.

Just stood there.

Eyes glued to your chest, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring like he was trying to hold his breath.

Your smile faded.

“Min?”

His gaze finally snapped to your face.

Too late.

You saw it—the tension. The fire.

The unmistakable flicker of hunger.

And suddenly your stomach flipped.

“…Minho?”

He swallowed hard, voice low. Rough.

“Put something on. Now.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I said—” His eyes dropped again before yanking back up. “Go change. Now. Before I do something really fucking stupid.”

Your heart skipped.

Because that? That didn’t sound like your best friend.

You stood there in wet silence, your soaked top clinging to your skin like a second damn layer, Minho couldn’t meet your eyes.

He turned his back to you—turned his back—and gripped the edge of your countertop like he was grounding himself. His shoulders rose with each breath, tense as hell, like someone trying not to explode.

You’d never seen him like this. Not with you.

“I wasn’t—Min, I didn’t mean—” you stammered, brain short-circuiting. “I didn’t know you were coming over yet.”

His voice was clipped. “You knew the faucet was broken.”

“I didn’t know it was gonna blast me in the tits!”

Silence.

A beat.

Then, quietly—so quietly—you heard it:

“Jesus Christ…”

That’s when something finally clicked.

You looked down at yourself—at the sheer fabric sticking to your breasts, nipples hard, outline of your curves totally exposed. And for the first time in all the years of being this careless around him, you suddenly felt self-conscious.

You reached for a dish towel and held it over your chest.

“…Are you mad at me?” you asked, voice small.

“No,” he said quickly. Too quickly.

You stepped closer.

“Then what’s going on?”

He shook his head, still facing away. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Try me.”

He let out a breath that sounded more like a growl, and when he finally turned around, you caught it again—that look. Raw, unfiltered restraint. His gaze flicked down to the towel you’d pressed to your chest, then back to your face.

You watched him like he was someone else.

Like the Minho you grew up with had peeled off his skin and left something sharper underneath. His jaw was tight, arms folded, eyes still avoiding yours—but you felt it now. That edge. That static charge that had been humming under the surface for who knows how long.

“I’ll fix the faucet later,” he muttered, stepping past you—carefully. Like you were made of glass. Or fire.

You turned as he moved, towel still clutched to your chest.

“You didn’t answer me,” you said.

“About what?”

“Why you told me to change.”

He stopped at the door.

Didn’t turn around.

For a long second, you thought he wouldn’t say anything at all.

Then, quietly, he replied:

“Because if I’d kept looking at you, I don’t think I would’ve kept my mouth shut.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

And when he walked out of the kitchen, just like that, it was like the whole room shifted.

The air changed.

Everything felt warmer. Tighter. Thinner.

You didn’t move for a while. Not until the cold in your soaked top finally made your skin sting.

⸻

The rest of the day passed weirdly.

Minho didn’t leave, of course. He stayed like he always did, lounging on your couch, bickering over what to order for dinner, side-eyeing you every time you grabbed your phone.

But the energy between you?

Completely different.

He didn’t look at you the way he usually did. Didn’t tease you like normal. Didn’t even touch you when he passed you the remote—just tossed it like it might burn him otherwise.

And you couldn’t stop thinking about his voice in the kitchen.

“I don’t think I would’ve kept my mouth shut.”

Kept it shut about what, exactly?

What he was thinking?

What he wanted to do?

You were still thinking about it when you came out of your room later in a sleep shirt that barely skimmed your thighs. No bra. Nothing underneath. The usual you-in-your-element vibe.

Except… this time?

You caught him looking.

Not accidentally.

Not briefly.

He looked—and kept looking.

From your legs to your hips to the faint hint of nipple under the thin fabric, straight to your face.

Your breath caught.

He didn’t apologize.

He didn’t blink.

He just raised a brow—almost like a dare—and said, “Your sink’s still fucked.”

You nodded, slowly.

“So are you gonna fix it?”

He stood up.

And as he passed by, way too close, his hand brushed the curve of your lower back.

Just a touch.

Too casual to be called a grab. Too deliberate to be innocent.

And then he was gone again, heading into the kitchen.

Like it hadn’t just happened at all.

⸻

He always crashed in your bed. That wasn’t new.

Late movie nights, sleepy arguments, limbs tangled and breathing synced—just best friends, just comfort.

Except tonight?

You felt everything.

His warmth at your back. The heaviness of his arm draped around your waist. The intentional silence of him pretending to be asleep, even though you could feel how tense he was.

You’d turned off the lights twenty minutes ago, but your body was still buzzing. Hyperaware of every inch of skin not covered by your flimsy sleep shirt. Every inch of him pressed against you in the dark.

And you knew—you knew—he hadn’t stopped thinking about earlier.

About how you’d looked dripping wet, nipples hard, shirt transparent and clinging to your curves like a second skin.

You should’ve felt awkward.

But instead, your thighs were clenched.

And then—His hand moved.

Just a little.

At first, it was nothing. A small adjustment. His fingers splayed over your stomach like they were stretching in his sleep. But then his palm drifted higher.

Slow.

Barely grazing the underside of your breast through your shirt.

Your breath caught.

His did too.

Like he just realized what his body was doing.

He didn’t pull away.

Not immediately.

His fingers twitched, tips brushing right beneath the curve of your boob—soft, tentative. Still pretending it was nothing. That he was asleep. That this wasn’t completely out of bounds.

Your chest rose and fell faster now.

He still didn’t speak.

But his hand stayed there.

Hovering. Teasing. The edge of a full touch, like he was testing himself. Or punishing himself.

And you?

You didn’t stop him.

You didn’t even breathe.

You just pressed back into him slightly—so slightly—and felt the undeniable shape of him, hard and restrained against the swell of your ass.

He exhaled shakily behind you.

Shit.

You’d never heard him make a sound like that before. Not around you.

Not around anyone.

You didn’t move for a while.

Didn’t even blink. Not when his fingers hovered beneath your breast, not when you felt his cock pressed firm and restrained against the curve of your ass. You just stayed still—heart hammering, skin burning—like your body was listening for his next move.

But when none came��

You shifted.

Just a little. Barely a breath of movement. Just enough to arch your back, push your chest forward, and guide the soft swell of your breast right into his palm.

His fingers twitched again.

But he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t say your name. Didn’t jerk back in shock or guilt. He just stayed there—completely still behind you, breathing shallow and slow like he was holding onto sleep as a defense.

Your nipples were hard beneath the thin cotton, the heat of his palm sinking through the fabric like an electric brand. It was barely a touch—but it felt filthy. Loaded. More intimate than anything you’d done with someone you were actually sleeping with.

And still, you stayed quiet.

Still.

Sleeping.

His thumb brushed the soft curve below your nipple. Just once. Barely there. Like a reflex.

And this time, his hips shifted too.

The press of him against your ass sharpened—more deliberate now. Less restrained. Like his body had stopped asking for permission and started taking what you weren’t stopping.

His hand tightened—slightly.

He was pretending to be asleep, you realized.

Just like you were.

If either of you acknowledged it, the world would crack open.

So you didn’t.

You just let it happen.

Let his hand cup your breast like it was meant to be there. Let his hips roll forward in the slowest, tiniest grind. Let your legs shift apart just enough that your thighs stopped brushing—and instead, welcomed.

He let out another one of those breaths—low, shaky, wrecked.

You smiled into the pillow.

Still not breathing.

Still “asleep.”

And behind you, your best friend since diapers was losing his last scrap of composure.

—

The morning came too fast.

Sunlight crept through your curtains like it knew what happened. Like it saw every second of that not-a-dream moment where his hand cupped your breast and his hips rolled into yours like it wasn’t the first time he’d imagined it.

He was already in the kitchen when you woke up.

Hair messy, hoodie wrinkled, acting like everything was normal. Like he hadn’t spent the night wrapped around you with his cock pressed to your ass and his hand full of your tit.

You padded out barefoot, keeping your face unreadable.

He handed you a mug. “You were out cold.”

Liar.

You took it, fingers brushing his, watching him too closely.

“So were you.”

A flicker—barely there—but his eyes twitched toward you for a split second. Like he was trying to see if you meant something more.

You let him sit with the tension.

You drank your coffee slow.

“You ever think…” you began softly, “maybe I’ve just been really fucking stupid?”

He looked up from his cereal. “Since when?”

You tilted your head. “Since assuming you weren’t into girls.”

He blinked. Slowly. Carefully.

That… got his attention.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh it off. Just sat there—silent—and then brought the spoon to his mouth like nothing had happened.

But his voice, when he finally answered, was low. Controlled.

“What makes you ask that?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. You never dated any. Never flirted. You never reacted when I walked around like—” you gestured vaguely at yourself—“this. So I figured, you know. Must be the reason.”

Another pause.

His eyes dropped to your thighs.

You were wearing the same sleep shirt.

No bra still.

Of course he noticed.

But he didn’t give you that satisfaction. He set the spoon down and leaned back in the chair, stretching lazily like his body hadn’t betrayed him eight hours ago in your bed.

“Maybe I’m just good at not talking about certain things,” he said.

That hit harder than it should have.

You stared at him.

And for the first time in a long time—you didn’t see your best friend.

You saw a man who’d been holding himself back for years.

You’d never stared at his crotch before.

That was the first red flag.

You weren’t even trying to. Just sitting across from him on the couch while he scrolled through his phone, hoodie riding up slightly, grey sweatpants loose and slung criminally low on his hips. You weren’t supposed to notice the shape beneath. The outline. The fact that you recognized the pressure of it against your ass last night because it had left an imprint on your nervous system.

You blinked away quickly.

Jesus.

You sipped your water like it could douse whatever fire had started in your chest—and your thighs.

He didn’t notice.

Of course he didn’t.

Lee Minho was the king of unreadable faces. That man could watch you strip naked and probably wouldn’t flinch. It was part of the reason you’d always felt safe around him. And the same reason you were losing your mind now.

You needed to know.

If you were wrong. If he’d just been hiding in plain sight. If that touch last night had been a fluke. A dream. Or something darker.

So you tested it.

That evening, while he sat on the floor building a shelf you couldn’t be bothered to finish, you leaned in behind him.

Loose tank top. Braless as usual. Intentional bend.

He turned slightly. Saw your chest from the side—too close, too exposed, one nipple practically peeking through the armhole.

His jaw clenched.

But he said nothing.

Strike one.

You tried again.

Pulled your hair up messily, exposing your neck, your back. Made small, breathy sounds when you stretched. Loud enough to hear. Soft enough to pass as innocent.

Still nothing.

Strike two.

You were practically writhing at this point. Trying to piss him off or fluster him, something.

But Lee Minho stayed quiet.

You weren’t sure what exactly you were trying to prove anymore.

That he wasn’t gay? That he wanted you? That you could still control this friendship even when everything was shifting beneath your feet?

Maybe it was all of it.

But you were already halfway in his lap before you had time to second guess it.

“You’re not good at building shit,” you teased, voice sweet as sugar while you hovered close, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. “Lucky I’m cute enough to get away with watching instead of helping.”

He grunted—low, disinterested. But his eyes betrayed him. You saw the flicker—straight to your chest, to the deep dip of cleavage you’d made extra sure he’d notice.

Bingo.

You leaned closer. Pretending to inspect a screw on the shelf. Your tits brushed his upper arm.

He went still.

“You okay there, Min?” you asked softly. Coy.

He cleared his throat. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?”

“This,” he said. He didn’t look at you. “Whatever game you’re playing right now.”

“I’m not playing anything.”

“Yes, you are.”

You tilted your head. “What are you talking about?”

Silence.

Then, quieter: “I’m warning you.”

Oh, that did something to you.

He sounded like he meant it. Like he was afraid of himself more than you. And maybe he should’ve been—because you were reckless now. Hyped up on the taste of your own power, drunk on the image of him with your tit in his hand last night.

You pulled your tank top aside from the arm hole just a little. No bra. Just the soft swell of skin—more than enough to tempt. His eyes snapped to it instantly.

“Go ahead,” you whispered. “Touch me.”

He swallowed.

Didn’t move.

So you took his hand yourself—slowly, deliberately—and pressed it to your breast.

Flesh to palm.

He exhaled sharp. Visibly flinched. But he didn’t pull away.

You arched into his touch.

“You’ve never been curious?” you asked, voice lower now, almost daring. “Never once wondered what they felt like? You’ve known me your whole life, Minho…”

His thumb twitched. Brushed the underside like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

You smiled faintly.

But then he tightened his grip—just slightly—and your breath caught.

“You think I’ve been ignoring you all these years?” he asked, voice dark now. Steady. Dangerous. “You think I don’t notice when you walk around half naked? You think I don’t see the way your tits bounce when you laugh?”

You froze.

Oh.

Oh shit.

“You think I don’t feel them when you’re sleeping pressed against me?” His thumb brushed up now—barely grazing your nipple. It stiffened instantly. So did you.

“Minho…”

His hand dropped away suddenly, like he was snapping out of it.

“You need to stop,” he said, standing up too fast. “Before you push me too far.”

You stared up at him from the floor, dazed.

For the first time… you realized you might’ve already pushed too far.

—

It was hours later when you finally crawled into bed.

He was already in it—lying on his side, facing away, blanket riding low on his waist and exposing the tight line of muscle up his back.

Your heart was still pounding.

He hadn’t said a single thing after storming out earlier. Not during dinner. Not while you cleaned the mess from the half-finished shelf. Not while you avoided looking at him like he hadn’t cupped your tit like a stress ball.

And now you were lying beside him again, like nothing had changed.

You couldn’t tell if you were relieved or disappointed.

You turned your back to him, the usual position when you shared a bed, but the air felt different tonight. Dense. Stifling.

“Hey,” you whispered in the dark. “Are we… okay?”

His voice came low. Controlled. “You tell me.”

You swallowed. “You seemed… upset earlier.”

“I was,” he said. “I’m not anymore.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

Then, casually:

“You looked at my dick today.”

You choked. “What?! No I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

You rolled onto your back, flustered. “You can’t prove that.”

“I don’t need to. I know your face. I’ve known it since you had baby teeth.”

You blinked at the ceiling. Your face was burning.

He shifted then—closer. The bed dipped behind you. His chest met your back.

And something else pressed against your ass.

Hard. Solid. Undeniable.

You gasped.

His lips brushed your ear. Calm. Evil.

“That’s payback,” he said softly, “for putting your tits in my hand.”

You forgot how to breathe.

He didn’t move.

Neither did you.

The air between you was molten now, and his cock—fuck, that was his cock—was still heavy and pulsing against your ass like he was proud of it.

“Minho…”

“You wanted to know,” he said, voice silk and fire. “You’ve been trying to get a reaction out of me all day. So now you’ve got one.”

You felt him smirk.

“What’s wrong?” he murmured. “Too much?”

You couldn’t answer.

Not when your thighs were squeezing together like they had a mind of their own. Not when your heart was a drum and your skin burned where it touched his.

You didn’t say anything at first.

Just stayed frozen in place, his cock pressed thick and solid against the soft curve of your ass, your entire body vibrating with heat.

Your lips moved before your brain could stop them.

“…Can I touch it?”

Silence.

Not even a breath behind you.

Then— “What?”

You swallowed, your voice weirdly calm now. “I just… I wanna feel it. Like—actually feel it. With my hand.”

A sound escaped his throat. Sharp. Choked.

“You’re kidding.”

You turned around slowly, facing him in the dark. His eyes locked on yours—blown, stunned, like you’d slapped him with a brick made of sin.

You didn’t wait for another answer.

Your eyes dropped straight to his crotch.

And your hand followed.

The blanket shifted just enough as you slipped beneath it, and your palm found him right where he’d pressed up against you before—still just as thick, still painfully hard, straining beneath the soft fabric of his sweatpants.

You cupped him gently.

Minho jerked.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered, face twisting. “What the hell are you doing…”

“Just curious,” you murmured, gaze fixed on the shape of him under your hand. “You’re so… big.”

He groaned, head dropping back into the pillow.

Your fingers squeezed lightly. You were sure you felt him twitch.

“You’ve been like this all night?” you asked, eyes wide.

He hissed through his teeth. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Why not?” you teased, still stroking. “It’s not like I’m doing anything serious.”

“That’s the fucking problem,” he gritted out, hips twitching into your hand.

You explored him like you were learning something new, weighing the heft of him through his pants, tracing the long, thick outline up and down.

He was breathing heavier now. Jaw clenched. Eyes shut.

“You can tell me to stop,” you whispered.

He didn’t.

So you slipped your hand inside.

No warning.

Just fingers beneath the waistband, sliding inside until you were wrapping your hand around bare, hot skin.

Minho choked.

“Fuck—fuck—”

You stroked slowly, palm tight around the base, sliding up to the head and back again. He was massive. Velvet over steel. Already leaking a little at the tip.

He bucked into your hand before he could stop himself, hips twitching under the weight of your touch.

“Is this payback too?” you asked, lips barely moving.

His eyes flew open.

“Keep talking and I’ll fuck your throat instead.”

Your hand froze.

Your heart flipped.

Your thighs clenched so hard it hurt.

But then, you looked up at him. Still holding him. Still stroking him.

His cock twitched in your hand, thick and aching, as you slowly dragged your fingers up the shaft and back down, your touch featherlight—teasing.

Minho’s eyes were glassy now, dark and stormy and wild, like he was barely keeping himself together. His jaw clenched. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts.

You felt powerful. Dangerous.

So you looked up at him—bold, daring—and said, “So? Still want me to stop?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just blinked at you like he was seeing you for the first time. His voice came hoarse and wrecked.

“Are you crazy?”

You tilted your head. “Maybe.”

“This is—” He swallowed. “We’re—”

“Friends?” you offered, sliding your hand again, slower now. “Childhood besties? Practically siblings?”

He winced. “God, don’t say that.”

You smiled.

And then, without another word, you sat up on your knees and tugged your oversized sleep shirt over your head—bare underneath. Just skin and heat and those same soft breasts he’d felt in his hands earlier.

They bounced slightly as you moved, and the room went still.

His breath hitched. His eyes dropped—dragged—to your chest.

It was the second time he’d seen them that night.

“I’m sure,” you said simply.

Something broke in him.

He sat up so fast the mattress shook, one hand grabbing your wrist, the other threading hard into your hair. He yanked you forward, his mouth crashing into yours with so much heat it knocked the breath from your lungs.

You gasped into the kiss, and he devoured it—biting, claiming, groaning into your mouth like he’d been starving for years.

“This what you wanted?” he growled, lips trailing down your neck, teeth dragging over your collarbone. “You really wanted to see what I’d do?”

You whimpered, nodding, fingers already clawing at the waistband of his sweats.

“Too late to take it back now,” he muttered against your skin, before ducking down and wrapping his lips around your nipple—hard.

Your back arched. His tongue flicked, sucked, bit.

“Minho—”

“I’ve dreamed about these,” he groaned, switching to the other breast, kneading the first one in his palm like he was worshiping it. “You don’t know what the fuck you’ve done to me.”

Your whole body was trembling, his hands now everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding down your back, yanking you flush against his chest as he rutted up into you, his cock still trapped in his sweats, still throbbing.

“Need to feel you,” he rasped. “Need to have you.”

“Then take me,” you breathed. Without even thinking about it.

And for a second, Minho froze.

Not because he didn’t want to—his hands were already sliding lower, gripping your hips with bruising force—but because the way you’d said it… so open, so needy, so real… it shook him.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” he whispered, forehead pressing against yours, his voice raw, trembling. “Because if I start, I won’t stop this time.”

Your chest heaved against his, nipples dragging over his skin, and his self-control nearly snapped again right there. You could feel him under you, thick and hot through the fabric of his sweats, the tip pressed right against your soaked panties. One shift of your hips and—

“I’m not asking you to stop,” you whispered back.

He groaned, low and guttural, like the sound had been buried in his chest for years. You kissed him again—slow, deep, your tongues tangling like this wasn’t the first time. Like your bodies already knew the steps.

And maybe they did.

His hand slid between your thighs, pressing the heel of his palm right where you were aching most. Your hips jerked.

“Already soaked,” he rasped, biting down on your lip. “Fuck—have you always been like this around me?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. His fingers dipped beneath your waistband, brushing over your soaked folds through your underwear—just enough to make you moan.

“You’re playing with fire,” he warned, mouth now at your ear, voice shaking. “You keep tempting me like this, and I swear—”

“Then burn me,” you whispered, grinding down on his hand.

He snapped again—grabbing your ass and flipping you onto your back like he’d been holding back all his life. The sudden dominance in his movements made your breath hitch.

Minho hovered over you, both of you half-naked now, tangled in sweatpants and damp underwear and a thousand repressed thoughts.

His hand moved with purpose now, cupping your mound, rubbing slow circles over your clit, lips pressed to your neck.

You whimpered, bucked.

“Don’t tease,” you begged.

He chuckled darkly. “Says the one who’s been waving her tits in my face for years.”

You gasped—half embarrassed, half turned on—and he pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

“Tell me to stop,” he said softly. “Or I’m going to ruin your sleep.”

You stared at him, panting. You wanted him. Needed him. But something inside you whispered—not yet. Not like this. Not while everything was still unraveling too fast.

“Not tonight,” you murmured, heart racing.

His expression shifted, softening in a way that made your chest ache.

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

But his fingers didn’t move right away. He gave you one last teasing brush, slow and aching.

“For the record,” he added, voice like gravel, “this is me trying to behave.”

You giggled, breathless.

“I can tell.”

And then he pulled you into his chest, kissed your forehead, and let the fire between you simmer.

You didn’t have sex that night.

But neither of you slept much, either.

⸻

It had only been three days.

Three days since Minho had slipped out with nothing but a cryptic, “I’ll see you later,” and a soft kiss to your temple. Two days since you’d almost let your best friend finger you into oblivion under the safety of your shared covers. And now he was gone.

Well, not gone-gone. Just back at his apartment. Just out of reach. Just far enough to not risk really doing what your bodies had been begging for.

He hadn’t ghosted. Not exactly. Just a little space, a few texts. “Sorry, been busy.” “Work’s a lot this week.” “I’ll come by soon.”

But soon wasn’t now. And now… was when you were sprawled out on your bed, fingers between your thighs, a familiar silicone toy buzzing softly inside you—desperate to chase that same friction you almost got from him.

It wasn’t the same. Nothing could be. But the thoughts in your head? Those were filthy enough to get the job done.

Your mind kept flashing back to the night before he left: his voice in your ear, his thick cock pressed to your core, the way he’d looked at you like he’d been starving. You whined as your hips rolled, tightening your grip on the toy buried inside you.

Then your phone lit up.

Minho calling.

You froze, heart skipping. Fuck.

You hesitated just long enough for it to ring again—and then answered, trying to level your breath.

“Hey,” you managed, voice just a bit too airy.

“Hey,” he said, voice casual, low. “Were you sleeping?”

“Nope.” You exhaled hard through your nose, the vibrator still inside you, pulsing away like it knew your secrets. “Just… relaxing.”

“Mmm.” His voice dropped, curious. “You sound out of breath.”

You swallowed. Hard. “Tired day. I was just—y’know. Lying down.”

The vibrator kicked up just a notch, and your thighs jerked. He kept talking.

“Sorry I’ve been MIA. Been thinking about you, though.” His voice was warm, familiar. God, his voice. “A lot, actually.”

A sharp breath escaped you. You hoped it sounded natural. It didn’t.

“…You okay?” he asked, his tone shifting just slightly. “You sound—off.”

You could barely think anymore. Your head was buzzing. Your thighs were trembling. And you didn’t dare stop.

���I’m fine,” you rasped.

But then you whimpered. Barely. Just a little hitch in your throat.

He paused. “Wait. Are you—are you doing something?”

Your whole body froze.

“No,” you lied, voice high.

He went quiet. Too quiet.

“…Are you touching yourself right now?” His voice came low, dangerous. “While on the phone with me?”

Silence.

Then, another breathy whimper.

He growled. “Fuck. You are.”

You felt heat shoot up your spine.

“Keep going,” he said, voice gravel now. “Don’t stop. You started this.”

Your hips rolled again—slower this time, more deliberate—as you listened to him breathe, listened to the weight behind his words.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” he demanded. “While you fuck yourself to my voice.”

You bit down on your lower lip, squeezing your eyes shut as his words settled under your skin like molten honey.

“Tell me,” he said again, voice a touch lower, rougher now. “What were you thinking about?”

You whimpered. “You.”

He chuckled. Dark. Breathless.

“Yeah? What about me?”

You hesitated, hips twitching as your toy nudged just right inside you. “The way you felt that night,” you gasped. “The way you pressed into me from behind… the way your cock felt against me, even through the sheets—”

“Fuck.”

His reaction was sharp and immediate, a barely controlled groan through clenched teeth. You knew his hand was probably fisting the sheets or his thigh right now, trying to stop himself from touching the one thing he couldn’t have—yet.

“Are you still touching yourself?” he asked, voice thick.

“…Yes.”

“Good. Faster.”

The single command shot straight to your gut. Your fingers moved in rhythm with the toy now, chasing the heat blooming deep in your belly. You didn’t even care if he heard your wetness or the whines building in your throat anymore.

“Wish I could see you,” he breathed. “Wish I could have my hand over your mouth. You’re too loud, babe. You’d wake the whole damn building if I fucked you right now.”

“Minho—”

“Not yet,” he cut in. “You’ll come when I say so. Not a second sooner.”

You squeezed around the toy, aching, desperate, toes curling.

“Keep going. Just like that.” His voice was pure sin now, molten and slow. “You’ll come with my voice in your ear and my name on your lips, just like you should’ve that night.”

You whimpered.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say my name.”

“Minho—”

“Louder.”

“Minho.”

“Good girl,” he rasped. “Now come.”

You shattered.

Your back arched off the bed, thighs quaking, moan spilling raw and unfiltered from your lips as your body pulsed around the toy. You didn’t even try to hold it in anymore—he needed to hear it. He deserved to.

Silence stretched on the line after, only your wrecked breathing and the distant rasp of his own breath filling the space between you.

When he finally spoke again, it was with the voice of a man barely holding back his hunger.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he said softly, deadly. “Next time I get my hands on you… I’m not stopping until you forget anyone else ever made you come.”

The call ended.

You blinked at the screen, dazed, thighs still trembling.

But you didn’t sleep.

You changed into the first half-decent outfit you could find, tugged your hoodie over your head, and grabbed your keys with your heart hammering in your throat.

If he wasn’t going to come to you?

You’d damn well go to him.

—

You almost turned around three times. Once at the stoplight. Again when you parked in front of his building. And one last time while standing at his door, staring at the stupid number you’d memorized when you were ten.

You shouldn’t have been here.

But your body didn’t care. Not when it was still buzzing, still throbbing from the orgasm he commanded out of you through the phone not ten minutes ago. Your thighs were sticky, your bottom lip sore from how hard you’d been biting it in the car, nerves coiling in your belly like a wire about to snap.

Showing up like this—unannounced, in shorts that barely passed as clothing, no bra under your thin hoodie—wasn’t just reckless. It was deliberate. Dangerous.

You raised your hand and knocked before you could talk yourself out of it.

Footsteps came quickly. Heavy. The door flew open seconds later, and there he was.

Minho.

Still shirtless.

Sweatpants slung low on his hips. Hair a mess like he’d been pacing. His jaw was tense, chest rising like he hadn’t calmed down since the call ended. His eyes found yours and locked in like he could see through you.

He didn’t say a word.

Just looked at you.

Slow. Hungry. His gaze dragged from your flushed face to the zipper of your hoodie and lower—lingering on your bare thighs.

You shifted, suddenly feeling way too exposed.

“Say something,” you whispered.

His voice came out hoarse.

“You’re insane.”

“I know.”

Another pause. The air between you tightened.

He stepped forward. Just one step—and you backed up, your breath hitching.

“No bra?” he muttered like it hurt him. “You show up like this after what just happened—fuck—”

“I didn’t know what else to do.” You bit your lip, heat crawling up your neck. “I didn’t want to wait.”

That was it.

He snapped.

You didn’t even see him move—just felt the door slam shut behind you as he pushed you up against it, one arm shooting out to lock it without looking. His hands came to either side of your head, bracing himself like he was seconds away from self-destruction.

His breath hit your lips.

Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, like he was holding back something feral.

“Last chance,” he growled. “If you tell me right now you’re not sure, I’ll let you go. I’ll jerk off in the shower until my knees give out and pretend you never begged to come in my ear.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’m sure.”

That was all it took.

His mouth crashed into yours. Hungry. Deep. Unapologetic. It hit you like a wave—his tongue sliding in, his grip tightening, his body pressing flush against yours with an intensity that made your knees buckle.

One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head, while the other found your waist and gripped—like he was claiming territory.

A moan escaped into his mouth as you clung to his shoulders, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to the storm that was him.

Minho’s mouth was still glistening with you when he picked you up—one arm under your thighs, the other around your back. He didn’t even blink. Just carried you down the hall like it was nothing, your head pressed to his neck, body boneless from how hard he’d made you come.

His bed was unmade.

Sheets tossed. Pillows scattered. And you were in them seconds later, back hitting the mattress with a bounce.

Minho stood at the edge of the bed and looked at you.

Like he’d waited years for this moment. Like you were a fantasy come to life and he was deciding whether to kneel at your feet or tear you apart.

“You still want this?” he asked, voice low—gravel and smoke.

You didn’t answer. You showed him—legs spreading wider, hips tilting, your hand sliding down to part your slick folds. His eyes darkened.

“Fuck, okay,” he breathed, like he was short-circuiting. “Okay, baby.”

He crawled over you like a shadow, slow and heavy, his mouth finding your jaw first—then your neck, then your collarbone, biting as he went.

“You’ve been mine since we were kids,” he murmured into your skin, tongue flicking over a mark he’d just left. “You just didn’t know it.”

You gasped when his hips rolled against yours, his cock rubbing through your soaked folds, huge and leaking and so hot against your cunt.

“You feel that?” he asked, dragging it up and down—your body arching, chasing it. “You’ve had me like this for years. All those skirts. All that attitude.”

He gripped your jaw, making you look at him.

“You think I didn’t notice the way you got careless around me?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out—just a broken breath as he lined up, pressing just the tip in.

Your nails dug into his arms.

“Minho—”

“Shh,” he whispered. “I know, baby. I know.”

Then he pushed in.

Slow. Deep. Relentless.

And holy fuck.

Your eyes slammed shut, jaw dropping in a silent scream as he stretched you open. He didn’t stop until he was fully inside—until his hips were flush with yours and your cunt was full.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned into your neck. “So fucking tight.”

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

He pulled back just enough to drive back in—and again—again—building a rhythm that knocked the sanity right out of your head.

Minho fucked like he was carving his name into your body.

He was everywhere—teeth on your throat, hands on your tits, hips snapping hard and deep like he needed to ruin you.

And he was talking, too. Filthy. Possessive. All in that growly voice that made your toes curl.

“You gonna let me fill you up, baby?”

“Gonna fuck you so full you feel me for days.”

“You were made for this. For me. For my cock.”

You cried out when he grabbed your thigh and folded you in half, slamming deeper, finding that spot that made your entire body lock up.

“Right there?” he growled, eyes glued to your face. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s your spot.”

You were sobbing now—wet, broken sounds as your second orgasm raced up your spine.

“Minho, please—I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he snapped. “Right now. All over my cock. Let me feel it.”

And you did. Harder than before—louder, messier, more intense.

You clenched around him like a vice, and he lost it—groaning loud as he slammed in one final time and spilled inside you, hips jerking, body trembling above yours.

He stayed like that—deep and twitching inside you, sweat dripping down his temple, lips ghosting over yours as you both tried to come down.

You didn’t know how long you laid there—legs trembling, his cum leaking out of you, your fingers tangled in the sheets like you were afraid of floating away.

Minho hadn’t moved much either.

He was still inside you, chest to chest, your noses brushing each time he inhaled. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking softly along your jaw as he watched you with those warm, sleepy eyes—eyes that held none of the fury or possessiveness from before.

Just softness. Almost guilt.

“You okay?” he asked, voice husky but gentler now.

You nodded, but your throat was tight. And when you blinked up at him, he leaned down to kiss the corner of your mouth. Then your nose. Then your temple.

“Did I go too far?” he murmured.

“No,” you whispered, your voice small. “I liked it. I liked all of it.”

That made his lips twitch.

“Yeah?” he said, brushing his knuckles across your tits—lingering when your breath caught. “Even when I told you to shut up and take it?”

You swallowed hard. “Especially then.”

He chuckled under his breath and finally pulled out, making both of you hiss. You whined at the emptiness—at how sore and stretched you felt—and Minho’s gaze immediately dropped between your legs.

“Shit,” he muttered, almost reverent. “Look at that mess.”

You flushed, shifting your legs, but he pressed a hand to your thigh to stop you.

“Don’t hide,” he murmured. “You look so good like this. All ruined because of me.”

Then, to your surprise, he slid down the bed and kissed your inner thigh. Just once. Then again. Then right next to your sensitive center.

You flinched. “Minho—too much—”

He smiled and looked up at you from between your legs.

“Alright, baby,” he said. “I’ll be good.”

And he was.

For about two minutes.

Then he kissed his way up your body—lingering on your nipples, dragging his tongue across them until they stiffened again. You whimpered as he sucked softly, then bit gently—making your hips buck.

“I just wanna taste them,” he murmured. “You kept arching for me earlier like they needed attention.”

“They still do,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

He smirked. “Then don’t move.”

He licked and sucked until your chest was wet with his spit and your thighs pressed together again—need building back up in the pit of your stomach like a slow flame.

“Fuck,” you mumbled. “You’re gonna break me.”

He pulled back to look at you.

“Not yet,” he said, voice low. “But you did say you liked sucking cock, didn’t you?”

You blinked. “I—yeah—why—?”

He rolled off you and onto his back, cock already hard again—thick and flushed, still glistening from earlier.

“Then get over here.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

You crawled down the bed and straddled his thighs, eyes locked on the way he stroked himself, slow and heavy.

He tapped the tip against your lips. “Open up, baby.”

You did.

And he groaned the moment you took him in—just the head at first, tongue swirling around it, your lips tight and wet. He filled your mouth so easily, and you loved the way he shuddered when you gagged on him.

“That’s it,” he breathed, hand sliding into your hair. “So fucking pretty when you’re drooling on my cock.”

You moaned around him, and he twitched.

“You gonna swallow it all?” he asked, voice breaking a little. “You want me to come in your mouth this time?”

You sucked harder, nodding with tears in your eyes, and that was it.

He cursed—hips jerking, cock thickening—and seconds later he was spilling down your throat, one hand on your head as his other clutched the sheets.

You swallowed everything.

Every drop.

When you finally pulled off, eyes glassy and lips swollen, Minho reached for you and pulled you into his chest, kissing your forehead like he hadn’t just fucked your mouth like a man possessed.

“Now,” he whispered, pulling the blanket over both of you, “lets get some sleep.”

⸻

The morning light slipped in through the blinds in soft gold stripes, painting lazy patterns across the room.

You blinked awake slowly, body aching in the most indulgent way, wrapped in the scent of skin and sweat and fabric softener. The hoodie you had worn here last night was still crumpled somewhere on the floor—probably next to your shorts, your underwear, your dignity.

Minho’s arm was heavy around your waist. His chest was warm against your back. His breath ghosted over your shoulder in quiet puffs, slow and steady.

It didn’t feel real. It felt like one of those fantasies you used to jerk yourself off to in the dark, flushed and breathless, thinking about what it would feel like to fall asleep tangled up in him like this—after.

You stayed still as long as you could, just… absorbing it.

And then, of course, he ruined it by murmuring against your neck, voice still thick with sleep.

“Your thighs are twitching.”

You groaned. “Maybe because you almost broke them last night.”

He chuckled, low and pleased, then slid his hand over your hip and gave your inner thigh a light squeeze. “You came here cause you wanted me to do exactly that.”

Your cheeks flushed instantly. “Don’t remind me.”

“Why not? It’s my favorite memory now.”

You rolled over to face him, hair a mess, eyes still sleep-fogged. He looked unfairly gorgeous in the morning. Hair tousled. Eyes soft. The roughness from last night completely gone, replaced by something almost too gentle to be him.

He looked at you like he was thinking way too hard.

“What?” you asked quietly.

He reached up, brushed some hair from your face, fingers lingering at your jaw.

“You know this isn’t just sex for me, right?”

Your breath caught.

“I mean…” he licked his lips, eyes searching yours. “It can be, if that’s what you want. But I don’t think I can go back to just being your best friend. Not after this.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at him, trying to collect your heart off the floor where it had just dropped.

Finally, you whispered, “I don’t want to go back either.”

Minho exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that breath all night.

Then he leaned in and kissed you—soft and slow and sweet, like the question was already answered.

You melted into it. Into him. Into the shift.

Later, you’d get up. He’d make coffee. You’d steal one of his shirts. He’d tease you about the bite marks on your thighs. And you’d both pretend not to notice how domestic it already felt.

But for now, you stayed in bed—best friends turned something more—with his arms around you and your future somewhere in the spaces between his kisses.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: hi guys! Ok so the poll results from the Leeknow angry boy fic came out and it was a really close one. So instead of changing whats already written i decided to upload this to make it up to you guys! This is not an angst story or the angry boy replacement but this is a story for my romantics ❤️ Thanks alot for all your feedback really love you guys!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids s @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @universeyuto @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki

[strrykais]

accidentally sending your bff a nude

requested : Can u do skz accidentally sending them (ur bff) nude pics but like .... they like it iykwim 🙈

stray kids masterlist

ⓒ strrykais

[hyuneflix]

love-coded.exe

season one: finding sunshine boy a hacker group, comprised of five members, has their world changed when a glitch leads to y/n joining their private chat. gn!reader.

-ˋˏ S1 EP 3.3: mystery doc ᝰ.ᐟ

↳ are you still watching? << exit // continue watching >>

-> the clip used in first gif is from smiling friends season one, episode eight

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[pankesitopank]

Greetings my underrated precious, ephemeral counterpart 😋 I HAVE THOIGHTS I WOULD LIKE TO SHARE 😖🙏🏻 anyway, I saw a video on the tick tock of gf saying they are leaving their bfs house early and not staying over night and they get sad and desperate (#menwhoyearnearn) so I wanted to hear YOUR thought on how each member of skz reacted. THATS ALL I HAD TO SAY LOVE YOUR WORK THANK YEWW 💖😜

A Man Who Yearn...

cw: pure pure flufff

note: aahhh.... chezzeballs...We don't know each other but you know me so well... how I love my men needy, clingy, desperate... thank you so much for that request, I really liked thinking about this and Hyunjin (MY SHYLAAA) I feel was the one I liked the most... I don't know, tell me later what you think

BANG CHAN

You were only halfway through packing your things when Chan leaned against the doorframe of his bedroom with his arms crossed, watching you with furrowed brows and that soft pout he usually reserved for when things didn’t go his way. The lamplight painted him in gold, catching in the strands of his hair and the tired circles under his eyes.

“You’re really leaving tonight?”

You nodded without looking up, folding your sweater neatly. “Yeah, I’ve got an early shift tomorrow, remember? I thought I’d beat the traffic and—”

Chan moved before you could finish, crossing the room in a few quick steps and dropping onto the bed beside your open overnight bag. He didn’t say anything at first, just reached over to lightly tug your wrist, coaxing you down until you were sitting beside him. Then his hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers curling into your hair like he was grounding himself in the weight of you.

“I just… I had this whole thing planned,” he murmured, not meeting your eyes. “I was gonna make pancakes in the morning. And we were gonna stay in bed ‘til noon. I even bought that coffee creamer you like.”

You felt your resolve start to crack a little. He always did this — made himself so soft and earnest it hurt. “Baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your plans.”

He shook his head quickly. “No, no, you didn’t ruin anything. I just… I miss you even when you’re here, you know?” He laughed under his breath, eyes still fixed on where his thumb was stroking the curve of your jaw. “It’s like, the second I know you’re leaving, it already feels empty.”

God, how were you supposed to leave now?

Chan leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, lingering at the corner of your mouth.

“Stay. Just this once more. I’ll set ten alarms for you in the morning, I’ll make you breakfast to go, I’ll drive you myself if I have to.”

You blinked at him, heart already betraying your logic. “Are you bribing me with pancakes and chauffeur service?”

“I’m begging you with my whole chest,” he whispered against your mouth, smiling when you laughed. “Don’t make me do the puppy eyes. I’ll go full Aussie whimper mode.”

And he would. Because Bang Chan? He earns his love with open arms, late-night cuddles, and a voice that could break your heart in a whisper.

LEE KNOW

“Minho, I’m not dying, I’m just going home,” you teased, trying to zip your bag while he glared at it like the enemy.

He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, but the sulk was already seeping into his expression. His nose scrunched. “Feels the same.”

You paused, watching him. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

Minho shifted, suddenly shy in a way he rarely let himself be. “I just thought you’d stay. We barely even got to do anything. You got here, we watched one movie, and now you’re leaving.”

“We watched two movies.”

He gave you a flat look. “You fell asleep ten minutes into the second one.”

You couldn’t argue that. “I’m sorry. I really do have to be up early.”

Minho walked over slowly, tugging the zipper of your bag back down with a pointed look, then reaching around your waist to hug you from behind. He didn’t say anything else — just rested his chin on your shoulder and tightened his arms around you until it was impossible not to melt into him.

“This is cheating,” you whispered.

“Mmhm,” he mumbled. “I know.”

His grip around you softened slightly, and he pulled you back a step toward the couch. “Just lay with me for five minutes.”

You bit your lip. “Minho—”

“Five minutes,” he said again, already tugging you down into the blanket nest he’d made earlier. “If I fall asleep on you, that’s your problem.”

You rolled your eyes, but your body was already giving in. Because the truth was, Lee Know didn’t beg — he enticed. With warm silence, steady affection, and that rare vulnerability that only surfaced when he was sure you weren’t looking.

So when you stayed until the sun cracked the edge of the window the next morning, tangled in his arms with your shoes still by the door, he didn’t say I told you so.

But he did kiss your forehead and hand you a to-go coffee with a smug little smile.

CHANGBIN

“You’re kidding,” Changbin said, looking up from the couch where he’d been excitedly setting up his Mario Kart tournament of the night. “Babe, you just got here.”

You smiled apologetically, holding your phone up. “My mom texted. She wants me to help her with something tomorrow, and I promised I’d come early.”

He deflated immediately, controller dropping onto the couch beside him. “But I made popcorn. And I picked all the baby park levels for you. You love baby park.”

You walked over and ruffled his hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Next time, I swear.”

He caught your hand before you could pull away. “No. This isn’t fair.”

You raised a brow, amused. “What, are you gonna throw a tantrum?”

“Yes,” he deadpanned. “I am.”

And he did, in classic Changbin fashion — dramatically flopping back into the couch, arms outspread, making exaggerated whining noises. “I’ve been working all week. I finally get time with you and you’re gonna leave me for your mom? Betrayal.”

“It sounds like I am a villain.”

“I feel you like one.”

Despite the show, when you leaned down to kiss him again, he turned soft immediately. His arms curled around your waist, pulling you closer until you were practically on his lap.

“You don’t have to go,” he whispered against your skin. “We could order food, put on that dumb romance movie you like, and fall asleep on the couch. I even got your blanket out. It smells like you now.”

You hesitated. He felt it.

Changbin pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. “I don’t need anything big. I just like having you here. Breathing the same air. Laughing at dumb stuff. It’s better when you’re close.”

You melted.

Of course you stayed. And yes, you won every round of baby park. He let you.

HYUNJIN

Hyunjin stood by the door in his robe, barefoot and quiet, like a painting in motion. He wasn’t stopping you — not physically. But the sadness in his eyes was enough to make your hands falter as you pulled on your jacket.

“You’re leaving?” he asked softly, voice almost shy.

You gave him a small nod. “I need to be up early tomorrow. It’s a long drive, and—”

“You can leave in the morning. I’ll wake up with you.”

“I know, but—”

“I don’t want to sleep without you,” he said, a little more firmly this time.

You paused.

Hyunjin stepped closer, fingers brushing your arm. “The bed feels too big when you’re not in it. I wake up and reach for you, and it’s just… cold.”

Your throat tightened. “Hyunjin…”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I won’t beg. I don’t want to guilt you. But I want you here. Even if we just fall asleep holding hands.”

He took your hand in his then, linking pinkies in the softest promise you’d ever felt.

“I painted earlier,” he said suddenly. “It’s not done. But I think you’re in it.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I was thinking of you. I always do when I paint. Even if it’s not a portrait.”

Your chest ached.

He tilted his head. “Stay. Let me show you. Then we can fall asleep. No pressure. No expectations.”

And how could you leave after that? After Hyunjin offered you a piece of his soul, quietly and without pretense?

You stayed. And when he fell asleep holding your hand like a lifeline, you knew he’d earned every second of it.

HAN

The second you said “I think I’ll head home tonight,” Han froze. You didn’t even get to the part about why.

He was mid-stretch, arms above his head in the oversized hoodie you always stole from him, and the motion paused in slow-motion. His lips parted slightly. “Oh.”

You smiled gently. “It’s just one night, baby.”

“I know,” he replied too quickly. “Of course. Totally. Just—yeah.”

But when you walked over to kiss his cheek, he didn’t look at you. His gaze was fixed on a spot on the floor, like if he focused hard enough, he could disappear into it. His hands fidgeted in the sleeves of his hoodie, tugging at the cuffs like he didn’t know what else to do with them.

“Han.”

“I’m okay,” he said again, voice tight. “Just gonna, uh. Probably stay up and write.”

“Baby,” you tried again, brushing your fingers over his.

Finally, he looked at you — and there it was. That soft, watery stare that said he wasn’t nearly as okay as he pretended. “It’s dumb,” he murmured. “I know we’re gonna see each other again in like two days. But when you go, it’s like my brain just spirals.”

“Spirals how?”

He shrugged. “Like… what if you’re not as happy when you’re not here? What if you don’t miss me as much? What if you like the quiet too much and I’m just noise?”

The words broke something in you.

You slipped your arms around him, tucking your head under his chin, and whispered, “You’re not noise. You’re like my home.”

His arms wrapped around you instantly, tight and trembling. “Then stay here. Just tonight. I won’t even talk if you don’t want. I’ll be background. White noise. Whatever you need.”

You looked up and cupped his cheeks, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I need you.”

And when he smiled again — slow, soft, disbelieving — you knew you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

FELIX

“Are you sure you can’t stay?” Felix asked, voice barely louder than a whisper.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hair still damp from the shower, sleeves of his hoodie pulled over his hands. His freckles looked softer in the lamp light, like constellations on his skin. He wasn’t pouting — not quite — but the corners of his mouth had that unmistakable downward tug. That fragile don’t go energy he tried to hide behind a small smile.

“I really wish I could,” you said, brushing a hand through his hair. “But I have that appointment early, remember?”

“I can set ten alarms,” he said immediately. “I’ll get you up. I’ll make coffee. I’ll walk you to your car with a blanket around your shoulders like an old man.”

You laughed, but he didn’t. Not fully. His hand found yours, fingers lacing slowly. “I just… I don’t sleep well when you’re not here.”

You tilted your head, heart cracking open. “You have that rain app and like five stuffed animals.”

“None of them are you,” he said quietly.

Silence fell like snow — soft and sudden. His thumb brushed your knuckles.

“I like waking up and feeling you next to me,” he added. “Even if you’re facing the other way and hogging the blanket.”

“I do not hog the blanket, you do.”

He smiled at that, but it was still laced with that tiny ache, that longing he tried to swallow back. “I just love you. And it’s harder to fall asleep when the person you love isn’t next to you.”

You exhaled, pressing your forehead to his. “Lix…”

“Just until I fall asleep?” he asked. “You can sneak out after, if you need to.”

You knew he wouldn’t actually let go if you stayed — not on purpose, at least. And you knew he’d fall asleep faster than anyone you’d ever met when your fingers were in his hair and your body was close. So yeah. You stayed. And when he curled around you like he always did, murmuring “i love you so much” against your shoulder, your heart felt impossibly full.

SEUNGMIN

The thing about Seungmin was — he never said it first. Never asked you to stay. Never begged or pouted or clung.

But when you started gathering your things that evening, his energy shifted. He was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that meant he was busy or zoning out — the kind that wrapped itself around the room like a blanket of fog. You could feel it in the way he moved: slower, like he was trying to make time stretch.

“You okay?” you asked as you reached for your charger.

He nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been quiet.”

He gave a tiny shrug. “Nothing to say.”

That was a lie — and you both knew it.

So you crossed the room, sat beside him on the edge of the couch, and placed your hand on his thigh. “Min. Talk to me.”

He hesitated. Then — “I know it’s stupid. But I had this plan in my head. Like… waking up, making breakfast with you, walking to the convenience store down the block. All the little things.”

You stayed quiet, waiting.

“I don’t ask you to stay because I don’t want to make you feel guilty. I know you have your own life. Responsibilities. But I guess sometimes, I wish you’d choose this. Choose me.”

The words were soft. Almost ashamed.

You reached up to cup his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. “I do choose you. Every time.”

“But you’re leaving.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to.”

He blinked, and you saw it then — the tiny spark of hope he was trying so hard to extinguish.

You leaned in, kissed him slow. “If you want me to stay, just say so.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulled you into his arms and whispered against your collarbone, “Stay.”

So you did. And in the morning, he made you coffee with too much sugar and walked you to the store with your fingers entwined like promises.

I.N

Jeongin stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the sky darken. He hadn’t said anything since you told him you’d be leaving after dinner. But his silence wasn’t passive — it was loud in the way his lips were pressed together, in the way his jaw clenched every time you reached for your bag.

“You’re mad,” you said gently, setting your things down.

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re definitely mad.”

“I’m not mad,” he said again, turning to face you. “I’m just—sad... I thought you were staying. You usually stay.”

You crossed the room slowly, cautious like approaching a scared cat. “Plans changed. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He looked down, fingers twisting in the hem of his hoodie. “You didn’t upset me. It just… it feels too quiet when you’re not here.”

You reached for his hand. “You’ve got your music. And your roommates. And like, a hundred plushies.”

He gave a tiny smile. “They don’t steal the blanket and kick me in their sleep.”

You laughed, but then stilled. “Jeongin.”

He looked up at you finally, eyes glassy and young in the way that only showed when he was vulnerable. “I miss you before you even leave. Is that weird?”

“No. It’s not weird at all.”

He sighed, stepping closer until his forehead pressed against yours. “You don’t have to stay. I won’t guilt you. But if you want to… the bed’s already warm. And I left your favorite hoodie on your side of the bed, on your pillow.”

The softness in his voice — the way he asked without asking — broke you.

You wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his hoodie. “You always smell like vanilla and heartbreak.”

He chuckled quietly, arms curling around your waist. “Stay. Just a little longer.”

And when you stayed — hoodie on, lights off, his breath even against your neck — he just whispered a little, “thank you.”

[makeitworse]

CRUSH

minho’s got a crush, and he’s far from casual about it. but he was wrong about just how perfect you are for him.

𝓬ontains: dark themes. f!reader x minho. yandere. college au. nerdy minho. stalking. jealousy. perversion. unreliable narrator. brief violence. masturbation. he cums from kissing. wrote him subby oops. 18+

𝓷otes: as voted by u guys, minho is the skz member most likely to be a yandere (no one is surprised). like usual i’m writing this while sleepy + smut might be buns + didn’t proofread but enjoyy

minho’s hand slithers between his legs like clockwork. it’s a nightly routine, he can’t sleep without you.

eyelids fluttering shut, minho replays the day in his head: every glorious glimpse of you flashes through his mind as he palms himself through the fabric of his boxers. slowly, just until he gets to the good part.

every moment in passing is a delicacy. all of your little quirks he has the honour of witnessing: the cute ones and the annoying ones too.

the flick of your hair when you laughed with that girl in class. the way you chewed on the end of your pen when you thought no one’s looking. minho is, of course. he never isn’t. whether you’re aware of that or not.

he knows your schedule down to the minute— he could probably recite it faster than his own birthday. there were no ins or outs of your day that minho wasn’t already familiar with. it’s impressive, how he knows each of your steps before you take them.

minho tugs his waistband down, sighing as he wraps a tight fist around himself. he thinks back to when he ‘ran into’ you at the café, a smile adorning your face when you recognised him from your shared class. you spared him a brief hello. it’s almost like you were asking to be followed for the rest of the day.

the memory of it— the sweet sound of your voice— has minho bucking up into his hand. he hisses through his teeth. not so soon.

he recalls watching you in the library from his table, situated in a dark corner. you were sat by the window, biting your nails down to the cuticle as you studied. you poor thing. minho would eagerly rush to your side if all you did was ask.

you hadn’t noticed him— your very own eagle-eyed audience. of course not. you never did. that’s where the whole thrill arouses.

he groans, twitching in his hand as he replays the memory of following you in the shadows that afternoon. you walked through the campus with your head in the clouds— earbuds in, bag hanging off your shoulder. you were the textbook definition of a perfect target. what would you do if someone tried to steal your bag, or worse?

you needed him there. always. a pace behind, a corner away. to be the eyes in the back of your head. to pick up after you.

the receipts you’d forget to bin. the pen you dropped three weeks ago. your bracelet that went missing (he’s keeping it safe, don’t worry). a straw with a smudge of your lipgloss. items thoughtlessly discarded by you found a new purpose in his care.

minho’s walls were a shrine to you: quick sketches, blurry polaroids, messy love-letters. sometimes, he’ll drop one off at your desk before class— always unsigned, always sweet. sometimes he’d get a giggle out of you. sometimes you just crumpled them without reading. doesn’t matter. he’ll keep writing them.

minho grits his teeth, hips jutting into his hand at a crazed pace. he chases his release to his favourite fantasy— the one where you’d catch him lurking.

some nights you liked it, took it as a compliment. some nights you didn’t and he was a creep. sometimes you screamed, other times you begged. but this time, most delicious of all, he pictured you sighing; saying you were done with pretending, grabbing a fistful of his hair before bruising his lips with yours.

but that thought didn’t last long. when his breath slowed and the heat left his body, all that remained was agonising silence.

minho opened his eyes to the sticky disappointment of reality on his hand. a reminder that he still barely even existed to you— though not in the way he intends to.

not yet.

it started small. he hadn’t recognised it as anything out of the ordinary before it had spiralled out of his grasp.

first it was a missing worksheet from his desk. he chalked it up to just misplacing it, or perhaps someone else thought it was rubbish.

after there was a drawing torn from his sketchbook. odd, but maybe it was one he’d jacked off to and accidentally stained the paper. he simply ripped it off and forgot all about it.

then the pen he’d stolen from your bag was gone. vanished in thin air from where he’d tucked it, wrapped in crusted tissue under his mattress. maybe being swamped with assessments the past week had burned holes in his memory. maybe.

but then his glasses disappeared.

minho tore his room apart for hours, practically flipping the furniture upside-down to find them. he only ever took them off in his room where they’d sit on his nightstand. always. he knew because he lived in routine. in control.

except now he wasn’t in control.

his world blurred at the edges without them. and in that distorted fog, he started seeing you differently. more distant. less reachable. because suddenly, you weren’t alone anymore.

minho squinted from across the courtyard, peering from behind the vending machines. in his hazy vision, he could just make out your figure, along with your new companion.

the guy was tall, broad-shouldered, arm permanently slung over your shoulder. you looked up at him, laughter ringing sirens in minho’s ears. his nails bit crescent moons into his palms.

“who is that?” minho turned to hyunjin, tone too forced to be casual. he smirked when he noticed minho’s scowl.

"jealous?" he teased, sipping his iced coffee. “relax. that’s not her boyfriend.”

minho doesn’t answer. a fuck buddy? he might just vomit in his mouth.

"that’s her brother, chris. i see him around the gym.”

minho went still. brother?

he watched the way chris stood too close, the way his eyes scanned every guy in a five-foot radius like he was already picking targets.

chris didn’t carry himself like a brother. he was more like a bodyguard. or a threat. minho doesn’t take kindly to threats.

“heard he shanked a guy back in high-school over her.” hyunjin adds, lowering his voice. “he seems scary protective. me personally, i’d back off.”

“well i’m not you, am i?” minho bites. hyunjin just nods, not one to argue.

minho tries to ignore it. he wouldn’t expect hyunjin to understand— no one does. what’s between you and minho is something beyond words. you feel it too, he’s sure of it.

he’ll prove it.

after a streak of major inconveniences, luck is finally on minho’s side when one evening, you walk past him as you leave the campus— alone.

like a dog chasing cars, he can’t help himself to following you, feet moving faster than his mind.

minho shadows you down a side street off the campus. he contemplates how he’ll make his grand move. this could be the mere seconds leading up to your love story’s beginning.

he imagines brushing his hand against yours as he walks by, apologising as he realises it’s you. he’ll say something clever, pull you aside. ask where you’re going and offer to take you there. then maybe, you’ll finally see him.

he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him until it was too late.

a fist cracks into his jaw, sharp and merciless. minho’s back collides with the brick wall— he stumbles on his feet, tasting copper.

"think i didn’t see you?"

minho’s eyes flutter open, just barely recognising the voice as chris. the fucking brother.

"back off. before i do something worse than this,” chris reaches for him— minho writhing in his hold as pain sears across his face. chris’s fingers caved in on the mark blooming onto minho’s cheek. a reminder.

and then he was gone, just like that. fucked off after you, probably to go tell you about how minho was a perverted deranged stalker and other preposterous lies like that so now minho had to get a fucking gun and just air out the block because he has nothing to lose anymore.

his vision throbbed with each heartbeat. he crouched against the wall, flinching at his own touch as his fingers brushed over what chris had left him with.

his cheek would bruise. he'd have to lie to hyunjin. he might never get to see your smile directed at him again.

but one thing was certain. what once hadn’t occurred to him, he could see clear as day now:

chris was sabotaging him. he’d been taunting him— dangling minho’s infatuation with you over his head. he’d stolen his glasses. he made him think he was crazy.

minho wiped the blood from his lip, rubbing it between his fingers.

chris had been watching minho when he had been watching you.

and minho’s sorry, he really is. you know he’d never hurt you. but chris was coming between what had yet to blossom between you and minho.

so chris has to go.

minho’s hands were still was he slipped the lock. he was cool, collected. he’d lived this scenario out hundreds of times before in his own head.

you dorm was quiet, just like he knew it would be. you had study group tonight, each week at the same time. minho had an hour, maybe less. but he’ll make do.

he moved quickly, careful not to disturb the things he already knew by heart. your shelf with trinkets and books collecting dust. your calendar that he already knew the contents of. the string of prints clipped above your desk, which he resisted the urge to shred the ones with chris. he hated seeing you smile for him. for any man that wasn’t minho.

he’s out for blood now.

minho headed for your dresser, eyes trained on the bottom drawer. he needed leverage in order to bury chris completely. it had to be something twisted. something to make people question the ‘protective brother’ shtick. something he could plant, fabricate, frame.

his hand reached into the drawer, and his fingers brushed lace. he paused.

he shouldn’t.

he does.

he fists the fabric in his hand, bringing it to his nose. your panties. his mouth waters— he damn near saw his brain from how far his eyes roll back.

minho folds it back into its place. his knuckles brush over the other pairs as he contemplates which one you wouldn’t realise is gone, if he pocketed it for himself.

there’s something that catches his eye. but before minho can think to reach for it—

“knew it.”

his bones go rigid.

your voice comes behind him, from the doorway. he glances back— you’re stood there with your arms crossed, watching him. hunting the hunter.

minho straightens up. “i was just—”

“there’s no need to lie, min.” you cut in, voice dripping with something intoxicating. “do i look upset?”

his throat goes dry. you take a step closer. then another.

you pout, taking note of the bruise on his face. “aw, chris leave you with that?”

minho reminded himself to breathe, dazed. “your brother, he’s—”

“—such a buzzkill, right? thinks i need saving or something.” you’re there, way too close, fingertips dancing up minho’s chest. “he doesn’t get it. but it’s okay. i’m here now.”

he stammers, too many thoughts racing to land. your hand makes it way to his chin, tilting his head to meet your gaze.

“isn’t this what you wanted?”

“yes.” he replies breathlessly. he’d scream at the top of his lungs how badly he’s wanted you— if only he wasn’t so shell-shocked.

his fantasies playing out in real time. and when you pinch at his bruised cheek, he keels over as the pain throbs through his face— but he doesn’t wake up. you’re the real thing.

his back hits your mattress before he even registers that you’d shoved him. one blink later, and you’re mounting his lap, caging him in with legs on either side of his body.

your fist curls around his collar, tugging his face towards you like it’s your right.

“you’re mine, yeah?” your lips are mere inches from his, breathe heavy on his mouth. he just gawks up at you. “don’t hurt me, and i won’t have to hurt you.”

minho didn’t know what to say. you’re talking like he’d been born to you. he didn’t know you had this in you.

when your lips come crashing onto his, a groan escapes minho’s throat. your canine nipped at the skin of his lip, but his head’s too fuzzy to give a fuck. you suck the blood onto your tongue, and his dick literally twitches.

you pull strained noises from minho between the kisses, parting his lips with a demanding force. he’s helpless to whatever you’ll do to him. he forgets himself, hands fumbling at your waist when he remembers he can actually touch you.

you rock your hips mindlessly as your tongue tastes every inch of his mouth— and minho’s seeing fucking stars. he still can’t believe it. his minds lagging behind, he doesn’t realise just how close he is until you moan down his throat.

he tries to pry you off of him, he doesn’t want to cum like this, embarrassingly quick. but you’re not budging. your hand comes to his neck to press him further into the mattress as you grind yourself down onto him harder— he could feel your heat as he dug up into you through the layers of fabric, and that’s when his resolve snapped.

minho’s hips stammer, hands roaming all over your body as he tries to anchor himself. that’s when your lips come off of his— only to hear the string of moans falling from his mouth as he cums. you don’t stop rocking against him, even when he’s freshly sensitive, and it takes him whining your name in a broken plea for you to let up.

you collapse next to him, face split in a smile. he’s still catching his breath like he was just in a triathlon. the warm sensation in his pants almost has him recoiling, but your hand comes to his chest, thumb rubbing soothing circles.

“i get it.” you’d told him. he didn’t know what it meant. not in the moment, at least.

it wasn’t until later, when the lust-fueled haze wore off and the stark clarity had settled in, that he remembered the drawer. that glint of metal.

silently, he’d pushed himself up off the bed, careful not to rouse you from your sleep. he stayed idle for a beat, until you snored softly, and he decided it was safe.

he knelt to the drawer slowly, and pulled out his glasses.

right where you had left them.

people are always so quick to assume that the stalker is the man. girls are just the prey, never the one in the shadows. that they don’t follow, or watch, or want things they shouldn’t.

but you saw him, lee minho, before he ever saw you.

he wasn’t as subtle as he might’ve liked to think. it was an effort to hold in your laughter at times. he was so obvious: how he’d linger, how his gaze was practically glued to you. he orbited you like you’re the air he breathes. and you let him. because you were already doing the same.

most would think, the moment you realise someone’s watching you would be terrifying. but you couldn’t of been more thrilled. because finally, finally— someone got it. someone loved the way you did: consumed by the other person. completely and utterly devoted.

minho wasn’t the hunter, not quite. he was just the one stupid enough to act first.

chris always tried to protect you. that was his role. and it’s true— someone got hurt in high school as a result. but it wasn’t him who went too far.

he merely cleaned it up, like a good brother should. took the fall for it. hid the truth of what you’re willing to do for love.

but minho, he gets that you never wanted someone to save you. you just wanted to be seen. all of you, down to the marrow. and he did.

you’re perfect together. even if he doesn’t see that now, he will with time.

because you’ve got no intentions of letting him go.

✉️: @lightinbug @sherrayyyyy @ferrarifinnick @namsgyu @riddlerloveb0t @loveesiren @ttturnitup @emmiesoverthemoon @burlesquerade @bcfcpsh @breakmeoff @pinkpunkdynamite @hydeonysus

[whatdoyouwanttocallmefor]

When you fall asleep on their shoulder - skz hyung line

Genre: Fluff | Comfort | Slice of Life

Warning: Extreme softness, physical touch (shoulder leaning), light romantic/platonic interpretation

Bang Chan

It was one of those quiet evenings, rain tapping on the windows, a soft playlist humming through the speakers, and the two of you curled up on the couch. You were leaning slightly against him, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket, eyes growing heavier by the minute.

Chan noticed the way your head began to slowly drift, eventually resting against his shoulder.

He paused the show you were watching and turned his head to look at you, a soft smile forming. “Fell asleep on me again, huh?” he murmured.

Carefully, he shifted so you could lie more comfortably, his arm gently wrapping around your back.

“You’ve been running around all week... you must be exhausted.” He brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, his voice low and warm. “Don’t worry about anything. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

Chan leaned his cheek against your head, the rhythm of your breathing syncing with his heartbeat. It wasn’t just the warmth of your body against him—it was the trust. And that meant everything to him.

Lee Know

You had both just finished a late dinner, and now you were sprawled out on the couch, the soft hum of the ceiling fan lulling you both into a sense of calm.

You were talking about something random, probably your favourite snacks, when your words slowly began to trail off. Lee Know turned his head, expecting you to finish your sentence.

Instead, he saw your head resting gently on his shoulder, eyes closed, breath even.

“Tch,” he muttered with a tiny smirk. “Did you seriously fall asleep mid-sentence?”

He glanced around, debating if he should wake you or let you rest. In the end, he sighed and pulled the blanket off the back of the couch to drape it over you.

“Fine. But if you drool on me, I’m telling everyone.”

Still, his tone softened as he looked down at your peaceful face.

“You trust me this much, huh?” he whispered. “You really shouldn’t do that to my heart.”

He leaned his head back, letting the moment wrap around him. And just like that, all his sarcasm melted into quiet affection.

Changbin

You were hanging out in his room, him working on a beat, and you scrolling on your phone beside him. You were lying on your stomach, watching him tweak a few things on his laptop when he noticed the silence.

Turning to check on you, he found your head slumped gently to the side, resting against his upper arm, your phone still unlocked in your hand.

He blinked. “Wait... are you asleep?”

Carefully, Changbin took the phone from your hand and set it on the desk, then adjusted your head so you could rest on his shoulder more comfortably.

“Seriously,” he chuckled under his breath, heart fluttering, “you just knock out wherever you want, huh?”

He paused his music work and instead leaned his head slightly against yours, closing his eyes too.

“You make me want to protect you. Like... all the time,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble. “So stay here a while, okay?”

Hyunjin

You had spent the day at a museum together, and by the time you were back at his place, exhaustion had clearly set in. You sat on the floor together, backs against the bed, flipping through photos on his camera when you slowly started leaning into his side.

He glanced down when he felt your weight against him, and then again when you didn’t move.

“Y/N?” he whispered, but you were already out cold, soft snores just barely audible.

He didn’t move.

His lips curled into the softest smile. “You really fell asleep like this... next to me?” he murmured, brushing his thumb across the back of your hand.

He stayed completely still for several minutes, watching the rise and fall of your chest.

“You look like a painting right now... all peaceful and quiet,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I wish I could capture this forever.”

Carefully, he reached for his sketchbook with his free hand, determined to draw you just like this.

Taglist: @m-325

Credit: @cafekitsune for the divider ✨️

[itsbbokari]

Title: Soft on You

“Your hoodie is cursed… it makes me fall asleep on you.”

Paring ⤑ (Minho x Reader)

Word count: 450

Minho was halfway through an episode of their favorite show when he felt something warm and heavy slump against his side.

Again.

He didn’t even look down. “Y/N.”

A muffled hum vibrated against his chest.

“You’re asleep, aren’t you?”

“No,” she mumbled—followed immediately by a soft snore.

Minho sighed, not with annoyance, but with the kind of exaggerated drama he’d perfected just for moments like this. “That’s the third time this week. What is it with you and my hoodie?”

Y/N shifted slightly, nuzzling deeper into the oversized black hoodie that swallowed her frame. “It’s cursed,” she said sleepily, lips barely moving. “Every time I wear it, I get all warm and cozy and then boom. Unconscious.”

Minho smirked, glancing down at her—hair a little messy, face smushed cutely against him, and arms curled like a kitten in his lap.

“You sure it’s not me who’s cursed?” he teased. “Because you only pass out when you’re stuck to me.”

She peeked one eye open and poked his chest with a lazy finger. “No. Hoodie. Evil. You should get rid of it.”

“Maybe I should stop letting you steal it,” he challenged.

Y/N let out a dramatic gasp, then flopped entirely into his lap like a defeated ragdoll. “Heartless.”

Minho chuckled, threading his fingers through her hair. “You know I don’t mind,” he said quietly. “You’re cute like this. Annoying—but cute.”

“’Snot annoying,” she yawned, barely keeping her eyes open now. “It’s science. Hoodie equals nap. Nap equals cuddles. Cuddles equal serotonin.”

Minho rolled his eyes, but his smile betrayed him.

“Fine. But if you start drooling again, I’m making you wash it.”

She was already asleep.

And Minho stayed perfectly still the whole time—just in case the curse only worked if he didn’t

[that-tmr-girl]

Let Them Watch

Minho couldn't care less if all eyes are on you.

832 Words

Public fingering

Greenie night was more than alive. To be fair, it is every time. There are many things to celebrate here. When life's the same routine everyday, it starts to weigh on you. It grows heavy and boring, like the world doesn't have color.

Now it's painted with the oranges and yellows of flames and strange gold if Gally's drink. There's bright smiles all around and eyes that have grown from lost and confused to laid back and alright.

Nothing will ever beat these nights. Nothing.

“What's on your mind over there?”

I looked over at Minho, giving him a shrug as an answer. I love him and sharing my thoughts, but sometimes they're more peaceful in my head. Saying it aloud may jinx it, and I really can't risk that. Not here. Not on this.

“Didn't know you were keeping secrets now,”He remarked.

“There's no secrets,”I promised,rolling my eyes at him.

“Well, the world has some secrets,”He deadpanned, pulling the blanket around our legs again. Seeing as it was only getting colder, goosebumps traveling up my arms, I didn't mind.

“You have such a smart mouth,”I sighed, propping myself back as I gazed out at everything. Instead of doing the same, taking in the view, he leaned closer, his head rested on my shoulder. I stayed still, waiting for him to pull me close like usual.

“You love my mouth though, don't you?”He whispered in my ear, making me freeze. Seemingly unbothered by my reaction, but since it’s Minho actually just enjoying it, he trailed his hand up my thigh. Finding the ability to move, I scanned the group of boys around us, some closer than others.

“Minho, we-”

“And my fingers too,”He kept going, placing his hand over my clothed pussy as he grinded his palm against me, making me squirm against my will. “See? Like that?”

“We could-we could get caught,”I whispered. Not that it helped the grin crossing my lips or the wetness dripping in my panties. Not that it stopped me from unzipping my pants and grabbing his hand, starting to lead him inside.

“That is a possibility,”He said matter-of-factly.

Glancing around, when I confirmed nobody was concentrated on us, I slightly lifted myself to pull my pants down to my knees. Raising his eyebrow at me, he gave me a small smirk before reaching inside of my panties.

Knowing I had to be careful, I leaned my head back and closed my eyes as though I was just taking in the atmosphere and not Minho’s hand inside my cunt.

Running his fingers along my slit, he toyed with me. He was almost at my entrance, so close to being inside of me. So close but still being a dick by not giving it to me.

“Minho,”I hissed.

“Yeah? Something wrong, baby?”

“Don't tease-”

“Hey! Found you shanks!”

I quickly raised my head at the voices that weren't supposed to be joining us tonight. Especially not now. Taking advantage of my shock, he plunged his finger inside of me, making my eyes clench shut before I remembered Jeff, Winston, and Fry were right there.

“Yeah. You all gonna take a seat?”

I shot Minho a scolding look only for him to start rubbing circles on my clit, making me drop my head as I gritted my teeth. Fuck, why do I let him do this to me? Why do I let him ruin me like this?

As he thrust another finger into me and started pumping, I got my answer. Biting down on my lip, I did my best to both not acknowledge anyone else's presence and turn invisible. It's just Minho, I, and his fingers pleasuring me.

I tuned out their talking as I gripped the blanket, keeping myself covered. Increasing his pace inside of me, he curled his fingers, bringing a knot to my core. He was reaching everywhere he could, his thumb rubbing faster circles against my clit.

“Y/N?”

“Wh-what?”I sputtered. As he repeated his question, Minho grinded his palm against my clit, covering all of my pussy. His pace was ruthless now, almost inhumane. My hips thrust up into him as I clenched the blanket into my fists, feeling myself grow closer.

“She's fine. Just tired,”Minho covered, reaching over to grab my thigh with his free hand, keeping me on the ground. A whimper finally left me as I was riding his hand anyway.

“Fell today,”I covered, pretending not to notice my voice being more breathy as I clenched around him. Looking over at him since I knew I wouldn't be able to control my face, I let my eyes roll back to my head as I released, spilling down his hand and into my once clean panties. The pressure I thought would never leave subsided, leaving me in a numb heaven as I let my senses remain gone for a little bit, stretching out the high from absolutely everything.

[skzophreniic]

Favorite Places to Have Sex

MDNI, 18+ content.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 when they wanna venture outside your bed

notes: this ended up longer than originally planned ngl. i find myself falling deeper and deeper into the void that is kim seungmin. pray for me ✊😔

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ CHAN

you already know what it is. chris practically lives at the studio, so why not fuck where he's most comfortable?

it always starts innocent enough. he's working late, you've invited yourself to the couch in the back, just scrolling through your phone. he calls you over to show you something he's working on and there just happens to only be one chair--the one he's currently settled on.

of course, he's not just going to let you stand, he's too much of a gentleman for that! he's kind enough to lend you his lap.

except now he can't focus. he's just trying to mix a track, but the way you shift on his lap whenever you point something out on the screen...yeah.

his fingers start tracing lazy circles on your thighs, voice dropping lower as he murmurs, "You’re distracting me, baby."

before you know it, his hands are gripping your hips, and you’re bouncing on his cock in the dim glow of his monitors, his low groans mixing with the bass from his unfinished song. The door is locked, but someone could still knock at any second—maybe a member, maybe a staff member and it's such a fucking vice, because on one hand, he doesn't give a shit. he wants them to hear, to know how good he makes you feel. it's the biggest thing that feeds his ego.

on the other hand, those sounds you make, the whimpers, the mewls, the lewd squelch your cunt makes when he's already made you cum twice but still can't stop rutting into you...yeah those are only for his ears.

he's pretty open to using his own moans though. have you listened closely to the backtrack of railway?

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ LEE KNOW

minho is obsessed with eye contact, so it’s no surprise that his favorite place is in front of a mirror. he wants you to see everything—the way your body moves, the way your face twists in pleasure, the way he controls every reaction you have.

you're insecure about your body? the sounds you make? yeah, no. every fucking thing about you is his biggest turn on, and he's just not okay with you not knowing that.

he’ll start slow, teasing you with featherlight touches, whispering in your ear, "look at yourself, baby. look how pretty you are for me." his hands will guide your movements, forcing you to watch the way he ruins you. and just when you think he’s going to let you close your eyes, he grips your jaw, turning your head toward the reflection. "I said, watch."

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ CHANGBIN

gym. yeah i said it, i don't care how basic it is.

he will sweetly ask you to come work out with him, super super early in the morning or super late at night, when nobody's around. he'll tell you it's because he gets too shy to take off his shirt when other people are around but gets too hot and uncomfortable with it on.

you fall for it every time. sweet thing.

binnie loves seeing you all sweaty and out of breath. there’s something about watching you work out that drives changbin crazy—maybe it’s the way your body moves, the little whimpers when you push yourself too hard, the way you stretch in all the right ways.

one second, he’s spotting for you, the next, he’s pinning you against the weight bench, gripping your thighs, telling you to let him do all the work now. "you wanna stretch a little more, baby?"

next thing you know, he’s pinning you against the mirror, your fingers leaving smudged prints on the glass as he fucks into you from behind, his hands gripping your hips bruisingly tight. he groans against your ear, voice thick with need,

"you've worked so hard today, baby," he'll grunt into your ear. "let me take care of you now."

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ HYUNJIN

hyunjin’s art studio is his sanctuary, the place where he’s most creative, where he loses himself in his work for hours at a time.

it always starts innocently enough. it's your birthday, and he wants to paint a portrait of you in that cute little sun dress he gifted you. that short, skimpy little sun dress he gifted you. and he needs you on his lap. for the creative process. spefically with your dress up, panties pushed aside, and his cock nestled deeply inside of you.

also for the creative process.

"you gotta sit still for me, pretty." he murmurs, leaned back against the couch, his gaze focused on his canvas. "or else this will take longer."

it's horrendously delicious, the way he makes you warm his cock while he works, refusing to let you move. he doesn't even fucking react, a hundred precent focused on making you the best portrait.

when he's done though, and only if you've been good and didn't move, he'll set his supplies aside to dry and let you fuck yourself on him. let you use him any way you want it.

and if you haven't been good, the only thing you're getting off on is his thigh. if you're lucky. tough luck.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ HAN

jisung has no patience. if he wants you, he wants you. which is why you end up fucking in the car so often—no waiting, no hesitations, just pure, impulsive desire.

it usually happens after late-night drives. the city lights blur past as he grips the wheel, one hand occasionally straying to your thigh, drumming against your skin. it's so fucking soft against his fingers, he's already hard. and you just had to wear that little skirt that gives him easy access.

"you're driving me crazy," he mutters, trying to keep his eyes on the road, shifting in his seat. he's only just got his fucking license, he could hardly drive with the music on yet, much less with you sitting there like that.

he’s aching for you.

so when he pulls into some dark, empty parking lot, hands clenched around the steering wheel like he’s trying to keep himself in check, you decide to put him out of his misery.

you lean over, fingers already working at his belt.

he whimpers. actually fucking whimpers.

his cock is already hard, leaking, twitching against the cool air, and when you wrap your fingers around him, he bucks into your hand with a choked gasp.

"f-fuck, baby, please—"

yeah...you're not going home any time soon.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ FELIX

felix is dangerously charming, and he knows exactly how to turn an innocent moment into something sinful. it usually starts with something as simple as baking together, fingers covered in flour, soft laughter filling the space.

but then, his hands start lingering—a light touch on your lower back, a casual squeeze of your thigh, his voice dropping an octave as he murmurs, "You're making a mess, baby."

the moment he sees you licking something off your finger, tilting your head like you’re teasing him? yep, you're fucked. not quite literally yet tho.

before you know it, he’s lifting you onto the counter, lips trailing down your neck as he spreads your thighs, the cool surface a sharp contrast to the heat building between you both. the half-mixed batter is forgotten, the kitchen filled with breathless moans instead, his hands spreading your thighs apart, eating you out like a man starved.

which he is. he's always fucking starved for you.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ SEUNGMIN

the library is the last place you’d expect seungmin to be this filthy.

It always starts so subtly. he's supposed to be helping you study for your finals, flipping through textbooks in the quietest corner of the library. but then his hand finds your thigh under the table, fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles.

"focus," he says, when he look at him sharply, voice perfectly neutral.

like he isn’t the one distracting you.

you try. poor thing, you really do. but his touch is persistent, featherlight strokes just beneath the hem of your skirt, moving higher, higher—so painfully slow that it’s infuriating.

"seungmin," you whisper, an urgent warning.

He doesn’t even glance up from his book. "what?"

you shoot him a glare, shifting in your seat to escape his touch, but his grip tightens just slightly—a silent command. Stay still.

"you should really be paying attention," he murmurs. "or do you need some extra motivation?"

oh he'll tell you that if you make it through the chapter like this that he'll reward you, give you what you really want. he'll keep you on the edge, till you're finally right there, so close--

he pulls away completely, returning to his textbook like nothing happened.

"you should finish your work first," he says, flipping a page. "i’ll think about rewarding you later."

the audacity.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ JEONGIN

his childhood bedroom.

you heard me.

the posters on the walls, the old books cluttering his desk, the twin-sized bed that barely fits both of you—it’s all so him. It should be innocent, just a short visit to his parents’ house, just a normal night.

or so you thought.

it starts with you lying next to him under the covers, whispering and giggling, trying not to wake anyone. he’s got one arm lazily draped over your waist, thumb rubbing slow circles against your hip. but then his hand slips lower—too low for something so casual—and suddenly, that mischievous smirk is on his lips.

"you’re being quiet," he teases, voice barely above a whisper. "something wrong?"

um yeah, something’s wrong. his parents are asleep down the hall. the walls are thin.

that’s the thrill—how you stiffen when he presses against you, how you grip his wrist when his fingers dip beneath the waistband of your shorts.

"aw, baby, that's just too bad" he coos, smirking against your skin. "You’re gonna have to be quiet for me."

the bed creaks when he shifts, pressing his weight against you, and he pauses—just for a second—listening for any signs of movement outside the door. when all remains quiet, he grins, his hand slipping beneath your pajama shorts, and you bite down on your lip to keep from moaning.

"shh," he breathes, pressing a finger to your lips. "if you wake them up, you’ll have to explain how their sweet, innocent jeongin has you like this."

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

𝐬𝐤𝐳 𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐫𝐭

🍥 — skz headcanons about what kind of art i think they would be

🍡 — a/n・ in honor of my recent release from school (prison) and also the conversation me and @sunnysdiary had at the trampoline park last night i bring you skz as forms of art we made an entire table for this...

art noun/ärt/ ¹ the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form such as painting or sculpture, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power.

bangchan ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ collageing

i can totally see bangchan as being a collage, like the kind that you make from random shein stickers and dried flowers you find in the garden that makes the entire journal smell like a garden. the colleges would be so unique too like definitely a comforting, almost nostalgic ocean vibe made from scraped magazine cut-outs of waves and trees and waterfalls and mountains and quotes that make you feel at home. oh yeah, and there would definitely be at least one random silly picture you took with your friends back in highschool somewhere in the foreground. extra points if you're a bit drunk and in bikinis.

minho ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ crafting

minho would totally be random ass crafts like painting rocks or making cat keychains from old pieces of cloth. i definitely see him as the type of person to give you the crafts too yk like he’s the form of art where you watch a 5 minute youtube tutorial on—"how to make a pipe cleaner jellyfish"—and it turns into a hyperfixation for the next week and your house is full of pipecleaner jellyfish you don’t know what to do with when your new knitting-headphone-sprouts hyperfixation hits so you end up giving jellyfish to every person you meet. idk how to explain it, but yeah.  

changbin ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ culinary

changbin...i was a little stuck on this one ngl...i went through a range or different art forms before i got caught between digital art and culinary arts. i eventually landed on culinary because you cannot look me dead in my eyes and tell me this man doesn't look like an entire (protein packed) 5 course meal!!!! he would be the cooking kind of culinary though, where they make a thick, juicy chicken breast and it's actually seasoned well. guys...am i delusional?

hyunjin ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ oil & watercolor painting

hyunjin…is this even a question? hyunjin would be painting, but the kind of painting that wasn't planned and yet still turned out so incredibly stunning you're still impressed when flipping past it in your sketchbook. for whatever reason, i can't get the image of him being on stage as an oil based art piece with deep reds and like an olive green, but when he's with the boys he's more of a watercolor painting with pastels. i mean, look at the man, hwang hyunjin is the definition of ART.

felix ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ photography

felix would be photography, but where it’s a shot of somebody smoking underneath a streetlight and in the background it’s a sunset and her eyes tell an entire story in a single shot. i can't see him as like a badly taken shot that people do for funsies. the type of photography that fits him is the professional kind that people spend years to perfect. it’s so hard to describe, but Felix just totally gives that vibe, he’s so dynamic and there are so many shades and colors to his personality that, like good photography, the more time you spend with him the more you seem to unlock.

jisung ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ music

jisungs feels like what music sounds like. i don't know if that makes any sense, but he would be a lyrical paper, but also sound like a really, really hot electric guitar riff. OMG HE WOULD BE LIKE THE GUY YOU SEE ON TIKTOK. please tell me you know what i mean. he would totally be one of those videos where you can only see their veiny hands and they are covering the best part of "do you wanna know?" or he would be a song played on a specific kind of keyboard.

seungmin ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ poetry/short stories

kim seungmin would 100% be a poem written by a very talented, very emotional 15 year old. i feel like it would be the kind of poem that would bring you to tears by the depth of its emotion, but it doesn't actually get recognition. i wouldn't put him in the poetry box though because i could see him as a nice short story as well. literature is the language of the silent and that feels so incredibly seungmin. he barely gets recognized (like more if not all good writers) but is so talented. he would be a story the author poured their entire heart, mind, and soul into, but still sits in an abandoned notebook on the top shelf.

jeongin ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ pottery

why do i feel like jeongin would be pottery? i feel like pottery is such a beautiful and calming craft that you can spill out all of your creativity into, but it’s not too tedious. pottery also is criminally underrated and a total hidden gem. he would definitely be like a plain pot with those little hand holders (dykwim?) i don’t know why, but i can’t see him being like pottery where it’s decked out in paint. i just imagine him being more simple and it’s more of like a calming exercise where you’re only doing it for fun…with the occasional tiny painting of a studio ghibli character in the corner.

[minnies-puppydoll]

hi!! i really really REALLY love your works so far like USHDNSKSKJZZBNS THEY ARE SO GOOD AND FIT THEM AND JUST THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR HARD WORK

uhm, so uh, i would like to order a skz reaction when they are needy, please. like when they are so desperate and just yearn to fuck or be fucked i dont mind. thank you so much!! 🫶

OT8 HCS:

*~When they’re needy~*

pairing: ot8 x reader

tags: cum, toys, anal, sounding, begging, degredation, praise :3

thank you for ordering!! do you need a recipt?🐶

smut below the cut<3

Chris:

• gets so flirty.

• like he’s usually flirtatious, but when he actually wants it to go somewhere he so extremely smooth with it.

• but it also turns into dirty talk real fast. he’ll spill filthy things into your ears or messages.

• or he’ll send you quick little texts like:

you should come over ha ha..not unless u want too <3

• dick pic sender!! his big, leaky cock twitches under the exposure of his camera, he bites his lip as he snaps the picture. he giggles despite feeling dirty, because a part of him likes being teased.

• he ends up getting himself more worked up on accident. he doesn’t want to jerk off or anything because he wants to save his cum for you. but, he can’t resist touching himself, so he’ll just tease his cock so bad.

• you may come home and see your sexy boyfriend laid out on the couch red-faced and breathing heavy with the bottom of his shirt between his teeth. he’ll run his fingers along his red, dripping cock lightly, whining and squirming his hips at the torture.

• he thinks you’re cute, so he likes to touch you up and tease you.

• honestly is a bit shy to say outright the he “wants to have sex” so he’ll play with you until you’re begging to fuck. (depends on his mood)

• or sometimes he’ll let his actions speak louder, by kissing you as soon as you walk through the door, pressing his hard cock onto your thigh so you can feel how much he thought of you.

“mmh..yeah, feel that? feel me? been like this all day, teasing my cock just for you. its my turn to feel you, hm?”

Minho:

• can’t focus on shit.

• he sees horniness as an annoying ache. he’s so distracted easily, he’s daydreaming about sex, and he’s uncomfortable, he just wants to relieve the desire burning his core.

• so sensitive too, especially when he’s daydreaming. someone touches his shoulder and he’s flinching, if someone whispers something in his ear he’s shuddering.

• he used to be too proud to say he’s horny. but you could see through his curt, sarcastic attitude by how clingy he would get around YOU. the only one that could fix it.

• so because of his attitude, he used to just spam text you a bunch of things for attention. it’s like as soon as he’s horny, he’s laying himself over you like a cat.

• but now, he’s way more comfortable, maybe even too comfortable.

• he’ll just send you a selfie with a dumbass filter and text:

come to the bathroom and suck me off🐰

• like bro what💀 it always works though..

• doesn’t send dick pics. even if he’s away he’ll just facetime you if you wanna see his dick so bad. he’ll pour lube down his cock and jerk himself off so slowly, always shows his blissed out face too.

• when he’s finally got his hands on you, he’s too focused on getting himself off to say anything to you really. but, if you keep him waiting long enough, you’ll hear his frustration.

“can we fuck? like right now? ….please. ill eat you out. i know you can’t say no to something like that.”

Changbin:

• if he’s at the studio, you won’t even notice. you can only tell by the impatient bouncing of his leg and his nervous lip bites.

• once he has you alone, he’s placing a soft hold on your waist, nuzzling your noses and whispering such cute things that equally make you giggle and want to bite on his lips.

• his foreplay consists of soft grabs and sweet kisses that get deeper and deeper until he’s got you straddling him, not breaking the intimate makeout session you’re sharing.

• very comfortable telling you when he’s horny, even if pink still hues his cheeks a little.

• very cute about dick pics. he doesn’t send them unless you tell him to, and the first time he did, he was so excited and aroused. he looked around from his phone, seeing if anyone noticed the flushed expression he had in his face.

• he snuck to the bathroom and sprung his thick cock out of his boxers, he fumbled with the camera for a while, not really knowing how to take a picture of it?

• he snaps a cute picture of his short cock leaking a thin string of precum on his finger. the picture and situation turned him on so much he was begging you to let him jerk off.

• when you aren’t home, he’s usually patient, but you can’t ignore things forever..

• you guys own a few toys, so he’ll pick a few from the drawer that he hasn’t tried yet and play with his cock until you get home.

• it’ll be a pretty picture when you do too. he’ll be on his hands and knees, lightly fucking a small, pink buttplug in and out of his ass, begging for you too finish him off.

“ahn- welcome home, sweet girl… mphh..need your soft pussy on my cock. please please- fuck me with this in?”

Hyunjin:

• stares at you alot.

• he’ll look up at you with such a sweet, loving gaze, analyzing every part of you like a nostalgic toy.

• he loooves frotting. he’ll show you how needy he is for you by rubbing his sweet hard-on along your clothed tummy till his precum stains his pants. its like he’s magnetically drawn to you when he’s hard.

• comfortable telling you when he’s horny. he’ll tell you when you guys are alone/able to, so you don’t feel pressured to make time for his desires, especially when you’re busy or having fun.

• sends way more bulge pics than dick pics. some of his long, hard cock in his sweatpants, maybe his pretty hand gripping the length of it.

• sends vids too, he’ll send you one of him teasing his cockhead with a thick paintbrush of his, begging you to come home and do it instead.

• when you aren’t home, he’ll jerk himself through the silk of his pajama pants, stopping when he’s close to cumming. or he’ll roll his hips into mattress, pretending it’s your wet pussy.

• and when you do get home, he’s meeting you at the door. his hair is messy and he’s somewhat panting. he’ll step closer to you till his lips rest in your hair, and his hips are the only part of him you can promenantly see.

• he’ll pull his sensitive cock out from his cozy pants, jerking himself off right in front of your eyes, his tip pressing onto your shirt. his breath will hitch and he’ll hide his face in your hair, moaning in realization that he’s finally gonna cum.

• it squirts onto your sweatshirt, pumping out of his cock with small, audible thuds. his cum seeps messily into clothes, as he wraps his arms around you, burying his face into your neck.

“mm- fuck…so fucking turned on right now..you see what you do to me? oh god..g’nna cum- gonna fucking cum..”

Han:

• act suprised, he’s pathetic.

• literally dissasociated. he wants you so bad he doesn’t even care about whats happening if it isn’t related to you.

• if you aren’t home, he’ll lay in bed, gripping the sheets around him and even stripping down because of how hot his body gets when he thinks about you.

• no indescribable force could keep this man from jerking off. babe as soon as he gets home and shuts the door behind him, he’s leaning on that shit and quickly unzipping his cock free.

• he’ll be still setting down his bag while he’s twitching and jerking from stroking his cock. as soon as he’s done, he plops down on the bed and continues to jerk himself off till he cums for the first time that day.

• oh he sends dick pics. but weirdly only when he’s in public or at work, never at home. you can’t count how many pictures of his hard cock he’s sent from bathrooms, practice rooms, dressing rooms and even in this hoe’s car.

• when you are home, he’s holding your hands and begging for you to have some type of sex with him. he doesn’t card if your pegging, he’s fucking, he’s domming, or he’s subbing or whatever, he just needs to feel you on him.

• if you say anything other than yes immediately, he’s dropping to his knees and looking up at you, saying such useless, pathetic words in hopes to get himself fucked.

“please! please please- i’ll be such a good boy…just need it. need it so bad it hurts. i’ll take whatever you give me..”

Felix:

• so clingy and desperate.

• but, he’s so happy he has someone to fuck so he doesn’t have to suffer alone.

• biggest pleaser. he’ll pull you into a deep hug, reaching a hand down to toy with your clothed clit, eating up every noise you make.

• he likes clear communication so he’ll just text you and ask when you are returning home.

• his dick pics are usually tame. pictures of him pulling up his sweater so you can see his freckled abs and leaky cock. or he sends videos of his long cock squirting in the company bathrooms, you can only hear the cute splashing sounds and his whiny little gasps, trying to stay quiet.

• but, when he feels really turned on, he might even send little slutty videos of his cute cock humping his pillow till he shoots cum all over the fabric, or maybe one of him sounding his cock slit till his eyes roll back from a dry prostate orgasm.

• felix is a WHORE. so u guys do in fact have large toy drawer☺️

• when you aren’t home he either fucks his ass with one of your old dildos, or humps some other object of yours. though it’s softer than it sounds, he just loves you!

• coming home is the best. on the bed, he’ll be sat up on his knees, holding your shoulders and kissing you messily. his back is arched toward you as you tug on his cock to completion. he may not have the energy left to pound you, but it’s the best suprise ever.

“mmph..ffuck- can’t hold it anymore..mm- ah! your hands- ah..faster faster please..i can take it.”

Seungmin:

• you would think he’s in pain or something.

• it starts off with him just scrolling on his phone, and when he starts getting horny he may just reach a hand down there to softly rub his cock through his pants.

• then, he’ll look away from his phone, feeling it get more intense. his cock starts getting antsy, so he’ll text you when you’re coming home.

• finally, his phone is discarded. he decided to take a cold shower before he got sweat on his bed. but, it didn’t help much. the water hitting his cock made him hiss through his teeth.

• before he knew it, he had the showerhead in his hand, turning the water pressure up and letting it hit his cock. eyes rolling back and trembling before his cock squirts all over the shower wall.

• he doesn’t send pictures like at all. he’ll just explain through words how he’s feeling. he finds it awkward and strange.

• but he’ll send the prettiest voice messages of him groaning your name and the sloppy sounds of his cock.

• when he does get his hands on you, its desperate, not like jisung desperate but like he’s kissing you quickly and deeper, holding the side of your face.

• will pound you like he hasn’t cum in years, unintentionally holding you down and forcing his cock deeper.

“needed this. fucking needed this..nothing’s better. hm? slutty pussy’s all mine right? tightest fucking hole.”

Jeongin:

• being horny is his favorite.

• he’ll position himself in front of his mirror, smiling and spreading precum on his tip.

• he doesn’t usually wait for you, because he likes teasing you anyway, he likes it when you beg him to fuck you instead of his hand or his fleshlight. but he may wait for a little while.

• he’ll walk around in his grey sweatpants, making dinner and washing dishes while his hard cock bulges and twitches excitedly when he frots against the counter.

• genuinely the king of dick pics. he knows his cock is pretty, so every time he’s hard he’s having a full photoshoot before he jerks off. has folders in his camera roll full of just his dick.

• prefers taking pictures when you are there. so he can have a pretty pic of you mouthing and nuzzling into his bulge. his good girl.

• excited for you to come home and beg for him to fuck you again. he’ll pull his fleshlight from his closet, steadily moving it up and down on his cock, waiting for you to find him like this.

“wish this was your slutty cunt i was fucking? mm..sorry. i don’t think i can stop now. gonna cry? go ahead. ah..she’s tight too. ill waste my cum in this toy if you don’t start begging.”

[strrykais]

── 🖇️ ๑ that jellycat ? ๑

────୨ৎ────

𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑟 ¹ ・・・ you never thought this day would come, your ℬoy𝒻rien𝒹 questioning you about your jellycat taste.

꒰ 𝓢ubject ꒱ ──── 𝓢tray kids x 𝓖n.ᐟreader ༘⋆ ‎ g. fluff cw. the 𝓑ullying of ρlushies, ρetnames, 𝓒ursing ss. 16 ┈┈┈ Ӄfiles ₊꒷꒦˚ ᴛᴀɢʟɪsᴛ ғᴏʀᴍ

Ӄai’s ¿? i want a jelly cat so badddddd ૮₍ ˶>⤙<˶ ₎ა

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[minholuvr333]

alien minho + overstim??

or maybe his saliva or something creates tingling...

oh you know his saliva makes you feel tingly

tw; nsfw and smut and oral and fem reader… oh and minho is an alien with tentacles :3

alien!minho one shot posted here!

some days, alien!minho feels absolutely ravenous. no matter how many times he makes you cum, no matter how many of those tasty chemicals release in your brain and flow through your bloodstream, he still isn’t full- isn’t satisfied. good news for you!

minho loves to make a mess with his food, spitting onto your already wet cunt, using his tentacles to make sure you’re covered in the liquid. the sensation is like that of pins and needles, but on your most sensitive parts. he makes sure to give your clit extra attention, lapping over it with the intent on soaking you and the sheets.

he loves to leave a trail of sparks over your body, starting at your lips, traveling down to your neck, then your hard nipples get extra love. next, lighting moves down your stomach, then to your core. he loves eating you out for hours, loves to make you so exhausted you still twitch with phantom electricity when he’s done.

and you- you crave it. nobody could ever do what minho does to you. no one could ever make you cum like minho. even when you feel like jello, body unable to keep up, tears staining your pretty pink cheeks, you still beg for it. you still beg for him to use you in any way he wants. because at the end of the day, you’re his.

minho also loves to see how many of your holes he can use at once, either with his cock or tentacles or tongue, but that’s another story for another time :3

a/n;

i wanted to get this out bc i’m still thinking about him… but also i wanted to give the ladies what they deserve while i work on this big post <33 i love u freaks

[awriterinthenight]

a moment of silence for all the fics that were masterpieces but you'll never find them again

[kangaracha]

DAYBREAK; chapter 25

---

pairing lee know x reader

genre smau, dystopia AU, angst, hurt/comfort, slowburn romance, hope/hopelessness, life goes on, ordinary life during extraordinary times

summary independant entertainment doesn't make money, everyone knows that - not dancing, not boxing. not without a company's name attached to it and the soul ripped out of it so that it can only sit on the stage bleeding. you knew you never should have agreed to get involved in his studio, that the bills would pile up and the income would run dry, that the government would come knocking telling you to shut up and sit down...but it makes him so happy, to be able to dance. it gives him a reason to stay. you don't know what you'd do without that.

taglist OPEN

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---

BREAKING: FIRES ERUPT CITYWIDE. PRESIDENT'S MESSAGE: 'IF YOU HARBOUR A REBEL IN YOUR HOUSE, THEN YOU WILL BURN WITH THE HOUSE'

—

The smell of the smoke reaches you first, but that isn’t a surprise, when the skies outside are so grey with the clouds of it that you cannot see the ground.

The rise of the heat though, along with the sight of Minho taping the cats into a cardboard box that is definitely too small, sends fear spiking through your chest. You stand at the window and stare at him and the meowing, wobbling box, even as the pounding of fists on the door begins. For a moment, you can almost pretend it is just a nightmare.

“Fire!” a voice yells through the door, their fist pounding again. “Fire! Get out now!”

In the kitchen, Minho picks up the box. How is he so calm, when everything is going so wrong? “You’ll have to get the door,” he says on the rush of an outward breath, tipping his head towards the exit. Waiting expectantly for you to move.

It takes several seconds for your feet to move. It almost feels wrong, after weeks of being stuck inside, to open the door - it becomes terrifying when you open the door to find the hall filled with a haze of smoke, drifting up from the lower levels, and people rushing intermittently for the stairs.

“Come on,” Minho says behind you, and his shoulder shoves you forwards, his breath coughing across your neck. The jolt of movement pushes you out of the door; the sudden fear of being trapped in a burning building turns your hesitancy into a rush, your feet unsticking from the ground until suddenly you are taking the stairs too fast for Minho to keep up, burdened with the box as he is. 

It doesn’t occur to you that you haven’t brought anything else with you. It’s too late to go back anyway; already, the flames lick at the wooden framing around the front door, a rising inferno trapping all of you inside the building.

A crowd of people huddles at the bottom of the stairs, too late to leave the building. “The service entry!” a voice shouts as you join them, rough hands grabbing at people and propelling them towards the back of the building. “The back door is unlocked! Everyone go out the back!” 

They grab at you too, pushing you along with the flow of the crowd; you look back, trying to stay with Minho, but you can’t find him in the flickering lights of the narrow hallway the tenants follow, or the alleyway it spills them out into, thick with the smoke that fills the streets as the whole world starts to burn. You end up in the middle of the street, standing fast against the people that stumble past you, until he appears like a ghost from the cloud, his chin tucked to his chest and his arms wrapped protectively around that box.

“Y/N,” he gasps when he finds you, huddling close to avoid a man that nearly careens into him, his eyes weeping from the smoke. You think there’s something else that he wants to say, but he coughs instead; when he is done, all he says is, “The phone - in my pocket - Jisung-”

The streets are a cacophony of light and sound, sirens and screams and broken glass. The air is so thick with smoke that you can barely breathe nor see, your eyes red and your nose streaming. Fire licks at windows as you pass and blooms into the air with the shudder of an explosion, another factory burning down.

You cover your face and cringe away from the sound, and keep running.

Down, down, through streets that you've walked a hundred times before but are unfamiliar now, with the way the world has turned. The carnage lays everywhere; broken cameras and windows smashed in, storefronts where people rifle through merchandise or run as the fire takes hold. On one corner, a police officer falls under the fists of several men and you turn away, bile in your throat and your heart thumping in your chest as you take the usually dark alley between streets that you've never dared walk before. 

Now, it is the safest place in the city, a refuge of clearer air and dumpsters neatly lined up against the walls. You crouch behind one for a moment and try to catch your breath, even though you know that every moment you stop is another moment that the fire takes hold ahead of you, that he slips away-

"Y/N!" Minho shouts from the head of the alley, not caring for who will hear him. You don't think the men that had brought the officer to the ground will care anyway; they're out for the blood of uniforms and black guns, not people in clothing just as threadbare as theirs is. Still, you suck in a breath and stand up so that he can see you, catching his eye only for a moment before you push your aching lungs onward.

You don't know if he's trying to stop you. He'd tried to block you when you'd first darted off down the street; he'd begged as you ran for you to just wait a minute or talk it through or something, until his voice ran out. Blind panic had driven you forward too fast for him to keep up though, the thought of Jisung in one of those burning buildings that you passed letting you forget, momentarily, that you are too afraid to be out here - and now that you are here, and that first rush of adrenaline has faded, you know that if you let him near, if you listen to a thing he says, you will stop and you will go no further, you will cower in a corner until the city is ash and the dawn comes bright and clear again.

So you keep running, all the way to the studio, and you don't think about how your chest burns and your legs ache and you won't be able to move again in the morning.

You're horrified when you come to a stop before the old building that houses your studio. Flames dance in the windows on the eastern side and engulf the roof, crackling as they eat away at the wooden beams that support the thick brick of the walls. Smoke billows out of the open doorway; you stop at the sight of it, thick and black and pouring into the air as if the building is a smokehouse, and then your eyes go up to the window of your studio, big and open and visible enough for you to see the hand pressed to the glass there, the face that stares down at you while you stare up.

"Y/N," Minho says behind you, his breath rough and his knuckles white where they hug the box of cats in a deathgrip. "Don't-"

You dart away before he can stop you, throwing all the courage you have straight through the death that pours from the front door of the building. The smoke envelops you immediately, choking even through the shirt that covers your nose; you try to breathe around it, try to keep your lungs shallow and your throat closed, but it burns within you, dry and thick and deadly. You can't catch your breath, and you can't see anything through it, not even the door behind you. You walk by memory, step after step, to the stairwell, climb on shaking legs with a head that spins and pounds against the air that chokes you, the stupidity of what you've done.

Jisung might die here. You might die here too.

The hallway upstairs is clearer, but only because the heat in the air is unbearable, flames crackling in the rooms below. You can see them reaching up through the floor, feel them through the soles of your feet and the weakness of the boards as you dart across them. You want to stop and ask yourself why you are here, what you were thinking, but in a moment of certainty, you know that if you do that, you will die. Instead, you run down to the door that you've so often come to for respite, past all the other, empty rooms of the building. You reach out for the handle, your shoulder pressed to the wood-

And screech at the feeling of your skin burning against the hot metal, the surprise of your own stupidity. You just barely manage to turn the handle before you are forced to let go, your weight against the door doing the rest of the work as the latch slips from the jamb and the door swings open. You fall on your knees in its wake, cradling your hand and coughing at the smoke and dry air that sucks back into your lungs to replace what you'd given away in pain. 

Through blurry eyes, you see a figure crawl across the room to you; Jisung, his belly nearly pressed to the floor and his chest heaving in search of air to breathe. He collapses as he reaches you, eyes closed, and with a strike of fear that overrides the pain in your hand, you remember why you are here and just how long you have before you are too late. Your good hand reaches out, shaking him; he stirs, tries to stand when you drag him upwards with all of your strength, but his eyes don't look at you and when he coughs, he nearly falls again, stumbling on unsure feet back towards the floorboards.

You want to speak to him, to try to jag him back to consciousness in any way you can, but there isn't any air left to form the words. Instead, you drag him, and you find for once that you are glad that he is so thin now, so easy to get your arm under and force to move down the hallway on feet that drag more often than they do take a step. 

Not that you are much better; you guide him with blurred and blackening vision that can only just see the flames that lick between the floorboards, following the path by instinct and only hoping that they won't fall out from underneath you or that your body won't give up on you before you can make it out. The pain in your hand, at least, wakes you again every time the hollow burn of your lungs threatens to pull you under; every move Jisung makes is like lightning racing up your arm, tender flesh pressed against the rough cotton of his shirt.

Minho meets you on the stairwell. You think it is Minho, anyway; in your eyes it is a dark figure against the white wall of the fire, clutching hands grasping at you the way that you grasp at Jisung, trusting you to bring him along as you are dragged from the building. On the doorstep, your grip on the other boy slips as you collapse, and with a surge of panic you think that you have lost him to the fire again - but the concrete is a few degrees cooler than the air had been, and you cough and cough and cough but still down here there is oxygen for you to breathe and-

"Y/N," Minho says, a dark shadow that stands over you and shakes you, harder than you think is necessary. "Not yet. Get further away first."

There is a dull boom at the end of his voice, a reverberation in the air and the solid ground beneath your cheek that you think you imagine, until you see the ball of fire that shoots into the sky in a plume behind him, silhouetting him against the sky. It burns its image into your retina and stays there when you close your eyes. You think maybe you'd like to keep looking at it for a moment longer; but rough hands rip you from the sanctuary of the ground and set you on your feet, tapping insistently at your cheek until you open them again.

You draw breath, trying to steady yourself and stand alone as he pushes the box into your arms. As he picks Jisung up off the road as well, slinging his arm over his shoulder. You stumble after them down the street, a sharp cough racking your lungs as you fight your way through a haze of smoke and burning buildings. 

The whole street seems to be alight, building after building of billowing smoke and air too hot to breathe, burning the skin of your face and arms where it touches. It's too far - twice, you fall, skinning your knees on the pavement and cradling the box with your arms and watching the blurred shape of Minho stop and turn its face to you, begging you to pick yourself up again. Once, you manage it, pushing through dizziness and pain to stand on your shaking feet and walk again. The second time, you're sure this is where you die, crouched here on the pavement coughing until your last breath leaves your chest-

"You save me, I save you," a voice says in your ear, familiar somewhere beyond the blur of your thoughts, and strong hands pick you up from the blessed ground, hoisting you back to your feet.

Slowly, the smoke clears and the heat eases, your mouth coughing as it gasps for the cleaner air. The people around you - people, because there are two of them, not just the one that had forced you to keep going - all but carry you away from the fires, back between the dizzying heights of the residential towers, scratched glass and fading facades staring down at you from the orange glow of the sky. 

It feels like milleniums pass before they stop, ducking through a doorway into a dark shop where glass crunches underfoot and something creaks in the faint breath of wind that ducks through the front windows. There are no chairs - someone kicks the glass away from a section of flooring and sets you down there, your back against the face of a refrigerator that is still cool despite the silence of its motor. You press your cheek to the glass and cough until your chest hurts, take the bottle of water that's pressed into your hand and try not to gulp the whole thing down at once.

It doesn't matter. When it is gone, they hand you another one, and in the light from the windows you can see a third waiting for you. You can see the silhouette of the man that crouches beside you waiting too; Minho, his face creased into lines and his hands outstretched like he's expecting you to ask for help. You can't see the details of his face, can't make out what expression he pulls or where you are or who the other people are - your eyes still weep and burn from the smoke, the same way that your throat has gone hoarse and your chest is sure it is full of toxic waste.

With one shaking hand, you reach up and pour the water over your head, soaking your hair and sending rivulets streaming into your eyes. Your other hand reaches up to clear them; you use your knuckles and the back of your hand, but even that creases and stretches the burnt skin of your palm, making you gasp in pain. But the shock of the cold water clears your mind as well as your eyes, soothes the scorched skin of your face and the crack in your lips; first, your eyes. Then your hand. One injury at a time.

You aren't dying. Not yet.

You tip your head back this time, straining to keep your eyes open as you tip the rest of the water into them. It leaves you gasping and blinking, tears welling in the corners - but slowly, the burn eases. Slowly, Minho comes into...not focus, but better than before. 

"Better?" he questions, taking the empty bottle from you so that you can wipe your face again. His eyes keep flicking between your face and the hand you cradle to your chest; the lines in his face are from worry, and they don't ease even when you nod. "You could at least tell me if you're going to die."

You ignore the attempt to bait you into something normal, taking instead the third bottle of water that is proffered to you. You drink again, gulp after gulp, and then pour the rest over your hand. The cold stings and then soothes as it hits your skin, carrying away blood and soot and grime as it cascades down your palm and soaks into your knees. "Another one," you say through gritted teeth when the bottle is empty, dropping the plastic container on the ground. "Where are we?"

"Some corner store," Minho says, leaning back to reach another bottle from far behind him. "I don't know if it's a robbery if someone had already broken in before us."

"There are bigger problems happening than robbery," a voice calls from one of the narrow aisles of the store; Chan, your brain finally recognises, his head just visible over the racks. 

Minho takes your wrist for you, his touch gentle as he pours the water. You try not to squirm or to bite your tongue at the pain, or to wince at the dirty water that glints in the light as it drips from the end of your fingers. "Does this store have any medicine?" you ask, lifting your voice loud enough for Chan to hear down near the windows.

"Over here," a voice that you definitely don't recognise says from the other side of the room. "What do you want?" Your eyes catch on Jisung in your search for its source; slumped against another fridge not far away, eyes fluttering but open and a bottle clenched in his hand. Alive, most importantly, and awake, if not alert. 

"Something for burns," Minho calls back. "Bandages?" His eyes glance at you, questioning.

"Bandages," you confirm. "And we should take...should take some with us-"

Coughing interrupts you, your voice scratching away on the sides of your raw throat. Minho's hand lands warm and heavy on your shoulder, stopping you from falling over and curling up on the tile like you wish that you could. When you recover, a short, stout boy is crouched beside you, the requested items in his hands.

"I'm Changbin," he says before you can ask, and places the bandages in his lap so that he can wrest the lid off the tin of cream for you. You spread it over your palm with hands that shake and acquiesce to Minho when he takes the bandage from you before you can attempt to do it one-handed. He wraps it like a boxer, between the fingers and padded across the knuckles. It brings you faint amusement. You can't remember the last time you felt that.

You take the rest of the cream when he is done, spreading it thinly over your face and arms. Your skin shines unnaturally in the light when you're done but at least it is soothing; it's not like you're painting a pretty picture anyway, with your hair dry and brittle and now plastered to your scalp with water, your clothes singed and your skin red from the fire. 

None of the others are either; Changbin has dried blood on his arm and staining the hem of his shirt, though you're too afraid to ask about it. Minho looks scalded, similar to you, and Chan hides a bruise on his face by stalking through the aisles, only ghosting back to throw items he finds useful into a backpack nearby. And Jisung...Jisung is burnt and exhausted and gaunt, his skin red from the heat and ashen from the long isolation, his shirt loose around his abdomen and his bones beginning to protrude. He is so much smaller than you'd realised, out here in the real world, so much thinner than he was before you'd been ordered to stay in your houses.

"He's okay," Minho says beside you, following the line of your eye. "All he said was that he's hungry."

The thought of it drags a snort of laughter from your chest, and a deep cough that hacks at your lungs in punishment for it. "Did you get him something to eat?" you ask when it's done, and reach again for the water.

"Only a little," Minho tells you, twisting the lid off another bottle for you. "Wouldn't want him to get too fat and greedy."

You don't laugh this time; only drink, and then watch as Changbin spreads the contents of another tin of cream over Jisung's exposed flesh. Towards the front of the store, something clinks as it falls to the floor, and then Chan's head pokes up, staring warily at the door for a second before ducking back down to continue with whatever he was doing. "Why are they here?" you question as the thought comes to you.

Minho watches too, his eyes lingering on the spot where Chan had so briefly appeared. "When they realised commercial buildings were burning down, they came to get Jisung," he says slowly. "You beat them too it, though. You should probably apologise."

"You're not funny," you say firmly, and fill your mouth with water to throttle the smile that threatens to erupt from your mouth.

Minho doesn't hesitate, the curve of his lips sly in its upward movement. "Neither are you, when you run into burning buildings without me."

"I was trying to-"

"We need to move." 

Chan appears unexpectedly from the shadows, his words cutting straight through yours without pause or remorse. His hands are busy with his backpack; tucking food away within its depths, you realise with a start, watching as he zips it closed and swings it expectantly onto his back. You wonder exactly what he thinks is going to happen, but the line of his mouth states clearly that he won't be sharing that thought - nor should you argue with him about this one.

Minho only looks at you. "Are you ready?" he asks, and you nod, your own eyes straying to Jisung. Changbin is already picking him up off the ground, throwing one of his arms around his broad shoulders and grinning at something the other boy whispers to him. 

It occurs to you with a start that jolts through you as Minho helps you off the ground, that Jisung has more friends than you. You've been thinking of him as a lonely, solitary person, the kid you let follow on your coattails and ramble about his interests as you go about your day because no one else will put up with him - but he is just as old as anyone else here, and even after hiding for months and months, he still has more close friends than you have ever managed to make in an entire life out here in the real world. 

"Ah," Minho says, ignorant of the path of your thoughts, and pulls your phone out of his pocket. "I brought these when we left. You have a message."

“What about the cats?” you ask as you take it from him, trying your best to still the shake in your hand. You know that he notices it, but he doesn’t say anything, just turns and points to the battered box sitting in the shelter of the nearest aisle. “Did you give them water?”

“That’s what’s in the box?” Changbin erupts behind you. “Cats?”

“I tried,” Minho answers. “They’ll have to wait until we find somewhere safe. I think they’ll be okay.”

“I’ll bring them,” Chan promises you, and turns to pick up the box. Minho taps the phone again, drawing your attention downward.

---

The parkland around the Basilica is dark and eerie, filled with the red glow of the fire and the inexplicable bubble of the fountains flowing just out of sight.

You navigate by text, following Felix's instructions around the paths and scattered grounds of survivors just like you. The boys are within sight of the Basilica itself, the building tall and dark against the orange sky and half-hidden in the smoke - they sit huddled on the grass in its long shadow, unrecognisable until Felix lifts his head and then his hand, beckoning you over. You ghost across the lawn, your own group following behind, and you find that when you crouch down in their midst, you feel more sheltered than you have all night.

And then your eyes fall on Seungmin, his head hanging and someone's jacket pressed to his forehead. There's a nasty cut on the back of his hand too, though you can't tell if the blood is dripping from there or between his fingers, and bruises beside; in the corner of your eye, Hyunjin shifts, and you see bruising on his pale skin too, and the familiar fear that lurks in the back of his eye. 

"What happened?" you ask as you pry the jacket away from Seungmin's face, peering at the wound in the darkness. As if summoned by the thought of it, a torchlight shines in someone's hand, illuminating the thin maw of the gash that splits his head open, the river of blood that is drying on his face. When you turn, Chan's backpack is already on the ground next to you, his hands rummaging through for the things he'd stolen from the convenience store.

"Someone tried to kill me," Hyunjin says in a voice that is too hollow to be exaggerating. "He stopped them."

"They recognised him from TV," Felix puts in - you're surprised to hear the edge of venom that laces his voice, the promise of vengeance that it spits out with it. You've never heard him speak like that before. "People read that text that said 'eat the rich' and decided that it meant 'kill everyone with a face you recognise'."

"He threatened us too," Seungmin adds quietly, looking into your eyes while you look at his wound. His gaze is unwavering, despite the glassy look of a concussion that glosses over them; steady and sure in his words, and the result of them. "He was just out to get anyone who was better off than him."

"I'm not even rich," Hyunjin sighs, split knuckles running through his hair. "I get less than everyone else does."

To your surprise, it is Jisung who creeps forward to speak, elbowing his way in between you and Minho. "I thought you lived in one of those big fancy houses," he says, his voice rasping when it speaks. "I've seen it on TV."

Hyunjin coughs out a laugh. "That's the company's house, not mine. The moment I stop dancing, I'm out of there."

"You're only rich as long as you perform," Minho agrees in an undertone. "None of it lasts."

You resist the urge to cut a glance at him, taking a bottle of water from Chan instead and tipping Seungmin's head back. "Close your eyes and hold still," you instruct, and then you flush the wound, pushing his hair back flat against his head as the runoff soaks it.

"Ow," Seungmin says when you are done, his face screwed up in displeasure. He doesn't move though, not when you let him go nor when Felix finds a clean corner of the jacket he'd been using as a bandaid and starts gently wiping the blood from his face before it can dry on his cheek again. 

“Sorry,” you tell him, in a voice you would never use when talking to a patient at the hospital, and then you reach for the antiseptic that Minho uncaps for you and teach him a new kind of pain as you poke it into the wound. 

“Can someone knock me out again?” Seungmin asks as he winces his way through it, watching out of the corner of his eye as you hand Felix a wad of cotton and a bandage.

“Wrap this around his head,” you tell him. “Firm, but not so tight that his brains start dripping out his nose.” For a moment, Felix’s mouth opens to protest - then his eyes flick down to your injured hand, cradled in your lap, and he moves instead, wrestling Seungmin into position so that he can bandage. You leave him to it, shuffling one-handed out of the way and supervising with one eye. 

“Excuse me,” a voice says behind you, soft and feminine and definitely not belonging to one of the boys that are now gathered around you. 

You turn around to find Chan already apprehending the woman, one arm extended to keep her from reaching you where you sit on the ground. Her gaze is fixed on you, but she doesn’t try to push past him; she just stands there, her eyes wide and her hands clasped together over her breast, and trembles, her mouth gaping like she has something to say but can’t quite get the words out.

“Are you okay?” you ask when none of the boys speak, climbing back up onto your aching feet. Minho rises with you, a hand on your elbow in case you stumble. You want to shake him off, but the memory of the many times you’d almost fallen on the way here makes you lean into his arm instead, letting him steady your weight.

The woman glances behind her, and then back at you. “Are you a doctor?” she asks. “I saw that you have bandages and - I mean, you don’t have to bring anything. My husband-”

Slowly, Chan’s arm drops back to his side, his face turning to look at you. You think you can read what he says in his eyes when you say, “I can give you something. What do you need?”

“I-I don’t know,” she says, her voice cracking. “He went into the fire looking for - looking for our son, and he’s burnt, and he won’t wake up-”

Chan catches her before she can collapse, his arm looping suddenly around her waist and setting her upright. She turns into his shoulder, tears streaking down her face. “I’ll help,” you say before you can even think about the walk across the park, the pain in your feet and your hand, the pounding of your head. “Take me to him. I’ll try.”

“This way,” she says, still clinging to Chan even as she points, and leads the way. Chan goes with her, the only thing keeping her on her feet; Minho shadows your steps, never more than an arm's width away.

“There’s going to be a lot of people here that need help,” he says, his voice a breath that shivers down the back of your neck. 

Your head rises, looking around at the huddled groups of people that cast shadows in the orange light of the fires. “I know,” you say as injuries emerge from the smog and then disappear back into it, a streak of blood or a hacking cough visible for a moment as you pass and then gone again. “I can help. I want to help.”

“You don’t have to if you can’t do it,” he promises anyway. “If you want to sit down and sleep, you can. We can make them go away.”

“I want to,” you say again; and then you hesitate, your feet slowing their step in time with the change of your thoughts. Minho grabs at you as if you are falling, and only lets go when you turn to face him, your eyes finally seeing, in his face, what he is trying to say.

“Maybe sitting down would be nice,” you allow. “If you could help me - if some people could come to me - and I can tell you when I need to stop-”

Inexplicably, he smiles. And he hugs you. And he says, “Of course. Whatever you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

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[seungisms]

리노. thinking about dryhumping with minho. he likes to underestimate you, so fucking smug and cocky and saying the meanest shit just to get under your skin. he just thinks you look so cute the angrier you get. but he doesn’t find it too funny when you’re sat all pretty on his lap, working his swollen cock back and forth across his stomach underneath your drenched cunt - and there’s nothing he can do about it but fist the edge of the bed frame where you have him cuffed, muttering something under his breath about how he’s gonna fuck you to tears when he figures a way out of those things. 

but he’s shutting up as soon as you’re slowing the movement of your hips, just whimpering and moaning and heavy breathing with every slide of pussy, heated and wet against the length of his sensitive cock. he likes to act composed and like he has you right under his thumb, and usually he does. normally he has you wrapped around his finger with the simple promise of dick, giving you everything before ripping it away when he feels your pussy quivering around his cock, just to see those pretty tears line your lashes when he leaves your cunt sad and empty. but with the way he was panting and whining and damn near crying, desperate to be inside you, he clearly wasn’t as calm and collected as he likes to claim. “please, c’mon. just let me out of these things and i’ll fuck you so good,” he’s still tugging on the cuffs, arms tense and knuckles white, adams apple bobbing as soon as you press down on him even more, not leaving an inch of dick uncovered as bare flesh suffocates the length of his cock. and he’s so sure, so convinced that you’ll give in and give him what he wants, getting rid of those fucking handcuffs and fucking you until you’re sorry for ever putting him in them. “but where’s the fun in that?” that one question is enough to rip all hope away from him, lips quivering and eyes stinging cause he just wants to cum so bad :( 

it’s just so fun to tease minho sometimes - he always acts untouchable, like he’s doing you a favour by dicking you down, like the twitch of his cock was easy to ignore when he’s busy torturing your poor cunt. but now, with the way his eyes are rolling into the back of his skull with every hot drag of your pussy, how he chokes on his whimpers when your cunt shifts forward, hooking against the tip of his dick, feeling the swell of his cock clearing through a sticky mixture of precum and arousal - it was easy to see he wasn’t as in control as he’d like to be. 

he’s also a little impatient, gets a little nasty with his words when the swell of his cock becomes almost painful with the way it was twitching and crying into your pussy - if he moved his hips up even an inch he’d be nudging himself deep into your dripping core and finally finding the release he’s so pitifully chasing after. “gonna make you pay for this. that pussy is as good as fucked as soon as i’m out of these things ugh-“ he’s cutting himself off with a choked gasp, head thrown back and chest heaving when your fingers reach down to press on the drooling slit of his cockhead, continuing to mash his dick back and forth in shallow thrusts, angling your clit so that his cock was barely bumping into the dip of your pussy, just an inch, but enough to coax more of those pretty begs from his lips.

“fuck, so warm. please baby, just let me fuck you, even just the tip. please, swear i’ll be so good for you.” and he’s loud. loud enough that the rest of his members could probably hear him through the walls. hear how pathetic he becomes when he doesn’t get what he wants. but minho can’t find it in himself to care, not when he’s so close, throat raw and dick twitching and an unquenched need to cum making his pretty eyes gloss over with tears, cock full and red and crying with precum. his eye twitches with every stroke of pussy, each shallow grind pulling more fucked out whimpers out of him - until finally he’s cumming onto your folds in hot, thick ropes of cum. and it’s so unsatisfying that he could cry, cock sore and softening against your clit, cum dribbling onto your nub and painting your cunt in his load until it’s hot and sticky to the touch. his chest is heaving, heartbeat loud in his ears as you continue to grind down onto his limp cock, using his cum to wedge effortlessly between your folds as you use him to get yourself off - the same way he’s done so many times before with your tired pussy. and it’s almost cute the way he chokes and sobs and stutters underneath you, knees trembling and forehead sweaty and toes curling, begging you to finally show him some mercy. 

but why should you? he’s never been nice to you, never paid your pretty whimpers any mind when he’s stretching you out on his dick, laughed straight in your face a few times when you’ve begged him to go easy on you and only fucked you even harder for even suggesting it. and you tell him such, tell him that he’s getting exactly what he deserves. and he hates that you’re right.

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