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fizzydrink698 · 1 year

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conflict, conceal, confess | minho

kinktober day 31: thigh-riding

pairing: lee minho x reader

word count: 18.1k (💀)

genre: college au, enemies to lovers, (modern!consort au)

warnings: sexual content (thigh-riding, oral sex, fingering, handjob, marking, a whole lot of smut honestly, like 6k words of it), swearing, an ungodly amount of academia

summary:

“Why don’t we call a truce?”

Minho blinked, caught off-guard. “Truce?”

“Yeah. No more arguments…” you trailed off, the words already sounding hollow and you were the one saying them. “OK, maybe some academic debate. But nothing personal.”

“Nothing petty,” Minho added, giving you a pointed look.

It took an impressive amount of willpower to force your smile to stay on your face. “Exactly. We somehow managed it as kids. How hard could it be to do it again?”

“Your brother is such an asshole.”

You wondered how many of your conversations with Felix had started with those exact words. In the years since childhood, there had probably been countless variations of this very situation: you collapsing into a seat near Felix, ready to unleash after biting your tongue for however many hours beforehand.

His reaction was second nature at this point. Without even glancing towards you, Felix paused in the middle of rolling out what looked to be shortbread dough and turned to switch on the coffeemaker. “What is it this time?”

“Do you remember how many new people signed up to debate at the start of the year? Had to be at least twenty, right? Maybe thirty?”

“At least thirty,” Felix confirmed. “I gave out blondies to every person that signed up. The entire pan was gone in like an hour.”

Yes, you remembered that day. Specifically, you remembered Felix holding up the empty pan with a big smile on his face and proudly declaring how many people had shown interest in joining. And you’d had to figure out how to politely break it to him that the hordes of first-year students walking back and forth in front of his table were eyeing a little more than just his baked goods.

Sweet boy. Sweet, innocent, oblivious boy.

“Guess how many are left,” you challenged him, eager to prove a point.

Felix frowned, thinking it over. “There were still about fifteen when I was last there. So, ten?”

“Six,” you exclaimed, balling your hand into a fist and planting it onto the tabletop for dramatic effect. “And Minho made one of them cry today.”

In just a few years, you and Minho had transformed your university’s debate team into one of the most successful in the country. You’d won awards, you’d attended international competitions, you’d gained notice from several notable figures in academia. Membership of the debate team had gone from a minor footnote you’d discard in an application to a badge of prestige, of recognised talent.

Minho’s standards were high, shockingly so, but he got results. As a second-in-command in all but name, it was usually up to you to run damage control, to nudge members towards persevering instead of walking out the door. The good cop to his bad cop, the carrot to his stick. You’d be tempted to call it exhausting, were it not for the undeniable rush of satisfaction whenever you succeeded in building up a member where Minho failed.

Lately, however, your efforts were starting to fall short. In just eight weeks, over twenty recruits had quit before team selections had even finished.

“Oh, jeez,” Felix muttered. Before he could say anything more, the coffeemaker chirped behind him, and he wasted no time pouring you the biggest cup he had lying around.

You motioned it over with greedy little grabby-hands, accepting it with a smile.

Felix returned to his shortbread dough and picked up a star-shaped cookie cutter. “Why did they cry?”

You made a vaguely displeased noise through a mouthful of coffee, only managing to word a response when you set the mug down. “I don’t even know. This week’s debate was on the ethics of nuclear power, and I could tell she took pretty much all her talking points from Wikipedia. I assume it was about that. Minho probably got all Minho about it and tore her to shreds.”

Felix paused. You wondered if it was just because he was concentrating on his cookies, until you realised he was hesitating. “…I don’t know. I know Minho takes this stuff seriously, but he’s not the kind of guy to make some poor kid cry over debating.”

“Why not?“ You asked, and you can’t stop the bitterness creeping out into your voice. “It’s nothing he hasn’t done before.”

“Oh…” Felix said, eyes widening in realisation. He lifted his head up to look at you, sympathetic. “Shit, yeah. I’m sorry.”

For the most part, you’d gotten over your experience in high school debate club, but the memories still stung a little.

You’d been so eager, signing up the very second you were eligible, talking Felix’s ear off about how excited you were, how much you were looking forward to it. You’d known that Felix’s older brother - a year ahead of you - was somewhat of a big deal in the club, and you’d maybe imagined him taking you under his wing. Looking out for you, encouraging you with gentle feedback and a warm smile.

You’d gone into your first debate, attempted to expand upon the few points you’d known about the topic, and shyly waited for Minho’s counterarguments.

He had stepped up to the microphone, levelled you with a blank stare, and eviscerated every single argument you’d made. Pointed out every logical fallacy, every gap in your research, every misspoken or poorly worded statement, everything. He’d cut you right to the bone, with zero mercy.

You spent the rest of the club meeting holding back tears, ran all the way to Felix’s house as soon as it was over, sobbing your eyes out – and actually, maybe that was the first of many “your brother is an asshole” exchanges.

Huh. Funny how things come full circle like that.

When Minho returned home about a half-hour after you, you’d stormed into his room and demanded to know why he would treat you so badly. Did he want to drive you away from the club? Did he secretly hate you this whole time?

You’d never forget his response. The shrug he gave you, the arch of one eyebrow as he took in the sight of you, burning with rage, fists clenched by your side. The fucking sigh.

I just thought you’d do better than that.

What a fucking thing to say to a fourteen-year-old. Especially one that looked up to him the way you did.

And, deep-down, there was a certain sting that accompanied his words. Something you could never bring yourself to admit out loud, not even to Felix. An extra flash of pain, because back then you’d…

Whatever. It was ancient history.

You had almost quit on the spot. Instead, you dove headfirst into researching the next week’s topic, determined to beat him, paranoid about every little mistake he might pick at.

And that…

Well, that was your life for the next nine years. Even that one blissful year when Minho had graduated, the year you’d taken over as head of debate club, the year you’d gotten your team all the way to nationals - he still didn’t leave you in peace.

He’d turned up to that final competition, gaze intense, face neutral. You’d spotted him in the audience, unable to tear your eyes away, watching every little twitch of his jaw, every tiny shift in expression, and knew he was picking apart your arguments. Waiting for you to trip up and fail in front of everyone.

It felt like a glorious ‘fuck you’ when your team won that year. You’d held that trophy, looked right into Minho’s eyes, and wanted to scream ‘I fucking told you so’ right in his smug face.

Ugh. Asshole.

“It’s all in the past,” you said, forcing yourself to shrug it off.

Taking another swig of coffee, you reached over and poked Felix’s shoulder, grinning.

“And besides…Minho isn’t the one coming with me to the U.N. next month.”

“Next month,” Felix repeated, slightly in awe, matching your excitement and then some. “Holy shit, it’s so soon.”

It was. In just a few weeks’ time, you’d be standing in front of a U.N. committee giving a speech on commitment to environmental preservation with your best friend by your side. You’d worked for this for months, years even. And you’d be doing it together.

“I’m afraid I have bad news about the U.N. speech.”

You sat there, horrified, as your supervisor – Dr. Koning – shuffled the papers on his desk with a grave expression. “What? What happened? Don’t tell me it’s cancelled.”

“It’s not cancelled,” Dr. Koning said, before pausing. “…But it has been postponed. Certain recent global events have pushed it further down the agenda. The speech will happen next January.”

“January?” You repeated, and horror quickly dawned on you. “No, wait. Felix can’t do January. He’s studying abroad next semester. There has to be some other…”

“I’m afraid there’s not. I’ve tried to speak to the few contacts I have, but changing the agenda of the United Nations is…well, a little beyond our capabilities, I’m sure you can understand.”

“But this is just as much Felix’s speech as it is mine. It’s on environmental preservation, he’s the one that’s specialising in environmentalism, he can’t just get dropped like…what if he flew back for the U.N. speech? That’s doable, right?”

“Even if he could, he would still be missing the weeks of preparation leading up to the speech,” Dr. Koning reminded you, sounding genuinely apologetic. “Unless he withdraws from his study-abroad program, I’m afraid we have to give his spot to someone else.”

You felt like you’d just been punched, right in the gut. Felix couldn’t withdraw from the program. It was one of the main reasons he’d chosen this university in the first place. He’d spent months competing for the limited spaces at the best partner university, he’d e-mailed the faculty there ahead of time to begin networking, he’d based his entire career path on the connections he could make there.

Even the fucking United Nations wasn’t worth the damage his future plans would take if he dropped out of studying abroad.

“…Who’s taking his spot?” You asked, quiet, defeated.

Dr. Koning looked down at the papers, and adjusted his glasses. “Well, there are a few candidates in mind. But at such short notice, there’s really only one feasible choice. One of my colleague’s PhD students, you might know him. Lee Minho?”

…No.

No.

Absolutely fucking not.

You choked on the sudden anger bursting from your chest, trying your best to push it down before you started cussing out Lee Minho right in front of your professor. Finally, you were able to respond through gritted teeth. “Yes, I know him. We don’t…really get on.”

Dr. Koning frowned, pushing his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry to hear that. Are there any incidents I should be aware of?”

“No, nothing like that,” you said. “Just…it’s been a thing since we were kids. We don’t like each other.”

“Well, we can look for others…” he said, before trailing off. Frowning, he leaned forward slightly, granting himself an air of conspiracy, like he was letting you in on a secret. “But, honestly…if this is something you feel comfortable setting aside, just temporarily, you should know that Minho really is the best candidate. By quite a wide margin.”

Of fucking course he was.

You let out a deep breath, closing your eyes and fighting the urge to start massaging your temples.

“…Maybe,” you relented, even if it took every ounce of willpower you had. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Good to hear,” Dr. Koning said, smiling. “I really do hope the two of you can work together on this. Both of you have shown astounding potential. I look forward to seeing what you come up with.”

“…Mm-hm. Me too.”

It was a cold, crisp Monday morning, and you found yourself stood on the steps of the lecture halls. The expression on your face was enough for the dawdling first-years around you to give you a wide berth, allowing you to scroll through your e-mails in peace.

Scroll through your e-mails, and wait.

For him.

Felix had mentioned that Minho was sitting in on a talk from a visiting financial expert on the state of global economics, and you figured now was as good a time as any to confront him about the speech.

…And by ‘confront’, you meant ‘patiently and politely open channels of communication’. Of course.

Fuck, it was freezing.

You shivered, pulling your scarf just a little tighter around your neck, and exited out of your e-mails to shoot a text to Felix.

You

Who in their right mind voluntarily sits in on an economics lecture at eight o’clock on a Monday morning?

Lixie

…

i mean

…literally you last week

You

OK first of all

That was a fucking Guillaume Van Bebber seminar

The man has a Nobel prize

Second of all

That wasn’t a Monday

Third

Shut up

Lixie

ok no cookies for you

You

Wait no, what??

I take it back.

Take it all back.

You’re my bestest friend in the whole world.

Bestest and smartest.

Waittt

You were so distracted texting Felix, you didn’t notice the doors to the lecture halls opening, and the slow stream of students beginning to file out.

You did, however, notice a familiar voice.

Your head snapped up to see Minho at the top of the steps, talking with who looked to be the guest lecturer. The two were standing still, rather than walking along with the rest of the students, positioned just out of the way so they could continue whatever conversation they were having without interruption.

Cool, even more waiting.

You shifted your weight, shoving your hands into the pockets of your coat to keep warm, and watched as Minho continued to speak – and, unbelievably, managed to make this lecturer laugh.

You blinked.

What the fuck? Minho didn’t make people laugh. He made them miserable, yes, but never laugh.

And then, suddenly, as if he could sense your insults, Minho looked over and locked eyes with you. His eyebrows raised slightly, probably in surprise at seeing you on campus so early in the morning. You made sure to maintain eye contact – an old habit with Minho, by this point. You hated being the first to look away, it always felt like weakness.

He turned away, saying something to the lecturer with a slight incline of his head.

The lecturer blinked, before nodding. You watched as, with a warm smile, the lecturer extended what looked to be a business card to Minho.

Minho accepted it, the two exchanged one final handshake, before Minho turned on his heel and descended the steps.

Towards you.

It was a little unfair, you wanted to grumble, that Minho always looked so put-together, no matter the time of day. He was wearing a black turtleneck sweater, perfectly suited for the chilly October morning air, under a tailored beige overcoat. It looked designer, the plaid pattern on its lining looking vaguely familiar, but that was standard for Minho’s wardrobe. You’d known since you were a little kid that Felix’s family had money.

Like, fuck-you money.

You forced your eyes up to his face before they travelled any further downwards, but you knew from a glance that Minho was wearing some form of tight black jeans. They were a staple of his wardrobe, and you hated them. You hated any and every reminder of Minho’s…

Well, Minho’s fucking tree trunk thighs.

Which you also hated.

With a passion.

He did dance as a kid. And some kind of equestrian thing in his teenage years – because, again, fuck-you money – which all contributed to…

You know what?

Didn’t matter.

Because you hated them. They weren’t worth mentioning.

“We need to talk about the U.N. speech,” you said, as soon as he got close enough, cutting straight to the chase.

“OK,” Minho nodded, approaching closer. You paused, confused, as he showed no sign of slowing. He drew closer and closer, and something tightened in your chest, as he–

He brushed past you, shoulder nearly bumping yours, continuing onwards past you.

You stilled, rooted to the spot for a moment, blinking at the empty air where he had just been standing.

Shock quickly morphed into incredulous anger, and you turned sharply to storm after him, blown away by his rudeness. “Hey, where – what the fuck?”

Minho paused, turning to face you, halting so suddenly that you almost bumped right into him. You stumbled back a step or two, before righting yourself, as Minho asked. “…Wait, did you mean now?”

The way he said it, confused, as if you were the strange one for not specifying the obvious.

“No, I was thinking in three weeks. But let me just check my calendar first,” you retorted, deadpan. “Yes, now. Why else would I be here?”

“For classes,” Minho pointed out, gesturing to the lecture building he’d just exited.

You opened your mouth instinctively, before pausing.

Because the honest answer, that you were here because you’d been waiting for him, now sounded…

“…Look, are you free to talk about the speech or not?” You asked, folding your arms over your chest.

Minho stared at you for a moment, before giving you a shrug. “I’ve got about an hour before my next class.”

“Good.”

“I usually get coffee around this time, while it’s quiet.”

“…OK? Good for you?” You said, frowning slightly.

Minho kept staring, looking…strangely expectant.

What, he wanted a pat on the back for having coffee in the morning?

Finally, with a sharp exhale that could almost be mistaken as an exasperated sigh, Minho turned away and set off walking again.

Rude. You were literally just having a conversation? Now, he just expected you to follow him?

Ugh.

Reluctantly, you did just that, having to quicken your pace to match Minho’s stride with those…fucking gargantuan legs of his.

Legs that didn’t matter. Because you didn’t notice them. At all.

To your surprise, Minho didn’t head for Muffin House, the main coffee shop on campus. That was your go-to place for caffeine – it was cheap, they had a bunch of muffins in different flavours, and they had an irresponsibly large number of discounts on extra espresso shots for students.

Instead, you had to follow Minho down a little side street nestled between two of the towering science blocks, cut across a near-deserted car park, and finally took a right towards a quiet little pocket of buildings on the edge of campus.

You would have walked right past the coffee shop entirely, were it not for Minho suddenly ducking through the doorway of a non-descript stone building. You paused, and it was only after looking up and studying the front face of the building that you noticed the sign for Kwon’s Koffee.

Inside, it looked indistinguishable from other coffee shops on campus – except it was far less crowded, with only a few tables taken up by exclusively postgraduate students.

This was definitely one of those little insider-knowledge haunts for PhD students, like Minho. And the idea almost made you want to hate it on principle.

You joined the queue behind Minho, gaze wandering toward the board of coffee specials.

…Fuck, OK, they did look pretty good.

Still, the principle of the matter remained.

“You realise Muffin House was so much closer, right?” You asked, glancing at Minho.

Minho made a face. “Yeah, but their coffee is shitty.”

“No, it’s not!”

“It’s always bitter.”

“Yeah, because it’s made to go with the super-sweet muffins,” you said, slowing your words as if trying to explain the concept of taste to a toddler. “They balance each other out.”

“Which means if you don’t get muffins, you’re shit out of luck,” Minho pointed out, and glanced over his shoulder at you. “And I never get them.”

You stared at him, genuinely affronted by this statement. Yet another thing to add to the colossal-sized list of reasons to dislike Minho. “What? Why? How?”

He shrugged. “I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.”

“How are you and Felix even related?”

“It’s because of Felix,” Minho argued, and you had to admit, your interest was piqued. “Who do you think was the test subject for all his recipes?”

“What, were they bad?” You asked, intrigued.

Minho smiled ruefully. “Some were. But the most dangerous ones were the great ones. There’s only so many whole pans of brownies you can inhale before your body just rejects sugar on sight.”

Huh.

You forgot, sometimes, how close Minho and Felix were. It didn’t entirely fit in with your general doctrine of ‘Minho = The Worst’ so it was often banished to the back of your mind.

You supposed even the absolute dregs of humanity usually had at least one redeeming quality.

…Wait, this was coming dangerously close to an actual conversation with Minho.

“I think you’re just a coffee snob,” you dismissed with a shrug.

Minho rolled his eyes, and that brief façade of reasonable humanity vanished. “If Muffin House figured out how to brew coffee without burning it to shit, I’d drink it. But they haven’t yet, so…”

You opened your mouth, already raring to start an argument, but it was at that moment that the person in front of Minho in the queue finished ordering. Minho turned away from you, and walked up to the counter.

You followed closely behind, and it was only when your attention shifted from Minho to the person behind the counter that your eyes lit up.

“Seungmin?”

Seungmin blinked, leaning to the side just a little to look over Minho’s shoulder at you, surprised. “Oh, hey! Long time no see.”

Seungmin had been a stalwart member of your debate team for the first few years of undergrad, until he landed a job as research assistant for one of the most respected professors on campus. You had a lot of good feeling towards him, not least because he – along with Felix – often acted as the mediator between you and Minho.

He must have remembered that role too, as his gaze soon shifted back and forth between you and Minho, and his brow furrowed slightly. “Wait, are you two getting coffee? Like, together?”

You saw Minho bristle out of the corner of your eye, and you fought back a scoff. Did he really find it so insulting to be seen in public with you? “Yes, we are.”

Seungmin’s eyes flickered between the two of you again. “…Voluntarily?”

Minho answered this time, seemingly through gritted teeth. “Apparently.”

“Huh,” Seungmin said, mostly to himself. “Interesting.”

“Can we order now?” Minho asked, impatiently.

Seungmin shrugged, ignoring Minho’s rudeness, and set about taking your orders.

(Of course, Minho took his coffee black. Pretentious motherfucker probably had a whole thing about palate and bean aroma or whatever. You threw in a muffin with your order, to spite Minho more than anything else.)

It was only at the end, when it came to payment, that Seungmin looked up again at the two of you. “Are you guys paying separately, or…?”

That was kind of a dumb question.

“Separately,” you said, pointing out the obvious.

“Very separately,” Minho echoed, giving Seungmin a very pointed look.

Impressively, Minho’s glare did little to change Seungmin’s expression. In fact, Seungmin only smiled a little wider, calmly reverting back to his standard customer service script. “…OK. Cash or card?”

After payment, it only took a few minutes of waiting for your coffee before you found yourself sat at a table in the corner of the coffee shop, facing directly across from Minho.

The two of you sat there in silence, coffee in front of you.

How did you…how did you even start a conversation with Minho that wasn’t an argument? Usually, you relied on him to say something incorrect and pounce on it.

Now? You had to figure out how to be…nice. Civil. All because of this dumb speech.

You watched Minho shrug off his coat, turning in his seat to drape the coat over the back of his chair. The black turtleneck he was wearing underneath was surprisingly form-fitting, and when he turned back around to face you and pick up his mug, your eyes dropped down to your own cup before you gave into the urge to scowl openly.

Sometimes, you wondered if it would be harder to hate Minho if he were less attractive.

It was a thought you crushed down the second it came into your head, but you couldn’t entirely deny it. There had been moments, unspeakable moments, when you started dating someone, that your brain betrayed you and compared them to Minho. It was like he had to just…infect every part of your life. He had to ruin everything.

You swallowed, curling your fingers around the handle of your mug, tapping the edge of it with your thumb. “…So, the speech.”

“The speech.”

“I assume Koning already talked to you about it?”

“Yes.”

“…And?” You said, resisting the urge to scream. This was like pulling teeth. “Your thoughts?”

Minho sat back in his chair, eyeing you closely. “Why the U.N.?”

Easy question. So easy, you’d almost call it moronic. “It’s the U.N. It’s literally where I want my career to take me.”

“You want to work at the U.N.?” Minho asked, and you could almost mistake his tone for interest.

“Yes,” you said, confidently, half-prepared to defend yourself in case Minho decided to find your ambition laughable. Screw him. “The Human Rights Council, preferably, but I wouldn’t say no to a job in the General Assembly.”

“Who would?” Minho remarked, deadpan.

“Ergo, a speech there. It wasn’t easy, but we managed it,” you said, not even pretending to be humble.

“…It’s impressive, honestly. What you’ve achieved.”

“What me and Felix achieved,” you corrected him automatically, but honestly, you were a little thrown. That sounded…dangerously close to a compliment. From Minho.

“Koning said it was your idea,” Minho said. “You came up with the proposal, and you were the one ballsy enough to actually submit it to the U.N.”

“Yeah, but the speech is literally on environmental preservation–”

“International NGO commitment to environmental preservation,” Minho interrupted, and you bit down the sudden flare of anger that he felt the need to correct you on your own fucking speech topic. “International commitment is your wheelhouse, isn’t it?”

“And Felix is literally specialising in environmentalism,” you reminded him, and it was then that one of your biggest concerns about this whole situation reared its head. “Which reminds me, actually, why did they pick you to replace him on it?”

Minho stared at you for a solid moment, eyebrows slowly raising, as if he couldn’t believe you were being serious.

You felt yourself bristling, growing defensive. “What? You’re a politics student, not–”

“My master’s thesis was literally on environmental activism. I help teach undergrad classes on green politics and ecological efforts in government policy. How do you not know this?”

…OK. So, fine, maybe you didn’t pay that much attention to what Minho actually studied. Why would you? You imagined it would only piss you off more, reading through his fucking glowing examples of academic writing – like, seriously, in your second year of undergrad, one of your professors used one of his essays as a literal example of how to do the assignment.

You scoffed, lifting your coffee up to your mouth, muttering under your breath. “Ego-logical efforts, more like.”

Minho tilted his head, clearly having heard every word you just said. “What was that?”

You stared him down, taking one long, unabashed drink of coffee, before setting your cup down. Maintaining eye contact, you forced your most innocent smile. “Nothing.”

Another moment of silence fell between the two of you, as Minho’s mouth twitched. You could tell he was very tempted to call you out, and you almost wanted to dare him to say something. Going this long without some kind of conflict with Minho felt…weird. Strange.

Instead, Minho sighed, and you couldn’t imagine the visible shock on your face when his expression actually softened towards you. “…Look. I know you really wanted to work with Felix on this. It’s really shitty that this got taken out of your hands.”

…What? What the fuck was happening here?

He continued. “I’m sorry you got screwed over like this.”

What the fuck was in this coffee?

“I’m not trying to butt in and mess with everything you’ve prepared,” Minho said. “I genuinely just want to help you. I know we’ve got…issues.”

“That’s a bit of an understatement.”

“Sometimes people just don’t get along,” Minho said, eyes flickering downwards to his mug as he took a sip of coffee. “But I hope we can be professional about this.”

You fought the urge to scowl, but you couldn’t quite stop yourself from clenching your jaw at the assumption.

You could be professional.

You could be insanely fucking professional.

“Yes, I hope we can,” you said, your voice perfectly level. Calm. Composed. Professional. “So, actually, until this speech is over…why don’t we call a truce?”

Minho blinked, caught off-guard by your choice of words. “‘Truce’?”

“Yeah. Until the speech is done, we’ll try to be nice to each other. No more arguments…” you trailed off, the words already sounding hollow and you were the one saying them. You backtracked slightly. “OK, maybe some academic debate. But nothing personal.”

“Nothing petty,” Minho added, giving you a pointed look.

It took an impressive amount of willpower to force your smile to stay on your face. “Exactly. We somehow managed it as kids. How hard could it be to do it again, for the next few months?”

Minho didn’t answer immediately, clearly thinking the proposition over.

You took another sip of coffee, trying your best to leave it at that. But you couldn’t help but add, pointedly. “I mean, I don’t think it’ll be hard for me. But if you think you–”

“I’ll manage,” Minho interjected, dryly, unimpressed. “You’re the one who starts it most of the time, anyway.”

“I don’t–” you bit your tongue, taking a second to claw back your patience. “…I mean, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure.”

You sat just a little taller, frowning. “OK. So, we’re decided.”

“Yep.”

“Truce?”

“Truce.”

“…Good.”

“Good.”

“Great,” you said, maybe just a little eager to get the last word. Maybe.

It was only when you took another sip of coffee, content with yourself, that Minho dropped the sudden curveball. “My housemates are throwing a Halloween party this weekend. Maybe you should come.”

You very almost did a spit-take with your coffee. “What?”

“If you’re so interested in a truce,” Minho added, tapping his fingers against the wooden surface of the table, and that was when you recognised the invitation for what it was.

A challenge.

Minho was absolutely trying to get you to chicken out.

You straightened your shoulders. “I’d be happy to,” you said, and it sounded vaguely threatening.

“Great, I’ll let them know.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Me too,” Minho said, his words so edged, you could imagine them slicing into you.

Yeah, this truce was definitely going to last.

This was a terrible idea.

You hesitated on the pavement outside of what was very obviously a Halloween party in full swing. You’d purposely waited a little, hoping to avoid the awkward early stages of house parties, your imagination filled with dreadful images of being one of the first to show up and having to make conversation with Minho.

The later, the better. More people to act as a buffer, and a better excuse to get drunk.

Hopefully, fingers-crossed, maybe Minho had already gotten absolutely wasted and wouldn’t even notice you were there.

Bolstered by the thought, you shot a text to Felix – who should already be inside, having volunteered to swing by early and help his older brother with decorations – to say that you were here.

OK.

Breathe.

Go.

You marched up the path towards the front door, refusing to be distracted by the partygoers scattered around the front yard, smoking and chatting and one couple leaning against the wall and already looking very handsy.

The front door was open, and you made your way inside, senses alert for any sign of Felix (to approach) and Minho (to avoid) as you did so.

The house was impressively large for student housing – of course it was, Minho lived here – and yet, every room held a crowd of people. Dancing, drinking, having fun. A drunk girl, dressed in what looked to be some variation of zombie Disney princess, stumbled into you, giggling apologetically as she did. Her drink – a can of something, maybe a bottle – was icy-cold as it brushed against your thigh.

You should have worn something longer, you thought. Your costume was cute, and dare you say, maybe even kinda hot, but it was not cut out for any temperatures colder than a room full of warm bodies. Just the walk up to the house had you shivering, just a little.

Your hunt for Felix led you from room to room, as you tried and failed to prevent yourself from rolling your eyes at the size of this place. Someone had set up tables – multiple – for beer pong in one room, while another room hosted an impressive speaker system for dancing, while another room was all softly-lit and calm background music, clearly the designated room for quieter, laid-back conversation.

A layout that checked all the house party boxes, sure. But a terrible place to try and track someone down.

Eventually, somehow, you found yourself in the kitchen, and it was here that you wondered whether you should just give up for a second and grab something to drink. You’d find Felix at some point, hopefully. Just as long as you didn’t run into…

“Oh.”

You turned at the voice, instinctively, but on second thoughts maybe you should have pretended not to hear.

Minho was standing in front of you, leaning against the kitchen counter.

And he…

He looked…

Holy fucking shit.

From the fake blood on his billowy white shirt and the painted-on bite mark on his neck, he was clearly some kind of vampire. Someone – maybe Minho himself – had applied the subtlest amount of eyeliner, and between that and the rumpled dark hair, and the…

Fuck, those were leather pants. Skin-tight.

Oh, you had to leave right now–

“Hi,” you said, standing your ground.

“You’re late,” Minho noted.

It was only then that you realised Minho was part of a loose cluster of guys, all of whom turned to see who Minho was talking to.

And one of them, to your intense relief, was Felix.

“Hey!” Felix greeted, wandering over to throw an arm around you in a half-hug. He was a cheerful drinker, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t help your confidence a little to see someone so unambiguously happy to see you here.

When he pulled away, you noticed that the little hand-drawn stitches around his neck had already started to smudge. Miraculously the little fake plastic bolts on either side of his head remained intact.

“I like your costume,” Felix told you. “It’s very…pink.”

“It is very pink,” you agreed, looking down at yourself.

When you glanced up, you caught the way Minho’s eyes flickered upwards too, as if he’d just finished looking you up and down.

You tensed a little, preparing yourself for some kind of critique. Lee Minho, champion appraiser of cheap Halloween costumes.

To your surprise, however, Minho quickly averted his eyes and took a deep swig of the drink in his hand.

“I like your costume too,” one of Minho’s friends chimed in. He was kind of cute, all dark hair and big brown eyes, so adorable that his werewolf costume came across as looking more like a chipmunk. “What are you?”

You smiled, relaxing a little. “The most accomplished woman of our time.”

The guy blinked, looking briefly thrown for a second, eyes back on your costume as he tried to decipher who you were.

But Minho, astonishingly, cracked a half-smile. Which, for Minho, was practically a laugh. “Are you Barbie?”

“Yes,” you admitted, reluctantly, half-tempted to lie just to be petty. Except, damn it, no more pettiness. You’d agreed.

“Barbie is the most accomplished woman of our time?”

“Princess. Astronaut. President. I am prepared to fight you on this.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and I’ll win.”

“Mm,” Minho hummed, and again, his gaze flickered downwards. What, was it so shocking to see you in pink?

You shifted your weight, and you almost folded your arms over your chest before you remembered what the neckline was like on this dress. Maybe not.

Unbeknownst to you, Felix and Minho’s friend exchanged a look.

Clearing your throat, you turned your attention to the large and varied alcohol selection littering the kitchen counter. “So, what can I get to drink here?”

“Minho can talk you through it,” Minho’s friend suddenly announced, patting Minho on the shoulder. Minho blinked, tearing his eyes away from you to look at his friend. “I’m gonna go find Chan, he promised me a beer pong rematch. Felix, bro, you should come with.”

Felix hesitated. “…Actually, maybe I–”

“Nah, come on,” Minho’s friend insisted, hooking his arm with Felix’s, cheerfully pulling him away. “Be my cheerleader.”

You stared, as it dawned on you that your biggest support in this minefield of a conversation was being frogmarched away.

Right. OK. Alone with Minho.

Cool.

You chanced a look back towards Minho, only to find him still watching you, and you quickly diverted your attention to the alcohol again. Smoothing down your skirt, you forced yourself to shrug. “I thought about coming as Frieda Dalen, but I figured no one would get the reference. She was–”

“The first woman to speak at the U.N., yeah.”

You snapped your head back to stare at him, bewildered. “How the fuck do you know that?”

Minho raised one eyebrow, and you were genuinely irritated that, in combination with the hair and the blood and the outfit in general, it almost…almost maybe twisted something in your gut. “My first official university debate was about the history of women in global affairs. She was a good factoid. 1946, right?”

You fought the urge to scowl as you confirmed his answer. “Yep. 1946.”

And, because even the tightest of leather couldn’t dull your burning dislike of seeing Minho smug, you pressed him further.

“Do you remember which country she was the delegate of?”

“No,” Minho admitted, tilting his head slightly to one side as he looked at you. After a moment, he straightened up from where he’d been leaning, gaining an inch or two of height in doing so, forcing you to tilt your chin up slightly to continue meeting his gaze. “Why don’t you tell me?”

His words should have sounded patronising.

Except, there was a strange edge to his voice, almost a playfulness but not quite. Not a lightness, because it definitely didn’t feel light. It felt kind of heavy, actually.

If you didn’t know any better, you would almost mistake it as…

“Minho!”

Both of you jolted at the sudden shout, barely having the time to turn towards it source before a tall guy with a Phantom of the Opera mask and ridiculously pretty long, blond hair staggered into Minho and hugged him.

You blinked, too caught off-guard to even appreciate the bemused expression on Minho’s face as the pretty guy mumbled into his shoulder. “Minho, I think…I’m druuunk.”

You took that as the perfect opportunity to back out of this…interaction with Minho, even as something strange twisted inside of you. You quickly grabbed the closest drink you could and retreated out of the kitchen as fast as your dignity would allow.

You needed to drink. And maybe dance. Anything to distract you, before your mind wandered anywhere dangerous.

This wasn’t working.

Drinking your problems away was a terrible idea in and of itself, but you’d been tempted to give it a go. After your second drink, however, you were blindsided with the intrusive thought of getting wasted and throwing up in Minho’s bathroom, and all the humiliation that could go with it, and it had warned you off alcohol for the rest of the night.

Dancing, your alternative solution, had worked for the first hour or so. You had let loose a little, but as your drink-fuelled buzz slowly faded, you found yourself growing increasingly uncomfortable by the stale air and the press of warm bodies. You were getting hot, something under your skin beginning to itch.

You needed to get out of here, just for a moment, to clear your head.

With crowds of people blocking your way to the front door, you decided on a different path towards some peace and quiet. Upstairs was mostly left untouched, understandable since there were no drinks to be found and no music playing, and you breathed out a sigh of relief when you reached the top of the stairs and turned a corner, and found an empty hallway.

Perfect.

Before you could think twice, you sat down on the floor, your back against the wall. The relief of taking a break from standing in these heels was immediate, and you let your head loll backwards, closing your eyes.

You just needed a few minutes here, you decided. Just to recharge.

“What are you doing?”

You didn’t open your eyes, but you felt your expression immediately sour. Of course it had to be the worst possible person to find you here, alone and close to misery, sitting in the hallway.

Minho approached, or at least, that was what you gathered from the sound of his footsteps. He came to a halt fairly close, pausing, and spoke up again.

“How are you this wasted already?” Minho asked, and there was surprisingly little amusement in his voice at the idea. In fact, you’d almost mistake it for concern.

“I am distressingly sober, actually,” you replied, slowly opening one eye to glare at him, but it was half-hearted at best, and you closed it again. “Just needed some quiet. Had a headache.”

Minho didn’t say anything in response. In fact, it was silent for so long, you started to wonder if he’d walked off without you even noticing, when he suddenly spoke up again. “I know a good place for quiet. And for fresh air, if you want it.”

Slowly, you opened your eyes again, fixing him with a look of suspicion. Admittedly, whatever he was suggesting sounded like the perfect place for you right now – which was exactly the reason you were so suspicious. “Where?”

“It’s pretty nearby,” Minho said, and to your disbelief, held out his hand.

Your eyes flickered from his face, to his outstretched hand, to his face again, before taking a deep breath and pushing yourself up to your feet by yourself. To his credit, Minho withdrew his hand smoothly, seemingly unaffected by your refusal to take it.

“After you,” you said, still reluctant to let down your guard.

Minho nodded, and set off down the hallway, going just a little further from where you were sitting, and stopping in front of a door. With a glance back to you, probably checking to see if you were still following, or if you’d lied about being sober and collapsed while he wasn’t looking, he opened it and wandered inside.

You took a few steps towards it – and then caught one look inside the room and halted dead in your tracks.

That was…

Was that…?

“Is that your fucking bedroom?” You asked, in pure disbelief.

Minho stopped, turning around to look at you, and how the fuck could he look so calm about this? “…Yeah? Last time I checked, why?”

“Why? Are you…” you trailed off, scoffing, before putting on your best Minho impression. “‘I know a good place, come follow me’ and it’s your bedroom. Come on.”

“I wasn’t…I was talking about the balcony. There’s a balcony through…” Minho gestured vaguely towards the far wall, where you realised the huge ceiling-to-floor curtains hanging there must be hiding the doors to it.

Of course he has a balcony.

Of course.

For once in his life, Minho looked just the slightest bit ruffled as he finally caught on to the incredibly obvious implications.

He swallowed. “Look, if you’re not comfortable, that’s–”

You interrupted him with a scoff. “I’m not uncomfortable.”

In fact, to prove just how comfortable you were, you marched into his room, forcing yourself to appear entirely unbothered.

“See? Fine,” you said. “Just, maybe lead with the balcony thing next time, so you don’t look like some massive sleaze.”

Again, Minho’s reaction surprised you. Instead of anger or annoyance at your accusation, Minho cracked another half-smile. “Fair.”

…Yeah, you really weren’t used to this whole ‘nice’ thing between the two of you. It felt weird, like the very foundations of your dynamic were shaken by it.

As Minho led you towards the balcony, you tried your best not to look too closely at his bedroom, as much as your curiosity protested otherwise. The most detail you got was that it was fairly neat, fairly clean, and he had a stupidly large bed. Which, you know, Minho, fuck-you money, that made sense.

You point-blank refused to dwell on it.

As soon as he slid open the door, you quickly leaned forward and breathed in that refreshing cold night air, and felt your headache fade just a little. It was only when you stepped out onto the balcony that you truly felt yourself relax, and the tension built up in your head began to ease.

“Better?” Minho asked, and you heard him come up from behind you, coming to a stop beside you to look up at the night sky. You couldn’t make out many stars from here, thanks to the light pollution of the city, but it was still undeniably a pretty cool view.

“Yeah,” you admitted and, begrudgingly, you turned towards him to mutter. “…Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“I won’t be too long out here,” you added, feeling the weirdest need to justify accepting this kindness from Minho, to downplay it. “I’m not exactly dressed for October weather.”

Minho paused, keeping his gaze fixed on the night sky above and very much not on you. “Yeah.”

…Yeah?

You frowned, unable to stop yourself from feeling slightly defensive. “I mean, you’re one to talk.”

That got his attention. Suddenly, Minho had no problem looking at you. “What?”

“Your pants, Minho. Did you paint them on yourself?”

And you realised then and there that you must have made some kind of error, because Minho looked genuinely amused. Glancing down at himself for a moment, his eyes wandered back up to meet yours, and there was a genuine note of curiosity in his voice. “What, do you like them?”

You stilled, faltering just slightly, before retorting. “I’d probably like the cow they’re made from more.”

“Don’t worry, they’re not real leather,” Minho quipped back. “If that’s your only issue with them.”

“Well, you know, the fake leather industry is actually…” you trailed off, because your comeback sounded lame even in your head. “Whatever.”

The two of you fell into a silence, both watching the stars for a moment, listening to the thud of the bass downstairs and the muffled cacophony of voices.

And then, quietly, reluctantly, Minho spoke. “…Can I ask you a genuine question?”

If it was about the pants, you might actually throw him off this balcony. “OK. You’re not guaranteed a genuine answer, but go ahead.”

“The U.N. speech. It was your idea. If you want to go into human rights, why are you doing a speech about the environment?”

You paused, genuinely flustered by his question. Your response came out jumbled. “I don’t…you know, the two aren’t mutually exclusive, environmental damage is having a huge impact on–”

“Yeah, but that’s not what the speech is actually about. It’s a great speech, but why isn’t it on a subject youwant to do?”

“Who says? You? You don’t know what I want,” you shot back, irritated, refusing to admit that he’d touched a nerve.

Rather than snapping back at you immediately, Minho took a deep breath, calming slightly. “…You’re right. I don’t. I shouldn’t assume.”

What was this? You didn’t want him to agree with you, you wanted an argument. This ‘nice’, truce stuff was really starting to grate on you. “Exactly.”

“It’s just…it’s important that you do what you want, and not try to shape yourself around other people.”

“I don’t,” you argued. “Maybe what I want is for you not to attack every little decision I make. Like you always do.”

Minho’s brow furrowed, his stance shifting slightly. It took a second to realise that he was appraising you, eyeing you thoughtfully.

“You…really seem to dislike me,” he noted.

“Oh, do I?” You remarked, bitterly.

“Why is that?”

You let out a deep breath, mostly out of frustration, but also a little out of exhaustion. Closing your eyes for a moment, you tried to construct some kind of response.

There seemed to be a multitude of answers to that question. Minho was arrogant. He was atrociously blunt in most social settings and seemed indifferent to the hurt he caused others. He had an exorbitant amount of money and had very few qualms showcasing it. He scared away almost every single new debate team recruit because he was apparently allergic to the concept of constructive criticism. He’d ruined more than one relationship you’d had. Apparently, you talked too much about him, but there were only so many ways to honestly answer questions about your day or how you were feeling without mentioning how aggravating Minho was in some capacity.

But honestly, the more you thought about it, the more you felt yourself slipping back into the shell of that little fourteen-year-old, looking up at the cool older boy with wide eyes and hoping for just one kind word.

And it made you feel so…small. Pathetic.

“Because you’re an asshole,” you stated, simply.

Minho stared at you for a second, before frowning slightly. “I mean, not really.”

…Oh, he decided to say just exactly the wrong thing there, didn’t he?

“You absolutely are. Like, objectively,” you argued. “You literally made a girl cry last week over debating.”

“What? Who?”

“That first-year girl. Dark hair, super perky. You know, when she’s not crying her eyes out.”

Something approaching recognition dawned on Minho’s face, but to your surprise, his expression dimmed slightly. “Oh, her. She told you it was about her debating?”

Well, not in exact words, you wanted to say. But it wasn’t hard to read between the lines, given what you knew Minho to be capable of.

“OK, then what was it about?” You asked.

“She came up to me after our last meeting and asked for some tutoring,” Minho said, before giving you a very pointed look. “As in, a specific kind of ‘private’ tutoring. Very specific. And she was not subtle about it.”

You blinked. “…What?”

Minho’s brow furrowed, visibly searching through his memory of the incident. “To be fair, I might have laughed in her face. In my defence, it was less about her and more about the audacity.”

You pictured the scene, of that girl coming onto Minho, his face when he realised what was happening, and the worst part of you maybe wanted to smirk a little. But you would not indulge it. “Still, sounds like you could have been nicer abut it.”

“OK, yeah, I feel a little bad. But no, it wasn’t over her debating skills. I might be harsh, but you think I’d make someone cry over that and not give a shit?”

Every ounce of amusement drained out of you in an instant, replaced by something cold. “I mean…yeah, you’ve done it before.”

“What? When?”

He didn’t know?

How could he not know?

You might have finished sobbing by the time you’d confronted him, all those years ago, but hadn’t it been extremely obvious?

You stared at Minho for a good few seconds, waiting for him to slip up, to give up the joke. But all you got in return was a genuinely confused expression on his face, waiting for you to clarify what exactly you were talking about.

Oh.

Yeah, he really didn’t know.

Shit.

You swallowed, looking down at your hands, picking at one particularly jagged edge of your thumbnail. “…Me.”

Minho stilled. You could feel his eyes burning into the side of your head, searching your face. “You cried?”

Oh, fuck this guy. You stiffened, embarrassment roiling in the pit of your stomach, and snapped, seething. “Just forget it–”

“No, I didn’t mean…” he trailed off. When you braved a look over at him, you didn’t find the smirk you were expecting. Minho looked genuinely chastened, watching you with a deep but unreadable emotion. “I…didn’t know.”

You didn’t like this, you didn’t know how to handle…earnest Minho. Where the fuck did asshole Minho go?

“It was just the once. It was my first debate, and you were a dick about it,” you said, forcing yourself to shrug.

“Oh,” Minho said, with such a strangely specific tone that you couldn’t help but look over at him. There was a look of dawning realisation on his face, and the slightest hint of…

Embarrassment?

“I think I remember that,” Minho said, sounding vaguely horrified. “…This is going to sound dumb.”

Minho? Dumb? And aware of that fact? “…OK.”

“And a little pathetic.”

“Good, go on.”

“But I think, at the time…I was hoping you’d ask me for help.”

You stilled, trying to comprehend the string of words that had just left his mouth. Trying to forge them into anything that made even the smallest bit of sense.

“…And you didn’t, I don’t know, think about offering your help? Before humiliating me in front of my classmates?” You asked, and you almost surprised yourself with the way your voice shook with an old, familiar anger. “That didn’t, you know, maybe occur to you?”

Minho turned his whole body to face you head-on, hand curling around the balcony railing at his side. It was in that moment, seeing him entirely, that you glimpsed that blunt, ruthless young man that had cut you so deeply all those years ago – and saw, for the first time, how small he really was. That memory had taken up so much space in your mind, had warped itself until Minho towered over you, a titan, a symbol of each and every one of your failings.

Now, for once, a new image appeared. An awkward teenage boy, too embarrassed to admit that he wanted to be something in your eyes.

You softened, just for a second.

And then, remembering yourself, remembering all that had happened between the two of you since then, you came back to your senses.

“And what about everything after? It’s not like you were nice after that one little misunderstanding, you picked at everything I did for years.”

“In my defence, neither were you. You refused to speak to me unless you had to for years,” Minho pointed out. “And I realised how much you could do, what you could achieve–”

“If you kept being an asshole?”

“If I held you to actual standards,” Minho corrected, and for the first time in this conversation, he was starting to get heated. Good. “The next time the club met, you wiped the floor with seniors. Seniors. You were just as good as me, and you barely had experience.”

A compliment from Minho, however begrudging and biting it was, had a dangerously addicting effect on you. Actually, maybe the begrudging part only made it better. “And what? That pissed you off?”

Minho’s expression faltered, just for a split-second, and that spoke more than any confession could.

“It did,” you said, half-shocked for a second, before pressing on. “So, you wouldn’t get off my fucking back foryears. You even turned up at nationals after you graduated, hoping I’d fall flat on my face.”

“Is that what you think?” Minho asked, incredulous.

“What else would it be?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe…” Minho stopped, before letting out a short, bitter laugh. “Never mind. Forget it.”

You wanted to press him further, but the anger that had sustained you so far was starting to flag a little.

This was just…exhausting, sometimes.

You let out a deep breath, just as a cold October breeze decided to kick up, making you shiver. Instinctively, you folded your arms over your chest, tucking your hands into your sides to get just a little bit of warmth.

Maybe it was time for you to leave.

You looked over at Minho, opening your mouth to say something–

Only to catch his gaze openly, unmistakably, dipping down towards your cleavage.

You stopped.

You stared.

His eyes moved upwards again, finding yours, and he realised he’d been caught.

He tensed, just for a second, and you watched a tangle of emotions play out across his face before he settled on a neutral, blank, composed expression. But he didn’t speak.

He just…looked at you.

Waiting for you to say something? Daring you to say something?

It was hard to decipher, because at that moment, your brain was still 100% stuck on the fact that Minho had been checking you out.

Because that wasn’t some little accidental flicker, his gaze had stayed there.

Minho had been absolutely, undeniably, checking you out.

For all your complaints about the cold weather, it was starting to get very warm out here.

Why the fuck wasn’t he saying something? Anything?

You swallowed – or, well, you tried to at least.

Something had awoken, deep in the pit of your stomach. You felt it starting to unfurl, slowly, your nerve endings beginning to prickle.

“Are you…” you didn’t finish the question, you couldn’t finish the question, because the words ‘are you into me?’ were so laughably alien that they just refused to leave your mouth.

Minho waited, expectant for something, searching your face. Whatever he found – or didn’t find – was enough to make him speak.

“What?” he asked, and it was that same voice he had in the kitchen. Quiet, loaded, just a touch lower in register that almost made your breath catch.

It was like he was challenging you. Goading you. Wondering whether you were too much of a coward to finish that question.

You needed to ask. You needed to say it.

Come on, you were about to talk to the fucking United Nations in a few months, surely you could handle asking one question to Lee fucking Minho.

“Are you…attracted to me?”

Already, you were starting to cringe internally. Already, you were preparing for the worst. You tried to reassure yourself that it was fine, that when he said ‘no’ you could call him out on staring at your chest, he had no room to speak, it was a logical question, it…

Except Minho didn’t say ‘no’.

He didn’t say anything.

And the longer he looked at you, the longer he stayed silent, the more obvious his answer became.

…Oh.

That…

Maybe you were drunk, actually. Surely you had to be. Because the idea that Minho found you attractive didn’t drive you off like you thought it would.

Minho found you attractive.

Minho, the man with an ego so large it could smother a man, a superiority complex so vast it could bring awe-stricken observers to tears, that Minho…found you attractive.

Huh.

As you stared back at him, you were hit with the sudden thought of kissing him.

Which would be a terrible idea.

Because Minho was Minho and just because he was into you, just because he was perhaps objectively maybe a little good-looking, just because he’d admitted that all these years he’d seen you as an intellectual equal, just because he had the kind of thighs that could probably crush a watermelon, he…

He…

You paused, mind-blank, before rising up on your toes and pressing your lips to his.

The first few seconds were strange. Of course they were, it was surreal to feel someone’s lips on yours and know this was Minho, holy shit. You could feel how still he was, how shocked, and you knew he must have been on the exact same wavelength.

And then, he closed his eyes, his hand lifted up to gently cup your cheek, and everything clicked together perfectly.

This felt right, like really weirdly right despite it all. Some kind of base level of brain chemistry was screaming about how right this was, and it had you shivering in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

Was this a bad idea? The two of you had to work together for the next few months, you should have been aiming to keep things strictly professional, personal issues could complicate–

Minho let out the tiniest exhale, recapturing your lips immediately, and your thoughts stopped dead in your tracks.

Fuck professionalism, you’d earned this, you’d been working your ass off for months, you deserved to take satisfaction whenever you could get it.

You looped your arms around his neck, pulling yourself up slightly to press the entirety of your front against his. He was warm, shockingly so, and when his free hand moved to press itself into the small of your back, you chanced parting your lips just a little.

Minho followed suit, deepening the kiss, angling his head just slightly. Everything about his touch, how he held you, it was all so strangely gentle in comparison to the usual way he treated you. As if you were an illusion, like if he squeezed too hard, you might disappear.

One of your hands came up to run your fingers up his neck, through his hair, and the drag of your fingernails coaxed a quiet hum out of him.

Every noise you pulled from Minho, every little reaction, felt like winning an argument. It felt like a strange natural extension of your debates, isolating the weakness in the other’s defence and targeting it.

You let your fingers tangle in his hair, biding your time, and when you tested a sharp little twist, you heard his breath catch.

Minho went still, just for a second, just enough to take a deep breath, before grabbing your hip and swinging you around, pushing you up against the sliding balcony door, trapping you between it and him.

The impact was enough to knock a gasp out of you, and he pulled away briefly. You watched him, cheeks flushed, eyes dark, breath heavy, as he tried to form words. “Fuck, are you–”

You pulled him back to you, a hand fisted in his shirt collar, too impatient to let him finish the rest of his question. Your kiss was rushed, insistent, and you took your time before you pulled away to mutter against his lips. “I’m fine. Just…fuck it, just keep kissing me.”

Minho’s head dipped towards yours, briefly, as if he were about to do just that – before he paused. “…Ask me nicely.”

“Fuck off,” you snapped, impulsively, heat rushing to your face.

He pulled his head away, his whole body even, until the two of you were just barely touching. He lingered, teasingly close, an amused glint in his eye. “Why, is that want you want? Me to fuck off?”

You didn’t know if he was being sincere or not. You never knew if he was being sincere or not. That was Minho, through and through.

You scrabbled for an answer, brain still sluggishly working through the fact that you weren’t kissing anymore, chest rising and falling with every quickened breath. You found your words, looking him directly in the eye, tilting your chin up slightly.

“Kiss me,” you said, practically venomous, before setting your jaw. “Or I’ll find someone else to do it for you.”

You didn’t know why that was the threat you made. Logically, it held no weight – Minho might have been attracted to you, but would he really care if you kissed someone else? You half expected him to laugh you off, and wander off back to the party without even a glance back at you.

He did neither of those things.

In fact, the teasing look in his eye vanished completely. His gaze turned so intense that you wondered if he could burn a hole straight through you.

When he finally spoke, he was deceptively calm, his voice perfectly even as he noted out loud. “I see. So, that’s how we’re playing this.”

You barely had time to process his words, before his mouth was back on yours, almost feverish, and with a newfound harshness.

You met him with just as much enthusiasm, matching him move-for-move.

A gentle Minho was too complicated. A soft, kind Minho forced you to confront some preconceived notions that you were very happy to keep unchallenged.

This Minho, the one who dragged his right hand down your side, the one who gripped your hip so tightly you could imagine it bruising, this was something you could handle. Something you didn’t have to overthink.

Because, fuck, you really, really didn’t want to think right now. You were sick of thinking, your whole life was thinking.

Minho’s hand slipped downwards to your thigh, his palm sliding around to the back of it before he lifted your leg up slightly to slot his thigh right between yours.

The instant he lowered your leg, you realised exactly what he’d done. Immediately, you felt the press of him between your legs, subtle enough to allow plausible deniability, and yet too firm for you to just ignore. To make matters worse, you were now just slightly off-balance, your foot just brushing the floor.

You couldn’t lower it, you couldn’t regain your balance, without pressing down even more on his thigh. You tried anyway, and the friction resulted in your first whimper of the night, light and breathy against him.

Minho’s grip, still on your leg, tightened.

He dropped his head to press his mouth to your neck, kissing at the skin there – and then he clenched his fucking thigh muscles, and your resulting moan slipped out right by his ear.

Your hands scrambled for him, clutching his shoulders, breath heavy as you tried not to rock your hips. You couldn’t give him the satisfaction, you absolutely refused to. You grabbed a fistful of his hair again, pulling by the roots to drag his head back upwards so your mouths could meet again.

Your kiss was now heated, almost clumsy. You caught Minho’s bottom lip between your teeth and nipped, enjoying the way he hissed, the way his tongue licked over where you’d done it, the way his left hand came up to your face – not to cradle this time, but to clutch, to grip.

His right hand moved up to your ass, giving it one firm squeeze, before suddenly and very deliberately pulling you down and along his thigh. More noises fought their way out of your mouth, and you were too weak to resist just one roll of your hips, chasing that same friction. It had barely been a few minutes, and you could already feel yourself starting to ache, heat beginning to collect at the apex of your thighs.

It was gratifying to learn, when you pulled Minho even closer, forcing the full length of his body to press against yours, that you weren’t alone in that. You felt something firm beginning to press into your hip, and when you slid your hand down to confirm what it was, palm sliding against it, Minho inhaled sharply.

You grinned against his lips, and squeezed him through those damned fake-leather pants.

He groaned, eyes drifting shut for just a second, before suddenly snapping open.

“Come on,” he said, swallowing, and took you by the wrist. Before you knew it, he pulled you away from the balcony door to slide it open again, and hurriedly tugged you inside.

You had been a little too distracted to notice how much colder it must have turned outside, but inside welcomed you with a warmth that radiated through your whole body.

But it took you a moment, brain still in a thigh-induced haze, to realise the full extent of what it meant to be inside.

To be inside Minho’s bedroom.

You hesitated as Minho slid the balcony door shut behind you, drawing the curtains together.

You stared ahead, eyes on that huge bed – and the first hints of panic seized your chest.

Quickly, almost unthinkingly, you grabbed Minho by the arm and pulled him. He stumbled, clearly caught off-guard, but he went along with it, letting you pull him to you and turn, pressing him up against the wall.

Easy. Your back was to the bed now, removing it from your sight, and that strange new weight of anxiety disappeared entirely. You went back to kissing him, hands back in his hair. Your new comfort zone, apparently.

Apparently, however, you didn’t entirely fool Minho, who must have picked up on your tension at least a little.

“I thought,” he murmured, between kisses, and made no move to grab at you like he had outside, “you might want,” more kisses, “some more privacy.”

You hummed, non-committal, your concerns already disappearing as you tried to figure out how to get Minho’s leg back between yours again without outright asking.

“Outside, people can…” he paused, probably because your nails had scraped along his scalp almost accidentally, and he shivered, “hear.”

You pulled away slightly, hiding how breathless you were, fixing him with a playful look.

“Hear what?” you challenged, pretending as if you hadn’t literally moaned in his ear just a short while ago.

Minho didn’t answer, but you knew that expression. It used to keep you awake at night, anger burning through you at just the thought of it. He was smug.

Surprisingly, the sight no longer filled you with burning rage – but it did prompt you to back him up against the wall again, stepping right back into his personal space, and pull his head down to kiss you again.

He relaxed into you, soft and gentle as his hands eased over your sides, which only served to wind you up more. Frustrated, you tugged at his shirt, pulling it up and out from where it had been tucked into his waistband, and let your hand snake up under it.

You had learned over the course of the evening that Minho, as mouthy as he liked to be around you, wasn’t the most vocal partner you’d encountered. Maybe that would have discouraged the average person, but you knew Minho. You’d known him for years, you knew every tell he had, the meaning behind every hint of body language.

You knew that when Minho’s breath caught, as your hands ran up his stomach, up his chest, exploring his upper body, it was basically his equivalent of shaking with anticipation.

You took the hint, grasping his shirt with both hands and pulling it upwards. The shirt – some kind of billowy white poet’s shirt, the kind with the little lace-up ties at the neck that he’d left undone and open – was loose enough to remove easily, and you let it drop without a second thought.

Even now, despite everything, you were reluctant to stroke Minho’s ego by openly ogling him. It was a challenge, trying to ignore the smooth skin, the lean muscle, so you dipped your head before he could see your reaction, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the underside of his collarbone.

Again, it felt like a special talent to recognise Minho’s deep inhale, when your hands brushed his chest, for the emotions it betrayed.

Your mouth descended lower, eager, towards his chest – and you let your tongue brush his nipple.

His breath caught again, and when you experimented with a quick nip of your teeth, his grip on your sides tightened briefly.

That was Minho’s equivalent of being horrendously, painfully turned on.

Your hand slid down past his abdomen, cupping him through his pants, and this time you let your palm gently grind against him.

Minho’s body shivered under your touch, and it felt like winning.

And then, suddenly, as if he had somehow read your mind, he scrambled for the zipper of your dress, determined to even the playing field. You briefly pictured denying him, pictured staying clothed while undressing Minho, having that kind of advantage over him.

Tempting, maybe. But then you imagined the feel of Minho’s hands on your bare skin, and you made your decision pretty quickly.

Minho pulled down your zipper, building anticipation as he hooked two fingers under each of your spaghetti straps and slowly peeled your dress from you, letting it pool around your ankles.

His eyes dropped, and his expression changed.

“Oh, wow.”

You couldn’t help but grin slightly, glancing down at what you knew Minho was staring at. Your underwear was a matching set of pastel pink silk, with little hints of lace and ribbon, even a bow or two. You’d taken one look at it and knew it screamed princess.

“I always commit to my costumes,” you replied, refusing to feel even the smallest hint of embarrassment. It was hard to feel so anyway, with Minho staring down at you with dark eyes, drinking the sight in, amusement long since shifted into something else entirely.

He reached forward, tracing the ribbon at the edge of your bra cup with his thumb, before letting it sweep down over the lace – and right over the peak of your nipple, eliciting a sharp inhale from you. “Were you expecting someone to see it?”

“No,” you admitted, half-tempted to arch your back, just to press your breast into the curve of his palm. “Nothing about this was expected.”

Minho hummed quietly in agreement, still taking his time admiring you. He grabbed at your breast, not quite rough but not entirely gentle, fingers splayed, making sure to drag his thumb back over your nipple as he did so. “I never imagined you wearing something like this.”

You were so focused on the weight of his hand on your chest that you almost missed the implication. Almost. “Imagined? You imagined?”

Minho’s eyes darted up to meet yours, looking caught out for just a moment before his expression smoothed again. “Sometimes. Occasionally.”

OK, you had to ask. “What did you imagine?”

“Not this,” Minho stated, stubborn, refusing to give a single detail.

Your mind whirred at the possibilities anyway. What? Did that mean it was the complete opposite of this? What was the opposite of this sugary pink ensemble? Black, sexy? Leather? A whole dominatrix-style thing, was that what Minho was into?

“Tell me,” you demanded, incredibly curious now.

He hesitated, before sighing. “…You know that red skirt you wear sometimes?”

Well, that was not where you thought this was going. “Yeah?”

“I’ve thought about you wearing it at debating. You’re stood behind the podium, most of you hidden from sight,” Minho described, and his voice slowly began to shift. “I’m stood behind you, like I’m reading your notes over your shoulder. You don’t look at me, but your legs part, just a little.”

Your breath caught, as his left hand brushed against your inner thigh, fingertips stroking circles into the sensitive skin there.

“You let me slide my hand up,” he continued, and slowly, his hand begins to drift upwards. “Because you want me to know you aren’t wearing anything underneath.”

Holy shit.

“And you want me to feel how wet you are, waiting for me,” Minho said, pausing his hand just a few inches from the edge of your underwear, waiting as he checked your face for any signs of protest.

You couldn’t imagine what exactly your expression was, but you’re certain that protest was probably the furthest fucking thing from it.

And so, his hand moved, cupping you through your underwear, feeling just how damp the fabric was. Your breath rushed out shakily at the first moment of contact, almost akin to a gasp, body shuddering.

“That’s what I imagine,” he said, and fucking shrugged, even as his thumb pressed directly against your clit.

You moaned, your hand immediately flying up to clutch at his shoulder for balance. Everything about Minho’s touch, the pressure, the pace, screamed relaxed. He wasn’t trying to do anything but just…touch you. Gauge your reaction.

You closed your eyes, dropping your forehead to his shoulder, as his fingers continued to work small, slow circles around your clit, still over the barrier of your excessively pretty underwear.

“Should have known,” you murmured, trying not to gasp, and trying not to push your hips towards his hands. “You’re the type to tease.”

Minho’s voice came low from somewhere above your ear, as his hand moved at that same maddening pace. “Not usually.”

“Ah,” you breathed, understanding. He was on the exact same wavelength as you. Every reaction sparked from the other was a victory, to be enjoyed, to be savoured. “I get it. I’m special.”

Minho murmured something under his breath, something you couldn’t quite make out, and pressed just a little firmer against you. You moaned from the surprise of it, burying your face further into his neck.

Beneath your hand, you could feel his dick twitch, now so firm and so insistently pressing against your hand that you knew it had to be aching, trapped in those skin-tight pants like that.

You moved your hand up, struggling briefly with how tightly his waistband sat around his hips, before your hand suddenly slipped inside, fingers grazing roughly against something slick and warm and hard.

Minho finally moaned, loudly, openly, hips bucking briefly up into your hand. “Shit.”

“What was that you were saying?” you asked, innocently, running your fingers back over what you knew to be his cockhead, teasing. “About no underwear?”

Minho sucked in a breath, and from where your head was resting in the crook of his neck, you could hear him swallow. “…These were already too fucking small.”

“They are stupidly tight.”

“Don’t act like you – fuck,” he hissed, cutting himself off. Probably because you’d squeezed him again.

His free hand found its way to the corner of your jaw, prying your face away from his neck so he could duck his head down and kiss you, hungrily. You reciprocated, basking in the way he groaned against your mouth.

And then, he asked. “Bed?”

You stilled, hesitating. “…Bed?”

Minho paused, pulling away a little to take in your expression. Immediately, you did your best to smooth it out, to appear unbothered, casual, fine.

He wasn’t fooled. “Is something up?”

You swallowed, still trying to maintain your composure. “Besides your dick? No.”

Minho raised an eyebrow, and faked one short, sharp laugh. “Ha. You’re so funny when you dodge the subject.”

“I’m not dodging anything,” you argued.

He paused again, waiting, watching you. And, after a moment, he pulled his hand away from your underwear to wrap around your wrist, gently tugging your hand out of his pants.

“OK, fine,’” you relented, composure cracking. That old familiar dread returned, lodging itself in the pit of your stomach. “I just don’t…do this. All this,” you said, gesturing between the two of you, and towards the room at large. “The way it’s all spontaneous, I mean.”

“Me neither,” Minho said, calmly, still waiting expectantly. “What else?”

Fucker.

You scowled, jaw clenching, teeth gritted as you admitted. “And my experience in general, is…one could say limited.”

“I figured as much.”

“Rude,” you pointed out, vaguely offended. You’d had this man fucking shivering from just touching him. And what? Now, he was calling you inexperienced? Amateurish? Like he could tell the whole time? Bullshit.

“No, not…” Minho cleared his throat, looking mildly exasperated. It was a look you often inspired in him. “I don’t mind. That’s why I’m saying this, because I don’t want you pretending when it comes to shit like this. If you’re not going to be honest, I don’t want it.”

Honest.

Shit.

You hesitated, debating internally, weighing the pros and cons in your head. It was so fucking Minho to pick the most aggravating time to do the right thing. Of course, the one time that him being an asshole worked in your favour, he refused to do it.

“Fine,” you snapped, crossing your arms over your chest. “Fine. OK.”

He waited, eyes on you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from averting your gaze, looking up at the ceiling.

“Technically…technically,” you repeated, with emphasis, “one might argue that…I haven’t had sex yet.”

Minho stilled, staring at you, eyes widening.

You swallowed, trying to stay firm. “It’s really not a big deal…”

“It is,” Minho argued, tersely, but when you looked at his face, there wasn’t a hint of anger. There was, however, a strong hint of guilt in his eyes. You could practically see his thoughts, the way he replayed everything he’d done tonight, the fear that he’d done too much, come on too strong, picturing you as some blushing innocent virgin he’d deflowered–

“I’ve done everything else,” you said, eager to clear up that misconception. You were far from innocent, there was just one particular act you hadn’t gotten around to. “Hands, oral, all that. Done it. It’s literally the one thing that hasn’t…like, I’ve had relationships, it just never reached the point that…”

It always went around in circles. You wanted your relationship to be serious, to be settled and firmly established and in a good place before it happened – but the time it took to get there made your partners panic, made them think that to go so long without sex, without wanting them, the relationship must actually secretly be failing. And then you’d break up, and you’d be even more guarded and hesitant the next time, and on it went.

“And I’ve been busy with school and my career anyway,” you added, swallowing, forcing a shrug. “Who has the time?”

Minho was still staring at you, but at least the guilt had faded away.

He’d made no move to get away from you, at least, so you took this as a good sign. With a deep breath, you turned around and took slow, measured steps towards that ridiculously large bed, and looked him dead in the eye as you made a point of sitting down on it.

Doing your best to sound certain, reassuring, convincing without leaving a single bit of room for doubt, you spoke.

“I’m happy and comfortable with everything but sex-sex happening. So, if you want that…” you trailed off, trying to think of a polite way to phrase the thought in your head, before giving up with a shrug. “Tough shit, I guess. That’s my line in the sand. Everything else is fair game, though, so don’t get all…weird about it.”

“I’m not getting weird about it,” Minho said, stubbornly.

“You were. Just a little. Like you’re afraid to break me or something.”

Something sparked in Minho’s eyes, and he smiled slightly. “I’d never think I could do that.”

“Good, because you can’t,” you repeated, firmly. “There, honesty. Done. So, either come over here or leave.”

“Leave my own room?” Minho asked, amused.

“Yeah,” you said, doubling down, leaning back to plant both hands behind you on the bed. “It’s my room now.”

For a second, it looked like Minho was going to laugh. And then you caught the way his eyes began to lower, following the lines of your body, the way you were sitting on his bed, clad only in underwear, waiting.

He exhaled slowly, appreciatively. “…This is happening.”

You weren’t sure if that was aimed at you, or himself, but either way it didn’t matter much when he crossed the room in a flash. Barely taking the time to plant one knee into the mattress beside you, his mouth was on yours, hand on the back of your head.

It was a gentle gesture, sweet even, how he cradled the back of your head.

So, just to be certain that he knew exactly where you stood, and exactly how much patience you had for gentleness, you took his other hand and slid it into your panties.

Minho groaned, pulling away from the kiss to look down, and you felt his fingers slip through your folds, the movement made slick and easy by the way you were soaked.

“You’re so impatient,” he muttered, but he didn’t sound particularly annoyed about it. “All the time.”

“Yeah,” you replied, unapologetic. “I know what I want.”

“Mmhm. And so do I,” he said, and pulled his hand out of your underwear. You opened your mouth to argue, to question why, until you felt his hands move to your back, to the fastening of your bra.

He unhooked it easily, sliding the straps off your shoulders. Pushing up from the bed to stand tall, Minho let the bra fall from his hands, before reaching down to grab at your waist and pull you to standing.

He kissed you again, briefly, ignoring your bewildered expression, before switching your positions – him sat on the bed, you standing over him.

“These are staying on. They’re a bitch to peel off,” he told you, and your gaze was practically glued to his hand as it ran up his faux-leather-clad thigh before he gestured to your underwear. “It’s up to you, what you do with those.”

Your hand, unthinkingly, drifted to the lacy hem of your underwear.

“…What, no preference?” you asked him.

Minho stared at you, eyes dark, the corners of his mouth twitching ever so slightly with knowing, and didn’t reply.

Heat flooded your belly. You swallowed once, and hooked your fingers around your waistband, stripping out of your underwear before you could think twice.

He reached for you immediately, his hands on your hips, pulling you towards him. From what you could tell, he seemed to be guiding you towards straddling his lap – to which you took the slightest detour at the very last second, planting your knees either side of his thigh, the very same one that had been pushed between your legs on that balcony.

How very familiar a feeling. And yet, how very different, because now you were pressed against Minho’s naked chest, and when you kissed, one hand went straight to your bare breast, the other arm hooked around your bare waist.

Logically, you should have felt exposed – but there was very little room for logic here, not when Minho was squeezing you so tightly against him. You felt…enveloped by him. By his warmth.

It was…nice.

And then you finally let go of those last few traces of stubborn pride, and let yourself grind down on his thigh, and it was fucking fantastic.

You moaned, breaking the kiss to press your forehead against his, and rocked your hips faster. His thigh was so solid under you, thick bands of muscle from a lifetime of sports, clenching and unclenching. Heat pooled in your gut, spiking with every rock of your hips, every drag of your clit against him.

You felt Minho’s hand drop from your waist to curl around your hip, gripping tightly, urging you to keep moving. You pulled your face away from his, just in case – headbutting him in the nose, no matter the context, would very probably be a mood-killer – and instead lowered your head to plant kisses on the side of his neck.

Minho tilted his head back, just a little, granting you better access, his breath escaping him in one long, shaking exhale. You were forced to grip onto his shoulder with one hand, just to steady yourself, still grinding down on him.

Tension built between your legs, pulsing with every heartbeat as you continued to grind against him, and your kisses grew clumsier. Open-mouthed, harsher, teeth scraping against sensitive skin in a way that left Minho gasping.

“If I left marks, would it…” your voice was sluggish, raspy, dazed, “would…can I?”

It was a silly question, because the obvious answer was ‘no’, he wasn’t going to want any reminders of this temporary lapse in sanity.

And yet, Minho’s reply was immediate. “Yes. Yeah, you can, if…that’s…”

He broke off, with a noise so low in his throat that you could almost feel his chest vibrate from it, as your mouth latched onto his neck.

Your movements weren’t deliberate, not exactly. You had no strict intentions of marking up Minho’s skin, but it was just whenever it felt good. With every new sudden jolt of sensation shooting through your body, you sucked, leaving a path of your own pleasure scattered intermittently along his neck, the base of his throat, the swells and dips of his collarbone.

Minho reacted to each, and when you thought to look down, you saw his dick straining against his pants, so much so that it was even starting to pull his waistband away from his skin, revealing glimpses of what lay underneath.

You watched his hand lower to his crotch, as he tried to adjust himself, to figure out a way out of his discomfort. Without thinking, you reached down and pushed his hand away, letting your own slide into his paints.

Minho sharply inhaled, as you slid the palm of your hand over the head of him, letting your fingers grow slick, before wrapping your hand around his length.

He was hard, very obviously and very painfully hard.

And all of that was because of you.

Because he wanted you.

You felt your body physically judder at the thought, your thighs clamping around his. Something sparked inside of you. Up until now, you’d been turned on – obviously. You were naked on Minho’s bed and straddling his thigh, of course you’d been turned on, but it had been manageable. Like burning coals, smouldering, blazing hot to the touch, sure, but under control.

This, seeing him like this, was as if someone had jabbed right in the heart of those coals, oxygen rushing in and flames erupting, sparks crackling in the air. No longer under control, but all-consuming and desperate.

The muscles of your core clenched so tightly that it was almost painful, and with a ragged breath, you finally began to ride in earnest.

Minho clutched you with one hand as you moaned, his other snaking down to join yours on his dick. You let him guide your hand, controlling how hard you squeezed him, how slow you pumped him. Honestly, at this point, you didn’t have the concentration for it on your own, not when your legs were starting to shake with every new press of his thigh. You could feel something build, like a wave swelling, the crest just in sight but not quite…

“That’s it,” he murmured, and pressed a kiss to your chest. His eyes were dark when he pulled back, watching the way you bounced. “You’re…God, you’re fucking hot, do you know that?”

His words only drove you further, stoking something within you, and you moaned in response.

“Oh, is that what you like?” Minho asked, eyes lighting at his new discovery. His moved the hand on your waist to settle on your breast, squeezing lightly. “Me telling you how good you look?”

“Minho,” you muttered, half-warning, half-longing.

“With our history, I’d have thought you liked me mean,” he continued, and you should have wondered where that smart mouth of his had been this whole time.

He leaned in, kissing your neck, following upwards, until he reached your ear.

“But that’s not it,” he observed, murmuring into your ear. His hand – the one on yours, the one helping you stroke his dick – quickened, gripping yours just a little tighter, and his breath caught for a second, before continuing. “You want to hear how good you feel. How good you are.”

You whined, your body faltering for a beat, before picking up again.

“That’s it, isn’t it? You like praise,” he said, so very confident. Knowing, almost, like there was something else to it. Something he recognised, intrinsically. “You want me to admit how…fucking perfect I think you are.”

“Minho.”

You felt him twitch under your hands, felt the way he reacted to the way you breathed his name.

“Because you are,” he said, the words falling from his lips, as you grew even more frantic. “You are, you are, you’re good, you’re perfect, you’re…fuck, keep going. I can feel how wet you are, you…”

Fuck, fuck, it was too good. Too good and yet not good enough. There were tears in your eyes and your legs burned from how tightly they were clamped around Minho’s thigh, how desperately you’d ridden him, trying to chase an orgasm you just…you just couldn’t quite…

“Maybe you should fuck me,” you whined, voice hoarse, shaking. You’d spent the last five minutes essentially edging yourself, your brain was fried, and all you could imagine was how easy it would be for Minho to pull you over just a short distance onto his dick, let it fill you, maybe it…

“Don’t. Fuck, don’t say that,” Minho gasped, trying and failing to make it sound insistent, final. You could see the effects of your words. He was tempted, he was sorely fucking tempted. You knew he was picturing the exact same thing that you were. “I’m not taking your virginity at a fucking house party. You…”

He broke off with a moan, letting whatever words that would follow die on his tongue as you squeezed him.

“I need…I need more,” you gasped, through gritted teeth. Your body was starting to betray you, your legs starting to give out before you could reach your climax.

You buried your face in his neck, panting.

“I can’t…fuck,” you moaned, before one little word fell from your lips, the one word he’d asked for so long ago, out on the balcony, “Please.”

With a sudden, sharp breath, Minho hooked his arm around you and rolled you over, pressing you into the mattress. Your hand slipped out of his pants as he moved, hurriedly, down your body.

He paused at the apex of your legs, glancing up. “Are you OK with–”

“Yes,” you hissed, your hand fisting in his hair and pushing him downwards. You were so close, you were so close, and his thigh wasn’t between yours anymore, and you just couldn’t… “Yes, fuck, please.”

You could glimpse the beginnings of a smirk as he followed your hurried pushing, but before you could even register it, you felt him lick one long stripe along you, and your head emptied of all thoughts.

His mouth was hot and wet and almost immediately targeted your clit, leaving you shaking as you ground up into his face without shame, chasing the orgasm that had been just inches away for so fucking long. You could barely breathe from it, each breath wracking your body in almost-sobs, every muscle stiff and coiled in desperation.

You felt Minho hook an arm under your leg, pulling it up so that it could sit on his shoulder, parting you just a little wider.

You arched your back, your head pressing even further into the mattress, eyes squeezing shut. When you spoke, it was barely coherent, a loose string of words. “…H-hands, fingers…please, whatever it…Minho, I’m so close, I’m…ah…”

You felt him slide in a finger – two fingers? More? You didn’t know, you didn’t care, you just knew how close to the edge you were. Your muscles were locking up, body shaking, even as Minho placed his free hand on the curve of your hip, thumb brushing your skin in small, reassuring strokes.

Your grip in his hair tightened, mind going blank, tears in your eyes as you gasped. “Yes, keep – keep…keep–”

You came, and it felt like shattering. Your body’s muscles locked, rigid, shaking, as your own moans rang in your ears. At some point, your thighs had clamped around Minho’s head, your one anchor as you tried to come back down to earth.

It was like every rational thought, anything with even the slightest bit of complexity to it, evaporated. You were left weightless, on your back, dazed. Slowly, sluggishly, your gaze drifted to Minho.

What a sight, you thought. Pretty.

His cheek was pressed into the flesh of your inner thigh, skin flushed so pink, head tilted down so that most of his face was hidden by his rumpled hair. He was kneeling, and you saw that his hand had returned to his dick. It was as if he were trying to be discreet, almost quiet, even as he desperately pumped himself.

Barely even thinking about it, you reached down. His breath caught when you wrapped your own hand around him again, letting him guide your movements once more.

His head lifted, and you caught a glimpse of his dark brown eyes looking up at you. Always so unreadable, even now, even when burning.

Your mouth moved before your thoughts could catch up. “You’re…”

You didn’t know how to finish that. Gorgeous? Annoying? Terrifying?

All of it was true, none of it felt right to say in that moment.

You just watched him, eyes locked, until he choked out a moan, squeezed his eyes shut, and came with a soft, low, “fuck.”

It felt dirty, almost voyeuristic, to watch him cum. But even if you didn’t look, you still would have heard him, you still would have felt it on your hands, your thighs. You still would have felt the way he slumped forward, head dropping to your chest, forehead pressed against the valley between your breasts, his quick, deep breaths against your skin.

You still would have felt the way it all fell quiet – until it was just you, Minho, and the impending repercussions of what just happened.

What you’d done.

What had you done?

Your head dropped back against the mattress, looking up at Minho’s ceiling but not really seeing it, as your senses slowly returned to you.

Shit. Fuck. Every other fucking expletive, they all ran through your head.

What the fuck had you–

Minho cleared his throat, lifting his head up off of you. You could feel the weight of his gaze on your face, and you tried to school your expression into something neutral, pushing down the storm of thoughts in your mind.

You didn’t know why, but you expected him to withdraw from you immediately. Maybe that was doing him a disservice, but it was true.

That was why you were so surprised by the kiss he pressed to your temple, strangely gentle, even as his usual sardonic tone crept back into his voice as he spoke. “Let’s clean up first, overthink later.”

“I’m not overthinking,” you argued immediately, because old habits died hard even in a fucking surreal situation like this.

He didn’t laugh, but there was the slightest twitch to the corner of his mouth as he replied. “Sure.”

He sat up, and you caught the way he winced, probably in newfound discomfort over the state of his…current attire. While he attempted to strip out of his ruined pants with anything close to dignity, you pushed yourself up to a seated position, trying to look anywhere but him.

What now? What now? It was all well and good for him not to overthink, but you couldn’t drive away the sudden flood of consequences that threatened to overwhelm you. Of all times, why did it have to be now, when you were forced to interact with Minho so much more? You’d have to work with this man for the next few months, fuck, you had to talk at the U.N. with him. What would people say?

What would Felix say?

Something powder-blue and soft entered your field of vision, smelling of detergent and lavender fabric softener. You blinked, looking up to find Minho offering you a towel, and you wondered how long you must have zoned out, wrapped in your own thoughts. There wasn’t quite a smile on his face – nothing so extreme like that from Minho – but there was something gentle in his eyes.

You took it, swallowing, and cleaned yourself up as best as you could. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Minho pull on a pair of black sweatpants – and when he straightened up to standing, you finally clocked the blooming purple marks littered across his skin.

“Oh, fuck, your neck. I’m so sorry,” you gasped, mortified at the blooming purple marks on Minho.

He glanced towards you, and gave you half a shrug. “It’s fine.”

They were very much not fine. They were prominent, the kind of hickeys you’d be embarrassed to leave on a long-term partner, let alone a…

A…

Well, whatever Minho was.

You swallowed. “It’s not, have you seen them?”

He paused.

“…Yes,” Minho replied, firmly, and there was something about his tone that made you stop, that made you stare at him.

He stared back, face perfectly neutral but refusing to look away. The implications were not lost on you, and your face began to warm.

Clearing your throat, you set the towel by your side and reached for your clothes, having to get up to pick up each item along the shameless trail that ran from the bed to the balcony doors, gathering them in your arms in a small, pink pile. “Please tell me you have your own bathroom.”

Minho laughed a little, nodding towards the door to your right. “Where do you think I got the towel from? Through there.”

You spent a few minutes in the bathroom, trying to compose yourself, trying to clean up properly, slipping your costume back on. The strange feeling in your stomach didn’t ease up, not even once. In the mirror, you looked almost exactly the same as you had when you first stepped into Minho’s room – but how was that possible, when everything had changed?

Fuck, just…you didn’t need to think about it. Deal with it later, deal with all of it later. You just needed to get out and get some space and distance and just…

You drew yourself up as high as you could, squaring your shoulders, and pushed open the bathroom door.

You found Minho standing in the middle of the room, seemingly in mid-step, turning quickly to face you. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was…what? Pacing?

“I can’t stay,” you stated, trying to sound firm. You mostly succeeded, were it not for the slightest hesitation you had, the faintest strain to your voice.

Minho paused, catching it immediately. “…Do you want to?”

You didn’t know how to answer that. It felt like a trap, even now, as if Minho was preparing to pull the rug out from under you. You wished you couldn’t imagine that level of cruelty, and yet you feared it, however irrational it was. “…I don’t want people to talk.”

Minho eyed you for a second, and yet again waited before he spoke, like he was trying to choose his words before they left his mouth. He settled for a very simple, very Minho statement. “Fuck people.”

At any other time, in any other situation, you would have rolled your eyes. You even felt the urge now, tied up in the same desire to go back to normal, to pretend everything was fine. “It’s not as easy as that.”

“It is,” Minho argued, but there was no irritation in his voice. Just quiet. “But I get it.”

“This was very…uh,” you swallowed. “…Impulsive.”

“Yes. It was definitely that,” he replied, and was he even capable of being any more cryptic?

You glanced away, finding it difficult to look him in the eye as you admitted, quietly. “…But, uh, good.”

Minho paused. “…Yep.”

Couldn’t he just say what he was fucking thinking? You needed to know, you needed to know if he was on the same page as you, if he was also thinking that it was too weird to just leave things like this. Silent and awkward and just…dancing around each other like this.

You swallowed, and folded your arms over your chest. You weren’t quite brave enough to look at him again yet, but you spoke up again. “Did you…have a good time too?”

And just when you were expecting another cryptic little non-response, Minho decided to cut straight to the point and catch you off-guard. “I had a great time.”

You blinked, shocked enough that your eyes darted back to him without a second thought. “…Good. That’s, uh…good.”

It was so strange to see him like this. Lee Minho, always so put-together, never a shred of vulnerability – and there he was, hair mussed, shirtless, barefoot, taking a breath as he tried to put together his next words.

“I had a great time,” he repeated. “With you. And…”

He stopped.

“And…?” You asked.

His mouth opened. Closed. And opened again. “…I…you don’t have to go.”

You felt something warm unfurl in your chest. “Minho, do you want me to stay?”

“…Yes.”

You took a step forward, tension melting from your shoulders, replaced with a new curiosity. You couldn’t quite believe this was happening, and yet…

Well, you couldn’t let him off that easily.

“Yes, what?”

He exhaled, making a sound almost akin to a huff. You recognised that sound, you knew it from debating, from arguing, from whenever you caught a weakness in his defence and pressed him on it. “Yes, I want you to stay.”

You took another step. “Why?”

This time, he scoffed, as if it could hide the slow flush of pink making its way up his neck. “You know why.”

“No, I don’t.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, and wow, this was fun. “Yes, you do. You’re too smart not to.”

You grinned. “Thanks, but no. You’re going to have to say it.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“I am,” you said, without shame, and added. “You’re into that.”

He sighed, and gave in. “Yes, I am.”

“Well done,” you laughed, finally drawing it out of him. “You’re into me.”

Minho eyed you for a second, still just a touch out of reach. Like he’d done it on purpose, kept just enough space to protect himself.

You watched the way he hesitated, and for once, his mask slipped and his face gave away just a peek into what he was thinking. You could see the thoughts warring within his head, the way he hesitated before committing.

“…More than just that,” he said – he confessed – softly.

Just four words, but the meaning behind them was loaded. They hung in the air, obvious, weighty, vivid.

You froze, taking them in. You didn’t know why, you didn’t know how, but despite everything that had occurred tonight, Minho still had the ability to surprise you.

More than just that.

More than just…

Oh.

That was all your brain – your proudest attribute, your big, university-educated, sharp-witted genius brain – was capable of thinking.

Oh.

“So…” Minho said, before trailing off, watching you, and eventually forcing the smallest of shrugs. “Don’t go.”

You were still reeling. You tried to make it all fit, every piece of information you had. The gentleness he’d held you with, the strange softness he’d had, the look in his dark eyes when you threatened to find someone else to kiss, the way he smiled sometimes when you were trying to piss him off, the way he just…watched you in conversations, in arguments, like he was just as interested seeing you think as he was countering the words that came out of your mouth.

When you laid it out like that, when you visualised it like points in a debate – with so many in the for argument and frighteningly little in the against – it seemed so obvious.

“I…” your words came out hoarse, dazed. “…Yeah, I can…not go.”

Minho’s eyes searched every inch of you, trying to figure out what exactly you were thinking.

“…You look like you’re about to pass out,” he observed, bluntly.

“You just said you like me, can you blame me?” You asked, hysteria close to creeping into your voice.

Minho didn’t reply for a second, still watching you. “Is it such a surprise?”

“Yes,” you blurted out, instinctively, until you took a second to actually think about it. “…No? Yes and no? I don’t…you’re, like, annoyingly hard to read.”

“Am I?” Minho asked, but the corners of his lips were twitching, suggesting he already knew the answer to that. “I’d say the same about you, but honestly, sometimes you’re an open book.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Especially when you stare at my mouth.”

Your eyes snapped up back to his, blinking, caught. There was definitely amusement in his gaze now, a glimpse of relief creeping in.

You scowled, face beginning to heat. “You’re enjoying this.”

He smiled, not a trace of hesitation behind it, a real and genuine smile, and finally stepped towards you. “I absolutely am.”

“Assho–”

You were cut off, as Minho ducked his head down to kiss you, and you couldn’t even pretend to do anything other than respond eagerly.

The next time the two of you got coffee, on another cold autumn morning when you were ten minutes deep into a squabble over geopolitics that you were determined to win, Seungmin had the grace to at least act surprised when Minho bought you a muffin and slipped his arm around your waist.

“Wow,” he murmured, deadpan, watching the way you relaxed into Minho’s side, even as you unpicked every thread of his argument. “Gee. Who would have guessed?"

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skz317cb97 · 1 year

Text

Color Theory

Jeongin x Female reader

Word count: 7.2k

Synopsis: Your world is varying shades of grey until you meet your soulmate, Jeongin, who brightens up your life in more ways than one.

A/N: 18+ ONLY! This, I swear to God, went from I have no idea for this story to 7.2k words and I have NO idea how. I hope you enjoy though! If you do please reblog, like, comment, shoot me an ask. I love hearing from you all it makes my day! As always warnings and smut below the cut!

Warnings: 18+ONLY MDNI! Cursing/strong language, character death, unprotected piv sex (please use condoms), cum shot, cum eating (a teensy bit). I think that's everything but if I missed something let me know and I'll add it asap!

Your mom was teaching you your primary colors. You had learned your shapes and you were working on numbers and letters and now she was working on your colors, an important part of your mother’s world being an artist. Your mom didn’t get why you were having such a hard time getting them right when you had picked everything else up so easily. It was your dad that actually mentioned the possibility of you being color blind as he was passing through the living room where you and your mom were playing during a break from his writing.

She realized your dad might be right so she set up an optometrist appointment for you and had your eyes examined. When the doctor looked, he determined that you had monochromacy or in other words you were completely color blind. It was quite rare really, most people that were color blind had trouble seeing certain colors, but you saw none which was so rare it happened to one in thirty-thousand people worldwide. Being a girl made it even less likely as well since color blindness occurred more in men than women but you were the one in thirty thousand apparently. Your mom’s heart broke a little knowing you’d never get to know and love colors the way she did but she made sure that art was still a part of your life.

You were thankful for that because art ended up being your outlet, your escape, your fantasy world to get lost inside. Any form you could create in you would, drawing, pottery, pastels, but you especially loved painting. You used an array of colors but only ever saw varying shades of gray so you used a lot of texture in your art as well. You became quite well known among the avid art collectors in your city for your unique style and the lack of your ability to see colors. Your paintings were variations of colors chosen by someone with no idea what color was, with the textures it was art that came off the canvas. Your name finally got passed around enough that one of the more selective galleries asked you to do an exhibition. You were working on some canvases for that when your mom walked into your studio. She set down a tupperware bowl and made her way over to you. She wiped at paint on your face shaking her head.

“You wear as much as the canvas does sometimes.” You nodded knowingly.

“I know sometimes I get lost in it and the next thing I know I have spackle caked in my hair.” If anyone understood it was your mom. She looked at what you were working on.

“You’re using a lot of pinks and reds in this one.” You looked at it.

“Have I? I stopped looking at the names on the tubes.” Your mother nodded, examining the amazing work you’d done only knowing black and white and the grays in between.

“I think this one will be my favorite when it’s finished.” You smiled. She was so proud of you. Then she pointed at the food she brought, knowing if she didn’t, you wouldn’t stop and eat. She distracted you just long enough to get you to break away and feed yourself. About halfway through your food your mom got up, squeezed you and kissed the top of your head.

“I’m going to get home sweetie. I have to make sure your dad eats too.” She shook her head at the likenesses you shared with your father.

“Don’t stay up all night.” You nodded knowing damn well you probably would. You had paintings to get done.

“Okay mom I won’t.” Your mother looked at you knowing it was complete bullshit but smiled and headed out.

“I love you sweetie.” You waved as you headed back towards your canvas.

“I love you too mom.” You put your headphones on and got lost in your canvas again. When your dad walked up behind you he scared the absolute shit out of you. You looked at the time and were surprised at how late it was, you pulled your headphones off.

“Dad wha-” The look on his face told you something was horribly wrong.

“It’s mom...” He said and you started to shake your head no as tears came to your eyes.

“No.” He walked towards you trying to grab your hand and you backed away.

“It started to rain, and the car slid...” You kept shaking your head back and forth.

“She’s okay she’s just hurt. Right?” Tears streaked your dad’s face.

“Right?!” Your dad shook his head no.

“She... she didn’t make it sweetie.” You collapsed to your knees and your dad grabbed your shoulders making sure you didn’t hurt yourself falling. You looked up at the half eaten food on the table that she had brought you. If you weren’t so worried about the stupid exhibit, if you had just taken enough care to eat, if she didn’t think she had to bring you dinner, she’d still be alive. When you left your studio that day, you locked it and refused to step foot in it again.

Your dad made all the arrangements and somehow you made it through your mother’s wake and funeral. You moved in with your dad after your mom died and took care of him. Made sure he ate, lifted his head from his computer from time to time so his eyes didn’t burn out of his head. You had wanted to get rid of your studio. Just sell it and let whoever bought it toss the paintings, but your dad wouldn’t let you. He told you to hold onto it, just because you didn’t feel like you could now, didn’t mean you never would. He hoped one day you’d go back to your painting. Two years went by and as fast as your name had been passed around it disappeared from people's lips just as quickly. You were glad.

You were starting dinner and writing down a grocery list when the house phone rang. Your dad was elbow deep in his novel, he wouldn’t stop for a house fire, so you answered it.

“Hello?” You heard a man clear his throat on the other end of the line.

“Oh hi! Uh, My name is Yang Jeongin...”

“We don’t want to buy any but thanks.” You hung up and started to head back over to the food on the stove. You just stirred the sauce when the phone rang again. You sighed and walked over to answer it again. More irritated this time, you were going to burn your dinner.

“Hello?!” He cleared his throat again.

“Hi sorry, I’m not selling anything I’m trying to find an artist by the name of y/n?” You froze, speechless.

“Hello?” Click. You hung up again and walked over to the dinner. The phone rang again and you let it but it kept going and going. You stormed over.

“What do you want!” He was surprised at your outburst.

“I... I... uh are you Ms. Y/n?" His voice had gotten small and you started to feel bad for blowing up on him for no real reason. You sighed taking a deep breath.

“Yea. I’m y/n.” He suddenly got very excited on the phone.

“Oh! Okay um I'm so sorry to bother you but I am a HUGE fan of your art work and I was wondering if you’d be willing to do a commissioned piece for me?” You pinched the bridge of your nose trying to fight off the headache that was creeping up behind your eyes. You sighed.

“I don’t paint anymore.” He hummed.

“Oh...”

“Yea so goodb-”

“Why not?” You were starting to get angry again. You had listened to him and answered him, what more did he want?

“That’s really none of your business. Goodbye.” You hung up and finished dinner. You and your dad sat at the table together as you ate.

“Oh who called earlier.” You shook your head taking another bite.

“No one.” Your dad hummed looking at you.

“What?” He shrugged.

“No one called three times in a row.” You sighed frustrated by your dad’s persistence sometimes.

“Okay! It was some guy asking me to paint him something. I’m not going to.” Your dad nodded.

“Some guy? Did he say who he was?” You nodded and continued to try and focus on your meal and not the conversation you didn’t want to be having.

“Yang... Yang Jeon or something like that. It doesn’t matter, I don’t paint anymore.” Your dad dropped his fork.

“Yang Jeongin?” You shook your head.

“Yea that was it.” Your dad sat there speechless.

“What dad?” He finally snapped out of it.

“You’ve never heard of Yang Jeongin?” You shrugged.

“No?” To be fair when you painted you didn’t keep up with anything on tv or the news. Even now that you didn’t paint you still never really turned on the tv.

“His family is the Yang in the LeeYang corperation. You know that name.” Well yea everyone knew that name, even if you lived under a rock. There wasn’t a single household that didn’t have something made by the LeeYang corp.

“Jeongin is the grandson of the head of the company and his dad is on their board of directors. He was just named the city's most eligible bachelor; his family is old old money.” You shrugged, picking up your plate and walking it to the sink.

“Okay so what. I still don’t paint.” Your dad picked up his plate and took it over to the sink too.

“You could.” You started to fill the sink with water and soap. Your dad stopped you and made you look at him.

“It won’t start to heal until you do sweetie.” You stuck your hands down in the water and shook your head as you tried to will away the tears welling in your eyes.

“No dad.” He sighed, kissed the side of your head and went back to his computer to get back to writing while you cleaned up dinner dishes. That night you laid in bed restless, hoping the clicking of your dad’s computer keys would put you to sleep like they had so many times as a child but you couldn’t. At around two you hollered.

“Bed dad! Brains need sleep to write novels!” You heard him sigh heavily and get up. You weren’t sure when you had turned into the parent. He stopped at your door.

“Goodnight sweetie.” You nodded.

“Goodnight dad.” Thankfully, eventually, you did manage to fall asleep and get a few hours of rest. The next day while you were doing the grocery shopping your cell phone started going off. You grabbed it thinking it was probably your dad wanting some sugary snack. He needed to start eating better and if he asked you for cupcakes you were going to get him apples and bananas. It turned out it wasn’t your dad. It was an unknown number but local so you answered it.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Y/n? It’s Jeongin. PLEASE don’t hang up!” You sighed and pushed your cart down the aisle. Holding your phone with your shoulder as you continued to grab things.

“It’s really not a good time Mr. Yang.”

“I’m sorry I really don’t mean to be a pest. Please call me Jeongin.” You stopped and held onto the phone.

“What can I do for you Mr. Yang?” He let out a nervous laugh.

“Uh well I was hoping that maybe you might reconsider doing the commission? Money is no object...” You hummed.

“I’m aware of who you are and what you have Mr. Yang. I don’t really care. I’m also certain that I’ve told you three times now that I no longer paint.” You hung up on him again and went back to grocery shopping. Jeongin was frustrated. He was usually one to accept a no when that was the answer but he loved your work and he didn’t know why but he needed to get you to paint one for him.

He’d bought so many of your canvas’ from other collectors,for a good deal of money since you disappeared and were no longer painting. No one knew why just that you left the scene two years before, overnight. It had been difficult to dig up contact info on you and after going through all that Jeongin was hopeful that if he asked and said the right number that you’d paint for him. Apparently you didn’t give a shit about numbers which Jeongin found endearing as much as he did frustrating.

A couple days later you were reading a book in the living room when the house phone started to ring. You closed your book, got up and answered it.

“Hello?” Nothing silence.

“Hellooo?” You heard a breath.

“Fuck off perve-”

“Wait wait! It's... I’m not... It’s Jeongin.” You rolled your eyes and sighed irritated that this man was calling you again.

“What do you want Mr. Ya-”

“To apologize...” You stopped surprised to hear his answer.

“For what?” He was surprised to not hear a dial tone.

“For being pushy and not taking no for an answer the first time. If I offended you, I’m deeply sorry.” You felt a little bad. He hadn’t offended you he was just picking at a scab he had no idea about.

“It’s fine Jeongin...” He let out a sigh of relief.

“Okay, thank you for taking my call. Have a good day Ms. y/n, goodbye...” You stopped him just before he hung up.

“WAIT!” He hummed acknowledging he was still there. You were already kicking yourself. You couldn’t believe you were about to say what you were going to say. Why were you going to say what you were about to?

“I’ll do the painting.”

“What?!” Jeongin couldn’t believe his ears.

“I’ll do the painting. Email me your specifications and-” He interrupted you.

“ANYTHING! Literally just do anything you want and tell me a price!”

“Okay okay Jeongin fine.” He wanted to ask a question but he didn’t want to push his luck either. He took a chance.

“Uh would I maybe be able to come by your studio sometime? Once you’ve started?” You hadn’t been to your studio in two years. Your dad stopped by to pick up mail every so often but you had no idea what kind of condition it was in.

“Maybe, let me get it started. Typically I don’t have spectators, especially not the customer.” He understood that and was thankful you were even considering it.

“Yes okay that’s fantastic! Thank you! Thank you so much!”

“Okay Jeongin, I’ll be in touch soon.” You both said goodbye and when you turned to go back to your book your dad was standing there.

“Did I just hear you say you were going to do the painting?” You opened your mouth to complain about his eavesdropping but he quickly cut you off.

“You know what! Forget I said anything! I didn’t hear a thing!” He ran towards the kitchen for a drink and back to his computer before you could start in and you shook your head going back to your book. It was pointless trying to read anymore. All you could think of was a canvas and how you’d move the paint across it. You slammed your book closed, grabbed your car keys and headed towards the studio.

When you got there you stood at the door for a long time. The last time you’d been in there was the day your mom died. When you finally willed yourself to go in it was like stepping into a time capsule. All your paintings were exactly where you’d left them and the one you had been working on was still propped against your easel. You walked up to it and looked at it like your mother had, then picked it up and moved it against one of the walls. You grabbed a fresh canvas, put it on the easel and stared at it, looking for the picture inside it. You stared and stared but you couldn’t see it anymore. Something your mom had planted in you was what made you see it before but she was dead and so was the plant. A whole week you kept going back staring at the blank canvas finding nothing in it.

Week two you were standing in front of the blank canvas, your headphones on trying to find some kind of inspiration. You about jumped out of your skin when someone tapped you on the shoulder.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” You turned and there was a man in a button up shirt and suit jacket. He had fox like eyes that were narrow but some how still seemed kind. You both stood there stunned for a moment. You pulled your headphones down.

“Uh... can I help you?” You wanted to be mad that he’d intruded but he was so beautiful you couldn’t bring yourself to be. You were just curious who this man was standing in front of you staring at you. He shook his head as if he were getting the thoughts in order.

“OH! Uh, yea! I’m Jeongin, we spoke on the phone?” Oh. No wonder he was one of the most eligible bachelors in the city. He was a work of art himself. You still had no idea how he found your studio or what he was doing there.

“Oh Mr. Yang yes, um...” He smiled his eyes scrunching up.

“Please Jeongin is fine.” You nodded.

“Yes of course, Jeongin. How did you find me?”

“I hope it’s okay. I called you a few times and then your house, your father finally answered, he told me I could find you here.” Of course he did you thought to yourself.

“I don’t mean to be impatient I’m just excited to see any progress that you’ve made, no matter how little!” You turned and looked at the blank canvas behind you as he started looking around the room at your artwork.

“Which one is mine?” You pointed at the blank canvas and he looked surprised.

“Oh... I see. Um... well... what’s wrong?” He didn’t mean for the question to come out like it had but as soon as he asked it your face scrunched up angry.

“What do you mean what’s wrong?! It doesn’t just create itself! Why don’t you try to make art out of colors you can’t even see and see how quickly you get it done!” He put up his hands trying to calm you.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to offend you I just meant like... is it why you stopped painting?” You tossed down your headphones angry.

“I’m pretty sure I said that was none of your business!” Jeongin was doing a terrible job at digging himself out of the hole he’d created.

“You’re right I’m sorry it is, I didn’t mean to pry I just, if I can help...” You walked over to the door and opened it.

“Right now you can help by leaving.” He bowed and walked towards the open door. He looked at you as he passed by.

“I’m sorry I intruded. I won’t bother you again, I’ll wait for your call.” He rushed out and down the stairs towards the exit of the building. You slammed your door shut and walked back over to the canvas picking up your headphones and staring at it angrily. You glanced over at the painting you’d worked on the night of your mom’s accident and then did a double take. You saw the shades of red your mom had mentioned when she had looked at it. How? You rubbed your eyes expecting everything to go back to normal but when you opened them you saw shades of blue in other paintings lying around along with the red.

They were all so bright it almost hurt to look at them and then slowly you saw yellow start to seep into your vision. First a pale yellow then a yellow as bright and vibrant as the reds and blues you could see now too. It wasn’t just the paint though everywhere throughout your studio reds, blues, and yellows popped. You rummaged through your paint tubes grabbing the colors and started smattering them across the canvas adding spackle and sand, cotton and ripped paper. When you stepped back you were covered in the vibrant colors and you had Jeongin’s painting started.

That night when you went home your dad was as happy as he could possibly be to see you walk in covered in paint. You didn’t mention the colors. What if you went to bed and woke up and they were gone? You decided if it didn’t go away you by the time you were done with the painting, you’d tell your dad. The next morning when you woke up you looked at your coveralls from the day before and there, smeared all over the front of it, was red, blue and yellow. You were ecstatic! You pulled on another pair of old bibs and ran to head to the studio. Your dad hollered on your way out the door.

“Hey! Breakfast! Most important meal!” You waved as you grabbed your keys.

“I’ll grab some on the way! See you for dinner dad!” He waved and smiled, grabbing his toast and coffee, heading back to his own work as the door slammed closed behind you. When you got to the studio you started staring at the canvas blankly again. When your cell phone rang it gave you an excuse to look at something else other than your half-finished painting. It was Jeongin. So much for not calling you. You felt kind of guilty for going off on him so badly the day before so you answered.

“Hello?” He always cleared his throat before speaking to you, like he was struggling to form his words.

“Hi y/n, it’s Jeongin... well yes... you know that. Uh... would you like to meet me for coffee tomorrow?” You were confused, did he have more questions? He probably wanted to fire you or...

“Like... a date?” You asked and he started to stammer. This man was the most eligible bachelor?

“Well... um... yes? If you want to! No pressure! I’ll still buy the painting either way!” You were a little flabbergasted.

“Uhhh... I... yea... I guess so.” He let out a huge breath.

“REALLY?!” You couldn’t help but laugh a little at his shock.

“Yes Jeongin. I will meet you tomorrow for a coffee date.” He laughed and you could hear the smile in his voice.

“Great okay! Uh... eleven? The shop around the corner from your studio?”

“See you then.” You hung up and started staring at your canvas again frustrated. You made little to no progress the rest of the day and you went home discouraged after having such a burst of inspiration the day before. The next day you went to the studio early, trying and failing to make a little more progress. Before you left to head to the coffee shop you took a couple pictures of what you had done on your phone so you could show Jeongin. When you walked into the café Jeongin was already there waiting at a table. You walked over and he stood up smiling pulling a chair out for you. You bowed smiling.

“Thank you.” He nodded, his cheeks a little pink. The two of you ordered coffee and broke the tension with a little small talk. The conversation naturally evolved into likes and dislikes and you asked a lot of questions about Jeongin trying to keep the topic of conversation off of you. Before you knew it an hour had gone by.

“Oh, wow has it been that long?” Jeongin asked.

“Yea, I should probably head back to the studio and try to get some more done.” Jeongin’s eyes lit up.

“More?!” You had completely forgot to mention the painting.

“Oh yea, well... after you left the other day I made some progress and got it started, here I’ve got some pic-”

“Can I walk you to the studio and see?!” Jeongin’s eyes were scrunched up and his dimples were showing. You’d had a nice time; you didn’t see why not.

“Okay, but only for a minute, I need to work more.” Jeongin stood up excited. He grabbed your coffee ticket and his and started for the register.

“Oh you don’t-” He shook his head.

“Oh no... there’s no way in hell you’re paying for your coffee.” You chewed at your lip and smiled, looking down nodding. He was usually kind of shy around you, soft spoken, so to hear him say something so assertive... well it’s shouldn’t have done the things to your body that it had. Jeongin paid and the two of you walked towards your studio. When you got there Jeongin walked up to the partially finished canvas and looked at it. Something about the way he looked at it from different angles and so closely reminded you of how your mom used to look at your paintings and your heart squeezed inside your chest.

“It’s amazing the way you use colors like this while not being able to tell them apart. This is beautiful already. I don’t know why you would ever stop painting.” Your heart squeezed tighter in your chest and you looked over at the painting from the night of the crash. Jeongin kept looking at the textures and colors, the words that came out of his mouth next shocked not only you but him too.

“Was it your mom’s accident that made you stop, don’t you think she’d want you to continue?” He’d seen articles about the accident when he looked you up. Your jaw dropped as tears instantly welled in your eyes. Jeongin stopped looking at the painting and looked at you as he realized immediately he’d overstepped.

“What?” You heard him loud and clear you were just in disbelief.

“I...” You had snapped here and there at him but this was an all-out explosion.

“DON’T talk about my mother and DON’T assume to know me because you like my work Mr. Yang!” He shook his head.

“It’s not that! I...” You cut him off.

“Is the painting worth more to you knowing that my mom’s death was what made me quit!? That I couldn’t look at a paintbrush or canvas because all I saw was memories of my mother!? Do you need to know that to feel more connected to it!? My mother died because I was stubborn and she brought me food so I’d eat while I worked on my stupid paintings for a stupid exhibit that didn’t even matter! She crashed driving home after leaving here! I killed my mom! My selfish need to create at all costs killed my mom!” Jeongin shook his head as his eyes teared up.

“y/n... no...” You looked at him your cheeks and neck damp with your tears. You started pushing at him screaming.

“Get out! Get out! Just leave me the fuck alone! Leave me! ALONE!” You sank to the ground in front of your canvas just like you had the night your mother died. Tears were streaming down Jeongin’s face now too. He wanted to hold you. Tell you that you were wrong. That your mom dying was just an accident and it wasn’t your fault.

“Get out...” You sobbed, your words a whisper. Jeongin didn’t say anything else he turned and walked towards the door. Just before he shut it he spoke, his voice low.

“I’m sorry.” The door clicked closed and you laid on the floor crying until you fell asleep. You woke up to your cell phone ringing. You grabbed it and squinted looking at it. It was your dad. It was dark now, he was probably worried. You quickly answered.

“Uh... hello?” Your dad could tell he’d woken you up.

“Oh thank god! I was worried when you weren’t home for dinner.” You started apologizing for worrying your dad like that.

“I’m so sorry dad, I fell asleep and I guess I slept longer than I...” You turned on the studio lights and when you looked around you saw greens, and purples, orange. You stopped talking.

“y/n?” Your dad’s voice pulled you back to the conversation.

“Uh slept longer than I meant to. I’m sorry dad I’ll sleep here tonight and be home first thing in the morning.”

“Okay honey, text me when you leave and please be careful?” You hummed absent mindedly.

“Hmm I will dad. Love you.” You hung up and immediately started going through your painting tubes again, you grabbed greens, purples, blues, reds, you mixed new colors and threw paint on the canvas like it would put itself where it needed to go. A lot was still black and white but now there were so many colors! When you finished the painting, you stood back taking it in. It was the most beautiful piece of art you’d ever made. It was vibrant, colors and textures rising off the canvas but it also had a feeling underneath, a sadness, the loss was still there even though you’d gained so much color. You started to cry again, at the pain, at the beauty. When you finally pulled yourself together you pulled out your phone and texted Jeongin.

You: The painting is done. I’ll have it ready for pick up in two days.

Jeongin: I... what?

You: You still want it right?

Jeongin: YES! I DO!

You: Okay it’ll be ready Friday by five

Jeongin: I’ll see you Friday five o'clock sharp

You saw the chat bubbles appear and disappear over and over like he was writing and deleting something multiple times.

Jeongin: y/n?

You: Yes Jeongin, what...

He tried to write sorry a thousand different ways but no matter what he typed out it wasn’t right. Sorry over text for what he’d done wasn’t right.

Jeongin: Thank you

You: You’re welcome

Two days had come and gone and you could still see all the same colors. Inspiration was coming to you a bit more freely now that you’d completed Jeongin’s piece also. You still hadn’t told your dad that you were seeing colors, you still didn’t know what it meant or why it was happening so how were you supposed to explain it to him? You were working on something new when Jeongin knocked at your studio door. Right at five, just like he’d said. You opened the door and he stood there a moment just looking at you. He shook his head and snapped out of it.

“Uh hi! I might be a little early.” You opened the door more letting him in.

“No you’re fine, right on time. You walked over to the completed canvas leaned against the wall and Jeongin followed. When he looked at it his eyes welled up with tears instantly.

“It’s beautiful.” You bowed.

“Thank you.” You whispered. Jeongin turned facing you.

“y/n... I...” He was sorry. He wanted to say he was sorry but his words refused to come out once your eyes bore into his, big and glassy. He took a step towards you closing the space between you, his hand cupped your cheek and before you knew what was happening his soft lips were pressed against yours. Your eyes closed tightly as you kissed him back. He pulled away and you stood there, your fingers pressed to your lips, your eyes closed. When you finally opened them everything was in full color. Red and purple and every color in between. A tear slipped down your cheek and you suddenly realized it was Jeongin. The colors were appearing because of him. He swiped your tear away.

“Please... don’t cry...” You shook your head wiping your face.

“No Jeongin you don’t understand... I don’t know how or what is going on but... I can see colors!” His face scrunched in confusion.

“I thought you’re color blind.” You shook your head smiling ear to ear.

“I am! I was! I don’t know! Every time I’ve been near you more colors have slowly appeared and just now when you kissed me... I can see it all! I can see color!” You threw your arms around his neck and kissed him again. Jeongin wrapped his arms around you, tilted his head and deepened the kiss, taking your breath away.

“Will you go to dinner with me tonight?” Jeongin asked with his forehead resting against yours and you nodded.

“Yes, yes...” You kissed him again and then looked down at your paint splattered overalls.

“Uh... let me run home to get cleaned up and changed?” Jeongin shook his head smiling so big his eyes almost disappeared entirely.

“Text me your address when you’re almost ready and I’ll pick you up.” You were grinning like a fool, you kissed him again three pecks and started backing up towards the door.

“Lock up for me please!” He nodded and you dashed out the door to go get ready as quickly as possible. When you ran into the house you almost ran your dad over.

“Woah woah there speed racer where’s the fire?” You were an idiot. Only just then did you think to tell your dad, everything happened so fast.

“Dad!” He smiled happy to see you so excited about something.

“I can see colors!” He stood up straight and looked at you crazy.

“What?” He asked like he knew you were pulling his leg.

“Dad I swear to god, every time I've seen Jeongin, after I would start seeing certain colors, then he kissed me today and it’s not black and white anymore dad I can actually see colors!” You thought your dad’s reaction would be excitement, hugging you, maybe crying. His face scrunched up.

“He kissed you?” What a dad thing to do, miss the whole point and zero in on that part.

“Yes dad he kissed me.” You rolled your eyes. If at all possible your dad started dadding even more.

“Well I haven’t even met this boy and he’s kissing you?” You shook your head laughing.

“Dad! I told you I can see colors and you’re worried about a boy kissing me?” He shrugged, pouting a little.

“I’m happy but I just would like to know this young man’s intentions.” You hugged your dad.

“Well you’ll get to meet him tonight, he’s picking me up for dinner in a bit.” You started running up the stairs towards your room.

“I have to get ready!” Your door slammed shut behind you and your dad finally let the smile creep onto his face that he’d been holding back. It sounded to him like you’d found your soulmate. It was instant like that for him and your mom too. One touch and they knew. Your dad still missed her every single day, he always would.

Surprisingly you were able to get dressed quickly and you cleaned up nice. A nice black little dress, your hair pulled up and actually paint and spackle free, a little bit of eyeliner and mascara. You noticed a pretty red lipstick that popped out at you and chose that for a final touch. When you walked down your dad was sitting in the living room with Jeongin who looked as nervous as the first time he’d talked to you.

“Dad?” He smiled innocently.

“Yes pumpkin?” You pinched his arm.

“Stop scaring him.” Your dad feigned pain and laughed. He leaned down and kissed your cheek.

“Have fun sweetie.” You smiled and motioned to Jeongin for you to leave. He stood up quickly and walked over by you, his hand resting at the small of your back instinctively.

“It was very nice meeting you sir. I promise I’ll keep her safe.” Your dad could feel it when he’d met Jeongin too, whatever pull there was between you was strong. Your dad knew Jeongin meant it from the bottom of his heart when he said he’d keep you safe.

“I know you will.” Your dad smiled and headed up to his study to put his nose to his screen, he had a novel to finish. Jeongin was an absolute gentleman the whole night, opening your car door, helping you in and out, helping with your chair. You had gotten cold on the small walk you took and Jeongin put his jacket over your shoulders. You burrowed in and it smelled like his cologne and something that was just him, you couldn’t place it but it made you feel warm all over and your body erupted in goosebumps. Jeongin had been holding your hand and noticed.

“You’re cold, let’s get back to the car.” You nodded and he led you back up the walkway towards his car. He opened the door again and helped you in before closing it behind you. He ran around and got in shutting his door then looking and smiling at you. You wrapped your arms around Jeongin’s shoulders and kissed him deeply. Your lips parted, tongue teasing. He held your face as you made out in the car for a while. When you pulled away you gripped at the collar of his shirt, panting and biting your lips.

“This is where I’d invite you to spend the night but I live with my dad.” You huffed out a breathless laugh and Jeongin’s heart raced faster, spend the night?!

“Uh... I live alone, you could come back to mine...” You smiled and kissed him again.

“I’d love to.” You sat down in your seat and buckled your belt. Jeongin’s smile was so big his dimples looked like they never ended. He started the car and headed towards his apartment. If you could call the penthouse of a building his grandpa owns an apartment. When you were with Jeongin you never thought about the fact that he was a Yang and came from money. He was just Jeongin to you, shy, sweet. The apartment reminded you quickly.

“Holy shit! You live here alone?!” He walked towards you and pulled you close.

“Not forever hopefully.” He said cocking an eyebrow at you and you laughed. You started to laugh but then Jeongin’s lips were on your skin moving down your neck and your laughs turned into breathy pants. He claimed your lips again and you started to unbutton his shirt before running your hands up his firm chest and pushing it off his shoulders to the ground. You started to kiss across his shoulder, gently grazing your teeth against his skin and he shuddered. You pulled away and turned, your back facing Jeongin now.

“Will you unzip me?” He walked up behind you, his face buried in your neck as his hands worked your zipper down. Your dress fell off you and when you turned around you were completely naked and Jeongin’s brain checked out.

“Fuck you’re a work of art!” You wrapped your arms around his strong shoulders and kissed him.

“Take me to bed Jeongin, please.” His lips couldn’t be bothered to leave yours as he led you to his bedroom. You worked at his belt pulling it open and off before tossing it and starting on his button and fly. When his pants were loose, they fell and he stepped out of them as he continued leading you towards his big soft bed. When the back of your legs touched the bed you crawled back on to it. Jeongin confidently dropped his boxers and rightfully so. He was not... lacking. He crawled on top of you hooking his arm under your knee and pulling it up, spreading your legs open for him. Before he pushed into you he looked into your eyes. He looked like he was watching the film of your future in them.

“I think you’re my soulmate.” When he said it is when it clicked. Of course. You nodded, your eyes tearing up. When he sank into you, you moaned closing your eyes, a tear slipping down. Jeongin let go of your leg and wrapped it around his waist as he pulled out and pushed into you deep again. He leaned over kissing the skin your tear had rolled down. You opened your eyes and were in awe at the sight of him above you. His dark hair, narrow eyes, his strong chiseled frame held up over you so he didn’t crush you under him. You pulled him closer wrapping your arms and legs around him, wanting him to crush you.

“Faster please...” You whispered and Jeongin’s body moved faster on top of yours. You could feel the pressure building already. You gripped his hair and kissed him as your bodies moved together his cock constantly moving against that place inside you that made your toes numb.

“God yes! Right there!” He fucked you harder and you could feel your climax making the hundred-yard dash towards the finish line.

“I... I... I’m g-gonna cum! FUCK! Don't stop!” Jeongin’s lips overtook your moans as he rolled his hips into you. You didn’t know how he kept doing it but every time you were with Jeongin he showed you new colors. The colors exploding behind your eyes as you came were moving and alive. Jeongin didn’t slow down. No, he sat up as your hands still gripped and clung to his shoulders and fucked you faster with the intention of reaching his own climax and prolonging yours.

“Yesyesyesyes oh it feels so good Jeongin! Mmmm...” a few beads of sweat dripped down the hard lines of his torso as he felt his orgasm approaching.

“Oh go-fuck! I’m gonna cum jagiya!” You moaned and nodded unable to form words anymore. Jeongin pulled out and came on your tummy and pussy. He stroked his cock as he coated you in his cum. He trembled as he worked every drop out onto you. He sat back on his legs, his head towards the ceiling, his eyes closed as he caught his breath and came down. You laid there a million bumble bees buzzing inside you. You ran two fingers through his cum and sucked on them. He looked down at you sweaty and laughing from the euphoria. Once Jeongin was able to function again he ran and got a washcloth to clean you up with. When you were all clean he crawled back into bed and pulled you close, your head resting on his chest, listening to his slow steady heartbeat.

Later, after some digging, you found out you were in fact soulmates. Jeongin never knew why he was so driven to collect your art but it had felt like each piece he got was a piece of you, he felt closer to you with each one. Then he finally searched for you to ask you to paint something and well the rest played out. Jeongin took all the artwork he purchased and opened a gallery for you. You continued painting and even finished painting what you’d been working on the night of your mom’s accident. It was put up in the gallery as a memorial to her. Your dad finished his novel, you found the love of your life and your love for painting again. Your life was no longer a theory of color, it was a spectrum, a prism. It was all the colors your mother had dreamed for you and more.

Please do not repost or translate any of my works. My blog and stories are NSFW and 18+ ONLY! Minors, ageless, and blank blogs will be blocked!

@acciocriativity @caroline-ds-world @chansynie @ughbehavior @jquellen27 @jisuperboard @fixation-dump @lachinitaaaaa @rinrinndou @bangchans-angel @laylasbunbunny @owo-manii-uwu @armystay89 @b00dyguts @purplenimsicle @caticorn61 @lauraneuuh @channieandhisgoonsquad @minnysproutgriffinteddy @svintsandghosts @the-sweetest-rose @alice630 @3rachasninja @m0ri-apeuda @eastleighsblog @linoification @mlink64 @smally97 @fun-fanfics @chansducky10 @starfire21 @cessixja @siewoon @berryberrytan @binnies-minsung-fanclub @lethallyprotected

#stray kids smut #skz smut #yang jeongin smut #jeongin smut #skz317cb97 #cal 🖤#skz317cb97 soulmate au series

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roguehongsami · 5 months

Text

Forever Angel.

—★ pairing/s: outlaw!yeosang x fem!fugitive

—★ genre/s: crime, suggestive, au

—★ synopsis: as you're hiking roadside, yeosang decides to give you a ride only to realise you don't have any idea where you're going. he takes you in, but the rest of the members are apprehensive of your presence.

—★ content: domestic violence (insinuated), gun violence, prison break.

—★ word count: 3k

—★ author's note: not my proudest work lol. been in my drafts since 2 dec & just wanted it out. xoxo.

* DISCLAIMER: THIS IS FICTIONAL. IT IS NOT A REPRESENTATION OF KANG YEOSANG'S CHARACTER, PERSONALITY OR BEHAVIOUR. THIS IS SOLELY FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES. *

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ lana del rey // angels forever

Y/N had been walking under the sun for a good two hours. With the clothes on her back and leather jacket held over her shoulder, the only thing that created a buffer between her eyes and the sun was her Tom Mix hat. It was only a matter of time until the soles of her boots melted off, and she was barefoot and begging for an end.

She needed to find shelter before sundown.

A rundown car sped past her, exhaust fumes lingering in the air as it disappeared into the distance. Her brain pounded violently against her skull, a few heat blisters materialising on her body in response to the raised temperatures. The sound of exhaust pipes rumbling, polluting the air, neared.

A black Harley fat bob halted beside her as she slowed in her tracks. The owner's hair was tucked behind his ears, some strands cascading down the sides of his face. A pink heart-shaped birthmark, right by his eye, that called for attention. Sunglasses covered his eyes. He looked like an easy rider. Those weren't common in this part of the province anymore.

He pulled his dimmers over his head, taking in Y/N's figure before speaking. "Need a lift, pretty lady?"

Hand on her hip with her hat shielding most of her face, she uttered, "You offering?"

"Only if you tell me your name, sweetheart. Take off that hat so I can see your pretty face." he flashed his pearly-whites.

She brought her hat down beside her body, revealing two large and nasty bruises on her jaw and under her eye, her bottom lip cut. "It's Y/N."

He grimaced at the sight, at a loss for words. Not wanting to press for news that did not concern him, he instructed her to hop on. She positioned herself behind him on the seater, her hat and jacket nestled between their bodies. Her arms snaked around his torso before he revved the motorcycle and rode off.

The pair stopped by a roadside biker bar named Tripp's Saloon. Very old western, inside and out. A few cars and a variation of Harleys parked out front. The air conditioned interior served as the perfect escape for Y/N. Seated at a booth in the far back corner, Yeosang ordered them food, and not so long after, the waitress was back with their plates.

Being in the sun that long can work up an appetite.

"Tell me, where you headed?" Yeosang popped a fry into his mouth.

Y/N took a swig of her beer. "I haven't really thought it out honestly. I just took myself and went on. A fresh start anywhere would be nice."

Dumbfounded, his eyebrow arched. "So you journeyed into the sun with nothing but the clothes on your back and wishful thinking?"

She shrugged nonchalantly, now downing her fries and onion rings. Her demeanour was relaxed. She had finally cooled down. Any more time in the sun would've resulted in dire consequences.

He motioned gestured at her face with his chin. "And those bruises? They got some' to do with your fresh start?"

He watched as her body tensed up. She took a serviette from the holder, and as she swiped it across her lips, her head hung low. His gaze was fixed on her, awaiting an explanation for her injuries.

"Maybe." she quipped. "He's the sheriff, so nobody ever bat an eye. Would've snuffed me out eventually, so I had to get out."

They dined in silence for the remainder of their meal. Yeosang paid the bill and they were soon back on the road. The sun had took its leave, with millions of twinkling stars taking up space in the black sky. A cool wind blew, the temperatures much kinder than before.

Her head rested on Yeosang's back, taking in the fast-passing view of the endless desert and sparse cacti. The motorcycle begun slowing as Yeosang yielded in front of a cabin. Dried russian thistle dancing on the barren land, the greener kind still rooted in the earth. A black van parked out front along with another fat bob. No sign of life for kilometres, just this cabin isolated from civilization.

The Harley's engine died as Yeosang stepped off. With Y/N's jacket and hat in one hand, he held out his other hand. She took it, reluctantly so, and brought her leg over the motorcycle as they walked toward the entrance. The porch floorboards creaked under their weight. Yeosang knocked in what was presumably morse code. The door opened and they were greeted by a 6'0 tall man with a broad build.

In his baritone, he spoke, "We're bringing alley cats to our hideout now?"

Yeosang pushed Mingi in the chest, causing him to stumble back. He walked past him with Y/N still in hand. "Eat shit." he spat.

Mingi locked the door and followed the pair into the living room. There, the other members were seated and chatting amongst themselves. When their eyes landed on Y/N, all hastily stood at attention. Perplexed, feeling as though they had been infiltrated. A man who stood at 5'7 approached them, finger pointing at her.

"Who is she?" Hongjoong sneered. "Are you trying to get us caught?"

She stood behind Yeosang, feeling like an intruder who had been cornered. Her elevated heart rate made the constant thumping fill up her ears. Her senses were dulled by fear.

Yeosang raised his arm to put distance between himself and Hongjoong. "She's good people, Hongjoong. She just needs shelter."

The others closed in, as they circled around Yeosang and Y/N. He pulled her into a hug, trying to keep her away from the others. He knew bringing her over was risky, but guilt would eat away at his conscious if he did not at least try to lend a helping hand.

Jongho pointed an accusatory finger. "Did she have nowhere else to go?"

"Does she not have a home, or is she a stray?" San chimed, tone laced with disdain.

Y/N escaped the hug, body turned toward San. Her eyes welled as she spoke with a tearful sob. "I can't go back there." she pulled her shirt up to expose her stomach. "I'd get sent to my next life. Please..." she pleaded.

Her torso was covered in bruises, some old and some fresh. The room fell silent, the guys all looking at her injuries. She pulled her shirt back down. Her eyes danced between the crew, taking in all of their shocked expressions.

"Just for the night, I'll be out of your hair by dawn." she spoke firmly.

[ . . . ]

Sleep could not find her. With Yeosang sound asleep beside her, she was unable to relax. Just stared at the ceiling. She hustled out of bed and rummaged through the inside pockets of her jacket. Bringing forth a cigarette and lighter. She found herself seated outside on the porch bench.

As she blew smoke from her mouth, the flavour of tobacco still remained. Her nerves slowly relaxed. The sight of the stars, and the midnight breeze had put her at ease. That pit in her stomach was doing away with itself. She couldn't recall the last time she was this placid. The usual noise in her head had abated. Accustomed to being ruled by fear and suffering. It started off so inconspicuously and before she knew it...

That had been her life for a little over a year.

The floorboards creaked when Yeosang stood by the bench, towering over her as he interrupted her daydreaming. She took another pull of her cigarette before looking up at him. He stood idly.

"So worried about getting killed yet here you are, doing it to yourself." Yeosang spoke bluntly.

Y/N chuckled before taking another pull. "Old habits die hard." she exhaled the smoke.

"When'd you start?"

"High school. I'd gather about ten years now, never looked back."

He stuck his hand out, gesturing her to hand over the cancer stick. She obliged. "That's one nasty habit, I'll tell you that." he threw it down and put it out with his bare foot. "You weren't in bed when I woke."

She sighed as she leaned back. "I've been skittish for so long that sleep don't come easy anymore."

"If you're worried about shelter, I made the others understand your situation. You're staying with us now."

"And I thank you for it." she gave him a small smile. "A year of being a punching bag will unnerve you in ways you can't imagine."

Yeosang stood up, sticking his hand out for Y/N to take. They went back into the cabin, locking the door before proceeding to the bedroom. Laying in bed with no sheets because of the sweltering heat. Facing each other, the sound of their breathing filling the atmosphere. His hand brushed over her face, cupping her cheek. He inched forward, lips locking with hers.

She had not felt this way in so long, as fireworks erupted in her stomach.

As the kiss intensified, their actions grew more aggressive. She winced when a sharp pain from the bruise on her jaw. He apologized and eased his hold. His hand ventured down her hips and between her thighs. Their kisses grew sloppy.

Yeosang got up out of bed to remove his sweats, as Y/N pulled off her underwear. He positioned himself between her legs, bringing her legs up to his waist, making her wince from the pang in her abdominal muscles.

"Switch." her voice low.

As she hovered over him, she leaned in to catch his lips. He positioned himself upright, his arms around her waist. She lowered herself, slowly fitting him. He pulled the sweatshirt that he lent her over her head, exposed her torso and chest. His vest was the last item to be discarded.

Afraid her moans were growing louder, she bit down on her lower lip. One or two escaped but nothing serious. The floorboards creaked and the bed frame squeaked. She went in for a deep kiss, his tongue exploring her mouth.

A light knock on the door startled them, halting all their actions. "A bit louder, please. I can't hear you." Wooyoung said sarcastically.

They broke into fits of giggles, continuing as they were. Calling it a night, Yeosang laid Y/N back down and grabbed the tissues on the bedside to clean her up. He cocooned her in his arms, their bodies tangled with one another.

"That should tire you." he joked.

It had been some days since her arrival. By 9:15, she was wide awake and well rested. She was alone in bed, Yeosang had already started his day hours prior. Before joining the guys, she made the bed and picked up her clothes off the floor. Curtains open to let in some sunshine.

When she finished showering, she rummaged through Yeosang's drawer to find clothes to wear. A white sweatshirt and grey sweatpants sufficed. She stood before the small mirror hanging on the door. Taking in her mildy deformed face, her fingers brushed the bruise under her eye. The swelling was gone, only discolouration remained. The cut on her lip was far from healing.

The guys were gathered in the living room, watching the television. A news broadcast came on, a picture of a police officer was shown right beside the news anchor.

"The body of thirty-two year old Sheriff Max Hynes was discovered this morning in his home by one of his deputies. He was bludgeoned to death with a golf club. The Riverton police department says that they have already identified a possible suspect."

The camera cut to one of the detectives working the case.

"We've interviewed several community members and gathered all the evidence that we could. As of now, we've identified Y/N Reeves as our primary suspect." a picture of Y/N was shown. "We believe she may be on the run. Possibly armed and dangerous. Anyone who sees her, please call your local police department."

Y/N's criminal status was about to complicate their entire operation.

The floorboards creaked as Y/N approached the living room, standing inches away from the couch. They all turned to look at her. She saw the broadcast. She knew she had been caught. Her demeanour was relaxed as her eyes remained glued to the television. Her face wore an emotionless expression.

She rued nothing.

Seonghwa circled the couch and squeezed Y/N's arms. "You realise you're being here compromises us? Huh, answer me!" he yelled from the top of his voice.

Yeosang cut between them and pushed Y/N behind him. "She probably has an explanation, Hwa. Back off!"

Yunho towered over Yeosang, catching Y/N gaze. "With everyone on the lookout for your girlfriend, our cover will be blown if they find her. She needs to leave."

"She ain't going nowhere!" Yeosang bit back. He turned to face her. "Y/N, you said you ran away. What really happened back there?"

"I fled after I clubbed him upright the head. His time was comin', I just sped it up." she spoke coldly. "I was a good woman until I met him."

"Why didn't you just report him in a different district?" Mingi asked.

She turned her head to Mingi who was seated on the couch. "I did. He broke my arm." she lifted her left arm, revealing a healed stitch scar running along her inner forearm. "Said it was nobody's business what went on between us. And you know pigs always look out for their own, they called him as soon as I mentioned his name."

Yeosang waved his arms around, calling for the conversation to end. "Enough. Y'all got your explanation, she's staying."

Hongjoong stood before Yeosang, face stern and lips pressed into a hard line. "You better pray the cops don't come knocking on our door, or it's your head, Kang."

[ . . . ]

The remainder of the day was fairly mundane. While she was sat on the couch before the television, the guys were huddled around the dining table. They spoke in hushed tones whilst they assembled and dismantled mechanical parts. She paid them no mind.

It was dark out. While Yunho and Wooyoung packed away their contraptions, particularly careful with the hourglass artifact, Mingi prepped their dinner. The lot gathered in the living room as they watched the television.

In the distance, the faint wailing of sirens could be heard. The sirens got louder as the squad cars neared. They knew. Everyone scattered as they gathered all their belongings. Making haste to the van, the squad cars closed in as they blocked the van's path.

As Y/N was about to get in, an officer shot at her. The bullet tore into her thigh. She fell to the ground, soil getting in her eyes. Yeosang climbed out to help her but Jongho reeled him back in. The officers ran toward her. As they approached the van, a dim white light shone from inside. When the officers opened the door, all eight men were gone.

With Y/N apprehended, she was admitted into a hospital to treat her wound. Waking up after surgery the next day, she found herself handcuffed to her bed. In the corner of her room sat a detective who was working her case. He grilled her for a few minutes but he didn't get the answers he was looking for.

The detective handed her a picture of the eight men from before. "Just give us Ateez and we'll drop your murder charge."

"For the last time, suit; I don't know who they are." she struggled while handcuffed to the bed. "They took me in after I ran away."

The detective took the photo and said as he walked out the hospital room. "Guess I'll be seeing you in court."

O N E M O N T H L A T E R

Leaving the cafeteria and making her way up the stairs to her cell. Limping, with a crutch to support her. Her trial was swift. She told her truth. Expressing no remorse, she vowed in courtroom full of witnesses that she'd remake said decision should a man ever raise his hand again.

So silent she could hear her heart pumping blood. She laid facing the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come. A commotion broke out in the lower floor as gunshots could be heard. She was quick on her feet as she stood behind the metal bars.

All she saw were guards running in one direction, some plummeting to the floor in their tracks. A posse of masked men ran rampant on each floor. The guard in front of her cell shot a few times before falling to the ground, a wound between his eyes releasing blood. She distanced herself, tripping on her feet and landing on her backside.

One man stopped in front of her cell, a rifle pressed to his chest. She crawled further back with pain shooting in the wound in her thigh. She sat against the wall, shielding herself. The man pointed his firearm at the lock, releasing two shots before the bars opened.

He entered the cell and kneeled before her, pulling his mask over his head. "Y/N?" his husky voice called to her.

She pulled her arms down and her jaw slacked. "Yeosang?"

"Your bruises are all gone." he smiled as he stroked her cheek.

"And I sleep better now." she nodded. "What was that white light in the van? The cops asked me about you lot, why'd they call you 'Ateez'? I have so many questions."

Another one of the masked men stood by the entrance of her cell. He pulled his mask up. Before speaking, he fired a few shots in the direction he came from.

"If you two lovebirds are done with your reunion, we need to leave." Hongjoong announced as he fired more shots. "They're sending back-up."

Yeosang stood as he brought Y/N up with him. "I'll answer all your questions but first, let's get you out. You shouldn't have been here in the first place."

#ateez #kang yeosang #yeosang fluff #roguehongsami

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