halcyon days.

金星 PLANET OF LOVE hanllucination main & archive

[cloudford]

chichai. she/her. 21+

main blog — reading account and feedback archive.

a writer, sometimes: @hanllucination.

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library catalogue. ( #*cloudreads )

archiveofourown recs.

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block #after//hours if you don’t want to see nsfw.

-18 / ageless & blank blogs, do not interact.

[skzdarlings]

the same but different | the threesome series ; skz ; han/reader/felix

masterlist.

threesome series part 3/4.

You grew up with Felix and Jisung.  Your definition of normal has always been unique, considering Felix is a faerie and magically connected to Jisung.  So even though you are dating Jisung, when Felix tells you he needs to marry to keep up appearences in the faerie court, you see no reason to say no…

pairing: han jisung/reader/lee felix content info: sexual content. threesome. faerie au. this is an almost 16k word read. one day i will meet my maker and have to atone for that. warning for some ambiguous motivations plus general freaky faerie and supernatural stuff. felix and jisung have a magical connection, reader does not know the details but it seems they can physically feel each other's reactions and urges and they do a lot of the same things in an uncanny way. there is a 'consummation ritual' that involves being watched but reader is clever about it.

:)

-

Autumnal flurries follow Han Jisung everywhere, little tornadoes of red-and-gold kicking up an elemental fuss wherever he steps. It might be a remnant of his time with the faerie folk, or maybe a coincidence, or maybe he is such a blustery font of chaos that he is simply kicking up wind storms on his own. 

He totters into the café with his usual trail of leaves, much to the displeasure of the bus boy who follows with a broom.  The wind gets restless at the window.  It throws itself against the pane with a heavy, reverberating thunder as if nature is knocking in pursuit of Jisung’s attention.  You watch a few pine cones hurl themselves at the glass before everything settles down on its own. 

Jisung pays it no mind.  He slides into the booth across from you, heaving a big dramatic breath. 

“Good afternoon,” you say, amused with your boyfriend’s theatrics.  They are as constant as his flurries.   

“Yo, is it, ‘cause ah, HAHA—I’ve been having a day.”  He thunks his head on the back of the booth and pretends to fall asleep.  His round glasses skew with the loll of his head.

Jisung dressed up for today’s date.  He is wearing a beige coat that flatters his warm complexion plus that cute checkered scarf you gave him last winter.   You don’t mind his usual hoodies and caps as it always puts a swagger in his step, but you appreciate his effort even if it is a little random. 

He lifts his head with another musical sigh, golden blonde hair fluttering from his breath.  His big glasses make his dark eyes even bigger and you smile again.

“Hi,” you say sweetly.

He whimpers with more theatrical misery. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says like it is the most painful fact in the world.  “Why are you so beautiful?  And funny, and smart, and mine.  If you weren’t gonna be ugly and horrible, the least you could have done is reject me.  It wouldn’t have been so bad.  I could have been a lonely suffering artist, hidden away in a basement, composing symphonies for the beautiful woman out of my league.”

“I think you just described the Phantom of the Opera,” you say.

“Even better.”  Jisung sighs wistfully.  “He lived in an underground sex dungeon, right?  I don’t think he even paid rent.”   

You laugh into your hot chocolate. 

“What’s gotten into you?” you say.  It’s a rhetorical question.  Jisung is always a little silly. 

Your playful boyfriend thumps his hands on the table and glares past you, out the window. 

“Faeries,” he says brusquely.  “And their stupid faerie bullshit. My life is a nightmare and an arthouse horror movie and no one has ever suffered more than me—oooh, is that a chocolate croissant?”

You slap his hand when he reaches for your pastry.   He yelps like you chopped it off. 

“Jisungie,” you say, lifting an eyebrow, “what do you mean faerie bullshit?” 

He pouts spectacularly while unknotting his scarf.  He speaks in a watery, despondent voice, very contrary to his usual goofiness, “What do you think I mean?”

This, it seems, is also rhetorical as you have no opportunity to answer.  The bell jingles above the door and a little shiver moves down your spine. 

Unlike Jisung, you have never been to the faerie realm, but you have a gift for recognizing a supernatural presence.  Everything catches your eye as if they are sparkling fireflies, no matter their efforts to hide. 

The courtly fae, the ones that look human, have a tendency to cast enchantments both literal and metaphorical, their impossible beauty captivating to any human eye.  You are not immune to their gravitas, the way space seems to warp around them like earth is little more than gelatinous mire, but you can sense their other-worldliness before seeing them.   This is most likely due to exposure.  You did, after all, grow up with a faerie. 

You look to the doorway.  

Ah.  Speaking of. 

“Oh my god,” Jisung whines.  “He said he’d give me time to tell you.” He steals your hot chocolate and takes a swig like it’s hard vodka. 

“Tell me,” you repeat.  “Tell me what?” 

Though you are talking to Jisung, you cannot help but look over at his… his…

His Felix. 

Felix smiles when he sees you.  He scrunches his nose cutely and it makes his constellation of dark freckles dance on his sunny face. 

The freckles have always been an intriguing part of his glamour – for his human-like appearance is a mask shrouding his true faerie form – because faeries typically regard such things as imperfections.   Perhaps the freckles are residual from his time in the human realm, as Jisung’s flurries are the opposite. 

Felix is unbelievably beautiful.  He is wearing mortal clothes but he does not look truly human.  There’s something in his movements, fluid and dance-like, sometimes too swift to perceive.  His blonde hair catches the light with a perfect glow at every angle, his slender frame flawlessly draped in a black long-coat and a flattering black sweater.  His lovely ringed fingers part the air with his little wave and his perfectly pink mouth curls up in a sweet smile.  His dark eyes seem to sparkle.  

He crosses the restaurant in a few strides, quicker than a human would.  He smiles the whole time. 

“Hello,” he says, his deep voice smooth as butter.  Or maybe you’re the butter, his voice the knife, gliding right down the centre of you and settling low in your belly.  It has always had that effect. 

“Felix, hello,” you say in that quivery way you always greet him.   You grew up with both Jisung and Felix but Felix flits off to the faerie world when it suits him, and every time he returns you find yourself awestruck by him, as if you had never truly seen him before. 

Jisung smacks his head down on the surface of the table.  You and Felix look at him, you with considerable more concern.  Felix just draws his mouth into a flat line, neither smiling nor frowning, more like he anticipated his… his… his Jisung would behave this way. 

“Is it okay if I sit?”  Felix asks, pointing to the spot beside Jisung.  Jisung is somewhat sprawled in the booth but this doesn’t seem to concern Felix.  When you nod, he smiles, smooths out his coat, and simply bumps Jisung with his hip to squish himself into the booth. 

Jisung whimpers again, resting his head on the wall and pouting at it. 

“So,” Felix says.  He folds his hands on the table and tips his head, looking at you.  “How are you doing these days, hmm?” 

Faeries are known for their decorum.  It can turn sour very quickly, but it is imperative to adhere to rules of hospitality and general politeness.  

It is still strange and unnerving to have a faerie prince plunk himself into your booth and smile at you so politely.  Especially when you haven’t seen Felix in more than a year.   A year and fifteen days, to be specific, because Jisung has counted them all.  Jisung complains endlessly when Felix visits but he complains even more when he’s gone for too long. 

You think Felix must have returned to the human realm a while ago.  Jisung is usually friendly when he firsts sees him, but right now he is glaring. 

“What?”  Felix looks at Jisung.  They cock their heads at each other, the same angle, same time. 

It is always funny seeing them side-by-side.  Singularly, they look nothing alike, perhaps because Felix has intentionally deviated his glamour from being identical.  Jisung has a round face, cartoonishly cute at times, his build bulkier from his somewhat erratic workout schedule.   Felix is all sharp lines with a pointed elegance to his features, though his presence fills what space his slender body does not.  Their only similarity is their hair, similarly bouncy, alike in length, and identically shaded.  Right now it is a matching blonde. 

Despite their ample differences, there is an uncanny sameness to them.  They move the same way, tip their heads at the same time, roll their eyes in tandem.  They even take a breath at the same time.  You are certain if you pressed a hand to each of their chests, you would find their hearts beating to the same steady cadence.   

Felix was once a changeling.  Faeries sometimes swap their infants for human ones, occasionally for fun, oftentimes when their offspring is sickly or malformed.  Once a changeling swap has occurred, the faerie and human are inexorably linked to one another.  If the human parents try to kill the faerie or let it die, it will also kill their child, so it is in their best interest to nurse the sickly baby and hope the faeries swap them back. 

Felix was born too soon, a shrivelled little creature, third son of the autumn high prince’s third wife.  His mother swapped him for Jisung, stealing the little mortal away in his infancy.  Jisung’s mother was not a bewildered, simpering mortal, however.  Her resilience and intelligence was part of the family’s initial allure, but it was also the downfall of the changeling operation.  She ventured into the faerie realm and won back her son, plus the right to see the lonely faerie prince that had been so unceremoniously abandoned by his unloving family. 

She returned to the mortal world with Jisung and Felix.  The changeling prince spent his childhood bouncing between the human realm and the world of faerie.   You grew up next door to Jisung and the three of you have been a tight-knit trio since before you can remember. 

You love Felix just as much as you love Jisung, it’s just that… the faerie-ness complicates things.  You aren’t sure Felix really loves you or Jisung in a way you understand.  Even now, his enquiry after your well-being seems more like a necessary script than genuine question.  He will be uneasy until you complete your side of the exchange. 

“I’m good, Felix,” you say.  “How are you?”

He smiles, freckles dancing.  “Good,” he says.  “Thank you.”  

Felix cracks his neck and Jisung is compelled to do the same, though he looks irritated about it.  The depth of their connection has always been ambiguous to you, but sometimes Jisung feels phantom aches and pains, urges that come out of nowhere and pester him like an itch until he satisfies them.  

He seems impatient today, his glare not subsiding for a second.  

“You said I could have time to tell her,” Jisung says. 

“I gave you time,” Felix replies calmly. 

“You gave me like five minutes, man!”

“It doesn’t take more than five minutes,” Felix  says.  He seems genuinely perplexed that Jisung would believe otherwise.  He looks at Jisung with a head tilt that Jisung mirrors, then they both look at you.  “Hi,” Felix says.  “Will you marry me?  See.  That was less than five minutes.  It was five syllables, actually.  Well, I guess if you had asked it, you would have said, ‘Will you marry Felix,’ so it would have been six syllables, but that’s still less than five minutes, even if you streeeeetch it ouuuut—”

“I’m gonna stretch you out,” Jisung says, then plants his forehead in his palm.  “That came out wrong.” 

Felix does not plant his forehead in his palm but he does rest his chin in his hand. 

“So,” he says to you, smiling. “Will you?  Two syllables, by the way.”

“Shut up about the syllables, dude.” 

“Wait,” you say, interrupting their inane blabber.  If you leave them to it, Jisung and Felix will dance in verbal circles for hours and still not clarify anything.  “Marry you?  Why would I— Felix, you know Jisung and I— I don’t understand what’s—”

You love Jisung and Felix.  You find them equally attractive, in their own way and as a complimentary pair.  As much as you adore Jisung, you feel bereft when Felix is gone for a long time.  Your crush on Felix was as inevitable as your romance with Jisung.  Only where that relationship has long since solidified into a stable love, you and Felix have never done much more than hug. 

Jisung and Felix, on the other hand, have shared their own intimacies.  You caught them kissing back when you were teenagers.  You got pouty rather than angry, viciously jealous of both of them at once.  Jisung was too flustered to speak, mostly chirping like a frightened bird, while Felix just smiled and cheerily said, “Jisungie says we’re practicing.”

“Practicing?” you asked, hands on hips.  “Practicing for what exactly?”

Felix frowned, looking confused, like it had never occurred to him to follow that line of questioning. 

“For girls!”  Jisung exclaimed. 

Felix snapped his fingers and nodded.  “Right,” he said.  “Girls. That was it.  Wait.”  He looked confused again and pointed to you. “Isn’t she a girl?” 

“She doesn’t count,” Jisung said, getting redder by the second.  You threw a shoe at him and stormed out of the house. 

That was a long time ago.  That momentary flicker of suggestion was the only time Felix brought up potentially kissing you.  Even then, it seemed less desirous than pragmatic.  

And now, for some reason, he is asking you to marry him. 

“Oh my god, man, maybe if you used more than five syllables, she would get what’s going on,” Jisung says.  His gaze softens when he looks at you.  He reaches across the table to take your hand, though it takes you a second to respond.  Your fingers are frozen stiff around your mug.  “Baby,” he says in a soft, apologetic voice, “I know it sounds a bit strange, but I promise I can explain.” 

“I have to get married,” Felix interrupts, ignoring when Jisung scowls at him.  “I think it’s just for, uhhh, appearances, basically.  My brother Chan just became high prince and I’m the only one of my mum’s kids who isn’t married and she thinks it makes her look bad because all my dad’s other kids have their lives together… anyway, she said either I find a bride for myself or she was going to give me one.  And, uh, she’s not very, hmm, generous, is she?”

Definitely a rhetorical question.  You do not need to have met the faerie princess to know of her predilection for malice.  Felix would most likely be saddled with some Shakespearean donkey-headed monstrosity for all his days.  Felix, being Felix, would smile blithely and accept his awful fate, saying little on the matter when prompted. 

Felix is like that.  He shows neither amity nor animosity to much.  His emotions, whatever they are, manifest unpredictably.  He smiles a lot of blank smiles.  Occasionally he bursts into random tears that flood out of him with terrifying distress.  It comes upon him unexpectedly, so big that it is almost theatrical.  You think he might be mimicking expressions of human pain to convey whatever interior hurt he is feeling, however severe or benign, then it just stops until next time.  

He is not the sort to wail and harass you.  Even if he was desperate, he would not force you to marry him.  Looking into his dark eyes, you know that much.  There are plenty of stories the world over where supernatural princes steal mortal girls from their beds, where they compel them to dance until their feet bleed, where they fill their heads with songs that play until the human goes mad and dies in some anguished pit in their own mind. 

There are not many stories where they propose in a café.

“Felix, you idiot!”  Jisung smacks Felix on the arm.  “You didn’t even tell her the important part.” 

“Oh yeaaah,” Felix says. 

Jisung scoffs and looks at you, his expression soft again.  He squeezes your hand.

“Baby,” he says, “you know how Felix and I have a special, um, connection?” 

You know he means the changeling magic but you think about them kissing.  You push the image aside, as well as the lingering jealously, and nod. 

“Right,” Jisung says.  “We’re like… tied together and shit, right?  Like if I got hit by a bus, Felix would also go splat.”

“Faeries don’t splat,” Felix says, bristled. 

“Splat,” Jisung says sweetly, “like a big stupid faerie pancake.” 

“Jisung,” you say, “are you going to make a point?” 

“The point,” Jisung says, “is Felix is gonna live a long time, if he doesn’t go splat.  So that means… I’m gonna live a long time too.”

“If,” Felix interrupts, “he comes with me to live among the folk.” 

The fair folk.  Another name for the courtly fae.  Divided into seasonal realms, the four courts host a variety of faerie life.  Felix is from the autumn court and Jisung was spirited to it as baby.  You have never crossed from this world into the faerie world.  You know the stories better than anyone, almost more familiar with the foreign realm than the world around you, but its reality has only ever been a distant dream. 

This seems like the world’s strangest break-up: your boyfriend leaving you for his changeling faerie to live an immortal life in the faerie realm.

Except it’s not a break-up.  It’s a proposal. 

“I have no idea what’s happening right now,” you say, juggling feelings of confusion and jealousy and desire.  “What does that have to me with me?  And getting married?” 

“It will bond us together too,” Felix says, smiling again.  “Do you understand?  Isn’t that wonderful?  The three of us can be together for always.  I think you’ll really like it.”  He looks sideways at Jisung and adds, “And you’re smarter than him when it comes to the fair folk.  I would feel better if Jisung had your company.”

“What?” Jisung slaps the table.  “What are you talking about?  I’m the one who’s been there!  I am so totally super smart about faeries all the time!” 

“You once ate a magic apple and grew a tail,” Felix says.   

“You know I get snacky after my naps.  Besides, I got better.  Suck on some salty iron and boom, no tail.” 

Felix sighs, exasperated, and Jisung sighs, even more exasperated. 

“Please marry me,” Felix says imploringly.  “For all of us.” 

Felix cannot lie.  Faerie magic ranges from miniscule to immense, but lying is an impossibility regardless of rank. 

An inability to lie does not guarantee honesty. The truth can be obfuscated.  Faeries are clever with words, cleverer still what they reveal at all.  

Felix has not lied.  He needs to marry.  It would bond you.  You are smarter than Jisung when it comes to the fair folk.

Felix has not told the whole truth.  He does not need to marry you specifically.  He would be happy with just Jisung, you think.  They have something special, something you have always watched from the outside.  You know a lot about faeries but you do not belong to their world.  Felix could keep Jisung safe.  You are a spare. 

Despite the loving stare of your two oldest friends, you feel woefully insecure.  You take your hands back and rest them in your lap, staring morosely into your cooling hot chocolate. 

“Baby?” Jisung says gently.

You look up.  They look equally concerned.  They reach for you at the same time then look at each other.  They mutely come to an accord and Felix takes your hand.  You shiver immediately. 

“Sweetheart,” Felix says.  “It’s just me.  I won’t… I won’t make you do something you don’t want to do, but I… I want to know… I mean, do you not…”

“You don’t want to come with us?”  Jisung asks, his bottom lip wobbling.  Tears spill over his cheeks seconds later.  “I-I-I know it’s a bit weird.  But you’ve always talked about wanting to see it anyway.   And you don’t have any family here anymore.  Are you worried about the royal court thing?  Because I’m gonna be there and Felix says we’ll spend most of our time at his bower anyway and okay I don’t even know what that means and I didn’t wanna seem stupid so I didn’t ask—”

“It’s just my tree-house, Jisung,” Felix says.

“It’s just his tree-house,” Jisung sobs. 

“It isn’t that,” you say.  You reach for Jisung so you are holding both their hands.  You give them a squeeze.  “I love you both.  So much.  It hurts a little sometimes because of how much.  And I’m scared… I’m scared of being left behind.” 

They both pause.  Felix looks more bewildered than any supernatural creature in history, you are sure.  They are inviting you to come along and you express fear of the opposite.  It must be incomprehensible to his mind. 

Apparently it also confuses Jisung because he softly whispers, “What the fuck.”

You bring their hands together and withdraw your own touch. 

“I just mean…”  You are too embarrassed to vocalize it. 

Recognition lights their eyes at the same time.  Jisung rips his hand away. 

“I can’t be alone with Felix forever!”  Jisung cries.  “Are you crazy?  We need you!  Without you it’s just… just… just us.  It’s nothing, it’s empty.  You… you’re our person.  If you’re not there too… then… then… then I’m not going either.  I’d rather get old and die with you than live forever without you.” 

Felix’s mouth opens and closes with a storm of unspoken thoughts.  He has sobbed spectacularly at birthday cards and scraped knees, but he doesn’t cry now. 

Jisung’s exclamation rattles you.  It was such a genuine burst of emotion, so rich with devotion that you feel silly for ever doubting either of them.  Empty, he said.  You never considered what kind of echo might exist between them, how your presence filled it and made it better, not worse. 

You intend to remedy your blunder, an apology on your lips, but then Felix finds his words.

“I’ll tell you my name,” he says.  “My true name.  Will that be enough to convince you?”

Enough?

Enough?

You and Jisung stare at Felix with your jaws dropped.  Felix clenches his jaw, staring back at you. 

Faeries go by many names in their long lifetimes.  Felix was the name Jisung’s mother gave him, but it is not his true faerie name.  Names are powerful things.  If a mortal has a faerie’s true name, they can ensorcell and compel that faerie to do their bidding.  It essentially enslaves them. 

Faeries do not freely reveal their true names, not to other faeries and certainly not to mortals.  Tricky mortals have uncovered faerie names, stories of humans triumphing over wicked creatures, but you cannot think of a single story where the faerie got down on one knee and willingly offered it.

Because that’s what Felix does.  He gets out of the booth and gets down on one knee in front of you, then looks up at you with dark, desperate eyes. 

“I’ll tell you right now if that’s what it takes,” he says.  His hands are shaking.  The wind starts knocking at the window again, harder than before.  Leaves form columns of colour, shooting up to the sky, scattering in every direction. 

“Don’t,” you say.  “Don’t.”  The trust this requires is extraordinarily substantial.  It means more than any simple I love you.  Maybe Felix feels human love or maybe he feels something different.  Maybe losing you is not like losing a person, but like losing a limb or something equally vital.  It must be, for him to offer up his entire being in a word. 

The gesture means more than you can say.  The best way to reciprocate it is by refusing it. 

“It’s enough,” you say, choked up.  “It’s enough that you would offer.” 

“I’ll tell you,” he says, like he thinks you don’t believe him.  But of course you believe him.  He can’t lie. 

“I know,” you say.  “I’m sorry I doubted you.  Come here please.” 

Felix sits beside you and lets you wrap your arms around his neck.  He is tentative at first but then he looks at Jisung and holds you tighter.   The world outside settles once more. 

“Wow, that was intense,” Jisung says.  He grabs a napkin and blows his nose.  “Wheeew.  Wednesdays, am I right?”  

Felix pulls back, just enough so he can see your face.  You feel shy under his rapt attention, flush with warmth when his fingertips sweep from your temple to your jaw.  He holds your chin and tilts your face up.  He seems to be studying you.  This close, you can see all the shades of brown in his eyes, even flecks of dark, dark green and threads of gold.  There is a shimmer to the black of his iris.  If he turned a certain way, you think his glamour would disappear.  You think he would be beautiful anyway. 

He exhales.  His breath flutters over your lips. 

“Will you come with us?” he asks, his deep voice rumbling so soft and low.  “Will you marry me?”

You look at Jisung.  You cannot imagine any circumstance in which a man would look so eager for his girlfriend to accept another man’s proposal, yet this feels completely normal. 

Normal.  The three of you have always had your own definition of that word, haven’t you? 

You look at Felix, at the shimmer of his bold gaze.  

“Yes,” you say.  “Yes, I will.” 

Felix smiles and Jisung lets out a whoop!  You laugh, turning aside to wipe an unbidden tear from your eye.  Felix touches your cheek.  He looks more entranced than anything, blinking long and slow like a content cat. 

Jisung is still celebrating.  He shoves half your croissant in his mouth while you are distracted.  Then, with his cheeks stuffed full of pastry, his eyes get wide. 

“Ohyeah, weforgotsumffing!” he says around a mouthful of food.  He coughs, swallowing too quickly.  Felix clears his throat and passes Jisung your mug.  Jisung gulps it down while you and Felix exchange an affectionate glance.  

Then Jisung clinks the cup on the table and looks at you, sheepish. 

“Haha,” he says.  “By the way, you have to fuck Felix.” 

-

There are entrances to faerie in the deepest part of the woods.  Doorways are found in unlikely patterns that most humans will declare peculiar but innocuous: rings of spotted mushrooms, circular patches of darkening grass, shadows that arch with a perfect curve beneath a canopy of leaves.   

You have known this all your life, but you also knew to never go looking.  Not on your own.  A mortal wandering into faerie is not so different from a lamb wandering into a wolf den.  

Even with a wolf escort, you feel like that vulnerable lamb.  You hold hands with Jisung the entire trek, trailing behind Felix who hums as he lightly dances his way through even the harshest terrain.  Finally you come across two branches, twining up and up until they tangle like two hands clasping across a chasm.  

Winded from the exertion of the hike, you and Jisung come to a slow stop to catch your breaths.  Felix hurries ahead, his face brightening as he approaches the archway. 

“You ready?”  Jisung asks, squeezing your hand.

“Yeah,” you say.  “You?”

“Oh, hell yeah, baby,” he says with a laugh.  You look at him only to find his gaze turned on the archway, faraway with reminiscence.  “I remember it, you know,” he says.

“What?” you ask.  Jisung has never mentioned this before. “But you were just a baby.”

He looks at you with surprise, like he didn’t expect an answer.  Maybe he didn’t mean to say it out loud.  He laughs, deflecting the tension, and rubs the back of his neck. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says.  “Magic I guess, or something.  I dunno.  I just know I remember it.  There’s stuff that happened last week I can’t remember.  In a year, or fifty, or a hundred, I don’t know what I’ll remember from here.  But I remember this place like I never left.” 

You squeeze his hand again.  He looks at you and smiles, squeezing back. 

“Come on!”  Felix calls.  He is standing at the archway, waving to you.  He is wearing jeans and a t-shirt, a leather satchel slung across his chest.  The mundanity of his clothing looks unnatural.  If he looked inhuman in that café, he looks even less human now.  His glamour is in tact, his freckles pronounced, but there is a quality to him that defies logic.  He looks like he could take off flying and it would not be unusual. 

You and Jisung exchange a final glance then approach.  Felix smiles and walks backwards through the archway.  You can see him clearly as if he merely took another step in the woods.  He holds out his hands, you and Jisung taking one each, then you step through as well. 

Oh.

October orange sunlight pours through the trees, the early sunset colour of a clear autumn day at its close.  The woods are a mosaic of colour: green, orange, yellow, red, brown, little swirls of leaves flying from branch to branch, gathering in piles and scattering again.  You watch leaves settle over a pile of bones only for the whole apparatus to knit itself together.  You stumble to a surprised stop as a cat made of bones and leaves unfurls before your eyes.  It scampers up to Felix, rattling like an ivory windchime and somehow still purring.  Felix scratches behind its leafy ears, smiling and greeting the kitty affectionately. 

“Come on,” Felix says, not noticing the way you and Jisung are completely arrested by the sight of the cat.  “It’s not far from here.” 

It is the domicile of the autumn court.   It is built into the woods, or swallowed by it, grand structures built within and around trees, some abodes very high in the sunlit branches, some disappearing into the ground.  They are decorated with garlands of dried flowers, gardens of gourds and harvest fruit weaving around the lower rooms.  You jump, startled, when a pile of nearby leaves rises up, revealing itself to be a deer, presumably also made of bones beneath its leafy surface. 

“Whoa,” Jisung says, an apt summary.   The leaf animals have no eyes, the faces uncanny.  The deer turns its neck with a click of bone, dipping its head in a respectful bow to Felix as he passes. 

Felix doesn’t notice.  He is watching you and Jisung now, smiling with so much mirth you think he might start glowing. 

“Do you like it?” he asks, looking directly at you.  Maybe he knows what Jisung is feeling without asking.  You try to school your expression to show more than just awe. 

“It’s beautiful,” you say.  You can see how a mortal could be a swept away by the beauty of the faerie court.  Between the glitter of crunchy leaves and the wafts of cinnamon and spice, it fantastically overwhelms the senses.  You can also see how quickly this dream could turn into a nightmare, if the sun was eclipsed and the undead creatures of the earth turned their vacant eyes on you.

You do not convey the complexity of your thoughts.  Felix takes for granted that you always tell the truth, even though he knows you can lie.  You think he sometimes forgets.   His whole face crinkles up with a smile now, maybe too severely, but you appreciate his attempt to render delight for you. 

“A little further to the palace,” Felix says. 

“Palaaace,” Jisung says in a sing-song, squeezing your hand.  He almost knocks you over when a bird swoops by his head.  This raven is real, not made of leaves, and it perches on Felix’s shoulder.  “Birds,” Jisung says woefully.  “There’s always a freaky-ass bird.” 

“This is one of mine,” Felix says, scratching its head.  “I think my brother sent it.”

You watch as the bird leans in, eerily person-like in how it seems to whisper in his ear before fluttering off.   Felix neither smiles nor frowns, his mouth drawing into a thin line as he comes to a halt.

“What is it?”  Jisung asks.  His startled tone reveals that Felix might be perturbed. 

“They’re expecting us,” Felix says, gazing ahead as if he can see your destination through all the foliage.  “They’re already preparing our wedding.”

“What?” you and Jisung say at the same time.  You look at each other then you ask, “Did you tell them already?”  Felix only proposed yesterday and he has not returned to the faerie realm, unless he snuck away overnight, but you don’t think so.  He spent the night with you and Jisung, Jisung insisting on being the little spoon between two big spoons.  Felix had his arm around Jisung and his hand in yours all night. 

“No,” Felix answers.  “I didn’t say anything yet.”

“This feels spoooooky,” Jisung sings, then laughs nervously. 

“Maybe,” Felix says with a casual shrug of his shoulders.  “Maybe not.  Let’s go.” 

You and Jisung exchange another look, but you have gone too far to turn around, so you follow Felix.  He leads you to a red-bricked path that thickens with moss the further you walk.    When you reach the base of a hill, Felix stops to hold your hand. 

“Don’t look back until I say,” he says.  “You could fall.  Keep your eyes on me or the cat.  She knows the way too.” 

The cat is running around your feet, mewling, though the clack of its jaws is louder than its airy voice.  You decide to look at Felix instead.  Apparently Jisung picks the cat because he coos, “Aww, she’s kinda cute in a freaky way.  What’s her name?” 

“Babyeater,” Felix says. 

“Oh nooo,” Jisung replies.

You follow Felix and the cat up an incline that grows so steep that at one point you are walking perpendicular to the forest below.   You look at Felix the whole time, squeezing his hand tightly.   His returned squeeze is reassuring.  You remind yourself this is Felix, the same boy who kissed your scraped knees better, who sat through all your childhood tea parties even though he never really understood the concept of playing pretend, the same boy who has dutifully and lovingly obliged your every whim, however much he failed to understand its human purpose.  For Felix, it was always enough if it made you happy. 

He leads you safely over the crest of the hill, then it’s just a few more steps through a darker patch of woods before you are stepping into a huge clearing, bright and orange and gold.   Three massive, broad trees stand in the distance, an elaborate stone citadel built around the trunks.   There are faeries and other supernatural entities wandering around an autumnal garden, some scurrying with bundles of lights and candles and drapery.   The clearing and castle have been beautifully and frightfully decorated with pumpkins and dried flowers and bones. 

“Is this for us?”  Jisung asks.  “Uh, I mean, for you?”

“It looks like it,” Felix says uncertainly.  “I don’t know how they—”

Jisung screams, a proper shrill yell right in your ear, when something bursts out of some shrubbery and blocks his path.  You stumble back with wide-eyed surprise and Jisung instinctively shields you even in his terror.  Felix is not scared, his face neutral as ever, but his connection to Jisung has him reacting similarly, guarding you with his body. 

An eyeless husk straightens itself, bony limbs stretching for the sky.  You hear the crack of a neck-bone and the flutter of leaves, then all at a once a glamour settles over the faerie, revealing a handsome young man with short brown hair and dark eyes. 

“He’s still loud,” the faerie says.  “You were loud as a baby too.  Wahhh-wahhhh-wahhhhhh—” 

“Seungmin,” Felix says, nonplussed.  “Thank you for the raven.” 

Felix bows and the faerie, Seungmin, who must be the aforementioned brother, bows back as per the dictation of decorum. 

“Chan is mad he had to find out the news from Hyunjin,” Seungmin says, his mouth quirked in a smirky little half-smile.  “You better to be ready to grovel.”   

“Ah,” Felix says.   He looks over at you and Jisung who are clinging to each other, still wide-eyed with surprise.  “Hyunjin is a prince from the spring court,” Felix says.  “He can see the future.”

“Oh,” Jisung says.  “Yeah, sure, makes sense.”  He looks at you with a face that says, it definitely does not make sense. 

“Spring court,” Seungmin says with a little eye-roll.  “They burst in here with a dramatic fuss like always.  It’s embarrassing that the high prince of autumn learned about his favourite little brother’s engagement from a different court...”

“I can’t help that Hyunjin sees the future,” Felix says, more disgruntled than you have ever heard him.  It occurs to you, as you look between him and Seungmin, that Felix stands out here just as much as he did in the human world.  It is different, as here it is the little cracks of humanity that fracture his faerie face.  Not just the glamour, the freckles or his clothes, but some intrinsic bearing.   Maybe it is the sameness to Jisung, the way they block you with the same stance, the way they shuffle on the same foot.  Maybe it’s something else, but it is suddenly pronounced. 

Seungmin does not appear to notice Felix’s tone.  He just gives another bow which Felix is forced to return.  You see Jisung twitching and you squeeze his hand. 

“You don’t have to bow,” you whisper.    

“I know,” he says, then bobs twice in an aborted half-bow. 

You sigh.  You jump when Jisung shrieks again, startled by a little leaf-dog that comes running out of the shrubbery.  It is being pursued by some frantic sprites.  They yammer at the puppy in a faerie tongue as it starts to chase the cat.  All their bones are clattering as they run around, cat then dog then sprites.  Seungmin blinks at the fiasco then looks at Felix. 

“Let’s go,” Seungmin says.  He turns and gives you a bow, as is polite, then looks at Jisung and says, “Boo!” 

Jisung jumps and Seungmin cackles, bowing. 

Felix gives Seungmin a little shove, his mouth a grim line again. 

You follow Seungmin further into the garden, coming upon a feast that seems to be currently underway even while servants continue to set the party around the guests.   Food appears and disappears off the table, some faeries eating and some of them throwing food at the servants.   You have heard stories of ensorcelled human servants being trapped in places like this, but you only see faeries so far.  It doesn’t put you at ease exactly, but you don’t feel quite as frightened. 

Then all the faerie guests at the grand table stop and look at you.   Then you are frightened. 

“Hi,” Jisung squeaks. 

It is nervously and thoughtlessly blurted, but it would be impolite to ignore it, so a chorus of “hi” and “hello” circles the table in return. 

Most of them have a glamour of some kind.  A stockier, handsome faerie with bright orange hair stands.   He is on the other side of the long banquet table but manifests in front of you in mere seconds.  You are very alarmed to find him wearing bandages under a black army coat, the white wraps stained with blood.  It is very at odds with his deeply dimpled smile. 

“Hi there,” he says, looking past Jisung and straight at you.  “Wow, Felix really did it.  Welcome.  Call me Chan.  Sorry for the, ah, blood, I think it upsets humans?”  This apology seems sincere enough, accompanied with a tilt of the head, but he offers no further explanation.  He pulls you into an embrace, tucking you into the fold of one muscular arm, and laughing with an unexpectedly adorable giggliness.  “We have a human little sister.  That’s fun, yeah?”  He looks at the table and everyone nods and claps, only a few characters mutely unresponsive. 

You smile, maybe.  It feels a bit boxy.  Your brain is fitting all the pieces together, recalling that Seungmin referred to Chan as the high prince of autumn.   Chan is thus the highest font of power in this faerie court and he is hugging you. 

The hug pulls you away from Jisung who moves closer to Felix.  You look at them, watching as they hold hands, trying to convey with your eyes that you would rather be with them.

There is no time for any extraction attempt because a fuss stirs at one end of the table.  A pink-haired faerie bursts out of his seat.  He is long-limbed, tall and spindly, and he runs around the huge table at a fairly human speed.  He is wearing a billowy green jacket and a long string of pearls, his pastel appearance at some odds to the deepness of the autumn court. 

“Hey Fee-lix! Heeey!” he says, very literally bouncing when he reaches Felix.   

“Aha, hi, Hyunjin,” Felix says.   

“You brought humans!”  Hyunjin says, sweeping down to look at Jisung, then turning his dark-eyed stare to you.  His glamour is astonishingly beautiful, as bright as his pearls, a face like a handsome marble statue and a supermodel’s stature.  But he slinks like a ferret, as smirky as a fox.   “The bride,” he says with something of a wistful sigh.  His dark eyes are sparkling.  “A faerie and a human.  How romantic.  I love romance.” 

Then you are freed from hugging Chan, but only because Hyunjin cups your face in both hands and kisses you.  Not a greeting kiss either, but a deep kiss.  You sputter when he licks you. 

“Um,” Jisung squeaks. 

“This is High Prince Hyunjin.  Of the spring court, of course,” Chan says amiably, not doing anything to stop the high prince of the spring court from sucking face with his brother’s bride. 

Hyunjin stops on his own, smiling at you fondly.  “Pretty girl,” he says, stroking his whole hand over your face.  “I wish I could marry you.”  This is spoken without much longing, but it must be true or he couldn’t say it.   

He turns his sights on Jisung next.  Jisung straightens, eyes darting around for an escape. 

“The changeling baby,” Hyunjin says.  “He’s so cute now.  Can I marry this one, Felix?” 

Jisung’s eyes widen, looking at Felix, then at you. 

Felix looks unamused.  “No,” he says simply. 

Hyunjin pouts, slinking up to Jisung.  He grabs his face, long fingers grasping him tight.  Jisung’s lips part with surprise, his cheeks puffing when Hyunjin shakes his head around. 

“That’s not fair,” Hyunjin says.  “You already have one.” 

“I said no,” Felix repeats. 

Hyunjin just sighs.  “I knew you’d say that,” he says.  “Oh well.”  Then he kisses Jisung full on the mouth too, Jisung squeaking through the very wet onslaught.  Hyunjin just smiles and strokes his face, then goes back to the table. 

Hyunjin’s self-introduction triggers a similar desire in the remaining guests.  Soon they are swarming you, forced into the vaguest semblance of a queue when Chan waves a demanding hand.  You meet Felix’s mother, who smiles and coos at you like she didn’t mandate a wife in the first place.  You meet Changbin, another half-brother of Felix, who thankfully follows the example set by Chan and not Hyunjin and simply hugs you.  He is so burly and strong that it lifts you off your feet, but he has enough restraint not to crush you, so that’s something.  

There are clusters of other faeries, all noisy, all dipping in bows or trying to kiss you, and all of them from the spring or autumn court.   A hush falls over the garden when the remaining guests approach for an introduction.  Felix finally appears at your side, Jisung too, standing on either side of you and holding your hands. 

“Winter and Summer,” Felix whispers as two courtly fae and their retinues step forward. 

You know very well why Felix deigns to warn you.  The autumn court and spring court, as per their seasonal equivalents, are shifting and transitory in many ways; they grow and they learn, and they often host humans, be it in a generous or malicious capacity.  The winter and summer courts are hostile to change, and both have little to do with humans at all.  Whatever human encounters have transpired in those courts have left few survivors to speak of it. 

Their glamours fit them strangely, like new clothes not yet broken in.   The first prince wears his glamour like a boy forced into dress clothes by a parent, walking with a stiff sort of discomfort.  His robes are coloured blue and yellow, long and loose, his blonde hair turning dark blue at the root.  His dimples are deep and cheekbones very sharp, and when he smiles he reveals a whole row of long, piercing teeth that he forgot to glamour altogether. 

You jump, staring aghast as the otherwise too-pretty prince sweeps into a bow.  He looks at Chan, sees him smiling, and copies the expression with a frightful brightness. 

“Prince Jeongin,” Felix says.  He squeezes your hand, reminding you to bow back. You do so swiftly.  “Summer.” 

“High Prince,” Jeongin says, laughing for some reason, a wheezing sound. 

“You have fourteen older brothers,” Felix says. 

“Had.”  Jeongin smiles again, his dimples deepening, his teeth glittering.  “I ate them.” 

“Oh,” Felix says. There is a pause as he looks at you then looks at Jeongin.  Your face reveals terror, you are certain, but Jeongin is waiting expectantly.  Felix weighs his words and says, “Uh.  You must be happy to be congratulated.” 

You wonder how you ever thought Felix was strange.  He seems so normal suddenly, the only one who finds something wrong with a person eating fourteen brothers.  If he did approve, he would not have to word his congratulations so strangely to avoid a lie. 

Unless he just did that to appease you, a small voice says in the back of your head. A different truth is not a lie.

You wish you were not such an overthinker.  This is Felix.   Your Felix.  Yours, yours.   As much yours as Jisung, who is breathing a little heavier, so it makes Felix breathe heavier, and their combined strain has you close to panting as well. 

You are thus all breathless when you meet the final prince, introduced as High Prince Minho of the winter court.  He is wearing dark clothes, apparently sans his usual furry winter accoutrements, and his glamour is a barely-there mask that vanishes when the light hits him at certain angles.  He wears it like a loosely tied scarf, grudgingly donned.  He has not glamoured his eyes, mismatched and vibrant and vacant of all human emotion.  He does not smile when he bows.   Like Jeongin, he does not hug or kiss you. 

He looks you over, his stare raking, then he does the same to Jisung.  Whatever he sees makes him laugh, though it is a derisive sound.   Then he looks at Felix and says, “They’re fragile.  Be careful, changeling.” 

When he leaves, Jisung whispers, “Honestly, that last one got me kinda hard.”

“Yeah,” Felix says, unhappily, “I know.”   

And just like that, you are trying very hard not to laugh. 

You look at Felix and find his returned gaze to be very affectionate.  You always thought his regards looked a little too precise, like he was concentrating on forming the appropriate expression, but compared to certain toothy grins and cold laughs, Felix looks positively alight with sentiment.   He still looks strange in his t-shirt and jeans, but you think he might look strange anyway. 

It never occurred to you before that Felix’s changeling life might have made him an oddity on both sides of the veil. 

You feel a pang of sympathy, suddenly. 

Felix looks down at where you are holding his hand.  You see his gaze flit across to where you hold Jisung’s hand as well.  It exacerbates that pang in your chest, recalling your own jealousy when you found them kissing, plus all the years spent wishing you shared their magical connection.  It never occurred to you that Felix might feel some type of way about you dating Jisung, about you and Jisung both being human.  Maybe it reminded he was an outcast wherever he went.  Always very close to being part of something, never quite belonging. 

Funny enough, Jisung has always been significantly more blasé.   He sets his sights on what he wants and it never occurs to him that he will not have it.  He has Felix, he dates you, you marry Felix, he lives forever.  You look at your human boyfriend, at the way his dark eyes seem to sparkle as he looks around the garden.  You think somehow, despite his occasional shrieks and frights, he looks more home here than Felix. 

“Right then!”  Chan suddenly claps in your face, startling you.  “It’s wedding time, yeah?  We’ve never had a human wedding here before but Hyunjin is an expert so he helped us out…” 

Two faerie servants rip you away from Felix and Jisung.  Hyunjin follows you, looking very keen, his hands clasped behind his back but his whole face lit up brightly.  His eagerness does not put you at ease, nor are you reassured by his seemingly “expert” advice.  Seeing as he thought it was appropriate to introduce himself by making out with you, you sincerely doubt he is the human expert he has proclaimed himself to be.  

Sure enough, the slapdash preparations are very random.  You are shoved into a very pretty dress, but then Hyunjin attempts to adorn you with both a veil and a headpiece, and you can see an array of other accessories from international wedding regalia.  Being as polite as possible, you decline the offer to any headpiece at all.   

“Wow,” Hyunjin says, cupping your face.  “You are so humble.  Humans are so amazing, the way they just let themselves be ugly.  Wow.  Wow.  I won’t interfere with your hideous but humble head.  Should we kiss again?”        

“I think it’s better we don’t,” you say.  “It might wrinkle the dress?”

He nods sagely.  “That would be bad,” he agrees.  “Especially because your head is so bare and horrible.  The dress is doing all the work.  Can I put flowers in your hair or do you really prefer to be ugly?” 

“Uh, flowers, yeah, sure,” you say.  He says everything so frankly that you somehow can’t feel offended.  A compliment would feel just as meaningless. 

“I’ve always wanted to attend a human wedding,” Hyunjin says.  “You know, spring is a very popular time for human weddings.  But humans are always dying so fast after, so it makes me sad to watch them properly.” 

“You feel sadness?” you ask.  Though Hyunjin and Felix seem quite different, perhaps you can glean an answer to the depth of faerie emotions.  Especially considering this marriage business feels like an entirely different beast now that you are in a wedding dress with an entire congregation of faeries sitting in a garden waiting for you.  It seemed like a simpler affair when it was just Felix and Jisung in a café booth.     

“Oh, of course,” Hyunjin says.  “I feel sad all the time.  I feel sad right now because you aren’t marrying me.”  He says this with a great deal of joviality, smiling at you like he’s proud of his supposed sadness.  

You decide not to ask more questions on that front, because you doubt his answers will be very helpful.  You do enquire after the wedding festivities.  You try not to frown at the very random assemblage of traditions he has baked into a single ceremony.  It sounds like a tedious affair but you decide to brace it, supposing it could be worse. 

“Then we all watch the royal consummation,” Hyunjin says casually, adding another flower to your hair. 

You grab his wrist without thinking, stopping him.

“Did I stab you?” he asks, blowing on your head to check for blood.  “Sorry.  I keep forgetting pins in heads kill humans.”  He says this with a lot of exasperation, like it’s a personal inconvenience to him that humans die so easily. 

“No, it’s not that,” you say.  He pops another peony on your head, manifesting the little buds out of thin air.  “What do you mean ‘we all watch the royal consummation?’  Who is ‘we’?”  

“The high princes, obviously,” he says, tucking a rose behind your ear. 

You stare ahead, mouth hanging open. 

Yesterday seems so long ago now, but Jisung and Felix did explain to you that the autumn court required an act of consummation to legitimize the marriage.  Apparently it has nothing to do with virginity or rearing heirs, mostly functioning as a ritual for the sake of itself.  Once faeries decide something is a rule they must follow it. 

You were very hot in the face the entire conversation.  Jisung seemed content to describe the way you need would have sex with his changeling faerie, but you were too embarrassed to meet either gaze. 

Maybe it would have been easier if you did not want to sleep with Felix. If it was just a necessity, it would be meaningless.

But you very much do desire Felix, even if he only smiled blithely during the discussion.  He seemed unaffected while you were very flustered. 

This is a very different type of flustered. 

“I was not told there would be an audience,” you finally say.

“There isn’t usually,” Hyunjin says.  “But that’s how human princes do it, if I remember.  A whole council watches.  Felix doesn’t have a council, though, so we’ll have to do it.  It would be very rude not to indulge your human traditions.  There!  All done.”

He steps back to admire your appearance.  You are still frazzled from the conversation, from the strong floral scent that is now wrapped around you, from everything. 

“You look—”  Hyunjin pauses, then, “—not horrible at all!  I did a very good job.  Now the wedding can start.  I’ll tell Chan to start killing the sacrificial wedding goats.   We only have one and it’s made of leaves and bones but I assumed that would be okay with you.  This way we can just keep killing the same one over and over again.  I’ll be right back.” 

“Can I—”  You feel panicked.  You need to see Jisung.  Hyunjin has you sequestered in some little golden alcove.  You do not want to be hunted down if you just flee, so you ask, “Can I go look at myself in a mirror?” 

“You’re testing me,” Hyunjin says, his long fingers covering his mouth with a surprised gasp.  Then he giggles.  “I passed!  I know you can’t look at the bride before the wedding.  Wait here!”  Then he disappears out the gate and around the corner. 

You sit down in a huff and close your eyes.  You try counting backwards from one hundred to calm yourself, but you reach the low twenties and still feel tense.   

Then you hear the patter of human footsteps.  You know it is a human because faeries scarcely disturb the ground where they walk.  You hear the crunch of leaves and lift your head, feeling a rush of relief with Jisung pokes his head into the alcove. 

“There you are,” he says.  “Felix is – uh – they’re getting him – dressed – and I wanted –  wanted you—” 

You stand as he talks, as his voice drifts, as his breath catches.  He looks down the length of your dress then back up, his dark eyes watery as he exhales with a gut-punching whoosh. 

“You look so beautiful, baby,” he says.  “This – this feels weird.  I know it’s – weird.  But it’s not – it’s not wrong, right?  It’s just weird.  But weird isn’t bad.   It’s just—”

“Weird,” you say, with a little laugh.  “Yeah.  I know.” 

He smiles softly.  He wore his glasses here but he has since put in contacts.  His hair is neatly styled and he changed into slightly nicer clothes, still human world, but very handsome in his black pants and black shirt.  He is so handsome that for a moment you forget about all your worries, taking a step towards him with your hand extended.  He catches that hand, bringing it to his shoulder.  He sweeps you into a kiss that banishes all your bad thoughts, the familiar taste and feel of him engulfing you.   You sink your fingers in his hair, parting your lips under the press of his mouth. 

It's him who ends the kiss, breathlessly, stuttering, “S-sorry, wait.  I came here to tell – to tell you – the consummation – that pink guy—”

“I know,” you say with a cringe.  You bury your face in his neck.  “Ugh, a bunch of faeries are gonna watch me have sex.” 

“Faeries and me!” he says with a nervous laugh. 

“Huh!”

“I tried to stop it, but no one would really listen to me,” he says.  “Someone only listened when I said it was weird for a guy to watch his little brother have sex, and some people agreed, so Prince Chan said I should take his place, since there were no faeries of equal rank to him and at least I was human.”  He slaps a hand to his forehead.  “Sorry.  I tried.” 

“Oh, Jisung,” you say, giggling a little helplessly at your morose boyfriend.  “How do you get yourself into these situations?” 

“You’re wearing a wedding dress!” he replies. 

“That’s only because I know you!” 

“Your life would have been very boring without me,” Jisung says, smiling. 

“I know,” you say.  “It would have been awful.” 

Because for as strange as all this faerie nonsense is, you cannot imagine a world where you never knew Jisung, where you never knew Felix, where you never had this love in your life, as messy and jealous and complicated as it has been at times. 

You tip your head, gazing into Jisung’s eyes.  He shivers when you twirl a bit of his hair around your finger. 

“Jisungie,” you say, thinking of your own jealousy, of Felix’s confounding glances.  “Do you ever feel jealous at all?”

“Of what?” he asks, totally innocent.

“I don’t know,” you say.  You are not sure how to explain it without seeming ridiculous, which puts it into some perspective.  “I mean, me and Felix are about to… you know.”

“Uh, yeah.  That’s okay.  I don’t want to have sex in front of the cannibal faerie,” Jisung says, making you laugh.  “Not a joke!” 

“I know, I know.”  You kiss his cheek. 

“I couldn’t be jealous of you two,” he says, looking contemplative, as if this has never really occurred to him before.  Then he looks at you a bit sheepishly, his gaze skittish in how it darts around. 

“What?” you ask, recognizing his shy mischief. 

“I think it’s… uh… kinda hot?”  He rubs the back of his neck.  “I love you and I guess I also love that stupid faerie boy.  And… maybe… I kinda wanna see…”

You feel very hot again. 

“You, um, want to watch Felix fuck me?” you ask, frankly as you can. 

“Yes.”  He stares straight up, his ears gone completely red and his cheeks turning pink.  “I think you’ll look hot together.  I was kinda hoping we’d do something like this one day.  I mean, the cannibal faerie is a surprise, but other than that…”

You kiss him.  His arms circle your waist and he tugs you close, the kiss deepening naturally.  You let all your flustered embarrassment fizzle away, thinking about Felix, thinking about Jisung.  You get a bit handsy, squeezing Jisung’s biceps then resting your hands on his chest.  He makes a little sound into the kiss, one of his needy whimpers.  It never fails to light you up. 

“I’m nervous,” you say, speaking low, against his lips.  “Thinking about so many of them watching me and Felix…”

It is clear by his gulp and frantic nod that Jisung finds the scenario sexier than he should.   “Yeah, baby,” he says.  “What can I do?” 

You know the faeries will be occupied with Hyunjin’s myriad of rituals for a while, so you peck his lips and ask, “Get me ready?”

“Ready,” he repeats.  His gaze jumps up to the flowers in your hair.  “You are ready.” 

“Not like that,” you say.  

Jisung really does his best to be appropriate, but he gets pussy-drunk faster than any man you have ever known.  A suggestion is all it takes.  You tap his shoulder and he obediently drops to his knees. 

“Baby,” he says in a reverent whisper, sighing, eyes closing when you run your fingers through his hair. 

Heavy-lidded and so seemingly submissive to your desire, Jisung looks up at you.  Then he reaches past you, grabs the chair by the leg, and yanks.  He is not too gentle, spilling you onto it with a forceful nudge. 

You know Jisung does nothing by halves.  He is singular in his passions.   You ask him to kneel, so he kneels, so he closes his eyes, so he opens his mouth.  He pushes your dress out of his way and licks through your panties until the fabric is sticky and you are so so wet that it clings to you.  Your thighs tremble and he whimpers softly, high and light in the back of his throat. 

“Jisungie…”

“Shh, shh, shh,” he says in a raspy voice, drawing the fabric aside.  “It’s okay.  Don’t cry.  I’ve got you, baby.” 

He speaks so sweetly, like he is incapable of being mean, even while he torments you with long, twisting strokes of his tongue, never committing to a single pattern.  It is a storm of sensation, rolling through you over and over again.  You are so sensitive that slightest nudge feels like a miniature orgasm all on its own.  You gasp and whine, trying and failing to close your legs around his head. 

“Jisuuung,” you say, your voice rough. “We don’t have much time, I need to come…”

He moans when he buries his tongue in you, when he licks messily up past your clit and back down again.  You grab his hair and tug, though it does nothing to deter him. 

“Your husband can make you come later,” he says, giggling an inch from your pussy.  “I’m just warming you up…”  

“Please,” you say, “please, please, please.”

“Hmm?” is his reply, then he sighs and dives back. 

Your eyes close, brow furrowing in concentration.  You rock your hips against his mouth as he finally starts circling your clit with a single-minded resolve.  You feel flushed and shaky, pleasure and heat coursing through you, and you know you must look as ravaged as you feel.   

You open your eyes and see Felix standing in the entryway.  He looks astonishingly beautiful, his long blonde hair neatly styled back, his freckles pronounced and eyes so dark.  Long earrings made of sparkling orange gems dangle from his ears, looking at once like rippling flames and water running over bronze.  He is dressed in an approximation of a tuxedo, except the pants are leather and the shirt and blazer are cropped too short. 

He tips his head, his eyes on Jisung for a moment.  Then he holds your gaze unflinchingly, maybe daringly.  His smile appears slowly.  It is too gentle to be lecherous, tender despite the fact his gloved hand runs over his belt and tugs.  His tongue touches his bottom lip and he tips his head the other way. 

His presence startles you for a moment.  You should feel caught, or embarrassed, or something.  But the initial surprise fades and you just stare back at him.  You dig your fingers into Jisung’s hair and breathe harder as he strokes and strokes and strokes you with his tongue. 

Felix exhales.  His smile is still soft.  He lifts a darkly gloved hand and gestures to you, curling two fingers, a suggestive come here. 

Then Jisung’s hand goes from your thigh to your pussy, two fingers curling inside you without any resistance.  Felix’s smile curves into a pleased, satisfied smirk.  He nods. 

You come, holding Jisung’s face against your pussy, letting him moan and whimper with his own pleasure as you roughly fuck his mouth.  When he lifts his head, his mouth is so obscenely wet that you throb with a renewed ache of desire. 

“I think you’re ready now,” Jisung says.  He lowers your legs and slowly slides his fingers out of you.  Your breath catches, swallowing up a sound of a surprise when he uses both thumbs to spread your pussy open to his gaze – his and Felix.  Your head feels fuzzy and not with faerie magic. 

“I think so,” Felix says. 

Jisung does not seem surprised by his voice. He lets you go, your dress falling back over your lap.  He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and looks over his shoulder at Felix.  Felix approaches, his steps silent despite his big black boots.

You watch.  Jisung’s bottom lip twitches.  He looks up at Felix with the same hazy intoxication he looked at you.  Felix bites the tip of a glove, pulling the fabric off with his teeth, then he swipes his thumb across Jisung’s glistening mouth.  Felix brings that thumb to his own bottom lip, his tongue only just swiping the tip of it. 

Then Hyunjin struts into the alcove and slaps a shocked hand over his mouth. 

“What are you doing?” he demands.  You think he is going to remark on the man kneeling at your feet, not to mention your sexually dishevelled appearance, but then he says, “Felix.  You’re supposed to have a hat.” 

“I don’t need a hat, Hyunjin,” Felix says with a sigh.  “I would like to talk to my bride for a minute.” 

“That is impossible,” Hyunjin says.  “You need a hat.  Come with me.”

It occurs to you that you are watching the two most emotional faeries in their courts, even if those emotions are aimed in strange directions, like hats.  Because Hyunjin is very adamant and Felix is very annoyed.  You are more than a little concerned that if things come to a head, it will turn horrifying without much effort.

Then Jisung leaps to his feet and puts himself between the two faerie princes.  It surprises everyone to silence.  Even Hyunjin stumbles to a stop.  He cocks his head like a predator regards a measly scrap of prey, eyes flashing as he takes a menacing step forward.  

Felix has no time to react.  You have no chance to scream. 

Jisung is a step ahead of everyone.

He bows.  Hyunjin stumbles to a stop for a second time.  It takes him a second to realize what has happened but when he does his eye twitches.  He bows back, then straightens with a huff.

Jisung bows again.  You slap a hand over your mouth to hide your surprised laugh.  Hyunjin looks far less amused.  Glaring, he bows too, as per the rules of politeness. 

Jisung leaps to the side and bows again, forcing Hyunjin to follow him.  He does this twice more, leading Hyunjin to the exit, bowing back and forth the whole time. 

“Make him stop!”  Hyunjin shrieks.

“Okay, okay!” Jisung says, hands raised in surrender.   He bows one more time, swooping low, then he turns and runs as fast as he can.

Hyunjin, obliged to return the bow, goes chasing after him with a frantic yelp. 

“Is he gonna be okay?” you ask, springing to your feet.  You dress falls neatly down. 

“Yes,” Felix says.  “Hyunjin won’t hurt humans.  He likes them too much.”  He turns to you then, his expression returned to a more passive neutrality, though you do not miss the way he looks you over.  “Will you be okay?” he asks.  “I’m sorry.  I thought we would have more time when we got here.  I didn’t know they would do this.” 

“It’s okay,” you say, too shy for a conversation after he very much watched you orgasm.  “Um.  Might as well, I guess… get it out of the way.” 

“Yes.”  He frowns at this, turning aside.  “You want to… get it out of the way.  I understand.  I’m sorry it had to be this way.  You don’t want to marry me.” 

He says it so plainly and without any hesitation.  He must believe it is the absolute truth.  For a moment, you can only stare at him, his handsome profile, the tendrils of sadness that tug at his features.  How did you never see it before?

“Felix,” you say gently.  He does not look at you.  You touch his arm and he looks at your hand.  “Felix, I am happy to marry you.  I love you.”  He looks up at that, his brow furrowed.  “And Jisung,” you add.  “I’m… I’m glad it happened this way.  So that you and I—”   He turns to you and your heart skips a few beats, affected by the warmth of his steady gaze.  “So that you and I could come together as well.  And now the three of us—” 

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, then looks aside.  “I’m sorry.  That was forward, yeah?  I just… don’t want the first time to be out there.  Is that strange?  To be honest, sometimes I don’t know what’s strange or what isn’t.  The rules are different everywhere, you know?  I don’t think I’m doing a good job of this.  I’m sorry.  We don’t have to—”

You cup his face and kiss him.  It is very stiff for a moment, because you are both surprised by your brazen action.  He somehow grounds himself first, a careful hand curling around your hip to guide you a little closer.  A breath passes between you then he kisses you back. 

You touch his chest, making a sweet small sound into the kiss when his lips slide so softly against yours.  You are about to deepen it when Jisung interrupts with, “Aww, you’re kissing!  So cute!” 

You and Felix look over at him.  His hands are clasped and he is gushing as only Jisung can. 

“I thought you were running,” Felix says, with a hint of amusement. 

“Stupid labyrinth led me back here,” Jisung says.  He mimes zipping his lips shut and gestures to you.  “Keep kissing.  Pretend I’m not here.” 

“I wouldn’t want to pretend that,” Felix says, so sincerely that Jisung’s eyes widen.  They look at each other for a long moment, then Felix looks at you.  He cups your face. 

Then Hyunjin comes running in.  He swings his arms in a dramatic flail and flower petals fly everywhere.  The leaf dog comes running in and starts nipping at the air, trying to catch the petals.  In the midst of this chaos, Hyunjin storms up to Jisung and promptly bows.  Then he shoves him to the side and grabs Felix by the arm.

“Hat!” he shouts.  “Now!” 

-

It is a twenty-six hour wedding ceremony.  You and Jisung fall asleep halfway through festivity number twelve, curled up under a furry blanket near a fire pit.  You wake when Felix lifts your head into his lap.  Jisung is already curled up with his head on your belly, so you smile and snuggle into Felix.  He cups your face and strokes your cheek, the flickering firelight casting shadows on his face, making his smile seem bigger than usual. 

The consummation ritual is last.  It takes place inside the castle, in a beautiful room that appears to have been designed for this express purpose.  The mossy stone walls are decorated with dried flowers, the plush bed laden with thick red throws and burgundy cushions.   Despite the tall open windows, there is no autumn chill, a lit fireplace cozying the room with its warmth.

It would be a lovely chamber if not for the translucent curtain with a literal audience behind it.  The winter and summer princes sit ramrod straight, so uninterested in their surroundings that it actually puts you at ease.  Hyunjin looks… a little too eager to be honest, but you aren’t convinced he understands this ritual anymore than anything else today. 

Jisung is side-eying Jeongin, who is sitting beside him because Hyunjin refused to sit by ‘the annoying changeling brat’.  Minho is sitting between Jeongin and Hyunjin, casting the occasional side-eye to the spring prince.  Despite his stoic countenance, his displeasure with the company is clear. 

Honestly, the whole tableau is quite comedic.  You find yourself trying to stifle laughter when Felix finally arrives.  You were sent to separate rooms to undress and change into robes, but you arrived here first.   Felix looks at you curiously, clearly perplexed by your laughter. 

“You’re not nervous anymore,” he observes. 

“No,” you say.  “I’ve just been thinking like a faerie.” 

He tilts his head at that.  You smile and kiss him, a chaste kiss that makes his lashes flutter.  The little reaction tickles a flurry of butterflies in your belly.  You hold his hand and lead him to the bed where you sit down.  His eyes shift with a nervous scuttle, but he follows the direction of your hand when you gesture to him. 

You keep your eyes on his, intensely locked as you lift his hand and take two fingers in your mouth.  When you close your lips around his fingers and gently suck, his breath catches.  It echoes in Jisung. 

Then Jeongin whispers loudly, “Is she going to eat him?”  He sounds moderately intrigued. 

“Be quiet,” Hyunjin replies. 

“I think it’s over,” Minho says, catching onto your ruse before anyone else.  

You smile and open your eyes.  You separate from Felix and turn your head to the silhouettes beyond the curtain. 

“A penetrative performance,” you state.   “I believe that was the requirement.  And I believe that should qualify.” 

You are stretching the meaning of those words and you know it, but that’s what faeries do.  His fingers ‘penetrated’ the breach of your mouth, so it should count on the most technical level. 

“All done,” you say with a smile and wave. 

“So you’re not eating him?”  Jeongin says, frowning. 

Minho is the first one to stand.  He flicks Jeongin’s forehead as he passes, but otherwise says nothing before fleeing the room.  Jeongin follows with a slightly disgruntled shuffle, then Hyunjin stomps his foot. 

“Humans,” he says, marching past Jisung. 

The door closes behind Hyunjin.  Jisung claps a hand over his mouth and laughs into it, so hard he has to put a hand over his stomach as he doubles over.   Felix laughs too, a pleasantly low rumble that he tries to stifle with a cough.  You smile up at him, leaning back on your palms and admiring him in the warm orange light.  He tucks some hair behind his ear, regarding you with a very tender gaze when he nods his head in a curt little bow. 

“All done,” he says.  It makes your brow furrow: the little shift in tone, the tension that still draws his shoulders back.  You realize that even after everything, he is still uncertain about his place.  Even Jisung knows where he belongs, not for a moment thinking he should leave the room, but Felix takes a step away from the bed like he intends to do just that.

You grab his hand, drawing his attention back to you.  Blonde hair falls around his face, shadowing it.  He doesn’t quite meet your eyes, gaze somewhere on your chin. 

“Felix,” you say.  His fingers tighten around yours and it feels like a question.  You answer by tugging that hand, drawing him closer.  His eyes flash gold when you drop his hand to open your robe.  This time you can hear Jisung’s sharp breath too, all laughter subsiding as you let the robe fall off your shoulders, laying yourself bare before Felix. 

He looks awed but stricken.  You can see when he swallows.  He looks at Jisung then back at you, his brow furrowing.  His lips twitch in a bid to speak but no words come.   

It would be funny, this supernatural being somehow struck dumb by you in your most vulnerable state, but your smile is more affectionate than amused.

“Felix,” you say again.  “Have you ever done something like this before?” 

He shakes his head frantically, his eyes still running up and down your body. 

“No,” he says.  “Uh, no.  No.  I can – feel something when Jisung – when you – I mean—”  He chokes on an awkward laugh, turning away for a second. 

“I fucking knew it!”  Jisung says, poking his head between the folds of the curtain.  “Bro, you’re such a liar.  I asked if you could feel when we fuck and you said no!”

“I can’t lie,” Felix replies, turning to Jisung.  He forgets to be embarrassed while arguing, very plainly and patiently stating his case.  “I told you most faeries don’t think about sex like humans and that I couldn’t be certain what you were doing, yeah?  And I can’t.  And I would have told you more but you only asked the first time and I didn’t know you were going to keep… being with her.  And I – I didn’t want to make things awkward… for you… okay?  By thinking of me every time… so I just… What are you smiling at?”  His deep voice breaks, pitching comically higher for a second. 

Jisung is smirking and nodding, just a floating head with a vague silhouetted body behind the curtain. 

“Man,” Jisung says, “you’ve been acting like a monk but secretly jacking it while we get freaky in the other room… That’s naughty.”

Felix draws his mouth into a flat line then looks at you for help.  You are trying to hold in your giggles, lips pressed tight together.  When he looks at you, you exhale, waving at Jisung to back down for a second.  He ducks behind the curtain again, giggling to himself like the menace he is. 

Fortunately, Felix is easy to distract.  All it takes is opening your legs for his all his attention to zero in there.  He swallows again. 

“Sounds like we’ve been teasing you too long,” you say, your voice drawing his eyes back up to your face.  You smile and beckon him forward.  “Come on.  Let me make it up to you.” 

He looks like he is going to deflect politely, either because he is a faerie or because he is Felix, but then you grab his robe and yank him closer.  He stumbles up to you, his fingers fluttering at his sides and his shoulders still tense.  You take one of his hands and place it on the side of your face, soothing him with another gentle smile as you unknot his robe.

He is already very hard and this seems to fluster him, but he points to the curtain and sputters, “He’s – touching—“ 

“Fuck yeah I am,” Jisung says. 

“Jisung, shh,” you say, trying not to giggle again.  “And slow down.  You’re always so impatient.” 

“Am not,” Jisung says, but you can see him lean back, folding his hands behind his head. 

You look up at Felix, holding his gaze the way you did when you sucked his fingers.  You like the way he twitches and breathes harder, the way his eyes flash, the way his jaw clenches.  His thumb curls under your jaw when your mouth slides over him.  You can’t help but moan when his whole face contorts with more natural emotion than you have ever seen from him.  His breath stutters and stops and starts, his sounds so low and guttural that you feel them inside you. 

“Oh, fuck, dude,” Jisung says, rasping.  You pull back just a little, drooling and stroking with your hand, and glancing at Jisung out of the corner of your eye.  He lifts his hips and squeezes himself over his pants.  “We were fucking torturing you, holy fuck.”   

“Mmmmrrgh,” is the approximate sound Felix makes.  His eyes are partially-lidded, his expression one of immense concentration.  He pulls your face back to him with a flick of his wrist.  Appetent and quite demanding, he leads your mouth back onto him and holds you in place to shallowly and gently fuck your mouth.  He makes a pleased sound, one of deep relief, his head lolling back and the tension leaving his shoulders.   

You let him set the pace, matching the animal instinct that overcomes him.  He stops himself when he’s close, breathing hard and stepping back.  You want to ask if he is okay, but you have to flex your jaw and your voice is momentarily shot.  Before you can find that voice, he turns to the curtain and says, “Show me what you did earlier.  I want – I want to do that too.” 

There is a quiet moment, Jisung maybe surprised at the sudden attention, but then the curtain parts and Jisung steps all the way through.  He has unbuttoned his shirt to the navel, his partially unzipped pants doing nothing to hide the bulge behind his fly.  The sight of him sets off more sparks, especially when he winks at you with all his cheeky wantonness.

Felix gives Jisung a once-over too, pushing a hand through his hair and steadying his breathing.  His features look sharper than ever, darkened with a determined resolve.  He says nothing when Jisung sweeps behind him.  Jisung wiggles his eyebrows at you while he gathers Felix’s robe and slides it off his shoulders. 

“She likes your freckles,” Jisung offers by way of explanation, smooching Felix’s freckled shoulder with a playful little mwah. 

Felix tilts his head and looks at you.  “Really?” he asks.  “I can’t fully scrub them off the glamour. I think it’s somehow your fault.”  This is aimed at Jisung.

“Everything’s my fault!” Jisung says with a great deal of pride. 

“Why would you want to get rid of them?” you blurt, showing just as much as horror as you did when meeting the cannibal faerie.   Felix without his freckles is equally abhorrent.

Felix looks at you, thoughtfully.  Firelight is flickering over the room but you do not think it is a trick of shadow when his freckles seem to darken everywhere. 

“Aw,” Jisung says.  “He’s flirting.” 

Felix looks at him with a certain degree of exasperation.  “Show me what I asked,” he says. 

“Oh, wow, okay, geez, pushy,” Jisung says, circling so he standing beside Felix.  Felix drops the rest of the robe, evidently not the slightest bit shy to be standing there naked.  Now your gaze is the roving one, jumping between them, darting upward when Jisung cups Felix’s face and turns it to him. 

“You need to turn her on first, man,” Jisung says, swaying to the playful rhythm of his own voice.  Felix follows, but his eyes narrow into judgemental slits.  Jisung seems unbothered by this, standing still, tucking some hair behind Felix’s ear.  “C’mooon,” he says, with an impatient little shoulder wiggle and a laugh.  “She likes you… she likes me… as they say… badda bing badda boom…”

“I don’t think they say that during sex,” Felix says, frowning. 

“He’s right,” you say, giggling. 

Jisung sighs and looks at you.  “No audience participation,” he says, miming a zip across his lips.  “Just sit there and look pretty, baby.  We’ll get to you.” 

Felix looks at you.  Jisung leans close to whisper in his ear.  You try to decipher what he is saying based on Felix, but all Felix does is furrow his eyebrows then look sideways at Jisung.  There is a moment of quiet, then they smile at the same time.

Felix delicately cups Jisung’s chin.

The last time you caught them kissing, it spurred only jealousy.  But that was different.  That was your childish reaction to exclusion, your own anxieties speaking over everything else.  This time, you are not outside of their connection.  You even swear you can feel the faintest tingling on your own lips when they gently come together in a feather-light kiss.   

Their hands trace similar paths, Felix’s slipping into Jisung’s pants and Jisung touching him back.  The kiss deepens until their tongues touch, then Jisung giggles while Felix grins.  They look at you at the same time.

“Go,” Jisung says, nudging Felix forward. 

They let go of each other and Felix climbs up on the bed, guiding you backwards until your head is on a pillow.  Long tendrils of blonde hair brush your cheeks. He lays over you and kisses you, pressing your head into the cushion.  Even lost in his kiss, you can sense Jisung with a fuzzy awareness.  You recognize the familiar touch of his palm, his hand gliding up your inner thigh.  Felix makes room, joining Jisung at your thighs.  You twitch with an instinctive little jerk, pushing yourself up on your elbows to look at them.  Jisung puts a finger over his lips and shushes you, smiling. 

“We got it, we got it…” he says.  He cups the back of Felix’s head and pushes his head down to your pussy. 

Felix glances up at you, then him, then down.  His eyes close and he sticks out his tongue, his expression one of the sweetest pleasure when he puts his mouth on you.   What he lacks in skill, he compensates with eagerness, messily diving in with an open mouth, licking and kissing and making a mess of himself.  Jisung threads his fingers into his hair and tugs, laughing a little. 

“Easy, easy,” he says.  He and Felix look at each other as Jisung lowers his own face.  When he puts his expert mouth on you, your head falls back, thighs parting further.  You throw your arms over your head and dig your fingers into the cushions.  You chase the rhythm of his tongue, looking down when it stops, when Felix replaces him. 

“See, look at her,” Jisung says.  Felix looks up at you.  “Just like that.” 

Then Jisung joins him.  They torturously alternate whose mouth is on you.  Jisung dives at Felix, licking across his wet lips and kissing him before returning to you.  You can hardly tell one mouth from the next, gasping under two tongues as they stroke you and each other, matching blonde heads bobbing in perfect coordination between your thighs.  It is inhumanly perfect, so harmonious that it almost agonizing.  This is how mortals lose their minds here, you think.

Eventually you are so wound up that you can’t help but cry out. 

“Oh noo,” Jisung says, very unrepentant as lays beside you.  “I think we were teasing her… That’s so mean of us, isn’t it, baby?  Huh?”  He pinches your face in his hand, cooing at you while you playfully glare.  He giggles and kisses you, your own wet desire smeared across his lips.  “You’re so wet, baby,” he says, sliding his hand down your body and over your pussy, easing his fingers through the wetness there.  When you whimper, he whimpers back in faux sympathy, pouting and nodding.  “I know, poor baby,” he says, curling his fingers inside you.

Felix’s eyes light up, watching.  He props himself up on one hand and touches you with the other.  You make a sound against Jisung’s mouth, a breathy moan as Felix slides his fingers in too.  It’s thick, that many fingers at once and so suddenly.  Your thighs jerk and you whine into Jisung’s mouth.  You see stars when you close your eyes, their fingers moving at the same time inside you.  They share a heartbeat, a rhythm, not faulting in the slightest.

For a moment, you just lay there and dizzily take it, stretched around their fingers, wet and silky hot and so turned on that you feel like you’re floating. 

“Jisung,” Felix says in his rough, deep voice.

“I know,” Jisung replies, just as hoarse.    

Their fingers leave you and Jisung grabs your throat with that same hand, slick fingers nudging your chin to look at him.  Your breath catches and you think Felix’s breath catches too. 

“That’s my girl,” Jisung says, reaching down at the same Felix reaches up, a hand on each breast, teasing the pebbled peaks.  You squirm and Jisung returns his hand to your throat, smiling at you so innocently, scrunching up his eyes with delight.  “Good girl,” he says, squeezing.  Felix gasps then moans, sucking kisses wherever his mouth lazily roams.  Jisung places those same hot kisses on your neck, each kiss landing one after the other, lighting every nerve.  Teeth and tongue lave at your skin, no doubt bruising it with each little love bite. 

“That’s it,” Jisung says, and you really start to think your human boyfriend is made of more magic than autumnal flurries.  His dark eyes sparkle in the light, his mischievous smirk lighting up his handsome face.  He is so giggly and sweet despite the dastardly torture of his hands and mouth. 

You find yourself sinking into the sensations, eyes closed, body running on instinct. 

“Felix,” Jisung says.  His hand leaves your throat, sliding down your body.  You realize he is spreading your pussy lips again, teasing as Felix pushes inside you.  It is easy now that you have taken so many fingers, but the knowledge of what is happening, of who is fucking you, makes your breath stutter and eyes open. 

“Ohh,” is the only sound you can make, watery eyes on where Felix is moving slowly in and out of you.  His brow is furrowed again, that look of concentration, then he groans and all but sprawls on top of you, fucking you with messy abandon.   Jisung thumps his head heavily onto the cushion, panting heavily, as if he was fucking you. 

“Felix, you gotta—”  Jisung says, his own face twisted up with a tortured sort of pleasure.   Felix does not listen to him, still rocking his hips with a frantic unevenness.  It feels good and crazy and wild, your head lolling to the side, a hum in your throat. 

Jisung finds the resolve to push himself up, groaning with the effort.  You watch him roughly manhandle Felix, yanking his head up to get him to concentrate.  Felix’s eyes flash gold then go dark.  His mouth is hanging open and his cheeks are flushed.  He never stops moving. 

“And you said I was impatient,” Jisung murmurs, grabbing Felix’s hips and evening out his rhythm.  You suppose it stands to reason that if Jisung is the most pussy-drunk man you have ever known, than Felix would be too.  Except Felix actually is magic, and everything about Jisung seems to multiply in Felix.  He looks completely overcome.  Then Jisung suddenly asks, “Good tears or bad?”

“Good,” Felix rasps. 

“So you wanna keep going?”

“Ye-es,” Felix hiccups, then suddenly starts crying, all the messy human-ness mixing with his confusing faerie-ness, coming together in an explosive physical and emotional mania that has him burying his face in your neck and fucking you so deep and hard that your own sniffles start. 

“Yes,” you say at the same time as him, wrapping your arms around his neck.  Jisung touches your hand, his other still guiding Felix’s hips.  Felix moans in your throat then marginally turns his head. 

“Jisung,” he says.  “I can’t—unless you—”      

Jisung very unceremoniously shoves a hand down his pants, then looks up at you and smiles. 

“Okay,” Jisung says.  He moves and Felix sinks back inside you, moaning deeply, clutching you possessively.  You hold him back as fiercely, blinking up at Jisung when kneels near your face.  “Come on, baby,” Jisung says, his thumb tugging at your bottom lip. 

“Yes,” Felix says, nodding at him and at you. 

You open your mouth, nodding at Jisung.  His pants get tossed somewhere and he removes his shirt at the same time his dick pushes past your lips.  They really do fuck with an extraordinary identicalness, perfectly matched without a word.  It is easy to fall into their rhythm, not even straining.  You feel like you were born to be here, between them, sharing them, sharing yourself with them. 

They come at the same time, Felix with his cheek pressed to yours, Jisung with his head thrown back.  They lay down on either side of you, flopping back at the same time. Felix has a completely dazed look on his face, his breath stuttering when you tuck some of his sweaty hair back.  He looks at you like he is seeing you for the first time all over again. 

All three of you exhale at once.  The resulting giggle comes in three-way unison too. 

“Wow,” Felix finally says.  “It’s much more fun like this.”

“Hell yeah,” Jisung says, holding out his fist for a bump.  You swat it down before Felix can return it.  Jisung just laughs, snuggling up to you. 

Felix also rolls onto his side. He tucks one hand under his head and touches your face with the other.  You and Jisung both look at him, his faraway stare, the way a small smile unfurls on his face.

“You’re mine now,” he says.  “Forever.  Yeah?”  It’s posed like a question but evidently it is already fact to him, or he could not say it. 

“Forever and ever,” Jisung says easily, stretching out on the royal bedsheets like he has always belonged there. 

Felix looks at you for an answer too, still smiling.  You are not as easy as Jisung, but you try hard not to overthink. 

But you remember so many stories of humans wandering in the faerie world, never seen or heard from again, the tales of their disappearances ranging from beautiful to horrifying.  You think it would be impudent to think yourself different or better than them.  They thought they were safe too. 

The question tumbles past your lips before you can think twice: 

“Your true name,” you say.  “Would you still give it to me if I asked?” 

He clearly does not expect the question.  He blinks quickly, then his gaze darts to the side.  You look there to see Jisung nodding off, already half-asleep on your shoulder.  Felix is not sleeping.  You look at him, wondering still about the sometimes contradictory depth of their connection. 

“Aren’t you tired too?” you ask. 

“A little,” he says. 

You realize he didn’t answer your other question and you open your mouth to ask again.  He kisses you, cupping your face, making a happy sound when you kiss him back.  Jisung makes his own little happy sound, sighing on your shoulder. 

“I love you,” Felix says, speaking soft and low against your lips.  He strokes the side of your face.  “I want you to stay with me forever.” 

“You’d really tell me your true name?” you ask. 

“I’d do anything for you,” he says.  “I love you.” 

“I love you too, Felix,” you say, about to say more when he kisses you again.  He smiles so big and bright, it crinkles the corner of his eyes.  

“You do,” he says.  “That’s the truth.  You love me like you love him.” 

“It’s the same but different,” you say.   “Like how you love both me and Jisung.”

He is still smiling.  He kisses the corner of your mouth sweetly.  “The same but different,” he says.  “Yes.  I understand.” 

He draws you into his arms and kisses the crown of your head, sighing a happy sigh.  Jisung curls up behind you, already fast asleep while Felix murmurs sweet love confessions at you until you fall asleep too, nestled tightly and safely in his arms.

[lxveuntold]

happy ending, new beginning | hhj (m)

summary: when your friend gifts you an appointment for a massage, he fails to mention one critical detail. luckily, it turns out to be a pleasant surprise with a very happy ending.

pairing: hyunjin x fem reader

genre: smut

word count: 8.3k

rating: mature (18+)

warnings & features: profanity; mentions of the reader having a menstrual cycle; graphic sexual content; the “massage with a happy ending” trope; fingering; risky workplace sex; dirty talk; unprotected sex; pullout method

author’s note: i really cannot believe this is as many words as it is because there is seriously no plot here. i hope you enjoy!

{ click here if you prefer to read on AO3 }

---

The cozy parlor smells nice, like powder and fresh linens. 

The receptionist at the counter smiles. “Hello, good morning. Checking in?” 

You smile back and approach them. “Hi, yes. I’m supposed to have an appointment at ten o’clock?” 

You give them your name. They tap a few things on their screen and nod. 

“All right, you are all checked in. If you want to have a seat, Hyunjin will be with you shortly.”

No sooner have you taken a seat and crossed your legs than the glass door behind the receptionist’s counter opens. Out steps a tall, thin man dressed head to toe in white. Thin, white short-sleeved shirt, loose-fitting white cotton pants, shiny white designer shoes. His blond hair is buzzed short. His ears are decorated with multiple golden piercings. His eyes are a deep brown, and there is a distinctly feline quality to his gaze. 

He’s beautiful. 

Of course Minho booked you a massage with the most beautiful masseur ever.

The man smiles brightly and says your name as a question. His voice is soft and rather pleasant. A lovely voice to match a handsome face. Of course. 

You stand and manage to smile back. “That’s me. Hi.” 

He extends his hand and you shake it. His skin is warm. Soft, too. 

“Hi, I’m Hyunjin, nice to meet you. Please, come on back.” 

He holds the door open and ushers you ahead of him. His hand grazes the center of your back, and your heart flutters for some reason.

“We’ll be in the last room on the right,” he says. 

You walk down the short hallway and turn through the last door on the right with Hyunjin right behind you. 

In your mind, you pictured a sterile white room. Instead, the walls are painted a beautiful shade of green with paintings of flowers and landscapes displayed upon them. There is a long counter along one wall with a round porcelain sink in the middle. Near the sink are a multitude of candles and small bottles and vials. Rolled towels are stuffed in the shelves beneath the counter. In the center of the room is the massage table, longer than it is wide. A white sheet is fitted on top of it. The smell of powder and fresh linen is stronger back here.

Hyunjin steps around you, and you catch the scent of him when the air moves. He smells of something rich and slightly sweet, like dark chocolate. He pulls a fluffy white towel out from under the counter and sets it on the edge of the massage table. Then he looks to you and smiles again. The groove of a dimple appears in his cheek. 

“I’m going to step out for a few minutes,” he says. “I want you to undress entirely, please. Bra, underwear, everything. We don’t want to stain any of your clothing with the oils. Then I want you to lie face down on the table with the towel over you like it’s a blanket, please.” 

You nod along to his instructions. When he is finished, you say, “Okay. Thank you.” 

“Of course. I’ll be right back.”

He leaves and gently shuts the door behind him. 

You undress and pile your clothing on a nearby chair, sliding your shoes underneath it. Then you pick up the towel and shake it open before climbing onto the padded massage table and lying face down under your makeshift blanket. 

It takes several minutes, but eventually there is a knock on the door. Hyunjin calls your name and asks, “Are you decent?” 

“Yes. Come in,” you say, turning your head to see him enter.

He steps inside and closes the door again. You lock eyes for a second, then he moves to the counter. Music begins playing. A slow, relaxing piano melody. You hadn’t even noticed the speaker there. He also lifts one of the candles, but before he lights it, he turns back to you and asks, “Is it all right if I dim the overhead lights and light a few of the candles? They’re not scented.” 

“Oh,” you say. “Uh, sure.” 

He gives you a crooked grin. He really is incredibly beautiful. “It’s all right to say no,” he says. 

“No, no. That sounds fine. Just seems kind of… I don’t know. Intimate, I guess. I wasn’t expecting that.” 

Hyunjin’s face changes. His grin falls and his eyebrows dip in what appears to be confusion. “Is that not what you requested? When you made the appointment, I mean?” he asks. 

You fidget with the sheet, plucking at an imaginary loose thread. “I didn’t set it up myself, actually,” you explain. “My friend did. As a gift.”

Hyunjin’s shoulders drop. It seems like realization is hitting him.

“Ah,” he says, turning all the way from the counter to face you fully. “I’m sorry, this is my fault. I should have confirmed everything with you before I left the room.”

He steps over to a screen the size of an iPad mounted face-high on the wall by the door. He pulls something up on it and nods to himself. Then he looks back to you and explains, “Your friend booked you with me for the full deluxe package. That’s a two hour session which includes establishing relaxing ambiance—the candles, lighting, music, et cetera—the massage of course, use of any and as many essential oils as you wish, and a… a happy ending, if you’re familiar with the term.”

You nearly choke on the spit in your mouth. “O-Oh! Oh my god,” you stammer. “You mean…?”

“An orgasm, yes,” Hyunjin says. “To be clear. Which I should be and should have been from the start.”

Oh, you are going to fucking kill Minho when you see him. No wonder he had been so excited to give you this gift. He does like giving you things you would never buy for yourself, and this definitely fits into that category. Plus, the main reason he did this for you in the first place is because of the recent breakup you’ve gone through. ‘It’ll take your mind off it for a while.’ ‘You deserve to treat yourself.’

Full deluxe package, huh. That twisted fuck.

“No, you’re fine,” you tell Hyunjin, “it’s my friend who should have been clear from the start. Fucking prick.”

Hyunjin chuckles a little. “If you want to cancel, I totally understand. I’ll refund your friend.”

You chew on your lip in thought for a moment then ask, “You really offer that here?”

“Refunds?” 

You laugh, loudly and genuinely. “No. You know what I mean.” 

Hyunjin laughs too. “Yes, I get paid to massage people then make them come. Though not as many people book for that as you might think. You’d think they’d at least be curious, but I think they assume it’s a terrible joke. Anyway, I know this was a lot to spring on you. It’s all right to change your mind and decline. That goes for anything that happens in here this morning.” 

You think for another moment. Another question comes to mind. “What if I had a partner?” you ask. “You wouldn’t offer this in that case, would you?” 

Hyunjin consults the screen on the wall again, scrolling with the tip of his finger. He points to something and replies, “Your appointment form says you’re single, unless your friend lied about that.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “No, that’s correct. I was just curious.” 

“Everything that happens here is private and confidential,” Hyunjin says, sort of dodging your original question at first, but then he adds, “but no. I wouldn’t offer this service to people in relationships. Unless they’ve lied on their appointment form, of course.” 

“Huh. Well I guess that’s on them and not you then.” 

Hyunjin gives a tight smile. “What other questions or concerns do you have?” he asks. He sounds patient and genuinely curious. You get the impression he is good at this. At his job. 

“What if I was on my period?” you ask.

“We have tampons. Or if you wanted to put your underwear back on and wear a pad, we’d have to get you cleaned of all the oil first. I would also lay an extra towel beneath you.” 

“So… you’d still do it?” 

Hyunjin flashes an easier smile. “I would use gloves for sanitary purposes, but yes, I would. Are you on your period? Do I need to step out again or get you anything? Or would you prefer to reschedule?” 

“No, no. I’m not. Just curious again.” 

“These are good questions.” Again, he sounds genuine and kind.

Are you really willing to let this beautiful stranger give you an orgasm though? It wouldn’t be the first time, but this isn’t exactly a dating app hookup or picking someone up at the bar. 

Still, if this is what his job entails and it is a totally normal occurrence for him, why not go along with it? What would it hurt? 

You shake your head again. “I can’t think of anything else,” you say slowly. “And I… I’ll go with everything that was booked.” 

“You sure? No hard feelings if you want to omit some things or reschedule or completely cancel. I promise.” 

You swallow and nod. “I’m sure.”

Hyunjin flashes a brighter smile, bringing back the dimple in his cheek. You entertain the idea that he might actually be relieved by your answer, but surely that is not the case. This is work to him, and this is still a customer service type of job.

“All right. So, would you like me to dim the lights and light some candles?” he asks, easily picking up right where he left off.

“Sure. That would be nice.”

He does so quickly, lighting and placing the candles in various places around the room before dimming the overhead lights. You can still see him well enough to watch him move back to the counter and wash his hands at the sink. The faint light catches on the jewelry in his ears. After he dries his hands, he starts examining the bottles. He does not look at you when he speaks again.

“So, you’re booked for a full body massage. No pun intended,” he says, making you laugh. “But are there any specific areas you want me to focus on? And yes, you’re allowed to say something like your breasts or your glutes or your pelvis.” 

Heat rises in your face. “No. Nowhere in particular,” you answer. 

Hyunjin nods to himself and lifts a couple bottles. “Your form said no known allergies to any oils or lotions or skincare products in general. Is that correct?” 

You sigh. “Yeah, that’s correct. Minho might be a prick but he knows me well.”

Hyunjin laughs again. You like that sound. 

“All right, what about scent preferences? Dislikes?” 

“Uh… what do you recommend? What’s your favorite?” 

He looks at you. “Oh. Well, I like green tea and eucalyptus the most. Lavender is nice too, if you want to relax to the point of falling asleep, which a lot of people do. We also have rose oil, coconut, ginger, frankincense…” 

“The green tea one sounds nice,” you decide. 

“Good choice.”

Hyunjin sets both the bottles in his hands down and lifts another. He opens it and pours a healthy amount into his palm. 

“These are all safe for even the most intimate areas,” he says, rubbing his hands together to warm and spread the oil, “but let me know if you feel any burning or unpleasantness at any time, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

“Ready?” 

“Ready.” 

He touches your arm that is closest to him. You automatically lift it because you think that will make his work easier, but he gently pushes it back down and says, “Just relax, please. No need to lift a finger. I’ll do all the work.”

Something in the way he says that has heat rushing south between your legs. How are you supposed to relax when you know what is waiting for you at the end? Maybe it would help if you didn’t stare at the handsome man touching your body the entire time, so you turn your face to fit it into the cutout in the table and mumble an apology to the floor. 

“Don’t be sorry,” Hyunjin says, gliding a firm hand up your arm, coating it in the fragrant, pleasantly tingly oil. He starts making conversation by asking, “So what made your friend book this appointment for you? Work stress? Just for fun?” 

It would be easy to answer with one of those choices, but he has been so kind, so you feel compelled to tell him the truth. 

“I went through a… sort of a nasty breakup a few months ago. I’m getting over it, but I was pretty down about it for a while.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. And I’m sorry to bring it up.”

Hyunjin kneads downward from your bicep to your wrist, then slots his fingers between yours to hold your hand and roll your wrist in a gentle circle. Somehow, that gesture feels every bit as intimate as if he was already touching between your legs. 

“You’re fine,” you say. 

He lets go of your hand and goes back to your bicep, repeating his earlier motions until he reaches your hand again. He rubs at your fingers, either intentionally or unintentionally popping a few of your knuckles in the process. 

“We don’t have to talk at all, by the way,” Hyunjin says. “You can tell me to be quiet.” 

You smile at the floor. “No, I… I like conversation. Better than sitting here in silence, I think.”

“Well, your emotional and mental comfort are as important to me as your physical comfort,” he says. His hand moves to your upper back between your shoulders, skirting along the edge of the towel. “Is it all right if I pull the towel down a bit? Just to the middle of your back for now.” 

“Yeah, of course. Whatever you need.” 

He folds the towel back just as he said. The air is a little cool on your bare skin, but his warm hands are there to soothe that problem in no time. The oil feels pleasant as he smears it along your skin. The scent of green tea envelopes but does not overwhelm you. The song changes in the background to a different piano melody. 

Hyunjin hums in thought as he prods your shoulders with his fingertips. “You have quite a bit of tension up here,” he says. “Do you sit at a desk all day for work?”

You nod against the table. “Yeah, actually. And I’ve been told my posture isn’t great.”

He chuckles. “I wasn’t going to lecture you or anything, I swear. I was just curious myself.”

A couple quiet minutes go by as he works the knots in your shoulders. You’re the one to speak up and carry on the conversation this time.

“So how did you get into this job?”

“Oh, a friend of a friend thought I’d be good at it. It sounded fun. I thought it would just be a temporary thing but then I was actually going to school for it, and then I was doing hundreds of hours of training and getting my whole license, so I guess this is my career now. I like it though. It’s interesting, you know. Unconventional. Can’t imagine doing something like sitting at a desk all day.”

You both laugh again. You did not realize your legs were tense, but you feel them relax as you sink just a little deeper into the cushioned table. 

“I feel like it could make relationships awkward though,” you say, then immediately wish you hadn’t. That was probably too personal. 

Hyunjin hums but does not pause his work for a second. He pushes his thumbs up and down along the upper part of your spine and says, “I went through a rough breakup a while ago myself because of my career. I told her it was just work and there are other jobs out there that involve touching people’s genitals, but that was a mistake. I mean, I know it’s not the same. There’s definitely a difference between what I do and what a cerologist does. I get that.” 

“A cerologist?” 

“Sorry. A wax specialist.” 

“Ah. Right.”

He sighs heavily. “Anyway, I’ve been hesitant to get seriously involved with anyone since then.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” you say, shifting your weight a little. “It is just a job though.”

“Easy for someone who’s not my girlfriend to say,” Hyunjin jokes. The laughter in the room is more awkward this time. “Sorry,” he says after. “That was weird. I’m sorry.”

It takes more strength than it should, but you turn your face to look at him. He meets your eyes. The candlelight behind him gives his form a glowing outline. Coupled with his white clothing and golden hair, he looks positively radiant.

“It’s all right,” you say. “For whatever it’s worth, I think you’re really good at your job, Hyunjin.”

There are dimples in both his cheeks when he smiles this time. “Thank you. That’s kind of you.”

You shrug. “It’s true.”

He holds eye contact with you for a few seconds longer before looking away. He inhales deeply and clears his throat. “Is it all right if I lower the towel again? Down to your lower back this time?”

“Trying to see my tattoo?” you tease.

He lets out that warm laugh. “If you have a tattoo anywhere on your body, I’ll probably see it, don’t worry. May I, though?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

He folds the towel further and sees nothing but naked skin. He laughs under his breath and turns back to the counter to pour more oil into his hands. It squelches when he rubs his hands together.

You wonder how much time has gone by already. He still has your lower back, your legs, then your entire front to do, you assume. And that’s before you even get to the grand finale.

When his hands smooth their way across the small of your back, your thoughts dissipate. Your breathing slows after a while, until a particularly good press of his fingers on your lower spine elicits a moan from you.

“Sorry, I—” you start, then promptly shut your mouth. You should not have acknowledged the sound at all. That made it a hundred times weirder.

“No, don’t be sorry,” Hyunjin says again. “That’s a good thing. It lets me know it feels good, which is important, obviously. And the walls are soundproof, so don’t worry about that.”

You let out a tiny breath of laughter. “It feels really good,” you say honestly.

“The pressure is okay then?”

“You could go a little, uh, harder, actually.”

“No problem.”

He starts using the heels of his palms to rub outward from your spine to your sides, all the way from your lower back up to your shoulder blades. The oil is very slick, but his hands never slip or fumble in their movements. He does this over and over, moving up and down from the center outward. Another quiet moan comes straight from your throat.

“That’s it,” Hyunjin whispers. His voice is so soft you’re not even sure if he meant for you to hear that or not. A crazy part of you wonders if he ever gets hard during these sessions, but you’re definitely not saying that out loud.

After a while of Hyunjin maintaining a steady rhythm, you start to feel boneless, especially when he steps around the table to give your other side the same attention. He is probably running on auto-pilot mode by now, but your heart skips a few beats when he does the same hand-holding move on your other hand. If he notices the change in your breathing, he does not comment on it.

Eventually, Hyunjin says, “I’m going to move on to your legs now, if that’s all right.”

You hum in understanding. Your throat feels a little dry. Hyunjin carefully peels the towel off your legs and folds it upward. Only your butt remains covered at this point. 

His touch feels softer when he lays his hands on the back of the thigh closest to him. For a second, it feels like his thumbs swipe back and forth with no real intention behind the movement, but then his hands glide all the way down to your ankles with the same pressure he was using on your back. 

“Is the pressure still okay?” he asks. 

“Y-Yeah.” You swallow through the scratchiness in your throat. “Yeah, it’s good.” 

“Good.” 

He squeezes down your leg repeatedly, as if he is trying to push all the tension downward and out through your foot. He keeps you in that boneless state, expertly working your muscles. After a while, you stop feeling embarrassed about your soft moans.

“Are your feet ticklish, or may I move on to those?” he asks. It feels like you have been floating, so it takes you a moment to register his words.

“I mean, they’ve never been especially ticklish?” you say. “Have at it.”

Hyunjin tickles his fingertips against the sole of your foot and laughs with you when you jerk it away. You turn your head to look at him. There is a mischievous glint in his eyes. Or maybe it’s the candlelight.

“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself,” he says. Could he possibly be flirting with you?

You swallow again and say, “You better watch it, mister.”

His eyes glimmer when he nods. “I’ll behave, I promise. Permission to continue the professional way?”

“Granted,” you say, giving him a smile before turning your face back into the cutout.

He takes your foot in a firmer touch so as not to tickle you again, even accidentally. For some reason, this part of the massage feels the best yet. His fingers really know the exact ways to release the tension in your body. You knew he was good at his job.

He steps around the table again and switches to your other leg and foot. It seems like he is focusing longer on your inner thigh this time around. Your toes curl at the thought of his fingers moving just a little higher. Of course he notices. 

“I know,” he says quietly. “Relax.” 

Hyunjin’s touch lingers on your skin after he finishes with your other foot. 

“Would you like me to do your glutes before we move on to your front?” he asks. His voice is not only low but also deeper now. 

“Sure,” you say, your voice hardly more than a breath.

It takes a second before the towel lifts from your butt. Hyunjin sets it down on the back of your calves, out of his way. It takes another second before you feel his touch. He starts with your hips rather than going straight for your butt cheeks. He kneads them gently. It takes all your willpower to stay relaxed.

His thumbs eventually inch their way onto your butt while the rest of his fingers remain splayed over your hips. He presses his thumbs firmly up and outward over your cheeks. Soon he goes from using only his thumbs to using his entire hands. He easily draws more moans from you this way.

What you don’t expect to do is curse under your breath. A tiny but still audible: “Fuck.”

Hyunjin exhales hard. On one upward stroke, you could swear he gropes your flesh more than presses it, and you find you don’t mind that at all. You were wrong — this part feels the best so far.

You would have been more than happy for him to continue this part for hours, but you are reminded of the limited timeframe when he stops his movements.

He lifts the towel off your legs, but one of his hands is still resting on the small of your back when he asks, “Ready to flip over for me?” 

As if you aren’t putty in his hands to mold as he pleases. 

You start to turn over but you are still floating and boneless and your arms give out. Luckily your fall is all of an inch and does not hurt at all, but you are embarrassed by the fumble nonetheless. 

Hyunjin curls an arm behind your back and says, “Here, lean against me. I’ll turn you over.”

“Sorry,” you say as you do as he asks. He is stronger than you expected him to be. He eases your body back into the center of the table like it’s nothing. The towel settles over you again from your collarbone to your toes. You pull your arms out from under it. 

Hyunjin keeps his eyes on yours when you settle on your back. “Don’t be,” he says once again. He smiles that beautiful, dimpled smile. His fingers trail down your arm. “Still feeling good?” he asks. 

You nod silently. 

“Good. May I massage your chest?” 

Only when he asks do you become aware of your hard nipples standing against the soft towel. 

“Yes,” you say.

His eyes drop to your covered breasts. He peels the towel down, folding it down to your belly button. Then he turns to grab the bottle of oil again. He only adds a little more this time. He purses his lips as he reaches for your chest. 

He starts just below your breasts and moves upward, cupping them gently—briefly—before pushing up further. The tips of his thumbs barely graze your nipples, but it’s enough to send a pulse of desire between your legs. 

You hiss and bite your lip. You might have gotten comfortable with your moans, but now he can see your every facial expression, so it feels embarrassing again. 

His hands lift away from your body and his eyes flick to your face in concern. “Did that hurt?” he asks.

“No, uh. The opposite actually.”

“Oh. Phew.” His face relaxes. “Do tell me if it does hurt though. I know this area can be very… tender.”

You nod and take a deep breath, exhaling it slowly.

“That’s it,” Hyunjin says gently. “Breathe. Relax. Enjoy my touch.”

You close your eyes. You don’t think you want to risk eye contact with him while he is doing this.

His hands return to your chest. He gently pushes your breasts up, then smooths over your collarbone, again and again. This part feels the most like fondling so far, but as he said, this can be a tender area, so he can’t exactly be as firm as with your back or your legs.

You sigh when his fingers ghost across your nipples again, lips parting ever so slightly. Hyunjin makes a soft noise as well. You crack an eyelid to look at him. He is focused on your chest with his eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed again in concentration. He looks so handsome you can’t help but blink your eyes open the rest of the way. 

He smooths his face over and smiles when he notices you watching him. 

“How am I doing?” he asks. “Still feeling good?” 

“You’re really good at this,” you say. You sound somewhat breathless, which surprises you because you haven’t even done anything to get that way. 

“Thank you. May I move the towel down a bit?” 

“Sure.”

He tugs it down below your belly button, still leaving your legs and crotch covered. 

“Is your stomach ticklish at all?” he asks. 

“No, not really.” 

He does not pull the same flirty stunt with your stomach as he did with your feet. He simply goes straight back to work, running his hands gently down your sides and across your stomach. It feels more like rubbing than pushing or pressing, probably because of all your organs just below. 

His fingers frequently brush the edge of the towel when they move downward. Sometimes they dip right below the towel and skim just above your pelvis, briefly at first, then lingering for longer and longer.

Your heart kicks up when you realize what is next. Is it that time already? 

Hyunjin notices the change in your breathing. You lock eyes with him again. 

“We don’t have to,” he says quietly. His lips hardly move. His eyes are molten chocolate. 

He stops dipping his fingertips beneath the towel. It surprises you how much you wish he would continue. You think you’ll go crazy if he doesn’t continue. You have to be honest with him. 

“I want to,” you say.

You expect him to move the towel away—or ask to move it away, as he’s been doing—but he merely pushes beneath it again, this time with his whole hand. The hand not beneath the towel curls gently around your shoulder at first, then behind your neck, as if he needs to hold you steady.

“Is this all right?” Hyunjin asks. He has not broken eye contact with you.

You are not sure if he is asking about the hand holding your neck or the one teasing along your inner thigh, but you are enjoying both of them, so you nod and say, “Yes.”

“It will never be too late to change your mind and tell me to stop, okay?” he says. His hand rubs against the crease where your crotch meets your leg. He holds you there too.

You nod again, not trusting yourself to speak clearly with words instead of moans.

“Try to relax,” he says. “Don’t undo all my hard work now.” 

You giggle at his joke. He smiles down at you. His eyes still have not left yours. 

“And tell me if the oil irritates you at all,” he reminds you. 

With that, he cups your pussy whole. You both make a noise at the sensation. You can tell you were wet, even before the oil. He must feel it too, along with the heat of you radiating into his palm. You think you hear him swear under his breath, but he clears his throat immediately after and finally looks away from your face. 

Hyunjin separates his fingers and drags them down each side of your slit, avoiding your clit and your hole. Your eyelashes flutter closed. Your legs twitch and one of your hands briefly balls into a fist on the table before you relax it again. You take a deep breath and exhale slowly through your mouth. Hyunjin lightly squeezes your neck.

“Very good,” he murmurs. His fingers slowly drag up the edges of your pussy, back down again. “Breathe. Relax. Let me do all the work.” 

You lick your lips and keep your eyes closed, enjoying the steady rhythm he builds of gently rubbing you up and down, spreading the oil—and surely your own wetness—over your sensitive skin. 

You nearly manage to relax again when the tip of his middle finger brushes the hood of your clit. Electricity forks throughout your entire body. Your eyelids scrunch tighter and your hips twitch against the table. Hyunjin does not say anything; he simply strums that fingertip over your clit every time his hand passes back and forth. His hand continues sweeping up and down a few more times before he rests it in place and uses that wicked fingertip to draw circles into your hardened clit. 

“How’s the pressure?” he asks. His voice is low and deep again.

You let out a whimper before you can speak. “Good. S-So good, ah—” 

“Should I go faster? Slower?” 

“F-Faster, please.” 

He does so immediately. Your hips buck an inch off the table at the rush of pleasure from the change of pace. Hyunjin chuckles under his breath, but again, he does not comment on your obvious lack of relaxation. 

He does say your name, however, in that low, deep voice. “I want to make you feel so good,” he says.

You’re not sure if he says those words in that tone to all his clients, but you can’t follow that train of thought right now. A fresh wave of arousal takes you, shuddering through all the muscles he just massaged. The area beneath your backside feels wetter than before with the combination of oil and arousal beginning to pool there. 

“Hyunjin,” you moan before you can stop yourself. 

His breath catches in his throat. You look at him again and see his eyelids are heavy over his deep brown eyes. That glowing halo of candlelight is surrounding him again.

“Fuck,” he says, not loudly, but clearly this time. He bites his lip and skims his gaze down the length of your body before meeting your eyes again. “I swear I never say this to clients, but you are so fucking beautiful.” 

You whimper again when his fingertip edges beneath the hood of your clit. When he shifts his weight, you notice the considerable tent in the front of his thin pants. You moan just from the sight of it. He notices that you have noticed his problem, but he does not remove either of his hands from your body to deal with it. Again, you wonder if this always happens, even if he does not call every client beautiful. 

“Can I take the towel off you? Please?” he asks in a pleading tone.

You pull it off yourself and let it drop to the floor. Hyunjin immediately looks between your legs at your naked pussy in his hand and lets out a groan from so deep in his throat that you swear you have a tiny orgasm with the next flick of his finger.

He looks back to your face. His sharp cheeks are noticeably flushed. His sharp jawline flexes beneath his flawless skin.

“Tell me if I’m out of line,” he whispers.

You bend your knees and spread them apart, a clear invitation for him to keep going. He gets the message.

“Fuck, I’m going to make you come so hard,” he says. He adds his ring finger to the circles he is drawing on your sticky clit. It feels incredible, but you still feel horribly empty inside.

“Want your fingers in me, please,” you boldly murmur. 

“Yeah? You want them inside you, beautiful?” 

“Well, not just your fingers.” 

You meant to keep that to yourself—you really did—but you must have said it out loud because Hyunjin sucks a breath through his teeth and stops drawing those maddening circles. His cock visibly bounces in his pants. You look up at his face. An almost pained expression crosses his sculpted features. 

“I… can’t, I… I never…” 

“Sorry,” you say, mortified, “forget I said that. I’m so sorry.”

“I want to,” Hyunjin says, quickly and earnestly. “Trust me, I really fucking want to. I just—my license… I can’t…”

You nod over and over. “I totally get it, I’m sorry. Please ignore me.”

The pained expression does not leave Hyunjin’s face. He bites his plump bottom lip again. His eyes drop in a straight line from your eyes to your mouth to your chest to your pussy and back up again. He dips his middle finger into your pussy, only up to his first knuckle. You automatically clench around it, trying to pull it deeper. It works. He slides his finger the rest of the way inside and curls it, drawing another moan from you. He adds his index finger and curls them both, then scissors them like he wants to work you open.

He breathes hard. He gives the back of your neck another tender squeeze then mutters, “Fuck it,” and moves that hand to the strings on the front of his pants to untie them.

Your heart races. You gasp when he pulls his dick out in front of you. The tip is rosy and thick. The wetness gathered at the slit looks delicious; your immediate thought is how badly you want to lick it up.

“This has to stay between us,” Hyunjin whispers, frantically tugging his pants down to his knees with one hand. His erection stands stiff in the open air.

“I know,” you say, propping yourself up on your elbows. “I swear.”

“Come here. Please…”

Hyunjin takes your hands and helps you scoot to the edge of the table in front of him. He stands between your legs and takes the back of your neck again, forehead propped against yours. You breathe hard and stare into his eyes until you notice movement below. You watch him take his cock in hand and guide the head right to your pussy. When he pushes inside, you both gasp over the tight, wet, smooth entry. He shoves his hips forward, easily bottoming out in one stroke. 

You wrap your arms around his shoulders. Hyunjin stares at your face and tries to breathe calmly through his nose, but you are not making it easy for him with the way your warm pussy is repeatedly clenching around his throbbing dick. 

“Tell me when I can—” 

“Please.”

He starts rolling his hips into you. Gently at first, then with more desperation. Your head rocks back and you moan toward the ceiling at the rise of pleasure. He keeps his grip behind your neck, not letting you fall backward. His other hand has a firm hold of your ass cheek, keeping you steady against his frantic thrusts. His dick rubs against almost every sensitive part of you. You shift your hips a little; it’s enough to angle his tip into that perfect spot.

“Oh fuck, right there, right there,” you pant, bringing your head around to press it back to his forehead and look into his eyes again.

Hyunjin moans and holds you tighter, pounding that spot again and again and again.

You notice him staring at your lips, so you tilt your face and lean in. He meets you in a kiss far more gentle than expected for the way the table is creaking beneath you. He ends it too quickly for your liking, studies your face for a second, then he kisses you again, much deeper this time. As soon as you feel his tongue prod against your lips, you part them and let it swarm into your mouth. His tongue tastes of mint and sugar and he moans so prettily into your mouth. He’s perfect.

You voice your pleasure into the tender kisses. “Yes, yes, fuck, Hyunjin, yes—”

Hyunjin pulls away from the kisses with a low groan. He nearly pulls out of your pussy too, to your great dismay. His hips come to a shaky stop with just the tip of his cock left inside you.

“Sorry, I just need a minute,” he says, breathless and smiling sheepishly. “You’re so tight and you sound so hot and it’s… it’s been a while for me.”

“Take your time,” you say. You’re not sure how much time is left in your session, but you won’t complain if he wants to prolong something he shouldn’t be doing in the first place, and you certainly don’t mind being told how tight and hot you are. 

Hyunjin’s fingers massage the back of your neck. He pulls you into another tender kiss. You clutch his shoulders, nails digging into his smooth skin, and feel his cockhead twitch inside you. He begins moving his hips again, but he only fucks you with his fat tip now. You whine and whimper because it isn’t enough. 

“What about my ‘happy ending’?” you tease, pouting against his lips.

Hyunjin laughs and kisses you again, tongue briefly curling against yours, before answering, “I know, don’t worry. I’m still going to make you come so hard, especially now that it’ll be on my dick.” 

He says that but he has the audacity to pull all the way out of you. Before you can protest, he takes your hands again. 

“Here,” he says, tugging your hands. “Let’s turn you around.” 

You slide off the table. He holds your waist in a strong arm to keep your oily feet from slipping on the floor. 

Hyunjin turns you around and bends you over the massage table. He whips off his shirt and follows you, draping his warm body over yours. His wet cock throbs against your ass cheek.

“Is this all right?” 

“It’s good, Hyunjin, please…” 

He takes your hip in one hand and puts himself back inside you with the other. You moan at the stretch, the friction, the raw pleasure. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs. Once he is secure enough inside you, he lets go of himself and runs that hand up the length of your spine. “I want to hear all your moans, pretty girl. Let me know how good it feels.” 

When he bottoms out this time, he does not give you a moment to adjust; he builds up a relentless pace right away. It takes him a second to find the right angle in this position, but he eventually hits that spot inside you again that has you seeing stars. He hits it over and over, keeping you right there on the end of his pounding cock.

“Fuck—yes—Hyunjin, yes!”

“That’s it, baby, fuck, just like that. You’re so fucking hot, oh my god.”

The hand that is not holding you steady at the hip is making its way all over your body, the body he has had his hands on all morning. He holds the back of your neck again for a while, holding you down to take everything he gives you. He wraps it around your front, pawing back and forth between your heaving breasts, giving each of your nipples a few good pinches. He trails it down your stomach to stuff it between your legs where he finds your clit again. He pinches it the way he pinched your nipples, just to hear you squeal. Then he resumes drawing the circles that started this all.

Hyunjin gets you to come in only a few minutes with his talented fingers. He is like a man possessed, a man with something to prove with how quickly he unravels you.

“Hyunjin, fuck, I’m coming, I’m—” you gasp, though he surely feels it for himself.

He groans and folds himself over you, face pressed to your back, writhing and bucking with you through your orgasm. His hips do not stop bouncing against your backside. He keeps grinding his cock deep inside you, slamming his heavy balls against you. His fingers do not stop playing with your sensitive clit.

He eases the pressure of those fingers once the force of your orgasm wanes, but he never stops completely. His cock throbs hard between your silky, sensitive walls, but he manages to withhold his own orgasm.

“There we go—mmm, fuck—yeah, that’s it,” he says, his breath coming out in warm puffs against your slick, sweaty skin. “So fucking good. That’s just the first one, baby.”

You push yourself up onto your palms against the table, elbows wobbling just like your knees in the aftershocks of your intense climax. Hyunjin moves with you, leaning back to stand straight. He moves a hand against your collarbone to pull you into his chest. You turn your head. He is already there, ready to meet you in a kiss that leaves you even dizzier.

He already alluded to more, but now he asks, “Can you do another one for me, or are you satisfied?”

“You didn’t come yet, did you?” you ask in return.

He exhales a breath of laughter. “No. If you come again, I will. I won’t be able to hold out twice. But that’s not what I asked, pretty girl.”

“Then I’m not satisfied yet,” you say, grinning and kissing his smooth, pink cheek. 

Hyunjin chuckles. “All right. Let me turn you back around then. I want to see your face when you come around me this time.” 

He has to pull out again to sit you back on the table, which is tragic, but the sight of his veiny cock glistening in a layer of your juices is worth it. You reach for it, letting the weight of it simply rest in your palm for a second before taking proper hold of it in a loose fist. Hyunjin groans and wraps his hand around yours, guiding it up and down his length. The skin is smooth and velvety soft but stretched tight over his solid length and girth. 

You only give him half a dozen guided strokes before he pries your hand away.

“I bet you’re pretty good with your hands too, huh baby,” he says, caging you in his arms by planting his hands beside you on the table. “I wish we had more time for you to demonstrate.”

You nearly forgot about the time constraint. You nod and spread your legs. Hyunjin grabs you under one of your knees to help hold you open and also tug you closer to him. He takes his cock and smacks the tip against your clit a few times, still taking the time to rile you up just a little more before sinking back inside you.

“God, this pussy,” he grunts. The grip he has under your knee tightens. His other hand returns to your ass, practically yanking you the rest of the way onto his cock. “It wraps around me perfectly.”

He fucks you again, deep and hard. The table starts creaking again. You hold each other close as he works you both to your highs. He has his face in your neck, kissing and licking and nibbling at your skin. You try to do the same, but all his neck receives in return is a babble of breathless nonsense drawn from your lips with every firm thrust.

His fingers slip their way between your legs again, feeling where his cock is moving in and out of your pussy. His thumb presses against your swollen clit and you lose a bit of your mind. He pulls his face out of your neck to look at you again.

“You first, baby, fuck,” Hyunjin pants. His sweet breath tickles your face. “Please come for me again. Let me feel it again. Let me see it this time, hm? Let me hear how good it feels to come all—over—my fucking—dick.”

“Oh fuck, Hyunjin, don’t stop, don’t stop, please,” you say, moaning it over and over again until your orgasm takes you. You go rigid and then boneless in a different way, trembling through the waves of your second climax.

Hyunjin groans triumphantly and watches it all. “That’s it, that’s it. Fuck yes, that’s so good, baby, oh, yes—”

He fucks you through your orgasm as long as he can but his own quickly catches up to him. He pulls out at the last second and frantically jerks his cock. His cum shoots out in long streaks, landing all over the place — your stomach, your thighs, the table, the floor. Part of your lust-addled brain hoped he would lose himself completely and come inside you, but the sensible part of you is relieved he didn’t. 

He squeezes the last few drops out of his tip and lets go of his cock. It hangs heavy between his legs, flushed and spent. Your pussy is in a similar state; aching in the best way, swollen and throbbing after a thorough fucking. You think you can feel your heartbeat in it. 

Hyunjin is as out of breath as you are but he reaches for you and claims your lips in another kiss. When he pulls away, you become aware of just how oily and sticky and sweaty you both are.

“Holy fuck,” you giggle, making him giggle too. 

“Yeah. ‘Holy fuck’ is right.” 

He clears the rasp in his throat but does not say anything else for a little while. He rests his forehead against yours while you both float back down to earth, waiting for your breathing to settle and your heartbeats to calm. One of his thumbs traces mindless circles into your hip. You absently massage the prickly hairs at the nape of his neck.

Finally, Hyunjin takes a deep breath and straightens. He fixes his pants and pulls his shirt back on. You watch him walk to the other side of the table and pick the towel off the floor. He helps get you cleaned up as best he can. You know you will still walk out of here smelling like green tea and sweat and maybe even his cum, which you help wipe off the floor. He tells you not to fuss over the cum stain on the sheet since he will have to strip it and sanitize the table anyway. 

The feeling of his skin on yours lingers even after you have both been wiped and patted and dried off. Hyunjin gently takes your hands and meets your eyes again. 

“I hope I—um—” he starts, then swallows and tries again. “I swear I don’t do that with clients. Ever.” 

“I believe you,” you say. “I won’t say anything. I promise.”

“I hope I didn’t mess anything up,” he goes on, “because it kind of felt like there was something between us, even before the sex. Unless I’m mistaken?” 

Your heart flutters. “No, I… I agree,” you say, the hint of a smile tugging your lips. “Maybe I’ll make an appointment myself next time.” 

Hyunjin laughs. “Well I was hoping I could give you my personal number. Maybe take you out on a date sometime. Then you’d never have to make an appointment again.”

“Oh! Y-Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

“You’ll have to thank your friend for me for booking you this appointment though,” he jokes.

You burst out laughing because you forgot Minho is the reason you are here in the first place.

“I wasn’t sure if I wanted to thank him earlier,” you say, making Hyunjin laugh again, “but yeah, I guess I will now.”

You smile at him. Hyunjin cups your face in his hands for another kiss before he lets you get dressed, puts his number in your phone, then walks you back to the waiting room. He bids you goodbye with a gleam in his eye that makes your heart flutter once again. 

You hope this is the start of something happy and new.

---

copyright © 2025 by daizymax / lxveuntold. all rights reserved. back to masterlist

[hanibalistic]

#DEBAD7 | CHOI THEO.

genre | fluff, ambiguous romantic attraction / roommate au,

word count | 2929

warning | (should be) none

note | good morning, i'm going to sit at a café! 

a peculiar roommate trumps a disastrous roommate. compared to his previous roommate, who never took their clothes out of the washer and felt entitled to use his hygiene products, theo thought you were leagues better than them.

it has been nearly a year since theo moved into the apartment. so far, the only thing he could safely conclude was that you were eccentric. that was if traits that were potentially gained from unfortunate experiences and should require professional examination could be described as such. he never updated himself on the ever-changing terminology for those things. perhaps 'eccentric' has become an offensive term? he wouldn't know it.

the apartment was clean when he first arrived. it was an observation and not a gathering of facts about you. you always maintained the upkeep of apartment cleanliness, and he took part in chores, such as mopping floors and wiping bathroom mirrors whenever necessary. the apartment was clean—you were not.

your room has a disheveled organization. it was messy precisely the way your routine required, meaning it wasn't definitionally messy. everything has its place, and every place has its purpose, from the water bottle on your nightstand to your work bag on the left corner of your clothing rack. you calmly explained it to him after breaking down in hyperventilating tears because he took the liberty to remove the trash scattered around your room.

it wasn’t how it was supposed to be, he remembered you had sobbed. he never came to terms with your sorrows. he didn’t do a bad thing. he would never think he did. there was no way scrunched-up water bottles and empty soda cans served any purpose other than an illusional constant. it could have been a marker of something severe, but the fact was that your room was dirty. he tried to make better an observation and he wouldn’t apologize for that.

but, still, he's never been more sorry listening to you cry in a locked bedroom, woeful sounds corrupting his mind as he tried to focus on other tasks in the kitchen. he never moved your things again, even if they were outside your usual place.

your peculiarity extended beyond your private space through a children’s carpet set out in the living room a few inches off the side of the couch. it has a single pillow on it, with a cartoon cover that never once changed and is always on the middle of the right edge.

the unsaid rule was that nobody was allowed on it when you were. he noticed that rule from how you fidgeted when he invited a few friends over one night. jiung had decided to sit on the floor to be closer to the sunflower seeds on the coffee table. whenever he laughed his boisterous laugh, he would lean back and touch the carpet. you’d glare at his back, with more muted discomfort than malice. theo had urged jiung away from the rug with an ambiguous redirection, and he respected that you allowed his friends mishaps like that.

you sat on the carpet more than you did on the couch. you bought the mat specifically for sitting, lying, and sleeping on. he understood that. a floor nap with the window open on a breezy summer day reminded him of a childhood never returned. but the mat was much more dear to you than an afternoon nap. that much he never conceptualized, at least not to the point of reaching an understanding with you.

he didn't need to, though. you two weren’t fighting, and the carpet wasn't bothering anyone.

theo was merely curious. sometimes, when he returned home from night shifts, he would find you laying on your side with your eyes wide, unblinking eyeballs eerily catching him by the door whenever he returned. he ignored you the first few times, debating his decision to move in with you. it became less alarming after a while.

once you became a constant in his life, nothing about it was alarming. he only wondered what you were thinking about. were there specific thoughts that were impossible to conjure without the presence of the dirty ground and bloodshot eyes? would you blink if he tried to poke toothpicks into your eyes? should he put a blanket on you if you accidentally fell asleep?

he knew all the answers—yes, yes, and yes, but only use the blanket on your bed. he's spent enough time with you to know all the answers.

"not again," he muttered inaudibly once he noticed the trail of water droplets on the floor.

theo didn't care too much about your habits. you've kept to yourself so well that almost none of them bothered him. all besides one: your unwillingness to take care of yourself.

it was a very familiar sight. over these past few months of living together, he has never seen you blow dry your hair. typically, people would at least wipe their hair down with a towel or wrap it in one. you never did that. once you get out of the shower, without shaking your head to rid it of any wetness, you prepare yourself below the neck and walk straight out of the bathroom, leaving bothersome drops behind.

theo wasn't anal about that. some people don't dry their hair, and that's fine. he wasn't bothered by that and didn't mind the headaches you'd get later. but leaving wet trails behind and forcing him to step on them whenever he forgot to wear slippers was foul!

following the water out to the living room, he froze when he immediately felt your gaze on him by the turn of the corner. a timid strain in all his joints washed over him, the way he assumed an old body would hurt. his presence interrupted your personal activity in the living room, which was only a fact and not an offense.

shrugging the freeze response away, he continued into the communal space. he crouched by the carpet, his feet clumsily barging through the edge. his fingers dangled over his parted knees, and he raised a brow when your eyes finally reached his.

"how are we feeling tonight, hmm?" he asked, his voice boastful in a way that's only to lighten the mood and not loud. never loud; he knew you didn't like loud.

"are you getting any carpet burns yet?"

"no."

"you should pick up the pace then."

"i'll try."

he pursed his lips once you closed your eyes and left him outside your head space by averting your attention to the end of the wall across you.

you were always tricky to talk to on the carpet. the sequence goes as this, from easiest to hardest: sitting up, sitting up with a phone, laying down with a phone, laying down on your back, laying on the side with your eyes closed, laying on the side with eyes wide opened, and laying on the side while going through a verbal shutdown.

he hasn't figured out how to properly bring you out of those states yet. He wasn't sure if he should, not because of any specific moral obligation to accommodate your mental needs, but because it wasn't necessary to. it hasn’t caused him enough hardships to spawn the need for change.

if anything, theo enjoyed the special characteristic of your relationship. it was a humorous arrangement only the two of you have—you lying on the carpet and him crouching next to it. nobody should understand it the way he did.

“can you dry your hair?”

“no."

“i’m not asking then,” he hummed as he poked your shoulder. “you need to dry your hair.”

"you'll get headaches again,” he said when you didn’t respond.

you pulled a face. it was done so delicately that he almost missed it. “so I will."

theo dropped his neck with a successfully suppressed groan that eventually escaped as a low, heavy sigh. his thumbs fiddled, turning in circles around each other and flicking under the uncut nails.

at this point, in any situation, he would walk away.

dead end is the sign to turn back. unlike some of his more impressionable friends, you’re a bolted dead end, with no fence to climb over, no barbed wire to navigate, and no ‘don’t trespass’ sign. it was always a sign to turn around and leave you alone; theo has been excellent at that.

he has left you alone for months, turning away from the dust on your bedroom floor, the piling up of dirty laundry already in the basket, and your third bag of chips as a convenient dinner. but he struggled greatly with it because beneath the surface of his emotionless face was a bank of nags and insults directed at your lifestyle, and crawling lower under his sharp tongue was unprecedented and, he supposed, obligatory affection.

proximity nurtures feelings, and time nurtures the relationship they influence. you and theo have all of them. you and theo have everything under the sun. out of all, he wanted you to be well the most.

it couldn’t be helped, unlearned, or unseen. you have breakfast together, you brush your teeth in one bathroom, you watch the same show and eat from the same snack bow. a constant, an unchanging proximity. he could walk the path of water birthed by the end of your hair like clearing a familiar childhood puzzle game. the outline of your figure was always on the carpet.

you never went anywhere but around his mind.

at some point, it became that way. at this point, in this particular situation, a trivial situation in your shared home, theo remained.

standing up to depart from the living room, you heard a blatant ruckus in the bathroom before he turned up again with a blowdryer. he untangled the cable as he marched purposefully over to you. it didn’t take many steps; his legs were long. once he was near, he stepped over your torso to get behind you and plugged the dryer into the wall socket.

you frowned at his pointed gaze when you turned around to see what he was doing, and then he leaned down to pull you up by your shoulder while his legs extended over the side of your uprightly curled figure.

“you don’t have to dry your hair,” he said. “i will.”

“i don’t let strangers blow dry my hair, theo,” you said.

“i don’t think a stranger would do that for you either.”

your lips curled to the side in a pursed frown as you moved your head to the side to look at him. his deadpan eyes stared at you impatiently, failing to deter your distaste.

you didn’t speak to him when he started drying your hair. you couldn’t do it anyway because of how loud the dryer was. it didn’t sound to be at its breaking point, but considering the negative correlation between its loudness and efficiency, it might as well retire soon. but it couldn’t because neither you nor theo would commit to gadget investment.

you killed bugs with slippers instead of vacuums, and he still used a mop and a broom. if the washer goes next, you already agreed on a laundromat.

his hand was gentle but clumsy, much unlike your mother’s, which was gentle and skillful. perhaps blaming the age of the blowdryer for the low efficiency of drying hair was a mistake. perhaps it was all theo’s fault. or it was nobody’s and nothing’s fault, only that you were getting so bored sitting on the same spot that you’ve begun to hop around theories and conclusions never meant to come alive.

the blowdryer was breaking. theo should never be a hairstylist. theo's touch was soft. your mother’s hands must have gotten older since you last saw her. theo’s fingers were calloused because he’s a guitarist. the blowdryer was getting louder because theo moved it around too much.

"is there something you want to tell me?"

the heat stopped patterning around your face when he suddenly turned off the dyer. you perked up sleepily at his question, faintly alarmed that he figured that out without an indication.

"how did you know?" you asked.

"intuition. now spill."

"oh, um," you squirmed into yourself, "i only let my mom blow dry my hair. i haven’t done it since she stopped.”

theo raised a brow. he didn't know why you decided to tell him that and what purpose it served to have that knowledge. 

“i’m your mom then,” he blurted after a while. “now turn around and stop wasting my time!”

the silence continued. he focused on making sure at least the top of your head was dry; if he felt like it, he would deal with the ends, too. 

"our parents stopped coddling us at some point,” he said when he was able to lower the dryer level. “she can't dry your hair forever."

"i didn't expect her to,” you returned. "i just thought maybe if she's still around, she would still do it for me from time to time. that's all."

he leaned back at your word choices and abruptly turned the hairdryer off. you rarely spoke of your parents to him, and he returned that effort. but more times than not, when he absentmindedly asked you about the recipient of your frantic messages, you replied your mother.

"i didn't know your mom died," he said.

"that's because she didn't," you clarified. "she's alive. she should be. i don't know? i haven't seen her since she left me. the only thing i remember is her blowdrying my hair. that's why i wanted to tell you."

his lips briefly arched downward, "aren't you literally texting her?"

"yeah, but she never responds to my life updates," you said with a shrug.

"that sounds–" he quickly swallowed the criticism and started the dryer again–"nothing. i never said anything."

his restraint was a pleasant surprise you welcomed. it has become more common for him—this abrupt and unexpected kindness plucked from his heartstrings. he must have seen through you; you might have subconsciously allowed him to.

slowly turning around, he powered off the dryer again when your back hit the inside of his leg. you leaned against it, your knees pulled to your chest, and a face chalked up with bitter humor. you leaned close to him suddenly, chuckling through your nose.

"it sounds pathetic," you whispered.

he hummed. "i didn't say it."

"i know. i said it," you exhaled, then you turned to look at him. his gaze never falters, which you always thought was so off-putting about him. "she loved me once, i'm sure of it. i thought she might want to know i'm doing well."

your body ached. theo thought he could see it, but he couldn’t. you hid things well, even from his keen observations. there were imaginary flakes of pain spotted over your limbs and submerged into your bones. they were factual, unstoppable pain, like drizzles of rain he couldn’t stop, and your mother the unreachable sky. 

he lowered the dryer to the ground in thought, and you weren’t in it as much as himself. comfort wasn’t his forte despite being around extroverts who were excellent at it. he couldn’t physically bring himself to reassure when optimism and hope were his only evidence. he never picked up that art, he never even looked at it. but drowning himself between the lines was easy. putting himself in the cracks of your head was easy, even if he sometimes placed himself incorrectly.

his mother never left the family, but he understood what it meant to lose someone. 

“is that why you’re always on the carpet?” he asked. your wet hair stained the skin of his leg; he got used to the cold. “you’re thinking about her?”

“oh, pfff–no,” you said through a snort as you waved your hand. “i think about her sometimes. just sometimes.”

if he could stop the drizzle, he would. if he could return your mother, he would. 

“i’m thinking about other things too, though,” you muttered. “books i like… hmm, what i want to do in life… and i think about you.”

he leaned back in faint surprise, the corners of his lips quirking. his words were decorated with giggles of disbelief, but only the beginning of a giggle and not the middle of it. “you think about me?”

“yeah, all the time,” you muttered absentmindedly. “i see you all the time. how can i not?”

he was the same way. he already knew that. acting surprised only served to eliminate an influence on romantic attraction, which worked. theo looked at you carefully, which was how he usually looked at you. You showed up in great detail in his head: damaged eyes, spotty skin, fragile limbs, and a clumsy heart. he sees you the way that opens you up—the constant only he should understand.

“stop staring at me,” you said. “that’s my brand.”

“your hair is still wet, and it’s pissing me off,” he retorted. “turn around.”

if he has to endure the drizzle, he would. if he had to curse your mother, he would. 

“hey, you should tell your mom you finally dried your hair for the first time in years.” 

you laughed, an influence on his affection. theo turned on the dryer to drown the noise out of his mind, and he prayed you do send your mother a text eventually—“hey mom, i’m doing well. i got a new roommate. his name is choi taeyang, and he promises to take care of me as best he can.” 

[hanllucination]

heart at your door. hwang hyunjin (18+)

Hwang Hyunjin shows up at your door with nothing in his hands and everything in his heart.

PAIRING. hwang hyunjin / fem! reader GENRE. smut, fluff & humor, friends to lovers, idiots (read: hyunjin) in love WORD COUNT. 9.6k WARNINGS. strong language, some anxiety & nervousness, explicit sexual content: protected sex, fingering, oral sex (f! receiving), dirty talk & praise, pet names (baby), very light & unintentional breathplay

NOTES. i’m back! ...ish. haha so i started writing this some time ago when hyunjin got a buzz cut so this is buzz cut hyune because i love him and it’s so hot. i genuinely apologize for the length of this, it’s 9k words of inner turmoils and awkwardness and idiots >< not proofread, but i hope you have happy reading ♡

READ ON AO3. / MASTERLIST.

Sometimes Hyunjin wishes he could shut off his brain, even for a few minutes.

Or thirty. Or maybe an hour. A day, even. But he knows that’s too much to ask.

It’s not like he has a bad brain or anything. No, Hyunjin’s brain is perfectly fine, thank you very much. It’s just… overly enthusiastic. One moment, he’s thinking about his latest painting, the next it’s wondering what kind of bread he should eat for breakfast, and then bam! It’s back to you. Always you.

He stares at his reflection on his phone screen, awkward and glaring at him with disdain. There are a million different things he would rather do, but he’s stuck thinking about the text message he had typed and deleted once (or twice, five times) and it’s all so ridiculous. He recalls the reason why he’s here, pacing around his room, and then he feels his chest doing that thing again — that uneven, frantic hammering that makes it even harder to think straight.

Great. Now he wants to shut off his heart, too.

It’s not like he wants to think about you all the time either. (He does.) It’s not his fault! (It is.) You’re just… you. That’s the best his perfectly fine brain could articulate, unfortunately. You’re the person who laughs way too hard at his jokes, even the ones that aren’t funny. You’re the one who somehow always knows when he’s had a rough day, showing up with a quiet smile or a piece of stupid candy like it’s no big deal. And… you’re the one who makes his heart do this strange little thing he could only describe as cartwheels of a toddler that he’s almost certain isn’t part of any standard human anatomy.

That’s the problem.

Because Hyunjin is Hyunjin, and he’s supposed to be cool. That guy who can charm anyone with a single glance, that guy who can hold his own in any conversation because he’s cool. But around you? He’s a mess. A walking, talking, tripping-over-his-own-fucking-feet mess.

He rubs his palms against his sweatpants, trying to steady himself, push all the thoughts away or, at the very least, get them together in a logical arrangement in his head.

Just say it, his inner voice urges. Not good. Now his brain is talking. It’s not a big deal.

He stops in front of the mirror in the corner of his room, dusty and dark. He glares at his face, then winces internally seeing how flushed he looks. “Not a big deal?” he mutters, feeling out of his own mind. “This is the biggest deal ever!”

Then his feet strides across the floor before he throws his whole weight onto his bed. He feels the harsh bounce of his body and he groans, flinging his arm up to cover his eyes. He feels like an idiot, making something big out of something so small.

But, he thinks, there is nothing small or insignificant or trifling about this. Stupid, somewhat, yes. Meaningless? Not at all.

What’s the worst that could happen? He tries to reason with himself, but his brain, ever the pessimist, is quick to answer: Everything. How fortunate, that his brain talks like this. Everything could happen. You could laugh in his face. You could tell him it’s weird. Then the whole thing would be a mistake–

A force of habit brings his hand up to brush through his hair, and he sinks further into the sheets because he just shaved his head, goddamnit. So that didn’t help. His resolve continues to dwindle with each passing second of having no solution to his dilemma, and before it could completely vanish, he holds his phone back up and taps away to navigate to your contact number. Your name, lovingly tacked on with two pink hearts, stares at him and he stares back. His finger hovers over the call button for a second before he just gives up and lets the device fall onto his chest.

He could just sleep on it, right? He’d be better in the morning, he’ll have a fresh mind to think about what to do. Right?

Wrong. His phone slides from his chest down to the side until it falls on his bed. He sighs, staying there for some time. Then his brain, sometimes the optimist, supplies: What if it goes right, though? What if this time, for once, it’s not a disaster? How very fortunate. What if you smiled and held his hand and–

…Maybe this would be easier if he just showed up.

Hwang Hyunjin shows up at your door with nothing in his hands and everything in his heart.

He didn’t mean to bother you so late at night, but he could not bear it anymore; the pinpricks on his palms when his fingers touch, mapping out how he thinks the shape of yours would fit in his. The warmth of your skin on a cold night. From your end of the earth to another. He could not bear it anymore.

(He speaks as if you live hundreds of miles away.)

(You live around five minutes away from his place.)

His hands could not find any purpose in his pockets, fiddling in his fingers his phone tucked behind the flimsy fabric. The breeze blows in late night and he shivers, feeling the shape of the device in his hand. He wonders if he should just ask for help. You know, like any other person with good friends. But — good friends. God forbid he asks help about something like this. Besides, who could he ask? Chan? Minho? Or–fuck, Seungmin? No way.

It’s not like they know either. Hyunjin never told them.

(They don’t. They don’t. Hyunjin never told them. They don’t know… right?)

In his peripherals the streetlights blur slightly as his thoughts wander. He furrows his brows at the flickering one, about 3 blocks away, and wonders when it will get fixed. It’s been like that for months, hasn’t it? He turns to look at it, squinting his eyes and counting its ons and offs. One, two… three… one, two… one… Anything to stall this whole thing.

Doubt clings to him like the cold air. His knees wobble under the weight of his nerves.

Hyunjin exhales sharply and coughs, taking in too much of the night air and clenching his fists inside his pockets. He’s been carrying his secret for too long, letting it weigh him down with every shared glance, every time your laugh bubbled up like music, every casual touch that lingered just a second too long. He can’t live like this anymore, trapped between wanting and fearing, standing in limbo every time you cross his mind.

The fear hasn’t disappeared. He knows it never will. But the possibility — oh, the possibility of you smiling at him, pulling him into a hug, saying something like I was waiting for you to say something ignites something inside him. Something wild, something reckless, maybe something a little stupid. His heart swells and he giggles like the fucking lovesick fool he is. He thanks the heavens that only he isn’t in the right mind in this neighborhood, out on such a cold, late night because then he wouldn’t have to worry about anyone seeing him jumping around the slippery pavement.

He’s at least feeling a little hopeful about this.

The door swings open before he can even bring a hand up to knock. He flinches in surprise before his gaze settles on yours. On you. A mix of confusion and curiosity swims behind your eyes, and all the words he’s practiced, all the things he’s wanted to say… they vanish.

All that’s left is you.

And him.

And the realization that he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

“What the– Hyunjin?” you blink twice, in major disbelief and almost delirious. “Is that you? What the fuck– What are you doing?”

Hyunjin’s face drains of color. “I, uh,” he stutters. The quiver on his lips gives him away, though, and he hopes you would think he is just feeling the cold. “Sightseeing?” is the only thing he could say.

He feels your eyes on him. Somewhere. Through his own, then to his empty hands now lingering helplessly at his sides. He shivers, pinpricks turning into something more intense, a quiet storm brewing under his skin.

He hangs his head low, trying to look as small as he can, except that’s almost impossible with five-foot-ten of legs. Your fingers grip his wrists in a gentle hold as you pull him inside the warmth of your home, and shame is all he feels when your touch lingers on the skin your thumbs had brushed. It’s like it’s burning, but not quite.

The door clicks shut behind him and now — now what?

“How did you know I was outside your door?”

You rub your hands together before walking towards the corner of your living room to grab a pair of house slippers. You set them down in front of Hyunjin and his palms grow sweatier. Oh God, he feels the blood in his ears surge.

“I didn’t,” you shrug. Hyunjin feels your stare as he slips off his clogs (not his best decision, but he hasn’t made a good amount of right choices tonight) to wear the slippers you so kindly offered. “I was just going to see if I can get some takeout, but it’s too cold. I did see a head by the window and you– you scared the shit out of me, did you know that? Since when did you get bald–”

“I’m not bald! It’s a–” Hyunjin cuts himself off with a painfully awkward laugh. “Let’s not talk about it. Do you want some?”

His mouth is almost running as fast as the thoughts in his head. He’s not making any sense to you, for sure, because he is not making sense to him. He clears his throat, wishing he was the only one aware of the palpable discomfort filling the room. The thickness of it tickles his shoulders and he so badly wants to shake it off.

“What?”

“Takeout,” Hyunjin says. “Do you want some? I can go and get takeout.”

He refuses to look back at you. Not with the nerves, the shaved head, the feelings. But he knows there is a wrinkle on your forehead, right between your brows, perturbed, and his heart skips. He wishes he could gather himself enough to be only slightly affected by his inner turmoil because he wants to peer at your expression. But with his gaze down, he only hears you click your tongue before seeing your feet beginning to walk away.

“You’re crazy,” you mutter under your breath. Hyunjin stays in his place just by your door. “This cold? In that ugly jacket?”

That, though? That’s what would make Hyunjin look.

“Ugly?” he grits his teeth. “This is not ugly! This was from–”

It turns out the jacket is part of his not-good decisions for tonight. He watches you slowly turn around and he almost takes a step back. You give him a pointed look and it shoots right through him enough to shut him up. He pockets his hands in his ugly jacket again, and in an attempt to save himself from this ordeal, he purses his lips to try and think of something to say. A justification, a reason. Anything.

But there was nothing logical about this. He wouldn’t be here if there was.

“It’s the first thing I grabbed before running out the door.” Hyunjin settles for an honest explanation. “I was in a hurry.”

You continue to walk and he follows you like a puppy in its new home. He stares at your back, follows the dip of line on your shirt down your spine, and begs you to God, please say something in his head. Instead, you lead him to the kitchen and say nothing until you stop by your fridge.

“I have leftover stuff, I think,” you tell him, one hand on your hip and the other opening the fridge. “Maybe we can make something out of it.”

Hyunjin tries his best to ignore the unease he feels and nods, despite knowing you wouldn’t see it. He moves closer to you, leaning a bit forward to peek into your fridge like the nosy little ass he is. Your fridge is an assortment of things that don’t necessarily go together for a fancy dinner: some leftover rice, a few eggs, a half-eaten pack of seaweed, and a plastic container of what looks like stir-fried vegetables. He couldn’t even comment because he’s well-aware his fridge is much worse. He stares at the contents like they might arrange themselves into something gourmet if he wills it hard enough. They don’t.

It doesn’t help that he has suddenly become hyper-aware of how close he is to you. He hovers over you like a fucking prick in five-foot-ten of legs and he wants to move away, but he feels like he would lose his balance if he so breathes a second too long.

“Have anything in mind?” you ask, shifting in front of him to reach for the rice.

Hyunjin stiffens. He clears his throat. “Uh, fried rice?”

You snort. “Predictable.”

“Hey, it’s a classic.”

He steps back, moving steadily as he finally gains his footing. Your shoulder almost brushes his chest when you unexpectedly move at the same time he does. He wonders if you’ve been noticing the way he keeps tensing up, if you can hear his breath stutter.

“Alright. You’re on chopping duty.”

Hyunjin groans dramatically but takes the knife from your outstretched hand. He guides you with an arm as you dish out everything you need from the fridge and lay them on the counter. He makes sure he doesn’t touch you, though, because he feels his skin would flare even at the lightest touch of yours.

Taking a deeper breath, he tries to calm himself down again before making quick work of the green onions. His mind, though, is less on the task and more on the million failed attempts he ran through his mind. He hadn’t even made one actual attempt yet.

He wonders if you can tell. If you know how much he’s struggling to say three stupid words.

“Why were you in a hurry?” you start again, casualness seeping through every word that it feels so out of place in Hyunjin’s ears.

He stops mid-chop. He doesn’t turn to look, doesn’t even bother knowing what you are doing, afraid he’ll crack right then and there. There aren’t any words that he could piece together confidently enough to respond to your question.

The silence stretches for a moment. “You showed up at my door bald and in that ugly jacket, because you said you were in a rush,” you continue. Hyunjin now feels a pair of eyes drilling through the side of his bald head. Maybe the lack of hair makes him feel it a little more sensitively. “In the middle of the night, too. Did you need something from me?”

Hyunjin’s throat tightens, then his mouth is suddenly dry. This time, your voice carries no playful edge and no hint of amusement, just a directness that leaves no room for evasion. Hyunjin feels he owes it to you to meet your eyes, so he does. When he turns, he almost melts at the intensity of your gaze, silently urging him to speak. It’s as though you know something is up but won’t push unless he gives you a reason to.

His mind races, a chaotic swirl of thoughts he’s been trying to suppress for weeks — hell, months. How do you always seem to see right through him? How do you know when to push and when to hold back, like you’re holding the reins to his emotions without even trying? He wonders if you can hear the way his heart is pounding, if you can tell how much he’s been dreading, and yet craving this moment.

“I…” he swallows thickly. His hands feel clammy against the knife handle, so he carefully places it on the countertop behind him before any accident can happen. “I just… wanted to see you.”

Your eyes soften, but your gaze doesn’t waver. “And?”

Hyunjin forces out a breath, his hands gripping the edge of the counter to balance himself. His five-foot-ten of legs feel like weird jelly. He hates how vulnerable he feels, how exposed, like every wall he’s built is crumbling under the weight of your gaze. He wants to look away, to hide, but he can’t. Not now. Not when you’re looking at him like that… like you already know what he’s going to say but are waiting for him to say it anyway.

“And… I’ve been wanting to tell you something,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. The words hang in the air, fragile and trembling, like they might shatter if either of you breathes too hard. He wonders if you can hear the fear in his voice, the way it cracks under the pressure of everything he’s been holding back.

You set the eggs down, leaning against the counter on the other side of your kitchen. “So tell me.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. He cycles through every possible way to say it, but none of them make it past his lips. His jaw tenses.

You wait, patient but expectant.

And Hyunjin? Well, Hyunjin fucking panics.

“I think we should add some chili.”

A beat of silence. Then, you blink. “What?”

“To the rice.” He gestures wildly to the stove, the pan empty but ready, as if that explains anything. “Chili. It would need chili.”

You stare at him and he sees the ever-so-slight tilt of your head. Then, to his absolute horror, you burst out laughing.

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, clutching the counter for support with one hand and holding your abdomen with the other. “You — Hyunjin, did you just–”

Hyunjin groans, head dropping into his hands before he returns to the countertop of green onions. “Kill me.” Maybe his amazing knife skills could make up for the fucking disaster of a scene that had happened. “Pass me the red chili peppers, please.”

You only laugh harder, and despite the sheer humiliation, he finds himself smiling, too.

Because it’s you.

He hears your light footsteps behind him until they stop just a perceptible length away from him. It catches him by surprise — the sudden embrace you give him, chest cautiously pressed against his back, arms loosely around his waist. It doesn’t feel like an embrace the way most people would know it, but it’s enough to send his brain into overdrive.

Fuck.

It ends as quickly as it happens. You’ve moved away and started on the actual cooking before Hyunjin could even process what had happened. It’s fucking insane to him, as well, what kind of thoughts occur in the depths of his brain, and unconsciously one particular chop has a heavier hand that Hyunjin slightly jumps.

He will not speak of those thoughts. He will never.

After that, he basically blanks out. Hyunjin doesn’t know how much time has passed until you offer to take over cooking dinner. A perfect chance to excuse himself, he thinks. He slips away to the bathroom.

When he gets there, he nearly collapses into the sink. He grips the edges of the porcelain, head hanging between his shoulders as he forces himself to breathe. The mirror is right there, but he refuses to look. If he does, he’s sure he’ll see the absolute wreck of a man he has become, someone who just botched a confession with chili.

(And he’ll also see the fucking boner he got from the not-embrace. He feels like an idiot and an asshole now.)

“Fucking chili peppers,” he mutters under his breath. His brain replays the way you laughed. Pure, delighted, merciless. He should be embarrassed. He is embarrassed. But at the same time, he wants to hear it again.

He wants to feel your touch again, too. An embrace, and a real one, this time. He wants to hold you closer, envelop you in his five-foot-ten and the million unspoken affections his body can no longer house alone.

Hyunjin splashes cold water on his face, hoping to reset whatever system his body has short-circuited. It’s been such a long, long day. He just ends up blinking water out of his lashes, still stuck with the overwhelming awareness of everything he’s feeling.

Okay. He can do this. He’ll walk out there, act normal, and get through the rest of the night without embarrassing himself further. That’s the plan.

With one last deep breath, Hyunjin straightens his back, wipes his hands on his pants, and steps out of the bathroom.

The scent of garlic and soy sauce fills the air. You’re standing by the stove, stirring the rice with an easy rhythm. Hyunjin stares at your profile, soft under the kitchen lights, and he cannot help but bite his lower lip, an attempt to suppress the way his stomach twists. You glance up as he enters, the corners of your lips still curved in amusement. There is a kind of mischief playing on the plushness of it.

“Hey, Chili Boy,” you greet, tone teasing but warm.

Hyunjin sighs. “Please. Don’t.”

You laugh again, a little quieter this time. He hears the fondness woven into it. “Come on, you made it too easy. And you’re also extremely bad with spice, so you’re also weird.”

“You enjoy making fun of me way too much, don’t you think?”

He drags himself to the counter, standing beside you as you continue cooking. The silence that stretches between you is not uncomfortable, despite the… situation. He watches you scoop a spoonful of rice to taste.

You hum in approval. “Not bad. You were right about the pepper.”

Hyunjin exhales a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Of course I am.”

You smirk, but you get another spoon to scoop another bite of the food, blowing on it gently. His gaze flickers to your lips before he can stop himself. Then you bring the spoon to his lips before he even realizes it. “Here. Taste.”

He hesitates for a fraction of a second before his mouth opens. He feels the heat in his ears at the anticipating gaze you look at him with. Hyunjin swears his pulse trips over itself. He takes a bite, chewing slowly as he pretends he’s thinking very hard about the flavor. The truth is he barely registers the taste.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment, pulling his head back. “It’s good.”

You give him a knowing look, but you don’t say anything. Instead, you turn back to the stove, your presence steady, grounding. He hears the clang of the metal spoon on the sink and he winces. There are a thousand different sensations he feels, emotionally and mentally, physically, that are sure to get him in the morning. It will exhaust him; he’s certain.

Hyunjin shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

The moment is right there; he could say it. He could try again. But instead, he just watches you, the words still caught on the tip of his tongue.

You don’t say anything else, just reach for the plates kept by the rack near the sink. You stack them with quiet efficiency, and Hyunjin takes that as his cue to help, moving on instinct. He tries to ignore the sensation of the unspoken tension he feels in his body, but his fingers brush against yours when you reach for the same thing, and you both freeze.

You recover first, grabbing the plate and nudging it into his chest. “Don’t just stand there, Hwang. At least set the table.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes dramatically, but his fingers tighten around the porcelain anyway. “Yeah, yeah.” He notes how it takes you a second more before completely handing it to him.

It takes a little longer than necessary to get everything ready. Maybe it’s because Hyunjin keeps stealing glances at you while you move around the kitchen, the gentle glow of the lights delicately painting your skin. Maybe it’s because he catches you doing the same.

By the time you both settle at the table, the air between you is dense. You lift your chopsticks first, breaking the moment with a casual “Bon appétit,” and Hyunjin sighs, finally looking down at his plate.

He takes a bite. It’s good. But then again, it could taste like absolutely nothing and he’s not sure he’d notice. His mind is elsewhere, as it has been all day. Now he could only really think of the warmth of the room, the sound of your quiet chewing, the occasional clink of utensils against the plates. Of the way your lips part before each bite. Of the memory of your gaze, heavy-lidded, watching him taste from your hand.

“See? I told you the spice would be good,” he says, mostly to fill the silence.

You hum, nodding as you swallow down another bite. “Okay, Chili Boy. I’ll give you this one.”

He smirks, though it’s a little awkward. He tries, anyway. “One? I think I’ve been right about a lot of things tonight.”

“Mm.” You tilt your head, pretending to think. Hyunjin feels a flutter in his stomach. “Like what else?”

Hyunjin leans forward slightly, resting his elbow on the table with his chopsticks dangling between his fingers. “Like the fact that you enjoy making fun of me a little too much.”

“So that’s two. Still not a lot.” Your lips curve, playful. It feels like the air is treading into a dangerous state. “And that’s not a fact. That’s just my natural response to you making it so easy.”

Hyunjin exhales a laugh from his chest, shaking his head, but it’s edged with something slower, something mellower, and it’s unfolding without his permission. He takes another bite, his eyes glancing at you as you mirror the motion. The silence returns, thick, taut, humming with the gravity of all the words suspended between you.

His knee bumps against yours under the table. He expects you to move away. You don’t.

Carefully, deliberately, you push back. Just slightly. Just enough for him to notice.

His pulse skips a beat.

You don’t even spare him a look. You just keep eating, acting as if nothing has happened, as if nothing has changed. As if this night isn’t shifting into something neither of you wants to stop.

Hyunjin clears his throat. He feels infinitely warm and he thinks he could burst any moment. He grabs his drink, downs half of it in one go. It doesn’t help.

“Are you okay?” you ask, amused. He sees the subtle curl at the edges of your mouth and his gut tightens. He nods, but he doesn’t believe himself at all.

You hold his gaze for a second too long before setting your chopsticks down. “Good.”

The meal continues, but the space between you is thrumming now. It’s like the pinpricks in his palms have now decided to plague his whole body. Every glance lingers. Every touch, no matter how fleeting, feels heavier.

When the plates are empty and the only thing left is the silence between you, Hyunjin knows, he’s so, so fucked. Neither of you moves to clear the dishes.

Hyunjin taps the end of his chopsticks against his empty plate, a quiet staccato rhythm that doesn’t match the rhythm in his chest. He peeks at you, then glances down at his hands, as if the words are hiding there somewhere.

He must do something. Clearly, this isn’t going anywhere until he says something. That’s the plan, anyway, isn’t it? Always has been. He’s just too far up in his fear and doubt and the funk in his confidence to do it properly.

“So…” he starts, his voice rougher than he expects. “Are you always this good at pretending nothing’s weird? Or is that just a special skill you use on me?”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning back into your chair. Another smirk tugs at your lips, and it affects Hyunjin all the same. “Who says anything’s weird? Maybe you’re just bad at handling silence, Chili Boy.”

Hyunjin smiles at your easy tone. He laughs, feeling the way the air descends into something lighter. Less sharp, less embarrassed. It’s a slow deceleration, but he’s happy about it anyway. Although the pounding of his heart remains fast, it feels much more stable and steady; the rest of his body is now able to keep up with it.

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just bad at handling you.”

You don’t respond right away. Instead, your finger grazes the rim of your glass, tracing the condensation lazily. Absentmindedly, really. But then you bring your finger to your lips, tongue flicking out to taste the cool dampness your skin has gathered.

Hyunjin’s mind goes haywire.

It’s nothing. But it’s everything. Something about it, the slight parting of your lips, the brief glint of your tongue, lodges itself in his chest like a glitch he can’t shake. His breath stutters, caught somewhere between surprise and something else he doesn’t want to name.

Something that has been simmering in his core since perhaps the very beginning of the night.

When you finally speak, your voice is smaller.

“It’s funny how quiet you get when it matters.”

Hyunjin’s breath catches again, this time for an entirely different reason. He feels seen — completely, undeniably seen — and it knocks the air right out of him.

You look up then, meeting his gaze head-on. The intensity of it all makes him freeze for a moment, like his body is caught between the instinct to run and the overwhelming urge to stay rooted right there, in that exact second. Your eyes are unreadable, but there is a knowing curve to your lips, like you already know he’s gone for you.

You stand slowly, deliberately, and he tracks every step you take like he’s afraid to blink and miss something. You’re so close now — closer than you’ve been all night, but still not close enough. The kitchen feels impossibly small, impossibly tight. Air stretched so thin, it’s as if a single breath might snap it.

You lean down, palms braced on the edge of the table, your face hovering just inches from his. He feels the warmth of you, the faintest hint of your breath, and it’s unbearable in the best possible way. His pulse roars in his ears, blood thrumming beneath his skin like a live wire.

Then you smile, gentle, but edged with something sharper.

“You’re really bad at hiding it, you know,” you murmur, your voice just above a whisper.

His body responds before his mind can catch up. His muscles go taut, his throat dry, his chest tight with something raw and needy. But he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t want to.

And then—

Your lips find his.

He’s absolutely sure he leans forward to meet you, but his heart swells with satisfaction at the fact that you made your move first. It happens fast and it feels inevitable. Gravity has been pulling you both toward this moment from the very start.

The first kiss is soft.

But when you pull away for a brief moment, just barely, just enough for Hyunjin to see the desire swirling in your eyes, he loses whatever restraint he has left. He knows that look, because it mirrors the very flame that’s been burning in him all night. He leans in this time, closing the distance with a kiss that’s nothing like the first. It’s hungry. Desperate, even. A silent confession in the way his lips move against yours like he’s starving, as if you’re the only thing that could satisfy him.

His hands find you, one threading into your hair and the other holding your waist, tugging you closer. He shifts in his seat to accommodate the new angle and then, without thinking, he guides you onto his lap.

The kiss grows messier, your mouths colliding with a fervor that feels both dangerous and necessary. His tongue flicks against yours, a bit apprehensive at first, but the light grazing of your teeth against his bottom lip undoes him completely. He groans, low and guttural, and that sound seems to break something open between you.

His hands slide under the hem of your shirt, fingertips skating across your warm skin. He’s not even sure what he’s touching, doesn’t care. It’s you, and that’s all that matters.

Your hips shift instinctively, a subtle grind against him, and Hyunjin’s breath shudders.

“Fuck, wait–” he breathes against your mouth, voice rugged and ruined already.

But then he pauses, his hands still resting on your skin, his forehead pressing against yours. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, but there’s a flicker of something in his chest now. Not hesitation, no. Not anymore. Just care. His voice drops to a whisper, warm and sincere, “Is this okay?”

The question melts into the space between you.

You nod first, eager, breathless, but then you cup his face gently, and Hyunjin has a full view of the certainty in your eyes when you say, “Yes. I want this.”

Something in him unravels at your words. His mouth crashes back onto yours with a passion that feels even warmer, fueled by the security of knowing you want him just as much. He pulls back, enjoying the way your eyes flutter shut, before his lips trail from your mouth to your jaw, down the curve of your neck, where he sucks lightly, just enough to leave a mark if you’ll let him. His hands grow bolder. His palms span the dip of your back, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin at your sides, feeling the way you arch into him. He’s not sure when the need became so overwhelming, when it grew teeth and sank right into him, but it’s here now, reckless and relentless.

But then it’s you who pulls back this time, both of you winded, swollen-lipped, eyes dark with want.

Hyunjin exhales a shaky laugh, part disbelief, part surrender. “Why do I feel like I’m losing my mind?”

Your lips find his neck, peppering kisses along his jawline, down the sensitive spot just below his ear. “Maybe because you are,” you murmur against his skin, and the warmth of your breath sends a shudder straight through him. From your end of the earth to his.

That’s all it takes.

Hyunjin stands, his hands gripping your thighs as he lifts you with ease. The scrape of the chair against the floor is lost beneath the sound of his pounding heart. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively and he carries you to your bedroom. It takes forever to walk there, Hyunjin feels, but he’s not about to let this happen on the kitchen counter, with dirty dishes still on the dining table in the same room.

It feels as if he cannot physically remove his lips on your skin. There is laughter slipping between your kisses as he stumbles down the hall, holding you up in his arms. Your bodies stay together like two poles of a magnet, hearts racing in tandem. The door barely clicks shut behind him before he’s on you again, hands everywhere, mouth chasing the warmth of your skin like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Maybe, at this moment, it is.

Your fingers tug at his shirt clumsily and he helps you, pulling it over his head in one swift motion before reclaiming your mouth and pressing you against the wall. It’s all heat and friction, breaths mingling in the small space between confessions neither of you is ready to say out loud. But it’s there, tangled in the way he touches you, in the way you respond to every kiss, every graze of his fingertips.

He pulls at your top next, and it takes him no effort to take it off of you. His gaze wanders, his smile growing wild and dazed. Clothes are thrown off in some corner of the room and Hyunjin knows they’re a problem for tomorrow.

“Wow,” is all that comes out of his mouth.

“Wow?” you repeat, tracing his chest with a finger. Hyunjin gasps quietly at the sensation, leaning forward to let his head fall onto your shoulder.

“I can’t look at you,” he whimpers. “I can’t. My heart is going to burst.”

You laugh softly, arms wrapping around his back and pulling him closer. Hyunjin doesn’t comment on the way his clothed hardness presses against your hips. You keep him there for an amount of time that is enough for Hyunjin to go dizzy over the proximity.

His chest rises sharply, a shudder exhaled that’s drawn long enough to feel like he’s been holding it in for years.

“Is this your first time?” you ask gently, thumbs now brushing just under his eye. The question is laced with curiosity, not judgment, so Hyunjin doesn’t feel like he has to run or hide.

His laugh comes breathless and almost self-deprecating. His nose brushes against yours. “No, but…” His voice grows smaller, quieter, the vulnerability in it tugging at something between you. “But it’s my first time with you. And God, I just want to do it right.”

Your eyes flash with something Hyunjin could not name, but it’s all familiar and comforting all the same. Your hands slide down his shoulders before they find their way into the dip of his spine, and his skin trembles in heat under the brush of your fingers.

“Let’s do it right, then.”

Then he feels your arms stretch outward. He steps back, watches you and the grin on your face widen with every passing second. He’s left dumbfounded, confused, and heavily aroused. But you say nothing.

Hyunjin feels like a fucking idiot. That’s not something new, especially not tonight. Then he still doesn’t get the fucking hint, so you finally say, “Carry me to the bed, Hyunjin.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, but he feels another wave of mortification in his stomach because he was too fucking horny to get that very obvious invitation. He carries you again in the same way he did earlier, holding onto your thighs to let it wrap around his waist. He hides in the crook where your neck and collar meet, feeling a different kind of heat in his cheeks.

It only takes a few steps, but Hyunjin makes sure his touch projects less of his want and more of his devotion to it. It’s not that his greed for this very moment has diluted. In fact, he thinks that desire, when mixed with this kind of tenderness, fuels a fiercer flame. Something that burns satisfyingly within him. It spills from his fingertips, tracing the curve of your waist, and settling in the soft press of his lips against your skin — an ache, yes, but one wrapped in reverence.

He lays you down gently, so fragile and precious, something he’s terrified of breaking. But the way you look up at him, eyes dark with desire yet soft with trust, tells him you’re everything but that. You are precious in ways that tell him, maybe, he can handle you just fine. He can handle you because he is determined to. Your hands find his face again, pulling him down until your lips meet, measured, savoring.

Hyunjin settles between your thighs, forearms braced on either side of your head, caging you in. His mouth trails another path down your neck, across your collarbone, pausing to taste the skin there like he’s memorizing it. He could spend forever here and he would still not get enough.

“Still okay?” he murmurs, breathing against the shell of your ear.

You nod, sighing, fingers threading through his hair just enough to make his eyes flutter close. “More than okay. Please, Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin slightly moves his way down. His fingers dance on the waistband of your pajamas, teasing, barely grazing your skin. He can feel your body shift under his touch, your hips lifting as if urging him to move faster, to give you what you want. But Hyunjin pulls back, just to look at you with those eyes full of want, but still filled with that deep-seated reverence that makes Hyunjin’s heart skip.

“Patience,” he breathes out, letting his tone be a perfect blend of control and desire. The awkwardness and reluctance that plagued his whole evening now almost completely gone, and he thinks he could get drunk in this feeling. His lips brush against your collarbone again, hands now getting dangerously close to your heat.

A frustrated moan spills out of your lips. Hyunjin feels the protest in the quake of your hips. “Please, Hyunjin,” you whisper, fingers gripping the flesh of his back. “Don’t tease me.”

He smiles at your plea, tilting his head sideways before planting a soft kiss on the skin of your breast. “But you had a swell time teasing me tonight, though?” he murmurs, slowly, agonizingly, his fingertips lifting up from your skin. “And I’m not teasing you. I’m just savoring this. Savoring you.”

Then his hand slides under the waistband of your bottoms, finally making contact with your skin. He’s on the edge of control, but he knows sooner or later he would fall over it himself. His fingers find your slit, easing it apart to tease your nub. A satisfied hum rolls off his tongue as your hips jerk upward at his touch. You let out a breathless gasp as he presses a gentle kiss to your lips, his touch finally becoming less teasing and more purposeful.

“Take it off, please,” you say, words caught between breaths. Hyunjin coos.

“My pleasure.”

Not wasting any time, he slides your pajamas down your legs. He relishes the way you lift yourself to assist him, loving how eager you seem about this whole thing. He pulls the rest of the fabric off your feet and kisses his way up, wet and determined, as he looks directly into your eyes. He grows more and more lightheaded with each press of his lips until he finds himself just inches away from your heat. He smiles to himself, seeing your wetness seeping through your panties.

“Hyunjin, I’m…” He hears you whisper, so he turns and looks up to you. 

“Do you not want me to?” he asks, despite his wide-eyed look of arousal. He raises a concerned brow, hands resorting to rub the sides of your thighs in delicate patterns. “I’ll make you feel good, but you can tell me if you want to back out.”

“No! I mean, yes! I–” Your hand finds the side of his head, fingers fondling with his ear, and he keens at your touch. He moves sideways to accommodate your palm before completely nuzzling into it, almost propping his own head in your hand. He looks up to you with a smile he hopes conveys the want and the hunger, as well as especially his respect to give you an out if you wish.

He wants you, but he loves you first. He’s not about to be the bastard who’s set to get his dick down after getting an unexpected boner while attempting a confession.

(There. He admits it. He loves you. He loves you dearly.)

(The verbal confession would have to come later. He swears.)

Hyunjin feels your legs tremble with the shaky breath escaping your lips before he hears you murmur, “I don’t doubt you would. Make me feel good, I mean.” You lean forward, propping yourself on your elbows, which allows Hyunjin to fully see every curve and frown and furrow on your face. “I’m just… embarrassed.”

Your eyes dilate, a familiar hue now in their gleam, one Hyunjin knows you’ve seen in his eyes many times over the past few hours, or the past few months. He stops himself from giggling, a weird feeling in his stomach coming in full force, and instead, he leaves a kiss on the inside of your thigh before pulling your panties to the side with a finger. He feels immense pride at the pleasured gasp you made and the sound of a body falling flat back onto the bed.

Lightly, he licks a strip up your slit. Your legs shiver and he holds them in place by caging them in his arms. Another lick, and a bit-down sigh resounds in the room. He’s determined to let you let all that out. Another lick, bolder, and you moan.

Hyunjin thinks he can do this all night.

With fewer qualms in his mind and more confidence in the patterns that have you reeling under him, Hyunjin begins to prod his tongue into your pussy, deliberate and steady. He savors every twitch of your thighs and every soft gasp you gift him. The taste of you floods his senses, sweet and intoxicating, and he hums against your skin, the vibrations pulling a whine from your lips.

He tightens his grip, thumbs digging gently into supple flesh as he gets more and more aroused with every sound you make. He pulls you closer, tongue delving deeper with eager strokes, pushing into depths that have your back arching off the bed. He listens intently to every breathless whimper, every choked plea, a melody he never knew he craved. His name falls from your lips like a prayer, and God, he feels worshipped.

But it’s not just about the sex.

Between fervent licks, he glances up, eyes locking with yours. Your face is a masterpiece of flushed cheeks, parted lips, and glassy, desire-drenched eyes. He blinks, wishing he could capture it in his memory vividly enough to paint a picture if you allow him to. His heart stutters, and his chest tightens not just from arousal, but from the overwhelming tenderness that crashes over him like a wave.

I love you.

It rings so loudly in his head, louder than your moans, louder than the slick sounds filling the room. It feels as if it’s clawing right out of his chest to escape.

So he doubles down, dragging his tongue flat with more pressure, flicking at the sensitive bundle of nerves until your thighs quake around his head.

“Oh, God, you–” Words cut short with the sudden flick of his tongue on your clit, your hands immediately holding onto what little hair he has and tugging at it. “I’m so close. I’m so–” He adds two fingers, slipping in easily, curling just right, because he wants you to fall apart for him. Wants to feel you unravel with his name tangled in the wreckage.

And when you do — when you cry out, trembling around his fingers, back arching like a bow pulled taut — Hyunjin swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

He slows, gently coaxing you through the aftershocks, pressing light kisses against your inner thighs, his cheek resting against the warmth of your skin as he catches his breath.

His heart still pounds, not from exertion, but from the burden of the words he has yet to say.

Maybe after. Maybe when you’re both lying there, tangled and breathless, he’ll finally whisper it against your skin.

I love you.

But for now, he presses one last kiss to your hip and smiles up at you.

“Was that okay?” he asks gently, though he already knows the answer.

“Okay?” You pull your arms back, letting them fall to your sides. Your body relaxes and Hyunjin sees the upturn at the corners of your lips. You gesture at him, nudging him to move. “Hyunjin, that was fucking mind-blowing. C’mere.”

Hyunjin climbs his way on top of you, hands holding onto your face as soon as it’s within reach before he kisses the tip of your nose. A sigh escapes you, fingers tracing his sides until he feels you tug on his bottoms. There is a determined grin plastered on your face, and Hyunjin swallows the lump in his throat.

He’s had the best time of his life eating you out of your damn mind, but the truth of the matter is he’s far from satisfied.

Heat shoots through his stomach once more, and he feels his hardness straining under all the fabric. He lets your hands play on the waistband of his sweatpants before giving you a nod. Lifting himself up high enough to pull the clothing down his legs, he obliges your impatient touch and whimpers when you accidentally brush against the side of his cock.

“Please, Hyunjin,” you plead, and he thinks he could almost see the need spilling out your lips. He sighs, feeling just as greedy with his cock catching against your slit, then he blinks.

“Condom,” he says, simply. He stares at you like you would make the rubber suddenly appear out of thin air.

“Oh,” you reply, simply. Well. “I don’t… I don’t have one, I think.”

Hyunjin has one. He’s just suddenly overcome with shame at the very idea of it.

Because having it means he thought about this — planned for it, even — and not just in the vague, wishful way. No, he knew he’d want you like this. He knew he’d fall apart under your touch. And now, with you lying beneath him, asking for him like it’s the most natural thing in the world, it feels like a confession he isn’t ready to voice.

I’ve wanted you like this for longer than I’d admit.

He clears his throat, trying to mask the rush of emotions overflowing in his chest. “Uh—I… I have one.” His voice comes out rough, strained, and he winces internally. Cool. Real smooth. He tries to think of excuses, something like, it has always been in my pockets, you know, for luck or Jisung pranked me and left it in my wallet, but I keep forgetting I still have it. Neither of them is good.

But your eyes brighten with a mix of relief and something more tender. “Okay,” you whisper, like it’s not a big deal. He’s wondering how you still don’t realize how much his resolve has been falling apart then coming together, only for it to fall apart again because of you.

Hyunjin shuffles to the side, fumbling through the pockets of his ugly fucking jacket with shaky hands until he finds the small foil packet. He holds it up, hesitating for a second before tossing it onto the bed like it’s burning his fingers. He doesn’t meet your gaze when he climbs back over you, afraid you’ll see right through him.

It’s not like he doesn’t have his heart and dick out in the open, but still.

Then your hand curls around his arm, thumb rubbing small circles on his skin. “Hey,” you hum softly, “it’s okay.”

He leans into your touch, shifting forward to rest his forehead on yours. His eyes flutter shut for a moment before he kisses you, heavy and deep, trying to pour everything he hasn’t said yet into it. His hips grind against yours, the head of his cock brushing against your core. The friction is enough to make both of you gasp into each other’s mouths.

When he pulls back, his question comes. “Are you sure?” he asks, because despite everything, he needs to hear it.

Your answer returns without hesitation. “I’ve never been more sure.”

And that’s all he needs. He’s finally, finally resolute.

With trembling fingers, he tears the packet open, slipping the condom on with practiced ease that makes his face heat up again, not just because of the act itself, but because it’s you this time. It’s real.

He feels your own fingers gently move him away from his cock, and you pump it slightly. His head falls back at the feeling of your hands wrapped around where he needs it most, and he lets his jaw fall slack. He thinks he wants to moan, but he’s left so speechless that not even a sound leaves his throat.

Then, you help him position himself between your thighs, one hand still on his cock and the other pulling your panties to the side. His shaft lines up with your entrance, runs it up and down long enough to catch your gaze. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”

Your breathy, quiet “I won’t need you to” is the last thing he hears before he finally pushes in. Steadily, carefully. His body is trembling with restraint and the tight, wet warmth of you just steals the air from his lungs. For a second, he can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t be — except right here, buried inside you.

A broken moan slips from his lips, his head dropping to your shoulder. “Fuck, you feel–” he cuts himself off with another shuddering breath.

You’re everything, everywhere. Around him, under him, in him in ways he never expected. And deep down, beneath the pleasure, one truth rings louder than anything else.

“I love you,” Hyunjin whispers into your skin. Your hands move to grip his back, nails slightly digging with every stroke he makes. He pulls out, only to push himself back in, reaching as far as he physically can because he wants to feel you completely. “I love you,” he repeats. Again, and again, and again.

Then he feels your shoulders shake under him. He leans back, pulling out until only little of him remains inside you, and he squints his eyes at the shit-eating grin slowly forming on your lips. He almost falters.

“Why’d you stop?” you complain.

“Are you laughing?”

“Yes,” you blurt out immediately, cheeky in tone. “And I was being fucked so good until I wasn’t. Don’t stop. Please.”

Hyunjin pushes back in, only slightly, and it has you gasping. He feels your hips shift to chase the feeling of his cock in you, but he doesn’t relent. “I’m the one fucking you good. Don’t laugh at me.” He thrusts fully, the suddenness deliberate to take you by surprise.

“I’m just…” Another moan betrays your words. Hyunjin takes his time thrusting in and out of your pussy, allowing him to feel every drag of his cock inside you. “That’s something… something you should say before you have your cock… fuck–inside me, you know.”

Hyunjin snorts, half-embarrassed. He leans down to kiss you on the side of your head before he presses a palm on your abdomen. The action got you choking on a wanton sob, then he pushes another drag of his shaft into you. He almost fucking cums when he feels you tighten around him.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your skin, voice sliding down your cheeks. “I love you,” he repeats.

“Apology accepted,” you whisper back, hands now fiddling with the hair at the nape of his neck, heavy enough to keep him in place. “—after you show me how good you fuck.”

Holy fucking shit.

Hyunjin gasps as you pull him down for another kiss. His hips stay in place, twitching whenever your tongue pokes the insides of his mouth. When you pull away, a wicked smile plasters on his face and he grabs your thighs to pull you closer. He holds them up, the angle accommodating his body better and his cock deeper.

Then he fucks you good, because that’s what you asked.

The pace he sets is merciless, each thrust a declaration and a tangible response to your challenge. Skin slapping against skin, the sound fills the room, mingling with the wet, obscene slickness of your arousal. His name spills from your lips like a mantra, and yours rolls off his tongue like a prayer. It’s breathless and broken and so lewd, each syllable unraveling under the force of his hips snapping into yours.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Hyunjin’s hand slides from your thigh to your throat, not to squeeze but to ground himself, his thumb brushing along your jawline tenderly, a stark contrast to the way he’s fucking you like he’s trying to imprint himself in every part of you. His eyes find yours, blown wide with lust, but there’s an ache there, too. A need beyond the physical.

“You feel so good,” he pants, voice ragged, lips a hair’s breadth away from yours. “Like you were made for me.”

Your body clenches at his words. You’re on the edge, teetering, and he knows it. His free hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to have your back arching off the bed once again.

“Hyunjin—fuck, I’m–”

“I know, baby,” he breathes, kissing you once. His pace grows erratic, losing its steady rhythm and growing more and more inconsistent. Fuck. Holy shit. Fuck. Fuck. Then he kisses you hard, swallowing your moans beneath him as you fall apart. Your insides squeeze him almost impossibly tight that has him trembling and gasping into your mouth. His vision blurs at the edges as he feels you come undone. He follows soon after, hips stuttering as he spills into the rubber in you, a low, grating groan ripped from his chest.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of your breathing, the weight of his body grounding the both of you, the warmth of him inside you. Then he shifts, pulling out gently that has you shivering and whimpering quietly, rolling to his side and pulling you with him so your bodies stay tangled.

He traces lazy patterns on your back, his other hand cradling your face.

“I meant it,” he sighs softly against your temple, his promise to whisper his affections onto your skin finally coming to fruition. “I love you. So damn much, you have no idea.”

This time, there’s no teasing on your lips, no cheeky comeback. “I think I do.” Just the truth, bare and simple, as you whisper back, “I love you too.”

this work is complete and will not have any subsequent parts.

[joojelly]

holy crap this is so well written and so cute oh my god??

[hanllucination]

heart at your door. hwang hyunjin (18+)

Hwang Hyunjin shows up at your door with nothing in his hands and everything in his heart.

PAIRING. hwang hyunjin / fem! reader GENRE. smut, fluff & humor, friends to lovers, idiots (read: hyunjin) in love WORD COUNT. 9.6k WARNINGS. strong language, some anxiety & nervousness, explicit sexual content: protected sex, fingering, oral sex (f! receiving), dirty talk & praise, pet names (baby), very light & unintentional breathplay

NOTES. i’m back! ...ish. haha so i started writing this some time ago when hyunjin got a buzz cut so this is buzz cut hyune because i love him and it’s so hot. i genuinely apologize for the length of this, it’s 9k words of inner turmoils and awkwardness and idiots >< not proofread, but i hope you have happy reading ♡

READ ON AO3. / MASTERLIST.

Sometimes Hyunjin wishes he could shut off his brain, even for a few minutes.

Or thirty. Or maybe an hour. A day, even. But he knows that’s too much to ask.

It’s not like he has a bad brain or anything. No, Hyunjin’s brain is perfectly fine, thank you very much. It’s just… overly enthusiastic. One moment, he’s thinking about his latest painting, the next it’s wondering what kind of bread he should eat for breakfast, and then bam! It’s back to you. Always you.

He stares at his reflection on his phone screen, awkward and glaring at him with disdain. There are a million different things he would rather do, but he’s stuck thinking about the text message he had typed and deleted once (or twice, five times) and it’s all so ridiculous. He recalls the reason why he’s here, pacing around his room, and then he feels his chest doing that thing again — that uneven, frantic hammering that makes it even harder to think straight.

Great. Now he wants to shut off his heart, too.

It’s not like he wants to think about you all the time either. (He does.) It’s not his fault! (It is.) You’re just… you. That’s the best his perfectly fine brain could articulate, unfortunately. You’re the person who laughs way too hard at his jokes, even the ones that aren’t funny. You’re the one who somehow always knows when he’s had a rough day, showing up with a quiet smile or a piece of stupid candy like it’s no big deal. And… you’re the one who makes his heart do this strange little thing he could only describe as cartwheels of a toddler that he’s almost certain isn’t part of any standard human anatomy.

That’s the problem.

Because Hyunjin is Hyunjin, and he’s supposed to be cool. That guy who can charm anyone with a single glance, that guy who can hold his own in any conversation because he’s cool. But around you? He’s a mess. A walking, talking, tripping-over-his-own-fucking-feet mess.

He rubs his palms against his sweatpants, trying to steady himself, push all the thoughts away or, at the very least, get them together in a logical arrangement in his head.

Just say it, his inner voice urges. Not good. Now his brain is talking. It’s not a big deal.

He stops in front of the mirror in the corner of his room, dusty and dark. He glares at his face, then winces internally seeing how flushed he looks. “Not a big deal?” he mutters, feeling out of his own mind. “This is the biggest deal ever!”

Then his feet strides across the floor before he throws his whole weight onto his bed. He feels the harsh bounce of his body and he groans, flinging his arm up to cover his eyes. He feels like an idiot, making something big out of something so small.

But, he thinks, there is nothing small or insignificant or trifling about this. Stupid, somewhat, yes. Meaningless? Not at all.

What’s the worst that could happen? He tries to reason with himself, but his brain, ever the pessimist, is quick to answer: Everything. How fortunate, that his brain talks like this. Everything could happen. You could laugh in his face. You could tell him it’s weird. Then the whole thing would be a mistake–

A force of habit brings his hand up to brush through his hair, and he sinks further into the sheets because he just shaved his head, goddamnit. So that didn’t help. His resolve continues to dwindle with each passing second of having no solution to his dilemma, and before it could completely vanish, he holds his phone back up and taps away to navigate to your contact number. Your name, lovingly tacked on with two pink hearts, stares at him and he stares back. His finger hovers over the call button for a second before he just gives up and lets the device fall onto his chest.

He could just sleep on it, right? He’d be better in the morning, he’ll have a fresh mind to think about what to do. Right?

Wrong. His phone slides from his chest down to the side until it falls on his bed. He sighs, staying there for some time. Then his brain, sometimes the optimist, supplies: What if it goes right, though? What if this time, for once, it’s not a disaster? How very fortunate. What if you smiled and held his hand and–

…Maybe this would be easier if he just showed up.

Hwang Hyunjin shows up at your door with nothing in his hands and everything in his heart.

He didn’t mean to bother you so late at night, but he could not bear it anymore; the pinpricks on his palms when his fingers touch, mapping out how he thinks the shape of yours would fit in his. The warmth of your skin on a cold night. From your end of the earth to another. He could not bear it anymore.

(He speaks as if you live hundreds of miles away.)

(You live around five minutes away from his place.)

His hands could not find any purpose in his pockets, fiddling in his fingers his phone tucked behind the flimsy fabric. The breeze blows in late night and he shivers, feeling the shape of the device in his hand. He wonders if he should just ask for help. You know, like any other person with good friends. But — good friends. God forbid he asks help about something like this. Besides, who could he ask? Chan? Minho? Or–fuck, Seungmin? No way.

It’s not like they know either. Hyunjin never told them.

(They don’t. They don’t. Hyunjin never told them. They don’t know… right?)

In his peripherals the streetlights blur slightly as his thoughts wander. He furrows his brows at the flickering one, about 3 blocks away, and wonders when it will get fixed. It’s been like that for months, hasn’t it? He turns to look at it, squinting his eyes and counting its ons and offs. One, two… three… one, two… one… Anything to stall this whole thing.

Doubt clings to him like the cold air. His knees wobble under the weight of his nerves.

Hyunjin exhales sharply and coughs, taking in too much of the night air and clenching his fists inside his pockets. He’s been carrying his secret for too long, letting it weigh him down with every shared glance, every time your laugh bubbled up like music, every casual touch that lingered just a second too long. He can’t live like this anymore, trapped between wanting and fearing, standing in limbo every time you cross his mind.

The fear hasn’t disappeared. He knows it never will. But the possibility — oh, the possibility of you smiling at him, pulling him into a hug, saying something like I was waiting for you to say something ignites something inside him. Something wild, something reckless, maybe something a little stupid. His heart swells and he giggles like the fucking lovesick fool he is. He thanks the heavens that only he isn’t in the right mind in this neighborhood, out on such a cold, late night because then he wouldn’t have to worry about anyone seeing him jumping around the slippery pavement.

He’s at least feeling a little hopeful about this.

The door swings open before he can even bring a hand up to knock. He flinches in surprise before his gaze settles on yours. On you. A mix of confusion and curiosity swims behind your eyes, and all the words he’s practiced, all the things he’s wanted to say… they vanish.

All that’s left is you.

And him.

And the realization that he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

“What the– Hyunjin?” you blink twice, in major disbelief and almost delirious. “Is that you? What the fuck– What are you doing?”

Hyunjin’s face drains of color. “I, uh,” he stutters. The quiver on his lips gives him away, though, and he hopes you would think he is just feeling the cold. “Sightseeing?” is the only thing he could say.

He feels your eyes on him. Somewhere. Through his own, then to his empty hands now lingering helplessly at his sides. He shivers, pinpricks turning into something more intense, a quiet storm brewing under his skin.

He hangs his head low, trying to look as small as he can, except that’s almost impossible with five-foot-ten of legs. Your fingers grip his wrists in a gentle hold as you pull him inside the warmth of your home, and shame is all he feels when your touch lingers on the skin your thumbs had brushed. It’s like it’s burning, but not quite.

The door clicks shut behind him and now — now what?

“How did you know I was outside your door?”

You rub your hands together before walking towards the corner of your living room to grab a pair of house slippers. You set them down in front of Hyunjin and his palms grow sweatier. Oh God, he feels the blood in his ears surge.

“I didn’t,” you shrug. Hyunjin feels your stare as he slips off his clogs (not his best decision, but he hasn’t made a good amount of right choices tonight) to wear the slippers you so kindly offered. “I was just going to see if I can get some takeout, but it’s too cold. I did see a head by the window and you– you scared the shit out of me, did you know that? Since when did you get bald–”

“I’m not bald! It’s a–” Hyunjin cuts himself off with a painfully awkward laugh. “Let’s not talk about it. Do you want some?”

His mouth is almost running as fast as the thoughts in his head. He’s not making any sense to you, for sure, because he is not making sense to him. He clears his throat, wishing he was the only one aware of the palpable discomfort filling the room. The thickness of it tickles his shoulders and he so badly wants to shake it off.

“What?”

“Takeout,” Hyunjin says. “Do you want some? I can go and get takeout.”

He refuses to look back at you. Not with the nerves, the shaved head, the feelings. But he knows there is a wrinkle on your forehead, right between your brows, perturbed, and his heart skips. He wishes he could gather himself enough to be only slightly affected by his inner turmoil because he wants to peer at your expression. But with his gaze down, he only hears you click your tongue before seeing your feet beginning to walk away.

“You’re crazy,” you mutter under your breath. Hyunjin stays in his place just by your door. “This cold? In that ugly jacket?”

That, though? That’s what would make Hyunjin look.

“Ugly?” he grits his teeth. “This is not ugly! This was from–”

It turns out the jacket is part of his not-good decisions for tonight. He watches you slowly turn around and he almost takes a step back. You give him a pointed look and it shoots right through him enough to shut him up. He pockets his hands in his ugly jacket again, and in an attempt to save himself from this ordeal, he purses his lips to try and think of something to say. A justification, a reason. Anything.

But there was nothing logical about this. He wouldn’t be here if there was.

“It’s the first thing I grabbed before running out the door.” Hyunjin settles for an honest explanation. “I was in a hurry.”

You continue to walk and he follows you like a puppy in its new home. He stares at your back, follows the dip of line on your shirt down your spine, and begs you to God, please say something in his head. Instead, you lead him to the kitchen and say nothing until you stop by your fridge.

“I have leftover stuff, I think,” you tell him, one hand on your hip and the other opening the fridge. “Maybe we can make something out of it.”

Hyunjin tries his best to ignore the unease he feels and nods, despite knowing you wouldn’t see it. He moves closer to you, leaning a bit forward to peek into your fridge like the nosy little ass he is. Your fridge is an assortment of things that don’t necessarily go together for a fancy dinner: some leftover rice, a few eggs, a half-eaten pack of seaweed, and a plastic container of what looks like stir-fried vegetables. He couldn’t even comment because he’s well-aware his fridge is much worse. He stares at the contents like they might arrange themselves into something gourmet if he wills it hard enough. They don’t.

It doesn’t help that he has suddenly become hyper-aware of how close he is to you. He hovers over you like a fucking prick in five-foot-ten of legs and he wants to move away, but he feels like he would lose his balance if he so breathes a second too long.

“Have anything in mind?” you ask, shifting in front of him to reach for the rice.

Hyunjin stiffens. He clears his throat. “Uh, fried rice?”

You snort. “Predictable.”

“Hey, it’s a classic.”

He steps back, moving steadily as he finally gains his footing. Your shoulder almost brushes his chest when you unexpectedly move at the same time he does. He wonders if you’ve been noticing the way he keeps tensing up, if you can hear his breath stutter.

“Alright. You’re on chopping duty.”

Hyunjin groans dramatically but takes the knife from your outstretched hand. He guides you with an arm as you dish out everything you need from the fridge and lay them on the counter. He makes sure he doesn’t touch you, though, because he feels his skin would flare even at the lightest touch of yours.

Taking a deeper breath, he tries to calm himself down again before making quick work of the green onions. His mind, though, is less on the task and more on the million failed attempts he ran through his mind. He hadn’t even made one actual attempt yet.

He wonders if you can tell. If you know how much he’s struggling to say three stupid words.

“Why were you in a hurry?” you start again, casualness seeping through every word that it feels so out of place in Hyunjin’s ears.

He stops mid-chop. He doesn’t turn to look, doesn’t even bother knowing what you are doing, afraid he’ll crack right then and there. There aren’t any words that he could piece together confidently enough to respond to your question.

The silence stretches for a moment. “You showed up at my door bald and in that ugly jacket, because you said you were in a rush,” you continue. Hyunjin now feels a pair of eyes drilling through the side of his bald head. Maybe the lack of hair makes him feel it a little more sensitively. “In the middle of the night, too. Did you need something from me?”

Hyunjin’s throat tightens, then his mouth is suddenly dry. This time, your voice carries no playful edge and no hint of amusement, just a directness that leaves no room for evasion. Hyunjin feels he owes it to you to meet your eyes, so he does. When he turns, he almost melts at the intensity of your gaze, silently urging him to speak. It’s as though you know something is up but won’t push unless he gives you a reason to.

His mind races, a chaotic swirl of thoughts he’s been trying to suppress for weeks — hell, months. How do you always seem to see right through him? How do you know when to push and when to hold back, like you’re holding the reins to his emotions without even trying? He wonders if you can hear the way his heart is pounding, if you can tell how much he’s been dreading, and yet craving this moment.

“I…” he swallows thickly. His hands feel clammy against the knife handle, so he carefully places it on the countertop behind him before any accident can happen. “I just… wanted to see you.”

Your eyes soften, but your gaze doesn’t waver. “And?”

Hyunjin forces out a breath, his hands gripping the edge of the counter to balance himself. His five-foot-ten of legs feel like weird jelly. He hates how vulnerable he feels, how exposed, like every wall he’s built is crumbling under the weight of your gaze. He wants to look away, to hide, but he can’t. Not now. Not when you’re looking at him like that… like you already know what he’s going to say but are waiting for him to say it anyway.

“And… I’ve been wanting to tell you something,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. The words hang in the air, fragile and trembling, like they might shatter if either of you breathes too hard. He wonders if you can hear the fear in his voice, the way it cracks under the pressure of everything he’s been holding back.

You set the eggs down, leaning against the counter on the other side of your kitchen. “So tell me.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. He cycles through every possible way to say it, but none of them make it past his lips. His jaw tenses.

You wait, patient but expectant.

And Hyunjin? Well, Hyunjin fucking panics.

“I think we should add some chili.”

A beat of silence. Then, you blink. “What?”

“To the rice.” He gestures wildly to the stove, the pan empty but ready, as if that explains anything. “Chili. It would need chili.”

You stare at him and he sees the ever-so-slight tilt of your head. Then, to his absolute horror, you burst out laughing.

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, clutching the counter for support with one hand and holding your abdomen with the other. “You — Hyunjin, did you just–”

Hyunjin groans, head dropping into his hands before he returns to the countertop of green onions. “Kill me.” Maybe his amazing knife skills could make up for the fucking disaster of a scene that had happened. “Pass me the red chili peppers, please.”

You only laugh harder, and despite the sheer humiliation, he finds himself smiling, too.

Because it’s you.

He hears your light footsteps behind him until they stop just a perceptible length away from him. It catches him by surprise — the sudden embrace you give him, chest cautiously pressed against his back, arms loosely around his waist. It doesn’t feel like an embrace the way most people would know it, but it’s enough to send his brain into overdrive.

Fuck.

It ends as quickly as it happens. You’ve moved away and started on the actual cooking before Hyunjin could even process what had happened. It’s fucking insane to him, as well, what kind of thoughts occur in the depths of his brain, and unconsciously one particular chop has a heavier hand that Hyunjin slightly jumps.

He will not speak of those thoughts. He will never.

After that, he basically blanks out. Hyunjin doesn’t know how much time has passed until you offer to take over cooking dinner. A perfect chance to excuse himself, he thinks. He slips away to the bathroom.

When he gets there, he nearly collapses into the sink. He grips the edges of the porcelain, head hanging between his shoulders as he forces himself to breathe. The mirror is right there, but he refuses to look. If he does, he’s sure he’ll see the absolute wreck of a man he has become, someone who just botched a confession with chili.

(And he’ll also see the fucking boner he got from the not-embrace. He feels like an idiot and an asshole now.)

“Fucking chili peppers,” he mutters under his breath. His brain replays the way you laughed. Pure, delighted, merciless. He should be embarrassed. He is embarrassed. But at the same time, he wants to hear it again.

He wants to feel your touch again, too. An embrace, and a real one, this time. He wants to hold you closer, envelop you in his five-foot-ten and the million unspoken affections his body can no longer house alone.

Hyunjin splashes cold water on his face, hoping to reset whatever system his body has short-circuited. It’s been such a long, long day. He just ends up blinking water out of his lashes, still stuck with the overwhelming awareness of everything he’s feeling.

Okay. He can do this. He’ll walk out there, act normal, and get through the rest of the night without embarrassing himself further. That’s the plan.

With one last deep breath, Hyunjin straightens his back, wipes his hands on his pants, and steps out of the bathroom.

The scent of garlic and soy sauce fills the air. You’re standing by the stove, stirring the rice with an easy rhythm. Hyunjin stares at your profile, soft under the kitchen lights, and he cannot help but bite his lower lip, an attempt to suppress the way his stomach twists. You glance up as he enters, the corners of your lips still curved in amusement. There is a kind of mischief playing on the plushness of it.

“Hey, Chili Boy,” you greet, tone teasing but warm.

Hyunjin sighs. “Please. Don’t.”

You laugh again, a little quieter this time. He hears the fondness woven into it. “Come on, you made it too easy. And you’re also extremely bad with spice, so you’re also weird.”

“You enjoy making fun of me way too much, don’t you think?”

He drags himself to the counter, standing beside you as you continue cooking. The silence that stretches between you is not uncomfortable, despite the… situation. He watches you scoop a spoonful of rice to taste.

You hum in approval. “Not bad. You were right about the pepper.”

Hyunjin exhales a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Of course I am.”

You smirk, but you get another spoon to scoop another bite of the food, blowing on it gently. His gaze flickers to your lips before he can stop himself. Then you bring the spoon to his lips before he even realizes it. “Here. Taste.”

He hesitates for a fraction of a second before his mouth opens. He feels the heat in his ears at the anticipating gaze you look at him with. Hyunjin swears his pulse trips over itself. He takes a bite, chewing slowly as he pretends he’s thinking very hard about the flavor. The truth is he barely registers the taste.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment, pulling his head back. “It’s good.”

You give him a knowing look, but you don’t say anything. Instead, you turn back to the stove, your presence steady, grounding. He hears the clang of the metal spoon on the sink and he winces. There are a thousand different sensations he feels, emotionally and mentally, physically, that are sure to get him in the morning. It will exhaust him; he’s certain.

Hyunjin shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

The moment is right there; he could say it. He could try again. But instead, he just watches you, the words still caught on the tip of his tongue.

You don’t say anything else, just reach for the plates kept by the rack near the sink. You stack them with quiet efficiency, and Hyunjin takes that as his cue to help, moving on instinct. He tries to ignore the sensation of the unspoken tension he feels in his body, but his fingers brush against yours when you reach for the same thing, and you both freeze.

You recover first, grabbing the plate and nudging it into his chest. “Don’t just stand there, Hwang. At least set the table.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes dramatically, but his fingers tighten around the porcelain anyway. “Yeah, yeah.” He notes how it takes you a second more before completely handing it to him.

It takes a little longer than necessary to get everything ready. Maybe it’s because Hyunjin keeps stealing glances at you while you move around the kitchen, the gentle glow of the lights delicately painting your skin. Maybe it’s because he catches you doing the same.

By the time you both settle at the table, the air between you is dense. You lift your chopsticks first, breaking the moment with a casual “Bon appétit,” and Hyunjin sighs, finally looking down at his plate.

He takes a bite. It’s good. But then again, it could taste like absolutely nothing and he’s not sure he’d notice. His mind is elsewhere, as it has been all day. Now he could only really think of the warmth of the room, the sound of your quiet chewing, the occasional clink of utensils against the plates. Of the way your lips part before each bite. Of the memory of your gaze, heavy-lidded, watching him taste from your hand.

“See? I told you the spice would be good,” he says, mostly to fill the silence.

You hum, nodding as you swallow down another bite. “Okay, Chili Boy. I’ll give you this one.”

He smirks, though it’s a little awkward. He tries, anyway. “One? I think I’ve been right about a lot of things tonight.”

“Mm.” You tilt your head, pretending to think. Hyunjin feels a flutter in his stomach. “Like what else?”

Hyunjin leans forward slightly, resting his elbow on the table with his chopsticks dangling between his fingers. “Like the fact that you enjoy making fun of me a little too much.”

“So that’s two. Still not a lot.” Your lips curve, playful. It feels like the air is treading into a dangerous state. “And that’s not a fact. That’s just my natural response to you making it so easy.”

Hyunjin exhales a laugh from his chest, shaking his head, but it’s edged with something slower, something mellower, and it’s unfolding without his permission. He takes another bite, his eyes glancing at you as you mirror the motion. The silence returns, thick, taut, humming with the gravity of all the words suspended between you.

His knee bumps against yours under the table. He expects you to move away. You don’t.

Carefully, deliberately, you push back. Just slightly. Just enough for him to notice.

His pulse skips a beat.

You don’t even spare him a look. You just keep eating, acting as if nothing has happened, as if nothing has changed. As if this night isn’t shifting into something neither of you wants to stop.

Hyunjin clears his throat. He feels infinitely warm and he thinks he could burst any moment. He grabs his drink, downs half of it in one go. It doesn’t help.

“Are you okay?” you ask, amused. He sees the subtle curl at the edges of your mouth and his gut tightens. He nods, but he doesn’t believe himself at all.

You hold his gaze for a second too long before setting your chopsticks down. “Good.”

The meal continues, but the space between you is thrumming now. It’s like the pinpricks in his palms have now decided to plague his whole body. Every glance lingers. Every touch, no matter how fleeting, feels heavier.

When the plates are empty and the only thing left is the silence between you, Hyunjin knows, he’s so, so fucked. Neither of you moves to clear the dishes.

Hyunjin taps the end of his chopsticks against his empty plate, a quiet staccato rhythm that doesn’t match the rhythm in his chest. He peeks at you, then glances down at his hands, as if the words are hiding there somewhere.

He must do something. Clearly, this isn’t going anywhere until he says something. That’s the plan, anyway, isn’t it? Always has been. He’s just too far up in his fear and doubt and the funk in his confidence to do it properly.

“So…” he starts, his voice rougher than he expects. “Are you always this good at pretending nothing’s weird? Or is that just a special skill you use on me?”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning back into your chair. Another smirk tugs at your lips, and it affects Hyunjin all the same. “Who says anything’s weird? Maybe you’re just bad at handling silence, Chili Boy.”

Hyunjin smiles at your easy tone. He laughs, feeling the way the air descends into something lighter. Less sharp, less embarrassed. It’s a slow deceleration, but he’s happy about it anyway. Although the pounding of his heart remains fast, it feels much more stable and steady; the rest of his body is now able to keep up with it.

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just bad at handling you.”

You don’t respond right away. Instead, your finger grazes the rim of your glass, tracing the condensation lazily. Absentmindedly, really. But then you bring your finger to your lips, tongue flicking out to taste the cool dampness your skin has gathered.

Hyunjin’s mind goes haywire.

It’s nothing. But it’s everything. Something about it, the slight parting of your lips, the brief glint of your tongue, lodges itself in his chest like a glitch he can’t shake. His breath stutters, caught somewhere between surprise and something else he doesn’t want to name.

Something that has been simmering in his core since perhaps the very beginning of the night.

When you finally speak, your voice is smaller.

“It’s funny how quiet you get when it matters.”

Hyunjin’s breath catches again, this time for an entirely different reason. He feels seen — completely, undeniably seen — and it knocks the air right out of him.

You look up then, meeting his gaze head-on. The intensity of it all makes him freeze for a moment, like his body is caught between the instinct to run and the overwhelming urge to stay rooted right there, in that exact second. Your eyes are unreadable, but there is a knowing curve to your lips, like you already know he’s gone for you.

You stand slowly, deliberately, and he tracks every step you take like he’s afraid to blink and miss something. You’re so close now — closer than you’ve been all night, but still not close enough. The kitchen feels impossibly small, impossibly tight. Air stretched so thin, it’s as if a single breath might snap it.

You lean down, palms braced on the edge of the table, your face hovering just inches from his. He feels the warmth of you, the faintest hint of your breath, and it’s unbearable in the best possible way. His pulse roars in his ears, blood thrumming beneath his skin like a live wire.

Then you smile, gentle, but edged with something sharper.

“You’re really bad at hiding it, you know,” you murmur, your voice just above a whisper.

His body responds before his mind can catch up. His muscles go taut, his throat dry, his chest tight with something raw and needy. But he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t want to.

And then—

Your lips find his.

He’s absolutely sure he leans forward to meet you, but his heart swells with satisfaction at the fact that you made your move first. It happens fast and it feels inevitable. Gravity has been pulling you both toward this moment from the very start.

The first kiss is soft.

But when you pull away for a brief moment, just barely, just enough for Hyunjin to see the desire swirling in your eyes, he loses whatever restraint he has left. He knows that look, because it mirrors the very flame that’s been burning in him all night. He leans in this time, closing the distance with a kiss that’s nothing like the first. It’s hungry. Desperate, even. A silent confession in the way his lips move against yours like he’s starving, as if you’re the only thing that could satisfy him.

His hands find you, one threading into your hair and the other holding your waist, tugging you closer. He shifts in his seat to accommodate the new angle and then, without thinking, he guides you onto his lap.

The kiss grows messier, your mouths colliding with a fervor that feels both dangerous and necessary. His tongue flicks against yours, a bit apprehensive at first, but the light grazing of your teeth against his bottom lip undoes him completely. He groans, low and guttural, and that sound seems to break something open between you.

His hands slide under the hem of your shirt, fingertips skating across your warm skin. He’s not even sure what he’s touching, doesn’t care. It’s you, and that’s all that matters.

Your hips shift instinctively, a subtle grind against him, and Hyunjin’s breath shudders.

“Fuck, wait–” he breathes against your mouth, voice rugged and ruined already.

But then he pauses, his hands still resting on your skin, his forehead pressing against yours. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, but there’s a flicker of something in his chest now. Not hesitation, no. Not anymore. Just care. His voice drops to a whisper, warm and sincere, “Is this okay?”

The question melts into the space between you.

You nod first, eager, breathless, but then you cup his face gently, and Hyunjin has a full view of the certainty in your eyes when you say, “Yes. I want this.”

Something in him unravels at your words. His mouth crashes back onto yours with a passion that feels even warmer, fueled by the security of knowing you want him just as much. He pulls back, enjoying the way your eyes flutter shut, before his lips trail from your mouth to your jaw, down the curve of your neck, where he sucks lightly, just enough to leave a mark if you’ll let him. His hands grow bolder. His palms span the dip of your back, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin at your sides, feeling the way you arch into him. He’s not sure when the need became so overwhelming, when it grew teeth and sank right into him, but it’s here now, reckless and relentless.

But then it’s you who pulls back this time, both of you winded, swollen-lipped, eyes dark with want.

Hyunjin exhales a shaky laugh, part disbelief, part surrender. “Why do I feel like I’m losing my mind?”

Your lips find his neck, peppering kisses along his jawline, down the sensitive spot just below his ear. “Maybe because you are,” you murmur against his skin, and the warmth of your breath sends a shudder straight through him. From your end of the earth to his.

That’s all it takes.

Hyunjin stands, his hands gripping your thighs as he lifts you with ease. The scrape of the chair against the floor is lost beneath the sound of his pounding heart. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively and he carries you to your bedroom. It takes forever to walk there, Hyunjin feels, but he’s not about to let this happen on the kitchen counter, with dirty dishes still on the dining table in the same room.

It feels as if he cannot physically remove his lips on your skin. There is laughter slipping between your kisses as he stumbles down the hall, holding you up in his arms. Your bodies stay together like two poles of a magnet, hearts racing in tandem. The door barely clicks shut behind him before he’s on you again, hands everywhere, mouth chasing the warmth of your skin like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Maybe, at this moment, it is.

Your fingers tug at his shirt clumsily and he helps you, pulling it over his head in one swift motion before reclaiming your mouth and pressing you against the wall. It’s all heat and friction, breaths mingling in the small space between confessions neither of you is ready to say out loud. But it’s there, tangled in the way he touches you, in the way you respond to every kiss, every graze of his fingertips.

He pulls at your top next, and it takes him no effort to take it off of you. His gaze wanders, his smile growing wild and dazed. Clothes are thrown off in some corner of the room and Hyunjin knows they’re a problem for tomorrow.

“Wow,” is all that comes out of his mouth.

“Wow?” you repeat, tracing his chest with a finger. Hyunjin gasps quietly at the sensation, leaning forward to let his head fall onto your shoulder.

“I can’t look at you,” he whimpers. “I can’t. My heart is going to burst.”

You laugh softly, arms wrapping around his back and pulling him closer. Hyunjin doesn’t comment on the way his clothed hardness presses against your hips. You keep him there for an amount of time that is enough for Hyunjin to go dizzy over the proximity.

His chest rises sharply, a shudder exhaled that’s drawn long enough to feel like he’s been holding it in for years.

“Is this your first time?” you ask gently, thumbs now brushing just under his eye. The question is laced with curiosity, not judgment, so Hyunjin doesn’t feel like he has to run or hide.

His laugh comes breathless and almost self-deprecating. His nose brushes against yours. “No, but…” His voice grows smaller, quieter, the vulnerability in it tugging at something between you. “But it’s my first time with you. And God, I just want to do it right.”

Your eyes flash with something Hyunjin could not name, but it’s all familiar and comforting all the same. Your hands slide down his shoulders before they find their way into the dip of his spine, and his skin trembles in heat under the brush of your fingers.

“Let’s do it right, then.”

Then he feels your arms stretch outward. He steps back, watches you and the grin on your face widen with every passing second. He’s left dumbfounded, confused, and heavily aroused. But you say nothing.

Hyunjin feels like a fucking idiot. That’s not something new, especially not tonight. Then he still doesn’t get the fucking hint, so you finally say, “Carry me to the bed, Hyunjin.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, but he feels another wave of mortification in his stomach because he was too fucking horny to get that very obvious invitation. He carries you again in the same way he did earlier, holding onto your thighs to let it wrap around his waist. He hides in the crook where your neck and collar meet, feeling a different kind of heat in his cheeks.

It only takes a few steps, but Hyunjin makes sure his touch projects less of his want and more of his devotion to it. It’s not that his greed for this very moment has diluted. In fact, he thinks that desire, when mixed with this kind of tenderness, fuels a fiercer flame. Something that burns satisfyingly within him. It spills from his fingertips, tracing the curve of your waist, and settling in the soft press of his lips against your skin — an ache, yes, but one wrapped in reverence.

He lays you down gently, so fragile and precious, something he’s terrified of breaking. But the way you look up at him, eyes dark with desire yet soft with trust, tells him you’re everything but that. You are precious in ways that tell him, maybe, he can handle you just fine. He can handle you because he is determined to. Your hands find his face again, pulling him down until your lips meet, measured, savoring.

Hyunjin settles between your thighs, forearms braced on either side of your head, caging you in. His mouth trails another path down your neck, across your collarbone, pausing to taste the skin there like he’s memorizing it. He could spend forever here and he would still not get enough.

“Still okay?” he murmurs, breathing against the shell of your ear.

You nod, sighing, fingers threading through his hair just enough to make his eyes flutter close. “More than okay. Please, Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin slightly moves his way down. His fingers dance on the waistband of your pajamas, teasing, barely grazing your skin. He can feel your body shift under his touch, your hips lifting as if urging him to move faster, to give you what you want. But Hyunjin pulls back, just to look at you with those eyes full of want, but still filled with that deep-seated reverence that makes Hyunjin’s heart skip.

“Patience,” he breathes out, letting his tone be a perfect blend of control and desire. The awkwardness and reluctance that plagued his whole evening now almost completely gone, and he thinks he could get drunk in this feeling. His lips brush against your collarbone again, hands now getting dangerously close to your heat.

A frustrated moan spills out of your lips. Hyunjin feels the protest in the quake of your hips. “Please, Hyunjin,” you whisper, fingers gripping the flesh of his back. “Don’t tease me.”

He smiles at your plea, tilting his head sideways before planting a soft kiss on the skin of your breast. “But you had a swell time teasing me tonight, though?” he murmurs, slowly, agonizingly, his fingertips lifting up from your skin. “And I’m not teasing you. I’m just savoring this. Savoring you.”

Then his hand slides under the waistband of your bottoms, finally making contact with your skin. He’s on the edge of control, but he knows sooner or later he would fall over it himself. His fingers find your slit, easing it apart to tease your nub. A satisfied hum rolls off his tongue as your hips jerk upward at his touch. You let out a breathless gasp as he presses a gentle kiss to your lips, his touch finally becoming less teasing and more purposeful.

“Take it off, please,” you say, words caught between breaths. Hyunjin coos.

“My pleasure.”

Not wasting any time, he slides your pajamas down your legs. He relishes the way you lift yourself to assist him, loving how eager you seem about this whole thing. He pulls the rest of the fabric off your feet and kisses his way up, wet and determined, as he looks directly into your eyes. He grows more and more lightheaded with each press of his lips until he finds himself just inches away from your heat. He smiles to himself, seeing your wetness seeping through your panties.

“Hyunjin, I’m…” He hears you whisper, so he turns and looks up to you. 

“Do you not want me to?” he asks, despite his wide-eyed look of arousal. He raises a concerned brow, hands resorting to rub the sides of your thighs in delicate patterns. “I’ll make you feel good, but you can tell me if you want to back out.”

“No! I mean, yes! I–” Your hand finds the side of his head, fingers fondling with his ear, and he keens at your touch. He moves sideways to accommodate your palm before completely nuzzling into it, almost propping his own head in your hand. He looks up to you with a smile he hopes conveys the want and the hunger, as well as especially his respect to give you an out if you wish.

He wants you, but he loves you first. He’s not about to be the bastard who’s set to get his dick down after getting an unexpected boner while attempting a confession.

(There. He admits it. He loves you. He loves you dearly.)

(The verbal confession would have to come later. He swears.)

Hyunjin feels your legs tremble with the shaky breath escaping your lips before he hears you murmur, “I don’t doubt you would. Make me feel good, I mean.” You lean forward, propping yourself on your elbows, which allows Hyunjin to fully see every curve and frown and furrow on your face. “I’m just… embarrassed.”

Your eyes dilate, a familiar hue now in their gleam, one Hyunjin knows you’ve seen in his eyes many times over the past few hours, or the past few months. He stops himself from giggling, a weird feeling in his stomach coming in full force, and instead, he leaves a kiss on the inside of your thigh before pulling your panties to the side with a finger. He feels immense pride at the pleasured gasp you made and the sound of a body falling flat back onto the bed.

Lightly, he licks a strip up your slit. Your legs shiver and he holds them in place by caging them in his arms. Another lick, and a bit-down sigh resounds in the room. He’s determined to let you let all that out. Another lick, bolder, and you moan.

Hyunjin thinks he can do this all night.

With fewer qualms in his mind and more confidence in the patterns that have you reeling under him, Hyunjin begins to prod his tongue into your pussy, deliberate and steady. He savors every twitch of your thighs and every soft gasp you gift him. The taste of you floods his senses, sweet and intoxicating, and he hums against your skin, the vibrations pulling a whine from your lips.

He tightens his grip, thumbs digging gently into supple flesh as he gets more and more aroused with every sound you make. He pulls you closer, tongue delving deeper with eager strokes, pushing into depths that have your back arching off the bed. He listens intently to every breathless whimper, every choked plea, a melody he never knew he craved. His name falls from your lips like a prayer, and God, he feels worshipped.

But it’s not just about the sex.

Between fervent licks, he glances up, eyes locking with yours. Your face is a masterpiece of flushed cheeks, parted lips, and glassy, desire-drenched eyes. He blinks, wishing he could capture it in his memory vividly enough to paint a picture if you allow him to. His heart stutters, and his chest tightens not just from arousal, but from the overwhelming tenderness that crashes over him like a wave.

I love you.

It rings so loudly in his head, louder than your moans, louder than the slick sounds filling the room. It feels as if it’s clawing right out of his chest to escape.

So he doubles down, dragging his tongue flat with more pressure, flicking at the sensitive bundle of nerves until your thighs quake around his head.

“Oh, God, you–” Words cut short with the sudden flick of his tongue on your clit, your hands immediately holding onto what little hair he has and tugging at it. “I’m so close. I’m so–” He adds two fingers, slipping in easily, curling just right, because he wants you to fall apart for him. Wants to feel you unravel with his name tangled in the wreckage.

And when you do — when you cry out, trembling around his fingers, back arching like a bow pulled taut — Hyunjin swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

He slows, gently coaxing you through the aftershocks, pressing light kisses against your inner thighs, his cheek resting against the warmth of your skin as he catches his breath.

His heart still pounds, not from exertion, but from the burden of the words he has yet to say.

Maybe after. Maybe when you’re both lying there, tangled and breathless, he’ll finally whisper it against your skin.

I love you.

But for now, he presses one last kiss to your hip and smiles up at you.

“Was that okay?” he asks gently, though he already knows the answer.

“Okay?” You pull your arms back, letting them fall to your sides. Your body relaxes and Hyunjin sees the upturn at the corners of your lips. You gesture at him, nudging him to move. “Hyunjin, that was fucking mind-blowing. C’mere.”

Hyunjin climbs his way on top of you, hands holding onto your face as soon as it’s within reach before he kisses the tip of your nose. A sigh escapes you, fingers tracing his sides until he feels you tug on his bottoms. There is a determined grin plastered on your face, and Hyunjin swallows the lump in his throat.

He’s had the best time of his life eating you out of your damn mind, but the truth of the matter is he’s far from satisfied.

Heat shoots through his stomach once more, and he feels his hardness straining under all the fabric. He lets your hands play on the waistband of his sweatpants before giving you a nod. Lifting himself up high enough to pull the clothing down his legs, he obliges your impatient touch and whimpers when you accidentally brush against the side of his cock.

“Please, Hyunjin,” you plead, and he thinks he could almost see the need spilling out your lips. He sighs, feeling just as greedy with his cock catching against your slit, then he blinks.

“Condom,” he says, simply. He stares at you like you would make the rubber suddenly appear out of thin air.

“Oh,” you reply, simply. Well. “I don’t… I don’t have one, I think.”

Hyunjin has one. He’s just suddenly overcome with shame at the very idea of it.

Because having it means he thought about this — planned for it, even — and not just in the vague, wishful way. No, he knew he’d want you like this. He knew he’d fall apart under your touch. And now, with you lying beneath him, asking for him like it’s the most natural thing in the world, it feels like a confession he isn’t ready to voice.

I’ve wanted you like this for longer than I’d admit.

He clears his throat, trying to mask the rush of emotions overflowing in his chest. “Uh—I… I have one.” His voice comes out rough, strained, and he winces internally. Cool. Real smooth. He tries to think of excuses, something like, it has always been in my pockets, you know, for luck or Jisung pranked me and left it in my wallet, but I keep forgetting I still have it. Neither of them is good.

But your eyes brighten with a mix of relief and something more tender. “Okay,” you whisper, like it’s not a big deal. He’s wondering how you still don’t realize how much his resolve has been falling apart then coming together, only for it to fall apart again because of you.

Hyunjin shuffles to the side, fumbling through the pockets of his ugly fucking jacket with shaky hands until he finds the small foil packet. He holds it up, hesitating for a second before tossing it onto the bed like it’s burning his fingers. He doesn’t meet your gaze when he climbs back over you, afraid you’ll see right through him.

It’s not like he doesn’t have his heart and dick out in the open, but still.

Then your hand curls around his arm, thumb rubbing small circles on his skin. “Hey,” you hum softly, “it’s okay.”

He leans into your touch, shifting forward to rest his forehead on yours. His eyes flutter shut for a moment before he kisses you, heavy and deep, trying to pour everything he hasn’t said yet into it. His hips grind against yours, the head of his cock brushing against your core. The friction is enough to make both of you gasp into each other’s mouths.

When he pulls back, his question comes. “Are you sure?” he asks, because despite everything, he needs to hear it.

Your answer returns without hesitation. “I’ve never been more sure.”

And that’s all he needs. He’s finally, finally resolute.

With trembling fingers, he tears the packet open, slipping the condom on with practiced ease that makes his face heat up again, not just because of the act itself, but because it’s you this time. It’s real.

He feels your own fingers gently move him away from his cock, and you pump it slightly. His head falls back at the feeling of your hands wrapped around where he needs it most, and he lets his jaw fall slack. He thinks he wants to moan, but he’s left so speechless that not even a sound leaves his throat.

Then, you help him position himself between your thighs, one hand still on his cock and the other pulling your panties to the side. His shaft lines up with your entrance, runs it up and down long enough to catch your gaze. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”

Your breathy, quiet “I won’t need you to” is the last thing he hears before he finally pushes in. Steadily, carefully. His body is trembling with restraint and the tight, wet warmth of you just steals the air from his lungs. For a second, he can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t be — except right here, buried inside you.

A broken moan slips from his lips, his head dropping to your shoulder. “Fuck, you feel–” he cuts himself off with another shuddering breath.

You’re everything, everywhere. Around him, under him, in him in ways he never expected. And deep down, beneath the pleasure, one truth rings louder than anything else.

“I love you,” Hyunjin whispers into your skin. Your hands move to grip his back, nails slightly digging with every stroke he makes. He pulls out, only to push himself back in, reaching as far as he physically can because he wants to feel you completely. “I love you,” he repeats. Again, and again, and again.

Then he feels your shoulders shake under him. He leans back, pulling out until only little of him remains inside you, and he squints his eyes at the shit-eating grin slowly forming on your lips. He almost falters.

“Why’d you stop?” you complain.

“Are you laughing?”

“Yes,” you blurt out immediately, cheeky in tone. “And I was being fucked so good until I wasn’t. Don’t stop. Please.”

Hyunjin pushes back in, only slightly, and it has you gasping. He feels your hips shift to chase the feeling of his cock in you, but he doesn’t relent. “I’m the one fucking you good. Don’t laugh at me.” He thrusts fully, the suddenness deliberate to take you by surprise.

“I’m just…” Another moan betrays your words. Hyunjin takes his time thrusting in and out of your pussy, allowing him to feel every drag of his cock inside you. “That’s something… something you should say before you have your cock… fuck–inside me, you know.”

Hyunjin snorts, half-embarrassed. He leans down to kiss you on the side of your head before he presses a palm on your abdomen. The action got you choking on a wanton sob, then he pushes another drag of his shaft into you. He almost fucking cums when he feels you tighten around him.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your skin, voice sliding down your cheeks. “I love you,” he repeats.

“Apology accepted,” you whisper back, hands now fiddling with the hair at the nape of his neck, heavy enough to keep him in place. “—after you show me how good you fuck.”

Holy fucking shit.

Hyunjin gasps as you pull him down for another kiss. His hips stay in place, twitching whenever your tongue pokes the insides of his mouth. When you pull away, a wicked smile plasters on his face and he grabs your thighs to pull you closer. He holds them up, the angle accommodating his body better and his cock deeper.

Then he fucks you good, because that’s what you asked.

The pace he sets is merciless, each thrust a declaration and a tangible response to your challenge. Skin slapping against skin, the sound fills the room, mingling with the wet, obscene slickness of your arousal. His name spills from your lips like a mantra, and yours rolls off his tongue like a prayer. It’s breathless and broken and so lewd, each syllable unraveling under the force of his hips snapping into yours.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Hyunjin’s hand slides from your thigh to your throat, not to squeeze but to ground himself, his thumb brushing along your jawline tenderly, a stark contrast to the way he’s fucking you like he’s trying to imprint himself in every part of you. His eyes find yours, blown wide with lust, but there’s an ache there, too. A need beyond the physical.

“You feel so good,” he pants, voice ragged, lips a hair’s breadth away from yours. “Like you were made for me.”

Your body clenches at his words. You’re on the edge, teetering, and he knows it. His free hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to have your back arching off the bed once again.

“Hyunjin—fuck, I’m–”

“I know, baby,” he breathes, kissing you once. His pace grows erratic, losing its steady rhythm and growing more and more inconsistent. Fuck. Holy shit. Fuck. Fuck. Then he kisses you hard, swallowing your moans beneath him as you fall apart. Your insides squeeze him almost impossibly tight that has him trembling and gasping into your mouth. His vision blurs at the edges as he feels you come undone. He follows soon after, hips stuttering as he spills into the rubber in you, a low, grating groan ripped from his chest.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of your breathing, the weight of his body grounding the both of you, the warmth of him inside you. Then he shifts, pulling out gently that has you shivering and whimpering quietly, rolling to his side and pulling you with him so your bodies stay tangled.

He traces lazy patterns on your back, his other hand cradling your face.

“I meant it,” he sighs softly against your temple, his promise to whisper his affections onto your skin finally coming to fruition. “I love you. So damn much, you have no idea.”

This time, there’s no teasing on your lips, no cheeky comeback. “I think I do.” Just the truth, bare and simple, as you whisper back, “I love you too.”

this work is complete and will not have any subsequent parts.

[hwangjoanna]

We love a pinning Hyunjin. This is a masterpiece 🥰

[quokkacore]

god save the queen | j.wy (m)

minors dni with this post <3

summary: london, 1976. punk is in full swing, and you’re reminded that jung wooyoung has a mouth on him, in every sense of the word.

pairing: punkrocker!wooyoung x stylist!reader

genre: punkrock!au, 1970s!au, british!au, s m u t, crack but only if you really REALLY squint, fluff towards the end

warnings: language, sexual content (aka porn with little to no plot), unprotected piv sex (PLS DONT DO THIS), reader is afab but i believe there are no gendered pronouns (might be wrong pls lmk if i am), situationship, possessiveness, drug and alcohol consumption, secondhand smoke and shotgunning, overstimulation, cunnilingus, hair pulling, biting, humiliation, degradation, elements of dumbification,  low key elements of mindbreak?, blowjobs, 69, wooyoung low key gives “damn bitch you live like this” energy, wooyoung with a british accent goodbye everyone i’ll remember you all in therapy, at moments the sex is not Great but it isn’t terrible either—they really like each other and lets be honest not all sex is gonna be perfect, reader flip flops between being a brat and not being one, low key brat tamer woo despite being a brat himself, wooyoung edges himself, overuse of petnames (pet, doll, love, puppy), they low key cannot stand each other

word count: 5.1k

a/n: this was originally supposed to be a hongjoong fic but i realized i made him a bit too much of a brat, paired with that video of wooyoung saying ppl think he has a british accent when he speaks english… lo and behold, at the very last minute this became a wooyoung fic. i hope u guys like it!

for my best friend. happy birthday, my love. i miss u and i wish i were home to be able to give u a hug <3

masterlist

London, October 1976

It was always here that you came to him. Always in the shitty little room he rented above the bar in Brixton. He never came to you. You always found your way wrapped up in his sheets after watching him and the boys play in the bar. They weren’t as big as Johnny Rotten’s group and they were nowhere near the Ramones. But Wooyong and the boys—Seonghwa, Yunho and Hongjoong—had potential. You could see that much.

The bar was nothing like The Roxy or The 100 Club. No, at least the bathrooms in the Roxy didn’t smell too bad, and even though The 100’s lights were always at risk of being turned off, at least they had running water in the bathrooms. Their bartenders didn’t sneer at you if you asked for anything that needed more than 2 ingredients. 

No, Babylon was much, much worse. Grimier than The 100, smokier than The Roxy. The floor was so sticky that when the crowd decided to mosh you could barely move because the soles of your combat boots were sticking to the floor. People pushed and shoved, and you couldn’t go one night without getting at least a little contact high. But you put up with it because at the end of the day, all four members of The Real and their little crew were your friends.

Tonight, before making your way up to Wooyoung’s shitty little studio, you’d decided to make it a bit more torturous for both him and yourself. You got there a bit earlier than usual so you could have a spot right up at the front. Even though San, the band’s sound tech and a friend from secondary school usually saved you a spot anyway. And when the crowd started pouring in, you took that sticky floor and used it to not budge an inch during their set.

The music was loud, in your face, obnoxious. Of course it was. They were a punk band, what did people expect? And while you could tell that you needed to tell Seonghwa that having his guitar that out of tune was a bigger mistake than it was a “stylistic choice” or whatever he called it, everyone seemed to be drawn in by their energy.

The Real had a certain mysticism about them. They were thin. God knows it didn’t pay to be a rockstar in this day and age. They always looked tired. Their faces were sunken in, dark circles under their eyes made worse by the eyeliner and the dark eyeshadow smudged onto their eyelids. But everywhere they went, every song they played, every note carried, charged life into those watching. 

Wooyoung always screamed at the crowd to get moving. And they did, because he told them to. When Yunho banged the drums during a solo, face twisted upwards in concentration, hair and face dripping with sweat, the crowd jumped higher. Harder. And when Seonghwa and Hongjoong leaned into each other, letting the sound of guitar distortion fill the room as Seonghwa growled into the microphone? All hell broke loose. 

Keep reading

[breakyourrxles]

❥hate & hurt (with all my love) (m)

↳ two things always remained true:

1) for better or for worse, change is inevitable.

and 2) chan always came back.

bang chan x fem!reader — childhood friends to lovers, friends with benefits, heavy angst, romance, sexual content [12.5k wc] cws: physically abusive parents (somewhat detailed), parental death, emotional manipulation, drinking, recreational drug use, sex as a coping mechanism, unhealthy relationships, language, heavy themes throughout. sexual content: penetrative sex (unprotected), a lot of carelessness emotionally.

February is cold, and that’s reason enough to find little joy in this month as well and many of the ones surrounding it, but your space heater at work giving out twenty minutes into your shift at work is certainly cause for more.

You can’t help but wonder, how do situations like this always come to find me?

Typically not anything too egregious, but most can admit that the small things tend to add up. Now, work is cold, and you have an unreasonably large number of books to wade through that must, ultimately, find their place amongst the numerous shelves that line the walls and walkways.

What else could possibly go wrong?

A lazy thought to yourself accompanied by a similar, tired blink as you bend down behind the front counter only to then hear the doorbell ding to signify the entry of a patron. Because of course they would right now, when you’ve already resigned yourself to the horrors of sorting by last name.

The words begin to tumble out of you before you’ve even stood fully again—halfway into turning your head towards the sound as it quickly dies out behind the door closing. “Welcome, what can I do for—”

The rest of them die in your throat, which is no match for the feeling of anxiety-fueled dizziness once eyes meet.

“Chan.”

Keep reading

[breakyourrxles]

❥open 24 hours (m)

↳ The little store just below doesn’t have much to offer beyond stale chips and lukewarm drinks, but the guy who works there more than makes up for it.

han jisung x gn!reader — meet cute, strangers to lovers, explicit sexual content. [4.5k wc] cws: reader has a vulva/vagina!! penetrative sex, barrier method used, exhibitionism(+vague voyeruism), filmed sexual activity but both parties are fine with it.

The little corner store just at the edge of your apartment building isn’t known for much.

A barely functional refrigerator, coffee that always comes out just a bit too hot to be any sort of drinkable in a timely manner, and habitually expired bags of chips often found lining the shelves.

None too great, but if the place has nothing else going for it, then it does have one thing: it’s open twenty-four hours.

Keep reading

[breakyourrxles]

↳ Forever was simple: meet a man you love, and live happily ever after.

A hope built on lies, and when it all comes crashing down, you find a new faith inside of the atrium at the countryside.

painter!lee minho x fem!reader/prince!hwang hyunjin x fem!reader (side pairing) — arranged marriage au, historical au. royalty, slow burn, angst, idiots in love, sexual content. [26k wc] cws: themes of vaguely period-typical sexism, themes of loneliness, (heavy) pining + the poor decisions that sometimes result from that, themes of social anxiety + using alcohol to cope, heavy sexual content.

𝕀.

Everything around you glitters in the ambient light of the evening masquerade ball.

Tables lined with beautiful cloths sit along the edges of the ornate hall, piled high with decorative and delicious foods. Amber, bubbling drinks flow and occasionally spill out of long, crystal glasses held by perfectly manicured hands holding them just a little too excitedly.

The kind of night life that you have grown so accustomed to.

Your dress is stunning and perfectly to your tastes, hair styled to match and draped in decadent jewels to showcase yourself with. The suitors are dressed much in the same, though in far more drab colors as men tend to do. This is of no consequence to you, because your eye is set on only one in particular.

Crown Prince Hwang Hyunjin.

You watch him from across the marbled floor, through groups of guests who might as well not even be present with how rapt your attention is on him. He is tall and broad, far from lanky but toned enough to give the impression of a certain kind of sturdiness that has always edged a particular curiosity in you. Hyunjin's hair is black, tied back from framing his face with its length, and you watch him laugh through conversations with other women who likely desire the same thing as you.

Engaging in private rendezvous with potential suitors is strictly against the royal code, all the more reason that no one must ever find out about the edge above the rest that you have taken for yourself in regards to him.

The memories date back to the summer—winter now—a late night out with other women that you've mostly grown up with and set as your entourage. The first time, running into the royal Hwang entourage without prying eyes to watch you felt like something of a hint, and the second, more of a blessing as the night ended with soft hands against your skin, and plush lips pressed against your own.

These secret encounters carried on through the months, as well as implicit promises in relation to the royal choices soon to be made. Between the sheets and with warm breaths of air exhaled against the shell of your ear, Hyunjin has promised time and time again: "You will be my choice, you have nothing to fear, my love. It's all for show and display, isn't it?"

You believe him.

"Are you going to spend the whole evening in the corner by yourself?" A woman steps up beside you with a knowing grin, and you offer your elbow to her side lightly in response.

"I've no particular interest in showing myself off like some prized cut of meat for men to fawn over, you know this, Sana."

This woman, a friend since your earliest days, looks out across the crowd not unlike yourself just moments before, and then offers yet another smile of understanding before speaking.

"Not for men, perhaps, but for a man," she says. "Are you really so sure that you only carry interest in Crown Prince Hwang? There are so many other perfectly acceptable suitors to choose from."

You sigh, taking a small sip from your glass. "I do not doubt that there are, but when have you ever known me to be the type to spread myself so thin between any such possibilities in life? I have always been something of a single-eyed woman."

"That much I do know, yes," Sana says with a small laugh, "but I don't want you to be left with nothing in the event of things not turning out the way that you wish them to. The Prince has many hopefuls, and while he is the only prince, would it be so bad to consider a life outside of the royal court? You've never much cared for the excessive nature of their goings on, anyway."

Turning to look at her, you cast Sana a questioning glance, "I have grown up in the lap of luxury, it is all that I know, are you to imply a step down is what suits me rather than a step up?"

"I would never, but there are many levels between poverty, and royalty."

"Anything other than a step up, is a step down," you say firmly, pressing the rim of your glass to your painted lip again. Your eyes wander out towards Hyunjin once more, and a slight curve upwards takes them, perhaps some enjoyment in the fact that you know something that even your closest confidants do not. Perhaps some enjoyment in the fact that you have already won a game that the others still insist on competing in. "Besides, do you think not of me as future Queen?"

"I wouldn't dream of such a thing, just remember me and all of our times shared once you begin lobbing off the heads of people who dare to oppose you."

Feigning horror, you reel exaggeratedly, "Now who is assuming things?"

Sana's hand finds the small of your tightly bound back, and lightly pushes you forward.

"Go dance with your future husband, would you?"

𝕀𝕀.

While far from unusual for your nights to end up like this, perhaps after everything that this one has presented, the aura casts something different, something intangible and strange that you can't quite grasp despite its familiarity still.

The masquerade ball winds down three levels from where you reside now. People still dance and laugh and shout amongst themselves, though the largest collective of guests have long since begun their journeys back to their own homes. Your entourage awaits you somewhere outside for much of the same, though they have long since learned not to bother coming and finding you in the event that you have disappeared.

For that, you are thankful, because nothing good can come of being discovered like this.

The room is small—a sitting area with little more than a table, chair, window, and tall bookshelves filled to the brim with just that. Moonlight shines in as the only illumination, faint and appearing cool to the touch if one were able to. Only enough to find one's way, and plenty to remain hidden in the darkness while people engage in their disagreeable deeds.

Lips hurriedly find your own, teeth nipping at them with a needy hunger. Palms graze up the outside of your legs, dress hiked up and leg eventually along with it. The door is pinned shut by your back firmly pressed against it, your head tips back with a small thud, Hyunjin chuckles under his breath at the sound, and then drives his hips forward to give the both of you what it is that you've been waiting all evening for.

"I saw you speaking with Lady Sana this evening," Hyunjin whispers, mouth feathering against your neck. "Am I wrong in suspecting that you were speaking about me?"

He presses himself forward, pulls your body down and against the effort simultaneously, ensuring no space is left between your figures. You gasp at the feeling, and he smiles at the sound, fingernails digging into the flesh of your thighs and hips in places that you don't dare let any of your house staff see.

"You would not be wrong," you reply, forcefully maintaining some semblance of composure. "Only good things, of course."

Chest pinned against your own, Hyunjin pulls back, then presses into you again. The glide is smoother this time, and you can't help the moan that escapes you suddenly.

"Have you told her?" he asks, drives quicker and less shallow than before. "I must announce my decision tomorrow afternoon, not long to wait now."

The ability to converse is leaving you with each steady roll of Hyunjin's hips. Your fingernails grip tightly into his suit jacket, though it grants you little purchase with the smoothness of it. Harder, faster; the tell-tale signs of nefarious activities beginning to be heard in rhythmic fashion against the wood of the door, as well as the explicit, unmistakable sound of skin meeting skin.

"No," you manage to say, though barely, "I would never, would never jeopardize what we have waited so long for."

Hyunjin's lips trail up your neck, along the edge of your jaw and settle lightly against your own. He kisses you gently, then merely sits there to drink down the gasps and whimpers of you accepting him. There is little time for this—something that the both of you know—rolls and snaps of his hips become quick, erratic in order to meet his end, and so he does with the kind of rapidity that leaves you terribly wanting and wishing for more.

There is a parting kiss left to you, and Hyunjin readjusts himself so that he can reemerge into the public. Smoothing your dress and slipping out from the doorway, he cracks it open to leave but looks back at you with a smile that you can only assume to be full of sly adoration for you, and for this. The joys of engaging in such things unbeknownst to others, the excitement of deception.

"A shame that tomorrow we will put an end to this, isn't it?" he says.

A shame indeed, you think to yourself. And then he is gone.

𝕀𝕀𝕀.

Just as you had anticipated it would, the city streets come alive for the naming of the Crown Prince’s companion.

Bodies crowd around you by every inch, music performed with accompanying dancers displaying their crafts as well as shop setups lining the way selling beautiful merchandise; hand crafted with care that shines blindingly under the sunlight above.

As you move along your way, the numerous scents of charred meats and grilled vegetables infiltrate your senses, all encompassing and inviting in a way that makes you almost wish to give up on what it is that you are meant to do today. In order to keep your mind set, you remind yourself that soon you will be at the receiving end of royal chefs and all that it is they have to offer you. There is charm to the street cooks and their home grown and cut ingredients, but nothing matches the knowledge and adeptness of the throne.

You have dressed simply today, not wanting to draw attention to yourself nor wanting to appear expectant. Reaching closer to the stage, the bodies are packed in far more tightly, as do the frequency of other potentials come more into vision. So many women; hair stacked high and curled in such a lovely way, all standing in wait in their best dresses with moderate jewelry. It is cold today, and the lavish, heavy coats that hang around their shoulders allude to as much, but you are warm with a deep understanding of what you are to gain this afternoon.

 A few rows back from the front of the stage, you find Sana as well as another friend shared between the two of you, Tzuyu. A beautiful woman wrapped in dark vermillion red with black hair that hangs so opposingly to Sana's blonde. They both smile and greet you, as do you, to them.

"Are you anticipating the naming as much as the rest of us are?" Tzuyu asks, a bright, cheerfulness to her tone that gives her something of a charmingly juvenile expressiveness. "So many women are here in wait, I do wonder what His Highness has in store for us."

"A difficult choice awaits him, no doubt," Sana adds, glancing up towards the place where he will soon call his decision towards the people. "I question how these sorts of decisions could ever be made through matters of the heart, but I suppose when it comes to royalty, the heart is of the least concern."

Pulling your coat tightly against yourself, you force back the smile that wishes to take your lips. "I trust that he will make the right call, do you not?"

"I'd sooner disappear into the forest, never to be seen again than dare speak ill of the royal house and their choosings," Sana says through a laugh. "Besides, I would be banished to such a place for doing so, anyway."

"You speak in theatrics," Tzuyu scoffs, a roll of her eyes punctuating it. "The rulers of our country are not so sinister."

"One can only hope, but knowledge of the Crown Prince and his ways are not well known to the people, only time will tell if he is as benevolent of a ruler as His and Her Majesty are," Sana says.

You look at her questioningly, "You suspect otherwise?" you ask, but she is quick to shake her head.

"No, but I am realistic in all of the possibilities that lie before us. Quite the contract, in fact, I have heard rather good things."

Sana's tone is peculiar to you in a way that you find difficult to pinpoint as she speaks on the intricacies of Hyunjin's personality. Her face is simplistic enough to not give anything away, but the sound of her voice carries a sort of inflection when referring to him that settles a strangely ire spark within your chest.

You are given no time to question it further, however, because the royal guards set themselves perfectly in place along the stage, and the arrival of the throne is loudly announced from beyond.

His and Her Majesty step forward first, luxuriously sparkling with expensive jewels and fur coats that you would otherwise never hope to afford, not even from your own place of incredibly comfortable class. The two of them settle in the background, and without wasting any further time, the man that you have grown to love and adore enters the stage in long, tall strides that exude confidence and elegance both.

Thankful for your place in the crowd, you gaze up at him and await his eyes to meet your own. A scroll is handed to him by one of the royal staff from just outside of the main stage, and he slowly unfurls it for all waiting eyes to see.

Hyunjin, all white in attire and garnished with a stunning sash that weighs heavily with brooches and sigils, inhales deeply and then looks out towards the crowd. You stare expectantly, because this is your time. So many nights shared hushed and secret between the two of you, discussed between sheets and pillows of just this very moment that will be granted unto you. His eyes do not find yours, but it is of no particular concern to you, as there will be so many more times for adoring moments to be had between the both of you from this day forward.

No more secrets, no more hiding your love for one another.

"Thank you for gathering here today, it is an honor for me to be able to share this with the people of my country. I do not wish to take much of your time, as there are far more convivial activities for you to be partaking in, aren't there?"

Gentle laughter resounds through the crowd, and Hyunjin smiles ever so slightly at the sound of it before glancing down at the paper in hand once again.

"With my greatest pleasure, I will announce to you the future Queen of the Hwang throne…"

Excitement flows through your veins, head light and nearly dizzying as you await the call. You clutch tightly to your robe, knuckles white and forcing your breath steady as the seconds pass by you like decades until the name is called.

A name is called.

"Minatozaki Sana."

A name that does not belong to you.

From just beside you, a shriek falls from Sana's lips but is forced back halfway through, presumably as to not embarrass herself. Tzuyu clutches at the friend’s shoulders and the two of them celebrate with covered mouths, wide eyes, and hushed shock. The world dulls into a kind of unfelt, nonexistent quietness around you as you stare forward and towards this man; this man that you have shared your body and a bed with, so much of your time and trust with.

He has betrayed you.

You can no longer hear the other women around you, shrouded in disbelief as you gawk at him. Something within you wishes to disappear—humiliation beginning to thrum up and across your skin—there is a small token of solace in the fact that no one else knows of your engagements with him prior as it is widely and heavily frowned upon for the both of you, but this knowledge does nothing to ease the pain that swiftly starts to replace all of the other initial feelings that have befallen you in these seconds passing.

The dizziness begins to set in faster and heavier, you realize that you must take your leave now. You take a step backwards, bumping into another saddened hopeful, but don't even have your wits about you enough to apologize for having done so. Sana and Tzuyu grab at you, say something, but you cannot hear it through the thick blanket of betrayal that casts so heavily between you, and them. Perhaps you congratulate her, words leave your lips but you haven't the slightest clue of what they are. Sana is smiling, crying, so perhaps they have been adequate enough.

Another step back, and you look up towards Hyunjin again. This time, his eyes find yours, and all he offers you is the faintest of wicked grins.

You take your leave quietly, without another word. Heart hanging heavily and not allowing him to take the tears from you that he has so evilly and rightfully earned.

𝕀𝕍.

You are not given time to grieve your loss, as if to intentionally add insult to injury.

Unfortunately, your parents can only be as understanding as information granted allows them to be. The first month, you are given space to wade through your reasonable disappointment, but past that point in time, questions of your next potential suitor once again begin to find themselves at the forefront of discussion amongst the dinner table. You did not know this man, I understand your disappointment in not being chosen, but it's high time to look forward and set your sights towards other potentials, your mother says. Royalty is not everything, there are plenty of other perfectly well-to-do men to take your pick from, your father says.

You tell them that you will look, with no intention of truly doing so. Once the second month passes by with little more progress, you begin to find the signs around the house of your parents taking matters into their own hands.

Letters line the desk of your father’s library room, and one in particular causes the hair at the back of your neck to stand on end.

Only partially sticking out from beneath the stack, you just so slightly pull the corner to unearth more of the words that bring a sickness to your stomach. 

"Would be honored to be chosen as your daughter's suitor. The estate is grand and well-kept, though rather empty of life—" the sentence is cut off, you skip to the next area that you can read. "Staff around the clock. Any endeavors she wishes to engage in will be made available—"

The spin inside of your stomach has you reaching forward and clutching at the sides of your father’s desk. It has only been two months, and already there are discussions of having you shipped out and elsewhere, to a strange man that you have never met, and will be expected to placate in all of the ways that one might. While these sorts of scenarios are nothing new to you—the knowledge well known—this was never supposed to be you. No, you were to marry into the royal house, to be made Queen, and having done so through a shared love. 

Not pawned off to a stranger who intends to keep you as a moderately cared for pet. You have heard the stories of other such arrangements before; the best that you can ever hope for is a perfectly tepid and boring man who has no interest in your being there, and has only accepted it for the offerings that such an agreement carries between the families in a monetary and societal sense.

How could your parents do this to you? The truth of the matter, however, is that they do not know the intricacies of what it is that they are doing to you. The details of your prior goings on. They must never know, and god forbid potential suitors were to ever find out about your involvement with the Prince beforehand…shunned and displaced, you will forever remain.

Turning towards the doorway, you begin to take your leave. The wheels are in motion and there is nothing left for you to do. Moving forward, you will await the day that your father comes to you with the news of having come to an agreement with a man for the arrangement of your marriage, and you will grin and bear it as daughters of high class households are told to do. In the meantime, you will hope and pray that the man chosen by your father is a kind one, a simple one. Dull and uninteresting and with only enough attention to give to his own things.

𝕍.

Writing takes you by the soul, and always has for as long as you found yourself able to hold a pen.

Your timing in finding out about your father’s misdoings an impeccable sort, because it is only two days later that he finds you in the large study of your manor and informs you of the news. A decision has been made about your future—one that you have had no part in making—and you will be sent off in two weeks time to the northern countryside to live with a man who he describes as "kind, albeit a little eccentric from what I can gather." The documentation has already been signed, and as far as you are concerned in a legal sense, are now married to someone whose name you do not even know.

"Lee Minho," your father says quietly, and you can't help but wonder if the airiness to his voice is of true sadness in having done this to you, or a feigned one, only given because he believes it to be what you desire of him. "He's a painter, quite gifted. A very well-off man, you shouldn't worry about wanting for anything in the absence of our affluence."

Hand gripping the pen tightly, still pressed hard against the paper, you find yourself indifferent to whether or not he can see the displeasure washing over you.

"Understood, I'll have my belongings packed by the handmaidens in proper time."

Your tone is simple, offering nothing more than the most basic of expressions. He does not reply to you with any sort of swiftness, and instead sighs as he turns to make his exit.

"I'm sorry it had to come down to this," he says suddenly, and with no warning. "As you know, you are coming up on your age and—"

"I know, father," you reply, just as flatly as before and continuing with your work along the page. "It is understood."

He leaves, and your scribbling comes to you with a slightly more erratic speed.

𝕍𝕀.

The goodbyes shared with your family carry little weight, and while there is a large part of you never wishing for this day to have come, there is another area that finds solace in no longer having to live under the roof of people who have done so wrongly by you, and with such great ease.

All you needed was time, and you were not given that. Is it so difficult to carry empathy for people who are hurting? To cast aside asinine traditions of age and worth for the sanctity of caring for those that share blood? 

Sitting in the back of the carriage as it plods along, you stare out of the small window and contemplate just that. What is family, if not the people meant to care for you above all else? Hyunjin betrayed you with a kind of extravagant ease, but your family, he was not. What excuse do your parents have to cast you aside so eagerly? All but sell you off to a man and for no other reason than to maintain social appearances. Yes, my daughter married that famous painter, Lee Minho. How exceptional and prized such a partnership is. 

The journey is a long one, and you hope to have settled in your anger by the time that you arrive. You have no interest in maintaining any sort of exceptional appearances with this man, but perhaps at the very least, he does not need to be on the receiving end of your indignation.

Instead, you fantasize about the perfect life you may be able to cultivate upon your arrival. Perhaps there are perks to him being involved in such a solitary way of life; you imagine two sides of the same mansion, one for you, and one for him. The painter and the writer, and never shall they meet.

𝕍𝕀𝕀.

Nighttime falls upon the land before you make your arrival, and late into the evening do you come. 

The estate is seen long before you come upon it, with a handful of lights standing out against the otherwise stark darkness of the countryside surroundings. You recall a mention of the home being relatively lifeless, and so few lights on inside certainly give truth to that. Barren trees line the street and as far as the eye can see given how deeply into winter it still is. There is little snow piled up into little hills along the ground, but it is impossible to see the vastness of the land without proper daylight to guide you.

When you arrive, a handful of house staff are there to greet you. Three women smile and bow, help you out of the carriage and then move along to retrieve your things. One remains with you, and you pull your jacket tighter so as to not allow the frigid air to touch you.

"It is much colder in the countryside than what you are used to," she says gently. "You'll get used to it in due time, but it can be frightening at first."

You glance at her, though not for long. It feels strange to be attended to by staff other than those that you are used to being handled by. This strange woman—older but softer in demeanor—smooths a hand down your arm with little more than a feather-light touch, and then offers you a slight yet understanding smile.

"My name is Mai, I am the head of the housing staff, you'll be seeing me around quite often, so I hope that we can grow comfortable with one another quickly. I understand that this is difficult for you, and strange, so please take your time. There's no rush to become acquainted with myself or the estate grounds."

It's only then that you come to realize the stark lacking of someone else's attendance to your arrival. You glance around slightly, perhaps you have missed him? But there are no men, and so, you ask the question, "What about Mr. Lee?"

Mai's features drop ever so slightly, like she feels some level of sympathy for you. Her hand smooths over your arm again, then gently tugs you towards the large doorway.

"The Master of the house will seldom make himself known, I wouldn't worry too much about that, dear."

"He didn't even come to welcome me, a strange sort of fellow to not bother greeting his wife upon her arrival," you say pointedly. It garners another, particular sort of look from the woman bringing you inside.

"Yes, the Master has been referred to as strange before, this would not be the first time. Please don't take it personally, or as some sort of slight towards you individually. I'm sure that given enough time, the two of you should meet and become acquainted with one another."

You chuckle under your breath, "Husband and wife, acquainted with one another. What have my parents done."

Though your wish upon arriving has ultimately come true, you sift through the confusion in your feelings regarding Minho's disinterest in finding you. The woman that he has taken into his home, agreed to marry, surely expected to have children with—yet with no apparent interest in your being there whatsoever. Stepping inside of the home, it shines and exudes beauty, almost like a museum. Pieces of painted art and statues sit at every inch, as far as the eye can see, but all you can think about is the absence of the man who has beckoned you here.

"I apologize for the darkness of the estate, as you know, it's quite late. I hope that you will take it upon yourself to wander tomorrow during the day. Everything is yours, please make yourself at home." Mai extends a hand forward and towards the large staircase, then points upwards at the centered emptiness created by the winding steps. "At the highest level is the atrium, the only place that is strictly off limits. The Master does most of his work up there, though it's difficult to simply stumble upon, no cause for concern as far as that goes."

Continuing to gaze up at what feels like forever, you slowly bring your attention back down and then fully towards Mai.

"Why has he brought me here?" you ask.

A single corner of her mouth perks, as if contemplating offering a smile that may or may not be apt. Besides that, however, the only expression of feeling you can find amongst her features is that of compassion, and perhaps, maybe even pity.

"As you know, these sorts of things tend to be about maintaining appearances…" Mai trails off, likely on account of having nothing more to add to the fact. It is plenty enough, and indeed, you are very well aware.

"I'd like to be taken to my room now."

There's a hazy numbness that finds your limbs as the staff take your things and begin moving towards the stairs. This is your new life, your new normal for the rest of your life. A loveless existence, a loveless marriage with a man that you will scarcely meet. You wonder, albeit briefly, what you have done to doom your existence to that of such fleeting tenderness. 

Hyunjin did not love you, but he was willing to pretend, and while your body was beneath his, you could so easily believe it.

Minho does not love you, and will not even grant you as much. No willingness to try, no interest in feigning the possibility of as much. You are not so foolish to expect to fall in love with this man, but is it so wrong to wish for moments that offer themselves to the fleeting fantasy of it? Infrequent dinners, shared glances from down the hall, and if all goes well, even a kind of friendship developed amongst incapable lovers.

Your bedroom is stunning and immaculately decorated. Mai informs you that anything that you wish to have added or removed is yours to have, and that she will see to it being done swiftly. The walls are lined in a dark, royal blue and accented at the corners with incredible, gold fillings that make the estate feel more like a castle than a simple home for only one man and his house staff. 

The thought is appreciated, but you truly cannot fathom wanting for more, not in the physical sense of owning and acquiring physical things. The emptiness inside of you is so much heavier and deeper than the shade of the walls, or the perfectly waxed oak of the floors.

"Thank you," you say. The words are small, and sound far more defeated than you would like them to. Mai is heavenly, everything that you could ever want from someone that you're likely to be spending the majority of your time here with. "What time shall I come down for breakfast in the morning?"

Mai smiles in the doorway, her light gray dress swaying with every slight movement that she makes.

"Eight is standard for the house, but whenever you prefer. If you are an early riser, we can see to it that it is ready and waiting for you by the time you find your footing."

You glance at your handbag, manuscript of your writing sticking out by the corner from it and make your decision going forward.

"I am something of an early morning type. I like to write, I find that I do my best work before the rest of the world begins to stir," you say, forcing a small smile into your lips. "I don't require much, especially just for one person. Just some small breads with butter and coffee will suit me just fine."

Mai nods happily, so obviously delighted by your willingness to allow her to do what she does here. "Of course, anything you wish. If you need anything else in the morning, please don't hesitate to inform any of the staff, we want to make your transition here as smooth and seamless as possible."

"Thank you," you say again, and Mai takes her leave.

Sleep does not find you well that night, despite the weariness of your body from the travel. Instead, your mind races with possibility and wonder about the ghost that you now share a home with, and when you finally do find rest, all that is there to greet you now is the dark, faceless silhouette of a man that you may never come to meet.

𝕍𝕀𝕀𝕀.

Time at the estate feels as though it crawls, and yet slips away and through your fingers in ways that make it feel as though it doesn't really exist at all.

Another month passes you by, a new routine set into motion not unlike yours from back home. Different settings, different foods offered; scents that arrive to you like they are foreign and fabrics against your skin that feel entirely different from that which you have become accustomed to. Life here is easy, and for that, you are thankful, but the dull ache of listlessness begins to take hold of you faster than you might have anticipated it to, and your curiosities about the manor creep up and make themselves known to you without much of an ability left in you to fight them off.

You have yet to meet Minho, even in all of your time here. A month is not long to spend in one place, but feels like a lifetime to not have met the person that you live with, the man that you are married to and meant to spend the rest of your days alongside.

Writing, at the very least, comes to you with incredible ease while cased inside of these walls. Your manuscript—a sort of anonymous autobiography of your life—grows and grows like it is showered with all of the sunlight and nutrients of a lovingly kept garden. There is nothing else for you to do here, after all.

These routines come to you naturally, not one to stray from those things that come naturally and comfortably to you. In the mornings, you wake early to head downstairs to eat warm, buttered bread and take your cup of coffee; leaving towards the large study that sits looking off into the flowerbeds with a large, never dirtied window to grant you such a view.

Books surround here, as do their smells. You could never hope to read them all, though you might like to. When particularly down about your circumstances, you consider the fact that you have ample time to begin such an endeavor, as nothing else inside of this building will ever bother to ask for time from you.

One day after the mark of a month from your arrival, you stay up a little later than usual and slowly sip an aged, red wine from the shined lip of a glass. Your nighttime gown already drapes from your body, but you have no such intention of finding sleep any time soon.

For one reason or another, the atrium calls to you silently in the ambient darkness of the house.

The house staff is long asleep, nobody lurking the corridors to ensure that the inhabitants are not allowing the whimsy of curiosity to get the best of them. You step out and into the hallway, small candles lining the way and towards the stairs that lead further up, guiding lights beckoning you, asking you to follow them, telling you to take liberties not truly afforded to you.

So you do. Up so many flights, a climb that feels endless at points, until of course, you reach the top. 

Perhaps you had expected too much, built up the possibilities so much in your mind that whatever it is that you might find here never standing a chance in living up to your imagination. There is little that greets you once you climb the last step; no warning signs, no guards or traps set for intruders stumbling upon this place. Instead, you find an incomprehensible mess along the large and wide expanse of floor. Canvases sprawled as far as the eye can see—some still basking in their unmarred perfection, others splashed with color or linework—paint pots and filthy brushes, palettes that appear as though they've never seen the loving touch of water to clean them.

Furthest away from where you stand, you find a table and a single chair, though it would not seem to be used for its intended purpose with the way items have been set against and atop them. There are papers sitting on the wood, however, and your budding curiosity gets the best of you even more as you carefully step forward and over all of the belongings that coat the floor.

The floor beneath you is sturdy, and for that, you are thankful. There are no creaks of footsteps to alert anyone of your presence here, and when you arrive at the table, you find piles upon piles of letters pinned down beneath dirty, likely forgotten jars of water.

The penmanship of one draws your attention, familiar and loud as it stares back at you. It is from your father.

This date is recent, one of the few things that you can make out from where it sits. You care little for maintaining your invisibility here now, and pull the sheet out from within the others so that you can read it in full.

You realize quickly upon scanning it that you did not know what to expect, but what it is that you have found now somehow sits even more strangely in your chest. Your eyebrows furrow as you take in the words from your father—they are nonsensical in every sense of the word—incomprehensible when paired with the realism of your life at this place.

One part reads: I am happy to hear that the two of you are getting along so splendidly. Of course, it is impossible to say when putting together such matters, but I had something of a feeling that it would be right, and I am so blessed to find that this meeting has been a successful one.

He has been lying to your father ever since your arrival here.

"Is there something I can help you with?"

Your attention shoots up from the letter, which drops from your hand on account of the shock in being found. What jars you from your thoughts much more than having been caught, however, is not that fact in and of itself. Rather, it is the fact that it is the voice of a man that has questioned you.

And looking up from here, back towards the stairs, the moonlight shines in from the glass ceiling panels of the atrium, down onto the face of a man with somewhat long and relatively unkempt black hair that curtains in front of his eyes delicately. His jaw is strong, sharp; outlining narrow eyes and lips that settle into a somewhat upturned position when not forced into another shape.

Could it be…?

You do not respond right away, and neither does he press you further for a reply. Instead, the man carries himself forward and kneels down in front of a particular pile of painting supplies. Perhaps you hadn't taken careful enough notice of them, the way that the paint is still fresh and wet, now that you look at it.

His shirt is white, sleeves rolled up along his forearms and cuffed carelessly at the bend of his elbow. He appears strong, not at all the dainty, frail image of an artist type that one might typically assume someone like this to be. Somewhere within you swims the possibility that this is not the man that you are married to, merely some other person who also is granted the ability to use the atrium for its assigned purpose, but the thought seems asinine with the evidence presented in front of you.

He grabs a brush, takes a palette into hand and dips the bristles into something dark. One stroke, then another onto a canvas that has already been seen by his hand previously. He ignores you for many long moments, and as a result, you merely stand there in silence and watch as he continues on.

The brush dips into a jar of water, swirled around and faintly clinking against the glass. Then, the man looks up at you again.

"Is there?"

Forgetting that there has ever been a question posed, your mind races to catch up to what it is that he's asking. Nervousness catches your limbs, not knowing what to do with your hands, your feet, the expression on your face when suddenly and finally addressed. 

But you have no interest in answering his inquiry, and instead, pose one of your own.

"Why have you been lying to my father?"

"Ah," he says, the sound quiet and coming out with a knowing exhale. His attention drops back to the canvas and colors in front of him. "Do you make it a habit of reading other people's mail, then?"

"We've not even met once since I moved here, yet you're telling my father that we're getting along swimmingly, why?"

"Are we not?" Minho says, his engagement in the discussion confirmation enough of the fact that this is him. "No arguments, no raised tones or names called. As far as I'm concerned, we're getting along as well as one might hope, all things considered."

"We have never even met!" you nearly yell, dropping your volume at the tail end with the way that you know voice carries through the halls of the estate. This is a discussion meant for the two of you alone. "The least you could do after all of this time is introduce yourself to me, especially if you're going to be lying to my parents about the goings on out here!"

Minho looks up at you then, but his face is empty of feeling. "This is why I thought it best that we not meet, now I have to tell him that things have taken a turn," he says.

His face does not allude to it, but his tone very much does in the way that the faintest hint of amusement can be discerned throughout his words. Hearing such coyness does nothing to calm your growing resentment towards him, if anything, only adding fuel to the budding fire.

"Do you think this is funny?" you ask, anger laden in your voice. "Is that why you brought me out here? For your amusement, so that you could laugh to yourself in the late hours of the night about the woman that you're keeping holed up while I rot away inside of these walls and lament what my life might have been if my father had only allowed me a little more time?"

Stare unwavering, your eyes remain locked onto Minho's once you finish speaking, and he is not quick to reply in any fashion. Silence slips in between the two of you, only the faintest ticking of an old, antique clock stationed off to the side heard between the nothingness growing inside of the atrium.

Then, he sighs.

"I brought you out here because of the nature of our society and the expectation of certain norms therein. You know this as well as I do, what is expected of us by certain ages. Unfortunately for you, both of our time is nearly up and as a result, this is how fate would have it."

He explains it so matter of factly that the entire concept of these arrangements feels strange and foreign to you, despite its familiarity. Minho is right, and what he says to you is true, but it does little to make you feel calm in the matter. He offers you no comfort, no easiness or soft words to sort any pain that you may be feeling as a result of it. Perfunctory in delivery, Minho only gives to you precisely what it is that the two of you already know; nothing more, and nothing less.

You know this, but the dull ache of pain inside of your chest does not wane. It grows instead, so much so that you find yourself losing the ability to maintain disdain for him, or the fact that he brought you here, at all.

"Did you reach out to my father, or did he call out to you?" you ask, voice timid and broken. The details of the arrangement are of little consequence now, but you find yourself questioning it all the same. Perhaps they have only both ended up here by chance, and if so, is that the best possible outcome of all?

Lips thinning straight, it's a sort of forced smile that barely ever comes through, and Minho breaks eye contact once you present the question to him like he is aware that nothing he has to offer you will ever be enough.

The brush handle rattles against the glass once again, the sound sharp and jarring, bothersome to your ears now.

"He reached out to me," Minho says plainly, "and for that, you have my condolences."

𝕀𝕏.

Two weeks go by without so much as a sighting of the man that lives among you. In that time, however, a letter finds you from your mother. Late in the morning on a particularly dreary day, Mai comes to you in your study and hands off the envelope with a gleeful smile, seemingly thrilled to be offering you something instead of your husband.

"I was hoping that they would write to you soon," she says. "The early stages still require much conversing between the Master and your parents, but it's good that they have found the time to reach out to you now, as well."

"Yes, very good," you reply, forcing the sound of pleasantness through the words. You wonder if she knows about your meeting with Minho not so long ago, if she has been informed of your snooping and the knowledge you gained therein. "Thank you, I'll read it quickly."

Mai takes her leave and you are once again left to your things. Your finger slides beneath the flap of the envelope and pulls the seal apart, nimbly releasing the letter inside from its confines. Heart beating rapidly and not knowing what you will find, you attempt to steady your anxiety and land your eyes onto the page.

The words penned across it are happy ones, and that shifts your nerves at a sudden pace. She expresses her joy at all of the things your father has informed her in regards to his constant speaking with Minho; how well things have been going between the two of you, how worried she had been at the possibility of otherwise, and how proud she is of you. The words feel empty and as if they are not meant for you—how could they be? There is no truth held inside of any of it.

Once finished, you slip the letter back inside and tuck it away beneath your manuscript, opting instead to turn your attention towards the garden that awaits you just through the dampened window. Rain lightly pelts it, a calming sound that is very much needed in the aftermath of this reminder. 

Recalling your conversation with Minho in the atrium, you hone in on the specifics of it now. In particular, his stoic interpretation of this combination between the two of you. It was not he who intended to seek you out, and rather, the both of you share the difficulties of age and societal expectations that have been casted upon you at birth. A loveless marriage it is, convenience, even; but circumstances that the both of you are flattened beneath the pressure of.

You had once wished for him to be a man with no interest in you, and that is precisely what you have been graced with. Minho does not care for your presence, does not wish to spend time with you or converse with you in any way that people who share a home tend to do. This is what you had wanted for, so then why now does it feel so rotten to be on the receiving end of it?

A flash of lightning in the far off distance comes to pass, and it is at that moment that you come to your decision: you will make your way to the atrium once more.

𝕏.

Shadows flicker and dance across the darkness of the walls and bookcases lining the crescent shaped sides of the atrium, seen long before you reach the topmost step. There is no sound besides faint rustling, and the occasional, familiar clinking of wooden stick against glass rim.

Minho is there.

You reach the top and find him; on his knees and hunched over not unlike your last meeting in this place. His shoulders and back flex against the tightness of the white blouse that holds him, deceptively firm muscles that you are only now able to see from this angle. He stills briefly, silent acknowledgment of his knowing that you are there, but carries on with his task for a while before bothering to utter a word.

"You shouldn't be up here."

An expected warning, but it does little to deter you. Instead of turning back, you continue forward, towards him, and stop only a few more strides away. Distance given out of the goodness of your heart, and because you accept wrongdoing in ever having come here in the first place.

"Why?" you ask.

With busy hands, Minho remains fast at work, splashing blues, pinks and purples across the white canvas. His features do not twist or contort in any sort of way that one might expect from tortured artists who suffer at the hands of their crafts. Quite the contrary; he appears at ease, calm and collected in this place that is meant only for him and the creations that pour from his skilled fingers.

"For no other reason than it being my working space, and working spaces must be maintained as such." He pauses finally, drops the bush into the water sitting just beside and then looks up at you through messy, loose strands of black hair. "It is no place for conversing, especially if you wish to fight with me like before."

The reluctance in his voice, almost pained in the way that he says it, has your eyebrows pressing together with rather intense confusion. While it is true that you had been far from pleased with the discoveries made the first time you made your way up here, to call it something of a fight feels rather excessive to you, in hindsight.

"I wouldn't say that we fought, can you blame me for feeling the way that I had felt then?"

"Not at all," he admits with ease, "but you shouldn't go through my things, and you shouldn't raise your voice at me in regards to matters that are just as much out of my control as they are your own."

That rubs you wrongly, and your eyes narrow as a result of it. "They are not equally out of our control. You desired a woman to live idly in your home and that is what you received. I desired only the smallest allowance of time in order to get my surroundings back on track, and in the end, what I received was nothing more than being the aforementioned idle woman."

Minho sighs heavily, then turns back to the canvas in front of him. "How many times must I apologize for that? It's not as if I had known when the inquiry was sent to me that you would be so displeased. Is it not enough that I do not force you to engage with me?"

"That's not—"

"I ask nothing of you," Minho continues, a newfound pointedness to his voice. "I do not request your company in any capacity, no expectation of you to entertain me in any way. I do not bother you, I do my best to stay out of your way. Anything you desire, it's yours. Money, gifts, luxury cloths or even the most expensive art pieces from all across the globe…any of it can be yours, should it suit you."

His voice wavers as he reaches the tail end of his words, and the weight of it hangs heavy on your heart. Minho sounds sad, defeated in a battle that he hadn't even bothered to take on. 

Then, he looks up towards you again. 

"If a lover is what you wish to have, you may take one. I understand the difficulty in meeting people so far out in the countryside, but I'll see to it that the staff will accommodate your needs in any way."

Once he finishes, you stand silently just off and to the side of him. Your stares towards one another rest in the balance, you anticipate him saying more, but the words never come.

You frown at him, just slightly.

"What do you know about me?" you ask.

The question seems to take him aback, eyes widening slightly at the suddenness of it being presented towards him. His eyes fall from yours then, cast around the floor between you as if the answers sprawled out somewhere there. Eventually, he accepts his fate, and looks back up towards you.

"I…I don't know. Nothing, I suppose. Not beyond what your father has told me throughout our correspondence."

"My father knows nothing about me, not beyond the perfected image of daughterhood that I am expected to present. You know all about expectations, don't you, Mr. Lee?"

His watching you continues, but no words dare to be uttered by the man.

"Perhaps instead of holing yourself up here your whole life, you come down and do what is expected of you." Turning back towards the stairs that brought you here, you begin your descent down—one, two—and then pause to turn back for your final parting words.

"A man is expected to be seen by his wife, is he not? To talk to her, to know things about her, to learn. More than that, a husband is expected to do all of that, and even more. I refuse to allow you to use my invisible presence here as nothing more than a story that you can tell people while you're away presenting your art pieces. You wanted me here, and so I am. You will have to do better, because I have nothing left to lose, and the humiliation of returning home from a failed marriage is a far cry from the things I have already endured."

Minho does not reply.

𝕏𝕀.

The next morning, just as any other, you maintain your routines.

Exiting your bedroom, your feet pad along the floor one after another—simple slippers that adorn them, keeping your toes warm—the sound of it is one that you have now grown accustomed to, the echo as it carries through the emptiness of the estate.

Thankfully, as you draw nearer to the lowest level and towards the kitchen, the gentle music of other inhabitants fondly make themselves known to you. Scents mix in as well, cinnamon and coffee and vanilla all whirled together in the air that you can't help but find peace amongst it all. When you enter, you are greeted brightly by Mai, as well as the other housekeepers lending their hands to ensure a seamlessly run ship.

You offer your thanks, and head along your way towards the study. The door hangs ajar, just as you always leave it. No concern for whether or not Minho will make his way down and curiosity will get the best of him upon catching sight of your belongings; a man who has made it more than clear that he holds no such fascination in you.

The large seat situated in front of the window awaits you. Today is sunny, the short rain that tells a tale of spring soon to come, having since passed during the nighttime and bringing after its having gone bright skies and pristine white clouds. A good day, a nice day. You sit, opening the drawer inside of the desk and pulling from it the notebook that holds your manuscript. So many years of work, so personal and encompassing everything that makes you. 

With your back towards the door, you only vaguely hear the sounds of Mai's hushed utterance from just within the kitchen. Some exclamation of surprise, though it disappears with the same swiftness that it seems to have caught her. Perhaps a bug, or a misplaced knife settled within the wrong drawer—anything could be the case—and for that very reason, you brush it off and focus instead on the pen and paper before you.

Then, there's a knock at the wood of your door.

"Yes?" you call back out at it, unsure of what the housekeepers could be wanting from you. Your typical routine with them has been more or less concluded, no obvious reason for anyone to be looking for you now. "I've not finished with my first coffee yet, I'll come when I have, you need not wait on me and worry yourselves sick."

"Does the Lady of the house have a moment of her time to spare?"

Before you can so much as fathom it, your body whips around and you nearly wholly twist in your chair to look back at the place that the masculine voice has come.

As if what awaits you there could be anything else, anyone else; Minho stands in the small crack of the doorway, barely enough for him to fit half of his body through. He does not dare attempt it, waiting outside for your word of affirmation. His face is downcast, looking up through eyelashes at you like he is doing something entirely wrong of the both of you. Anticipating being turned away, expecting to be berated for having the gall to make such a brave attempt.

"Y-yes, of course, come in!" you reply, biting back the eagerness in your tone at the end of the sentence. Suddenly, you become painfully aware of the space around you and how unkempt you have allowed it to be. "I apologize, it's something of a mess. I only come in here to do some small tasks to keep myself busy and then I leave so I don't think much of keeping it tidy."

Minho steps inside, though the effort is barely there. Two steps into the room, and then he stops; looks around it like he has never been here before. Eventually, you come to understand that he is not so much looking at the things he keeps and rather, that he is avoiding eyes that belong to you.

"It is yours, you may keep it as you wish," he says. His hands dance between being cradled in front of himself, to similarly behind his back. Forward again, thumbs craned into his pockets, then out and to his sides—strangely, uncomfortably. He does not know what to do with them. "I apologize for intruding on your time like this, I—" he pauses, stops looking around once he realizes he has seen all that there is to see, and then has no other option than to look at you. This action is short lived, however, eyes quickly falling to the wood beneath his feet. "I believe that you were correct last night, in your assessment of me and our arrangement. For that reason, I want to make an effort. I want to…do what is expected of me."

Silence blankets the room, his eyes cast upwards again; "If that's all right, of course."

"Yes, yes of course it's…what I would prefer, I think." Once again, excitement that betrays your unwillingness to give too much, too fast. Even if he weren't looking at you, the glee would be heard in your voice. "At the very least, an effort made to get to know one another on a more personal basis. We may never fall in love, may never become lovers…it's impossible to say if we will ever even become friends, but I think it best for the both of us if there is some level of acquaintanceship here."

Minho nods once, swallowing so hard and through a throat so dry that you swear you can hear it. "Understood. Though I must say, I do…" he trails off in thought, returns to it only moments later, "I still intend to spend the majority of my time in the atrium, for work. I must insist that even with our new arrangement, you do not come up there. I will instead…make myself more common down here, or if you request my presence—not that I suspect you will—please inform Mai, and she will retrieve me."

"I accept these terms, but in the inception of such, it is only fair that I forge those of my own."

Eyes widening in shock, Minho seems surprised by your candor. Though you do not know him well, one thing you are thankful for is his seeming unwillingness to abide by much of the traditional social construct that exists around the expectations of the way that men and women are meant to engage with one another. You speak loudly and brashly with Minho, a man that you barely know, and he accepts as much with grace. When he wishes for you to not engage with him in such ways, he calmly asks it of you, rather than demands it through authoritarian fear.

When you wish to push back, he takes a step backwards of his own in order to grant you the space to do so.

"That indeed is fair," Minho agrees, a barely-there smile curving into the corners of his lips. "What does the Lady seek?"

"We have a meal together, most days. Breakfast or dinner, it is of no particular consequence to me. I do not know if you prefer the morning or evening hours, but based on your artistic habits and the dark circling beneath your eyes currently, one can only assume that breakfast is out of the question."

Your own smile perks up, and along with it, Minho's widens. He turns his head, looks over in an attempt to find the nearest reflective surface. Only a silver vase, his face coming out all wobbly and distorted as he looks at himself against it. The truth of your words is still found, however.

"I accept," he says. "Dinner. Let's have dinner together tonight."

You grant him a nod, and he cumbersomely turns towards the door to take his leave.

"One more thing," he adds, paused perfectly within the doorframe but choosing not to look back at you. "Perhaps we should…prepare for the conversations that will be had. It would be awfully unfortunate to waste our time together among the dead of an otherwise quiet night."

Charmed in all of the most fascinating and incomprehensible ways, you see straight through the veil that Minho has attempted to hold up. A million questions run through your mind already; regarding him, this estate, his work, where he has been, and you cannot fathom the possibility of him not experiencing the same. Rather, the second likelihood swims within your thoughts, humorously intriguing, and serving as the catalyst for your ability to begin putting the pieces of him together into something far more recognizable.

Lee Minho is reserved. Locked away in the countryside and borderline cripplingly timid in the face of anything new and not easily understood—made sense by the dabbing of colored paints onto a canvas, dragged and splotched into something that his eye can really and truly see.

Later that evening, Mai and her staff spend far more time and effort preparing a meal than is truly necessary. You worry to yourself slightly watching the lot of them hustle about—there are only two of you, after all—but Mai insists each and every time that she finds the concern spread across your features that she is actually quite thrilled to be doing something such as this for once.

"The Master does not have company often, and for that reason, does not frequently take a proper meal in the evenings," she says, delight dripping from her voice.

Comically to you, however, is the fact that Minho is here and seated at the table across from you already; spoken about as if he is not even in the room. You look him over when Mai admits as much and his features pan, somewhat pained by the truth of it all, you suppose.

"I'm busy in the evenings, more often than not, you are well aware of this, Mai."

"That's no reason not to allow us to have some fun in this kitchen." Her fists ball up at the tops of her hips, and then a handful of other staff begin making their way over to set dishes atop the table.

"You shouldn't say it like I don't permit you to do so," Minho says. He glances up at you briefly, as if to gauge how you're taking all of this. Worried you might think him to be an evil ruler of the manor. "You can, it's just—"

"Wasteful!" Mai finishes with a knowing nod, and then disappears from your side of the table altogether. Her next words are spoken from quite a ways away, down the hall and out of the dining area. "Enjoy your meal! Call for us if you need anything!" she says.

And then the room is silent.

The smells of roasted chicken and glazed vegetables quickly beckon your attention. Buttered dinner rolls in wicker baskets and already poured glasses of wine await each of you. The serving of food has already been completed, your plate piled high with items that drown in delicious looking gravy and topped with garnishes. 

You reach towards your wine glass, and make short eye contact with Minho along the way.

He clears his throat, shuffles uncomfortably in his seat after it, and then picks up his eating utensils.

"Some men," he starts, then waits, like he isn't sure that it's so much of a good idea, "some men can be strange about the types of food, or the amount, that their wives eat."

You continue staring at him, because what is the point of this?

Minho reaches for his glass, takes a large sip from it. "Uhh, I'm not like those men, so please, have your fill."

"Are you informing me that I am permitted to not go hungry for appearances?" you ask flatly.

"I—" he begins, short and cut off, not sure where to go from here. "Yes, I suppose that I am. I just wanted to be clear, in case there was cause for concern."

"With all due respect," you say through a light chuckle, "we're in the middle of nowhere, and I've not left the estate since I came. Who am I really intending to impress?"

Minho does not respond to that. He seems to be willing to relent to the conversation at just about any turn, which amuses and also confuses you. Watching him, he cuts into a piece of potato and carefully puts the chunk between slightly crooked, off kilter front teeth. Sort of charming, one of those quirks about a person's appearance that grows on you over time.

He looks up at you suddenly, then takes another sip of the wine.

"What do you do here? How do you spend your days?"

That is unexpected, though you can't quite pinpoint why. Perhaps it is the brashness of finally asking something so quizzical, so personal; a true attempt at learning something about you in a way not before seen or expressed by him. You do not answer right away, nor does he press further. Only the scraping of silverware against fine porcelain is heard throughout the space for entirely too long.

Might he think you strange for your habits? Is he someone safe to tell?

It's worth the chance, and you will yourself to be unbothered by any negative reaction that he may have.

"I…um, I'm writing a book," you say, steadying the tremble that punctures the words, "I do a lot of writing. In the mornings I wake up early, have my breakfast, and then I write in the study by the garden."

You remain nervous about Minho's reaction, but for no discernible reason you come to find. His eyebrows perk up, attention rapt by what it is that you've said. "A book? That's quite impressive, how long have you been working on it?"

"Oh, many years." Stumbling through the strangeness of his sudden exhilaration, you attempt to maintain your composure. "It is something of a memoir, so I have been collecting moments of my life for as long as I can remember."

Minho shakes his head, evidently stunned by such a possibility. "Writing is such a magnificent craft, everyday I wish that the gift of language and written word is the one that had come to find my hands."

"Painting is an incredible art, so few people are creatively capable of mastering the concepts of color or line like you have. Anyone literate can write a sentence."

Minho looks up and the two of you meet glances. It is a moment shared between people who have a newfound understanding amongst one another, and as a result, it feels special; magical. He smiles slightly, and you can't help but match it, too.

"Well, anyone can scribble color onto a canvas, but I think we both know well enough that there is much more that goes into the arts than that," Minho says, a newfound casualness that you feel as though you have only just unlocked to his tone. "Are you looking to publish someday?"

"I think I might like to, if the opportunity were to arise." You stop, reconsider the content therein, and correct for that. "Anonymously, or under a penname. Not my own."

He nods in acceptance of that, then takes another bite of food with his vision cast down towards the plate. In times like this, Minho reminds you of a small child, poorly socialized and unsure of how to move about the world with other people in it. He tries his best, has only the best of intentions, but it never quite feels as though it's enough.

Little by little, you're peeling through those layers. All things considered, so far, the journey isn't half bad.

"I'm pleased that we've decided to do this," Minho says, focused solely on pushing the broccoli around on his plate idly. "Spend time together, I mean. Getting to know one another."

Thus far, perhaps there is a part of you that cannot help but agree.

𝕏𝕀𝕀.

New routines unearth themselves throughout the estate.

Spring washes over the land in waves; flowers in their fullest blossom, live with color and birds that joyously scour the land for new perches to rest their tired wings atop. The trees fill in once more with lush greens and fruits that begin to fill in along the firm branches.

Minho makes himself more often seen throughout the manor corridors, though often brief and insistent on his having some other place to be. You learn not to take it to heart—his insistence in giving himself an out of the conversation—as it would seem that conversation with others is not a skill that comes naturally to him.

Still, you appreciate the effort. Some mornings, Minho slinks down the stairway and into the kitchen, long before his usual rising hours, and asks you about the agenda for your day. You often do not have much to offer him, but Minho watches on as you fill him in with his chin cradled in his hands and eyes that sparkle under the barely breaking dawn that washes in from the windows. He always smiles; somewhat crooked, with one side pulling ever so slightly higher than the other. It isn't a lot, but for now, it will do.

The month is April, and out of the study window you find Minho tending to the garden.

The outside grounds are not well traveled by you, partially on account of arriving to the countryside in the dead of winter. Now that the breezes have warmed and the snow has melted, it's as fine a time as any, and you carry yourself off towards the side door in the kitchen to take your first few steps into the garden that you have adoringly watched all of these months.

"Decided not to keep yourself cooped up in there, did you?" Minho asks playfully, only briefly glancing up towards you from his bent and knelt position in the turned soil. His hands are dirty—no gloves to be seen—but his forearms flex and pulse with strength as he rips at weeds and digs his holes. "People are going to start to think I don't permit you to leave."

"People? What people?" you reply. "Even my own parents have grown bored of writing to me. I don't think you live in any fear of what the people might think. Perhaps they assume that we are wildly happy together, no interest in sharing that with the rest of the unworthy world."

"Aren't we?" Minho says, chuckling lightly. 

You make an effort to ignore the question, as well as the way his muscles all appear taut and well attended to beneath his moistened white shirt. Minho is a good looking man, in ways that are a little surprising to you and even in spite of his lack of social character, but even as your husband, he is a stranger. A man that you now live with because it is nothing more than convenient for the both of you, not someone to be lusted after.

Hyunjin comes to mind suddenly. Every time you find yourself missing the touch of a man, it's him that torments you still.

"Of course." You make an effort to ignore the thoughts, and change the subject. "I didn't know you had an interest in gardening. Perhaps I wrongfully assumed it to be something kept up with by the staff."

"Wrong indeed," he says, wiping at his forehead with the rolled up sleeve of his shirt. His skin glistens under the spring sunlight, hair collecting the moisture of his face within its strands. 

You are only lusting after him in this way because you wish to be touched by a man again, you barely even know him, you reason. Some reason.

"It's something I picked up a good many years back, when I was shoved deeply into the success of my career. I spent even more time locked away with my work and my paintings, if you could even believe it," Minho says, smiling at himself at the memory of it all. "So, I had to find a reason to get out of the house. Not too far, or for too long, but something. Additionally, I enjoy the act of creation…" he pauses, picks up a small vegetable bulb and holds it up for you to look at. "What's more creative than life?"

You smile, wide and with teeth in a way that you don't remember having done in such a long, long time. Minho laughs at your reaction, and then carries on burying the plant into the ground as originally intended.

"You like to play God in the garden, then?" 

"I wouldn't say that."

"What would you say?"

Minho looks up, a surprisingly thoughtful expression etched into his features, as if really, genuinely giving the question an ample amount of thought. "I would say that I like to create!"

A beat of silence passes between the two of you, and Minho continues on with his task. You cock your head to the side, watching him quietly as he moves as if an incredibly bizarre exchange hasn't just taken place. The truth of the matter, you know without so much as even having to ask, is that the discussion is more than likely not strange to him, at all. A perfectly fine chat, nothing out of the ordinary.

Naturally, in the midst of moments like these is when Minho seems most at ease.

"You're a bit odd, Mr. Lee," you say. Calmness is heavy in your tone, marking down the potential distaste that might otherwise accompany such words. "Do you often hear that?"

"Yes, but my oddities and eccentricities are what make the mind tick, the art work and come to life. If I were anything other than myself, who knows what may come of it. I'd rather not find out. Oh, that reminds me—"

Setting his tools down and wiping his hands uselessly on his brown trousers, Minho pauses all of his toiling about to give you his full attention for the words that he is intending for you. His face appears somewhat disappointed, but there's something else mixing within the emotions that you might easily name that you can't quite pinpoint.

"At the beginning of the summer, around June or so, I will leave you to carry on with a showing. I will be gone until autumn time, perhaps November…it will be cold again when I return."

Your stomach drops, and that feeling shocks you.

"Of course, the estate is yours to do as you see fit, and you may leave it as frequently as you wish, too. All of the staff will be yours. It is all yours."

Your lips thin into a frown, and as it would seem, the reaction surprises Minho. He looks up at you in confusion, and perhaps quickly works through the thoughts by himself, because his eyes dip down and away from you, unable to share his gaze with your own with how displeased you appear.

"I'm going to be alone here…for months…"

"Well, you won't be alone…" he says quietly, offering nothing.

"We've finally begun the process of getting to know one another in a meaningful way, and now you're leaving until autumn…it'll be as though we're strangers all over again when you return."

"Surely it won't be that bad…" Minho forces himself to give you answers, but none of them quell the feeling that presses against your chest. "I'll return before you even notice I'm away. For a long time upon your arrival, it was as if I wasn't here at all."

"And I hated it!" you reply quickly, brashly. The words come out loud and honest in a way that you have not intended. Your eyes sit wide on your face, and finally, Minho slowly looks up at you again with eyes not unlike your own.

Neither of you speak for a long while, until Minho sighs and has no other option but to do so himself.

"I apologize, I…did not anticipate that you would feel this way about it, but nevertheless, there is nothing that I can do. This is a part of my work, I often must leave to do such things. The year after this one will be no different, and if it is, then the futility of fame and the fickleness of the human intrigue has finally caught up to me." He quiets again, continues trying to wipe the dirt caked onto the skin of his hands off and onto his pants uselessly. A pointless endeavor. It feels not unlike wanting to be loved. 

"I can…try to come home sooner, at the tail end of things. Sometimes it wraps up earlier than anticipated," he says, looking away from your disappointed eyes. "I've not bothered to rush home before, with nothing waiting for me. Not to imply that you are…waiting for my return…"

"I would like that," you say, simply put. "Suppose then we should make an effort to make these last two months together count, yes?"

Minho doesn't look up at you, too socially strangled to do so. It's not necessary, however, because the small perk at the corner of his mouth as a result of what you have proposed says plenty.

𝕏𝕀𝕀𝕀.

"Another lovely dinner, thank you, Mai."

She nods to Minho kindly, accepting the compliment, and then finishes up her small cleaning tasks to head out and away from the dining area. You look out and across the living room at the large window that leads into the garden—not unlike your study—and bask in the way that the moonlight shines down onto the glistening, wet leaves and petals that have since come to bloom.

"Have you been out yet? In the evening, I mean." Minho turns to you when he says it, notices where it is that you've been looking, but you shake your head.

"No, too busy with my writing, I suppose."

"You'll find an excuse forever if you allow yourself to, come on, let's go."

Minho doesn't touch you, but he waves his hand towards you and then back into the direction of the side door that leads into the garden. You follow along without much argument, wanting just as much to see what the grounds have to offer you, and perhaps now is as good of a time as any.

The nighttime breeze is cold, and you are not at all dressed to be traversing it with only a thin shawl draped over your shoulders. Immediately upon stepping down and onto the cobblestone pathway your arms fly up to cradle yourself, attempting to hug back the warmth that escapes. Minho seems far less bothered by the pricking of cold against his skin. He is never dressed in anything special or extravagant for as long as you have known him; a plain, white button down shirt with brown, fitted pants suited for not much more than becoming dirty without a care. 

Regardless, you push through. It is not often that the two of you partake in anything other than a dinner, or a coffee together. Two people so wrapped up in their own things that they nearly forget about the existence of the other. You make an effort—Minho is getting better over the weeks—but only so many hours in a day.

The two of you slip around the gray, brick corner of the home; grand in its stature. As far as the eye can see sit beds of flowers, ornate bushes, and the shining droplets of rain from earlier in the day that still collect on each. It's a beautiful sight, the way that they twinkle, and when Minho turns to look back at you, a rare and wide smile pulls at his face.

And then it falls.

"Are you cold?" he asks, concerned and rushing towards you instead. "You should have said something, only now do I realize that you're not dressed for the evening breeze."

"I'm fine, really," you insist, something of a lie with the way that you tremble. He must not be thinking clearly, too wrapped up in the sight before him to thoroughly consider all of his options. Minho reaches for you, presses smooth, warm palms to your arms and runs down them carefully before grasping gently at your wrists and pulling your body against his. He wraps his arms around you—he is firm, both in body and embrace—and he smells like the strangest combination of paint and cinnamon.

Indeed, you are warmer now.

You are not unfamiliar with the touch of a man, and it is not that in particular that dredges up the nervousness in your stomach. Rather, you have never shared a touch with this man, and this man is the one that you live with, are married to. You wonder if it is only natural to have considered the possibility of wanting him; handsome, smart, kind, who wouldn't at the very least enjoy the fantasy of such a thing.

But never to touch.

Minho's hands, surprisingly strong and confident, inch down your back to pool at the small of it as distance is created between the both of your bodies. You crave the kind of intimacy that being like this gives you, but still it feels wrong when it comes from him. Accepting this arrangement as nothing more than a marriage of convenience cements certain ideas for the remainder of your time with this man, and one of those, unwaveringly, is that love and love making will be strictly absent from it.

Yet you enjoy the way that he touches you now.

In the dark of night, and just outside of the manor, Minho pulls back from you slowly and it's like this that you are finally able to see him up close, the tiny, charming intricacies of his face otherwise missed due to proximity. A small freckle on his nose, the ever so slight crookedness to his front teeth that—while you have noticed—are so much more handsome and real like this.

His eyes sparkle looking at you, and there's a pause before anything more happens. In your mind, you beg. Loudly asking for that which you seek, no matter the outcome. You can deal with that when it comes, and perhaps you don't even know precisely what it is that you desire from him now. Still, you beg; please, please, please…

Minho's eyes fixate on yours, and then drop down, down, to where your lips sit. His own part, as if with intention to speak, or a desire to taste, one you prefer far more than the other. He does neither, however, finds eye contact once more, but his fingers grasping harder into the loose fabric sitting at the small of your back sends chills down your spine in a way that the meeting of your lips might not even manage.

Do you want, Lee Minho? Do you crave, as well?

"We should go inside," he says, a whisper that shakes. His gaze finds itself fixated down towards your lips again, and all concern aside, you want in that moment for him to have you. "You're not dressed to be out here, you'll catch a cold."

If Minho has ever desired you, even for a moment prior to this, never has he shown so much as an inkling of it. Now, he stands unraveled, pulled apart and bare for you to see. You wonder if he aches, you cannot help but wonder whether or not the need will be sated.

"Yes, let us do that," you answer, but only because you should. No part of you wishes to find warmth within the walls of the estate. 

The following weeks bring a sort of comfortable bliss to the previously cold, ominous interior of the home. One morning, however, that all changes.

Early mornings are warmer now than they once were, each passing day cutting through the chilly breeze. The grounds come to live in lush greens and colorful petals; you've even begun taking trips out of the countryside and into the nearest, small town. It has little to offer besides functional necessity, but leaving the estate is a breath of fresh air that rejuvenates your senses.

You hope to make that journey today, but first, there is work that must be done.

The manuscript is coming along, words filling each page like they've always meant to be there. With your coffee in hand, you make your way towards the study that keeps your things like an untended vault. Secrets hide inside, but no one dares to seek them out—or so you thought.

You push the door open, and what you find is nearly enough to drop the cup from your hands and to the floor completely. Your heart stops similarly instead, and for a brief moment, you cannot believe your eyes.

Minho looks up at you from inside, standing by the desk from which you often work. In his hands sit all of your deepest, innermost secrets. Things you wish not to share with him now, perhaps ever, but the look on his face is one of someone who now understands everything.

He is difficult to read from here, his feelings incomprehensible from just what his features have presented as the two of your eyes meet.

You rush inside, though the damage is done, you know. "What are you doing?" you ask, making little effort to mask your feelings on this matter. Once you reach him, you snatch the pages from his hands and shove them back inside of the drawer from which he got them. "That's not yours to read!"

He does not respond right away, and instead, the room fills with a heavy silence. Minho's hands drop slowly to his sides as he watches you, lips pulled thinly across his face. He appears neither angry, nor sad. He has the appearance of nothing, at all.

"I only wanted to understand you better, get to know you more than what we already have, I thought…" he trails off, eyes falling away from yours, "I thought this to be the best way, suppose I was not mistaken."

You don't dare make an attempt to find his gaze, not looking at one another. It's better like this. Anger bubbles up inside of you, as well as the humiliation of everything that has led you to this point, to this place with him. "So, now you know. Now you know everything."

"I don't…" Minho starts again in response, once again there are words that he cannot seem to find with the same sort of urgency that he needs them. "If it is some concern about my feelings on the matter, I'm unbothered by what you've done, by your history."

"And why should you care?" you ask, the words coming out biting and spit like a kind of venom. "We are not involved in this partnership in any typical sense of the word. This is a marriage of convenience, and convenient it shall remain." It feels bad when spoken, as if betraying your own self-interest. What you feel it to be instead is the most logical course of action given the circumstances; neither serving you nor your heart as far as any potential, budding relationship between the two of you is concerned.

Minho's eyes dart up at that and find your own, but you continue on. "A wife for show, am I not? And for show I will continue to be. No one else knows, you will never experience the same sort of humiliation as I have, if that is your concern."

"It's not." His face twists at the words you've said to him. "That couldn't be the furthest thing from my concern. Do I come off as someone who loses sleep over the opinions of people?"

There's more fight in his voice now, something you're not used to hearing from him. It rattles you, but only slightly, because you are not frightened of him or what he may do. Rather, it serves as a sort of reminder of just how little you appear to understand about him. Most men, most husbands, in these situations would be livid, and demanding of the dissolution of a partnership from which has been built upon deception. This, however, would seem to be far from Minho's interest.

"I would be dishonest if I said that I didn't wish you had told me, of course I do, but I am reasonable enough to understand why you have not," Minho says. "You have lived a whole life before ever having met me, your path leading you elsewhere. That is neither my business, nor my concern. My concern is…"

He does not complete the thought and instead turns away from you once more. Minho makes his way towards the door of the study, but gives pause just before making his exit.

"I am to leave in a week's time, perhaps the space will do us well, after all."

The reminder of all of the time that you will spend by yourself hangs grossly dense inside of your heart. Everything about this feels so wrong, not as it was meant to ever be. Birthed from some incomprehensible place is the desire to beg him to stay, to not leave you here alone despite knowing that he cannot. So much progress has been made between the two of you, only to be spoiled by this; left to fester for the summer months, and you cannot fathom a scenario in which he returns having missed you now.

𝕏𝕀𝕍.

When Minho leaves for his trip, you do not bid him farewell.

Instead, you watch from the window of your bedroom as bags and canvases are piled into the carriage. Minho, Mai and the rest of the staff all smile and say their goodbyes—you can't help but wonder if he wishes you were there alongside them.

It is unimportant. What must be done carries on regardless, and Minho sits himself inside, the carriage pulls away, and down the pathway he eventually disappears; not to return until the leaves on the trees begin to color and fall away with the soon to be onset of winter air once more.

You wonder if you will miss him, only time will tell.

The passing months bore you, and offer you little to placate your wandering mind.

Summer is in full swing, it comes and works its way to closing before you have much of a moment to enjoy it. You make many trips into town to partake in the fresh bakeries and even engage with the folk who enjoy their lives there. They seem happy, you can't help but wonder what that must be like.

Though the manor had been lonely upon your first arrival, there is a stark difference between then, and now. The knowledge that Minho was there—somewhere—within the halls somehow serving as just enough of a comfort to take the edge off of the blanketing nothingness, now gone; and worse than that, you do not know what awaits you when he will return.

Mai offers you kindness, and that is appreciated, but her dedication to her job makes it so that the line towards friendship never truly becomes crossed. You have not seen your parents, and they do not write to you as often as you might like them to. Tzuyu has sent a letter or two, but they are as infrequent as the others, as she is busy with the courtship process herself after the announcement from the prince.

Seven days into September, there is a knock at the door.

Sitting in the vast living room area, surrounded by old paintings, books and other such decorations, the sun begins to set on the home and the summer heat finally starts to wane. The book in hand—one Minho had recommended before his departure—is one that tells the tale of an old painter who traveled all around the world, and gifted a canvas of his art to every person that he met along the way. You wonder if this is the life that Minho wishes for, you wonder if eventually, you will be left behind for good as nothing more than another collectible that he has accumulated inside of the estate.

"Miss…" 

Mai comes up from behind, wringing her hands strangely, unlike anything you've ever seen from her before. Nervous. "You have a visitor."

"I do?" you question, reeling. You are not expecting anyone. "Who is it?"

"I think it might be best if you come quickly."

She has never appeared so concerned to you, and thus, you make haste to follow her and trust her word. The strides past the kitchen and through the small hallway are quick and long, there's a kind of worry bubbling up inside of you. All of the worst potential things begin to muddle your mind; what if your parents have passed away and someone has come to deliver the news in person? 

But turning into the foyer puts a different kind of nail into a different kind of coffin.

Three men stand in the doorway, one on each side of the person intended to be the centerpiece of their arrival. A simple, loose black shirt draping over broad shoulders and a thin, lithe torso, cinched at the waist and carelessly tucked into the matching black trousers there.

He nearly gives the appearance of someone normal, everyday. Just a spot above Minho's own, usual look. Fascinating, the way your mind instantly moves to compare the two.

"Hello, darling," Hyunjin says. Then, he turns to his guards. "You may go."

You feel Mai's eyes on you, and quickly turn to acknowledge them. "Please, leave us."

She nods, and you can only imagine the questions running through her head. You have not a clue how you intend on ever addressing them in the future, but there are many things that you do not understand yet in front of you.

"Your Highness," you say, and then begin to take your bow. Hyunjin steps forward with a gentle scoff, and quickly waves the display away, instead setting his hand atop your shoulder as he moves past you and into the direction from which you came. 

"That's not necessary, let us leave the theatrics of royalty for the streets, where the people might see them, shall we? I think we are a long way away from requiring that between us."

And so you do. The two of you make your way back into the common area of the downstairs and each take an end of the lengthiest couch. Hyunjin sits leaned forward, hands clasped together and resting against his knees. His hair is still long and dark, you thought he might cut it to relinquish such a boyish, juvenile look, but you find that has not been the case.

"I must admit," he begins through a sigh, "I was a bit taken aback when I heard who it was that you ended up being married off to."

"Yes, well, suppose I experienced much of the same when it came to you," you reply curtly.

To that, Hyunjin smiles slightly and stares down at the floor between his feet.

"Fair play. Unfortunately, there are certain expectations…"

"Was everything a lie? Did you never have any intention of marrying me? Did you never love me? If there are expectations then surely you knew when we began our private affairs what could come of it all, so why…"

"It's not so simple," Hyunjin says slowly, turning to look at you now. "My parents have the majority of say in who gets chosen. How lovely it would be if falling in love were enough."

You look at him, but frown. The possibility that the choice be wholly out of his hands is not one that had ever crossed your mind, too busy cursing him for a choice that may have never been his to begin with. Your eyes rake over him, his face; and perhaps there is something of a sadness behind his eyes if you dare to give him the grace of seeing it.

"Where is Sana?"

To this question, Hyunjin sits back with a heavy, loud exhale. "At home, perhaps shopping with her friends as she tends to do. Where is Mr. Lee?"

"Away for work, until the end of autumn."

"It must be lonely, being cooped up here in the countryside alone for so long."

"I…" you hesitate, unsure of how much of yourself you wish to indulge in a man who has already hurt you so gravely in the past. "I make do."

Looking towards you again, Hyunjin's gaze is heavy and narrow, full of a silent contemplation that he has not yet shared with you. Talking to someone that you know so well feels comforting, welcomed. You feel at home. He is disarming.

"Does he suit you?" Hyunjin asks.

You hadn't thought about it in such simplistic terms before. Does Minho suit you? you question yourself in your mind again.

And then you give one, single nod. "He suits me enough, I suppose. Our partnership is a bit…unorthodox perhaps, but we find joy in each other's company."

His eyebrow perks up at that, catching the hint of something unspoken hidden between the words.

"Is that so? A loveless marriage then?"

You scoff, shifting uncomfortably in your seat at the mere mention of it, regardless of how much truth there may be in the statement. "I think loveless makes it seem so much more harsh than it is. I believe we have begun to care for one another in some fashion, over the months. We talk, we have meals together—"

"But he doesn't make love to you."

Stilling your awkward movements, you slowly turn to look up and meet Hyunjin's curious gaze once more.

"No. We've not…reached that point in our relationship, if we ever do." Your eyes fall away. "Surely you are familiar with marriages of convenience, and that very much is ours. We are both at peace with it. Minho is kind, he is accepting of my interests and allows me to do as I please in order to maintain a sense of self, I couldn't ask for more."

As if taking your words as an invitation, Hyunjin slowly begins making his way down the length of the empty couch and towards you. A wry smile tugs at his lips, and though the better part of you knows better than to entertain the possibility of whatever it is that this man may have to offer you, there does still remain the wicked loneliness of a woman who misses—craves—the adoring, wanting touch of a man who desires her.

You tell yourself to create more space between your bodies as Hyunjin comes near, to stand to your feet, to ask him to leave. You are not frightened of him, not an ounce of concern laden in you that he may wish to take something that you are unwilling to give him; no, the horror lies within the fact that you very much do wish to give to him.

Hyunjin's hand finds your leg. The touch is light, tentative and testing. You do not pull away.

"That is no way to live the rest of your days, my love."

It should be harder, you imagine, to give in to his whims. The consideration should weigh heavier on your chest, not handed over so easily once his lips find the skin of your neck, and shortly thereafter, your own. Hyunjin's hands smooth up your legs and beneath your dress, laid back against the sofa. He hovers over you with long, black hair that curtains the both of you inside of this moment. Unsure whether or not it is right, or wrong. For him, the answer is a simple one, but suppose these sorts of things are commonplace among men of a royal standing; after all, who exists to cast down judgment upon them?

His touch is electric against your skin, even more so with the first, slow press of himself into you. You gasp at the feeling. Indeed, you have missed this more than even you had known.

Still, you think of Minho.

When Hyunjin takes his leave once more and bids you farewell, new thoughts and feelings run rampant through your mind as you smile and wave down the cobblestone walkway. Perhaps there had been a kind of truth in his words—that this is no way to live forever—but you cannot fathom any other way, either.

Falling into Hyunjin's touch is easy because it is one that is so familiar. The same motions repeated time and time again and to a kind of perfection, however; something is missing, something that you cannot quite put your finger on.

𝕏𝕍.

The weeks continue to draw on, as does the day of Minho's return in November.

Leaves begin to change their colors, falling away from the branches that they once called their home. The flowers litter the ground, browning and dying to spring anew in the following year. It reminds you of your first arrival upon this place, though snow covered the land then. Not yet has it fallen for the first time this season, but soon it shall.

You keep busy, trying to put out of your mind the happenings in his absence. It is of little consequence to you what has happened in Hyunjin's brief visit, and perhaps the worst part of your soul considers it a kind of unearned payback towards a friend who had taken everything you had hoped for from you. It is unfair, not the kind of person you wish to be, and you put the thought to bed just as quickly as it comes to you. You do not expect to see him again, and in kind, you decide to never delve in such foolish and unbecoming behaviors regarding him even in the event that you do.

Written off as closure, there is some semblance of peace therein. 

On the day of Minho's return, the house is alive. The keepers of the manor all rushing around to ensure that everything is precisely as it should be for the moment that he steps inside; it fascinates you to watch them, knowing full well that Minho is not the sort of man to be bothered by the occasional, misplaced item or a spec of dust left upon the mantle. Of course, this is their job, and they take it upon themselves to make sure that it is done to the best of their ability. You wait just inside the foyer as good wives do when his carriage pulls up, and the quick, anxious beating of your heart comes to be a far more unexpected guest than the man of the hour is.

The doors open and he enters. Two other men are with him and aiding with his belongings, a sight that reminds you of Hyunjin's visit, and you are none pleased by that fact. Minho is dressed differently than you are used to seeing him; far more put together, and with a heavy coat sitting atop his shoulders. Hair less unkempt, it makes you wonder if someone had their hand at his appearance before he left to begin his journey.

He greets the staff first, those that arrived with him handing off his things, and then, he turns his sights towards you.

"Welcome home," you say, fighting back the shake of your voice. "Was it a good trip?"

"It was, but long. Too long for my liking," he admits with a smile. "I'm happy to be home, and not looking forward to having to do much of the same next year, but we'll take it as it comes."

The two of you step towards one another, and to your surprise, Minho takes your hand into his.

"How have things been while I've been away? Hopefully not too dull."

His eyes are gentle as he looks at you, and there is a part of you that wonders if he even recalls the events that took place only just before his embarking. If he does, he shows no signs of it; only a captivating adoration for you.

"Things have been fine…good," you say with a nod, eyes forcing themselves away from his own. Your nervousness and secrets catching up to you, making themselves known within the room. "The days passed as they do, I took many trips into the small town down the way, worked on my book…you've not missed much along the way."

You can feel Mai's eyes on you as you tell the half-truth, and for that reason, you continue on. Perhaps a wild assumption that you would be able to keep this large a secret strictly under lock and key.

Squeezing his hand lightly, you smile ever so slightly at him and say, "We should talk, there are some things. It would be best that way, once you're settled in."

"Of course, I only need a short while. A rinse off and a change of clothes from being cooped up in travel for so long, and then I'm all yours."

Pulling his hand away to attend to his things, you wish deeply to hold on tight—afraid that this may be the last time Minho ever offers you such a genuine, cherished moment.

Later into the afternoon, the changing colors of the sky can be seen through the windows. Hues of blues, purples and oranges that decorate it so beautifully, informing all of those who can see it that the sun is soon to take its rest along the horizon.

You stand in the kitchen, a bowl of fruits sitting before you. Apples, cranberries and persimmons give off their assortment of shades to choose from when Minho quietly makes his way inside.

Eyes meet, and smiles follow after.

Minho's hair is damp from water, strewn about his head and face, entirely uncared for in appearance. He is back in his usual attire; pants with paint stains that not even Mai has managed to defeat, but that function perfectly well as far as he is concerned, you reckon.

Leaning against the counter beside you, he pops a cranberry into his mouth and then cocks his head to the side inquisitively. "You wanted to speak to me?"

Moments like this make it so much harder. You'd not wanted to disclose this to him in any case, but have since decided it better to do so. The guilt weighs so heavily on your chest—has ever since the day—and you wonder if it is selfish to put that onto a man who does not need to carry the burden. Minho is your husband, yes, but in title and legality alone. He has given you permission to carry on as you please, explicit permission to take a lover if that is what you so wish to do; so why is it that having done so feels so regrettable?

This is not a situation that you have ever found yourself to be in before, and thus, you do not know how best to navigate it. You are not one to mince words, however, and so you make the choice to simply come out with it.

"While you were away, Hyunjin was here."

Minho's chewing slows, all softness in his face melting away once the words finally come together as something that he understands the meanings of. "Here? He came here?"

"Yes, to see me."

"He came here…to see you…" Minho says slowly, thoughtfully. "If he knew to come here, then surely he must know that you've been married." He pauses briefly, thinks it through just a bit more before continuing. "As has he."

You nod affirmatively and then say, "Yes, all of this is true. He wanted to see me…I think…there was something of unfinished business between the two of us, as you know with the way that things turned out. It was a brief encounter, he was not here long. I do not think we will meet again in the future."

Minho looks at you tentatively, and you can nearly see all of the questions that beg to be asked swimming around behind his eyes. Surely, he fights back the urge to do so with all of his might for your sake alone, and instead chooses to stomach the brunt of this knowledge by himself, no matter how much discomfort it may bring.

But you do not escape them all.

"You say the encounter was…brief," he starts, though his eyes are unable to meet your own as he presses forward with what he must know. "I have little interest in prying into your personal affairs, I understand what this is—between us—just as well as you do, but I must know; did you—"

"Yes."

Rather than making him say it, you put an end to the entire thing abruptly. Minho blinks through the acceptance of it, a little awe struck, you can tell. He gives two, small nods and then swallows down hard.

"Thank you for telling me," he says. His voice is level, but you can tell as well as anyone else might that it is a facade. Minho turns towards the hallway and says, "If you don't mind, I have work to attend to. Have a good evening."

He does not appear outwardly angry or upset in the ways that you are used to men expressing such emotions, and thus, you are unsure of what to make from all of this. You watch him take two, three steps towards his exit before you rush around the corner of the marble counter and towards him. A hand reaches out towards his arm, but you do not dare make contact—unsure of what may happen if you do. Minho does not scare you, nor has he ever shown aggression, or violence towards you, but you must at all costs aim to protect yourself in such precarious circumstances.

The movement must catch his attention and he stills in place, seemingly waiting for you to reach him. Minho turns to look at you from over his shoulder, unwilling to fully give himself to your insistence of such.

Your chest feels impossibly tight, the struggling burn of discomfort creeping up and into your throat. Are these tears that threaten you? Why, you wonder. You care for him, yes, but there is little between you, and in most recent times not much more than some sort of contention. What is there to care for? And more than that, when has this man ever bothered to express as much towards you?

Still, you press forward. "Are you upset with me? It was thoughtless, but you have said before that I am able to do such things. Don't punish me for the allowances that you have offered!"

"Punish you?" Minho says, tone questioning. "I have no interest in punishing you for anything that you have done in my absence. Your personal matters are your own. If you wish to sleep with the prince then who am I to tell you not to."

"I do not wish to sleep with the prince! I wish to sleep with—"

It comes out faster than you have the chance to pull it back. Dripping with pure emotion and absolutely unbridled truth, you manage to cut it off at the tail end, though you fear that the damage has been done. The heat of humiliation curls up your spine, you take a step back and away from the man in front of you.

Too much silence creeps up between the two of your bodies, and Minho offers nothing to you in the immediate aftermath of the words. Wordlessly, you beg him to say something—anything—to cut through it, even if it is condemnation that sits at the tip of his tongue.

Much to your surprise, however, Minho turns back to face away from you fully with something of an awkward shift to his stature. He does not look at you, but the more that he chooses not to, the less you believe it to be a sign of displeasure and more so one born from a kind of strange unsureness of how to move forward, where to go with this from here.

He clears his throat loudly, one by one cracking the knuckles in his fingers as if to fill in the empty space between your bodies. Finally, he says, "Perhaps we simply move on from this, as if nothing ever happened. In any case, I'll be in the atrium, should you need to find me."

A curious thing to say from the man, one that has you reeling in shock upon hearing it. 

"Is that…an invitation?"

And to that, Minho sighs aloud.

"Must you make me speak everything into existence? Surely you've noticed I lack the capabilities for these sorts of things."

It's not perfect, but you'd not expected to leave this particular discussion with a smile pulling at your lips.

𝕏𝕍𝕀.

The atrium smells of cinnamon, paint thinner, and alcohol.

Rum, in particular. You're not able to make out its particular scent until you're much closer to the man that it emanates off of, pungent and impossible to ignore. You try to recall any other time that you've been aware of Minho's drinking, but you cannot.

Tonight must be a special night for him to be partaking.

There's a soft spot in the wooden paneling of the floor, and it creaks beneath your weight. This is enough to finally alert Minho of your arrival to this place, having not noticed you before. He glances at you from over his shoulder—not unlike the hours before—and then carries on with the mixture of colors that have already been dabbed onto the bristles of his brush.

"You came," he says.

"You drink."

Minho sighs at your response. "You know this, we have shared wine at the dinner table before."

"Yes, but not like this."

Hunched over and knelt onto the floor, Minho ignores this and instead continues painting. You opt out of pressing any further on the matter and instead, bring yourself to his side in order to see what it is that he is working on.

The canvas is wide rather than tall, with hues of blue, white and green masterfully splashed across the majority of it. The beauty of the ocean and the waves that live within it perfectly captured in time by his hand—a small ship depicted amidst it all.

"I spent some time by the harbor on this trip, and spent a good deal of my time there thinking about how my life might be if I ceased to exist here, the way that I have been, the way that I do."

You look down at him, but he does not look up. He continues with his work.

"The truth of the matter, is that there isn't much keeping me here, is there? Not much would change. I could be anywhere in the world doing this. No reason it must be here."

"Is that why you painted this? Your wish to escape it all?" you ask.

Minho stops his strokes, then drops his paintbrush into the muddied mixture of water just beside him. He stands to his feet—albeit wobbly—and stares down at the piece of artwork as if it's something not crafted from himself. A strange existence that has somehow found its way into his home, into his thoughts, but not of his own doing.

"I'm not sure that I even wish for it," he says. "I'm unsure of a lot of things. I make decisions largely because they are expected of me, because I see what everyone else does, and so I emulate it. It's easy to assimilate like this, I don't have to think about it all that much."

"Like taking a wife."

Minho looks away from the painting then and over towards you. You meet his eyes, but feel a sense of nervousness under the intensity that sits behind them tonight. 

"It has always been difficult for me to set my anxieties aside without the aid of warmth that the bottle brings. I don't partake often, I know it's unhealthy, so I keep to myself and suffer alone." Minho's hand reaches towards yours, and while you're happy to allow him to take it, that is not all that he does. Quickly you feel the gentle tug of his strength, inching you closer to him. His warm, soft palm tracing up the outside of your arm until it disappears behind your back to rest there. Now the scent of alcohol is strong on his breath, but you cannot find it within yourself to care when proximity is so tightly held between you.

Minho's finger traces down the middle of your back, an action that sends chills up the very same place. You fight back the shudder that threatens to shake you while in his grasp, and your own hands find their placement at the front of his broad, firm chest.

The alcohol indeed must be making him brave, lowering his inhibitions and the torrent of thoughts that otherwise might bar him from ever attempting this. For that, you are thankful. You glance at his lips, then up at eyes that are already watching you. Minho's thoughts and feelings are nearly indiscernible on his face; still thinking, thinking, thinking, no doubt.

He leans in towards you, so short and small that you nearly miss it entirely if not for how rapt with attention to him you are. A tentative gesture to test the waters, to see if you will pull away.

But you will not.

And so, he presses forward again, slowly still, as if to give you ample time to escape him. You couldn't imagine yourself a world where you might; heart beating hard and fast within your chest in anticipation of this, fingers gripping tightly into the fabric of his shirt with each passing second between the two of you. Truthfully, you have been wanting this, for so, so long. Longer than you could ever fathom to allow him to know, the kind of dull, anticipatory, hopeful desire that rests dormant often, but never completely able to be ignored.

It's hard to pinpoint the moment in which Minho became more than just a concept of a husband in your mind, muddied even more once his lips finally find your own. Careful and warm, he kisses you like he's afraid to break you, but the hand gripping at the small of your back tells a different story; one of forced back desire, of bitten back need. It presses your body more firmly against his, it informs far more than his words will allow for now. 

When you do not create space, the kiss becomes heavier too. Testing, unsure lips that at first only ghost against your own then expose their want for you in the careful turn of his head and ever so slight nips of teeth at the bottom of your lip. Harder, faster with every moment that passes in the atrium; you forget to breathe and gasp into his mouth, Minho finally relents in tasting you so ravenously.

Physical desire is nothing new to you, but never have you experienced it quite like this.

Minho's free hand comes up to cup your face, thumb grazing lightly against the skin of your cheek as he looks at you. Both just slightly out of breath, you can't fathom how wrecked you appear just from a kiss.

His lips part as if to speak, and then close shortly thereafter. Once again; thinking, thinking, thinking. The alcohol is incapable of disposing of it all. Then, they part again, and Minho pushes forward with the words that fail him so frequently.

"Do you still love the prince?"

The least that you can do is answer his question honestly.

"I don't know."

And though it may not be the ideal reply, Minho still appears pleased by it. Everything that you have learned about him since your arrival here points to the very same conclusion, because he smiles ever so slightly, and gives a small nod in acceptance.

𝕏𝕍𝕀𝕀.

Though not spoken of, the kiss lives on in every interaction shared between the two of you going forward.

You wish deeply for the conversation to come to a head, but by now you know Minho and the way that he functions well enough to know that that will more than likely not be the case. Still, you manage to find solace in this fact; his nervous mannerisms and the barely there catch in his voice when speaking to you on occasion, as if the memory of such has just caught up with him in real time. You smile through these instances, pleased by them in some capacity. Pleased knowing that it is not a thing that has simply come and gone.

The only person that Minho answers to in his life is his agent, and his agent insists on having a holiday party at the estate.

On the day of, it is a week into December. Snow has begun to fall, though not heavily yet. It sprinkles like sugar from the sky, only lightly dusting the windows and grounds. It is a beautiful sight, but you're thankful for not having to be the one traveling within it, and when the guests start arriving, you realize just how grossly unprepared for this volume of guests the home truly is. Not enough coat racks, not enough space for wiping off their shoes. Hats are placed wherever it is that they can go; Mai scuttling about the hallways with her staff in an attempt to make it all work.

To your surprise, Minho makes himself seen. No doubt a push by said agent, but his displeasure at doing so resides heavily within his stature.

First laying eyes on him is a sight to behold. His hair is more put together, set into place purposefully. He wears all black, but the front panel of his coat is garnished with the sparkle and shine of dark jewels that bring it to life. It's a little unlike him, you have to admit, but Minho wears it well.

Quickly, you finish up a conversation with people that your husband barely knows, that you have barely been partaking in, and go to him. He, too, is amidst something of the same, though handling it far less gracefully than you have.

You put on your widest smile, and curl your arm firmly around his own from the side.

"My sincerest apologies," you start, tone dripping with a sweet edge, "I'm afraid I must take my husband from you, if only for a brief moment."

The man smiles and nods happily, understanding of whatever situation it is that you've made up in your head in order to rescue Minho. It's late into the evening and you've not been keeping a watchful eye, but the smell on his breath of alcohol is one that you're quite familiar with, and disappearing into the halls towards less-traveled passages, you can't help but wonder what this instance has in store.

Minho drags along, but doesn't say a word. He stumbles slightly once, you try not to ascribe it to his drunkenness unfairly. You have just the place in mind, and once you reach the old, empty study at the far, opposite end of the hall, you push Minho inside lightly, and then close the door behind.

"Are you rescuing the damsel?" Minho asks, cheeky and with a smile. "Was it that obvious?"

"Only to someone with the eyes to see it," you reply. "I know that you don't enjoy these sorts of busy situations."

"One might say I hate it, in fact." Minho steps towards you, and you take a step back. Only there is nowhere left for you to go, and your back is up against the door from which you came. "Indeed, I much prefer quieter moments of peace, just between myself and another…"

His hand finds the outside of your thigh, only the thick layers of your dress between skin. He closes the space further, as much as he can, until his body is pressed tightly against your own. You've been holding your breath—for how long? you wonder. A sharp inhale takes you, though it's ragged and shudders at the feeling of being with him like this. Everything that Minho offers you feels white hot, regardless of the clothes that keep you separated, and when his mouth finds the line of your jaw, you cannot help but melt into the touch.

You ache for him. A dull throb that makes itself known, impossible to ignore. His other hand snakes around your waist to pull you closer—as if closer is physically possible. You could beg for him to touch you elsewhere, drunk with want not unlike his own intoxication.

"I don't care if you love another man," he says suddenly, and seemingly out of nowhere. The abrupt mention of Hyunjin sends something of a cold chill to your otherwise hot skin. "I'm happy that you're here, I love having you here…" His lips are still lightly mouthing against the flesh of your jaw, voice low, nearly a whisper. "I love…you. Even in the event that you love another, that is of no consequence to me. Not really."

Desire has waned, flushed away quickly as if it had never even been there. You gently push Minho away so that you can look him in the eyes, but all that you find is the slightly drunken, but incredibly sincere glean looking back at you.

"You're drunk," you say, rejecting his advances for this to go any further. Now is not the time. "You always say and do such things when you're intoxicated."

"Do you assume me to be more intoxicated than I am so that you don't have to acknowledge the words?"

You don't respond to this immediately. Minho does not deserve to be told a lie, and thus, you say nothing.

He continues on. "In the atrium that night, you assumed that I was making poor choices, outside of the realm of my own logic? Things that I would never do just because of the drink? And then now, you think the same? Do you truly believe that, or is it easier than the words? Because no one understands that feeling better than I do."

"Is that why you drink, then? To say and do all of the things that you can't do when you're sober?" You scoff lightly. "You can't drink through every step of your life."

"I don't, I won't," Minho says firmly. "Think of it more…as a coincidence."

Stepping towards you once more, Minho closes in on you all over again. His lips mere inches away from your own as he gazes down at you.

Then, the door opens from behind you, and he pulls it open to fashion himself an exit.

"If you don't believe me, then you're more than welcome to nurse my hangover in the morning hours, since you'll be awake!" he says loudly, far too cheerfully for everything that's gone on. 

You smile at him, and hate that you do. This annoying, eccentric, strange man that has buried himself so deeply beneath your skin. An unshakable, ineffable and unquantifiable shine to his mere existence.

Minho disappears back down the hall and towards the guests that await him, nearly skipping as he does so. You watch from the doorframe, make an effort to steady the quick beating of your heart, and replay the words over and over again in your mind; unremittingly.

"Good morning, darling."

Bent over the kitchen counter, chin perched up against your palm, you cock your head and smile at Minho as he slowly, carefully enters the shared space. Eyes narrow, like any light pains his entire being.

"Shall we take you for your bath, then?" you add, walking towards him and circling your arm around his.

A light steam rises from the water as Minho's sore body sinks into it. You reenter just moments later with a set of clothing in hand, and sit yourself just beside the porcelain tub to aid him in his recovery.

"You shouldn't drink so much," you say, obviously.

"I know," he admits through a groan. "Every time I do this, I say it'll be the last. Then another social event comes up."

"There was no such social event in the atrium that evening."

"Sure there was, you were there."

Silence falls between the two of you in the following moments, and you watch as Minho closes his eyes, sinks his body deeper into the water to the point that only his head sticks out from the top. You take it upon yourself to lightly remove strands of hair stuck to the dampness of his forehead, and then, Minho inhales with intent to speak.

"I apologize for last night, as well as for the evening in the atrium. I apologize for…parts of them, but not everything." He pauses, eyes still closed, but forces himself to continue on. "The truth is: I do not care about your history with the prince, no matter how recent it has been. I understand there is a complexity there that I may never be able to grasp, nor do I think it necessary for me to do so. What is necessary of me—as your husband—is to be kind, understanding, and perhaps if there could be space for it; loving."

You still completely, allowing the words to wash over you and sink deeply into every crevice of your being.

He speaks again. "Suppose what I had hoped for; some starry-eyed, hopeless romantic sort of expectation in all of this that was left unspoken, is that regardless of your feelings for him, your history with him, that you might still find space in your heart to someday love me too."

An immediate reply escapes you, and you lose sight of just how tortuous such a wait can be until Minho cracks one, single eye open and peers at you cautiously through it.

"Please, say something. Put me out of my misery, if you must," he says.

Your senses come back to you quickly, shaking your head in the negative. "No! No, Minho…have you truly not noticed? Let us not forget who it was that insisted upon the two of us becoming more than strangers who share a home together…"

"Living with strangers is, well, strange. You could have meant anything by that."

You try not to roll your eyes, but fail. Instead of pressing further on this particular endeavor, you decide to revisit the original one, as brought forward by him. The entire thing remains fascinating to you—the density of his capability to understand things that come to you with such ease.

"I probably can," you say, acknowledging his hope for the openness of your heart. "I probably do."

Minho closes his eyes again, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The tension that collected at his shoulders amidst all of this falling away like weights strapped to him. You are calmed watching him unravel before you.

"Let us share an evening meal tonight, something special. Think about all of the things that you wish to say to me in earnest, and I will do the same," you offer quietly.

"I would like that."

𝕏𝕍𝕀𝕀𝕀.

Minho enters just as the large, antique clock begins to sing its tune of nine in the evening.

Candle light flickers against the walls of the dining room and illuminates the table where all of the dishes that Mai has hand crafted herself sit. A beautiful display, though hardly what you're taking an interest in tonight.

He takes his seat across from you, clears his throat gently, and averts his eyes as much as he can until it seemingly dawns on him that he cannot do so for much longer. Reluctantly, Minho looks at you, and though his appearance is not unlike his usual self, something new makes itself apparent within him.

Mai comes over and pours your glass of wine, then makes her way around the table towards his. However, Minho does not accept the gesture. Watching you the entire time.

"You're not having wine with your meal?" you ask.

"No, I've decided to come off it, at least for a time."

"For a time?"

"This time."

Surprisingly confident and almost sinister sounding, Minho no longer makes an effort to avert his eyes from you and as a result, the weight of them rests heavily on your form. There is a sort of humor to this, you find, desiring nothing more than for him to see you for so long and now feeling as though you should shrink away from beneath his gaze. Why is he looking at you in such a way? Why is it that you feel like prey?

You steady your nerves and smile. "Well, there will be other times."

"Do you wish to remain married to me?"

Your attention pulls towards him quickly and with a confused earnestness. "What? Why are you asking me such a thing?"

Minho leans forward against the table. "We agreed to have this meal together and discuss such things. I think…I have not done much to aid in the ease of your comfort here. I think we have grown a lot together, maybe even enjoy our time shared. Perhaps it is time that we decide on just how much of a married life we wish to have with one another. Thus, do you wish to remain married to me?"

"Is there really an alternative?" you question, somewhat humorously. "Of course, marriages have ended before but we hardly meet the sorts of societal requirements for such a thing."

"You have not answered my question," he insists.

You press your palms abruptly to the table, fed up by his ridiculous pushing on the matter.

"Yes! I wish to remain married to you! My goodness; we've shared meals together, our thoughts and dreams and hopes for the future together, intimacy together! As if I've not made it clear where I stand on the matter while I drag you along through all of this kicking and screaming the whole way…you don't exactly make it easy on a woman!"

"So you are happy."

"Yes!" you quickly bite back.

"Content."

"Yes, Minho!"

"But you want more," he continues on, the rapid fire back and forth between you now mounting the anticipation of where this is meant to go.

"Of course I do!"

"You desire more of me."

"Yes!" you reply, exasperated by the questioning but barely even having a moment to register what's been laid out before you. The affirmation slips out from your lips unwillingly, but it's too late to bring it back. Instead, you watch Minho's eyes narrow mischievously as a result of the grin that tugs at his lips. He must be pleased with himself.

"We should eat." Hardly convincing when you say it. Still, you pick up your utensil. "The food will get cold."

"We can eat any time," Minho says, still playfully persistent. "Is there anything that you wish to ask of me?"

"Yes! What has gotten into you?"

"You, us; the concept of it, the possibility of it." Minho pushes his chair back then and stands, makes his way around the table and towards you. He takes your hand gently, timidly, and pulls you up towards him. Protest dies in your throat before you have the chance to make it heard, because his hand slips around your back and as a result, your body rests flush against his. "Admittedly, I am slow on the uptake of such things. My thoughts get the best of me, second guessing every interaction, every word…" He trails off, the hand at your back slipping to settle at your waist, and then it tightens. "Every touch."

Minho's face dips over to the side of yours, lips edging at the shell of your ear and then he whispers against it, "But you say you want more of me, more that I've not yet given. More that I can give."

Your head swims, warm breath tickling your skin in such an enticing way. Minho's grip against you does not relent, nor do you want it to. You've quietly yearned for what appears to be now presented before you; his touch, and in ways, so much more than that.

"I've still not seen where you sleep," you say quietly, pointedly. "Only ever the atrium."

"Some husband I am, making my darling wife wait so long for such a thing." Minho's hand then slowly falls from your waist down to your hip, then further more to your thigh. His palm settles atop the front for a short moment before he then continues the journey between them, bunching the fabric of your skirt where his fingers rest. "I've not been doing my due diligence, have I?"

Knees nearly buckling at the touch, you clutch onto him by the shoulders, breath hitching as you attempt to answer him. "No, you certainly have not."

This is your best attempt at maintaining composure, but truthfully, you stand in his grasp, disoriented with want for him. Minho's lips graze your jaw, teeth bared within a smile. He says, "Allow me to make it up to you, then."

The large, ornate door to his bedroom closes, and with no more time to waste, Minho's hands begin to artfully search for the flesh of your body.

His lips hurriedly find yours, as if the only thing he ever wishes to taste is within them. Fingers adeptly unfastening the buttons and clasps of your dress while you, in turn, do much of the same at those that hold the fabric of his shirt in place. The race is won by you, and your mouths part only long enough to remove the hindrance from his body—but he follows just after—and your garment falls away, exposed to the ambient chill of the room, though not for long.

Minho leads you with a gentle urgency back towards his bed. There's a haste behind his motions that alludes to a dormant kind of desire that has been held inside of him for far longer than you have been aware of, not at all unlike yourself. As your back finds the mattress, Minho follows you over it; mouth only leaving your skin for the briefest of seconds before finding it once again.

Your legs fall apart to fit his body between them, and his hand slips beneath your last remaining undergarment soon after. Deft fingers that glide between your folds, ample pressure that has you gasping into his mouth for him to drink down and arching your back up to meet the firmness of his chest. Minho smiles against your lips as you do so, slowly and methodically unraveling you for his own viewing pleasure.

He pulls back, slinks down the length of your body and trailing his lips along the way. Warm, wetness circles at your chest before he continues further down.

Hands grip firmly into the plush flesh of your thighs, prying them apart for him just that much more. You glance down, but cannot stand to look at the sight of him; his face mere inches away from just the place that you wish for him to touch again. Minho does not leave you wanting, perhaps he cannot bear to do so, and his tongue finds you, mouth pressed flush against your own lips. The gasp that escapes from you is horrid, far too telling of how much you've been wanting to have him like this. 

Minho pulls off of you, but his dominant hand finds the place he has only just left instead. The wetness pooling is nearly humiliating if not for the comfort that you feel in his presence, and his fingers delicately trickle downward further, carefully driving into you. He watches your face as he takes you apart just that much more, but you do not have the sensibilities to muster up much for words.

"Do you like this?" he asks, the first words spoken since entering the room. The press of his fingers against you is slow, rhythmic, testing. Before you find it within yourself to respond, his mouth reattaches to the place just above where his hand works you open.

Yes falls away from you, though you're not sure how you've managed it. It appears to please him, however, and he continues on with a newly found enthusiasm. He pushes deeper, and a moan escapes you with every drive. A sheen of sweat collects atop your skin, strands of hair matted against you, fingers curling tightly into the sheets beneath your grasp.

Your skin prickles, warmth spreading across your body and muscles stiffening as he continues on. Breaths to take in become shorter and faster, the grind of your hips against the way that he works your body less and less within your conscious control. You slip a hand down between your legs, gently carding fingers through soft, black hair. His fingers curl inside of you, and as a result of it, so do yours atop his head. A whimper slips out from between your lips, and following immediately after, come the desperate pleads for him not to stop.

And he has no intention of doing so. Minho does not stop until your pleasure peaks and ravages your body within his hold. You shake and cry out; wounded gasps and moans that avalanche from you thoughtlessly, the only thing that you can manage through this feeling. Once satisfied, he slows to bring you back down gently, and once delicately seated, he removes himself from you and the bed entirely to finish the act of disrobing.

Chest heaving with exhausted breaths, you nearly miss his doing so, only alerted to the fact once the bed dips again, signifying his return to you. Minho crawls between your legs and up the length of your body just as he did the first time; kisses your chest, your neck, your jaw, only to then settle atop your lips. Teeth faintly find the bottom of your lip, already well and truly bitten raw from your own abuse. Still, you reach up to feel the warmth of his skin under your hands and revel in the way that his body feels against your own. Though release has found you once this evening, you are not truly satiated by him yet.

Minho's hand slips down between both of your bodies to hold himself in place. You feel him against you; wet and solid, enticing and teasing. You move almost involuntarily against him, hopeful to receive what it is that you desire from him now, but he is unwilling to relent to your neediness just yet.

You gasp lightly against his mouth, and Minho happily accepts it into his own, delighted by the way you come apart beneath him.

"Have you thought about it before?" he asks, a coy whisper shared only between lovers. A question that does not require further expansion, for you know precisely what it is that is being referred to.

"So many times," you reply.

At that, Minho begins the slow, precise drive of himself inside of you once more. "Apologies for keeping you waiting then."

He sinks into you, body accepting him with ease. Minho's mouth hangs slightly ajar as he does so, taken by the feeling, and settles momentarily once his hips meet flush against your own before his hips pull back and he repeats the process once more. The thick drag, hard and strong is dizzying and nearly disorienting to your senses—your fingernails dig into his skin, and for the first time, Minho groans with a sort of primal lust that has the hairs across your skin standing on end, and the fire inside of your abdomen burning just that much hotter than before.

With the ease in which your body accepts him, Minho is able to find a quick and strong rhythm. Harder and faster his hips find your own, the urgency needing this moment for so long finally coming to a head between the both of you. Your whimpers and moans echo off the walls, losing sight of the once prominent thought in your mind that the staff may hear you; instead, you beg and plead for more of him, anything that he is physically capable of giving you—he does.

Body tightening beneath him, you feel once again the familiar promise of release. Your hands glide over hot, damp skin; muscles that flex and move with every drive of himself inside of you. Minho kisses you—a sloppy attempt—but you meet it happily, and his face falls away to the crook of your neck to nip into the skin there. One, strong hand slips down to grip at your thigh, pulls you apart further and wider for him to work your body open with his own. Hard, methodical strokes; one after another, whimpers and whines punched out of you with each. You beg for more, continuously beg as if never satisfied, and Minho continues to give relentlessly to you until his own ability finally falters and gives way; rhythm shifting, failing, wavering. He hisses against your skin, choking out a pained groan, and you find your end just alongside him in bitten back cries and a final, deep sinking of himself within you.

Chests heaving and basking in the afterglow for many, long moments, he does not hurry to separate your bodies, and instead, his lips begin to work at the sensitive skin of your neck once again. You close your eyes to simply enjoy the feeling of this, of him, and hold tightly in your arms the man that has somehow come to be precisely what it is that you have always hoped for someone to become.

"Stay here tonight," he says quietly. "Don't go."

You smile, barely there. Mustering up all of the energy within your bones that you have left to expend and say, "I wouldn't dream of it."

𝕏𝕀𝕏.

The new year brings new cheer, as well as new prospects to the household.

It has been a year since you've been back to the city center, and though covered in snow and the dreadful darkness that winter brings, you feel some semblance of ease having returned.

You remember the days that you spent dreaming of being inside of these very same castle walls, though now that you're here, you can't help but feel as though they glitter less brightly than what it is that you had imagined.

Beside you, Minho stands with a forced and feigned confidence. He glances at you, perhaps having felt your eyes upon him, and offers a nervous smile that does nothing to placate your concern for him. Indeed, not all things change with ease—and some may never—but having the comfort of those who love you shouldering much of the burden instead. 

In arm, he holds a wrapped painting. One that you know well; a small ship atop a vast, brightly colored sea.

You hear the echo of doors opening from behind you, and when you turn, you are familiar with what you see.

Methodical clicks of shoes being the only thing that cuts through the silence, you watch as the prince makes his way towards the two of you—a smile on his face—and most certainly a genuine one. You've never known Hyunjin to be particularly petty, or mean-spirited; and despite all of his shortcomings, he likely does feel softness in his heart for you and the happiness that you have found.

"Your Highness," Minho says with an accompanying bow, but Hyunjin is quick to put a hand up and wave away the gesture.

"I do believe the three of us are well past the need for such things." Looking at you, Hyunjin smiles. "I see things worked out in the end, then?"

With half a mind to question how it is that he knows, you instead chalk it up to a sort of intangible, understood aura that simply exists between lovers; people who are madly, deeply in love with one another. You couldn't fight back the smile if you tried, and so, you don't. Instead, your hand finds Minho's free one, and you nod.

"Yes, indeed they have."

"Splendid news! Perhaps someday I will find myself to be so lucky," Hyunjin says, though there is a particular bite of discontentment in the words that you feel you understand far too well. "Nevertheless, you've brought the painting! I wish I could express in words how eagerly I've been anticipating receiving this piece…ever since it was put up into the auction, I simply knew I had to have it."

"I appreciate your kindness," Minho replies, squeezing your hand lightly. Just another, small offering shared between lovers.

"You will be paid handsomely for this. I am aware of what the asking was but I feel as though it is worth far more, and I'll see to it that you receive precisely that which you are deserving of."

Eyes widening in surprise, Minho glances first at you—but you merely shrug, unmoved by Hyunjin's antics—and instead, he defers to the prince, himself. "Your Highness, that's not—"

"Aht! It is. You creatives truly must value yourself higher, the world moves and exists and revolves around these crafts. Without art, we have nothing. We are nothing."

Hyunjin calls for his housestaff to take the canvas from Minho's grasp, and as they disappear down the hall, the man smiles widely at the two of you as if pleased with himself, with everything that has taken place today.

"Perhaps next in line is getting that book of yours published."

You shake your head, a sort of nervousness striking you that isn't commonplace. "I'm not so sure that's a good idea, you know, there is much of you written inside of those pages."

He waves his hand in the air again, unbothered by the fact. "So be it, I'd rather like being not just a part of history, but a part of art, as well."

"Strange fellow," Minho says, walking beside you through the city streets and long after having bid the prince farewell. "Not sure what it is that you ever saw in him."

The comment is pointedly comedic, and you judge him playfully with your elbow before responding in words. "He's handsome, and royalty. Suppose for a long time I didn't consider there to be much else outside of those things. What else could a man have to offer me?"

"As it would seem, only having one of those things is plenty to suit you," he jokes, slinging an arm up and around your shoulders as the two of you carry on. "You have been taken by my confusing whimsy and cumbersome charms."

"So it would seem," you reply, watching the sprinkle of shimmering snow collect atop a difficult, complicated head of black hair that you have incomprehensibly grown to love.

a/n: thanks for reading and i hope you enjoyed it! no pt. 2, and kind words are always much appreciated ♡

[skzdarlings]

07. sharing a bed series ; skz ; seungmin

masterlist.

sharing a bed series part 7/8. because it’s the cheesiest most classic trope and it’s FUN. -

pairing: kim seungmin/reader content info: sexual content. enemies2lovers, sharing a bed trope. sassy bad girl reader, sassy good boy seungmin. handcuffed together trope. sex toys, blow jobs, strap-on blow jobs, handjobs, dick piercings, fake sex. lots of bickering, lots of moaning, lots of evil smirking hehe.

-

It takes about ten minutes to get through the doorway because neither you or Seungmin will concede ground.  With your right hand handcuffed to his left hand, your shoulder-to-shoulder breadth is too big for the doorframe. 

After some arguing, you face each other.  You are glaring the entire time but you manage to force your way into the bedroom. 

You can’t change clothes with the handcuffs so you head straight for the bed where you proceed to stumble around clumsily.  With some cussing and your failed attempt to put him in a headlock, you and Seungmin manage to get in bed. 

You lay on your backs with your handcuffed hands between you.

There is a minute of silence.   Everyone else went to bed hours ago so the vacation house is silent.   It’s just you and the most annoying man on earth, forcibly handcuffed together, stuck in the same bed.    

“My life is a joke,” you say. 

“Yeah,” Seungmin says.  “Your life is a joke.  Ow!”

He slaps your hand when you pinch his thigh and you smack his chin only for him to chomp at your fingers.  You both roll your eyes and look away from each other for all of ten seconds, then you glare at him and he gives you a judgemental stare. 

“How are you going to sleep like that?” he asks. 

You raise your joined hands, the chain jingling.   

“Wow, Seungmin, whatever do you mean?” you say dryly.     

“Wow, Seungmin, meh-meh-beh-beh,” he mocks your tone then uses his free hand to smack your arm.  It makes a crinkling sound when it collides with the leather jacket you can’t remove.  “I’m talking about the skinned cow on the cow.”

“Funny.”

“The skinned cow is the leather jacket.”

“I know that.”

“And you’re the other cow.”

“I got it, Seungmin.”

“Just checking,” he says with that blithe, shit-eating grin of his. “You’re just not very smart so I wanted to be nice and check.”   

This fucking guy.  

Kim Seungmin is the mouthiest smartass you have ever met.  A friend of your friends, the acquaintanceship has been forced on you for the sake of the overall friend group.   You two are like oil and water, completely incompatible in every way.  You are the denim-and-leather bad girl and he is the blazer-and-tie good boy.  Equally sassy, but astronomically apart in lifestyle.   You clashed from your first introduction. 

You can usually manage an hour or two of civility, especially if you stay out of each other’s way, but this vacation has pushed that strained dynamic to its breaking point. 

Changbin’s family owns a vacation house near a ski resort so your whole friend group is spending the winter holidays at the luxury cabin.  This means you and Seungmin have been forced to interact for much longer than a few hours. 

You expected some annoyance but Seungmin is an even bigger brat than you remembered.  You have already spent three days at each other’s throats.  Tonight you went to a party at the resort and the few hours away from him did wonders, but it only took one stupid remark for you start fighting all over again. 

You didn’t even have time to remove your boots or jacket.  With Seungmin, it was on sight. 

Fed-up, Minho leapt off the couch and disappeared into his bedroom.  The others were just groaning or slouched in their seats, shaking their heads at you and Seungmin.   You couldn’t stop if you wanted to, every dry remark needing a comeback, every insult escalating. 

Then Minho returned.  He yanked Seungmin out of his seat and practically threw him at you.   You should have let his stupid face hit the ground but your reflexes kicked in and you caught him in his flail.  There were a few seconds of confusion before Minho clasped the handcuffs around you.   The whole room went silent, you and Seungmin staring at the cuffs then looking at Minho. 

Minho dangled the keys in your face.  

“I will let you out of the handcuffs,” he spoke as if speaking to particularly stupid children, “when you overcome your differences and decide to stop ruining the holiday.”

You and Seungmin both sputtered in protest, but neither of you were brave enough to physically fight Minho for the keys.  That kitty has claws, mean ones.  Not even you mess with Lee Minho. 

Now you and Seungmin are stuck sharing a bed.  You are still fully dressed, in jeans, shirt, and leather jacket, whereas he was already dressed down in pyjama pants and a t-shirt.  All he has to do is remove his glasses and he’s fine to sleep. 

You, however, are dressed for a whole different kind of evening.

“Trust me,” you say with an aggrieved sigh, “the jacket is not the most uncomfortable thing I’m wearing.”

He pinches his glasses at the stem, wiggling them up-and-down like it will help him see better. 

“What do you mean?” he asks.  “Wait, you’re a freak, right?  Is it something kinky?”

He asks it mockingly but you smile and turn your face to him, lifting an eyebrow.  You get some satisfaction from the way his face contorts with realization.

“Wait, really?” he asks.  “What the hell.  Why?  What is it?”

“You sound curious.” 

You really can’t help but tease him, anticipating he will snap back with equal verve.  You are surprised when his remark gets tangled on his tongue, his mouth open with no reply.  The tips of his ears are faintly red. 

“Oh, you are curious,” you say.

“Gross, no way.”  He comes back to himself and scrunches his whole face with revulsion.  “Keep it to yourself.  Pervert.”

“Proudly.”

“Wow.”

You feel satisfied with the silence that follows, feeling like you finally won a conversation and sent him into a mute stupor.  But then he looks at you and you brace yourself for the incoming wave of irritation. 

“It’s not gonna suddenly go off or something, is it?” he asks.  “I don’t want to wake up to you thrashing around like a fish on a boat deck.”

“It’s a hard packer.  You know, a strap-on for wearing out?  A ready-to-go, signed-sealed-and-delivered dick?”  You list everything with the same pleasant smile.  “Big one too.” 

His face is perpetually frozen in a state of prepared ridicule so he still looks marginally judgemental, but more confused than repulsed. 

“Right now?” he says.  His eyes drift down to your jeans.  “You wore… you wore it out?”

“Brave new world, Seungminnie,” you say, the nickname making his eye twitch despite the sarcasm in it. 

“You’re lying,” he says.  He doesn’t wait for you to argue; he reaches with his cuffed hand to feel for extra weight between your legs.  It drags your own hand along with it, too surprised to react fast enough to stop him.  He finds what he was looking for, his brow furrowing when he closes his fist over the hard bulge under your fly.   “Whoa, wait, seriously?” 

“Dude!”  You pry his hand off, though he doesn’t go without a fight, patting it like it’s puppy.  “What the hell, man.  You can’t just grab someone’s dick like that.”

“Why not? It’s not real.”

“It is in a way!  I can still feel it!”

“You can?”  He pokes it.    

“Yes.” You swat him away.   “Depending on position.”     

“And you wore it to the party?” he says, then whistles low and shakes his head.  “Wow.  You have a high opinion of yourself.  Thought you were gonna get lucky?” 

“I did very well for myself, thanks.”

He holds up your cuffed hands with a sarcastic look of his own. 

“Not that well,” he says.  “Or you wouldn’t be here.” 

“I don’t tend to stay the night,” you say. 

“Love ‘em and leave ‘em,” he says.  “I should have known.”  He sighs as if disappointed in you. 

You barely register his retort, your brain jumping ahead a few paces.  

Walking around with ready-to-play silicone in your pants does have a tendency to leave you teetering on the side of horny, so maybe that’s why your brain is incapable of supplying another type of plan, but a plan begins to form nonetheless.

“I have an idea,” you say. 

“Breaking your wrist so you can slide out of the handcuffs?”

“Kim Seungmin, I’ll let you know that while I might have one hand out of commission, I am still capable of shoving your slipper in your mouth.” 

“Kim Seungmin, meh-meh-meh, beh-beh-beh.”

“Why do I even bother?”  You sigh.  “Do you wanna get out of these handcuffs or not?”

“Fine.”  He fiddles with his glasses and glares at you.  “I’m going to regret asking this, but what’s your idea?”

You sit up and nod your head towards the wall behind the headboard. 

“Minho’s room is on the other side of this wall, isn’t it?”  you ask.   

“Yes,” he replies, warily.  “Why?”

“Let’s pretend to have noisy sex.”

“What!”  He sits upright too, the cuffs jingling again.

“We can bang the headboard against the wall,” you add.

“What the hell is that supposed to accomplish, you idiot?”

“Two things,” you say.  “One: that we have clearly resolved our differences through the release of sexual tension.  And two: if we are exceptionally noisy about it, it will piss him off enough to want to separate us again.” 

“That is a terrible plan,” he says, which is not a rejection.  “Besides there’s no sexual tension between us.  There’s no way he’d believe it.”

“Well then,” you say, leaning closer to his face, “you better put on a believable performance to make up for it, hm?” 

You expected him to lean back but he didn’t move, so you find yourself nose-to-nose and locked in a staring contest.  It is so quiet that you can hear every intake of breath.   His gaze goes from your eyes to your lap and back again, jaw clenching.

“Fine,” he says.  “I’m only willing to try because I’d rather chew off my hand than spend the night with you—”

“I mean, you can try that too,” you say. 

“Shut up.”  He grabs the collar of your jacket and jerks you around.  “Just get down.”

“Uh, get down?” You push when you realize he is trying to wrestle you onto your back.  You lift your joined hands off the bed so he loses his balance.  “You get down. I’m on top.”

“Can you relax?” he says, scrambling back upright.  “We’re not actually having sex, you uptight weirdo.”    

“Yeah, but do you think those skinny arms can push this headboard against the wall?”

“I think these skinny arms can push you off the bed.” 

“I think those skinny arms will find themselves following.” 

You tussle for a good minute, pushing at each other’s faces and tugging each other’s shirts.  Your physical strength overpowers his but he isn’t hindered by a stupid leather jacket.   Already a bit sweaty and exhausted, you surrender with an aggravated huff. 

“Fine, try it then,” you say, flopping on your back.  You stubbornly cross your arms, trapping his cuffed hand in your arm. 

“Let me go,” he says, trying to wrest his arm back. 

“I’m not doing anything.  Ahh, stop that!”

He tires to lick you.  Tongue out, he dives at your head.  He only stops when you snatch his glasses off his face, at which point he climbs on top of you to try and grab them back. 

“Stop it. This is so immature,” he says, stretching to reach your own outstretched arm.

“Immature?” you ask, aghast.  “You were trying to lick me!”

“That was different.”

“How?”  

“Because you suck,” he says. 

He manages to get his glasses back.  He sticks out his tongue as he puts them on his face. 

You tussle a little more, shuffling around and swiping at each other.  Eventually you get to the middle of the bed with him still straddling your hips.  Your cuffed arm lifts when he grips the headboard with both hands.  He strains for one pitiful push.  His hair bounces but the headboard barely hits the wall. 

You lift an eyebrow. 

“Shut up,” he says.

“I didn’t say anything,” you reply.

“I can hear your ugly face.”

“That’s a you problem.”

He ignores you and braces himself to push on the headboard again.  All the beds are extravagantly woodworked pieces, the headboards dense and heavy.  Despite the proximity to the wall, you are not surprised it takes effort to actually make the bed bounce.  

Seungmin, to his credit, does not give up easily.  He braces his shoulders, but this time when he pushes he rocks with his whole body.  

Unfortunately, this does drag almost all his weight against the toy in your pants.  You are wearing the kind of underwear designed to support a toy, the base of it separated from your clit by only a strip of fabric.  When he rocks against you, it grinds there, and your hands instinctively fly to grab his hips.

It knocks him a bit off balance because your cuffed hand drags his down too.  He puts that hand over yours, cupped around his hip, and glares down at you. 

“What the hell was that?” he asks. 

You let go of his hips immediately. 

“Nothing,” you say.

He looks at you with a scrutinizing eye, then looks down, then up again.   You hold his gaze unflinchingly, at least until he rocks again and a little spark of heat goes off inside you. 

“Can you feel that?” he asks.  He asks it matter-of-factly, peering down at you from behind his big round glasses, sitting comfortably in his stupid pyjamas. 

“Yes,” you speak in as steady a voice as you can, because you will not show weakness first.   “There are only a couple positions where I can feel it strongly.  This… is… one of them.” 

“Wow,” he says.  He looks genuinely reflective for a minute, then he grins one of his evil grins.  “So… you can feel when I do this?”  He puts his free hand on the middle of your chest and leans forward so he grinds against you at a different angle, his own bulge pushing against yours. 

“Ohmyff—”  You grab his hips again, freezing him while he snickers above you.  “Dude.” 

“Just checking,” he says.  He grabs the headboard and pushes again.  The thud is a soft one. 

You clench your jaw, annoyed and wound up.  You grab his waist and roll over in one fluid motion, knocking some wind out of him when you thump him on his back.   His thighs clench instinctively to hold onto your hips, his legs still around your waist when you grab the headboard and shove it several times in a row.  

His cuffed arm is above his head, hand dangling under your grip on the headboard.  His glasses are askew from the flip, his legs still open around yours.  He stares at you, however crookedly through the tilted glasses.  Your breathing is heavy in the quiet room.  He swallows.

You break the silence with a pointed, “Well?”

“Well, what?” he asks just as roughly. 

“Moan or yell or something.  Whatever you normally do in bed.”

“I’m normally quiet.”

“I find that hard to believe,” you say dryly.  “Since that mouth never stops.”  

“Why don’t you moan?” 

“Because I’m in charge of bed pushing.”  To make your point, you rock the bed some more, pushing slightly against him with the motion.  The headboard hits the wall for a few rhythmic thumps. 

He fixes his glasses with his free hand, still frowning at you.  That hand freezes on his glasses when you shrug your coat off your free arm, too hot to keep wearing it.  It will only get caught on the handcuffs if you push it down the other arm so you leave it hanging off your shoulder.  You put your hand back on the headboard, muscles flexing with the next shove.   His eyes go to your arm. 

“Well?” you say.  

He looks at you.  It’s a cold, unfeeling stare, followed by an annoyed puff of a breath. 

Then he makes a sound, a small, rough moan in the back of his throat.   You are certain only you can hear it.   He looks right at you while doing it, legs still accommodating your shape, on his back with an open mouth while glaring at you despite the noises.

It is, in a word, hot.  Hot as fucking hell.  Oh god.  You are not getting turned on by Kim Seungmin.  Absolutely not. 

He moans again, closing his eyes and shifting with the next push, as if he can really feel it.   He cants his hips and falls back again.  He moans one more time.

Ah, you think.  Fuck. 

You stop shoving the bed for a second, breathless and not from exertion. 

You clear your throat.  Seungmin is still staring at you.  You stare back, then your gaze drifts.  The leather jacket starts to slip down your shoulder so you tug it back up.  You gulp. 

“You’re hard,” you say, a very basic observation.  His soft pyjama pants leave little to the imagination.

He drops his legs from around your waist, but you are between his thighs so he can’t quite close them.  He plants his feet on the bed and glares up at you. 

“So are you,” he says.

“Mine’s not real,” you say.  

“Ohh, so now it’s not real?”  He rolls his eyes.  “Sorry, I can’t keep up with Schrodinger’s dick.” 

“You know what I mean, smartass.”  

“If anything yours is more real,” he says.  “Your dick is more deliberate than mine.  I can’t control my hard-on but you put one there on purpose.” 

That logic is a weirdly difficult to argue.  You try to think of a witty comeback but your brain is more than a little fried. 

“So,” is all you say, at a loss. 

He stares up at you for another second, then pushes himself upright.  You let his cuffed hand lead yours, at least until you realize he is bringing his hands to the button of your jeans.  You seize his cuffed hand and tug it away. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” you ask.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he asks contemptuously.  He even snarls. 

Despite the viciousness, he dives in without waiting for an answer.  He uses his free hand as a guide, but otherwise he leans forward and clamps his teeth around the button.  He works it open quickly, then takes the zipper in his mouth and yanks it down. 

You let go of his hand, surprised.  He uses both hands to fish the toy out of your pants. 

He balks at it. 

“You walked around with this all night?” he asks, looking up at you. 

Fuck.  It is literally right by his face.  It looks obscene.  Your figures twitch with the urge to cup his chin. 

“Yes,” you answer in a low voice.  “It’s my preferred method of, uh, action.”

“Action,” he repeats, smiling like the word is a hilarious punchline.  He even cackles a little.  “Action,” he repeats.  “Not ‘making love?’”  His tone is drole. 

“Not really the making love type,” you say. 

“Wow,” he says.  His eyes flick to your toy dick, just millimeters from his face.  He pushes his glasses up his nose.  He glances up at you with that evil smile.   “Same,” he says. 

Then suddenly he has his mouth wrapped around the end of it, looking up at you as he sucks on it. 

For a second, you think you have gone completely insane, because you swear you can feel it.  Your clit and pussy and every other body part rears to life with sudden, unbidden arousal. 

“Jesus fucking—” you start.

He pops off your dick with a wet sound.   He licks his lips. 

“Hmm,” he says, eying it thoughtfully.  “Tastes funny.   Could you feel that?”

“Kinda,” you squeak.  “In a way.”

“Got it.” 

Is this even turning him on?  His dick is filling out his pyjama pants so you think so, but he is also approaching the entire thing like it can be hacked through a scientific algorithm.   He studies the toy with a lot of scrutiny, as if he is calculating the mechanics of it. 

“You don’t have to—” you start, but then suddenly his mouth is back on the end of it, his free hand is in the middle of it, and he is pushing it back against you, clearly having figured out you can feel the part against your clit.  He grinds it there, up and down, bobbing his head and staring up at you. 

It is usually fairly difficult to reach orgasm this way but he takes you the edge in an almost terrifying speed run, then abruptly stops.  He takes in a deep breath, a huge wad of spit connecting his lips to the end of the toy.

“Did that do something?” he asks, wiping his mouth. 

Your jacket slips down your arm and catches on the handcuffs.  You stare at him.

“Uhhh…” you say, voice guttural.  “Yes.” 

He grins, looking immensely satisfied with himself. 

“That wasn’t so hard,” he says.  “I thought it would be more complicated.  I’m guessing gravity works in your favour when someone sits on it?” 

Yes, that is your brain spilling out of your ear in a big, mushy goop. 

“Uh, yeah,” you say.  “Yeah.”  What the fuck else are you supposed to say? 

He suddenly narrows his eyes at you, his regard suspicious even while he starts jerking the toy with his free hand. 

“How do I know you’re not lying?” 

You show him the only way that makes sense, leading his cuffed hand to your pants and nudging the toy aside so he can slip his fingers past it.  He freezes completely when he feels how turned on you are, looking up at you as he returns his now wet fingers to himself. 

“Oh,” he says.  He looks at his fingertips.  “I see.” 

Then he grins at you and puts his fingers in his mouth. 

“Right,” you say.  “Got it.” 

You grab him and put him on his back again, reaching immediately for his waistband.  You have barely grasped the material when you are suddenly shoved back, his foot planted squarely in the middle of your chest. 

“Slippers first,” he says.  

He is just being difficult.  You know that, but you indulge the little brat anyway, glaring at him while removing his stupid slipper.  You toss it behind you and he switches feet, shoving his other one in the same spot.  He smiles at you, leaning back on his elbows at tapping his slippered toes against your heart.   You shake your head but remove that one too.  Before he can try any more funny business, you grab him under the knee and push his knees back to his chest.  His glasses slip a little again.  His cuffed hand can’t leave yours, hooked under his knee, so his free hand awkwardly reaches up to fix them. 

“Careful,” he says, like you’ve been the unreasonable one in any way, shape, or form. 

“I’ll try,” you say dryly, then reach for his waistband. 

You get the material barely shuffled past his hips when your jaw falls open. 

“Hold on,” you say, fingers reaching for his twitching dick.   “No way.  No way.” 

Kim Seungmin.  Blazer-and-tie good boy.  Pristine socialite.   Arrogant snob.   High society darling.   Spoiled brat.  Good boy.  Good boy.   Good boy. 

He has a classically beautiful piercing on the head of his dick. 

He opens his mouth to speak, his expression revealing it is about to be some mouthy retort, but it turns into a gasp when you run your thumb up and over, teasing at it, gathering a not-inconsiderable amount of precum and stroking the whole length of him. 

“Aren’t you pretty,” you say, circling the most sensitive cluster of nerves with your thumb.   It makes his thighs twitch and his shoulders shake. 

“S-surprised?” he asks. 

“Honestly, yeah,” you admit. 

He looks very satisfied with that, grinning at you.  That evil smile drives you crazy so you flash a grin of your own then dive down. 

His fake moans were pretty close to his real ones, but his real ones are louder as you expected.  He has to bite his fist to keep the sound down.  You rise, wiping at your mouth and glaring at him. 

“Louder,” you say.  “Remember?”

“Oh, right.”  He drops his hand.  “Your stupid plan.  Okay.  Continue.”  He waves you onward like a prince, thumping his head back on the pillows. 

He is so annoying.  He really does have a pretty dick, though.  Drawing real moans out of him is more fun than arguing over fake ones, and he makes some exceptionally lovely sounds when you put your mouth on him.  He starts gasping when he gets close, his face scrunching up, but he grabs your head and stops before he gets there fully. 

You look at him with a questioning eyebrow lift but move when he nudges you.  He gets on his knees so you are kneeling in front of each other, then he guides your hand back to his dick at the same time he curls his fingers around the base of your toy.  

Your eyes are heavy-lidded and your mouths are close together but not touching.  It feels like another contest, to see who will give in and kiss the other person first, even while your hands are way past that stage. 

Fuck it, you think when he gets a bit whiny, breathing hard against your lips.  You clasp your free hand around his neck and drag him close for a kiss.  It makes him come, his back locking and mouth opening under yours.  He wouldn’t be Seungmin if he didn’t try and turn a kiss into a fight, licking at you with messy intensity.  The rapid back-and-forth of his tongue coupled with his skilled hand takes you over the edge too. 

You get a bit euphorically giggly when you come, smiling against his mouth. 

Seungmin turns unexpectedly clingy, putting his free arm around your neck and burying his face in your shoulder.  He holds so tightly that you fall, flopping onto the bed with him still nestled against you.  

You lay there for a bit, him still hiding, your heavy breathing slowing to a more normal cadence.  Eventually he lifts his head and exhales.  He adjusts his crooked glasses then grins. 

“I won,” he says.

“You can’t win at sex,” you reply.

“Yes you can, and I just did.  Don’t be a sore loser.”

“Oh my god.” 

Your exchange passes with far less animosity than usual.  You still side-eye each other while dealing with your respective dicks.  It’s a little easier for him to pull up his pants one-handed than it is for you to wrestle a toy out of an O-ring, but you do succeed.  You let it roll off the edge of the bed, watching and listening as it thumps onto the floor. 

You look over Seungmin who was watching too.  When you make eye contact, you both start laughing.  It turns the whole scene into an unusually affectionate one.  Figuring you might as well commit, you hold his cuffed hand in your own.  He rolls closer, eying you with those perpetually mischievous eyes.

Then suddenly the bedroom door flies open.  It smashes into the wall, startling both of you. 

Minho walks up to the bed and chucks the keys at you, glares, then turns and leaves the room.  He slams the door shut behind him. 

You and Seungmin look at each other then down at the keys. 

“Told you,” you say. 

“Don’t rub it in.”

“Don’t be a sore loser.”

He licks your cheek unprompted, then unlocks the cuffs while you complain and wipe your face.  It has you so distracted that you are a second too late realizing he has another dastardly plan in mind. 

Your wrist is still cuffed.  He takes the now empty half and clasps it around one of the intricate loops in the headboard.   You tug on it then look at him. 

“Kim Seungmin,” you say. 

“Kim Seungmin,” he repeats in that mocking voice, grinning as he climbs up over you. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” you ask, trying not to smile at his wicked grin as he starts kissing under your chin and down your chest.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he asks.  “I’m winning.”

You decide not to argue for once.   It goes without saying you both won this round. 

[skzdarlings]

02. sharing a bed series ; skz ; lee know

masterlist.

sharing a bed series part 2/8. because it’s the cheesiest most classic trope and it’s FUN.

-

pairing: lee know/reader content info: sexual content. friends2lovers, sharing a bed trope. reader&minho had an argument. reader gets pussy eaten. minho likes to tease.

inspired by the cinematic masterpiece known to the world as lee know log 9, aka that vlog where minho went camping and i never recovered.

-

There is a perpetual hum around the campsite, heaters and lamps and cookers buzzing through the night, plus the rain has started coming down harder.  Its restless patter over the tarp of the luxury tent is more a nuisance than relaxing. 

The noise is not why you are still awake.   Your insomnia is the cause of good old-fashioned guilt. 

You and Minho lost your reservation thanks to some traffic delays and the campsite only had single-bed tents available by the time you arrived.  You have been sharing a bed all weekend, but right now you are alone.  Minho stormed out an hour ago, claiming he needed a walk to clear his head after your argument.

The argument you started. 

All weekend, you’ve been testing Minho’s seemingly infallible patience.  Minho might joke around sharply, but he’s a secret softy and it’s hard to get him genuinely angry.  You could feel yourself being a ridiculous ass but, like everything else of late, it felt out of control.  You were like a third party watching your own stupid argument, unable to stop yourself and unable to help him.  He was the mature one, leaving to find some space.

Even if it was after calling you ridiculous and uptight.      

You didn’t cry.  You didn’t let yourself cry.  Maybe you can’t control anything else, but you can control that. 

Now, you just lay in bed and listen to the rain.  You can’t sleep anyway, so you leave the lights on for Minho.   The rain is coming down pretty hard.  You hope he gets back soon.   Much as you don’t want to face him, you are worried about him. 

As if summoned by your thoughts, the tent opens and Minho stomps inside.  He is wearing a backwards hat and a hoodie, neither of which did much to protect him from the downpour.  You look over your shoulder at him, watching him shake himself out.   The wet hat comes off and hits the ground with a slap, the hoodie following.  It leaves him shivering in a t-shirt and shorts, his jaw clenched. 

He turns abruptly, looking right at you.  There is so much intensity in his gaze as he stares at you, slicking his wet hair back.   An unbidden spark of heat bursts inside you.   I want him to look at me like that when he fucks me, you think.  The thought makes you whip away to stare at the white tent wall.  Your heart pounds.   That pounding intensifies when Minho struts up to bed, crossing the space in a few quick strides.  You don’t dare turn around, clutching the blankets and staring at the wall.

He turns off the lights.  Then you hear him leave, disappearing into the small bathroom joined to your tent. 

You exhale.  It takes a while to come down from the burst of adrenaline, but it has mostly dwindled by the time Minho returns.  You hear him moving about in the dark.  You lay straight as a board, your back to him. 

You stare through the dark at nothing.  You know you should apologize for earlier but you can’t bring yourself to speak.   You just breathe. 

Minho climbs into the bed.  It dips under his weight and you feel a flood of warmth from his company.  He has toweled himself dry and changed into sweatpants and a dry t-shirt.  He smells fresh and clean, and just a little woodsy. The bed is not very big so he bumps you as he lays down.  It makes your heart race again, which just makes you cringe. 

The rain has slowed.  It still patters against the roof of the tent, but gently.  

The quiet makes the silence between you even more tense.  It feels heavier than the blankets, dense and suffocating.   You swallow. 

The argument was your fault.  Everything that went wrong this weekend was your fault.  You’ve been on edge and quick to overreaction, uncharacteristic to your usual composure.  You could tell it was worrying Minho but he has never been the type to pry.  No, he waits until he is asked, which would be great if you knew how to ask.  Hug me, hold me, help me.   You don’t know how to ask for the things you want.   So you just continued to spiral, taking it out on him.  

It should be you turning around, you facing him, you apologizing, but it’s Minho who rolls over.  You freeze when he wraps his arms around you and hugs you tight from behind.   He doesn’t quite kiss your shoulder, but he presses his face there for a second.  Wisps of his dyed blonde hair tickle your face.  You can imagine his eyes closing when he sighs. 

“I’m sorry,” he says.  “I shouldn’t have said that shit.  I don’t even know why we were fighting.  Just call it my fault, okay?  I shouldn’t have taken a city girl camping.”   

He is trying to joke with you.  His friendliness is what gets you.  Even after everything, he is still so good to you.   

You put a hand over your mouth, trying to stifle the sound when you start crying.  It’s a useless effort because your shoulders shake and Minho can feel it.  Resigned to your pitiful state, you let your gasps shudder out of you. 

“Hey, hey,” he says, rolling you onto your back.  He wipes his thumbs over your wet cheeks, staring down at you with his brow furrowed in confusion.  “I was just kidding.  I’m sorry.  Take a free slap.”  He grabs your hand and lightly taps his own cheek with it. 

It does make you laugh, but it’s a watery sound, rippling through your tears. 

“Minho,” you say miserably, “I lost my job.” 

Understanding fills his expression.  You can’t bear to look at him, so you roll towards him to hide your face in his chest.   He lets you, wrapping an arm around you and rubbing your back as you make a blubbery mess on his shirt.   You tell him the whole story, about the promotion you lost to someone else, about the sudden downsizing and subsequent firing.   You are someone who functions with meticulous planning so your life being upended sent you hurtling into an unfamiliar state of panic.  

“That’s why I went out alone the other night,” you say.  Your tears have slowed to hiccups by now.  “I know it was stupid and it made you mad.  I just felt like I was gonna explode.” 

Hopping bars and picking up random men is very out of wont for you.   That’s why you did it.  Minho was less than pleased when he found out you went wandering around downtown at night, inebriated and alone.   His scolding was reasonable but you were beyond reason.

He goes stiff when you mention it now, though he doesn’t stop rubbing your back. 

“I wasn’t mad,” he says after a minute.  “I was just worried.  And…”

You peek up at him.  He sighs and groans and yells all at once, an amazing feat of sound, throwing his head back so it thumps hard against the headboard. 

“I was jealous,” he says bitterly. 

“Jealous,” you say.  “Of me?”  

“Yes.”  He gives you a very sarcastic look.   “I wished it was me in that little black dress going out and—no.  Obviously not of you.  Why do you always torture me like this?   Go cry on the floor.”  He jostles you but jokingly, still holding you against him. 

You laugh a little, resting your head on his shoulder.  Your head feels fuzzy and you don’t think it’s from crying.  Minho just admitted he was jealous of you going out with some other guy.   It feels like your heart is doing circus tricks. 

“There was nothing to be jealous of anyway,” you say softly.  “We didn’t do anything.  He insisted he was, um, really good with, uh, his mouth, you know, but then, like, the more he insisted, um, you know me, I started thinking too hard and, um, he couldn’t make me, well…”

“Keep stammering.  It makes me feel less embarrassed about myself.”   

“Minho.”  You slap his chest.  His laugh is more of a maniacal cackle, his demeanour having shifted back to glee at your admission.   You lift your head to look at him, biting your lip, noticing how his eyes go to your mouth.  “He wound up leaving before it could go farther,” you say, your words startling him into meeting your gaze.  You know it’s a petty blow, but you can’t help but admit, “He said I was too uptight and left.”

Minho’s whole face scrunches up like he just got punched in the gut.   

“No,” he says.  “No.   You’re just saying that to bully me.  I didn’t call you the same thing as that idiot.”   

“It’s okay,” you say. 

“No.” He groans again, closing his eyes and kicking his feet.  “Ahhhhhhh.  I should be shot!”  

You are laughing properly now, clinging to him as he squirms in horror.          

“I’m sorry,” you say.  “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

“Oh really?”  He cocks an eyebrow at you, his mouth a grim line. 

“Well.”  You burst into laughter all over again.  “Maybe just a little!” 

He laughs hard at that, shaking his head, but still retaliates by tickling you.  Your laughter turns hysterical, peels of giggles as he pokes every ticklish inch of skin. 

“Minhoooo,” you whine to no avail.  He just grins and continues his attack. 

Your wriggling pushes the blankets off the bed.  You try and whack him with a pillow so that hits the floor too.  Soon it is just you and Minho and some dishevelled bedsheets, you on your back with him leaning over you.   You are both out of breath, both smiling.  His hands are by your head, cradling you under him, while yours are on his chest as if preparing to push. 

The room feels quiet, the silence again tense.  But this tension is not rife with the same uncertainty as before.   It is not guilt or shame, but a longing that comes from the whispered confession that he was jealous of the last man in your bed, the simple reality that he is sharing your bed right now.     

You do not push him away.  You hook your fingers in the collar of his shirt and pull.  His elbows bend as he swoops down, meeting your raised head.  He kisses you, deep and hot and slow, gently pressing your head back into the plush bed.  Your squirming is very different now, legs opening to make room for him to settle between them.  He feels so good on top of you, the feeling of his strong thighs between your legs, of his chest under your hands, wisps of hair brushing your face as he kisses and kisses and kisses you. 

The kiss ends when you are simply too breathless to continue.  He rests his forehead against yours, breathing hard. 

“Wow,” you say softly.  You look at him.  His dark eyes are often severe in a playful way and right now they are intense, seductive, and it isn’t a joke.   You touch his bottom lip, holding his gaze while he kisses the tips of your fingers.   “Just so you know, that kiss was way better than everything that happened the other night.”

He grins at that. 

“Oh,” he says.  “Really?” 

“Yeah.”  You watch him kiss your fingers again, then your palm.  He looks at you as he dips a little lower, kissing the inside of your wrist.  You are hypnotized by the heat of his dark stare, so you speak without thinking much.  “Everything you do turns me on, though,” you say.  “Even earlier, when you were crushing that garlic with the knife—”

His seduction breaks with a little laugh and he raises both eyebrows. 

“Garlic?” he asks.  “The garlic got you hot?”

“Don’t make fun of me,” you say, pouting.  “You already made me cry once tonight…”

“Oh, is that what happened?” he says.  “Sure, okay, let’s play.  I made you cry.   I should make it up to you?”

“Mhm…”

“Well then.”  He leans in close to kiss you but he lingers for a torturously long time, just hovering above your lips.   Then he abruptly pulls away.  He kneels upright and sits back on his heels.   

Confused, you push yourself up on your elbows.   He is looking around the room and tapping his chin thoughtfully.

“What is it?” you ask.   

“Hmm?”  He looks at you, tilting his head as if you are the confusing one.  “What?  I’m just looking for some garlic, since you’re into that for some reason.  Give me a minute to remember where I put it.”  

“Ahhh, I hate you!”  You flop back down, covering your face with your hands. 

Minho, diabolical creature that he is, throws back his head and laughs.  He tries to pry your hands off your face but you stubbornly hold on.  He sighs with theatrical exasperation and gives up.  

You hear the rustle of fabric.  Curious, you peek between your fingers.  Minho is staring down at you with a single eyebrow cocked, a smug little smirk tugging at his lips.  That smirk grows as he reaches back, flexing his arms before grabbing the back of his t-shirt and pulling.  Your hands fall away from your face completely, your eyes drinking in the gradual reveal of skin as he pulls his shirt off.   It lands somewhere on the floor, forgotten. 

“Okay,” he says, nodding curtly.  “Your turn.”  He makes a come-hither motion with two fingers.  “Come on.  Hurry up.” 

Your brain has short-circuited.  It takes a second to make sense of his request and another minute to actually do it.  You sit up long enough to peel your shirt off, then flop back down where you continue to stare at him.   You are checking each other out, looking up and down.   Your eyes goes over his bare chest and down, your mouth falling open. 

You breath catches when he cups his hardening dick through his sweatpants, rubbing the heel of his hand there. 

You meet his gaze, already breathing harder.

“What else then?” he says, still stroking himself through his clothes as he looks at you. 

“Uh, ah, erm, hm—”

“You said everything I do turns you on.”  He falls forward and catches himself on both hands, so suddenly you gasp.   Once again his arms cage you in, his face close to yours.  His hips come down heavy between your legs, his dick hard where it presses intimately against you.  “So,” he says.  “What else then?” 

“Oh.”  You are staring at his mouth, gaze heavy-lidded when he rocks against you.  “Um.  Well.  Sometimes when you’re driving in reverse and you put your hand on my headrest, it kinda—” 

Once again, his seduction attempt is thwarted when he can’t help but laugh.  He drops his head, laughing harder when you lightly smack him.    

“Stop asking if you’re just gonna laugh!” you say, even while laughing too. 

“Okay,” he says.  “Garlic and driving in reverse.  I’m learning so much.” 

“I’m gonna kill you.” 

“That would be very rude,” he says.  “Especially since I’m about to go down on you.” 

“You—wha—ohhh—”

You grab his head instinctively, fingers sinking into the natural dark roots of his dyed hair, just as he dips down to press kisses on your chest.  You arch under him as his mouth finds every sensitive spot, licking sweetly and biting meanly, as to be expected from Minho.  By the time he reaches the waistband of your shorts, you are panting and wriggling and clawing at him desperately.   

You don’t even have time to overthink.  The world and all its troubles fall away for the time being.  

You will figure things out.  You always do.  Right now, you let yourself lose control.   You usually hate the feeling, but in this moment you don’t mind at all, because Minho has you.   You trust him completely.  Surrender is easy.   

The rest of your clothes join the messy heap on the floor.  He runs his hand smoothly along the inside of your thigh before guiding it over his shoulder.   He kisses there, then kisses you excruciatingly chastely between your legs.  When you try and move, he keeps you steady, the sturdy hands that captivated you now holding you firmly in place. 

When he finally stops torturing you, he gives you everything at once: a long, hot lick right up your centre.  Again, your fingers find his hair.  He doesn’t complain or lose focus even though you are scratching at him a bit ferociously.  Ever a skilled worker, he stays on task.  It is so deft and swift and thorough; you get so wet and slippery that you can feel it running it down your skin.  

When you get close, your hips lift but he brings you back.  He looks up between your thighs as he brings you over the edge.  Your legs shake and your eyes close and you bite your hand just a little, trying not to be too noisy in the middle of the night at a campsite. 

He climbs back up when finished, looking like a very smug feline as he wipes his face on the back of his hand.   

“On a scale of garlic to driving in reverse—” he starts. 

You playfully cuff the side of his head. 

“That good?” he continues to tease. 

You roll your eyes but smile.   You think it is a seductive smile, but you do feel a little wrecked.   Still, you stay on task too, sliding your hand down his chest, down, down, down and—

“Oh,” you say.  You look down at the same time as him.  A noticeable wet stain is on the front of his sweatpants.  “You already—”

He flops down beside you and sighs.

“Sorry,” he says.  “You weren’t the only one amazed with my sexy performance.” 

“That’s okay,” you say with a laugh.  You roll over to rest your head on his chest.  His arm comes down around you, hand running down your naked back.  You giggle when he cups and squeezes your ass.  You dance your fingers down his pants to the wet spot where he came.  “I think it’s kinda hot, actually.” 

Minho came from eating you out.  Of course you think it’s hot. 

And of course he has to be Minho about it. 

“Okay,” he says.  “Garlic. Driving in reverse.  Premature ejaculation.  Uptight was definitely the wrong word.  I honestly don’t know if I can keep up with a freak like you—”

“Ugh!”  You roll away and turn your back to him, mostly to hide the fact you are laughing at his stupid joke. 

He follows you, wrapping his arms around you and hugging you from behind.  This time he kisses your shoulder properly, once, twice, three times.  All the way up your neck to your ear and just behind it. 

“You’re lucky I like you so much,” you whisper. 

“I like you too,” he whispers back, kissing your shoulder again. 

You smile and close your eyes, listening to the rain and letting yourself snuggle safely in his arms. 

[lovscb97]

tags: han jisung x fem!reader, college bf jisung (yes this needs a tag of its own), oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, pussydrunk jisung, nicknames (sungie, baby, babe, princess, etc), dirty talk, begging, spit, cum eating, implied multiple orgasms/overstimulation, squirting, basically pwp

wc: 1.16k

add. notes: for my luvr @hyunsvngs :3

. . .

han jisung is a lot of things.

top of his class, head of the newspaper club, regular volunteer at the university's animal shelter, that one friendly yet reserved senior everyone feels comfortable talking to, and so much more.

to your smug satisfaction, he is also your boyfriend. your sweet, lovely, lovely boyfriend of six months. he’s the type who dotes on you like no other, the type who holds your bag when it’s too heavy (although he complains about it the entire way), the type who tries his best to open the door for you even when he always gets mixed up between push and pull signs, the type who does his best to cook for you even if the only food he can manage to make is a box of overly soggy cup ramen.

the type who’s currently got your legs hooked over his shoulders as he buries his tongue inside your cunt.

“ngh, sungie.. ’s too much!” you whine as his cherry lips wrap around your swollen clit for the nth time, sucking it into the warm confines of his inviting mouth like it’s the sweetest treat he’s had all day. even with the way your legs kick up at the spiking pleasure shooting through your core after the multiple orgasms you’ve had, he still continues his ministrations, too fucked out to think or budge away as his wet muscle swipes across your folds and dripping hole. it really was favourite pastime to eat you out.

“just a lil’ bit more, baby. please? ’s so good, i can’t stop.” he whimpers into you, pulling away momentarily so his big, brown, doe eyes can stare back into yours, wet eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as his lip quivers. you bite your own at the sight in front of you, letting out a sigh because if he keeps looking at you like that, you fear you might let him get away with murder. “but ‘m sensitive.” you huff, looking down expectantly at the boy between your thighs in hopes he’d beg for you just a little more. to which jisung seems to catch your drift because once the words leave your mouth, he’s kicking up a fuss, puffing out his chest between choked complaints to resume his previous activity.

“i’ll make you feel so good, princess. wontcha’ let me?” he pleads. “love eating this cute little pussy, ’s the best thing i’ve ever tasted.” he licks his lips, heavy breathing filing the air as his eyes drift down to the mess in front of him. your essence coats the soft skin of your inner thighs, a mix of arousal and spit dripping onto the couch he’d gotten you laid back against when he stumbled through the front door, not even bothering with a greeting before spluttering out if he could go down on you right now. without warning, jisung laves a finger through your folds, drawing a yelp from you as he gathers the combined liquids of his own saliva and the remnants of your previous releases on his sole digit before popping it into his mouth. the taste has him moaning out with closed eyes like it’s truly the best thing he’d ever tasted, and that only causes you to clench around nothing as your clit throbs for further stimulation. 

“just one more time, i guess.” you mumble, unable to hide your own temptation as jisung flashes you the widest, most accomplished grin you’ve possibly ever seen him sport. it’s only a matter of mere seconds before he’s diving in once again, flat tongue back on you and meeting your hardened nub as you groan. “so fucking good. my girl has the best cunt ever.” he growls, continuing to lick and suck, alternating between drawing shapes on your clit and bunching your folds up with his fingers to suck them into his mouth. he continues mumbling phrases into your wetness that you can hardly make out, something about how he’ll never get enough of this and how there’s nothing as good as you out there. you think he’s exaggerating honestly, but with the way he’s so enthusiastically slurping at you, you reckon he might be telling the truth.

“fuck, sungie! w-wait!” you exclaim when he suddenly shoves two fingers inside of you, the pads of his digits rubbing against that rough spot deep inside of you, massaging it as if his life depends on it. you can feel the burn of what’s potentially your 3rd orgasm of the night creeping up on you, churning in your stomach as your boyfriend proceeds to brush the tips of his fingers against your wet walls all at the same time as he eats you out. 

“can’t. gotta make this cunt cum.” jisung grunts, pulling away to smack his lips so he can taste you better on his mouth before going back in. “you want that too, right baby? wanna cum for me? make a mess for your sungie?” your moans only egg him on further, fingers hammering inside you repeatedly combined with the suction of his mouth surrounding your engorged bundle of nerves. it doesn’t take very long after that for you to release, clear liquid spurting out of your tight hole against jisung’s fingers and mouth as you cry out in ecstasy. “shit, that’s it. cum for me, baby. keep squirtin’ f’me.” your boyfriend murmurs against you, continuing to lick at you as you shake through the duration and aftershocks of your orgasm, hands reaching out to grip his hair between them as you tug on it harshly.

“fuck..” you breathe out once you’ve come down from your high, laughing incredulously to yourself as jisung gives one last peck to your cunt. he pulls his fingers out slowly, admiring the way your hole clings to them before shoving them into his mouth, obscenely moaning at the taste of you coating his digits. you flush a dark pink at his reaction. “you do too much when it comes to my pussy, babe.” you grumble, visibly embarrassed whilst your boyfriend just chuckles, lifting himself away from his position between your legs to come up and press a sweet kiss to your lips. you kiss him back of course, nose scrunching up at the taste of yourself on his lips, but nothing compares to the feeling of jisung’s plush mouth on yours, so you bear with it.

“i can’t help it, baby.” jisung shrugs once he pulls away. “it’s not my fault that i’d have you for breakfast, lunch and dinner if i could.” there’s a wicked glint in his eyes as he speaks, and you meekly shove his shoulder at the teasing smile he gives you, suppressing your own when he burst out into melodious laughter that always fills your chest with warmth.

after all, han jisung is a lot of things, but the best one of them all is definitely the fact that he's your precious boyfriend, the type who will always fall to his knees for you whenever you desire.

. . .

reblogs & comments are always appreciated! <3

[hanibalistic]

#FFF8F8 | KIM SEUNGMIN.

genre | fluff, soulmate au, baseball player au

word count | 1013

warning | mentions of injury 

note | this is a baseball player au with very minimal baseball element :’( 

inspiration | 

seungmin was disappointed when he couldn’t find you in the crowd of audiences watching the inter-school baseball tournament.

he never talked about wanting to see you at the game, nor did he ever say anything about needing you to be there for him to do well. frankly, those were a tad bit cheesy for his taste. he would much prefer if you chose to watch him on a sunday afternoon rather than going because he mentioned how important the game was to him.

Keep reading

[hongism]

deal - k.hongjoong 18+

↣ pairing: hongjoong x fem!reader ↣ genre: fluff smut/nsfw ↣ wc: 10.3k ._. ↣ for anonymous: “hongjoong + roommates au + “Do I love you? Yes. Do I like you? That’s still up for debate.” for drabble game?” ↣ warnings: protected sex, nsfw, oral: fem receiving, lewd innuendos ↣ a/n: thank u so much to my besties my babies my beloveds @ppersonna​ and @uhmingi​ for reading and betaing this beast i love u both sm 🥺

…

rule number one: do not under any circumstances sleep with a roommate.

a rule you put in place several years ago, freshman year of college when your eye landed on the person you were assigned to, and it has never failed you in the six years since that moment.

your reasons for such a rule are simple: 1) no muddled feelings or relationships if you don’t fuck. too many people get involved in relationships that have benefits but no feelings and it tends to end badly when someone gets jealous or catches feelings for the other. so it’s easiest to avoid that issue altogether. 2) no annoying questions from friends or family. while you still do hear the stray ‘are you dating’ question here and there, it’s greatly avoided because you can easily say without an ounce of guilt ‘no, we’re not fucking and we don’t plan to’. 

Keep reading

[cloudford]

NAVIGATION.

links to my different tags for fic recs.

general tag: #*cloudreads. nsfw tag: #after//hours.

—stray kids.

#sfw. #nsfw.

member tags. chan. minho. changbin. hyunjin. jisung. felix. seungmin. jeongin.

—ateez.

#sfw. #nsfw.

member tags. hongjoong. seonghwa. yunho. yeosang. san. mingi. wooyoung. jongho.

—p1harmony.

#sfw. #nsfw.

member tags. keeho. taeyang. jiung. intak. shota. jongseob.

other fandoms.

genshin impact. honkai star rail. haikyuu. specific character tags: #[character].file

[hanjisungz-remade]

penny for your thoughts? ☽ changbin

✦ genre: harry potter au, fluff, slow burn ✦ description: perhaps staying behind for christmas break would be good. you could get a lot of studying in for OWLs and since you were alone, you wouldn’t get distracted… except you weren’t alone ✦ pairings: seo changbin x reader ✦ word count: 28.2k ✦ warnings: mild language, tooth rotting fluff (seriously…. its a lot) ✦ a/n: ive had this idea for so long (nearly 4 years) and im so excited to finally write it! merry christmas and happy holidays in general to you all that celebrate, i hope you eat well and rest well and enjoy 💓 

i.

“Did you hear about the accident in Potions class today?” Jisung spoke quickly, elbow locked with your own as you tried to avoid being separated in the large crowd of students. Somehow he was always able to get the most gossip out of students and continue to stay at the top of your class. 

“No, I’ve been busy focusing on OWLs. I would tell you that you should study too but I know you’ll ace them all.” You nudged him, almost pushing him into a very annoyed looking Slytherin. 

“Hey! I’ve done my fair share of studying as well.” Jisung pouted but shook his head, focusing on shuffling his feet and recounting his story. “Okay so the accident. It was fucking hilarious, first of all. Secondly, I heard this first-year couldn’t tell the difference between fluxweed and knotgrass when they tried to make Polyjuice and they blew up the whole cauldron, like boom!” He made an explosion motion with his hands.

“To be fair you’re quite the handful in Potions as well, and that’s coming from your partner.” You thought back to Jisung burning his eyebrows off in third-year after incorrectly mixing ingredients among the many other things you’ve had to endure the past years.

“I will have you know, I am the best partner ever. You get better marks because you fix my mistakes!” Jisung was about to go on but he suddenly lifted his head, a soft, “woah” coming out as you both entered the Great Hall.

Keep reading