Andulka
Xuebing Du
Product Placement
Janaina Medeiros
izzy's playlists!
@theartofmadeline
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Kaledo Art
ellievsbear
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NASA
cherry valley forever
d e v o n
sheepfilms
trying on a metaphor
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YOU ARE THE REASON
JVL
Keni
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
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Recommendations Masterlist
Welcome to my recommendation masterlist, this is where you can find everything I reblog in one place. I'll be creating links to fics I think are great!
(Please let me know if any of the links are faulty!)
I hope you enjoys these recommendations as much as I do! Have fun and happy reading xx
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ATEEZ
Buddy Daddies
Jujutsu Kaisen
Tomorrow x Together
One Piece
Stray Kids
^ This is definitely going to be the one with the most recommendations at the moment 😅
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AO3
Jujutsu Kaisen
Queen of the Cats | Lee Know
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Summary: You’re Minho’s girlfriend and his cats are all of a sudden super protective of you and start hissing at the other members even though they’ve known them forever.
Warnings: none
Word Count: 2.4k
━━━━━━━━━━━━
You’ve been with Minho long enough that you know his cats have their own schedule.
Soonie is the manager. Doongie is the auditor. Dori is the tyrant who acts like he’s innocent.
They’ve always liked you, too. In their own very specific ways.
Soonie tolerates you with dignity.
Doongie watches you like you might commit a crime.
Dori loves you loudly, like you’re his favorite chair.
So when all three of them start acting weird at the same time, you notice.
Soonie starts following you from room to room like he’s on patrol. Doongie sits on your laundry pile and stares at you whenever you stand up too fast. Dori keeps trying to wedge himself between you and literally anyone else in the apartment, like he’s a furry little bodyguard who didn’t get the memo that you’re not in danger.
Minho notices too, of course. Minho notices everything.
He’s on the couch one evening, legs tucked up, phone in one hand while he watches you move around the kitchen.
“You’ve got a fan club,” he says, nodding toward the doorway.
You glance over.
All three cats are sitting there in a row, staring at you like you’re about to perform.
You snort. “They’re judging me.”
Minho’s mouth twitches. “They always judge you. But this is… different.”
You raise a brow. “What do you mean?”
He nods slowly, eyes narrowed like he’s solving a case. “Soonie’s acting clingy.”
“Maybe he’s finally realized I’m the superior human,” you say, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.
Minho hums. “Maybe.”
But he doesn’t sound convinced.
And then it escalates.
Changbin comes over two days later to drop something off. He barely gets one foot inside before Soonie’s tail puffs up and he lets out this low, offended sound.
Changbin freezes. “Why is he looking at me like that?”
Doongie adds his own contribution, a dramatic hiss that sounds like he’s personally insulted by Changbin’s existence.
Dori chooses violence, too, because of course he does. He charges forward and plants himself in front of you like a tiny lion.
Changbin’s eyes go wide. “What did I do?”
Minho appears from the hallway, takes one look, and sighs like a man who’s seen this movie before.
“You breathed,” Minho says flatly. “They don’t like it.”
Changbin looks genuinely wounded. “They’ve never hissed at me.”
Minho glances at you.
Then he glances back at Changbin.
Then he glances at you again, longer this time, like something clicked and he’s not saying it out loud yet.
“Don’t take it personally,” Minho says, voice calmer than his face. “They’re just… being weird.”
Changbin points at Dori. “He’s literally guarding her.”
“I see that,” Minho mutters.
Changbin’s eyes flick to you. “Did you become their queen overnight or something?”
You laugh. “Apparently.”
Changbin leaves quickly after that, mostly because Minho’s cats are acting like they’re ready to file a restraining order.
The second the door closes, Soonie relaxes. Doongie stops glaring. Dori trots back over to you like he completed his mission.
Minho just stands there, staring at them. Then he looks at you.
“You okay?” he asks, quietly.
You blink. “Yeah?”
He doesn’t look away. “You’ve been tired.”
“I’m always tired,” you say, joking, but it lands wrong even to you.
Because lately, you have been tired. Not idol schedule tired. Not “we stayed up late watching dumb videos” tired. A heavier kind of tired.
And your stomach has been doing this weird thing where you’re not exactly nauseous, but food smells hit you harder than usual. Like the world has turned the volume up on everything.
Minho steps closer, eyes scanning your face like he’s checking for signs you’re hiding from him.
“Are you sick?” he asks.
You shrug. “No. I don’t think so. I’ve just been… off.”
His brows knit. “Off how?”
You open your mouth, then close it again because you don’t have a clean answer. You just feel different. A little too warm sometimes. A little too emotional sometimes. A little too sensitive.
Like your body is keeping a secret from you.
Minho’s gaze flicks back to the cats, all three of them now circling your legs like you’re the only important thing in the apartment.
He goes quiet.
You watch his face shift through about five thoughts in ten seconds.
Then he says, very carefully, “When was your last period?”
You freeze so hard you nearly drop your water.
“What,” you say, a little too fast.
Minho’s expression is neutral, but his ears are faintly pink. “I’m asking a medical question.”
You blink at him. “Why are you asking me that?”
He gestures vaguely at the cats. “Because my children have decided you’re a sacred object and they’re trying to fight grown men.”
You sputter a laugh. “That’s not…”
Minho tilts his head. “It’s not impossible.”
Your stomach flips.
You immediately go into mental math mode, which is the worst place to be because you realize you haven’t thought about it. Not really. Life has been busy. You’ve been with Minho forever. Things have been steady and safe and normal and you haven’t been tracking as closely as you used to.
You swallow.
Minho watches you do the math on your face.
Your voice comes out smaller. “I’m… late.”
Minho goes still.
Just very, very focused, like he’s trying to keep his breathing normal in front of you.
“How late?” he asks.
You blink rapidly. “Like… not crazy late. Just late.”
Minho’s jaw flexes once. He looks down at Soonie, who is currently pressing herself against your ankle like she’s trying to glue herself to you.
Then he looks back up at you.
“Okay,” he says softly. “We’re gonna check.”
You laugh nervously. “Minho, it might just be stress.”
He nods. “It might.”
Then he takes your hand, gentle but firm. “But we’re still checking.”
He’s already pulling you toward the door before you can overthink it. You barely get your shoes on before he’s grabbing his cap and a mask, keys in hand.
You glance back at the cats. “Are we leaving them?”
Minho pauses, dead serious. “They’re the reason we’re doing this.”
Soonie blinks slowly like he approves. Dori flops over like he did his part and now he wants a snack.
Minho exhales through his nose. “I’ll be back,” he tells them, like they understand Korean better than you do. “No fighting.”
The convenience store is only a few minutes away, but the walk feels longer because Minho keeps glancing at you like he’s checking you’re still real.
You try to joke. “You’re being weird.”
Minho’s eyes narrow. “I’m not being weird.”
“You’re being protective.”
He huffs. “That’s normal.”
You side-eye him. “Since when?”
Minho doesn’t answer, which is basically an answer.
Inside the convenience store, he goes straight to the aisle like he’s done research, grabs a pregnancy test with the calm efficiency of a man buying batteries, then stops at the end of the aisle and stares at the shelf of snacks.
You’re too busy feeling like your heart is in your throat to care.
Minho picks up a small pack of crackers, then a banana milk, then hesitates and adds ginger tea like he’s preparing for every possible scenario.
You stare at the pile in his arms. “What is all that?”
He looks down, then back at you, expression a little stiff. “If you feel sick, you eat something. If you don’t feel sick, you still eat something.”
Your chest tightens.
He clears his throat. “Also… banana milk is just good.”
You blink hard and nod like you’re not about to cry in a GS25.
Back home, Minho sets the bag on the counter and suddenly looks like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
You’ve seen him on stage. You’ve seen him confident in front of crowds. You’ve seen him walk through chaos like he owns it.
Right now he looks like a man trying not to blink too hard.
“You can take it in the bathroom,” he says quietly.
You nod, palms sweaty, and grab the test.
Minho follows you to the bathroom door, then stops like he’s forcing himself to give you space.
“I’ll be right here,” he says.
You manage a shaky smile. “Okay.”
When you close the door, the silence hits you like a wave.
It’s just you, the bright bathroom light, and the sound of your own breathing.
You do the test with trembling hands, set it down on the counter, then stare at it like your eyes can make time move faster.
You don’t know what you want the result to be.
You just know you can’t unknow it once you see it.
You hear Minho outside the door, shifting slightly, like he’s pacing without fully pacing.
“You okay?” he calls softly.
You swallow. “Yeah.”
The minutes drag.
You check it too early once, then force yourself to wait, because you’re scared your fear will somehow influence the universe.
Finally, you look.
Two lines.
Your whole body goes cold and hot at the same time.
You blink. Once. Twice. Three times.
Your knees feel weak.
You don’t even realize you’ve opened the bathroom door until you’re standing there holding the test like it’s a grenade.
Minho is right outside, hands half-raised, eyes locked on your face.
He sees your expression first.
Then he sees the test.
His eyes widen. His mouth opens a little, then closes again like he forgot how words work.
You manage a shaky laugh. “So… I guess your cats weren’t being dramatic.”
Minho makes this small sound that is half laugh, half choked breath, and then he moves.
He steps close, careful, like you’re something fragile, and takes the test from your hand with shaking fingers. Like he needs proof for his brain.
He stares at it.Then he looks at you. His eyes are shiny.
“Are you,” he starts, then his voice cracks just a little and he clears his throat. “Are you okay?”
You blink fast. “I don’t know. I think so.”
Minho nods once, like he’s anchoring himself to that answer.
Then he pulls you into his arms, tight, protective, and you feel his chest rise and fall like he’s breathing for both of you.
He presses his face into your hair. “Okay.”
You whisper against his hoodie, “You’re shaking.”
He exhales a shaky laugh. “I’m not.”
You pull back just enough to look at him. “You are.”
Minho stares at you like he’s trying to memorize your face in this exact moment.
Then he cups your cheeks, thumbs brushing gently under your eyes.
“Okay,” he says again, quieter. “Okay. We can do this.”
Your throat burns. “Minho…”
He swallows. “Do you want this?”
The question is so careful it almost breaks you. Not assuming. Not pushing. Just checking in, like he’s holding your whole life in his hands and he refuses to squeeze.
You nod, a tiny movement, because you’re overwhelmed, because you’re scared, because you’re already thinking about a small backpack and tiny socks and your heart is doing something wild.
Minho’s face shifts instantly.
Relief.
Joy.
And something so tender it makes your chest ache.
He pulls you back into him and kisses your forehead, then your temple, then your cheek, like he can’t help it.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Then I want it too.”
You laugh through tears. “Your cats knew before us.”
Minho huffs. “They always know.”
As if on cue, the bedroom door cracks open a little and Dori peeks around the corner like he’s checking if everything’s handled.
Soonie walks in like he owns the place, tail high, and rubs against your leg with the smug energy of an animal who was right.
Doongie follows, eyes narrowed at Minho like he’s still suspicious of everyone except you.
Minho looks down at them, then back up at you, and the corners of his mouth lift.
“My kids,” he murmurs, half fond, half stunned. “You guys are actually insane.”
Minho’s hand slides to your stomach without thinking, palm warm, gentle, like he’s afraid to press too hard.
You stare at his hand there.
It’s so normal.
Minho catches you looking and his voice goes soft. “I’m gonna take care of you.”
Your eyes sting again. “You already do.”
He looks at you for a long second, then nods like he agrees.
“Still,” he says. “More.”
You laugh, watery. “You’re getting sentimental.”
Minho scoffs, offended. “I’m not sentimental.”
Doongie immediately hisses at nothing, just for emphasis.
You snort.
Minho glares at Doongie. “Stop that. We’re happy.”
Dori hops onto your lap like he’s clocking your emotional state and decided his job is to be heavy.
You run your fingers through his fur, still dazed.
Minho leans down, forehead touching yours gently.
“We’re not telling the guys yet,” he murmurs.
You blink. “Why not?”
“Because Changbin will scream,” Minho says, dead serious. “And Jisung will cry. And Felix will try to buy fifty baby outfits. And Seungmin will pretend he’s calm while silently panicking.”
You laugh. “And Hyunjin.”
Minho exhales like he’s already annoyed. “Hyunjin will make it about art.”
You cover your mouth, laughing harder. “And you.”
Minho pauses, then admits quietly, “I’m already panicking.”
You soften instantly. “Minho…”
He brushes your hair back, eyes steady. “It’s not bad panic. It’s… I want to do everything right.”
Your throat tightens.
You whisper, “Me too.”
Minho nods. “Then we will.”
He kisses you softly, quick, like a promise he’s making without saying it too loudly.
Behind you, Soonie flicks his tail like he approves.
Dori purrs so loud it’s ridiculous.
Doongie keeps staring at Minho like, good. Be serious.
You’re in the middle of a warm apartment in Seoul, with a boyfriend who’s trying not to cry, three cats who have decided you’re their sacred responsibility, and a future that suddenly feels terrifying and bright.
Minho presses his hand to your stomach again, voice low and reverent like he’s saying it to the universe.
“Hi,” he whispers, almost too quiet to hear. “I’m your dad.”
Your chest caves in with something sweet.
𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐤 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧.
|| ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ: 𝘴𝘰𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘺 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦. 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦. 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭: 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭, 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘣𝘶𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦’𝘴 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦. 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘶𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘦.
|| ᴡᴄ: 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝟷𝟶𝚔
|| ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭! 𝘭𝘦𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘟 𝘥𝘦𝘣𝘶𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦! 𝘧𝘦𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳
|| ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘶/ 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘶, 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩 𝘴𝘰𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘺, 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯-𝘪𝘴𝘩, 𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘨𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘺 𝘹 𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘦; 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘯 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘩𝘦𝘩𝘦
—
the foyer is gilded in shades of ivory and gold, glittering with the life of a hundred candle flames caught in the swirl of jewels and silks and the flutter of newly-minted debutantes fidgeting behind the oaken double doors.
chatter clings to the high-arched ceilings, nervous and breathless; a chorus of girls rehearsing smiles and bows, each one desperate to step perfectly into the season.
you know well enough the weight of it. this is your first season, your official unveiling to london’s endless eyes– the first measure by which society will decide who you are, what you’re worth. you repeat it like a prayer in your head: a right foot forward. the start matters most.
your mother’s hands are steady even when your own are not. she smooths the fall of your jewel-crusted gown one last time, adjusts the plume of white feather in your hair until it curves just so. “lift your chin,” she murmurs, as if you could forget. “grace is not in your steps, but in the way you take them. let them see you shine, my dear.”
your heart thunders, but you smile anyway. you’ve practiced until it feels natural, until it feels like yours.
trumpets sound just outside the foyer, and your name is called.
the oak doors creak open with a groan that swallows the breath of the girls around you. light spills in from the hall beyond, dazzling, a gauntlet of eyes and whispers and expectation lining each side of the carpeted walkway.
the queen of england sits at the end of it, watchful and all-seeing, waiting to bestow her judgement upon the season’s newest gems.
you step forward.
one step, then another. the marble gleams beneath your slippers, the expectation in the air a kind of music all its own now that the string quartet has stopped playing.
you don’t falter. your smile is soft, measured, certain. you hold yourself tall, shoulders proud yet smile humble, every movement stitched from the long hours of practice until it feels effortless; until it feels less like a performance, and more like the truth of you.
and it works. you can feel it: the ripple in the room, heads turning, whispers rising, a hush of curiosity sparking like a match being struck.
the queen regards you from her opulent throne. you expect little; no more than courtesy, a polite nod, the smallest flicker of approval that will deem you fit for the london season. instead, her mouth curves into something broader, warmer– a grin that seems to stretch across the cold hall stacked with nobility on all sides.
you reach the end of the plush carpet and sink into your curtsey, the one you’ve practiced since the day you lowered your hems.
your skirts sweep like water as you bow low and steady, every muscle sure as the sun that scatters beams across the polished floor. the jewels at your throat catch the light, the feathers in your hair sway; and when you rise, it is to a silence that hums with something gloriously close to possibility.
your chest fills, bright and hopeful, as though the whole of the season might unfold before you like an open sky.
“flawless,” the queen murmurs just loud enough for the ton to hear as you retreat to the side wings, stepping out of sight and into your mother’s open arms.
she hugs you tight as you grin widely, joy unrestrained at a perfect presentation.
“you’re every bit a diamond to me,” she says into your hair.
you believe her.
—
the danbury estate hosts the first ball of every season.
the tea room stands connected to the sweeping hall, smelling of spiced cakes and polished silver, the low hum of conversation punctuated by delicate clinks of porcelain. debutantes perch on stiff chairs, skirts arranged with meticulous care, fans fluttering nervously in their hands as though each measured wave could summon the favor of the ton.
they aren’t entirely wrong; you of all people understand the gravity a well-wielded fan can hold for a young woman.
laughter bubbles like champagne— sometimes real, sometimes tinkling in a carefully rehearsed pitch— as the first ball of the season looms like a sun just over the horizon: bright, inevitable, impossible to ignore.
you sip delicately from your cup, the warmth of the tea grounding your shaking fingers, and let your eyes wander across the room. the other girls whisper behind gloved hands, noting gowns and feathers, comparing bows and baubles, discussing eligible bachelors and scandal sheet rumors galore.
you try not to care. and you succeed, mostly; the thrill of the day, the memory of the queen’s grin, it makes every whispered observation around you feel smaller, a little less sharp. your heart still thrums, but it’s lighter now. your hope is buoyed by the sense that some way, somehow, you belong here too.
then the call comes.
the music swells to life through the corridors beyond; the herald of the ballroom, the first dance, the endless eyes and polished manners. you rise, letting your skirts glide over the marble floor, fan tucked neatly at your side. the chatter of the tea room falls behind you like a receding tide.
you move forward into the light bouncing off the looming crystal chandeliers, the scent of perfume and giddy anticipation tangling around you.
and with your mother at your side and the glitter of gowns at every angle, you step into the ballroom.
it is everything and more.
the floor gleams beneath a thousand flickering candle flames, mirrored walls multiplying the glitz of gems and glasses until the room seems to hum with a life of its own.
gentlemen patrol the perimeter, assessing, calculating, bows and smirks precise; ladies flit like birds, fans lifted demurely, whispers shaping and reshaping the currents of attention. every glance is a negotiation, every smile a signal; you move through it like a prism catching sunlight, aware of every ripple of interest that spreads from your presence.
you stay smiling soft and measured– partly practiced, partly true– letting the music guide your steps even as your lungs catch at the sight of all the eyes on you.
the moment is intoxicating, dizzying, and real in a way that rehearsals with dance instructors never captured. each step, each turn, feels like walking on air; and for the first time, the season does not feel like a performance. it feels like a possibility.
your first dance is with a gentleman named hyunjin.
he’s a duke, tall and handsome, with a charming smile and soft voice. he leads you through a quadrille with graceful movements as he tells you he’s travelled to london for the social season at the request of his sister, who remains in town year-round, though he much prefers staying home and working on the paintings he does for an esteemed gallery.
he’s an excellent conversationalist and an even better dancer; a perfectly respectable man. and yet… your heart doesn’t tug, your stomach doesn’t swoop. nothing sparks quietly to life in his presence. so when you bow at the end of the song, you nod to him politely and retreat.
you know how rare a love match is in this world of yours, where marriage is a contract and love a lofty goal. but you can’t help the way you long for romance, to be truly seen instead of merely asked to shine in place at a man’s side.
you’ll settle if you must– you’d be a fool not to. but tonight, at your first ball and your first taste of the matchmaking season london has to offer you, you feel you’re allowed to indulge in the desire to find a suitor who courts you for your heart, and not just your hand.
your smile stays poised, but your mind drifts as you walk toward the long table laden with refreshments on the edge of the ballroom. you wonder if you’ve yet caught anyone’s eye, and whether anyone might catch yours tonight.
you see him a half a second too late.
there’s a collision, sudden and unyielding, as a stranger’s form steps into your path at the very moment your skirts twirl for you to turn toward the punch bowl. your gloved hands rise reflexively, one catching a sleeve, the other brushing against a firm chest as your momentum halts.
the air between you sharpens, charged; you look up with an apology on your lips, but it dies the moment you see the cause of the crash.
he’s more than handsome, this stranger– raven hair, broad shoulders, sharp eyes and even sharper features. his gaze, dark and calculating, meet yours before you have time to put yourself meticulously back together.
“pardon me,” you murmur, cheeks warming, the collision somehow grounding and electrifying at once.
he doesn’t answer immediately. his stare lingers, assessing, something like subtle amusement twitching at the corner of his mouth despite the otherwise impeccable composure he wears like armor. there’s a flicker there— something you can’t name yet— that sets the room, the music, and the swirl of dancers momentarily aside.
your heart begins to tap out an entirely different rhythm.
“you’re pardoned,” he says simply. “though if that’s the kind of grace you reserve for ballrooms, i pity your next dance partner.”
you flush, fast and bright. your lipstick-stained mouth drops agape. “i’ll have you know that i am usually quite composed,” you breathe out. “i do believe it was you who intercepted my path, my lord.”
his gaze doesn’t waver; if anything, it sharpens, and you feel utterly exposed under the scrutiny of it– not unkind, but far too keenly observant. “and yet, of all the people in this ballroom, it’s my arm you are still clinging to.”
you’ve never moved faster than you do to retract your arm from where it was, indeed, still atop his sleeve, touch sparking under your gloved fingertips.
your lips part— first in protest, then in something closer to amusement. you’ve been looked at all evening, assessed and weighed and appraised, but never like this. not as though you are the one who slipped, who reached; not as though you’re still human beneath the sparkling mask of society you wear like an evening gown.
you eventually step back as if the touch itself might have branded you. cheeks warm, pulse quick, you tuck your fan a little tighter at your side and smooth your skirts, telling yourself with every measured breath that you are composed, that the collision was nothing more than a moment of inattentiveness. a fluke in an otherwise flawless evening.
he watches you do it, expression unreadable, but his eyes linger just long enough to make you aware that you are not merely regaining your footing— he is studying you. he catches the smallest twitch of your smile, the angle of your shoulders, the faint hitch of your breath as you bend to the punch bowl still under his watch; all cataloged, all observed.
“my lady,” he says finally, voice low, almost drowned by the swell of music and laughter around you. a single nod, polite but deliberate, punctuates his bow; and then he steps aside, letting the flow of dancers resume without giving you the comfort of forgetting him– nor the courtesy of telling you his name.
you exhale softly, heart still staccato beneath your ribs. the ballroom swirls around you, candles glinting off crystal and silk, the orchestra striking up a new measure, but all of it feels muted against the awareness of him.
you know, even before the next dance, that you will not forget the weight of that gaze, the exact point where your carefully honed composure first faltered.
and somewhere in the glittering night, a quiet thrill whispers that the season, long and ever so daunting, has just begun to promise you something unexpected.
–
it’s another night, another ball; another evening dedicated to hunting for your future while trying not to throw yourself directly into the lion’s den.
the chandeliers blaze above in the massive ballroom of the trowbridge manor, spilling warm light over polished floors and polished shoes alike. the orchestra hums through a waltz that rises like a tide, curling around the edges of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the rustle of silk.
the season has settled into its rhythm, and you find yourself wandering through the edges of the ballroom, a glass of sparkling wine in one hand and your fan twirling idly in the other, eyes darting to every nook, every whisper of movement.
and there he is.
of course he’s here. impossibly, intriguingly present against the far wall– he stands near the door like a sentinel, tall and still, observing the swirling bodies around him with that same unreadable composure you recall colliding into.
he doesn’t look like he belongs at a ball; he looks like he’s silently critiquing the choreography of society itself, the polite smiles, the shallow conversations, the way the music dictates the rhythm of every polite step.
he meets your gaze before you reach him, sharp and deliberate, as though he’s already calculated the moment you would arrive.
“i should have expected you,” he says, low, dry, but not unkind. “putting yourself in my path once again, hovering at the edge of this… circus.”
you smile, cheeks warming, a little proud that he noticed. “i could say the same for you, my lord,” you tease lightly. “stalking the corners, scowling at polite society as if it were a personal affront?”
he tilts his head ever so slightly, a ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “i do not scowl. i simply find these events… tiresome. lavish balls like this tend to insist on a level of frivolity that i take no pleasure in faking.”
“yet here you stand, as if waiting for someone to pull you into the fray,” you observe lightly, tipping your fan in a playful arc.
his brows raise ever so slightly. “careful, my lady. one might think you’re charming your way into writing my name on your dance card,” he teases.
you smile demurely. “at least it’s one way to ensure i get your name altogether,” you say back.
he gazes at you with that watchful way of his before he suddenly bows. “lee know,” he says at long last. “earl of suffolk. though some call me minho.”
you curtsy a little deeper– this time with genuine respect. you didn’t realize you were in the presence of an earl. “y/n,” you tell him, and he takes your hand. he raises it to his lips, the picture of a gentleman; but something deeper blooms behind those sharp eyes when he presses a kiss to the back of it, warm even through your glove.
“a pleasure to meet you again,” you say through a breathy exhale. if he notices the way you’ve started melting to a puddle before him, he doesn’t let on.
you melt further when he refuses to release your hand. “the pleasure is mine, my lady.” he returns the sentiment. then, surprising even himself, he gestures to the crowd of twirling couples. “seeing as i won’t be escaping the floor tonight, will you do me the honor?”
you give him a bright smile– more genuine than any you’ve given a suitor thus far– and allow him to lead you toward the floor, your skirts fanning slightly with each step.
the orchestra swells into a lilting waltz, strings curling like smoke around the chandeliers and the polished marble beneath your slippers. you feel the eyes of the ton brushing over you, hear the whispers and the gasps; but somehow, for the first time tonight, it doesn’t matter. all attention narrows to the steadily decreasing space between you and him.
his hands are precise as they find your waist, his grip guiding, not commanding; a subtle pressure that leaves your breath in short supply. your gloved hand rests in his, and the warmth that radiates through the thin fabric makes your chest flutter.
you’re aware of everything— the hum of the music, the swish of silk skirts, the faint shimmer of his sleeve under your fingers— and yet it’s as if the ballroom itself has faded away.
the music swells as he leads you into the dance. every step is sure, every spin is flawless as he moves with you on the floor; you hold his gaze, a smile quirking at your lips while the two of you move almost perfectly in sync.
“you dance well,” he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. the words tickle your ear and make your lips twitch with amusement. “i did not expect such finesse, though maybe i should have.”
you tilt your head, teasing without meaning to. “it’s hardly finesse,” you counter softly, “just a knack for keeping my footing.” and yet your heart stutters in a way that feels a little like defiance— your bright, radiant self refusing to be entirely subdued by his cool intensity. it’s an electrifying kind of push and pull flaring to life between you and the earl.
his gaze, dark and unwavering, flicks down to your hands, your posture, the faint lift of your chin, the proud gleam in your eye at finally using skills you’ve spent your life thus far acquiring. “fascinating,” he says, “so much of the ton fakes it, and yet you… seem to enjoy it.”
fascinating. the word lands heavier than it should. a small laugh escapes you, breathless and bright, as you step together in time with the music. “or perhaps,” you say, letting your voice melt soft enough for only him to catch, “i merely choose my performances carefully.”
he smirks, the corner of his mouth twitching with a hint of something almost tender— though he would never admit it. “i see,” he murmurs, pulling you just slightly closer as you pivot. “well, my lady, i would be remiss not to tell you that such a performance disarms me entirely.”
you feel the heat climb your neck, a blush threatening to spill over. the warmth of his chest beneath your hand, the faint brush of his fingers against your own, the ease with which he anticipates your movement— it all has your head spinning in a delicious, dizzying way.
you’re usually the observer, the one measuring, calculating, sparkling in the light. tonight, for the first time, you are observed. fully, intensely, and it sets you alight.
you tease gently, “is it merely performance that disarms you, my lord?” and if he didn’t know any better, he’d say you were being coy. his own grin spreads, still not smiling in full, but wide enough to tell you he’s enjoying himself.
the music crests and your steps glide in tandem, a rhythm that feels half choreography, half instinct. his hand at your waist is firm but not possessive, guiding, holding, yet somehow giving you freedom to shine. you tilt your head to meet his gaze again.
“i do not believe i’ve ever encountered someone like you,” he says quietly, words clipped yet deliberate. a whisper meant only for you amidst the swirl of the ballroom. “someone who radiates light and yet refuses to be subdued by the expectations of shining.”
your chest hitches, caught between amusement and something far more perilous: a quiet, racing awareness that he sees you. not just the gowns, the sparkle, the decorum, the expected radiance— you. and it makes you melt in ways even you couldn’t predict.
you bite back a laugh, letting your head tilt. “and you,” you reply, voice light but steady, “remain entirely too serious for a man waltzing the evening away.”
he doesn’t answer immediately, only lets the corner of his mouth twitch again in that near-smile, his eyes dark and intent. then he inclines his head slightly, a subtle acknowledgment of your defiance. “perhaps,” he says finally, “it is your brightness that forces my seriousness. it is inconveniently captivating.”
the word hangs between you, sweet and sharp, almost a caress. you feel your heart lurch, the beat of it dancing with the music, and dare not break eye contact. his hands, your hands, the weight of the dance, the glitter of the ball— they all press in on your every sense, the word “captivating” clanging through you like the peal of a ringing bell.
and yet, through it all, your voice carries light: “well then, my lord,” you murmur, letting your grin curve just enough, “i do hope inconvenience becomes the theme of your evening.”
his smirk deepens, fleeting and tantalizing; and for a heartbeat you forget the world beyond the floor, beyond the chandeliers, beyond the polished toes and perfumed silks. it is just the two of you, caught in a rhythm that teeters between propriety and something sweetly genuine, something that promises more.
as the waltz draws to its final measure, he releases your hand with a deliberate, reluctant precision, but his gaze lingers. “i look forward to the next dance, my lady,” he says, voice low, carrying a weight of promise and restrained intent. he bows deeply at the waist.
you curtsy in return, cheeks still warmed, pulse still racing, letting your fan slip slightly from your grip as you retreat with a flourish.
behind the curtain of polite applause, your chest hums with something entirely new: the thrilling, dangerous possibility that this season, this dance, and this earl… might just be the first step toward something you’ve always known you wanted, but never thought you’d find.
a love match.
—
you’ve entertained a long line of callers each morning since your debut almost a week ago; but none of them have yet struck your fancy.
there was lord jisung, a second son who did not seem entirely serious in his pursuit of you; followed by the baron seo changbin, who was pleasant as could be, but… still no flutter. you smiled politely as the young lord jeongin regaled you with tales of his most recent travels, blushed appropriately when hyunjin, the duke, stopped by with a bouquet of simple white daisies— but none of it felt meaningful.
none of them looked deep enough to see the heart of you lying beneath the carefully crafted mask of splendor you always wore for society.
the rest of the week passed similarly, with you sitting in your family home’s drawing room as flowers and small somethings collected on a table near your plush chair, gentlemen of all stations coming to call on you and curry favor.
but your eyes always drifted to the door, awaiting the magnetic pull you’d felt twice now with someone else.
your mother noticed.
it’s another such morning today, your eyes on the door, your latest suitor held at bay by the side table laden with crumpets and teacakes. “dearest,” your mother says soft enough for your ears only, “you seem distracted as of late. are you… waiting for someone specific to come call?”
you whip your head around to her. “is it truly that obvious?” you whisper, slightly mortified. your hand comes up to cover your reddening cheeks.
she laughs quietly, shaking her head. “i’m your mother, y/n, it’s my duty to notice everything,” she says shrewdly. “i only wonder who it is that has your head in such a spin.”
you open your mouth to say something, to ask her how she felt when your father first started courting her— but the door opens at that exact moment, your gatesman stepping in to announce another arrival.
“the earl of suffolk, lee minho.” he introduces before stepping away.
and behind him stands the only man in all of london capable of stopping and starting your heart again in the same breath.
lee know is dressed in a waistcoat of palest blue, cuffs rolled back to make room for the kid gloves that rest over hands clutching a perfectly-arranged bouquet of peonies. his hair is swept back today, collar a stiff, perfect white; you hold back a dreamy sigh as he fully enters the drawing room.
he bows politely to your mother before sinking lower for you, mouth twitching with the beginnings of what could be a smile. “my lady,” he greets you, straightening and approaching the chair you’ve lounged in all morning. the other suitor scoffs and leaves the room, unheard and sorely unmissed.
lee know extends the bouquet of pink flowers to you, and you rise to curtsy before taking them, cradling them in the crook of your arm. “these are exquisite, my lord,” you hum, “you are too kind.”
he huffs a laugh. “not quite what you insinuated when we first met, but i’ll gladly take the compliment.” you laugh, too: real, soft, a little startled by his candor. but it’s genuine, and you much prefer that to the rest of the ton’s polite attentions.
your mother stands from her place beside you to tend to the tea table, giving minho ample room to sit nearby. you sink back into your seat in sync with him, and hold your peonies close to your heart.
“i… am delighted to see you of course,” you start, “but i must admit i’m a little surprised. i did not think you fond of the practices of courtship.”
he smiles then, for the first time– and it’s a dazzling, unrestrained thing, beautiful in its rarity. “you’d be correct,” he agrees, “but i’m rather fond enough of you to put aside my distaste, at least for the time being.” he says it with the faintest chuckle.
you nearly swoon.
the earl of suffolk is fond of you.
your starstruck gaze has nothing to do with the title and everything to do with the man behind it. handsome, yes– but more than that, there’s something magnetic about his presence, something that beckons you closer anytime he’s near. you felt it first when you collided, then again on the dancefloor; it pulses even now, something deeper than charm, deeper than flattery.
your smile spreads. “i’m honored you came to call,” you say simply. your mother watches on with a knowing look as you fall into easy conversation: lee know leans slightly closer, voice pitched low enough to cut beneath the murmur of the drawing room.
“tell me, my lady, have you yet found this season as tiresome as i have long suspected it would be?”
you laugh softly at his question, tilting your head. “and what gave me away? was it my overly polite smiles, or the way i nearly fell asleep while the countess recited what a lady ought to be at her soiree the other night?”
his lips twitch. “i confess, i wondered whether you might die of boredom before she finished. it would have been most inconvenient if you had.”
your eyes brighten at his dry tone, pleased to find your mind being courted just as much as the rest of you. “ah, and here i thought you altogether indifferent to my survival.”
he regards you steadily, expression unreadable but gaze intent. “not indifferent,” he says at last, “only… discreet. i find the truth is better offered sparingly.”
you lean in a little despite yourself, caught by the rare honesty. “you’ve already given me quite a large share of it, my lord.”
a moment of comfortable silence passes between you; then, softer, genuine, his reply comes. “perhaps you are owed it.”
he glances toward the bouquet still nestled in your arm. “i was told peonies signify good fortune. i wondered if it might be presumptuous to bring them to you.”
your fingers tighten slightly around the stems, warmth in your cheeks. “and yet you did anyways,” you observe playfully.
his mouth curves, the faintest smirk appearing where that dazzling smile was only moments ago. “i have been accused of stubbornness before.”
you laugh quietly, lowering your gaze for a moment before meeting his eyes again. “i should think persistence a virtue in a gentleman.”
he tilts his head, watching you as though he’s weighing more than your words. “hmm… i suppose i should count myself fortunate you see it so.”
there’s a pause, filled only by your soft laughter and the clink of porcelain as your mother pours tea. his voice softens. “i admit, i find our conversations less exhausting than most.”
you arch a brow, amused. “a high praise coming from you, to be sure.”
his eyes glint, the faintest trace of affection flickering through the dryness. “do not grow too proud of it. i said less exhausting, not invigorating.”
your lips twitch despite yourself, laughter threatening at the edge of composure. “you wound me, my lord.”
he inclines his head, grave but with a trace of warmth. “on the contrary. i find you remarkably resilient.”
another silence settles;this one again comfortable, even if it’s charged. then he shifts, smoothing his gloves. “perhaps,” he begins, those knowing eyes fixed almost hopefully on yours, “perhaps you might allow me to test that resilience again… maybe upon a promenade later this week?”
your heart stutters, composed smile widening into something sweet and genuine despite yourself. “mm, i do believe i could be persuaded.”
lee know rises and takes your hand in his, pressing a kiss to the back of it and sending sparks flying through your every inch and hollow. he retracts with a grin that tells you he knows exactly the effect he’s had, tipping his head in your mother’s direction, then again towards you.
his bow is shallow, but deliberate. “i look forward to it, my lady.”
and when he leaves, your mother sets her teacup down with a wholly undignified clank.
“so that’s the man you’ve been holding out for,” she says with a wink. “what a season your debut is shaping up to be thus far.”
you look to the window and say nothing, cheeks ablaze; but you cradle your peonies close to your heart, already reliving every moment spent in the earl’s presence.
–
the last promenade of the month is at its height, ladies’ silks brushing past in every color as gentlemen’s laughter rolls under the clip-clop of horses further down the avenue. it’s poor weather for a stroll; but the ton seems unbothered by the looming clouds, the threat of rain on this crisp autumn afternoon. parasols bloom up and down the cobbled streets as you approach the earl of suffolk.
it ought to feel suffocating, this many eyes, this many voices.
and yet.
before you’ve even finished your curtsy, lee know hands you a bouquet of lilacs.
the stems are cool against your palm, the blooms pale and luminous, already bowing their heads as if shy of all this display. you curl them close to your chest as if you can shield them from the rest of the world.
“you’ll have me spoiled before the season is over with all these flowers,” you murmur, but your voice is too soft, too sincere to sound like the polite banter you are expected to trade. it caves and gives way to something genuine, something touched.
his mouth twitches with the barest hint of amusement, and for a moment the crowd might as well not exist. “that would be most unfortunate indeed. we cannot risk that,” he says playfully.
you fall into step together, the silence settling comfortably. the walkway is crowded, yes; but there’s a strange kind of space carved out between you, a pocket where conversation flows clean, unforced, every pause natural and every laugh ringing true.
“tell me,” you say after a while, “why do you despise it so?”
he glances sidelong, brows lifting. “society?”
you nod, hugging the flowers tighter, half teasing. “you can hardly hide it.”
his exhale is almost a laugh, though there’s no humor in it. “it isn’t the people,” he says, “not really. it’s the playacting.” his jaw tightens, words pressed out like the sentiment is something he’s long carried. “the way every glance, every word is calculated, spun for pretense. nothing said is meant. nothing meant is said.”
there’s a rawness there, so at odds with the careful civility around you both. you slow a little to catch his eye. “and you,” you say gently, “are not one for pretense.”
he shakes his head once, decisive. “i’ve never seen the sense in it. what use is the mask, if no one ever knows your face?”
for a heartbeat, you say nothing; because you understand the sentiment. too well, in fact.
“i think,” you say, softer still, “perhaps i know what you mean.” he turns his head at that, surprise flickering. you add, “they dress me up, sit me in rooms, expect me to smile until my jaw aches. always on display. i play the part they want, even when i’d rather be anywhere else. even when it’s everything i know, and yet nothing like me at all.”
something eases in his expression. not sympathy exactly, but… recognition. you feel it as surely as if his hand had brushed yours.
and so you walk— slowly, side by side— not speaking for a while, but the silence is companionable, carrying weight of its own.
when he does speak again, it’s quieter. “then perhaps that’s why this feels—” he stops, clears his throat, and tries again. “—different.”
you glance at him, heart pressing madly against your ribs. “different?”
his gaze flicks to the lilacs cradled in your arms, then back to you. “real,” he says simply.
your lips part, a reply hovering— but before you can, thunder cracks loud across the skies, already grey, now turning darker.
the storm is sudden. it’s the kind that sweeps through london with no regard for silk skirts or polished boots. you gasp as the first heavy drops fall, clutching the flowers tighter against your chest.
lee know looks up at the sky as though he thinks a cold enough glare could keep the rain from falling and spoiling the time he’s spending with you. “come,” he mutters, his hand already at your elbow.
he steers you with brisk precision beneath the awning of a bookseller’s shop, the world beyond already dissolving into rain-slick cobblestones and the squeals of ladies ducking into storefronts.
you breathe out a laugh, half from nerves, half from delight at the chaos. “we’ve narrowly escaped ruination,” you joke, tilting your face up toward the edge of the canopy where droplets tumble like diamonds behind his head.
his eyes catch on you— your smile a little untamed at the corners, your usually-perfect hair glistening damp at the edges— and his almost fond gaze lingers a moment too long before he looks away. “ruination comes in stranger forms than a mere storm,” he replies dryly, shaking out one gloved hand.
you hug the lilacs close while staying tucked tight and dry under the shelter. “you always speak as if you’ve swallowed riddles, my lord,” you tease him.
his mouth twitches. “and you always demand plain answers.”
you glance up at him, heart skittering. the ton mills on around you— blurred faces hurrying beneath awnings and soaked parasols— yet here, beneath this narrow hideaway from the rain, it feels impossibly private.
“tell me,” you murmur, emboldened by the hush of falling water, “do you despise all of societies demands, or only its games?”
he exhales, gaze flicking to the street as if to avoid your eyes; but the truth slips free anyway. “i despise the normalcy of presenting what’s false. the masks. the empty words. if i am to speak, it must be… honest.”
your chest aches at the sincerity tucked inside his rough edges. “and you think honesty has no place in these circles?”
“i think it is rarely recognized.” his eyes find yours again, sharp and unflinching. “but you—” he cuts himself off, jaw working.
“but me…?” you press, soft, leaning ever so slightly in as though he’s confessing some great secret.
he looks like he might be.
he shakes his head, lips twitching as if to smother what almost escaped. he seems to be at a loss for words, staring at you like you’re his favorite puzzle; with his mouth set in a determined line, he shrugs out of his outermost coat, draping it firmly over your shoulders to keep away the chill of the rain. the weight of it is grounding, the gesture wordless but devastatingly intimate.
the scent of something woodsy and cedar floods your senses, drowning you in the fabric and the feel of him without hardly touching your skin. you fight back a swoon as he gently takes the bouquet from your grasp, allowing you to hold the coat closed around yourself.
you hold his gaze, your smile softer and sweeter than ever. “you are too kind, my lord,” you whisper, meaning far more than the coat.
you watch his throat bob as he struggles to respond; you wait patiently as he works up the words, “nothing is too kind for you, my lady.”
and though the rain hammers on, you swear the world has gone very, very still.
your fingers toy absently with the edge of the coat sleeve, as though you might anchor yourself there, though the gesture is small enough to be mistaken for nerves. “then i am glad you chose to speak to me, at least,” you murmur.
his eyes soften, rare and unguarded, and for a moment the rain itself seems to hush. “i should hope,” he says lowly, “that you’ve no cause to doubt me.”
the words linger, a promise heavier than the storm. you gaze at him with wide eyes, soft in their honesty, in the emotion you allow to break through. “none at all,” you say softly, quiet as a whisper.
the sharp clatter of hooves cuts through the moment before it can bloom properly. a carriage rounds the corner too quickly, muddy wheels kicking up water from the gutter. the horse gives a high-pitched neigh, a driver shouts a too-late warning– and in the same instant, lee know’s hand finds your waist.
swiftly, instinctively, he draws you back from the street side of the walk, his body angled protectively between yours and the oncoming carriage. the splash streaks across the cobblestones, missing you both by just a few short inches.
you blink up at him, breath caught in your throat— not from the near-miss, but from the steady pressure of his hand at your side. a touch you’ve felt only in dreams.
but the earl is very real and very much awake before you; his jaw is tight, eyes scanning the street with sharp irritation before flicking down to you. “forgive me,” he says, voice rougher now, hand lingering a second too long before he lets go. “i thought it best not to risk your gown.”
your heart gives a betraying flutter. “you think of everything, my lord,” you whisper, though it comes out more like a sigh than a quip.
a pause, charged. then, with the faintest curl of his lips, his words come soft: “not everything. only what matters.” his gloved hand tucks a damp curl behind your ear with a touch so gentle it aches.
the rain drums steadily onward, the clop of the horse and carriage fading quickly, though all you can hear is the echo of his last words reverberating through your chest and your heart beating like a drum within your ears.
“oh, heavens!” your mother’s voice pierces the cocoon, brisk and fluttering. she emerges from the modiste with her maid in tow, eyes wide as they sweep over the two of you. “my poor darlings, you’re both soaked!”
you step quickly from lee know’s side, cheeks warm like never before. “we managed, mama—”
“nonsense,” she interrupts, bustling forward to fuss with your hair before turning her attentions to him. “lord suffolk, you must come with us at once. our carriage is just beyond the corner. you’ll catch your death standing here in this rain.”
he bows his head slightly, a polite shield lowering back into place across his features. “you are most generous, my lady, but i do not wish to impose—”
“impose?” she laughs, sounding scandalized at the very suggestion. “sir, you saved my daughter from a spray of mud that would have surely ruined her gown. at the very least, you must allow us to return the favor with a dry seat and a hot fire.”
his gaze flicks to yours, as though seeking your judgment. there’s the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes, though he schools it quickly.
“if it is your wish, my lady,” he concedes at last, the smallest sigh escaping with his words. “i could not deny your hospitality.”
your heart skips as you meet his gaze— a fleeting spark of something private passing between you, even in the full glare of society.
“splendid,” your mother declares, already gathering her skirts to lead the way. “come along, before the rain does any more damage.”
he offers you his arm again— formal, proper— but the heat of his touch through your damp sleeve is enough to make your heart race all the way to the carriage.
and when he spends the rest of the early afternoon engaged in earnest conversation with your father once warmed and dry, tucked into the setting of your drawing room like he’s always belonged there, you feel like the clouds have rolled back from the heavens and sent a sunbeam through your heart.
—
the green expanse of the racecourse is alive.
parasols tilt against the sun, jewel-toned gowns sweeping past as vendors call out candied almonds, lemon ices, ribbons for sale. the ton has turned out in full splendor, voices bubbling with laughter and speculation as sleek horses toss their manes in the distance, preparing to soon run along the track.
it’s a beautiful day for a race. you’re perched delicately at the edge of your seat, eager for the spectacle to begin. at one side, your mother fans herself to keep the heat of the spring day from her face; at the other side, lee know presses softly against you, knees touching, hands moving in an uncharacteristically lively conversation he’s having with your father.
the easy baritone of your father’s laugh mixes with lee know’s quieter, amused chuckles, a harmony unexpected yet comforting. you can see it in the way lee know tilts his head, listening with rapt attention, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corners of his mouth whenever your father recounts some anecdote from last season’s races.
your chest swells at the sight: the man who is usually all reserve and careful measure is here, fully present, and— astonishingly— enjoying himself. with your family.
“and so i told the steward,” your father is saying, waving a hand in mild exasperation, “if you’d just inspect the stables properly, none of this would’ve happened. a shame, really.”
lee know’s gloved hand brushes lightly against your arm as he gestures, an imperceptible echo of camaraderie forming in the sunlight. “truly, your expertise is unmatched, sir,” he replies, voice even but warm, the compliment carrying a weight of respect that makes your stomach do a little flip.
your father is beaming towards the earl like he’s a long-lost son. you open your mouth to get a word in the spirited conversation; but before you can, the starter calls the horses to the gate, his voice cutting across the murmurs and laughter of the crowd.
you lean forward on the edge of your seat, parasol forgotten in your hand, heart already thrumming in anticipation. each horse shifts, hooves pawing the dirt, nostrils flaring. the race commences the moment a rifle is fired at the side of the track, and the horses come alive.
“and… they’re off!” the announcer cries. the racers surge forward in a sudden blur of muscle, mane, and color. cheers erupt around you, umbrellas tipping and gowns fluttering as the crowd leans in. your eyes follow every sleek stride, every powerful push, as though you could will your favorite forward by sheer force of attention.
lee know leans slightly toward you, his hand brushing yours at the faintest touch, and you feel a spark trail up your arm. “look at them go,” he murmurs, voice low enough that only you can hear, carrying a note of awe you would have thought impossible in such a controlled man.
you tilt your head, catching his eyes, and the moment lingers for a heartbeat before the din of hooves sweeps you back into the spectacle.
the wind picks up, carrying the smell of damp earth and spring blooms, tugging at your hair. the horses are neck and neck, the jockeys hunched low, spurs flashing as they push the animals harder. cheers rise and fall like waves; you clutch the handle of your forgotten parasol tighter, your pulse syncing with the pounding hooves.
your mother leans close, her fan laying at her side. “oh, my dear, watch the bay horse— see how it moves? so elegant, so precise. that is a winner.” you nod, though your gaze darts between the horses, the jockeys, and the shifting expressions around you; and again, unconsciously, to lee know’s face.
his jaw is set, eyes sharp, but there’s a light there now, a glimmer you’ve never caught before.
they round the final bend, muscles taut, hooves striking sparks from the track. the crowd rises as one, voices swelling in a roar of anticipation. your chest hammers. the bay horse leans forward, ears pinned, nostrils flaring, and in the final stretch, it pulls ahead, a heartbeat before the others.
the red ribbon tears and flutters to the ground as the horse runs right through it, first place.
“victory!” the announcer cries, and the sound rips through the air, triumphant and thrilling. confetti flutters in the breeze, parasols lift and lower, and the crowd erupts in claps and cheers.
you laugh, breathless, heart soaring, swept up in the pure, unrestrained exhilaration of the moment. lee know’s hand finds yours— deliberate, grounding, fingers curling over yours with a silent weight. it feels so right.
you’re struck with the sudden realization that you want him to hold your hand for the rest of your life.
you turn to gaze at him, sure your epiphany is shining in your eyes; when he meets your stare, he gives you that rare, unrestrained smile that makes your heart knock clamorously against the walls of your chest.
you hold in a sigh as your father distracts him, clapping a hand to his shoulder.
the horse is led back, ribbons fluttering, the jockey removing his cap in polite acknowledgment of the applause. you lean forward, craning your neck to admire its sleek coat and proud stance.
the bay horse tosses its mane, head high, eyes bright, and you swear you can feel its energy and triumph in your own chest alongside the warmth that’s curled up there.
you let your mother take your attention, leaning toward her to admire the winning horse— the dark bay with a glossy coat— as the crowd cheers. ribbons flutter, and the animal is guided around the track, head high, eyes bright.
your mother nudges you playfully. “see? nothing like witnessing excellence in motion. don’t you agree?”
you nod, but your gaze flickers to lee know and your father just long enough to catch a look: subtle, serious, almost conspiratorial. something shifts in the set of his shoulders as he leans slightly closer, whispering words you cannot hear, yet you can feel the intent radiating from him.
the faint brush of his sleeve against your father’s signals more than conversation; it carries an unspoken purpose that makes your pulse thrum with curiosity. your mother notices as well, brows drawing upward in surprise.
before you can ask, she tugs at your arm, guiding you out of your seats and toward the stables for closer admiration of the victor. you follow, the sunlight warm on your cheeks, the scent of hay and spring grass in the air; though you notice the space beside you feels heavier, as if lee know had taken some essential weight with him.
when you glance back toward where he had been standing, they are moving together down a sun-dappled path, your father nodding, lee know’s expression just stiff enough to hold decorum but soft enough in the eyes to betray the enormity of what he’s asking.
you see his mouth curl with your name, unmistakable even from this distance. your father clasps his hands behind his back.
your heart lurches with the realization, though your lips stay curved in a polite smile at your mother. she comments on the horse’s muscled flanks, its proud stance, and you nod and laugh, your mind straying repeatedly to the two men disappearing toward the rose garden, the enormity of the conversation not lost on you.
sunlight catches on lee know’s hair in a halo-like sweep, his profile etched sharp against the blue of the sky. he looks every inch the earl and yet entirely himself: commanding, poised, and utterly vulnerable in the singular way he only allows around you.
you take a slow, steadying breath, letting the breeze and the cheer of the ton wash over you, yet it cannot erase the thrill in your chest.
the day has been full of small, perfect moments: the warmth of his hand against yours earlier, the laughter shared between your father and him, the quiet care in his attention. and now, knowing— or at least suspecting— what he’s doing, the intensity sharpens, sweet and dizzying, like champagne bubbles sliding across your tongue.
the horses trot past on the track, hooves striking the ground in a rhythm that mirrors your heartbeat. your mother’s hand squeezes yours as she guides you back toward the pavilion, speaking about the elegance of the day, the bright spring weather, the excitement of the crowd.
but your mind cannot leave that path, cannot leave lee know, cannot stop thinking of the weight of a question hanging in the space between him and your father.
the world feels simultaneously vast and impossibly small, and entirely, deliciously yours.
—
the terrace gleams under a scatter of stars, lanterns flickering along the balustrade and catching every glint of silver embroidery, every facet of polished jewels.
a hush of music drifts upward from the ballrooms below, mingling with the cool night air, and you can feel it wrap around you like a soft shawl, carrying the scent of roses and cedarwood. couples drift across the stone floor in careful steps, the occasional rustle of silk or tap of a slipper against marble breaking the cadence of the string quartet.
and there, before you even think to speak, lee know finds you again.
his hand is out, simple and deliberate, and you step into it, letting your fingers curl around his. the weight of his palm is grounding, steadying, but it also sends that delicious flutter up your arms and through your entire body, right to the tips of your toes.
“may i have this dance?” he asks, voice low, meant only for you. the question feels ceremonial, but also intimate, like he’s offering not just the steps, but a piece of himself.
“always,” you whisper, letting the word slide over the terrace breeze, and he pulls you into the rhythm of the waltz, soft, sure, with a gentle gravity that makes the rest of the world fade away.
the stars above catch in the folds of your dress, scattering light like tiny whispers across the terrace. candlelight flickers in every lantern, dancing across his jawline, the edges of his collar, the subtle sharpness of his expression softened in the moon’s glow.
your noses nearly brush as he leans slightly, murmuring something low and teasing into the curve of your ear. your chest rises in a laugh, breathless, though your lips can’t quite smile fully; the moment feels too sacred, too spun from quiet magic.
“you look luminous,” he says, words threaded with sincerity and awe, “you put the stars above to shame, my lady.”
you tilt your chin, teasing him with your gaze. “and you,” you reply softly, “dance as if you’ve been waiting all your life for this moment.”
he smiles– a true one, lighting his eyes up like stars when it curls. ”perhaps i have been.”
his hands, one at your waist and the other clasping your own, are a conversation in themselves, pressing, guiding, letting go and claiming space in equal measure. the terrace shrinks around you both; the other couples, the music, the distant chatter— all of it dissolve into a haze of starlight and breath and warmth.
he leans closer in a turn, almost a whisper away from your lips. “i can’t seem to look anywhere else,” he admits quietly, and you catch the flicker of vulnerability beneath his usual composure. your own heart stutters in response, answering with the same truth.
“nor can i,” you breathe, letting the words hang, shimmering in the moonlight between you.
each step becomes an extension of the other— a pivot, a dip, a gentle spin— but even in motion, your gaze never breaks. there’s a sweetness in the restraint: every whispered comment, every small laugh, every almost-touch becomes electric because of what you both hold back, and because of what you allow.
the world narrows to this terrace, this night, this rhythm, and the stars above seem to tilt their light just to catch the shimmer in his eyes, in the jewels along your dress as it swirls around your slippered feet, in the quiet admiring stare you cannot hide.
and when the music swells to a crescendo, he dips you carefully, hand steady at your back, eyes never leaving yours.
for a heartbeat, it feels as if time itself has stilled— the night, the lanterns, the terrace, the rest of the ton— and the only truth that exists is the soft warmth pressed between your hands, the shared breath, the closeness of your faces, the gentle gravity of a bond both newly found and ancient in its inevitability.
he straightens, brushing a stray curl behind your ear, thumb lingering just a fraction too long. “moonlight suits you,” he murmurs, and you swear your chest might burst, the words more than flattery; they are promise, confession, and delight wrapped in a single ribbon of sound.
you tilt your head toward him, letting your lips curve in a smile that’s only for him. “and so does honesty,” you reply softly, “with no pretense at all.”
the waltz slows, fading like a tide, but neither of you lets go. the terrace is quiet, the stars steady, the lanterns soft, and the night seems impossibly, breathtakingly endless.
“then perhaps i may be more honest still, my lady.” he says suddenly. you peer up at him, at a loss for what he could mean.
“whatever do you–” you begin, but your words fail the instant he kneels to the ground before you, body braced on one knee.
your lungs cease functioning, and your heart thuds madly, a caged animal in your chest.
he begins to speak words you’ve only ever dreamt of hearing. “i… have never been much of a poet with my words,” he says softly, hand reaching into his pocket as your eyes well up. “you deserve every pretty sonnet and thoughtful verse the world has to offer you, y/n. but i feel no words can capture how ardently i love you.”
you cover your mouth with your other hand for fear of an inhuman noise escaping you.
minho pulls out a velveteen box and opens it to you, revealing a diamond ring that rests inside. the moonlight catches on it just right, the stone refracting little beams of light in scattered stars.
“i have loved you from the moment we collided in that ballroom. i’ve loved you at every dance and party, every time you tried to make me break a smile. i love you when you are polished and polite for the ton to see, but i love you most decidedly more when you are unabashedly yourself, when you let me see further into that golden heart of yours.”
he holds your hand in his and meets your eyes, shining with hope and adoration. “will you marry me?”
you’re silent for only a moment, his confession reeling in your mind.
and then you’re throwing yourself into his arms.
“yes,” you grin as the tears behind your lashes finally fall, happiness unrestrained as it flows out of your heart and down your cheeks, “yes, a thousand times over. until the end of time.”
lee know laughs softly as he stands, holding you to his chest for a brief moment before he’s reaching for your hand and finally slipping the silk of your glove off of it.
he holds it with utmost care, slipping that starlit ring onto your finger, and then your eyes flutter shut as he presses the softest of kisses to your forehead, holding you close. you resume swaying slowly to the music still playing even as onlookers continue gasping and cooing, even as the world seems to tilt beneath your feet.
“i have loved you,” you whisper, “from the moment we met. and i shall love you for every moment after, lee know.”
he exhales like he’s been holding his breath all his life, and only now can he relax.
“then i shall love you even longer.” he says as he kisses your hand once more, lips pressed to the finger where his ring now shines like the sun.
—
and when the london social season comes to a close soon after?
when he kisses you at that altar, wearing white and promising you forever?
it feels like coming home.
the end.
𝓽𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽: @dolphin-scream-s @annyeongffs @dragon03138 @bbokaricentral @harmonygal @monmonie @ikykleeknoww @hammertimewithchan
Right Where I Want You Master List
Summary: An unbonded, sickly omega stumbles onto Joel Miller’s cabin in a snowstorm—unaware he’s been quietly guiding her there for days. As her heat blooms and instincts take over, Joel’s careful control gives way to possessive obsession. She thinks she found safety by chance. He knows she’s exactly where he wanted her.🐺🧬🐺🧬🐺🧬🐺🧬🐺🧬🐺🧬
Warnings:🔞 a/b/o dynamics, mildly dubious consent, omegaverse, p in v sex, biting, marking, possessive Joel
Chapters:COMPLETED
1.Intro
2. Her Luck, His Design
3. Unspoken Yes
4. Kind Eyes Caged Heart
5. A Gentle Trap
6. Where Do You Think You're Going?
7. You Don't Have to Hold Me Together Anymore
8. Close Enough to Matter
9. Pick Anything You Want
10. Let Me Have Something That's Mine
11. What We Keep
12. This Pack, This Peace
13. Mine, Always
14. First Snow
15. The Knock at the Door
16. Babysitting and Bullshit
17. Lights in the Cold
18. The Detour
Tags: @thoughts-of-bear @shadowunicorn-684 @lokidbadguy @behomewhenthestreetlightscomeon @drenix004
𐔌 아이엔 .ᐟ ꒱ ─ how to braid a heart.
YANG JEONGIN! ⓘ when you walk in on him learning to braid hair.. for you?
⌣ ﹒ ✿ ﹕ 𝑏f!jeongin ₊ 𝑓em!reader ˙ . ꒷ g. fluff ! 4300wc. ⎯⎯ ᒪIᗷᖇᗩᖇY ⟢ cw. pure love, intimacy, cursing, unfunny jokes, bickering, rain (again). ┆ ☆ ⋮ drabble .ᐟ
𝑦𝑎𝑛𝑖'𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑙 𓈒 𓈒 ⭑ and back again with another mini drabble! I'M SORRY IT KEEPS GETTING LONG. I CAN'T HELP IT. I SWEAR I TRIED MY BEST OKAY. happy reading!
it starts on a rainy afternoon.
the sky’s an overcast blur, cottony grey and soft like the hush of a lullaby. outside the window, the rain’s been drizzling for hours—persistent, gentle. the kind that makes people want to curl into themselves and disappear under a hoodie. the kind that fills a boy’s bedroom with the scent of petrichor and lazy light and something warm, something waiting.
inside, the air is thick with the hum of effort and youtube hair tutorials.
yang jeongin is frowning.
deeply. intensely. so much that the tiny crease between his brows could write a thesis on how absolutely ridiculous this is.
his long legs are folded awkwardly on his bed, laptop perched dangerously on a too-fluffy pillow, volume turned down low like he’s committing a crime. on-screen, a chipper woman with shiny nails is explaining, once again, how to start a simple three-strand braid. he doesn’t know what “detangle thoroughly” is supposed to mean when the practice mannequin he bought off some shady online store came tangled, like the thing had beef with him in a past life.
jeongin sighs. sharp and dramatic. like a man defeated by plastic hair.
"why am i doing this," he mutters, though it's the twentieth time he’s said it and the answer never changes.
his fingers, ringed and slender, hover in the air like he’s diffusing a bomb. he’s watched four videos already—two american vloggers, one british lady, and a girl named chloe who made it look suspiciously easy. they all say the same thing: divide the hair, cross one over the other, repeat.
but his fingers? his fingers are traitors. they fumble. they hesitate. they grip too hard, twist the strands weirdly, somehow create a knot so intense it feels personal.
"great," he deadpans, staring down at the mess he’s made. “it looks like i braided a broomstick with anxiety.”
still, he doesn’t stop.
not even when his phone buzzes with a message from seungmin in their group chat.
[minimin]: iyennie what are you doing you’re too quiet [maknaeontop]: cry-typing bc love makes me stupid [minimin]: ew [minimin]: oh wait are you actually
he locks his phone without replying, because yes, he is actually. and he’s not ready to be bullied about it.
he exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. model face, they always say. sharp jawline, perfect skin, annoyingly symmetrical.
and yet here he is—sitting cross-legged in neon pyjama pants with strawberries on them, practicing braiding on a fake head like he’s training for the olympics of soft boyfriend behaviour.
he looks back at the wig head. it sits on his desk, propped up like a little goblin staring into his soul. its blank eyes challenge him.
“don’t look at me like that,” jeongin says flatly. “you’re the one who’s not cooperating.”
but the thing is—he’s serious about this.
it started two weeks ago, the first time you’d complained that your hair was being "super annoying" and you just wanted to 'chop it all off and live like a boy in the 2000s.'
you’d said it in passing, curling up against him on the couch, head tilted, the glow of the tv painting shadows across your cheek.
and he’d looked at you then. really looked.
the pout on your lips. the strands falling over your eyes. the quiet frustration under your breath as your fingers tugged a bit too roughly at a knot.
something about it stuck.
that night, after you’d fallen asleep, soft breathing tangled in his hoodie, the loverboy here had stared at the ceiling and thought.. 'i wish i could help. i wish i could do that for her.'
and that was that.
now he’s five videos deep, wrist aching, knees numb from sitting weird. his fingers are shaking, not from exhaustion, but from how hard he’s trying. his tongue sticks out in concentration—just a little, just the tiniest sliver of pink against the sharp lines of his mouth. adorable and determined.
outside, thunder rolls lazily. the window fogs up from the warmth of the room. he smells the faint citrus of his candle—the one you picked out, teasing him for liking “bougie scents” before sneakily smelling it three more times. the one he keeps lit when he misses you. which is often.
the mannequin head tilts slightly as he tugs on a finished braid. it’s not perfect. it’s kinda uneven. a few strands are sticking out. but—it's a braid.
his first real one.
he stares at it for a moment, expression unreadable, then lets out a quiet laugh under his breath. the kind that almost doesn't make a sound. just breath, and pride, and affection leaking out through the cracks in his self-deprecating walls.
“y/n,” he mumbles to himself, “you better bawl when i do this on you.”
a beat. he stares down at the wig, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“…or at least pretend to be impressed. i’m emotionally fragile.”
and with that, he hits play on the next video. french braids this time. no one said love was easy. but jeongin's always been the type to take his time with the things that matter.
and you?
you matter most of all.
. . .
the braid unravels the second he blinks.
one second, he’s staring at it—fingers suspended mid-air like he’s diffusing a bomb, heart beating with the gentle anticipation of accomplishment—and the next, the strands slip like water through his hands.
and the softest little “nooo…” escapes him.
it’s quiet. gentle. like a child watching their sandcastle wash away.
jeongin sighs, slow and guttural, tilting his head back until it thumps softly against his headboard. the rain outside has softened to a drizzle, the kind that clings to windows like a lullaby. the sky is still grey, but there’s a warmth in his room now—a lemony-citrus kind of haze, mixing with the cotton scent of fabric softener from the blanket twisted around his legs. a comfort cocoon. a secret mission cave. the jeongin love lab™ (unofficial name. do not repeat this to anyone).
he’s surrounded by crime scene evidence: a bobby pin clamped between his teeth, a broken hair tie hanging from his wrist, a video paused on the screen of some lady who braided her own hair in twenty seconds. with french flair. while smiling.
jeongin narrows his eyes at her like she owes him money.
"she's mocking me,” he says under his breath, chewing dramatically on the bobby pin.
his phone buzzes again.
[minimin]: are u ok [sooniedoongiedori]: is the kid crying over love again [hyuniret]: what happened to my baby [maknaeontop]: get out [hyuniret]: not until you tell mama what’s wrong [hyuniret]: i’ll bake you cookies [hyuniret]: i’ll kiss your cheeks
jeongin’s nose scrunches, but his heart does that annoying soft thing. the warm thing. the “ugh i guess i like you idiots” thing.
he hesitates only a second before tapping hyunjin’s name. video call.
it rings once.
twice.
and then—
hyunjin answers dramatically. black buzzcut adorned with a pink headband, face glistening from what looks like a very intense skincare routine, lips pursed like a mum who’s just been told her son failed math.
“iyennie!” he gasps, clutching his chest. “you look pale. did someone break your heart? was it seungmin? i’ll kill him.”
“i’m literally fine,” jeongin deadpans, leaning back against the pillow mountain behind him. “this is not a therapy session.”
hyunjin gasps again, but more offended this time. “how dare. first of all, every call with me is a healing experience. second of all—what’s that behind you?”
jeongin freezes.
too slow.
too suspicious.
hyunjin leans in on the screen like a hawk. “is that a… wig head? is that… blonde hair? are you—are you braiding something?!”
silence.
jeongin stares blankly at the screen. “this call is over.”
“nope—nope—not a chance—explain yourself,” hyunjin screeches, kicking something off-screen and nearly knocking over his phone in the process. “wait—is it for y/n? you’re learning to braid for her aren’t you—”
“keep your voice down!” jeongin hisses, darting to shut his bedroom door like a teenager caught sneaking out. “what if she hears you? she’s not even home yet but still—what if the walls are thin or something.”
“my precious soft romantic noodle.”
“don’t.”
“my little handsy craftsman—”
“i will hang up, hyung.”
“so you are braiding! oh my god. you’re literally adorable. i knew you loved her but this is like—baking-level devotion. you're spending too much time with the main loverboy. aka me.”
jeongin mutters something unintelligible and grabs the mannequin again. its plastic eyes haunt him. “i’m just trying to get it right. my fingers keep slipping and she has this one little piece that always falls loose—she tucks it behind her ear, like—like this.”
he mimics it, almost absentmindedly. his eyes soften.
hyunjin notices, and for once, doesn’t interrupt.
there’s something about watching jeongin like this. all his sharp little edges dulled into domestic softness. not performing, not teasing, not being the chaotic maknae or the class clown or the guy who always says something sarcastic when things get too sincere.
he’s just… quiet. and trying.
and that’s the most vulnerable thing of all.
hyunjin clears his throat, gentler now. “okay, listen. i used to braid my hair all the time before i chopped it off, remember?”
jeongin perks up. “yeah, you were like… weirdly good at it.”
“still am, thank you very much. i even practiced on lixie a few times. he giggled the whole time like i was tickling him with angel wings.”
“of course he did.”
“anyway,” hyunjin continues, flipping his camera to demonstrate on a random knit scarf from his bed. “it’s not about making it perfect. it’s about rhythm. breathe with it. like—left, right, center. it’s a heartbeat, not math.”
jeongin raises an eyebrow. “that’s… kinda poetic.”
“i’m kinda a genius.”
“you’re kinda a nerd.”
“you’re kinda in love.”
he doesn’t deny it.
instead, jeongin copies him—slowly, carefully, the way you reach for something delicate in the dark. one strand over. then another. he’s holding his breath again. his knuckles are tense. but his fingers don’t slip this time.
the braid takes shape like a secret blooming.
“hey,” hyunjin says after a minute, voice quieter, eyes warm through the screen. “she’s gonna love it, you know.”
jeongin looks down at the messy braid in his hands. it’s still a little uneven. a little frayed at the end. but it holds. it stays.
he exhales.
“yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “i think so too.”
hyunjin smiles like he knows something ancient. “text me when she cries.”
“i’m not trying to make her cry.”
“no, no, like in a good way. like happy tears. you’re gonna ruin her standards forever.”
“…that’d be kinda iconic, actually.”
“that’s my boy.”
and for once, jeongin lets himself grin.
just a little. just enough.
the screen dims as the call ends. the room is quiet again—only rain against glass, the soft fizz of his candle, the faint smell of vanilla-laced cotton, the memory of your voice somewhere in the fabric of his hoodie.
the braid rests on the mannequin’s shoulder, gentle and crooked and completely real.
and somewhere in his chest, jeongin feels it.
the heartbeat of it. left, right, center.
you, you, always you.
the front door sighs open with the softest creak.
it’s after 6pm—the kind of dusky grey that makes everything feel like it’s been filtered through nostalgia. your arms are full—bag slipping off your shoulder, scarf unraveling from your neck, a paper coffee cup still lukewarm from earlier. you’re tired, windblown, and ever so slightly damp from the rain, which now smells like petrichor and wet pavement and the faint trace of ozone.
“iyennie?” you call out softly, toeing off your shoes, already craving the warmth of him.
no reply.
you frown a little, peeking into the hallway. there’s no music playing. no clatter of a game controller. no fake scoffing at your outfit or teasing demand for a bite of your snack.
nothing. just quiet. thicker than usual.
the lights are on in his room, though. warm, gold-toned. inviting. like honey melting across the walls.
you pause.
knock lightly. “jeongin?”
still no answer.
and so—curious, maybe a little concerned, you push the door open.
what you find… isn’t something you could’ve imagined in a hundred years.
jeongin—model-faced, sharp-jawed, fashion-manicured chaos incarnate jeongin—is on the floor. legs crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, face scrunched in deep concentration. his tongue pokes out at the corner of his mouth. a wig head with synthetic blonde hair rests in front of him like a bizarre shrine, and his long fingers are tangled awkwardly in the strands.
he doesn’t notice you. not at all. he’s whisper-counting under his breath.
“left, right, center… center, left, wait—fuck—no, that’s not center, wait—why is this so hard?”
he groans. not dramatically. genuinely. like this braid has personally insulted him, his ancestors, and the entire yang bloodline.
you blink.
and then you do the only logical thing in that moment.
you burst out laughing.
jeongin jumps so violently he flings the poor wig head across the carpet. his eyes fly up, wide and accusatory, like you’re the villain in his villain origin story.
“what the fuck— oh my god.”
you’re already wheezing, hand to your chest, leaning against the doorframe. “oh my god. oh my god. you were talking to it. you were braiding a mannequin—iyen-ah, what the hell?”
“i was not—shut up—get out!”
you stumble in further, nearly dropping your coffee. “no way. you can’t erase this from my brain. this is permanent. this is my core memory now.”
jeongin scoffs, snatching the wig like it’s a bomb he’s shielding you from. “why are you even home already? you said six-thirty!”
you blink through your laughter. “it is six-thirty.”
he freezes.
then mutters, “…traitorous clock.”
you drop your bag with a dramatic thud and crawl onto the bed like a predator, face lit up with delight. “oh my god, this is amazing. who were you gonna show? or were you just planning to become a secret braid master and drop it casually in conversation like, ‘oh yeah, i do complicated french braids now, no big deal’?”
“shut up,” he mutters again, cheeks visibly pink.
you hum, sitting cross-legged like royalty, chin in your palm. “so who’s the lucky client, hm?”
jeongin glares. “it’s not for you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
you lift an eyebrow, unbothered. “oh no?”
“no,” he says, entirely too fast. “your dumb hair’s always falling everywhere. like a goddamn waterfall. it’s annoying.”
you press your lips together to hide the grin threatening to split your face. “right. so naturally, your first instinct is to learn an entire skill set to deal with my dumb hair.”
he throws a pillow at you. you catch it easily.
“you’re so—ugh—you’re so full of yourself,” he grumbles, yanking the hoodie sleeves back down and refusing to look at you. “not everything i do is about you.”
you lean back against the headboard, stretching with a content little sigh. “except when it is.”
he groans again, flopping backwards like a teenager in agony. “i hate you.”
you smile, impossibly fond. “no, you don’t.”
he peeks at you from one eye. “no. i really do.”
you stretch your leg out and nudge his thigh with your socked toe. “you were doing so well, too. you almost had it.”
“whatever. i didn’t even care.”
you nod solemnly. “of course. you were just… having a casual braid session with your… headless friend.”
“she has a name,” he says without thinking.
you gasp. “oh my god, you named her—”
he lobs another pillow, this one stronger. “get out.”
but you’re both laughing now—open and loud and soft around the edges, like this room has folded in to make space for something warmer.
your laughter fades into a smile. your eyes meet his, and there’s a lull, a hush, like the rain’s listening too.
“yennie,” you say, softer now, “you’re actually kind of a genius.”
he scoffs, rolling his eyes, but he doesn’t hide the way his lips twitch upward. “took you long enough to realize.”
you crawl closer, curling up beside him, the scent of your shampoo mingling with the faint cinnamon-sugar of his hoodie. your knee brushes his. your fingers reach out, tangle lightly in the edge of the messy braid still clinging to life.
he watches your hand.
you watch him.
and he says, low, quiet: “i just wanted to get it right.”
your heart does something dumb and fluttery. “why?”
he shrugs. doesn’t meet your eyes. “just figured… you let me touch your hair so much. i should at least learn to do something useful with it.”
silence.
heavy. sweet.
you lean in, press your forehead to his shoulder. he stiffens, then melts.
you murmur, “you’re a dumbass.”
“i know.”
“…but like, my favourite one.”
he grins—smug and shy all at once. “i better be.”
and the rain keeps falling.
and the mannequin keeps watching.
and you—two kids tangled up in love, in sarcasm, in shitty synthetic braids and soft secret affections—just stay there, skin against skin, laughter still echoing like thunder trailing behind lightning.
and you think—this must be what it feels like.
true love, in a room full of pillows and mistakes and too many words.
braided gently between your hearts.
. . .
the next morning is gentle in a way only weekend scan be—slow and sticky, syrup-dripped around the corners.
the room smells like jeongin: bergamot and laundry detergent, worn cotton and leftover vanilla candle from last night. he’s sprawled across your shared bed like a prince who owns the morning, blanket kicked halfway off, hoodie riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of tan skin above his waistband.
you’re already awake, curled into your corner of the mattress, pillow hugging your chest.
watching him.
thinking.
the image of him practicing braids on a wig still lives in your brain rent-free. it flickers behind your eyes every time you look at him now. and you can’t stop smiling. can’t stop remembering the way his fingers fumbled through strands like they were secrets. how he muttered to himself like the mannequin had personally offended him. how he told you, with his whole heart and no eye contact, “i just wanted to get it right.”
you’d kissed his cheek before bed.
he hadn’t brought it up again.
but now—
now, as golden light curls through the curtains and your boyfriend begins to stir—grumbling softly, smacking his lips like a grumpy cat—you decide it’s time.
“hey,” you whisper, reaching to nudge his side.
he flinches, groans. “don’t touch me.”
“it’s ten thirty.”
“i’m asleep.”
“you’re talking.”
“sleep talking. stop flirting with me.”
you roll your eyes fondly. “get up, braid-boy.”
he cracks one eye open, all sleepy lashes and morning puff. “say that again and i’m breaking up with you.”
you crawl closer, lips brushing his temple. “get up. braid. my. hair.”
he stares at you for a long, suspicious second.
then sighs, dramatically. “you’re serious?”
you nod.
and now he’s sitting upright—barely—but upright, hoodie sleeve wiping at his puffy face like a child. his voice is rough and low and wholly unimpressed. “fine. but don’t blame me if you end up looking like a scarecrow.”
“i will cry.”
“you always do,” he mutters, standing up and stretching like a sleepy cat. his hoodie lifts again. you stare. you’re only human.
you grab your brush and sit cross-legged on the floor, facing away from him. “you’re going to regret saying yes when i post this on instagram with the caption; ‘my boyfriend is a hairstylist now.’”
from behind you.. “post that and i’m deleting your animal crossing island in your sleep.”
you gasp. “that’s evil.”
he plops down behind you, cross-legged, his knees brushing yours. his fingers skim your shoulder blades as he gathers your hair in his palms.
“you’re evil,” he murmurs, and somehow it sounds loving.
your breath catches.
there’s something about the way his fingers move through your hair—careful, cautious, reverent. jeongin is often clumsy with affection, never sure what to do with the way he feels things. but now? with your head bowed, his hands sifting through strands like wind through grass?
it’s almost reverent.
almost sacred.
“you’re being weirdly gentle,” you mumble.
“shut up. your hair’s delicate. like a baby angel’s.”
you snort. “i’m going to vomit.”
“you asked for this.”
his fingers begin to work—slowly, hesitantly. a tug here. a curse there.
you feel his knuckles brush your scalp, his thumbs press against your crown.
it’s quiet, but not heavy.
your eyes close.
you breathe in: the crisp cotton of his hoodie. the faint smell of coffee from the kitchen. the feel of his breath ghosting the back of your neck.
then:
“ow—jeongin!”
“you moved!”
“i breathed.”
“well, breathe quieter.”
you twist around just enough to glare at him. “you are insufferable.”
he meets your eyes, lips twitching. “and yet, you’re letting me braid your precious princess hair.”
you frown. cross your arms. sulk.
jeongin pauses.
“oh no,” he says flatly. “the pout’s out. god save us.”
you jut your bottom lip farther out.
he groans, head dropping against your shoulder. “you’re going to milk this forever, aren’t you?”
you nod, slowly.
he laughs softly into your shoulder. “god, i’m in love with an actual cartoon character.”
you whisper, teasing, “you love me.”
he breathes, “so much it makes me stupid.”
and he doesn’t say it like a confession. he says it like it’s already been written somewhere in the sky, like it’s just fact. like “the sun rises,” or “your hair always gets stuck to his hoodie,” or “you make him soft without trying.”
you swallow.
your pout melts.
you whisper, “then make it pretty.”
he smiles. “always.”
and he keeps braiding.
the rest is gentle chaos.
he loses a strand. swears. starts over. pulls too tight. apologizes. yells at the hair. tells it to behave. tells your hair to behave.
you nearly cry laughing.
he finishes eventually.
“it’s awful,” he says, smug.
you glance at the mirror. it’s crooked. a little lumpy. possibly about to fall apart.
you beam. “it’s perfect.”
he rolls his eyes. “you’re such a liar.”
you grab his hoodie and yank him toward you. “no. i’m in love.”
he blinks. all that sass melts from his face like butter in sun.
“i—”
you press your forehead to his, breath tangled. “you don’t have to say it back.”
he does, of course.
“but i do. and i'm in love with you, too.”
you’re still turned toward him, knees touching, the scent of his hoodie weaving its way through your senses like thread through needle. the room hums with the afterglow of laughter, the kind that’s still stitched into the corners of your cheeks, still warming the undersides of your ribs.
you giggle—forehead brushing his, your breath ghosting between the spaces where his lashes flutter.
soft.
sacred.
“it is really good,” you whisper, like it’s a secret meant for no one but him. “you should become a hairstylist—”
and suddenly, he moves.
not away.
toward you.
he grabs your wrists with gentle fingers, tugging you forward so fast your balance tips. a startled squeak leaves your lips as you tumble into his chest, all cotton warmth and steady heartbeat, your hands pressed flat against the soft fabric of his hoodie, your nose bumping against his collarbone.
he laughs.
of course he laughs—rich and golden and boyish, like the sound of sunlight finding a windchime. you’re still gathering breath, blinking up at him, when his arms wrap around you—tight but not suffocating, possessive in the softest way. like a secret folded into a sweater. like a kiss that already happened, even before lips met.
“don’t—” you breathe, muffled into his hoodie, “ambush me.”
“you were being cute,” he murmurs, somewhere near your hairline. his voice is velvet and sin. “i couldn’t help it.”
“warn me next time—”
“nope,” he says, smiling into your scalp, “i like this method.”
and then—he pulls back just enough to see your face.
his fingers curl beneath your jaw. his thumb brushes a stray hair behind your ear. your breath hitches—because his eyes, usually full of mockery and sass, are now soft. unsharpened. like dusk settling into the horizon.
“say it again,” he smirks.
you blink. “say what?”
“that it’s good. the braid.”
you roll your eyes, pretending your heart isn’t melting like butter on a stovetop. “you’re really fishing for validation, huh?”
“i braided human hair for the first time. i deserve a grammy.”
“that’s not how that works—”
he silences your teasing with a kiss.
gentle.
melting.
a touch of lips that feels like a promise made without language.
you don’t realize your hands have slid up to his shoulders, your fingers curling into the warm dip where his neck meets hoodie. his skin is soft there. familiar. yours.
the kiss deepens—not in pressure, but in emotion. it stretches long, like honey poured slow. like time forgot to tick forward.
and when he pulls back, it’s only enough to whisper, “thank you.”
you tilt your head. “for what?”
“for letting me touch your hair.”
you blink, thrown off by the sincerity.
his grin is lopsided, his thumb still drawing lazy circles into your skin. “it’s… i don’t know. it feels like… trust.”
you go silent.
because it is.
because he gets it.
and that’s how you know—really know—you’re in love. with him.
you lean forward and rest your forehead against his again, both of you folded in like an origami heart—quiet, intricate, impossible to untangle.
“i love you, you know,” you whisper.
he hums. smirks. presses another kiss to your nose like punctuation. “i know.”
then adds, smug, “you love my braid skills and my face. admit it.”
you groan. “you ruined it.”
he snickers, pulling you closer again, your braid getting smooshed between your shoulders and his hoodie.
“baby.”
“what?”
“you’re stuck with me.”
you grin against his shoulder. “yeah. i know.”
and the world, for one small moment, feels like a soft pillow, a warm hoodie, and the safest arms to ever exist.
𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑒𝑛𝘵 𝘵𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝘵 ୨ৎ @cosmicalily @hyunjiiza @modesttiger @woozarts @katsukis1wife @shotngun @reignessance @peskybirdysya @honeyybbuubblleess @ellemir2404 @4ng3l-ch1ld @urlocalmultigroupfan @its-stayville-forever @ashtxrie @minlixyaoi @shuuporanglinos @bobaluvzz @inlovewithstraykids @yourfavoriteakutagawakinnie @mhluvie @channieschocco @m-325 @my-neurodivergent-world @unbel1ve4ble @cowboylikemalika @jeonginsbaee @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes — fill out this form to be added !!
comments, likes, asks and reblogs are always appreciated !! req. are officially closed till the month of june. thank you for reading, hope you liked it <3 © heartsbyani, dearmini '25 ★
Oh to be loved like this… 🔮
Honestly tho, this was so beautifully written! The way I could FEEL I.N’s adoration for his girlfriend 😩🥹
✿THE ART OF LOVE
✿SYNOPSIS. when chris texted an artist he found on instagram with the hopes of them designing an album cover for him, he never expected to fall head over heels in love with them.
PAIRING. bangchan x artist!reader
GENRE. smau, strangers to lovers
WARNINGS. little bit of suggestiveness, angst
CHAPTERS.
001. out now!
002. out now!
003. out now!
004. out now!
005. out now!
006. out now!
007. out now!
008. out now!
009. out now!
010. out now!
011. out now!
012. out now!
013. out now!
014. out now!
015. out now!
016. (final chapter) out now!
epilogue. out now!
A/N. this is dedicated to my favorite anon everrrr, aka 🦇 anon, as a congratulations for graduating and getting a super cool job. LOVE YOU POOKIE AND I HOPE YOU LOVE THIS
Wow wow wow
I loved this!!
kissed by a rose
pairing: drag queen!seo changbin x afab!reader
warnings: crossdressing, angst, discussions of sexuality, coming out, and politics, changbin & reader’s sexualities are not labeled but neither are straight, changbin uses she/her pronouns in drag!!!, kissing, finger sucking, clit play, fingering (f!rec), grinding/unpenatrative sex, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, light feminization, blowjob, exhibitionism
w/c: 17k
a/n: this is my own treat to myself for finishing kinktober and an ode to queer culture and art that i love and admire so much! i have so much to say yet so little words to describe how bleak things have felt since last tuesday, so this is how i’m coping. i put so much of my heart into this, so i hope you enjoy! reblogs and comments are always appreciated :)
the first time you see her, her hair is long and curled. poppy pink waves cascade like water down her back to taper off at a corseted waist. you can’t see the corset through her tiny little nightgown, but you know she’s wearing one - her shoulders too wide and bodice too thick for her waist to be that cinched.
her cute little nightie is as pink as her hair, something flowy and ruffled at the sleeves and skirt. her tan legs are hugged by white, fishnet tights, and you couldn’t walk in her shoes if you tried, let alone perform in them. delicate ankles rest under the thin straps of her — at least — five inch platform heels. her painted toes peek out from underneath pink, feather-covered vamps.
you’re standing on the wooden bench of the corner booth in your local bar to see over the crowd. it’s stuffed to the gills, locals and college students alike pour through the double-doors and into the street to see the local college pride club’s annual drag show. you’re lucky you and your friends got here early enough to get a spot as good as you did.
even in her pumps, she’s shorter than the other girls performing throughout the gig, and you know you’d be pouting the whole night if you weren’t able to see her as well as you can now. she’s had you hooked since your eyes landed on her.
she starts out on the stage. you’re too enraptured by her presence to hear the host call her name at all, eyes locked on what you can only describe as a princess. the floor of the bar is dark, lights solely focused on the small stage towards the back. a britney number starts. or madonna, maybe even gaga, but that’s not what you are paying attention to. all wherewithal flies out the door when she steps down from the stage and makes her way through the crowd. she’s the perfect performer, never missing a lyric in her lip sync even while interacting happily with the bar patrons. she lets them touch her, stick dollar bills in the holes in her tights or in her bra. your hands begin to sweat the closer she flurries to your booth, and you reach shakily into the pocket of your jean skirt, praying to any higher power that your grip won’t slip on your steadily recording phone.
a kick of her smooth leg has her dancing in front of your booth, overlined pink lips dramatically mouthing the words of whatever song that plays over the booming speakers, sharply lined eyes so beautifully expressive. you do almost drop your phone when she looks from each of your friends to you, long lashes fluttering as she blinks demurely at the flash of your camera.
she pouts sweetly, eyebrows pulled up as she points a manicured finger to your opposite hand, the hand with your money in it. you look down and back up to her, and her pout turns into a bright smile when you give her a goofy, bobble headed nod. she takes the bill from your hand and pops it in front of her face to check the amount, never missing a word of her lip sync. her pretty lips quirk at the corners, a sweet, downwards smile. she looks into your camera again as she folds the bill and puts it in the bralette cup of her slip. she wiggles her shoulders at you, her breasts, and leaves you with a cute pucker of her bright, pink lips.
and just like that, she’s gone, bounding away with a whip of her curled hair and a twirl of her chiffon skirt to interact with other patrons for the rest of the song.
your best friend turns to you with bulging eyes and a wide open smile, but it turns right into a cackle at the look on your face.
“oh god, i just watched you fall in love with a drag queen in like, real time. oh my god!”
the longer the show goes on, the more accurate you feel your best friend to be. the other performances from the other wonderful queens don’t hold a candle to the pretty pink one, and you’re constantly standing on your tiptoes and craning your neck to try and catch sight of her again. you find that she’s just as captivating while talking and answering questions on stage with the other queens after several performances, but what really does you in is something else entirely.
it’s her laugh. there’s something so distinctly familiar about it, but you can’t recall exactly what it could be. so silly, so bright and goofy and loud that it makes the microphone shrill when she brings it to her mouth. it just makes her laugh harder, even when the tall, slender queen next to her slaps her on the shoulder.
“someone’s giggle box must be turned over~” the tall queen chuckles. miss honey. you’d recognize her anywhere. that sleek, long hair and those mile-long legs are undeniable. she’s a legend in the local drag community. “changmi~ sweetheart, baby, wifey. i’m losing hearing in my right ear.”
what a beautiful name for such a beautiful queen.
changmi. changmi changmi changmi. bright, bold, and beautiful changmi. poised and lovely, and so personable too. changmi.
you see her again that night right before you leave, and she’s just as stunning as ever. she’s still in her pink get-up, her hair and makeup still perfectly set even after several performances under the harsh lighting of the stage. changmi’s elbows rest against the bar as she speaks to the bartender and sips on something lime green and glittery. your friends flock around you like a gaggle of geese, giggling and nudging and pointing their fingers at the pretty queen at the bar. you’re praying for the ground to swallow you whole when changmi turns to your group and flips her hair over one broad shoulder, beckoning you all with her hand afterwards and pitching her voice like she’s known you all for years and waiting for a group hug. you can’t pass that up for the world, no matter how embarrassed you are, and you don’t even mind when changmi’s drink sloshes over the rim of her glass and onto the back of your shirt. the heat of her arm around your back is certainly more important.
your friends launch right into giving her their compliments. so many people are talking at once that you can hardly keep up, but changmi takes it all in stride, nodding her head and smiling big and holding hands with your friends when necessary. it isn’t until your friends begin pouting about your uber arriving soon that changmi turns to you.
“i think i’ve heard from all of these cuties but you.” your heart almost triples in size when her gaze focuses on you, when she directs her smile to you. “what did you think of my gig?”
“you’re so fucking pretty!” is what you blurt instead, and all of your tipsy friends shriek again. maybe they’re not the only tipsy ones after all. maybe if you had a few less drinks you’d realize just how familiar her voice is. “like, you’re perfect! you’re the prettiest one here.”
changmi scuffs the front of her pump on the floor shyly and takes another sip of her sparkly drink before she cocks her head. “but miss honey is here. how can i be the prettiest when she’s here?” she’s teasing, you can tell by the cute little smirk adorning her plump lips.
“oh, i’d- i mean, she’s pretty, but i think you’re prettier. you’re just- like, wow!”
her hair tickles your arm when she throws her head back to laugh. you eye the pretty, pink wispies and find yourself smiling too. her laugh is infectious. your moment is interrupted by the start of a new song over the speakers as another queen clacks onto the stage. changmi turns her head to see who’s performing before she squeezes your arm. her hand is surprisingly calloused, a little rough against your skin but still sweetly warm.
“flattery will get you everywhere, but you’ll have to take me on a date first if you want me to put out~” she hums with a smile. “ah, and thank you for the big tip, baby doll! i love big, juicy tips!” with a wink and a twirl of her skirt she’s gone again, slipping through the packed crowd to watch the other queen.
when you get home that night, you don’t even bother taking your makeup off before you crawl into bed and focus on your phone. you sound insane in the background of most of your videos, shrill shrieks and lyrics sung off key. it’s nearly as bad as you sound at concerts or festivals, but you don’t care about that. all you care about is the shaky, four minute and forty-seven second video of changmi’s main performance that now sits in your favorites folder. you lose count of how many times you replay the video in its entirety, thumb repeatedly rolling back the footage of your interaction with her and pausing on her puckered lips.
you can still feel the warmth of her hand on your arm underneath the covers, as sure as a brand.
it isn’t until you do a deep dive on changmi the next day that it clicks why she’s so familiar.
changmi’s instagram is a mess. it’s so endearing that you can’t help but giggle as you scroll through her public account, passing by pictures of half eaten korean dishes, deep blue skies, and birthday shoutouts to her close friends.
her drag pictures are mesmerizing. some are professionally taken at her gigs, some are cute selfies with what seems to be her signature peace sign. you find yourself saving several of changmi’s posts to come back and gawk over again and again. she’s so broad in the shoulders, her biceps must be the size of your head, but her drag is delicate. it’s all spun-sugar and glitter, full of pastels and soft fabrics. even her over-the-top makeup is somewhat daintier than you’re used to from other queens in the local scene.
her pictures out of drag, though, nearly send you reeling.
you swipe through so many gym pictures that you can almost taste protein powder through your phone screen. sometimes it’s a real turn off, honestly, most times it’s a real turn off. male posturing can be so off putting, but this. this has knocked you off your feet. changmi’s never shirtless in her gym pictures, but you can still see the thick outline of defined pecs through her tight dri-fit shirts. the bulge of her flexing arms has you gulping the longer you stare. her cute cheeks always seem to be pink with exertion, her curly hair spikes at the ends with sweat.
you know that face.
that face used to sit next to you in math class, it used to shoot basketball badly with you in gym.
you haven’t seen changbin seo in years. he’s bulked up more than you could have ever imagined since you both graduated high school and is still as handsome as ever. changbin was always handsome, but he’s grown into himself. he exudes confidence, self-assuredness. he’s still short, still has that fluffy hair and the scar on his chin.
but now he wears tiny dresses on the weekends, he wears long, beautiful wigs and does his makeup better than you ever could. he dances in heels you would bust your ass in. he gets booked for brunches and bachelorette parties and pride parades.
you didn’t run in the same circle back then, but changbin was always friendly to you. to everyone, really. it makes sense that he’s still so loved, that he could create a persona that brings joy and love and light to so many communities that need it.
you’re not really expecting him to follow you back, for changmi to follow you back, but not too long after you click that little blue button on her profile, a notification pops up on your phone.
kissedbychangmi followed you back!
another one follows in quick succession.
kissedbychangmi liked your post.
you don’t even remember posting pictures last night. a lot of the night is still a blur, but swiping through your own pictures makes you smile. you had so much fun with your friends - the group pics are cute, the candid ones are even cuter. the last one in the set almost makes you smack yourself on the forehead, but you can’t help but sputter out an embarrassed laugh. it’s a blurry selfie of you, with your tongue sticking out the side of your mouth. changmi is in the background in the middle of a dip.
kissedbychangmi commented: tag meee!! ><
your heart beats a little faster at the comment, and you feel a bit ridiculous because of it. get it together! get a grip! you’re not the same person you were in high school; you’re not the same person who flushed hot under any ounce of earnest attention from changbin or who loitered pathetically by your locker to see him grab his books on the way to class.
you do tap the three little dots in the corner of your post though, thumb moving down towards the icon in the bottom left corner to type in her username and tag her in the picture.
changbin’s never been on your instagram before, even if this isn’t necessarily changbin. you can’t help but feel a little proud.
your high school self would be ecstatic.
the next time you see her, you’re on your own. still in the same corner booth, but on your own. you couldn’t stay away if you tried. she had hopped on instagram live earlier while she did her makeup and got ready, so you already know what her makeup looks like before she steps out on stage.
her outfit, though… that’s another story.
your reaction to it must be like something out of an old cartoon - eyes bulging out of your skull, tongue lolling out of your mouth, hearts floating around your head and all.
she comes out on stage wrapped in a fuzzy pink towel. she could have stayed in that for all you care; her smooth, nylon covered legs are a sight for sore eyes on their own, her massive arms an added plus.
you’ve only seen one of her gigs in person. you’ve watched enough reels on her instagram to know that most of them are filled with songs from early two thousands pop queens. her performances are fun and upbeat. you had no clue that changmi could be this… sensual.
she’s a tease, thick fingers fussing daintily with the knot of the towel before she smirks and pulls them away again. she lifts them in the air instead, framing her face cutely before finally lifting them above her head to twirl her hands around each other. the curtain bangs of the blonde and pink wig she wears frame her cheeks with pretty, curly ringlets. the ponytail behind her head is short but big, teased and bouffanted high like something from the sixties.
you swear your heart stops beating in your chest when changmi finally drops the towel. the roar of the crowd in the bar is so loud that you can’t hear the music over the speakers anymore, but changmi doesn’t miss a beat, smiling through her lyrics while teasingly acting like she’s going to toss the towel to someone. she’s wearing one of her signature pink slips again, but this one is sheer. it’s baby pink and sheer, with white lace accents adorning the chest and skirt hem. there’s a bow right on the lace on the middle of her chest.
what gets to you the most though is the fact that her nightie is slit right up the middle, the cut ending right where the lace at her chest starts, leaving so much beautiful, tan skin on display. changmi isn’t wearing a breastplate like she usually is, but her already thick pecs are contoured to give the illusion of voluptuous breasts. through the sheer fabric, you can see the brown peaks of her puffy nipples. she’s wearing a pair of skimpy, frilly panties underneath the slip too, not quite a thong, but they don’t cover her cheeks all the way. you’re seeing more of changmi — of changbin — than you ever have before. she’s corseted right above the panties. it’s small, white, and lacy, cinching her waist to give her more of an hourglass figure but still showing enough skin of her midsection to have your mouth watering.
changmi bends at the hip, pigeon toeing in her pretty pink heels at the edge of the stage so she can grab tips from frantically waving hands. she spends a long time up there swiveling her hips to the music and mouthing the lyrics before deciding to walk the floor. she sits on the edge and holds out her hand, legs crossed and toes pointed, just waiting for someone to help her down.
it’s so cute, such a little tease. someone from the crowd rushes to the stage to lend their hands to help her down, but all she gives are the dainty tips of her little, thick fingers. she slips gracefully down the edge of the stage and bites the nail of her thumb with a smirk when the skirt of her tiny gown hitches above her panties, showing the fat of her ass and her perfectly padded hips.
you scramble to take your phone out then. you wanted to watch her performance without the lens of your camera in the way. you wanted to see it with your own eyes, but you can’t miss another second, you want to remember this, you want a record of it. unlike the first night you saw her, she waltzes around the opposite side of the bar first. her ponytail bounces when she blows kisses and flaunts herself around to different patrons.
time stands still when changmi turns your way. you can tell she recognizes you right away because the smile on her face shines brighter, burns hotter. you’re not the only one on the left side of the room, not even close, but she hones in on you, slowly dancing her way to you until she’s kicking her foot up on the booth bench between your legs. changmi looks right into your camera, mouths her lyrics and tosses her ponytail like she’s performing just for you.
her plump lips form a pout, and her drawn brows pinch at the corners. changmi lifts her hand and places the tip of her index finger on her chin, cocking her head in question. you blink wildly at her until you realize what it is she wants, something you can’t believe you forgot, so you’re scrambling once more to pull a crisply folded bill out of your pocket. your bank account grumbles, but it’s the least she deserves. the only difference between now and the first night is that changmi doesn’t reach for the fifty dollar bill herself, just lowers her leg and cocks her hip, lifting the side of her slip up for you.
when you hesitate, changmi snaps the elastic band of her panties in encouragement. you reach for her then, sliding the bill under the elastic of her lace panties. her skin radiates warmth. the flutter of her nightie brings a sweet, clean waft of scent with it.
she’s beautiful from the stage but even more beautiful up close. you can really see her now, see the blush-pink heart on the tip of her round, contoured nose, the white glitter shadow underneath her almond shaped eyes, the pink on top. you’re too busy being mesmerized by her features that you don’t notice her reaching for your phone. it isn’t until it’s out of your hand that you realize changmi’s taken it, lip syncing straight to your camera and filming herself from all different angles. the nail in your coffin is when she cups one of her pecs, smiling teasingly and licking her teeth as she pulls the lace down, down, down to show her puffy little nipple. the lace snaps back up to cover her again when she pulls her fingers away, and she hands your phone back to you with a hysteric giggle that you somehow know is just for you. she leaves you like nothing happened, flurries her way back to the stage to finish her number like she didn’t knock your jaw straight to the floor.
changmi’s been on instagram live for the past thirty minutes getting ready for her gig tonight. she’s fun to watch, but you can put her on as background noise too while you’re piddling around the house watering your plants, washing the dishes. she’s sitting at a vanity doing her makeup, looking as goofy as ever with her curly, black hair pinned back from her face. a makeup smudged headband secures it extra tight. she’s shirtless, leaving her broad shoulders and relaxed pecs out for you to ogle like a degenerate freak. she’s already corseted, and the slight pudge of tanned skin above the corset makes your mouth water when she leans towards the camera.
you can tell by the constant bickering and giggling going on that she’s not alone. miss honey is there with her, the cackle gives it away even before you see her face, sitting beside her at the vanity doing her own makeup.
changmi goes back and forth between using the vanity mirror and her phone camera to apply her makeup. she really does look silly, but it’s endearing, and the process of changbin transforming into changmi is so exciting to watch. it’s beautiful. they both are.
she’s trying her best to answer questions and talk to miss honey all while dabbing on her foundation and setting underneath her eyes.
“‘how long have you been doing drag?’” she reads from the comments. “hmm, since…” it takes her several minutes to answer. she’s so focused on lining her waterline in stark white that she forgets to speak at all. you vaguely remember changbin being unable to multitask back in highschool, and it looks like nothing has changed even years later. miss honey giggles beside her.
“since when, wifey?”
“oh! wait- what was the question? sorry, ah… since i was eighteen? but badly. and in secret.” it makes you frown, pausing your tidying of the bathroom sink. you knew changbin at eighteen. there’s nothing you can do about it now; you just hope it wasn’t a lonely secret to keep. “i remember a few weeks after my eighteenth birthday, crystal taught me how to walk in kitten heels in her basement.” she says it with a quiet laugh, like it’s a fond memory.
“kitten heels! kitten heels?! you needed help in kitten heels?!” miss honey wails. she pops her head in the corner of changmi’s screen and looks just as ridiculous. her lips are the color of her foundation, and her contour isn’t blended. a hello kitty hair band holds her hair from her face.
“yah! don’t you dare disrespect my kitten heels! it was harder than it looked, okay?! i almost broke my ankles and mama’s.”
it sends miss honey into a round of hysterics, and changmi starts giggling too.
miss honey leans closer to changmi’s phone to read through the comments while changmi blends the finishing touches on her eyes. they’re pink and glittery and outlined sharply by thick, dove white, the white outlined and winged in a bubblegum pink liner.
“oh, here’s a good one! ‘do you sew your own clothes?’”
changmi nods her head, but it once again takes her a bit to answer. she’s too busy blowing on her lash glue and setting the long lashes in place, two in her crease and one below her waterline. miss honey’s smile grows wider and wider the longer she takes to answer.
“my wife is being a bully,” changmi mumbles. “yes, i sew my own clothes!”
“…did you sew that?”
miss honey’s eyes cut to the side. whatever she’s looking at is out of frame, but you reckon it’s changmi’s outfit for the night. changmi looks up and rubs her lips together slowly and scratches at the back of her head.
“…um. no…?”
miss honey cackles so loudly that you have to turn the volume down a little bit. changmi isn’t much better, hollering her complaints through her own infectious laughter. they’re so funny together that you can’t help but laugh with them, just as entertained by them as you would be a reality television show.
“i’m kidding, i’m just kidding! it’s really cute, you’re going to look great! your big man-shoulders are going to look sexy in that halter top, baby!”
“man-shoulders?!” changmi hollers. she stands up from her chair so fast that it screeches on the floor. she backs up so that you can see more of her body on the screen, turns until she’s looking over one shoulder demurely and right into the camera. “why, i‘m just a dainty little lady.”
it doesn’t do much to lessen the breadth of her wide shoulders and she knows it, finally breaking the façade and flexing into the camera. her biceps bulge when she flexes, and she turns around to show off her muscular back too.
changbin was muscular in high school even though his stature was smaller, more lithe. his muscles were more corded, you could tell when he wore cut off shirts to gym class or helped your math teacher move desks. now though, it’s obvious how much work he’s put into his body. he must be so disciplined in his everyday life, eating well and working out to keep his physique in check. you place your chin in your palm and practically swoon while standing at your sink.
every time you look at changbin — at changmi — you fall harder. you’d do anything to get to know each other better, positively sure your lives changed after highschool. you’ve both grown and matured. you might not have run in the same crowd back then, but it would still be nice to catch up. maybe you can run in the same crowd now. it’s hard to make friends when you’re an adult, but sometimes putting yourself out there can be worth it.
“stop making me laugh! it’s making me hungry,” changmi whines. “an uncrustable sounds so good right now…”
you’re out of your bathroom before you know it, slipping on your ugg slippers and grabbing your keys to run by the nearest store before you have to get ready for tonight.
changmi’s performance is mesmerizing as always, but you’re learning that that’s typical of her.
and miss honey was right. she does look great, and her wide shoulders do look sexy in her halter top. it’s something you’ve never seen her in before. the halter top is pink and covered in rhinestones. it’s cropped too, high enough to show off the underside of her padded breasts. beaded stars dangle from the ruffled hem of the top too, reflecting brightly off the lights of the stage and dancing whenever she moves even the slightest bit. her pants are pink too of course, high waisted and spandex, flowing into wide bell bottoms at the ends. changmi’s hips are padded and her pants are cinching her at the waist. she’s so fucking curvy, and her little legs look so cute and tiny in those pants. the only reason they don’t brush the ground when she moves is because of her shoes, a pretty ballet wrap heel that must tie at her knees.
the wig she’s wearing matches her outfit to a tee. it’s something like a shag mullet, poofy and curly and choppy all around her head and tapering off as it goes down her back. her petal pink hair is speckled with black pieces all over, giving her an edgier look than you’re used to seeing from her.
she’s so beautiful it hurts.
changmi’s on stage with miss honey and a few other queens you recognize but don’t remember the names of. she’s answering questions when asked and engaging with the queens and the crowd, but you can tell she’s a little more distracted than usual.
she’s distracted because she’s looking at you.
she has been since earlier. since she sat on your lap during her performance and pet your hair gently before she left. you always try to get to the bar early enough to sit in the corner booth as you usually do, and it looks like it’s working to your advantage because her eyes fall to your booth every time she performs.
changmi is bold. her confidence during all of her gigs gives that away, even with that coy little attitude she portrays so well. but now, when she’s doing nothing but sitting on a stool on stage, she exudes self-assurance. not in a gross way, just in the way she handles herself. she looks into your eyes from across the room without breaking eye contact, smirks in sweet satisfaction whenever you’re the one that has to break it because it’s too much to handle.
the second time she winks at you has you reaching into your purse for a tissue. it’s making you fucking sweat, her attention is, and you pull out the tissue to dab underneath your eyes, at your burning cheeks. it’s then that you see what else you’ve got in your purse. how could you have forgotten?! your heart pounds a little quicker when you reach into your bag again to pull out the two clear packets of round, soft uncrustables.
changmi’s still watching you, and you purse your lips to hide your smile when you hear her gasp over the microphone.
“no you did not!” she hollers. the mic shrills, and miss honey covers her ears with a dramatized wince. “is that what i think it is? oh my god, please come here, come here!”
oh god, you weren’t expecting to be called up to the stage, but you’re learning that you’d do most anything for changmi, so you get up from your booth and cross the floor, walk your way in front of the standing crowd to park yourself right at the stage. changmi scuttles her way to the edge and drops down to her knees to reach you better.
“you said you wanted these earlier?” you tell her. she leans down further to hear better just as you stand on your tip-toes. her hair tickles the skin of your bare arms. “i- i didn’t know what kind you like best, so i got both.”
strawberry and grape.
two packs, ten — nine now — fluffy sandwiches in each. at least now you’ve got something waiting for you when you get snacky at home.
“oh my fucking god! you’re so sweet, i could kiss you. i really could! can i give you a kiss?” she laughs, but her eyes are taking in your expression like she means it.
you throw her words back at her from the first night you met. “does kissing count as ‘putting out’ before the first date?”
she laughs again, squinting her eyes a little like she doesn’t remember what you’re talking about but still waits for your answer.
“i’d love to borrow a kiss,” your words are quiet, just for her. changmi smiles softly and leans forward. she doesn’t kiss you on the lips, no. instead, her plump little lips land on the apple of your heated cheek. the roar of the crowd, the hooting and hollering of the queens behind changmi all fades into white noise in your ears.
you’re so focused on her that you can hear the gentle smack of her lips when she pulls away from you and leans back onto her heels. she’s smiling big, eyes wide with joy as she takes the sandwiches from your hands.
“i’m gonna tear these up after the gig, you have no idea.”
you and changmi both jolt when miss honey scoffs dramatically into the mic, crossing her leg over one knee and flipping her sleek ponytail over her shoulder.
“does marriage mean nothing anymore?! my wife just cheated on me for a fucking uncrustable!”
it isn’t until you’re home again and getting ready for bed that you notice the pink kiss mark on your cheek.
you only hesitate a second before bringing your phone up to take a selfie, messing with your hair and angling your phone just right to make sure you can see the stain of changmi’s lips. it’s a cute picture, cute enough to open up a new message on instagram, cute enough to type in kissedbychangmi in the search bar, and cute enough to send it straight to her with no text.
you haven’t even wiped the kiss off of your face and taken your makeup off by the time a new notification pops up on your locked screen.
kissedbychangmi sent a photo.
the first thing you do is laugh. you can’t help it, she’s silly. her wig is off, and her dark, pinned-back hair is flattened under a wig cap. she still has her makeup on too, but it looks a little cakey in the orange lighting of the back room of the bar. she looks real, human. her eyes are happy, but you can’t see her smile. all because she holds a half eaten strawberry uncrustable in front of her lips, shaped like a crescent where she’s bitten off more of the middle.
kissedbychangmi
thank you for the snacks!!
changmi gobbled them all up ><
god, she’s so fucking cute it’s unreal! is this really the same girl who winked at you all night and asked to give you a kiss in front of a crowd of people? it feels like a fever dream. even more so because you know it’s changbin behind the screen.
your thumbs are hovering over the keys when she sends another response.
kissedbychangmi
would you maybe like to go to lunch with me one day next week?
i really can’t believe we ran into each other this way after all this time!
i’m a little embarrassed.. you must have been so surprised
if anyone should be embarrassed it should be you, gawking at and thirsting over her while she’s just doing her job, while she’s just doing something she loves with people she loves.
you
i’d love to go to lunch w you!!
i was actually going to ask you soon too lmao it’ll be so nice to catch up
and do nottt be embarrassed!!! i was surprised, but like a good surprised you know?
kissedbychangmi
yayyy~
i’m about to drive home.. i can text you when i get settled and we can plan then?
you
talk to you soon 😝
it’s not awkward at all.
changbin greets you with a warm smile and an even warmer hug. the weather is nice enough that the two of you decide to sit outside to have your lunch, and he even pulls your chair out for you when you reach the quaint little table in front of the restaurant window. there’s a slight breeze underneath the awning; changbin’s curls flutter lightly against his lensless glasses and your fingers itch to brush them back.
you’re so used to seeing his features contoured sharply now, his lips overdrawn and his hair long, but today, changbin looks soft. relaxed. there’s not a trace of makeup on his handsome face.
the food is delicious, but the company you keep is even better. you talk for so long that your waitress has stopped coming back to check on you, settling instead on leaving the bill on the edge of the table and moving on to other patrons around you and inside. it feels like you talk about everything under the sun. you have to start out somewhere - it’s great to see you, what have you been up to since graduation, and do you still talk to so-and-so turns into deeper, more personal topics the longer you sit together. changbin talks with his hands. his pupils shake when he talks about something that means a lot to him. he has so many different types of laughs that you can’t keep count of them all.
“i came out on accident,” he answers when you ask. “no, really! i wasn’t ready, but i guess i felt like i didn’t have much of a choice? my sister walked in on me trying on one of her skirts after school, and everything just kind of… happened at once.”
you can’t imagine how that must have felt. the ground falling from underneath his feet, the ice cold dread seeping into his skin and down deep to his bones. he must have been so scared.
“did she- did she react okay? i mean, you guys were so close, weren’t you?”
“she was fine!” he nods. “we sat on the edge of her bed and i cried because i didn’t want her to be mad at me. i mean, finding out your brother isn’t straight and wants to wear dresses all in the same day is probably a lot to take in at once.” it makes you snort, and changbin giggles too, but his eyes are misty. “she told me it would never change anything, though. that i’m still her baby brother even if i wear a skirt and kiss boys every now and then. i think that changed my life, you know? she’s really a badass.”
“her brother’s pretty badass too,” you smile, and changbin makes an airy little noise before leaning back in his chair to blink rapidly at the sky. “i came out to my mom on the way home from school one day because i felt guilty not telling her who i had a crush on. you know what i mean? i tell her everything, so it felt, like… wrong. i told her i had a crush on this girl in one of my classes and then sat in silence just waiting for her to kick me out of the car.”
changbin nods his head. his brows are furrowed. “did she?”
“nah, she pretty much told me the same thing. i’m her baby and she loves me no matter what. god, changbin, we got really lucky, didn’t we?”
it’s something you think about a lot, how different things could have been if your mother wasn’t your mother. if changbin’s sister wasn’t his sister. how different things are in the world for so many people like you. how people have to fight to exist without persecution, how they have to keep silent for their safety and security when all they want is to speak their truth and live honestly.
“that’s why drag is so special to me,” he confirms. not everyone’s experience with coming out is a positive one. “it’s why drag is so important in general. the world needs queer art. queer joy! if we can help someone live in it just for one night, that means everything to me.”
changmi is a beacon of light. you think of her bright smile on stage, the way she interacts with the crowd who comes to watch her perform. everyone is there for a common reason, existing in solidarity and community.
“it helps you too though, doesn’t it?”
changbin sits back in his chair. you can tell he’s thinking hard by the way his eyes roam around, gathering the words in his head that he wants to say.
“of course it does, it’s given me so much of myself. changmi, my drag name. do you know what that word means?” you shake your head. you’ve been curious if it had a meaning to it, or if it was just derived from his real name. “it means rose in korean. i feel like… that expresses who i am, in a way. changbin can be soft and sharp. changbin has thorns, but he’s sweet too. the thorns are mostly for show, people just don’t always stay to find out.”
his cheeks are flushed pink, sweetly shy as he opens himself up to you in a way he never has before. he’s bearing his soul, you can tell, and all you want to do is keep it safe.
you understand what he means. despite how nice he was to everyone in high school, you heard constant whispers in the hallways. his eyes made him look intimidating, his voice was loud and raspy. now, the muscles on his body leave people assuming he has a certain attitude or mindset.
but instead, his smile remains warm, his calloused hands only touch things gently. his laugh never fails to make you smile. the drag he wears could give you cavities if you were to sink your teeth into it.
“i think those people are missing out on something really wonderful.” you reach across the table and tap your fingers softly against his knuckles. changbin turns his hand so that his palm is facing upwards, and his fingers squeeze around yours when you place your hand in his.
you’re not afraid of changbin’s thorns because you have thorns of your own. a way of protection, a sign of sacrifice, a ferocity within the tenderness of your beating heart.
you’re more alike than you could have ever imagined.
“i can’t stop touching them?” you pose it like a question, but there’s no question about it.
you’re swiveling around in the chair at changbin’s sewing station, surrounded by mannequin torsos and styrofoam heads. he’d invited you over to his place earlier to spend some time together before his gig later on, and you’re watching him brush out a wig now. you’ve seen him get ready before on instagram live, he’s even called you a few times before just to chitchat, but it’s even better when he’s doing it right in front of you, when you can see the entire process and talk to him during it.
“what, my tits?” changbin laughs, eyes snapping from his wig over to you at his sewing station. he shakes his head fondly when he sees the constant prodding of your fingers against one of his silicone breast forms.
he has several, of all different shapes and sizes because they all make him feel pretty and because certain ones go better with certain outfits. a full coverage breastplate that he can put on like a shirt, adhesive forms that stick right to his pecs, and even forms with clear straps that he can wear like a bra. they feel different based on the material they’re made of, and you immediately gravitated towards the squishiest pair.
“they’re so soft,” you marvel. “can you wear these ones tonight?”
changbin already encouraged you to pick his outfit and wig for tonight, so you’re hoping his tits count too.
he beckons you over with a nod of his head and takes the jiggly forms from your hands. changbin moves to stand in front of his full body mirror and removes the paper from the back of the first form, sticking the adhesive right over one of his pecs. he repeats the same process with the other form; changbin’s eyes are wide in concentration, and his bottom lip sticks out cutely as he focuses on sticking them evenly on his chest. he turns to you when he’s satisfied, smiling goofily when he begins to lift up on the balls of his feet and back down to make the forms bounce. they look real, they really do. they match his skin color almost to a tee. if he were to blend the edges with foundation, you doubt you’d be able to tell the difference at all. you’re standing in front of him before you know it, eyes locked on his chest. the forms are so realistic that they have light blue veins in the mold, a smattering of light freckles. the nipples are the same color as changbin’s real ones, dark brown with a furled little areola.
“they’re nicer than mine!” you say, pushing your fingers against the fatty sides to see them jiggle again.
changbin’s brows furrow and he shakes his head firmly. his curls would be bouncing if he didn’t have his hair pinned back. “no they’re not.”
oh.
oh.
“changbin seo.” he blinks wildly. “how would you know? have you been looking at my boobs?”
it’s cute how quickly his ears color, cute how he starts scrambling over himself while you’re just trying to hold in your laughter.
“no! no, i mean- i’m just saying. if i were to see them, i’m sure they’d be perfect, because you’re p- ah, please! don’t laugh at me! hey, why are you laughing?!”
his arms wrap around your waist when you lean into him to stifle your laughter against his neck. changbin is so easy to tease. he’s cute when he whines, when his voice raises in volume to try and get his point across. everything about him is so endearing.
changbin is warm. he runs hot, but he’s even warmer because you’ve got him blushing petal pink. his skin is so soft underneath your own, plush and honey-toned and decadent, like he’d melt in your mouth like a marshmallow if you were to bite into him.
“they are pretty nice,” you say. your voice is soft, quiet. changbin leans back a hair and you watch his eyes slip to your lips. “if you wanna see ‘em, all you have to do is ask.”
you feel him shiver, and that cute downwards smile pops up on his precious face.
“are you flirting with me?”
there’s no point in lying. honestly, you thought he knew how gone you were for him by now. you were a ticking time bomb, only able to hide the yearning that must cloud your eyes and hold your tongue so much. it’s hard not to look at him, not to want to bask in his presence, and it only worsens as time goes by. the more time you spend together, the more you want him. the more you hear his voice, the more you want to hear it for the rest of your life. the more he touches you, the more your body, mind, and soul long for it.
you’ve locked your heart away for so long that it’s dusty. the only way to keep yourself safe is to keep it hidden and sealed tight, but changbin holds the key. you placed the key in his hands the moment you found each other again, even if he doesn’t know it.
“yes. yes, changbin, i’m flirting with you.”
he nods then, squeezes your hip gently with a calloused hand.
“okay,” he whispers. “okay, good.”
you’re excited to see changmi. you’re always excited to see her, but she’s wearing what you picked out for her this time, so it feels different. you didn’t even bother making your way to your usual booth, walking your way to the stage and standing right off to the side of it because you want to watch her perform up close and personal.
you’d left changbin’s house with a kiss to his soft cheek, just giving back the one you borrowed from him weeks back.
he doesn’t know you’ll be matching with him, doesn’t know that you overturned your entire closet when you got home just to find your black leather skirt and the black, plunge neck rose-printed crop top with the hopes that he’d see it and smile. and with the hopes that he’ll think you look hot, because you feel it. you feel good, you feel confident. the compliments you’ve gotten on the floor of the bar have only helped you fly closer to cloud nine, only a hop and a skip away from it now. but there’s only one person who can get you there.
you enjoy the other queens’ performances, cheering and tipping along with the crowd, but it feels like your heart plummets to your feet when the host finally calls for your best girl.
the lights strobe, a britney number starts, and you’re almost bouncing on your heels.
when she comes out on stage, she’s not wearing what you picked out for her. the only thing of yours she’s wearing is the wig, but that’s it. she looks pretty, god, she looks fucking gorgeous, but there’s a hot curl of disappointment in your gut.
changmi’s wearing a spandex dress, it’s black and long sleeved and the pleated skirt of it hits the meat of her fishnet covered thighs. it looks a little frumpy in some places - like it doesn’t fit her quite right, but you’re too mesmerized by the whipping of her hair and the strong movements of her arms that your thoughts fly out the window soon enough.
you’re already waving your hands at her, dollar bills held firmly between your fingers. but it isn’t until the chorus that you open your mouth to scream with everyone else.
changmi’s hands reach behind her to yank at the skirt of the dress, and the dress pops open from the back. you’re completely baffled, though you should know by now that changmi always has a few tricks up her sleeve, a shrill scream pulling from your lungs when she tosses the dress behind her and whips her hair again, beautiful, curvy bodice clothed in the outfit you picked for her.
her long sleeved shirt is tight, black, and sheer, but it’s blanketed by a dainty, silver harness top. ruby red jewels dangle from the chains like little pomegranate seeds. they call to you, pull you in, urge you to bite. her wig drips red as well. it’s long, black, sleek like water, two curling horns rising from the sides of her head. blood red seeds dangle from the horns like she’s royalty. the jewels dance with her when she moves, and her little black skirt twirls with her too. black fishnet clad legs lead to the most beautiful heels you’ve ever seen. they’re inky as well, with a thick, clear heel. the inside is filled with rose petals, and a bright, red rose sits atop of the vamp.
changmi’s makeup fits her black and red theme too, lipstick a dark red that ombres into a black overdraw. her waterline shaded in white as always but lined by a bright red. the point of her wing is as dark as night, and it’s paired with the new addition of black and red freckles smattering her cheekbones.
you’ve never seen her in something dark like this, neither have the other patrons if their reactions are anything to go by. her aesthetic is made of cotton candy pink, but this fits her just as well, just like you knew it would. it’s edgy, it’s full of sharp thorns, and no one is afraid of her here.
you’re brought back into yourself when changmi drops to her knees and arches her back, palms flat on the wood as she crawls forward to the edge of the stage to take tips. she prowls, a muscled jungle cat, rolls onto her back when she’s done and arches again until she kicks her legs in the air to clack her heels together. you can see the outline of her breast forms, the chocolatey circles of her nipples through the mesh and harness when she switches back to her knees to whip her hair.
changmi eases back onto her heels and spreads her knees wide. the roar of the crowd only grows louder when she brings a hand down to fan her crotch, a satisfied smirk adorning her face when she finally makes eye contact with you. her skirt’s ridden up so you see the black lace panties she wears underneath her fishnets. it’s smooth, there’s no bulge, soft cock tucked back and completely hidden. you know that most drag queens tuck for their performances and to further the illusion, but the thought of changbin tucking nearly has your brain bluescreening.
she kicks one leg out and spins on her heel until she’s kneeling in front of you mouthing the lyrics, ducking her head to look you in the eyes. they slip down to your chest, the plunge of your shirt and back up to your face like she just couldn’t help it.
“oh my fucking god!” you yell, smile overtaking your face until her own is mirroring yours. you know she heard you over the music. “you’re fucking insane, oh my god!”
you reach out for her with a bill in your hand, but she doesn’t take it. changmi tucks the bill back in your fist and squeezes your hand in hers, instead bringing your knuckles to her mouth for a kiss.
another kiss from a rose.
her hair is stuck in her lipstick, strands caught wildly over the horns of her wig and tangled in the jewels, and she’s never been more beautiful.
“will you come to a brunch gig with me?” changbin asks. his voice is tinny over the crackling speaker of your phone. “saturday at ten thirty. they gave me a plus one! would you want to come? like, as a date… with me? we can do something after too! not just- ahh… not just the brunch.”
you can tell he’s nervous. the end of his sentence trails off into an embarrassed, airy laugh, and you have to bite your lip to hide your smile.
“i would love to go on a date with you, changbin. what should i wear?”
“oh? oh! wow, okay. ah, i’m going winter-y. i’m thinking maybe a coat reveal into a bodysuit… my coat is red, maybe we could match?”
“oh, yes! i like that! i’m sure i have some red lying around somewhere.”
you hate talking on the phone. you’d rather text, can’t usually be bothered to pick up the phone unless it’s your mom calling, but changbin is changing your mind. you could listen to him talk for hours, just interjecting with a hum every now and then so he’ll know you’re listening to him. you always hang onto every word changbin says; the gritty timbre of his voice has easily become your favorite sound over the past several months. so you start looking around for what to wear so you have an excuse to stay on the phone with him for longer. changbin, would red tights be cute? oh! i do have a jumpsuit that might work instead. what are you doing right now? how much red are we talking? have you eaten dinner yet? how are you doing your hair?
are you thinking of me the way i’m thinking of you? do you want me as badly as i want you?
the rest of the week passes in a blur. it’s the slowest week of your life, all too excited for your date on saturday that the weekdays decide to make you wait on it.
you do end up going with the red jumpsuit. it’s red and white gingham, and your white, heeled boots click on the hardwood floor of the open restaurant as you wait for changbin to start performing. for changmi to start.
changbin drove you here. you met up at his house and he walked out of his front door in full drag at nine thirty in the morning, minus the platform boots he held in his hands and a suitcase wheeled behind him. black slides took their place while he drove, and his hive styled hair brushed against the roof of his car. you laughed all the way there, changbin’s suitcase of extra clothes sitting underneath your feet, and your hands entwined over the center console.
the restaurant is packed. every table in the building is full, and there’s even people standing against the walls. you recognize several people from the bar and chit chat with them for a little while as speakers are set up and food is brought out, but you make your way back to your reserved table to wait. your table is closest to where changmi is waiting too, probably spending the last few minutes before ten thirty stretching and doing a few breathing exercises to calm her jitters. you can see one white platform boot peeking out from around the corner where she stands, and you giggle, taking your phone out and starting a video, zooming in on her tapping foot to send her or post on your instagram later.
her gig today is a little different than they usually are at her regular bar. you’ve never been to a drag brunch before, but you’re excited. it seems to be a little more laid back during the day. the atmosphere is great, the daiquiri you’re sipping on is great, you know changmi will be great.
she’s so fucking cute when she walks around the corner after her music starts. she’s met with boisterous cheers and rowdy clapping, and you might just be the loudest one there.
her red coat reaches to her knees. fur lines the sleeves and the collar of it, and a thick belt keeps it pulled together in the middle. she’s wearing white, lace gloves and a huge pair of white earmuffs to match. you don’t think you’ve ever seen her in a fully blonde wig either, but it goes perfectly with her outfit. it’s platinum blonde and hive shaped, with messy, curly ringlets framing her face to make her look even softer than she already is.
you’re waiting with bated breath for her reveal, so invested in changmi twinkling her fingers to greet people while she lip syncs and teasingly sitting beside someone in their booth that your food must be going cold in front of you.
her reveal is just as breathtaking as you knew it would be. the chorus crescendos and changmi twirls in place, taking the coat off as she does. the restaurant erupts into cheers as changmi now stands before them in a corseted bodysuit, something pastel green and bedazzled bright. it has a pretty, heart shaped neckline that dips low to show her cleavage. her thighs are hugged by lacy white garters that are held in place by twin straps. she looks as delicate as ever, as expensive as ever. you had no clue this is what she was wearing under her coat.
you’re so focused on your girl that it takes a moment to notice the hammering of little footsteps on the hardwood floor, running full speed to the middle of the restaurant where changmi performs the last bit of her first song. it’s a little girl, and she pauses right in front of changmi, looking up at her in wonder. you’re sitting up in your seat when she speaks up.
“tinker bell…”
her eyes are wide, her jaw is dropped. she’s cutely snaggle-toothed and wearing a shirt with olaf the snowman on it. out of the corner of your eyes you can see a woman hurry to get up from her table, but it doesn’t take changmi long to react.
she bends down until she’s resting on one knee and boops the little girl lightly on the nose with one lace covered finger.
you’ve never seen her falter during a lip sync, even when she’s being prodded and pulled in all different directions at bars that are slam full of people, her mouth never stops moving. but it does this time, pulling into a small smile instead while ariana grande croons in the background.
“hello,” she greets. “what’s your name?”
“maggie,” the little girl says, still staring at changmi with sparkle filled eyes.
“would you like to dance with me, maggie?”
maggie nods her head excitedly, and changmi looks in the direction where the little girl’s mother sits for her permission. when she’s granted permission with waving hands and a fond grin, changmi lifts her into her arms and props her on her hip. the little girl squeals as she’s twirled around high off the floor and whirled around the room. changmi puts her down eventually to hold her hands so they can really dance together, spinning in happy circles and laughing together. it’s a beautiful sight, like nothing you’ve ever seen before, and you pull out your phone to record it for changbin to see later. it brings a tear to your eye, a smile to your face seeing changmi so happy… seeing changbin so happy. this joy belongs to him.
“mommy, auntie, come dance!” maggie shouts, reaching a little hand towards her family while the other holds firmly to changmi. they smile but shake their heads until her shouting becomes more insistent, both women finally standing from the table and making their way to the middle, awkwardly tapping their feet and moving their arms until maggie starts jumping with joy.
“come dance!” changmi beckons, looking around to all the patrons in the restaurant. “everyone’s invited to our dance party!”
before you know it, you can hardly see changmi at all, she’s swallowed by a crowd of people dancing all around her, waving their hands in the air or holding onto each other. an older man tangoes with his wife, two younger women are singing to each other and jumping with their hands entwined, a mother bends down to twirl her son under her arm. you’re still recording when changmi bursts through the crowd and scurries to you. she’s breathing heavily, her blush-covered cheeks are pink with exertion, but she’s smiling as bright as the sun. she holds her hand out to you, and you end the video right there.
“may i have this dance?” she pants, and you take her hand with a grin of your own.
she leads you to the middle where you’re welcomed happily, dancing with your favorite person and strangers you’ve never met, strangers you’ll never see again. it’s the most freeing moment of your life, you think, sharing something so special like this with likeminded people and basking in what can only be described as jubilation.
brunch is over at eleven thirty, and changmi leaves the restaurant with a parting ment of encouragement, thanking everyone for coming out and supporting her and the local restaurant hosting.
“we’re here,” she says. “we’ve been here, and we will be here. we’re not going anywhere. they can’t take moments like this away from us even if they try.”
changbin is contemplative when he walks out of the employee bathroom after eating brunch with you. he’s completely out of drag now, suitcase packed to the brim with his wig, coat, bodysuit, and other accessories. he’s so handsome, hair tucked back into a cap and gray sweatshirt tight over his pecs. he cleaned off his makeup as best he could, but there’s still hints of liner in his waterline. he speaks to the owner of the restaurant again before leaving, raving about their food and promising to be back, whether it’s for a gig or just to eat something good.
his hand is warm when you grab it. changbin shoulders the door open for you even though he’s the one carrying a suitcase, and he opens the passenger side door for you before throwing his suitcase in the backseat and rounding the car himself. he leans his head back against the headrest as he starts the car. his head lolls to the side so he can look at you, and he smiles when he sees you’re already looking at him.
“let’s just drive,” he suggests. “ride around for a bit, talk. maybe get some milkshakes?”
you’re sure at this point you’d almost agree to anything he were to suggest. but a drive sounds nice, talking with him sounds even better, and milkshakes are always a plus.
you stop by the local sonic before changbin really starts driving, strawberry and banana pudding milkshakes sitting in his cup holders.
changbin is easy to talk to. you’ve known that since high school but truly learned the extent of it when you started getting to know each other all those months ago. he has strong principles, an excellent head on his shoulders and a kind heart to match. you love listening to his voice, but you’re happy just watching him too, just existing in a shared space together. you watch him for so long that your breathing syncs with his, chests rising and falling at the same time.
“what are you looking at?” changbin chuckles. his lips are downturned in a smile, and his fingers fiddle with yours on the center console.
“you.”
that’s it. what else is there to say? the whole world, the keeper of my heart, the song of my soul and love of my life? too soon, too much. even if you know it to be true. you don’t want to scare him away.
“ah, let me find somewhere to park. i want to look at you too.”
you giggle then, finally turning away from him but squeezing his thick fingers in yours. he has a while to go, you think, a clear strip of road is all you see ahead. the further you get from the city, the more trees you see, more fields of grass with cows and horses and goats.
the houses you come across are sparse, but the signs in their yards are not.
blue and red pickets, flags waving from the rooftops. big white letters promising a greatness that you stopped believing ever existed in the first place.
you ignore it as best you can, even though the sight of them always makes your lips curl in disgust and anger fester in your gut. changbin does too. he holds your hand softly, but you can see his other hand tighten on the wheel. the last straw for both of you is when you pull up behind a souped up truck at a red light, back window and tailgate plastered in what can only be described as right wing propaganda.
“what fucking bullshit!” you bite, just as changbin throws his hand in the air.
it must be the longest running red light in the country. your eyes are forced to roam from sticker to sticker, shaking your head and clenching your jaw at each one.
whoever’s in the truck doesn’t pay you any mind, leaving you and changbin in the dust the second the light turns green, tail pipe blaring and engine burning oil as they speed away. changbin takes the next turn and pulls you into the parking lot of a movie theater. he parks a ways away from the other cars, still double checking that the doors are locked and the windows are all the way up.
the silence doesn’t last for long because you break it. you have to talk about it, you have to get it off your chest before bitterness eats you from the inside out.
“i’m just so fucking angry!” changbin doesn’t startle even though you’re already raising your voice, all he does is unbuckle his seatbelt, shift his seat back, and turn fully to you so he can listen. “i’m just so fucking angry! and tired! it’s your neighbors. it’s people you walk by in the grocery store, people you pass on the streets. it’s your coworkers, friends you thought you knew, your own fucking family. changbin, it’s all around us! at- at work, i have to fucking interact with people without knowing if they think i should have bodily autonomy or not! this is- god, this is so fucked! and how- how can i sit there and enjoy christmas dinner when i know my grandma would hate me if i brought a girl home to meet the rest of the family?! i’m so fucking pissed off, changbin, and i’m so scared.”
your voice comes out ragged and choked, and changbin reaches for your hand again with both of his. he kisses your knuckles repeatedly, rubs them against his lips and uncurls your fingers to kiss your palm.
“i’m scared too,” changbin whispers. you trace your fingers against his full cheek while his fingers hold your wrist. “that little girl earlier, maggie. did you see how happy she was?” he smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “no one is born with hate in their heart. it’s learned, it’s taught. whether it’s at school or at home… i- we can’t stop that, and it kills me. i’m so scared that this part of me will be persecuted somehow.” changbin’s voice is wet, his chin quivers. “being gay isn’t a crime! drag isn’t a crime, i can’t- i don’t want them to take her away from me. she- she makes me strong.”
your heart cracks open right here, in the parking lot of some rundown movie theater in the front seat of changbin’s car. you ache for him, you ache for yourself. for people you know and people you don’t.
changbin goes to scrub angrily at his eyes, but you beat him to it, brushing his falling tears away with gentle fingers.
“oh, baby,” you coo. “angel boy, listen to me. she’s strong because you’re strong. you made her, she’s part of you. changmi is strong, but only because changbin makes her that way.”
he curls pitifully into the center console and you hold him while he cries. his cap falls off his head and straight to the floorboard at your feet. his shoulders shake, his throat rattles with his cries. his fingers are curled tightly in the fabric of your jumpsuit. you rest your head on his trembling shoulders and cry with him, disappointed by something so much bigger than the both of you that you hardly know the words to say.
changbin tries to sit up when his crying peters out into wet sniffles, but you hold him against you for a little bit longer, just not ready to let him go yet. when you finally let him up, he covers his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt to hide.
“can’t i see you? please?” you beg. your nose is stuffy from crying too.
he drops his arm when you ask, fingers fiddling with the hem of his tear-stained sleeve. you reach forward to smooth out his flat hair, cup his cheeks. his eyelashes have formed into points due to his tears, and his cheeks are pink and wet, hot to the touch. his round little nose is even pinker.
“i’m ugly when i cry,” he mumbles.
“you’re the most beautiful person i’ve ever known,” you tell him instead, ducking your head so that you can look him in the eye even when he tries to shy away. he leans into your touch though, noses at your palm wetly and kisses it again. changbin doesn’t say anything to that, almost like he’s taking in the words you said and soaking them in.
his eyes are so beautiful when they land on yours. they’re red-rimmed and glossy, but they’re still the warmest color you know. hot chocolate on a cold winter night, coffee to pull you out of bed in the morning, the comfort and safety of a childhood teddy bear. changbin’s gaze softens as he takes in your face. it feels like he’s looking right through you, looking past the darkest, thorniest parts of you and still finding beauty where you never could. his hands cup your wrists, thumbs rubbing the skin tenderly.
your breath catches in your throat when he leans toward you. changbin doesn’t kiss you, but he’s close enough that he could. his round nose nudges against yours instead, nuzzling the tip of it while you both breathe shakily in the silence of his idling car. he’s so close that you can feel his breath fanning warmly against your lips.
“i just wanted to look at you,” he whispers. his thumbs wrap around yours. he eases your hands from his face but keeps your hands between your bodies, entwines them right between the shared beat of your hearts. “but it’s not enough. i can’t go another day without kissing you.”
it happens all at once. you both lean forward, two minds and hearts aligned. it’s not a frantic mesh of lips like you’d envisioned before, there’s no fireworks like you hear of in the movies or read in your books. it just feels right, that’s all. it seeps into your bones and coats even the smallest crevices of your soul.
changbin’s lips are warm. they’re cracked on the bottom but still slick from his tears. he tastes like salt and strawberries and a hint of his makeup remover, and you wouldn’t trade it for the world. it’s the softest kiss you’ve ever had. a light peck, another, another, until he’s breathing you in and moving to cup the nape of your neck. he presses forward harder, kisses you deeper, opens his mouth until your bottom lip is caught between the plumpness of his two. you’re finding that your lips fit together perfectly, moving in time with each other, a beautiful, languid mesh. changbin is the one to angle his head first, open his mouth wider, and a soft noise bubbles from the back of your throat when his tongue laps at your lower lip. you open for him with no hesitation, wanting him to take from you. changbin’s soft mouth is wet and warm and oh, so inviting. it’s small, but there’s so much to learn, so much to taste. your tongues are slick when they curl together, spit taking the place of salt on your lips.
the air between you is humid. every gasp, every shuddering breath, every heady noise is shared between your lips. your hands are threading through the hair on the back of his head when he pulls away from you with a wet smack. you whine, tugging him back because you’re greedy, because you can’t get enough now that you’ve had him, and he pecks your swollen lips to satisfy the hunger, pecks them again, once more for good measure.
the sight of him makes your cunt clench and your stomach swoop. changbin’s lips are swollen and pink, so beautifully slick from your shared kisses. his hair is messy on his head and his ears are rosy red.
he smooths your hair back with the hand that was cupping your nape, presses his thumb to the give of your bottom lip. his eyes droop when you suck it into your mouth. you can’t help it, the greed overtakes every bit of your senses. your eyes flutter as your tongue laps at the pad of his thumb, bobbing your head lightly to entice him even further. you’re reeling; it looks like he wants to eat you alive. changbin slips his thumb further in your mouth before pulling it out and wiping the spit across your swollen lips.
“not here,” he grits. changbin cups your jaw, makes your swimmy eyes focus on him. “it isn’t supposed to happen like this. not here. will you come home with me?”
you’d go anywhere in the world with him, so you lean across the console to kiss him again.
“how is it supposed to happen?” you whisper against his open mouth. you feel his breath, kiss his bottom lip slowly.
changbin closes his eyes and presses his forehead to yours.
“in a bed,” he answers right away. “i- i lay you down in bed and kiss you until we’re both breathless. run my hands all over your body. baby… sweetheart, i can’t. if i keep talking i’ll do it right here.”
you’d let him. let him take your clothes off in the backseat of his sleek, black car and sit you on his cock. you’d bounce in his lap until the windows fogged up, until your sweat stuck you together, until your head bumped the ceiling and he pulled you down to kiss you messy with a hand on the back of your head for safety. you’d let him take you right here, but you want him to get you in bed too. you want to smell his sheets, surround yourself with changbin’s scent and his pillows and the four walls of his room.
“take me home then.” it’s so hard to pull away from him, but you put your seatbelt back on because you’re good and hold your hand out for changbin to take when he’s done doing the same thing. “show me the rest there.”
despite your teasing on the way back to his house, changbin drives the speed limit the entire way. the more you play with his fingers, the more he white knuckles the steering wheel with his other hand.
he kisses the breath from your lungs when he opens your car door, presses you against the black exterior and squeezes your hips before grabbing your hand and pulling you with him to the door. he doesn’t even bother grabbing his suitcase from the backseat, or the empty milkshake cups, all too focused on getting you inside and fulfilling his promise.
changbin takes the clothes from your body first. he unbuttons the front of your jumpsuit and slips the sleeves from your shoulders, kissing everywhere the fabric previously kept hidden from him.
“can i see them?” he asks. his eyes bore into yours even though you can tell he wants to look south. “you told me once that all i had to do was ask.”
your nipples harden merely at his words, so you nod your head and arch your back towards him in answer. his eyes roam slowly down to your chest, he takes you in with sparkling eyes and a slack mouth before kissing both of your peaked nipples.
you can tell he’s trying not to get ahead of himself now that your breasts are bare before him, but you’re both growing more and more desperate to feel each other’s skin and be close. you arch harder into him when he pushes the jumpsuit past your hips and holds you steady so you can step out of it. your sensitive nipples rub against the soft cotton of his sweatshirt. you want it off, you want him naked and panting and hard.
he shrugs the sweatshirt from his shoulders when you start tugging on it, clearly just as eager to feel your skin against his.
the press of your naked chests together snatches the air right from your lungs. he’s so warm, his skin so plush and soft that it makes you whine. you don’t know where to put your hands, whether to grip his broad shoulders or rake your nails down his muscular back.
only when you’re down to your panties and changbin is left in his boxers does he lay you down amongst his pillows. he does exactly what he told you he would, kissing you so thoroughly that it makes your head spin. he’s halfway on top of you, one strong arm snaked underneath your neck to hold you and elbow propped on the mattress. his free hand roams your body, caresses your hair and your face, easing down to cup your breast and play with a hardening nipple. changbin’s calloused hand feels so good when it lowers to grip your thigh. it’s thrown over his hip, and he splays his hand across the skin to feel as much as he can.
his tongue is fucking silk, but you knew that already. all you can do is give yourself to him wholly, opening your mouth for him to lick into like he’s starved. changbin makes the most mouth-watering noises when you tug on his hair to pull him closer. you feel cradled, you feel spoiled and cared for with changbin’s hands touching you so sweetly and his mouth molding so perfectly into yours.
you shiver when his hand snakes from your thigh to between your legs. he doesn’t touch you there, just ghosts his fingers along the elastic of your panties.
changbin doesn’t bother pulling away from your lips when he opens his mouth, speaking right against your tongue and swollen lips. “can i touch you right here?”
you shiver again, and the arm trapped underneath your neck pulls you tighter to his warm body. if you were to focus hard enough, you’d be able to feel his heart hammering against his chest.
“you can touch me anywhere,” you breathe. your legs spread on their own accord, rolling more onto your back and throwing one over his thighs for better access.
he kisses you again, leans further over your body so that all you feel is his warmth. changbin’s fingers touch you over your panties, and he kisses the whimper from your lips. your eyes are already closed, but they squeeze shut even tighter, your brows furrow. he doesn’t pull away, molds his open lips against yours and licks inside your wanting mouth. his tongue whips messily against yours, the wet noise of it makes your clit throb under his delicate attention. your panties are soaking under his fingers, the slide of the cotton easing the wetter you become.
your leg twitches when he presses harder on your clit, two thick fingers rubbing earnestly against the little, swollen button. an airy noise creeps from your mouth into his, and he answers you with his own. changbin only pulls away to kiss your cheek, his lips are so wet that you feel spit stick to your skin. he makes his way to your ear to tug the lobe into his warm mouth.
he listens to you moan freely now, lets you push your thigh down against his for leverage so you can grind up into his dexterous fingers. changbin pants hotly against your cheek, his round nose smushed against your skin.
“i want to fuck you so badly,” he grits. “i’m so excited to have you that way, sweetheart.” it’s intense, so honest. pulled right from your own thoughts. “i think about it all the time. even- even when i’m on stage, you-” he cuts off his own sentence with a delirious laugh against your cheek. “you make it so hard to stay tucked.”
you think about it now, changbin backstage before a gig and worked up, having to adjust his tucked cock between his legs all because he had you on his mind.
that’s when you cry out, arching your back and throwing your head back, reaching your hand frantically for changbin’s. you take his fingers in yours and slip them under the elastic of your panties so he can feel you bare and wet, silky and warm. changbin moans then and goes right back to work, dipping his fingers into the give of your hole to gather more wetness on his fingers to rub your clit with.
“you have such a wet pussy…” he sighs. a little love struck, he’s moony and dazed over it.
“y- you made it that way.” you don’t have much room to move your arm since you’re pressed so close to changbin’s thick body, but you reach down to skirt your fingers against the front of his boxers. his cock is hard, and it throbs when you wrap your hand around the girth over his boxers. “fuck, fuck, made me so wet.”
his thick fingers dip down to your hole again and he pauses, tilting his head to look into your eyes in question. you nod frantically and lift your pelvis to tempt his digits inside so that he can get you ready for him. you won’t need much, your pussy is hungry for him, sucking his fingers right in when he presses inside. he dips in lightly at first, only going deeper when you start whimpering through every shaky breath. he loves the way your hips kick, the way your toes press against his ankle when you lift your hips in search of his touch. changbin lifts up on his elbow to watch your face just as he crooks his fingers. your eyes cross, your mouth drops open, and changbin sees it all. it embarrasses you, you’ve never been watched as intently as you are now; it makes your face heat up and and your eyes fight to close because he’s seeing so much. but most of all, you like it. you want to be watched, want to be seen and enjoyed to the fullest as long as it’s by him.
you know what he’s reaching for, and he finds it easily. changbin leans in to kiss you gently as your thighs quake and quake, a slow press of lips that you break away from too quickly because you just can’t shut up, you can’t stop whining and moaning and wriggling in his arms because he makes you feel too good.
your body curls further into him when he makes you cum. his arm wraps around you tighter, moving from your neck down to your back to hold you steady while he pistons his fingers. you’re drooling against his chest, the only reason your legs stay moderately open is because you throw your knee over his hip. his movement is more cramped this way, but he takes it in stride, keeps his palm flat to your clit and massages his fingers on that special spot until you’re squealing and jolting against him.
changbin keeps his fingers snugly inside until you’re done throbbing around him. he’s gentle when he pulls out, rubs his two sticky fingers lightly over your hole to feel the gape of it, and his cock kicks in your slack grip. you can feel his smile against your temple when he brushes over your sensitive clit, his breathy laugh when your legs clamp shut.
changbin starts shimmying to help you tug off his boxers. you’d giggle back at him if you weren’t so honed in on getting his cock out. you wrap yourself around him tighter when he kicks his boxers off, wrapping your arms around his neck and your leg higher around his waist so the warmth between your legs can rub against his cock. changbin hisses then, cups your ass in his rough hand and grinds forward. the leaking tip of his cock bumps your sticky clit repeatedly. you’re sensitive, but the good kind of sensitive. if he keeps rubbing you there you’ll cum again.
“ah, they’re… kissing,” he breathes. his cock does kiss your clit, gets it wetter with his precum and makes you feel like you’re tingling all over. but you want it to kiss you inside instead, want him as deep as he’ll go.
it almost kills you to roll away from him, but changbin doesn’t let you go far. you roll onto your back and pull him with you. he’s so strong and so densely packed with muscle that the only reason you get him moving is because he follows you without hesitation.
“inside me. inside me, baby, please, i wanna get fucked,” you beg, and changbin groans, nodding his head. you caress the sides of his face, rub his shoulders, scratch his back.
changbin reaches for his nightstand but you shake your head. he looks at you with wide open eyes.
“are you sure? i’m clean, i promise, but are you sure?”
you want to feel him. you want his cum spilling inside of you where it belongs with no barrier in between.
“me too. i am too, i trust you. please? do you want it like that too?”
he holds himself on his elbows above you. one of his thumbs brushes your cheek, caresses your hair. “i want everything you’re willing to give me, sweetheart.”
it’s like time stands still as you feel changbin’s knuckles bump your belly. he’s reaching for his cock, grips it in a rough fist and jacks it to spread his precum. you’d love to watch, love to see him pleasure himself and make himself cum, but it’ll have to wait until another time. he presses his fat tip against your hole and your legs spread themselves so wide that the inside of your thighs burn.
“let me in, sweetheart,” changbin breathes. he kisses your forehead, your nose, the pucker of your lips where they wait for him. “just let me in, show me how perfect you are. changbin will take care of the rest.”
your body listens to him because of course it does. your core relaxes, your weight sags into the mattress so changbin can have you the way he wants to. his forehead presses to yours just as his thick head pops inside. your mouths drop open at the same time, just breathing heavily in each other’s space. changbin’s eyes are hooded, hooded and intense, and yours can barely stay open.
the first thrust he gives you has your eyes closing on their own. your lashes flutter when he sheaths himself fully inside, so obsessively addicted to the stretch of his thick cock already that your nails claw themselves into his shoulders to pull him even closer.
“oh, fuck,” he whimpers. you’ve never heard him sound like this. “this perfect pussy…”
you’ve never had sex like this before. never in your life have you felt so viscerally connected to someone. you’d crawl under his skin if you could, snuggle beneath his organs because you just can’t get close enough no matter how much you pull and tug and arch. changbin’s arm snakes under your neck again, and the other cups your head. your legs are wrapped so tightly around his waist that you don’t know how he has room to thrust at all, but nothing on heaven or earth could pull you away from him. you wrap your own arm around his shoulders, clutch the small of his back with the opposite hand.
you move with the force of his thrusts, body rocking as he rolls his hips to fuck you as deep as he can. you don’t go far because of the grip you have on each other though. it’s sweltering, you’re nearly sticking together. you’ve never felt better.
“i feel so good!” you cry. “you- you f- fuck, feel so good in me! it’s never felt like this. baby, baby-baby, nobody’s ever- no one else…” you can’t even string together a full sentence, brain fucked right to sleep.
“for me either,” he grunts anyway, like he understands you despite it. no one understands you better. “it’s never fucking felt like this. you’re so good for me, so beautiful. i’m the luckiest man alive.”
changbin’s voice bounces as he fucks you, his hips picking up momentum and force and rutting you into the bed like he can’t help it. a part of you feels like it’s untethering when he pulls away, when he presses his palms to the bed on either side of your shoulders and snaps his hips so good that the sound of it is nearly deafening. you can’t focus on the loss for too long because changbin is too beautiful above you. his eyes are closed, so you get lost in taking him in. changbin’s cheeks are sweetly pink, his ears and neck match. sweat drips from his hairline and rolls down his face until it drips onto your bouncing tits, his plump bottom lip is caught between pearly teeth, his pecs bounce deliciously as his thighs smack against the backs of yours. changbin is the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen, he’s the best you’ve ever had.
“fuck me, fuck me, fuck me- please don’t ever stop fucking me!” you cry. you hold his hips, nails biting the squishy skin there. “changbin, s-shit, ‘m cumming, b-baby, you’re gonna make me cum.”
“please,” changbin begs. his eyes snap open just to flutter again when sweat drips into his lashes, but he shakes his head like a dog and doubles down. “please, let me get you there, sweetheart. let me make you cum. god, i love the way you say my name.”
so you say it again and again and again, and even more after that. his hand dips between your sweaty bodies to rub at your clit. the look of pure concentration on his face nearly makes you cum on its own, his eyebrows furrowed and eyes locked on your pleasure stricken face. his thrusts stay steady and deep, fat cock carving your insides just on the right side of rough.
your chin quivers and your head thrashes on the pillow. you’re restless with your need to cum, legs squeezing him tight and arms running over every inch of his skin you can reach.
“i know, i know. i’ve got you. please cum for me, i’m right here.” he’s right here. he’s looking at you like you hung the stars in his sky. “listen to your body and cum, i’m gonna take you there.”
of course you cum right then. you listen to your body because your body listens to changbin, cumming on his cock when he tells you to. you wail when you do, so loud that you cover the sound of changbin’s near-growl and the wet smack of heated skin. you throb through your orgasm and clutch him tightly, inside and out.
“you too, please? please, inside me! cum inside me, changbin. changbin, bin. please. fucking- please!”
he plasters himself to your front and ruts into your pliant body until he’s cumming with a high-pitched, shaky whimper. it’s the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard, already so addicted to the way he sounds, the way he fucks you. now that you’ve had it, you can never go without it, all too spoiled rotten.
his arms quiver beside your head, and he rolls until you’re both laying on your sides again. you can feel him spilling out of you, oozing messily down your thighs and onto his messy bed.
“give me a second to get up. i can’t feel my legs,” he says, and you giggle.
you’re content to lay there for hours and watch each other with drooping, sleepy eyes.
“oh my god,” you laugh. you poke the scar on his chin when he hums in confusion. “you really kept your word.”
“i always keep my word. but what? what did i say?”
you’re honestly surprised you remember it at all, so much of that night is a blur in your head. but you remember so much when it comes to changbin.
“that night we met again. the first time i saw you performing in the bar, you told me that you wouldn’t put out until after a date. you really meant that shit, huh?”
changbin giggles out a silly, high-pitched laugh, tucking his face into your heaving breasts and kissing the damp skin there.
“hi, ladies!” you grin, sticking your head through one of the back rooms to see miss honey and changmi all dolled up.
miss honey is grabbing changmi by the shoulders to try and keep her calm, but all changmi does is wiggle her shoulders and kick her legs goofily until the other queen gives up. changmi moonwalks in her heels, pops her breastplate until her boobs are jiggling ridiculously.
“oh thank god! please! please, take my wife off my hands! maybe you can do something with her because i sure can’t!”
changmi is hyper. she always gets hyper when she’s nervous, and tonight is a big night for the two queens before you.
a christmas gig, one at a theater in a bigger city a few hours away from yours. it’s the biggest gig changmi has ever done, a venue with a whopping five hundred seats, with concessions and merch stands in the lobby.
in the year since you’ve been together, changmi has only grown in popularity. she’s not as well-known as the ru girls, or even as some of the girls from bigger cities in the state, but it’s only a matter of time now. she continues walking the golden road to stardom, but she’s taken you with her, strolling hand in hand on your journey there. changbin’s sister is manning changmi’s merch booth, already sold out of the handmade friendship bracelet sets and working on selling out the autographed portrait prints.
changmi rushes to you when you open the door wider, red pumps scuttling on the floor happily until she reaches you and pulls you into a jittery hug.
she’s so fucking pretty.
you picked out the wig she’s wearing, platinum blonde and pulled up in a tall, messy bun. sparkly tinsel holds the bun together, a glittery ornament and a bright red bow are wrapped up in it too. her blonde bangs cover her eyebrows and the corner pieces frame her face nicely. her makeup makes her look like the prettiest strawberry you’ve ever seen, green on her inner corners and lids and white shaded on and under her waterline as usual. her blush is red, and her freckles are as white as snow. her sweet, plump lips are colored ruby too.
the coat she’ll go on stage in is knee length, red, and pleather, but that’s resting on the back of the vanity chair she’s left behind. you see her reveal outfit now, silk and short and rose red. the sleeves are long and flowy. the collar, sleeve ends, and the hem of her skirt are all ruffled with beautiful red lace. the dress is already lightly cinched in the middle, but she’s wearing her corset underneath anyway. her socks are white and lace, ruffled cutely at the top, and her pumps match the color of her dress.
“mm, hi pretty girl,” you hum, looking her up and down. “are you my christmas present this year?”
changmi purrs like a cat. she’s about to answer you when miss honey gags from her station, blending the lace-front of her long, black wig.
“stop distracting me! i’m not done getting ready, please go suck her dick in the bathroom or something,” she whines.
changmi doesn’t wait another second before she lightly shoulders past you and grabs onto your hand, heels clacking on the creaky wooden floor angrily as she rushes to the nearest bathroom in the hallway.
she pushes the door open and checks each of the stalls before walking backwards into one with a smirk. it’s not long before the look on your face matches hers, and you lock the stall behind you and drop to your knees. you’re wearing long pants and the floor is clean enough, but your focus hones in on the desperate girl before you.
“oh, fuck, my-” changmi stomps her foot and her bun swishes against the wall of the stall. “there’s really no attractive way to do this… can you lift my skirt up?”
you do as she asks, corseted belly and waist coming into view when you lift the skirt up high. changmi tugs her nude nylons down to her thighs, and the little panties she wears get stuck on top of them when she drops them too.
where her cock would usually stand proud, it’s taped between her legs, leaving her smooth like a barbie. you can see the cut of the tape strip holding her back, and changmi reaches down to pull at the corner of it. her knees widen awkwardly when she reaches between her legs, and she pulls from the back after loosening the front. her cock snaps to attention like a weapon, throbbing and hard.
“you must have needed me really bad, huh?” you smile, leaving one hand bunching her skirt up and bringing the other down to stroke her fat cock.
changmi bunches the tape up and throws it haphazardly into the trash can by the toilet before bringing her hands to your hair. she doesn’t tug, doesn’t grip your roots, just cards her thick fingers through it gently.
“fuck, you have no idea. i’m so worked up, i’m so- i’m so hard, gonna cum so fast. i feel like there are ants in my legs.”
the first touch of your lips to her leaky tip has her knees wobbling. she tastes good, smells clean, and you breathe in deeply through your nose while you open your mouth to suck her inside. you look up at her through your lashes and see her already looking at you.
she has to perform soon, so you pull out all the stops.
changmi’s cock is so fat that she stretches your mouth to its limits, pulling at the thin sides and drying your lips when you suck. she likes when you lap your tongue at the base while you’ve got her down your throat, so you do, nose pressed right under the band of her corset and tongue wagging messily. a light squeeze to her balls has her lifting onto her tiptoes. you follow her, rising on your knees as tall as you can until she slowly lowers herself again. her heavy balls are tender and sensitive, and if you circle your fingers under them and tug them up, the tip of your tongue can brush against them too.
“there, right there. i’m cumming, holy s-s-shit, eat it up, sweetheart, yeah, just like that…”
she cums in your mouth, shoots pearly ropes right down your throat and into your belly. you lick your lips and she licks hers in response, pretty eyes drooping when she watches you kiss the tip of her cock again before unrolling the toilet paper and wiping her cock down and helping her pull up her panties and nylons.
changmi’s bambi legs lead you back to her dressing room where miss honey sits on her phone.
“are you calm now?” she asks.
“i have to tuck again,” changmi answers.
miss honey cackles and you wink at her. you unlock your own phone to check the time.
“hey, i’m gonna go sit baby.”
changmi stops unrolling her medical tape and scurries over to you once more. “you’re gonna watch me, right?”
you wouldn’t miss it for the world. she’s a star, the brightest in the galaxy. your very own north star, the one you always look to. she’s all you see anyway.
“of course, my love.” the corner seat of the first row in the middle section has your name on it.
“i’ll look for you,” she smiles.
changmi places a kiss to your cheek before you shut the door, a bright red kiss mark decorates your burning cheek. you wear it proudly, lucky to have her in a way no one else can.
the skin of your cheek tingles sweetly, like you can still feel her lips pressed there even after you take your seat.
you’ve been kissed by a rose.
Reading this again cause it’s my favourite fic ever and it literally never leaves my head 😆
♱ ˚₊‧⁺ devotion by any other name han jisung x f!reader x lee minho
word count: 7.6k words
author's note: hi!! I had no plans on writing this but then I read refraction by spearbreaker on ao3 and then I couldn't sleep and proceeded to spend 2 hours coming up with the entire universe of my own fic in one night - and I knew I had to do something with it, at least. I also didn't really take this too seriously. no presh, no expectations to make this the best piece of story telling ever - I just wanted to see the story that kept me up on paper. and for you to read!!
warnings: bodyguard!au; typical warnings for the genre: morally dubious characters (minho has killed and done worse things; your parents are criminals), mentions of murder and violence; SMUT, lots of it; step-sibling incest?? your and jisung's parents are in a marriage of convenience so.. not that deep tbh
skzms' masterlist
The fire behind the grate crackled. Outside, behind the drawn curtains of the safe house, an owl called. Minho hadn’t slept more than a few hours for four days. And it was all your fault. Your and Jisung’s. Both of you, having descended on his life like two demons.
You didn’t look it, of course. From where he was standing, his back to the door of the steel-reinforced wood cabin, you both looked almost angelic in the low light of the fire and the candles dotted around the room, lying on the garishly coloured quilt on the only bed in the place, quietly tangled together, dozing.
But, oh, Minho knew better.
When his employer, Mr Han, had informed him that he was getting married, all those months ago, Minho had no idea what he was in for.
No. The Minho of seven months ago was professional and detached. Aloof. Arrogant. Believed that he was too smart to ever get involved in anything he wasn’t paid to do.
The Minho of seven months ago had stood there, in his employers executive office, the lights of the city twinkling behind the floor to ceiling windows behind him, and had nodded, his face an impassive mask, as his employer informed him that there were going to be changes to his household. He was getting married, he said—with about as much feeling as if he had just informed Minho of a business merger—and his new wife and her daughter were going to move into his penthouse. Also, his own son, who had recently, quite spectacularly flunked out of business school, was also moving back home.
He would hire more security eventually, he said, but for the time being, Minho would have to do the job alone. He trusted Minho was up to the task, he’d said. Minho had bowed dutifully.
On paper—although said paper was no more indicative of anything being legal than all the other deals that went on behind the closed doors of Mr Hans businesses—Lee Minho was the Han family’s driver. In reality, he carried a knife against his calf and a silenced pistol in his pocket, and enough weaponry and ammunition underneath the floor of his trunk to take out a small army. Mr Han had hired him straight out of the academy. Had waltzed in one day and asked for the deadliest man they had, and his teacher had handed Minho over without another word.
Back then, Minho had just been glad to get out of the academy for longer than a deadly assignment at a time. He’d been stuck there for more than six years—six long years of bullying, of psychological and physical violence that was rained upon them day in, day out, in the name of making them strong. Minho laughed at it now. A snarling, bitter laugh. Oh, it made him strong, alright.
Minho didn’t mind working for Mr Han. He was a good employer. Paid well, more than enough for Minho to pay for his small apartment that he barely ever set foot in, with the crazy hours his work required of him, while also letting him pad his savings accounts for a better future beyond the horizons of violent servitude. He even offered Minho a holiday and a birthday bonus when he happened to remember. Which wasn’t all the time, but Minho couldn’t complain. When he did, the bonus was exorbitant enough to make up for it. And when he didn’t Minho ordered himself lunch from the most expensive Sashimi restaurant in town as compensation.
Working for Mr Han was calm, the moments that Minho had to … rely on his talents few and far between, just enough to keep him sharp, make the blood pump through his veins a little quicker. Apart from those moments, Mr Han was a man of solid, regular habits, never one to initiate small talk, meaning that even after working for him for three years, Minho barely knew him better than he had after the first week. What Minho did know, was that Mr Han was an evil man. Truly, deeply evil, with more blood on his hands than Minho could possibly fathom. But Minho could not fault him for it—his own hands were far from clean, and some of the blood from Mr Han’s hands was on his own.
So his plan had been to continue doing his job. Driving Mr Han wherever he needed to go, whatever time of day he needed to go there. Attend all the meetings, parties, events with him; follow him around like a shadow, eyes on their surroundings, hands ready to undo the safety of his gun and kill at a moment’s notice. It had been necessary before. Minho didn’t particularly enjoy killing, but Mr Han was a powerful man, which meant that when he did, he never had to worry about the clean-up. Bodies, blood, bullets—everything Mr Han wanted to disappear, disappeared. It made Minho’s job a hell of a lot easier.
Until you came along.
Until one day, his car, and his services, were at the sole disposal of quiet, ruthless Mr Han—and the next, you and Jisung stood before him. From where he is now, he likens you two on that day to the twins from the Shining.
You and Jisung didn’t share any blood, of course. But despite that, there was something eerily similar between you two. You didn’t look alike, necessarily, or much at all—the resemblance ran deeper. A kind of abstracted look in the eyes, one that Minho had seen countless times in the aimless brats of parents with more money than they knew what to do with. An intensity in the way you both looked at him, like you were two young lion cubs and Minho was dinner. A quickness to pout, whenever something didn’t go your way. An easy, petulant confidence, especially about your bodies.
A tendency to gravitate towards each other always, whether in the back of Minho’s car or at the bar of a party when things went south. It made sense, Minho figured. The sheep huddling together while the dogs tore the foxes to shreds.
Minho had seen you that first day and bowed, ninety degrees. Held there for a second longer than necessary.
“Miss Y/L/N, Mr Han. Lee Minho, at your service.”
Neither of you responded, or even bowed back, before you were ushered away by your parents, though he felt your eyes linger on him before you were forced to turn and meet the maid.
For a blissful week or two, the course of his days remained relatively the same as they had been. He sat, he smoked, he waited for Mr Han to call him, drove him where he needed to be, stood in the back of meeting rooms, keeping an eye on the hands of every man in the room.
Then, one day, after a long day of meetings, Mr Han turned to him and told him that he was going to be out of town for a while, on business. Minho wasn’t surprised. Mr Han travelled from time to time, and had security personnel on the ground everywhere. He would usually stay behind to guard the house, on call for when Mr Han needed him to take care of something—or someone—or help one of his associates out of a situation. (Something Mr Han liked to do often. Nothing was more powerful than someone owing you their life, he’d always say. It got you anything you wanted.)
So when Mr Han told him that, this time, he was to keep an eye on his son and his step-daughter, to not let them out of his sight and grant them their every wish for amusement, Minho was surprised for a moment, but, of course, assented. He didn’t know then that that’s where his trouble would start.
Those first days would turn out to be the most normal of them all. There would be many days in the coming months when Minho cursed the existence of whatever coked out party got Han Jisung thrown out of business school, whatever deal had made forced your mother into matrimony with his employer; days when he would’ve given anything to have those blissful first weeks back—
Outside the cabin, a twig snapped, and it sent a shock of adrenaline through Minho’s tired body. Quick like lightning, he had drawn his gun and inched towards the window, pulling the curtain back slowly.
With his heart pounding in his chest, he peered outside—and let out a breath of relief when he saw a wild boar brush through the undergrowth.
He lowered his gun, carefully put the safety back on, and holstered it back against his thigh, before returning to his post by the door.
His movement must have woken Jisung because he was half propped up, peering over at Minho with bleary eyes. He smacked his pretty, pouty lips, let the pinkness of his tongue dart out to wet them.
“Come on, Minho,” he urged him, his voice deep and rumbling with sleep, “there’s nobody out there. If they knew where we were, they would have found us by now. You need sleep …” before adding, after a moment of hesitation and a pregnant look between him and the fireplace, “proper sleep.”
Minho knew what he was referring to.
Last night, he had finally succumbed to his body’s needs and nodded off on the thick carpet in front of the fire. He had left you and Jisung the bed, of course, and had refused your entreaties to join him. It wasn’t appropriate—and he was terrified. He didn’t know what it would do to him, to be so close to you.
So he had stretched out there, on the rug, promising himself he would close his eyes only for a minute. But he was out like a light within seconds, his body finally giving out on him.
When he woke up, it was to both you and Jisung cuddled into either side of him, sleeping peacefully, two warm, soft bodies against his, peaceful, deep breaths puffing against his skin. Jisung’s hand, soft and tentative, laced with his.
He had shoved to his feet before he could feel any more of the contact between you. He swallowed the guilt that set in as soon as he watched you both blearily blink your eyes open, a sweet, sleep-drunk “Minho?” tumbling from your lips and mumbled something about needing to take a leak before making straight for the door to the cabin and stumbling out into the cold, blue dawn.
Sometimes he wondered how it all happened—and so fast.
One day, you and Jisung had shown up in the garage, asking, no telling him to take you to a luxury department store and made him dutifully follow you from store to store, dressing room to dressing room, one eye on the store and the other watching you and Jisung, giggling, trying to coordinate outfits for some important mixer or another, playfully tugging at each other’s clothes in a way that Minho had to tell himself was not flirty—
And what felt like the very next day—even though, realistically, it was at least two or three weeks later—he had looked in the rearview mirror and found his view blocked by the two of you with your lips locked.
All his years of training didn’t prepare him for the image of Han Jisung’s greedy tongue dipping between the plush of your lips, his arms tugging you closer into his side, your fingers on the softness of Jisung’s face.
The car swerved violently, making you squeal and the car behind them honk—and Minho grunt out a low “sorry”. His ears were burning red-hot.
Minho could feel Jisung’s eyes boring into the side of his face, but he mercifully said no more, until you reached the expensive restaurant he had been told to take you for lunch. When he opened the car door and held it open, Jisung slid out first, before helping you out of the car and suddenly pulling you in, kissing you square on the lips, only centimetres in front of Minho’s face.
Minho contained his reaction except for the errant flutter of his eyelids as he stared straight past you, watching the passersby ogle the two beautiful young people getting out of the big, expensive car with the tinted windows.
“Miss Y/N, Mr Han,” Minho forced out, after you had been kissing for almost a full minute. He was still refusing to look at you and Jisung, though he couldn’t help but watch, from the corner of his eye, as you licked Jisung’s spit off your lip, “I would suggest we proceed into the restaurant now. It’s not safe to linger out here in plain sight.”
Han Jisung had scoffed, an arrogant little thing that reeked of money, and mumbled a “we’re not actually related, you know”, but had simply taken your hand and pulled you to the entrance—though not before throwing a glance over his shoulder at Minho and, in full view of him, grabbing a handful of your ass and squeezing.
Next to Jisung on the bed, you stirred now, too, nuzzling closer into Jisung’s chest, whose arm instinctively came around you to tuck you closer.
When Minho still neither moved nor responded, Jisung scoffed.
“Suit yourself.”
He would’ve undoubtedly said more, if, at that moment, your hand hadn’t found the back of Jisung’s neck and pulled him down into a kiss.
Jisung melted into it immediately, softening all over, letting his body fold into yours, letting your lips set the pace. Minho forced his eyes away from you, training them on the blank of the wall instead. Though there was nothing he could do not to hear the noises permeating the quiet air in the cabin.
The click of your lips, the slick slide of your tongues, every now and again, the rustling of the sheets. A deep, rumbling hum from Jisung. A breath catching in your throat.
Minho didn’t know if it was better or worse that he couldn’t see. That his imagination was left to fill in the blanks. Arousal lodged itself thickly into the back of his throat, threatening to choke him completely. He was forced to clear his throat.
The sounds stopped.
“Minho,” Jisung said, voice low and deep with arousal, “last offer. Why don’t you come and … lie down with us?”
Minho closed his eyes, forced himself to take a deep breath.
He fluttered his eyes open. Both you and Jisung were looking at him now, bodies intertwined intimately. He held your gaze steadily, before he averted his eyes again, fixing them back onto the wall of the cabin. Jisung huffed out in frustration.
“How can you be so stubborn?!” he hissed, but Minho didn’t react. After a moment, Jisung suddenly laughed darkly, before he spoke again, mischief lining his tone now. “Well, you won’t join us, but you also can’t leave us. So I guess you’ll have to stay right there. But we want to have sex now. So we will.”
Minho didn’t react, except for a dry swallow, the sound of his weight shifting as he braced himself against the floor. He could do this. He would. Somehow.
But then, for the first time since you woke up, he heard your voice.
“Don’t bother, Ji. He doesn’t care. He thinks he’s too good for us. Me being a whore and all.”
Minho’s eyes nearly fluttered to yours then, only staid by the twinge in his chest at the hurt in your voice. He had snapped the word at you a few days ago, when you arrived in the safe house; when you’d pressed close to him in the little cabin kitchen, wound your arm around his waist and pressed your soft cheek into his shoulder in a bid for comfort.
“Stop it,” he’d growled, plucked you from his body and pushed you backwards, “maybe Curtis”—your former bodyguard, who had been with your family for half your life—“let a little whore like you convince him to fuck you, but I won’t.”
Your face had pulled into grimace of pain, then anger, before turning on your heels stalking off. Though you couldn’t go far, with all three of you confined to the one room plus bathroom of the safe house. So you had simply rounded the bed and petulantly dropped to the floor behind it, mostly obscured from his view from the little kitchen. It had been a low blow. He’d regretted the words almost as soon as they’d left his mouth. And he hadn’t meant it, not really. He had just … he had been angry. He hadn’t slept in days, laden with the burden of taking care of the two of you. His boss had turned out to be a worse man than he could’ve ever anticipated, gambling on the lives of not only his own child, but someone else’s, too, like it meant nothing. He had brushed with death a million and one times in his life, but never had it felt so imminent—and never had he felt so desperate to keep it from coming for someone else.
His whole life had blown up in his face and he was stuck here, protecting the two people who drove him stark raving mad on a daily basis. And he was tired. Tired of fighting you and Jisung, and so, so tired of fighting the senseless need clawing at his ribcage that had no business being there.
At his words, Jisung had whirled around to him with vitriol in his eyes, had placed both of his big hands on Minho’s chest and pushed hard, hard enough to make Minho stumble a few steps, before he’d turned and joined you on the floor next to bed, throwing an arm around your shaking shoulders, whispering softly.
With a startling clarity and guilt rising like bile in his throat, Minho realised that his life may have been blown up, but yours had, too. Maybe even more than his. You and Jisung, no idea of the world and what it took to stay alive in it, always an afterthought, a pawn in someone else’s game—you had no idea what you were coming back to. Your parents may already be dead. Or jailed. Or they may have run to some distant country, with changed names, not a second thought for their offspring. Anything to your name may have been seized already, or become inaccessible. Even the penthouse, the place you tentatively called home, might as well have been raided by now—or maybe it was burning out by the hands of your father’s enemies, angry that they couldn’t get their hands on the payment your father had promised them. You.
Minho balled his fists, dug his nails into his palm and stayed silent, only continued to sift through the rations in the safe house kitchen. He had known the world was cruel, but this was beyond even what he had been capable of accepting.
He remembered your face, Jisung’s little wince, when Minho had screamed the truth at you two weeks ago, on the side of the interstate where he’d stopped because you insisted you wanted to get out of his car right this instant.
“Your parents don’t care about you. You’re pawns. They have been using you, this whole time, and you’re too stupid to see it. I’m not your enemy, for fuck’s sake! I’m the only one you have. I’m the only one you can trust.”
He’d wanted to leave you right there, on the side of the road. He could’ve, too. He could’ve driven home, packed his bags, and left the country on the next flight out of the city. If he covered his tracks well enough, so Mr Han wouldn’t find him, he could’ve even had a chance of living a whole life, somewhere out there.
But more than the threat of his own life, what kept him here was how small you looked. You and Jisung, hand in hand, hair whipping around your faces with every passing truck, the drizzle slowly ruining your stupid, expensive clothes. You had no one, he realised. The people who had put you into this world were out there, chasing their own goals with not a single thought about who they were hurting.
Wordlessly, he’d walked over to the car and opened the back door. When you didn’t move, he looked over at you, wet and shivering and uncertain, and had motioned for you to get into the car with more impatience than he really felt. All he felt was resignation. And a bitter, all-encompassing hatred for the world.
Minho forced himself back into the present, where his eyes were glued to a piece of uneven wood that exposed the steel hidden behind the innocuous log of the log cabin.
He heard Jisung shush you quietly, press a kiss to your lips. Minho allowed his gaze to flutter back to you, though he regretted it almost immediately.
But now that he was looking, he couldn’t look away.
Your hands were on Jisung’s face, thumb caressing the softness of his cheek. Jisung, above you, was staring down at you like you hung the moon.
“Which I’m not, am I?” you mumbled out, mostly to Jisung, who shook his head, brushed his nose against yours. Then, a little louder, you added, “I’m not a whore. Quite the opposite, in fact. I gave my virginity to Jisungie.”
Minho swore his vision abandoned him for a second, with how violently all the blood in his body rushed south at your words. When it returned, it was just in time to capture the way Jisung’s face lit up with a radiant smile before he dipped down to press another eager, gentle kiss to your lips.
Minho understood all at once, in a sudden, overwhelming realisation, that he may have been very wrong about you and Jisung, and what you were to each other.
He had imagined that what bonded you and Jisung together was a kind of defiance. That that was part of what drove you into each other’s arms. Defiance against absent parents. Loneliness, in a big penthouse with nobody ever around. Distraction, maybe, from all of the above. Maybe even the threat of the illicit, of being able to say you were step-brother and sister, making it all the hotter when Jisung slipped into your bedroom and between your legs—the mental image of which had been haunting Minho for months, no matter how hard he tried to shut it out, or many shots he downed before climbing into bed, anything to try and keep his hand from having to slip under his boxers to relieve the physical effects of his overactive imagination. He would’ve sworn that casual was all that you were. It’s what he had said to Seungmin the last time he’d seen him, about three months after Mr Han’s marriage.
“I don’t think they would be capable of those kinds of feelings. They’re like animals,” he’d said with derisive ridicule in his voice, a wry smile on his face, “all they want is gratification—the bigger, the better, and always right now. They fuck because it’s easy dopamine, and it distracts them from how miserable they are with all their money. And because they’re both batshit crazy.”
Because you were. You were insane. Unsettlingly so, even to Minho’s standards. Because there was a healthy sex drive, and then there was what drove you two.
The occasional, desperately barked out order of “partition” from the back seat before Minho was forced to white-knuckle his way along the streets with the sound of you moaning Jisung’s name right behind him, the occasional bump against the back of his seat jostling him, forcing him to become aware of the half-hardness in his jeans—that was the most normal of it all.
But then there was all the other shit. Bathrooms—in restaurants, bars, at parties, balls, even your father’s business events—Minho couldn’t count how many he had stood guard in front of while you fucked. Then there were dressing rooms in expensive stores, with no door between you and him, every sound shivering into Minho’s ears, unfiltered.
That one time that neither of you ordered Minho to put up the partition and Minho had looked in the rearview mirror to find Jisung shirtless, thick honey chest bare and two fingers deep in your dripping pussy. He’d put up the partition himself, then, his abdomen clenching with dark arousal when Jisung laughed dirtily before it thunked closed.
Or the time you both stumbled out of the worst club in town and right into his back seat, tiny, tight, sparkling outfits leaving nothing to the imagination, pupils as big as saucers, not even bothering to greet him before Jisung had pushed you flat against the back seat and started devouring you. When Minho pressed the button and raised the privacy partition on his own accord that time, you were too lost in each other to even notice.
He didn’t know what you took, but whatever it was, it must have been strong. You and Jisung went nothing short of feral, if your surprised squeals and yelps and Jisung’s growls were anything to judge by. When the car finally rolled into the garage of your building, Minho all but stumbled out of and away from the car, pressing his forehead against the cool concrete and the heel of his hand between his legs as he tried to ignore the way the car was rocking, the filthy moans ringing through the garage.
Or that one time—the night that Minho had tried so desperately to forget—when it was only you and him, pressed together in a dark storage closet where he had dragged you for safety, when a cocktail party suddenly went awry. When he had you clasped in his arms, your back against his erratically rising chest, his hand clamped over your mouth as he listened to the non-stop raining of gunfire in the main hall, the occasional sound of footsteps, running past your hiding place.
You were closer to him than you’d ever been—and he was holding you tighter than he maybe had to, but he couldn’t chance it. He had watched you, wide-eyed, terrified, as a bullet whizzed past your head and buried itself into the wall right in front of you. Minho’s entire being had shut down, body on autopilot, the only thing he knew was to protect you. So even now, in the relative safety of your hiding spot with the heavy boxes jammed against the door, he was holding you close. Your warm, soft, fragile human body against his in the darkness, your breath moist against his palm. He hoped you couldn’t hear how his heart skipped a beat when you let your head fall back against his shoulder, when you moved as if to nuzzle into him.
He could feel your heavy heartbeat where his arm was locked around you. Could feel the hitching in your breath, feel you pressing closer into his protective arms when voices or the sound of running came closer, passed in front of the door.
And as you settled, he felt it when your fingers wrapped around his wrist and slowly peeled his arm off you. Confused, he let you guide his arm, thinking that maybe he had been holding you tightly, that you were trying to loosen his obsessive, unrelenting grip on you because he was hurting you, but—
Too late, he realised what you were really doing.
There were voices passing by outside, the heavy sound of combat boots and the clatter of guns when you pressed Minho’s fingers between your legs and Minho gasped breathlessly when he felt your dripping sex against the pads of his fingers.
He should’ve pulled away then. He should’ve ripped his hand from between your legs, should’ve let go of you and pushed backwards, get away from you, even if he couldn’t go far in the cramped darkness of the closet.
But he didn’t.
He thought he could feel your smile against his palm when you realised.
With an oddly gentle grip on his hand, you guided his hand lower, until you could stroke two of his barely responsive fingers deeper into the slickness of you, making Minho’s head thunk heavily against the wall behind him. His cock was hard in his jeans, straining against where he was only separated from your ass by denim and the flimsy material of your dress, since you had evidently opted to forgo underwear.
Then you slipped them inside of you and Minho swallowed back a feral moan. You were so hot and warm and responsive, wrapped around his fingers, clenching around him like a vice when he ran the pads of his fingers over your walls. A desperate huff against his palm, wet with spit now. But he didn’t let go.
No, he stiffened his fingers and with a sigh, holding his hand between your legs, you started fucking yourself on his fingers—your ass rubbing over Minho’s bulge with every roll of your hips. It was a little uncoordinated, your movements unpractised and shaky, but it didn’t matter. Your head was lolled against shoulder, your sweaty face pressed into his neck, and your slickness was dripping down his knuckles.
Maybe it was the adrenaline in the moment, the fear for your life making his self-control shaky, but Minho came when you did, sinking your fingers into the hair at the back of his neck and pulling as you bullied his fingers as deep inside of you as you could, spilling into his tight jeans, letting the erratic twitching of your hips milk him and drive him into the most delicious kind of overstimulation.
He barely remembered how you eventually made it out of the party. He only remembered the spent whimper falling from your slick lips when he finally dropped his hand from your face, the little shiver that wracked through your body, the way you had nuzzled into him before he’d pushed you away and wiped his hand on the inside of his shirt (which he had ripped off his body as soon as he'd gotten home, thrown into the laundry machine, which he had immediately turned on before he could do anything with the shirt he could regret.)
Minho had refused to look at you the next day, when you and Jisung found him to take you for a bottomless mimosa and caviar brunch and shopping.
He had no idea if Jisung knew. He certainly had never let on that he did, and Minho didn’t think he would’ve cared much. But that had been before. Before he realised that maybe you and Jisung were more to each other than a cheap, physical diversion.
Because now, as he was watching you kiss there, on the bed—sweetly, languidly, you, sighing into Jisung’s mouth, Jisung’s big hands dragging slowly over your body, not even trying to undress you yet—he was suddenly confronted with an entirely different image.
And then Jisung said it. Six little words, enough to make Minho so dizzy he had to claw a hand into a wood of the door in order for his knees not to buckle.
“And I gave you my virginity,” Jisung whispered, with a sickeningly sweet smile, before leaning in again.
The arousal that flooded through Minho felt like a punch to the gut, but even more painful, as it spread through his body, making his muscles clench and unclench as he tried to ignore the insistent throbbing between his legs.
He squeezed his eyes shut, though the inside of his eyelids played a no less torturous movie.
You and Jisung, lying in one of your big, soft beds in your penthouse rooms, side by side, facing each other—finally finding someone who understood. You and Jisung, alone, so alone in that big house, with nowhere to run, finding in each other something that was worth more than anything else in that world of yours: a friend.
And a little more.
Instead of the dirty step-sibling role-play thoughts that had plagued Minho for months, he was now forced to reckon with the—somehow even more devastating—thought of you and Jisung, pressed together under the covers, awkward and uncoordinated, shy giggles turning into soft moans as you took each other’s virginities. Sliding together, slow and messy and sensual. Learning how to pleasure yourselves and each other. Much more than just a quick fuck—
Making love.
Maybe in the dark, even, only be the light of the moon and the city outside the windows. Soft, exploring hands. Sweet smiles and breathy moans, whispered confessions.
Minho felt like his vision was fraying at the edges. He was hard, cock straining against denim, but the dull throb of it was nothing compared to the dull pang in his chest.
He wanted to pretend that he didn't understand why it hurt as badly as it did. But he did know.
As long as he could pretend that you two were vapid, shallow little things, only using each other to get off, he could ignore it. Force the magnitude of his feelings into a small box he called pity. Pity for these two brats, born with a golden spoon in their mouth and nothing better to do than fuck their step-sibling.
But the proof of the intimacy between you, the realisation that it wasn’t divergence so much as a meeting of souls, a finding of comfort where there never was any.
He could no longer pretend it was pity, then. He had to come face to face with the fact that what he felt for you and Jisung was a more complete devotion than any of his teachers could’ve ever prepared him for—the need to protect, not just out of something as cold as duty, but growing out of something real.
Love.
Minho fluttered his eyes open, and with his gaze locked against the ceiling, swallowed a helpless whimper.
What was his love, lodged in his throat where he was leaning heavily against the door, compared to the love intertwined between the two bodies on the bed.
When Jisung leaned back and ripped his shirt over his head, Minho couldn’t resist.
Jisung’s body was perfect. Lithe and golden, yet undoubtedly strong. Unlike Minho’s own, Jisung’s muscles seemed like they were coated in a thick layer of plumpness, stretching over his shoulders, down his biceps, over his pecs and down his stomach like the skin of a ripe peach—like Minho could sink his teeth into it, and it would burst, revealing tender flesh and sweet juice.
Not that he could ever hurt him. No, he would have to kill himself if he did, just like he would cut anyone else who tried limb from limb.
Down the tender skin of his side ran thick, black ink, disappearing almost teasingly under the waistband of his sweats. Like you were reading Minho’s mind, your hand found Jisung’s waist, your fingers caressing gently over the inked skin and then down; down until you could slip your hand underneath his sweats, fingers digging into the globes of Jisung’s ass.
Jisung rumbled a moan into your lips, before his pretty face fell into the crook of your neck, and you started kneading his ass, guiding him along until he tentatively, almost shyly, started rutting his bulge against your leg. Jisung was moaning nonstop now, sweet little sounds, muffled by the skin of your neck. His hands, too, grew restless now, slipping under the oversized shirt of Minho’s that he had given you to change into after your shower earlier, since you didn’t have time to pack any spare clothing before getting into Minho’s car and running for your life.
Minho tried to unclench his fists, but barely managed, every single ligament in his hand pulled taut in a self-restraint that had no aim or goal except to keep Minho there, by the door. But, God, he wished he could feel what Jisung was feeling. The warm, delicate skin of your waist, your side and—you gasped, prettily—the plush of your breasts in Jisung’s hands, Minho unable to make out more than the gentle movement of Jisung’s hands on you. Jisung buried himself further in your neck, panting, until he suddenly moaned out loudly, brokenly, his body spasming, one of his legs kicking out against the bed.
Minho’s eyes followed the line of your arm down Jisung’s pants and … and …
Jisung moaned again, his hand shooting out to grab your arm, holding your arm in place as he started rutting his ass up to meet your fingers, rather than rubbing himself against your thigh.
Minho’s breath dragged through his throat like barbed wire, his nails digging into the wood of the door, trying to ground himself, but he was failing. His head was swimming, his entire existence narrowed down to you and Jisung, on the bed. When he looked at you, you were looking straight at him, and you were smirking.
With another long moan and a breathless chuckle, Jisung pulled your hand out of his pants and murmured something into your ear that Minho couldn’t make out, before he leaned in to kiss you deeply. As he did, he let his hand slide down over your belly, dancing over the skin and then lower, until he could slide his hand between your legs. It was only over the thick material of your—Minho’s—sweats, but you still gasped, your knees trying to knock together on instinct, but Jisung didn’t let them. In one smooth movement, without ever breaking eye contact with you, he broke the kiss, licked your spit off the seductive protrusion of his bottom lip and made his way down the mattress, letting his hands caress over every inch of your body along the way, until he was finally lying between your legs.
Minho didn’t know how much longer he could take it. Everything in him was reaching out for you, begging him to take the few steps across the room it would take to come within arms reach of the two people who had, in the span of a few months and then, suddenly, all at once, in the last few days, become the only thing he had. The only thing he had ever wanted in his entire life—the only thing that had eluded each and every one of his attempts at deadening himself to his feelings. The only people he couldn’t help but want.
But by now, neither of you were looking at Minho. Lost in your own world, lost in each other. Minho wanted to scream, sob, anything. There were tears of frustration lining his eyes when Jisung dipped his face between your legs, pressed his nose against your clothed sex, inhaled and groaned happily.
Minho forced his eyes shut again, forced himself to suck a deep breath into his aching lungs, trying to ignore the pulsing ache in his abdomen, the twitching of his cock—trying to keep his eyes closed as he heard the rustle of fabric, Jisung’s soft words of encouragement and praise, but when he heard the first of your breathy moans, he could no longer deny himself.
His eyes fluttered open.
Jisung was still between your legs, but you were naked now, from the waist down. You were still wearing Minho’s shirt, though it had ridden up to expose the softness of your belly. The dark mop of Jisung’s head was poking out between your legs, his pretty hands wrapped around your thighs to hold you in place.
Jisung’s head dipped and you moaned softly.
Minho hadn’t gotten to hear you, back then, in that storage closet, with his palm so securely clamped over your mouth. But now he could.
With every lick of Jisung’s tongue, every suck of his cherry blossom lips against you, the sound of which echoed obscenely through the utter silence of the safe house, your moans grew higher, breathier, more wanton. Your body was arching in Jisung’s hands, and then your head fell to the side and your eyes met Minho’s.
It was like lightning surged through Minho’s veins, his hips kicking forward into nothing with the sudden shock of desire that lanced through him. Your eyes, dark, hooded, and pornographically dazed, bore into him with the weight of a million tons, pinning him against the door, his eyes unable to leave yours, even if he wanted.
Jisung licked at you harder and your face screwed up into something between pleasure and pain, your eyes slipping shut for only a moment. Your eyebrows screwed together, your eye twitched.
Jisung was too eager, Minho realised. Too fast, too impatient.
Jisung’s head bobbed faster, and you moaned loud and high, your hand finding the top of Jisung’s hair and screwing your fingers into the strands, your knuckles whitening.
He was winding your body up too fast, until the comedown would be too brutal to be truly pleasurable.
Minho spoke before he could stop himself.
“Slower.”
Jisung froze. Then, very slowly, he lifted his head. You were still keeping Minho’s gaze hostage, something curious in your eyes now, like you were waiting to see where this would go, so Minho only managed to look at Jisung long enough to commit the pinkness of his cheek, the wetness of his lips and chin to memory.
“Go slower,” Minho repeated, his voice shot. Jisung hesitated, though Minho couldn’t know whether it was because he was annoyed or seriously considering his order. His eyes were back on you, and you were still staring at him with an unreadable look in your eyes.
Then, as slowly as he had lifted his head, Jisung lowered it between your legs again and licked a long, broad stripe over you.
Your taut face relaxed, dissolving into pleasure when Jisung now, instead of bobbing his head quickly, undulated it, licking slow, intentional circles against you.
“Lick her clit like that,” Minho ordered, and Jisung seemed to follow his instructions at once because the next sound that fell from your lips was more akin to a sigh, your bottom lip sucked between your teeth. Your hand had loosened on Jisung’s hair, only resting there now, as Jisung laved over your sensitive clit, as the boy was looking up at you from between your legs in wonder.
“Good boy,” Minho rasped out, and didn’t miss the way Jisung’s eyelids fluttered, his hips stuttering against the bed with a little mewl.
Minho’s dick throbbed between his legs. Minho ignored it.
“Now inside, Jisung,” Minho guided, and Jisung, without a second’s hesitation, dipped his head lower. With your gaze glued to his, your eyelids fluttered, your back arching off the mattress.
Spit pooled behind Minho’s teeth. It was like his body felt what Jisung was feeling. Like he could taste you, feel your heat against his tongue from all the way over here.
Except he couldn’t, not really. He was still leaning heavily against the door, his heart thundering in his chest.
Jisung, lacking instructions, seemed to have gone off script, but whatever he did only made your body arch higher, your thighs shake in pleasure, drawing a satisfied growl out of Jisung’s chest that made a shiver run down Minho’s spine.
“F-fingers, Jisung,” Minho ordered, no longer able to hide how deeply he was affected, his voice shaking precariously, “use your fingers, but gently. And your mouth—“ you threw your head back, breaking eye contact with Minho for the first time since he had started speaking, when Jisung slid two fingers inside of you and brought his tongue back to your clit. Minho smiled, sighed out a shaky breath.
“Just like that, Jisung, just … like that.”
Minho’s cock was throbbing in the confines of his pants and he had to dig his nails into his palms trying to ground himself, lest he come untouched just from the sight of it.
It didn’t take much longer. Jisung’s talented fingers fucked in and out of you steadily, just fast enough to have you writhing against the sheets, but not enough to make you squirm away, while his tongue drew lazy circles against your clit, dipping down to lap at the wetness leaking out of you every now and again. Jisung’s own hips were rutting against the bed, his pert little ass shaking in his sweats.
Minho watched your face and was at once, and irreparably, flooded with an overwhelming sense of tenderness—and pride.
But then you turned your face, looked him in the eyes and reached out a trembling hand—and breathed out a desperate “M-Minho …”
Minho’s chest felt like it was about to cave in.
With the last of his strength, he ripped his gaze away from yours, turned around, wrenched open the door. He stepped out into the cold, still forest air and slammed the door behind him.
He let himself fall against it, his trembling hands slipping and fumbling with the button and zipper of his pants as he undid them and shoved them down just below his balls.
When he wrapped a hand around his cock, he nearly screamed. His heartbeat was thundering in his ears, against the back of his eyes, pleasure clogging his veins, threatening to rob him off the last of his breath.
He only had to stroke himself a few times before he was coming, vision whiting out, head falling back against the door with a loud thunk as hot come spilled all over his fist and the wooden porch of the safe house.
skzms masterlist // ko-fi
🔖 general taglist: follow and turn on notifications for my library account: @skzms-library 🔞 I monitor ages over there, just like I used to do with my taglist. I will block minors and ageless blogs, and you'll have to message me again to get unblocked. so just have your age in your bio before you follow!
Wow!
This was honestly the hottest thing I’ve read in a while, literally fanning myself rn 🪭
10/10 💯
── .✦ little white lies.
⟢ pairing: hwang hyunjin x female!reader
⟢ genre: fluff, non-idol au, established relationship
⟢ word count: 1.9k
⟢ summary: the one where a street interviewer asks the story of how you met.
⟢ author’s note: hello, everyone! i don’t really know what this is, but i clearly got the idea from @/meetcutesnyc on tiktok. i feel like i could maybe turn this into a short series and write one for the rest of the members if you like this one enough. anyway, this is my first fic on this blog, so if you enjoy it please do show it some love<3
“Excuse me, are you two a couple?”
You stop in your tracks at the question, staring at the stranger that was now blocking your way, as he stood in front of you and your boyfriend—a small mic in his hand and cameraman behind him recording the scene before him.
Your first instinct is to look up to Hyunjin, who is already tightening the hold of his hand on yours and pulling you closer to him.
“We are” he doesn’t hesitate to answer.
You find the confused yet protective crease between his eyebrows particularly cute right then, so you smile.
“Would you mind telling us the story of how you met?”
“Oh, you’re that guy?!” You jump in excitement.
Hyunjin’s frown only deepens for a moment, feeling like he is missing a chapter—or a whole book—when the guy in front eagerly nods his head and laughs at your sudden enthusiasm.
One look at you, however, and a glimpse of the smile lighting up your face, is enough for him to go with whatever it is happening right then.
“Baby, they make videos on TikTok asking couples how they met” you explain to him nonetheless, caressing the back of his hand with your thumb to ease the small tension he felt after seeing you interact so comfortably with another guy—a stranger one at that.
“Oh,” Hyunjin lets out, suddenly feeling embarrassed over how defensive he was until then. “We met at an art gallery” he tries to redeem himself by kindly answering the question.
“It was actually kinda funny” you add with a small giggle that has all three guys smiling at you.
“If that’s your way of saying we were one second away from committing a crime, then—”
“Oh, hush” you playfully shut him up, enjoying all too much the dramatic roll of eyes he gives you in response. “It wouldn’t have been a crime. I think”.
Your last addition earns a quiet chuckle from the cameraman, and you wonder if that’s making it into the final video.
“Long story short,” you begin. “I was admiring one of the sculptures, minding my own business, when out of nowhere someone bumped into me. I was caught off guard, of course, so I inevitably lost my balance and bumped into the base that was holding the sculpture” you can’t help but give your boyfriend an accusatory look. “I saw my life flash before my eyes when it started swaying in front of me”.
“I was fast enough to hold it in its place before it fell, though” Hyunjin chimes in before the blame is fully thrown at him. “And thankfully there were only, like, two other people in the room with us and they were too busy checking out the paintings on the walls, so after exchanging panicked looks with this cutie right here, we rushed out of there before we got scolded”.
“We laughed it off as soon as we were in the next room and we couldn’t care less about the stares we got” you explain amidst a small laugh. “It was kind of odd, in a good way, because it felt like we knew each other already”.
“Yeah, it was weird in the best of ways” Hyunjin agrees with an adoring smile. “I obviously wanted to get to know her after that, and I just happened to have an extra ticket to a paid exposition within the main one that day, so I offered it to her in order to apologise for bumping into her and she luckily said yes”.
“And then after that I invited him for coffee to thank him for the ticket”.
Hyunjin chuckles. “And then I asked her out for dinner that same night”.
“So it’s fair to say it was love at first sight?” The guy asks with a grin.
“Definitely” the two of you answer in unison, locking eyes at the realisation and smiling in a way that was hard to tell whether you were aware there were other people in the world.
“We pretty much got together that same day” you admit with a shy smile.
“How long have you guys been together?”
“Four years,” Hyunjin replies.
“Four years and two months” you specify, just for the sake of teasing him.
He smiles and bites his tongue not to add ‘and eleven days’, because that would only lead to you doing the math and figuring out the amount of hours as well, and then him having to figure out the amount of minutes if he wanted to win.
It is a battle you had gone through more than once already, and he refuses to go down that road again—not when there is a camera pointing at you and your whole interaction would be posted on the internet.
“Wow, that’s a long time” the man in front interrupts Hyunjin’s train of thought, bringing the mic closer to you. “What’s your favourite thing about him?”
“Oh, I don’t think I can choose just one” you timidly let him know, looking up to Hyunjin and feeling your cheeks burn as his chocolate eyes are already focused on you, awaiting for an answer. “I really love how sweet and attentive he is. He is always there for me and helps me get through my hardships, even before I even have to ask for his help”.
“And what is your favourite thing about her?” He now asks your boyfriend, who finds himself smiling brightly over your wholesome words and struggling to take his eyes away from you.
“Everything” Hyunjin replies truthfully once he manages to divert his eyes from you—just like you, finding it hard to choose just one thing he loves the most about you. “She’s the most caring and selfless person I’ve ever met. She’s always checking up on me and my family, making sure we’re all okay. And I also need to mention her smile, because whenever she smiles my day is immediately made”.
You give his hand a gentle squeeze and lean your head on his shoulder for a brief moment, unable to hide the emotional pout forming on your lips, as his answer managed to warm your heart.
“So what is the next step in your relationship?”
“Moving in together” Hyunjin answers in a heartbeat, and you are grateful that it doesn’t come off as a surprise, for you had talked about it before—otherwise your heart wouldn’t have been able to take the news of his upcoming plans with you. “We needed to figure a few things out before doing so, but…” he looks down at you, smiling sweetly when your eyes lock and you nod your head, encouraging him to go on. “It’s about time we finally start properly making our life together”.
“And your names are?”
“Y/N” you’re the first to answer.
“I’m Hyunjin” he says.
“Well, thank you so much for your time, Hyunjin and Y/N” the interviewer wraps it up with a smile. “I’m glad you guys are going strong and didn’t end up in jail that day”.
The two of you laugh, and you lean into your boyfriend when he lets go of your hand and gently places his arm over your shoulders instead.
Exchanging goodbyes after being informed that the video would be up the next day, you resume your walk to the all too familiar café around the corner—the one you were heading to before the impromptu street interview took place.
“So those are the kind of videos you’re watching all day…”
“Some of them,” you nod. “I’ve sent you a few here and there. Good to know you don’t actually watch them”.
“I do” he fights back, almost offended you believe he would ever disregard something you showed him. “I thought they were all staged, though. Didn’t know people actually got interviewed on the streets out of nowhere”.
“Is that why you were so defensive when they first approached us?” You laugh.
He huffs, making his bottom lip slightly stick out and having you internally fighting not to kiss him right then. “I thought he was asking if we were a couple in hopes of us not being one, so he could ask you out”.
“Asking me out out of nowhere when I’m walking hand in hand with a guy that is clearly my boyfriend, all while there is a whole cameraman recording us?” You tease with a tilt of your head.
“Hey, who knows?” he defends himself. “Can’t control what kind of weirdos are out there chasing after online views”.
“You’re so cute” you laugh breathily, pressing a soft kiss on his jawline. “We look too much like a couple, if you ask me. They would look stupid to even try”.
“Yeah… I think the hand holding and matching outfits give it away too well” he nods with a teasing smile, motioning to the colour palette you chose together that day.
“Thank God they caught us on a good outfit day” your relieved remark earns a laugh from him. “I can’t wait for the video to be up now, I love the way we met”.
“I know you do,” he softly rubs your hand with his thumb. “Which is why I was surprised you didn’t tell them the whole story”.
“What do you mean?” You frown.
Hyunjin amusedly shakes his head, remaining silent as you reach the café and he holds the door open for you to go in first.
When you’re invaded by the strong yet pleasing scent of coffee and reach the—thankfully—short line to order, he adds, “You left out the part where later on I admitted I intentionally bumped into you just so I could talk to you”.
You laugh at the memory.
It wasn’t like he wanted you to lose your balance and make you almost drop a sculpture that you would be paying until the end of your days, had it actually fallen down and smashed on the ground.
He was just going for a little shove on your shoulder with his own, just enough to make you turn around and allow him to apologise right after. But you were too pretty, and he was too nervous—that alone making him miscalculate the distance between your bodies and slam into your shoulder harder than he had intended to.
He came clean one month into your relationship—the guilt of almost getting you in trouble just because he wasn’t able to earn up the courage to go up and talk to you like any other normal person would, was becoming too much for him to keep a secret for any longer.
You were already in too deep by then to even care, though. If anything, you were flattered that he wanted to get to know you so bad that he ended up coming up with the most stupid—and risky—of ideas in order to do so.
“I thought you weren’t holding back when it came to embarrassing me” he confesses.
You chuckle, shaking your head in both amusement and embarrassment, before pulling him forward in line with you as the people in front do so as well.
“Well, if I did mention that, you would’ve told them about how I already had a ticket to the private exposition and lied about not having one just so I had a reason to stick with you, so…”
Hyunjin’s lips part into a beaming smile, pulling you to him and pressing a kiss to your temple.
Little white lies could sometimes be beneficial; especially when they led you to the best relationship you ever had—the one you were sure would last for the rest of your lives.
“You’re right” he agrees with a smirk. “The internet doesn’t need to know how desperate we both were to get to know each other”.
there you are.
words•5.2k /pairings・Lee know x Solo mom reader / genres・fluff, humor / warnings・ MDI, intercourse
You shifted Rio’s warm weight on your hip, his little fingers crumpling the orange-cat drawing he’d clung to all morning. “Mama, *pleeeease* can we get one?” he whined, burying his face in your shoulder. His plea was sugar-coated, sticky as the juice stain on your sleeve from breakfast—the third shirt this week. At 30, solo motherhood meant your world spun to the rhythm of daycare alarms, client deadlines, and the perpetual tang of spilled apple sauce. But Rio’s eyes—wide as the cartoon kittens he’d scribbled—melted your resolve. “We’ll *look*,” you relented, steering the stroller toward *Whisker Haven*, its address hastily scribbled on a Post-it from your coworker. *Just looking*, you told yourself. *No commitments*.
The shelter hummed like a living thing. Cedar chips and lavender cleaner mingled in the air, punctuated by trills and mews from wall-mounted cages. Rio squirmed free before you could unclip him, darting toward a sunlit playpen where a lanky volunteer knelt, tousled chestnut hair catching the light. His hands moved with practiced ease, flicking a feather toy just out of reach of a speckled kitten. “C’mon, little warrior,” he coaxed, voice low and playful. “Jump higher.”
Rio crashed into the scene like a tiny tornado. “Hi!” he announced, planting himself beside the stranger. The man glanced up, and your breath hitched—not at his sharp jawline or the faint scar threading his brow, but at the way his smile transformed his face. Crow’s feet crinkled, warm as summer honey.
“Hey there, adventurer,” he said, tilting his head to match Rio’s height. “I’m Minho. Wanna try?” He offered the feather wand, handle first. Rio seized it with a warrior’s cry, sending the kitten pouncing.
Minho rose, brushing cat hair off his jeans. His gaze found yours, steady and curious. “He’s a natural,” he said, nodding toward Rio, who was now giggling as the kitten batted his shoelaces. There was no pity in his tone, no *single-mom radar* flicker—just genuine warmth. You tucked a stray hair behind your ear, suddenly aware of your faded jeans and the granola bar wrapper peeking out of your tote.
“Thanks,” you said, softer than intended. “He’s been… obsessed.”
Minho crouched again, steadying Rio’s grip on the toy. “Obsession’s good here,” he replied, glancing up through his lashes. “Means he’s got passion. And good taste.”
The kitten leapt, landing in Rio’s lap. Your son’s squeal of delight echoed off the walls, and for the first time in weeks, you felt your shoulders relax. *Just looking*, you’d said. But as Minho’s laughter tangled with Rio’s, something fragile and hopeful stirred in your chest—a feeling you hadn’t dared name in years.
Weekends bloomed into a rhythm of shelter visits, the three of you falling into a routine as comfortable as an old sweater. Minho became a fixture in your Saturdays, his patience with Rio as endless as his cat trivia. He taught your son to cradle kittens like clouds, guiding his small hands with a steadiness that made your throat tighten. “Support their paws, buddy—like they’re holding tiny secrets,” he’d say, and Rio would nod, solemn as a scholar.
You learned Minho was 26, a grad student in animal behavior who spoke of feline body language like it was Shakespeare. “Cats arch their backs not just to scare foes, but to feel bigger when they’re scared,” he explained once, demonstrating with a theatrical curve of his spine that sent Rio into giggles. But it was the slow blinks that undid you—the way Minho would lock eyes with a wary cat, lids drifting shut in a languid Morse code. “They’re saying, ‘I trust you,’” he murmured to Rio during one lesson. Then, glancing at you across the playpen, he repeated the gesture, slow and deliberate. Your cheeks burned. *It’s just a demo*, you told yourself, even as your pulse skittered.
One rainy afternoon, the shelter emptied early, the patter of droplets harmonizing with the kittens’ purrs. Rio dozed in his stroller, thumb tucked in his mouth, worn out from chasing a energetic tabby. Minho appeared beside you, two steaming mugs in hand. “Matcha latte,” he said, voice low to avoid waking Rio. “No sugar, just like you mentioned last week.”
You blinked, startled he’d remembered your offhand comment about hating sweet drinks. His fingers grazed yours as you took the mug, calloused from scrubbing litter boxes yet impossibly gentle. The silence between you thickened, charged like the storm-heavy air.
“He’s lucky,” Minho said suddenly, nodding at Rio. “Not every kid gets a mom who works two jobs *and* lets him turn her kitchen into a cat art gallery.”
Your grip tightened on the mug. He knew. Of course he did—you’d confessed it weeks ago, that offhand moment when he’d asked about Rio’s father. But hearing him acknowledge it now, without a trace of pity, unraveled something in you.
“Some days, it doesn’t feel like enough,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could cage them. “The deadlines, the daycare bills… What if I’m just—”
“Enough.” Minho’s interruption was soft but firm. He stepped closer, the scent of matcha and cedar enveloping you. “You’re *everything* he needs.”
Tears breached your lashes before you could stop them. You turned away, but Minho was already there, offering a tissue printed with a grinning cat and the pun *“Hang in there, paw-some human!”* A wet laugh escaped you. “Do you stock these for all the crying women who wander in?”
“Just the ones who pretend they’ve got it all figured out.” His smile was tender, a silent invitation to lean in.
Outside, rain drummed its approval. Rio sighed in his sleep, Tofu—the tabby he’d claimed as his soulmate—curled at his feet. And in that fragile, honeyed moment, you let yourself imagine: Minho’s hand brushing yours not by accident, his slow-blink smiles reserved just for you, weekends that stretched into years.
The rain softens to a whisper as Minho leans against the adoption desk, his gaze steady on yours. *“You know,”* he begins, tracing the rim of his mug, *“I started volunteering here after my sister’s cat, Mochi, passed. She’d had him since we were kids.”* He pauses, a shadow flickering in his eyes. *“She’s in remission now, but back then… the shelter was the only place that didn’t feel heavy.”*
Your breath catches. This is more than he’s ever shared—a fissure in his usual playful armor. *“Minho, I…”*
He shakes his head, smiling faintly. *“Don’t. I’m not fishing for sympathy. Just… you should know I’ve seen how love can be a lifeline. Even the furry kind.”*
The admission hangs between you, raw and real. You glance at Rio, his lashes fluttering in sleep, then back at Minho. *“After Rio’s dad left,”* you say, the words tasting less bitter than usual, *“I almost gave up freelancing. Too unstable. But then Rio drew his first cat—a scribbled blob with fangs—and I thought…* Okay. We’ll build a life where he gets to keep that joy.”
Minho’s thumb brushes your wrist, fleeting. *“You did.”*
A kitten mews from a nearby crate, breaking the tension. Minho chuckles, scooping up the bold calico intruder. *“This is Soybean. She’s a door-dasher—escapes every chance she gets.”*
*“Like someone else I know,”* you tease, nodding at Rio, who’s begun snoring softly.
Minho cradles Soybean against his chest, her purrs a rumbling echo of his next words. *“When I’m with you two… it feels like I’ve found something I didn’t know I was searching for.”*
Your heart stammers. *“Minho—”*
*“Not asking for labels,”* he interjects, setting Soybean down. *“Just… want you to see what I see. A woman who paints worlds for a living, raises a kind-hearted kid, and still makes time to laugh at my terrible cat puns.”* He gestures to the tissue still crumpled in your hand. *“That’s not surviving. That’s* thriving.”
The shelter’s clock ticks, loud in the silence. You step closer, until the steam from your mug curls into his. *“What if I see you too?”* you whisper. *“The guy who teaches kittens—and single moms—how to trust again?”*
His slow blink is answer enough.
The adoption day arrives, and Tofu—now lord of Rio’s sock drawer and ruler of half-eaten goldfish crackers—officially becomes family. When Minho shows up at your apartment with a cat tree taller than Rio, your son erupts into a frenzy, launching himself at Minho’s legs. “Hyung! Tofu needs a *castle*!”
Minho laughs, setting down the box with a thud. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms still scratched from last week’s kitten wrestling match. “Every queen deserves a throne,” he says, winking at you. You cross your arms, feigning suspicion. “And you just *happened* to have a cat tree lying around?”
“I’m full of surprises,” he says, tossing Rio a package of felt mice to “test” for Tofu. For the next hour, you watch Minho assemble the tower with the precision of an engineer, indulging Rio’s demands to add “secret tunnels” (a cardboard tube) and a “treasure box” (your old sunglasses case). Tofu watches from the couch, her crooked tail flicking in approval.
By sunset, the living room is a jungle of scratching posts and dangling toys. You order pizza, and Minho stays—not because you ask, but because Rio tugs him to the table with sauce-stained hands. “You *gotta* try the pepperoni, hyung! It’s Mama’s favorite.” Minho’s knee brushes yours under the table, lingering a beat too long.
Later, after Rio’s bedtime stories (*“Again, Mama! The one with the space cat!”*), Minho hovers at the door, his usual confidence fraying. “The shelter’s fundraiser… I’d like you both there. With me.” He hesitates, fingers drumming his thigh. “Not as volunteers. As… my date.”
Your pulse stutters. *Date*. The word feels too big, too bright for your cluttered life. But Minho’s gaze is steady, his vulnerability disarming. “Okay,” you whisper.
The fundraiser glows with string lights and the murmur of well-dressed attendees. Rio, in a bow tie that keeps slipping sideways, drags you and Minho to a photo booth plastered with cat-ear headbands. “Family picture!” he declares, shoving a pair of cardboard whiskers at Minho. You freeze, but Minho just grins, clipping the whiskers to his hair. “Your majesty,” he says, bowing to Rio.
The camera flashes: Minho’s arm around your waist, your head tilted toward him, Rio mid-laugh with frosting smeared on his chin. When the strip prints, Minho tucks it into his wallet, his ears pink. “For luck,” he mutters.
You escape to the garden when the crowd swells, Rio asleep in your arms. Cherry blossoms drift around you like confetti. Minho brushes a petal from your hair, his voice soft. “I know I’m younger. I know your world is… *a lot*. But I’m not going anywhere.”
Your throat tightens. “Why?”
He steps closer, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “Love isn’t about age,” he says, nuzzling your temple as Rio’s breath evens against your shoulder. “It’s about who stays.”
The kiss is gentle. When you pull back, Minho’s forehead rests against yours. “I’m not asking for a spotlight,” he whispers. “Just a corner of your chaos.”
You laugh, tearful, and his mouth finds yours again. *Chaos*, you think, as Rio snores and Tofu bats at a falling blossom. *Maybe chaos is where love grows best*.
As you and Minho lingered under the cherry blossoms, Rio’s frosting-smeared face pressed against your shoulder, the night felt suspended in time—soft and hopeful. But then a voice cut through the quiet.
“Minho! There you are!”
A woman in a sleek black dress approached, her heels clicking sharply against the garden stones. She was familiar—a longtime donor, maybe, or a board member. Her gaze flickered to Rio, then to your intertwined fingers, before settling on Minho. “We need you inside. The press wants a quote about next year’s expansion.”
Minho hesitated, his hand still warm on your waist. “Give me five minutes, Soojin.”
Soojin’s smile tightened. “Now, Minho. This is the *real work*.” Her emphasis lingered, a blade thinly veiled.
You stiffened, shifting Rio higher on your hip. “Go,” you said, too quickly. “We’re fine.”
Minho searched your face. “I’ll be right back.”
But he wasn’t.
Minutes bled into an hour. Rio grew restless, tugging at his bow tie, while you paced the garden path. Laughter and clinking glasses spilled from the venue, a world away from the sticky reality of motherhood. When Minho finally reappeared, his tie loosened and hair ruffled, Soojin trailed behind him, her laugh sharp as champagne bubbles.
“—such a *natural* with the donors,” she purred, patting his arm. “You’ll go far, if you stay focused.” Her eyes slid to you, polite but dismissive. “Goodnight.”
Minho reached for you, but you stepped back. “You should get back,” you said, voice brittle. “The *real work*.”
He flinched. “That’s not what I—”
“It’s fine.” You adjusted Rio’s blanket, avoiding his gaze. “We’re used to being an afterthought.”
The words hung between you, cruel and untrue, but fear had already coiled around your heart. Minho’s jaw tightened. “You think I’d choose *that* over you two?”
You didn’t answer. Rio whimpered in his sleep, and you turned toward the exit.
“Wait.” Minho caught your wrist, his voice raw. “I’m not him. I’m not going to vanish because something shinier comes along.”
Tears blurred the fairy lights. “How do I know that?”
He stepped closer, his thumb brushing your pulse point. “Because I’m asking you to trust me,” he whispered. “Even when it’s hard.”
The gulf between you trembled, fragile as a spiderweb. Then Rio stirred, his small hand patting your cheek. “Mama, go home?”
Minho released you, his eyes shadowed. “Let me drive you.”
You shook your head. “We’ll take a taxi.”
The ride home was silent, Rio’s head heavy on your shoulder. As you tucked him into bed, Tofu curled at his feet, your phone buzzed.
**Minho:** *I’m here. However long it takes.*
You didn’t reply. But you didn’t delete the message either.
A week of silence. Seven days of Minho’s unanswered calls piling up like unread apologies, and Rio’s relentless questions chipping away at your resolve. *“Did Minho-hyung get lost? Is he mad at us?”* You’d deflected with hollow excuses—*“He’s just busy, sweetheart”*—but Rio’s crumpled frown mirrored the guilt gnawing at your ribs.
On Saturday morning, you flee to the park, pushing Rio’s stroller through the fog-thick air. Tofu peers from the basket, her tail flicking like a metronome counting down your dread. The lake glimmers ahead, its surface still as held breath. Rio babbles to Tofu about turtles, unaware as you round the bend—and there he is.
Minho slouches on a bench, his hoodie sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms still marked with fading kitten scratches. A paper cup sits abandoned beside him, steam long gone. His gaze is fixed on the water, shoulders hunched like he’s carrying the sky. You pivot sharply, but Tofu leaps from the stroller with a yowl, darting straight to him.
“Y/N.”
His voice is sandpaper-rough, and you flinch. Rio twists in his seat, squealing, *“Hyung! Mama, look—it’s Minho!”*
You fumble for Tofu, but she’s already in his lap, kneading his thighs like dough. Traitor.
“Hey, troublemaker,” Minho murmurs, scratching her chin. His eyes lock onto yours, shadowed and sleepless. “Missed you.”
Rio tugs your sleeve, lower lip wobbling. “Mama, *please*.”
You crouch, adjusting his scarf to avoid Minho’s stare. “Stay here with Tofu, okay? Just for a minute.”
“But—”
“*Please*, Rio.”
He nods, solemn, and you rise on unsteady legs. Minho meets you halfway, the morning chill sharpening the lines of his face.
“You’ve been ghosting me,” he says, voice low.
“I’ve been… figuring things out.”
“By shutting me out?” He steps closer, Tofu pressed to his chest like a shield. “Talk to me. *Please*.”
The plea unravels you. “What’s there to say? You saw how Soojin looked at me—like I was a *distraction*. And I can’t—I won’t be the thing that holds you back from—”
“From what? Schmoozing donors?” He laughs, bitter. “That’s not me, Y/N. Never was.”
“But it’s part of your job! Your *future*—”
“I quit.”
The words hang between you, brittle as ice.
“What?”
“Donor relations. Events. All of it.” He sets Tofu down, his hands trembling. “I told them I’m sticking to the cats. And the kids. And… you.”
Your breath hitches. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, I did.” He swipes a hand over his face. “Because I’d rather mop piss puddles every day than lose you two.”
Rio’s laughter floats over, Tofu now chasing a leaf he’s waving. Minho’s gaze softens. “I’ve been here every morning. Hoping you’d come. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N.”
Tears blur the fog-drenched trees. “I’m scared,” you whisper.
He reaches for you, pausing just shy of your cheek. “Let me be scared with you. Let me *help*.”
You lean into his touch, his palm warm against your skin. “What if I break?”
“Then I’ll put you back together.” His thumb brushes away a tear. “However many times it takes.”
Rio crashes into your legs, Tofu circling his ankles. “Group hug!” he demands, arms stretched wide.
Minho scoops him up, your little trio—*family*—colliding in a tangle of limbs and purrs. The fog lifts, sunlight spilling gold across the path ahead.
The click of Rio’s bedroom door echoes like a held breath. You retreat to the kitchen, hands trembling as you fill the kettle. Moonlight spills through the window, silvering the mugs you set out—the chipped one Rio painted with paw prints, and Minho’s favorite, striped like a tabby’s fur.
Footsteps pad behind you.
“Need help?” Minho leans against the doorway, sleeves rolled up, shadows pooling under his eyes.
You shake your head, but he steps closer anyway, his warmth a quiet challenge to the distance you’ve carved. The kettle whistles, sharp and urgent.
“Why’d you really quit donor work?” you ask, pouring hot water too fast. It sloshes, scalding your thumb.
Minho catches your wrist, guiding the kettle down. “Because I finally figured out what matters.” His thumb brushes the burn, soothing. “Saw my dad chase promotions my whole childhood. Missed every school play, every birthday. I swore I’d never be that guy.”
You stare at the steam curling between you. “And us? Are we just… another promise?”
He turns your hand over, tracing the lines of your palm. “You’re the reason I keep them.”
The confession hangs, fragile. You pull away, busying yourself with tea bags. Chamomile for him, earl grey for you—he’d remembered.
“I keep waiting for you to realize this is too much,” you whisper. “A single mom, a chaotic kid, a cat who hates your shoes—”
“Y/N.” He steps into your space, the counter’s edge pressing into your back. “You think I don’t know what I’m signing up for? I’ve seen your late-night panic over daycare bills. The way you cry when Rio draws family pictures with *three* people now. Hell, I’ve scrubbed puke off my favorite jeans thanks to Tofu’s hairballs.” His voice cracks. “I’m not here for *easy*. I’m here for *you*.”
Tears blur the mugs. “What if I’m not enough?”
He frames your face, calloused palms anchoring you. “You’re everything. The deadlines, the mess, the *fear*—it’s all part of you. And I want all of it.”
Your breath hitches. “Even when I push you away?”
“Especially then.” His forehead rests against yours, the tea forgotten. “You don’t have to be brave alone anymore.”
The admission unravels you. “I don’t know how to do this,” you rasp. “To trust someone to… stay.”
Minho’s thumb catches a tear. “Let me show you.”
Outside, rain begins to fall, tapping a rhythm against the window. The first brush of Minho’s lips is tentative, a question whispered into the fragile space between your breaths. But when your fingers fist in his hoodie, tugging him closer, the hesitation shatters. His hands slide from your face to your waist, lifting you onto the counter with a ease that steals your breath. Tea mugs clatter forgotten as he steps between your knees, his mouth slanting over yours with a hunger that mirrors the storm outside.
This isn’t the careful Minho who blinks slowly at skittish kittens. This is wildfire—calloused palms skimming your ribs, teeth grazing your lower lip, a groan rumbling deep in his chest when you arch against him. His hoodie smells like cedar and the faint musk of the shelter, a scent that’s become as familiar as your own chaos.
“Minho—” you gasp, breaking the kiss, but his name is a plea, not a protest.
He stills, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, but his thumb traces the hammering pulse at your neck, betraying his own unraveling.
You don’t. Instead, you knot your hands in his hair, dragging him back. The counter digs into your thighs, the cold edge a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth. He kisses like he’s memorizing you—the sigh you stifle when his tongue flicks yours, the hitch in your breath as his hands slide under your shirt, branding your skin.
Minho guides you through the darkened hallway, his steps careful and measured despite the desire thrumming through his veins. Your bare feet pad silently across the wooden floors, past Rio's room where soft snores filter through the crack under the door, and Tofu's favorite sleeping spot by the window.
His hands never leave your body - ghosting over your hip, tracing the small of your back, fingers intertwined with yours as he leads you to your bedroom. The door clicks shut behind you with barely a whisper, and suddenly the air feels charged, electric with anticipation.
Moonlight spills through your curtains, painting Minho's bare chest in silver shadows as he backs you toward the bed. His movements are controlled, deliberate - every touch calculated to keep quiet. When your knees hit the mattress, he catches you before you fall, lowering you to the sheets with such care that your heart swells.
"Shh," he breathes against your ear when the bed frame creaks slightly, his warm weight settling over you. His fingers trail down your sides, hooks in your belt loops. "We'll have to be very, very quiet."
The challenge in his whispered words sends a shiver down your spine, especially when his teeth graze your earlobe, testing just how silent you can stay.
Minho's fingers tremble slightly as they work at your jeans button, his usual confidence wavering as moonlight reveals the vulnerability in his eyes. When you reach to help, he catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm.
"Let me," he whispers, "I want to remember every second of this." His hands slide your jeans down with aching slowness, but you notice how he hesitates at the scars on your thighs, the stretch marks mapping your hips. Before self-consciousness can take root, he's tracing each mark with reverent fingers, then following with his lips.
"Beautiful," he breathes against your skin. When you start to protest, he silences you with a deep kiss. "Every inch of you."
You reach for his belt, but notice his own moment of hesitation as your fingers brush his stomach. This confident man who spends his days wrangling large dogs suddenly seems unsure, and you remember the burn scars he usually keeps hidden under long sleeves.
"You don't have to—" he starts, but you quiet him by pressing kisses along the scarred tissue of his right arm, feeling his breath catch. Your fingers work his belt open as your lips trace each mark, each imperfection that makes him perfectly him.
Soon you're both down to underwear, skin against skin, every touch electric yet tender. His fingers trace the curve of your breasts through your bra, while yours map the hard planes of his chest, both of you learning each other's bodies with wondering hands.
"You're sure?" he asks, thumbs hooked in your panties, waiting for permission despite the obvious desire straining against his boxers. His eyes hold yours, dark with want but soft with something deeper.
You nod, lifting your hips to help him slide your panties down your legs. His breath catches as he takes in your naked form, illuminated by moonlight. Your instinct is to cover yourself, but the raw adoration in his gaze holds you still.
Minho trails kisses up your inner thigh, his touch growing bolder as your breathing quickens. When his tongue finds your clit, you have to bite your lip to stay quiet. His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady as he works you with his mouth, each stroke of his tongue deliberate and precise.
You reach down to tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging gently when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. His responding groan vibrates against you, sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. Your other hand fists in the sheets, trying to anchor yourself as the pressure builds.
"Minho," you gasp, barely a whisper, "I need you. Please."
He crawls up your body, kissing a path from your navel to your breasts, then capturing your lips. You can taste yourself on his tongue as he positions himself between your thighs, the hard length of his cock pressing against your entrance.
"I adore you," he breathes against your mouth as he slowly pushes inside, stretching you deliciously. "Gosh, I adore you so much."
Your bodies move together in the darkness, finding a rhythm as natural as breathing. Each thrust is measured, careful not to make the bed creak, but the restraint only makes it more intense. His forehead presses against yours, sharing each shaky breath as you climb toward ecstasy together.
Minho's thrusts grow deeper, more urgent as your walls clench around him. His cock fills you perfectly, hitting spots that make you see stars. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, changing the angle until he's grinding against your clit with each movement.
"Fuck," he pants against your neck, struggling to keep his voice down. "You feel amazing. So tight, so perfect."
Your nails dig into his back as the pressure builds, every nerve ending on fire. The familiar coil of heat in your belly winds tighter and tighter. Minho seems to sense how close you are - his fingers find your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts.
"Come for me," he whispers, his voice rough with need. "I want to feel you come on my cock."
The combination of his words, his touch, and the delicious stretch of him inside you sends you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your pussy clenching rhythmically around him as you bite down on his shoulder to muffle your cries.
The feeling of you coming undone triggers his own release. His hips stutter, losing their rhythm as he buries himself deep inside you with a muffled groan. You can feel his cock pulsing as he fills you, his whole body trembling with the intensity of his orgasm.
For several long moments, you lie there tangled together, hearts racing, bodies slick with sweat. Minho peppers soft kisses across your face - your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose - as if he can't bear to stop touching you.
Minho chuckles softly against your neck, his fingers drawing lazy circles on your hip. "You know," he murmurs with a playful nip at your earlobe, "if we keep this up, Rio might get that little sister he's been begging for."
Your laughter bubbles up, soft and intimate in the darkness. "Only you would think about making babies right after our first time," you tease, turning to face him with a grin. Your fingers trace the smile lines around his eyes, memorizing how he looks in this moment - hair mussed from your hands, lips swollen from kisses.
"Hey, I'm just being practical," he defends playfully, pulling you closer. "Rio's been asking for a playmate ever since he saw Mrs. Kim's new baby. And Tofu could use another human to train."
You snort, burying your face in his chest to muffle the sound. "Of course you'd bring the pets into this conversation," you whisper. "Such a typical shelter worker."
"Speaking of," he murmurs, his hand sliding down to cup your ass, "we should probably practice that baby-making technique a few more times. You know, for science."
Three years later, sunlight drips like honey through the windows of your shared home, gilding the mosaic of chaos and love that is your life. Minho stands at the stove, spatula in hand, crafting pancake dinosaurs with the precision of a man who’s learned to find art in the messy. His free hand rests on the curve of your belly, where your daughter kicks impatiently, as if already eager to join the fray. “Princess Appa’s practicing her roundhouse kicks,” he teases, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.
Under the table, Rio—now six and savant of all things glitter and mischief—huddles with Tofu, their whispers punctuated by the crinkle of a manila folder. You bite your lip, heart swollen, as he peeks up at you. *“Now, Mama?”*
You nod, tears already pricking your lashes.
Rio scrambles out, folder clutched to his *Star Wars* pajamas, and tugs Minho’s apron with the gravity of a diplomat. “Appa! Father’s Day present!”
Minho grins, flipping a T-Rex onto a plate. “Let’s see it, space ranger.”
Rio thrusts the folder forward, its cover a masterpiece of sticker explosions: cats in rocket ships, a lopsided family portrait labeled *“ME, MAMA, MINHO, TOFU & BABY SIS,”* and a glitter-glue galaxy that glints in the light. Inside, the adoption papers gleam, their legalese softened by Rio’s crayon scrawl: *“PLEEZ BE MY REEL DAD”* looping across the top.
Minho freezes. The spatula clatters to the floor.
“Mama did the grown-up words,” Rio explains, bouncing on his toes, “but the *‘forever daddy’* part is *mine*! And Tofu helped!” He points to the corner, where a smudged paw print is stamped in purple ink.
Minho sinks to his knees, the linoleum cool against his palms. He stares at the papers, then at Rio’s hopeful face—so like your own—then at you. “You… you’re sure?”
You crouch beside him, Tofu weaving figure-eights around your ankles. “We’ve never been surer of anything.”
A tear splashes onto the folder, blurring the “DAD” in Rio’s title. Another follows. Rio’s eyes widen. “Did I spell it wrong?!”
Minho drags him into a hug, laughter and sobs tangled in his throat. “It’s perfect. *You’re* perfect.”
Later, after pancake dinosaurs fossilize and the notary—a friend from the shelter who’d arrived with confetti and cat-shaped cookies—witnesses the signatures, Minho sits on the porch swing, Rio sprawled across his lap, sticky with syrup and dreams. Your daughter pirouettes beneath your skin, and Minho presses his palm to your belly, his thumb brushing the spot where her foot jabs. “Hey, little comet,” he murmurs. “Your brother’s already plotting your first mission to Mars.”
You lean into him, the adoption papers now framed beside Rio’s first crayon cat drawing. Tofu’s paw print is immortalized in gold ink beneath your signatures—a family relic. “Think she’ll survive the chaos?”
Minho’s slow blink is a language only you know. *I love you. I’m here. Always.* “She’ll be the chaos queen,” he says, grinning.
And when she’s born—on a tempestuous night with Minho reciting cat facts as a breathing coach, Rio “assisting” with a toy stethoscope, and Tofu yowling backup vocals—you’ll finally understand: family isn’t found in the quiet. It’s built in the storm, one paw print, one pancake, one *“forever daddy”* at a time.
Hello Stranger || LMH
Summary: After moving into a new apartment, y/n learns that she got more than she bargained for.
Pairings: Lee Minho (Lee Know) x Reader
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Ghost AU, Strangers to Lovers
Status: finished
✏️ = written part
Introductions: 007′s | people I tolerate
One: a regular ghost
Two: ojia board?
Three: a little headache✏️
Four: sus 👁
Five: DRAMATIC??
Six: ?@*-✏️
Seven: stupid autocorrect
Eight: mildly concerning
Nine: attacked unprovoked ✏️
Ten: texting doesn’t have air??
Eleven: it would hurt less
Twelve: couldn’t be me
Thirteen: if he wasn’t a ghost right now-✏️
Fourteen: ghost adventures 👻
Fifteen: break a leg???
Sixteen: houston we have a problem
Seventeen: 🤙🏼🤙🏼🤙🏼🤪
Eighteen: Lightning McQueen✏️
Nineteen: he doesn’t really “haunt”
Twenty: A kid✏️
Twenty-one: hurts too much
Twenty-two: cute? 😳
Twenty-three: a criminal offense✏️
Twenty-four: MANY GF
Twenty-five: TRAMATIZED 💀
Twenty-six: about time
Twenty-seven: that wasn’t that hard✏️
Twenty-eight: SPIDERMAN???
Twenty-nine: ahem
Thirty: who’s minho?
Thirty-one: innie…
Thirty-two: Room 325✏️
Thirty-three: the doctor said
Thirty-four: no pun intended
Thirty-five: suprise?
Thirty-six: 🦋🦋
Thirty-seven: original plan?✏️
Thirty-eight: soon.
Thirty-nine: THEYRE DONE FOR
Fourty: beautiful fiancé
End
extras
a christmas miracle
bonus ending profiles
suprise pt.2
series q&a
If you would like to be added to a taglist for this series, let me know! ~Siah 💙
I’ve read this series twice now! So so good! Definitely recommend you to read this one!
10/10 💯
Doodles - Hwang HyunJin X Reader - Soulmate AU
Summary: After you turn 17, you can see whatever your soulmate writes on their body. whatever they write appearing in the same place on your body, so what happens after your 21st birthday whenever you start getting suspicious if your soulmate is an idol or not?
Warnings: SMUT! Smut smut smut at the end! <3
Word count: 5.7K 👀 longest story yet lovelies!
Nothing was more frustrating and rewarding than having a soulmate, especially whenever whatever was written on your soulmate's body, would also appear on yours in the same spot. It'd all start as soon as somebody turned seventeen-years-old, nobody could explain it, no scientist, conspiracy theorist, religion follower could figure it out. As soon as it would hit the exact time you were born on your seventeenth birthday, it would happen though.
For Hwang HyunJin, it would take a few weeks for anything to appear on his body, but the first time it would, he'd be on the couch with one of his friends, and bandmates, Felix. They'd be hanging out together, going through different funny videos that fans had made, whenever Felix would notice the words starting to form on his friend's wrist, almost like it was a permanent ink pen '2,301,676 + 72,063 + 170,068'. "Hyunjin! Look! I think your soulmate is doing something!" He smiled excitedly, HyunJin glanced down, smiling slightly "They're doing math" He chuckled, picking up a pen as he started to write below the words that sat permanently on his wrist until yours faded, or you washed it off. '2,543,807' he wrote, setting the pen and his phone down with a smile, feeling proud that he could help his soulmate with something.
You wouldn't be able to see anything from HyunJin for another three years, whenever your seventeenth birthday would hit, you'd hide in your room, waiting excitedly for any interaction with your soulmate. You'd wait for about a week before you'd try and reach out first, writing a small 'hi :)' on the top of your hand, but nothing would ever appear for you. You'd start to think maybe you just didn't have a soulmate, never getting any type of response until one night, whenever you were staying over at your friends, waiting for the new StrayKids album to release. Laying on her couch, almost asleep until you spotted the faint markings at the bottom of your arm.
'Boom Vamos, I know that you want it
Boom Lobos, we cannot stop hunting
Boom Ratatata I'mma make it'
You'd stare in confusion, trying desperately to figure out what the phrase meant until you'd hear the newest Stray Kids song 'Chk Chk Boom'. That would cause you to become very, very suspicious over who your soulmate was, and how the hell they got ahold of Straykids lyrics before the official release. You'd spend a few weeks going back and forth with your soulmate, sure you hadn't had an actual conversation, but you'd go back and forth with your writing. If HyunJin wrote down song lyrics, you'd try your best to finish the song, if they were lyrics from a song, you hadn't heard yet, you'd always leave a small note of 'Sounds amazing :)' After those few weeks, you'd be convinced, your soulmate had to be someone in StrayKids, or someone who works with them, how else would they be getting song lyrics before the song's release?
Only a few hours away, in their studio, HyunJin would be lectured by his manager and Bangchan "It's not that we don't want you talking to them, but you're leaking song lyrics when you write them on yourself" Bangchan tried to reason, Hyunjin just raised his eyebrows, not really liking the way he felt like a child in trouble. "How else am I going to remember them?" He protested, their manager just sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose "I don't know, Just- Bangchan, figure it out" He sighed before rushing out of the recording studio, beyond stressed, leaving the boy group to sit alone awkwardly. "How about this, we just write the lyrics on the glass window of the booth, and then just clean it when we're done?" Han asked, causing Bangchan to smile brightly "Yea! Yea, that'd be perfect!" He replied, rushing to the desk to grab a dry-erase marker.
You wouldn't get anymore song lyrics after that, instead HyunJin would draw small little doodles on his arms, blushing brightly whenever he'd notice an addition to his doodle, done by his soulmate. You'd take pictures of each drawing that would be on your arm, not wanting to ever forget how adorable they were. "Y/n! Y/n L/n! Open the door!!" Your best friend shouted pounding harshly on the door, as you opened it, your friend quickly barreled into your apartment, practically exploding with excitement. "Slow down! What's wrong with you?" You giggled loudly, watching as she turned around squealing "How much do you love me!?" She squealed, holding her phone close to her chest "Uhhh, I don't know? More than anything" You smiled playfully, watching as she squealed again "Well! Your best friend in the whole world! Got us pit tickets to StrayKids next month!! With a signing the day before!" She screamed, not being able to hold back her excitement any longer, you stared at her in shock before squealing loudly as you hugged her tightly. Celebrating for the rest of the night with shots and blasting your favorite songs until you both ended up passing out.
One Month Later..~
As you paced the lobby of the signing, you felt your nerves starting to rise, why were you doing this? Why didn't you decide to wear a jacket or a long sleeve shirt? You had woken up that morning with your arm littered with the same signature over and over again, from your hand all the way to your shoulder. If you hadn't been such a fan of the boy group, you'd never have recognized it as quickly, but almost immediately, you and your friend recognized the signature of Hwang HyunJin. After that, you felt sure you knew who your soulmate was, you just needed to see if his arm matched. Now as you stood in the lobby though, you were regretting not bring some type of jacket, what if Hyunjin's arm wasn't the same? What if it was just some coincidence and all you looked like was a weird fan? As your friend rushed you inside, your anxiety began to multiply for a different reason. A few feet ahead of you sat all eight members of Stray Kids, as your eyes landed on HyunJin, your heart started hammering in your chest.
HyunJin had been nervous that day, he wasn't exactly sure why, nor would he show it, but he'd go to extreme lengths to make sure his outfit, hair, and signature was perfect. He wasn't sure why he was going to such lengths; he just had a voice in his head and a feeling telling him to make sure everything was perfect today. Even spending the entire car ride to the venue practicing his signature on his arm, despite his friends teasing. Whenever Jeongin's eyes landed on two girls who walked in, he started nudging one of his best friends excitedly "Look! Look! that one right there, with the h/c hair, she's got Hyunjin's writing all over!" He whispers yelled to Han who was sat between him and HyunJin. The loud whispers caught the young man's attention, HyunJin turning to look towards where his bandmates were motioning and looking, his eyes landing on you. More specifically your arm that had the exact handwriting his did, as you got closer to the front of the line, HyunJin felt himself growing more confident, if you were his soulmate and a fan, surely he wouldn't be rejected..right?
As you nervously stood at the front of the line, you hesitated, keeping your eyes trained on the black table ahead of you. Your friend gave you a gentle push forward towards the table, indicating it was your turn now. As you sat down in front of the first member, BangChan, you could feel your hands shaking violently, knowing you’d have to have a very awkward conversation very soon. “Hi!- are you okay?” His tone quickly changed from upbeat to concerned as he gently grabbed your hands, to try and stop them from shaking as bad. “Y-yea! I-I’m sorry” you stuttered out nervously, squeezing his hands gently in return, as you went to hand him your newest Stray Kids album along with one of his photo-cards to sign, BangChan took notice to your arm.
“Woah, HyunJin did that too ya know?” He asked before realizing what exactly what was going on, he had his best friend’s soulmate sitting in front of him currently. “That’s why you’re so nervous” he smiled nodding a bit as he quickly signed your things, watching as the staff motioned for you to move on to the next member. “Thank you” you smiled bowing slightly, he just gave you a supportive smile as he leaned over to Felix “that’s HyunJin’s soulmate look” he whispered before you sat down. Felix gasped loudly, leaned over the table to get a better look at your arm and you, you were extremely beautiful, maybe not his exact type, but definitely HyunJin’s type, and that’s all that mattered. “Hi! It’s so good to see you!” Felix greeted, almost like you two were old friends catching up rather than an idol and fan. “I-it’s good to see you too! I really love your g-guys music” you replied, smiling a bit as you tried to shove down your anxiety as you made your way to Hyunjin.
Whenever you finally sat down in front of HyunJin, there was a hint of tension, both of you could see clearly that you were soulmates, but neither of you said anything, you weren’t even sure what to say. “What’s all that about?” He asked teasingly, motioning towards your arm as he started to sign your things “Soulmate, decided to give me a tattoo sleeve of his name when I woke up” you explained nervously, giggling whenever you saw the idol smirk slightly as he laughed. Sitting in front of him calmed your nerves slightly, especially seeing that he wasn’t jumping to maybe you were just a crazy fan. “Seems like your soulmate knew you were coming to meet different guys” he teased, not yet noticing that it was actually his own signature, not just some random one. As HyunJin handed you the album case, and photo-card back, he took in the matching signature on your arm. As you were forced to move again, HyunJin felt a pull towards you, like he wanted to just get up and follow you out, but he knew he couldn’t do that, not without getting to know you first.
As the fan sign started wrapping up, the boys rushed to HyunJin “seriously! She was right there! Your soulmate was literally right in front of you! Why didn’t you say anything?!” They all shouted in chorus, not understanding his actions, or the fact that he never said anything to you indicating you were soulmates. “I reached out! I’m playing it cool!” He defended himself, smirking to himself as they all got ready to leave.
Whenever you got back home, you’d start setting up your new signed merch, only to notice the phone number scribbled underneath HyunJin’s name on his photo-card. “Holy shit holy shit…b/f/n!!!” You screamed, waiting until your friend got to your bedroom before starting to freak out. “I think I got HyunJin’s number!! Look!” You screamed, holding out the photo card as you nervously started to pace the floor. “Oh my god!! You have to text it! What if it is him!? What if you two are soulmates and get married and give me little idol niece and nephews!!” She squealed in reply, shoving the photo-card back to you as she started to jump up and down with excitement. “I-I don’t know” you whispered nervously, grabbing your phone, hovering your fingers over the numbers on the keypad, contemplating on if you really wanted to reach out.
HyunJin spent the rest of his night after the Fan sign, eating dinner with his friends and then going back home to wait by the phone. He wasn’t about to make a whole scene in front of over a thousand fans, because he found his soulmate, he'd prefer if that was private, at least for now. Whenever his phone finally would buzz, he'd practically throw himself over the couch to see who the message was from.
Unknown: Hello? I got this number on a photo card 🫣
HyunJin: I noticed we matched today..
HyunJin could feel his leg start to bounce slightly as it took slightly longer for a reply from you, but almost as soon as he added your number as a contact, a new message came through from you.
Beautiful: You just had to cover my entire arm in your name today, didn't you? 😂
HyunJin: Maybe I just had a feeling my soulmate was meeting my flirty bandmates 😉
You immediately felt your cheeks run hot with a blush whenever you read over his message, him basically quoting himself from earlier. He knew it was you the moment he saw you, the words kept running through your head, causing you to become flustered over the entire interaction from before. Taking a moment to recollect yourself before replying back to him.
Beautiful: Was truly rude, I'm not sure if I'll ever forgive you now
HyunJin smirked to himself, already falling in love with you just by the few messages you had sent. As he pressed the small call button by your name, it wasn't long before he heard a soft, shy voice answer. "Yes?.." You whispered, your cockiness quickly fading as you were put on the spot, being on the phone and actually hearing his voice made it all real, which made you extremely shy over the fact you had a famous idol flirting with you. "Where'd all the flirtiness go, Gonjunim?" He asked smirking, moving to go to his bedroom rather than the living room, where the rest of the seven members sat. You blushed brightly as you shoved your face in your pillows for a moment to try and calm your racing heart from being flustered. "I'm just not forgiving you right now" You squeaked out, taking a deep breath as you finally sat up "I'm so sorry, Gonjunim, I'll make sure next time I leave my name on you, it's a little more private" He replied, having to cover his mouth afterwards, not believing he just said that out right. "Hwang HyunJin!" You gasped in shock, staring at the phone before taking a breath, trying to recollect your thoughts as you heard his chuckles through the speaker on your phone. "Yea! It'll sound just like that whenever it happens! and you know, I can't even gasp your name, you haven't told me" He chuckled, leaning back against his pillows that sat on his bed, you blushed brightly, rolling onto your stomach, setting your phone down on your bed as you smiled. "Y/n, Y/n L/n" You replied softly, blushing whenever you heard him whisper it quietly to himself.
You two would both end up falling asleep on the phone with each other a little past midnight, spending that entire night, flirting, joking, and just getting to know each other, you were soulmates after all. The next day would be hectic for the both of you, HyunJin being rushed to rehearsals, makeup and hair, and then dressing rooms to change into his preforming outfit. You and your friend were rushing to make sure you got to the venue in time to get good pit spots, you were determined, wanting to see the boys preform up close, especially the member you were falling in love with. Once you'd get inside, thankfully, you and your friends would both get straight to the barricades. As you stood against the metal fence like structure, you'd pull your phone out to text HyunJin quickly
Beautiful: I'm right at the barricade, I'm excited to see you again 😉
You wouldn't be expecting a reply, instead, you noticed writing starting to appear on your thigh, a little below the ends of your shorts. 'HyunJin's Gonjunim' sat proudly on your skin, causing you to blush brightly and try your best to hide it. The show would start shortly after that, and for almost the entire two and a half hours of it, HyunJin's gaze was always on you, especially during his verses and lines while singing. Whenever the show ended, your phone would buzz with a text message, which you wouldn't see until after you and your friend made it out of the actual arena of the venue.
HyunJin: Stay with me tonight
You'd be slightly confused at first, until you'd spot him peeking out of a door with a giant sign that had 'Employees Only' taped to it, he had been serious. After you convinced your friend to go ahead and go home, you made your way over to him, smiling with a bright blush as he smirked at you. "Absolutely breathtaking" HyunJin whispered, taking your hand in his gently to spin you around, getting a full view of your outfit. Your entire body felt hot as you became flustered under the idol's gaze, as you turned to face him again, you smiled softly "Hmm, looks like that soulmate of yours knew you'd be seeing those guys again" HyunJin teased, motioning towards your thigh before smiling innocently "Oh I saw, I swear to every god there is, I'm gonna get you back" You giggled, clinging to him slightly as he led through the door, through the backstage area until he ended up back at his dressing room. "Woah, this is..insane" You whispered looking around in awe at the incredibly expensive dressing room, HyunJin only smiled, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you closer to him. As your back pressed against his chest, you blushed slightly "Excuse me sir, that's not how you greet a lady" You teased, feeling him squeeze his arms around you as he chuckled "Sorry, Gonjunim" He replied in the same teasing tone that you had used, you giggled reply, placing your hands on his arms as you leaned into his touch.
Whenever you'd get back to his shared dorm with ChangBin, HyunJin would give you a quick tour before leading you to his room with a smile "This is my room" He whispered nervously, he wasn't exactly sure why he was suddenly so anxious, but seeing you in his bedroom and not just hearing your voice through the phone, made his heart race. "Aein...Are you okay?" You asked after you turned to face him, noticing his nervous behavior, HyunJin glanced up slightly, raising his eyebrows as you wrapped your arms around him tight in a hug "I-I'm okay" He assured as he wrapped his arms back around you in return, feeling like his eyes were drawn to your eyes and then your lips, back and forth before you eventually spoke. "Kiss me" You demanded, HyunJin wasted no time in pressing his lips against yours, cupping your cheek as you moved your lips together. You rested your hands on his sides gently, blushing whenever you felt one of his hands move to your lower back, pulling you closer to his body as he nipped at your bottom lip.
HyunJin could feel himself growing confident as you gasped and whimpered under his touch, as you both moved over to the bed, HyunJin let you fall onto the mattress, giving you that damn smirk that made you flustered every time. "Is this okay, Jagiya?" HyunJin asked, his tone growing serious for a moment as he ghosted his hands over the waistband of your shorts. You took a deep breath as you nodded, placing your hands on the back of his neck, pulling him closer to press your lips against his jaw. As he let out a quiet grunt, you whimpered, feeling his hands working at undoing your shorts and shoving them down your legs. As HyunJin finally managed to get your jean shorts off he felt his jeans getting tighter, the dark black underwear hugging your body almost like they were made for you specifically. As he helped pull off your shirt, he was left speechless, taking in every bit of beauty that laid in front of him, you started to grow nervous under his gaze now. What if he was staring over something that was gross or ugly to him? "What did I do to deserve you?" HyunJin whispered to nobody as he leaned forward pressing his lips against your skin, moving from your neck, collarbone, then the top of your breasts. Reaching behind you, you quickly undid the clasp of your bra, letting it slide off of you before moving your hands to his shoulders, digging your nails into his skin as he moved his lips to your nipples.
"You're okay, Gonjunim, Changbin isn't here, let me hear you" He whispered against your skin, moving his lips from your nipple down your stomach until he got to the hemline of your underwear. "Uhm Excuse me" You huffed dramatically, motioning towards him and the fact he was still fully clothed compared to you being practically naked on his bed, he gave you a knee-weakening smile before rolling his eyes playfully. As he pulled off his shirt and shrugged his jeans off, you noticed how big he actually was inside of his boxers. "Gonjunim, you're staring" He smirked, pushing your underwear to the side, causing you to bite your lip quickly, keeping eye contact with him as he slowly pushed your legs further apart, allowing him access to ghost his ring and middle finger over your pussy. "You're the one who looks like that, you're literally a walking definition of perfect" You argued, your voice wavering as you felt his lightly tapping his fingers against you, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched you in amusement. You got no reply from HyunJin who just sat next to you, his fingers still ghosting over you while occasionally tapping one of his fingers against your pussy, his eyes going over your body repeatedly as he took in every bit of your body. You were like a goddess, and the fact you were his soulmate? Made his emotions and adrenaline run crazy, you huffed slightly leaning up to place a hand on his bare chest "Please, do whatever, just do something, please" You whimpered, gasping and grabbing ahold of his shoulders as he pushed two of his fingers inside of you.
As he curled his fingers inside of you, you could feel the knot in your stomach building, HyunJin seemed to notice, choosing to move his position to sit in between your legs. He kept his eyes trained on yours as he placed his mouth on your clit, pressing his tongue against it, causing you to moan loudly, running your hands over his buzzed head before grabbing onto the sheets. "There you go, Gunjunim, you sound so pretty whenever you moan" He stated against your skin, you just whimpered at the loss of contact against your clit, HyunJin chuckled shaking his head "Needy gunjunim" He stated before placing his mouth back on your clit, moving his fingers and tongue at the same pace, his tongue moving in different shapes across your clit as you moaned loudly. "F-Fuck! HyunJin please!" You moaned out, arching your back as he pushed his fingers as far as he could inside of you before pushing his pointer finger inside you with the other two.
HyunJin felt like if he got any harder, he'd end up dying or needing a hospital, the sounds you were making, the reactions your body was having, and the way your pussy kept squeezing around his fingers weren't helping either. With every movement of his fingers, you squeezed around him, causing his mind to wander on how tight you'd squeeze his cock if he fucked you. You pulled HyunJin out of his thoughts by calling out his name loudly, causing him to come back to reality right as you came around his fingers. A mixture of moans and whimpers leaving your lips as HyunJin felt your cum coating his fingers that slowed their movements inside of you. Your soulmate smirked as he watched you calm down from your high before pulling his fingers out of you.
You bit your lip as you watched HyunJin slipped a condom over his hard-on that stood stiff as he shrugged his boxers off. He was a lot bigger than you would have guessed, which made you slightly nervous, but also made you turned on all over again. You attempted to sit up and cup HyunJin's cheeks, but he stopped you, lifting you with ease as he helped you straddle his lap "Come on, Gunjunim, I have you one, you can work for the other" He whispered in a teasing tone as you gave him a confused expression, understanding his point, you nervously reached to grab his cock, positioning it at your entrance before slowly lowering your hips down. As his cock pushed deeper inside of you, you both moaned loudly, your arms immediately wrapping around him as he bottomed out inside of you, you swore you could feel his tip poking against your cervix. HyunJin panted against your neck, trying his best not to just flip you over and fuck you until you couldn't walk anymore, he couldn't do that, not yet at least. "Y/n, Gunjunim, Jagiya, I need you to move" He grunted, gripping onto the sheets so tight that his knuckles were turning white. "F-Fuck I-I can't" You whimpered, moaning softly as he repositioned himself to hold your waist tightly in his hands, guiding your movements. Your nails dug into his back, scratching down as he moved your hips against his, causing his cock to start moving in and out of you. "H-Hyun-" You moaned loudly, feeling him thrust his hips up, causing him to go further into you than before, HyunJin grunted, growing frustrated before he finally flipped you both.
As you laid on your back, HyunJin pushed his cock back inside of you, moving your legs to rest on his hips as he started to fuck you quickly. You moaned loudly tightening your legs around his waist causing his cock to go deeper inside of you, Hyunjin let his head fall against the pillows next to yours as he grunted lowly. He could feel himself slamming his cock into you as your pussy squeezed him even tighter, causing him to take a moment, not wanting to cum just yet. You whimpered in protest, desperately trying to grind your hips against his. Your actions caused him to growl in annoyance, one of his hands moving to rest on your stomach to keep you from trying to grind against him anymore, while to other found a tight grip in your hand "Such a brat" he huffed before continuing his thrusts, this time with a little more force and speed, you only moaned at his statement, squeezing around him, giving him the message that you 100% liked the new nickname. You were a moaning mess underneath your soulmate, feeling the knot in your stomach grow tighter with every thrust, HyunJin seemed determined, chasing after your orgasm rather than his own. As he let go of grip he had on your hair, he moved his hand between your legs, rubbing shapes into your clit as he thrusted into you. You whimpered loudly feeling like you were on the edge of cumming as HyunJin leaned closer to your lips, ghosting his over yours as he slammed his hips into you, pushing his cock as far as it would go before smirking "Come on, brat, get yourself off" He smirked, chuckling at your whines of protest, noticing him not backing down, you shyly replaced his hand with your own on your clit. As you grinded your hips against his, you quickly shut your eyes, feeling nervous and flustered under his gaze as he watched you basically fuck yourself on his cock. "Ah Ah, If you're going to be a brat, Gunjunim, you can at least look me in the eyes while you do it" He tsked, causing your cheeks to heat up with a blush as you opened your eyes, immediately making eye contact with him, you could feel yourself growing wetter and squeezing around him as you bit your lip.
"Here I'll make it easier" He whispered, moving you both back to your original position where you were straddling him, this time he pulled a few pillows down for him to lean against, almost like he was watching one of his favorite shows. You bit your lip as you grinded your hips against his, trying to hold back your moans as you slowed your movements, HyunJin guided your hips again, getting you to a good pace before moving his hands back to rest under his head. As you got closer to your climax, you got a rush of confidence, moaning loudly as you moved your fingers back to your clit, massaging it quickly as you rolled and bounced your hips against HyunJin's. He had his head thrown back against the pillows, trying to hold back his own grunts and moans as he felt his cock twitch inside of you, precum leaking into the condom as he felt himself getting closer to cumming. "C-Come on, Gunjunim, you've got it, fuck- just like that. F-Fuck!" His words quickly turned to moans as you squeezed around him "H-Hyun! I-I'm gonna cum, P-Please just fuck me!" You begged loudly, trying to match his thrusts from earlier, only to fail as your thighs twitched. "Does the brat need my help now? I thought she could do it by herself" He teased, watching as you whimpered loudly, tears starting to build in your eyes from frustration, HyunJin chuckled softly at how desperate you were to finally cum, choosing to hold your hips as he quickly thrusted his hips up inside of you. You gasped loudly, holding onto his arms tightly as you felt yourself extremely close to cumming, HyunJin slowed his movements as he gave you a slight glare "Keep working that clit, Gunjunim, you can be a pillow princess next time" He demanded and teased, smirking as he watched your fingers shyly make their way back to your clit, rubbing quick sloppy circles, watching you caused HyunJin's cock to twitch even more before finally spilling over, shooting cum into the condom as he moaned loudly, letting his head fall back. You weren't sure what exactly caused you to cum, HyunJin's moans, or the way it felt having him cum while inside of you, but you weren't complaining. As you grinded your hips against his, his moans grew more frequent and louder, moaning your name softly whenever you pushed your hips down. As his cock pushed all of the way inside of you, you felt yourself cumming around him, his moans growing louder as you moaned his name loudly. He panted, holding your hips down as he grinded his hips against yours, causing whimpers of his name to fall from your lips "Think you can make it even, make me cum one more time?" He panted, feeling himself growing hard inside of you again, the feeling caused you to moan loudly, your thighs twitching from overstimulation, even then you nodded softly, not wanting the night to end.
As HyunJin hovered over you now, he slowly thrusted his hips, moving his cock in and out of you slowly, his fingers intertwined with yours as you whimpered softly, your legs trying to close around his waist. "I've got you" He whispered against your neck, pushing his hips completely against yours, causing your legs to spread completely open. As he pressed soft kisses against your jawline and neck, he started to quicken his thrusts, feeling himself already leaking precum again. "I-It feels too good" You whimpered, squeezing his hands tightly as he quickened his pace "F-Feels good for me too, I'm so close, Gunjunim- fuck, you're so tight around me, I could fuck you all night if you'd let me" He grunted, feeling his stomach tighten as his pace quickened but also became sloppy, your back arched from his movements, whimpering loudly whenever HyunJin pressed his lips against yours "I-I'm gonna cum, HyunJin!" You whimpered loudly against his lips, digging your nails into his back as he just thrusted into you harder "I-I know, baby, Me too, go ahead and cum for me, I know you can" He panted, pressing on your stomach right where you felt that knot tightening again, the new pressure causing you to feel everything on a whole different. "Feel that, Gunjunim? I know you're going to cum" He teased, feeling you tense under his hand's pressure, you whimpered loudly, moaning his name against his lips. The feeling of you cumming around him was enough to send HyunJin over the edge again, his cum starting to spill out of the condom as he slowly his movement, pushing his cock as deep as he could as he moaned against your lips.
After a few moments, You'd both lay on the bed still trying to catch your breath as you both contemplated a shower. "Come on, you can wear some of my clothes" He smiled softly, moving to throw his boxers back on, as you stood up slowly, HyunJin quickly wrapped a sheet around you, knowing you probably wouldn't want to put on your underwear again after being that turned on. As you stepped into the bathroom, HyunJin was quick to get the water warm and ready for you to step in, even holding onto your hand and helping you into the shower before standing with his back to the shower. He'd stay outside of the shower, waiting, until you ended up reaching out and pulling him in by his hand "No reason we can't save some water, right?" You smiled, cupping his cheeks before tilting his head back to get his hair wet before tilting it back so he was looking at you "I'm really happy I've got such a good guy as a soulmate" You whispered after a moment, causing HyunJin to blush this time, shaking his head slightly "I'm happy I've got you" He replied before pressing his lips to yours gently, you kissed him back, resting your hands on his shoulders as you giggled "You're adorable" You smiled, pulling away gently as you took in his adorable smile, never in a hundred years would you think that you'd be soulmates with Hwang HyunJin, but you wouldn't want any other soulmate than him.
--
What do we think lovelies!? Ji-Yong Soulmate AU is next lovelies! So keep your eyes out! 🫶🫶 Also let me know any specific people and soulmate AUs you’d like to see paired together in future stories!
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Stray Kids Taglist!! (This one is different from my Bigbang taglist! So please let me know if you’d like to be added lovelies!! 🫶)
@onyxmango
@ag02212023
So so good!
Loved the way this was written ❤️🥰
bf! chan x fem! reader: you are a werewolf. no really.
genre: fluff but also like...ur a werewolf lmao idk what genre that is warnings: possessiveness towards the end, references to lycanthropy??? A/N: one thing about me is i put my money where my mouth is and i feel like chan would be down with a werewolf gf. not particularly monstrous in this part but dw i'll get there
love-coded.exe
a hacker group, comprised of five members, has their world changed when a glitch leads to y/n joining their private chat. gn!reader.
-ˋˏ Intro 0.1: entering the abyss ᝰ.ᐟ
are you still watching? << exit // continue watching >>
optional extra:
How you'd gone from eagerly tapping the link that promised you discounted bubble tea to a mysterious app page, you just weren't sure. You were very confident you'd followed the instructions to a T; after all, you weren't about to risk losing out on the precious offer you'd worked so hard to attain. Something wasn't quite right with the page you lazily scanned, though. It didn't look at all like the usual pastel aesthetic KK boba committed to.
Filled with absolute certainty that you'd clicked the right link and having read the highlighted text that promised you'd claim your prize once you'd downloaded the app, you decided it was worth a shot. After all, how unsafe could it be? The page mimicked that of the iOS app store, so much so that it was surely the very same. Granted, if you'd spent even a little longer taking in the fine details of the page, you might've been alerted to some things that seemed out of place. Even taking the time to read the text would've indicated that the app was definitely not a collaboration with your favourite drink franchise, but you were far too fixated on the promise of discounted boba to take precautions.
Without further thought, you tapped the download button, watching as the usual iOS download page was replaced by an unfamiliar one. The progress bar looked far more like a Windows interface than your iphone's, and it suddenly became apparent that this had surely not been the real app store after all. The sight was enough to have your brows scrunching together in confusion, eyes widening in a slight panic, and fingers tapping the screen in an effort to cancel the installation. However, no matter how many times you tapped--nor the urgency with which you did so--the download continued.
You tried to close the app, the phone wouldn't budge. You tried to switch your phone off, no luck. You turned your wifi and data off, but still nothing. A frustrated, panicked squeal left your lips as you awaited your definite fate. A fate that practically counted down as you watched the download bar fill up quickly.
Download complete the screen flashed before your new application opened with a sporadic sequence of vibrations. It didn't take you long to realise that the sudden vibrating seemed to match the warning that flashed across the top of your screen. You had no time to react before a terminal opened, text darting across the blackened interface as some form of AI named "SECURITY BOT" took over.
You'd been panicked before, but the thought of a bot taking over your phone sent a new wave of anxious urgency washing over you. Once again, your fingers tapped hastily atop the screen, hoping that something, anything you did, would be enough.
You have successfully been cleared were the words that caught your attention, slicing through your nervousness with a fresh blossoming of confusion. Cleared? For what? That was a good thing, right? Just as quickly as the security bot had arrived, it disappeared, revealing a page that filled you with a simmering of relief. No longer were you being bombarded by security entries or warning prompts, and though you'd been offered no answers to your prior questions, you felt your panic die down all the same.
In front of you a profile creation page took up your attention. It was simple, not requiring much from you but a username and a profile photo. On one hand, you couldn't help but question why KK boba would require you to go to such great lengths to claim your prize. At most you'd expected to be taken to a Google form where the relevant details would allow the cafe to add the coupon to your customer account. Yet here you were, choosing one of your recent photographs and coming up with the first username you could think of to join what you could only assume was a customer group chat.
That didn't sound right; nothing about this situation felt right. Yet, you realised that at this point, the only way you were going to get any answers was by joining the chat. With a great deal of reluctance, you pressed the animated button, breath catching in your throat as you watched the screen fade to black.
A/N: hi! thank you so much for making it this far :)
I'm debuting my new account with this very series. I've released all of the intro chapters together so if you're reading this, they should be up and available for you. I am planning to release the first series when it is finished, which could take a while. right now, you can hit me up to be added to the series tag list or turn on notifications.
I know this post is probably a little laggy due to there being so many gifs; the other posts won't be like that. however, the last post may possibly be the same. If this is an issue that doesn't allow you guys to view the posts properly please let me know!
this is a long A/N so apologies for that! i hope you're as excited for this project as i am. see yous when series one is completed <3
This… wow! So much effort must have gone into this!
The concept is fun and the gifs are great!
I haven’t even read the rest yet but I think this part alone is reason enough to read this series!
ඞ control alt + love (📱, 📖)(M)
being a girl in the world of gaming is hard, that's why you've kept your identity a secret. after years of intense grinding, you have earned the title of the strongest mage player in the non-professional server. gaining the attention of an esports team they extend an invitation for you to join as their mid-solo.
having to overcome the fear of being a girl in the male dominated field, you come to learn maybe defeating boys - or specifically a certain boy - is something you could get used to.
gamer!seungmin x fem-gamer!reader
rating : (M) - mature
genre : humor, strangers to slight enemies to friends to lovers, esports au, slow burn
warnings : profanity, sex jokes, death jokes, gaming, mature content, fictional game, slight you x jeongin if you squint
notes : gonna be honest with you chat... i know nothing about esports but after further research i know just about the same as i did before research so :) also in this world the guys are very silly with their fans on twitter!
status : finished
updates : n/a
taglist : closed
profiles (1) | profiles (2)
1 - that blonde lesbian 2 - playing dumb is hyunjin’s job (half written) 3 - mind your manners 4 - so far up their ass 5 - bullying kids on roblox 6 - put your boner away 7 - sad and wet rn 8 - im not bella swan 9 - lwk kinda sexual 10 - kitty whisper 11 - not a team player 12 - balls to the face (half written) 13 - sleep with jeongin 14 - trying to be marilyn monroe rn 15 - she gives crazy.. yk 16 - lets go home 17 - held at gunpoint 18 - douchebag jar 19 - seungmin is gonna have my ass 20 - i need you out there yn 21 - GAY FOLKS ONLY 22 - country bumpkin 23 - daddy is reserved for seungmin 24 - I HAVE SEX 25 - promise (written) 26 - shooters shoot 27 - you buffoon 28 - big booty bitches 29 - where do you want it? (written, smut) 30 - you wanking??? 31 - murder-suicide 32 - the girlfriend effect 33 - like a pixar lamp 34 - meow meow meow 35 - its going in my throat tonight 36 - ANVK's princess 37 - the trial of hwang hyunjin 38 - is friendly fire active yes or no? 39 - true victory 40 - always having a freak off
extras: 1. something about sub seungmin does things to me
This was great!! Definitely recommend you check this SMAU out!
10/10 recommend!!
Looking for you - Bang Chan Cinderella story
Hi lovelies! I know I said I was on a break but I was watching Cinderella with my little cousin when I came up with this short story. So I just wanted to do a quick write, it took me like two hours. So please don't judge it, it was something fun I made because why not. If it's stupid just scroll past it. If you like it...well I hope you do❤❤
Its kind of long, so I separated it by chapters. Hope you all enjoy!
Pairing: Bang Chan x female reader
Notes: When you see italicize, bold it means they're speaking in Korean.
Warnings: cussing, multiple parts, very delusional. Please don't take any of it seriously, it's just for fun.
Chapter One:
"There was an error with your ticket, I'm sorry," your friend Sarah said with a pouty face.
"What do you mean??" You panicked as it was you and your two friends Sarah and Melissa on face time the night before going to see Stray Kids in concert. "I already took off work, we have an outfit planned together, we-."
"I know, I'm sorry," Sarah interrupted you as Melissa sat quiet on the other end. "For some reason I'm only seeing two tickets in my Ticketmaster."
"Did you try calling or emailing them??" Your head was thumping, making it hard to think properly.
"I did! And they gave me an excuse, saying they couldn't do anything." You heard her voice go high pitch, an indicator that you know she is lying as you saw Melissa put her head down. Are they seriously lying to me?? You three have been best friends for years and know every little detail about them.
You stared at your outfit that sat on the chair in front of your vanity, waiting to be worn tomorrow. We were all going to match wearing their case 143 outfits but guess that's not happening now.
"Are you okay?" Sarah asked as you were too pissed to even look at her through the phone.
"Yup..." Is all you could let out before piercing your lips tightly together, trying to hold yours tears from falling.
"We'll talk to you tomorrow..."
"K...bye." You hung up the phone and let the tears stream down, frustrated and confused. You tossed your phone away from you, couldn't stand to look at it right now.
Why didn't they want me to go? There's no way there could have been a problem with the tickets...this fucking sucks...
A ding went off, grabbing your phone to see Sarah sending your money back since you paid for your half. And we had floor seats too...this whole day is fucking ass.
You turned your body around and stared up to the ceiling, wonder what you could do. You figured if you go on to the websites, tickets will be marked up to a crazy amount. Let me see if there's a person out there selling tickets online... There's always another way.
You went on to Facebook in the Stray Kids group chat that was purposely made for the city you live in, where they were performing. You typed your question, seeing if anyone was selling tickets for tomorrow night. You even posted your question on Twitter as last resort.
A few hours go by while you tried watching TV, reading A03 stories just to past the time away when you finally heard a notification from your phone, quickly checking to see if it was someone from the group.
Gabby: Hi there! I saw your post in the Stray Kids group chat and I actually have an extra ticket if you're willing to sit with me and my friends. We can get a little loud lol
You: Hi! 🙋🏻♀️ That's not a problem at all! I'm ready to fan girl! I don't care where we are sitting but how much?
Gabby: so they're $589 because we're on the floor with sound check. Our friend couldn't make it because she got sick and didn't want anyone else to catch the flu. Is that something within your price range?
You: Yes! I can send you the money. But just want to make sure you're a real person. Lol 😅
Gabby: 😂 I understand! Here, we can face time that way I can tell you what time to be there and everything!
You: sounds good!
You fixed your hair a tiny bit, wiped away the tears that were left and saw her using face time through Facebook messenger.
"Hi there!" Gabby waved.
"Hi, thank you so much for reaching out! And I love your hair, you're so pretty!" You complimented her hair that was black with dark blue highlights.
"Of course! And thank you! I got it done just in time for the concert," she laughed. "Here are the tickets, since I bought them." She held up her laptop, showing them.
"Cool, what's your Venmo so I can send the money?" She told you her Venmo as you typed it in, "thanks!"
"Of course! But may I ask why your asking for tickets so late?"
You could tell she was being sincere and you didn't know why but before you knew it, you were explaining everything that happened.
"Fuck, I'm so sorry, that's fucking terrible! They're not good friends."
"Yeah...im realizing it now. It's just...they're the ones who got me into K-pop. My other friends could care less about the music."
"Well, consider us your new friends! We're going to have a fun time! I just got your money...so can't wait to see you tomorrow. Lineup to check in is at 10 and sound check is at four. I'll send you my number so you can call me when you get there. We're planning to arrive at like 9:30 since the seats on the floor are assigned."
"Okay, perfect. Sounds great! See you tomorrow morning!"
You hung up and threw your body back on to the bed with a smile on your face, couldn't believe someone so nice reached out to you. And not with any ticket...but floor seats, plus sound check! Great, I'll run into Sarah and Melissa. You rolled your eyes annoyed but knew you were going to ignore them and have the best time of your life.
You looked over at the outfit you had originally planned, making you think of something else.
You got up, threw the outfit into the hamper and searched your closet for a last minute outfit.
You found a thin yellow long sleeve shirt that your mom got you one year and have only worn once. Paired it with a washout denim short skirt that sat on your thighs and found your light brown Dr. Martens boots that made your a bit taller from the thick bottom. I'll add some jewelry in the morning and I'll be good to go. Maybe I can stop at the store in the morning to get a can of blue hairspray to match his from the music video?
You got ready for bed and quickly fell asleep, excited for tomorrow.
Next Chapter >
This was a fun one!!
Recommended cause the vibes were there 🙌 I bet it was fun to write!
Recommended 💯
employee discount, p2
pairing: jeongin x gn!reader w. 1.5k genre: fluff, coffee shop au summary: part 2 of this fic, where you learn jeongin, a cute barista, has been giving you the employee discount at the coffee shop you frequent. after giving you his number, you decide to give it a chance. warnings: none a/n: this was super fun to write! there will be a part 3 (maybe not immediately), and it will be the final part of this story! thank you for all the support on this story :)
Ever since you walked out of the coffee shop with Jeongin's phone number on your cup, you've been smitten.
You thought that the little crush you'd had on the barista was a normal thing for a regular to have at their local shop. A cute worker was part of the fun of going. It turned out, understanding that he was at least the slightest bit interested turned you into a maniac.
After getting his number, you saved his contact in your phone and shot him a text a few hours later (and many attempts at psyching yourself up to do it) briefly saying hi and who you were. His response was almost instant.
jeongin: hey! was wondering when you'd say something
Even just one message had your heart stirring and jumping to conclusions. How long had you kept him waiting for? You forced a response out anyways.
y/n: worried i wouldn't say anything?
A pause. His texting bubble popped up once, went away, and back again.
jeongin: a bit. y/n: i'm here now!
Now that the first hurdle had been jumped through, things seemed to flow a little more naturally. His conversations over text felt as cordial as talking to him behind the counter, so you got the feeling he wasn't faking interest when you'd spoken in the past.
Originally you'd sat down to have a quick text chat with him before doing the rest of what you needed to on your lunch break. Unfortunately for you, Jeongin seemed a little too interesting and time slipped by quickly. Before you knew it, your allotted time to eat and relax was over.
y/n: bad news jeongin: what's up? y/n: lunch break's over. didn't even realize we'd been talking that long jeongin: oh gosh, i'm sorry for taking up your time! don't go hungry because of me y/n: pay me back in coffee tomorrow? jeongin: deal
After sending that text and clocking back into your shift, it dawned on you that what you said sounded a bit like a date invitation. Surely he knew that just meant you coming in normally, right? Not that you would be against a date. You considered writing a text to clarify but decided against it to get focused on work.
Throughout the rest of the day, you were plagued by thoughts of Jeongin. Normally you'd think of him once or twice and a smile would come to your face, but multiple times an hour was starting to get excessive. He was just a barista, wasn't he?
Your shift finally came to an end. As you were going home, your mind was still buzzing at the promise of seeing Jeongin tomorrow. It was almost hilarious how excited you were to see the guy you saw almost every day of the week. It wasn't even going to be that different than how you always saw him.
You got to eat your lunch when you finally settled in at your apartment. Maybe it was eating and thinking that got your mind away, but you found yourself opening your phone and searching up the name 'Jeongin' on social media. It wasn't a surprise there were quite a few people in the area with his name, but you searched anyways.
As you scrolled, one account caught your eye. The profile picture seemed like it could be him but the username confused you a bit. "i.2.n.8"? His display name was Jeongin, and when you opened the account it was almost immediately confirmed it was him. Username aside, you began to dig into his posts.
He was just gorgeous. There was no other way to put it. Every post was taken in a way that looked like he wasn't trying but somehow turned out perfect. The entire account seemed to have an unintentional aesthetic and you just couldn't stop scrolling and zooming in on photos.
Against your better judgment, you followed him. It wasn't five minute before he followed you back and you saw a text message pop up.
jeongin: stalker much? y/n: guilty
That night was fun. Your text exchange lasted almost another hour before you decided to go out. It pained you to say goodbye but you knew it was best not to burn out on conversation before you saw him next.
The next day rolled around and you were way too nervous about going out. You put on a work outfit that looked what you thought was your best and made sure to look as exceptional as you could.
The time came where you had to leave your apartment and face him. The trip over to the coffee shop was short as usual and a little too calm for how you felt inside. You approached the doors and peered inside, seeing Jeongin behind the bar hard at work.
Gaining your strength, you opened the door and walked in. Jeongin peered up from his coffee he was making and gave you a warm smile. You couldn't contain the feelings that felt like they were blooming in your chest. Either way, you continued on towards him.
"Good morning," Jeongin said in a sing-song voice as you approached, not looking up from his work.
You peered over the counter to see the cream design he was pouring into the cup, "Good morning, what are you making?"
"Ah, a little frog. I saw a video of someone making it and I wanted to give it a try," Jeongin snickered as he finished and showed you, "Looks a little lopsided, though."
It was true that the frog wasn't perfect, but it was perfectly cute. "It's wonderful. I love him."
"Well, if you like it, I like it," He said as he slid the coffee out and called out the name for the order. A man walked up and took the drink, smiling at the design. Jeongin turned his attention back to you. "What are we getting today?"
The two of you walked over to the register just as you had the morning before, "The same thing I get every day."
You began to grab your wallet from your pocket and Jeongin held out a hand, shaking his head. "My treat today. Pay you back in coffee, remember?"
A free drink was hard to say no to. You stuffed your wallet back in your pocket as he input your order into the system and punched in something that took the total down to zero. Jeongin really was sweet, wasn't he?
As he broke away from the cash register and walked back to the bar to start your drink, he looked up at you. "So, you went and found my socials yesterday?"
Your face flushed a bit. Even though it was true, you weren't expecting to be put on the spot for it. "Well, yeah. Couldn't help it."
Jeongin smiled deep. He was looking down at your drink, but his dimples gave him away. "Why's that?"
Again, not an easy question to answer honestly. "Your favorite barista gives you his number, why wouldn't you look him up?"
"Okay," Jeongin nodded, "Did I hold up to your expectations?"
After finding his page the day before you ended up looking at it an embarrassing amount of times. "I liked it, yeah. Did you like mine?"
"Yeah, it was so you," Jeongin looked up and you noticed a small flush on his cheeks, "That's a good thing, by the way."
You couldn't help but laugh. He was so charming and sweet, but he still had a bit of that boyish charm. "Thanks, I'd hope it was," You said, "How's it going over there?"
"Almost done, you keep me distracted," Jeongin grabbed a lid and popped it on your drink, holding it over the bar for you to grab from his hand, "There."
You reached over and took it from him, your fingers slightly touching and your heart pulled a few somersaults. God, this was a high school crush all over again. "It looks perfect, as always."
"My pleasure," Jeongin wiped down the bar with a cloth. You saw him stop for a moment, his eyes trained on something and his breathing was a little hard. He looked up and met your eyes, "Would you want to go out sometime?"
Oh. Oh shit. Maybe his flirting was a bit overt, but the question still caught you off guard. You stood there shell shocked for a few seconds as your brain relentlessly tried to reboot and catch up. Realizing you needed to respond, you nodded a little too hard. "Yes, yeah, I'd love that."
Before you could cringe at your own words, you saw the brightest smile on Jeongin's face. You'd never seen him smile so hard, but it certifiably made your heart melt. He nodded and seemed to compose himself. "You probably have to go to work, text me later about the details?"
You checked the time, muttering a small oh shit under your breath. A bit behind schedule, but you'd get away with it. No part of you wanted to leave him now that you agreed to a date, but duty calls. "Yeah, you're right. I definitely will!" You said as you began to walk towards the door.
"See you later!" He called out from the bar as you opened the door and walked out. Oh, shit. It was happening!
Omg, part 2 just as good as the first!
Recommended 💯💯
