summary|| random moments between you and your mischievous boyfriend
gener|| flufffff, lots of fluff, leeknow being an absolute cutie, drabble
a/n|| idk how did i survive searching for leeknow pics, man i can drown in them he's sooooooo fucking cuuttteeeeeee raahhhhh, also I'm making this a series for all the members cause a cutie wanted one 🤭
every STAY at least once in their life has said leeknow would be the private kind of guy in a relationship, and they were not wrong he is quite private when he got in one, but have you ever thought about how would he be when he's all whipped and hooked?
one random evening minho was bored and stuck so he decided to go on bubble to talk there
"how are you doing"
"there's a huge cat sleeping on me so i can't move"
as soon as the fans read cat and minho in the same sentence everyone went insane begging him to take a selfie and show them, because a cat and minho in the same picture? it's a dangerous combination indeed. minho chuckled as he scrolled through STAYs messages, he decided to be sweet this time and send them a picture.
it was a shock to everyone when the picture he sent was of you sleeping on his lap while his hand tangled in your hair, and bubble exploded even more with some STAYs cooing at the sight, some laughing at his way of "flirting" with his partner.
"wake it up!" —"do you want me to die?" minho replied to one of the messages, he wasn't ready to deal with you being grumpy if he interrupted your nap, plus he really doesn't have anything to do and the feeling of you sleeping on him was the most adorable thing he would see in all of his life, so he was planning on keeping you like that as long as possible.
another noticeable thing about how much minho pride himself in you was how his instagram account changed, now instead of the black cover photo he put on his published pics sometimes you would be the cover, a cute or silly photo of you would be the first one before you swipe to his.
sometimes it'd be a cursed photo just to annoy you, on the other hand you'd do the same, publishing an "ugly" photo of him on your instagram story and a war would begin between you two, one time it stretch too long it was a trend on twitter for three days straight. #miny/nwar
one particular moment that made stay go feral for like months was when you walked on on him mid live, no one had to zoom to see how his eyes softened immediately, you leaned closer to the camera and said hi–waving your hand in front of the lens before walking back to your boyfriend.
as soon as you were within reach he lift his hand to rest it on your side as he looked up at you like you were the moon on the sky, "I'm going to get some grocery." you said softly, resting your hands on the armrest, "mhm" he only hummed in response, still looking at you with those soft eyes of his that you giggled shyly at when you noticed them "do you need anything from the store?" you asked "no" he replied simply and you leaned down, putting a peck on his lips before walking out, he let out a sigh when the door closed behind you as he returned his attention to the camera, acting like the STAYs didn't just see a scene from a k-drama right there.
Tags: Smut, groping, Mutual pining, phone sex, oral (f , m receiving), unprotected sex, dirty talk, fingering, begging, praise, soft dom Minho, tension snapping like a wire, domestic fluff, aftercare, post-sex vulnerability, tit play, friends to lovers
Word count: 8k
Summary: You always thought Minho was gay—so you never held back. Tiny tops, unfiltered stories, late-night cuddles… harmless, right?Until he sees you soaked through one day and finally snaps. And suddenly, your best friend isn’t looking at you like a friend anymore. Until one late-night phone call changed everything. Now you’re at his door—no bra, no excuse—buzzing from the sound of his voice and the filthy things he made you do. He opens the door. He sees you. And just like that, it’s over. The line is crossed.
This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!
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You’d known Lee Minho since you were barely old enough to walk without holding onto his shirt.
Back then, he was just that loud kid who shared his snacks and shoved you into mud puddles. Now? He was your best friend. Constant. Loyal. Always down to pick you up when you were drunk or kill spiders or fake-boyfriend you out of awkward situations.
And also—totally not into girls.
At least, that’s what you’d always assumed.
He never talked about hookups. Never ogled girls. Never so much as blinked when you pranced around in your tiny shorts or ranted about your latest sex-related disaster. You figured he was either the most respectful man alive—or playing for a different team.
So you got reckless. Comfortable.
And today?
You were about to find out just how wrong you’d been.
It started with the kitchen sink.
You were washing dishes, half-dancing to your playlist, wearing nothing but those soft cotton shorts and an oversized white tank with no bra underneath. Your wet hair clung to your neck, and you were humming through a verse when the faucet burst—literally—spraying a jet of cold water straight at your chest.
“FUCK—shit, fuck—” You stumbled back, grabbing at the handle, slipping on the tile as water drenched you from neck to stomach.
And that’s when Minho walked in.
“Yo, I got the charger you—”
He froze.
You blinked at him, soaked and panting, hair plastered to your cheeks.
Water trickled down the front of your now see-through top. The fabric clung to every inch of your skin. And your nipples? Standing out like full spotlight, front row through the sheer cotton. You had no idea though, no time to even think about it before he had appeared.
“Oh.” You laughed, awkward. “Um—hi. Broken faucet. Don’t mind the wet t-shirt contest.”
He didn’t answer.
Just stood there.
Eyes glued to your chest, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring like he was trying to hold his breath.
Your smile faded.
“Min?”
His gaze finally snapped to your face.
Too late.
You saw it—the tension. The fire.
The unmistakable flicker of hunger.
And suddenly your stomach flipped.
“…Minho?”
He swallowed hard, voice low. Rough.
“Put something on. Now.”
You blinked. “What?”
“I said—” His eyes dropped again before yanking back up. “Go change. Now. Before I do something really fucking stupid.”
Your heart skipped.
Because that? That didn’t sound like your best friend.
You stood there in wet silence, your soaked top clinging to your skin like a second damn layer, Minho couldn’t meet your eyes.
He turned his back to you—turned his back—and gripped the edge of your countertop like he was grounding himself. His shoulders rose with each breath, tense as hell, like someone trying not to explode.
You’d never seen him like this. Not with you.
“I wasn’t—Min, I didn’t mean—” you stammered, brain short-circuiting. “I didn’t know you were coming over yet.”
His voice was clipped. “You knew the faucet was broken.”
“I didn’t know it was gonna blast me in the tits!”
Silence.
A beat.
Then, quietly—so quietly—you heard it:
“Jesus Christ…”
That’s when something finally clicked.
You looked down at yourself—at the sheer fabric sticking to your breasts, nipples hard, outline of your curves totally exposed. And for the first time in all the years of being this careless around him, you suddenly felt self-conscious.
You reached for a dish towel and held it over your chest.
“…Are you mad at me?” you asked, voice small.
“No,” he said quickly. Too quickly.
You stepped closer.
“Then what’s going on?”
He shook his head, still facing away. “You wouldn’t get it.”
“Try me.”
He let out a breath that sounded more like a growl, and when he finally turned around, you caught it again—that look. Raw, unfiltered restraint. His gaze flicked down to the towel you’d pressed to your chest, then back to your face.
You watched him like he was someone else.
Like the Minho you grew up with had peeled off his skin and left something sharper underneath. His jaw was tight, arms folded, eyes still avoiding yours—but you felt it now. That edge. That static charge that had been humming under the surface for who knows how long.
“I’ll fix the faucet later,” he muttered, stepping past you—carefully. Like you were made of glass. Or fire.
You turned as he moved, towel still clutched to your chest.
“You didn’t answer me,” you said.
“About what?”
“Why you told me to change.”
He stopped at the door.
Didn’t turn around.
For a long second, you thought he wouldn’t say anything at all.
Then, quietly, he replied:
“Because if I’d kept looking at you, I don’t think I would’ve kept my mouth shut.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
And when he walked out of the kitchen, just like that, it was like the whole room shifted.
The air changed.
Everything felt warmer. Tighter. Thinner.
You didn’t move for a while. Not until the cold in your soaked top finally made your skin sting.
⸻
The rest of the day passed weirdly.
Minho didn’t leave, of course. He stayed like he always did, lounging on your couch, bickering over what to order for dinner, side-eyeing you every time you grabbed your phone.
But the energy between you?
Completely different.
He didn’t look at you the way he usually did. Didn’t tease you like normal. Didn’t even touch you when he passed you the remote—just tossed it like it might burn him otherwise.
And you couldn’t stop thinking about his voice in the kitchen.
“I don’t think I would’ve kept my mouth shut.”
Kept it shut about what, exactly?
What he was thinking?
What he wanted to do?
You were still thinking about it when you came out of your room later in a sleep shirt that barely skimmed your thighs. No bra. Nothing underneath. The usual you-in-your-element vibe.
Except… this time?
You caught him looking.
Not accidentally.
Not briefly.
He looked—and kept looking.
From your legs to your hips to the faint hint of nipple under the thin fabric, straight to your face.
Your breath caught.
He didn’t apologize.
He didn’t blink.
He just raised a brow—almost like a dare—and said, “Your sink’s still fucked.”
You nodded, slowly.
“So are you gonna fix it?”
He stood up.
And as he passed by, way too close, his hand brushed the curve of your lower back.
Just a touch.
Too casual to be called a grab. Too deliberate to be innocent.
And then he was gone again, heading into the kitchen.
Like it hadn’t just happened at all.
⸻
He always crashed in your bed. That wasn’t new.
Late movie nights, sleepy arguments, limbs tangled and breathing synced—just best friends, just comfort.
Except tonight?
You felt everything.
His warmth at your back. The heaviness of his arm draped around your waist. The intentional silence of him pretending to be asleep, even though you could feel how tense he was.
You’d turned off the lights twenty minutes ago, but your body was still buzzing. Hyperaware of every inch of skin not covered by your flimsy sleep shirt. Every inch of him pressed against you in the dark.
And you knew—you knew—he hadn’t stopped thinking about earlier.
About how you’d looked dripping wet, nipples hard, shirt transparent and clinging to your curves like a second skin.
You should’ve felt awkward.
But instead, your thighs were clenched.
And then—His hand moved.
Just a little.
At first, it was nothing. A small adjustment. His fingers splayed over your stomach like they were stretching in his sleep. But then his palm drifted higher.
Slow.
Barely grazing the underside of your breast through your shirt.
Your breath caught.
His did too.
Like he just realized what his body was doing.
He didn’t pull away.
Not immediately.
His fingers twitched, tips brushing right beneath the curve of your boob—soft, tentative. Still pretending it was nothing. That he was asleep. That this wasn’t completely out of bounds.
Your chest rose and fell faster now.
He still didn’t speak.
But his hand stayed there.
Hovering. Teasing. The edge of a full touch, like he was testing himself. Or punishing himself.
And you?
You didn’t stop him.
You didn’t even breathe.
You just pressed back into him slightly—so slightly—and felt the undeniable shape of him, hard and restrained against the swell of your ass.
He exhaled shakily behind you.
Shit.
You’d never heard him make a sound like that before. Not around you.
Not around anyone.
You didn’t move for a while.
Didn’t even blink. Not when his fingers hovered beneath your breast, not when you felt his cock pressed firm and restrained against the curve of your ass. You just stayed still—heart hammering, skin burning—like your body was listening for his next move.
But when none came…
You shifted.
Just a little. Barely a breath of movement. Just enough to arch your back, push your chest forward, and guide the soft swell of your breast right into his palm.
His fingers twitched again.
But he didn’t pull away.
He didn’t say your name. Didn’t jerk back in shock or guilt. He just stayed there—completely still behind you, breathing shallow and slow like he was holding onto sleep as a defense.
Your nipples were hard beneath the thin cotton, the heat of his palm sinking through the fabric like an electric brand. It was barely a touch—but it felt filthy. Loaded. More intimate than anything you’d done with someone you were actually sleeping with.
And still, you stayed quiet.
Still.
Sleeping.
His thumb brushed the soft curve below your nipple. Just once. Barely there. Like a reflex.
And this time, his hips shifted too.
The press of him against your ass sharpened—more deliberate now. Less restrained. Like his body had stopped asking for permission and started taking what you weren’t stopping.
His hand tightened—slightly.
He was pretending to be asleep, you realized.
Just like you were.
If either of you acknowledged it, the world would crack open.
So you didn’t.
You just let it happen.
Let his hand cup your breast like it was meant to be there. Let his hips roll forward in the slowest, tiniest grind. Let your legs shift apart just enough that your thighs stopped brushing—and instead, welcomed.
He let out another one of those breaths—low, shaky, wrecked.
You smiled into the pillow.
Still not breathing.
Still “asleep.”
And behind you, your best friend since diapers was losing his last scrap of composure.
—
The morning came too fast.
Sunlight crept through your curtains like it knew what happened. Like it saw every second of that not-a-dream moment where his hand cupped your breast and his hips rolled into yours like it wasn’t the first time he’d imagined it.
He was already in the kitchen when you woke up.
Hair messy, hoodie wrinkled, acting like everything was normal. Like he hadn’t spent the night wrapped around you with his cock pressed to your ass and his hand full of your tit.
You padded out barefoot, keeping your face unreadable.
He handed you a mug. “You were out cold.”
Liar.
You took it, fingers brushing his, watching him too closely.
“So were you.”
A flicker—barely there—but his eyes twitched toward you for a split second. Like he was trying to see if you meant something more.
You let him sit with the tension.
You drank your coffee slow.
“You ever think…” you began softly, “maybe I’ve just been really fucking stupid?”
He looked up from his cereal. “Since when?”
You tilted your head. “Since assuming you weren’t into girls.”
He blinked. Slowly. Carefully.
That… got his attention.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh it off. Just sat there—silent—and then brought the spoon to his mouth like nothing had happened.
But his voice, when he finally answered, was low. Controlled.
“What makes you ask that?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know. You never dated any. Never flirted. You never reacted when I walked around like—” you gestured vaguely at yourself—“this. So I figured, you know. Must be the reason.”
Another pause.
His eyes dropped to your thighs.
You were wearing the same sleep shirt.
No bra still.
Of course he noticed.
But he didn’t give you that satisfaction. He set the spoon down and leaned back in the chair, stretching lazily like his body hadn’t betrayed him eight hours ago in your bed.
“Maybe I’m just good at not talking about certain things,” he said.
That hit harder than it should have.
You stared at him.
And for the first time in a long time—you didn’t see your best friend.
You saw a man who’d been holding himself back for years.
You’d never stared at his crotch before.
That was the first red flag.
You weren’t even trying to. Just sitting across from him on the couch while he scrolled through his phone, hoodie riding up slightly, grey sweatpants loose and slung criminally low on his hips. You weren’t supposed to notice the shape beneath. The outline. The fact that you recognized the pressure of it against your ass last night because it had left an imprint on your nervous system.
You blinked away quickly.
Jesus.
You sipped your water like it could douse whatever fire had started in your chest—and your thighs.
He didn’t notice.
Of course he didn’t.
Lee Minho was the king of unreadable faces. That man could watch you strip naked and probably wouldn’t flinch. It was part of the reason you’d always felt safe around him. And the same reason you were losing your mind now.
You needed to know.
If you were wrong. If he’d just been hiding in plain sight. If that touch last night had been a fluke. A dream. Or something darker.
So you tested it.
That evening, while he sat on the floor building a shelf you couldn’t be bothered to finish, you leaned in behind him.
Loose tank top. Braless as usual. Intentional bend.
He turned slightly. Saw your chest from the side—too close, too exposed, one nipple practically peeking through the armhole.
His jaw clenched.
But he said nothing.
Strike one.
You tried again.
Pulled your hair up messily, exposing your neck, your back. Made small, breathy sounds when you stretched. Loud enough to hear. Soft enough to pass as innocent.
Still nothing.
Strike two.
You were practically writhing at this point. Trying to piss him off or fluster him, something.
But Lee Minho stayed quiet.
You weren’t sure what exactly you were trying to prove anymore.
That he wasn’t gay? That he wanted you? That you could still control this friendship even when everything was shifting beneath your feet?
Maybe it was all of it.
But you were already halfway in his lap before you had time to second guess it.
“You’re not good at building shit,” you teased, voice sweet as sugar while you hovered close, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. “Lucky I’m cute enough to get away with watching instead of helping.”
He grunted—low, disinterested. But his eyes betrayed him. You saw the flicker—straight to your chest, to the deep dip of cleavage you’d made extra sure he’d notice.
Bingo.
You leaned closer. Pretending to inspect a screw on the shelf. Your tits brushed his upper arm.
He went still.
“You okay there, Min?” you asked softly. Coy.
He cleared his throat. “Don’t start.”
“Start what?”
“This,” he said. He didn’t look at you. “Whatever game you’re playing right now.”
“I’m not playing anything.”
“Yes, you are.”
You tilted your head. “What are you talking about?”
Silence.
Then, quieter: “I’m warning you.”
Oh, that did something to you.
He sounded like he meant it. Like he was afraid of himself more than you. And maybe he should’ve been—because you were reckless now. Hyped up on the taste of your own power, drunk on the image of him with your tit in his hand last night.
You pulled your tank top aside from the arm hole just a little. No bra. Just the soft swell of skin—more than enough to tempt. His eyes snapped to it instantly.
“Go ahead,” you whispered. “Touch me.”
He swallowed.
Didn’t move.
So you took his hand yourself—slowly, deliberately—and pressed it to your breast.
Flesh to palm.
He exhaled sharp. Visibly flinched. But he didn’t pull away.
You arched into his touch.
“You’ve never been curious?” you asked, voice lower now, almost daring. “Never once wondered what they felt like? You’ve known me your whole life, Minho…”
His thumb twitched. Brushed the underside like he didn’t even know he was doing it.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath.
“What?”
“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”
You smiled faintly.
But then he tightened his grip—just slightly—and your breath caught.
“You think I’ve been ignoring you all these years?” he asked, voice dark now. Steady. Dangerous. “You think I don’t notice when you walk around half naked? You think I don’t see the way your tits bounce when you laugh?”
You froze.
Oh.
Oh shit.
“You think I don’t feel them when you’re sleeping pressed against me?” His thumb brushed up now—barely grazing your nipple. It stiffened instantly. So did you.
“Minho…”
His hand dropped away suddenly, like he was snapping out of it.
“You need to stop,” he said, standing up too fast. “Before you push me too far.”
You stared up at him from the floor, dazed.
For the first time… you realized you might’ve already pushed too far.
—
It was hours later when you finally crawled into bed.
He was already in it—lying on his side, facing away, blanket riding low on his waist and exposing the tight line of muscle up his back.
Your heart was still pounding.
He hadn’t said a single thing after storming out earlier. Not during dinner. Not while you cleaned the mess from the half-finished shelf. Not while you avoided looking at him like he hadn’t cupped your tit like a stress ball.
And now you were lying beside him again, like nothing had changed.
You couldn’t tell if you were relieved or disappointed.
You turned your back to him, the usual position when you shared a bed, but the air felt different tonight. Dense. Stifling.
“Hey,” you whispered in the dark. “Are we… okay?”
His voice came low. Controlled. “You tell me.”
You swallowed. “You seemed… upset earlier.”
“I was,” he said. “I’m not anymore.”
“Oh.”
Silence.
Then, casually:
“You looked at my dick today.”
You choked. “What?! No I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
You rolled onto your back, flustered. “You can’t prove that.”
“I don’t need to. I know your face. I’ve known it since you had baby teeth.”
You blinked at the ceiling. Your face was burning.
He shifted then—closer. The bed dipped behind you. His chest met your back.
And something else pressed against your ass.
Hard. Solid. Undeniable.
You gasped.
His lips brushed your ear. Calm. Evil.
“That’s payback,” he said softly, “for putting your tits in my hand.”
You forgot how to breathe.
He didn’t move.
Neither did you.
The air between you was molten now, and his cock—fuck, that was his cock—was still heavy and pulsing against your ass like he was proud of it.
“Minho…”
“You wanted to know,” he said, voice silk and fire. “You’ve been trying to get a reaction out of me all day. So now you’ve got one.”
You felt him smirk.
“What’s wrong?” he murmured. “Too much?”
You couldn’t answer.
Not when your thighs were squeezing together like they had a mind of their own. Not when your heart was a drum and your skin burned where it touched his.
You didn’t say anything at first.
Just stayed frozen in place, his cock pressed thick and solid against the soft curve of your ass, your entire body vibrating with heat.
Your lips moved before your brain could stop them.
“…Can I touch it?”
Silence.
Not even a breath behind you.
Then— “What?”
You swallowed, your voice weirdly calm now. “I just… I wanna feel it. Like—actually feel it. With my hand.”
A sound escaped his throat. Sharp. Choked.
“You’re kidding.”
You turned around slowly, facing him in the dark. His eyes locked on yours—blown, stunned, like you’d slapped him with a brick made of sin.
You didn’t wait for another answer.
Your eyes dropped straight to his crotch.
And your hand followed.
The blanket shifted just enough as you slipped beneath it, and your palm found him right where he’d pressed up against you before—still just as thick, still painfully hard, straining beneath the soft fabric of his sweatpants.
You cupped him gently.
Minho jerked.
“Holy fuck,” he whispered, face twisting. “What the hell are you doing…”
“Just curious,” you murmured, gaze fixed on the shape of him under your hand. “You’re so… big.”
He groaned, head dropping back into the pillow.
Your fingers squeezed lightly. You were sure you felt him twitch.
“You’ve been like this all night?” you asked, eyes wide.
He hissed through his teeth. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Why not?” you teased, still stroking. “It’s not like I’m doing anything serious.”
“That’s the fucking problem,” he gritted out, hips twitching into your hand.
You explored him like you were learning something new, weighing the heft of him through his pants, tracing the long, thick outline up and down.
He was breathing heavier now. Jaw clenched. Eyes shut.
“You can tell me to stop,” you whispered.
He didn’t.
So you slipped your hand inside.
No warning.
Just fingers beneath the waistband, sliding inside until you were wrapping your hand around bare, hot skin.
Minho choked.
“Fuck—fuck—”
You stroked slowly, palm tight around the base, sliding up to the head and back again. He was massive. Velvet over steel. Already leaking a little at the tip.
He bucked into your hand before he could stop himself, hips twitching under the weight of your touch.
“Is this payback too?” you asked, lips barely moving.
His eyes flew open.
“Keep talking and I’ll fuck your throat instead.”
Your hand froze.
Your heart flipped.
Your thighs clenched so hard it hurt.
But then, you looked up at him. Still holding him. Still stroking him.
His cock twitched in your hand, thick and aching, as you slowly dragged your fingers up the shaft and back down, your touch featherlight—teasing.
Minho’s eyes were glassy now, dark and stormy and wild, like he was barely keeping himself together. His jaw clenched. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts.
You felt powerful. Dangerous.
So you looked up at him—bold, daring—and said, “So? Still want me to stop?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just blinked at you like he was seeing you for the first time. His voice came hoarse and wrecked.
“Are you crazy?”
You tilted your head. “Maybe.”
“This is—” He swallowed. “We’re—”
“Friends?” you offered, sliding your hand again, slower now. “Childhood besties? Practically siblings?”
He winced. “God, don’t say that.”
You smiled.
And then, without another word, you sat up on your knees and tugged your oversized sleep shirt over your head—bare underneath. Just skin and heat and those same soft breasts he’d felt in his hands earlier.
They bounced slightly as you moved, and the room went still.
His breath hitched. His eyes dropped—dragged—to your chest.
It was the second time he’d seen them that night.
“I’m sure,” you said simply.
Something broke in him.
He sat up so fast the mattress shook, one hand grabbing your wrist, the other threading hard into your hair. He yanked you forward, his mouth crashing into yours with so much heat it knocked the breath from your lungs.
You gasped into the kiss, and he devoured it—biting, claiming, groaning into your mouth like he’d been starving for years.
“This what you wanted?” he growled, lips trailing down your neck, teeth dragging over your collarbone. “You really wanted to see what I’d do?”
You whimpered, nodding, fingers already clawing at the waistband of his sweats.
“Too late to take it back now,” he muttered against your skin, before ducking down and wrapping his lips around your nipple—hard.
Your back arched. His tongue flicked, sucked, bit.
“Minho—”
“I’ve dreamed about these,” he groaned, switching to the other breast, kneading the first one in his palm like he was worshiping it. “You don’t know what the fuck you’ve done to me.”
Your whole body was trembling, his hands now everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding down your back, yanking you flush against his chest as he rutted up into you, his cock still trapped in his sweats, still throbbing.
“Need to feel you,” he rasped. “Need to have you.”
“Then take me,” you breathed. Without even thinking about it.
And for a second, Minho froze.
Not because he didn’t want to—his hands were already sliding lower, gripping your hips with bruising force—but because the way you’d said it… so open, so needy, so real… it shook him.
“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” he whispered, forehead pressing against yours, his voice raw, trembling. “Because if I start, I won’t stop this time.”
Your chest heaved against his, nipples dragging over his skin, and his self-control nearly snapped again right there. You could feel him under you, thick and hot through the fabric of his sweats, the tip pressed right against your soaked panties. One shift of your hips and—
“I’m not asking you to stop,” you whispered back.
He groaned, low and guttural, like the sound had been buried in his chest for years. You kissed him again—slow, deep, your tongues tangling like this wasn’t the first time. Like your bodies already knew the steps.
And maybe they did.
His hand slid between your thighs, pressing the heel of his palm right where you were aching most. Your hips jerked.
“Already soaked,” he rasped, biting down on your lip. “Fuck—have you always been like this around me?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. His fingers dipped beneath your waistband, brushing over your soaked folds through your underwear—just enough to make you moan.
“You’re playing with fire,” he warned, mouth now at your ear, voice shaking. “You keep tempting me like this, and I swear—”
“Then burn me,” you whispered, grinding down on his hand.
He snapped again—grabbing your ass and flipping you onto your back like he’d been holding back all his life. The sudden dominance in his movements made your breath hitch.
Minho hovered over you, both of you half-naked now, tangled in sweatpants and damp underwear and a thousand repressed thoughts.
His hand moved with purpose now, cupping your mound, rubbing slow circles over your clit, lips pressed to your neck.
You whimpered, bucked.
“Don’t tease,” you begged.
He chuckled darkly. “Says the one who’s been waving her tits in my face for years.”
You gasped—half embarrassed, half turned on—and he pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.
“Tell me to stop,” he said softly. “Or I’m going to ruin your sleep.”
You stared at him, panting. You wanted him. Needed him. But something inside you whispered—not yet. Not like this. Not while everything was still unraveling too fast.
“Not tonight,” you murmured, heart racing.
His expression shifted, softening in a way that made your chest ache.
He nodded slowly. “Okay.”
But his fingers didn’t move right away. He gave you one last teasing brush, slow and aching.
“For the record,” he added, voice like gravel, “this is me trying to behave.”
You giggled, breathless.
“I can tell.”
And then he pulled you into his chest, kissed your forehead, and let the fire between you simmer.
You didn’t have sex that night.
But neither of you slept much, either.
⸻
It had only been three days.
Three days since Minho had slipped out with nothing but a cryptic, “I’ll see you later,” and a soft kiss to your temple. Two days since you’d almost let your best friend finger you into oblivion under the safety of your shared covers. And now he was gone.
Well, not gone-gone. Just back at his apartment. Just out of reach. Just far enough to not risk really doing what your bodies had been begging for.
He hadn’t ghosted. Not exactly. Just a little space, a few texts. “Sorry, been busy.” “Work’s a lot this week.” “I’ll come by soon.”
But soon wasn’t now. And now… was when you were sprawled out on your bed, fingers between your thighs, a familiar silicone toy buzzing softly inside you—desperate to chase that same friction you almost got from him.
It wasn’t the same. Nothing could be. But the thoughts in your head? Those were filthy enough to get the job done.
Your mind kept flashing back to the night before he left: his voice in your ear, his thick cock pressed to your core, the way he’d looked at you like he’d been starving. You whined as your hips rolled, tightening your grip on the toy buried inside you.
Then your phone lit up.
Minho calling.
You froze, heart skipping. Fuck.
You hesitated just long enough for it to ring again—and then answered, trying to level your breath.
“Hey,” you managed, voice just a bit too airy.
“Hey,” he said, voice casual, low. “Were you sleeping?”
“Nope.” You exhaled hard through your nose, the vibrator still inside you, pulsing away like it knew your secrets. “Just… relaxing.”
“Mmm.” His voice dropped, curious. “You sound out of breath.”
You swallowed. Hard. “Tired day. I was just—y’know. Lying down.”
The vibrator kicked up just a notch, and your thighs jerked. He kept talking.
“Sorry I’ve been MIA. Been thinking about you, though.” His voice was warm, familiar. God, his voice. “A lot, actually.”
A sharp breath escaped you. You hoped it sounded natural. It didn’t.
“…You okay?” he asked, his tone shifting just slightly. “You sound—off.”
You could barely think anymore. Your head was buzzing. Your thighs were trembling. And you didn’t dare stop.
“I’m fine,” you rasped.
But then you whimpered. Barely. Just a little hitch in your throat.
He paused. “Wait. Are you—are you doing something?”
Your whole body froze.
“No,” you lied, voice high.
He went quiet. Too quiet.
“…Are you touching yourself right now?” His voice came low, dangerous. “While on the phone with me?”
Silence.
Then, another breathy whimper.
He growled. “Fuck. You are.”
You felt heat shoot up your spine.
“Keep going,” he said, voice gravel now. “Don’t stop. You started this.”
Your hips rolled again—slower this time, more deliberate—as you listened to him breathe, listened to the weight behind his words.
“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” he demanded. “While you fuck yourself to my voice.”
You bit down on your lower lip, squeezing your eyes shut as his words settled under your skin like molten honey.
“Tell me,” he said again, voice a touch lower, rougher now. “What were you thinking about?”
You whimpered. “You.”
He chuckled. Dark. Breathless.
“Yeah? What about me?”
You hesitated, hips twitching as your toy nudged just right inside you. “The way you felt that night,” you gasped. “The way you pressed into me from behind… the way your cock felt against me, even through the sheets—”
“Fuck.”
His reaction was sharp and immediate, a barely controlled groan through clenched teeth. You knew his hand was probably fisting the sheets or his thigh right now, trying to stop himself from touching the one thing he couldn’t have—yet.
“Are you still touching yourself?” he asked, voice thick.
“…Yes.”
“Good. Faster.”
The single command shot straight to your gut. Your fingers moved in rhythm with the toy now, chasing the heat blooming deep in your belly. You didn’t even care if he heard your wetness or the whines building in your throat anymore.
“Wish I could see you,” he breathed. “Wish I could have my hand over your mouth. You’re too loud, babe. You’d wake the whole damn building if I fucked you right now.”
“Minho—”
“Not yet,” he cut in. “You’ll come when I say so. Not a second sooner.”
You squeezed around the toy, aching, desperate, toes curling.
“Keep going. Just like that.” His voice was pure sin now, molten and slow. “You’ll come with my voice in your ear and my name on your lips, just like you should’ve that night.”
You whimpered.
“Say it,” he demanded. “Say my name.”
“Minho—”
“Louder.”
“Minho.”
“Good girl,” he rasped. “Now come.”
You shattered.
Your back arched off the bed, thighs quaking, moan spilling raw and unfiltered from your lips as your body pulsed around the toy. You didn’t even try to hold it in anymore—he needed to hear it. He deserved to.
Silence stretched on the line after, only your wrecked breathing and the distant rasp of his own breath filling the space between you.
When he finally spoke again, it was with the voice of a man barely holding back his hunger.
“I’m going to ruin you,” he said softly, deadly. “Next time I get my hands on you… I’m not stopping until you forget anyone else ever made you come.”
The call ended.
You blinked at the screen, dazed, thighs still trembling.
But you didn’t sleep.
You changed into the first half-decent outfit you could find, tugged your hoodie over your head, and grabbed your keys with your heart hammering in your throat.
If he wasn’t going to come to you?
You’d damn well go to him.
—
You almost turned around three times. Once at the stoplight. Again when you parked in front of his building. And one last time while standing at his door, staring at the stupid number you’d memorized when you were ten.
You shouldn’t have been here.
But your body didn’t care. Not when it was still buzzing, still throbbing from the orgasm he commanded out of you through the phone not ten minutes ago. Your thighs were sticky, your bottom lip sore from how hard you’d been biting it in the car, nerves coiling in your belly like a wire about to snap.
Showing up like this—unannounced, in shorts that barely passed as clothing, no bra under your thin hoodie—wasn’t just reckless. It was deliberate. Dangerous.
You raised your hand and knocked before you could talk yourself out of it.
Footsteps came quickly. Heavy. The door flew open seconds later, and there he was.
Minho.
Still shirtless.
Sweatpants slung low on his hips. Hair a mess like he’d been pacing. His jaw was tense, chest rising like he hadn’t calmed down since the call ended. His eyes found yours and locked in like he could see through you.
He didn’t say a word.
Just looked at you.
Slow. Hungry. His gaze dragged from your flushed face to the zipper of your hoodie and lower—lingering on your bare thighs.
You shifted, suddenly feeling way too exposed.
“Say something,” you whispered.
His voice came out hoarse.
“You’re insane.”
“I know.”
Another pause. The air between you tightened.
He stepped forward. Just one step—and you backed up, your breath hitching.
“No bra?” he muttered like it hurt him. “You show up like this after what just happened—fuck—”
“I didn’t know what else to do.” You bit your lip, heat crawling up your neck. “I didn’t want to wait.”
That was it.
He snapped.
You didn’t even see him move—just felt the door slam shut behind you as he pushed you up against it, one arm shooting out to lock it without looking. His hands came to either side of your head, bracing himself like he was seconds away from self-destruction.
His breath hit your lips.
Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, like he was holding back something feral.
“Last chance,” he growled. “If you tell me right now you’re not sure, I’ll let you go. I’ll jerk off in the shower until my knees give out and pretend you never begged to come in my ear.”
Your throat tightened.
“I’m sure.”
That was all it took.
His mouth crashed into yours. Hungry. Deep. Unapologetic. It hit you like a wave—his tongue sliding in, his grip tightening, his body pressing flush against yours with an intensity that made your knees buckle.
One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head, while the other found your waist and gripped—like he was claiming territory.
A moan escaped into his mouth as you clung to his shoulders, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to the storm that was him.
Minho’s mouth was still glistening with you when he picked you up—one arm under your thighs, the other around your back. He didn’t even blink. Just carried you down the hall like it was nothing, your head pressed to his neck, body boneless from how hard he’d made you come.
His bed was unmade.
Sheets tossed. Pillows scattered. And you were in them seconds later, back hitting the mattress with a bounce.
Minho stood at the edge of the bed and looked at you.
Like he’d waited years for this moment. Like you were a fantasy come to life and he was deciding whether to kneel at your feet or tear you apart.
“You still want this?” he asked, voice low—gravel and smoke.
You didn’t answer. You showed him—legs spreading wider, hips tilting, your hand sliding down to part your slick folds. His eyes darkened.
“Fuck, okay,” he breathed, like he was short-circuiting. “Okay, baby.”
He crawled over you like a shadow, slow and heavy, his mouth finding your jaw first—then your neck, then your collarbone, biting as he went.
“You’ve been mine since we were kids,” he murmured into your skin, tongue flicking over a mark he’d just left. “You just didn’t know it.”
You gasped when his hips rolled against yours, his cock rubbing through your soaked folds, huge and leaking and so hot against your cunt.
“You feel that?” he asked, dragging it up and down—your body arching, chasing it. “You’ve had me like this for years. All those skirts. All that attitude.”
He gripped your jaw, making you look at him.
“You think I didn’t notice the way you got careless around me?”
Your lips parted, but no sound came out—just a broken breath as he lined up, pressing just the tip in.
Your nails dug into his arms.
“Minho—”
“Shh,” he whispered. “I know, baby. I know.”
Then he pushed in.
Slow. Deep. Relentless.
And holy fuck.
Your eyes slammed shut, jaw dropping in a silent scream as he stretched you open. He didn’t stop until he was fully inside—until his hips were flush with yours and your cunt was full.
“Jesus Christ,” he groaned into your neck. “So fucking tight.”
You could barely breathe. Could barely think.
He pulled back just enough to drive back in—and again—again—building a rhythm that knocked the sanity right out of your head.
Minho fucked like he was carving his name into your body.
He was everywhere—teeth on your throat, hands on your tits, hips snapping hard and deep like he needed to ruin you.
And he was talking, too. Filthy. Possessive. All in that growly voice that made your toes curl.
“You gonna let me fill you up, baby?”
“Gonna fuck you so full you feel me for days.”
“You were made for this. For me. For my cock.”
You cried out when he grabbed your thigh and folded you in half, slamming deeper, finding that spot that made your entire body lock up.
“Right there?” he growled, eyes glued to your face. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s your spot.”
You were sobbing now—wet, broken sounds as your second orgasm raced up your spine.
“Minho, please—I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”
“Come for me,” he snapped. “Right now. All over my cock. Let me feel it.”
And you did. Harder than before—louder, messier, more intense.
You clenched around him like a vice, and he lost it—groaning loud as he slammed in one final time and spilled inside you, hips jerking, body trembling above yours.
He stayed like that—deep and twitching inside you, sweat dripping down his temple, lips ghosting over yours as you both tried to come down.
You didn’t know how long you laid there—legs trembling, his cum leaking out of you, your fingers tangled in the sheets like you were afraid of floating away.
Minho hadn’t moved much either.
He was still inside you, chest to chest, your noses brushing each time he inhaled. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking softly along your jaw as he watched you with those warm, sleepy eyes—eyes that held none of the fury or possessiveness from before.
Just softness. Almost guilt.
“You okay?” he asked, voice husky but gentler now.
You nodded, but your throat was tight. And when you blinked up at him, he leaned down to kiss the corner of your mouth. Then your nose. Then your temple.
“Did I go too far?” he murmured.
“No,” you whispered, your voice small. “I liked it. I liked all of it.”
That made his lips twitch.
“Yeah?” he said, brushing his knuckles across your tits—lingering when your breath caught. “Even when I told you to shut up and take it?”
You swallowed hard. “Especially then.”
He chuckled under his breath and finally pulled out, making both of you hiss. You whined at the emptiness—at how sore and stretched you felt—and Minho’s gaze immediately dropped between your legs.
“Shit,” he muttered, almost reverent. “Look at that mess.”
You flushed, shifting your legs, but he pressed a hand to your thigh to stop you.
“Don’t hide,” he murmured. “You look so good like this. All ruined because of me.”
Then, to your surprise, he slid down the bed and kissed your inner thigh. Just once. Then again. Then right next to your sensitive center.
You flinched. “Minho—too much—”
He smiled and looked up at you from between your legs.
“Alright, baby,” he said. “I’ll be good.”
And he was.
For about two minutes.
Then he kissed his way up your body—lingering on your nipples, dragging his tongue across them until they stiffened again. You whimpered as he sucked softly, then bit gently—making your hips buck.
“I just wanna taste them,” he murmured. “You kept arching for me earlier like they needed attention.”
“They still do,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.
He smirked. “Then don’t move.”
He licked and sucked until your chest was wet with his spit and your thighs pressed together again—need building back up in the pit of your stomach like a slow flame.
“Fuck,” you mumbled. “You’re gonna break me.”
He pulled back to look at you.
“Not yet,” he said, voice low. “But you did say you liked sucking cock, didn’t you?”
You blinked. “I—yeah—why—?”
He rolled off you and onto his back, cock already hard again—thick and flushed, still glistening from earlier.
“Then get over here.”
You didn’t need to be told twice.
You crawled down the bed and straddled his thighs, eyes locked on the way he stroked himself, slow and heavy.
He tapped the tip against your lips. “Open up, baby.”
You did.
And he groaned the moment you took him in—just the head at first, tongue swirling around it, your lips tight and wet. He filled your mouth so easily, and you loved the way he shuddered when you gagged on him.
“That’s it,” he breathed, hand sliding into your hair. “So fucking pretty when you’re drooling on my cock.”
You moaned around him, and he twitched.
“You gonna swallow it all?” he asked, voice breaking a little. “You want me to come in your mouth this time?”
You sucked harder, nodding with tears in your eyes, and that was it.
He cursed—hips jerking, cock thickening—and seconds later he was spilling down your throat, one hand on your head as his other clutched the sheets.
You swallowed everything.
Every drop.
When you finally pulled off, eyes glassy and lips swollen, Minho reached for you and pulled you into his chest, kissing your forehead like he hadn’t just fucked your mouth like a man possessed.
“Now,” he whispered, pulling the blanket over both of you, “lets get some sleep.”
⸻
The morning light slipped in through the blinds in soft gold stripes, painting lazy patterns across the room.
You blinked awake slowly, body aching in the most indulgent way, wrapped in the scent of skin and sweat and fabric softener. The hoodie you had worn here last night was still crumpled somewhere on the floor—probably next to your shorts, your underwear, your dignity.
Minho’s arm was heavy around your waist. His chest was warm against your back. His breath ghosted over your shoulder in quiet puffs, slow and steady.
It didn’t feel real. It felt like one of those fantasies you used to jerk yourself off to in the dark, flushed and breathless, thinking about what it would feel like to fall asleep tangled up in him like this—after.
You stayed still as long as you could, just… absorbing it.
And then, of course, he ruined it by murmuring against your neck, voice still thick with sleep.
“Your thighs are twitching.”
You groaned. “Maybe because you almost broke them last night.”
He chuckled, low and pleased, then slid his hand over your hip and gave your inner thigh a light squeeze. “You came here cause you wanted me to do exactly that.”
Your cheeks flushed instantly. “Don’t remind me.”
“Why not? It’s my favorite memory now.”
You rolled over to face him, hair a mess, eyes still sleep-fogged. He looked unfairly gorgeous in the morning. Hair tousled. Eyes soft. The roughness from last night completely gone, replaced by something almost too gentle to be him.
He looked at you like he was thinking way too hard.
“What?” you asked quietly.
He reached up, brushed some hair from your face, fingers lingering at your jaw.
“You know this isn’t just sex for me, right?”
Your breath caught.
“I mean…” he licked his lips, eyes searching yours. “It can be, if that’s what you want. But I don’t think I can go back to just being your best friend. Not after this.”
You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at him, trying to collect your heart off the floor where it had just dropped.
Finally, you whispered, “I don’t want to go back either.”
Minho exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that breath all night.
Then he leaned in and kissed you—soft and slow and sweet, like the question was already answered.
You melted into it. Into him. Into the shift.
Later, you’d get up. He’d make coffee. You’d steal one of his shirts. He’d tease you about the bite marks on your thighs. And you’d both pretend not to notice how domestic it already felt.
But for now, you stayed in bed—best friends turned something more—with his arms around you and your future somewhere in the spaces between his kisses.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Authors note: hi guys! Ok so the poll results from the Leeknow angry boy fic came out and it was a really close one. So instead of changing whats already written i decided to upload this to make it up to you guys! This is not an angst story or the angry boy replacement but this is a story for my romantics ❤️ Thanks alot for all your feedback really love you guys!
ᥬᩤ content: fluff, sweet skz, cuddling, a bit of jealousy on leeknows
! This is my opinion on straykids favorite way to cuddle their partner!
M.list
Authors note: I've had the urge to write like crazy today lol
🐺 Bangchan ⊹ ࣪
Type: Face-to-face cuddling.
Whenever Chan comes home after one of those days, the kind that leaves him frustrated with everything but cuddling you somehow makes it all melt away.
He kicks off his shoes by the front door, shrugs off his jacket, and quietly makes his way to your shared bedroom before taking a shower. As he passes the bed, he notices you fast asleep... on his side.
A small smile tugs at his lips.
Normally he'd tease you about stealing his spot, but tonight he doesn't have the energy.
After his shower, he returns with damp hair and slips into bed beside you. The mattress dips beneath his weight, stirring you from your sleep. Your eyes slowly flutter open to find Chan lying on his back with his eyes closed, exhaustion written all over his face.
Without saying a word, you reach over and rest your hand against his chest.
He lets out a quiet sigh before opening his eyes and turning onto his side to face you. You gently brush a damp strand of hair away from his forehead.
Almost instinctively, he shuffles closer until his forehead rests against yours, one arm finding its way around your waist.
He doesn't need to talk about his day.
He just wants to hold you, feel your warmth, and let the comfort of being in your arms remind him that everything will be okay.
😺 Leeknow ⊹ ࣪
Type: Arm around your shoulders.
Lee Know loves cuddling in private, but when you're out together, his favourite way of showing affection is draping an arm around your shoulders. It's subtle, comfortable, and, in his opinion, the perfect way to keep you close.
This weekend, the two of you had escaped the city for a camping trip, hoping to enjoy a couple of peaceful days surrounded by nature.
Peaceful... until your neighbouring campsite arrived.
The group consisted of three people a guy around your age and another couple who seemed perfectly happy keeping to themselves. The couple spent most of the afternoon setting up their tent together and laughing between themselves.
Their friend, however, seemed to have taken a particular interest in you.
Every now and then he'd wander over with another excuse to chat.
"Need help setting up?"
"Nice weather today, isn't it?"
"Where are you guys from?"
You answered politely every time, completely oblivious to the fact that his conversations sounded a lot more like attempts to flirt.
Unfortunately for him...
Leeknow noticed.
Each time the guy appeared, Minho's eyes would flick over from whatever he was doing. He'd quietly watch the interaction before returning to his task, though not without rolling his eyes.
By the late afternoon, you'd started to notice he seemed quieter than usual.
"Babe?" you asked, nudging his arm. "What's the matter? You've been a little off all day."
He glanced at you before offering a small smile.
"It's nothing~"
You weren't convinced.
As the sun disappeared behind the trees, the temperature began to drop, and everyone started preparing for the evening.
Minho crouched beside your campsite, carefully building a fire.
Just as the first flames caught...
"Hey!" the neighbour called, wandering over with a grin.
"My friends are still messing around with ours. Mind if we hang out here for a bit?"
Before either of you could answer, he plopped himself down on the mat opposite you. A few moments later, his two friends, the couple joined him, apologising with an awkward smile before sitting together on the other side of the fire.
The conversation started innocently enough.
You chatted about camping, favourite hiking spots, and the best places to visit outside Seoul.
Every so often, though, the neighbour would direct another question only at you.
Minho had had enough.
Without a word, he shifted closer until your shoulders brushed.
Then, as naturally as breathing, he slipped his arm around your shoulders and gently pulled you into his side.
You instinctively leaned against him.
The neighbour's eyes flickered down to Minho's arm before looking back up.
"...Oh."
A tiny, almost smug smile appeared on Minho's face.
He wasn't trying to start an argument.
He was simply making one thing very clear.
You were his.
The rest of the evening passed with you tucked comfortably against his side, his thumb absentmindedly tracing small circles over your shoulder whenever the conversation drifted away.
And judging by the way the neighbour suddenly became much more interested in talking to his own friends and left pretty soon...
The message had been received.
🐰🐷 Changbin ⊹ ࣪
Type: laying on his arm
If there's one thing Changbin takes pride in (besides you), it's the fact that his arms make the perfect pillow.
After every gym session, he'll jokingly flex and say,
"See? Told you these muscles were useful."
Whenever the two of you settle down to watch a movie or climb into bed after a long day, he already knows exactly where you're going to end up.
Curled into his side with your head resting on his arm.
At first, you used to worry about making his arm go numb.
"Binnie, aren't you uncomfortable?"
He'd look at you like you'd just asked the most ridiculous question.
"Why would I spend hours in the gym if my girl can't use my arm as a pillow?"
You couldn't help but laugh.
Somehow, no matter how long the two of you stayed like that, he never complained.
Even when his arm inevitably fell asleep.
Instead, he'd quietly shift just enough to keep you comfortable without waking you.
The TV would still be playing in the background while you drifted off, your breathing evening out against him.
Changbin would glance down with the softest smile, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face before pressing a kiss to your forehead.
"...Sleep well, baby."
His arm might be numb.
His shoulder might be aching.
But as long as you were sleeping peacefully beside him...
He wouldn't move an inch.
🥟 Hyunjin ⊹ ࣪
Type: laying into him
Hyunjin has always believed that actions speak louder than words.
He isn't the type to constantly ask for cuddles.
Instead, he'll quietly open his arms, knowing you'll naturally find your way into them.
Whether you're sitting on the couch, the floor, or at the end of the bed, he'll sit behind you and let you lean back against his chest. One arm rests securely around your waist while the other absentmindedly plays with your fingers or traces lazy circles along your arm.
Sometimes the two of you don't even talk.
You'll be reading a book while he sketches in his notebook.
Watching a movie.
Scrolling on your phones.
Or simply enjoying the quiet.
Every now and then, he'll rest his chin on
your shoulder just to steal a glance at whatever has your attention.
"You look comfortable."
"I am."
"Good."
He'll smile to himself before pressing a soft kiss against your temple.
If you start to drift off, he'll gently tighten his arms around you, making sure you're fully supported before continuing whatever he was doing.
To Hyunjin, moments like these are his favourite.
No big gestures.
No words.
Just the quiet comfort of knowing you're safe in his arms, exactly where you belong.
🐿️ Han ⊹ ࣪
Type: as close as physically possible.
If Han could somehow merge into you while cuddling...
He absolutely would.
Whether you're lying in bed, sitting on the couch, or waiting for your food at a restaurant, he's always finding a way to be touching you.
An arm around your waist.
Your legs tangled together.
His hand intertwined with yours.
It doesn't matter how—as long as he's close.
His favourite thing, though, is burying his face into you.
Your neck.
Your shoulder.
The crook of your neck.
Your chest.
He'll nuzzle into whatever part of you is closest, letting out the happiest little sigh before mumbling,
"You're comfy..."
Sometimes you'll laugh because his hair tickles your skin.
"Jisung..."
"Mhm?"
"I can't breathe."
He'll pull back for approximately two seconds.
"...Sorry."
Then, before you even realise it, he's tucked himself right back against you again.
"You literally just apologised."
"I know..."
"...I missed you."
Even if you've only been apart for an hour.
He's constantly stealing forehead kisses, wrapping both arms around you, and pulling you impossibly closer whenever he gets the chance.
He's basically your own personal weighted blanket.
Except this one occasionally starts talking, laughs at his own jokes, and refuses to let go until you promise you'll stay for "just five more minutes."
Because if Han had it his way...
Every cuddle would end with the two of you practically glued together, his face hidden against your shoulder while he quietly drifted off to sleep, completely convinced there was no better place in the world to be.
🐥 Felix ⊹ ࣪
Type: his head in your lap
Felix's favourite place in the world isn't a beach, a studio, or even his own bed.
It's your lap.
No matter where the two of you are, if you're sitting down for longer than five minutes, he'll somehow end up lying across the couch with his head resting comfortably in your lap.
It's become such a normal occurrence that you don't even question it anymore.
Watching a movie?
Felix is already making himself comfortable.
Reading a book?
His head is in your lap before you've even finished the first page.
Scrolling on your phone?
He'll quietly wander over before gently laying his head down like a cat searching for the warmest spot in the house.
Almost immediately, your fingers find their way into his hair.
He absolutely melts.
His eyes flutter shut as you scratch lightly at his scalp, twirl strands of his hair around your fingers, or gently massage behind his ears.
"...Don't stop."
"I wasn't planning to."
A sleepy smile spreads across his face.
He'll happily stay there for hours if you'll let him, occasionally looking up at you just to admire you before reaching up to intertwine your fingers with his.
"You know..." he mumbles.
"Hm?"
"I think this is my favourite place."
You smile, pretending not to know what he means.
"Your lap."
His answer is so quick it makes you laugh.
"If I could stay here forever, I would."
🐶 Seungmin ⊹ ࣪
Type: legs intertwined
Seungmin isn't overly affectionate in obvious ways.
He doesn't always need to be wrapped around you or constantly holding your hand.
But if the two of you are sitting or lying down together...
Your legs are almost guaranteed to be tangled together.
It's something that happened so naturally neither of you even remember when it started.
You'll be watching a movie, reading, or scrolling through your phones, and before you know it, his leg has found yours beneath the blanket.
Sometimes it's just your feet brushing together.
Other times, your calves are hooked together so naturally that if one of you moves, the other follows without even thinking.
"You know..." you mumble one evening, glancing down at your intertwined legs.
"Hm?"
"I don't think we've sat separately in weeks."
Seungmin looks down for a second before a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
"...Really?"
"You've literally got me trapped."
"I do?"
He says it so innocently that you can't help but laugh.
Instead of apologising, he simply shifts a little closer, his leg pressing more comfortably against yours.
"Better?"
"You made it worse."
"Good."
His teasing grin gives him away immediately.
It's never something he thinks about.
His body just unconsciously seeks yours.
And on the rare occasions your legs aren't touching...
He'll quietly stretch one out until they are again, almost as if he's checking you're still there.
Not because he needs reassurance.
But because being connected to you even in the smallest way makes being together feel complete.
🦊 I.N ⊹ ࣪
Type: Spooning
Spooning is Jeongin's favourite way to cuddle.
Not because it's the cutest.
Not because it's the comfiest.
But because he loves knowing you're safe in his arms.
The moment the two of you climb into bed, he'll instinctively reach for you, gently wrapping an arm around your waist before pulling you against his chest.
It doesn't matter if you're watching a movie, talking about your day, or simply getting ready to fall asleep.
If you're together...
He's spooning you.
"You comfortable?" he asks quietly, adjusting the blanket around the two of you.
"Mhm."
"Too tight?"
You shake your head, smiling to yourself.
"Perfect."
Satisfied, he presses a soft kiss to the back of your head before resting his chin lightly against your hair.
His arms never stay still for long.
Sometimes he'll absentmindedly rub slow circles over your stomach.
Other times, he'll gently trace patterns against your arm or intertwine your fingers with his.
If you're having a rough day, he'll hold you a little closer without saying much at all.
He isn't always the best at finding the right words.
But somehow, the warmth of his embrace says everything he wants to.
And on the nights when you're the one who wakes up first...
You'll often find Jeongin still holding onto you exactly the same way he did when you both fell asleep.
As if, even in his dreams, the last thing he wants to do is let you go.
husband! minho who, after a truly, honestly very wholesome night of nothing but kisses and cuddling—totally not with the entirety of his collarbones and shoulder littered in love bites, oh no—cooking up breakfast in the morning after.
husband! minho who, even after a frivolous night prior makes it his mission to prepare a meal to deliver to you in bed, oftentimes scolding the kitties scurrying about to be quiet.
husband! minho that curses under his breath in surprise after feeling your arms wrap around his waist from behind, lightly swatting at your hand with the spatula. (predictably, he melts when you rest your head against his back).
husband! minho that loves when you act as his little taste-tester. cookie batter that he brings to your lips, oh so focused listening to your feedback. the same goes for any recipe. dinner, lunches, soup or pasta. it goes a little bit like this:
“More sugar?” Minho mumbles, gaze trained on your face like his life depends on it, watching every little twitch as if scouring a book for that certain page. Like second instinct does he clock the pinch of your brow, already measuring more sugar before you can even give him the go-ahead.
husband! minho that, despite the teasing he’d receive from his members, loves to prop you on the counter and give you those occasional kisses. not as handsy and routine as chan, but more sporadic, savory. not as many chaste pecks, but more slow, coffee-tasting kisses where his palms cradle your cheeks.
husband! minho who, without fail, ends up as mushy as his last failed batch of cookies (that happened a year ago, he’d argue) when you kiss him. as mentioned above, he melts. melts into warm hums and soft giggles in tandem with yours, skin smelling like petrichor and a mixture of your own scent after snuggling up close throughout the night.
husband! minho who knows that familiar clumsy rhythm of his little girl’s footsteps to turn around just in time for her wide, excited eyes to connect with his, the two melding into a chorus of shared laughter they both try to muffle in favor of keeping you asleep. sometimes it works, other times you walk into the kitchen half-conscious, witnessing a rather chaotic display of determination in which your husband and daughter try to teach Soonie how to point to the correct ingredients they name.
it was worth the effort, that’s all you’re going to say.
SUMMARY: An innocent photo session with Soonie turns into a full couch pile of Minho, you, and three very judgmental cats. Threats of bunny filters, tickle attacks and chaotic selfies included.
You’re sprawled on the couch watching Minho do over-the-top aegyo at Soonie to get a picture. The cat is giving him the most “I resign from this family” look imaginable while your boyfriend puckers his lips and talks in a baby voice.
“I can’t believe this is real” you say between laughs, covering your face.
Minho shoots you a death glare (the cutest one in existence).
“Shut up or the next picture is going to star you. And I will slap a bunny filter on it.”
“Try it and you’re sleeping on the couch.”
He pauses for a second, actually weighing if it’s worth the risk.
Then, without warning, he throws himself on top of you, knocking you back into the cushions.
“Well, too bad… looks like the couch is already taken by two jealous cats and one human.”
The air rushes out of your lungs for a second from the impact, but he’s already laughing softly against your neck, hands slipping under your back so he doesn’t crush you completely. His hair tickles your cheek, and you hear Soonie—deeply offended by the sudden abandonment—jump up onto the back of the couch with a dramatic meow that only makes Minho laugh harder.
“Expert-level feline betrayal” you mutter, trying to push him off but not really putting your back into it.
“Don’t complain” he says, lifting his head just enough to meet your eyes, still wearing that smug little victory smile. “You started it. Now you pay the price.”
Before you can ask what “the price” is, he starts tickling your sides with criminal precision. He knows exactly where to attack; he’s practiced a thousand times. You twist and writhe under him, laughter ripping out of you uncontrollably as you choke out a “stop, idiot!” that sounds more like a plea than a command.
Doongie and Dori, who’ve been ignoring the chaos up to this point, decide this is now a national emergency and jump onto the couch as well. One plants himself right on your stomach (Doongie, the heavy one), the other on Minho’s legs (Dori, the traitor). The couch creaks ominously under the combined weight of two humans and three cats, but no one moves.
Minho finally stops the tickle torture, but he doesn’t get off you. Instead, he lowers his forehead to rest against yours, breath still a little uneven from laughing, and looks at you with that expression he only wears when he’s honestly happy: eyes half-lidded, soft smile, like the whole world fits right here.
“You’re a disaster” you whisper, still panting a little.
“And you’re my favorite disaster” he replies, kissing the tip of your nose. “Plus, look… now we’ve got the perfect group photo.”
Without shifting his weight, he fishes his phone out of his pocket. One arm is still wrapped around you as he stretches the other out and snaps a chaotic selfie: your face red from laughing, his hair a total mess, three cats staring at you both like, this is ridiculous, but we’re not moving.
He posts it to his close friends with a simple caption:
“full family, chaos mode ♡”
You stay like that for a while longer, tangled together on the couch, cats purring all around you and the afternoon drifting by slow. Minho pulls you closer, mumbling into your hair:
“Don’t ever let go of me, okay? Even if I threaten you with bunny filters.”
You just smile and answer quietly:
“Never. But next time you tickle me… the couch will be mine alone.”
He laughs again, that low sound that rumbles right through your chest.
“Deal.”
I had this in my drafts because I wanted to try Tumblr’s option to post it at X time, but I just saw it never posted 😭😭
・ PAIRING — husband!skz x fem!reader・ GENRE — fluff ・ OUTLINE —my opinions on whether i think skz are boy, girl dads, or both・ WARNINGS — nothing・ WORD COUNT — 1.5k ・ A/N — p1harmony version coming soon .ᐟ
dividers by @aquazero .
CHAN — girl dad
this man was created to be a girl dad. the moment he holds his daughter, he melts into a puddle and never recovers. she looks at him once and he’s like “whatever you want, princess.” he lets her paint his nails, braid his hair, put stickers on his face—everything. he’s the dad who wears a sparkly pink backpack to the grocery store because she asked him to. he teaches her kindness and emotional intelligence like it’s breathing to him. she copies his accent and he nearly cries every time.
LEEKNOW — girl dad
everyone says he’d be a boy dad but no… the universe gives him a tiny girl and it CHANGES him. she’s his little shadow. she sits on his lap while he folds laundry, and he teaches her how to pet cats gently. she’s surprisingly fearless because her dad is calm and confident around her. he’s protective but not smothering—he just always has a hand on her back when walking in public. the cats love her too, so minho acts like she’s the chosen one.
CHANGBIN — both
first kid is definitely a boy—mini changbin energy. loud. chaotic. muscular at age three somehow. they work out together (baby push-ups), flex in the mirror, scream for no reason. changbin is the hype-man father. “YES THAT’S MY BOY!!” but later he ends up wanting a girl too because he keeps imagining bows and tea parties. once he has a daughter he becomes softer than warm bread. she wraps him around her pinky instantly.
HYUNJIN — girl dad
the softest girl dad alive. she sits with him while he paints, and he gives her the tiny brushes and lets her make “masterpieces.” he puts her in little dresses and takes aesthetic photos of her like she’s a tiny princess. he learns how to do her hair—gentle hands, patient, always careful not to pull. she is his muse and he is her safe place. he cries during father-daughter dances.
HAN — boy dad
he gets a son who is just as goofy and dramatic as he is. they watch cartoons together, yell at video games, eat snacks at 2am when you’re asleep. he teaches his son silly songs and they have secret handshakes. chaos follows them everywhere but it’s wholesome chaos. han is the “don’t tell mommy” dad. they get caught every time.
FELIX — girl dad
this man was made to raise soft, sparkly little princess daughters. plural—he wants at least two. but never ever would he force you to have kids. he’s the dad who bakes cookies with them while wearing matching aprons. he holds tea parties with stuffed animals. he braids their hair with beads and glitter. his daughters cling to his legs everywhere he walks. he always calls them “my little stars.” he takes pictures of EVERYTHING.
SEUNGMIN — boy dad
calm, steady, reliable boy-dad energy. he’s the type to sit on the couch reading while his son builds legos next to him. he teaches him how to be patient, kind, observant. his son definitely becomes a mini seungmin—quiet but funny with one dry joke that destroys everyone. they like going on quiet walks together, both eating ice cream with the same expression.
JEONGIN — both
he’s the perfect balance. his first child is a girl—she’s sweet, soft, and obsessed with her dad. he spoils her but in a gentle way. then he gets a son who is just a little too fearless, climbing everything. jeongin panics constantly but he always catches him. he reads bedtime stories in the softest voice, gives piggyback rides, and loves being a dad so much he wants a big family.
