Okay, I'll Be Discussing CNC So Here Is Your Warning.

Okay, I'll be discussing CNC so here is your warning.

I feel like Lee Know would be into CNC because he loves the power play & the trust you have to submit to whatever he desires.

Obviously you'd wear a necklace or jewellery to indicate a scene and have a safe word.

Like I can imagine him coming home from a concert with so much adrenaline in him that he could just take his stress out on you.

'Just take it darling, I'll make you feel so good afterwards'.

i got sick before i could answer this but she’s recovering now and can’t get this out of her head so

smut below the cut

SMUT - MINORS DNI

WARNING: CONTAINS CNC AND SOMNOPHILIA. PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT IF THOSE TOPICS MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE.

minho is typically softer with you. the tough exterior doesn’t exist often in the bedroom. sure he likes to tease, to push your buttons and make you squirm, but he’s typically fairly gentle. sweet. full of praise and affection, worshipping you like the ethereal goddess you are.

but sometimes he just can’t help it; the low key sadist inside him clawing, begging to get out. itching to make you cry, to tie you up and make you beg for mercy.

especially on days like today. minho is fucking pent up, the overwhelming stress of back to back shows finally getting to him. he’s overworked, exhausted, and pumped full of so much fucking adrenaline from the high of performing that he needs something to do.

the clock had just struck midnight when the front door shuts behind him, louder than he intended it too. he can’t help it. there’s just so much going on. he needs something to do.

it’s nights like tonight that he’s grateful you helped him set up a home gym. deciding to spend a few hours exercising the frustration out, he heads to the bedroom, purposely being more quiet as to not wake you up.

he starts rummaging through the dresser, look for a pair of workout shorts when he hears you tossing on the bed behind him. afraid that he’s making to much noise, minho turns around to check that you’re still asleep.

and you are. lips parted, soft snores leaving your lips; there’s no room to question whether or not you’re still sleeping. you’re curled up in the middle of the bed, cuddling with one of his pillows as a replacement for him. it’s sweet to watch as you snooze, happily resting in the king sized bed.

but then he realizes what shirt you’re wearing. that little black tank top with the frilly fringe around the neckline. and suddenly, it’s not sweet anymore.

he closes the dresser, the idea of working out no longer appealing. slowly, still careful as to not wake you, minho pulls the comforter off your body. you’re not wearing pants, just a pair of white cotton panties and the top.

he’s found something better to relieve his stress.

minho’s movements are gentle, even though he’s literally shaking with the need to grab you and fuck you into oblivion. to take what he wants. and according to your shirt, that’s exactly what you want — a long conversation setting out rules and guidelines for your sexual relationship. when wearing this specific tank top, you’re giving him permission to take you whenever he wants, however he wants, wherever he wants.

and he fucking wants you. now.

he’s pleasantly surprised to find a small grey spot on your panties, dampness leaking through. they stick to your folds, so slick and sticky that he has to carefully peel them off. even after you’re stripped of your panties, you’re still sleeping. still snoring.

good. he’s not ready for you to wake up yet.

minho pushes his sweats down just enough to free his cock, spitting in his hands and pumping the length until he deems it wet enough. typically, he would take his time to prep you. to make sure you’re ready for him.

but this was anything but typical. this was something special, and fuck he can’t wait anymore.

slowly, he works the head inside you. fuck, you’re so tight, he’s not even sure the rest of his cock will fit. but he won’t give up, easing himself deeper and deeper. somehow you stay asleep as he bottoms out, squeezing around him in your sleep.

“fuck.” he grunts, lifting a hand to your face to brush the frizzy hair away. “what are you dreaming about, baby? what has you clenching like this?”

minho only gets two or three deep, slow thrusts in before he sees your face scrunch, sleepy groans going straight to his cock. the pace picks up, and that’s when your eyes begin to flutter open.

bringing your hands to your face, tiny fists rub your eyes. “m-min? what’s going-“ your sentence is cut short by a moan of surprise as he slams into you borderline aggressively.

your hands fall, eyes now wide in shock and confusion. minho watches as it all clicks in your mind, jaw dropped and whimpering as he begins to get more rough with you.

“shhh, darling.” he says with the most twisted grin, loving the looks you’re giving him. minho thanks every star that you decided to wear that top to bed tonight. “just take it like a good girl. i’ll make you feel good later.”

Surprise Shower

“I’m going to go have a shower,” you giggled, lying on top of Changbin, giving him a small kiss, “Why don’t you meet me in bed, after?”

He looked at you, smirking suggestively,

“Mhm okay then,” he purred, seductively rubbing up and down your inner left thigh, “I’ll see you soon.”

Smiling, you gave him one more kiss, before jumping off of him and heading to the bathroom next door.

“Are any of the boys home?”

“Not for another couple of hours.”

“Oh, okay then.”

“Why do you ask?”

You said nothing, but began to undress yourself, leaving you in nothing but undergarments. Changbin’s eyes widened at the sight.

“I was just curious.”

Keep reading

low quality lee know gifs » 2/?

❥the sun will rise, and we will try again (m)

↳ Minho would tell himself everyday that it was good enough. That he was happy enough. Content enough. Alive just enough.

He chose you over himself, you just never really knew it.

lee minho x fem!reader — friends to lovers, unrequited love, angst, porn with plot, explicit sexual content. [11,6k wc] cws: heavy pining, alcohol consumption, sexual activity under the influence, penetrative sex (unprotected), some light teasing.

Minho has never been sure whether to curse or be forever indebted to his eidetic memory.

On one hand, it made school a breeze, and the majority of his career prospects thereafter similarly simplified. Not that he had taken any of them truly to heart, obviously — given the fact that he had followed you all of the way to another country for not much reason beyond feeling like it.

That’s what he said, that’s always what he would say.

But it’s his eidetic memory that has such a particular way in proposing his suffering. He deliberates that he may always remember exactly what it was that you were wearing that night, and precisely the food stands that surrounded the two of you at that moment in time. It’s been three years since that night and the two of you had attended the Christmas festival each and every time — the same one, same location — and sure, the shop locations and snack booths change year after year; the only constant being the large glühwein stand in the middle of the festival which served as the prime meeting spot for all of the attendees.

A large windmill-looking contraption, seats strewn about as far as one could see and people at every inch of one another — laughing, smiling.

Loving.

And Minho remembers this night in particular because it was the first year that the two of you had moved to Germany together — you for school and Minho for…his own reasons. Years later and of all of the things he does remember, he’s not sure he recalls whichever lie it was that he had told you about why it was that he chose to move to another country with you; the only thing that was for sure, is that whatever he said was not the truth.

Long, tan coat with a burgundy scarf accenting colorfully, Minho remembers watching the way you struggled to hold the strap of your bag up and on your shoulder as you juggled a glass of glühwein in one hand, and your change in euros in another — realizing that dealing in cash was a rather distinctly Berlin sort of thing that would certainly take some getting used to — but taking your bag and slinging it over his shoulder, hearing the desperate exhale of a “thank you” escaping from your lips as if freedom had surely been assumed to never come — he pulls the polaroid camera out from the main pocket and smiles with just the left corner of his mouth, holding it up and dangling it in front of you. “Shall we? Commemorate the move?”

Minho takes one of the two of you together, you snuggled up into his arm next to him in an attempt to fit into the frame — he takes another — and then for the third one, it’s the moment he’ll certainly never forget for as long as he lives, he truly believes that.

The way your arms wrapped around his own in the instant and warm lips pressed to the skin of his cheek just as he takes the photograph. It became quite a topic of humor once the film developed — the look of shock on Minho’s face at the sudden realization of what had physically occurred. And emotionally.

Minho knows that he was in love with you long before that moment — and well aware of it at the time, as well. Figure one would have to be to move to another country just to be around a person — and sure, the two of you were friends and had been for a good while prior but…it was a big change, a huge leap of faith. Minho thinks, his final shot at what could be the rest of his life.

And it was an easy choice for him. A man with no particular ties to home and a hunger for adventure — for seeing, doing, experiencing. Despite having never even been to Germany prior, he found himself now uprooting his entire life to go live there for however long it took. Whatever it was, at least. Acknowledgment? Acceptance? Love? Loss? Minho figured that at the end of this, he would have some answer, and may as well get to experience life while he was at it.

Although, perhaps choosing to live together wasn’t the best option, given the circumstances. His circumstances. Not to be confused with circumstances that the two of you were equally and equivocally involved in and aware of. He was well aware that his feelings were one-sided.

Until they weren’t.

It’s another moment in time in which his photographic memory deserts him in the most cruel ways. All of the test taking and number crunching in the world that served him well, only to betray him like a dagger straight to the heart. A scene that he can’t stop replaying in his mind even still. It’s been years. 

For the most part, Minho has learned to let go — to move on. Minho has learned to be precisely what you need him to be in your life — crushing and deforming himself to fit into the exact mold that you find ideal at any point in time. A friend. A companion.

After two and a half months of perfect dating bliss (if you were to ask him, of course) he still remembers the way you smiled at him — pathetically, like you were cooing at a puppy who wasn’t able to get it’s way — when you told him that you just wanted to be friends. That they should go back, undo, revert the process.

Long, long after Minho had already ingrained the taste of you into his mind for the rest of eternity, and the way you looked the first time he kissed you, when it wasn’t the intent of a couple of drunk friends late one night just having a giggle.

Lee Minho resigned himself to making himself as small as he had to in order to make you feel as big as you could, unbeknownst to you, of course. Any way that he was required to bend and lessen, he was happy to oblige — an alternate state of happiness, perhaps.

You were always going to be the only thing that mattered, forever, he thought; and at the expense of himself, if necessary.

He thinks often about how he simply just doesn’t want you to forget where you belong; and not in a possessive, jealous, weird wannabe-boyfriend kind of way, it’s just that he truly is in love with you and will do anything for you, and that love like that — romantic or otherwise — is hard to come by nowadays. Minho had always prided himself on his absolute devotion to people. To anything that he deemed worthy of himself.

You, the most worthy in his eyes, albeit you would never know, probably.

And that was the burden that Minho had to bear after that night of being told that all of the late night kisses, and cuddling, and holding hands in your center-city loft: for a fleeting moment in time, he was able to live precisely the way that he had dreamed of with you — memories he would have to hold onto to despite the pain that they held, because they also served as the happiest simultaneously. He contemplates often if he should have told you in that moment — told you everything — spilled his guts out for you, a full display of raw emotion and disgusting vulnerability. Would it have mattered? Would it have changed the course of the relationship? Friendship?

Minho looks down at his phone, setting next to him on the concrete flooring of your shared balcony, tapping the screen to illuminate it with intent to read the time.

“Almost 2am, eh?” he says to no one, tipping the beer bottle in his hand all of the way back in an attempt to drip any remainder of alcohol onto his tongue, but to no avail. Rolling his eyes, he abruptly sets the bottle down, clattering with the other four empty bottles also keeping him company.

“Late night,” he adds under his breath, as if to be playing out a conversation between two people despite no one else being present. This is by design, because Minho would rather be dead than ever make his own problems, yours.

But he knows where you are, and he knows what you’re doing.

And most pained of all, he knows who with.

For Minho, moving to Germany with you was an easy decision — not one he had put a lot of thought into. A man that fresh out of college made a good living for himself freelancing photography work along with a handful of other things here or there, it landed him a comfortable amount of money to play around with for a while, and Berlin being the relatively cheap city that it was; affordable accommodation helped make the choice even simpler.

Plus, it was with you, as if he would ever give up the opportunity.

And it wasn’t some deeply considered, manipulative, creepy attempt at trying to mind game you into a relationship with him — that happening was all-in-all, a happy accident. Of course, the ideal outcome of his, but not gamed for, not finagled. More than anything, Minho just wanted to be around you. Exist in your space. Experience a life with you in it; by whatever means necessary.

He would find, however, that this would result in grave emotional torment. Every day waking up and going to sleep feeling the same way: having to swallow the hot dagger of things not being exactly how one wishes them to be. It was good enough, sometimes suffering is. These are the choices we make to coexist with others.

Minho would tell himself everyday that it was good enough. That he was happy enough. Content enough. Alive just enough.

He chose you over himself, you just never really knew it.

When you eventually crawl out of your bedroom at a quarter past eight in the morning, you come to find your roommate already sitting at the shared dining room table — coffee in-hand and newspaper lying on the table. A sight for sore eyes, that Lee Minho. Always stable. Rarely changing. If there was one thing you could count on, it was him — for better or for worse, as it were.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says dryly, eyes not prying themselves from the words laid out in front of him, “long night?”

He’s being funny, or so he thinks — knowing how hungover you are.

“Ha ha, Lino,” you quip back, accessorizing with his nickname from college to express just how unamused you are by the exchange already. “Yeah, I got in pretty late. What time did you go to bed?”

“Around midnight,” he lies, and it feels like a jab to the heart every time he does, not enjoying the habit he’s made recently of telling little fibs to you in the moment.

“Lucky you,” you respond, pouring yourself a coffee and plopping yourself down into a white chair adjacent to the one where he sits. “But I don’t have class today so I suppose it’s fine. Do you want to do anything?”

Minho finally looks up, eyes slowly pulling from the article he had been reading, “are you capable of doing anything today?”

“Oh my god, I had a few drinks, I didn’t get annihilated, calm down. Let me have a coffee and a painkiller and I’ll be fine,” you quickly answer, rolling your eyes. “I want to go to the mall to get a new dress.”

Always somehow the best and worst way to spend a day with you, he thinks to himself.

“Alright, let me know. Alexanderplatz? I might want to take some photos while we’re out that way.” he adds, looking back to his newspaper and sipping from his mug.

“Of course, Princess,” you respond, kicking back the rest of what’s in your mug and standing to head back towards your bedroom. “Anything you want.”

Deep down, despite knowing the joke, Minho always hates it just a tiny amount when you say that — because it’s not true. However, over the years, and especially in Berlin now, Minho has absolutely mastered the art of acting; of not projecting, of maintaining a cool, calm and collected demeanor.

You’ll never know the way he dies by your hand every day. Not if he can help it, at least.

The mall is busy, Alexa Centre typically is, but especially around holiday season with the Christmas festival just across the street, and Minho can’t help but regret just a bit his agreeing to come with you for this excursion.

“What did we come here for, again?” he asks, trying to manage his tone as to not sound exceptionally annoyed. Which he is, but he doesn’t want to sound it.

"I need a dress,” you reply, rolling your eyes because you can see right through him regardless.

And Minho sort of wants to forget the reason again, because he knows what a new dress entails.

“You should get something new, too, you’ve been cycling through the same shit for a few years now,” you tell him, linking an arm into his and pulling him into the direction that you had desired to go.

To Minho, every moment with you happens in slow motion — so that he carefully craft the memory; etch it into his brain for all of eternity, at least that’s what he hopes. Every touch, every split second of intimacy — whether as friends or anything else — he doesn’t care. These are all of his moments. The flip book he proverbially looks through every night before he goes to sleep to remind himself of what he’s doing, and why he’s there, and all of the ways that he has failed as every second passes by.

“Yeah, I guess I should,” he answers, allowing himself to be dragged into a shop and stopping next to you in front of a mannequin — adorned with a silver, loosely fitted, glittery dress and a large, fluffy black coat atop it.

“Wow,” you say, a little bit in awe at the outfit on the mannequin, but more so at what the outfit on the mannequin could mean for your trip to the Centre. “If I'm really able to get this shopping trip done this quickly, it’ll be a fucking miracle.”

Minho laughs and agrees, moseying himself over to the men’s section and rifling through some long-sleeved shirts on the hanger. It’s only a short while before you return to meet him, shopping bags indicating a successful foray into Alexanderplatz, and in record time, at that.

“I’m gonna get something,” he says, pulling a few hangers onto his arm and continuing to look around. It was a good trip, things had gone well.

And we can’t have that, now can we?

“Are you still seeing that girl?”

Minho stops in his tracks, frozen in place by the question. It’s certainly not an out of place one by any means — not given the relationship between the two of you. Friends tend to talk about their romantic situations…circumstances…affairs.

But truthfully, he hated talking about it with you, because it made him feel fake.

Minho did date. In fact, he had been seeing the same woman for a few months now. Not anything serious — and yes, she knew that — but it was the phoniness of the entire thing. He sits awake in bed every night pining for another woman that he can’t have while he runs around and attempts to forget it between the legs of the one that he can have.

He hated that man. That man, like every other man. But deeply, Minho was looking for any sign that he could eventually forget you, let you go. Move on. He figured he would be doing you and himself a disservice to not at least try.

Suppose sometimes that comes with collateral damage — albeit, with intent to take the best care he could.

“Yeah,” he finally responds after what feels like hours, “she’s been busy so we haven’t met lately but, yeah.”

“We should all go out together some time!”

Sounds like a fucking miserable idea.

"I’d like that, let me know,” he responds. Fucking fool. God forbid he let you suffer for even a second at the expense of his own well being.

Despite the relative quickness of the shopping trip, rain falls from the skies as the two of you exit the large shopping mall — people crowded around under the awning in feeble attempt to stay dry — the wind not lending itself to the endeavor, and Minho looks over at you as you attempt to shield yourself from the wetness; strands of hair strewn about and squinting, he pulls out his camera for the first time since the two of you have left the apartment and snaps a quick shot of your profile. You slap his arm playfully as he brings the device back down from his face and smiles.

“I must look crazy in that photo, quit it.”

“Nah, you don’t,” he replies, looking back at it on the digital display. He reconsiders not once, but twice, if he should say the thought really running through his mind.

His heart tends to get the best of him, however.

“You look beautiful.”

And you smile at him in response before letting out a quiet “oh shut up,” Minho puts the camera down and away once again.

He finds himself musing to no one all too often, perhaps, “am I allowed to look at her like that?” And unfortunately, never being met with an answer.

Minho is happy for every day that goes by where he is not met with an invitation to go double dating with you and your partner, but as the days drag on with no such invite and more noticeably, you spending more time at the apartment, he begins to feel a worry — a distinct cloud of eerie sadness wafting over the shared living space that is never acknowledged. Every relationship has it’s struggles — Minho forces himself to not wish ill of yours, despite knowing that the wishing of any intent does little in actuality. Would it make him a bad man to wish for you and your partner to break up?

He feels guilt every time the fleeting thought passes by him, but still it passes by all the same.

After a week, Minho startles to the sound of you knocking on his door close to midnight. Meek knocks, knocks entirely unlike you.

“They said it wasn’t working out, I don’t know,” you say, arms crossed and shoulder leaned up against the door frame of Minho’s bedroom. “I didn’t ask a lot of questions.”

“Are you okay?” Minho asks, shifting in his seat — uncomfortable with the topic, and the nervous energy coursing through him at the prospect. He disgusts himself, on some basic, primal level.

You sigh and shrug. “Yeah, I mean, it’s fine,” you start, answering on the exhale. “We weren’t together all that long and it was just kind of casual so…it’s fine.”

Make a move on his newly single best friend, Lee Minho absolutely will not. Not under any circumstances. Minho questions if he would make any sort of move on you at all, under any circumstances at all, and fails to come up with a scenario in which he might.

But it delights him, deep down, no longer having to deal with the intrusive thoughts of the sheets you lie between elsewhere. For now.

“Hey, I know it’s late but uhh,” you begin, changing your demeanor from a solemn one to a more joyous one in an attempt to pick up the mood. “Would you want to like…go get a drink and some take out or something tonight?”

And Minho simply smiles at the proposition.

“Sure, of course I would.”

It’s one of those nights where you’re happy to be living where you are. Berlin — seemingly a city that never really sleeps, with corner stores open for hours on end and selling just about anything you could imagine — including alcohol; it's a stop to the nearest one before the kebab place on the adjacent corner, to then make your way to the dimly lit park only a couple of blocks down from the apartment. A relatively cold night, not one the two of you would be loitering in under normal circumstances certainly — but desperate times call for desperate measures, and to Minho, “anything that you desire” falls into that slot. Thus, chilled to the bone with a bottle of wine to share between the two of you and a kebab each — you sit on a cool, grassy hill just under a couple of trees where the visual of the streets and the very much alive city sidewalks still remain lit. Minho takes it upon himself to steal a few glances at you, of course — some from his peripheral — some much less inconspicuous, as you speak about living in the city and how much you have been enjoying it, how you considered never moving back home.

How you had everything that you needed right here already.

“What do you think?” you ask the man next to you, turning and looking towards him as he stares out towards the streets not too far off from where the two of you sit — wine bottle in hand and taking a swig directly from it before beginning to answer.

Trying to figure out which lie to tell you this evening.

“I like it here too,” he replies, trying to reign in any volume of emotional tone from his words. “It’s nice.”

“It’s nice? That’s it?” you chuckle, stealing the bottle from his hands with playful aggression and sipping from it just the same as he had. “Sounds like you could be anywhere, then.”

Internally, Minho laughs at just how unfathomably untrue that statement is.

“It’s a beautiful city and I enjoy being here,” he amends, carefully and not wanting to give too much of himself to the conversation. “And of course, I enjoy spending time with you.”

Even just saying it makes his heart drop into his stomach, despite it being a completely normal thing for friends to think and feel towards one another. To say 'I enjoy your company, thank you for being a part of my life.'

Minho knows that it feels bad because the intent is off. Truthful words hiding behind a cloak of fictitiousness. It’s true but in all of the wrong ways.

“Truthfully, I couldn’t imagine being here with anyone else.”

Words that flip Minho’s entire world upside down in an instant.

In a movie, this would be the moment where he finally kisses the girl, confesses his feelings for her and empties his heart right at her feet — only for her to joyously accept him and his love, and for them to live happily ever after.

He’d have been lying if he said he didn’t consider it.

But in the end, he settles for the removal of a wine bottle from your hands — drinking down the remains, and standing up in place — reaching a warm hand down to you for you to take.

“It’s getting late, we should get back home.”

When the two of you do arrive back home, taking turns showering in the single shared bathroom and trading off goodnight wishes before retiring to each room, Minho flops himself into his bed for the night — arm draped across his forehead to do his typical pre-sleep routine of torturing himself with countless thoughts of what if’s and what could be’s. On tonight’s agenda; a little special treat of realizing that he is no longer in any position to be dating anyone else — that things have become too entrenched. He was not escaping you, not so long as this continued to go on.

He realizes in the moment that this was always the life that he had chosen. Was it really reasonable to assume that he would ever be capable of being in a good, healthy, committed relationship with another person? Unlikely. Long ago, years ago, when Minho had chosen you, he had chosen all of the things that would go along with that.

Including the endless pining of not being with you, albeit, this not a part of the manual when signing up, of course.

For the first time, Minho acknowledges and makes peace with how unhealthy his pining is. It’s easy to make a case for anything when it’s impact on your life is easy to ignore. They say “when it starts impacting your life negatively, that’s when you know you have a problem.”

He knows, he just doesn’t necessarily want to fix it — not in the way that may be required of him, at least.

“I love you, why won’t you let me.”

The words ring through his brain repeatedly as he dozes off to sleep, but not before sending off a lazy text to the other woman, about how they should have lunch tomorrow — to talk.

such a unique flavor of masochism, unrequited love.

Minho sometimes finds himself wondering what goes through your mind when someone mentions his name to you.

He tries not to allow himself much time to it — because the what if’s make him crazy with unknowns, but certain weak, lonely nights at home — nights when you’re out with friends, or late with class work, he can’t help himself. Does it make you smile? Do you get butterflies? Do you feel anything?

One particularly lonely Wednesday night, he reminisces about the first time he met you. A weekend spent together as a result of a mutual friends gathering: a rental home for an after-semester getaway for partying, relaxing, maybe even hooking up. At least, that had been Minho’s plan. Meet a nice girl, have a nice weekend together, probably never speak to her again after the fact. Nothing against her, he just hadn’t been looking for anything at the time.

Love has a funny way of knowing when you’re least equipped for taking it on.

You walking into the house in your skinny jeans and a loose sweater, bag slung over your shoulder — Minho doesn’t believe in love at first sight on a fundamental level, and he would certainly never attribute the connection the two of you shared to it if he were asked.

It was a thought he kept to himself, completely asinine and unreasonable as it was, he couldn’t ignore the truth of the matter.

He remembers Hyunjin introducing the two of you when the three of you had all found yourselves at the makeshift bar — watching you attempt to find an empty cup that was not previously used with much trouble. Minho holds out an empty and seemingly dry cup from his hand and towards you without saying a word. He remembers the way you stared at him like he was insane, and like he surely thought you were an idiot.

Hyunjin catches the scene, sliding himself over and between the two, “it’s okay,” he assures you. “He’s mine, he means no harm.”

“Kind of nuts for a woman to take a cup from a strange man at a house party, don’t you think?” you say in response, not entirely to Hyunjin alone, but also to the stranger in front of you.

“I accidentally had two,” Minho says dryly, pointing to the bottom of his own cup that had a beverage inside of it. “It was stuck, but you’re welcome to continue on your search.”

It’s against your better judgment in usual circumstances, but with Hyunjin’s glowing approval you take the chance — accepting it and pouring yourself a drink. Holding it up in a bit of a cheers towards the man with the brown hair and the sort of crooked smile, you thank him.

That was the moment, for whatever reason. You didn’t know it, there was no indication at all.

That night, as he stands with you in a group of people, listening to the way you speak and interact with not only them, but him — he thinks that he’s probably going to fall in love with you. Looking back now, he realizes he already had by the time the drunken conversation about whether people have one or two butts had begun to take place in the living room of the rental home.

Minho would find himself spending the next year contemplating all of the ways that the two of you would be perfect for one another. The nature of infatuation — you can convince yourself of it easily, can’t you?

It’s been years now, of Minho never saying what he’s really thinking. Suppose people never really do? That’s what he tells himself.

“Do you want to go to this party tonight?”

Minho looks up from his book, sprawled out lengthwise along his bed in sweatpants and a black shirt with bleached out splotched from the last time he had attempted to do his hair and he finds the question a little hilarious, given the way he currently looks — in no position to be seen by people, and hardly even much of one to be seen by you.

“Um,” he starts, squinting a bit as he attempts to run the idea through his mind. “Where? Who?”

“Couple of friends from my humanities class are having a get together,” you say, shrugging as the words leave your mouth. “We’re not doing much else so figured I’d ask.”

“Yeah, sure,” Minho answers, slowly sitting himself up from his bed and sliding a bookmark in between pages before closing his reading material. “Give me like, thirty minutes?”

You roll your eyes. “Who are you going there to impress?”

People don’t say what they’re really thinking.

“Can’t I not want to look like I just rolled out of bed?”

“You are just rolling out of bed”

“yes, but I don’t want to look like it,” Minho insists, standing and walking towards his clothing rack, “now get the hell out so I can get ready.”

“Oh my god,” you exasperate on your exit.

The playful banter being one of the things Minho loves about your friendship the most. Play fighting made his heart skip a beat or two, every time. A bizarre charming point, perhaps, but a charming point to him all the same.

When the two of you arrive to the apartment, the gathering is already in full swing. A relatively small grouping of people — all from different places in the world — a few drink options sitting out on the kitchen counter but nothing too excessive or over the top, Minho is actually pleased to find that this would probably just end up being a reasonably chill night. A night to just spend time in your presence, and among good company. He introduces himself to your friends and vice versa before settling down on one of the smaller sofas in the general living space with small drinks in hand. You look at him, watching him survey his surroundings in the same way that he always does — taking everything in. Enjoying the moment.

“Tonight will be nice,” you say softly to him, leaning over to nudge him lightly. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“Of course,” he responds before bringing his glass to his lips and sipping, “everyone seems nice.”

“They are,” you affirm as you take a sip of your own.

A few hours into the night, right around 11pm, the host of the party calls for the attendees to gather around the living room for fun and games. Minho raises an inquisitive eyebrow, unsure of what to expect, but another caring nudge from you settles him once again.

It always was just that easy for you with him.

As the host carries on an explanation of what was planned for the rest of the night, you lean into him and ask delicately, “sorry for asking if it’s a sore spot but…did you and that girl stop seeing each other?”

After all, love is a pretty good reason to make everything go wrong.

Minho shifts in his seat a bit, and almost choking on the liquid he had just taken into his mouth he manages to swallow down and sort of chuckle. “Yeah, not a big deal, though. We both agreed.”

Lying to you never got easier no matter how many times he did it.

“Ah,” you respond, unsure of how else to carry on the topic. “Well that’s good — I mean, it’s not good, but it could have been worse…I guess? Sorry.”

Do you know what it’s like to be so in love with someone that you can’t even breathe?

“Yeah, it’s fine, I’m fine.”

Sort of true, depending on how you look at it.

The two of you bring your attention back to the host in just the moment that they mention a game of truth or dare. Minho’s fight or flight response kicks in immediately despite his perfectly managed demeanor on the outside and you can’t help but feel a bit of discomfort yourself. Doing things that you wouldn’t normally do was not your idea of fun, even in the nature of a game.

And as the game carries on among the people in the room, everyone makes it out relatively unscathed. No one being asked to do especially heinous acts, Minho begins to feel a sigh of relief at the fact that he might actually be able to get out of this night having only had to chug a beer, or maybe lick a kitchen floor — all things he can manage without a care.

“Okay Minho, truth or dare,” a blonde girl from across the room shouts a bit louder than necessary.

“Dare, give it your best shot!” he responds enthusiastically, happily playing along with the atmosphere of the evening.

“Okay,” she smirks, tone dropping into something a bit mischievous, and in the moment Minho truly considers that maybe he got a little bit too brave.

“Seven minutes in heaven with her,” she says, pointing towards you. “Should be easy enough, shouldn’t it?”

He swallows hard, because of course it is. The two of you live together. Your entire life is effectively one long game of seven minutes in heaven together, just without all of the spontaneous joys the kids tend to enjoy of it when playing such a game in the teenage years.

“Okay, where?” he answers confidently as the girl walks over to them and drags them both down a hall and into a bedroom.

A bedroom? Really?

While the implications are certainly not lost on him, and despite being absolutely and madly in love with you, Minho finds himself at least a little insulted at the thought that someone would consider that he’s not capable of even being in such a wide open space as a bedroom offers with you. He loves you, and he wants you, but he’s not a fucking snake.

But it’s the fact that the dragging doesn’t end once into the bedroom — still being pulled towards a small door at the other end of the space, the girl pulling it open and shoving the both of you inside and closing it immediately thereafter.

And now Minho suspects that this might just be the tiniest closet ever invented. How do people even make closets this small? Much less use them. What the fuck.

He can hear the girl outside of the bedroom say some words — he can hear her voice, but the actual things she says get lost among his hyper awareness at your body pressed tightly up against his own. Hands splayed out on his chest in an attempt to keep yourself held upright and steady.

You shift against him in an attempt to create space, or comfort. Something. It’s a fleeting attempt. “Sorry,” you whisper.

“It’s okay,” he responds, clearing his throat. Minho stands statuesque in the darkness of the space — surrounded by a handful of coats that smell faintly of old cigarette smoke, cologne and beer.

Silence takes over. It’s awkward. Minho thinks it’s the first time that the two of you have ever felt this uncomfortable in the company of the other. Not even the break up was this bizarre.

And he knows it’s not only radiating off of him. Not with the way you keep shifting against his chest.

“We don’t have to do this,” he says finally, “It’s just a game, we can just go home if you want.”

“No, it’s fine,” you respond quietly. “It’s kind of nice, I haven’t been this close to a man in a while,” you chuckle.

Minho knows it’s a joke, all in good fun,  but the implications of it are impossible to ignore. He wonders for a second — running the sentence through his brain a few times before truly asking himself what he’s really wondering.

Is this…sexual tension?

of course, it’s not the first time he’s ever experienced the concept of sexual tension. But not with you. Not like this. When the two of you briefly dated the first time, sex had never even been on the table; he realized later, after the fact, that this was because you had firmly been in friendship mode the entire time, and never truly viewed him sexually. As someone who could be fucked. Who could fuck you.

Minho doesn’t want to simply fuck you. He figures that if he had played his cards right in any number of situations, it’s possible that he already could have. It’s not completely unheard of for friends to fuck, and the both of you are obviously good-looking.

It’s not what he wants, though. And it’s definitely not worth tanking any potential future just for one night.

It is becoming painfully apparent, however, that the two of you actually share very little physical affection, even just as friends. Feeling your body pressed up against his has Minho realizing that he doesn’t remember the last time that the two of you hugged — really hugged. Not an arm linked or being dragged around by a wrist — but an actual, full embrace.

He snaps back into the present, thinking about checking his phone for the time, but knowing fully well that not more than two minutes could have possibly passed.

Around 2am, games end and cups dry as guests begin exiting the apartment. You both thank the host for the invite and the warm reception before heading out into the chilly night to make your way home. A somewhat bizarrely quiet walk back home, no doubt as a result of the game played.

Minho staunchly disbelieves in wishing death upon anyone, but if emotions were personified, they’d be the first to go.

You turn the second key into the door, lock clicking open and door lightly squeaking as it opens. Minho walks in first, kicking his shoes off and setting his coat up on the hanger — setting his wallet and keys onto the holder next to the door designated just for such things. You follow suit.

But it’s a swift switch of direction, when you reach forward and dig fingers into Minho’s shirt — pulling him towards you, into you, and spinning him so that his back presses up against the door. You push into him, chests meeting just as they had back in the tiny closet at your friends place. All part of the game.

This, however, was not.

And Minho’s head spins, the way your cold lips press up against his own, so fast that he almost doesn’t know what hits him. He doesn’t meet your enthusiasm at first — considering the fact that this is all a mistake, just a misunderstanding. Surely you simply fell into him, this is all just a funny scene in a romcom where the girl accidentally slips into the guy who is desperately in love with her and it doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything at all.

You pull off of his lips, peppering kisses lightly to the side of his mouth, “Minho,” you whisper between two, “kiss me back.”

“I—” he tries to respond, but before he knows it, your lips are pressed to his hard again and now he knows it’s intentional, despite not knowing why. Part of him wishes he was a better man, a stronger man. A man that could resist the temptation of experiencing bliss for even just a moment in time.

But he isn’t.

Minho brings his hands up, cupping the sides of your face and kissing back against you with matching firmness. He pulls himself off of the door and brings his body forward and against you. He’s all encompassing, feeling as though he’s attempting to devour you. Not far from the truth, perhaps.

It’s sloppy, messy. Minho thinks that the two of you never kissed like this before, not even during the brief stint of dating. He wonders for a moment what has changed, neither of you having drank that much that night, nothing was different in your relationship — not really.

He was forever constant. “I love you” running through his head each second that he’s able to taste you on him in that short time before you carefully pull from him and smile at the sight of his bright red, brutally kissed lips.

“We should go to bed,” you say, gently holding one of his hands in your own.

“Yeah,” the only thing he can manage to utter out that won’t expose him as everything he really is.

“Thank you for tonight, it was really fun,” you say, slowly pulling your hand from his own, and Minho only nods and whispers “sure” in reply as you turn and head towards your bedroom, shutting the door behind you.

Minho stands there in the doorway of the apartment, in the aftermath of a whirlwind that he’s sure will be just as quickly forgotten by you as it had been decided upon. The worst bit, he thinks to himself, is that he’ll probably never forget that moment for as long as he lives, given that they come to him so few and far between.

When he sends himself to sleep that night, opening the scrapbook of memories of us that he has carefully cultivated in his mind, he slots it away along with all of the rest. So, so, many memories of moments in time in which he’s allowed to experience paradise.

The mere existence of you, over the years, grows to be so big inside of him. All consuming.

“Minho.”

And he’s barely conscious at all, only drawn awake by the utterance of his name and the way that every expanse of his flesh that your fingertips touch leaves a trail of fire in it’s wake.

“Touch me.”

It’s all a whisper, barely legible, so little that he believes for a moment he may still just be asleep. He focuses for a second — as hard as he can will himself — on the physical sensation of you pressed up against his side, in his bed, hand roaming the exposed skin of his chest under his duvet — only dipping low enough to brush against the waistband of his boxer briefs and that is the moment that he is brought wide awake and to his senses, tensing strongly under your touch — so strongly that it causes you to pause and slowly pull back from him.

“Should I go?” you ask, and he becomes starkly aware of how standoffish he appears, quickly responding that no, you should not, before reaching over to you and snaking a hand of his own around your waist and under your loose bed time shirt.

As much as he wishes nothing more than to genuinely be lost in the moment, his mind takes him to countless what if’s, as it always does in such situations. Feeling the way you move beside him with every press of his hand into the apex of your thighs, he relishes the look, the sound — of course — but at the fore front of his mind, and his chest, the painful feeling of emotional strangulation in his throat; knowing what this is to you, and precisely what it isn’t.

Equally inconsequential to the both of you but in strikingly different ways: to you, a quick release, and to Minho: the image of you coming just another moment added to the scrapbook of his insignificance.

For the first time possibly ever, when Minho walked into the dining room in the morning for his coffee, you’re already up, sitting there waiting for him. A common scene but flipped, that feels so frequent to him now. Constantly unsettled in all of the ways that he thought he had been.

“Morning,” he says, grabbing a mug from the cupboard and pouring himself a drink, then walking over to join you at the table. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah,” you say. And that’s all.

He had hoped that deep down, the two of you could get out of this situation unscathed. It wasn’t much. Just a hand down your panties and then you retired to your own room again for the night. That’s what Minho told himself for the entire rest of the night that he couldn’t sleep, at least. It wasn’t important. It didn’t matter. Everything will be fine.

“We should talk.”

Ah.

“About last night.”

Minho knew that already.

“Okay,” he says, almost sheepishly — a tone not often worn by him, but with a million thoughts running through his mind and almost all of them meaning the worst, it was all he could manage out in response.

“I’m not blaming you, obviously, I started it,” you begin, rolling your eyes — at yourself mostly, but painfully so to Minho all the same. “But we shouldn’t cross lines like that. Like I said, totally my fault, I just don’t want there to be the wrong idea or anything, ya know?”

Yeah, he knows.

As far as he’s concerned — truly, all things considered — this was the best possible outcome, actually. On a scale of terrible to catastrophic, this was much closer to the terrible end of the spectrum. Obviously, you weren’t going to confess your undying love for him and how you wanted to be with him forever and ever, but if the only wound Minho has to leave with is the reminder that he will only continue to suffer in all of the same ways he already had been; he writes that off as a win, as pathetic as it was.

He chuckles in response, corner of his mouth upturning as he gives you a playfully devilish grin from over his mug, “Wasn’t good enough, huh?”

Laugh through the pain.

“Oh my god Lino, really? Stop it! Don’t make it weird!”

He watches you shy away in embarrassment, hiding behind the newspaper you had in your hand and continues to laugh. He knows it’s not the case, but he has to keep things light — especially because of the way his chest feels so fucking tight in that instant.

Naturally, you take it as his admittance to the terms, which is as intended by him. Meanwhile, Minho wonders how long he can stand being reminded of all of the ways he will never be the one for you. Yes, he chose this. Yes, he would choose it again.

but still, he wonders sometimes.

Placing your used mug in the sink and filling it with water, you grab your belongings and head towards the door, pulling your keys from the rack and waving at him. “I’ll let you know when I’ll be home!” before turning on your heel and running out of the door.

Minho remains in his seat, still staring up at the front door long after it has already closed behind you. Despite being an often self-reflective man, it’s the first time ever — truly ever — that he finds himself feeling almost guilty about the thought that crosses his mind, going just as quickly as it had come. A fleeting conception in a split second of hurt.

It’s so fucking exhausting loving you.

Is this resentment?

When the next party rolls around — only a few weeks later, Minho makes it a point to be more mindful. No more drunk party games, no more passing physical touches. It’s not the end of the longing, not by a long shot.

But suppose it might be time, he thinks to himself. He’s been thinking it to himself since that morning at your dining room table.

You see, the thing about Lee Minho is how he loves totally. Completely. With every fiber of his being, and despite some times coming off as cold or standoffish, the one thing that was always going to be true of him was that once you were his: you were his completely.

Well, the better way of looking at it was that you had him completely, rather than the other way around.

A contract that Minho once happily signed his life away to, now feeling bitter to the thought — for the first time since that night at the house party back home where you met, Minho contemplated letting go. Moving on. Properly.

But he knew that that meant letting you go, and that was a tough pill to swallow.

You had noticed the way that Minho no longer cared after you the way that he once had, but in ways so subtle that you almost questioned if they were there at all. The tiniest gestures and changes: Minho was far from rude, far from mean, not even particularly uncommunicative.

But he was distant. Impersonal in a way that felt brand new, like a stranger of exact likeness had moved in overnight.

Minho contemplates all of the ways in which he can forget you, while you, unknowingly, contemplate all of the ways in which you can retrieve him.

Two people simply never feel exactly the same way about one another at exactly the same moment.

So you try not to think much of it, watching the way the brunette across the room runs her hand down his arm as she laughs at whatever it is that he’s saying to her. You think of how charming and funny and warm Minho is. Kind, constant.

But the clock is ticking, unbeknownst to you.

There is a world in which the greatest tragedy is a love story that, despite both people feeling the same — fails to occur simultaneously. As the sand in the hour glass for Minho ticks away, yours only just begins — and the problem being, you just don’t know. An alternate universe where the glimmer that would appear in Minho’s eye each and every time he met yours — it didn’t live any longer, and it’s typically only in those moments of hindsight that you ever really noticed it had existed at all. In it’s absence.

Minho looks over towards you from across the room during a short pause in the conversation with this other woman, and it’s different. Surely you’re not imagining it now. It’s still him, it’s still warm, and he still carries care, concern for you.

But a glimmer of light behind the eyes dims with every passing second, before turning back to the person in front of him and grinning wide.

Had you always…?

When the night ends and the two of you head home together, it’s silent for the majority of the way. Minho carries a half empty beer bottle in hand with him and a cigarette in another — you weren’t fond of when he smoked but it had become a social drinking thing he picked up since living in the city. Besides, who were you to say anything about it?

Saying anything to Minho at all now felt completely foreign to you.

Getting back to the apartment building, Minho sets the glass bottle down on the street and heads up with you, still in silence and putting out his cigarette at a trash can just before the stairs. it feels like five hundred flights of stairs despite only being five, but finally reaching the front door feels like a god send. Reprieve. Being near him…you now find suffocating.

“Night,” you say in feigned brightness before turning and heading towards your bedroom, hopeful that you can make it out of this night relatively unscathed.

“Is everything alright?”

The first thought to your mind, is “no,” obviously, because it’s not. The second, is the better choice.

“Yeah of course, I’m just tired,” you laugh, “exhausted from watching you flirt with that girl all night I guess!”

It drops from your lips before you even have a chance to control it, petty bitterness lacing each and every word and it’s so obvious, too. Completely transparent in it’s contempt. You wince as you turn back towards your door and can only pray that he takes it as the joke you only barely were capable of tonally implying.

Minho’s taken aback, confusion splashed across his features.

“What?”

“I’m kidding, goodnight!”

“You don’t get to do that.”

And all you want to do is run away to your bedroom and hide, go to sleep, try again tomorrow, but it’s the tone of his voice in those quiet words that stops you. That, and the growing romantic inquisitiveness for him in your heart.

“You don’t get to—” Minho starts again, but pauses, and you can tell the way that he sounds; his voice, his demeanor even without the ability to see him, he’s angry. Years of pent up emotional obstruction, after all. “You can’t act like this, not about that. That’s absolutely not fair.”

You finally turn around to face him as he still lingers in the doorway of the entrance, not even having removed his coat or shoes yet.

Minho wears a mask almost all of the time around you, and for a short while, he remembered what it had been like to live without you being at the forefront of his ever waking thought — incredibly selfish of you, he thinks to himself, to place yourself there once again. He had almost remembered what it had felt like to feel whole again — to not have to wear the mask that hides each and every pathetically tragic thought and feeling that came to him.

The mask is still off, evidently, from the way sorrow graces his every feature in the dimly lit entry way of your apartment. The place that may surely become the grave for you both, in some way or another.

“Minho, I—” you respond quietly, sadly. It sounds exactly the way you sounded when you broke up with him and stings in all of the exact same ways, Minho recalls.

He never was able to forget, after all.

“I don’t know, I must have just had a bit too much to drink,” you say, trying to laugh off the entire situation. “It’s not an excuse, of course, it’s not like you’re my—”

Minho’s eyes had since pulled to the side, jaw clenched in irritation, until the utterance of those words left your mouth. Eyes now pulling in your direction.

“Your move,” he thinks to himself in the moment.

“You’re not my boyfriend or anything,” and it’s the twist of that specific word that just so perfectly does the same to the perpetual knife in the heart that he’s carried for you for years.

You simply chuckle, hoping that the moment passes so that the two of you can go to sleep and carry on like normal in the morning.

“You’re so fucking selfish,” Minho spits, and the words feel like a slap to the face, because what? Where is this coming from?

Little do you know.

“What the fuck?”

“Love to play house, have a man around to go out with, to hold your bags for you, to rub you off one every now and then when it suits you,” he says, the resentment fully flowing through his tone with every word. “And then have the fucking gall to be jealous when I just talk to another woman? Do you hear yourself?”

It’s not the words that he’s saying, because he’s right, but rather the way that he’s saying them. Minho has never spoken to you like this in all of the years that the two of you have known each other.

Words coming from a place of the deepest contempt, and sounding just the same.

“You don’t get to talk to me like this,” you finally respond, walking back in his direction as he goes back to grabbing his wallet and keys — the only things he had happened to set down upon walking in. “Minho, it’s not fucking okay to talk to me like that.”

“Nothing about this situation is okay!” he shouts, turning back towards you and dropping his wallet from his hand; it landing in such a way that numerous items spill from it, although, he notices not — having been caught up in the moment. “You have no idea. You don’t have a clue what it’s like being around you every day. You’ll never fucking get—”

It’s then that Minho pauses, noticing the way that your eyes had stopped watching the way his lips tore into you and had settled towards something on the ground. Following yours, they land on presumably the same item that your own had just moments earlier.

A lone polaroid photograph from the first Christmas festival since moving to Berlin together — your lips playfully planted to his cheek. Even after all of those years, the quality of the photo had not waned. Perhaps Minho had just taken extra special care of it — just as he had with all of your other memories before.

“Minho…”

Perhaps this is it, defeat after all, he contemplates. Years of playing a dangerous game, all leading up to this moment.

Failure. Freedom?

“Here’s the truth,” he says, airy in tone and eyes still dropped to the ground, not daring to look back up and chance meeting yours. “I love you. I’ve been in love with you for years. Nothing makes me happier, and nothing makes me sadder — than you.”

A pause takes the room, neither of you being entirely sure what to say in the moment. It’s been such a long time coming, the confession from Minho — feeling immediately liberated upon the last word leaving his mouth, in spite of what it was, and in spite of what it meant, too.

Maybe this was freedom after all.

“And I’m moving out.” he finalizes his statement, bending down to gather the belongings from his wallet and carefully placing them back into the spots from which they came — the photograph included.

“What if I wanted to try?” you say suddenly. “Again, I mean. Try again.”

And in moments like these, Minho desperately wishes he were a stronger man, a man more capable of doing what’s best, what’s right, what’s safe.

“Don’t,” he responds, a pathetic plea to talk you down from whatever it is that you’re attempting to do. Unconvinced that it’s coming from a place of genuine reciprocation.

Change can be terrifying, sometimes people will do anything to avoid facing whatever may lie ahead. A concept that Minho finds himself all too familiar with.

But it’s the look on your face in that very instant, that has Minho halting with his hand on the doorknob. You won’t beg, you wouldn’t, and it’s not fair;  too much to ask of a man that had already given you everything of himself before you even knew it. Maybe that was his fault, maybe it was yours.

Maybe it was everyone’s, and also no ones.

But what if the timelines did manage to overlap — just briefly — just long enough. Strings of fate barely holding onto each other by a thread before the inevitable snap of discontentment. That is, unless force be relinquished in just the knick of time.

Could they do it? Had they done it?

“For the last time,” Minho starts, and for the first time — in all irony — with full transparency. “I will do anything for you, so tell me.”

You know it’s easier for you in that moment than it’s ever been for him in all of the years that he’s put himself aside to be next to you, but the fact does not do much to quell your fear of the unknown, the what if’s. You wonder how Minho has lasted, living every day in and out just like this — and worse.

But you have to do it.

“I want to try again,” you answer, looking up at him through lashes and tears welling in your eyes ever so slightly. “I know it’s selfish to ask you to stay, but I have to. Please stay. Please try again.”

A man that always prided himself on being a bit cool, tough looking — all too happy to rush towards you and scoop you into his arms after the words finish leaving your lips — wasting no time pressing his own to yours, as well.

“Don’t expect too much of me,” you say, somewhat playfully between kisses, “I haven’t been in love with you for as long as you have with me.”

“Oh shut up,” Minho replies, kissing you hard again.

And it’s not the first time Minho touches you sexually — not even in the month, but this time is different — carrying you with legs around his waist to the couch in the living room, plopping you with back against the cushion and immediately covering you with his entire being, kisses become more and more hurried and needy. So needy. The way you feel in your stomach makes you think you might just be right there with him.

Minho wastes no time pulling his torso off of you and prying his shirt off, following suit with your own before quickly working towards his jeans; the sound of belt buckle clattering and zipper pulling resonating in your ears, and it’s enough just then to realize that this is really happening. Part of you is a little surprised that it hasn’t yet.

Better late than never.

Minho stands to pull his jeans from his legs, and once again follows through with your own — pausing to really take in the sight before him. Sure, he’s seen you in swimwear before, and even changing, but this was different.

This was for him, this was meant for him to see now.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, carefully lowering himself back down to you and shuffling his hips in between your legs; hardened length settling just against your clothed core and eliciting a sigh of relief, but also desire from the both of you, sighs immediately swallowed by the others mouth in between fervent kisses. “You’re perfect.”

You relish in the way that Minho makes an attempt to consume you entirely that night. Lightly toned body pressed fully against your own, his hips gently pressing against your own as his hands snake up and into your hair — fingers wrapping within strands as if you hold you in place, as if to ensure you could never leave him. Not now. Not after all of this.

Chaste kisses following the natural curve of your jawline, down towards your ear and up against it, Minho whispers that he loves you but his voice dripping with desire, with passion, and you believe that truly nothing could sound better to you. Minho still ever so delicately grinding against you — as if with no intent at all — completely encompassing you beneath him and breathing, whispering in your ear, the feeling comes onto you quickly. Not that you will orgasm, but that you desperately need to.

“Minho,” you groan, bucking your hips up to meet his own, “Don’t. Just—”

It’s not really a sentence, and so Minho chooses to not acknowledge it as such.

“Hm?” he quietly responds, pulling his left hand down from it’s entanglement in your hair and caressing the side of you all of the way down until it finds it’s resting place on the underside of your thigh. Pulling it up and out to give Minho a better angle to not fuck you with, it makes you want to cry in desperation. You find it unbelievable how quickly you’ve unraveled beneath him after all of these years. Had this been the case all of this time, or was it a simple matter of the strings of fate perfectly aligning at just the right moment.

The thought it interrupted by the man above you, whispering in your ear if it’s okay, if he can have you, and ignoring all of the patriarchal implications of the concept of a woman giving her body to a man; in the moment, in a vacuum, just between the two of you. It feels right.

And so, you are happy to have him.

Minho allows your leg to drop to free up his hand and release himself from his fabric confines — fingers then gently making their way to the side of your panties and carefully toying at the side — but not enough to make much happen, and Minho laughs at your impatience from under him, huffing against his face at his lack of being inside of you.

“Where did all of this come from?” he quips against the side of your face, and you choose not to acknowledge it in favor of focusing on the main event; the way he finally pulls the fabric aside and exposes you to the tip of his length and wasting no more time pressing into you slowly. Such a delightfully pleasant stretch as you adjust to him — and Minho feels it — every pulse and squeeze of your walls around him as he attempts to steady himself inside of you. It’s been so long, that he’s wished for this moment, he thinks about how it’s somehow even better than he ever could have imagined it being — your warmth enveloping him in every conceivable way and all at the same time. Emotionally, mentally, physically.

You can feel his breath against your ear, the way it already begins to lose it’s cohesion with the first few gentle strokes into you, but really, it’s that first groan of “fuck” into your ear that has you reeling, and your orgasm creeping up on you much faster than you had ever thought possible. The throaty, airy, desperation in his voice — so weak because of you, so absolutely enamored by you in all ways.

It wouldn’t be long, not for either of you. It had already been too long, it turns out.

“M—Minho, I—” you whimper out and against the skin of his shoulder: a desperate plea of your own. “I’m going to come soon, what the fuck,” in much fewer and less complete words, but you’re thankful that somehow he must have caught the memo, lifting his torso up with his hands planted flat against the couch cushion beneath you in an attempt to fuck into you better, more thoroughly, the best attempt he can make in the moment to try to get you there before him. He hasn’t said it, but you can tell that he’s close — too close for his liking, surely.

“Close?” he sputters out, forgoing sentences altogether, and with a quick nod and a biting back of a sharp whine, Minho changes the angle of his hips in such a way that grinds his pelvis right against your clit and you swear in that moment, you think you’ll pass out on the spot. Repeated chants of his name along with desperate requests to not stop and it’s a handful more presses of his hips into your own before your eyes roll into the back of your head before clenching shut; mouth ajar in silent shouting as your orgasm washes over you in intense waves, the man between your legs never relenting until his own catches him, following your lead of pleas of names as he does his best to fuck the both of you through your orgasms, until his body no longer reads capable of cooperating and he collapses — once again pressing his torso flush against your own and panting hot breath into the curve of your neck.

It does cross your mind, albeit briefly: that perhaps this would now be the end of everything as you know it between you and Minho. That maybe everything the two of you had experienced up until that moment had just been a journey to this — that no one was in love, that none of this had been real all along.

But when Minho pulls himself back up a bit, granting enough space between your two bodies to once again allow himself to plant kisses on every centimeter of skin that his mouth could possibly reach, all the while telling you all of the ways in which he’s madly, desperately and completely in love with you, you actually do wonder if maybe sometimes, just maybe, two people can feel the precisely the same way for one another, at precisely the exact same moment in time; because surely if it were possible, it would feel just like this.

Between kisses onto the flesh just below him, Minho contemplates all of the ways in which this was never meant to actually be. He knows that deep down, nothing he did ever put him in a position in which he deserved this, that he was never owed love, or sex, or you.

He wonders how he ended up so lucky, after all. Minho thinks back to the first year that you both moved to Germany together, and the first christmas festival — the night that the two of you took the polaroid photograph that he would forever keep with him everyday since that night, unbeknownst to you. He still remembers every detail perfectly, right down to the way your lips felt pressed against his cheek, despite knowing so many more feelings now.

Minho pulls himself up, just barely — only enough to reach your cheek to kiss you in just the exact spot that you had kissed him that night, and then whispers into the skin, “I love you.”

The single most important moment in Lee Minho’s life: that kiss at that Christmas festival that year. Life is only ever a series of moments that form us, shape us.

And the next second, we are in another moment.

♡ send me your thoughts and feelings in my ask.

—this is a oneshot, there will be no part 2.

dead roses

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 | han jisung x fem reader

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 | angst, hurt/comfort, smut – 18+ is strongly advised!

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 | you've found out that jisung has been cheating on you.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 | cheating, nipple/breast play, thigh fucking, thigh grinding, oral (m+ f rec), 69, love bites, vaginal fingering, protective sex ( p in v ), crying during sex, a lot of angst, hurt with no comfort ( if i missed any, lmk! )

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 | 6.1k ~ ( 6,113 )

m.list — you can also read it on my ao3

dont repost. dont translate. minors, ageless & default blogs; dni! feedback and reblogs are highly advised and appreciated!

it started off small. at first, it was a few late nights at the office. then, he became secretive. he'd hide his phone from you, rush to it and snatch it off you when he had a text. he started to lie to you. “just going to the store. i will be five minutes.” but those minutes turned to hours.

you don't know what's happened to the man you loved. when you and jisung met, he was so sweet, caring and attentive. he made you laugh with his stupid and corny jokes. he knew how to brighten your day when you were feeling low. he knew how to make you feel loved.

the first day of every month, he bought you a single rose until you had twelve, then twenty-four, then twenty-six. those roses are dead. the petals crumble from a gentle touch, the colour drained and rotten and black. the water is dirty and murky yet they still sit on your coffee table as a painful reminder that the love you both shared, is just as dead as those roses.

touch became little to nothing. sex was none existent. jisung has a high sex drive so for him to go months without having sex with you, is strange. he no longer kisses you, hugs you or holds your hand. he can't even look you in the eyes. 

does he hate you? does he no longer want to be with you? do you not please him enough? all these questions and more swim in and out of your mind, day in, day out. you're riddled with anxiety when you watch him walk out the door to work. you're riddled with guilt for questioning the relationship; for questioning his love for you.

it got so bad and so draining that you considered putting a tracker on his phone and spying on him. but you couldn't bring yourself to do something like that – all you had to do was trust him even if your gut was telling you differently.

everything you thought of, every question that was left unanswered and every action of jisung's that was questionable have now all be answered due to the fact that you have found messages from him to another.

you feel sick to your stomach. rage bubbling and rushing through your veins like hot molten lava. your hands tremble and palms sweat as you scroll through his messages. you locked yourself in the bathroom, jisung fast asleep in the bed you both share. 

you know it's a huge breach of trust to go through someone's phone without permission, but you heard him on the phone earlier. you heard him say “i'll be there, baby.” you watched him walk out the door minutes later and return two hours later with a purple bruise on his neck and smelling of another. you saw the guilt in his eyes as you questioned him. 

he's a terrible liar.

you could wake him up there and then, question him about everything. wake him up with the harsh truth that you know everything but you wait. you want at least one more day to be sure, one more day of calmness before the boat rocks and you sink to the bottom. you know the proof is there in your hands, the messages, the naked pictures, the calls and the sexting. it's there but you need and want to be absolutely sure.

jisung is your everything and more. he's your world and he's taught you how to love yourself again. everything you've built together, gone in less than a second. the trust you had for him, shattered. your heart, crumbling like the rose petals.

you've seen enough. you close his phone before making your way back to bed. you place his phone back on the side table before sliding into bed beside him. you lay on your back, staring blankly at the ceiling as tears blur your vision and spill from the corners of your eyes. your heartbeat thumping loudly in your ears, shattering with each tear that trickles down your skin.

a nightmare turned into reality.

you tried to act normal the next day to not raise suspicions. you tried to go about the day as if you didn't know but flashes of the texts shoot across your mind leaving you feeling sick and shackled. the rage building and building until you finally snapped. all it took was for jisung to return home late smelling of them, once again.

“where have you been?” you ask sweetly from your position on the sofa. jisung shrugs as he takes off his shoes.

“with changbin. i thought i told you before. he invited me out for dinner.”

“mhm, maybe you did. must have slipped my mind.” you fake a smile and a chuckle before continuing, jisung walking to you. “how was the meal? where did you eat?”

“it was fine.” he shrugs. “we went to changbin's favourite restaurant.”

you hum and nod as a response. the smell of another strong and tickling your nostrils now that he is much closer to you. you can see his honey skin glistening and his cheeks pink. his lips swollen and kiss bitten. 

“so, restaurant with changbin you say.”

“yes.” jisung laughs. “is that a pro–”

“funny you should say that, ji.” you interrupt him. “because i phoned changbin up and asked about you and he told me that you never showed up. in fact, you never had anything planned with him.”

the colour drains from those round cheeks you adore. his eyes widen in shock as the cogs turn in his head in search of an excuse – a lie.

he laughs, a fake laugh, as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other whilst rubbing the back of his neck. you stand up from your seat, eyebrow raised as you stare him dead in the eyes.

“oh c'mon, maybe he forgot.” he stutters, his voice shaking. you scoff which causes jisung to swallow.

“you're such a bad liar. not only are you using your best friend as an excuse, you can't even tell me the truth!”

“oh, c'mon yn. i'd never lie to you. i have no reason to lie to you!”

“really? because from where i'm standing, ji your body tells me differently. your brow is coated in sweat, your hands are shaky and clammy. your pupils have blown out and you're swallowing a lot as if your throat has gone dry as well as stumbling over your words and stuttering. you're lying to me, jisung.”

“yn, i have nothing to hide. please tell me why would i lie to you when all i have done is be honest and loving to you. devoted myself to you.” you roll your eyes at his words and scoff. you see red and the words come out like vomit.

“i know.” those two words you speak are enough to shake jisung up. fear clouds his mind and hugs his body. his heart thumps against his chest as his jaw clenches and throat tightens with each swallow of his saliva.

“know what?” he whispers. you stare at him.

“i know you've been sleeping with someone else.” 

jisung laughs. a laugh that's forced. a laugh that tries to lighten the situation and make it seem like a joke in hopes that you too, will find it funny and ridiculous of what you're accusing him off.

but it's not funny nor ridiculous. it's true and he knows it. he's been caught.

“i don't know what you're talking about, baby.” 

you roll your eyes and scoff. the anger rises to your cheeks. your body is hot with rage but you remain calm not because you want to but because you need to.

“stop lying to me, jisung. just admit it.”

“how did you know?”

“i went through your phone.” you say with a shrug. 

“you went through my phone?!” his voice increasing a little in volume, eyebrows furrowed together.

“seriously? me doing through your phone is the least of your worries right now jisung. you've been off with me for weeks, months! you don't touch me, don't talk to me. you barely look at me! it's like i disgust you or something! i needed answers because hell i wasn't going to get any off you.”

“i'm sorry. i've just been stressed, tired. i didn't mean to make–”

“how long?”

“excuse me?”

“how long has this been going on for? and don't even think about lying to me again jisung. all i ask of you is the truth. am i not worthy of that?” you voice shakes, nostrils flaring as hot tears blur your vision. jisung's expression softens, guilt spreading across his face. he sighs in defeat, lips pressing together.

“5 months..” he whispers. you nod once, hastily wiping the tears falling down your cheeks.

“why? is it me? do i not satisfy you enough. am i not good enough for you? i thought we had something, jisung..” 

"no! it was never you. i didn't do this out of spite, believe me yn! you're amazing, talented and so beautiful. the first time was a stupid, drunken mistake but–”

“but it felt good.” you finish his sentence with a whisper, your deepest fears coming to light. you and jisung have spent hours talking about your future together. you've spent endless minutes under the sheets together, planning and telling each other your wishes and dreams. he was the man you wanted to spend your life with, your forever after.

you wanted to marry him, have children with him, watch him achieve his goals and dreams. you never thought of him as someone who would cheat and willingly throw everything away – but love is blind they say and you were very blind.

“i thought we had something. the talks we had. our dreams. our future together, gone.” you whisper in disbelief. your heart sinking with each passing second. 

“it's not gone, darling.” he walks to you, his voice sickening sweet and gentle. it makes you believe he is just mocking the situation, mocking you as a person. you take one step back away from him and glare.

“don't you dare touch me after what you've done.”

“baby, please. i never meant to hurt you. i've been stressed and wanted some fun, someone to take my stress out onto. it's not my fault you've been so busy lately.” 

you look at him in disbelief. your eyes widen in shock. your body moves on its own and it isn't until you hear the harsh slap and feel the sting on your palm do you realize what you've just done.

“don't you dare! don't you fucking dare try and pretend to be the victim and spin this on me! i've been here the whole fucking time, waiting and wondering. questioning myself and this fucking scam of a relationship! do you know how many tears i have shed for you?! do you know how many hours i've spent laying awake at night and wondering why?! do you know that i've been filled with a suffocating amount of anxiety that it's caused me to throw up?!”

with his hand on his now red cheek, he looks up at you and swallows. his cheek burns from your slap. “i'm sorry.. i did–”

“didnt mean it? like you didn't mean to stick your cock into someone else for all these months?!”

“i'm sorry yn. what more do you want me to say or do? because if you have any ideas, please tell me and i'll do it.” the tears that roll down jisung's soft cheeks take you by surprise. his usual, life filled eyes now dead and showing nothing but heartbreak. they still shimmer though due to the tears that cascade down his soft cheeks – those cheeks you've missed squeezing and cooing over for hours and hours on end.

those cheeks that you adore because they belong to the man you adore.

“tell me yn, please i beg of you. i'm sorry. i'm sorry for making you feel this way. i'm sorry for doing what i've done. i'm sorry for being selfish and for being a jerk.” he walks towards you with you walking backwards. your heart races as he gets closer and closer to you and soon, your movement ends due to your back hitting the wall.

“ji, please..” you all but whisper. a broken whisper, a pleading whisper. you want all this to end, to turn back time to when things were simpler. to when he was yours and only yours.

you squeeze your eyes shut to avoid looking at jisung but you can smell him. underneath the stench of the other person, you smell his natural scent. the scent you find the utmost comfy in. the scent that calms your mind and grounds you. your security. your safe space.

“i love you yn.” you open your eyes slowly, bottom lip quivering. you allow the tears to freefall down your cheeks as you're now face to face with him. “i love you.”

as he repeats the words, you allow him to reach down and hold your hand. is it your palms that are sweaty or his? either way, his skin is soft and tender. you can feel his hands all over your body. his fingers gently caressing your skin, setting it ablaze.

“i can't..” you shake your head. “this isn't – this isn't fair, jisung.” you sob.

he gives you a sad yet gentle smile as he brushes away your tears. his hand lingers for a split second and you allow yourself a moment of weakness, a moment of submission.

you feel his lips being pressed against yours gently and you allow it. you don't fight him. you don't push him away. you want him and you hate that about yourself.

his lips are so soft, so gentle. they're plump and mold beautifully with yours. he cups both your cheeks as you tilt your head to the side and moves your lips with his in a soft and passionate kiss. tears continue to fall down your cheeks as well as his own as you hold onto his wrists.

you just want him. just one more night of pure bliss. a night of pretending. 

the kiss deepens and turns more passionate. your body aches and burns from his simple touches. you've been touch starved of him for months and his simple touches are making you weak at the knees.

his tongue glides along your bottom lip slowly, asking – begging for permission which you grant but slowly parting your lips for him. you groan softly as his body presses flush against yours, his leg between yours and thigh pressing against your core.

his tongue enters your mouth where he caresses and tastes the inside. soft grunts and moans being swallowed by one another. tongues caressing and fighting for dominance as well as saliva mixing in the process. his hands drops from your cheeks to your hips where he holds and moves them back and forth so you rub against his thigh.

“ji..” you gasp as you pull away for a brief second. you pant a little before groaning softly as he leans in and peppers kisses along your neck. from the corner of your eye, you see the purple bruise from the other person and your heart sinks to your stomach like a dead weight. the tears come back and flow down your cheeks but you tilt your head to the side and allow jisung to kiss and mark your skin, acting like you belong to him and him only.

even though he doesn't belong to you anymore.

with each kiss, with each touch of his skin, a piece of your heart breaks off and crumbles to the floor but you're so consumed with him. his scent, his touch, his mind, body and soul. you've longed for him. longed for him to just take you, devour you, indulge in you.

“jisung.” you whisper softly. he pulls away from your neck. his lips glistening with saliva, his cheeks red and eyes glassy with lust and want. he wants you and it fills you up with so much ecstacy. you finally feel wanted.

jisung's grip on your hips tightens as he moves them a little faster. his thigh tenses under you, hardening as it rubs against your pussy through the layers of clothing. jisung presses his lips against yours again, this time it's messy, filled with want, need, desire and lust.

teeth bash together. saliva mixing and spilling from the lips. your lips swell as he nibbles and kisses them. you reach down between your bodies to cup his erection which causes jisung to gasp softly and hips to buck automatically in your hand.

you start by palming him slowly, feeling just how much he wants you. you trace his outline through the layers of fabric with your fingers before squeezing and palming him slowly but roughly.

his hands leave your hips to travel up your stomach from under your t-shirt where he stops just below your breasts. his fingers dance along your skin before cupping the soft flesh in his hands where he rolls and kneads them in his palms. you groan, eyes fluttering shut as you lean against the wall, hips grinding down on his thigh.

jisung watches you. he watches you unravel and fall right into the palm of his hands. he knows your weak spots, knows what you like and don't like but he also knows what drives you insane. your lips part as your breathy moans in the form of his name fall past them. his fingertips brush against your hard nipples where he teases them by delicately running his fingers over them.

it leaves goose bumps on the skin, your nipples to harden even further. your eyes open as you shake your head and beg;

“don't tease me. i need you more than ever.” 

jisung swallows, his body shivering at your words. you look so desperate for him. a look of intense lust and need spread all over your features. your hips moving on their own and your hands grasping at his clothing. you're begging for him, for his touch. you're begging for him to indulge in you.

he takes your hand and drags you to the bedroom. he strips himself off his clothing, the sight of his gorgeous tanned skin makes you throb. his broad shoulders and bulging chest. his tiny waist and soft stomach – you want it all.

he drops his underwear, letting them pool around his ankles before stepping out of them. his cock standing proud and leaking a little at the tip. you watch, frozen in time. your eyes trail from his chest to his penis where you admire it. the length, the way his foreskin hugs his tip, the veins that are slowly protruding along the sides; you feel so new, so vulnerable and no one can blame you. you haven't seen him naked in months so seeing him like this is enough to set a raging fire to burn in your stomach.

your breath hitches as he walks to you. he pulls your t-shirt up and over your head before latching onto your breasts. he suckles on your nipple, tongue playing and swirling around the hard bud. he coats it in his saliva, his tongue flat as he swipes it. 

one hand on your neglected breast, one hand currently pulling your bottoms and underwear off. his fingers tugging at your nipple simultaneously with each flick on his tongue. your fingers find their way into his silky smooth hair where you grasp and tug at the roots.

your bottom half is hit with cold air as your clothing shimmies down your legs and pools at your feet. the hand that was pulling your clothing off is now attached to your ass cheek where he massages the flesh and pulls your naked half flush against his own.

his cock slides between your thigh and rubs between your folds. you both gasp and shiver, jisung now gripping onto your ass cheeks as he thrusts his hips slowly, rubbing his cock against your cunt and plush thighs. he growls, teeth now sinking into the skin of your breasts before sucking and leaving purple bruising.

“so good.. fuck, i've missed you.” he moans as he buries his head in the crook of your neck. you swallow hard, swallowing down that burn in your throat as you blink back tears.

i've been here the whole time you wish to say but you don't want to ruin the mood. you have him, finally after months and months of waiting. you've allowed yourself to be weak, to indulge in his touch that you've craved.

you push back the negative thoughts, force yourself into forgetting about his affairs. as far as you're concerned, it's just you and him in the moment. you can play pretend – for one more night at least.

jisung cups your cheeks and kisses you messily. he's always been like this; sloppy and needy. it makes you wonder if he is the same with them as he is with you. you push the thought to the side as you kiss him back just as messily, desperation coursing through your veins and lust clouding your better judgment.

during the kiss, jisung walks forwards, pushing you backwards with each step until you hit the bed and fall back. without breaking the kiss, he kneels between your legs and leans over you, hands by the side of your head.

“69?” he questions in a breathy tone. you simply nod and hum before you both shuffle around and position yourselves. you on top, head by jisung's cock with your legs on either side of his head, cunt eye level with him.

he licks his lips hungrily, taking in a deep breath of your scent before moaning loudly and grabbing your ass cheeks. you giggle before grabbing the base of his cock and slowly stroke him.

he grunts before latching onto your swollen clit. your hips buck as his tongue swipes and toys with it, lips wrapping around the swollen bud as he sucks. two of his fingers rub between your puffy folds. a hum of satisfaction as he feels your slick coating his fingers up nicely.

“so fucking wet for me. i love how wet i make you, yn.” he mumbles. 

“only for you, baby.” you purr as you lazily stroke him. you pull back his foreskin, watching it slip down from his tip and revealing its red state. it's swollen, beads of precum forming before dispersing. his skin is hot against your palm. you lean down to press your tongue flat and glide it along his tip, collecting the salty precum.

you wrap your lips around his tip, lowering your head further down on his shaft. his thickness causes the corner of your lips to stretch and for you to feel full despite only managing less than half. jisung groans from below you, his penis being encapsulated in your warmth and wetness. 

it makes him want to fuck you right there and then. feel your soft and gummy walls tighten around his length. watch his shaft glisten in your slick – but he waits. he wants to play with your pretty pussy some more. he wants to feel it throb and beg for more of his touch. 

he loves how slick you feel. how you respond to his touch so well. he loves it, so much so, that he becomes riddled with guilt. his mind switches and turns back to the many times he was out for hours on end with the other person. they don't feel as good as you. they don't sound as good as you, yet he still continued because he became addicted to the thrill.

he knew he was hurting you. he saw each piece of you crumble every time he returned home. the sullen look on your face, your eyes puffy and red whilst filling up with tears as you noticed yet another bruise. he's a coward, he knows that. the amount of times he's wanted to tell you, to confess his sins, makes him feel sick to his own stomach.

he doesn't recognise himself anymore. the thrill of being with another changed him, changed him into something he vowed to never be. he became the man he hates. he willingly threw everything that he had with you away. the dreams, the talks, the wants and desires – gone!

he knows you'll never be able to bounce back from this. he knows that if you do decide to stay with him, he has his work cut out. he knows your anxiety will be all over the place and your trust in him is little to nothing; but if you're willing to give him another chance, he will try so hard until he is red in the face and sweating blood and shedding tears.

he wouldn't blame you if you broke up with him though. in fact, that's what he is expecting after all this. this isn't make-up sex, it's different. it's the calm before the storm (even though the storm has already happened) it's goodbye sex. one more night of passion. one more night of embracing each other before going your separate ways. the thought of spending the rest of his life without you, pains jisung and a burning lump forms in his throat.

he only has himself to blame though.

all his thoughts get casted aside as he feels his tip touch your throat. he wraps his arms around your ass, pulling you down so you're flush on his face. he buries his face in your cunt, licking and spitting, smearing and caressing. you bob your head up and down a few times before releasing him from your mouth. you stroke him as you spit on his tip and smear it in with your thumb so it mixes with his precum.

his hips buck as his dick throbs. he's sensitive. your touch is (and always has been) like fire to him. your mouth is once again on him, licking and sucking. it's sloppy and messy just how he likes it. 

whilst you suck, jisung pushes two of his fingers inside your aching core with ease due to your slick. your walls welcome him, hugging his fingers tightly as he thrusts them. you squeeze your eyes shut, basking in the pleasure that warms your body and veins. his tongue is latched onto your clit as he swirls it around and kitten licks it. his fingers hook and curl against your walls, pushing more inside until he brushes against your g-spot. 

when he does, your thighs shake and all your weight disappears. you pull from his cock, moaning in a breathy tone and asking for more. 

“j-jisung.. ji.. fuck!”

“my name sounds so beautiful when it rolls off your tongue.” he hums.

“m-more. please.”

“what do you want, baby? tell me.”

“i want you to fuck me.” you whimper. jisung hums and positions you on your back gently. he kneels between your legs, hands on your hips as he admires your body. 

he's been in this position with you many times before but today just feels different. it feels new, odd, strange but not bad. it feels like you two are having sex for the first time. everything feels like a dream, nothing is real and jisung is scared. he doesn't know what to do anymore.

as he reaches over to the bedside table for a condom, he is abruptly stopped by your hand grabbing his wrist. 

“no. no protection. i want to feel you, jisung.” he swallows thickly. he's always wanted to fuck you raw but for safety (and common sense) reasons, you've both been careful. 

“are you sure?” the tips of his ears burn red as you nod.

“yes.” you look to the side, avoiding his gaze as you mumble. “just do whatever you want.”

his heart shatters as he knows what you mean. he's been doing what he wants for months so why stop now? you sound so defeated, so energy less that it feels wrong. with a soft sigh, he grabs a condom, rips it open and rolls it onto his hard length.

“what are you doing?” 

“i can't do that.”

“why? you've always wanted to. i gave you permission to do so, so why are you not doing it?”

“yes, you gave me consent but it just doesn't feel right. i do want to fuck you raw and feel you but it just doesn't feel right. maybe next time?”

“next time?” you question with a raised brow. “there's going to be a next time?” jisung looks down and swallows. he doesn't say a word to which you sigh at. “just, hurry up and fuck me ji. i want to feel you still and have some fun. i still want to indulge you.”

“really?”

“really.”

with a nod, he guides his length to your entrance. you groan softly as he breaches you, stretching you in the process. he holds your waist tightly as you grip onto the sheets. you've forgotten how thick he is and how much the stretch burns, no matter how much jisung prepares you.

“fucking tight.” jisung says between laboured breaths. you hum as a response, breathing slowly as he pushes half his length inside. he stays to allow you to get used to his size, to allow the burn to subside. when it does, you give him the ok but he doesn't move.

you frown, repeating your ok again. his head is hanging low, his grip on you so tight. you lean up on your elbows for a better view.

“ji? are you ok?” your eyes widen when you hear the most painful, heart-breaking sob from him. a sound you've never heard from him before. a sound you wish to never hear. it makes your mind go blank, your heart to sink to your stomach for the nth time.

“'m sorry..” he whispers, tears dripping down his cheeks. “'m so so sorry.”

his voice cracks. he sounds so small, so vulnerable. tears blur your own vision before falling down your cheeks slowly.

“look at me.” he refuses so you repeat your sentence again, this time much more softly. he obeys, looking at you with tear stained cheeks and wet lashes.

“it'll be ok.” you say with a sad smile.

“no, it won't be! the damage is already done yn. i fucked up massively and my biggest fear will come true.”

“you only have yourself to blame ji. if you just told me about the drunken one night, then we could have got through it together and be ok again. but you went back to them, sober and willing. i was made to feel second best.”

“you're never second best to me, yn..”

“but i am. you didn't think about me when you left the house. you didn't think about me when you went to them. you didn't think about me when you fucked them. i am second best. you made me feel like i'm second best, ji.”

“i'm sorry. i know i keep repeating myself but i'm so terrible sorry! i'm the worst. i'm disgusting, a pig!”

“hey.” you reach up and wipe away his tears. “you fucked up, yes. massively if that, but that doesn't mean you should talk about yourself like that, darling. the jisung i know, the jisung i loved was kind, considerate, caring. you made me feel so alive and special.”

“i've become the man i hate.”

“one question.”

“mhm?”

“did you–” you swallow as you brace yourself. “did you enjoy it with the other person?”

“no.” jisung looks you square in the eyes. “it wasn't so much about the person as it was the thrill. i became addicted to it. i lost myself and in the process, i hurt you.” 

you nod before falling back onto your back. he's telling the truth. you've known him long enough to know if he is lying or not. however, this just made your decision much more difficult. if he had given you a different answer, it would've been much easier for you to leave.

but you're attached to him. attached to the way he makes you feel. attached to the memories, good and bad! he's everything to you and more. you don't want to leave him, you don't want to be alone. you want to spend your life with jisung because he is all you've ever known.

however, it wouldn't be fair on either of you. you won't be able to trust him, question his every move. he has patience but a person only has so much so how long will it be until you drive him away and lose him for good.

tears drip down the bridge of your nose as you think. your teeth digging into your bottom lip. you let out shaky breathes as you feel jisung lean over you and cup your cheeks gently.

your eyes lock with his. his tears dripping onto your cheeks and merging with yours.

“i love you.” he whispers. you swallow and shake your head.

“no you don't. if you did, you wouldn't have done what you've done. you wouldn't have made me feel like this.”

it hurts him, like a dagger to the heart but he understands where you're coming from. both consumed with negative thoughts, jisung holds your waist gently and sniffs.

“shall we?” he asks. you nod and close your eyes, waiting to be basked and filled with so much pleasure, it clouds your thoughts and masks your feelings.

jisung starts off slow and steady, picking up the pace once he hears your soft moans. the pleasure soon overrides the negativity as you (and jisung) become consumed with each other once again.

your gummy walls squeeze around his shaft. the sound of skin on skin and your soppy cunt mixing together with the breathy moans. you call for his name, reaching up for him. he leans down, pressing his chest against yours as you wrap your arms around his neck and legs around his waist.

he pushes more of himself inside until he is balls deep. you nuzzle into his neck, inhaling his natural scent that mixed with the smell of sweat. jisung's hot breathes fan against your neck, his lips occasionally kissing your neck as he thrusts.

“feels good.” you moan softly.

“me too. you feel so good around me, yn. fuck, you feel so fucking amazing!” 

“keep going, please! don't stop.” you whine. he nods as his tip bumps against your g-spot. your body jerks and muscles twitch. each thrust, rub and bump of your insides brings you closer to the edge. you tighten around him, squeezing him tightly as your gut burns.

“it's ok. cum around my cock, yn.” he purrs before kneeling up. he holds your inners thighs far apart as he thrust fast. his gaze fixated on your cunt and the way it devours his cock. you whine and with a few more thrusts, you're calling out his name as your orgasm hits you.

your walls contract around jisung's length. your mind blank and back arching off the bed. it only takes a few more thrusts from jisung before he is trembling and emptying his cock into the condom.

once you're both calm and relaxed from the high, he pulls out slowly. he rolls the condom off, ties it and discards it in the trash. 

“want to shower together?” he asks, hopefully.

“um, no. i think i will shower after you.” jisung nods and gives you a sullen smile. as soon as the bathroom door closes, reality hits you like a bus.

you can't stop it. the pent up emotions finally overflow and spill. tears stream down your cheeks as you cry hard. you struggle to breath as you cry for the man you once loved and knew. you're so confused, mind fuzzy and muddled as you're unsure on what to do. 

you want him. you want him so badly but it pains you. you can't look at him without seeing him with them. without feeling like you will always be second best, like you'll never be enough.

jisung hears it all. he hears your broken wails and sobs and it pains him even more to know that he is the cause of your pain. if he could turn back time, back to when things were simpler, he would've never attended that stupid party that started all this. he only has himself to blame.

he's not a religious man but he prays that as soon as he is done in the shower; you will still be there. 

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 | uh, i have no words 🙈 don’t forget to leave feedback, reblog and tell me what you think here. curious as to what is next? here is my wips list! i hope you all enjoy! ‹3

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 (𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍) | @bintific ; @septicrebel ; @amyyscorner ; @hyunluvxo ; @aestheticsluut ; @xcookiemonsteer ; @lilquokka04 ; @myprwttyhan ; @fairylouist

hey i saw your request status is as open, and I really like your writing so I was hoping you could fufill my request.. so, you are aware of the soggy biscuit/cookie game right? I was thinking about one OT8 one shot where either Han or the reader takes the place of the biscuit and the loser has to have a steamy make out session with them to "share the cum". thank you

LOSER HAS TO SHARE; OT8 STRAYKIDS

pairings. bestfriend!ot8 x fem!reader

wc. 1.9k

warnings. filth idk even know what to tag, cumeating, jerking off, making out, guys watching each other jerk off, reader is fucking bold and lowkey has some sexual tension with lee know , chan and hyunjin.

no anon i didn't know what it was , so i looked it up and... i have written some unhinged ass shit but this def takes the cake , i fucking love this😭...

one conversation leads to something bigger with all your friends.

—

"making out with other dudes cum in your mouth is not hot." you heard seungmin say as you walked into the livingroom of the dorm. "what did i just walk into?" they all turned to you. "nothing , just random stuff , guys wrap it up." chan said. "you guys talking about making out with cum in your mouths on the daily?" your eyebrows quirked up , the older boys face flushed in embarrassment.

"＿ , listen to this." han started. "you know the soggy cookie game right?" you hummed , you weren't dumb. "yeah , when you jerk off on a cookie and the loser eats it." han nodded. "so me and felix were talking what if it was a person instead of a cookie , and the last person has to make out with the person." your silence was justified. "guys you might make her uncomfortable." hyunjin said , his face red.

"wait no , that's kinda hot." you said , all their eyes went wide. "see ! she gets it." felix said. "you'd let a bunch of guys cum into your mouth , and then make out with one of them?" lee knows eyebrow quirked up. "well not a random group a guys , that's a std waiting to happen , but if the opportunity came up with a group of guys i know , sure."

"would you let us do it?" jeongin said , your eyes widen at the sudden question. "jeongin." chan tried to get the boy to stop. "wait hyung i want to hear her answer." changbin said. "would you let us use your mouth as the cookie , and make out with the loser?" he smirked , waiting for your answer. "why are you asking , would you purposely loose , just to make out with me." you teased.

"answer the question." lee know said , you could definitely tell the atmosphere had shifted , the way they all looked at you , you felt like you were on display. you thought about it for a second , shrugging. "sure , if the opportunity came up i would." you said.

"y..you don't have to answer these questions ＿." chans face was red , it made you want to tease him even more. "why channie? does making out with your members cum in my mouth turn you on?" he sunk down farther into the chair. "it does!" you laughed.

"prove it then." lee know said , everyone turned to him now. "get on your knees and lets us do it." he challenged , the atmosphere now entering a very dangerous territory. "fine." you challenged right back. "you don't have to." hyunjin said , face the same color as chans.

"no let's do it , i promise it's fine."

—

was it the best idea to let them do this , probably not , but that didn't stop you from getting on your knees , after telling them all to strip, which some of them waisting no time in doing , some slowly coming around, but hyunjin and chan were more standoffish , even though they'd been hard , since you were brought into the conversation. "are you two not participating , i won't force you to , but you can join whenever you want." you reassured.

"take your top off , give us something to look at." jeongin said , palming his cock over his underwear. "okay." you reached for the hem of your shirt , pulling it over your head , taking your bra off , letting your tits bounce freely. "o..oh fuck that was hot." han bit his lip , trying to conceal his moan.

"i knew you'd be noisy." you said smirking at the boy , who was the first one to take his cock fully out of his pants , stroking it while he drooled over your boobs. "felix , i told you her boobs were perfect." you turned to boy , who's face was red , as he bucked up into his hand. "you guys talk about my boobs on a regular?" you toyed with your nipples , putting on a little show , for the blonde haired boy.

"h..how can we not when you're always flaunting them." seungmins stroked his hard on , his eyes dark. "i thought making out with other dudes cum in your mouth was gross." you teased. "yeah that's why im gonna be the first one to cum inside your mouth." fuck that turned you , you squeezed your thighs together.

"of course that turns you on." lee know spoke up. "sluts like you always get turned on when being talked to like that." he fisted his cock in his hand. "take your skirt off." changbin spoke up , he was one of the ones who was slowly getting into it , rubbing his cock through his gym shorts.

their eyes followed you as you stood up , unzipping the skirt , pulling it down , throwing it somewhere revealing your black underwear, smirking when you seen jeongin out the corner of your eye, finally taking his cock out , stroking it , that was five out of eight of them of them , you then reached for your underwear , slowly pulling them down your leg.

"fuck." changbin lowly groaned , fishing his cock out his shorts , fucking his fist. "sit on the couch , spreading your legs." seungmin said his pace speeding up , you complied, your wet cunt on display for all eight of them. "o..oh fuck , look how wet she is." jeongin groaned.

you made eye with chan , who was now palming his cock after probably mentally fighting with himself , smiling at the man , his face flushed once he realized you saw him.

"o..oh fuck im gonna cum." han stood up , making his way over to your naked self. "minnie seems like he beat you to it." you mocked the boy , who looked like he wasn't that far along either since he had been doing it the longest. "fuck , open your mouth." he put his tip flat against your tongue , tugging at his cock for a few times , before cum shot from his red tip , onto your waiting tongue. "oh shit." he breathed , "your tongue feels good." he pulled his pants back up sitting back down.

"finally , someone filled that bratty mouth." lee know said , making you rolled your eyes. "fuck , come here im about to fill it up some more." you walked over to him , sinking down to your knees , right in front of his cock , he grabbed your jaw , forcing it open. "had we been alone , i would've fucked your throat raw for talking like that." he growled , "shit." he slid his tip into your mouth, cum flooding your mouth.

next was seungmin , who didn't even let you get up before he was grabbing your arm , pulling you over to his side , his cock leaking with pre-cum as he roughly fucked his fist , tapping his tip against your lips your mouth opening , the sight of the others cum in your mouth sitting in your mouth setting him off, "oh fuck." he pushed his tip into your mouth , cumming , some of it getting on your lips. "shit." his head was thrown back as he came down from his high.

you sat back on the couch , just as jeongin felt his orgasm approaching , running his thumb along the tip of his cock , "shit im gonna cum." he was sitting next to you , so all he had to do was stand up , he was a messy when he came , his cum spurting not only in your mouth , but some on your cheek. 'm'sorry." you shook your head , taking your finger , wiping it off your cheek , putting your finger into your mouth.

the lewd action must've set changbins orgasm off , because he was making his way over to you , stroking his cock. "mouth so full you can barely open it." he groaned , pushing the tip of his cock past your lips , he let out a string of curse words as his cum filled up your mouth , your already puffed cheeks puffing up more.

"oh my god , fuck!" felix's accent was strong as he felt the build up in his stomach , he lasted longer than he thought he would , he wouldn't mind making out with you in this condition , it was hot to him , but he couldn't help but stroke his cock at your body , your perky boobs , drool and little bits of cum fall on to them , your eyes glazed over , your went cunt on display. you looked a mess. "fuck im cumming." he was sitting on the side of you, standing up , stroking his cock faster as the knot in his stomach snapped , your mouth welcoming his cum. "fuck so messy." he wiped the drool from your lips.

it was between chan and hyunjin , chan had been slowly stroking his cock , finally giving in , his face was red as a tomato , the whole interaction was something straight out of a porno or a really good wet dream , the way you sat naked , waiting for the next guy to fill your mouth with their cum , his lip was tucked in between his teeth , he could feel you watching him and it made his cock 10x times harder.

hyunjin watched for a long time , fighting with himself internally, even though it had been way past the line , he still felt like it was wrong , but he slowly started to lose composure as you began to lose clothes , and he members began to cum , first palming his hard on over his jeans , finally pulling them down , fishing his cock out , allowing himself the release.

both of them were teetering on the edge of their orgasms , you were watching them with low eyes , your mind was fuzzy from the entire situation , you felt like you were about to cum untouched. "you've been rubbing your legs together since we started , poor baby must be so stressed." hyunjin got a boost of confidence , and it turned you on. "touch yourself a little."

seungmin held your legs open , you let your hand travel to your clit , rubbing figure eights on your clit , you moan , trying not to swallow anything. "look at the slut struggling to keep it all in." lee know said.

"sh..shit , shit im gonna cum." chan finally let himself go , you crawled over to him , looking at him through your lashes, slowly opening your mouth. his eyes rolled to the back of his head , his tip pushed into your mouth as he came with a low whine , "fu.fuck , fuck are you okay?" he caressed your cheek , you smiled nodding , he thought you looked cute regardless of the situation.

"hyunjin is the last one , he's the loser." han spoke up , the guys were watching the entire time , trying and failing not to get hard again. "how about you finish him off." felix said , you crawled over the him , looking up at him for permission to touch him. "shit, please touch me." he whined. "go on touch him before he explodes." lee know said , you grab the base of his cock , he groaned as , his head knocking back as you stroked him.

"put your mouth on him." jeongin said , your lips wrapped around his tip. "now suck like a good cumholder." you complied and that was all he needed , so pent up he came instantly, finally filling your mouth up. "shit."

"i need to record this." han pulled out his phone out , pressing record as you stood up sitting in his lap, grabbing his jaw , looking at him for any signs of not wanting to do it. "please kiss me." you pressed your lips against his , pushing your tongue and the cum of his bestfriends, into his mouth, you could here the curse words from everyone in room, it was lewd , even seungmin had to admit it was hot.

it was messy , both of your faces where covered in cum and spit , as you pulled away, you smiled when he chased your lips. "fuck." he breathed. "jesus i can't believe that just happened." changbin was the first one to come to terms with what just happened , you finally could be speak.

"fuck , it was just as hot as i thought it would be."

©️LUVYENI