Literally Crying This Is One Of The Best Fics I Have Ever Read

literally crying this is one of the best fics i have ever read

Lost in Translation

Pairing: Lee Minho x fem reader

W/c: 26.5k

Warnings: accidental nudity, hospital visit, mention of masturbation, use of pet names, breast/nipple play, clitoral stimulation, unprotected sex, bulge kink, sexual asphyxiation, breeding kink, creampie, oral sex (male receiving), brief mention of pregnancy

Synopsis: The older brother of the boy you babysit is an enigma, in every sense of the word- and you’re determined to figure him out.

[this work was a request by @antoniorhinothethird - thank you for requesting!]

18+. Mdni!

•

The idea of babysitting isn’t some brilliant proposal you conjured up in a day- but it’s not exactly a choice, either. The idea isn’t even yours, in fact, the advertisements you published on the colorful inquiry site at your mother’s behest. But “college courses are virtual these days” and “you’ll be a mother at some point in your life,” according to her. So two months into the semester, you’ll now spend the majority of your time in a new place you’ll call home, just 30 minutes out at the Lee Household.

The Lee household is considerably larger than you’d originally anticipated it to be, spanning a sizable amount of grassland and standing nobly tall at 2 stories high. The exterior of the flashy home is surrounded by paved gravel driveways, lining the neat rows of bushels and vines that surround the off-white architectural build. Giant glass windows reflect sunlight in nearly every room of the house, with the exception of the dimly-lit library on the second floor, which flaunts colossal cherry wooden bookshelves that line the walls and cover most of the smaller windows.

“Joon is usually very mellow in the daytime,” Mrs. Lee tells you as she walks you through a tour of the garden. “You’ll only have to worry about his feeding schedules, which I’ve already written and posted on the refrigerator.”

She pivots in front of you, stopping for a moment and gesturing to the stone fountain by the rose bushes. “Do you like it? It was a gift from my husband. When he’s not running the furniture business, he works in restoration a lot. This was his first project.”

“Wow,” you say, your lips parted at the sight of the koi fish and the cascading waterfall from its lips. “It’s very beautiful.”

Mrs. Lee smiles at you in response, turning on her heel and continuing to the iron gates in the front.

“Do you have any other questions?” She asks, clasping her hands together and shooting you a saccharine smile. She’s intimating, not because of her personality, which you quickly clock as rather warm and inviting. But rather, because she’s so elegant, her navy silk dress perfectly complementing the chunky pearl earrings she wears, making her look like a character from an old film. You’re not sure you’ve ever crossed paths with such an interesting woman before.

“I think that covers everything,” you say finally, giving her a small bow. “I’ll be sure to provide updates throughout the day.”

“Oh, no need,” she says quickly. “Unless it’s an emergency, l know you’ll have your hands full doing your work while watching Joon. Feel free to just give us a little summary when we’re home for the evening.”

She shoots you a little wink when she finishes speaking, clasping her hands together again and smiling down at you.

“We’ll see you tomorrow for your first day!” She exclaims warmly, opening gate doors as you make your exit out of the garden. When you begin down the paved road, Mrs. Lee suddenly gasps, calling out to you again in a frantic manner.

“Oh! Y/n, wait please!” She calls, pulling the skirt of her dress up to her ankles to jog over to where you’re standing.

“My other son will be home from school in the afternoon tomorrow. Don’t be alarmed if you hear him moving about the house. He’ll just keep to himself.”

You ponder the words for a moment, a little frustrated when you realize there will be two kids in the household instead of one, like she’d previously mentioned. But you just nod and smile at her, seeing yourself out of the driveway once again and beginning the journey back home to prepare for your first day here tomorrow.

*

This castle-at-end-of-the-road is eerily quiet when no one’s home, a once lively sight of rose bushes and marble statues appearing like something out of a horror movie when you’re by yourself. At every corner you turn, your brain runs rampant with paranoia, placing shadowy figures and silhouettes of people where there are none- except for when you’re in the presence of Joon.

At just a year old, Joon is considered one of the cutest ages, only being able to babble incoherent noises and flail his little hands around when he wants something. His closet is full of matching neutral tones, per his mother’s styling, and his sparse black hair is combed neatly to one side.

Mrs. Lee is right about him- he doesn’t cry. Nor does he ever make a fuss, really. He simply sits quietly, in the comfort of his crib, or his high chair, and he curiously peers at the world around him. You’re certain he’s taken a liking to you already, judging at how he smiles when you spoon-feed him mashed carrots and mimic airplane noises. And he only cries briefly once in the day, stopping almost immediately when you put him down for his nap.

This may be an easier gig than you thought.

While Joon naps, you take the opportunity to get some work done in the library, settling comfortably on the velvet armchair in the corner and running through a few of your online class assignments for the week.

Although you’ll be babysitting here for the next few weeks, you’re also completing your final year at university this year, your last semester being completely remote. Which gives you time to take on the babysitting task as a side hustle, and hopefully save enough money to travel a bit after university like you’ve always dreamt of.

At half past noon, Joon is still peacefully asleep in his crib where you’ve left him, the ambient sound of waves echoing softly from his baby monitor as little snores emit from his curled lips. He looks like an angel when he sleeps, and you can’t help but feel your heart swell to twice its size at the sight of him.

The gentle breeze of the October wind travels through the open windows of the library, sending chills up your spine when you sit down to work again. You get up from where you’re sitting on the armchair to latch the windows shut, making sure to lock them, before turning around to take your seat again- quickly startled by the figure standing in the doorway.

“Jesus,” you yelp, one hand clutching your chest in fear as you nearly drop your laptop.

The figure- or man, rather, says nothing, scanning the room like he’s searching for something, before turning on his heel and exiting the room once again.

He’s tall, with a slim yet muscular build, honey tanned skin complementing his chocolate brown tresses. He’s also dressed rather casually in a pair of light-wash jeans and a black top, a black leather jacket thrown over his broad shoulders and left unzipped.

“Sorry, did you need something?” You call out, perplexed by his demeanor. You can’t remember if the Lees warned you of potential visitors, but you’re suddenly panicked for Joon, remembering you left his door open.

“Nope,” the man calls out over his shoulder, not turning around to face you. And then you see it- a black backpack, slung over one shoulder and seemingly filled to the brim with textbooks.

Their other son.

This must be the son Mrs. Lee warned you would be making appearances in the afternoon. But you had assumed him to be much younger, especially considering he’s definitely old enough to be watching over his own brother.

Before you can gather your thoughts to introduce yourself, he’s gone again, disappearing down the hall the same way he so mysteriously appeared. And you wonder, briefly, how he can be so much colder than his own mother.

*

The first day of your new job is a success. When Mrs. Lee returns home for the evening, she pays you in cash, true to her traditional style, and sends you home with a tin of shortbread cookies as another ‘thank you’, though she’s already voiced it a million times. But the second day is rougher than the first, reminding you of why babysitting isn’t always an easy task despite what it may seem.

Joon is particularly antsy today, flailing his arms around when you try to spoon feed him and whining relentlessly when you pick him up. He needs several diaper changes in just your first few hours of working, and when you finally do get him clean, he’s a crying, screaming mess.

Fortunately, he still goes down for his nap at noon, which means you have a narrow window of time to complete your work for the day and get freshened up. The windows in the library are propped wide open again, a cold breeze coming through as you settle in your new favorite spot and open your laptop.

There are a myriad of assignments to complete today, and you’re briefly panicked that you won’t be able to complete the necessary few pieces if Joon suddenly wakes again. But still, you try, skimming through textbooks and typing away as much as you can to make steady progress. And at the hour mark, Joon begins to cry. Rather he wails, loudly, from the other room, startling you when you’re already in deep concentration working through a practice quiz.

You make your way down the hallway and to the right, where Joon’s room is, approaching the crib and catching a glimpse of his anguished state. His face is a robust shade of red as he wails loudly, bubbles of saliva forming at his nostrils and his eyes squeezed shut. You guide him out of the crib and into the safety of your arms, shushing him gently and rocking him back and forth the way Mrs. Lee taught you. And Joon calms instantly, hiccuping through tears as he locks his gaze on yours and fists at strands of your hair.

“That’s okay,” you coo at him, grazing your finger along his chin and cleaning some of the drool that dribbles from the corners of his lips. “I’m here. Look at you! You’re okay,” you continue, giggling at him when his quivering lips pull into a small smile. He softens in your arms, smiling and babbling with hushed sounds, clutching tightly on strands of your hair as you balance him in your arms.

“You want to come do some work?” You ask, nodding your head as if to coax an answer out of him. “That’s a good baby, huh? Let’s go do some work.”

And you travel back to the library with Joon in your arms, giving him gentle pats on his back as you hoist him tighter into your embrace and balance your laptop with one arm.

When you’re starting on your last task of the evening, you’re interrupted again today by Mrs. Lee’s eldest son, who pokes his head in the doorway and observes as you coo down at Joon’s sleeping figure while working on your computer with one hand.

“Do you want me to take him?” You hear from the doorway, and you crane your neck to look where he’s standing, his hands shoved in his pockets and his backpack slung lazily over one arm.

“I’m okay,” you respond, typing out a word with one hand. He furrows his eyebrows at your failed attempt, approaching you and reaching out his arms to take Joon from your embrace.

“You can’t work like this,” he says, as he peacefully transfers Joon to his own arms. “He won’t wake up if I put him back, I promise.”

“Thanks,” you reply, taking note of his features now that he’s at a closer proximity to you for the first time. He has large round eyes, and long eyelashes that make even you jealous. His nose bridge is sharp and straight, and when he chuckles softly at Joon, you notice his skewed front teeth, ones that make his smile seem sweeter- softer.

As he begins out the doorway, you try to think of what to say to him, not wanting to have another awkward run-in with him like your last one. But nothing comes to mind that won’t be just as awkward as the encounter itself, and you settle on painful silence once again.

As you unlock your laptop, continuing on to your last assignment, you hear the faint noise of Mrs. Lee’s elder son putting Joon back to sleep.

Except he sounds different than he has during your two previous encounters. He’s laughing, babbling, even cooing at Joon as he puts him back to sleep. And though you really shouldn’t intrude, you make your way to the doorway again, where you peer down the hall to listen in on the endearing noises he makes.

“Are you sleepy?” He asks, his voice two octaves higher than usual. “Let’s sleep now, okay? No, you can’t have my shirt. That’s mine, remember? Let’s have good dreams now. I love you!”

You hear Joon giggling from the end of the corridor and you smile to yourself, wholly moved by the tender little moment he shares with his baby brother. He might not be his full-time caregiver, but he certainly knows what he’s doing. As you stay pondering his behavior for a moment, you don’t even notice when he exits the room again, turning to watch you standing around the doorway. Your ear is still leaned into the corridor, clearly having listened in on the private moment.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, straightening your posture, a wave of embarrassment quickly washing over you. “I was making sure Joon got to bed okay.”

He just nods once, looking you over briefly before meeting your gaze again.

“Minho,” he then practically mutters, averting your gaze as he waits for you to speak.

It’s his name, you realize, barely even having registered what he said to you. He’s telling you his name.

“Y/n,” you respond quickly, giving him a small bow and smiling nervously.

And Minho says nothing, pivoting on his heel to exit the corridor and disappear all over again.

*

For two weeks, your job runs smoothly, no glaring problems or hangups. Joon remains fond of you, obedient at mealtimes and when he’s put to bed. And the system of completing your college coursework goes smoothly, being able to get through several assignments a day while Joon takes his afternoon nap. If anything, you might be more productive than you were before this job, despite balancing it between university.

It’s an overcast Tuesday afternoon, and you’ve spent most of your day working in Joon’s nursery on the rocking chair next to his crib. He’s been a little fussy today, but you find that he calms down a little at the repetitive clicking noises of your laptop keyboard. Once you’ve confirmed he’s asleep, little snores emitting from his lips, you gather your belongings and sneak away to the library again. Only this time, it’s not vacant.

Minho sits in your usual spot today, his legs propped up on the footrest in front of him and a book in his lap. He doesn’t even notice you in the doorway, strands of hair hanging loosely in front of his face as he scans the page of his book. He also looks significantly more casual than other days you’ve seen him around, wearing a plain black t-shirt and gray sweats, a pair of round wireframe glasses resting on the bridge of his nose.

He feels your gaze on him, shuffling about suddenly and closing his book.

“Sorry,” Minho says. “I was just… reading.”

He realizes how awkward he sounds, verbally conveying his actions to you like this, but he’s too caught off guard to form a more coherent string of words.

“It’s okay,” you say politely, setting your bag down on the floor and occupying the chair across from him.

“What book?” You ask, cocking your head at the small red novel he clutches in his lap.

“Hm? Oh, uh… it’s Love and Limerence. By Dorothy Tennov.”

You nod in response, studying the cherub painted on the cover, wielding a bow and arrow.

“Big romance fan?”

“No,” Minho says, chuckling at your words. “It’s a required read for my class.”

“How neat,” you reply. “What class requires romance novels these days?”

“My philosophy course,” Minho says, running the pads of his fingers over the raised text on the cover. “The psychology of emotion.”

“PHIL 105,” you say, knowing very well the course he speaks of.

“Yeah- you’ve taken it?”

“No, but I had a friend who did in freshman year. I’m in my last semester now- my remaining classes are virtual, though.”

“It’s my last semester, too,” Minho says with a little smile, fiddling with the lobe of his ear as he talks.

“Well best of luck to you in the final stretch,” you reply, shooting him a small smile back. “I hope it all goes smoothly.”

Minho gives a half nod, and then furrows his eyebrows together, like he’s just remembered something.

“I’ll get out of your hair,” he says suddenly, sitting up and gathering his belongings.

“Oh, I really don’t mind-”

“Catch you later,” He interrupts with a nervous tone, almost jogging out of the library and back down the corridor.

And just like the first day you met him, you maintain the same idea of him- he’s such an enigma. Appearing in and out of the household, not one to voice his thoughts or his opinions, no eagerness to know the stranger sitting in his house watching over his baby brother. But somehow, like the rest of the household, you can’t help but have a lingering curiosity for Minho, too.

*

“My husband and I might be late getting back today,” Mrs. Lee says one morning as you feed Joon his breakfast. His tongue dodges the plastic spoon, dribbling mashed food out from the corners of his lips and laughing when you go to dab his face clean with a napkin.

“That’s alright,” you reply, loading up the spoon with more food. “I can wait until you’ve arrived.”

“You will?” Mrs. Lee asks, a kind of sparkle in her eyes as she speaks. “That would mean the world to us. It’s just that my husband has an auction to attend today. And sometimes these events run longer than they’re meant to.”

“No problem at all,” you say, smiling at her as you turn your attention back to Joon. “Joon and I will just hang out a little longer today. Isn’t that right?”

He babbles something in response, a string of saliva trailing from his lips, and Mrs. Lee laughs at the sight.

“He’s really taken a liking to you!”

As she fixes Joon’s hair, Minho enters the kitchen, dressed for the day with his backpack already slung over his shoulder.

“Minho,” his mother says in a scolding tone. “No gum for breakfast. Have a fruit.”

“Can’t,” he replies curtly. “My philosophy exam is today.”

“What does that have to do with depriving yourself of food?”

“It’s bad luck to eat before an exam,” Minho retorts, coming around the granite island to kiss her on the cheek. “Besides,” Minho continues. “I’m ditching my second class, so I’ll be home a little earlier.”

When he turns around, his gaze meets yours, and he instantly stiffens.

His gaze turns cold again, his hands shoving in his jacket pockets as he says nothing to you. He just bows, once, and then turns to exit like he’s suddenly in some rush.

“Bye,” he calls out, and you’re not even sure who he’s addressing it to at this point.

“I should get going, too,” Mrs. Lee says to you. “I’ll call you when we leave the event tonight. And please, feel free to make yourself comfortable after Joon gets put to bed. There’s cash on the table if you want to order something for dinner, and extra blankets are in the upstairs closet if you get sleepy.”

“Thank you,” you say to Mrs. Lee as she gathers her car keys and handbag. And the house is quiet again when you’re all alone, with the exception of Joon’s heavy breathing as he stares at you curiously.

“It’s like a mansion here,” you say to your best friend as you balance Joon in your arms and crane your neck on your shoulder to hold the phone against your ear. “Mrs. Lee is so nice. I thought she’d be stuck up or something, but she’s like a second mother.”

“You hit the jackpot,” your friend voices on the other end of the line. “Any idea how long they need you around?”

“Not sure,” you reply, wiping the granite counter with a rag as you finish up the dishes. “Probably until their son is done with the semester.”

“Son?” She says excitedly. “Is he cute?”

“Please,” you echo, rolling your eyes. “His looks mean nothing considering he doesn’t say a word.”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly that. He just doesn’t talk. We go to the same university and it’s like pulling teeth trying to figure out something as simple as what his major is. I think he despises having me around.”

“I mean, to be fair, I wouldn’t love someone in my space 24/7. It’s probably a territorial thing.”

“He’s not a cat,” you respond, laughing lightly. “He’s a grown man. I just get the feeling he doesn’t like me.”

“Well I highly doubt that,” she says, and you can hear her shuffling about on her end of the line.

“Hey, I have to go,” she chimes in. “But I’ll talk to you later. Good luck with baby Joon and the cat man.”

“Thanks,” you reply, chuckling to yourself.

As you hang up the phone, you turn around to gather the last of the dishes, stopping in your tracks when you’re met with Minho himself.

He’s standing in the kitchen, popping a bubble of gum with his teeth, his gaze locked coldly on yours as he observes the place.

That’s right- he did say he would be home a bit earlier after his exam today. Was he standing there for the entirety of your conversation? You can’t recall how long the phone call lasted, or even the specifics of what you said. But you do know it certainly wasn’t good.

“Hi,” you say nervously, scanning his expression for a hint of what he’s thinking. But he provides you none, kicking off his boots and making his way up the stairs again.

The guilt is still eating away at you two hours later- Minho hasn’t descended the staircase once since the incident, and you can hardly focus on your school work at the thought of what he’s thinking of you.

Here you are, complaining about him seeming “cold” or “off”- the whole time you’re the one talking about him behind his back and stirring up drama. If he hated you before, he definitely despises you now. And if he's as close with his mother as he seemed this morning, you could be out of a job by tomorrow.

In reluctant steps, you ascend the wooden staircase, clutching a small mug of coffee and a stack of buttered toast. You remember Minho saying he’d have breakfast after his exam, a task he wasn’t able to complete due to your impolite conversation earlier. And while you’re not even sure he’s going to give you the time of day anymore, it’s worth a shot to try.

At the top of the staircase, you realize you’re unsure of which room even belongs to Minho. There are rows of doors down the corridor, which you peer into, looking for any sign of him.

A closet, another closet, the laundry room… it feels like a futile task at this point- not to mention, the sinking feeling that you’re intruding, poking into every room in the house like this.

But at the end of the hallway, just across the staircase from Joon’s room, lies one more closed door you haven’t tried yet, and you’re sure this one has to be his.

With a deep breath, you balance the mug of coffee on the plate you’re carrying, bringing your free hand up to knock, just once.

No answer.

You pause for a moment, debating whether to just leave and drop the idea of an apology altogether. But you don’t, instead forcing yourself to knock once more this time, a little harder than the first.

And after muffled sounds of shuffling about, the door finally opens again, Minho standing with a confused expression on his face. He has a pair of earphones in, one side pulled out to hear you, his glasses sat on his face and a number of textbooks on the bed behind him.

“Is Joon okay?” He asks, looking down the hall in panic as you meet his gaze.

“What? Oh! Yes, he’s fine. He’s sleeping.”

“Oh. What are you…”

“I… made you some breakfast. I know you didn’t have any before your exam this morning. And no, gum isn’t a breakfast food.” You chuckle lightly as you hold the items out to him, and Minho looks down at them, blinking a few times before speaking.

“Oh. Uh, thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s no problem. Should I leave them with you?”

“Oh, you can put them on the desk over there,” Minho replies, and it’s then that you notice his hands are full with papers. He steps aside to let you in, gesturing to the desk with a piece of paper, and you oblige, clearing the space of a few scattered items and setting down his breakfast.

When you turn around to look at the place, your lips part in awe at the sight of the grandiosity of it. Minho’s room has bigger windows than any of the others you’ve seen, concave around a crescent-shaped seating area that boasts tall ceilings and large glass windows. There are books lining the floors, the desk space and even the window sills, many of them left bookmarked or lying open where they sit.

His giant wooden bed frame is almost hidden behind a hanging curtain, and his desk is nearly inhabitable at the amount of university paraphernalia that lives on its surface.

“Wow,” you say, craning your neck to look around the room. “It’s really nice in here.”

“Thanks,” Minho says awkwardly, toying with a loose hem on his pants.

“You really like reading,” you comment, taking note of the books he has lying around. When you say this, Minho seems to stiffen a bit, shutting some of the books and lining them on their spines along his shelves.

“Yeah,” he mutters, dropping a few books and kicking them away from him.

You nod at him, pursing your lips, well aware that you’re in the midst of yet another awkward interaction with him, but wanting to fulfill the reason you came up here all the same.

“Listen,” you begin. “I wanted to apologize. I don’t know how much you heard of that, but I assume it was enough to be hurt by it. And you’re justified in being hurt. It was totally uncalled for of me to say those things- and sure, you might be a quiet person. But that doesn’t make it okay for me to go around airing it out like it’s my business. In fact I shouldn’t even be on my phone on the job. I’m here to watch your brother, and I get paid for that service, and it’s completely unprofessional-”

“It’s cool,” Minho says, an unchanging expression on his face.

“Oh, um… I mean, if you want to fire me I totally understand.”

Minho chuckles softly, and then shakes his head. “I’m not going to fire you. I am quiet. It’s cool. Really.”

“I mean, I totally get that-”

“Unless you want to be fired?” He inquires with a half-smile, and you chuckle softly in response.

“I really don’t. I love watching your brother.”

“Good,” he replies. “Then we’re all good.”

And although you want to say something else to him, you don’t, feeling as though you should be satisfied with the state of the conversation. You apologized, he forgave you, and you haven’t lost your job. And he’s still quiet, but that’s just who he is.

When Joon wakes from his afternoon nap, it’s nearly 3pm. He’s a crying mess when he’s up again, flailing his arms around to beg for a bottle, which you promptly prepare for him after a diaper change.

With Joon in your arms, you get some chores around the house finished, including vacuuming the rugs, dusting off the furniture and tidying Joon’s toys that are usually scattered about his nursery.

Doing chores wasn’t an agreement between you and Mrs. Lee- in fact, she usually urges you to focus on your schoolwork and take breaks when you’re not caring for Joon. But you want to, feeling compelled to take care of the space as much as you care for Joon. Although tensions are still somewhat present between you and Minho, the Lee household feels comfortable to you by this point, almost like a second home now.

After chores, the library calls out to you again, evening beginning to fall over the neighborhood and painting the sky with vibrant hues of an autumnal sunset.

The windows are still rolled open from earlier, and your velvet couch looks particularly inviting at this hour, beams of sunset setting it aglow and luring you to choose a book from the cherry wood shelves around you.

So you do, selecting a children’s book about animals, comfortably sprawling out on the chair with Joon in your arms. He eyes the book curiously, spreading his short, chubby fingers over the cover and tapping repeatedly, as if asking you to read to him.

And you do, setting the book on your knee to angle the pages toward him, as you begin to vocalize the choppy sentences to him.

“A is for apple, hanging from a tree,” you say, caressing his stubby fingers as he pouts in focus. “B is for buzzing bumblebee.”

Joon’s lips curl into a smile, making his best attempt to clap as you point out the colorful images to him.

“C is for crab, walking in the sand… D is for dolphin, swimming toward the land!”

Joon laughs hysterically now, clapping his little hands and rocking back and forth in your lap. You laugh, too, at his darling reaction, and give him a little kiss on the head as he fiddles with the cover of the book.

It’s moments like this that reaffirm the notion for you that this job was the right idea, after all. You’re inexplicably happy alongside him like this, seeing the world through his eyes and rediscovering things you would otherwise take for granted, like silly picture books or doing chores with him in your arms. You feel so protective of him, eager to make his mom proud and provide a safe, nurturing environment for him as his babysitter- not because you’re paid to do it, but because he now holds a special place in your heart.

The sound of someone clearing their throat startles you from the doorway, and you look up to find Minho standing there, an amused smirk tugging at his lips.

“Did you… want something to eat? I was going to order takeout, unless you wanted something else.”

“Sure,” you reply, propping Joon up a little closer to your chest. “Anything’s fine with me.”

“I’ll get Chinese, then,” Minho says nodding. He averts your gaze a little, but you can tell he’s just a little awkward when he’s face-to-face with you like this. And perhaps your best friend is right- perhaps it’s not unusual of him to feel territorial over his household. After all, you are here almost every hour of the day, making yourself comfortable in almost every room, tending to the chores here and eating food from their kitchen. You suppose you would be irritated at the thought of it, too.

As Minho leaves to place an order, you take Joon back to the nursery, where you gently put him to sleep for the evening and program his baby monitor to play calm ocean noises again. It’s like clockwork- he’s out like a light, and the minute he leaves your arms, you’re exhausted, too. The stress of watching over him while balancing your school work might finally be getting to you now- you’re undoubtedly tired, your limbs aching from sauntering about this big house all day with Joon in your arms. And although you’re on a good track, you can hardly remember which assignment pertains to each of your classes these days.

When Minho returns almost an hour later, he holds a thin plastic bag in hand, his other one clutching a fistful of cutlery and two plates. He gives you a small nod when he enters the library, and you put away your laptop to join him on the floor in front of the coffee table.

For a moment, he says nothing as he prepares a plate for you, sliding a cup of wonton soup toward you and dividing portions of chow mein and tofu with wooden chopsticks.

You watch as he breaks a spring roll in half, holding both sides up and comparing to make sure they’re even.

“You’re very precise,” you say with a soft laugh, and a breathy chuckle emits from his lips, too.

“I’m trying to make sure it’s even.”

“However you cut it is fine,” you respond, pleasantly surprised at how polite he is.

When he’s finished dividing your portions, he slides a plate to you, setting a plastic fork down on the napkin beside you and ushering to the food.

“Enjoy,” he says, shooting you a small smile.

And the two of you eat in silence, the room quiet, aside from the sounds of slurping soup present between you two. Although it’s quiet, it feels comfortable, having him keep you company like this. It’s a change of pace from your usual days babysitting in the Lee household.

“How is your school work?” Minho interrupts your thoughts, and you’re momentarily taken aback by him initiating the conversation first.

“It’s good,” you respond, poking at the vegetables on your plate with a chopstick. “It’s on my own time, so I mostly just have to make sure I’m staying on track. But I’m finding it easy to get through despite watching Joon in the daytime.”

Minho nods in response, keeping his gaze set on the bowl of soup in front of him.

“How did your exam go?” you ask, and Minho cocks his head a little. “I got full marks,” he responds after a moment of silence.

“That’s great! I guess you were right about skipping breakfast having something to do with your academic success, then.”

And Minho laughs for the first time- not a chuckle or a giggle, but a laugh, holding one hand up to his mouth as he does. His laugh is gentle and melodic, filling the room around him with its sound, and you can’t help but laugh, too.

“I suppose,” he responds. “I also go nowhere without those philosophy books, so I have them memorized like the back of my hand.”

“Philosophy major?” you voice back, and Minho nods.

“So Love and Limerence is like second nature to you at this point.”

Minho gets a little awkward at this, his smile fading a little as he pokes around his chow mein. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “You could say that.”

And fearing you’ve somehow offended him, you change the subject again.

“Well I’m a business major,” you chime in. “So we don’t get interesting reads at all. And I’m not lugging around a six-pound textbook about returns on investments in my backpack.”

He laughs again, and you feel satisfied at the motion. Making him laugh feels like an exciting feat, like you’ve succeeded at something after trying so hard to. And considering how hard you’ve been trying to break down his walls these days, maybe it is an exciting feat, getting to know the stranger you’ve been sharing a home with for one month now.

“Business is a great field,” Minho says, slurping down the remainder of his soup. “Your parents must be really proud of the direction you’re headed.”

You shrug in response. “They’re indifferent. I don’t have a great relationship with them. They mostly just want me out of their hair once I graduate.”

“You have any post-college plans?” Minho inquires.

“I finished an internship before this whole babysitting gig, actually. I want to travel a bit after graduation, and then I’ll really settle down for the whole 9-5 working life.”

“Where are you hoping to travel to?”

There’s a glint in Minho’s eyes as he presses you for answers, like he’s genuinely interested in what you have to say. It makes you feel all warm inside- not many people usually care what you’re up to these days, your family trying their hardest to send you away to work another job and your most of your friends having drifted apart when you began university. Even the friends you do have are more distant these days, considering their classes are still in person, and you don’t have a need to be back on campus anymore. It’s a bit of a lonely life you lead, so being here beside Minho feels different, but pleasant.

“I’m not sure,” you say with a smile. “I’m not really sure where I belong yet.”

“Hey, I don’t know where I belong, either,” Minho echoes. “So that makes two of us.”

When the two of you are finished with dinner, Minho takes your plates downstairs, despite you offering, and you’re briefly left alone in the library. It’s much later than usual now, nearing 9:00, when you’re usually home by 7. The house also has a different vibe to it this hour, many of the rooms feeling much dimmer despite the same lamps being on, and the corridors feeling much quieter and more haunting. You feel a wave of sleepiness wash over you, and though you don’t want to be asleep when Mrs. Lee arrives, you can’t help but shut your eyes for a few minutes. You can still make out the shape of the bookshelves behind your heavy eyelashes, trying your best not to close your eyes completely, but your mind has already wandered off to slumber, and inevitably, your body follows shortly after.

You’re somewhere between sleep and consciousness when you feel Minho enter the room once again, looming over you like he wants to ask you something. But he says nothing- instead, he unfolds a knit blanket above you, sprawling it out over your legs and pulling it up to your torso. And you hadn’t realized how cold you were before he did, because you’re almost instantly with a wave of warmth and comfort over your listless body.

It feels almost uncharacteristic or Minho to carry out an action this polite- but as he takes his seat across from you, watching as you doze off peacefully, you think he may finally be coming around to you.

*

“I’m ditching my second class again today,” Minho announces the next morning at breakfast. He doesn’t eat much, you notice, as he bites into a single apple and hoists his backpack further up his shoulders.

“I’ll be home a bit earlier,” he then continues, eyeing you a little, and you give him a little nod.

“Then help with lunch,” Mrs. Lee says, gathering her own briefcase for work. “Y/n shouldn’t do it all by herself when you’re here.”

“Oh, it’s no worry at all,” you quickly chime in, not wanting to be the reason Minho refutes his mother’s words. “It’s what I’m here to do, after all.”

“No worries,” Minho says back to you. “I’ll be home around noon and we can prepare something together.”

For some reason, your heart flutters a little at the implication of doing something alongside Minho- something so planned and seemingly intimate. You normally just take the days as they come, so having a commitment hanging over your head like this is a little nerve-racking. And in all your worrying, you don’t respond to Minho, realizing only as he’s exiting the house with his apple in hand.

“I might be late again today,” Mrs. Lee turns to you, snapping you out of your trance. “But Minho can stay for the remainder of the time. I’ll still pay you the full amount like I did yesterday-”

“I’m happy to stay again,” you reply to her. “Like I said, it’s what I’m here to do.”

She smiles in return, clasping her hands and gesturing to the food on the table.

“I can’t get Minho to eat for the life of me, but help yourself to whatever you’d like. And thank you again, for staying.”

You’re reading to Joon in the living room when Minho arrives home from school. He kicks off his shoes dramatically, tossing his bag on the floor and breathing out a heavy sigh while you thumb through the pages of a new picture book.

“Hi,” Minho says first, his expression remaining stoic and unchanging.

“Hey,” you reply, hoisting Joon a little further up in your arms. “How was school?”

“Terrible,” he responds, making his way around the granite island to collect another apple.

“Why’s that?”

“Professor Kim,” he says curtly, polishing the apple on his button down shirt before taking a generous bite. “A three hour lecture on a Friday really wasn’t a smart choice. ”

You chuckle a little to yourself, adjusting your position on the floor and trying to balance Joon in your embrace. Minho takes notice of your struggle, abandoning his apple on the counter to come take Joon from your arms.

“Thanks,” you say, dusting off your legs as you stand again. “I’m going to get started on something for Joon to eat if you want to wait around. Unless you’re sticking to this exclusively-apple diet.”

Minho chuckles to himself and shakes his head. “I’ll help. We don’t have much prepared right now and I really need to go grocery shopping.” He secures Joon in his high chair, cocking his head toward the fridge.

“Could you just grab his orange juice? It should be the blue bottle on the right.”

And you comply with his request, promptly locating the blue sippy cup and handing it to Minho.

“Thank you,” he says, setting it down on the white tray in front of Joon and twisting it open. “This should be enough to hold him off until we can whip something up with the few ingredients we have. I want to do something with those sweet potatoes, they’re reaching the end of their time.”

Joon is a little fussy as he reaches for his sippy cup, flailing his arms around and sliding the cup across the tray to the edge. The cap seems to loosen as he does, tilting dangerously to one side.

“I got it,” you say to Minho, as you approach Joon. You retrieve the cup from the edge of the tray, twisting off the cap again to secure it properly. And as you do, Joon lets out a particularly loud yelp, knocking his hand toward you and letting the bottle fall off the tray entirely.

As you realize what’s happening, you bring two hands up to push it away from you, but you’re too late- the entirety of the bottle’s contents are spilt onto your shirt, completely soaking you and dripping onto the floor with loud, wet noises.

Minho doesn’t see what happened, but he turns around at the sound of your loud gasp, his eyes widening at the sight of you. Even your hair’s gotten wet, stringy pieces falling into your face, damp with the tangy scent of orange juice and dripping down your shirt. His mind races with guilty thoughts, feeling as though he should have stayed watching Joon, being the one to have been caught in the crossfire of his tantrum instead. Joon’s always fussy before meals- he knows this very well. As his mind races with the urgency to grab a towel, a rag- something, his eyes graze to your t-shirt, and he practically freezes.

Your thin white t-shirt is soaked like the rest of you, painting a clear outline of your black bra as the cold contents drip down your chest and torso. The see-through fabric sticks to your body like a cellophane wrapping, outlining every inch of you, every curve and every raised goosebump as you shudder at the sensation. Minho’s eyes remain locked on your dampened breasts for an embarrassing amount of time, taking careful note of the way your hardened nipples practically protrude through the thin white fabric, almost appearing increasingly noticeable with every passing second. The delicate curves of your stomach are accentuated with your skin-tight shirt, even your navel now visible.

A shake of your hands finally snaps him out of his trance, and you wrap your arms around yourself in a futile effort to cover yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you utter to him, at a loss for words at the notion of being so exposed to him. And Minho is quick to shake his head, now scrambling for a towel.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, pulling a towel off the oven handle and sliding it to you. “Here, use this and I’ll go get a larger towel from upstairs and a change of clothes.”

You want to deny the offer, feeling shameful for having already intruded this much on the Lee household and still needing more from them. But as you look down at your t-shirt, you know you don’t have a choice, the fabric now feeling cold and uncomfortable as it sticks to your flesh.

“Thanks,” you say to him, giving a small nod and not moving your hands from your chest.

And Minho retreats upstairs quickly, trying his best to avert his gaze as you remain in the kitchen.

As Joon babbles incoherently next to you, you can’t help but feel stupid, a sense of shame and embarrassment replacing the excitement you had to be preparing lunch alongside Minho for the afternoon. You’re in disbelief he’s practically seen you half naked like this, and you feel inadequate at not being able to stop Joon from committing the incident in the first place. As you run your hands up and down the raised goosebumps on your arms, you do your best to hold back tears, hoping Minho won’t think less of you for being caught in such a humiliating accident.

Minho is gone for a little while, and you blot at the wet patches on your shirt as you wait, Joon now laughing at your messy state. You can’t help but laugh a little, too, admittedly amused at what a disaster the afternoon has been- and you haven’t even begun the cooking part of it yet.

When he returns, he tosses you a large white bath towel and a gray t-shirt, still keeping his gaze on the floor instead of on yours.

“Here,” he says simply, his veiny arm scratching the back of his head. “I can also get a sweater if you’re cold.”

As you observe the t-shirt, you realize it’s one of his, not one of Mrs. Lee’s. For some reason, you’d assumed Minho would opt for a woman’s clothes as your change, but the t-shirt has clearly been pulled from his closet, and you blush a little at the idea of wearing his clothes.

“This is fine,” you reply, wrapping the bath towel around your body and excusing yourself to the bathroom.

You peel the sticky clothes off your body, crumpling them into a pile and changing into Minho’s t-shirt. It’s a bit large on you, but it’s much more comfortable, hanging loosely off your body and covering every bit of you that was previously exposed. His shirt smells like him, too, a pleasant scent of laundry detergent and his musky cologne.

When you exit the bathroom, you gesture to the change of clothes, your wet crumpled clothes balled in your hand. “I kinda look like you now,” you say, and Minho chuckles.

“You can keep it,” he responds, giving you another once-over and nodding shyly. “It looks better on you, anyway.”

He holds his hand out to you for the wet clothes, which he kindly takes from you to put in the wash. As he does, you go to the fridge to retrieve more orange juice for Joon- except there is none. You desperately search for milk, orange juice- any form of a snack that will keep him busy until his mealtime. But the kitchen is void of anything he can consume, and you begin to panic a little, knowing Joon hasn’t eaten in a good while now.

“That was the last of his orange juice,” you say to Minho when he returns. “And there’s not much else for him to snack on.”

Minho searches the kitchen too, digging through cabinets and moving around jars in the fridge to check for expiration dates. But he quickly realizes you’re right- the fridge is even more sparse than he’d assumed it to be.

“I guess we’ll have to make a trip to the store, then. How do you feel about strapping him into a car seat?”

“I’ve never done it,” you reply nervously.

“I can show you,” Minho says, grabbing his keys off the kitchen counter and spinning them around his index finger. “We can do it together.”

*

The nearest grocery store is just 20 minutes out from the Lee household. Minho drives a fancy black SUV, and he guides you through how to strap Joon into his car seat, which you carry out with no issues. He drives with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the center console as you chat with him about your university courses. For the first time, you notice how Minho seems much more comfortable around you now, cracking jokes occasionally and smiling at your stories about your afternoons alone with Joon. When Joon chimes in from the back seat with his excited babbling, you and Minho babble equally in response, sharing laughter at the ridiculous exchanges among the three of you.

You opt to carry Joon inside the grocery store while Minho walks alongside you, checking off a list he routinely uses to stock up on all of Joon’s favorite foods. And the atmosphere around you is homely, instilling the same sense of comfort in you as your afternoons alone with Joon. One that reminds you why you’re doing this job in the first place- you feel respected here, like your efforts don’t go unnoticed, and like you belong. It fills the lonely void inside of you with the sounds of Joon’s laughter, Minho’s tales of his classes and the trivial tasks of grocery store runs and learning to maneuver a baby car seat.

“I think that’s it,” Minho says as he checks the list one last time. “Milk, juice, bread…” he reads the items one by one again, and then nods affirmatively when he’s ensured they’re in the basket.

“That’s it,” he repeats, shooting you a small smile. “Let’s go pay.”

An older cashier gestures you to her lane at the registers, beginning to scan your items as Minho places them down on the conveyor belt. And then she gives a little wave to Joon, who curiously stares back at her.

“What a beautiful baby,” she says, pausing from scanning with a jar of mashed carrots in her hand.

Joon smiles in response, a trickle of drool escaping his lips.

“And what a beautiful family,” she continues, looking back and forth between you and Minho. “It’s not easy being young parents, but I can tell the two of you are doing a fine job at it.”

“Oh,” you say, chuckling lightly. “We’re not-”

“Thank you,” Minho interrupts, placing an arm around your waist and pulling you a little closer to him.

“We don’t get told that very often.”

You almost freeze at the contact, butterflies erupting in your stomach as he keeps his hand on the small of your back. This woman thinks the two of you are a couple- and worse, Minho is playing along with it. You can’t figure out why he’d entertain such a blatant lie, but you don’t interrupt him either, curious to see where he’s taking this little bit.

“People can be so unfair,” the cashier replies, shaking her head. “As long as the child is cared for, your status shouldn’t matter.”

“Exactly,” Minho replies, throwing his hand in the air like she’s making a point that pertains to him. “You know, when we got married, everyone told us it would never work. And now look at us- our child just turned 1 and we’re already making plans for a second honeymoon.”

“That’s amazing!” The woman says, clasping her hand over her heart like she’s touched by the bogus story.

“It is, isn’t it honey?” Minho says, turning to you.

Thoughts swirl your mind about this performance he’s putting on, but you’re undoubtedly entertained by the whole thing, stifling laughter as you nod in response.

“It is amazing,” you say finally. “We eloped and had a shotgun wedding- booked it to Italy right after and now we’re thinking of taking the little one to Paris for a real ceremony.”

The older woman removes her glasses now, wiping her eyes and shaking her head in disbelief. You can’t help but feel bad for her, seeing how easily she’s falling for your blatant lies, but Minho shows no remorse, grinning ear to ear and keeping his hand on the small of your back.

“Well I’ll tell you what,” the woman says, putting her glasses back on and shifting her eyes around the store.

“Since you guys just made my day, I’m going to provide you with our senior discount. It’s not everyday I see a young couple so beautiful raising such a darling little child.”

“Oh, you really don’t-” you start to say, and Minho interrupts you before you can finish.

“That would mean the world to us,” he says in an exaggerated voice, giving the cashier a little bow. “It would help us out a ton.”

You want to protest, to slap Minho in his pretty little face and ask what the hell he thinks he’s doing lying for a discount like this, but you’re afraid the cashier will see right through your whole stunt and reprimand both of you. So you just nod and let Minho take the lead again.

“Thank you,” you echo back to her,” holding Joon’s stubby little fingers as the woman types a lengthy code into the computer.

And Minho smiles at you, shooting you a little wink as he gathers boxes of cereal and jars of food in his arms.

“What was that?” You practically yell as you exit the store, balancing Joon in one arm and a bag of groceries in another. “You totally lied to her.”

“I didn’t lie,” Minho says. “I told her a different reality.”

“That is literally what a lie is,” you echo back to him, securing Joon in his car seat and lining grocery bags on the floor. Minho slides into the driver's seat again, putting his keys in the ignition but not yet starting the car as he waits for you to get in, too.

“I mean, that was like a 10% discount,” you continue, huffing frustratedly as you wait for him to speak. “How is that worth telling someone a whole list of lies?”

“You know, there’s this really cool theory called the anthropic principle,” Minho begins, looking straight ahead through the windshield. “Suggests the existence of a multitude of universes.”

“What?”

“So,” he continues. “Philosophically speaking, maybe in one of those we're married, and we have a child, and our honeymoon was in Italy.”

You stay quiet for a moment, pondering his words, completely unsure of if he’s flirting with you or teasing you right now.

“And maybe,” he chimes in again. “In one of them, we robbed the store and killed the cashier. And in another, we don’t even know each other.”

“What are you getting at?” You say, narrowing your eyes in confusion.

“It’s not lying,” Minho says with a smile as he finally starts up the car. “We just told her about a different reality.”

“So it’s lying,” you say with a smile, unable to hold back the giggle that escapes your lips.

“A little,” he finally says. “But it was fun, right?”

And you start to say no, but you can’t get the words out, aware you’ll be lying twice today if you do.

Minho takes your silence as confirmation, a grin plastered on his face as he rests one arm behind your headrest to pull out of the parking lot. And you can’t help but smile, too, the spontaneous thrill of lying to the cashier admittedly being some of the most fun you’ve had all week. And the conclusion stands- Minho’s a little odd. But he’s great company.

*

Mrs. Lee is late again tonight, the second hand on the clock ticking in slow intervals as it nears 10pm. You yawn for the umpteenth time tonight, exhausted from having done so much today, wanting nothing more than to sleep in the comfort of your own bed at home and mentally recharge for another day of this tomorrow. But you’ve promised to wait for her, always eager to wait it out until the last second, because Mrs. Lee always expresses her sincerest gratitude when you wait for her.

“Sorry, she’s really late today,” Minho says as he lowers the volume on the television. You completed a few more chores around the house after dinner while Minho powered through his schoolwork, putting Joon to bed before settling on the sofa and watching old cartoon reruns. Now you’ve been in and out of sleep for the better part of an hour, Minho remaining close by watching infomercials again, peering at your tired figure and feeling guilty that you’ve been here so long.

“It’s okay,” you reply quietly, letting out another yawn. You cross your arms over yourself, still dressed comfortably in Minho’s t-shirt, and do your best to keep your gaze on the television.

Tonight Minho is stuck on an infomercial for artificial plants, the dull narration lulling you to sleep even further as he checks the time on his watch and glances nervously at the front door.

Minho cranes his neck at your figure again, not missing the way gray bags hang heavy below your eyes, your lashes half-lidded as you feign sleep and force your gaze onto the infomercial.

“Don’t you have an early exam tomorrow?” You say to Minho, another yawn escaping your lips as you speak. “Don’t wait up on my account. You should get some sleep.”

Minho shuts off the television, standing up from where he’s sitting and dusting off his pants.

“I’ll take you home,” he announces, fishing around on the table for his car keys.

“It’s okay,” you reply, not wanting to inconvenience him anymore than you already have today. “I can walk to the bus stop.”

“You’re not walking,” Minho retorts, scoffing as you sit up and rub your tired eyes with the back of your hand. “It’s pitch black outside.”

“It’s fine,” you say, gathering your book bag and rushing to put your shoes on. It’s a race between the two of you now, Minho scrambling to locate his car keys while you get ready to leave for the evening.

“It’s really not a problem- where are my keys?” Minho mutters to himself, patting the pockets on his jacket and rearranging stacks of papers on the coffee table.

“I’m fine, really.”

“No, I’ll drive you,” Minho says, still tossing aside the mess he’s made to locate his keys.

“I’ll walk,” you reiterate again, and Minho finally exhales frustratedly.

“Then I’ll walk with you,” he finally announces, ditching the car keys altogether and stopping to look at you. He looks tired, too, evident bags under his eyes and his hair tousled from running his hands through it frustratedly.

“Minho, I really don’t want to burden you-”

“It’s not a burden.”

As he speaks, you hear Joon’s baby monitor alerting you that he’s awake for the evening, wailing loudly when he realizes that he’s alone. It’s perfect timing, too, Minho already having planned to wake him up so he can walk you back.

“Wait here,” Minho says to you as he begins toward the stairs. “I’ll get his harness.”

The dim street lights illuminate the dark paved roads, a crisp chill in the air as you walk alongside Minho with your hands in your pockets.

Joon sits comfortably in his harness against Minho’s chest, curiously taking in the atmosphere around him as you walk in silence to your bus stop. It’s not a long walk, only 20 minutes from Minho’s, but you feel admittedly much safer with Minho by your side, his and Joon’s presence feeling homely even at this hour. For nearly the entirety of the walk, the two of you say nothing, too tired to engage in conversation, but still comfortable in the presence of each other, and not needing to say anything. Joon babbles saliva every now and then, Minho bringing a finger up to wipe his chin, and the only other sounds are that of crickets and the gentle sway of the trees.

“This is me,” you say to Minho when you reach the familiar blue bench of your stop.

You sit on one side of the bench, slinging your book bag over beside you and crossing your legs. And to your surprise, Minho occupies the other side, one hand resting gently on the back of Joon’s head while the other pats his back gently.

“You don’t have to wait,” you tell Minho quickly, and he just shakes his head silently in response.

The silence between you remains, Joon toying with the collar of Minho’s shirt as you wait for the bus. There’s so much you want to ask Minho, so much you still want to find out from him. You’re well aware that you haven’t quite figured him out yet, but you’re undoubtedly sure that he is a nice guy, after all. From lending you his t-shirt, waiting up for you on late nights, even walking you to your bus stop and waiting for the bus with you. You think briefly back to his little joke at the grocery store, smiling to yourself when you remember he’d chosen to pretend you were a married couple for no other reason than to make you laugh after having had such a rough day. And his innate fascination with looking at everything through a philosophical lens, the passion for his favorite subject so robustly present wherever he goes.

“What’s that theory again?” You ask Minho as your thoughts verbalize amidst the silence.

“Hm?”

“The one about the universe.”

“The anthropic principle?” He questions, and you hum in response.

“Yeah, that one. Do you think there are like, a million versions of us right now, just…sitting here?”

“Sure,” Minho replies. “But the conditions would have to be just right.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the theory states that conditions have to be just right for us to coexist in the universe we’re in right now. It’s sort of like a coincidence that this one evolved so that we could thrive in it. So there might be other versions of us, just not as definitive. We might be rocks, or bugs. Or maybe there’s a more advanced version, where we’re still on our honeymoon in Italy.”

“Or the one where we killed that cashier,” you chime in.

“Exactly,” Minho replies, a small smile tugging at his lips.

You ponder his words for a moment.

“Do they all follow the same timeline?” You ask him.

“What do you mean?”

“Do they all last forever? What if we got divorced? Would we part ways in every universe?”

Minho stays quiet for a moment, thinking back to the philosophical theories tucked in the back of his mind.

“I don’t know,” he finally replies. “I’d like to think some versions have a happy ending, but maybe some of them don’t.”

As silence falls over you again, your bus finally turns the corner, making its way down the street toward your stop.

“That’s me,” you say, getting up and gathering your belongings again.

Minho stands up, too, saying nothing as the bus finally halts in front of you, the brakes screeching to a stop with the loud exhaust of the doors as they open.

“Thanks,” you say to Minho before getting on. “For walking me.”

“It’s no problem,” he replies, shooting you a tired smile.

Minho watches as you board the bus, taking your seat toward the back. He scans the aisles momentarily, making sure you’re sat somewhere safe, away from anyone he might deem sketchy at this hour. And when he feels confident you’ll make it home okay, he brings Joon’s hand up in front of him, giving you a little wave as he watches you smile back through the tinted windows, sending him off with a wave back.

*

From then on, things shift between the two of you. Minho is a constant, always offering to walk you home on late nights to engage in discussions about your university work or his favorite theories. When he’s home early from his classes, the two of you enjoy cooking for Joon together, making trips to the grocery store where the cashiers are now fully convinced you’re a married couple. On late nights, the two of you often engage in lighthearted philosophical debates while you wait for Mrs. Lee to get home for the evening. When he’s walking you home for the night, doing homework alongside you or just passing by, Minho indulges you in all his favorite philosophical questions, and you entertain them, using the opportunity to get a better glimpse into his mind and how he thinks.

It’s exactly this that tears down Minho’s walls, you find- he, in all his philosophically-educated glory, sharing his perspective while you poke holes in his arguments and reach a conclusion together. Sometimes you’ll reach a stalemate, the argument fizzling out with no clear answer. And sometimes he can change your mind almost instantly, the arguments leaving his lips like second nature, always quick to persuade you in the opposite direction and provide clear reasoning. He’s very skilled at his work, and you quickly realize why he’s so passionate about philosophy in the first place.

It’s not something Minho’s used to yet- having a companion like this, one who actually cares about anything he has to say. Someone to come home to, somebody to bask in the simplicities of life with and affirm that he’s not completely incapable of making real human connections. And admittedly, maybe he loves playing house with you, coming home to your home-cooked meals and caring for the baby together.

Maybe this version of the universe deems you a babysitter, and he, just an outcast. But sometimes Minho swears he can see different versions where you’re so much more than that to each other.

In late November, you take your first week off, leaving on a small family trip to a city just a few hours out to go see extended family.

You tell Minho of your little excursion the week prior, and he pretends to be disheartened, but you know deep down he must be relieved to have some space to himself again. Of course you’re not able to watch Joon, and Mrs. Lee has a friend watch him in your absence, but you’re surprised at how much you miss the Lee household when you’re not there. The trip to the city is filled with repetitive questions from family about your major, your internship, your potential salary in an entry-level position and general university questions. And yet all you catch yourself thinking about is Joon, and Mrs. Lee and especially Minho.

You wonder what he’s doing in the comfort of his grand room all by himself, surrounded by books and tall windows. Minho once told you that he can go a whole day without talking when he’s not having philosophical debates with you over coffee. You wonder if he’s talked today, or if he attended his classes or how his exam on Tuesday went. Thoughts of him plague your mind every waking second- whether Minho would like a certain food, if Minho would agree with this statement, even what the people around you would think if you dragged him along and played house with him like you do back home. In this version of the universe, maybe he’s reading a book or watching a movie, but in another, he could be right here, telling his string of lies to your extended family.

On the last day of your family vacation, you find yourself in an old bookstore, and all you can think about is Minho. He’d love it here, you think, grazing your fingertips along the old cracked spines and yellowing pages. And as you scan through the philosophy section, several of the books already piquing your interest, you spot it.

The small familiar crimson book, just barely larger than your hand, delicate to the touch and painted with the same Cupid depiction as the one you know so well. A first edition copy of Dorothy Tennov’s Love and Limerence. You can’t help but smile to yourself, scanning the book’s contents briefly before closing it again and bringing it up to the counter. It’s not like you’re trying to worsen this little developing crush you have on Minho, but he seems to be everywhere you go- and candidly, you just want to have him figured out.

*

When you return to the Lee household from your vacation, the atmosphere is calm, sunbeams shining through the large glass windows and illuminating the house with a romantic glow. Joon eats his breakfast well, downing his orange juice and causing you little trouble throughout the day. And Minho arrives just after 3, his backpack slung over his shoulder and a book in hand.

Your heart beats erratically to see him again, trying your best to avert his gaze as he enters through the front door and kicks off his shoes. When he makes his way through the kitchen, you attempt to look busy, wiping down the counters with a kitchen rag and balancing Joon in your arms.

“Hi,” Minho says, a little shyly as you keep your eyesight on the granite counter below you.

“Hey,” you respond, pretending like you hadn’t noticed him enter the room, when in reality, you’ve been well aware of his arrival since he parked his car out front.

“How was your trip?” Minho asks, setting down his backpack and loosening the collar of his sweater.

He’s dressed for the chilly weather outside, a simple black knit sweater paired with blue jeans.

“It was good,” you reply, folding the rag with one hand and setting it aside. “I kinda missed it here.”

Minho smiles at you nervously, toying with the hem of his sweater as he hears you speak.

“It was pretty quiet without you here. I think Joon missed you.”

“Did he?” You question excitedly, poking at Joon with your finger and cooing at him. “Is that right? You missed me?” And Joon giggles excitedly, smiling between the two of you.

When the room falls quiet again, Minho clears his throat like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t, instead keeping his gaze fixed on yours. The room is teeming with awkward tension between the two of you, two hearts clouded in desire to act on this conflicting emotion of fleeting lust and a mutual understanding of each other, but neither one of you say anything, letting it die with your silence and circle your minds aimlessly again.

“I got you something,” you say suddenly, and Minho’s heart quickens a little.

“Me?” He questions, pointing to himself as if you need clarity of who he speaks of.

“Yes, you. It’s in my bag upstairs.”

And you begin your ascent to the staircase, motioning for Minho to follow you as you bring Joon with you.

“Close your eyes,” you tell Minho when you‘ve entered the library again.

“Should I be scared?” He asks, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.

“Close them!” You exclaim, and he finally puts his hands out in front of him, shutting his eyes, a big grin plastered on his face. You place the book in Minho’s palms gently, making sure to position it so that the cover is facing him properly.

“Now open.”

When Minho opens his eyes again, he doesn’t even need to read the words before knowing what it is. He’s immediately familiar with the first edition of Dorothy Tennov’s Love and Limerence he holds in his hands, uniquely characterized by the contrasting art style to his, and the much older, yellowing pages.

“My book,” Minho says, biting his lip as he holds back a bigger smile, one that will most definitely point to the incriminating fact that he’s smitten.

“Your book,” you echo, leaning on the wall across from him. “It’s a first edition. The bookkeeper said they’re pretty rare to come by.”

“You didn’t have to-”

“Don’t worry about it,” you reply, fixing Joon’s hair and averting Minho’s gaze. You’re afraid if you make eye contact with him, this whole nonchalant front will crumble down in front of you, because you’re embarrassingly smitten with him, too.

“Thank you,” Minho says, thumbing the raised gold-foiled cover outline of Cupid. “I’ll go put it with the rest of them.”

And he disappears down the corridor, his book tucked in the endeared clutch of his hands.

While Minho adds his book to the rest of his collection, you put Joon down for his nap, gently placing him on the soft blanket in his crib and adjusting the baby monitor. He blinks up at you a few times, his lips pulling into a shaky smile as his lashes finally flutter shut and a wave of sleepiness washes over him. You exit the room quietly, closing the door just halfway like you always do, and then make your way down the corridor to Minho’s room. The door is left ajar, but you hear him shuffling about, and you enter after giving a gentle knock.

Minho seems startled at this, jumping up from where he’s standing, in front of his bookshelf with Love and Limerence held open in the palms of his hands. He shuts it quickly, shoving it on the top with another stack of books, and then almost shields his bookshelf as he turns to face you.

“I didn't hear you come in,” he says, nervously shifting his eyes to more stacks of books on his window sill and nightstand.

“I put Joon down for his nap,” you reply, cocking an eyebrow as he stands there awkwardly. “Is… everything okay?”

“Yes,” he says quickly, blinking nervously when he sees you peer over his torso at the bookshelf.

“Where’d you put it?”

“Can’t remember,” Minho says, a breathy chuckle emitting from his lips as he tries his best to avoid talking about it. But you catch on- and you’re certainly not going to let him evade the subject.

“What are you hiding?” You finally ask, eyeing him with a small smile. Minho’s face drops a little, sighing once as he steps aside and grants you full visibility of his bookshelf. There’s nothing out of the ordinary- books of all colors and sizes lined neatly on the shelves, some of them left open or bookmarked. A good amount of them appear to be philosophy books, which doesn’t come as a surprise to you.

“It’s just your books,” you say flatly, and Minho scratches the back of his head before he speaks again.

“Love and Limerence isn’t a required read for university.” He says in a low voice.

“Oh,” you reply, unsure of why it should really matter to you.

“None of them are,” he continues. “It’s just my personal… collection. Of romance novels.”

And then you finally understand.

Minho- the stoic, otherwise quiet being, in all his philosophical studiousness and awkwardness, is a sucker for romance. Once the cogs begin turning in your head, they don’t stop, everything about him now making a little more sense to you. Why he stays locked up in his little tower all day reading book after book, why he’s so hopeful when he speaks of the human condition and of love, why he loves taking care of people so much. He’s just a big softie underneath it all.

“There’s nothing weird about that,” you chime in. “In fact, it’s really cool.”

“Yeah right,” he retorts.

“I’m dead serious. I’ve never met someone with so many copies of Thorns and Roses before.”

Minho shakes his head, moving to sit on his bed with his palms tucked under his legs. His gaze remains locked on the floor, an expression of shame still visible on his face. And when you see him exhale deeply, like he’s been nervously holding his breath all this time, you feel bad for him. If there’s anything you’ve learned about him since meeting him, it’s that he’s really a bit of a dork. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him look so vulnerable before.

“Which one’s your favorite?” You ask, skimming your finger along the neat row of spines.

He shrugs. “Pride and Prejudice, maybe. But these days it’s Love and Limerence.”

Minho’s voice is trembling, just above a whisper as he reads off his list of favorite novels to you. And you chuckle softly in reply, pulling the little red book out of its respective home on the shelf and tossing it to him.

“Read me your favorite passage.”

He furrows his brows a little, like he thinks you might be making fun of him. But when you take a seat next to him on the bed, wide-eyed and gesturing to the book in his hands, he realizes you’re genuinely asking him to.

“Go on,” you say, gesturing to the book once more.

Minho opens the book to the middle, flipping through yellowing pages with small font. Most of the pages are littered generously with blue sticky notes, Minho’s messy handwriting annotating all his favorite passages. When he finds the page he’s searching for, he eyes you cautiously, as if waiting for permission to begin reading. And with a deep breath, he begins, his voice shaking a little as he finds his footing.

“Now by these presents let me assure you that you are not only in my heart, but my veins, this morning. I turn from you half abashed--yet you haunt me, and some look, word or touch thrills through my whole frame--yes, at the very moment when I am labouring to think of something, if not somebody else.”

At the last words, his gaze meets yours again, eyelashes trembling as he waits for your reaction. He waits for you to laugh, or to dismiss the words, or leave altogether. But you just stare back at him, your heart beating erratically at the poetry he utters, completely in awe with him.

He feels otherworldly at this distance, this intricate fascination with love and human connection. The way his brown tresses fall loosely in front of his big eyes as he speaks, his plump lips pulling into a nervous smile to reveal the row of skewed teeth you find a home in every time. He’s like the passage reads- thrilling your whole frame, consuming you whole and filling your mind with thoughts of him, and his poetry and his kind demeanor. You find yourself a little closer to him, your eyes darting to his lips and then back to his curious eyes, fantasies of him running rampant in your mind.

And Minho keeps his gaze locked on yours, too, leaning in a little closer to you, the book closing on its own as his hand slips away from holding it open and onto the bed beside you. The implications are there, the atmosphere around you heavy with desire and uncertainty, and just as you wield the courage to bring your lips a little closer to his, you’re promptly interrupted.

“Minho-ah!” A voice calls from downstairs. You quickly clock it as Mrs. Lee’s, who must be home early from work.

“I’m home early!” She calls again, confirming your theory, her footsteps getting louder as she makes her way up the stairs.

You sit up promptly, smoothing down your shirt and standing to bow when Mrs. Lee pokes her head in the doorway. Minho stands up too, making the whole situation look unbearably obvious, and you pray she can’t tell what’s going on between the two of you.

“Y/n,” she says with a warm smile. “I’m sorry I forgot to tell you I would be home a little earlier today. Joon has a doctor’s appointment.”

“No worries at all!” You voice back, bowing again as she smiles. “I was actually going to leave early today. I have a bit of a headache.”

“Oh, do you want a cup of tea?” She asks, heavy concern present in her voice.

“No thanks, I think I just need some sleep.”

You turn to Minho, who’s standing with his hands in his pockets, looking a little disappointed as you give him a small bow.

“Take care,” you say to him, pivoting to head back to the library and gather your things.

Minho hears his mom see you out of the front door, chatting briefly with you about your trip and sending you off with a little wave.

He shuts his bedroom door and locks it, sprawling out on the duvet of his bed and running his hands over the book still beside him.

He’s not sure what happened- whether you were about to kiss him, or whether it was just wishful thinking. But every way he interprets the encounter, Minho swears he can feel your yearning for him, too. Is he crazy to think you might feel the same? Maybe he, too, finds it laboring to think of something- if not, someone else, besides you.

*

Joon is a particularly picky eater in afternoons, making a big fuss of foods he usually devours in the mornings and evenings. He skillfully dodges every spoon, every bite and feigns his interest in even his favorite snacks and desserts. And while you’re usually patient with him, today you’re frustrated, having mentally scolded yourself several times since yesterday’s events.

A part of you wants to ditch all of this, reminding yourself that you’re here to work a job, not lust after the son of the person who hired you. But the other part of you can’t help but imagine how things would be different if you just let yourself fall gracefully into him- he’s so much more than a fleeting thought to you. You want to understand him, having challenged yourself to figuring him out from the moment you came across him. But maybe you want him to understand you, too. You want him to understand that you feel at home whenever he’s around, his philosophical discussions and this game of house you play making you feel like you belong here. You want him to understand that although you know he feels like an outcast, none of his odd quirks matter to you when he’s reading his favorite love stories across from you in the library, catching glimpses of you when he thinks you’re not looking. And that maybe this universe conditioned itself just right so that you took up this job and crossed paths- and that has to mean something bigger.

There’s nothing different about the afternoon following yesterday’s, except for you spending a considerable amount of time on your hair and makeup, the anticipation bubbling inside you at the idea of seeing Minho again. You have no definitive plan, no script of how it’s going to go when he arrives from school. But you also know there’s something in your throat that wants so desperately to get out, and you won’t let it. As Joon toys with the cereal in his bowl, he looks up at you with big, curious eyes, and you wonder what he’s thinking, if anything. He doesn't know anything beyond the simple tasks of eating and sleeping, living with the comfortable knowledge that he’s being cared for. And although it seems much easier, you can’t help but sympathize. What a gift it is to feel- what a gift it is to carry emotions so deeply they eat away at you like this.

You’re infatuated with Minho- that fact stands true. And whether or not it benefits you to do anything about it, you’re determined to do something with all of this feeling, lest it slips through your fingers like he almost did.

You don’t hear Minho come home when he does, busy in the garden tending to Mrs. Lee’s plants when the usual alert of his car pulling into the driveway passes you by. So when he wanders the corridors searching everywhere for you, you don’t take notice.

Minho’s desperate, hoping to ask you to stay just a little bit longer tonight, having also had the epiphany that he’s completely fallen for you, too. And what he hopes to do with it, he’s unsure- but he does know that every romance novel on his shelf would refute the idea of letting this feeling dissipate. Kiss her, tell her, do something. Anything.

He strides down the halls with purpose and vigor, a nervous smile pulling at his face at the thought of seeing you again. It’s all he’s thought about today, having had just two hours of sleep as he sorted out what to say to you. And while he’s not well-versed in the practice of confessing his love, he feels his whole life has been devoted to the very purpose of being here and finding you. The debates you share, midnight walks to the bus stop, the book- he’d be a fool not to reciprocate what you yearn for. And when he doesn’t find you, Minho feels the familiar pit of worry form in his stomach. He’s not accounted for a change of plans, or even what might happen if you reject his admission. He wants to believe so badly that the answer is yes, risking everything just to say something.

20 minutes after he’s been home, Minho receives a phone call, answering in a rush while he checks the upstairs rooms for you.

“Hello?”

“It’s Sujin from class,” the phone at the other end says plainly. “I’m here for our project.”

And Minho freezes, remembering very well that he has a project due very soon, and his partner is here tonight to work on it with him. He sighs heavily into the line at the change in plans, knowing he’ll have to bottle his emotions another day and act on them tomorrow when he can get you alone.

“Oh, right,” Minho responds, making his way to the stairs and jogging down them. “The door should be unlocked.”

He stuffs his phone in his back pocket, making his way to the door to meet Sujin, and as he passes the sliding door to the backyard, he finally sees you. Knelt on the ground in a white sundress, your hands tainted with soil as you tend to the tomato plants and hum to yourself. Minho smiles at the sight of you, the urge to tell you right now stronger than ever. But before he can call out to you, Sujin’s already made her way inside, peering curiously around the place and clutching her purse in hand.

“Wow,” she says, chuckling lightly. “You didn’t tell me you were rich.”

Minho scratches the back of his head awkwardly as she grazes a marble sculpture with her fingers. His eyes remain on you through the glass door, transfixed by the way you tuck your hair behind your ears and pat your dress as you stand up again. Sujin takes note of Minho’s evident distraction, briefly glancing out the window and back to him.

“Where are we working?” She asks, pursing her lips together.

“We can work upstairs,” Minho explains, as you finally make your way inside.

At first you’re confused at the sight, Minho looming over a girl much prettier than you, her long hair styled neatly over one shoulder and a matching formal two-piece hugging her curves beautifully. And then as you see her begin up the stairs in the direction of Minho’s room, you finally understand.

Of course there’s another woman.

Of course there was a catch to all of this, because why else would things condition themselves so perfectly that you’d win him over?

And suddenly everything feels pointless- confessing to him, feeling any ounce of emotion regarding all of this, even working this job. He has a girlfriend, and she’s much prettier than you are. And he's trailing behind her after giving you a shy nod, likely embarrassed at the fact that you’ll be here tending to his household while he fucks her in his upstairs bedroom.

You can’t help but think that perhaps something got lost in translation, because Minho evidently never liked you, and unless this version of the universe magically conditions to work in your favor just once, it’s going to remain that way.

*

When the tears begin to prick at the corners of your eyes, they don’t stop. You can’t feed Joon without hiccuping through a hot rush of tears that fall from your cheeks onto his tray below him. Joon seems to sense something is wrong, pausing the task of dodging his food to observe the way your face contorts as you wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. And when you do stop to look at him, all you can see is Minho, his eyes and lips resembling exactly that of his elder brother’s.

The chores feel like a futile task now, and you let them sit there for the remainder of the evening you’re working for. In fact, the only thing you do complete is the task of getting Joon to bed when the sun begins to set, marching carefully upstairs to not interrupt Minho’s time with his girlfriend. And the word makes you sick, to think that he’s been stringing you along all while having a girlfriend- a fact he so conveniently left out.

Joon goes down without a fuss, and when he’s finally asleep, you escape the confines of the second story to lock yourself in the downstairs living room and complete your school work. How much of that is spent crying instead, you can’t quite remember.

It’s just after 9 when Sujin leaves for the evening, but you’re not awake to take notice when she does. You wake to the familiar sound of infomercials playing quietly on the television in front of you, Minho sitting on the floor in front of the sofa you occupy. His head hangs as he holds a book in his lap, probably some cheesy romance he projects onto him and his girlfriend, and his thin wireframe glasses rest on the bridge of his nose.

The dull narration on the television advertises jewelry tonight, and you let out a sigh as you feel your swollen eyes adjust to the bright screen in front of you. At this, Minho turns around, giving you a sheepish smile as you try to shut your eyes again. But it’s too late- he’s already seen you awake for the evening.

“Hi,” Minho says for the first time today, bookmarking his page and lowering the volume on the television. “She’s late again today, but I saved you some takeout.”

“I’m not hungry,” you reply quickly, sitting up and reaching for your bag. “In fact, I need to go home.”

“Oh, sure,” Minho replies, a little hurt at your rushed tone. “I can walk you-”

“No need,” you say to him, pulling on your sneakers and doing everything in your power to avert his gaze. He furrows his brows a little, knowing you never reject his offers to walk you home.

“Is everything-”

“Fine. I just need to get home,” you reiterate, finally sitting down and smoothing down your wrinkled dress.

Every part of him is annoying you right now, your mind teeming with the reminder that you’ve been wasting your time trying to know him better while he’s been entertaining a whole girlfriend these past few months.

“Y/n, wait,” Minho calls, still intent on telling you tonight, while the feelings remain stronger than ever. But you’ve already crossed the room to the front door, where you avert his gaze so he won’t see you begin to cry again.

“Bye,” you call to him, not even looking back before you’re turning the knob and seeing yourself out. “Tell Mrs. Lee it was an emergency.”

And he wants to ask if it was, but he can’t, staring at your rushed figure jogging down the street as you distance yourself from him before he can string you along any further.

*

Thus begins the game of avoidance.

It starts through keeping your conversations with Minho as short as possible, not engaging him when he tells you about theories he’s studied this week or what his days on campus were like. When he asks about your day, you give him one-word responses, muttering a simple “fine” before turning your attention to Joon again.

When Minho asks to go to the grocery store, you pretend you have a headache- for three days straight. So he makes the trips solo, balancing bags on one arm and telling you about how the cashiers have begun to ask where his pretend wife’s been. You give him no reaction, nodding as you feed Joon his dinner and glance at the clock for the umpteeth time, desperate to get away from him.

And the mystery woman remains, marching into the Lee household in afternoons like she owns the place, already having memorized the path to Minho’s room as she makes her way up the stairs and doesn’t acknowledge you. She’s beautiful everyday that she’s here, short skirts and long ponytails you can’t seem to look away from. And she’s even more hypnotic when she’s in the presence of Minho, the two of them as a couple certainly a sight for sore eyes. If they were a married couple, you’d reckon they'd be much more distinguished than you and Minho would.

“Do you want a coffee?” Minho peers into the library one night to ask you. You keep your gaze locked on the computer in front of you, trying your best to keep your guard up as he waits for a response.

“No, thank you,” you say coldly, continuing to work on your essay.

When he realizes you’re not going to say anything else, Minho enters the room reluctantly, his hands shoved in his pockets as he leans against the doorframe and gives you a once-over. You say nothing, still, holding back your emotions so as not to cause a scene. And Minho can tell something’s wrong in the way that you shift your eyes to him briefly and shake your head as if scolding yourself for doing so.

“Did I do something?” Minho finally asks, his voice a little shaky.

“No,” you say quickly, skimming the same sentence on your laptop screen over and over again.

“Are you… sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

He fiddles with a loose thread in the pocket of his pants, keeping his gaze on the floor and thinking about your differing behavior toward him the past week.

“We just haven’t talked much. And you never really leave here anymore. I wanted to make sure I didn’t overstep any boundaries-”

“Overstep?” You interrupt, scanning your eyes over the screen of your computer. “There’s nothing to overstep. I get paid to watch your brother, not hang out with you.”

You feel guilty the minute the words leave your mouth, but you feel even worse knowing he’s just been stringing you along with a girlfriend this whole time. The atmosphere feels akin to when you first met him, awkward and cold, and with tensions high like this, you don’t feel at home in the Lee household anymore.

“Sorry,” Minho says, nodding. “You’re right. I guess I’m overstepping by asking.”

You only look up at him when he leaves, his shoulders sagging as he leaves you alone once again- only this time, you have a feeling he’s going to stop making an attempt to rekindle things anymore.

And you’re right- Minho stops trying entirely. There are no more offers to walk you home, no philosophical debates over coffee or grocery store trips where you act as a married couple. You’re still covered in knit blankets when you fall asleep accidentally on the couch, but Minho doesn’t stick around watching his infomercials to wait up for you anymore. And he still saves you his takeout when he orders, but he leaves it neatly packaged for you in the fridge instead of bringing it up to you like he used to.

You’ve gone from a mutual infatuation for each other to complete strangers once again. The house feels lonely and cold like it once did, your only real human interaction occurring in the few minutes you have with Mrs. Lee at the start and end of the day.

Minho doesn’t talk to you at all, locking himself away in his room like he did when you first started caring for Joon. And when you see him in passing at late hours of the night, he looks indifferent, sagging his shoulders as he averts your gaze with a book in hand and disappears down the corridors again. At some point, you begin to see his girlfriend less- in fact, his stoic composure makes you wonder if something’s happened between them. But as time goes on, you start to realize this is less about his girlfriend- and more about you.

What a gift it is to feel- but also what a curse. To let something consume you so entirely you can barely breathe without it. It’s laboring to think of anything else, of anyone else besides Minho and what he means to you. And as you replay your last interaction in your head for the nth time this evening, you think back to the day you started here. You knew the fundamentals of caring for a baby, having trained just enough to land a job doing it. All you wanted was to be liked by Mrs. Lee, and by baby Joon- and by extension, Minho. This household quickly became someplace you felt like you actually belonged in. But your purpose here has completely diverted from its original path, having prioritized Minho’s complexities and his feelings toward you above what you were hired here to do. You’ve experienced a roller coaster of emotions trying to understand him, and just when you thought you’d cracked him, you realized his heart belongs to someone else. So with the comfortable knowledge in mind that perhaps the universe isn’t, in fact, conditioned for you to mean anything more to him than just a babysitter, you understand it’s time to stop forcing any other version of it.

*

There’s nothing particularly out of the ordinary two weeks into your avoidance of Minho.

You still haven’t talked, he still keeps his distance and you get paid to perform the job you’re here to do. But one afternoon before Minho’s even home from school, Joon refuses to eat. It starts with a tantrum he throws at breakfast time, which you consider typical as he knocks his cereal onto the floor and waves his hands around restlessly. You can only spoon feed him a couple spoons of yogurt before he’s put down for his afternoon nap. And when you wake him for his post-nap meal, he’s just as fussy. He seems to be bothered by something, crying loudly as you offer him different snacks and try your best to calm him down. But nothing seems to work, and when he begins refusing his bottles late into the afternoon, you start to panic.

Mrs. Lee isn’t home for a few hours, you’re unsure of when Minho gets home and you don’t have any way of getting to a hospital right now. The guilt and the fear eat away at you as Joon cries loudly, his face turning a bright shade of red as snot dribbles from his nose onto his shirt. He must be hungry, and clearly uncomfortable by something, only you’re entirely unsure what. His pacifier doesn’t calm him, nor does his favorite stuffed animal or his favorite television program. When his crying reaches the 10-minute mark, you feel hopeless, well prepared to drag him onto the bus to the nearest hospital yourself, fully convinced you’re going to lose your job. And as you begin to cry, too, the front door opens, Minho walking in with his backpack clutched casually in one hand and his car keys in the other. His girlfriend is with him this time, her head hanging as she uses her phone, completely oblivious to the atmosphere around her.

“Minho,” you call helplessly from the kitchen, and his head snaps instantly to look at you. Your eyes are nearly bloodshot from crying, your sleeves drenched in tears from wiping your eyes and your voice shaky as you speak. It’s the first time you’ve said his name in weeks, you realize, feeling your heart race as you call for him.

“What happened?” Minho asks when he turns the corner, throwing off his backpack and approaching a very fussy Joon.

“He won’t eat,” you reply through hiccups, wiping your tears with the sleeve of your sweater again. “I’ve tried everything. He won’t stop crying.”

Minho takes Joon in his arms, rocking him gently back and forth, to no avail; Joon starts crying even harder now, dribbling snot onto Minho’s sweatshirt and hitting his chest repeatedly.

“I’ll have to take him to the clinic,” Minho says in a rushed tone, fishing his car keys out of his pocket and making his way toward the door.

His girlfriend finally turns the corner into the kitchen, putting down her cellphone and huffing frustratedly.

“What’s going on?”

“Sorry,” Minho replies, shoving past her with Joon in his arms. “I have to go. We can work on our project another time.”

Your heart drops at the words- project. Project, as in a project for his university. With a classmate.

You want to cry more now, for being so stupidly angry with him over nothing, but you still have to help Minho take Joon to the clinic. Sujin doesn’t protest, quick to exit without so much as a goodbye as Minho scrambles to fetch Joon’s car seat.

“I’ll get him in the car seat,” you say, pulling your sneakers on as he balances Joon in his arms.

“You’re coming?”

“Of course I’m coming,” you scoff, already taking Joon from his arms and ushering him outside. “Go start the car.”

*

“Lee?” A nurse calls, holding a clipboard close to her chest as she scans the waiting room.

You and Minho both stand up, Minho balancing Joon in his arms as the nurse gestures you to the door.

“Please, follow me.”

Both of you walk side-by-side down the corridor as she double-checks papers on her clipboard, making a sharp right and leading you into a private room.

Minho sets Joon down on the examination table, holding his arms to steady him, and you stand beside him as you wait for the doctor.

“She’s just reviewing the results,” the nurse says, referring to the x-rays Joon took earlier. “She’ll be in shortly to discuss them.”

Minho nods silently as the nurse leaves the room, leaving the two of you alone once again. You say nothing, unsure of how to break the awkward silence as Minho wipes a string of drool from Joon’s mouth and avoids eye contact with you.

You feel awkward, embarrassed and so, so stupid, for having treated Minho like absolute scum because you assumed the worst of him. It breaks you to see him avert your gaze like this, treating you the same way he did when you first crossed paths. He has his guard completely up again, and you’re not sure he’s ever going to let it down around you. As you lose yourself in doubtful thoughts, the door opens, Joon’s doctor sauntering inside and wiping her hands with the strong scent of hand sanitizer.

“Hi there,” she says cheerfully, giving you both a warm smile. “Are we here for baby Joon today?”

“Yes,” you both say in unison, and she laughs a little.

“You two are very synced. They say it happens in the first year of marriage.”

“We’re not married,” Minho chimes in quickly, and you turn to look at him, feeling a pit in your stomach all over again.

“No?” She questions. “My apologies. Is mom here today?”

“I’m just his babysitter,” you say quietly. “This is his brother.”

“I see,” the doctor says, eyeing you both. “Well you may notice I’m fairly calm, and that’s because there’s no terrible news I have to share. Baby Joon is just suffering from a little mucus buildup. He’s probably feeling the impaction, and the discomfort has caused a loss of appetite.”

You feel a weight off your shoulders instantly, relieved that this isn’t a more serious matter. He’s going to be fine, you think to yourself. He’s going to be his normal self as soon as this is over.

“… Just be sure to use a syringe to drain the mucus a couple times per day, and make sure he gets plenty of sleep.”

As the doctor writes Joon a prescription for his saline syringe, you catch Minho’s gaze briefly, shooting him a relieved look. He gives you a small nod in response, as if to say he’s glad you came along. And he is, he just can’t say it out loud.

*

“I think he’s finally sleeping,” Minho says, patting Joon’s back gently as he stands up from his chair. The two of you have been sat in the library for nearly two hours since getting back home, in complete silence as you read your books and wait for Joon to fall asleep. You take breaks every now and then to drain Joon’s mucus, alternating roles between holding his face still and using the syringe on him. And when he’s finally comfortable again, he dozes back off to sleep, little snores escaping his lips.

Minho leaves the room to put Joon to bed, and while he’s gone, you take the opportunity to pack your stuff and prepare to leave for the night. You feel guilty, not having said much to Minho this evening, especially with the newfound knowledge that this mystery woman was just a partner for his project. But you’re not sure what to say, well aware that he’s probably already decided you hate him, and there’s not much else you can do to fix things.

“He’s down,” Minho says as he re-enters the library.

“That’s good,” you reply with a solemn smile, packing your laptop in your bag and slinging it over your shoulder.

“I should get going.”

“Do you… need me to walk you?” Minho asks a little shyly, and although the offer is tempting, you shake your head no.

“I’ll be fine. It’s really not as unsafe as you’d think.”

Minho just nods, understanding that you still don’t want to be close to him. And he gives you a little bow, before he exits the room and makes his way up the stairs to his own.

As you begin to leave, an object left on the chair across from you catches your eye.

It’s Minho’s book- the first edition copy of Love and Limerence you gifted him. You take the small book in your hands, scanning its contents briefly and examining the pages. He’s already annotated several of them, despite having read the book numerous times now, and you can’t help but smile at his scribbled notes circling all his favorite quotes and underlining them twice. You know it’s valuable to him, despite coming from somebody he probably despises right now, but you decide to take it up to him anyway, not wanting him to lose it.

When you’re outside his door, you give a small knock as it’s left ajar, and Minho hums in response.

You enter quietly, holding the book out to him and shooting him a small smile.

“You left this downstairs,” you say, and Minho reaches for it quickly, embarrassed you might’ve seen some of his annotations.

“Thanks,” he replies, setting it back on his bookshelf of romance novels.

He takes a seat on the edge of his bed, patting the spot next to him, and you join him at a comfortable distance as he keeps his gaze on the hardwood floor.

For a moment, no one says anything. And then he sighs deeply, before finally speaking.

“I’m sorry. If I made you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” you’re quick to reply.

“I clearly did,” Minho retorts. “And I know I’m quiet, and I kind of shut myself off from the rest of the world. But I never meant for it to affect you.”

“It didn’t affect me,” you reiterate.

He scoffs lightly in response.

“Why won’t you just say it? You haven’t talked to me in weeks. You don’t even look at me. I clearly did something to push you away.”

You don’t reply immediately, pondering what to say. And ultimately, you let your emotions speak for themselves.

“I was jealous.”

“Of what?”

“Of the girl. The one who’s been here almost every night.”

“Sujin?”

“Look, I don’t know, okay? I don’t know who she is or what she is to you-”

“My project partner,” Minho interrupts. “One who hates my guts.”

“Project partner,” you continue. “It doesn’t matter who she is- I like you, Minho,” you finally emphasize, turning to meet his gaze. His lips are parted in shock, his eyebrows furrowed as he hears you speak.

“I’m fucking infatuated with you, and it drives me crazy. I can’t go on vacation without seeing you in the books at the stores, I can’t sleep at night without your stupid theories replaying in my head. And I jump to the worst possible conclusions when you’re even near another girl. I’m going crazy trying to be liked by you- trying to look at everything through the lens of your romance theories or your book quotes, or whatever. But it’s so scary to like someone this much.”

Minho says nothing for a minute, collecting his thoughts as you let go of the breath you’ve been holding. He’s not used to people liking him- let alone being this intrigued by him. And especially when it’s in the form of reciprocation, from the one person he’s infatuated with, too.

“Why is it scary?” Minho questions, facing you now, his eyes darting briefly over your lips and then back up to your worried gaze.

“Because I’m here for a job. I’m not supposed to be feeling all this. You’re not supposed to be part of this.”

“How do you know that?” Minho retorts, leaning in a little closer to you now.

“I just…”

“You’re allowed to feel, y/n. You’re allowed to want this.”

And before you can protest his words, his lips are on yours, kissing you passionately like he’s pacifying the arguments before they can come to fruition. Your heart beats erratically in your chest, your mind racing with a million thoughts about what you’re doing, and what this whole thing even implies, but you shut them out with the rest of your concerns, pressing your thighs together as he brings two hands to your face and cups your chin gently. His lips work against yours so beautifully, so effortlessly, like the two of you have done this several times before. And maybe you have, in all his alternate universe theories- on your honeymoon, on the run from the police- right here in the comfort of his grand bedroom, his hands snaking up to pull off your cardigan as you tug desperately at the fabric of his t-shirt. Minho says nothing between passionate kisses, afraid if he talks you might realize what’s happening and leave. But you won’t leave, especially not when you’ve been dreaming of this, too.

When your cardigan is off, Minho moves a little closer to you on the bed, letting one hand guide itself onto your waist and trace the gentle curve of your body there. He’s delicate with his movements, careful not to startle you with his touches, but he’s also admittedly thought about this for weeks. The thought of you confessing was never something that crossed his mind- he was so sure he’d driven you away after that night. Never in his wildest fantasies had Minho considered the possibility that you were this smitten with him, too. But he did have thoughts of your lips on his, thoughts of your hands intertwined with his and ungodly visions of you under him, right here in his bed. Visions of his mouth on your breasts after you’d accidentally exposed yourself to him in the kitchen and he was forced to give attention to the massive erection that grew in his pants. And after you’d gifted him his favorite book, attentive to the details he’d indulged you in which he never otherwise shared with people, visions of making love to you ran rampant in his mind, filling you up over and over again with remnants of him as a form of saying I’m infatuated with you, too.

Minho’s kisses become needier as your words replay in his head, darting his tongue out to dance against yours with the sounds of exchanging saliva present between your plump, eager lips. He pushes you back gently so that you’re now lying on his pillow, the angle so intimate, the view of his room from here like something you’re not supposed to see. The ceilings appear even larger when you’re flat against his bed, the curtains that drape over his bedpost seemingly miles high.

Minho’s kisses trail down to your neck now, eagerly peppering your flesh in wet kisses as your hands reach up to tangle in his hair, holding him closer to you and letting him graze his lips wherever he desires. You can’t help but feel guilty having him all over you like this when you remember how you’ve treated him these past couple months- criticizing his tendencies to be quiet, intruding on his space and pushing him away because of a girl you’d assumed to be his girlfriend. But you also know most of it has been because you want him to mean more to you- perhaps you’ve just been trying to change things so that in this version of the universe, he’s not just an enigma to you. You want all of this- his lips on yours, his body pressed into you and to give yourself completely to him.

“Just so we’re clear,” Minho says suddenly, pulling away from you to hold eye contact with you. “I’m crazy about you, too. I really like you.”

And you can’t help but smile back in response, pulling him in again to press his lips on yours. He smiles into the kiss, too, satisfied you’re both on the same page. And although your now eager movements imply something more is about to happen, you don’t have to verbalize anything, his fingers snaking up your shirt serving as answer enough.

“Is this okay?” Minho asks, grazing your flesh with his big hands as he toys with the hem of your shirt.

You nod in response, sitting up a little and completing the task of pulling it off over your head and discarding it beside you. You waste no time on your bra, either, reaching around to unclasp it and rid yourself of the fabric without him having to ask. His eyes widen again at the sight, having remembered every curve of your body since that incident in the kitchen. But now in front of him again, he feels his cock swell in his pants, desperate to act on the urge. In nimble movements, his hand cups the mound of your breast, kneading it gently and sighing at the sensation of your soft skin against his. His mouth finds yours again, indulging you in a slow, passionate kiss, and then he trails down until he meets his hand at the mound of your breast, pressing a chaste kiss to your flesh before finally latching his lips around your nipple.

He starts with gentle kisses while your nipple rests between his lips, a string of saliva dribbling down to coat your hardened bud. And then he takes it between his lips with more force, beginning a gentle sucking motion as he gives your other nipple attention with his free hand, circling the tip with his thumb in tender movements.

You sigh beneath him, the sensation sending a shiver up your core, your nipples hardening even more in his touch, now eager for him to give your soaking core some attention. But he takes his time stimulating you, moving to your other breast to take your nipple in his mouth and leave a trail of saliva. Your body shivers when the cool air grazes your wet nipples as he pulls away, and he meets your lips again to kiss you passionately.

While he kisses you, your hands now toy with the hem of his shirt too, signifying for him to take it off. And Minho reciprocates with a little nod, finally pulling his shirt over his head and revealing his bare chest to you. It’s a marvelous sight to see more of his honey-tanned skin, his toned muscles and his broad pectorals practically begging for you to touch them. And just above his stomach, a horizontal pale pink scar, one that he eyes momentarily and then gives you a shy shrug.

You run your fingers along the scar briefly, tracing it in its entirety and bringing your hand up to caress his face.

“I didn’t think I could be any more attracted to you,” you say to him sheepishly, tracing the scar again. “You look like the poetry you’re so obsessed with.”

Minho feels an involuntary smile pulling at his face as he leans in to kiss you again, this time intent on giving himself fully to you the way you deserve.

Your kisses both grow hungrier, needier, as your bodies tangle into each other, and Minho loops a finger into the hem of your panties, tugging them down so that he has access to your sopping cunt. As your hands tangle further into his soft brown hair, his finger traces down the length of your stomach, dipping into every curve and over every inch of flesh he only got a brief sight of. And when he finds your mound, you arch up into him, parting your legs slightly to give him access. Minho doesn’t waste another second, attaching the pads of his fingers to your clit and working you in circular motions as he kisses you. Little gasps escape your mouth as he does, breathing heavily into his kisses and grinding your core closer to him as he quickens his pace, smearing your arousal around your aching clit and circling two fingers around to massage you gently. His cock is now fully erect against his abdomen, prodding into your upper thigh as he trails his kisses down your neck again, but he’s patient, forgiving with his movements, eager to pleasure you first.

As his kisses graze your neck, you tug his boxers over his cock, pulling them down so you’re equal parts undressed. Minho winces a little at the sensation, a bead of precum already dripping down the head of his cock, and you feel yourself clench around nothing at just the sight of him hard for you.

When he takes note of your anticipation, he glances down at his own erection, locking his gaze with yours again as if to confirm again that this is okay. You nod in response, reaching your hands around to loop them behind his neck and pull him a little closer. And then your gaze falls to his cock again, waiting for him to make the next move.

The two of you say nothing as Minho’s hand finds the base of his cock, pumping himself gently before leaning in to kiss you. He lets himself hover closer over you, until his cock is kissing your entrance in the same gentle, wet movements as your lips. You lift your leg up slightly to grant him access, and then in gentle movements as your eyes remain shut, you feel him push his tip inside of you, stretching you out around his girth and causing you to gasp. He’s bigger than you anticipated, even the dripping arousal of your cunt having trouble taking him wholly. But he brings his fingers down to your clit again, massaging you slowly to ease the pain. And it works, your body relaxing around him as he pulls back a little and thrusts in again, this time pushing further until he’s completely bottomed out inside of you. You let out a fervent moan at the sensation, his cock pulsating inside of you as he holds it there, feeling every inch of you clench around him and take him so well now. And then with a gentle kiss to your lips, he begins to move, his hips pulling back slowly to thrust back inside of you.

You feel so full of him, having him exactly as you’d always imagined him- circling your thoughts, hovering over you and finally inside of you, his cock brushing against your cervix so delicately with every thrust. Your labored breaths become one as you pant into each other’s mouths with overwhelming pleasure. Minho steadies himself with one hand on the mattress beside you, quickening his pace a little as he feels his cock twitch inside of you in response to a particularly pornographic moan of yours.

“Fuck,” he breathes, shutting his eyes as he continues to slip in and out of your soaking cunt. “You’re so full of me, aren’t you?”

He brings his lips to your neck again, nibbling the flesh between his teeth and letting it bruise as you moan beneath him.

“I’ve thought about you everyday,” you respond, angling his lips to yours again as he fucks you. “I’ve thought about this so many times.”

“Yeah?” Minho says with a satisfied smile, working circles back onto your clit.

“Yes,” you breathe back, toying with his hair as your arms wrap around his neck. “I wanted you to fuck me like the characters in your romance novels.”

Minho feels his cock twitch again, wincing and slowing his pace so as not to finish just yet.

“I can’t help it,” you whimper underneath him. “I think about you all the time. I think about you fucking me all the time.”

Minho intertwines his hand with yours, pressing it down on your abdomen and letting yourself feel when his bulge fills you up at every thrust, the motion visible beneath your palms.

“Feel that, baby?” He asks between kisses to your drooly lips. “Feel how good I fuck you? Is this what you imagined?”

You gasp at the sensation once you feel it, the bulge of his cock protruding against your palm with every pump inside of you. You nod breathlessly, almost unable to reply to his words now.

“I imagined it, too,” he says, picking up his pace now. “You don’t know how badly I wanted to bend you over the couch and fuck you right there the moment I met you.”

He groans a little as you clench around him and moan in response.

“Minho,” you say breathlessly, not missing the way his cock twitches inside of you once again. “Will you finish inside of me?”

He pauses for a moment, scanning your expression for a sign of whether or not you’re being serious.

“Please,” you beg, as if reading his thoughts. “I’m on birth control. Just want to feel your seed inside of me.”

He shuts his eyes briefly as you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him in a little closer.

“Are you sure it’s okay?” Minho asks, locking his gaze on yours again. “I want to, but I want you to be sure about it.”

“I’m sure,” you say quickly, the last syllable hitching in the back of your throat as he hits a particularly sensitive spot. “Please, just wanna feel you fill me up.”

He thrusts harder into you now, the room teeming with the squelching noises of your pussy taking him so effortlessly.

“You like it when we play house like this, huh?” He says, wrapping a hand gently around your throat. “You like imagining me as your husband, don’t you? Fucking you like we’re married?”

And it doesn’t take you more than a second to think before you’re nodding desperately at his words. You do love it, this sense of belonging when you’re in the Lee household. But you also get aroused at this second life you lead alongside him, caring for the baby like it’s one of yours and being fucked by Minho when no one else is around to hear your lewd moans.

“Yes,” you reply, your response muffled by his grasp on your throat. “You make such a good dad.”

“We’d make such good parents,” he emphasizes, kissing you breathlessly. “What do you say I fuck a baby into you and we find out for real?”

You feel yourself contract around his girth at the words, not having considered it seriously, but turned on at the idea of carrying a child just for him.

“Is that what you want?” Minho asks, nearing his orgasm as he thrusts even faster into you now, panting into your mouth above you.

“Yes,” you reply with a whimper. “Want you to fill me up so bad.”

“Yeah?” He cuts you off, pressing your abdomen harder with his hand. “I’m gonna cum, baby. Want you to feel it.”

Your senses hone in on the feeling of your palm over his bulge, pulsating rhythmically as he nears his orgasm.

“I’m cumming, fuck, I’m gonna finish,” Minho says, shutting his eyes in pleasure as he moves at his fastest pace now, his grip around your throat holding you steady as you lose yourself underneath him. He’s never finished inside someone before, but he has no intention of pulling out now, the conversation of impregnating you sending him over the edge as he reaches the cusp of his release.

You contract around his breathlessly now, eager to take his load, never having taken someone’s either, but desperate for Minho to be your first.

And with a few more harsh thrusts, Minho’s cock twitches once inside of you, finally letting out a generous load of his cum inside of you, the gush of his release filling you up so fully, the warm sensation of his milky white release thrusting deep inside of your pussy as he fucks the rest into you.

He feels his head spin, his eyes shutting instinctively at the sensation as he lets go fully inside of you, no urgency to pull out or stave off his release like he usually has to. And it takes a while before he’s begun to soften again, the knowledge of giving you his cum almost rousing him again and lengthening the period of his release inside of you. Minho already knows he’s going to be addicted to finishing inside of you from here on out- and he doesn’t want it any other way.

The warm feeling is all it takes for you to finish in mere seconds, contracting around him as he fucks you through his orgasm, your release mixing with his and dribbling down the side of your thighs as he begins to slow down. Minho doesn’t pull out immediately, instead caressing your face to gauge your reaction as he softens inside of you.

“Was it okay?” Minho queries, tucking sweaty strands of hair behind your ears and loosening his grasp on your throat.

“It was more than okay,” you say breathlessly, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as he smiles down at you. “I feel so full of you.”

Minho kisses you sweetly, rubbing his thumb along your hand soothingly as he pulls out of you, a string of his cum connecting to you still and dribbling onto the sheets as he rolls over to lay on his side.

For a moment, the two of you say nothing, your chests rising and falling as you catch your breath and ponder the day’s events. It’s not what you expected was going to happen when you saw yourself up to his room again, but it is what you’d hoped would happen eventually. And the atmosphere feels much lighter around you now, completely void of the lingering sexual and emotional tension that’s plagued you for so long.

“Minho?” you say quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Philosophically speaking, how many versions of us do you think are lying next to each other like this, right now?”

Minho thinks over your words for a moment, and then he chuckles lightly.

“Well if the universe was conditioned right, I’d hope for an infinite amount. But considering how long it took us to get here in this version, I’d say just one.”

And he sits up, leaning in for another kiss as two fingers tuck his arousal further into you, holding his release inside of your still-sensitive body.

*

“Have some bacon, honey,” Mrs. Lee says to you as she scrambles to get her things together for the day. “I made a lot, so help yourself.”

“Thanks,” you reply, strapping Joon into his high chair and smoothing down your skirt.

Ever since that evening, you and Minho have been inseparable. The two of you wait until Mrs. Lee is gone for the morning, desperately grabbing at each other and giggling between kisses until Minho has to leave for his classes. And when he returns, it’s much of the same, the two of you helping put Joon down for his afternoon nap before escaping up to his bedroom and making love until Joon wakes again.

Minho is completely and utterly obsessed with you, the same way you are with him, but you both know this game of house you play can’t go on forever. Mostly because you feel the guilt eating away at you day by day, every waking minute you’re tending to your duties as a babysitter or conversing with Mrs. Lee. It’s hard to be in the same room as Minho when she’s around, the urge to just confess even more present when she attempts to facilitate conversation between the two of you and you’re forced to act like he’s still a mystery.

But you have him more figured out than you ever have before, memorizing the freckles on his body like the back of your hand, reciting his favorite quotes like prayers and replaying the melodic giggles that escape his lips. You don’t want to be apart from him, but the point still stands- it’s scary to like someone this much. He consumes you more than he ever has before, filling every waking second of your life with remnants of him. You love when he reads romantic philosophical theories to you, or when he cooks you and Joon dinner after a long day. But you feel guilty when you’re alone with Joon again, hoping he can’t somehow tell that you’re only thinking of his brother when you’re preparing his bottles or feeding him. You hope Mrs. Lee doesn’t notice when your hair is a little too tousled to have just been from a nap, or the time you had to cross your legs to keep Minho’s release inside of you when the two of you had finished just in time for her to make it home. It’s selfish, and it’s unfair. And with no sign of this fling stopping anytime soon, you don’t see any other option to be fit.

“I’m leaving,” Mrs. Lee finally says, grabbing her car keys off the kitchen table and pulling her heels on. “Make sure to get Joon his medicine!”

The two of you watch as she shuts the front door behind her, and then you wait until her car starts, holding your breath as she pulls out of the driveway and begins down the street in what feels like an agonizing amount of time.

The minute she’s gone, Minho turns to you again, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you lean back against the counter.

“Morning,” he says with a shy smile. He wastes no time leaning in for a romantic kiss, which you reciprocate, wrapping your arms around his neck and smiling into him.

When he pulls away, the two of you say nothing, holding each other in a comfortable embrace as he rubs little circles into the small of your back.

“I guess it’s just mom and dad home right now,” he says, pressing a chaste kiss to your neck. “I’ll ditch class right now if you want me to fill you up again.”

And his offer is tempting as he presses his erection into you, working more kisses down the nape of your neck and trailing his hands up your skirt.

“No,” you finally say, pushing him away and collecting your thoughts. “You need to get to class. I have a lot of stuff to do. I’m working, in case you forgot.”

“Okay, okay,” Minho says, holding his hands up in surrender. “I digress.”

He pulls back to caress your face with a visible smirk as your eyes graze his thighs, so beautifully sculpted under the fabric of his jeans. You’re not sure you’ve ever been so sinfully tempted by somebody before, like Eve to the apple, like a moth to a flame- he’s intoxicating, but you know you shouldn’t be indulging this while you’re here to fulfill your role as a babysitter.

“You should go,” you say to him, swallowing nervously as his hands trace the outline of your lips.

“Yeah,” Minho replies, a hint of disappointment present in his voice.

And without another word, he gathers his car keys off the table, sending you off with a little wave as he disappears for the day.

You may have Minho mostly figured out now- his fascination with romance and philosophy, his soft interior under the stoic exterior he presents everyone else with, his astounding levels of emotional intelligence and unwavering kindness for the people he loves. But now that things have become a little more complicated between the two of you, you fear all of this will come to an end as fortuitously as it all began.

The reality is, this isn’t one of Minho’s romance novels- you’re both real people, with emotions and convictions and reservations. And though you want this fleeting thing to last forever, you’re well aware that things don’t work that way, especially when you’re just a babysitter at the end of it all. Sure, Minho sees you as much more than that- but you were hired to be here in the Lee household, paid to fulfill your role here, and once this comes to an end, your relationship with Minho likely will, too.

… and thus, the decision to quit your job isn’t one you take lightly. It succeeds hours of thinking, weighing your options and planning out exactly what you’re going to tell Mrs. Lee when she asks why you’re leaving so suddenly. You want to do another internship, you decide on telling her, hoping she doesn’t poke enough holes to get the truth out of you- “I think far too much about your eldest son and it’s eating me alive.”

*

All day long, you try your best to shut Minho out of your thoughts, focusing on your online courses and caring for Joon like you used to. But it feels futile, this task of pretending things are the way they used to be. They’re not- you’re sneaking behind Mrs. Lee’s back and hooking up with her eldest son. When all’s said and done, you’ll be right back in your own home, with your parents desperate to send you elsewhere once again, and your own life to tend to. This double life you romanticize isn’t real, nor is it attainable anymore.

Your phone call with Mrs. Lee to announce your decision doesn’t set anything in stone yet, her words urging you to speak with her later this week when she has some free time. But you know once you do speak with her, you’ll only have a few evenings left with Minho until this is all over. And you don’t have the heart to tell him just yet, but if things go anything the way they did when you first brought it up to him, you know he’s going to be heartbroken.

When Minho arrives home that evening, he can already sense something is wrong. You’re sat in the garden, where you typically don’t go, your legs crossed neatly over one of the sunlounger chairs as you let your thoughts consume you. Mrs. Lee’s koi fish fountain stands nobly in front of you, a robust stream of water trickling from its lips and into the concrete bowl below. You’re mesmerized by it as you always are, the steady sound of water coupled with the birds chirping in the sunny greenery around you as peaceful as ever.

“Hey,” Minho says, sliding open the screen door and stepping outside to meet you.

“Hi,” you reply, holding a hand up over you to shield your eyes from the sun. You’d forgotten how divine he looked today, his white button up now folded up at the sleeves and exposing his veiny forearms to you.

“How was your day?” Minho asks, pressing a small kiss to your temple as he occupies the spot beside you and stares at the fountain.

“Okay,” you respond, though you’re lying through your teeth. “Joon went down about an hour ago.”

Minho nods, and then he furrows his brows together as he speaks again.

“Why are you out here?”

You shrug in response, keeping short with your words as he pushes you for answers. And you want to tell him it’s because you made the most painful decision to call Mrs. Lee and forfeit all of this, but you know it’ll only hurt more, so you divert from the truth.

“It was stuffy inside,” you voice back, shooting him a small smile.

Minho seems to relax beside you, his shoulders sagging a little as he takes notice of your calm demeanor. He doesn’t have reason to believe anything’s wrong, judging by the way you converse so casually.

“You want me to cook you something?” Minho asks, placing his palm up next to you, and you let your hand intertwine with his.

“Will you read to me?” You ask, eager to indulge in your favorite activity alongside him.

“I can read to you,” Minho echoes back, pressing a chaste kiss to the back of your hand. “Which book?”

You’re both in the cozy atmosphere of the library later that evening, Minho sat on his favorite velvet armchair as you occupy a spot in his lap with his arms wrapped around you. The book is positioned in front of him so you can both see, his fingers holding open the thin pages as the poetry leaves his lips, pausing in between lines to press kisses to the crook of your neck when he’s reminded of you in his favorite characters.

And you hold back tears in the moment, wanting so badly to tell Minho that you’ll be letting go of all of this, running back to the monotony of your old life, one where Minho doesn’t exist and you don’t have to balance the complicated feelings of liking someone to this degree. But you bite back your words, careful not to ruin the intimate moment you share while he loves you in an ignorant state of bliss.

“The pleasures of love are always in proportion to the fear,” Minho begins a new chapter, grazing your neck with his lips.

He trails a bit lower to graze your shoulder now, pressing a small trail of kisses as he pauses his reading. You giggle softly in response, feeling his fingers find the strap of your tank top to pull it down your shoulder so he can pepper kisses there, too.

“Minho,” you say softly, writhing in his embrace as he tickles every inch of your skin with his kisses, now shutting the book and setting it on the arm of the chair.

“Can’t help it,” Minho responds, shutting his eyes as he snakes his hands up the back of your tank top. “You look so beautiful right now.”

As you adjust in his lap, you can feel he’s now rock-hard in his jeans below you, his thighs flexing underneath you as he wraps two hands around your waist and runs them up and down your sides. You take the hint, turning around in his lap to face him, and let your arms wrap around his neck to steady yourself.

“What are you thinking about?” Minho asks, bringing his lips to yours as he feels his hardened cock graze against the fabric of his jeans, eager to pleasure you.

You want to express your fears, your doubts, to tell him the truth about what you spoke about on the phone with Mrs. Lee earlier today. But you can’t, not when he looks so tantalizing in front of you like this, his bulge perfectly outlined in his tight jeans and his veiny arms flexing below the fabric of his collared button-up. You’ve been roused for him since he left in the morning, his offer swirling your mind coupled with his appearance, like something out of a wet dream.

“You,” you voice back, whimpering pathetically into another kiss and rocking your hips gently over him so that he’s practically whimpering for you, too.

Neither of you have to say much, knowing already where the evening is headed, as you unzip his pants and palm his erection through the fabric of his boxers. Minho watches as you slide off his lap, dropping to your knees in front of him and tugging the fabric of his jeans. He complies with your urges, pulling them down to his knees and freeing his erection from his boxers, exhaling deeply as the cool breeze of the room grazes his leaking tip.

Without a second to waste, you take him in your mouth, letting your saliva coat his shaft as you kiss his tip tenderly and then guide him down your throat, the base of his cock just barely meeting your lips as you struggle to take him fully. Minho groans at the contact, bucking his hips off the chair to guide himself further into you, feeling his cock twitch when you gag a little at the contact. You stay like that for a good while, bobbing your head in rhythmic motions up and down his hardened length, your saliva allowing you to graze his shaft with ease.

Minho’s thighs contract desperately below him, trying his best to stave off the orgasm he’s been longing for since the moment he saw you this morning. His hands find your hair, pulling your locks into a makeshift ponytail and gasping as you take him a bit deeper now, pulling back again to pepper the tip of his wettened cock in drooly kisses.

“Fuck,” Minho breathes out, clutching the arm of the chair so desperately. “Baby, stop, I don’t want to finish yet,”

And you release him with a gentle pop, knowing exactly what it is he wants so badly. You never deny it, sitting back up again to position yourself over his cock you intertwine his hands with yours. He uses one hand to tug your panties to the side, and then in one swift motion, you guide his cock inside of you, sliding down the slick of his length and bottoming out with ease. You take him so well now, always able to adjust to his girth instantly as your cunt is always dripping in anticipation when he’s near.

Minho’s hand moves to push your tank top up, taking a nipple in his mouth and sucking harshly as you begin to bounce on him with gentle movements. The room fills with sounds of panting, sucking and desperate moans as his cock fills you fully with every thrust, brushing against your cervix as he moves to your other nipple and kneads your breast desperately.

“What was that quote again?” You ask in labored breaths as he comes back up to kiss your lips.

“The pleasures of love,” he begins, breathlessly working his lips against yours as you clench around his length. “Are always in proportion to the fear.”

Minho feels his cock twitch inside of you, always nearing his finish much faster when you make him recite all his favorite quotes and book excerpts to you.

Except this one speaks much louder to you, directly aligning with your present-day emotions, circling your mind relentlessly as he fills you. Maybe this is what his book speaks of- the pleasures of love, being filled so fully and lovingly by Minho, two pieces of one whole like you’re both made for this, to make love into the late hours of the night while he recites poetry to you.

And all of this in proportion to the fear- this constant fear that he’s just a fleeting entity, that you’re both naive to play house like this and pretend it’s anything more. The fear present while you’re sneaking behind Mrs. Lee’s back, letting him fuck you like he’s married to you and indulge you in all of his deepest secrets, as though you’re the only one allowed to know him this intimately.

The love and fear and indeed in proportion to one another- you love him as much as you’re afraid of loving him.

“I love you,” you say suddenly, bringing him in for another kiss before he can respond. But the way his kisses work against yours, hungry and passionate, there’s not a hint of reluctance in his response when he pulls away to speak again.

“I love you,” Minho breathes back, working his kisses against yours as his cock pulsates inside of you, desperate for release. “And I hope every version of the universe is conditioned for us to be right here.”

You smile into him, slowing your movements as you feel him contract inside of you, and then his thighs flex as he finally finishes inside of you, shooting hot white ropes of his cum into your still-clenching cunt, his release already beginning to dribble back down his length as he feels you slow down over him.

You bring a hand between the two of you, gathering his cum on the pads of your fingers to circle your clit in gentle movements, stimulating yourself to your release, too, as you contract desperately around him and breathe labored kisses back into his mouth. Your juices mix with his as you catch your breath, keeping him inside of you as your chest rises and falls with gentle movements. But the two of you say nothing, pressing your lips together to indulge in more passionate kisses for the few minutes you have left before Mrs. Lee makes it home for the evening.

*

The garden is particularly beautiful the next afternoon, teeming with the sounds of birds chirping and trees swaying in the gentle autumn breeze. Mrs. Lee let you know she’d be home a little earlier to have a chat about your decision to leave, and when Joon is put down for his afternoon nap, you receive the call that she’s in the garden waiting for you. You enter hesitantly, worried Minho might catch you and question what you’re doing out here. But he’s not home from school yet, you remind yourself, glancing around the tall grass and neat rows of potted plants for Mrs. Lee.

“Y/n!” A voice calls from one of the patio chairs. “Come, sit!”

Mrs. Lee sits with her back facing you, a large white sun hat atop her neatly styled hair and complementing her matching white jumpsuit. Her gaze remains locked on the koi fountain you’re always transfixed by, too.

“Hi Mrs. Lee,” you say, giving her a small bow as you take the seat next to her. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

She nods with a smile. “So good to see you when we have a little more time. I’m sorry I’m always such a mess in the mornings.”

You shake your head quickly, brushing off her words. “Not at all! It’s always nice to greet the family before I start my day.”

She just smiles in response, turning to nod at you, and then she turns back to the fountain.

“I was a little surprised when you called the other day. I hope things are going okay.”

“They are,” you interrupt quickly. “They absolutely are. Joon is so pleasant, and the job is great. I really love it here.”

“I hope everything at home is okay,” she moves on to say, and you quickly reassure her.

“Yes, everything is fine! Everyone is doing great.”

“I understand,” Mrs. Lee says, eyeing the ground before turning to face you now. “You’ve done so much for us, I’d be lying if I said I’m not going to miss having you around here in the mornings.”

You shoot her a sympathetic look, feeling a pit form in your stomach, too. You feel the same, probably tenfold, at the idea of leaving behind the household you’ve called home for so many days.

“I’m going to miss it here, too.”

“And I know Joon is going to be heartbroken,” Mrs. Lee says with a chuckle.

You chuckle too, giving her an understanding nod.

She pauses briefly, furrowing her brows together, before continuing her speech.

“You’re such a bright young woman, and I know you’re destined to do amazing things. If there’s a way I can help in this transition, please don’t hesitate to let me know, okay?”

You nod at her words, and watch as she smooths down her top before standing up. She seems to wait for a moment, as if hoping for you to say something, and when you don’t, she begins to make her way back inside.

“Well, I’ll let you go for the evening. Thank you again, for everything. And you have my phone number if-”

“Mrs. Lee?” You call out suddenly, catching her before she can get much further. She turns around at the worry present in your voice, her face shifting into that of concern.

Without having to voice anything else, Mrs. Lee sits down again, waiting for you to continue. But you can’t, your heart beating wildly in your chest at the thought of even bringing up the topic of Minho. I’m in love with your son, you want to say to her. I’m so in love with Minho and I hope you understand I don’t have a choice but to leave this all behind me.

“You know,” Mrs. Lee interrupts your thoughts, breaking the silence that fills the air. “This koi fountain was my first gift from Mr. Lee.”

You nod at her, remembering when she introduced it to you on your first day here.

“We weren’t married yet. It was his first restoration project, and my dad hated him. So he had a lot of trouble getting it over to me.”

You chuckle lightly, amused at her story which seems to calm you down a little.

“Luckily his parents adored me,” she continues. “And they offered to house it in their backyard until we married. For the 15 years we dated, my koi fish lived in their garden. And when we did marry, they rented a big truck to help haul it over. It was such a project! But it’s my favorite part of the garden.”

You shoot her a saccharine smile, well endeared at the way she speaks of Mr. Lee. You can tell she’s in love with him, even this many years later.

“Sometimes I wondered why they would do something so nice for me. But as I grew closer to them, I learned not to question what was meant for me. They loved me, as did Mr. Lee. And I wasn’t going to run from any of that, no matter what I felt I deserved.”

Your head snaps in her direction at her last words, realizing how they apply to you. But she doesn’t know about Minho- at least not to your knowledge, or Minho’s. She gives you a sheepish smile as you furrow your brows, and then she takes your hand in hers, giving it a little squeeze.

“I hope you won't run from what you deserve, either.”

You nod a little bit at her words, finally understanding the weight of them, and then you look back at her with a confused expression.

“Mrs. Lee, are you talking about…”

“Minho?” She finally says, with a warm smile. She takes your other hand in hers, too, tilting her face to yours so that she’s making proper eye contact as she speaks.

“I had wondered why he was so happy these days. Minho’s always been a bit of an outcast. But I haven’t seen this spark in him since he started his obsession with all those romance novels and philosophy studies of his.”

You chuckle lightly, a weight off your shoulders as she finally speaks of what circles your mind so heavily.

“But how did you…”

“I knew it when I saw it,” she says. “I knew it, because he had the same look in his eyes as when I met his father.”

You feel your heart swell in your chest, your shoulders relaxing as she continues to speak.

“He speaks of you like poetry,” she tells you. “And for that alone, I’m thankful for you. Now what you choose to do is your decision- but I hope you know you will always have a home here with us. Not just as a babysitter, but as family.”

When Mrs. Lee finishes her speech, she gives your hands a little squeeze, smiling at you and back at the koi fish fountain. It feels much more sentimental to you even now, the beautiful waterfall that cascades serving as a reminder of its permanent restoration rooted in the infatuation Mr. Lee had for Mrs. Lee. And watching it stand so beautifully like it did all those years ago, you’re reminded that love can be a lasting thing, no matter the circumstances. The universe can condition itself to make things last, affirming the philosophical notions Minho’s always told you. And that perhaps you do deserve this, a sense of belonging here in the Lee household, right here alongside Mrs. Lee and Minho, and even baby Joon.

As you watch the fountain together, the sound of the sliding door makes itself known behind you, and you turn around to find Minho entering the garden, baby Joon sitting comfortably in his arms as he makes his way over.

“Hi,” Minho says, coming around to give Mrs. Lee a kiss on her cheek. “What’s going on here?”

He looks visibly worried, his eyes darting back and forth between you and Mrs. Lee, as if to silently ask you what she’s told you.

But Mrs. Lee just smiles at him, as she gets up from where she’s sitting and smooths down her jumpsuit.

“We were just having a girl chat. I’ll leave you two alone.”

And she disappears behind the screen door again, shooting you a little wink as she does, her anecdote circling your mind, still.

“What happened?” Minho asks, settling down next to you and balancing baby Joon on his knee. Joon fists at the fabric of his shirt, babbling incoherently as you smile down at him.

“Nothing,” you say, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his lips. You refrain from saying anything about leaving, not wanting to interrupt the tender moment you share with Minho and Joon in the sunlight of the garden.

“You have a really cool mom,” you settle on saying, smiling at Minho as he chuckles softly in response.

*

The afternoon sun beams through the glass windows of the library as you lie comfortably in Minho’s lap, his book positioned in front of you as he presses a small kiss to the back of your hand before turning the page.

Outside, the birds chirp songs of early spring, the steady stream of Mrs. Lee’s koi fountain audible as you peer down at the garden.

Mr. and Mrs. Lee sit in the tall grass, fiddling with a box of tools as Mr. Lee repairs a new project for Mrs. Lee. This one’s a much larger fountain, one he’d told you would take several months, perhaps even years. But Mrs. Lee sits beside him, relishing in stories of his restoration process and laughing with him as he works. You can’t help but smile at the sight, her stories about him playing in your mind whenever you catch a glimpse of them together.

“Do you think they could be us in another universe?” You ask Minho, turning to face him as he peers out the window, too.

“I hope so,” he says with a smile.

You settle closer to him in his lap, pressing a small kiss to his hand as he continues reading.

“And think not that you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.”

At his words, you hear baby Joon cry out, having woken from his afternoon nap.

“I’ll get him,” Minho says, shutting the book and setting it aside to go tend to the baby.

And as you peer back out the window, the sound of Mr. and Mrs. Lee’s laughter filling your ears, baby Joon’s voice calling to you, Minho’s philosophy book perched on the chair beside you and the sun beams shining their light through the windows, you know that this is belonging, this is love.

In my dreams

Seungmin x reader. (fake) enemies to lovers. my interpretation of in my dreams by tearliner, love X stereo.

Seungmin has never liked you. You never understood why, but you were slowly coming to terms with it. However, you gradually come to learn that there is more to his feelings than what meets the eye.

skz song series

cw: reader has anxiety and deals with lots of self-doubt and insecurities.

a.n: the end of our skz song series!! and a pretty personal final fic, this one is based on my own experience with anxiety, so it might differ for everyone :) thank you for reading as always <3

You watch, a soft smile on your face as two little girls play with one another in the playground. It reminds you of simpler times, when you could just walk up to another human and become friends with them instantly.

But reality is much more challenging, especially for someone like you, constantly plagued by their anxious thoughts.

Anxiety didn't tiptoe into your life, one drop at a time so you'd get accustomed to its overwhelming presence. Instead, you woke up one day and it barged into you, through cracks and dents you didn't even know existed in your being, and then it made itself a permanent home within the confines of your heart.

You never truly learned how to live with this parasite feeding off your soul, draining you completely until you became a mere shell of who you once were. You never fully adjusted to the invisible hands choking you from within, to the voice nagging you in the back of your mind, telling you that something horrible was bound to happen.

Because nothing ever went wrong, day after day, nothing bad happened. And yet, the feeling of dread persisted and lingered until you started to believe that the problem was you.

And once you opened the door to self-doubt, you could never fully close it again.

You're too overwhelmed, too nervous, too much of everything bad. Your conversations are scrutinized, down to every syllable you uttered, to the way you smiled and how you laughed. The interactions might differ but the regret that haunts you after is the same.

So, you diluted your being, in an effort to be more acceptable, easier in the lives of the people around you. You believed that if you pleased everyone you ever encoutered then at the end you must satisfy yourself too.

You sigh softly, drumming your fingers along your knee. You’re starting a new year in college tomorrow. Your first one wasn't exceptional by any means. Aileen, the girl who sat beside you from time to time was nice, and you grabbed coffee sometimes as you prepared for your exams together. But she had other friends, ones she's much closer to, ones she invited to her birthday party, ones who she didn't simply fill her free time with.

You shake your head, putting a stop to the thoughts in your head before they get too much once again, pushing you over an edge you don't want to be in right now. 

You'll try harder this year. You'll be okay, for once.

≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋

Your professor Lee is scribbling something on the large whiteboard, as he waits for the class to fill up. Someone sits next to you, and the smell of their cologne wafts to your nose- hints of vanilla and wood seemingly calming down your nerves. You quickly take a glance at them, to find a guy with long brown hair and freckles dusting his cheeks. He's taking out his notepad from his bag, and you smile at the chick keychain he has on it. He catches you looking and you quickly avert your gaze, heat creeping up your cheeks. 

"Hi, I'm Felix," he greets enthusiastically, and you turn your head slowly to be met with his wide grin. It softens his features, making his eyes turn into moon crescents. You envy his ability to smile without overthinking how he looks. 

"Yn," you introduce back, and he nods, the grin still etched on his face. "You were in my Economics class last year, no?" he asks and you tilt your head to the side, as you mull over his question.

"I was but I don't remember seeing you," you admit sheepishly and he waves a hand in the air, not bothered the least by your words. 

"It's okay, I just remembered your presentation on Inflation. I finally understood why we can't just print more money," he admits with a chuckle, and you giggle against your will. 

"I don't blame you, it sounds like an easy solution," you agree, and his eyes widen. 

"Right! when I tell my friends they just stare at me in disappointment."

You laugh at his adorable pout, an unfamiliar warmth stirring within your chest. He's nice. 

"I'm glad I helped you then, I was so nervous presenting it," you clear your throat as he smiles impressively at you. "Really? I couldn’t tell at all." 

Mr. Lee calls for your attention and you both turn your heads back to the board. You couldn’t really focus, Felix’s words echoing in your head like a broken mantra- he couldn’t tell you were nervous. A sudden relief dawns on you at the possibility that, maybe, not everyone is aware of the neverending storm raging within you, threatening to drown you at any giving moment.

≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋

"Movie night at my dorm?" Felix proposes as he packs up his bag, your two hours long class finally done.

"Will Seungmin be there?" you ask, a slight edge to your voice and Felix pauses, shaking his head at you.

"Yn, you're overreacting. I promise he doesn't hate you."

"Have you ever seen him smiling at me?" you ask, arching your eyebrow expectantly at him. He stays silent and you wiggle your finger in the air. "Exactly! Please tell me he won't be there."

"About that... He's helping me bake the cookies," Felix smiles sheepishly and you groan, falling dramatically on your seat.

"I’m not coming."

"But the cookies," Felix pouts, and the promise of the chewy baked goods is so enticing it makes you second-guess your decision.

"The cookies...," you whine, and Felix giggles grabbing your hand to pull you up.

"I’ll see you at 5?"

"Yes," you concede, a small smile on your lips. You wait until Felix bids you goodbye for it to finally slip from your face.

Seungmin has never liked you, from the moment Felix introduced you to him. You still remember it clear as day, the way his eyes slightly widened when they fell on you, before narrowing down. How he didn't utter a single word when Felix left you both alone to get your drinks. Your panic grew as an uncomfortable silence reigned on the both of you, and you racked your brain for something to say to cut through that eerie quiet.  

"Seungmin, right?" you asked, a bit too cheerfully, and you winced inwardly at your tone. He didn't reply, only humming back. It was so faint you wouldn't have caught it had you not been staring at him intently.

"What's your major?" Your voice cracked.

"Computer science." He replied curtly, and you waited patiently, expecting him to return the question. He didn't. And you shifted awkwardly from one foot to another. Maybe he just didn't do well with strangers. Maybe he wasn't a chatty person, to complement Felix's extroverted nature.

But you were wrong. You watched in complete astonishment as he teased Felix relentlessly, a wide smile on his face. It made his eyes soften, a newfound fondness itching itself on his expressions. He laughed and he joked and you felt yourself shrink more and more, this way he wouldn't notice you anymore, wouldn't glare at you as if you did something horribly wrong to him.

Felix tried to include you as best as he could in their conversation, but you tuned it out. It was hard to focus on their talk when there was a tumultuous one ongoing in your mind. Seungmin's behavior just further cemented every horrible idea you held about yourself. There is something wrong about you, and he can see it. You may have fooled Felix but you didn't fool Seungmin. If you were him you wouldn't talk to you either.

Every encounter with Seungmin since then left you feeling fifteen years old again, in a classroom full of unkind eyes zeroed on you. You tried to talk about his interests, to string along a normal conversation, one that would reassure that your first encounter was a wrongful impression.

But he did not like talking to you, only offering short replies in response. It’s as if his tongue was tied in your response, and in return it only magnified the knot in your stomach. You went through every conversation with him a million times in your head, trying to pinpoint what exactly went wrong. What warranted him to be so silent in your presence, and yours only, as if you weren’t worthy of a simple conversation. And the answer always tied back to you.

So, you’ve been avoiding him like the plague for the past month, sparing him the chore that is existing near you. It was particularly hard since Felix was his best friend and roommate, and surprisingly he actually enjoyed spending time with you. Still, you couldn’t help but think that it was only a matter of time before Felix started to hate you too.  

≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋

"You're moving too much," Seungmin chastises and you freeze in your place at his words. You are sitting on the couch of Felix’s dorm later on that day, a horror movie playing in the small TV before you. Felix decided to lay on the floor, buried in a pool of yellow blankets, and a long pillow that weirdly had the picture of one of their friends printed on it. "It's my safety net," he explained and you didn't question him any further.

For some reason, Seungmin decided to sit next to you, instead of the opposing couch. Granted, he can see the TV more clearly from here, still this is the first time he willingly went somewhere near you, let alone talked to you.

You decide to ignore him, too focused on predicting the next jump scare, your feet tapping the floor furiously. But still, it happens so abruptly, eliciting a startled gasp from you, anf you clutch the edge of the couch even tighter.  

"Close your eyes," Seungmin speaks suddenly and you raise an eyebrow at him, confused. 

"There is a jump scare coming soon," he clears his throat, "just... close your eyes if you don't want to see it." 

You comply without much thought and soon enough, you can hear a shrill scream coming from the screen. He was right. 

"It passed," he says softly, and you tentatively open your eyes once again. There is a foreign expression on Seungmin's face, one you haven't seen before, but it passes as quickly as it came, like a dream slipping between your fingers as soon as you wake up. 

"How did you know?" you ask, hugging your knees tightly to your chest. 

"I already watched this movie."

"Really? Why are you watching it again?"

"Because. I had nothing better to do," he says, almost defensively, his hand now covering his mouth as if he had to physically stop the words from spilling out. 

You don't reply, turning back to look at the screen. Seungmin doesn't tell you when a jump scare is coming next, he simply taps your arm, and you close your eyes on cue. 

His hand brushing against your bare skin feels weird, not uncomfortable by any means, but it still is a foreign sensation. You didn't know he had such soft hands, and you always imagined them to be cold. But they are warm, and you wonder what other things about Seungmin you've been wrong about.

≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋

"I'm so tired," Felix groans, laying his head on your shoulder and you giggle, patting his head in mock sympathy. It's been three months since the start of your year, which means that the assignments are starting to pile up on you all.

"Me too," you sigh, and Seungmin stays silent next to you. Felix dragged you both to this coffeeshop, a little outing to recharge his spirit, as he texted you. You're slowly getting used to Seungmin's brooding presence. He talks to you a little more, even cracking a few jokes here and there. But you’re still wary of him. You keep your guard up just in case he forcefully brings a mirror to your face once again, reminding you of everything you despise about yourself.

"I'll go order, it's my treat. Pick a place for us?" Felix says and you nod, walking ahead of Seungmin towards a table near the back.

You sit down first, and Seungmin follows second, sitting right across from you. You quickly bring out your phone, scrolling mindlessly through the apps to distract yourself from the man in front of you.

"You have a presentation tomorrow, right?" Seungmin speaks up, startling you, and you slowly put your phone down.

"Yes, how did you know?"

"Felix told me that it makes up 25% of your grade. Are you nervous?"

"A little," you admit, even though ‘a little’ didn't even begin to cover it.

"Don't be. You'll do well," he says, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. You almost feel as if you've imagined it before it dissipates.

"Thank you," you nod, as Felix brings the tray down your table.

"Is this for me?" you ask tentatively, pointing to the strawberry milkshake, a sore thumb sticking out between the iced americano, and the hazelnut Frappuccino, Seungmin’s and Felix’s respective go to orders.

"They got the order wrong. I got you an iced matcha," Felix pouts, double checking his receipt.

"It's okay," you smile slightly. There was nothing you despised more than having to change up your order.

"You don't want to drink this," Seungmin says, staring at you expectantly and you wave your hand in the air dismissively. "I don't mind."

Seungmin stands up, grabbing the drink from your hand before taking the receipt from the table. He goes to the counter and you watch in astonishment as he comes back, a green drink in hand this time.

"Here," he hands you your cup, before grabbing his own and sipping from it. Your drink is cold, but the warm tingles spreading through your being at his sweet gesture outweigh any other feeling.

≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋

Talking in front of 267 people never gets easier.

You memorized your presentation; you rehearsed it so much you could probably recite it with your eyes closed. Yet, the nerves still found a way to weave themselves inside you. Your hands were shaking, so much you couldn't even stare at the notes you prepared. Your palms were sweaty, blood rushing rapidly to your ears, tuning out your voice as you spoke.

You can’t even recall what you said exactly, it’s as if your body had a mind of its own, your mouth moving itself without you commanding it. You aren’t sure how it was, but someone smiled at you reassuringly from the first row, and the professor clapped, so you assume you did okay.

The class finally ends, your nerves slowly dissipating and leaving in their trail an excruciating exhaustion. You rub your eyes tiredly, as you slowly walk out of the door, before stopping in your tracks when you notice Seungmin leaning against the wall, hands buried in his varsity jacket.

His eyes are closed, a pair of earphones dangling across his chest. But then, as if he feels you looking at him, he opens his eyes, locking his gaze on you. You stay put in your place as he walks to you, his bag loosely hanging from his shoulder. He hooks his thumb underneath the strap, keeping it in place

"How was it?" he questions, and it takes you a few seconds to register what he was asking about. Your presentation. Was he waiting for you?

"I think I did well?" you reply, but it comes out more of a question to which he giggles softly.

"Are you asking me?" he teases and you roll your eyes playfully. "I did well," you repeat and he smiles, nodding a bit. "I’m sure you did. Here." He opens his bag, taking out your favorite chocolate bar from it- it had bits of caramelized pistachio and almonds in it. Seungmin doesn’t like it, he prefers plain milk chocolate, as Felix told you one day.

"Eat this, I ended up buying two by mistake, I still have an extra one at the dorm." You grab it from his hands, and he quickly leaves before you could properly thank him.

≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋≋

You always dread the days you'd wake up with a heavy weight crushing your chest.

You try to distract yourself, try to focus in class and take notes. You try to laugh at Felix's jokes and savor the brownies he just brought you. But you can't. It feels as if you're a cup filled to the brim, each passing second bringing you closer to when that fateful drop would finally make you overflow. And you could do nothing but watch yourself unravel.

Seungmin's eyes never leave you, and it only makes your anxiety spike. It feels as if he's peering inside your soul, witnessing how a cord ties itself around your throat, making it impossible for you to breathe. You can't speak anymore, every word you say threatening to make tears spill out of your eyes. You aren't sure you can make them stop if they ever start falling.

Nothing happened, nothing's happening, you try to remind yourself. But you are scratching your hand incessantly, and you feel an overwhelming need to flee. To run away, somewhere where only you would witness the display of your broken soul. So you sputter a meek excuse, and then you stand up and head to your dorm.

It's raining outside, and you don't have an umbrella. But you are grateful for it, since the rain mingles with your salty tears, shielding them from the curious eyes of the people passing by. You need to get home, you need to hide somewhere and you need to remember how to breathe-

"Yn," a hand grabs your forearm and you startle, instinctively taking two hurried steps back. It's Seungmin. He removed his blue hoodie and he's now placing it over both of your heads.

"What are you doing? You'll get sick," he sounds mad, and you can't take his disappointed tone anymore.

"I'm having a bad day and I don't need you to make it worse," you say, startling yourself with the raw emotion in your voice.

He physically recoils from your words, his arms faltering as he gazes at you, a wounded look in his eyes. "I make your days worse?" he asks quietly and his voice sounds so small, you can't help the regret that courses through you.

"Come on, Seungmin," you chuckle warily, "don't you hate me?"

"No?"

"Hate is a strong word, okay. You dislike me."

"I don't. Why would you think that?"

"Because you never wanted to talk to me, from the moment we met. And it wouldn't matter if you were this way with everyone, but it's only me. And you make me feel so small each time I'm around you," you ramble angrily, as Seungmin's eyes widen with each passing second.

"Yn, yn, I don't- I didn't know you felt this way, but I don't hate you. I truly don't, I promise you," he's panicking, voice growing higher with each word, and you feel a sudden embarrassment flood your being for lashing out at him.

You don't know what to say and he sighs, looking up at the cloudy sky before meeting your eyes once again.

"This is embarrassing, God, um..." he places his hoodie on top of your head before running a hand through his face. "I don't talk to you because you make me nervous." 

"I do?"

"Yes. A lot," he chuckles, a pink hue tinting his cheeks. "I just... I find you very interesting, and funny, and I like watching you, not in a creepy way, my God what am I saying," he whines, hiding his face in his hands and you can't help the giggle that escapes your mouth.

"Don't laugh," he pouts and you nod, willing the smile to disappear from your face. 

"I like watching you exist. Just laugh and smile and talk. You look very pretty doing it. I just don't know how to deal with it. That's on me."

This time the smile is effectively gone from your face. The weight of his confession distracting you from the turmoil of emotions that swirled within you.

"I'm sorry, for making you feel that way. I never meant to. For what it's worth, you make me feel like a small kid again, as if I'm having a crush for the first time." 

A fresh wave of tears brims in your waterline, and Seungmin's eyes soften at the sight.

"Please don't cry," he says, gently wiping the rain droplets from your cheeks. "I don't hate you, I think I like you too much and that's the problem." 

I'm sorry I misjudged you, until you wiped my tears off away

"Okay," you say quietly, your mind not yet registering what he said, too busy focusing on his hands on your face. You can't believe you've ever felt invisible because of Seungmin, when he's looking at you like you're the most precious being in the world. 

"You had a bad day?" he asks, his knuckles brushing against your cheek tenderly, and you nod, silently. 

"Would you like a hug?" he asks, and you nod again. A hug sounded nice. 

He steps forward, wrapping his arms around you. His t-shirt is cold, clinging to his now wet skin. But a surprising warmth emanates from his chest, shielding you from the pouring rain- it travels from his body to yours, as if it's a familiar path, one it underwent a million times before. His hand finds your back, and he pats it gently, following a soothing rythme, one you try to sync your breathing to. "You did well," he whispers, "you always do well," and his words feel like a patch of shade on a scorching day.

You exhale softly, tightening your arms around his waist. You think you can stay here, for a while. You could rest in Seungmin, now and tomorrow, and maybe for the following months. If he still likes you this much. 

Bonus 

"I'm ready," Seungmin says, his soft hair tickling your bare skin. He's laying on top of your stomach, black tie undone, a piece of crumpled paper in his hands. You can tell he's nervous, with the way he looks up at the ceiling, avoiding your gaze. You lean down, pressing a sweet kiss to the top of his head. He closes his eyes, his hold on the yellowed paper slightly faltering.

"I'm all ears," you whisper, and he smiles softly at you, before looking at his written vows- the ones you decided to read to each other after your wedding ceremony, just the two of you, in your personal bubble. It feels much more intimate this way, they are words meant for you only to hear, after all.

"My love," he starts, and he can already feel the tears welling up in his eyes. He blinks repeatedly, in a desperate attempt to keep them at bay. "If I'm reading this it means I finally married you, which is probably the best thing I've ever done in my life." You giggle and he can't help but smile at the sound of your laugh.

"I am writing these vows one year into our relationship, I haven't proposed yet, but I just know you're the one I want to marry. And I suppose I don't want to forget everything I want to say to you, when that day comes." His words make your breath hitch in your throat as realization dawns on you- he wrote this three years ago, and he kept it safe, till this day.

"I still remember when I saw you for the first time. I couldn't talk because you looked so pretty, and you were smiling at Felix and I felt an overwhelming need to be the one you were smiling at. I think you cast a spell on me because I couldn't even ask you about your major back, I couldn't believe how awestruck I was. But you already know this, don't you?" He looks up at you, pressing a quick kiss to your stomach and you smile widely. You still remember when Seungmin recounted the first time you met, from his perspective. Rosy cheeks and fumbling words as he explained how much he felt for you in that instant, and how little he could express it.

"But there are still things I haven't told you," he clears his throat. "Like how Felix told me what horror movie he was planning to watch with you, and I looked it up the night before, to memorize all the jump scares just in case you were afraid. And you were, and I'm glad I did. I don't even like horror movies, but it was worth watching it three times in a row, just for you."

"Also, how I had to run out of my class to yours, so I'd catch you after the end of your presentation. I bought that chocolate only for you. I kept a stack of fifteen bars hidden in my desk, just in case you were feeling down, and you ended up needing it. I kept asking Felix about everything you liked, and disliked, and he was probably sick of me at that time," he chuckles, as memories of begging his roommate for any bit of information about you flooded his mind.

"I don't know how far into the future it'll be when I'll finally read this to you. I don't know how I'll be, or where I'll be, but as long as you're with me then I must be okay. I used to overthink everything, plan every part of my life so it'd run smoothly. That is until you came into my life, so suddenly, and you flipped it upside down. I didn't care to plan my life anymore, all that mattered is that it revolved around you," he pauses, sucking in a deep breath.

"I knew I wanted to marry you when you took me stargazing. You talked about the stars and galaxies so excitedly. And then you brought up Saturn; how it was unique among the planets, adorned with thousands of ringlets. And I remember thinking that you're my saturn, you're the dazzling planet that everyone admires and I'm the ring spinning around you, the one you're keeping afloat. And as long as you're here, I have a purpose and I'm okay. So please..." his voice wavers, as silent tears slip out of his eyes.

"Don't leave me. I know we're married now, but still, don't leave me. I love you. I feel like I've loved you in different lifetimes, in different earths and timelines. Everything can come crashing down around us, but one thing that'll forever remain the same is my love for you. I was made to love you, after all. My eyes were made to look at you, and my hands to graze your cheeks. And my heart... My heart was made to beat for you. And I love you. I feel like I don't say it enough but I truly love you. As long as I'm breathing then I'm yours."

---

❥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.

---

Stray Kids Kinktober Day 8

Stray Kids Kinktober Masterlist

Breeding - Bang Chan

“It’s going to be a disaster,” you lament, leaning your head back over your couch. Your coffee mug gripped tightly in your hand.

A random movie is playing on your TV, but neither you nor your best friend is paying attention.

“It will not,” Chan chides and nudges your arm with his elbow.

He sips his own drink slowly, watching you throw your arm over your eyes.

“Yes it will! Every year my family goes on this vacation to the mountains, and every year I’m reminded that I’m the only single adult in the family.”

You sigh.

“You’re not the only single one, what about your cousin?”

“He started dating someone about a month after last year’s vacation. They’re still together, so she’s coming on the trip.” Your tone switches to something less dramatic. “She’s lovely, by the way, you’d like her. Very friendly.”

Chan laughs. “So, you’re single and alone there, what’s the worst that could happen? It’s your family. ”

“They make fun of me the whole time! And if I do anything my mom doesn’t like, she’ll go ‘this is why you don’t have a boyfriend, Y/N.’ Ugh!”

“Aren’t there only four ‘older’ cousins?”

“Yes, and I’m the only single one above the age of seventeen. I’m twenty four and I am going to die alone.”

Your arm drops from your eyes and you stare up at the ceiling.

The air in your apartment is warm and comfortable. Candles burn on the table beside you, filling the house with a pleasant warm cinnamon scent.

It was always one of Chan’s favorites.

“How long until the trip?” he asks.

“Next weekend.”

“Not enough time for a dating app, huh?”

You force a laugh, “No. Can you imagine? ‘Coffee was great! You wanna come on a week-long vacation with me and my giant, loud family?’ They would run for the hills.”

“Your family is great and you know it.”

“I know, they’re just… obnoxiously close, that’s all. I love them, don’t get me wrong.” Your arm slides off your eyes and you stare up at the ceiling. “But if I need to listen to my aunt nitpick my appearance in passive aggressive ways to ‘help’, I might kill myself.”

Chan takes a long sip of his drink. “They’re not that bad.”

You roll your eyes. “They love you so much, what would you know? Every time I bring you around them I always get tons of questions afterwards about you. I think my cousin is in love with you.”

“Which one?”

“Lily.”

“She’s twelve.”

“Twelve and in love with you.”

Both of you sit in silence for a moment. Chan’s attention slides back to the TV. He’s looking at it, but he’s not absorbing what’s really playing.

Same with you, you’re too busy wrapped up in your thoughts when an idea hits you all of a sudden.

“That’s it!” you yell, sitting up straight. Your voice startles Chan and he almost spills his drink all over your couch.

“What? What’s it?” he asks quickly, checking his pants to make sure nothing spilled.

“You can come with me!”

“You want me to go on your family’s yearly vacation in place of a boyfriend?”

“I want you to come on my family’s yearly vacation as my boyfriend.”

Chan’s head snaps over to you, his eyes wide and his jaw dropped. You’re already looking at him with pleading eyes.

“Please, Chan!” you beg before he has a chance to say no. “Please, please, please!” you repeat over and over again.

Placing your coffee on the table, you crawl closer to him on the couch, begging over and over again.

“They already love you so much! It would be so easy ! Plus, it’s all expenses paid! It’s a free vacation to a lake house in the mountains with your best friend!”

“Felix isn’t going.” Chan teases.

You whine and grab his free hand. “No, me! Your best friend! Pretty please Chan! I’ll owe you big time!”

He stares at you for a long moment, thinking it through in his head. You’re staring at him with big, pleading, sparkly eyes. He’s never been able to say no to that look.

He sucks his teeth, head cocking to the side for a second. The hand in yours twitches and he holds it, like a faux-shake.

“Fine,” he says. “But, you owe me dinner.”

Squealing, you throw your arms around his shoulders.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” He wraps his beverage-free hand around you and hugs you back. “You’re seriously the best, thank you!”

“I know, I know. Now can we please finish the movie?”

——————————————

The trunk to your car slams shut, Chan dusts his hands off and then rests them on his hips.

“You look like a dad,” you tell him while coming up to the car with your backpack slung over your shoulder.

“A dad who packed the trunk of your car perfectly.” He eyes the backpack on your shoulder. “That goes in the backseat. I’m not opening the trunk again.”

Giggling, you open the backdoor and toss it in.

“Can you drive?” you ask, batting your eyelashes. “You know how much I hate driving.”

Chan sighs and holds his hand out for the keys.

“You’re the best!” you cheer and toss them to him.

“Yeah, you keep saying that.” Chan rolls his eyes and ducks into the driver’s side of the car. “Do you have the address?”

You duck inside the car and start typing on your phone. “I should have it in my texts, one sec.”

Scrolling through your phone, you try to find the text that your aunt sent you with the address. Your family has rented the same AirBnb every year since you were fourteen and yet you could never remember the address of the place.

As you’re searching for it, a phone call from your mom comes in.

“Oh, hold on.” You say to Chan and hit the answer button.

“Hey, ma!” you greet into the phone.

“Hey, sweetie! Are you on your way yet?”

“We just got into the car, actually. We’re about to leave.”

“I thought you would’ve left an hour ago.”

“Chan got held up at work, actually. Not his fault.”

At the mention of his name, Chan perks up and looks over at you, listening to the phone call intently.

“Ah, gotcha. I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me you two finally started dating.”

“Yeah, well, it’s still kinda new,” you lie through your teeth. You look up and make eye contact with Chan. “We only became official about…”

His eyes widen and he looks around panicked. Quickly, he holds up three fingers.

“About three week-”

He moves about wildly.

“Months! Three months ago! Sorry, I’m a little distracted putting all the bags in the car.”

Chan reacts to your lie comically, his chin jutting forward, head cocking to the side. You wave him off silently. Your mother doesn’t seem to clock your panic about the situation.

“I always saw how the two of you looked at each other, it was only a matter of time, really.”

A blush crawls up your neck and turns your ears and cheeks red. Chan looks down at his lap and coughs nervously, a blush of his own making its way onto his skin.

“Anyway, we better get going, mom! You know how talking on the phone while driving is illegal and all.”

“Make Chan drive! He’s the boyfriend.”

“You’re so right… And he should do so without putting up a fuss.”

Chan motions down to himself, as if to say ‘I’m already the one in the driver’s seat’. You wave him off again, trying to focus on your mother’s voice.

“Okay, okay, I’ll see you soon, but I expect some questions to be answered when I see you, Y/N!” Her voice is teasing, but it makes your blood run cold.

“Of course, mom. I’ll talk to you later, okay? Bye, love you!”

You don’t give her a chance to answer you before you hang up.

The silence in the car is so loud, the air is so still.

“So,” you say slowly. “We need to come up with a backstory, huh?”

“It seems so.”

Another bout of silence.

Neither of you are looking at each other, you’re both facing forward, staring out the windshield.

“I’ll uh… find the address.”

“Yeah.”

You clear your throat awkwardly and scroll through your phone. Chan waits a second before starting the car.

——————————————

Chan turned one of the final corners of the trip onto the street.

“Our first date?” he asks.

“Coffee at the cafe by my apartment.”

“Second date?”

“Movies, we saw Barbie. We went out to eat afterwards. A diner.”

“When did we become official?”

“Three months ago. May 6th. You asked me after our third date.”

“And?”

“You kissed me at my door.”

“Good.”

You both pause for a moment.

“How come I can’t be the one that kissed you?” you tease him.

Chan laughs out loud and turns the car into the driveway. “As if you would ever make the first move.”

You look at him incredulously. “I so would! You’re the one who gets too nervous to do anything. I say I kissed you, not the other way around.”

“No way, I kissed you.”

Chan puts the car into park.

“Absolutely not. I kissed you first.” you reply.

“Keep dreaming. I walked you to your door, we stood there and talked for a minute. You went to walk inside, but I stopped you and kissed you.”

You unbuckle your seatbelt.

“No, after we talked, there was an awkward silence and I could see how nervous you were and how you kept looking at my lips. So, I took the first step and kissed you.”

Grabbing the door handle, you wrench it open before Chan could issue a rebuttal again.

He calls your name from inside the car and lets out a loud groan afterwards.

“You can’t have all the firsts, now can you?” you call back, walking around to the trunk.

The front door to the house rips open and two of your little cousins come tearing out of the house with happy smiles.

“Y/N! Y/N!” they both call out, sprinting up to you.

Leaning down, you scoop both of them up into a hug with both arms, giving them an equally excited hello. Both of them hug you tightly.

They’re five and nine years old, girl and boy– the youngest of the cousins.

“Look who else I brought with me,” you giggle and look over at Chan, who was watching you from the side of the car. The door still opened, his arm leaning on the top.

Both of their tiny gazes turn towards him and just like that, you’re forgotten about.

“Chan!” They both cheer and run at him full tilt.

He wraps both of them up in his strong arms and picks them off the ground.

“Hello, you two!” he coos and gives them both kisses on their heads.

Something twinges within your heart seeing him interact with the two of them that way, it goes through you like an arrow. His brown eyes are so warm and sparkly holding your two little cousins close to him.

A genuine, bright smile pulled across his beautiful face.

Chan steps away from the car and puts them on the ground, they both complain. “Come on, I need to help Y/N with the bags. I wouldn’t be a good boyfriend if I made her carry them all by herself.”

Your heart thuds again. Boyfriend.

The two kids groan and give in, running back into the house, telling everyone of your arrival.

Chan watches them for a moment before turning to look at you with a sheepish smile. You smile back and knock twice on the hood of your car.

“Come on then, boyfriend. These bags won't carry themselves.”

He laughs and grabs the bags from the trunk, arguing with you when you try to lift some of the heavier bags. Well, you weren’t going to argue about carrying something if you didn’t need to.

The cold air conditioned house was a familiar sight when you walked through the front door. One of your aunts was near the entrance when you first came in.

“Y/N, Chan, you’re here! We have you both in the room down here, I hope that’s okay.” she says, pointing to the room down the hall. It’s one of only three bedrooms on the first floor.

“Yeah! That’s totally fine, thank you.”

You smile and walk to the room, dropping your bags down on the bed.

The singular bed in the room.

Chan follows you inside the room with your bags, plopping them down on the floor by the door. You turn to look at him, he’s staring at the bed, most likely thinking the same thing that you are.

He closes the door behind you both.

“I didn’t think about this part.” you say quietly just in case someone was outside the door.

He shrugs. “Just don’t hog the blankets,” he jokes. Chan brushes it off so easily.

What you don’t know is his heart is racing just as much as yours is. His mouth has gone completely dry and he had to gulp down some nerves before jesting with you.

It’s just a bed, right? Both of you can share a bed, no problem. Not at all.

The two of you have fallen asleep on the couch together before. But, it’s not quite the same as sharing a bedroom for the next week.

“I didn’t think you would need any blankets since you’re a human space heater.” You open your one bag and pull out a few smaller things.

“You’re just jealous because you’re cold all the time.” Chan stands on the other side of the bed, plugging his phone charger into the wall.

“I’m not cold all the time.”

“You’re in a sweatshirt and it’s eighty five degrees outside.”

“We had the air conditioning on in the car.”

There’s a few knocks on the bedroom door. “Dinner!”

——————————————

Contrary to what you both originally thought, your family did not grill the two of you interrogation style about your relationship. Instead, you were met with a lot of “It was only a matter of time”.

Each time one of your family members said something along those lines, both you and Chan would grow extremely shy, faces flushing and hearts racing.

Dinner was held in the back room attached to the large kitchen, a long dining table sat in the room, benches full of your family members lined it.

There were so many of you: eight cousins, three aunts, two uncles, two parents, one sister, one brother in law, one grandmother.

This was not the first time Chan had been around your extremely large family, not at all. He’s around you all the time, especially when he can’t go home to Australia for holidays. You always invite him to your family celebrations, and each time he’s more than thrilled to be there.

Everyone was so happy that he was there; part of you thinks they’re happier to see him than you.

Dinner came and went, it was filled with laughter and stories, like it usually is. Your dad and his brothers all teased one another, bringing up stories of being young in the 70’s and 80’s.

“Let’s do a movie night!” One of your younger cousins turns to her older brother. “You’ve been promising me that we would watch Star Wars.”

“You want to watch Star Wars tonight?” he replies.

“Yes, please! Cousins movie night!" She cheers and grabs her plate. “We can set the couches up like last year!”

Chan leaned over and whispered in your ear, “Movie night?”

“There’s a den upstairs with a couple couches, we push them together to make a giant bed and all watch movies at night. Very common L/N Family Activity on vacation.” you answer, leaning closer to him. “The adults usually go to bed and all the cousins watch movies.”

“Sounds exciting.”

Both of you chuckle and smile at one another. His dimples showing. You two seem to be in your own little bubble.

Chan’s leaning so close his body heat is radiating through your clothes. The fabric of his shirt is brushing against your bare arm.

“You’ll find that there’s a certain schedule to each day, breakfast, play down at the lake, lunch, back to the lake, get ready for dinner, eat dinner, movie time.”

“I think I can get used to that.”

“You better.”

A throat clears by you. Your aunt is looking at the two of you with a playful smile. “Are you both going to help clean up or what?”

——————————————

“Dibs on sitting next to Y/N!” One of your little cousins calls out after you all finished pushing the couches together.

“No, I want to sit next to her!” Another yells out.

The youngest runs up and throws his arms around your hips, hugging you close to him. Both arms don’t make it around you all the way.

“No, me!”

You laugh and ruffle his hair. He holds you tighter and it knocks you off balance slightly.

“Come on, hon, you got to sit next to me at dinner, let someone else have a turn.” you coo down to him.

“No!” he pouts and hugs you tighter. You grimace and try to pry his arms off you.

Chan comes out of nowhere and picks your cousin off the ground in one fell swoop. “How about me, huh?” he teases and tickles your cousin with his one free hand.

Your cousin starts giggling like crazy.

“Don’t I get to sit next to my girlfriend?” he jokes and tickles him even more.

The biggest smile stretches over your face, heart warming once more.

Chan drops your cousin onto the couches, he bounces a bit, still laughing.

The tickle torture continues now that both of Chan’s hands are free. Giggles turn into cackles.

No matter how hard you try, you can’t fight the smile on your face and the feeling that stirs in your stomach. Are you ovulating? You have to be. There’s no other explanation for the flutter within your chest.

He just looks so natural like that. The teasing looked adorable.

It wasn’t until one of your older cousins came into the room before your gaze was taken away from Chan.

“Lovesick, eh?” he says in your ear.

“Oh, shut up.” You hit him in the arm.

“I know that look anywhere, Y/N. You can’t fool me.” He laughs and then walks to take his spot on the big couch huddle with his girlfriend.

Chan picks your little cousin up by the ankle and starts dragging him around. Both of their laughter was music to your ears.

“Okay, okay! Move time!” You call out to the two of them. Chan looks over at you immediately with the goofiest grin on his face.

Your little cousin groans.

“Give me my boyfriend back,” you tease and climb onto the couch.

After several minutes of figuring out seating and finding the movie on the TV, everyone was finally settled.

Chan sat directly next to you, his arm on the back of the couch behind you. Both of your legs stretched out in front of you and a shared blanket draped over you both.

The opening title sequence of Star Wars starts playing and silence falls over your cousins for the first time since you got there.

Absent-mindedly, Chan’s fingers lightly brush over the skin of your exposed shoulder from behind you. They trace small shapes lightly.

You can’t even focus on the movie in front of you, Chan’s touch is too distracting.

Your sister and her fiance sat on the other side of you. She leaned over and whispered in your ear about twenty minutes into the movie.

“You can cuddle with your boyfriend, you know.”

A flush crawls up your neck. “Yeah, of course I know that. I just didn’t want to–”

Chan must’ve heard her, his hand closes over your shoulder and brings you closer to him. Your body turns into his, head tucked underneath his chin. His body warmth seeps into you as soon as you press into him.

The cherry on top is when he presses a kiss to the crown of your hair before resting his chin on top of your head. A shockwave of goosebumps ripples through your body.

Thinking you were chilly, Chan wraps his other arm around you and holds you even closer.

Well, if he’s playing the part.

You intertwine your legs with his underneath the blanket. His heart jumps in his chest and he has to fight the urge to press another kiss into your hair.

Chan knew he was pushing his luck with the first one, but it just felt so natural, he couldn’t help himself. Every single time the two of you touch, he instinctually takes it further into a romantic zone.

Previously, he would restrain himself from advancing these moments with you, but now? He doesn’t need to hold himself back. He can let his body react naturally.

The movie continues on, whenever a younger cousin would ask any questions about the movie, one of the older kids would answer.

Whenever Chan was the one to answer, his voice would rumble deep within his chest. The later it got, the raspier it sounded.

Throughout the movie, you both just got more and more tangled up underneath the blanket. You slid an arm around to rest your hand on Chan’s chest; fingers mindlessly playing with the fabric of his t-shirt.

Chan melted into your touch so easily.

In all the years you’ve been close friends, you’ve never been this level of a human pretzel while hanging out. He’s relishing every moment of it. Your shared body heat mingling is intoxicating to him.

He’s such a tactile person, physical touch is definitely his love language.

Chan can’t remember a time he was ever this cozy while watching a movie.

One of his hands moves from your shoulder and into your hair, running his fingers through the strands gently.

Every muscle in your body relaxes when he starts scratching at your scalp lightly. His soft exhales puff out on your head. Normally, this would bother you, but instead you find it soothing.

Both of you were fighting against your eyelids towards the end of the movie. The little kids fell asleep about ten minutes before the credits rolled.

Chan squeezes you tighter for a moment before whispering into your hair, “Time for bed.”

Your heart squeezes. “I gotta help get the little ones to bed.”

“I got it,” he answers. “Go wash up and get to bed. I’ll be downstairs in a few.”

Words can’t even describe how much your heart melts at his words.

Pull it together, Y/N. He’s your fake boyfriend for the week, remember? Not your real one.

It’s Chan – Bang Chan. The same guy who held your hair each time you drank yourself sick in college. The guy who camps out at your dining room table to work because he claims the Wi-Fi is better at your apartment.

Nevertheless, you peel yourself off of him, untangling your limbs and sitting up.

“You’re the best,” you say to him with a sleepy smile.

“I know.”

——————————————

Sunlight streams in through the bedroom window and the air conditioning unit continuously hums in the room.

A strong arm squeezing tighter around your body is what drags you out of dreamland.

A searingly hot body is pressed flush against the back of yours; legs tangled up, back to chest, soft exhales blowing into your hair lightly.

The haze of sleep still has your mind in its grip. All you know in that moment is that it’s so cozy, so warm, so nice that you can’t help but press your body backwards into that serene clasp.

The arm tightens again and brings you even closer.

A nose nuzzles further into the back of your head.

Chan, it’s Chan behind you.

You should care. You should be prying his arm off your waist and scooting over away from him.

But you don’t want to. It’s too nice.

It’s so peaceful, you’re about to drift back to sleep when the sound of two separate footsteps run towards your bedroom door.

They’re so loud, it rips you from sleep and you tense up, preparing for impact.

Your bedroom door is practically flung open.

Chan jolts against your body at the noise, his eyes snap open, arm tightening around you even more in a protective manner.

He has about two seconds to get his bearings before both cousins leap onto the bed, yelling at you both to wake up.

Chan releases you and turns over onto his back with a deep groan.

You groan and squint your eyes closed, bringing the covers up over your head.

“Noooo…” you moan out.

Chan laughs and grabs one little cousin closely, hugging her close to his chest. “Are you in here to sleep in bed with us? I sure hope so since it’s still soooo early.”

She giggles and tries to fight against his strong arms. “No!” she cackles. “You have to eat breakfast so we can go swimming down at the lake!”

Your other, more calm, cousin squirms underneath the covers and cuddles up to you. Slinging an arm around him, you keep your eyes closed and try to let your mind drift off again.

This is not the first time he’s done this, and it most likely will not be the last. It breaks your heart thinking about the year he feels like he’s too old to do this.

Chan is practically wrestling with your cousin next to you. She squeals when he turns on his side with her encased in his arms.

“Chaaan!” she giggles.

After a few moments, he lets her go and she clambers off the bed.

“Come on, Chan! Come sit next to me at breakfast!” She pulls on his hand closest to the edge of the bed.

He laughs and turns his head to look at you. You’re fast asleep again with your younger cousin asleep in your arms.

Chan’s heart slams against his ribcage and his stomach does a cartwheel.

Your sleeping face is so peaceful, and the way your little cousin has the same hair color as you had the cogs in his mind turning.

What if that was your kid in your arms, not just a cousin?

What if it was his?

His eyes flicker all over your face.

Something stirs in his mind, shooting down his spine. If it wasn’t for your other little cousin yanking on his arm over and over again, probably would’ve watched you for a few more moments, allowing his mind to roam into dangerous territory.

——————————————

“You’re staring.” Your aunt sits next to Chan with a plate full of food.

He’s camped out on the back porch of the cabin. It overlooks the wooden stairs that lead down to the dock hanging over the lake.

You’re lounging out on a floaty, pina colada in your hand– courtesy of him. He had walked it down to you only a few moments ago.

When it was announced that it was lunch time, you told Chan you wanted to work on your tan without worrying about your cousins splashing you every five seconds.

Maybe making you a frozen drink was just an excuse to see your face light up when he brought it to you. Maybe it was an excuse to watch the water droplets slide over your body up close.

Chan clears his throat and tears his eyes off your lazing form. Clearly, he’d been caught staring at your bikini clad form.

She nudges his arm playfully. “Don’t be embarrassed, it would be weirder if you didn’t stare, you know.”

Your family can be so crass sometimes.

Chan laughs and takes a bite of the sandwich on his plate. “It’s just nice to see her relaxing for once.”

“Has she been working herself into the ground again?”

“She never stops.”

Your aunt nods and looks back down at you before taking a bite of her own food. “Also helps that she looks good in that bathing suit.” She pauses. “Damn, your kids will be good looking.”

Chan chokes on his bite of food, his body jerks forward and he slams his fist into his chest to try and get it down.

Your aunt pats him on the back a few times, laughing at his expense.

“What?” She questions with an evil chuckle. “Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it.”

“We’ve only been together for three months,” he wheezes out, still hitting his chest. The clump of food is sitting in his throat.

“And?”

“It’s too early to think about stuff like that,” he lies through his teeth.

You’re not even his. You’re not. This week will end and you’ll have to go back to just being best friends.

He’ll have to pretend that he wasn’t fake sleeping for the last hour before you woke up just to have his arms around you for a little while longer.

“Please.” Your aunt rolls her eyes and goes back to her food when another family member joins the table.

Chan takes a long swig of water before letting his eyes flicker to you once more. Your free hand hangs down in the water, head tilted back to dip into the cool lake, exposing your long, beautiful neck.

In his swim trunks, his cock twitches and he takes an even bigger drink of water.

——————————————

The torture continues endlessly for the two of you.

It’s the fourth night when it’s just you and Chan left awake.

Rain is pouring against the windows outside, the fireplace is lit, TV playing something in the background.

“I’m never going to get to bed.”

“I told you that you shouldn’t have had coffee with dessert,” you tease Chan, nudging his arm.

“Your uncle offered me a cup and I panicked.”

“You don’t even like coffee.”

“I know!” He whined.

You laugh at his expense. “Come on,” you tug on his arm. “You promised you would play pool with me.”

“When did I say that?”

“Literally this morning!”

“Fine, fine.”

He allows you to pull him off the couch with a dorky smile on his face. He loves giving you a hard time for no reason at all.

The pool table sat in the front room, just a few steps away from your bedroom.

Every time the two of you had gone to play pool, other family members would get in the way and pull one of you two in another direction.

Tonight was really the first night you both had to yourselves.

“You break,” you tell him once everything is set up. He nods and lines up his shot. After a second, he hits the cue ball perfectly into the cluster and all the balls scatter along the table, but nothing sinks into the pocket.

“Pity,” you tease him.

“Pity,” he repeats, mocking your tone.

Laughing, you bend over and line up your own shot. From across the table, Chan watches your form bend over, his lip pulling between his teeth mindlessly.

You hit the ball and sink one in.

With a cheer on the quieter side, you look at him with a smirk. He rolls his eyes playfully as you line up another shot.

The game continues just like this for a bit. Both of you going back and forth, missing most shots, but also nailing some good ones.

You’re tied at the end, racing to try and sink the 8-ball before the other person.

Leaning over the table right in front of him, you try and set up your aim.

“Wait,” Chan says quietly before you can pull the pool stick back to take your shot.

He leans down over you, pressing his back into yours, arms coming around you. He guides your aim to hit the cue ball differently.

The entire time, your heart rate is increasing exponentially.

“Just a bit more to the left,” he whispers in your ear. Chills rip down your body and you gulp. His voice sounds so low and sensual.

His hand over yours adjusts with tiny, miniscule movements. He keeps changing the aim a bit to the left, then a bit to the right, like he’s prolonging the contact.

Behind you, his hips are pressed into yours. It’s taking every ounce of willpower and control for him not to get hard in his sweats.

Especially, since in this position, he potentially could–

“Pull back,” he rasps. You follow his instructions immediately. He helps guide the pool stick back, hesitating for a moment. His chest inflates with a deep breath.

He breathes in the smell of your shampoo.

“Shoot,” he exhales.

With his guidance, you both shoot the ball, standing up quickly to watch it bounce off the 8-ball and then sinking into the corner pocket.

You cheer and jump up, turning around to face him directly.

“Take that!”

When you turned to face him, he hadn’t backed away yet. You’re practically nose to nose with Chan. A gasp catches in your throat from his proximity.

And yet, he still doesn’t back away. He continues to stare at you, his eyes dart from yours, down to your lips, then back up to your eyes again.

“Y/N,” he breathes out.

You swallow nervously and hold his eye contact.

Chan’s jaw clenches once, his hands ball into fists at his sides. Every single ounce of constraint is being tested within his body right now.

Cracks are going up the dam of his self control.

You’re not moving away; why aren’t you moving away from him?

He watches your eyes flicker down to his lips once and that’s all it takes for his mind to snap.

Chan lunges forward, grabbing your face with both of his hands and smashing your lips together. You let out a surprised noise against his mouth, your pool stick clattering to the ground.

Every bit of pent up aggression from the last few days is poured into the first kiss.

His hands aren’t on your face for long. He can’t keep still, sliding them all over your body; into your hair, down your sides, grabbing your hips, he’s everywhere.

“Fuck,” he growls against your lips. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Y/N. Shit.”

Even though he’s apologizing, he can’t stop himself. He can’t stop slotting his lips over yours, devouring your very being.

Chan’s eyebrows are pinched together painfully. He’s pinning your body against the pool table with his hips.

You grab at his shirt and pull him closer.

“Shut up,” you say in between heated kisses.

“But I–”

“Shut up.” Your tongue runs over his bottom lip and his mind whites out. Every rebuttal fell from his mind, through the floor and into the Earth.

You wrap your arms around his neck, bringing his face even closer to yours as he licks into your mouth. With each turn of your heads, your noses brush against one another.

Chan runs his hands down your body and grabs underneath your thighs, picking you up and placing you on the pool table.

Your legs part and he stands in between them, never leaving your lips once.

As he runs his hands up your legs, he squeezes your bare thighs every few inches. It makes your core clench and body tingle.

Your fingers run up through his hair, grabbing tightly and pulling. Chan moans into your mouth and moves his hands to grab at your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt.

“Chan,” you whisper on his lips. He responds with a grunt. “Need you.”

God.

His hands fly to your legs again, grabbing you by the knees, he yanks your hips forward. Your clothed core comes into direct contact with his erection.

“I can give you exactly what you need, baby.” he nips your lip with his teeth. “I can take good care of you, yeah?”

Trailing his fingers up, he toys with the waistband of your shorts. At the same time, he moves his kisses down your neck. You tilt your head back to give him more access.

“Wanna take these off, babygirl?” he moans when you roll your hips into his.

“Yes, please.” you hiss in response.

Lifting your hips, he grabs the fabric and slides it down your legs, tossing them onto the floor with the forgotten pool stick.

Kisses trail lower and lower down your neck as he lowers to the ground.

Chan pulls away to kneel onto the ground.

His eyes are heated and strong when they meet yours. A dark scarlet color covers his cheeks and down his neck, disappearing into his sleeveless shirt.

Both of his hands grab at your thighs when he looks down at your glistening cunt. You’re absolutely soaking wet by now.

Since the moment he helped you line up your shot, you felt your panties dampening.

Wasting no time, Chan leans forward and runs his tongue from the bottom of your slit all the way up to the top, swirling around your clit and sucking gently.

Your hand flies up to cover your mouth, the other rests on the table behind you to keep your balance.

He repeats the action again, this time with more fervor and you squint your eyes shut, head tossing back from the pleasure that rips down your spine like a zipper.

Chan’s hands tighten around your thighs, eyes staring up at you and studying each reaction closely.

You taste so fucking good. He can’t get enough of you. His tongue greedily scoops up your juices, licking around your clit to feel you grind into his face.

His cock throbs with each moan, each whine that makes it through your fingers held tightly over your mouth.

After one long suck on your clit, Chan dips his tongue inside you, licking at your walls. Your eyes roll back into your head, the hand over your mouth flies down to grip at his hair.

He can’t help but smirk into your folds.

Every single moan is music to his ears.

Slowly, he inches his fingers over and when he moves his tongue up to your clit, he slides a finger into you, immediately curling it up to hit that spongy spot inside you.

“Jesus fuck–!” you cry out as quiet as you can manage.

It doesn’t slip your mind that you’re quite literally in a house full of relatives who could wake up and come into the front room at any moment and see the two of you.

But the fear just adds an extra layer of arousal to you.

“Does that feel good, babygirl?” Chan mutters into your cunt. “Does it feel good to have my fingers inside you?”

He thrusts his finger in and out slowly, those brown eyes studying you like a predator studies prey.

You bite your lip, eyes closed, and nod your head.

Chan adds a second finger and your head tosses back again. He can feel you clench down hard on his fingers when he licks your clit in long, even strokes.

A thin sheen of sweat covers your body.

“Chan,” you whine.

“Yeah, baby?” he teases, licking up slowly, the pace of his fingers is equally as slow. But, regardless of the pace, he’s still coaxing you towards the edge of an orgasm. It’s building slowly, you can feel it in the pit of your stomach.

“Shit,” you buck your hips into his face when he does one particularly hard thrust.

“Use your words, little girl.” He bites your thigh and then goes back to your folds. You clench around him hard at the name.

How are you supposed to use your words when your voice keeps getting caught in your throat? When every time you think you can open your mouth, a sultry moan tumbles out.

“N-Need you,” you manage to strain out.

A devilish smile pulls at his lips. He begins to thrust faster with his fingers, licking your clit quicker.

“Need me?” He asks in between licks. “You need me?”

Veins are popping in your neck from straining to keep your voice down.

“Yes, fuck!” You hiss out. “ I need you.”

In between his legs, Chan can feel his cock weeping with precum. His mind is so clouded with lust he can barely think straight.

Desperately, he wishes that you didn’t have to keep your voice down. He wants to make you scream.

Faster and faster he thrusts and licks at your soaking cunt, greedily tasting your juices.

Your thighs twitch on either side of his head the closer you get to your orgasm.

“Chan,” you grab his attention by yanking on his hair. He grunts and looks up at you through his lashes, lips still devouring you. “Inside, inside. I need your cock inside me.”

Your words go straight to his dick, he licks at your cunt a few more times before standing to his feet quickly to lock your lips together, fingers still buried inside you.

When you taste your own slick on his tongue, your eyes roll back in your head and you clench around him. Chan smirks into the kiss, curling his fingers up.

He’s relentless. Tongue sliding over yours, moans being eaten up by a greedy mouth while his fingers fuck into you.

With more strength than you thought you had, you pry Chan’s lips off yours by pulling his hair back.

“If you don’t fuck me in the next thirty seconds, I’ll pin you down and ride you until your cock can’t cum anymore.”

An exhale is punched from his chest. His mind whites out. Chan’s mouth drops open and his fingers stutter within you.

Did you really just say that? That sounds like a fucking dream.

“Babygirl,” he growls darkly. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

Your eyes darken and you pull his hair again. “Fuck me until I can’t walk, Chris.”

Chan rips his fingers out of your cunt, grabs both of your hips and roughly pulls you off the pool table.

He fists a hand in the back of your hair and spins you around, shoving your head down, bending you over completely.

You’re lucky you had half a mind to put your arms out to rest your weight on your elbows.

Using his one foot, he knocks the inside of yours outwards to spread your legs even more.

“Fucking look at that,” he marvels, running his free hand up your ass and kneading a handful. After a second he reels back and brings his hand down with a painful smack.

Your one hand flies to your mouth to cover the squeak that you make.

“Bent over, soaking wet cunt just fucking waiting to take my cock.” His hand tightens in your hair. The other hand rips his sweatpants down to take his cock out. “What a good girl you are.”

Chan can’t remember a time he’s ever been this hard.

Casting a look over your shoulder, you look back at Chan. His eyes are blown out, lip pulled in a sneer as he fists his cock, staring directly at your fluttering walls clench around nothing.

“You wanna fill me up, Channie?”

His eyes snap up to yours with a predator-like stare. His hand stops pumping his own cock, hell, he even stops breathing.

Chan’s jaw clenches, every ounce of self control is being drained. How much more of this can he fucking take before he passes out?

“What?” His voice is so strained and hoarse.

Your eyes narrow and you wiggle your hips tauntingly. “Come on, Chan.”

Chan’s eyes darken. He fists your hair and shoves your face down on the table and slams his cock inside you.

Your mouth stretches open in a silent scream, but you don’t let the noise make it out of your body.

Chan’s eyes roll to the back. You feel so fucking good.

“Holy shit.” He moans out. “Jesus fuck you’re so fighting tight.”

He wastes no time, pulling his cock out to slam back inside you. Your back arches and hips press into his to meet his thrust.

Each sharp wave of pleasure shoots down your legs and into your toes.

Small gasps and whines make their way through your lips.

Chan leans down, yanking your hair back to pick your head up slightly. His face comes down next to yours.

“You like this, yeah?” He whispers harshly. Thrust after thrust slams against your cervix. “You like when it’s rough?”

Closing your eyes tightly, you keep your mouth shut, trying to nod with his hand so tightly wound in the crown of your hair.

“Better be quiet, then. Don’t want someone coming out and seeing you look like a cum hungry, whore.”

Over and over again he fucks into you.

After one harsh thrust, your mouth drops open and before you can moan loudly, Chan’s free hand covers your mouth tightly.

“Feels that good to have my cock inside you, huh? Can’t control that pretty mouth, you’re so fucked out.”

You whine and nod again. Nails digging into the felt of the pool table underneath you.

Hot, white pleasure is coursing through your veins. You’ve never been fucked like this in your life.

Chan leans down more and bites at the side of your neck, lapping at the skin and leaving small marks that will fade by the morning.

“You’re fucking lucky you have to be in a bathing suit in front of your family tomorrow. Otherwise I would leave my fucking mark all over you.” He bites, but doesn’t suck. “Make sure everyone knows you’re mine.”

Another whine is stopped by his hand.

“I have a better idea, babygirl.” He bites your earlobe, pace slowing down within you. Instead, he thrusts deeper, you can practically feel him within your gut. “I’m going to do exactly what you said, yeah? Fill you up? Make that pussy sloppy with my fucking load.”

Your hips jerk back into his to try and encourage him to pick up the pace. Chan only tightens his hold in your hair.

“You’re going to take whatever I give you, every last fucking drop. Even after I pull out, I’ll stuff you with my fucking fingers so nothing gets wasted.”

Arching your back, you press into him more.

“You want that, huh?” He growls, biting your ear. His pace picks up gradually, each thrust rougher and faster than the last. “You want my seed inside you?”

You nod pathetically.

“You want me to fuck a baby into you?”

His thrusts start growing erratic.

You never expected him to be this talkative during sex. But he hasn’t shut up once.

Another nod accompanied with a whine comes from you. You’re absolutely drowning in pleasure.

“Gunna carry my kids, got the fucking perfect hips for it, yeah? You’ll look so fucking hot all pregnant with our kids. Fuck.”

He’s so lost and fucked out, he can’t stop his mouth from running, spewing all his fantasies.

Moving his hand from your mouth, he trails it down to grab at your throat.

“Chan!” You moan out, licking your dry lips.

“Can feel you clenching, babygirl. You gonna cum for me? Gunna cream on my cock? Suck up my cum and hold onto it with this tight fucking pussy?”

“Yes yes yes yes.” You pant over and over again. “Kiss me, kiss me, please”

When you turn your head, your lips smash together.

The coil in your gut is seconds from snapping.

You bite Chan’s lip and pull back.

“Fuck me full, daddy.”

Every muscle in his body tensed and his thrusts turn into something animalistic. The hand in your hair is so tight your scalp is screaming.

“Say it again.”

“Fu-huck,” is all you’re able to manage.

“Say it again.” He barks in your ear. You’re not going to be able sit down tomorrow.

“Daddy.”

A bite to your neck.

“Again.”

“Daddy! Fuck me, daddy!”

“Holy shit.” He whines in your ear. Hearing you say that makes him feel fucking insane. His body is acting on its own.

With a few more thrusts both of you are thrown over the edge at the same time. Your cunt clenching around him so tight, Chan can barely breathe.

His cock spurts and sprays within you, painting your walls white.

Every single sensation feels so good you think you leave for body for a few minutes. Your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks.

His entire body is wrapped around yours. Grunts in your ear keep you grounded.

You feel so full.

Chan came inside you so much that it’s leaking out and dripping down the inside of your legs.

He pants heavily into your ear.

Releasing your neck, he lovingly runs his hand down your side, caressing your hip, massaging circles into the bone.

His hand slides around and cups your lower stomach tenderly.

Slowly, he unwinds his hand from your hair, kissing at the roots he’s been relentlessly pulling on. He scratches and rubs at your scalp to ease the ache.

But still, he hasn’t pulled out.

Chan kisses the top of your head and down to your face, kissing the cheek he’s able to reach.

You can’t catch your breath.

“Y/N,” he whispers into your hair.

You hum back to him, eyes still closed in bliss.

“I love you.”

Your heart jumps in your chest, Chan feels you clench around him.

“I love you too.” It falls from your lips so easily, like it’s been sitting there for so long, just waiting to be heard.

Both of your heads turn to kiss one another.

It’s so ungodly sweet for the events that just took place minutes ago.

His lips are so soft and plush, especially from being swollen from your steamy kisses.

Inside you, you can feel his cock twitch. Is he…?

Breathlessly, you pull away from his sweet kiss.

“Are you still hard?” you pant.

Sheepishly, he smiles and ruts into you. A moan catches in your throat.

“Babygirl, I’ve been waiting for so long to fuck you. It’s going to take a few times before I’m ready to call it a night.”

---

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

---

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

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