Iskdodmdosmdodmspdmdothiswassocuteandiwanttocrylikewtfwhemisitmytruniwantlovelikethis

Iskdodmdosmdodmspdmdo🥺thiswassocuteandiwanttocrylikewtfwhemisitmytruniwantlovelikethis

😭😭omg this fic broke my brain

the enemies to lovers project | lee minho

𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢 𝙩𝙮𝙥𝙚: 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵; 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦 𝘢𝘶, 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧

𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣: 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘫𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨'𝘴 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦 – 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘺, 𝘭𝘦𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘰, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵. 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥.

𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩: ~18𝘬+

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨

𝘢/𝘯: 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺!!! 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦! 𝘪 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘩𝘩 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 >.< 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘪 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵! 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴, 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥!

prologue.

“You know I despise you, right?”

“Oh, despise. Such a big word, baby,” Minho drawled with an obnoxious smirk, the one that simultaneously made you want to rip his hair out and kiss those perfectly delectable lips of his, “If it’s any consolation, I abhor your presence as well.”

“Wonderful,” you crossed your legs, a smile creeping onto your face as you leaned backward in your chair, “So why exactly are you here?”

Minho laughed, “The same reason I presume that you’re here for. A hundred dollars to put up with you is a tempting offer.”

Keep reading

This was so adorable 🥰 it’s 5 in the morning and this made me so happy I was having such a shot day and this fic made me want to squeal while kicking my feet ❤️❤️

this is my part of the rockin’ around the christmas tropes collab with @yeojaa, @underthejoon @ladyartemesia, @ppersonna, @untaemedqueen, @xjoonchildx ✨ MERRY (early) CHRISTMAS Y’ALL

summary: yoongi is your favourite regular. he’s patient, polite, and predictable, a-large-black-coffee-to-go-please, no cream, no sugar, thank you. rinse and repeat. the seasons might change, but yoongi’s order stays the same.

and then one fateful day in winter, yoongi asks about the weekly specials, orders a cup of christmas and sugary sweetness, and everything starts changing.

pairing: yoongi x barista f!reader / word count: 14.8k / genre: coffeeshop!au, fluff, dash of smut (NSFW)

warnings: slow burn, terrible drink concoctions, pining, miscommunication (kind of/reader comes to incorrect conclusions based on literally nothing), the tiniest bit of swearing, heated makeouts, oral (m receiving), I think that’s it

a/n: I have a lot of people to thank: thank you to my loveliest most beautiful wife @yeojaa for the beautiful banner 🥺💖 thank you to @morndas for helping me name this fic and suggesting some of the awful weekly specials featured within 🥰 thank you to @yeoldontknow for letting me have multiple meltdowns at her and for letting me pick her brain about working in the music industry, and for helping me with plot points I wasn’t sure about!! 💕

also thank you to @hobi-gif for helping me brainstorm the original fic idea with her; she hasn’t beta’ed this fic because I am TERRIBLE and literally finished this like an hour before posting. that’s on me and not her. I am a shambles without her indomitable proof reading skills; any mistakes are down to me, and I apologise for that. I’ve only read this through like once, sorry in advance, I’m literally formatting this while I should be getting ready for work

Being a barista isn’t all bad.

Like, okay, you’re on your feet for hours at a time, the pay isn’t exactly the highest in the world, and coffee beans have a tendency to end up in the weirdest places (how did you get the light roast in your bra?)—but it’s not entirely terrible.

Here’s a (totally not comprehensive) list of good things about working at the Paradise coffee shop:

Keep reading

---

blindsided (myg)

After years of dating, you thought you had Min Yoongi all figured out - you didn't. And when he flipped the script on you, you never saw it coming.

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Fem!Reader Type: One-shot - sequel to darksided. Word Count: 6K Content: SMUT (18+ - Minors DNI,) established relationship au, POV switch, softbf!yoongi turned dom!yoongi, sub!reader, sex tape, oral sex (f receiving,) v fingering, p in v penetration, unprotected sex, squirting, multiple orgams, over-stimulation, spanking, biting, blindfold, praise kink, pussy slapping, general depravity, aftercare, fried chicken. A/N: Seriously, go read darksided (linked above) if you haven't yet. This takes place approx. two weeks later, and while the context isn't necessary, things will make more sense! also i am so tired, so i haven't fully proofed this yet - i'll clean it up as i find glaring errors (lol) Tags: @exhibitachol @sstarryoong @variety-is-the-joy-of-life @miraculous-disaster @wakeupinahaze

For the first time in his life, Yoongi was avoiding his studio.

He had a mountain of work left to do on his mixtape – and, importantly, the drive to finish it – but that was precisely why he’d stayed away. Anytime he stepped foot inside over the past two weeks, his mind wandered far, far away from the task at hand. His previously unyielding discipline fell by the wayside the second he crossed the threshold.

Instead of focusing on the tracks he had yet to write, or perfecting the ones he'd already recorded, his eyes would roam over the surface of his desk on the other side of the room. It'd since been returned to its usual state, covered in various notebooks, and recording equipment. But it looked so much better with your bare, sweat-slicked body writhing on top of it.

And when he'd finally muster the willpower to look back at his computer, his gaze would pass over - and then jerk back to - the wall he’d pinned you against as his fingers fucked a river out of you. His blood pressure would spike as he pictured you there, relying on him to hold you upright, and any hope of accomplishing anything would drop dead on the floor.

The very same floor you’d fastidiously scrubbed to erase the mess he’d made of you, no less.

And then he’d think to himself: This isn’t a workspace anymore - it’s holy ground. 

Yoongi was running out of time, though, and he had to do his best to keep his mind on his work, off of you. Catching himself once again rewinding through recent memories, he let out a groan and forced his wandering eyes back to the screen in front of him.

He realized as he scrolled through his editing software that he’d done a piss-poor job of labeling his masters lately. This, of course, made it impossible for him to remember which track was which. On a whim, he chose the file in the middle of the folder and brought it up.

If he’d paid attention to the size of the file, he could’ve prepared himself for the consequences of pressing ‘play' - but he didn’t and he wasn't. 

“I really couldn’t love you more if I tried.” "Should I shut it off now until you're ready to start?" "I can cut it down. I do need you to cue the track, though - when I signal you."

Biting down hard on his bottom lip, he secured his headphones over his ears. He’d never been less interested in hearing his own music; so, without a second thought, he skipped over the next three minutes. As he did, his hand dropped down to palm his hardening dick through his jeans.

“Is it me, baby? Have I got you dizzy?”

Your little whimpers were barely audible in the recording, but they still managed to ignite a fire in the pit of his stomach. The blaze spread throughout his body when he pictured the way you looked below him then - so soft and shy, but with such carnal desire sparking in the dark of your eyes.

“I can’t give you what you want if you can’t tell me what that is.”

Anticipating your next line, his hand tensed around his cock. It was a pale imitation of that vice grip he found between your thighs, but it was something; and he would've taken anything.

“I don’t want you to be gentle with me. I - I know that you -”

Even caged between the walls of unimaginable heat, the irony of it all wasn't lost on him. The best recording he'd ever produced was created purely by accident -

“Stupid girl. You know nothing.”

- and it wasn't music at all.

“Get up.”

With Yoongi working hard on his creative pursuits, you begrudgingly committed to addressing your own. Like him, you had a to-do list long enough to circle the globe; but unlike him, you weren't buried in projects because you wanted to be. 

When Yoongi crossed off a task, he scribbled five more in its place. His mind never idled because he found inspiration everywhere. A half-remembered vignette from childhood that shook itself loose to become something beautiful. A word he encountered in passing that he’d transform into some modern-day epic. He generated this much work solely because his passion - like his potential - was limitless. 

To the contrary, you generated this much work because you were easily distracted. You’d start one project, and before you could finish it, your attention would flutter off on the wind like dandelion seeds. All those half-starts would stockpile until you eventually boxed yourself into a corner - and then, somehow, you'd keep stacking. 

Today's task was simple: you needed to transfer your recent photos from your camera's memory card to your laptop. Easy. Drag files from one folder to another, and then your contribution to this month's magazine spread would be finished. It should've only taken an hour - at most - for the upload to complete. 

Instead of doing what you intended, you ended up where you always did: happily lost in the weeds. This particular distraction was a folder from three years ago, when Yoongi took you on an anniversary trip to Paris. If you really had to defend this tangent, your scattered brain's game of word association wasn't far off - the photos you were supposed to tend to were from Paris Fashion Week. 

That counts for something, right? 

You snorted as you toggled through your archive. Had you taken a single photo of the stunning architecture, or countless historical sites you’d visited? Of course not. But you had snapped approximately one-hundred shots of an unaware Min Yoongi - buying you macarons; befriending a stray cat by an ATM; grimacing as he sipped wine you both hated but spent too many Euros on to waste. 

Wait, what were you supposed to be doing? 

Whatever it was, you’d swear up and down that you really did intend to finish it, but then you heard familiar, muffled footsteps. And then you felt the mattress dip slightly under the tops of your thighs and the elbows you’d propped yourself up on.  

And then the same Min Yoongi whose face beamed on your screen - slightly older, and even more adored - slid over the backs of your outstretched legs until his knees came to rest at either side of your ass. His body was warm as it loomed over you, but you shivered, nonetheless. 

Leaning in, he pushed your hair over your right shoulder and pressed a warm kiss into your left. Though he'd targeted an area several centimeters away from your spine, the aftershocks of this chaste contact rippled down its length. From there, the current divested and shot through each of your limbs, paralyzing you. 

You hummed and let your eyelids flutter shut. He ascended the arc of your shoulder, then your neck, leaving a smattering of kisses in his wake until the trail went cold. His quiet exhale tickled the skin below your ear, but he hovered in place - too far away. 

Reflexively, you whined and tilted your head to look at him. Effectively pinned, all you could do was survey his profile in your peripheral vision. “Baby?” You nudged. 

The hand he wasn’t using to hold his weight snuck under the hem of your tank-top and caressed the bare curve of your waist. His hypnotic ministrations on your side might’ve lulled you to sleep if you weren’t so intrigued by his so-far wordless affection. 

Thoroughly spellbound, your lids closed again while your lips remained parted. There was a moan building slowly in your chest, taking its time, but it was a gasp that tore out of you when his teeth nicked your lobe. His tongue was quick to soothe the pinch, and even quicker to solicit a mewl. 

You had no idea where this was coming from. Moreover, you didn't know what additional surprises this man was capable of. Though Yoongi had always been affectionate with you, he'd only recently unearthed some rare, raw sensuality that you never expected. In the time since this discovery, his touches became more frequent. You felt more of him underscoring each one, no matter how brief. 

The fingers skimming over your waist disappeared and left you cold, but before you could process the loss, they reappeared - lower now, pushing up the bottom of your underwear, and gripping the doughy cheek of your ass. Hard. Instantaneously, your hazy eyes re-opened. 

Min Yoongi truly contained multitudes. 

"Have I told you that you're my muse?" He purred into the shell of your ear as his hand massaged the skin he'd likely bruised.  

Enchanted once again, your sole response was a breathy moan. Only after his hand raised and smacked back against your ass did you realize he'd lulled you into a false sense of security. 

"When I ask you a question, I want an answer. Do you understand, baby?" 

Your shuttered breaths and accompanying nod weren't sufficient replies. His palm collided with your delicate cheek a second time, and it stayed there. The sting was muted by his fingers digging in and pinching; but it wasn't the pain that stole your attention. 

Instead, it was the wetness gushing between your clenched thighs when he whispered, "Use your words, angel." 

"I do," You muttered urgently, "I understand." 

The grip on your ass dissolved. You knew better now than to trust the warm hand kneading your cheek, but you couldn't resist moaning. Fuck - his touch was perfect. 

He contradicted the gentle caress below with a nip at your neck; and the kiss placed at that same spot preceded the true kill-shot. He hummed against your skin and your soul threatened to leave your body: 

"Good girl." 

The noise that escaped your mouth was stranded between a gasp and a cry. Oh, this man would be the death of you. 

"You inspired my next project today," He murmured between kisses to your neck. The tip of his nose was cold as it brushed across your skin and that disparity in temperature left you in shambles. "Not something I've done before -" He paused to suckle at your neck, no doubt leaving a mark when he released you, "And I need your help, baby." 

Another whimper escaped when his index finger snapped the elastic waistband of your boy-shorts; and you felt his mouth curve into a smirk. "I'll do anything -" You meant it. "Just - please, Yoongi, I need to feel you." 

"You will," His mirth left him in a breathy chuckle. It vibrated through your body and formed goosebumps as it went. "But not yet, angel. I want to savor this." 

Confused, you pouted - another exhaled laugh against your neck - and then, in a tiny voice, you asked, "What do you mean?" 

His hand slid up the back of your neck. With the base of your skull held gently captive between his thumb and middle finger, he guided you to turn your head to the left, then down. 

It didn't click right away. Silently, you blinked down at your camera. Is this what he wanted you to see? Why did - "Oh, no," you groaned as your head drooped forward. 

"Oh no?" He repeated, and though he tried, he couldn't hide the surprise in his tone. You quickly realized that he mistook your reaction for disinterest. He couldn't have been more wrong.  

Your sudden, complete deflation was simply your body buckling under the weight of unspeakable arousal. It anticipated the world-endingly perfect way he was about to fuck you; and it couldn't process the fact that it would all be memorialized. He really would be the end of you. 

Your head tilted until it rested against the side of his. "The memory card inside it is full, but there's a new one in my bag." 

Although you couldn't see it, you knew the corner of his mouth would twitch excitedly upwards at your words. At his, your mouth dropped open: 

"Any clothes you're still wearing when I come back to this bed will be ripped off. Got it?" 

It was difficult to tell which part of this exchange made your legs quiver the most: the stern warning itself; the contradictory soft, husky tone in which he said it; or the kiss the top of your head received when you responded - out loud - in the affirmative. He was gone before you could figure it out, making his way to the camera bag in the corner of your bedroom. 

He'd barely taken two steps when you frantically pulled your oversized tank-top over your head. It landed somewhere out of sight, and it was swiftly joined by your underwear - grey fabric soaked black. Your laptop was more carefully dismissed, tucked gently under the nightstand to avoid being ruined the way you were sure to be. 

When your head hit the pillow, your heart was already racing. Suddenly, you felt shy as you lay naked in your own bed, like you hadn't been in this position so many times before. There was a long-forgotten anticipation turning flips in your stomach. It bent your knees and brought your arms up to rest over your bare chest - you hadn't felt it since the very first time Yoongi saw you like this. 

As if he'd been summoned by your thoughts, Yoongi walked towards you with his focus trained on the camera in his hands. The tip of his tongue poked out through pursed lips as he carefully slotted the new memory card into the bottom, but it disappeared when the compartment clicked shut again.

He froze when he looked up at you, and your hammering heart threatened to make a break for it. 

"Baby," He was frowning. You raced to figure out which of his directions you failed to follow; but he interrupted the frenzy in your brain with that maddeningly soft, stern voice, "Why are you hiding?" 

Mouth open and poised to respond - with what, you weren't sure - you were cut off by the extended finger he raised to silence you. You clamped your jaw shut; his mouth curved ever-so-slightly at your quick compliance. 

See? You wanted to say, I'm learning! 

He removed the lens cap before his eyes flitted back up to you. "Hands above your head -" You did as he asked, though you didn't know where this was going. "- Close your eyes -" Again, you obeyed. "Don't move." 

And you didn't.  

You laid there with your eyes closed and listened for any sign of what was coming next. You could hear the muffled tread of his bare feet on the rug; and you expected further instructions - none came. Then you waited for any familiar noise from your camera - there was silence. But you smelled his cologne as he came closer, and the warmth you suddenly felt at your side told you that he’d reached you. 

“Lift your head up – but keep your eyes closed.” 

The eyebrow you raised in question was covered with some cool, silky fabric before Yoongi could have registered it. You received your answer in his actions. Gentle fingers adjusted the way the blindfold fell over your eyes, and then – even more gently – they tied a knot at the back of your head. Not too tight, but firm enough to keep it from slipping. It was no surprise to you that he’d handled this without disturbing a single hair on your head. 

His hands, once behind your head, now cupped your face. “You listen so well, angel,” He murmured before plush lips brushed against your forehead. “Lay back down the way you were.” 

Your head returned to the pillow and your elbows bent to allow your hands to meet above it. And you waited like that, trying to sense what his next move would be.

His footsteps padded off, and you figured he was seeking the best place to set up the camera. He paused, though, after only taking a few steps. The camera whirred – the auto-focus, you recognized immediately – and then it clicked. 

“So beautiful – you know that, don’t you? How stunning you are?”  

Click. 

“Perfect -” 

Click. 

“Mine” 

You couldn't help wondering how his photos would turn out. If your cheeks weren’t red under the blanket of his praise, it’d only be because you’d turned into a puddle. Your arousal had strayed far enough to slick the insides of your thighs, and if he didn’t touch you soon, you might liquify entirely and seep through the mattress to the floor. 

In the distance, plastic settled on wood. The strap affixed to your camera slithered over whatever surface he’d chosen; you could hear it slip over an edge, then it was silent. The bookshelf, you decided, third row from the top. Maybe second, if he liked the angle better? 

Without speaking first, he crawled up onto the foot of the bed. He paused there, likely kneeling in front of you. His hands slipped under your bent knees, and the only warning you got was him purring, “Come here,” mere seconds before you were pulled forward. You imagined that your gasp was still hanging in the air when you slipped out from under it. 

As soon as he was satisfied with your proximity, his hands found the insides of your knees and encouraged your legs to spread. “Now, baby -” He started, the heat of his breath indicating just how close his mouth was to your weeping cunt. “You’ll make sure the camera can hear you, won’t you?” 

The word was caught in your throat, suddenly bashful, but it eventually slipped out, “Yes.” 

You knew you’d failed as soon as you heard it, and you didn’t need to wait long to face the consequences. You jolted when his flattened fingers collided with your cunt - the sensation was a surprise, but the sound was what shocked you. Fuck! You could hear how wet he had you already.

Sodden, pooling, dripping. 

“Don’t be selfish, angel,” He tutted after withdrawing his touch from you, “Those sounds might come out of your mouth, but they don't belong to you, do they?” 

“No -” Your desperation was palpable when you responded with your whole chest. “They don’t. I – I won’t be selfish, I promise -” 

You cried out when he slapped your cunt a second time, an obscene chord formed by surprise, torment, and unbearable need.

“Whose are they?”

“Yours!” You choked, “They’re yours. I’m yours.” 

His arms hooked under your thighs and your pulse skyrocketed. “See? You are learning.” 

And then he lurched forward, flat tongue dragging upwards over your core with a pressure so perfect, your entire body tensed. He squeezed your legs harder when your back arched, and it prevented you from inadvertently slipping away from him.  

That devilish tongue swirled over your clit, and all you could manage was a whisper of a moan. He corrected you wordlessly, digging his fingers into the flesh of your thighs. The groan he pulled from you ricocheted off each one of your ribs on the way out. Satisfied, he hummed in approval against your cunt before he proceeded to flick dizzying circles over your increasingly sensitive bud; alternating paces in the way he knew would drive you mad.  

Both of your arms reached out, and your hands carded through his hair. You pulled him ever closer, which prompted him to shake his head furiously with the flat of his tongue pressed against your heat.  

“Oh, fuck!” you wailed. As much as you wanted to watch him, you knew that – even without the blindfold - the way his mouth moved so expertly against you would have made it too difficult to keep your eyes open. They were already covered, but you squeezed them tight enough to see stars as he suckled your clit. “Shit, baby – ah – feels so good.”  

The thread holding you together frayed further and further with every brush of his tongue against your most sensitive spot. The sound of his breathing, ragged and muffled with your thighs pressed harshly against the sides of his head, would have done unspeakable things to you - if your mindless gasping didn't threaten to drown him out completely.  

He shifted without removing his mouth from you, and he unhooked his right arm from under your leg. The heel of his hand glided up over your pelvis, your navel, and your breasts before stopping at the underside of your jaw. Two fingers tapped at your chin; you took the hint and took them into your mouth.

His tongue never let up on your clit as you slicked his fingers, suckling on them the way he did you. Once he was satisfied with the work you’d done, he pulled his hand back down to your cunt.   

Tongue still relentless at your clit, his middle finger swung the focus to your entrance, which was drenched by his saliva and your own slick. Meticulous and slow, he slid his finger inside of you. He moaned at the way you constricted around him; you melted. 

He never struggled to find that secret spot hidden behind your pubic bone. He'd proven time and time again that he was more in tune with your body than you were. Every curve, dip, and line had been committed to muscle memory.  

He could anticipate your reaction to every touch, even when those reactions varied based upon your mood or your energy level - and it was automatic. Unthinking but knowing. He teased this spot without mercy, and as he likely expected, you began to shake under his touch.  

The growing feeling in the pit of your stomach was one you knew he strived for. His favorite trick, once he knew the secret. And whenever you tried to resist – still uncomfortable with the way your body reacted to him – he gave you no choice. 

No poet could adequately describe how completely your orgasm consumed you. With the way you jolted against his mouth, he could’ve electrocuted you. You wriggled and writhed in his arms as you came, but he didn’t stop, even as your walls clenched around his fingers and your thighs pressed even more tightly against the sides of his head.

Your familiar moans devolved into some desperate sounds you’d never made before, curse words spilling out over your lips as you just kept cumming – but he still held tight to you as you bucked wildly in his arms.  

There was unbelievable pressure until there wasn’t.  

“Fuck, I love it when you do that,” He growled with his face nestled into your quivering, dripping inner thigh. His teeth nicked the skin but were swiftly replaced with a kiss from his ravenous, open mouth. “That’s my good girl.” 

He let you collapse back onto the bed, but he denied you any time to recover.  

“I think you can do it again, baby. What do you think?” He teased, alternating words and quick kisses along the interior of your thigh. “Should we see how much more you can take?”  

You babbled something in response, but neither of you could’ve interpreted what you meant. Your limp neck rolled to the side while you tried to catch your breath; there wasn’t time. You felt him coat his fingers in the remnants of your orgasm moments before he slid them inside of you and curled them upward.  

The combination of relentless pressure and a feverish pace dotted stars across the insides of your eyelids. Breathless, dangling at the edge of a precipice, you stammered, “Yoo-Yoongi -” 

Despite the obscene squelch of his ministrations, his voice rang through, clear as a bell. “What, angel? Do you want to come again?” Stupidly, you nodded, but he didn’t scold you. Given your fucked-out state, he seemed to forgive your mistake. “Then come.” 

The blindfold covering your eyes was black, but your vision went white. As you spasmed and gushed uncontrollably around his fingers, there was a moment where you could’ve sworn your soul ejected itself from your body. If it was floating above you now, it would’ve seen how thoroughly you’d drenched your boyfriend; and how perfect he still looked with your juices dripping off his chin. 

His weight was shifting at your feet when you returned to your body. It took everything you had, but you lifted one, limp arm out in his general direction. No words, just an outstretched hand begging to find him. When it did, he slotted his fingers perpendicularly under yours, rubbed the pad of his thumb over your knuckles, and kissed the top of your hand. 

“What color?” he murmured against your skin. 

You sighed softly, exhausted but not yet entirely spent, “Green.” You paused and chewed on your bottom lip. After a moment of quiet, you asked, “Yoongi?” 

“Yes, baby?” 

It was pitiful how your request barely rolled off of your tongue, but the answer would surely be no if you didn’t ask. “Can I see you?” 

He was silent for a moment – so, the answer would be no even though you did ask – but then you heard his soft chuckle. Even after he pulled the blindfold off, your eyes were useless. Somewhere in the bright white haze was Yoongi, though you couldn’t confirm that the shadow in front of you was truly him. Maybe you truly had died. 

Blinking furiously, you refused to stop until your eyes remembered how to focus. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the dark figure before you took a familiar shape. Shirtless, with damp, black waves clinging to his cheekbones – there he was. Concern was etched into his features, but his narrowed eyes relaxed when you shot him a smile. 

“Color?” You inquired with a squeeze of your hand. 

When he dropped your hand, your heart fell with it. But he sat up on his knees, placed that hand on your cheek, and captured your lips in a kiss. It was perfect, but it was torturously brief.  

“Green,” He replied. He backed away from you until he was standing at the foot of the bed. One hand dropped to his belt buckle while the index finger on his other hand beckoned you. 

You crawled towards him until his palm silently instructed you to stop. 

“Elbows on the mattress, ass up,” He ordered as he made short work of his belt. It slid easily through the loops of his ripped jeans and clattered as it hit the floor.

You leaned forward as he instructed, knees and elbows digging into the comforter you’d absolutely need to wash later – especially considering the way your mouth watered when his jeans and boxers were discarded and kicked aside. Were you drooling? 

Your body buzzed with anticipation as he crossed to the side of the bed. You wished he took his time sidling over to you, so your eyes could continue to devour his lean, snow-white frame; but if the stiff cock encircled by his hand was any indication, Yoongi wasn’t interested in wasting time. Instead, he pushed himself up onto the bed, out of sight, and the next thing you felt was his hand collecting your hair, pulling, and forcing your face up to the camera. 

His free hand squeezed your ass cheek when he said, “Eye contact, baby. Show the camera how I make you feel. Can you do that?” 

With his tip teasing at your entrance, you weren’t confident that you could – but you’d sure as hell try. “I can,” Your determination was clear, even if the voice conveying it wavered. “I will.” 

“Good girl,” He hummed. He released your hair and placed a kiss on the same shoulder blade he had earlier - when he last had you in this position. “Now, take a deep breath for me.” 

It wasn’t graceful, the way you sucked in air as he penetrated you; it was an unholy, strangled sound, and it crashed through the quiet like a wrecking ball. Every instinct begged your head to droop forward, and your back to curve up upwards, but you fought them off. Praise for your efforts tumbled out over your spine between Yoongi’s shuttered moans. His noises had you clenching around his cock, and the tightened grip of your cunt transformed them into something guttural. 

He paused when he bottomed out. Like you, he seemed to be at a loss for words. The hand gripping your hip was holding on for dear life; and the one curved over your shoulder kept you in place, allowing him to bury himself as deeply as possible.

He didn’t speak until he slowly started withdrawing himself from you, “I love the way you take me, how that tight pussy fights me whenever I leave.” 

As his cock dragged over your g-spot, your entire body shivered. He felt it and chuckled; you hiccupped, “Still so s-sensitive.” 

“Green?” 

“More -” You begged, “Please, baby.” 

You asked for it, but you weren’t ready for it. His hips snapped forward and drove him back into you before you could process what was happening. And when he kept up that ravenous pace, rutting over and over and over your detonator, it took everything you had not to explode.

All your willpower was spent trying to withstand his thrusts, though – nothing could keep you from collapsing forward onto the bed as your white-knuckled fingers gripped the comforter below. 

Before your body could fully settle over the mattress, his hand on your shoulder evolved into an arm hooking over you. He pulled you upright as his arm crossed over your heaving chest; he didn’t stop until he had you pinned to his. 

Fucking upwards into you with shallow, staccato strokes, he scolded you. “What did I tell you?” His hand dropped from your hip and dipped between your quivering thighs. His rapid thrusts didn’t falter as his middle finger began to assault your clit. “Hmm? What did I just say?” 

“Eye conta -”

The end of that word mutated into a scream. He snapped his hips forward so suddenly, you never anticipated being shoved off the edge of the world. Your orgasm ripped through you, shutting off your brain and forcing your entire body to convulse around him. 

You went limp when you fell from your high; Yoongi’s hold on you tightened to keep you from collapsing. Unrelenting, he just – kept – rutting. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.

You wailed when that fourth wave crashed down over you. Caught in its riptide, you spoke in tongues; writhing and shrieking and imploding. Could a person die from coming this hard? 

Yoongi’s panting pulled you out of the abyss he’d thrown you in. “Shit,” He hissed, “I’m so close - fuck, you feel so good -” You felt it all over when he growled into your ear, “Tell me where you want it, baby.” 

You answered, but it was impossible for your hazy brain to know for sure if you’d replied verbally or telepathically. Either way, he understood – he always understood – and his break-neck speed was replaced by deep, deliberate thrusts. He groaned out your name as his cock twitched inside you, painting your walls white. 

The kiss Yoongi left in the crook of your neck didn’t wash away with the water cascading down over the two of you. You could still feel the uniqueness of its warmth, even in a cloud of steam - under the hot, heavy droplets hitting your skin.  

Your eyes were closed to avoid the conditioner he was massaging into your scalp, but your exhaustion was likely to keep them that way. The only reason you hadn’t slipped down the drain yourself was your unspoken refusal to be separated from him. Though, with that invisible string tying the two of you together, you’d never be able to stray very far, even if you wanted to.

“Can you tilt your head back, love?” 

This one was a request, not a command, and he made no effort to move it for you. The weight of your sleepiness caused your neck to roll more clumsily than you intended; it gave up, and your head bumped against his clavicle when it dropped backwards.

“Sorry,” you murmured, but he was already chuckling. “My motor skills seem to have clocked out early.” 

His laugh ricocheted off the tile. “You won’t need them,” He mused as his hands gently worked the remaining conditioner from your hair. “We can use mine.” Then he kissed the crown of your head, not once but twice. You could feel his smile spread against your scalp when you giggled. “All done, baby.” 

He’d taken his time with you; and he’d taken great care to clean – then kiss – every sore muscle he encountered. And when he was done, he used a large, plush towel to wick the lingering droplets from your skin. His hands on your waist steadied you as you stepped into a pair of sweatpants, and he smoothed the damp waves that you disrupted in unceremoniously tugging an oversized sweatshirt over your head. 

Once the two of you were fully dressed, he cupped your face in his hands, kissed you deep, and asked, “Do you need a lift back to bed?” His eyes sparkled at his joke – of course, he meant lift literally – and his eyebrow arched when you meekly shook your head. “I’m not sold. Is that your final answer?” 

You, once again, shook your head. He exhaled amusement through his nose at your indecision. Then, he placed his hands on your waist. Perfectly coordinated – as always – he lifted as you hopped, pulling you into his chest while your limbs wrapped around him. He carried you easily back into the bedroom and set you down gently on the bare mattress. 

All of your bedding was spinning in the washing machine on the first floor of your home, but he had a fluffy, full-sized throw waiting there for you. You held up one side of it, silently inviting him to join you. When he settled at your side, your head ducked down and came to rest under his chin. As soon as his arm curled over your back, your heavy lids finally closed. 

You were both quiet, one foot in a dream, when the growl of his stomach startled you both awake. Erupting into laughter, you each craned your neck to see the other beaming back. 

He wiped the mirth pooling in the corner of his eye and sighed as his laughter petered out, “Delivery from that fried chicken place?” 

“Oooh, yes, please.”

A/N: Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! The response to the first post was so incredibly overwhelming, I simply had to write a follow-up. I might continue to add one-offs to this darksided cinematic universe (lol) simply because I love their relationship dynamic. And the sexual journey they seem to be on, hahahah. Please leave feedback so I know what you liked and what you didn't! Also, lmk if there’s something you’d want to see in any possible future installments 👀

I was yoongi biased before but somehow I became more of one after this?? 🥹 100/10

Auburn Skies - MYG

Summary:  Everyone knows that if your best friend has a little sister, she’s off limits. That, and the fact that your best friend will probably kill you if you even think about going near his sister. Yoongi knows this. There’s no way he could tell Namjoon that once upon a time you kissed him, drunk in his living room after a break up. So much time’s passed since then, too much time to bring it up now, but Yoongi still thinks about it, he’s still a little hopeful. Now you’re here at the lake house because Namjoon brought you and you clearly have something you want to say to Yoongi. 

Namjoon’s gonna kill him.

Genre: 18+, fluff, angst, humor.

Word count: 12k

Warning(s): 18+, smut, oral (m+f receiving) unprotected sex, porn is mentioned. Yoongi and Y/n are BOTH stupid and they need help. Taehyung’s trying his best, Seokjin is also trying his best but subtler. Yoongi’s convinced that Namjoon’s out to get him at every turn. Slight jealousy. Y/n and Yoongi have no idea how to actually hold a conversation like adults, until they do.

Notes: My addition to the Autumn Leaves Collab, hosted by the beautiful @bangtansmauyeondan !! I had so much fun working on this, and I met so many beautiful people that I’m so grateful for, so happy to call my friends 🥺 I love y'all! Please check out the other authors’ fics on the Collab Masterlist! Everyone worked so hard, give my girls some love! Shout out to @blog-name-idk and @xpeachesncream for being absolute aNGELS, beta reading and helping me out when I panicked over this lol, and @madbutgloriouspond for helping me brainstorm. I hope you guys enjoy!! Please leave feedback, I’m nothing but a poor soul seeking validation (and motivation!) to keep going.

“You’re staring.” Seokjin nudges Yoongi’s arm with his, snapping him out of his daze. He catches Seokjin’s smirk, and there’s a twinkle in his eye that promises nothing good. Yoongi pulls his eyes away from your form, sitting in a chair on the dock away from everyone else with a book in your hand. You’re bundled up in a thick sweater and cozy sweatpants, completely lost in your book.

“Was not.” Yoongi feels the need to deny it, distracting himself with cutting up onions, focusing on the way the blade of the knife cuts through the vegetable and definitely not the way Seokjin was wiggling his eyebrows at him.

“Sure. I believe you.”

Somewhere inside, there is music playing. A Lo-Fi beat that plays softly under the sound of rain. It’s kind of sad, if Yoongi is being honest, but he supposes that autumn is a sad season. Nothing but changes all around. The leaves change colours, mixing like paint on an easel in the hands of a melancholy artist drowning in his own solitude. They shift and the vibrancy of summer fades until they die, falling off their homes to go drifting in the wind, or land on the ground to become everyone’s problem.

Keep reading

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Aweeee this was so cute🥺🥺

it's sweet (explicit)

genre: a fluffy lil sickfic

pairing: taehyung x reader

summary: you forgot to call out sick from your dick appointment, but he stays anyway.

word count: 4.3k

contains: no smut just fluff????? new year new me 😎 but as this is fuckbuddies to maybe-lovers and there are certainly a few references in here to sex, because of who i am as a person, it's enough that i'm tagging it explicit anyway lmao. but this is all fluff! reader has the flu, tae is a sweet sweet boi and takes care of her, it's all a bit sappy~ 🤧

A/N: happy new year!!! and a very happy belated birthday to my capricorn prince 💜 this soft little idea got stuck in my brain and wouldn't let go, and i had a lot more fun writing it than expected. plus i feel like i only wrote tae as a menace in 2022 (sorry to tae 👹) so i had to right my wrongs with this one lmao. it was a nice interlude before i jump into LDOMLT ch11 (the final chapter 😭) - i hope you all enjoy and that your 2023s are off to a pleasant start!!!

read on AO3!

~*~

You genuinely enjoy being single.

With your last relationship officially in the trash, you’ve found yourself settled into a comfortable peace. There’s no man in your life to mess up your plans, to force you to have to compromise or share anything, to suck up your energy and domestic labor like some kind of emotional vampire. You can do what you want, whenever you want, and you have a reliable rotation of both sex toys and fuckbuddies to keep you physically satisfied when the need arises.

Being single, you have come to learn, is fucking great.

Except when you get sick.

A knock at your apartment door drags you out of your DayQuil-induced slumber. You move to sit up with a sniffle before letting yourself drop back into your veritable nest of blankets on the couch, struck with the immediate recollection: it’s just the food you ordered. You’d specifically put in a request that they leave it at the door, but maybe the delivery person is just being nice and letting you know it’s there.

Except then they knock again.

And ring the doorbell.

“Jesus,” you groan to yourself, aggressively enough that you’re nearly sent into a fresh coughing fit, but you manage to choke down the spasm in your lungs as you drag yourself to standing. You cross the short distance from your couch to the front door, sure you look like death warmed over, and swing the door open.

At first, you’re certain it’s the DayQuil fucking with you.

“Taehyung?”

The corner of his mouth pulls up as he blinks sweetly at you, expressive almond eyes peeking out beneath untidy dark hair— extra fluffy today, like he’s just washed it and waltzed out of the house without any styling. His clothes tell the same story, a plain gray hoodie and joggers, creased a little like he’d just pulled them off his bedroom floor, though everything looks fresh off the runway on him.

As your eyes trail down his frame, you take in the container of ramen you ordered, held easily in one of his large hands, his long fingers hooking over the side.

His presence is typically a welcome one, particularly on Friday nights like tonight, but those are circumstances where you tend to be a little more… put together. So why is he here tonight?

“When did you start working for D—”

The food delivery service name dies on your tongue as your thoughts finally catch up with your mouth. He’s here tonight because it’s Friday, and this is what you do on Fridays. He’s here because you didn’t cancel. You’d had the thought in a drowsy half-awake state between naps, then had promptly rolled over and pressed your face into the pillow, telling yourself you’d remember to text Taehyung when you woke up.

Which of course, you did not. And so here he is, having clearly intercepted your delivery. And, it now occurs to you, having to witness how absolutely godawful you must look in your stained sweatpants, your hair surely a mess from a day spent napping on the couch.

“Oh fuck,” you mutter, quickly crossing your arms over your baggy t-shirt, suddenly very aware of the fact that you’re not wearing a bra. Why that matters when you’re standing in front of a man who regularly leaves hickeys all over your tits, you’re not sure, but in this moment it somehow feels like it does.

“Tae,” you take a step back, trying to keep him out of your germ radius. “I’m so sorry, I forgot to text you. I’m super sick, I think it’s the flu. You should go.”

He frowns a little, his eyes jumping from you down to the takeout container in his hands. “This is like, barely warm.”

That makes you smile a little despite yourself. A very Taehyung greeting.

“Yeah, well.” You roll your eyes. “I pay twice as much so it can take an hour and be cold by the time it gets here. Makes sense, right?”

His dazzling smile at your sarcastic remark only heightens your own self-consciousness, and you quickly extend a hand for the container.

“Sorry to make you come all this way. Hopefully next week I’ll be back to normal.”

Taehyung nods, yet makes no move to hand over the soup he’s currently holding hostage. “You should rest. Let me heat it up for you.”

You can’t help but wonder what he expects to happen when he crosses the threshold, and that makes you heave a sigh, then quickly bury the cough that chases after it into the crook of your elbow.

Thankfully your voice doesn’t give out when you manage to answer him. “I’m serious, Tae. I’m not—” you pause, considering how to phrase it: desperate to be railed? “—you know, the way I usually am on Fridays. Nothing’s gonna happen tonight. Except maybe you’ll get sick.”

He shrugs, like there are worse things. “I get it. But you shouldn’t be alone.”

At least he’s been sufficiently warned, you think to yourself, and then you relent, leaving the front door of your apartment swung wide as you step back across the living room to promptly collapse onto the couch again. You bury your face in the blankets with a muffled groan as you hear Taehyung shut the door behind him, then make his way into the kitchen.

As is typical with any man that enters your kitchen, you expect to have to walk Taehyung step-by-step through how to do everything. But, to your surprise, he asks no questions: he seems to find a good-sized pot and figure out how to work the stove all on his own, and you can hear him humming softly to himself as he goes.

Truly a credit to the male species, you think to yourself with a bitter laugh.

You collapse back against the cushions, a little too aware of the fuckbuddy in your kitchen to be able to drift off to sleep entirely. Nevertheless, you still find yourself slipping into a haze, your eyes dropping shut just to snap open again at the tap of a bowl being set down on the coffee table in front of you.

Your eyes widen as you sit up and stare down at your ramen, only to find two halves of a soft-boiled egg staring back up at you. You’d ordered from your favorite place in the city, which is easily the best ramen you’ve had in your life, but you know those fuckers charge extra for an egg. Which is why your cheap ass never orders one.

But here one is. So that means…

Taehyung drops down onto the couch next to you before you can even finish compiling the thought in your brain, but he must be able to read the look on your face. “Oh, do you not like eggs?”

“I— no,” you answer quickly. “I mean yes. I mean, I like them, I just… Thank you.”

You glance up in time to see him shrug, his mouth twisting a little, like he’s suddenly made shy by his own kindness. “Gotta get your protein in,” he offers casually, and you laugh over the steam rising up from your bowl.

He keeps a tentative cushion’s distance away from you, but you can feel his eyes watching as you take your first sip of the rich, warm broth. While you slurp it down, you tell yourself not to get greedy with Taehyung’s time: you expect this will be it, that with his act of kindness done for the day, he’ll get to his feet and be on his way. As soon as your front door slams shut behind him, he’ll probably be pulling up his text messages with one of the many other options that must be available to him.

You try to ignore the way that thought makes your stomach twist, to just eat your damn soup and not think about it. It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.

But to your surprise, Taehyung leans forward and snatches the TV remote off your coffee table with a triumphant sigh before slumping back against the couch, like he’s settling in. “Do you wanna watch something?”

You shake your head as you take another sip before answering. “You really don’t have to stay, Tae. I can appreciate that I’m not a lot of fun to be around tonight. And obviously you didn’t come here to watch me eat ramen.”

Already starting to scroll through your streaming services, Taehyung runs his free hand through his hair with a knowing, slightly horny smile. “Depends on what you mean by eat ramen.”

You nearly choke on a noodle, but he’s otherwise distracted, mouth dropping open a little as he clicks into one of the options.

“Oh, I know what we can watch.”

When he pulls up A Charlie Brown Christmas and promptly presses play, you can’t help smirking. “Christmas? You’re, what, five days late?”

Taehyung’s mouth opens again, like he’s going to say something, and then he just smiles that same self-conscious smile. “Ah, I just like the music.”

His long fingers splay out in front of him, miming along to the opening melody while he adopts the faux-cool expression of a jazz pianist. You hide a giggle in another sip of broth, and he quickly shrugs the impression off, crossing his arms over his chest as if to keep his limbs under control.

“And it’s cute,” he adds, voice halfway between shy and sentimental. “The little tree.”

It occurs to you now that you’ve never seen Taehyung so… your brain can’t find the right word. He’s just different tonight.

You nod as you slurp up a strand of noodles, and you can’t deny that he’s right as the movie plays on. It’s been years since you’ve seen it, not since you were a kid, but it’s just as enjoyable now, somehow timeless. You find yourself smiling softly as you finish your meal and settle back against the couch, tugging the blanket up to your chin.

All at once, Taehyung jumps up, and you watch dumbfounded as he silently scoops up your dishes and disappears off to the kitchen. When you hear the tap switch on, your jaw drops in sheer disbelief, and you sit up again, peeking over the back of the couch to get a glimpse of him: he’s pulled on the dishwashing gloves you keep tucked next to the sink and is making short work of not just the bowl and the pot, but the takeout container too, and your various other sick-person dishes you’d regrettably let pile up. Humming to himself along with Vince Guaraldi, like it’s something he does every day.

Your head spins as you drop back down against the cushion. What is happening? Did you take too much cold medicine?

That thought only reverberates louder in your brain when he returns, still humming the last few notes of the song. This time he chooses to settle in right beside you on the couch, as if entirely unconcerned about the contagious virus running rampant in your body— he just pulls you into his side, one arm wrapped over your shoulders, fingertips casually starting to play with the ends of your hair. Like it’s that easy.

You glance up at him, shaking your head a little, and Taehyung looks down to meet your gaze. “What?”

“This is just…” An incredulous laugh cuts off the end of your sentence. It’s hard to believe you’re looking at the same person. This can’t be the man who wraps his hand around your throat as he spits into your mouth, who will keep you in his bed for hours until you’re crying from overstimulation, who fucks you so good you can hardly walk the next day.

“I didn’t expect you to be like this,” you admit, pairing the words with a finger driven gently into Taehyung’s ribs. He squirms a little. “You’re… sweet.”

Taehyung’s lips part, and then he pauses, clearly considering how exactly to answer you. His mouth turns up soft at the corners, hesitant, as if he’s embarrassed to say what comes next. And then he says it. “You didn’t seem like you wanted sweet.”

The words settle over you, offered quietly in the low, rich tones of his voice, and as you keep gazing up at him, it strikes you: he’s not wrong. If he’d pulled this cozy domestic housewife act on you any earlier, on a normal Friday, you would’ve sent him packing without hesitation.

That thought makes you a little sad.

You tuck back in against Taehyung’s side, trying to refocus on the TV screen as you snuggle in under the blanket. Pressed close like this, you can feel the sturdy thud of his heartbeat in his chest, at a rhythm not dissimilar to yours.

“Well, I won’t tell anyone,” you breathe, and you swear you can hear him smile.

His touch lingers as the last few minutes of the movie play on: slipping from the ends of your hair to trace over the fabric of your shirt, then sliding further up to dip beneath the collar of it. The talented fingers you’ve become well-acquainted with work their magic in a new way, pressing firm circles into the muscles of your shoulders, muscles you didn’t realize were pinched so tight until he starts to work them open.

“Fuck,” you murmur, shifting a little to allow him better access as he continues. “That feels so good.” You can’t quite help the laugh that flutters out after your words; it’s certainly not the first time he’s made you say them.

There’s a small huff of breath from Taehyung beside you, and then his hand moves up to cup the back of your neck and give a gentle squeeze. It’s a comforting motion, and just arousing enough to make you sigh a note, your eyes briefly dropping shut. When they flutter open again, you realize the movie has ended, that he’s looking down at you, a knowing smirk toying at his lips.

“Don’t start,” you warn, unable to keep your voice entirely serious. “I meant what I said, I’m tapped out for the night.”

Taehyung raises his palms in the air, as if to claim his innocence, and you find yourself instantly missing the heat of his hand on your skin. “All I was thinking is that I kinda want dessert. Too tapped out for that?”

“I’ll never say no to dessert,” you admit with a soft smile. “I think I have ice cream in the freezer.”

Something glints in Taehyung’s eyes at your words. All at once he untangles himself from you and, rather than standing up and walking the long way around like a normal human, chooses instead to vault himself over the back of the couch, as if to get your freezer as fast as possible. You tip back against the cushions, momentarily overcome with laughter, and thankfully, it doesn’t trigger a cough attack.

After a second, you cocoon the blanket around yourself, then get up to follow after him, dropping unceremoniously down onto one of the barstools tucked on the far side of your kitchen island.

Taehyung glances up, clearly surprised, then continues trying drawers until he finds the silverware and retrieves two spoons.

“Just want to keep you company,” you say by way of explanation as he hands you one, and you reach down to pry off the lid of the pint of chocolate ice cream he’s set down on the counter. It’s only as you glance up again that you realize he’s grabbed something else, too, and is continuing to rummage through your cupboards. “Wait, what are you doing?”

There’s an innocent look on Taehyung’s face as he rights himself, the handle of a pan clutched in one hand. “I found something when I was looking for the ice cream. It’s my favorite. And I thought it might make you feel better, too.”

“Uh huh,” you intone, though your mouth is already starting to tick up, endeared. “A completely selfless act, I’m sure.”

“Of course it is,” he answers with an over-exaggerated wink, flipping the pan cooly in his grip. You squint at the bag as he thuds it down on the counter beside him, then sets the pan on the stove and flips on the burner beneath it.

Hotteok. You’d completely forgotten you’d even picked the bag of frozen sweet pancakes up a few weeks ago, that you had purposefully tucked them into the back of your fridge for a particularly good— or bad— day.

“Chef Kim,” you ask, feigning the tone of a journalist conducting an important interview as you fish your phone out of the pocket of your sweatpants. “Can I interest you in some background music, or do you prefer to cook in absolute silence?”

Taehyung glances back over his shoulder at you, his grin nearly too big for his face. “How about Sinatra?”

You raise one eyebrow at the admittedly unexpected suggestion. “Frank or Nancy?”

He pauses for a moment, as if considering. “Either.”

It’s only a few taps, and then Come Fly With Me is floating out of your Bluetooth speaker, and Taehyung is singing along to himself as he drops a frozen disc onto the heated pan, occasionally turning back to deliver lines to you with an extended hand.

You roll your eyes as you drag your spoon through the top layer of softening ice cream, sucking it into your mouth in an attempt to hide the grin that’s spread over your face.

By the third song you find yourself humming along too, trying not to put too much strain on your still-weak throat. The kitchen has started to smell of sweet, toasted dough as Taehyung works diligently at the stove, and he finally flips the burner off before turning back to you, a plate in each hand and a thick pancake stacked atop each plate.

“Sous chef, will you please apply the ice cream?” he asks, eyes wide and blinking as he sets the dishes down.

Quickly playing along, you nod as you begin to scoop a healthy amount onto each plate. “Yes, chef!”

“And sous chef, do you, uh… have any chocolate sauce?”

You bite back a laugh as his roleplay falls apart as quickly as it began. “It’s in the fridge.”

Taehyung promptly turns and pulls the door open, eyes searching the shelves before he finally spots the dark brown bottle and lets out a triumphant hum. He nudges the fridge shut again with his hip before striding back toward you.

“Plating is key,” he muses. You answer with an appreciative nod and a giggle when he uncaps the sauce, then leans down close to the plates, feigning intense focus as he drizzles each dollop of ice cream with stripes of chocolate.

Once his artful design is complete, he steps back, his tongue toying at the corner of his mouth as he spins one plate to admire his handiwork.

“What do you think, chef?” you tease, and he nods once, decisive.

“It’s perfect.” He glances up, shooting you a grin that knocks the breath from your lungs, and you try to collect yourself as he nudges a plate toward you, encouraging you to take a bite.

You carve your spoon through the pastry, right down the middle where it’s stuffed full of sweet brown sugar syrup. The flaky layers pull apart at the impact, warm enough that you can see steam rising off of the golden dough. You pair a small piece of pancake with a wedge of ice cream on your spoon, then bring both into your mouth at once, and the contrasting mixtures linger on your tongue: hot and cold, sticky sugar chased by rich chocolate. It’s so good that you can’t help but make a soft, appreciative noise as you press your hand to your mouth and chew.

“Do you want to know something?” Taehyung’s voice pulls your attention back, and you look up at him.

“What?”

“Today’s my birthday.”

There’s a split second where you wonder if this is another imagined scenario, and then your eyes widen as you take in the look on his face and realize he’s entirely serious.

“Wait, Taehyung, really?”

He nods once, bringing a spoonful of ice cream to his lips.

“I-I had no idea,” you stammer, suddenly feeling like an asshole. His birthday, and he’s here waiting on you hand and foot, while you haven’t so much as said a word of felicitations. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, he’s waving away your apology with his spoon, then proceeding to answer around his bite of food. “It’s not like I expected you to know. I don’t really make a big deal of it.” He shrugs. “I tend to… I don't know. I get sort of melancholy this time of year. The holidays, my birthday. It’s a lot all at once. A lot of pressure. To be happy. To have everything figured out.”

Nodding slowly, you let his words fully wash over you before you respond. “I get that,” you finally murmur, working off another piece of hotteok. “Nobody ever talks about it, but I feel like birthdays are kinda weird as an adult. You have enough of them and it just starts to feel like a day, you know? Not special.”

“I usually find myself just hiding out, waiting for it to be over,” Taehyung admits.

You take a second to think back. “Yeah. I didn’t even do anything on my birthday this year.” A self-pitying laugh rises up before you can stop it. “Honestly, this whole year was such a flop. I’m glad it’s nearly done.”

Taehyung makes a face like he can’t disagree. “Hey, sometimes that’s life.” He pauses, brow furrowing slightly, then reaches a palm across the table. “Can I play a song?”

“Go ahead,” you offer, pushing your phone into his hand. You scrape your spoon along your dwindling dessert, and haven’t even managed to bring the assembled bite to your mouth before the music changes— from one Frank Sinatra song to another, this one with a driving blues rhythm.

Taehyung is already on his feet, hips starting to sway. “Ah, come on. You have to dance with me.”

He’s closed the distance between you before you can even protest, his hands smoothing across the blanket still wrapped over your shoulders.

“Let me take your coat, ma’am.”

You shift off the stool and onto your feet with a smile as he unwraps the blanket from around you and tosses it toward the back of the couch, missing by at least a foot.

“Why thank you,” you tease, feigning some kind of Transatlantic lilt to your voice that makes him really laugh. “Such a gentleman.”

Taehyung turns to face you again, and then you feel his large hand pressing to the small of your back, warm even through the fabric of your shirt, and your heart stutters a little. You take his other hand in yours and let him lead, let him pull you all the way in until you can turn your head and press your cheek to the firm plane of his chest.

Frank Sinatra croons on about how you can’t let life get you down, and suddenly there’s a weight settling in the pit of your stomach.

“I feel bad, Taehyung,” you admit, and when you glance up at him, he’s looking right back down at you. “That you’re here with me tonight.”

“Why?” he asks, like he really doesn’t know.

“Because,” you shake your head. “I don’t know. There’s a million better places you could be. I can’t even give you birthday sex.”

“I wouldn’t have stayed if I didn’t want to,” he answers simply, then leans back, guiding you under his arm for a spin.

A little giggle bubbles up in your chest, catches on the first syllable of your reply as you twirl. “A-are you sure?”

Taehyung nods, thoughtful, when you come back to center again. “This is a good reminder that… I like taking care of people. It’s been a while since anyone’s let me.” The hand holding yours gives a gentle squeeze, and you can’t help but squeeze back.

“Well, thank you for taking care of me,” you answer softly. “You did a good job. Pretty sure I’m on the mend already.” You blink up at him through your lashes, and the way his eyes are fixed on you makes your heart squeeze, too.

It’s nearly overwhelming, taking him in like this, close enough that you can see every stray beauty mark kissed over his handsome features. Fluffy-haired, big-dicked Kim Taehyung— who would’ve thought?

Taehyung’s adam’s apple jerks in his throat as he swallows, and you feel a sudden rush of heat all over, one you don’t quite think you can blame on a fever. It hardly even occurs to you that the two of you have come to a complete standstill now, barefoot in the middle of your kitchen, Taehyung’s palm pressed to your back, the fingers of your joined hands now shifting to lace together.

“Taehyung,” you’re breathing his name before you even realize it. “Would you… want to stay here tonight? Like, sleep together, literally?”

The smile that flashes over his face is nothing short of brilliant. “Yeah, okay.”

Your voice dips a little lower, teasing, as you smile back. “I really do think I’m feeling better, so. Maybe in the morning I can take care of you, too.”

Taehyung’s fingers brush the length of your jaw, then reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear as you continue.

“I’ve got this spray that makes my throat totally numb, so.”

He pauses, his mouth so close to yours that you can feel his breath ghosting over your skin, but he can’t quite keep a straight face. “Fuck, why is that so sexy?”

You’re laughing against his lips when he kisses you.

---

Okay so a few things with this one. First I love the way this one is formatted. I like the jumping timeline and the flow of events is so creative. Second I love the fact the character Minho act both the same and differently as Minho like I can totally see him acting or responding this way in the situation like this in real life (what I’m saying in a very round about way is I like how the character stay true to min’s personality but still holding it own as a character). Three I love that I hate the female lead. I know when people read me say “oh this was so annoying” or “oh I hate this character “ they think I mean it in a bad way when I’m realistic I love it. No one ever make the choice we want them to in real life and things are always perfect. I love when writers write characters that are so real and have defined personalities even if they’re annoying or make stupid choices that I wish they wouldn’t make. It makes the reading process so much enjoyable for me because I’m experiencing so many different emotions ❤️❤️

Euphoria | Lee Minho

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: Minho and you definitely do not like each other. No matter what the tabloids say. He’s your friend who argues and bickers like no other but you also crave the taste of him on your tongue. You are people who sling insults at each other from your respective stages, only to find him later painting your skin with sloppy kisses. And that's something you need to work on.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Minho x Reader (female)

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 23.2K

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Actors AU, friends with benefits to lovers, explicit language, explicit sexual content, oral sex (both male and female receiving), finger fucking, secret relationship, mentions of past relationship and cheating, angst, time jumps

𝐀/𝐍: Hello! I have no control whatsoever. It's tragic. This fic exists because I woke up at 4 in the morning and promptly died over the idea when someone mentioned 'actors' and 'smut' together. It also happened to be when I was in Minho appreciation hours, and hence this monster. Reblog and share your thoughts if you enjoyed the fic!!

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then

J U N E

He thrusts into you at an agonising speed, all grappling hands and searing mouth, while your fingers tangle in his hair. Part of you knows that you should not be doing this, not when just seconds ago you were screaming yourselves hoarse at each other, faces hot in anger as you went along with the same old song and dance.

“But I guess things like that are beneath people like you, right, baby?”

You arch into him with a soft murmur when he bites on your bottom lip, sucking it none too gently in his mouth and soothing the sting with his tongue. It sends frissons of pleasure down your spine, and you get to taste his moan, sweet on your tongue, as you pull on his hair.

“You’re just a self serving jackass, you know that Minho?”

His hands are heavy on your hips, gripping them hard as he lets his tongue lick into your mouth, and the two of you are all heat and fire, neither willing to give an inch. You can hear your blood rushing in your ear, blocking out everything but him, the feel of him, the smell, the way he presses his mouth against yours, hard and unyielding, and you have to hold on to him tight.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

And that’s how you ended up here, backed against the cold metal wall of his trailer, because you deliberately came over to pick a fight having been too on edge all morning. Nothing calms you down like riling Minho up, but the tension that’s been coiling tighter ever since you met finally reached its breaking point today, leading to him pining you to the wall.

Or maybe you pulled him to you.

There was want echoed in both of your eyes, that’s for sure.

Either way, you were both equally as guilty even though this was wrong but you just pull him closer, let your hands run over the curves of his biceps straining against those ridiculous wizarding robes and give in, loving the way his teeth bite into your skin, the rasp of his hair on your cheeks. Minho kisses like he talks, confident, demanding and a little rough, and you might have whimpered a little bit when his hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing along the ridge of your cheekbone.

One kiss flows into two, then three, never once losing its intensity, never once losing its harshness and heat and ability to suck the air straight from your lungs. Teeth clack against one another, lips pressed together with a bruising force that makes you see stars, and when he slips his tongue into your mouth it tastes a bit like war and heartbreak, and you want more.

Three turns into four, and he pulls back a little, just the barest brush of lips against yours yet it still sends your heartbeat skittering, and his hand slips to your neck, fingers pressed on your thrumming pulse. Shockwaves seem to originate from that spot, and you let your lips part, just a little bit, in a silent gasp of pleasure.

Five is a whisper of breath, shaky and deep, and you let your hands linger at the nape of his neck, lightly scratching at his scalp in a way that has his nose brushing your cheek, tender and soft. You know how to make him moan with it, how to test that bit of control he never seems to want to let up, and you do it again.

The sixth is a punctuation mark, a full stop at the end of the sentence, sweet and succinct with clumsy lips before you both pull away with wide eyes and harsh breaths.

“Fuck,” he says, running a shaky hand through his hair as he takes a step backwards. It leaves you feeling strangely cold, but you don’t pay too much attention to that, not when fuck seems like the understatement of the year for the mess you have gotten yourselves into here.

Your eyes meet his and you echo his words, because really, what else can you say.

* * *

before: 12 months ago

M A Y

“No,” you say, contemplating, smothering yourself with a pillow just to end this conversation.

On the other end of the line, Liv sighs in a way that you can tell that she’s pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “Come on, Y/n. This is a good opportunity.”

“I don’t want a good opportunity,” you say, flopping onto your stomach, “I don’t want anything other than to be left alone. If I go back out there the tabloids will eat this shit up.”

“It’s been six months. Surely people aren’t going to remember that now.”

“Pretty sure people are going to have a hard time forgetting the fact that my ex boyfriend outed me on the red carpet and then broke up with me then and there. In front of the press. On the red carpet,” you emphasise. “My mascara was running down. I was turned into a meme.”

“A lot of celebrities are turned into memes,” Liv points out unhelpfully, and you pull a pillow across your face. “Look, everyone has their ups and downs in this kind of work. Get used to it.”

You scrub a weary hand down your forehead. “You should host a seminar on pep talks, Liv, I’m sure people will learn a thing or two.”

There’s a bit of shuffling around on the other end of the phone and you hear the muffled sound of a door closing. When she speaks, Liv’s voice is the softest you have ever heard it. “You need to start putting yourself back out there, Y/n. These things happen and yeah, it’s mortifying and you want to crawl under a rock, but you’re stronger than that.”

You blink several times, actually pulling your phone away to check the caller ID to make sure, yes, that is in fact Liv, your hardass manager. “That might have been the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” you say, a smile tugging at your lips, “Careful, I might cry.”

“Fuck off, Y/n,” she grunts, and the smile widens. “So, will you at least give it a chance?”

Hesitating for a moment, you contemplate the idea. “I could always just move to the countryside and become a dairy farmer instead of going back to acting. I have enough money to do that. You could find a new, competent client who doesn’t have a crisis every other week,” you say slowly.

You can practically see Liv raising a single brow, a look of pure skepticism on her face. “Imagine what the tabloids would say about that,” she says, “Since that’s apparently your basis for making decisions these days.”

“They’d call me a butch, and then let me fade into obscurity with my ten cows,” you answer promptly, and receive a grudging huff of laughter in return.

“Fine, I’ll give you that one,” she says, “Now back to the point at hand, do you agree or not?”

You bite your lip, hugging the pillow close. It would be nice to get back out there, you guess. Despite all the drama, you really do love acting, and while these past few months have been a nice break, you don’t know how much longer you can go without having anything to do. Finally, with a long, drawn out exhale, you relent, “Fine. You can send me the specifics and we’ll see.”

You are not even done with your sentence before you hear the ding of your email notification and you startle out a laugh. “Jesus, were you waiting with your finger on the send button or something?”

“I was confident that I could break you,” she says, smug, and you breathe a laugh again. “It’s just the audition package, but I think you’ll really like this show. It’s a cutesy, no bullshit type sitcom.”

“You know me well.”

“Let me know by tomorrow. I’m giving you twenty four hours to make a firm decision,” she says before hanging up.

You can’t help but roll your eyes at her actions. Liv is a great manager, but she’s definitely got a flair for dramatics.

… And knows exactly what kind of role would be perfect for easing you back into the industry, you grudgingly admit.

It starts off like another one of those generic crime investigation shows where you play a damn good detective who doesn’t play well with others until she meets her new partner, an unknown actress.

Liv was right. It’s the right amount of charming while still keeping with the grittiness that comes with crime shows nowadays, and your character – as well as your yet to be known partner – shuts down at least three instances of perceived sexism in just the first episode.

And you may be reading into things, but you are pretty sure that the two detectives have a thing for each other. A subtextual thing. God, you hope it’s a thing.

It’s a really good show.

Not only is the writing well done but the characters are pretty fleshed out and developed for a pilot episode and you are already tempted to call back Liv with the affirmation that yes, you are willing to go in for the audition. The only thing that’s holding you back is the smug look that you can picture all too well on her face at the news.

You last seven hours, caving after you have had dinner and Liv sounds just as self satisfied as you imagined.

Turns out the reading is in a few days time and Liv says, “I’ll drive you up there myself. I don’t trust you to not run away because of cold feet.”

You sigh, “As always, your faith in me is astounding.”

“We’re driving up the day before and booking a hotel. Start getting your shit together, Y/n.”

And you do, unearthing whatever you think would be suitable enough for being thrown back into the spotlight. If it was up to you you would just wear sweats all day. The morning you were scheduled to leave, you are awoken by an incessant pounding on the door to your apartment at 7:30am.

Not even bothering to throw something over your night slip dress, you stomp over and yank the door open with a belligerent, “What the fuck.”

“Why aren’t you dressed?” Liv demands, placing her hands on her hips. You glare at her weakly through your post sleep haze. Of course Liv would be looking runway ready at 7:30 on a Wednesday, both hair and makeup immaculate as she judges you for looking like an overgrown sewer rat. You are only mildly upset about it.

“You do realise it only takes like two and half hours to drive up to Seoul right? And that the audition is tomorrow?”

Liv merely grunts, and shoulders past you into the living room, though not before shoving a warm thermos in your hands. “Shut up, drink this, and get dressed.”

Unscrewing the cap, you're immediately hit with the scent of fresh coffee, and a strongly brewed one at that. “Seriously?” you ask, eyeing the dark brown sludge Liv likes to drink. She goes through at least four cups a day and you aren't quite sure how she’s still living.

The other woman just gives you a shark-like smile. “Bottoms up,” she smirks as she throws herself down onto the armchair.

You grumble but do as you are told, only to gag at the first taste of it in your mouth. It’s bitter and horrible and you're pretty sure your heart stutters over itself before beating double time.

“That’s disgusting,” you wheeze, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

Liv barely glances up at her phone. “I don’t care. Get dressed.”

You briefly consider drawing out your shower, but you're fairly certain that Liv wouldn’t hesitate to barge in and drag you out herself so you keep it quick. Mostly. You probably could have spent a couple less minutes shaving your legs but oh well. What’s done is done, and Liv hasn’t expressed any desire to harm or maim you as yet so you consider it a win.

By half eight the two of you are trudging down to the carpark, your duffel bag swinging lamely between them.

“If this goes badly I’m going to go back to my original plan of rearing llamas in South America,” you warn, pulling open the door to the passenger side with far more force than necessary. You throw your duffel in the backseat, having it land haphazardly on the floor.

Liv smoothly slides into the driver’s seat and the car hums to life. “I thought you were going to be a dairy farmer?” she asks lightly, passing over one of those heavy bran muffins you like to eat. You make a face but accepts it nonetheless. Asking Liv to stop at a Starbucks to pick of breakfast will only result in a stink eye and another bran muffin thrown your way.

“I changed my mind. Llamas have more personality than cows. Plus the paparazzi will never find me as an obscure livestock owner in the Andes.”

“I’m glad you’ve thought this through,” she says wryly, and you just smile at her, taking a huge bite out of the muffin.

You regret it instantly. It tastes like sadness and despair.

You don’t do much at the hotel, getting separate rooms and Liv leaves almost immediately to… do whatever it is she does on her downtime. Probably making a necklace out of human remains or something.

You dick around for a little bit, channel surfing before landing on an old episode of Charmed and then making the decision to hesitantly open up your Twitter account to scroll through your feed. You don’t go on often, especially because of these last few months, only tweeting when Liv says you need to make sure the world knows you are not dead, and even then it’s just a retweet of something, like one of those cute kitten vines.

You go through the writers’ room account, familiarising yourself with the producer and director before you catch yourself and stop. You could not get the role. You know that this industry is more luck than talent. You shouldn’t get attached.

It doesn’t stop you from looking up the studio though, learning that they’d be shooting on the same block as several other shows including some pretty well known ones. Homeland Studios is home to shows like Star Kingdom, Reign and Rebellion, and The Wreckage, just to name a few. It’s just a subtle reminder that it’s expected to do really well, and you swallow heavily, anxiety settling in the pit of your stomach.

When it’s time for you to go to the actual audition, you are a veritable bundle of nerves, to the point where Liv has to grab you by the shoulders to take you to the studio.

“This is a bad idea,” you say, hands clenched tight enough that yor nails dig crescents in then inside of your palm. “Maybe I shouldn’t get back into this just yet. Maybe we should go back home.”

“Maybe you should shut up,” Liv says mildly, switching lanes to head for their turn off, and you just nod, meek, settling down in your seat and trying not to think of everything that could go wrong.

None of those things happen of course; in fact, the audition surprisingly goes well enough.

You somehow manage to get in the mindset of your character and deliver your lines almost flawlessly despite the fact that you felt like you just came off a rollercoaster. The executive producer, Mr. Jung, is impressed at the end of it, and the room is all smiles when you are done, stumbling back out into the arms of a waiting Liv.

“See?” she smirks, “You did just fine.”

“I’m going to throw up,” you declare, and Liv just rolls her eyes.

Later that night Liv shows up to your room, a bag of Thai takeout in hand while you are aimlessly scrolling through your phone.

“Can you believe that there are articles on this already?” you ask, glaring at the luminescent screen. “I thought this was a closed audition? How do they have pictures of me?”

“Never underestimate the power of the paparazzi,” Liv says sagely as she begins to unload containers. You eat in silence, sometimes a quip here or there about an article that popped up. The pictures are blurry at best, which many say means that it’s just a hoax. That’s a good thing, in your opinion. The last thing you want is to ease back into the water only to have a sea monster drag your down kicking and screaming.

When you’re finished, Liv puts aside her container and looks at you, determined. It’s intimidating to say the least.

“You should start looking into apartments,” she says, blunt as always.

You are taken aback. Out of all things you expected her to say, this wasn’t even on the list. “What's wrong with my apartment?” you frown, “I like it.”

The look you get in return suggests that you are stupid for asking a question like that. “Well for one it's a good three hour commute from there to the studio.”

If anything, that just makes you frown deepen. “You're acting as though I already have the part when I’ve only gone in once.”

At that, Liv is suspiciously quiet and it makes you narrow your eyes. “What? What aren't you telling me?” you demand.

Another beat of hesitation and then, “They specifically contacted me with the role. They want you to take the part.”

That makes you even more confused and you ask, “Why would they do that? I haven't been acting for a while and I doubt that I'm good for press at the moment.”

There's a sigh from Liv before she unwillingly says, “They cast one lead already and she specifically asked for you to be her co lead.”

“Who is it,” you ask, voice flat and eyebrows raised expectantly.

Liv lifts her chin to meet your gaze, as though squaring up for a fight. Well, it’s not necessarily out of the ballpark just yet. “Shin Ryujin,” she says at last, and you are certain you can hear the screeching of brakes as the world stops.

Neither of you speak while you digest this information until you glare at her and almost spit what you have to say, “Are you fucking kidding me? You want me to team up with my ex boyfriend’s ex? The ex who dumped me on the red carpet? What the ever living fuck, Liv?”

She sighs again before saying, “I knew you would react like this, that’s why I didn’t tell you.”

You slump backward into your pile of pillows. “The tabloids are going to come for me, you hear that? They’re going to come and ask me a million different questions and turn me into another meme. The opportunities for this are endless.”

“Relax, you’re making this worse than it needs to be.”

Your voice is muffled through the layers of pillows, but you are certain Liv can hear you when you say, “Tomorrow. I’m flying to South America tomorrow to start my yet to be named llama farm tomorrow.”

now

M A Y

A bottle of lavender and citrus shampoo has never looked that intimidating to you.

You probably spend a good five minutes under the stream of water just staring at the thing since you first noticed it. Your hair is already soaked all the way through, and the bodywash – his bodywash, the one that makes you smell like pine trees and musk – has swirled down the drain ages ago, but you can’t stop staring at the green and purple bottle sitting so innocently in the shower caddy.

It’s the exact same brand you use, the one that only the beauty store a good fifteen minutes from here sells, and you know that it’s stupid to get all worked up over a simple bottle of shampoo, but you can’t help it, not when it makes your stomach flip like that, not when you find yourself swallowing several times.

The shower door clicks open and you jump, almost slipping if it weren’t for the muscled arm that shoots out to grasp you.

“Whoa, careful,” Minho says, voice trembling with mirth as he pulls you into his chest. You feel the hotness creep up your chest, and he notices it too, dropping a finger to your breastbone, tracing it all the up your neck. “You trying to drown in here, baby?” he asks with a quirk of an eyebrow.

“Just got sidetracked,” you say sweetly, thanking every deity you can think of that your voice doesn’t shake. You smirk and let your eyes run unashamedly over his bare form, the sinews of his neck, the hard ridges of his stomach that taper into a sharp vee at his hips. You love to stare at his naked body, love how it’s a study in sharp lines and angles that you wish to trace first with your fingers and then your teeth and tongue.

Minho doesn’t miss the way you are watching him, and he steps near you under the spray of the shower with a halfway smirk, letting it flatten his sex mussed curls.

“Well,” he all but purrs, and you shiver, letting your hands trail across his broad frame. He leans in to bite your ear while his thumbs brush over the tight bud of your nipples. “How about I sidetrack you a little more?”

Your hands spasm on his shoulders at his words, nails digging into corded muscle and he drags his teeth down your jaw.

“It’s your water bill,” you breathe, already rubbing yourself against his hardening cock, and he huffs a laugh into your skin.

Placing a kiss at the hollow of your throat, he mumbles, “It’s worth it,” and the grin that was budding across your face falls flat, stomach twisting awfully again.

You grab his hand from where it’s playing around with your breasts and drag it down to the the junction of your thighs, widening your stance slightly. “Less talking and more of this,” you tell him in a no nonsense kind of voice, his fingers taking their place on your clit, “I’m not getting sidetracked as yet.”

He misses the emotions that played across your face before, for when he finally looks up, it’s to meet a challenging eyebrow and a playful glint in your eye. He laughs again, pressing his forehead against yours and lets his fingers trail across your folds, parting them and spreading your wetness around and your eyes flutter shut, head tilted back.

“Yes ma’am,” he says, and then he’s kissing you, soft and deep while his other finger drums on your clit.

You try to put all thoughts of that damned shampoo bottle out of your head, god you try, and it works for a while, letting yourself get caught up in his fingers and tongue.

His fingers dipped in your heat, collecting all the slick that had gathered there before he dragged them back to your clit, swollen and throbbing in need for him. You allowed yourself to lean into Minho as he kept you pressed close to his body, planting small kisses at the top of your head.

It was intimate enough for you to freak out, intimate enough that it shouldn't come under whatever arrangement you and Minho had. Any rationality slipped from your mind when Minho tipped your head back to capture your lips in his.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your body falling completely into his embrace. His lips felt so fucking soft, gliding against yours smoothly, a little chapped and raw, yet so fucking perfect against yours.

You sighed into the kiss and Minho’s tongue licked your lower lip, the simple sensation sent heat straight to your core when he caught them in between in his teeth, slightly nibbling on them. You craved this feeling more than anything in the world. Nothing could compare.

“Fuck” you breathed, and he bit your lower lip, tugging at it, breaking the skin hard enough to draw blood. All you could do was let out a breathy moan, which came out as more of a whine. Your fingers grazed the nape of his neck, digging crescents into the soft skin and his overwhelming scent completely indulged you.

For a moment you forgot about his fingers until he pushed you against the shower wall, plunging two fingers into your soaking, greedy cunt waiting for him, where he belonged.

"I've barely started, baby," he cooed at you, lips meeting yours again to match the intensity of his fingers.

You couldn’t feel it in yourself to be embarrassed, you just wanted him to touch you.

“Please” you whined, and he increased the intensity with which his fingers were rubbing against your walls, a delicious pace that you were far too guilty to be both indulging in and craving for.

“M-Mnho…” you spoke, faltering at your words as he explored you.

“Feels good?” He asked, out of breath, leaning to press kiss under your ear. His tongue was languidly tracing a path along the side of your neck.

“Yeah…p-please. Fuck, don’t stop…” you moaned as he fucked in and out of you with his finger. The small kisses, the way his fingers owned every inch of you, the way his thumb rubbed circles on your swollen nub, everything was too much for you to take. You threw your head back, trying to contain yourself, unsure if you will ever get enough of this, ever get enough of him.

“Fuck, you’re always so wet for me. Are you close already?” He mumbled, watching you.

“Just fuck me” you breathed, of course, Minho isn't one to make any of this easy for you.

“I know, baby. Your cunt can't be left untouched,” he chuckled.

“Go faster, please” You pleaded, leaning backwards to rest your head against the shower wall. You know for a fact that if it wasn't for his hands steadying you, you would barely be able to hold yourself up.

Minho knew how to push you to the edge, he knew how to curl his fingers just right inside you, his dark gaze on you, hot and determined. It was all too much.

“Please, don’t stop,” you said, knowing very well he won't.

“Don’t worry, baby. I'll make you feel so good,” he said, finding your mouth again with his own. You were far too fucked to kiss him back properly but that didn’t stop him. His fingers moved so fast inside you and his tongue explored your mouth at the same time. “Always so tight,” he mumbled, making you clench around him.

You didn't bother to reply, feeling the pressure finally build up, a tightening coil settling deep in your belly. You could hear how wet you were by how fast his fingers pulled in and out of you.

“Faster…I’m so close” you panted, feeling everything inside you build up and Minho listened to you, increasing his pace, fingering you at an insane speed, his fingers curling inside you so well.

He pulled you in for a kiss, and just then, you came, the knot uncoiling and you let out a loud moan, into his mouth. You came with repeated moans of his name and incorrigible words, and he helped you ride out your high, kissing your neck, his fingers still inside you as your thighs trembled.

"Fuck, Y/n, you have no idea how beautiful you are." You breathed out a laugh, your eyes fluttering close. “I could watch you come a hundred times.”

"You’re that great."

"Yeah? Let me wash all that grease from your hair."

Your stomach twists when he offers to wash your hair for you, an unsettling amount of domesticity in the suggestion, and you move to capture his mouth in a frantic kiss that catches him off guard for a second before he can say something else.

Soap gets in your mouth, but you ignore it in favour of kissing him harder, hands drifting up to grip his own hair, slippery between your fingers, and you stumble back into the wall behind him, his hands flying to grasp your hips.

The water beats down on you fully now that you have his back against the wall, and his hands squeeze your hips, fingertips digging into the flesh of your ass, causing you to groan in his mouth. The soap suds drip down your back, and you try your best to ignore it, focusing on the warmth of his mouth, the hardness of his cock trapped between your bodies, pressing against your stomach, until the water runs clean, and that’s when Minho growls, fumbling to turn off the tap and hauling you up against him, dripping wet.

You shriek a little when he lifts, carrying you the short distance to his bed and dropping you down on the edge of it only to kneel between your open thighs, shouldering them apart.

A hand darts to his hair, grasping it when he nuzzles the crease where your hip meets your thigh, stubble chafing in the most wonderful of ways against your skin, and it brings a smile to your face, all previous worries long gone because this you can do. Sex is just sex. This is what you signed up for all those months ago.

“Insatiable,” you tell him, tapping his cheek.

He noses at you again, this time dangerously close to your centre where you can feel his breath brush against your cunt and you shiver, waiting.

“Your fault,” he mumbles, too busy peppering your mound with light kisses.

“I wasn’t done in the shower,” you say, laying back with a sigh as he licks up your slit gently. “You distracted me.”

“That was my plan,” he says unabashedly, using his thumbs to hold your folds wide open in front of him, everything on display. Minho looks up at you with a boyish grin, “You’ll have plenty of time for that after,” he says, and keeps eye contact with you when he seals his mouth over your clit, and really, what can you say to that?

‘After’ turns out to be nearly an hour later, rinsing the combined stickiness off your skin while he changes the sheets. Your hair is long dried, a halo of frizz around your head, and a cloud of lavender scent following you wherever you go. It still makes you feel uneasy, the level of intimacy you are at now, far higher than when this entire thing started, but you make a gargantuan effort to push it away. You could just be overreacting. You have a tendency to do that sometimes.

You step out into the living room in just a ratty t-shirt of his to find him lounging on the couch in sweats, a documentary playing on the TV while he nibbles on a slice of pizza. His glasses sit lopsided on his nose as always, and it makes your heart swell with fondness.

“Ryujin’s tweeting about us again,” he says, without any preamble, “Apparently she thinks we are going to burn the building down if we are left unchecked.”

You immediately unlock your phone and open up the app, spotting the tweet at the top of your timeline, and you snort. “What an idiot,” you say fondly, “Although I’m somewhat offended that she thinks we’ll destroy the complex.”

“I know right? Come on Ryujin, we’re not monsters,” he says with a dramatic roll of his eyes, “Obviously if I wanted to get back at you for something I’d just trash your apartment. I’m not going to inconvenience the entire building just for our feud.”

“What a gentleman,” you say wryly, slumping down on the couch next to him, and he prods you with his toes.

“We should take a selfie,” he says after wiping the grease off his hands, “To show her that we’re definitely still alive and everything’s intact.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say to take a selfie? You with me? Minho? Please tell me you’re okay.”

“You’re a bit dramatic at times, has anyone ever told you that?”

“Only several times a day.”

He rolls his eyes again and reaches out for your phone, pulling up the camera app. “C’mere,” he tells you, sitting up so that his shoulder brushes against yours. You readily move into frame.

“I can’t believe you’re actually doing this,” you say, “I feel like I should being taking a photo of you taking a selfie with me, you know, to record this historical moment-”

You only stop talking when you hear the sound of the camera going off and looks up to Minho, not even bothering to hide his smirk.

“You did not just do that,” you say, shooked just a bit, “I was talking!”

“Well if you won’t shut up and pay attention,” he teases only to have the camera go off once more.

Now it’s your turn to cackle at the look on his face, and you pat his cheek lightly. “Karma,” you say succinctly, and there’s another sound of the shutter that makes you huff. “Alright enough of that. Give me back my phone.”

He holds the phone out of your reach, grinning. “Just one more. And then you pick whichever and post it to um-” he wrinkles his nose as he tries to find the word and you can’t help but giggle.

“Instagram?” you prod him, and he makes a face, nodding in assent. “Honestly, you’re weird. Stop acting as though we would be the first actors to post a selfie together."

“Shut up,” he grumbles, knocking into you with his shoulder before lying back down on the couch. His eyes drift shut. “Just make sure that in whatever you post up, you get my good side.”

“You don’t have a good side.”

“Rude,” he says, though there’s a smile tugging at his lips that causes one to appear on your face. You never thought that the two of you’d get here, even when you started fucking, and now you did, and it leaves you warm and fuzzy inside, this friendship you have developed with him. It also fans the flames of your anxiety, wondering if you should just stop having sex entirely before it permanently screws up your friendship into something irreparable.

It doesn’t stop you from posting the picture though, turning off all notifications and throwing your phone on the coffee table before wedging yourself between the back of the couch and him to watch whatever it is he found on Netflix for them. His arm ends up around you, and you snuggle into it, perfectly content for the time being.

before: 12 months ago

M A Y

Shin Ryujin hasn’t changed since the last time you saw her.

Of course, you have only seen her twice before, once at the afterparty of an awards show where you had possibly the most uncomfortable conversation of your life, and the other time when you found her sitting on your – their? – ex boyfriend’s lap.

She is still the perfect mixture of cute and hot, all cute features and sharp edges that cut a pretty damn beautiful figure. She’s still bubbly and lively, eyes impassively trained on you for the moment you enter the room, and she still makes you feel nervous, mortified and uncomfortable all at the same time.

You get the part, to no one’s surprise, but the actual cast listing hasn’t been released yet, not until they have all gone through a table read.

Unfortunately, as if life loves playing these little, mortifying games with you, you are placed in the seat next to Ryujin and it’s awkward to say the least. It’s still early with half the cast not here as yet and there’s only so much fake texting you can pretend to do before it becomes noticeable.

Finally, you crack, turning in your seat to say, “So. This is awkward.”

She lifts a single perfectly manicured eyebrow. “What, most friendships don’t start with you realising you’re not dating the same two timing scumbag as someone else?” she asks, keeping a perfectly straight face.

“Is that what we are?” you ask, perhaps a bit too quickly, “Friends?”

Ryujin scrutinises you a little bit, as though expecting there to be some sort of alternative motive, and you wonder where all her extraversion energy has dissipated or if she was always like this. Then, Ryujin must not have found any twisted meaning behind your words because she leans back with a half a smile and says, “Yeah, Y/n. We are friends.”

You try to bite back a smile but you probably don't succeed, especially since Ryujin shoots you a sly, sidelong look and gently knocks her elbow into yours. You mimic the motion, knocking back into her in return before frowning as another question comes to mind.

“Why did you request me to be your co-star?” you ask falteringly, “We have only met twice, and one of those times happened to be with you and my ex were naked in bed together.”

“Good times that was,” she says with a wry twist of her lips. She turns so that her whole body is facing you and worries her lip between her teeth. “Honestly, I don't know. I mean, I have seen your stuff Y/n, you’re good at what you do and what happened all those months ago-” You stiffen and you know Ryujin notices as she slows her speech, “-was pretty shitty. But you can get back up again eventually and if this was the opportunity for that, then why not?”

“It was the least pretty shitty thing, it was a pretty mortifying experience,” you point out and Ryujin laughs.

“Yeah I figured. Getting outed and broken up with within the span of seven minutes? Ouch,” she winces and you are pretty sure you end up gaping at her. She leans over and taps your mouth closed with a ‘click.’ “Take it from me,” she says, resting a hand on her arm chair, “One bad experience doesn’t mean you have to hide away forever.”

You stare at her for a beat longer before a shaky smile unfurls itself across your face. “I like you, Shin Ryujin,” you declare and get a smile that’s all teeth in response.

“Good,” she nods, “Because hopefully we are gonna be seeing each other a lot for the next few months.”

And with one last shared grin, the directors and producers enter the room, the room filled with all the actors for script-writing, calling them all to silence to begin the table read.

It goes surprisingly well if you do say so. The cast is fun and quirky, each of them bringing something new to the table and there’s something about firing off quick witted banter with Ryujin, both of you smirking just a little while you do so, that just seals the deal for you. For the first time in a long you actually feel truly at home. Acting has always been something which put you at ease, and despite the bigger picture demanding more than what just interest can fulfill, the idea of associating bad memories to your passion wasn't the best.

“Hey,” Ryujin calls out when it’s all over and she’s walking over to catch a cab, “Wait up.”

You slow to a stop, turning to look at her as she catches up. “What’s up?”

She comes to a stop in front of you, shifting her weight from one leg to another and fingers the end of her ponytail. “Where are you staying?”

“Huh?”

“You’re from Busan right?” she asks, and you nod once, “So you need a place to stay while we’re filming.”

Right now you are still living out of your duffle in the single hotel room. Liv left a few days prior, once she was sure that you weren't going to run, and you have been on your own since, not even sparing a thought about your housing predicament.

“Fuck,” you groan, raking a careless hand through your hair, “I forgot about that. And we start shooting in a week, dammit.”

She smiles at you, the same sharp one as before, but you can see the nervous tightening around her eyes. “Well actually,” she begins, hesitating slightly, “I have a spare room. If you’re interested that is.”

It takes you a few seconds to realise that you’re gaping at her, mouth hanging open just a little and you hasten to shut it. “What – are you sure?” you sputter, “Because you don’t have to; it’s totally fine, I could just-”

“What?” she interrupts with a raised brow, “Live in a hotel room until you find somewhere to rent? Sounds fun.”

“Ryujin, I-” you falter searching for the right words. “Why?” is what you come up with in the end, looking up at her beseechingly.

Her face softens infinitesimally. “You look like you could use a friend,” she says, “A real friend. Someone other than your agent.”

There’s a bit of a sting hidden beneath her words, and you find yourself scuffing the loose gravel with the toe of your shoe. She’s not wrong; you have been in this industry for ages and while you have had acquaintances here and there, none of them had ever been able to quite move into the friendship category.

“You don’t even know me,” you warn, “I could be a terrible roommate.”

She shrugs. “Hey, if that idiot had the balls to date both of us and then cheat, we must have something in common, right?”

It gets a smile out of you. “I guess so.”

“So. You up for it?”

You duck your head for a moment to hide what must be a truly ridiculous grin. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m in.”

The two of you shake on it and two days later you move in with her. At least unofficially.

It’s a bit of a hassle getting everything together; you have to find your way back down to your old apartment considering Liv was the one who drove you up here in the first place, and then figure out what to pack in your car to tote back up to your new place. It’s in doing all of this that you realise the sheer amount of crap you have come to own. Really, you have no idea how your wardrobe didn’t explode before because you have a truly frightening amount of clothes.

At the end of it, everything works out for the best.

You and Ryujin spend the day before you’re scheduled to start shooting unpacking your things in the spare room and it’s… fun. You haven’t had this much fun in a long time, enthusiastically singing along to trashy pop music playing over the radio while the two of you unload box after box. It turns out Ryujin's spare room was a lab of sorts, all sorts of knickknacks and tools spread out.

“They were going to go back in storage when I started working again anyway,” she says, brushing off your concern as she dumps them into her previously empty boxes, “Relax Y/n.”

When it’s all said and done, the two of you find yourselves sprawled off on the sofa, watching some sort of mindless reality TV show while you split a pizza. As far as days go, this one is a veritable success, and, watching Ryujin trying to balance straws on her nose while they lounge around together in their pyjamas, you think that you made a good choice.

M A Y

Your first day on set is… interesting to say the least.

The couple of scenes you do go well, the cast is just as amicable as before and the crew is a riot. Not to mention you are slowly coming around making friends with a handful of other people around you. It makes you feel like you have somewhat successfully navigated your adult life.

That isn’t what makes it interesting though; no what makes it interesting is your run in with some overweening asshole while you were still in your car.

There’s a tap on the glass which causes you to jump, and when your head snaps towards the source, there is a man standing right by your door, frowning. He’s fairly handsome, with caramel skin and bedhead, extremely attractive, and you swear that you know him from somewhere but you can’t put your finger on it. You don’t dwell on it though, because he’s standing outside your car, arms crossed over his – admittedly broad – chest and looking thoroughly put out.

“Can I help you?” you ask, polite, after rolling down the window.

The man doesn’t seem to have any regards for manners however as his upper lip curls into a sneer and he says, “You’re in my parking spot, miss.”

You blink. You're fairly certain that this spot didn’t have anything labelling it as reserved when you pulled into it. So, like any person would do, you step out of the car to check. As you suspected, there’s nothing there saying that it belongs to anyone else and you whirl around to tell him as much.

He just scoffs at you in response. “Listen, I know you’re a newbie and all but that’s been my spot for the last two and a half years, so if you could kindly fuck off, it would be much appreciated.”

“Wow, a real gentleman, aren’t you?” you hiss, and then make a point about pressing the button on your keys so that your car locks with a cheery chirp. “This is the first time I’ve seen you all week so maybe you should be the one kindly fucking off.”

“All week, hmm?” he says, eyebrows raising, “Funny because in my two years of being here this is the first time I’m seeing you so.”

The way he says it makes it seem like you are the one at fault for taking an unmarked parking spot. It causes your hackles to rise and you find yourself sniping, “Well maybe if you spent less time being a diva and more time trying to be punctual, then maybe you’d have your precious parking space!”

His eyebrows seem to have disappeared up his hairline. “A diva?” he sputters, before glaring at you once more, “Please. As if you’re one to talk, miss.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” you huff, before stomping your foot and saying, “And stop calling me miss, dammit! You don’t know me.”

“I know your type,” he drawls, and his lips twist into a smirk. The change in his expression is going to give you whiplash, you’re sure of it, what with the way he keeps going from angry to smug. He presses on, “Whiny girl trying to make it big. Thinks that the world has fucked her over and she’s out to show them that she’s more than just a pretty face.” You can’t help but wince as his words hit a little bit too close to home, and his smirk just widens. “If the glass slipper fits, Cinderella. Try not to break it.”

“Are you always this much of an asshole to strangers?” you fire back after a moment of hesitation, “Or am I special?”

“What do you think?”

“I think,” you sniff, hiking your bag up on your shoulder, “That you’re a dick and I hope someone spills hot coffee on that pretty face of yours.”

And with that you turn on your heel, stalking off to stage four where you are set to begin shooting today. He yells something indistinguishable from behind you and you don't even bother to turn around, just flip him off over your shoulder.

You stomp on to the set, seething over the altercation until Ryujin calls you out on it with a, “Who pissed in your coffee?”

“Haven’t had any as yet,” you reply, slamming your bag down on the table and reaching for the pot of the aforementioned drink.

“No wonder you’re glaring daggers at everything that moves. Coffee is essential, Y/n. It’s our ambrosia.”

That gets a smile out of you and you feel the tension slowly start to work its way out of your shoulders. You quickly fix your cuppa to suit – two sugars with the barest dab of milk – and take a huge sip, sighing as it washes down your throat. “I can believe that,” you say and take another sip. “But it wasn’t my caffeinated – or lack thereof – self that brought this on. Just some asshole in the car park.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I feel like I know him from somewhere so he’s probably an actor too, but god, he’s such a dick. I wanted to punch him in the face.”

“Wouldn’t put it past you. We all know you have got a mean right hook.”

You felt the heat creep up your neck and face. “I’m sorry, if that asshole had the gall to try and get back with you at your movie premier you’re telling me you wouldn’t punch him?”

“No, I’d kick him in the balls and take a picture to use as the newest reaction photo. Caption: when you get hit by the feels.”

You snort a laugh and drain the rest of your coffee. “I better head to hair and makeup. I have a feeling they are going to need some time to tame this into some form of neatness,” you say, gesturing to the tangle of your hair thrown together in a sloppy bun at the top of your head.

Ryujin nods, reaching for a peach. “I should probably do the same. After we are done we can raid craft services before Felix and Jeongin get to it.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

After that, everything is smooth sailing and you easily push the incident from your mind, getting into character as you call them on set. You shoot three scenes that day, and you and Ryujin learn how to fire fake guns. It’s fun, and when you’re done, Felix suggests that they all head for celebratory pizza at Lia’s around the corner. You feel right at home with them, with all of your co-stars, as you chat and trade stories over weak beer and greasy pizza, and when you and Ryujin stumble back home later, you pretty much just collapse into bed, only toeing off your shoes.

The rest of the week goes by quickly, and on Friday you are the only one who needs to go in, leaving Ryujin at home watching cartoons curled up on their couch with a bowl of soggy cereal. It’s easier than you expected, having her as a roommate. You are both still careful around each other, but by each passing day the walls are slowly being chipped away.

“Want me to pick up anything on my way back?” you ask while slipping on your shoes.

She shakes her head. “Nah. Don’t forget though, I invited Minho over later. I can’t believe you’ve been here a week and you haven’t met him yet.”

“You mean your imaginary friend who lives down the hall?” you tease.

“He’s not imaginary,” she insists, laughter colouring her voice, “I don’t know why you keep insisting he is.”

“Probably because you keep referencing him but I’ve never seen him.”

“Because he’s working somewhere else in the meantime. He left Monday evening.”

“Uh huh,” you say, still sceptical, “Sure. I’m going now. Say hi to your other imaginary friends for me!”

You hear a loud, “He's not imaginary, dammit Y/n!” as the door shuts behind you and you can’t help but grin to yourself as you jog down the stairs.

* * *

Work is a bit boring today with most of the cast not there. You are needed for two scenes with a couple extras, one fake fight where your stunt double is doing most of the work, and then the resulting interrogation scene. It’s nice, but dull, and you take to snapchatting Ryujin various pieces of set equipment until you flip her off, not answering anymore after she presumably switches off her phone.

You get to leave early when your scenes are done, and stop off at the bakery around the corner to pick up some pastries before heading home.

Their voices can be heard through the door as you toggle the lock, and you can't help but bite back a smile when you hear Ryujin bark out a laugh.

“Honey I'm home,” you announce as you fling the door open, kicking your shoes off in the hallway.

There’s a muffled, “In here!” coming from the kitchen as well as the tantalising waft of spices that has your stomach growling.

The first thing you notice as you round the corner is the guy standing by the stove all messy yet neat hair and deliciously broad shoulders, stirring the pot while Ryujin goes on about something and your mouth waters for more than one reason. The second thing you notice when he turns a bit, giving you a glimpse of his side profile, is that he looks shockingly familiar. That one is fleeting however, only to be replaced by the third and final thing, when Ryujin finally sees you standing on the edge of the kitchen.

“Y/n!” she yells out in greeting, and when the man turns around, giving you a good look at his face, your jaw actually drops.

Because standing there in the middle of your kitchen, looking surly as ever is the parking space asshole.

Seriously, what the fuck.

“Y/n,” Ryujin says again, sliding off her perch on the counter, “This is Minho. The one who you thought were imaginary.”

“I wish he was imaginary,” you mumble under your breath.

“What was that?”

“I said we have met,” you correct yourself with a tight smile and that’s when his lips curl up in a lazy smirk.

“That we have,” he drawls, shoving his hands in his pants pocket. He nods at you in acknowledgement. “Miss.”

“Douchebag.”

Ryujin is looking between the two of you, perplexed. “How–” she falters, eyebrows creasing together.

“He's the carpark asshole,” you say, flat, and that’s when Ryujin laughs, loud and bright, bouncing off the kitchen cabinets.

“Nah,” she smirks, patting him on the shoulder, “Just a regular asshole.”

“Thanks Ryujin.”

She whirls around to face him, smacking his bicep lightly. “I can’t believe the girl you were complaining about was Y/n. And Y/n,” she says, cutting a glance back at her, “Why didn’t you tell me it was Minho? I would have helped come up with some more colourful insults for him.”

“Again, thank you Ryujin.”

You feel your cheeks get warm and you duck your head, saying sheepishly, “I uh, I didn’t exactly recognise him at first.”

You don’t have to look up to know that the pair is gaping at you. Well, Ryujin is gaping at you, that is. Minho on the other hand is still trying to be cool and pretend that he’s not bothered by your admission.

“...Seriously?”

“It’s not like I watch the show okay?” you defend yourself, “I only know about it in passing.”

“Yeah, but he was on like every news outlet for the first year of it because of his fuck ups.”

“Why am I friends with you again?” Minho asks to no one in particular and you both ignore him.

Ryujin is still frowning at you, looking at you a bit suspiciously. “You really didn’t know?”

“Trust me, if I knew who he was and that he was your friend, I wouldn’t have said half of those things,” you sigh, using both your hands to push your hair back. You look at Minho properly for the first time since you realised who he was, and he’s just as stupidly hot as before. It makes you frown. “So does being friends with my roommate mean that I’ll have to see you around here often?” you ask, and his grin turns wicked.

“Something like that,” he shrugs, being deliberately vague, and turns back to the stew bubbling away on the stove.

Next to him, Ryujin rolls her eyes and says, “He lives down the hall and he’s usually over most nights if our schedules permits it.”

You feel your eyes flicker close of their own accord. “Great,” you sigh, and then they snap open almost immediately. “Wait, he lives here?” You look between the two of them before pinching the bridge of your nose. “What, is there some sort of celebrity quota the complex needs to fill or something? Is James Franco gonna pop up downstairs while I’m getting my mail?”

“Why James Franco?” Minho butts in mildly as he turns the gas off, “Why not Dave? He’s obviously the better Franco.”

“Oh my god, shut the fuck up.”

“Both of you shut the fuck up,” grouses Ryujin, stretching up to get the bowls from the top cabinet. The floor squeaks as she moves and you all wince.

“Need wheels for walking, Ryujin?” he asks, elbowing her out of the way to grab the bowls and he starts ladling the food into them.

“Nah. I just forgot to see about it this weekend,” she says, setting the table. You remain standing there in the kitchen, awkwardly holding the box of pastries. “Got sidetracked with a new show and all, this floor is still irritating though.”

“Uh huh,” he says, before his eyes drift over to you and he lifts an eyebrow, “What, you just gonna stand there all day, sweetheart?”

You jump, startled, and throw a weak glare at him. “No. Shut up,” you reply, placing the box on the counter and grabbing the cutlery from the drawer. Ryujin pops open a bottle of wine and soon enough you are all sitting in silence, eating. You have to begrudgingly admit that whatever it is he made ('Galbi Jjim,’ he had said, and the word sounds clumsy in your mouth) tastes amazing. Of course, you’re not going to tell him that; he’s already got a big head and you don't need to feed his ego even more.

You do however need him to feed you and Ryunjin more; his cooking is leagues better than whatever you and Ryujin can manage to put together.

When dinner is over and you have suffered through the appropriate amount of smalltalk, you finally give in and ask, “So how did this,” you gesture between them, “Happen?”

Ryujin cackles and it unnerves you just a bit.

“We hooked up after the incident,” Ryujin shrugs unashamedly. Minho shrugs but you notice a hint of redness creeping up his neck. “I woke up to this asshole sitting in my kitchen drinking my coffee–”

“Your shitty coffee,” he interjects and she elbows him in the stomach.

“–going through my apartment plans–”

“She wanted to move to the south side,” he snorts derisively, “Can you imagine? She wouldn't survive a week down there with the health junkies.”

“This is my story shut up,” Ryujin says without any heat behind her words, “But yeah, there we were, the random guy I hooked up with giving me real estate advice while he stood half naked in my kitchen, and the next thing I knew, I was signing the lease and he was helping me move in here..”

“Do all your friendships begin this weird?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest and trying to hide an amused smile.

She winks at you. “Only the good ones,” she says, and that gets a laugh out of you.

You offer to do the dishes after while they set up shop in the living room, bickering goodnaturedly over whose turn it is to pick something to watch on Netflix. You can’t stop your eyes from straying though, looking over at him ever so often for some strange reason.

* * *

Minho is an enigma.

On one hand, he seems like the type of person you wouldn’t mind having as a friend. His humour isn’t quite as dark as Ryujin’s but it’s drier, and he says almost everything with his lips curled up in a smirk, not to mention they have most of the same views on certain topics. That doesn’t stop the two of you from arguing all the time though; at the studio, at the apartment, it doesn’t matter where, you always find something to disagree over.

“You guys are ridiculous,” Ryujin says, rolling her eyes. You were running through lines on your break when Minho appeared, immediately throwing himself on the couch next to you, despite the fact that there were several other seats available.

“You are ridiculous,” you sulk, jabbing him in the ribs with your elbow just because.

Minho reacts like the mature adult he is by sticking his tongue out at you and swatting your thigh easily. “I’m just here to say hi to my friend Ryujin while I’m on lunch,” he says, loosening his tie, “Dunno what the princess’ reason is though.”

“I work here,” you reply, flat. “You’re literally on set where I work. Where else would I be?”

“Jesus, you guys are a headache,” sighs Ryujin when you and Minho start bickering once more, although you can hear the love peeking through. Somewhat.

“It’s his fault,” you mumble, and he tugs on your hair.

Ryujin groans again, swatting you both with her rolled up script. “The two of you are children,” she announces, ignoring your indignant yelps of pain.

It doesn’t help that Minho always seems to be around. He spends most of his lunch breaks on your set, dragging Hyunjin over with him, and then spends most of that time antagonising you. When you’re not filming, he’s over on your couch, needling them into watching the most boring movies ever, and you’re certain that the only reason Ryujin hasn’t kicked him out yet is because he makes them dinner most nights.

“Don’t you have your own apartment?” you somewhat grouse as soon as you spot him lounging on the couch one Sunday morning. You have just woken up, still squinting suspiciously at everything, and it’s not fair that he still manages to look so good that early in the morning. It accounts for about 30% of your bad mood.

Minho just gives you a quick up down, a hint of smirk making itself known and you refuse to fidget, refuse to pull down the shorts you know are riding high on your thigh, refuse to brush back the tangled snarl of hair partially obscuring your vision. “But if I was in my apartment then how would I see your beautiful face, sunshine?”

You don't even dignify that with a response, just trudging your way across the room into the kitchen where Ryujin is already sitting at the table, gulping down coffee like it’s her job.

“Does he ever go home?” you ask, rummaging around the fridge for some milk. “How’d you even put up with him before?”

She just shrugs. “He’s been around more often now that you’re here” she says offhand, and you glance sidelong at her, stopping mid stretch for the cereal box.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” she shrugs, but she can’t quite hide the smug little smile pulling at her mouth. “Nothing at all.”

You are fairly certain that it’s something, so you press on, “Come on. Obviously you meant something with it. What aren’t you telling me?”

Ryujin slumps back in her chair with a roll of her eyes and pitches her voice low so that it doesn't carry. “Look, he used to visit before, yeah, but since you’re living here now, he’s coming over every day and actually leaving his set to come to ours. What do you think might have caused the change of heart.”

You narrow your eyes at her. “What are you insinuating, Ryujin?”

“You know damn well what I’m insinuating, Y/n.”

“I know that it sounds like a load of bullshit because-”

“Because it’s so implausible that Minho might like you?” she cuts in with a raised eyebrow, “I’ve known that boy for a while. There’s something going on with him. There’s something going on with both of you, and when it finally happens, I’m going to say I told you so.”

“Please,” you scoff as you drown your cereal in milk, “Nothing is going to happen between us.”

J U N E

“Fuck,” he says stumbling back. His eyes are wide and frenzied, lips red, and you're fairly certain you look the same way.

You run a shaky hand through your hair, possibly making it even messier but you don’t really care, not when you have bigger things to worry about like the fact that you just kissed Lee Minho while in the middle of arguing with him.

“Fuck.”

He breathes out a shaky laugh, fidgeting with the tie around his neck. “Pretty sure I just said that.”

“It deserves to be said again because – fuck.”

“Eloquent aren’t you?” he mutters, looking everywhere in the room but at you and you feel a frown tugging down the corners of your mouth.

“This never happened,” you tell him, taking a step closer and forcing him to look at you. “And this is never going to happen again. Got it?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw, eyes hard when he finally meets your gaze. “Whatever the hell you want, Y/n,” he says with abit of an edge, and you nod once before stalking out.

It’s only once you’re out of sight- of him, the trailer and everything else – tucked away in a dusty corridor that leads between studios, do you lean against the wall, breathing shakily as you brush the pads of your fingers across your lips, still tingling.

“Never again,” you mutter, already feeling the migraine building at the base of your skull.

now

M A Y

There’s sunlight streaming through the blinds, and you groan, throwing an arm over your eyes as you move further away from Minho. It’s warm, even with the air conditioner on full blast, and your body is sticky with sweat underneath the light linen blanket. You kick it off with a huff, hoping that maybe you can finally lapse back into a state of blissful unconsciousness, but it’s to no avail.

The bed vibrates with unheard chuckles and you crane your neck to throw a glare at him from over your shoulder.

“Shut up,” you groan. He's ridiculous, lying spread out on the bed without a stitch of clothing to his name, skin all pale and carmel smooth while his hair is a tousled mess. It's upsetting how good he looks, and you shove your face in your pillow so that you don't have to watch him a moment longer.

He just laughs again, this time louder and shuffles closer, ignoring your mewl of displeasure as he pulls his body flush against yours. “Good morning baby,” the coos in your ear before placing a line of sloppy kisses down the side of your neck.

You squirm in his arms, trying in vain to bat him away, but he just laughs again, letting his hair chafe against your skin as he grabs both your wrists and pins your hands above your head, sending a pang of want through you.

“Asshole,” you mutter, even as you tilt your head back to let him suck softly on your pulse point. The hand holding your wrists together applies a bit more pressure to them and he presses more firmly against you until you whine. “It’s hot,” you complain.

His teeth grazes your earlobe when he shifts, and you sigh, relaxing into him. “Mmm, that you are,” he says into your skin, free hand moving to palm your breast. Your lips part in a silent moan when he squeezes it, thumb flicking over your nipple, and he ruts against your ass, letting you feel him, already hard and hot.

“I’m all sweaty and sticky,” you warn, though your protests are getting more and more feeble by the minute, especially when he nips at your jaw gently, hand leaving your chest and moving south to brush across your clit.

His responding hum reverberates through you and you whimper as his fingers tease your cunt. “Well, let’s see if we could make you sweatier and stickier,” he says, and you have to huff out a laugh, startled and bright, because he’s ridiculous .

“What an – oh,” the rest of your sentence is replaced by a moan when he easily lifts your leg, hitching it over his hip, and slides in, all hot and heavy and perfect.

You whimper again when he grunts into your neck as he bottoms out, and you stay like that for a moment, just basking in the feel of each other before he finally starts to move.

He can only give you short, shallow thrusts like this, but more than makes up for it by using the pad of his thumb to rub gentle circles on your clit. You grind back against him, wrists straining against his hands, but he doesn’t let up, no matter how much you ask.

Then he’s hitching your leg up higher, changing the angle inside of you that has you seeing white, almost choking on your tongue as you spasm against him, wanting him to reach you deeper.

“Fuck, Minho, right there,” you beg, turning your head blindly in search of his lips, and he obliges you, giving you a kiss that’s more tooth than lip, but you still whimper, teetering on the edge.

Sweat gathers across your bodies, and you can feel your hair sticking to your temples, to the back of your neck, and he makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat when you inadvertently clench down on him. He finally lets go of your hands, only grabbing hold of your thigh, keeping it in place as he repeats the motion from before that has you seeing stars.

“Better?” he asks, voice strained, and all you can do is nod, too busy panting to string actual words together. You clutch on to the pillow when he does it a third time, free hand darting back down to pinch your clit, needing something to anchor you to reality.

“I’m so- I’m so,” you almost sob, thrashing, and his laugh is low and gravelly behind you, lips fastening to your pulse point and causing you to cry out. “Minho.”

He soothes you with sweet nothings muttered in your ear, but it does nothing to quelch the burning need inside you. Only when his fingers bear down on your clit too, thrusting in as deep as he can go, do you keen loudly, walls fluttering around him as you come.

It takes both of you by surprise, the sheer intensity of it, and for one brilliant, mind numbing moment, everything goes blank, and you just feel as though you're blissfully floating in space, electricity pulsing beneath your skin.

You come back slowly, your harsh breaths mingling with his as he softens inside of you, and he squeezes the fleshy part of your stomach gently before rolling onto his back. You go with him, twisting so that you now lie on his chest, sweat soaked skin sticking together, too lazy to actually go and clean up.

Minho pets the hair away from your face and pecks you on nose, laughing when you wrinkle it in response. “Morning,” he drawls again, hand trailing up your spine. “We should probably get up.”

You hum noncommittally, letting your head droop forward on his chest with a sigh. “I’m not moving for at least another hour,” you tell him, and he chuckles again, brushing his lips across the crown of your head. “Don’t let it get to your head” you tack on when you notice him crowing, and he pinches your thigh in response.

* * *

It’s Friday.

You have spent almost an entire week at his apartment, shirking your responsibilities in favour of playing house with Minho.

The intimacy should be too much: staying several nights in a row, cuddling with him after sex while he does things like that, but you can’t find it in you to muster up the energy to care, not when your blood is still roaring in your eyes and sheets have yet to cool.

“We've got time,” you think you hear him say through the fog settling in your mind, squeezing your hand, before you finally drift off.

before: 10 months ago

J U L Y

You get a late invite to the Seasonal Con.

Only Ryujin and you are going, along with the producer, and it’s not even a real panel, just a screening of the pilot episode to a group of maybe fifty people, and then fielding whatever questions the crowd might have.

It’s your first major event ever since you stumbled back on the scene two months ago and you're equal parts excited and terrified.

“Hey,” says Ryujin, nudging you gently as you turn out the sheets. You are both staying at your apartment instead of renting a hotel, since it’s only a half an hour drive from the convention centre. “Relax,” she says, “It’s not like we are going to be dealing with a lot of press or anything. Just smile and look pretty.”

“Easy for you to say,” you mumble under your breath, and this time there’s nothing gentle in the way Ryujin elbows you.

* * *

The morning that you are scheduled to go to the Seasonal Con, you are mostly fine. You get up and help Ryujin make pancakes for breakfast, then you shower and do your makeup, donning a cute sundress, and even going as far as to make sure your hair is in some semblance of order and that your makeup perfectly suits your dress.

You are fine.

Ryujin has to press her hand against your thigh to stop you from shaking your leg.

You throw her a thin smile in return. “What, you’re not gonna buy me dinner first?” you try to joke, but even you can hear how weak it sounds, and Ryujin gives you a meaningful squeeze.

“You got this.”

And she’s right. Mostly.

The screening is fine, the audience seems to be genuinely interested in the show, and they even garner more than a few laughs which probably made you disproportionately happy, but whatever. You are glad people are liking something that you helped to make. You do get asked a few questions later on, just a handful of things about the show that your producer answers mostly, and afterwards, a couple fans ask for pictures and autographs.

It’s all very textbook, but you breathe a sigh of relief once it’s all over, wringing out your shoulders.

“See?” says Ryujin with a grin as you walk out of the hall. The adjacent hallway is mercifully empty, free of any onlookers for a few moments. “You made it through.” You have got the rest of the day to yourselves and while you would rather go home immediately, Ryujin convinced you to stay a little while, just an hour or so.

“I guess it wasn’t that bad,” you concede, and Ryujin nudges you until you duck your head in a grin. “Fine, okay, it was fun. Jeez, you have pointy elbows.”

She just smiles angelically at you, and ducks out of the way before you can tug on her ponytail. “Everything’s better with Shin Ryujin around,” she announces.

“That is your new tagline, Ryujin?” a voice drawls from behind the two of you and both of you come to a stop.

You immediately recognise the speaker and your eyes fall shut as you take a calming breath, tilting your head heavenwards. You do not need this right now, especially not when your day was actually starting to look up. Ryujin on the other hand has no qualms about whipping around with a grin, saying a cheery, “Hey Minho,” in greeting.

He nods in acknowledgement before sidling alongside you, and you still have your eyes wrenched shut. “Y/n,” he says, lightly hip checking you.

That’s when you open your eyes, giving him a clinical up and down. He looks good as always, wearing a leather jacket over a soft tee with a faded Hogwarts insignia on it, and his cap is lurched lopsided in a way that is certainly not adorable. You think it might be a Pokemon one, but you don't want to spare him the extra thought.

You purse your lips. “Asshole.”

Minho chuckles, holding the door open for you as you enter the main part of the convention centre. People are swarming all over the place and while no one outright stares at them, you begin to feel the anxiety creeping back up your spine and quicken your pace, Ryujin right at your side.

“Hey, I’m just being nice,” he says, jogging to catch up with them.

“Fuck your nice.”

“Someone’s hostile today,” he frowns, staring down at you. His eyes flit over to Ryujin and he asks, “What’s up with her?”

“I’m right here you know,” you snap, “You don’t need to ask other people when I’m literally standing right in front of you.”

“Easy baby,” he soothes, a hand coming down to rest on your shoulder. There’s still a dip between his eyebrows as he appraises you carefully, and you look away, feeling a flush of hotness creep up the back of your neck. Behind you, you can feel Ryujin shaking with silent laughter.

“Leave me alone,” you say, shrugging off his arm and stalking off. You don’t get very far before the other two catch up to you, Minho catching you by your wrist this time.

He opens his mouth to say something – no doubt another snide jab at you – but is interrupted by a girl, clutching her phone tightly and staring at him in wide eyed amazement.

“I’m sorry, but can I get a quick photo please?” she says in a rush, “I’m a huge fan of your show!”

He presses his lips together in a line, giving you one last look, before turning to the girl with a charming smile. “Sure,” he says, posing for the selfie, and the next thing he knows, there’s a whole crowd around them, asking for autographs and pictures, blocking them in.

Honestly, the only thing that stops you from taking off then and there is Ryujin’s hand resting on the crook of your elbow through the entire ordeal. Besides, almost all of them are for Minho anyway. Hardly anyone spares them a second glance.

They must have been standing there for over five minutes before he says, loud and clear, “Sorry guys, I have to get to lunch, but I’ll be doing a signing at two if you want to come over.”

There’s general murmurs of disappointment from the crowd and they start to thin out. But, before they leave completely, Minho curls his arm around your shoulders with a, “Come on, love,” that sends a hushed whispers throughout the crowd and the tingle that was prickling under your skin moments before slams back into you, full force, no doubt faltering your public image.

Ryujin is all out cackling behind them and the moment you are all out of the public eye, you plan on ripping her a new one for her betrayal.

“You’re such a dick,” you hiss at Minho, trying to escape his hold. He just pulls you even further into his side and ducks his head to whisper,

“I’m doing you a favour.”

You try to ignore how warm and solid he is, how he smells like cinnamon and pine trees, but it’s proving to be difficult. “Yeah, well, you can shove your favour up your ass,” you mutter, and he throws his head back, barking out a laugh.

“You’ve got a real gratitude problem, you know that?” he says, almost bitterly.

“No, just a you-problem,” you retort in a saccharine voice.

“Easy kids,” says Ryujin , not even bothering to hide her smirk. “Be careful. You never know what this is going to look like to the outside eye.”

“There’s only one way murder can look to the outside eye, Ryujin,” you say, and he just scoffs.

“I try to do one nice thing for you and what do I get?” he says, mostly to himself, finally letting his arm slip off your shoulders as you near the end of this hall. “Not even a thank you. Last time I will try to help you.”

“Good I don’t want your help,” you snap, pretending that you don’t miss the heat and heaviness of his arm around you. Your fingers brush together when you walk though, and neither of you make any attempt to create some space between yourselves.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Oh my god, you’re like an old married couple,” says Ryujin exasperatedly and you both turn to glare at her.

“Shut up, Ryujin,” both of you chorus before snapping your glares over each other.

“Jesus,” she mutters with a roll of her eyes. “I’m just saying, keep acting like that and people are going to assume things.”

Minho makes a derisive sound in the back of his throat. “Please,” he says, leading them down the corridor, presumably where the rest of his cast is hanging out, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

* * *

Your phone barely even rings once before you’re swiping accept, not even sparing a glance at the caller ID. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she deadpans, voice scratchy with disuse.

On the other end of the phone, Liv sighs, a common reaction to dealing with your mishaps. “What happened yesterday?” she asks again, already sounding tired. That’s how you know this is a big problem, because Liv never sounds tired in the morning.

“Nothing!” you say, flailing wildly, “Seriously, we were arguing as usual. That’s it. Nothing about that screams romance.”

“So he didn’t call you ‘love’?” she asks dubiously.

You hesitate, biting your lip. “Well, yes,” you relent, “But he always calls me something ridiculous. It’s meant as an insult not a pet name!”

Liv seems to ignore you. “And did he put his arm around you?”

You hesitate again. “...Yes.”

There’s another sigh coming from her end of the phone, and you screw your eyes shut as you wait for the verbal smackdown.

“Come on Y/n,” Liv starts, “You’ve been in this business long enough, you know how the public perceives things. Especially things like this.”

You swipe a hand through your tangle of hair – damaged from all that damn hairspray – and toss it up in a slipshod bun. “Can’t you skew it?” you ask, “I’m not involved with him, I do not want to be involved with him. At all. Forever. Never in my life.”

There’s silence on the other end for almost a full minute before she says slowly, “We could just let it all blow over. Dating rumours crop up everyday.”

You lift your eyebrows. “Are you suggesting that we just leave it alone?”

“It should disappear by itself. After all, this is the first time someone alluded to your relationship with Minho as anything but professional. A lot of people are probably going to flat out deny it,” she tells you. “Let the internet work it out for itself. You’ll be old news by yesterday.”

“One can only hope,” you say, shoulders slumping. “Why did I come back to this hell hole? Why didn’t I start my hopefully lucrative llama farm?”

“Goodbye Yn.”

The phone goes dead and you pull it away to glare at it. “See, my llamas would put up with my bullshit Liv. They wouldn’t abandon me because of it.”

It’s only a few minutes to eight, but you can’t go back to sleep so with a disgruntled full bodied sigh, you roll out of bed to get started on breakfast. They have only been here for three days so far, driving back up tomorrow, so you are fully aware that the fridge is woefully scant, even with the groceries they picked up on the way. There are some eggs left over though, so you scramble them, and makes some toast to go with it.

You have given into temptation, scrolling through your Twitter feed as you wait for Ryujin to wake up, sipping on your coffee. It’s not terribly bad; it’s the most notifications you have had in a long while, and most of them happen to be the same question repeated over and over in a multitude of ways: Is there something going on between you and Minho?

Your fingers itch to answer them, or maybe even just vaguely tweet something but you resist, thinking of what Liv would say if you somehow made matters worse. You are saved from being a torment to yourself only a few moments later when Ryujin stumbles in the kitchen, heading straight for the coffee pot.

“What?” she asks once she’s inhaled half a cup and is now awake enough to notice you glaring at her.

You just groan and slide your phone across the table to her, before dropping your head onto your arms. When Ryujin reads the headline she snickers, absolutely delighted.

“You called this upon me,” you say, your words muffled by the tabletop. “You fucking called this on me.”

Ryujin pets your hair aimlessly, doing more harm than good. “Look on the bright side; it’s Dispatch. No one takes it seriously.”

“My Twitter feed is like 99 per cent of people asking me if Minho and I are dating. Or having hate sex.”

“Obviously it’s the latter.”

“Obviously it’s neither.”

“Oh come on,” she says, throwing her hands up, “You’re telling me that a little bit of hate fucking isn’t going to fix this-” she makes some sort of weird gesture with her hand that you can’t even begin to comprehend, “-this whatever it is going on between you two?”

Your traitorous mind jumps to the kiss, the way he felt so hot and solid beneath your hands as he pushed you against the wall, the way you let your fingers tangle in his hair, and a shiver runs down your spine.

Never one to miss anything, Ryujin narrows her eyes at you. “Unless you already did that,” she says slowly, taking in every bit of emotion that flits across your face.

“I didn’t,” you say, dropping your gaze to the worn and scarred tabletop. “But I did kiss him.”

“I knew it!”

“It was a one time thing that we both agreed to ignore,” you’re quick to point out, and Ryujin just snorts.

“Yeah. Right. Okay,” she says, “You can miss me with that ‘one time’ bullshit.”

“Ryujin!”

“What?” she shrugs, “It’s true. There’s obviously something there.”

“There’s nothing but hate and animosity there.”

“Again, I point you towards hate sex.”

“How about I point you towards the door instead. God, you’re worse than the internet.”

Ryujin holds her hands up in surrender. “Alright, let’s not get too crazy,” she says, although her smile is still far too smug. She takes another sip of her coffee. “But, just let it be known that I still reserve the right to say I told you so when it does actually happen.”

You just groan, letting your head fall against the table.

A U G U S T

Still though, you can’t help but think about Ryujin's words.

It’s not your fault okay? Ryujin just managed to make your mind conjure up some very…interesting scenarios for you over the last couple of weeks.

You can no longer look at Minho for, every time you do so, you can only picture the feel of his mouth on yours and wonder if it’s just as good at other things as it is as kissing, can only wonder what else those hands of his can do, can only wonder if he is as good as Ryujin slyly told you he was.

It’s turning you into a mess to be honest, which is why, a few weeks after they returned from Season Con, you find yourself blurting out, “Ryujin thinks we should fuck,” as soon as you are left alone in your trailer with him.

You wait until he’s taken a sip of water to say it, and you’re rewarded by him hacking his lungs out.

“Pray tell,” he wheezes, “Why does Ryujin think we should fuck?”

You shrug. “She says that it will help us get along better. You know, once we get rid of all that unwanted sexual tension. Purely platonic fucking and we can actually stand to be in the same room as each other.”

“Right,” he says, and there’s something a bit off to his voice. You look up almost immediately, frowning, and catch the tail end of some unknown emotion flitting across his face. He hitches an eyebrow when he catches you looking. “And what do you think?”

“What do you mean ‘what do I think’?”

He shrugs. “Do you think it’s a good idea?”

You don’t understand how he can be so blasé about discussing it, not when you are already three steps closer to looking like an alarmed porcupine.

“I think it could be worth a shot,” you say, as casually as possible with your chin held high.

Across from you his mouth curves into the most sinful of smiles and he looks at you through hooded eyes. “You wanna fuck me, Y/n?” he murmurs, voice dropping several octaves, and it’s all you can do to not squirm in your seat, warmth settling heavy and wonderful in your stomach.

“It’s just a thought, okay? Ryujin might have definitely been onto something and who knows maybe it could work if we just fucked once and got it out of our systems I mean-”

“Hey Y/n?” he says, interrupting your steady stream of nonsensical babble, and you exhale shakily.

“Yeah?” He’s much closer than you remember him being, and when you look up, almost to the point where you can count each individual eyelash, you look elsewhere.

“Shut up,” he murmurs, and then his hand is wrapping around your jaw, bridging the gap between the two of you.

His mouth is just as you remembered, hard and warm, tongue flickering against yours as he pulls your body to him. You make a soft sound of surprise in the back of your throat, and your hands immediately dart to his hair, feeling the silky strands sift through your fingers. His thumb traces your cheekbone as he sucks on your bottom lip, and when your nails scratch at his scalp, he lets it go with a soft sigh of pleasure, kissing you even harder.

“Just to be sure,” you pant once you break apart and he starts sucking kisses down the column of your throat, “We’re doing this right?”

“If science says it’ll work then there’s no harm in giving it a shot,” he rasps against your skin, moaning a little when you pull on his hair.

“Ryujin said it, not science.”

He mutters something too low for you to hear as he kisses his way down to your cleavage. “Ryujin is basically science,” he tells you, looking up from your chest, “I’m taking this off,” he tugs at your camisole.

“I’d be more pissed if you didn’t,” you say, helping him pull it off. You arch up into him with a whimper when he suckles your breast through your bra. “Fuck, Minho,” you moan as you reach behind you to undo the clasp, needing to feel his mouth against your skin now.

His other hand skims across waist, leaving a trail of warmth in its path as it heads towards the snap on your jeans, and he deftly opens it with a twist of his fingers, wriggling his hand inside. “Hope this is alright,” he says, fingertips just ghosting across your underwear as he leans down to swirl his tongue around your nipple.

It takes you three tries to formulate words in your head, and even then all you manage to say is, “Very alright,” trying to tilt your hips to get more friction, feeling the heat of his palm through the thin scrap of fabric.

Only once you have said so does he dive right in, fingers slipping beneath the flimsy material of your underwear to stroke you and you both swear.

“Fuck Y/n,” he swears, leaving a trail of sloppy kisses from one breast to the other as his fingers trace up your slit, “You’re dripping. How long have you been thinking about this?”

He sinks blunt teeth into your sternum until you whine. “A – a while. Ever since Ryujin brought it up the first time. And then you show up today – fuck ,” you cry, hips jerking up when his index circles your clit, “Do that again. Please Minho.”

He chuckles, pressing a smacking kiss to the outside of your breast, and repeats the motion, rubbing his thumb on your clit until you whine again.

“You have been thinking about this for what? The past half an hour while I have been sitting right next to you?” he asks, accidentally butting you in the chin as he tries to bite at your collarbone. “Shit babe,” he flicks your clit again, “Bet you’re all worked up, huh?”

“Minho, please.”

“Were you thinking about this the whole time?” he presses, rising up so he can get a good look at your face, your mouth just slightly parted while your eyes keep on fluttering, struggling to stay open. He slows his motions until you make a soft plaintive sound in the back of your throat and he can’t help but bend down to kiss you, sweet. “Come on, Y/n, tell me what you were thinking about,” he lets his teeth graze over her earlobe, “I wanna know, baby.”

“Your hands,” you whine, trying to get him moving again. He has to pin your hips to the couch to stop you from wiggling all over the place and it sends another flare of want through you. “I was thinking about your hands and – and–”

“And what?” he coaxes, letting his fingers ghost across your entrance. You jerk with it, pleasure curling at the base of your spine. “And what else Y/n?”

“Mouth. Your mouth, Minho.”

His lips curl up in a halfway smirk, pleased, and he presses a single finger into you, just barely. “You want my mouth on you, baby?” he asks, “You want my mouth on your sweet pussy?”

You clench down hard at his words, eyes screwed shut, and you feel the warmth flood your face as he laughs lowly.

“Please,” you murmur, and you feel his lips just barely brush across yours before pressing down more firmly in a soft exploratory kiss. He removes his hands, and you whine at the loss of contact, until he breaks the kiss, sinking to his knees before you.

“Whatever the hell you want, baby,” he says as he slowly peels your jeans off. He litters featherlight kisses up your leg, mouthing his way across the crease where your leg meets your hip. And then, without warning, he leans forward, nuzzling his face against your lace covered pussy, and you squeak in surprise. His hands come up to grab your hips, steadying you, and he repeats the motion, this time letting his teeth graze against your clit through the pathetic excuse for underwear, letting you moan.

“So fucking wet,” he mutters again, a hint of awe colouring his voice, and you flush hot, trying to get him to put his mouth on you for real.

He does away with your underwear quick enough, leaving them in a sad little crumpled heap on the table next to the couch, before ducking back down to lick a fat stripe straight up your centre that sends your pulse skittering.

One of your legs hooks behind his shoulder as he steadies himself, and the hands pinning your hips flex, lifting you closer to his mouth as he laps at you with long licks, making an enthusiastic sound in the back of his throat. There’s nothing slow and gentle about it, very little finesse to be found, but it still has you curling your toes and keening loudly, especially when he slips one, then two fingers in, scissoring you wide open so he can truly fuck you with his tongue.

It doesn’t help that Minho seems just as into it as you are, low groans pressing into your flesh, the vibrations of it doing all sorts of things to your body.

His mouth is even better than you thought, and within minutes, you’re pulling on his hair when he sucks your clit in his mouth, high pitched whimpers crawling out of your throat as you clench down hard on his fingers, coming with a broken gasp of his name that has him grunting into the side of your thigh.

He groans when you pull him up, and you lick the taste of yourself out of his mouth while tugging on his stupid robes. He’s still fully dressed in costume while you are laid out wantonly before him.

“Off,” you command, nibbling on his lip.

Minho pushes you away gently, stealing one last kiss before starting to undo the million and one clasp that holds his costume in place. “Condom?” he asks, voice pitched low in a way that makes you shiver. He can’t seem to look away from you, eyes dark with want and you bite your lip.

“I’m supposed to have one in my bag,” you say, stretching for it, “Hurry up."

“You always this bossy?”

“You always this slow?”

Your fingers quickly find the foil packet, and you rip it open as fast as you can. He’s finally naked by the time you turn back around, and you push him down roughly on the couch, climbing onto his lap. He’s all lean muscle, broad and firm beneath you, and you can’t help but run an appreciative hand down his chest as you fix him to your liking.

Minho chuckles, palming your ass as you settle on him. “You are bossy, huh?”

You smile at him sweetly, wrapping your fingers around his cock and feeling him twitch in your palm. “I just know what I want.”

There’s a muscle ticking in his jaw that you just want to bite into as he nods, leaning back with a satisfied grin. “Then by all means, Y/n.”

In another time you would taste him, drop to your knees and take him in your mouth, but right now you just want him, already too keyed up from before to do nothing else besides give him one last squeeze and then roll the condom on, quickly sliding onto him in way that has you both groaning.

“God, Y/n,” he shudders, already sounding wrecked. He squeezes your hips again, leaning up to mouth at your breast, and you gasp, rocking down on him.

It takes you a few moments to find the rhythm, and even then it’s still sloppy and hot and oh so good in a way that you find yourself digging your nails into his shoulders. He keeps his mouth on your breasts, and each tug of your nipple sends a shock wave of pleasure directly to your cunt, and you throw your head back with it, moaning.

As you both near climax, your moves get more and more frantic until Minho grabs hold of your hips, pulling you down forcefully, your clit catching on the bump of his pelvis each time, and you come with a broken moan, slumping against him. It triggers his own release, and he thrusts up into you, once, then twice, before tensing up beneath you, coming with a low growl as he sags into the couch.

For a moment there’s nothing but the sound of your harsh breathing, and you sigh into his neck as the sweat cools on your skin.

“We should probably clean up,” he mumbles, eyes still closed and you nod, slowly sliding off of his dick, moaning a little when your cunt gives a feeble little flutter. He just groans unashamedly, staying right there slumped on your couch, arm thrown over his eyes, until you throw his pants at him.

“Get dressed,” you tell him, slipping into your bathroom to clean up. Your skin is coated with a thin layer of sweat and he made a total mess of your hair, but you pay no attention to it, giving yourself a perfunctory rub down with a washcloth before slipping back into your clothes.

When you return, he’s almost ready, fidgeting with his tie. He didn’t bother to do anything with his hair, but it’s not like anyone would be able to tell the difference.

You take a deep breath. “So.”

“So.”

“Think we got it out of our systems?’

He shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know. Only time will tell I guess.”

“Right.”

You stand there awkwardly for a moment, neither of you willing to meet the other’s eye until Minho blurts out, “I feel like I’m supposed to shake your hand or something. You know, properly close the deal.”

It gets a giggle out of you. “Didn’t realise we were making a business deal here.”

“Well, you never know,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets with the barest glimmer of a smile. “The handshake makes sure you know that it’s one and done.”

“Oh, of course it does.”

Another bout of silence falls over the two of you during which you just stand there, smiling at each other like a pair of loons until Minho clears his throat.

“I should, uh, probably get going,” he says, raking a hand through his curls as he squeezes past you to get to the door, and you nod.

“Right.”

“Right.”

He turns around just before he leaves, mouth open to say something else, but he ends up just shaking his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “See you around, Y/n.”

now

M A Y

You should have left already. Instead you are lying on the couch, spooning with one Lee Minho as some mindless cop drama plays out on TV. It’s becoming a habit.

“Can you do that with your gun?” he asks, voice dripping onto your skin like honey. One of his hands has found its way under the sweatshirt you stole from him, resting heavily on your stomach.

You barely even glance at the screen. “I can barely even keep a good grip on my gun,” you confess. “It’s always falling all over the place.”

He hums in response before you lapse back into comfortable silence for the rest of the show. You are more than content to lay there, feeling his warmth all around you, his breath stirring your hair, his heart beating against your back.

It’s nice.

Eventually you do have to leave, glancing at the clock on the wall before saying, “I should probably go. It’s getting late.”

Minho makes a soft, plaintive sound in the back of his throat and pulls you closer. “Or you could stay. Ryujin’s flight doesn’t get in for another three hours. You have some time to kill.” His hand skims across your stomach, light, and you actually find yourself considering it.

With a shake of your head you sigh, “No, I really need to get going. I still need to pick up dinner before you get here. And make it look like I was actually living in the apartment these past few weeks.”

He chuckles at that, nosing the nape of your neck. “Point,” he says, even as he tightens his hold on you, reluctant to see you go. “Or we could take a nap, order pizza and forget about cleaning in the first place. You know, like what we’ve been doing everyday for the past week and a half.”

You snort, batting his hands away and finally sitting up. “Right. And then what will I tell Ryujin when she asks why the apartment’s been abandoned for a month?”

He’s silent, causing you to glance at him while you stretch out your arms. Minho is never one to shy away from telling you what he really thinks, and his sudden apprehension has you tilting your head quizzically. Eventually he looks back up at you for a brief second, and then sets his jaw, fingers trailing across your skin distractedly.

“You could always tell her the truth,” he hedges, hand tightening on your waist and you freeze mid stretch.

“Why?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him.

Minho shrugs, still overly casual and unable to meet your gaze. “I mean, we’ve been sneaking around for a while now. Aren’t you tired of it?”

“No,” you say, slowly, “Because we both said that this was a one time thing, and when it wasn’t, we both agreed not to mention it to anyone. For both our sakes.”

“Well, things have changed now, haven’t they?” he says, crossing his arms over his chest, “We’ve been doing this for nine months, Y/n.”

“We’ve been doing this on and off for nine months, Minho.”

He ignores you, pressing on, “You can’t tell me everything's the same, especially not after December,” and when he finally looks up at you, your stomach drops.

Ever so slowly, you stand up, stepping away from the couch and out of his reach. The TV is nothing more than white noise in the background.

“Actually, I can,” you say, voice brittle, and he freezes.

You never used to hook up at home, you never used to stay over, you never used to share inside jokes and smiles, tweeting and subtweeting each other, posting selfies together for the world to see.

“Because this has been kept separate from the rest of our lives in a neat little box.”

He sneaks kisses from you sometimes when he comes over to spend the evening with you and Ryujin, holding your hand under the table. You get asked questions about each other at cons, and you distinctly remember that one time he told a fan that you were ‘only a fucking amazing and a phenomenal actress who he’s glad to know.’ You have a drawer of your clothes in his wardrobe, but you still choose to steal his.

“Nothing has changed, Minho, not for me. Not between now and last fucking August.”

You think about the shampoo bottle he keeps in his shower for you, the herbal tea he stocks in his cupboards. You think about how you have memorised his favourite songs, can rattle off his favourite passages from any book to the way he won’t eat ice cream unless it’s in a cup with the cone crumbled into it.

Minho sits on the couch, unmoving except for the clench of his jaw that has the muscle popping. “So I guess that’s that then?” he asks quietly, looking up at you, face blank.

You nod once, your chest feeling too tight. “Yes,” you reply, just as quiet and weak as before, and then turn on your heel to leave. He doesn’t say another word, not even when you shove your feet in your shoes and walk out, the door closing behind you with a soft snick.

You fumble with the key to your own apartment, the too long sleeves getting in the way and you end up swiping furiously at the frustrated tears that have inexplicably gathered in your eyes. Once inside, you brace yourself on the counter, taking deep breaths as your vision blurs for one startling moment, trying to ease the pain in your chest.

Your eyes are still too bright when you pull away, but you steady yourself, pulling off his sweatshirt and throwing it in the dark recess of your closet before starting to clean, trying to get your mind off of things.

It works, somewhat, but later, once Ryujin is home and safely bundled in bed, you sit with your phone in your lap. Minho is the second person in your inbox, right under Ryujin’s flight confirmation, sending you a stupid pick up line a few hours ago. You open up the chat and slowly types out your message with shaking fingers.

Y/n: i think we should stop seeing each other

His response comes seconds later.

Minho: fine.

The words from before have left a bitter taste in your mouth that, no matter how hard you try, you can’t get rid of it. It’s the taste of a lie and heartbreak all rolled up in one, and this time you can’t rid of the tears with just a few swipes.

before: 5 months ago

D E C E M B E R

“What,” you say flatly, still staring at Ryujin, with your arms crossed.

The other girl just smiles at you. “You heard me.”

“What I heard was that you want me to take your place at the award show next week because your dislocated disc is giving you trouble. The very same award show that you were attending with Minho,” you say, still terribly unimpressed, “Surely I heard wrong.”

“No, you heard correct. And I already cleared it with Liv. She thinks it’s a good idea, especially since the show is doing so well.”

“You talked to Liv ?” you sputter, “Why the fuck would you do that?”

Ryujin shrugs, looking entirely too innocent from where she’s laid spread out across your couch. “Because I know that you wouldn’t do it if I didn’t bring in the big guns. I’m covering all my bases.”

“Goddammit Ryujin.” You scrubbed a weary hand across your face.

“So is that a yes?” she asked, phone already in hand, “Because I can’t wait to let the internet know about this. Your shipper fans are going to lose their minds.”

You can just imagine, and you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. Liv’s solution of ‘letting things blow over’ had backfired stupendously and you are certain that at this point everyone and their mother wanted to see you date Lee Minho.

“I fucking hate you.”

“I’m taking that as a yes.”

* * *

That’s how you find yourself a week later, being ambushed by a team of make up artists as they help get you ready for the night while Ryujin sits off to the side with an oversized bag of crisps, flat out cackling at you.

“I really fucking hate you,” you grit out, trying to at eye her while one of the make up hands fix your eyebrows.

Ryujin just laughs again, wincing a bit as she shifts herself on the chair. On one hand, you know that her back has been giving her trouble these past few days, especially because of the cold weather and shooting, but on the other, you really hate her for making you do this.

“You should see your timeline right now,” she snorts, “Everyone is so frenzied.”

“I’m going to beat you to death with a curling iron.”

She just blows a kiss at you, continuing to chortle while you scroll through your phone. “The general consensus is that you’re either going to tell the world you’re finally dating, or let everyone know that you’re pregnant and Minho’s the baby daddy.”

“The only thing keeping me sane right now is picturing stabbing you multiple times with a mascara wand,” you hiss, yelping when someone pulls on your hair a bit too roughly.

“Look on the bright side,” says Ryujin , “At least you too get along now. Somewhat. And I can promise that Minho is an absolute joy to be around during these things. He’s almost better than a hip flask.”

You’re glad that Ryujin’s not paying attention to you, for she would have caught how you can’t maintain an eye contact at the mention of Minho and your relationship.

Turns out that sleeping with Minho couldn’t be a one time thing.

Who knew?

It’s not a regular thing, but you still do it often enough that you’re no longer snapping each other’s heads off, but instead engaging in playful banter.

It’s nice. Somewhat.

You would just like everyone to know that it only started up because he’s just really, really good with his hands.

And mouth.

And…everything else.

You are jerked out of your reverie by a knock on the door, and Ryujin practically flounces over to open it, a massive shiteating grin spread across her face as she does so.

“Minho!” you hear her say, bright and happy, “Come in. She's still not ready yet; give her a couple more minutes.”

“You’re awfully perky for someone who claimed to be in debilitating pain,” he says, sounding suspicious.

“It’s the painkillers. Come sit!”

You catch a glimpse of him as he passes in front of your door and well. Your jaw doesn’t quite drop, but it certainly comes close to doing that, and your cheeks just heat even further.

Minho looks really good in a suit.

Like insanely good.

Ryujin darts back into the room, and, after taking one look at you, she bursts out laughing again, even as she throws herself on the bed. She’s having far too much fun with this, and you kind of want to throw something at him.

“You so want to hit that,” Ryujin whispers, smug.

I am already hitting that, you almost say, the words on the tip of your tongue, but you easily swallow it down, schooling your face into a scowl.

“If you mean take a frying pan to his face then yes,” you nod, and then wince again as a hair pin digs into your scalp.

“All done,” says the girl, before spritzing perfume on you. You almost choke on a cherry blossom scented cloud, and when it passes, Ryujin is standing by the door, grinning like the cat that caught the canary. You may or may not have deliberately stepped on her good foot.

“Come on Cinderella,” she says, linking your arm through yours once you stand up, “Let’s get you to the ball.”

“I hope a spider crawls in your mouth when you’re sleeping tonight.”

You do manage to school your face in a pretty neutral expression when you enter the living room, and it seems as though Minho was preparing himself beforehand, as he barely reacts to your appearance, only giving you a cursory look up and down. The only tell is the bob of his adam’s apple when he swallows, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from looking too smug.

“Do I meet your standards?” you can’t help tease him, and his eyes snap up to yours, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“I guess you’ll do,” he sighs dramatically, and offers you his arm.

“Have her home no later than eleven, Minho!” Ryujin calls out as you are both walking out the door.

He flips you off behind his back. “Fuck off, Ryujin,” he bites out, succinct.

Her laughter follows you all the way down the hallway and you grumble, “She’s a goddamn menace,” while hiking up your dress to walk down the stairs.

“That she is,” he nods before looking sidelong at you. “You look nice.”

Your heart picks up pace on its own accord. “Thanks. So do you.”

“Thanks,” he says, and you can’t mistake the the humour in his voice. You elbow him in the rib and he laughs. “What? What did I say?”

“You’re a dick,” you huff, still trying to calm your traitorous heart, and that just makes him laugh louder.

“The car should be here in a moment,” he tells you as you come to a stop in the empty lobby. You just hum in response, glancing around aimlessly until he says, “Hey, Y/n?”

Before you can turn to look at him, he’s cupping your jaw, pushing you up against the wall and kissing you sweetly. You make a sound of surprise in the back of your throat, but then you’re kissing him back, just as slow, one hand tangling in the hair at the base of his neck, while the other fingers his tie, and he breathes a soft sigh of relief, pulling you flush against him.

When you pull apart, he rubs his nose against your cheek gently, mumbling, “You look really nice,” and swipes a quick peck to your cheek before pulling away, slipping his hands in his pockets and rocking on his heels.

You are fairly certain the whole neighborhood can hear your heart stammering at this point, but you still reach out for his arm, looping yours through it as you say, “You look really nice too, Minho.”

The boyish grin he gives you makes your heart stutter in your chest, and then he glances at his phone. “Come on; car’s here.”

He helps you into the backseat before slipping in himself, and then lets his arm rest on the small area of your back the entire drive there. You take advantage of it, leaning into his warmth, and you feel him trace mindless patterns on your waist in response.

“You have some lipstick,” you say, noticing the smudge of it on his mouth. He swipes at it with his hand, but misses the spot completely and you reaches up, thumb rubbing the corner of his mouth. “I got it,” you mutter, getting it out completely, and he presses a kiss to your temple in turn.

“Thanks love,” he says, looking at you impossibly soft and you feel warm all over, very different from the first time he called you "love".

You don’t have time to dwell on it though, because soon enough you are pulling up to the venue where the event is being hosted and you are being blinded by the flash of cameras.

The whole walk down the red carpet is a blur in your mind, filled with cameras and questions and the warmth of his arm hooked around yours as he leads you through. You stop only once or twice for pictures, and you paste on a wide grin for those, posing next to him until his arm hooks through yours again, pulling you inside.

The awards themselves are boring, intended mostly for crew members, but Minho keeps you from nodding off with his hand on your thigh the entire time, tracing maddening patterns that you feel even through your layers of skirts.

“Stop that,” you hiss while Chan continues to drone on onstage. You catch his wrist and he flips his hand over, linking your fingers together.

“If we sneak out no one is going to notice,” he mumbles under his breath, “This thing is boring at fuck, and I haven’t had you in over two weeks.”

Despite the flash of heat his words send through you, you say, “And who’s fault is that?”

“Hey, what am I supposed to do? Tell them not to shoot offset because then I wouldn’t get to fuck you?”

“Don’t be crass.”

“It’s true,” he mutters, glaring up at the stage. “Chan doesn’t know when to shut up. I could make it worth your while instead.”

“You know, Ryujin told me that you made these things fun and I needn’t bring a flask, but I’m starting to think that I should have smuggled it in anyway.”

Even in the dim light you can see the shine of his teeth as he grins. “Hey, I’m offering to make things fun and you’re turning me down.”

You turn to run a critical eye over him and he stares back, unflinchingly, his irises more black than brown, and positively irradiating lust. “Hmm. Fine, maybe later. Now behave,” you hiss.

The grin just widens and he leans in close, letting you feel the warmth of his thigh as it presses against yours. “Oh baby,” he sighs, untangling your hands, so that he can go back to teasing you. You manage to repress a shudder when his fingers press against the dip between your thighs through your dress. “You don’t want that.”

Miraculously, you manage to get through the entire programme without drawing too much attention to yourselves, though you do go through quite a few glasses of champagne, especially when you show him that two can play at that game, palming him through his slacks in a way that almost made him choke the first time.

You get out of there as soon as it’s done, escaping fairly unnoticed through the throngs of people, and he goes down on you, quick and messy, in a cramped utility closet, far enough from the hall that you can be as loud as you want. After you repay the favour, giving him a lazy handjob before switching to your mouth when you realise that you have nothing to clean up with.

Neither of you remember to stagger your entrances back into the hall, and slip in with your fingers still tangled together, your dress obviously crumpled and a telltale redness blooming on the apples of Minho's cheeks. To anyone paying attention, it would be clear as day what you were up to, but you are lucky enough that you only garner one or two looks in passing. Minho stays glued to your side, hand heavy on your hip the rest of the night, and when it’s time to leave, he slings it around your waist, keeping you close.

You make out for a while, trading soft sloppy kisses in the back of the car all the way home. He tastes a little bit like champagne, all bubbly and sweet, and you melt into him, carding your fingers through his unruly hair.

“Had fun?” he mumbles against your cheek, exhaling heavily when you bite his jaw. He gropes you in retaliation, and you squeak.

You pull back far enough so he can see your truly outrageous smile. “I guess you made it worth my while after all,” you muse, and he chuckles, pulling your mouth back to his.

He walks you up, arm slung around your shoulders, holding your heels in the other, and you bury your nose in his bicep breathing him in. When you reach your door, Minho lets his arm fall, reluctantly, and presses a kiss to the crown of your head. It’s chaste and sweet, and starkly different from any other kisses that you have shared these past few months during your on and off hook ups, and even though you’re somewhat drunk, it still feels like a turning point.

“See you later, Y/n,” he says, with a slight wave of his hand and by the time you gather your bearings to tell him the same, he’s already clicking his door shut.

Ryujin is still up when you walk in, face illuminated by the blue light of her phone screen, and she grins like a shark that’s caught blood.

“Don’t,” you say, slumping against the door. You try to tamp down on the giddiness to avoid suspicion, but Minho left you feeling like you are floating on air.

Her grin just widens and she turns the phone towards you. “There is going to be so much fanfiction written about you two tonight,” she snickers, “You two have been trending on Twitter for almost an hour now,” and you just flip her off, heading to your room.

You throw yourself on the bed with a contented sigh, grinning into your pillow.

later

J U N E

Despite being back in the spotlight for well over a year, you still don’t do very well with interviews.

Most of those in the beginning were what you expected: what happened between you and your ex boyfriend, where did you go for six months, and are you sure you are not in any relationship right now?

Then Minho started getting incorporated into your interviews as well.

If you had a nickle for how many times you have been asked if you were dating, you’d have enough money to buy a small island where you might be able to escape him once and for all. If you wanted to, that is.

It took you a while, but eventually you managed to accept interviews, no longer panicking at the sight of one, but for some reason today you’re on edge, trying not to fidget as you sit on the lime green sofa opposite an annoyingly peppy interviewer.

When she deviates from the script however, you realise that you have had good reason to have been tense all morning.

“So what’s happening with you and Lee Minho? It’s been quite a while since we have seen any interactions between you two.”

It’s been four weeks and three days to be exact, the numbers jumping to the forefront of your mind almost immediately.

Next to you, Ryujin stiffens, all but baring her teeth at the interviewer in a snarl, vastly different from the times when she used to kill herself laughing.

You don’t know exactly what happened between you and him, but you figured out enough when Minho stopped coming around as much, and you started making excuses to avoid seeing him.

You take a shaky breath and flash the peppy woman a tight smile, the closest to a ‘fuck you’ you can give and says, “We’re just friends, that’s all. And we’ve been busy these past few weeks. Not as busy as Ryujin though. She just did this amazing movie…”

Thankfully no one questions your completely unsubtle segue and Ryujin is more than happy to take the pressure off of you.

What’s happening between you and Minho? Well, you still have his sweatshirt crumpled into a ball and hidden in your closet. You have exchanged maybe five words a piece at most, and he still has a drawer filled with your things over at his place. You ran into each other on the last day of filming, your cars parked next to each other, and it reminds you of that first day when you almost had a yelling match right there in the parking lot. Instead, he just nods and gives you a wide enough berth so you wouldn’t even brush against each other as he gets in his car.

You miss him, something which shocked you to the very core when you realised it a few weeks back, and you have never wanted to kick yourself as much as you did then for throwing everything away.

What’s happening between you and Minho?

Who knows; you fucked it up.

later

J U L Y

This year, Seasonal Con is more eventful for two reasons.

The first being that your show has an actual fandom now – a real, honest to god following, larger than you would have thought possible, who are so involved with the show that it’s both amazing and a tad bit scary. Not to mention those who want your character and Ryujin’s to get together.

“We have shippers,” Ryujin had informed you gleefully one night, and you distinctly remember groaning out loud before cursing to high heaven because you have had enough shipper madness to last a lifetime. Possibly even two lifetimes.

The second reason is a bit of a harder pill to swallow.

You got invited to the fan favourite panel on the last day.

And so did Minho.

Who the event supervisors thought would be nice to put next to you for an hour in front of hundreds.

If you get out of this weekend alive, you are going to thank every god and deity you can think of.

Ryujin is understandably worried once you get the news, immediately coming up with a variety of ways to get out of it. “You could fake sick, or pretend to lose your voice,” she rattles off, “Or maybe you fell down in the shower the night before and broke your hip-”

“It’s fine,” you interject, squaring your shoulders. You try to smile at her but you are pretty sure it falls flat. “What’s the worse that can happen?”

She doesn't seem impressed by that answer because she replies, “You and Minho air your dirty laundry for the entire world to see.”

“That’s not going to happen,” you say resolutely.

“At this point I don’t put anything past you two,” she mutters, and you nudge her with your toes.

* * *

The day of the actual panel, you take Liv’s advice and try to meditate in the morning in hopes of calming yourself. It helps a bit; you are not quite as jumpy as you could be, but you are still definitely on edge, clutching your purse like a lifeline as you navigate the halls on your own.

The waiting room is mostly empty, with just a few people here, but that’s not what you pay attention to, eyes immediately landing on Minho, hunched over his phone in the corner.

Your heart squeezes in your chest.

You really, really miss him, didn’t realise just how much of an impact his presence alone has on you.

Before you know it, your feet are taking you to him, and you carefully sit next to him on the loveseat, wiping your palms on your skirt several times.

He doesn’t notice you until you clear your throat, to which he stiffens, very slowly looking up, eyes guarded.

“Hi,” you say, quiet, tucking an errant curl behind your ear.

“Y/n,” he nods, impassive as ever and you feel your throat clog up.

You worry your bottom lip for a moment and see his hand twitch, as though he was about to pull it free. “I, um – can we talk?”

Minho just stares at you for a good minute or so, to the point where you’re struggling not to fidget. Finally he just scrubs a hand down his face and hisses, “Now? You want to talk?”

“I-”

“It’s been an entire month, Y/n,” he says bitterly, shifting away from you, “What could you possibly have to say after an entire month, that we won't work out anything that was between us?”

Your eyes burn and you stare at your hands clenched tightly in your lap. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice catching on the end of it. You can feel him staring at the side of your head, and you press on. “I’m sorry I was so abrupt with everything, and I… I miss you, Minho.”

When you finally muster up the courage to look back at him, his eyes are squeezed shut, pained.

“Don’t,” he manages to croak out and you jerk back as though you have been hit.

“Min-”

“We’re gonna talk about this later,” he tells you after taking a deep breath, “You don’t get to do this right before we do a panel together.”

You nod meekly. “Okay.”

The next hour is the longest hour of your life. You slip on your public persona mask easily enough, smiling and laughing, and answering your questions as coyly as possible, but on the inside you are a mess. A shaking, confused mess.

After the panel is over and all requisite photos have been taken, Minho grabs hold of your wrist and pulls you along behind him. You follow without a word, barely sparing a thought for the shutters you hear going off as you weave through the crowd. That’s a bridge you will cross when you get there. Or you might just avoid it all together. What’s one more thing to the whole ‘Y/n and Minho’ story, right?

Only when you end up outside at the pick up area do you ask, “Where are we going?”

Minho doesn’t even glance over at you. “My hotel I'm staying at. It’s only five minutes away, and a lot more private than a spare room at a convention centre.”

You stare down at your feet, “Okay,” you say, and then follow him in the cab that pulls up.

The short ride to the hotel is tense, and you find yourself biting on the inside of your cheek to keep from speaking after firing off a quick text to Ryujin. Minho still doesn’t look your way, choosing to glare at the window instead, jaw clenched tight, even when you are dropped off, he just jerks his head in the general direction with a gruff, “Follow me.”

Once the door to his room has clicked shut, he turns to look at you, face impassive and arms crossed. “You wanted to talk? Then talk.”

You take a deep breath.

“I’m sorry about before,” you start, “I – you’re one of my best friends here, Minho, one of my only friends here besides Ryujin, and I was so fucking scared when you – I don’t have the best track record when it comes to relationships, and you – you’re too important to me to lose, so I’m sorry, and it was my fault we got in this whole mess in the first place, and if you forgive me, can we still be friends at least? I miss you.”

You say all of it in one go, and by the time you are through, you're heaving. Still, when he opens his mouth to speak, you hold a palm up and continue, voice wavering, “I just- I really fucking miss you and I’m so, so sorry.”

The words just hang there for a moment while you lean against the wall.

“You through?” he asks with a quirk of an eyebrow. When you nod, he says, “You’re a pain in the ass–”

“Charming.”

“–who’ll argue with me about every fucking thing under the sun no matter what-”

“Oh stop it, I’m swooning, Minho.”

“You gonna be a little shit the whole time, or can I say my piece?” he asks mildly, and you feel stupid. When he’s certain you are no longer going to interrupt, he throws himself back on the bed with a groan, throwing an arm over his face. After a few seconds of silence, he confesses, “Ryujin called me out in like two weeks,” voice slightly muffled by his bicep, “Apparently my crush on you was painfully obvious.”

What?

You must have said it outloud because then he’s craning his neck slightly to glance at you, and you just feel like a dense idiot even more, picking your jaw up off the ground. “But you,” you sputter, “You were such a dick!”

He’s groaning again, hiding his face, but if you look closely you can see the tips of his ears tinged red. “I was into you. Am. And terribly so.”

“You never said anything.”

“I didn’t want to fuck it up. Which, I realise is what I might have done the moment we agreed to continue having sex with each other, but I was just…so eager to have you in any way I could, even if it meant pretending that I wasn’t pinning away.”

“But…why?”

“Why what?”

You bite her lip, scuffing the toe of your sandal against the carpet. “Why me?”

Minho just gives you a little shrug, smiling helplessly. “Because you are you,” he says, easy as nothing, and those four little words make all the air in your lungs leave with a whoosh, causing you to stumble back against the wall in order to stay upright. “You had me on my ass within seconds with your no bullshit type attitude and I just…I don't know. You threw me for a loop.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” he says, messing with his hair. “You – God, Y/n, didn’t you realise? You had me. Every single thing you did just bewitched me, I couldn’t look away, and then I started to get to know you, all of you; the bossy little you who likes to order me around and sleep until noon, and prefers green tea to black, and I…I fell in love with you,” he breathes, tearing his eyes away from yours to stare up at the ceiling, “I don’t know how, or when, but I just- I’m in love with you.”

If his previous statement made the air leave you, then this one makes you feel lightheaded and faint hearted all at the same time. The word ‘love’ echoes throughout your head and you feel a bubble of happiness growing in your chest, and you slip down the wall a little as you try to make sense of the rest of his words.

He chuckles nervously when a few moments pass and you haven’t said anything as yet. “Please tell me if I just fucked up this whole new ‘friendship’ thing so I can take it back. Five second rule applies here, right?”

It startles a faint laugh out of you. “It’s been more than five seconds.”

“Five minute rule then?” And you laugh again, this time louder, and then you are crossing the room to meet him, clumsily climbing on top of him and bracing your hands on his chest.

“You goddamn idiot,” you huff as he grabs your hips, steadying you, “I’m in love with you too.”

The smile that unfurls across his face could crack it in two, absolutely blinding, and you shriek when he sits up suddenly, one hand moving up to cup the back of your neck while the other pulls you into his chest, lips ghosting across yours.

Then he’s kissing you soundly, lips chapped and eager, and it’s messy, the two of you grinning far too widely to make anything work.

“Oh, thank god,” he rasps into your skin, forehead pressed against yours, and then he’s kissing you again, slower this time, and deep, and you just hug him tighter, licking the joy from his tongue, or maybe having yours intermingle with his because you are just so fucking happy, you feel like you are going to float away.

“Hey,” he mumbles against your lips, caressing your cheekbones when you make a move to get you and him to lie horizontal, “Slow down. I’m not going anywhere.”

You squeeze his forearm. “I know, I just,” you drop your head in the crook of his neck, and he pets you, letting his fingers tangle in your hair. “I just missed you a lot, that’s all.”

His responding smile is achingly soft, and a little shy, and he slowly presses you into the bed, kissing you sweet once more.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs again, and your heart is bursting at the seams at this point.

“Good,” you sigh happily, trailing a hand down his back, feeling the movement of his muscles as they tense and flex beneath his shirt. You hold his face between two palms and look him dead in the eye when you say, “I’m not going anywhere either.”

Minho grins, soft, and when he leans back down to kiss you, you can feel the love bursting from every cell in your body, flooding you with warmth and sunshine from the inside out, making your toes curl.

You are in love with him, and he with you, and nothing on this earth could ever top that.

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