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Summary: Fei Kai moved to South Korea to get a fresh start. The fresh start included a man with curly hair and glasses.

Story warnings: Single mother! Kai x Ex military! Changbin. Strangers to lovers. Enemies to lovers. 3rd person. Disabled! Changbin. Kai flirts with people as always. Suggestive in many chapters. Themes of PTSD.

CW: Fleeting mentions of Night Terrors, Blood, Graphic depictions of bodily harm and death, How Chanbin lost his leg, Both Kai and Changbin being emotionally immature, both Kai and Changbin need to touch grass, one suggestive scene(Kai is naked, Changbin needs to stop being curious), angsty

2.6k word count

Taglist: @mynameisnotlaura, @palindrome969

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Chapter 5: Bloody Makeups

Fei Kai never hated anyone. She didn’t even hate her parents, or Han for being a mild douchebag at times. The most anger she felt in her life was distaste, she always wanted to be the clear, level-headed person. 

She didn’t know why she never felt the emotion. She could have sworn she felt angry when she was young, but that went away quickly. It felt as though something was missing from her, but no one ever thought it was bad. Her parents waved her off, her school age friends laughed at her when she brought them her worries. So, she decided that she was a person that didn’t need emotions for anger. From the age of twelve, she thought that it was normal for friends to have that one calm personality, and she was it. It was just a normal part of her life, that she didn’t even bring it up to her friends. 

So maybe when she became a mother, did she suspect something was wrong. Her daughter felt so much emotion, so much anger that it scared Kai at time. She wouldn’t change her daughter for anything, though. Not even for her anger. 

So why did she feel an unknown emotion bubble up within her in five months of hosting Seo Changbin? She felt odd, he just made her so warm in the wrong ways. His stupid smirk, stupid hair, stupid eyes. She wouldn’t let him get to her, though. She was mature enough to not let emotion rule her train of thought. 

Kai turned several times on the small pull-out couch, her mind not resting from the day. For the past five nights, Kai would get woken up in the middle of the night with yelling coming from the master bedroom, before quieting down. The first night, Kai would try and enter but the motherfucker locked the door every night. That's fine with her, he made it very clear that he didn’t want her help. 

Kai sighed, her skin making everything sticky with sweat. She sighed one more time, before sitting up. She wasn’t going to get any sleep, so she might as well start working early on work. She opened her laptop and typed away, going to the wee hours of the morning. 

Footsteps roused her from her fixation when she heard the new familiar clang of soft feet and plastic hitting her floor. Changbin had recently gotten a prosthetic leg, only a few weeks back, and Kai didn’t like how she got excited at the prospect of him walking. She was trying to not let the man rule her thoughts, but she couldn’t help it. Throughout her days, she could only think of him. Did he sleep enough? Did he eat? She blamed it on her mom brain, treating even the people closest to her like her children sometimes. 

“What are you doing up?” Kai asked, eyes focusing on the blurry figure of the man before her vision cleared. 

One thing that Kai didn’t like was how hot the man was waking up. Hair curly, glasses for the early morning, voice laden with sleep. She wanted to focus on her family, not the man who was basically sex on legs. She needed to focus, and not on her attraction to Changbin. It’ll pass (No it wouldn’t). 

He chuffed, rolling his eyes before sitting on the far end of the couch, away from her. Kai’s stomach churned at the blatant closeness, but she ignored it to finish working. The couch was basically a love seat, and Kai could feel him take a breath next to her, the warm air making goose bumps pop up all over her body. 

Changbin watched her work. Despite his ploy to hate her, he couldn’t deny that she was getting more beautiful as the days passed. Now that it was summer, her skin grew even more of a tan, highlighting how flawless it was. There wasn’t a wrinkle in sight, showing how young the woman was.  

She had recently cut her long hair short and dyed it a light brown. She currently had it up in a ponytail, highlighting the expanse of her neck. He didn’t know if he wanted to bite it or throttle it. Stop being horny, Changbin thought to himself. He blamed it on not being around women for a while. Yeah, that was it. 

“I could say the same thing to you,” Changbin shot back, voice dripping with venom. Kai rolled her eyes once more, reaching to put her headphones on. Today was the first day on Duri’s summer camp, so five more weeks of dealing with the monster called Seo Changbin alone felt like it was going to take forever. She couldn’t believe she was actually looking forward to being left alone with a man. Gross. 

She put on her headphones, blasting a rap song to try and tune him out, bobbing her head along to the beat. 

---

When a few hours passed, and Kai finally sent the paperwork to the insurance company, she shut her laptop and stretched, a yawn falling from her lips. She set her headphones down and looked around at the oddly quiet apartment. Her eyebrows shot up in suspicion, padding through the apartment to try and look for the man. When she couldn’t find him, she let out a sigh of relief. 

She entered the bathroom, not bothering to close the door fully while she stripped to cool her body off. She entered her shower, turning the knob as cool as it went and sighed at the good temperature. 

She hummed, not hearing the footsteps stepping towards the bathroom. 

Changbin was listening to some tunes, blasting through his own headphones. He had just gotten back from the gym, all sweaty and overwhelmed with the heat. He grew confused at the door ajar, and when he opened the door, his face grew hot, and his eyes widened.  

It was the worst time to realize the door to the shower was glass. 

The two made eye contact, Kai letting out a shriek and Changbin stepping out, adverting his eyes and he slammed the door shut. Kai immediately shut the shower off, wrapping herself in a towel, as she felt the stupid churning of her stomach again. She was mortified. 

It had been days since the incident, and they had yet to speak a word to each other. Every time they were in the same room, Kai would immediately leave with a heavy blush on her face with embarrassment. She was quieter at work too, not going unnoticed by her coworkers. 

Changbin felt guilty. This wasn’t the reaction he wanted from her, and he felt as if he ruined his chances to get a rise out of her. But Changbin being Changbin, he wasn’t about to give up.  

“Seungmin?” Changbin asked, gaining a hum from the younger male. They were hanging out on their own, the rest of the group either at work or on a grocery run. “What is the best way to piss someone off?” 

“Are you still on the Kai drama? Dude, it’s been months, just drop it.” Seungmin groaned, laying on his back. “You need a hobby, or a girlfriend. Or both.” 

“No, like listen to me. She has never gotten angry at all. All she does is stare at me, ignore me, or apologize. It’s not about me disliking her now, I’m genuinely curious if she never gets angry.” 

“Oh my god, if I help you, will you shut up about it?” Changbin nods at his words. “Okay, first you want to...” 

---

Kai yawned as she entered her apartment, rubbing her tired eyes and turning on the light. The apartment was quiet, which was a nice change from the yelling of her friends. What she didn’t expect, however, was the body on her floor with red liquid pooling around it. 

Kai leaned against the counter, watching as his chest rose steadily even when he tried to hide it. Kai rolled her eyes, a smirk playing on her lips. “I know you’re playing, get off the damn floor and clean up the mess.”  

Changbin’s head snapped up, a pout evident. “How did you know it was a prank?” 

“One, you’re breathing. A person who lost that much blood wouldn't be breathing or not as tan as you are right now. Two, blood is not bright red. It’s darker than that.” She walked over, scooping the liquid with her ring and middle fingers. “Clean it up, it’s your mess. You’re a big boy.” 

Changbin groaned, looking at the playful twinkle in her eye, thinking the ruffling in his stomach was just discomfort from being around her for so long. She was smart, he’ll give her that. Maybe he had to up the stakes a bit. Although, he didn’t mind the decent conversations they had. 

He had done everything he could in three days to piss her off. From throwing her clean laundry in the mud, to making her late to work, to even trying to get her fired, he was at a loss. That was until he thought of something. 

He tucked his protheses under his bed after he was sure Kai had gone to bed. He willed himself to sleep, but he left the door open for an experiment. 

He was in the middle of the desert. Him and his buddy Ha-Joon were on a mission to transfer high grade military explosives. Changbin thought it would be a good idea to joke around with the missiles, before accidentally stepping on a land mine. They were both warned of the mines that had yet to be picked up from the area, and Ha-Joon was very diligent in this. 

The two went flying, Ha-Joon had landed on the pack of explosives, blowing himself up and the bottom of Changbin’s leg. 

Usually, he would be waking up at this time, but he willed himself to stay asleep. 

He was in the desert for ten minutes, bleeding out and looking at the mangled body of the man that had become his best friend. 

There were hands trying to wake him, gripping his hands as he sunk his nails into soft, warm flesh. He knew it wasn’t his own, due to the lack of pain. He felt blood trickle down his arms, but the hands hadn’t moved. 

“Changbin,” A voice called to him. “You’re safe. You’re not there.” Her voice was like a siren. 

Soon, his eyes snapped open, and the worried look of Kai peered down at him. 

Changbin sneered, pushing her away from him. “What are you doing here?” 

Kai stared at him incredulously, blood trickling down and dripping on the light wood. The gall of this man. 

Kai took a deep breath, lips flitting through her teeth as she bit her bottom lip. “You were screaming, I was worried.” 

“Yeah, well save your feelings for someone who cares. It’s not like I actually want you to help me, I’d rather get help from a trash can. Well, close enough I guess.” 

Kai didn’t know why she stayed; she would usually leave after he spat his piece. Her eyes narrowed in mock scrutiny. “Why are you being like this? This is my home, and I’m letting you stay here. Why are you being an ass?” 

Changbin kept his shock in check. It was the first time she called him out on his bullshit in the five months they lived in the same vicinity to each other. He played up the snarl on his face. 

“Well maybe you deserve it. You’re like a robot, and I don’t like robots.” He crossed his arms. Kai could laugh from his audacity. 

And she did, she laughed at the shock of it all. “Are you joking? You must be joking, because I cannot believe anyone would go this far. You know, I’m done helping you. Scream and cry at me, I’m done being bullied.”  

She turned to leave, before stopping cold at his next words. He didn’t know why he said what he did next. 

“What kind of mother doesn’t want to stand up for herself?” It was more of a statement than a question. “Aren’t you supposed to be setting up an example for your daughter?” 

Kai slowly turned to look at the man, eyes wide as she felt an unfamiliar feeling boil up within her. Her face went red, and her eyes filled with tears. Not tears of sadness but was met with ones from an ugly emotion. 

“Don’t you dare bring my daughter into this. I thought you were just being a dick because you lost your leg. But now I see that you are just a plain asshole, Seo Changbin. You really are a piece of work.” She turned and stormed out of the room, slamming the door and making the apartment rattle. 

Changbin released the breath he was holding, but when he should've felt happiness from successfully making her mad, he only felt regret. He looked up at the ceiling, flinching when he heard drywall and glass break, hearing her anger-filled scream and then silence following. 

It was time to apologize. For everything.

---

Kai sat at the kitchen island, angry tears flying down her face as she stared at her bloody and shaking hands. Why did she have to feel this way? She knew there were other emotions behind what she now knew what anger was. Was it sadness? No, it felt deeper than that. 

She couldn’t stop the sobs that racked her body, hands flying to wipe away the tears before she winced at the sting of blood in her eyes. She shook out of it when she felt a hand grip on her wrist. She looked up, disappointment making her expression heavy. 

“Get off of me,” Kai mumbled, but not making a move to shake him off. 

He stayed silent, dropping the first aid onto the counter and taking out gauze. The two were hushed, Changbin focusing on wrapping her hands (after cleaning them) with the clean roll of gauze. 

“’m sorry. For everything.” He mumbled. 

“Why do you hate me? What have I done to be treated like shit?” She pleaded, tears filling her eyes once again. 

Changbin sighed, rubbing his temples. “At first, I thought I hated you for taking my place in the group. Then, I thought I hated you for being so perfect-” 

Kai snorted. “You think I’m perfect?” 

Changbin nudged her shoulder, a playful glint in his eye. “Focus.” She let out a giggle, before nodding. “I think I was just jealous of you? But then, I got curious. I had never saw you angry, so I made a game to myself to get you angry.” 

Kai chuckled and shook her head. “You’re special, you know that?” 

“Special good or special bad?” 

“I’ll let you know if we start over” 

“Deal,” Changbin shook her hand, and then let his eyes widen when she winced at the pain. “I’m so sorry.” 

Kai laughed softly, and Changbin realized he wanted to hear only that sound for the rest of his life. 

Chan sat with Felix and Hyunjin as they watched Changbin and Kai play pool the next day. It was late at night, and the younger was positively radiating excited energy. “They finally made up.” 

Felix hummed, looking at the two actually get along for the first time. “I give it a few weeks until they start fighting again.” 

“I don't know, lix.” Hyunjin hummed, watching the way they played around with each other. It was like they had been friends for years, not the short time they began to know each other. “They seem awfully close.” 

“I give it a few weeks,” Minho mentioned, head tilting. Hyunjin jumped from the sudden appearance of the older man. 

“Few weeks for what, Min?” Felix asked the veterinarian. 

“Until they finally realize their feelings for each other.” 

“They were at each other’s throats two days ago. I doubt they feel anything other than platonic feelings.” Chan muttered. 

But Lee Minho was always right about these things. 

They make me want to scream, and make them kiss like little barbies.

mine ; lee minho x reader

original ask: requested by tattywood. "Can you please do ❛ you're mine. you've always been mine. ❜ with Lee Know? I just know you’ll come up with something amazing! 🩶"

pairing: lee minho/reader content info: another pair of star-crossed lovers lol. reader is kissed by a different guy without her permission. possessive sex. unsafe sex. lots of biting and marking and grabbing. word count: 3700 words.

masterlist. part of the valentine’s day stories series. credit to prompts. requests are closed.

-

You finally escape.

When the date is over and your supposed boyfriend leaves, you run out the back door.  Your parents are distracted, waving goodbye to your boyfriend as he pulls away in his expensive car.  They chat between themselves on the front porch of the family estate. 

“Such a remarkable young man,” they say.  “So wholesome.  So intelligent.“

So rich, is what they really mean.  Because he is not wholesome; he is a bully and a bigot at the best of times.  He derides anyone he deems beneath him, which is just about everyone.  He is also not intelligent, as true depth of intellect is revealed in conduct.  Someone that cruel and ignorant is not intelligent.  You have engaged in more stimulating discourse with birds.

But he is wealthy.  Your parents picked him for you and have been forcing the relationship along, contriving dates without telling you he will be there, inviting him into your home, encouraging his empty and shallow affection.  You encourage nothing, sitting stiffly whenever he touches you: an arm slung around your waist, a hand on your lower back, a kiss on the cheek.

Maybe you were naïve to think it would not escalate before its time, that you could bear it cordially until his interest withered and died.  Foolish.  He is not here for you but your name.  He does not care how you feel.  He does not care if you want him.  He wants the money and connections and power, sharing a bed with your parents through you.

Today he cornered you when you were alone.  He backed you into the wall and kissed you.  An unwanted kiss is a disgustingly slimy thing, all tongue and teeth and the bad, unfamiliar taste of a vile man’s breath.

Your whole unlived life flashed in your mind’s eye.  Every second was irredeemably awful.

So you run.  Out the back door, to the garage, weaving around your father’s cars.  Your old bike is hooked on its rack and you lift it down with some grunting effort.  You are dressed for a date, wearing a pristine ivory dress your mother picked, white lace stockings, and delicate flats.  It is not the ideal outfit for riding a bike.  It is a pretty but flimsy thing.  Summer nights are warm but there is a crisp breath on the wind as the sun sets. 

But if you stop for even a second, even just to change clothes, even just to catch your breath, then you will never get away. 

You swing onto your bike and escape via the back lane.  It is a long ride across town but your adrenaline propels you onward.

It is very obvious when you have crossed into new territory.  Across the park trail and over the railroad tracks is a different world.  The houses get smaller, more ramshackle, junk piled around the fully abandoned abodes.  Even the lived-in homes have old trucks and rusted goods stacked on their lawns.  It is a consequence of impoverished anxiety, hoarding in fear of one day having nothing.

Indeed, a very different part of town. 

Your parents are probably furious they cannot find you, but they will assume you ran to a nearby friend’s house.  If they knew where you really were, which friend you went to see, they would surpass furious and venture all the way into horror. 

But they are far away now.

You feel nothing but relief as the air changes.  You know it is the chill of a summer night as the sky turns blue, but it convinces you the air is clearer.  You exhale and feel as though you are releasing a breath that you have been holding all day.

Your journey takes you to a familiar yard.  You remember the first time you ever visited, standing so small and uncertain on the front steps, waiting for a kiss you actually wanted.

A kiss that never came.  

You park your bike against the side of the house.  You walk up the front steps on shaky legs, weak from speedy riding.    

You open the screen door to knock on the inside door.  While you wait for an answer, you fiddle with your appearance, adjusting any evidence of wind-swept dishevelment.

Oh, you are so nervous.  You were so hellbent on just getting here, you did not register any feeling beyond determination. But now you are standing on this porch in your flimsy white dress, the sun set, the day done.  You are doing something you should have done a long, long time ago and suddenly fearing you are far, far too late. 

No answer comes.  You knock again.

Your stomach forms a pit you hope you will eat you whole.  Is he ignoring you?  No.  The windows are shut, the blinds closed.  He cannot even see you.

You take a step back.  Even with everything sealed shut, you should be able to see a hint of light.  The house is small, a single story.  There are only so many places he could be.

He isn’t home, you realize, first with relief that he is not ignoring you, then with dejection.  Of course he’s not home, you tell yourself.  What were you even thinking?  Silly girl.  Riding all the way out here, expecting him to be sitting around and waiting for you.  He has a life of his own.  He probably doesn’t even think about you.  You’re pathetic.

You know you are being a little melodramatic.  Your emotions have been running at an extreme all day.  They finally become too much to bear.  You sit down on the steps and cry. 

Some time passes.  You eventually calm yourself enough to wipe your eyes.  You feel the cold more acutely now, wrapping your arms around yourself for warmth. 

You are not sure what to do now.  You refuse to go home, knowing what awaits you.  You have nowhere else to go. Your future is murky, which is still more comforting than the vision of it when your boyfriend forcibly kissed you.   

You sigh.  You know if you wait long enough, your friend will come home and help you.  Even if he doesn’t want you, even if he can be a bit standoffish at times, he has the warmest heart you know.  You met doing volunteer work, in fact.  You know he will help you like he would help anyone in need.

It does not mean you do not feel pathetic, curled up and shivering on his porch steps.  You are debating a course of action when a truck rolls into the yard with a flash of headlights and a noticeably hiccupping engine.  It pulls around the side of the house.

You stand and take tentative steps to follow.  You are still and quiet as the rough rumble of the truck comes to a wheezy stop. 

The driver door flies open.  He jumps out, cursing.  Your breath catches and all your hypotheticals dissipate in wake of the reality of him.

Lee Minho.

He is wearing his old, dusty leather jacket, something of a signature piece due its reliability.  His jeans are torn at the knee, likely a legitimate tear and not a fashion statement, his old work boots a bit scuffed.  He is a working man of limited means and nothing functional goes to waste.  

He is beautiful as ever.  Dark hair falls across his forehead and he pushes it back with a forceful rake, the softer pieces fluttering forward again.  He has an athletic frame, but delicate features despite his near-perpetual scowl.  When he does laugh, it is a hilariously boisterous sound.

He is scowling right now.  Cursing to himself as he stomps around the beat-up truck.  He wears a carabiner with a bundle of emergency tools, grabbing a miniature flashlight to guide his way.  He props open the hood and starts rustling around inside.  He curses again, then he puts the light away so he can reach inside with both hands.

You do not mean to startle him.  You thought he might have seen you, observant as he is, but apparently the truck has him distracted.

“Minho,” you say. 

You cannot see him too well in the dark, but you hear the distinctive thud of metal as he undoubtedly smacks his head on the open hood.  He curses louder this time. 

There is a small light on the side of the house.  You step towards it at the same time. 

He is rubbing the back of his head, frowning, but he comes to a total stop when he sees you.  His eyes widen ever so slightly, his brows drawn in confusion.  He stares intently at you. 

“Hi,” you say.

He just keeps staring. 

“Um. I was just in the neighbourhood,” you say.  “I wanted to see you.  I hope you’re doing well.”

He drops his arm and it swings at his side.  He continues to stare at you, the furrow in his brow more intense. 

“Right,” you say.  You feel a catch in the back of your throat.  Fortunately, you have cried all your tears and will not make a fool of yourself in front of him.  More of a fool, that is.  You want to say so many things but you cannot think of a single word that suffices. 

I missed you so much, you think.  I think about you every day.  Have you thought about me?

It sounds so clingy and pathetic.  Your boyfriend derides such women and their neediness.  Minho is not a man like that, though.  He has never spoken so disparagingly about someone.  You know that, but the words catch nonetheless. 

You exhale a shaky breath, looking aside at nothing. 

“I’m sorry,” you finally say.  “I probably shouldn’t have come here.  It’s been months since we last spoke.  I know we’re not really friends anymore.  I just had no where else to go and I…”

“You were crying,” he says. 

You look at him.  His expression has not softened.  It is still that same scrutinizing stare.  His gaze is intently locked on yours, on eyes that must show the evidence of your crying. 

You wipe your face quickly, embarrassed.  Your gaze lifts when he takes a small step towards you.  He reaches for you, as if he means to wipe your eyes himself, but then he catches the sight of his own hand, covered in black grease from the truck. 

“Shit,” he says, and snaps his arm back. 

“Minho,” you say, your heart fluttering just from the suggestion he was going to touch you.  A small touch from him means more than anything. 

“Princess,” he says, an old affectionate nickname for you, though he speaks it rather dryly.  He is still frowning.  “Are you hurt?”

“Maybe,” you say.  When he reacts physically, his shoulders stiffening, you quickly add, “Not like that.  Emotionally, I mean.  I just… I think I ran away from home.”

“You think,” he says flatly.

“Well, I didn’t really think it through, to be honest,” you say shyly.  “I just… I couldn’t stay there anymore.  You know what they’re like.” 

He flinches as if the memory comes with a strike.  You feel embarrassed, remembering too. 

You and Minho became fast friends through your mutual volunteer efforts.  You thought nothing of inviting him to a neighbourhood party at your parents’ house.  He wore his nicest shirt and fresh pants, but as soon as everyone found out where he came from, they wanted nothing to do with him. 

You are embarrassed to say you did not even notice at first, naively taking politeness for granted.  He had to explain it to you, then you saw their two-facedness everywhere and felt horrible.

You stayed on his side of town after that, at least until your parents put their foot down.  They didn’t want you developing feelings for that kind of boy.   You insisted he was just a friend, even while already in love with him.  His biting wit and good heart had you in thrall. 

You were in denial about your parents being bad people.  You wanted to believe they had your best interest at heart.  They were just set in their ways.  They wanted a good life for you.  You told Minho to just give them time.  He let you go.  They introduced you to your new boyfriend the next day. 

Minho takes a breath.  He shoves his tongue into his cheek, looking pensive.  You are thinking of something to say when he nods his head. 

“You look cold,” he says frankly.  “Let’s go inside.”

You nod, following him to the front steps.  He grabs the porch rail and jumps the steps in an effortless swing.  You shuffle behind him while he unlocks the door. 

He says nothing, just nods at you.  You follow him through, closing the door while he bends down to unlace his boots.  He kicks them to the side while you step softly out of your flats.  When you meet each other’s eyes, you feel a spark. 

You stood in this very spot a few months ago, almost nose to nose, arguing about your parents and what to do.  You knew, deep in your heart, the conversation was not about a mere friendship.  You both had stronger feelings, but you were both scared to act on them given your precarious circumstance.  He did not want to risk everything while you were indecisive.  You wanted to keep everything. 

You have lived a life of great privilege and you are used to getting everything you want.  You have had to confront reality, that you cannot always have everything.   

So, if you can only have one thing, you want him. 

He looks at you with the same dark passion as then.  Your heart skips beats under his intense gaze. 

“You’re here,” he says. Maybe the same memories flicker through his mind.  He tips his head, looking at you so closely, like he cannot believe you are real.   

“Yes,” you say softly, clasping your hands in front of you. “I’m here.” 

“To stay,” he says.

“If you’ll have me,” you reply.  Your heart is beating so hard, it is a wonder he cannot hear it.  Your legs feel even weaker than before, but this time is has nothing to do with bicycles and everything to do with him. 

He swallows, his throat bobbing.  He sniffs and looks aside while idly tugging his jacket.   

“And your boyfriend?” he says, glaring at the far wall. 

Your heart sinks.  It is your turn to swallow. 

“You know about that?” you ask. 

He laughs, not that gleeful sound you know but a sharp cackle.  He looks at you incredulously. 

“Of course I know,” he says.  “I don’t always stay on my side of the tracks.  Sometimes,” he speaks with sarcastic wonder, “I get to repair houses for the pretty rich people.”  He huffs, shaking his head.  “It’s fine,” he says.  “You should be with someone like that.  He’ll give you the house.  The car.  I bet your parents love him too.”

“I don’t want those things,” you say, bearing his bitterness because you understand what he is feeling.  You lift your chin and look him in the eye.  “You’re right, my parents do love him.  But I don’t.  He’s shallow and unkind.  And you—”  Your voice catches.  “You, Lee Minho, are anything but that.  You are everything.  And I… I love you.  I always have.”  You drop your eyes with this confession, suddenly overwhelmed with the sheer emotion pouring out of his gaze.  “I know it’s been a while,” you say.  “I don’t expect you to have waited for me.  I just—”

He laughs again.  It is still dry, but not so sharp.  You glance at him. 

“Princess,” he says. “Don’t tell me you seriously think I could just forget about you.”  He shakes his head.  “It’s like you don’t even know me.  I should kick you out just for that.”

You realize he is joking, the faintest hint of something warm melting his scowl. 

“I can’t give you that life,” he says seriously. 

You step towards him, holding his gaze, pouring as much emotion back at him.  He exhales, blinking quickly, long lashes fluttering as he looks at you. 

“I have no idea what we’re gonna do,” you admit.  “But I know I want to figure it out.  With you.  And no one else.” 

He smiles and it makes you smile.  Then he reaches for you, but stops when he once more remembers his dirty hands. 

“Shit,” he says again, then takes a step back.  “Let me just—”

You take him by the wrist and yank him towards you.  He follows your guidance, his breath catching when you plant his hand on your hip.  It will leave a big black stain on your perfect white dress, the shape of his hand in a possessive grip on your body. 

It is more effective than any word.  He swoops in and kisses you, his other hand cupping your other hip with the same deliberate possessiveness.   You are certain this horrid little gown will be destroyed and you do not care one bit.  You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him back. 

“You’re cruel,” he says between kisses.  “Torturing me for so long.  I wanted to kill that man.  But I thought he made you happy—”

“He disgusted me,” you say.  “He kissed me without my permission today.”

“What.”  That stops the kiss and he looks at you with that scowl again.  “I’ll kill him,” he says without any hesitation. 

You just laugh a gentle laugh, shaking your head.  You twist a longer tuft of his hair around your finger, making his tense shoulders go soft as he leans in. 

“You don’t have to kill him,” you say.  “Just make me forget him.” 

Oh, Lee Minho is such an awful tease all the time.  Of course he goes back to just staring at you with a contemplative air, making you wriggle and wonder in his arms.  You whine his name, trying to kiss him, but he dodges it.  Your whimpering makes him laugh, because of course it does. 

Then he gets very serious.  Your heart sends a bolt of heat shooting through your body.  Your thighs press together. 

He presses his forehead to yours.  You gasp when you feel his fingers on your back, the careful slow touch as he tugs your zipper down.  The flimsy dress slides off your body as he steps back to look at you.  You shiver, gazing back at him.  His stare is unflinching as he peels off his jacket and tosses it aside.  His hands are already much cleaner, the distinctive print of his palms still plastered to your dress.  He wipes the rest on his own shirt then tugs it off and tosses it to the side. 

He smirks and wiggles two come hither fingers at you, walking backwards.  You follow him slowly, then give chase when he cackles and runs.  You follow him into the bedroom where he literally sweeps you off your feet.

“And you say I’m cruel,” you tease.   

He closes the door with a firm snap then leans you against it. 

“You are,” he says.  He looks down your body while running his fingers through his hair.  “You are.” 

Then he gets on his knees, first one while he tugs your panties down, then the other, when he hooks your leg over his shoulder and put his mouth on you.  He does not tease anymore, swiftly finding all the ways to make you moan his name.  You are scared your leg will buckle under you when he makes you come, but he holds you steady. 

Then he stands up and cups your face, kissing you deeply, making you taste yourself on his tongue.  It is a good kiss, everything a kiss should be, hot and hungry, slow and deep.  It makes you tingle with aftershocks, blinking at him with delirious pleasure when he pulls back.   

Minho can be loud, can be boisterous, can be scathing.  He can also speak gently, in such a soft, light rasp.  It makes your head spin.   He speaks like that now.    

“This is how it is,” he says, then kisses you again, licks into your mouth.  When you moan, he moans back.  “I make you sigh,” he says.  “I make your pussy wet.  I make you come.  Just me.”

“Yes,” you nod, clinging to him when he carries you to the bed.  “You, Minho.” 

He lays you down, kneeling between your open legs.  They are still quivering from your orgasm.  He looks at you, hungrily, while opening his belt.  He rips it out of his jeans and tosses it behind him, then unzips while leaning down to kiss you.  He dives past your waiting mouth to kiss your throat, biting marks under your jaw, on your neck, on your tits.  You grab his head, hands in his hair, arching your back under his desperate mouth. 

“You’re mine,” he says.  “You’ve always been mine.”

He holds your hips while thrusting inside you.  You imagine his hands leaving a permanent mark, just like that stained dress, a claiming that forever marks you as his.  He fucks you so steadily and deeply, holding you possessively, gasping your name and how good you feel while he takes you. 

“Perfect,” he says in that dreamy voice, rubbing you softly while fucking you hard. It makes you come around his cock, clenching tight, which makes him moan into your mouth.   “Mine.”

You wrap your legs around him.  You lay chest-against-chest, holding each other.  Your nails scratch his back, no doubt leaving your own marks, your whole body littered with his kisses and bites.  There is not a single inch of you that is not branded by him. 

“Yes,” you say.  “Always, Minho.”

Saying his name sends him over.  He comes inside you, claiming you even there, then stays inside you after while you kiss. 

You stay in his arms all night, making love and sleeping then making love some more.  When the sun rises, you wake to him holding you, stroking your cheek affectionately. 

He kisses your forehead and you nestle comfortably against him, happy to be home. 

Although people say Minho is cold and unfriendly, I truly think he would be of the sweetest and most caring people you could have the pleasure of knowing.

MINHO’S LOVE IS | minho drabble.

Minho’s love is quiet. It’s lingering touches and wandering eyes from across the room. It’s shared glances when someone says something funny, your eyes immediately finding one another with a knowing look. It’s his back against the headboard as he scrolls through his phone, his other hand playing mindlessly with your hair while you watch tv. It’s the damp soil of the plant you swear you’ll be able to take care of all on your own, already watered by the time you wake up in the morning, Minho long gone for a day of practice. It’s the way he orders for you at restaurants, already knowing what foods you’re comfortable with. It’s the extra french fries that keep showing up on your plate, an innocent look on his face when you catch him in the act.

Minho’s love is warm. It’s the feeling of his jacket being draped over you when you fall asleep in the car. It’s his breath against your neck at night when he pulls you into his chest and tightens his arm around your middle. It’s the soft skin of his stomach when you shove your cold feet under his shirt, laughing as he shakes his head but still lets you get away with it. It’s his hands when he maps out your body, the blankets pulled tight around the both of you, fingertips trailing every dip and curve of your figure like he’s seeing it for the first time.

Minho’s love is loud. It’s laughter when he chases you down the hallway after you refuse to hug him, his body covered in sweat from the gym. It’s music blasting from a speaker in the kitchen while he cooks your favorite meal. It’s him screaming at the other guys to quiet down when he’s on facetime with you, the ocean-wide distance not enough to keep you apart. It’s the way he calls out to you, an excited “I’m hoooome!” when he gets back from a long day of work.

Minho’s love is gentle. It’s the press of his lips against yours when you open your eyes in the morning. It’s the tug of his fingers on the sleeve of your jacket when he pulls you towards the inner part of the sidewalk and takes your place instead. It’s his hand on the small of your back whenever you’re out in public, a reminder that he’s there. It’s his thumbs swiping the tears off of your cheeks when it all becomes too much to handle. It’s the way he holds you like he means it, like you’re something he’s scared of losing, as he promises over and over that he’ll never break you.

Minho’s love is quiet, warm, loud, and gentle. Minho’s love is more than just three words whispered into the space between your lips. Minho’s love is immeasurable in size and unexplainable in essence.

Minho’s love, to you, is everything.

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This is just...so frustrating...and so sweet.

I think my favorite stories will always be the ones that highlight the importance of communication. Some people are more perceptive than others. But even the most perceptive people can still miss what's right in front of them.

conflict, conceal, confess | minho

kinktober day 31: thigh-riding

pairing: lee minho x reader

word count: 18.1k (💀)

genre: college au, enemies to lovers, (modern!consort au)

warnings: sexual content (thigh-riding, oral sex, fingering, handjob, marking, a whole lot of smut honestly, like 6k words of it), swearing, an ungodly amount of academia

summary:

“Why don’t we call a truce?”

Minho blinked, caught off-guard. “Truce?”

“Yeah. No more arguments…” you trailed off, the words already sounding hollow and you were the one saying them. “OK, maybe some academic debate. But nothing personal.”

“Nothing petty,” Minho added, giving you a pointed look.

It took an impressive amount of willpower to force your smile to stay on your face. “Exactly. We somehow managed it as kids. How hard could it be to do it again?”

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