Tumgik
#Skz fanfiction
hyunsvngs · 5 months
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚! - stepdad!bang chan x fem!reader
wc: 10.2k
cw: chan is your mother's boyfriend and you want to fuck him, chan is 30 and reader is described to be younger & in college, lix is a menace, changbin is a moral compass, you do not care about morals, SMUT MDNI.
synopsis: you're home for the holidays, and your mother - who you can't stand - has a new, young, hot boyfriend. it's such a good idea trying to seduce him.. right?
a/n: it's so here <3 my first commission! i hope u all love it <3 smut warnings under the cut ofc. i also tried a new format with this fic so pls let me know what u think?!?
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
sw: dirty talk, breeding kink, mutual masturbation, daddy kink, unprotected sex, creampies, degradation, cumplay if u squint?, humiliation if u squint?, anal fingering (f rec), oral (f rec), edging maybe briefly, sex with feelings
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
You hated going home for the holidays.
You were a rich kid, to put it simply. Your mother loved to leech off the men that she was with, marrying them quickly and trying to suck as much money as she could out of them in gifts and straight up cash before they eventually clued on and left her. It had been why your father had left when you were a mere infant, but you’d always lived in luxury due to the incessant payments that he was forced to give. You’d never met him, but there was a plus side - he was paying your college tuition, where you met your best friends.
Perhaps if you thought about it a bit more you’d realise that the only reason you went to college was to get away from your mother. She pissed you off, sauntering around the house in silk kimonos with a maid trailing behind her, pausing to look in mirrors so that she could choose where her next round of botox would hit. She frustrated you beyond belief, but you still had to go home for Christmas. Annoyingly early, too, because she had a surprise for you.
Okay, well, it wasn’t a surprise. She’d FaceTimed you a week earlier, an irritatingly wrinkle-free face popping up on the screen as she sipped mulled wine and revelled in your absence. She had a new boyfriend, she said. You’d love him, she said. Your opinion matters most to me, she said. The last one you knew to be a lie. God, you hated her. 
Still, you lugged your suitcase through the front door and huffed, booting the side with your foot to try and shake some of the snow off. No surprise, she hadn’t helped you in from your taxi. She hadn’t even come to get you from the airport a mere twenty minute drive away. You dropped the suitcase on the floor, giving it another kick just for good measure, and then you were trudging into the kitchen. You’d heard voices from there, so it had to be them.
“Oh, honey!” Your mother chirped upon seeing you. You couldn’t see the face of the man washing dishes behind her, his white shirt sleeves rolled up and back facing you. You didn’t care anyway. “You made it home safe, then.”
“Yeah. The taxi driver was super nice and let me call him mum,” You quipped. She furrowed her eyebrows, lips pursed. 
“Okay, you’re being weird already,” She mumbled, and then shook her head, shrugging it off. She walked to the man by the sink, spinning him around by his slender waist to display him to you. “This is Chan!”
You felt silly, stood in the kitchen doorway in oversized clothes and covered in ivory snow. The man’s eyes found you, shocked by your mother’s harsh manoeuvring, and he blinked with surprise at your figure. You blinked with surprise, too.
Chan was hot. Incredibly so, actually, and he looked young. Younger than your mother, with a big nose you wanted to ride and plush lips parting as he raised one hand to wave at you, still wet with soapy dishwasher. You wanted to lick him clean. The white shirt he wore stretched across broad shoulders, and the sleeves were fit to burst around incredibly toned biceps. You allowed your gaze to wander down, eyes focusing on the thick thighs in the black dress trousers he wore. 
There was no way this was real. “Okay,” You burst out laughing, eyes darting between Chan and your mother. “And, who is Chan? A friend? A colleague? He’s not your boyfriend.”
Chan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “No, I am. I’m your mother’s boyfriend, sweetheart.”
His voice was deep - too deep, deep enough to haunt your dreams and those late night sessions you had in your bed with your trusty vibrator. This was going to be trouble. You were going to be trouble.
“You’re shitting me,” You couldn’t get the amused smile off of your face. No fucking way. Your mother hadn’t bagged that. “You’re fucking with me. You have to be. Mum, he’s closer to my age than he is to yours.”
“I’m thirty, actually,” He mumbled, looking sheepish. Your mother stared at you in shock, jaw dropped at your brazenness. 
“I rest my case,” You concluded, nodding decisively. When the two of them just continued to stare, you bristled slightly, starting to hop from one foot to the other. Awkward. “You… are you actually together?”
“Yes, honey,” Your mother confirmed, still looking shocked. You scoffed.
“Okay, I really need to go, actually,” You gushed, turning around to leave the kitchen. “I’m- I’m going to my room. Really nice to meet you, Chan, really.” 
Shooting upstairs, you completely ignored your suitcase still leaking snow all over the hardwood floors and darted into your bedroom. It still looked exactly how you’d left it, band posters all over the walls and teddies littering the end of your bed. You threw yourself on top of the mattress, fingers yanking your phone out of your pocket and clicking the button on the most recent group call on FaceTime. Immediately, your college best friends picked up.
“There’s already a problem?” Felix scrunched his nose up, face way too close to the camera. Changbin was on the other side, face looking confused in the little square designated to him on your phone screen.
“I just met my mother’s boyfriend.”
“Oh, right, how did that go?” Changbin questioned, tilting his head to the side. You caught sight of your face in your own little square, flushed and appalled.
“He is thirty years of age, Changbin,” You began. Felix gasped, tiny hand moving to cover his mouth. “He is thirty years of age, and he is really fucking hot.”
“Oh my god,” Felix mumbled, muffled behind his hand. “Oh my god, you have to fuck him.”
Changbin choked on air. “She has to- No, Felix, no!”
“No, I can’t do that. It would be fucked up,” You mused. Or.. “Wait, would it even be that fucked up? He is closer to my age. I hate my mother.”
Felix’s hand fell, and he giggled before speaking in his trademark goblin voice - “Fuck him.”
“Don’t!” Changbin shrieked, his phone shaking in his hand. “I really think this is a bad idea.”
“I think it’s a great idea,” Felix grinned, looking smug. “I’d do it.”
“There’s not a lot you wouldn’t do,” Changbin retorted. Felix stuck his tongue out at him. You, however, were silent, musing on the situation and staring at your wall. Could you do it? Changbin noticed, sighing. “Baby, please no.”
You licked your lips, nodding. You could do it. You wanted to do it - needed it, even. Those biceps were going to plague your life forever otherwise. “Operation fuck my mother’s boyfriend is a go.”
Felix screamed in delight. Changbin ended the call.
SATURDAY
It was time. Your mother was out at brunch with some friends, and you had plans to invade Chan’s personal space because you had a feeling he’d be too polite to tell you otherwise. You knew he’d set up the spare room as his own home studio, because your mother had delighted in telling you how Chan was a super successful music producer and was often tinkering away in there these days. You were going to let yourself in, try to get to know him a bit.
The knock you landed on the door was anything but subtle. Your fist rapped on the door and you heard a little hum in response, so you swung open the door, eyes landing on Chan hunched over his desk. He looked even younger like this, beanie pulled down over dark curls and headphones positioned on his head. He continued to stare at the file on his computer, head bobbing absentmindedly, so you strode up to him and tapped him on the shoulder.
He spun around on his computer chair, blinking confusedly at you. “Oh, hello.”
“Hi,” You beamed. “Sorry about last night. I was rude. I was feeling kinda weird, y’know, with the travelling.”
“No, I completely get it,” Chan put his hands up as if to diffuse the atmosphere. You nodded, still smiling. Chan stared at you when you didn’t respond instantly, and you crossed your hands behind your back, pressing against the plaid pattern of the dress you’d chosen for today. It was all part of the plan - the tight, short dress was perfect for seduction. He looked down at your chest, before clearing his throat, reverting his gaze to your eyes. “Um… did you need something, by the way?”
You gasped, as if remembering. “Oh, yeah! I did. My mother told me you were a music producer, and I was really curious. I was wondering if you’d show me some stuff…?”
It was Chan’s turn to smile, nodding excitedly. “Of course. Here, put these on.”
He linked two fingers around his headphones and handed them to you, to which you obediently put them over your ears. He was quieter now, but you could still slightly hear him mumbling as he found a spare chair for you to sit on. Your eyes scanned the files, eventually fixating on a file titled Drive. That one had to be dirty.
“Okay, so. I have this one, it’s my most recent one, and-”
“I want to listen to that one,” You cut him off, pointing at the song. When you turned to look at him, he was biting his lip nervously, pink tinting the ends of his ears and his cheeks. “What is it, Chan?”
“You- that one is a little, uh… heh. A little inappropriate.”
Unsurprisingly, you darted over his desk to grab the computer mouse and double click on the file. Chan squealed, but you ignored him, listening to the song. You were right. It was dirty, the two singers crooning about something that was a thinly-veiled innuendo about driving. It took you a second and then you clicked. One of them was Chan. This was Chan singing, on a song about sex. God, could he get any hotter?
You slid one of the ear cups off of your ear, turning to Chan with a shit eating grin. “This is you singing? You’re really good, Chan.” You weren’t lying. He was really good, and it had you wondering why he was a producer and not singing.
“Yeah, well, it was just an experimental track. Me and my mate were just messing around,” Chan mumbled shyly, hand scratching the back of his neck. You tried to avoid staring at the way his biceps tensed in his tight t-shirt at the movement. He was still blushing, but you had to kick it up a notch.
“It is kinda inappropriate, though, isn’t it?” You chirped excitedly. Chan’s lips parted, as if he was looking for something to say. His eyes stared into your own, piercing and dark and all-consuming. “I think you’re a little dirty, Channie.”
Chan’s eyebrows furrowed at your use of the nickname. “That’s- you can’t say that. That’s inappropriate.”
“What?” You feigned shock-horror. Play dumb. “I can’t call you Channie? Why not?”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Chan groaned, pointing an accusing finger at you. You giggled anyway, jumping up and slipping the headphones back onto his head. You made sure to trail your fingertips down his neck after doing so. He shivered noticeably. You smiled.
“That was super good, Channie, thank you.”
You didn’t miss his groan of disbelief as you bounded out of the room. You had him, and it was easier than you’d expected it to be.
SUNDAY
Something was happening. You weren’t sure what, just yet, but something was happening. Chan was acting a little weird after what happened the day before, and you’d already caught Felix and Changbin up on the nonsense plan you had. 
“I think you need to accept that this is just down to you having a fat crush on him and severe daddy issues,” Changbin mused, and you gasped. He was right though. This wasn’t completely about getting back at your mother in a sick, twisted way. You wanted him.
Phase two of your plan was underway as soon as you caught sight of him on the sofa. He was watching some cheesy Christmas movie, your mother tinkering away in the kitchen - when had she ever cooked? - so it was prime seducing time. He had one of the thick throw blankets over his lap, fingers playing with the fluffy fabric absentmindedly. You hopped into the living room in your short pyjamas, frowning at Chan when you felt the goosebumps on your legs.
“Whatcha watching?” You asked, making him jump when he realised your presence. He smiled nonetheless, motioning to the seat next to him, and you took it. You perched and ensured that you left no room between you both.
“Some cheesy film. The woman’s marrying a prince, I think.”
“Sounds awful. I can’t wait to watch it,” You smiled, and Chan chuckled, relaxing on the sofa. You managed to make it five whole minutes before you were rubbing your hands up your legs, trying to create a semblance of warmth. 
Chan turned to you, frowning. “Are you cold, sweetheart?”
“Yeah,” You whined, pulling your legs up into your chest. “‘S cold in here, right?”
“C’mere,” He mumbled, reaching for the end of the blanket and throwing it over your lap. You hummed contentedly, inching a little closer under the guise of the cold weather. The blanket was warm. You were kind of jealous he’d been in such comfort this whole time while you’d been thinking of ways to get his cock inside your mouth. 
“Thanks, Channie,” Chan only nodded, continuing to watch the film. You had a feeling he was pretending to be so focused on it, given you weren’t sure he even knew the plot before your arrival. 
You squirmed on your seat, thrashing each way until you found yourself comfortable, hand splayed over Chan’s knee. He tensed under your touch. 
“You’re touching me, sweetheart,” He warned, his voice low and deep. You shivered, turning to him.
“Am I?”
“You are. You’re touching my leg underneath the blanket, aren’t you?”
You hummed. “Is that okay, Chan?”
Chan turned to you, his eyes not even holding any sign of shock. He knew what game you were playing, you realised, and maybe he was playing along. He licked his lips, head back against the sofa, and then he shrugged dismissively. 
“It doesn’t bother me.”
You left your hand there for the whole film. 
MONDAY
The showers at home were something you’d missed. The ones in college didn’t quite cut it - not even now that you lived with Changbin and Felix in your own student home. All three of you were young adults, after all, and that came with you being a little too messy.
At home, you didn’t have to worry about mess. Your mother had cleaners employed with your dad’s money anyway. Admittedly, you realised you were being a little spoiled, so you’d learned to clean up after yourself. The showers were still better, though. Bigger, and the water pressure hit you just right. 
Especially when you detached the shower head and pressed it to your clit. You felt pathetic. You’d only tried to seduce Chan for two fucking days, and there you were, legs shaking at the thought of him. Maybe it was the chase that got you feeling hot, or maybe it was the fact that you might actually be getting somewhere - you might actually be getting close to fucking him, muscles bulging as he ploughed into you. 
It had you pressing the shower head harder, your spare hand coming up to pinch your nipple. You whined, bucking your hips into the water stream. The steam was all over the bathroom by now, staining the shower with condensation and making your skin feel pruned and flushed. Or did you feel flushed from the thoughts of Chan? Maybe he’d fuck you the way you liked. He must have experience, you assumed, being a few years older than you. You thought about how he’d make you feel, how he’d touch you, and how you’d feel in his arms. You thought about how you’d feel when you came, and what it would be like to be with him. You wanted to feel him so badly.
Was he as big down there as he was everywhere else? Sure, he’s not too tall, but he’s every part a man. That much was clear. Would he bend you in half, pushing you into a mating press and fuck you raw the way you liked, cumming inside and letting you call him daddy and-
You wailed, legs trembling with one last buckle before you were cumming. You felt wet, too wet even just from the shower, and you belatedly realised you’d have to wash again. Ugh. This plan needed to end, like… yesterday. 
Coming out of the shower freshly washed, you wrapped a towel around your figure and checked the time on your phone. Your thumb slipped around the screen from the condensation in the bathroom, but the plan was going well. If you left the bathroom now, then hopefully Chan would be heading to bed, and he’d catch you in your towel. Ideally, he’d be so hot for you that he’d just have to have you, and then you could get the thoughts of him out of your head.
You burst out of the room in a flurry of steam and movement, almost tripping over your own feet when you noticed that it had actually fucking worked. Chan stood stock still at the other end of the hallway, his eyes fixated on the way the towel wrapped tightly around your chest, at risk of falling. You smiled, waving innocently, and he stalked towards you. He was seeing red. You could tell from the way he cornered you, crowding around you with the small advantage he had on your height.
“You need to stop this,” He mumbled, eyes looking at your mother’s bedroom door. He was playing a dangerous game. You were, too, and you both knew it. “I’m dating your mother. You need to stop this, sweetheart.”
“Stop what?” You tilted your head, acting confused. “I just had a shower.”
Chan scoffed, shaking his head. “I fucking heard you in there.”
Oh. You couldn’t hide your smirk that time. “Yeah, I missed that shower head. Why were you perving on me, Chan?”
Chan rubbed his temples. He wasn’t wearing a beanie today, only a hoodie and baggy joggers. You liked it. You could see his hair like this, dark and curly and frizzy on his head. He looked cute. Wait, what?
He took a deep breath. His eyes moved to fixate on you, tongue running over his teeth. “Why would I be perving on you?”
“Oh, don’t lie,” You crossed your arms over your chest. Chan’s eyes moved down to stare at where your tits bulged over the towel. “I bet you stood there for ages, cock hard in your cute joggers, listening to me moan in the shower. That’s a little fucked up, no? Thinking about your girlfriend’s daughter like that-”
You were cut off by him pushing you to the wall, lips slamming into yours. He bit into your mouth instantly, letting out a deep groan and hands moving to grab your ass through the towel. You let your lips part in a whimper, pushing your tongue into his mouth and running your hands through his hair. It was a filthy exchange of tongue and teeth, and by the end of it, you were gasping, grabbing him by the waist and trying to pull him closer. You pulled away, breathing heavily and your eyes still locked on each other. You both stood there, not speaking, as you both processed what you had just done. You both knew it was wrong, but you wanted it so bad.
Chan stepped back, breathing out a heavy sigh. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”
You watched in shock as he turned around, walking into your mother’s bedroom and leaving you there. You were wet again. This was getting ridiculous now. 
In your room, Felix screamed so loud you had to turn the volume down on your phone. Changbin choked on air again. 
TUESDAY
You hadn’t seen Chan all day. You presumed he was in his studio, working away on another track while your mother was in work. You were bored. Felix had been spending time with his family, and Changbin was out doing rich kid things that you could sympathise with. Thrashing around on your bed, annoyed and huffing, you decided you were just going to go and annoy Chan. It was your newly favourite pastime to get under his skin.
Stalking down the stairs to his studio, you paused when you heard a voice. Not just one voice, two voices. Was your mother there? No, no way. She never goes into that room, it’s his work room. You’d been in there though. You tried to suppress a grin at that realisation. 
The other voice was a man’s. Chan had a call on speakerphone, judging by the tinny effect covering the unknown male’s voice and Chan humming every so often. Who was the other man? A colleague, or just a friend?
“It’s fucking ridiculous, mate,” Chan groaned. You could barely hear him, and you held your breath, coming closer to the closed door. “I want her so bad, and it’s so wrong. I- I kissed her last night, Minho.”
There were a few yells from the other end of the phone. “You kissed her?! Chan, you fucking animal. You want her so bad, just fuck her. She’s clearly hoping that’s the outcome here.”
You grinned. You were.
“She’s- it’s outrageous. She walks around in practically nothing, and she’s got such a tight fucking body, man. She makes my dick so fucking hard, I’ve never felt anything like it before. Even when I met her, in the kitchen, she was-”
Chan cut himself off with a sigh. ‘Minho’ hummed, waiting for him to continue.
“She’s so bratty. She’s exactly the type of girl I would’ve gone for, before I met her mother.”
“Seriously?” Minho questioned, and Chan agreed. “You have to do it.”
“Minho-”
“No, Chan. I’m serious,” Minho’s voice was firm. “If she’s fucking you up this bad, you can’t have liked her mother that much, yeah? Just do it. You know it’s going to happen anyway.”
“It’s-” Chan began. You could imagine him rubbing his temples in distress behind the door. “She’s younger than me. I don’t want her to feel as though I’m taking advantage, y’know? The ball’s in her court.”
The ball has always been in your court.
“It sounds like she wants you to take advantage, to be honest,” Minho erupted in a fit of giggles, and you found yourself almost laughing along. Minho was annoyingly right. You only hoped he could get rid of that stick up Chan’s ass and get you a good dicking down.
It meant it was time for the next phase of your plan. You assumed Chan had wanted you, embarrassingly so, but you weren’t quite sure until he’d kissed you the day before. After hearing this conversation? Well, you had to do it.
You returned to your room, scribbling a quick note on a piece of paper. If Chan found this, which he would, it meant that he’d come to your room tomorrow night and you could maybe talk about what the fuck was going on. The sexual tension was too much for you, and now you knew he felt the same. Why were you beating around the bush? You had to make something out of this.
You ignored the stuttering of breath you heard when you slid the note under his door, and returned back to your room with a cocky grin.
WEDNESDAY
Chan hadn’t mentioned the note. You didn’t think he would, but you felt disappointed nonetheless. You’d woken up in the morning, eaten breakfast with him and your mother - cringing when he kissed her on the cheek when she left for work - and you’d even done the dishes yourself, letting him slip off to do some work in the studio. It was prime time for him to mention what you’d written, and he hadn’t. It was pissing you off.
Still, good things come to those who wait. You were confident. Felix had been egging you on all day over text, Changbin had been sending random upset emojis. It was perfect. 
Settling on your sheets at night, you felt a little pathetic. You’d lit a few candles, left the curtains just right on the window so that the moonlight billowed in, and Chan hadn’t arrived. Maybe he hadn’t received your note. No, there was no way - you practically heard his response through the door when he saw it slid under. He got the note. Perhaps you’d made him uncomfortable, made him withdraw from you despite all the progress you’d made. Why had you put in so much effort? You didn’t like him, not like that. Or did you? You felt ridiculous, almost like a child waiting for-
A knock on the door brought you out of your self-loathing thoughts, and you jumped up, swinging the bedroom door open. Chan immediately crowded inside of your bedroom, pressing the door shut softly. You stood there in silence, taking him in. He looked cosy, in a baggy hoodie and plaid pyjama bottoms. It was hard to believe he was dating your mother, especially when he looked so vulnerable like this - dark, curly hair still slightly wet from his shower, and his eyes blown wide with an unreadable emotion while he looked at you.
Chan sighed. “You’re really playing with fire. Do you know how this could look, me coming into your room at night? Do you know how wrong this is?”
You faltered. For the first time since meeting Chan, you felt as though he was angry at you. “I- I heard you on the phone, Channie. I thought you wanted me too.”
You watched in awe as Chan crossed your bedroom, groaning and throwing himself onto the bed. He was hard, erect in his bottoms. You blinked confusedly. He was hard just from being in here?
“I do want you,” Chan said, but it was muffled, hidden behind his hands that he had placed over his face in distress. He let them fall to his sides, staring up at the ceiling. “I want you so bad that it’s pissing me off beyond belief. I know what you’ve been doing too, trying to seduce me. It’s so pathetic it makes me feel hot, y’know?”
You giggled, following his journey across the room and settling next to him on the bed. You sat cross legged, comfortable in your long pyjamas. The candlelight flickered, casting a glow over his face, and he turned to look at you. He licked his lips, and then he let out a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief.
“This is ridiculous-”
“It’s ridiculous that you haven’t fucked me yet,” You responded, quick as a flash. Chan leaned up on his forearms, raising an eyebrow at you. Now was the time. You had to say it. “You know how bad I want you. I touched you up on the sofa, and you let me. You wanted me to, I think. Correct me if I’m wrong, and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, but-”
“You didn’t make me uncomfortable, and you’re not wrong,” Chan admitted. You could see the blush on his cheeks despite the dimly lit room.  He took a deep breath before continuing. “I want you, too.” 
Chan shot across the bed, leaning in and kissing you deeply, his hands tangling in your hair. It made you wet beyond belief that he just felt like he knew what he was doing, hands travelling down to your waist to softly press you into the sheets. His tongue swept into your mouth, pressing against yours and you whimpered, making him groan into the kiss. When his hands went up to your hair, he intertwined his fingers in the strands and pulled, making you gasp and let out a heady, hot breath. He pulled away, lips parted when he stared at you. 
“You are such a horny little thing, it’s so hot,” He mumbled, lips pressing to your neck. He bit your skin sharply, making you keen and spread your legs, allowing him to position his hips between your thighs. The movement pressed his bulge into your core, and you tried not to shift and move your hips in a rhythm of pleasure. His fingers traced over your skin, and he chuckled, a low, sexy sound that made your heart race. He pulled back, leaning back on his legs and staring at you, eyes blown wide with lust. “I want to see you touch yourself.”
You paused. “What?”
“I want to know what you like. Show me how you make yourself cum, and I’ll fuck you tomorrow night. How’s that sound?” He was propositioning you, teasing you, and you were falling for it - hook, line and sinker. 
You gave him a nod. Right. Touching yourself for him - that was something you could do. This was just another Wednesday for you, you loved putting on a show, especially for a man who was rock hard and obviously desperate for you. But with Chan… why did you feel so fucking nervous all of a sudden? You'd spent your whole day waiting to fuck him, and he’d taken back the power, thrown a wrench into your plans.
You leaned back on your bed. How did you sit sexily? You were stuck in your own head.
Chan moved backwards, hand moving over his clothed erection. He’d spread his legs, thick thighs parted for you to see the promising bulge between them. "Pretend I'm not even here, sweetheart," he said, eyes blown wide with lust. You almost rolled your eyes. Easier said than done, when he was sitting there with his dark curls and his thick, kissable lips and his impossibly huge bulge. “Touch yourself like you’ve done before. Show me how you make yourself cum, and I’ll fuck you tomorrow, I promise.”
Fuck it. You'd never let an attractive man break you down yet, and that wasn't going to change. You nodded timidly, hands moving to grip your breasts through your shirt. It made you sigh, and Chan responded with a noise of his own when you impatiently rucked the fabric up to above your chest. Sucking two fingers into your mouth, you whined when you traced the wet digits around your pebbled peak teasingly. 
“Ah, ‘s- I’m sensitive there, Channie,” You mumbled, and he nodded as if he was making a note for it for later. You trailed your fingertips across your nipples, pinching and twisting them almost painfully just to make your hips cant up into thin air. You were too impatient to do this how you normally would, so you scratched your fingernails down your tummy and shoved a hand in your pyjama bottoms. You were met with slick, wet folds, fingers sliding around in the mess you made. 
“Show me,” Chan said, eyes trained on where your hand disappeared beneath the fabric. “Show me that pussy. You’re meant to be showing me everything, remember?”
“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” You huffed, and Chan shook his head in disbelief, grinning. You were shocked to see he actually listened, though, pushing his joggers down to his thighs and letting his erection spring out. It was impossibly hard, pearlescent drops accumulating on his cockhead and you licked your lips subconsciously. “I wanna-”
“No,” Chan cut you off, hand moving to wrap around his cock in a tight fist. He was long, thick and heavy between his thighs and you felt your pussy clench sadly around nothing. “Show me your pussy. I’m not asking again, let me take a look at it.”
You whined, pushing your pyjama bottoms down to reveal your slick core. Your clit was swollen, throbbing with need just from a few kisses and Chan’s general presence, and you could feel a rivulet of wetness sliding down between your lips. Chan groaned in approval, hand quickening on his cock just slightly.
“Spread it, show me your hole,” Chan said, and you moved your thighs further apart for him. Reaching down with two fingers, you moved them into a v-shape and spread your folds for him. Your hole quivered under the inspection, leaking more wetness and Chan’s eyes were hyper fixated on it. “Oh, baby. That looks tight. Has no one ever fucked that little pussy right, huh? Tell me.”
“N-No,” You shook your head, thighs quivering when you finally let two fingers rub over your clit. You started with a blistering pace immediately, making your toes curl into the sheets and your back arch upwards. “No, I- it’s only boys from college, I don’t-”
“Ah, I see. You need someone older, yeah? More experienced?” Chan questioned, his breath coming out heavy with every tightly fisted movement on his cock. You whined, nodding, and then you were breaching your hole with two fingers immediately. The stretch made you groan, head falling back against the pillow. “Is that why you tried to seduce me, yeah? Wanted to have my cock stretching you out just right, wanted to call me daddy while I made you cry?”
God, he’d got it. He was right on the mark. “Yes, y-yes, I- I wanted to, oh, I wanted to call you daddy, and- and feel you inside me, and oh, Channie, please-” You cut yourself off with a moan, perhaps too loud as you curled your fingertips up against your g-spot. Chan threw his head back, letting out a grunt as he pinched his cockhead almost painfully. 
“Say it then, baby. What’s stopping you?” He polished the head of his cock, moaning before he took it into his tight grip again. His precum served as lubrication, his hand now making wet slick sounds on his thick length. You gasped when he moved his free hand to his balls, rubbing calloused fingertips over them and letting out his own gasp. “Beg me for my cock. I know you want it, look at you. Fuckin’ desperate, yeah? Beg daddy for his big cock.”
“Oh, daddy,” You whined, moving your free hand to rub over your clit. Everything was so wet, sliding around your pussy and you were honestly surprised you could feel anything - but it felt so fucking good, having him watch you like this, learning what you liked so he could replicate it. “Fuckin’- daddy, daddy, please, can I have it? Been good, doin’ what you asked, I- hnnng, daddy, oh my god-”
“No,” He smiled, a cocky grin while he rubbed one hand over his cock and the other over his heavy balls. “No, baby. Not tonight. Make yourself cum tonight, and daddy will help you tomorrow.”
“I- need more, need more, I-'' Chan surged over the bed, leaning over your figure to press his lips against yours. His tongue dominated your mouth again, and you could feel his closed fist hitting your stomach as he worked himself to his orgasm. The sensation had you whining against his plush lips, fingers thrusting quicker into your pussy and your other hand sliding around your clit messily. When he pulled away, lips digging into your bottom lip teasingly, his lips were quick to move to your neck to suck some dark purple marks into the skin. You felt yourself trembling, your body tense as you felt yourself getting closer to the edge. Your fingers stroked your walls faster, pussy fluttering around your digits in delight, and your mouth opened in a gasp as you felt your body tense and tremble with pleasure. “I’m g’na- g’na cum, gonna cum, please, can I? Can I, daddy? Can I cum for you, please?”
“Yeah, baby,” He huffed, eyes rolling back into his head. He was practically drooling onto your skin, lips parted against your neck as you whined and thrashed on your bedsheets. “Cum for me. Been good for daddy, haven’t you? You can cum, baby, c’mon. Show me how pretty you are when you cum.”
You fell apart around your own fingers, your orgasm crashing through you like a wave. Your thighs tensed with your orgasm, your pussy clenching down impossibly tighter around your hand and flooding down to your knuckles with your cum. You begged and pleaded, your voice a barely audible babble as your body shook with the sensation. 
Finally, when you’d just felt like you were coming down, Chan pulled your wrist away from your pussy. The movement left you empty, your walls still clenching down except now it was around nothing, and you whined, bottom lip quivering in need. 
“Hands off,” He sighed, hand slowing down on his cock. He was trying to last longer for something - you weren’t sure what, but you let your other hand drop from your clit obediently. “Daddy’s gonna cum on this wet little hole, baby, okay? You gonna let me cum here, mark you as mine?”
“Yes,” You moaned, nodding. You couldn’t think of anything better, actually. “‘M yours, I’m yours, daddy, gimme.”
“Dirty thing, perfect little girl,” He grunted, and then he was positioning his cockhead at your hole. With a few more movements, increasing in speed, you watched as his face screwed up in pleasure. His hips bucked, and with a final thrust, he came. You felt his cum drip down your hole as he groaned through his orgasm, thick white cum plastering your pussy. It was definitely the sexiest thing you’d experienced, but you still felt a little disappointed - why couldn’t he have just done it inside you?
“Wan’it,” You whined, pulling your legs back. Chan chuckled upon seeing the pout on your lips. “Why couldn’t you- in me, wanted it in me, daddy.” 
“Greedy bitch,” He mused, and then he was delving down to your core. Your mind went blank when his tongue licked fat stripes up your folds, collecting all of his cum and your wetness in his mouth. You briefly thought you could cum from this, very quickly judging by the way he knew what he was doing, but he simply leaned over you and grabbed your jaw. 
Oh. You let your lips part, tongue lolling out of your mouth obediently, and he spat the mixture of your cum into your mouth. You felt him lick into your mouth again, groaning at the taste of your pussy and his load. He smiled against your lips and pulled away, your eyes wide as you tried to process what had just happened. 
Chan’s lips curved in satisfaction at your state, your chest still heaving with a blotchy rash that bore the truth of what you’d been up to. He ran his thumb over your bottom lip, and then he was standing up and leaving the room, bottoms barely pulled over his hips. You laid there, feeling an intense mix of pleasure and confusion.
What the fuck just happened?
THURSDAY
You hadn’t even processed what had happened last night. In all honesty, you’d run out of the house in the morning under the premise of a coffee date with friends you didn’t even have. You just sat in the cafe on call with Changbin and Felix and screamed way too loudly for a public area. The whole cafe knew of your predicament by the end of it.
Upon your return home, you’d beelined to your room and kicked the door shut as quietly as you could. Unfortunately, your foot slipped on the floor and you’d ended up face down with a groan.
Turning over onto your back, you huffed at the offending item that had caused your decline to the ground. A piece of paper met your eyes, neatly folded and written on with what looked like black Sharpie when you’d finally unravelled it.
Three words. Three words that changed your life and let you know that what occurred the night before had really happened. No, not ‘I love you’ - it was simple, a scrawled ‘your room, tonight’. It did happen. You touched yourself in front of Chan, and he was planning on coming back to your room to continue what you’d discussed.
You wanted to squeal and kick your feet, but beneath it all, you felt panicked. This plan had gone too far, and you’d perhaps started to think about spending time with your mother’s boyfriend - actual time, not just sexually charged meetings. It hurt a little bit, a pang in your chest when you remembered that what was happening really was just sexual. Your little arrangement being anything else just wasn’t fathomable.
Chan was interesting. He was a fucking music producer, for god’s sake. That was just straight up cool. That, and he was older than you - you did have raging daddy issues like your friends had said, after all. His friend had sounded funny on the phone, which meant he had to be funny, too. 
All things serious, you didn’t really know much about him, but you wanted to know. Felix had encouraged you to find out, and you felt like you owed it to him - or yourself, you weren’t sure. 
The knock on your door once the evening fell brought you out of your reverie. Chan didn’t wait for a response, swinging your bedroom door open and walking straight in as if he owned the house. You huffed at his demeanour, yet your eyes were still fixated on the way he walked over to your bed with intent. You threw your phone to the side. Felix would have to wait for your half-typed text message. 
“Back again so soon?” You quipped, and he raised an eyebrow. He was only in grey joggers, the thin material highlighting his thick dick imprint between his legs. The fabric hung low, showing off the body that you knew he worked so hard for. His chest was honey toned, yet covered in light, sparse freckles - you wanted to make yourself acquainted with every single one. You felt a little overdressed in just an oversized t-shirt and shorts.
Seeing the frustrated expression on your face, Chan’s own face fell. “Do you not want me here?” He said, voice no more than a whisper. “I can go, if you don’t want to see me tonight. I just thought-”
“I do,” You nodded, finally raising yourself from your position lying down to sitting up cross legged. Chan laid on the bed in front of you, one arm propping his head up. He gazed at you for a few moments, and you could see the relief in his eyes at your words. “I do want to see you tonight. I want to see you like… a lot. Don’t you think it’s weird though? I’m your girlfriend’s daughter, Chan, and we’ve kissed and- and done other stuff, and-”
He scooted over so that he was next to you, and you leaned into him subconsciously. He pulled you in with his arm around your shoulders, broad and muscled. You felt content, comfortable and most of all safe. It was a feeling you’d never felt before.
“I don’t think it’s weird,” Chan hummed, his chest vibrating beneath where you’d landed when he pulled you in. He chuckled, then, his hand moving to your hair comfortingly. “Okay, maybe it is a little weird. I’m just very interested in you. I know you heard me on the phone to Minho, and yes, you are my type - I want to know more about you. Like, even beneath the sexually charged tension, heh.”
Oh. You licked your lips, eyes fixated on a random spot in your wall. “You do?”
He nodded. “I do.”
You couldn’t help yourself. You raised your head, surging over Chan’s body to press a kiss to his lips. His hair was soft when you ran your hands through it, despite random curls getting caught in your nails and causing him to groan at the pain flooding through his scalp. His hands went to your waist, licking into your mouth while he effortlessly pulled you on top of him. The show of strength had you whimpering into the kiss, hands moving down to his jaw. It clenched and unclenched while he had full control over your mouth despite you being on top. 
You pulled away with a wet sigh, moving downwards to kiss at his neck. He groaned underneath his breath at the sensation of your lips on his skin. Your bed squeaked awkwardly as you moved down it, too quick for the old springs to handle. It felt naughty, kissing him like this in your childhood room - it felt even dirtier than the night before had, and you hadn’t done anything yet.
“I need you, Chan,” You whispered, nipping at his collarbone. “Need you. Please.” 
He gasped as he felt your tongue trace the outline of his collarbone. He flung one bicep over his dark eyes with a deep sigh, allowing you to kiss and bite all over his skin. He looked like he was trying to control himself. You didn’t want him to.
Your hips started to grind against him, and you placed your palms flat on his chest. Both of Chan’s hands moved back to your hips with a surprised noise, but he didn’t stop you. His dick was hardening in his joggers, and it was providing the best clothed friction to your aching, needy clit below your pyjama shorts. You saw how big it was before, yet the length of it still shocked you when you slid your clothed core up and down the shaft.
“Daddy,” You whined, hips starting to buck frantically. You were sure that you had never felt this needy in your life. “Daddy, daddy, I want you so bad. You turn me on so bad, make me feel so hot, please-”
“Baby,” Chan groaned, his head falling back against your pillows. The soft pink bed sheets juxtaposed completely with what you were doing, and juxtaposed completely with him - Chan, the muscled man with dark hair who wore black and grey clothes constantly. It was as if he was corrupting you, and he was in a sense, being so much older. “Baby, c’mere, come and lay on the bed. Let daddy eat you out, yeah?”
“No,” You shook your head, hips still moving on his erection. Chan’s chest had started to accumulate a thin layer of dewy sweat, slick on his skin and making you want to lick it off. “I want your cock. I don’t wanna wait, I don’t wanna wait, please, just put it in, I’m wet enough, I promise.”
He knew you were babbling, incoherent in your haze of lust, but he still entertained you enough anyway. You spread your legs wider when his hand met your thigh, and then he was pushing two fingers beneath your shorts. He was met with your slick folds, and you gasped at feeling the touch of his fingertips, calloused from years of working with music.
“Oh, fucking hell. Dirty girl, dirty fuckin’ girl,” Chan moaned, his eyes almost rolling back into his head. “This pussy’s so fuckin’ wet, baby. All we did was kiss. Are you that much of a slut for me? Are you that much of a slut for your mother’s boyfriend? That’s filthy.”
“Yes!” You wailed, nodding. You reached down, canting your hips backwards a little bit so you could spread your thighs wider before hooking your fingers in your shorts and pulling them to the side. The movement revealed your pussy, clit swollen at the top of soaking wet folds, covering your drippy hole. “I wan’it so bad, so bad, so bad, please, please. Just push it in, make it hurt, I don’t care-”
Chan shoved the fingers of his spare hand between your parted lips, effectively shutting you up. “Shut up. You’ve got to prove to me you deserve it, baby.”
With those words, he was pushing a finger past your entrance. It breached your hole easily, the digit sliding through your wetness and curving up past your g-spot. Chan shook his head in a mixture of disbelief and shock, and then he was pulling his finger out. With a quick movement, he’d yanked his joggers down and let his cock spring out. The coarse hair was trimmed above his long, thick shaft and you couldn’t help but imagine the type of friction that would give your clit - you couldn’t wait.
“You were right. That slutty pussy is wet enough,” He mused, pulling your hips over his bare cock. Your pyjama shorts were slightly in the way, and you pulled them aside even more, letting your folds leave wetness over his shaft. “Lower yourself on it. Stretch yourself out. Slowly.”
You did as he asked, lowering your body onto his length. You felt the stretch immediately. You moaned, loud and ringing off of your walls. You didn’t give a shit if your mother heard. Fuck, you needed this. You wanted to bounce all over his cock until there was nothing left and your hole could do nothing but remember the tight fit. Trying to sit down quicker, Chan grabbed your hips, stopping you while only half his length was in you.
“You're gonna hurt yourself like that, sweetheart. That hole is so tight around me.”
“Please, daddy,” Your head fell into the nape of his neck. You wriggled yourself in his tight hold, trying to get more of his length in your pussy. He shook his head against you, chuckling.
“You want it? Fine, but don't fucking cry to me when it hurts,” Chan said, letting go of your ass. You realised he'd been holding you up, and within a millisecond you'd slammed down onto him. You wanted to scream, the stretch more than you could take. He laughed again, raising his eyebrows at you mockingly. “Too big?”
"N-No, perfect," You retorted. He moaned, spreading his legs and placing his feet flat on the mattress. More. More. Fucking more. You began to raise on him, expecting to ride that perfect cock, but he started to thrust up into you at an unrelenting place straight away, his balls slapping against your ass. You moaned incoherently, almost babbling, hands digging into his toned biceps. He leaned up to nip at your neck, and then he was pulling your t-shirt off of your body.
“No fucking bra?” Chan laughed in disbelief. His mouth went straight to your nipples, biting and sucking on the hard peaks. You jostled on his lap with his thrusts. You wanted to rub your clit, but you felt like he probably wouldn't let you. “Knew you were fucking filthy, sweetheart. You didn't even care about me going raw, did you? You want my load in that dirty hole. And now I find out these pretty tits were only one layer away from me…”
His voice trailed off. You whined, leaning down to try and kiss him again. He shoved his two fingers back in your mouth, making you suck on them. His bruising sucks caused your nipples to hurt, and you fucking loved it. You knew he was marking you up and you'd just have to deal with it.
You tried to start riding him. He didn't let you, manhandling you off of his cock.
“Daddy!” You whined in protest. Chan chuckled. He lifted you and manhandled you so your back was facing him on your bed, and you immediately repositioned yourself so you were face down, ass up. He reentered you in one swift thrust, causing you to jolt in surprise.
“Fucking tight pussy,” He groaned, thrusting into you with the same vigor as before. You almost screamed, but managed to just moan incoherently. The mattress creaked, the sound of old springs ringing around the room. “Fucking dirty hole. Listen to that, sweetheart. Can you hear how wet your cunt is for daddy's cock? For your mother’s boyfriend’s cock?”
You tried to stop whining and moaning to hear what he was pointing out to you, hearing wet slaps. Your cheeks burned with humiliation, fingernails digging into the mattress. You knew you were dripping for a fact now. You could hear it, you could hear everything, his balls slapping against your clit as well as the wet noise of his heavy cock reentering you. 
You threw your ass back against him, trying to get the tip to hit that special spot inside of you. 
“I think that asshole needs me too, sweetheart,” Chan laughed mirthlessly, his hands resting firmly on your ass, encouraging your bouncing. You moaned in response, clenching your pussy tight. He was going to ruin you for everyone. You'd have to just keep coming back for more. “You want daddy's finger in there? You want me to finger your asshole?”
Oh, yes. “Please, daddy, need to be full,” You said, wiggling your hips against him. You vaguely registered him reaching around you and making you suck on the fingers that had previously been in your mouth. He was going to fill both of your holes, and he moaned loudly at the sight of you sucking his fingers. There was no way that the whole house hadn’t heard you both by now. You hoped they were sleeping.
You sighed in ecstasy, feeling the fingers begin to move inside your ass. His thrusting was now hitting your g-spot in your pussy, given the added pressure from being full in both holes. You felt the orgasm finally begin to build. You liked the way he wasn't rushing you to cum, not like those younger college boys. He was taking care of you and just having good fucking sex. “Feels so fucking good, daddy. Feels so good.”
You were now semi-incoherent, your words all joining together in one long moan. Chan loved it, judging by his moans. His cock was pulsing inside you. You wondered if he was close. You wanted him to fill you up to the point where it was dripping out of you. 
He pulled out of you again, grabbing your leg with one strong hand and flipping you onto your back. You were out of breath from the exertion, despite him doing all the work, and he looked fully composed save for the thin sheen of sweat on his body.
“Feels good, baby?” He asked, looming above you. You squirmed feeling your sweaty back rubbing against the blanket uncomfortably, but you nodded anyway. You wanted to please him. He looked down at your writhing body, letting out another groan. “So fucking sexy. You don’t know how much you fucking killed me, teasing me like that. Touch that pussy for me again, show me.”
He started pumping his shaft quickly, still staring down at you. You reached down with one hand and immediately pressed two fingers against your entrance, collecting the slick gathering outside before diving straight in. You curled your fingers against that spot inside of you, whining out. It wasn't enough. Not after having that fat cock in you. He definitely had ruined you for everyone else, including yourself. Nothing was ever going to feel the same again. 
“Mmm. Looks so wet, sweetheart. Daddy wants a taste, is that okay?” Chan questioned, moving back onto his knees. You pulled your fingers out and tried not to cry at the loss.
“Please, daddy. Wanna cum in your mouth,” You slurred out, pushing his head towards you. He moaned into your pussy, taking his fat tongue and licking one wet stripe up your slit. He pulled your pussy back, exposing that throbbing clit to him, and placed one lick directly onto your button. "Fuck, daddy, feels so good! Suck it, please, suck it. I - please - need to cum so bad!"
“Need to cum, huh, sweetheart? I'll make your little pussy throb for me and then I'm putting my cock right back in that tight hole, where it belongs,” He spoke. He thrust two fingers into your slit, much thicker and longer than yours. You spread your legs, holding them up against your chest. You literally almost purred when he started moving his fingers, curling them up into that spot and sucking on your clit whilst he did so. It wasn't going to take long. The man was clearly amazing at every part of sex. 
You focused on the feeling of his wet tongue rubbing up against your clit and writhed, feeling closer and closer to the edge. He knew what he was fucking doing. Your thighs started to shake, taking everything in you not to just let them go from your hold and clutch around Chan’s head. You wanted him to permanently live between your thighs. Your eyes clenched shut, a deep sigh leaving you. 
“Fuck, I'm g’na cum,” You mumbled out, chest heaving and flushed a shade of crimson. Chan pulled away, causing you to whine. You pouted, reaching up to grab his shoulders. "No, no! You said I could. You said you would help me.”
“What I said was that I'd make it throb for you and then I'm sliding back right in here, sweetheart. Be good for daddy, you'll get to cum,” He positioned his length at your core again, sliding right back into home. You both moaned, and he was fucking you in a mating press this time, almost as if you were a couple in love. You wished you were, and realised this was definitely your favourite position so far. The man fucked like an animal and now he was fucking you like he was going to breed you, and you loved it. He reached down with one hand to rub your clit rapidly, trying to bring you to the edge. “This is my fucking pussy. My favourite fucking pussy, my only girl, the only pussy for me, okay?”
“Fuck!” You cried of overstimulation, hands still wrapped around your legs. “G’na... getting close again, gonna-”
“Cum then, sweetheart, flood my cock. Make a mess for me, come on, do it," Chris encouraged, breathing heavily next to your ear. His eyes were focused on where he was entering you over and over again, taking note of the white ring of slick that had formed around the base of his cock, soaking the hair that rested there. You scrunched your eyes shut, feeling overwhelmed with bliss. “That's it. That's my good girl.”
White hot ecstasy overtook your body. You wanted to squirm, but with the pressure of the muscular man on top of your body, you had nowhere to go. You focused on the feeling of his slick chest rubbing against your sensitive nipples, whining and moaning as the orgasm coursed through your body and made it feel like you were being electrocuted. 
“Fucking clenching on my cock, shit,” Chan groaned, his hand falling away from your clit once your breathing had began to calm slightly. His hands went down to grab your hips, and before you knew it, he was lifting your hips up and fucking you senseless, treating you like a toy. “W-Wanted to be soft with you for our first time, sweetheart. I'm not normally like this, not at all, but this fucking pussy is driving me insane, fuck... I need to fill you up. Will you let daddy fill that pussy with my cum, sweetheart? Let me breed you, make you mine?”
You nodded quickly, unable to speak at this point. Your hole felt raw, sensitive and fucked open, but you needed his cum in you. You thought you might die if you didn't get it soon. His tip jabbed into your g spot incessantly, almost causing you to cum again, but you subconsciously knew you couldn't take another orgasm at the same level as the previous one. You might die. 
“Fucking- g’na breed you, sweetheart. Gonna make you mine. G-Gonna give you a baby, g’na fill you up, fuck!”
With an animalistic growl, Chan’s head dropped to your neck, biting into the skin there and definitely leaving a mark. You felt his hips still and cum flooded out of the tip of his length, flooding your hole with a new sense of wetness. You sighed with content and laid there until Chan’s breathing calmed, his body weight fully on top of you and yet not uncomfortable. 
“I have to be honest about something,” Chan sighed. You looked up at him from your position on his chest, and he looked down at you with an apprehensive look. He looked a lot shyer than he did moments before, when he was fucking you senseless and calling you a slut - he was blushing now, embarrassed. You were sure that’s what you liked about him. “You’re- it’s like you were made for me. I don’t know what the fuck to do, heh. I’m falling for you, I think.”
You blinked, leaning up to rest inches away from his face. Got him. You’d got him. “Well, that’s okay, Chan. You’re closer to my age anyway, right?”
6K notes · View notes
hanjisick · 1 month
Text
Orders.
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
genre. mafia au. bodyguard!lee know x fem!reader
desc. your father is an elite, high ranking official in a mafia family. after your first kidnapping, a bodyguard was hired to ensure your safety.
warnings. nsfw. fingering & sex. torture. kidnapping. murder. violence.
wc. 10k
✉️ : this is my first writing after a 9 month hiatus. i apologize for the unannounced break and i will be answering and writing again shortly. enjoy! :)
Tumblr media
You sit in a wooden chair, wheezing and thrashing from days of sleep deprivation and torment. Your body aches, wrists bruised and bloody from the ropes, and you almost feel like giving in and spilling Daddy’s secrets— allowing them to kill you and the family.
But you knew better than that. You knew that you'd be saved.
The gunshots and cries for help weren't unexpected from above the dark bunker.
With an ear-piercing creak, the door swings open and the shadow of a man emerges through the doorstep, shoes squeaking with fresh blood underneath.
He doesn’t let out a single word as he kneels to grab your face and examine it. Your attention follows the ring on his finger. An insignia that he is part of the family. You can depend on him.
But still, you wince, sharply inhaling as his fingers aggravate your wounds.
“Don’t get their blood in my wounds, I don’t know what kind of freaks they are,” You grumble, voice husky from days of screaming.
You let him turn your head, retaining eye contact with the floor as you grit your teeth.
“Relax,” he mumbles, “I don’t bite.”
He leans closer to examine your wounds. “You took a lot of hits. How many people are here?”
He draws back as you reply, “Can’t tell you exactly.”
“About four of them grabbed me while I was leaving the house— stupid on their part, no wonder you were here so shortly,” You trail off before catching yourself back on topic.
“But I’ve only seen three different men since I’ve been here. Only to beat me and interrogate me. Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything to put Daddy at risk.”
“I heard two other unrecognizable voices. That would make nine people in the building that I know of. Of course, there could always be more. How many did you shoot?”
“Six,” he responds before looking down at your scrapes and wounds again.
You feel him caress your cheek once more, his cold skin sending shivers down your spine.
“You’re in bad shape.”
“If there’s more here, we need to get out as soon as possible. We can worry about my wounds as soon as these people aren’t on our ass.”
You struggle in your bounds, the ropes burning your already bloody wrists, “Could you untie me, first?”
“Don’t move.”
You obey his command, halting as he unties the ropes, uncovering the painful burn marks and blisters.
“That fucking hurt,” you rotate your wrists, “I could’ve gotten out without your help eventually, though.” Your voice is rough, breath coming out in harsh, sharp drags.
“Sure, you would’ve.”
You stumble to your feet as he pulls you into him for safety. He reeks of gunpowder and high-dollar cologne— presumably something that Daddy has made sure that he has the money for.
“Stay close to me, when we get to the front, you go out first and then I’ll leave right after.”
You follow the unfamiliar man out of the maze, almost slipping on the floor blanketed in blood.
You adjust to the bright sunlight— and it feels gentle against your damaged skin. It seems like time has stood still while you were captured. “Did Daddy order you a car?”
“Yes,” he answers, “Some men are waiting out front to take us to the closest hospital— which isn’t too far.”
“I’m being hospitalized?” You follow him into the backseat, finally slacking for a moment ontop of the fresh leather.
“It’s not my choice to have you taken to the hospital, it’s the orders.”
“Do I have a statement to tell the nurse?” You look at him in concern.
“Am I supposed to say, ‘Oh, I was kidnapped by Daddy’s enemies! By the way, he’s in the mafia! Who wants to arrest Daddy?’”
“Tell them you fell down the stairs.” His flat tone contrasts your own, remaining unfazed.
“How would that cover up my wrists' burn marks?” You hold up the bloody and bruised dents, “Nobody gets these from falling down the stairs. There's way too much blood— and some of it isn’t even mine.”
He raises an eyebrow, looking over to the burn marks on your wrist and then back to you.
“Then tell them you accidentally burnt yourself while cooking.”
“Are you even listening to me? Are you stupid?”
He doesn’t respond for a moment, not seeming to care about the situation.
“It’s not hard to pay them to be silent.”
“How about I tell them that I was heavily bullied at school and a couple of classmates did this to me? I think that could work.”
You two arrive at the front entrance of the emergency room, he follows behind you, strolling through the automatic door.
“I’m fine, really, I was just beaten by classmates,” You lie through your teeth to the front desk, “My boyfriend took me here to get it checked out.”
He raises an eyebrow.
You comply with the nurses as they check your weight and interview you.
“I don’t have any stab wounds, at least I don’t think so— I don’t remember what they did to me. I was held captive for a few,” Your voice trails off as you wince at a sudden pang.
You glance down at your bleeding side and are unexpectedly whacked with all of the distress that you had been repressing at once.
Your vision starts to fade, face pale as a ghost.
The man rushes over as they carry you to a bed, and he kneels beside you to review your condition. Your body is pale and cold, breathing jagged and rapid.
You hear the whispers of the staff panicking. One nurse checks your pulse, and another elevates your legs.
“I need my blood sugar up,” the first words that come out of your mouth sound weak and painful.
You look over at the man beside you.
You need to lie. But you don’t even know his name.
“Boyfriend,” you determine, “please get me a sugary drink from the vending machine.”
A subtle smirk forms upon his lips, but it vanishes as soon as it appears.
“Fine,” he rises to his feet.
You hiss as the nurses sterilize your wounds, shrieking and thrashing on the mattress at the sting. You try to stay still, but the pain is intolerable.
Footsteps echo and you find the man returning with a chocolate bar, which he holds out to you. He brings it close to your lips and holds the chocolate against your mouth for you to take a bite, “Slowly.”
“I told you to get me a drink,” You disregard his command, biting the chocolate quickly, almost aggressively.
His lips turn up, amused by your action.
The nurses finish stitching up your deep gashes and bandaging your wounds, recommending that you stay the night.
“Pay for the bill with Daddy’s cash and let’s get out of here,” you state coldly, “I need to shower and get all of this blood out of my hair. I don’t want to stay here.”
“As long as you can walk by yourself, we can leave right away.” He replies. The man takes out a wad of bills quickly counts the money and pays for the bill.
You stay speechless until entering the car.
“Who are you?”
“I’m your bodyguard. Your father hired me to look out for you after the kidnapping.”
You nod in acknowledgment. “Will you be staying at the estate with me? Or is it a ‘only when I leave the house’ kind of deal?”
“My primary duty is to protect you from anyone or anything that could harm you, whether that be outside or inside the house. I could go wherever you wish me to follow you, and I will be there.”
“You won’t sleep in bed with me though, right?”
He stays silent for a moment.
“You are correct, I am here to protect, nothing more. I will not sleep next to you. I am merely your bodyguard and take your orders.”
“Good boy,” you grin, “I bet Daddy will pay you very nicely. Why else would you take this job? How much does he give you? Either way, I’m sure you have enough to buy a mansion.”
The bodyguard holds back an eye roll. “I will have more than enough money. Not only that but he also provides me with a home.” He adds with a smirk.
“Good.” You reply.
You fall silent, allowing him to drive, taking in the past few days.
You were never worried about surviving, You understood that Daddy would handle it. But you didn’t expect to be as hurt as you were.
He could’ve saved you sooner.
“When we get home, order the chef to make me something sweet, I deserve a treat,” you state, “I’m going to shower and you are not allowed to enter my bathroom under any circumstance. Even if I’m dying.”
“You would die before letting me enter your bathroom? I get it.” He retorts.
Once you both arrive at the estate, you stumble out of the car. You don’t linger for him.
You’re welcomed by a handful of workers as you enter the home, but ignore them as you make a beeline up the stairs and towards the bedroom.
The door locks behind you and the room is silent. You feel the weariness creep on as your wounds sting. You lean against the door, sliding down.
After a moment of peace, you head towards the shower to comb the dried blood out of your hair.
You scrub your face carefully, avoiding the stitches above your eyebrows.
You wash your body entirely, removing the blood stains with soap, water, and a wash rag. Then you comb out the dried blood.
Once you finish, you dry yourself off and dress in a plain, silk nightdress.
Leaving your bedroom, you turn to look for your guard. He is at the doorway of your room when you walk out. His eyes roam around your body for a brief moment, examining the nightgown.
“Do you require assistance?”
“Did you place an order for something sweet, like I asked?” You peer at his suit, moving in to adjust his tie.
He follows your hand as it moves, eyeing you for a few moments before he utters, “I did, the chef will be bringing it to your room once it’s prepared.”
“Good boy.”
You look up at his face once you are pleased with the positioning. You grimace at his sharp, cold face. The blood was dried, brown, and unpleasing. The man’s hand relaxes on the gun holstered on his hip.
“I order you to come into my bedroom.”
His eyebrows crease. He understands his role as your bodyguard— nonetheless, he doesn’t get a kick out of being ordered around in this tone.
He takes a deep breath. “Your wish is my command.”
The room is massive, a silk-covered canopy bed sits in the center of it. He pays no mind to looking around, concentrating on the job at hand.
“Sit down on my bed,” you demand, steering towards the bathroom and pushing open the double doors.
He obeys your orders without question, crossing his legs, and keeping his hand resting beside his gun.
The bodyguard keeps a close, attentive eye on the doors, supervising the way that you soak a washrag with warm water, squeezing out the excess.
You sit beside him, grabbing his chin and leaning into his face. He tenses.
“Relax, I don’t bite,” you smirk, reiterating his first words from the moment he met you back to him, massaging the dried blood off of his face, “No guard of mine will have a messy appearance.”
You can tell that he feels uneasy, but he can’t reject you. If you wish for him to relax, he will make an effort to relax.
You can’t help but notice his complexion when he isn’t scowling. The apathy melts away as you wipe the dried blood, giving you a new perspective on his appearance.
“You’re handsome,” you state bluntly, “Especially without blood covering your face.”
You toss the rag into the laundry basket carelessly, waiting for a maid to take care of it.
“Thank you.”
“What is your name? You never told me.”
His eyebrows arch slightly at the question.“It’s Minho.”
“I am Y/N,” You reply, holding out your hand to shake his own. His grip is firm and warm.
He keeps a stoic face as he glances at your face and back at your hand, as if he is searching for an ulterior motive behind this handshake.
The food.
The bell rings and the sound of it shatters the stillness of the room. Minho’s head jolts towards the door, hand back on his gun.
He rises instantly, opening it to reveal the maid with a tray of sweet snacks.
He takes it from her. “I will bring it in.”
“What a good boy, Minho,” you praise, clapping your hands together as he sets the tray on your lap.
“I don’t take you for a man who enjoys sweet food much. Do you like sweets?”
“Sometimes.”
You unwrap a piece of high-dollar chocolate, “I command you to open your mouth.”
Minho can’t deny you, it would be disobeying your orders.
He opens his mouth as the chocolate is positioned between his lips.
You relish in the chocolates with Minho and once finished, you set the tray on the floor for a maid to pick up at sunrise.
“I don’t think I mind you being around all that much, Daddy makes good decisions.” You lay down on the mattress.
“Your father does make good decisions.”
His gaze wavered on your face until you drifted off to sleep. Only then did they slowly trail down to your body.
The way your body was built captivated him. Minho was glued to your sleeping form.
He stayed in the room, taking a seat on a chair in the corner to watch you.
He didn’t know how long it had been since you had dozed off, but by the way that the room was now pitch black and noiseless aside from your figure rising and falling, he would imagine that it had been a couple of hours.
“How long are you going to sit there?” Your sleep-filled voice questions him, causing him to snap out of his daze, hand reaching for his gun out of instinct.
“Do you sleep? Are you allowed to sleep?”
“I will only remain in the room as long as you order me to. I do sleep,” He replies, “Now is there anything else you need my assistance with? Or can I return to my duties?”
“So you’re only staying in the room because I ordered you two hours ago?” There’s a tinge of dismay in your voice, but it was masked by sleep, “You can leave if you want, I don’t mind.”
Minho felt a sudden pit in his stomach. You sounded disappointed by his statement.
Your words are perplexing him, and he can’t conclude what you want from him. To stay or to go?
“Should I stay for a bit longer?”
You were already asleep again once he had responded.
You and Minho both wake to a maid opening the blinds and ringing a bell. You groan, stretching your body.
“Miss, let’s get you dressed for today.”
She pulls your nightgown up above your head as Minho’s eyes wander toward your laced underwear.
“What’s on my schedule for today?”
He quickly forces his gaze to look away and stares back at the maid.
“We want you to heal from your injuries, miss,” she answers, “we will start with a nutritious breakfast to encourage recovery, and attend to your injuries, and then you will speak with Daddy about your incident.”
The maid buttons your fitted dress, glancing in Minho’s direction, “Your bodyguard will need to be there for your conversation with Daddy.”
“He will?”
“He needs to tell Daddy what he witnessed from the facility.”
You nod, following her lead down the stairs and towards the breakfast table.
Minho follows suit, remaining at your side the entire time and he watches you eat, staying observant and cautious.
“Are you hungry?”
This question catches Minho off guard.
“No.” He adds in a dull tone— but in actuality, he is starving. He was entrusted to watch over you. He shouldn’t eat on the clock.
“Maid, go order,” You look Minho up and down, “A side of crepes. Blueberry crepes. And two cups of coffee.”
The maid hurries to the kitchen to place the order, and it is brought out a couple of minutes later.
He stares at the crepes being placed on the table, and his belly grumbles. “Thank you.”
The maid carries the mugs of coffee to the table. But it doesn’t take Minho long to catch sight of her cunning smile and the perplexing liquid that the maid slipped into the mugs of coffee.
He stares quietly, calculating his next action.
“Don’t drink it.”
“Why not?”
Minho’s sight narrows as you bring the cup of coffee to your lips.
This time, his tone is warning and direct. “It’s better that you don’t.”
You halt your sip at his harsh command.
The maid pulls out a handgun swiftly after realizing that she has been caught, aiming it at you.
A switch swiftly flips inside of him.
He lunges forward, grabbing the woman’s wrist and twisting the gun to the right, snapping a couple of fingers in the process.
It’s a rapid movement, and he had little time to think before shooting her in the head, watching the life leave her body. His face is apathetic and almost casual.
The maid’s blood spilled onto the floor as the others ran to clean it up.
“He passed the test, we can keep him. A promising guard so far,” Daddy compliments from behind you, “Urgently acting to protect. He knew that she was mindless and weak. He comprehends crises well.”
The older man slips a wad of cash into the breast pocket of Minho’s suit. “Good on protecting her. That was a setup with a stupid maid who was just aching to betray us. You will have the same fate if you are wavered by another team.”
“I think he’s a good boy. He won’t betray me.”
“Y/N, meet me at my office. Guard, follow her.” He swiftly turns away to lead the two of you as you eye Minho.
“You can relax now. No more tests.”
He nods in understanding, heeding silently towards the office.
“Tell me about what you saw at the facility.”
You nod. “Four men had taken me from our garden entrance and used Chloroform to knock me unconscious. I woke up in their van, where my hands and legs were tied. I heard them talking about what they planned to get out of me. They had intentions of murdering me if they got to a week of no answers.”
Minho listens to your explanation with hawk-like eyes, paying close attention to all the details and descriptions.
You clear your throat, running your fingers across your bruised wrist, “I was tied to a chair in their questioning room, and they used forms of torture for me to open up.”
“I was deprived of sleep and beaten if they caught me closing my eyes— trying to get my lack of sleep to cause me to open up about your activities.”
Daddy nodded solemnly, leaning into his chair.
“Waterboarding was their favorite method, but they enjoyed beating me. I assume that was mainly for fun.”
You continued, “Minho appeared and killed a couple of them and saved me, but most are still alive.”
“Still alive? You didn’t find and kill them, bodyguard, why?” Daddy’s intense eyes moved toward Minho, who appeared unbothered.
The fact that he missed a few guys is enough to drive him crazy.
“I had to get her to safety as soon as possible.”
Daddy merely nods. “I will send my men after them. Y/N, did you get any names?”
“They wouldn’t tell me anything about themselves, but I saw a couple of signs of their rival gang.”
“Guard,” he veered towards Minho, “Describe the faces that you saw. I need as much information as possible.”
“They look to be between the ages of 20 to 30, their faces covered in scars. One man had dark skin, and his facial scars were faded. His most notable feature was a slit across his brow. He wore a dark suit. I left him alive but with a bullet in his arm. The other man had a lighter skin tone and his scars were similar to knife wounds. He had gotten away.”
The boss nods.
“Good. I can work with that. Never let my little girl get into trouble like that again, alright?”
The second the words ‘my little girl’ leave his mouth, Minho can’t help but gaze at you. He observes your reactions and motions.
His heart beats by hearing his boss call you that, and his attention is now focused on every single twitch that you make.
“The nurses will be waiting in her bedroom shortly. Be good and do as they say.” He adds, snapping Minho back to him.
“Guard, do not let her go against any of the nurses' rules. She can be convincing. Do not give into it.”
“Yes Sir.”
You roll your eyes, turning away to leave the room.
“Stay safe.” That is the last utterance of the boss before you drag Minho out of the room and towards the bedroom.
“Sit on the bed,” a nurse commands you, and you quickly obey.
She dabs at your abdomen stitches with antiseptic soap and your eyebrows furrow.
“You can’t move around much, got it? No exercising for three weeks until we get these stitches out.”
You agree as she moves on to your wrists, rubbing cream into them, “You’re going to visit us twice a day for six days until the healing is almost complete.”
She yanks a bandage off of your face, causing you to groan in pain. She rubs another ointment on it before substituting it with fresh dressing.
Minho supervises each step that the nurse takes, noticing how she takes care of your body as if it’s her most precious gift.
She turns to Minho, “I need you to make sure that she’s well rested, drinking enough water, and not doing many straining activities. Take her back here once again in the evening, and then we will see her again this time tomorrow morning, got it?”
“Yes, I will take care of her.”
“What about him, nurse?” You eye the small cuts across his face and hands.
She smiles and leans over to you. “He is well trained. Trust me, he’ll survive a few scratches.”
Your eyes narrow. “I order you to treat his wounds to the best of your abilities.”
She sighs. “Yes ma’am.”
She moves towards Minho and checks his wounds, patching the ones that were newly caused. She brushes his face softly with an ointment.
“I don’t like it when my guards don’t keep up a good appearance,” you try to explain away your worry for him, “and being injured will only slow you down when protecting me.”
The man stares straight ahead, listening carefully. “I’m fine. I’ll recover just fine. I don’t need much care as you do.”
“Let her rest now,” the nurse tells Minho, “order the maids to bring her a glass of water and have her sip on it until lunchtime.”
Once she leaves, Minho turns towards you, “I’ll make sure the maids bring you water. You need to stay hydrated”
Once water is on your table, your gaze returns to Minho
“Now, I order you to sit down on my bed with me.”
He examines you with a neutral expression and waits for you to say what you mean, not wishing to assume or take anything wrongly.
“Sit down with me,” you demand again, patting the spot beside you, waiting for him to follow suit.
As soon as you ask him to, Minho does not waver. He sits down beside you, body brushing your own.
You turn to meet his cold expression with intensity. “Do you like your job so far?
Minho is taken off guard by your switch of topic. He stays where he is sitting, but turns his body as well and faces you.
“I enjoy my duties.”
“Good. Because I’m fond of you. You’re handsome, and you are good at your job.”
He stares at you with slight surprise. “Thank you.”
Your hands grab for his, playing with the ring on his finger.
Then, you reach your hands higher, tugging his sleeve up to reveal a cluster of scars littered across his forearm.
“How long have you been in the business?”
“Since I was fourteen. I was trained from a very young age.”
“Have you always been in Daddy’s family?”
“I was loyal to your Daddy from the moment I knew what this life was like. I haven’t had a moment of doubt.”
“Good. That means you won’t leave us, right?”
“I will serve your family until my last breath. You have nothing to fear about that.”
“What a good boy,” you reach to ruffle his hair, landing a swift kiss on his sliced cheek. “That’s exactly what I like to hear.”
Minho stiffens.
“I order you to take off your jacket. I want to see your body. To see if you’re strong enough to be a good guard.”
Your words are sharp as a knife and they cut deep through his defense system. His jaw clamps and his breathing accelerates.
Minho swallows his breath, nodding his head. His movements are rigid, starting to cautiously peel off his jacket. It takes him a moment to unbutton it, but once his jacket is off, he stays there, waiting.
You slide his jacket to the floor, touching the muscles of his bicep through his button-down. “You’re fit. That’s good.”
Minho yearns for you to keep feeling him. To keep praising him. He swallows. Your words sound like a honey trap to him, and it’s working as intended.
“I order you to take off your tie.”
“Yes.”
That is all that he says, slowly slipping his tie from underneath his collar and tossing it aside.
Unexpectedly, you’re climbing on top of his body. “Take off your button-down.”
He unbuttons his shirt as your eyes sear into his chest. He is now only wearing a black undershirt.
“So many clothes,” you sigh out, groping his bare arms. You run your hands across his biceps, listening to him shudder underneath the touch.
“Take off your undershirt now. I want to see your chest.”
You can feel the heat radiating off him as he shivers. His body is now sensitive, and your hands are making it worse for him.
Your orders are evident, and he hastily lifts off his undershirt, waiting for what is next.
You can see his whole chest with all of its blemishes, with every muscle covered in sweat, exposed for you.
Your hands travel down his chest and abdomen, feeling each ragged scar with your bruised fingers. The delicate contact causes his breath to catch and a soft groan leaves him, fighting to not show that he relishes in your touch.
“Let me kiss you.”
He stares at you for a moment before his eyebrows slightly shift— his way of showing you that he approves of that request.
Minho leans in slightly and closes his eyes, gently placing a timid kiss on your lips.
You smirk against him, pushing him to lie against the bed frame and deepening the kiss. Your hands reach for his dark hair, clasping a handful in your grip.
He kisses you deeply and wraps his arms around you to pull you in closer, offering full control to you. His breath speeds up.
You pull away after a moment, lips brushing against his as you catch your breath, but only for an instant before moving towards his jaw, sucking marks onto his skin.
Minho quivers at your touch, his breathing speeding up once more as you leave red and purple blemishes on his skin. He bites his lip to stop himself from groaning.
Your mouth moves from his jaw to his neck, leaving kisses and hickeys all across him, making sure that he is covered in them.
Your hips grind against him, breathing heavily with anticipation as you make your way to his chest.
Your hands and mouth are touching all of him, and each sensation triggers a reaction that he tries to conceal.
Your lips hover back to his lips, staring at him longingly. “Do I have to command you for you to do anything to me? You don’t have to ask. You have my permission. Do whatever you want.”
You can see his gaze shifting from your eyes to your mouth, to your neck, and then towards your chest.
You swiftly lift yourself off of him to let him remove your dress, leaving your body as bare as his own.
You grasp onto his neck, bringing him in for another deep kiss. Minho remains silent as he kisses you, allowing you to leave him as many marks as you desire.
“What are you thinking, Minho? Speak to me.”
He takes a moment, letting out an unstable breath. “I’m thinking of what you are doing to me. I,” he stammers, “I want to make you feel good.”
“Then do it. Please.”
“I don’t want to harm you,” he breathes out, “you’re injured.”
“The nurses said to not do,” Minho presses his eyes shut as you bring your hips up to meet his, “fuck, anything straining.”
“Remember what Daddy said? I can be convincing.” You sneer as your bodyguard fails to keep his cool composure, but the aching cock pressing into you is giving his true desires away.
You eye his internal struggle between following your orders and his cravings, or the nurse and his boss.
“I don’t want to hurt you. I can go relieve myself in the bathroom.”
“I like being hurt.”
You notice his lip twitch at the comment, and you decide to provoke him further, grinding into him, and set a steady rhythm with your hips.
He groans as his head drops back, tugging onto your hair and trying desperately to control his breath, “Please, Y/N, I just want to take care of you.”
“You can take care of me in another way.”
“I need to follow orders.”
“Then I order you to fuck me.”
His eyes pinch shut as he tries to clear his head and reason with himself.
Perhaps if he were gentle, it would be alright.
But how long could he remain gentle when you were splayed out in front of him, willing to take anything that he gave to you?
He made his decision, gripping your shoulders gently and flipping you, pinning you to the bed, and surveying your face for any discomfort.
When he finds none, he impatiently unclasps his belt, throwing it to the floor along with his dress pants, leaving him in just his boxers.
You hold yourself up by your elbows, thighs pressed together and mouth watering at the man in front of you.
His hands were delicate, although they could easily snap you in half, as he unclasped your bra, leaving your top half bare.
Minho stopped to take in the view for a moment before grabbing at one of your breasts, his mouth attaching to the other.
Your whines were like music to him— something that he wanted to hear more of.
Your back arched in pleasure as he moved one hand down to your thigh, caressing it for a moment before slowly slipping his hand into your panties.
“Try to stay quiet, darling, I don’t want any staff checking on us,” He hushed you with his lips attaching to your own once again, feeling your wetness all over his calloused hands.
His thumb brushed against your clit and you whimpered into his mouth, clenching around nothing.
Minho then plunged two fingers deep inside of you and curled them. He was becoming lost in pleasing you, overlooking his own ache between his legs.
Your thighs shook beneath him, feeling him brush against your g-spot brutally. “Minho please, please just fuck me. I want you inside of me so bad.”
At your request, he slipped his fingers out, feeling your cries against his lips from the loss of friction.
“Yes ma’am.” He pulled away from your lips, replacing them with his now dripping fingers, lapping it up with his tongue.
Next, your ruined panties were yanked off of you, with his boxers soon to come after.
One hand gently relaxes on your hips, cautious to avoid aggravating your injuries as he uses the other to guide himself inside of you, a deep groan followed by your whines.
He gives you a moment to handle the stretch, but you hardly need it, already begging for him to move.
Minho cautiously thrusts, taking in a deep breath and furrowing his eyebrows in concentration. 
This is the ultimate test of patience for him. He needs to be as gentle as possible with you.
Ultimately, he sets a slow pace, hands locating themselves on either side of you, letting out uneven breaths as he tries to control himself from how good you feel around him.
“You really do care, don’t you?” Your hand reaches to cup his face, gazing into his eyes that are hazy with pleasure.
He keeps his response short, too concentrated on the waves of bliss through each thrust, “I do care.”
“Is it because you’re my bodyguard or something more?”
You study him, watching his adam’s apple move as he swallows deeply, inhaling sharply. He halts his thrusts for a brief instant.
“Both, maybe. I can’t tell.”
That was enough for you to continue, grabbing another handful of his hair and bringing him in for another hungry, deep kiss.
With each deep thrust, Minho’s mind got hazier and hazier, losing himself to pleasure bit by bit. You could feel it by the way his rhythm became rough and desperate, and his pace picked up.
One of his hands left your side, creeping towards your throbbing clit, causing you to let out sobs, all of which he ate up with his mouth against your own.
“Are you gonna cum for me?” He coos, knowing that you’re too lost in bliss to respond.
He takes your whines as a ‘yes’, his thumb rubbing circles faster, coaxing your orgasm out of you.
Your walls fluttered around him, squeezing your eyes closed and letting out a lengthy, drawn-out moan as his pace picked up even further.
“Just like that. You’re so good for me, so, so good, fuck,” he talked you through your orgasm between his thrusts, chasing his own high.
His brows crease, hips stuttering at how good it felt to have you gripping so tightly onto his cock. Finally, he let go, his load spilling inside of you and seeping out.
Both of you took an instant to catch your breath, coming down from your highs.
His hands slowly traced your curves in contentment, paying attention to the way your chest rose and fell.
Finally, he has a justification to gape at your body up close.
From your jawline to your hickey-covered chest, down to your bruised sides and stitches near your abdomen, and— Oh fuck.
Your wounds.
Minho slowly pulls away, feeling a sense of post-nut clarity and fright.
His hand slides away from your body, staring at you with concern.
“What’s wrong?” You ask, your own anxiety suddenly displayed on your face, “Do you regret it?”
“No! No,” He panics, “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?“
Back in reality now, your wounds ache and your head pounds with exhaustion and overexertion.
His mind calculates the solutions to the situation— ways to explain to the nurses, to fix you, to help you feel better.
It was his shortcoming, after all. He let his urges get to him.
“Let’s run you a bath.” He pulls himself up, tugging on his boxers and heading towards the bathroom.
You hear the tap turn on, lying in bed trying to catch your breath. Your breath is harsh from both adrenaline and pain, but you can’t help but feel as though the latter is more of the cause.
You had slept with a small handful of men, primarily Daddy’s men, but none of them were quite like Minho.
He was tough but breakable. He was still kindhearted at his core— something that wasn’t all that common in the business.
You could tell from the way that he ran the bath, bare muscles glistening from sweat, running his hand through the water to make sure that it was the ideal temperature. How concerned he was about your protection, even through his pleasure.
Not many other men that you’ve met throughout your life have been the same way.
You’re quite fond of the man that you have just met.
You hear the water shut off and footsteps coming towards the room. He holds a faint smile as his steps come towards the bed. Your gaze slowly wanders to his physique.
“It’s ready for you.” He says in a slight whisper.
“I order you to pick me up and bring me to the bath.”
He nods at your order, hooking his arms underneath your thighs and back, his strong grip securing you.
You inhale the powerful stench of gunpowder stuck to his skin, finding comfort in your bodyguard’s presence.
“Will you wash my hair?”
Studying his expression, it’s hard to read, but you let him carry you and place you into the water.
‘I do care,’ you recall his words.
‘Is it because you’re my bodyguard or something more?’ ‘Both, maybe. I can’t tell.’
Perhaps you had feelings for the man, especially while he massaged shampoo into your scalp with tough hands, making sure to rub your temples.
“Have you ever been a bodyguard before?”
When Minho hears your question, he hums while he proceeds to wash you, working on scrubbing the areas where he touched you earlier. “No, you’re the first one I’ve been a bodyguard for.”
“I did things for your father before this. Not as a bodyguard, a more, I guess, dangerous role,” he dismisses the question.
“Is that so?” You fall to silence as he continues to wash you, taking his time and guaranteeing that he gets every part. He hesitates when he washes around your injuries— every stroke and movement of his hands is smooth and temperate.
“Let me relax for a minute alone,” you murmur, “You should put your clothes back on, the maids should be here any moment to take my order for lunch. They won’t find it suspicious that I’m bathing, but they will question why you’re with me.”
Minho nods and pulls away from your body.
He stands up and his feet splash on the wet floor. He takes a double take at your closed eyes.
The way your body floats in the bath is something that catches his attention. You look very pleasing in such a vulnerable position.
He leaves the room, cracking the door to make sure that you are safe.
Minho buttons up his wrinkled shirt, pulling the jacket over it and smoothing it out to ensure that nobody suspects anything.
Minho’s eyes turn to the maid who enters the room with the ring of a bell.
His demeanor is unfazed, a hand on the gun in his pocket once more. He holds eye contact, his stare intense.
He would make sure that there wasn’t another incident.
“Where is Miss Y/N?”
“She is bathing at the moment.”
She nods, walking towards the bathroom and knocking on the door.
You hum, allowing her to enter.
“What would you like for lunch, ma’am?”
“I don’t know, surprise me.”
A few seconds go by as you immerse yourself entirely in the water before rising back to the surface.
“Minho,” you call out, “What would you like?”
You hear the faint sigh that Minho gives as a response back to your question.
“I’ll just have a sandwich or something, whatever you have is fine.” He replies to both you and the maid as she exits the bathroom, fulfilling her duty of reporting your lunch choice.
The bedroom door shuts behind her.
“Minho!” You call out once again, “I order you to take me out of the bath.”
A few seconds pass before you hear Minho’s footsteps come near the bathroom once again. He grabs a towel as you stand, body bare and dripping with water.
His eyes have an intense focus as he reaches out his hand.
Minho pulls you up from the bath wraps the towel around you, making sure to cover all of you, and begins to dry off your hair.
“Minho,” you begin, “Daddy can’t know about what happened. He’d shoot you dead on the spot.”
Minho pauses for a moment, his eyes darting across the floor.
He is silent for a moment. “I won’t reveal anything to him.”
“Good boy,” you cling to the towel covering your body, “Go fetch a maid to dress me. While she does so, I want you to change out of that suit and shower before lunch.”
“Then I’ll go shower now. I’ll be back.”
You hum in agreement, stepping towards your bedroom as a maid rings the bell.
You drop your towel, letting her sift through your drawers to find decent clothing.
She eyes a hickey on your breast, along with the other injuries across your body from the kidnapping.
“Your injuries look agitated, Miss Y/N, are you sure that a bath was the best idea for you?”
“Don’t question me,” you grumble, “I took a bath because I wanted to.”
“Yes, miss.” She pulls the dress above your head smoothes it out, and clasps a necklace behind your neck.
“You’re all set for lunch.”
The moment that you come out of your room, you can feel his presence. He is leaning against the front door of the room with an unreadable expression.
He has another suit on, a fresh one. Minho’s previously muskier, dark scent has been replaced by a new, sweeter fragrance.
“First shower at the estate?” You question, “Our soaps are quite lovely and mild on the skin. You smell wonderful.”
Minho’s lips curl at the compliment, looking you up and down, “Seems that we both are putting our best foot forward.”
You look around to see if anyone is watching before leaning to ruffle his damp hair and leave a kiss on his cheek, taking the man by complete surprise. He makes an effort to regain his composure, but you can see that his cheeks are blushed from the touch.
As soon as you lean in to lock arms, you feel him lean over to you to whisper something.
“I would love to do that with you again.”
You froze in your spot, heat rushing to your thighs.
You must regain your composure, caught off guard by his blunt words, something unlike the ordinary nature of Minho.
He takes a seat across from you, watching every move that the maid makes to be sure that she doesn’t try anything— he has learned his lesson.
“Pressed Italian Picnic Sandwiches and tea,” The maid states, setting the plates on the table.
You scrunch my nose up. “What’s in it?”
“Artisanal prosciutto, aged provolone, and sun-dried tomatoes inside of a crusty ciabatta,” She doesn’t hesitate to list the ingredients, “and a fragrant blend of rare loose-leaf teas with fresh cream and sugar cubes.”
She sets the teapot and cups out, along with a carton of cream and a bowl of sugar cubes.
Minho’s hand rests on his gun, waiting for her to leave before taking a sip of tea.
You follow his action, dumping a couple of cubes into your tea and bringing it to your lips.
I finish my lunch with Minho.
“Let’s go back to my room now. I'm exhausted.”
Minho nods his head and you both finish up the meals quickly.
You both leave the dining area and stroll back to your bedroom.
As soon as you get back into the room, you feel Minho close the door behind you.
You don’t hesitate to climb into bed and lie down.
The guard looks over at you, observing the way that your chest rises and falls as you breathe. He notices every movement that your body is making.
“I command you to lay down with me.” You lean back against the bed, your body still and eyes focused on his unmoving body.
He slips off his shoes silently, slipping into the canopy bed.
You grin, curling at his side, pressing against his body.
His breathing is deep and steady as he struggles to get into a more comfortable position.
Your mind began racing with questions about the mysterious man that you were slowly falling for, burying yourself further into the sheets.
“Minho,” you start slowly, “How did you become tangled with our family?”
Minho stays silent for a few moments and you feel his body shift a little against yours.
“I didn’t have a lot of money or family growing up,” he kept his answer short and simply, “the moment that this job came my way, I took it. The people connected to this business have always stayed on the down low, so this is an easy job to keep."
“Daddy seems to like you,” you grit your teeth.
Minho turns to you on the bed and sits up a little. He looks at you from top to bottom, reading the worry on your face with ease.
“You don’t have to worry about me.”
“He will kill you on the spot if he finds out. He’s done that to almost every man who has flirted or slept with me.”
You pause for a moment. “God forbid the one he hired as my bodyguard.”
“I am not so easily killed.” The words leave his mouth with a tinge of arrogance.
“I trust you.”
“Good.”
There is stillness between you both for a time, but he breaks it by grabbing your chin and leaning in to kiss you. You soothe into his touch, smiling against his lips briefly before he pulls away.
“I order you to stay here. Like this.”
It’s not difficult for you to drift off to sleep beside him, and as always, Minho pursues your request, keeping a close eye on you. You relax, your breathing slow, and he notes all of the occasional twitches and movements that you make in your sleep.
A couple of hours later, the door is knocked on by a maid.
“Dinner order?”
Minho jolts awake from the knock on the door, a hand swiftly placed on your shoulder to protect you from any threats before turning his head towards the noise.
His voice is full of sleep. “Repeat that?”
As she opens the door, there is a look of inquiry on her face, one that she won’t ask to ensure her job and health.
“Is she asleep?” She questions instead, glancing over at your peaceful figure.
He turns his head towards you to double-check, observing your napping body.
“Yes.”
“Alright. I’ll advise the chef to prepare her dinner later tonight.”
She gives a sharp nod to the guard and scurries out of the room, quietly shutting the door to not disturb the girl.
Minho’s eyes rest on the door for a moment, fully alert now with a hand resting on his gun.
Eventually, he turns over to you. He has his eyes on you for a few seconds before leaning down to kiss you on the forehead, letting out a small sigh.
You stir at the warm touch, scrunching your face up and stretching your body.
“What time is it?” You ask groggily before burying your head into his neck.
“Dinner is in about half an hour. You hungry?”
“Not really,” you pull yourself up and rub your sleep-filled eyes.
He notices your body shiver as you pull yourself up. Minho lets out a short exhale.
“Did you sleep?”
“A bit.” He doesn’t look away or turn his head as he admires the way you stand and stretch your body, smoothing your dress of its wrinkles.
You walk towards your vanity mirror, plopping down in the chair to readjust your necklace to the center. A few marks on your collarbone catch your eye.
“The nurses will be in shortly.” You grit your teeth. “I hope they don’t notice.”
“They won’t notice.”
His figure can be seen from behind you in the reflection of the mirror. His lips are turned upwards as he watches you fix your appearance.
You pull out a couple of foundations and concealers, working on concealing the marks left from earlier.
“The maids wouldn’t, but the nurses will tell the difference between a hickey and a bruise. Especially since these are fresh.”
Even though you are busy with your makeup and covering up the bruises, Minho’s eyes are never off of you. It is a feeling that you will have to get used to— always having a watchful eye on you.
Once you were satisfied with the coverage, you rose from your seat quickly.
“Get up, we’re going to dinner.”
“So bossy.” He retorts. “What will you have?”
“I want to go out, let’s go somewhere fancy. Daddy will pay.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You want to go out when you have had a beating just two days ago?”
He asks it like he thinks it’s an absurd idea, almost condescendingly, yet his tone of voice is soft and full of concern for you, causing your stomach to flip inside out.
“I’m tired of staying inside already. This estate is suffocating,” you pull on your slip-on shoes.
“That’s how I got myself into this mess in the first place. I left the house and got kidnapped. That won’t happen with you here.”
“I guess you’re right. We’ll go somewhere nice.”
“Good. I’ll go tell Daddy.” You leave the door open for Minho to come after but don’t wait for him, yet you can tell that he follows behind silently, attending to the way your body moves in the dress as you make your way down the halls.
The door is slightly ajar, so when you knock, it pushes open with a creak, revealing your father inside.
Minho stands behind you like a shadow, his lips pressed into a straight line, gaze locked on your father, keeping his distance from the both of you.
“Come inside,” the older man invites both of them with a welcoming grin, “sit.”
You can sense that your father has something on his mind, which is never a good sign.
“I was going to call you to my office shortly, anyway.” Instantly you assume the worst.
You sit down, taking a seat in front of him. Minho is still standing in the back, his priority on you and your father.
The man looks over at Minho. Their eyes lock for a moment. “Guard, go lock the door. There is a conversation that needs to be had.”
Minho nods and he turns his head, locking the door behind him.
He turns his attention back to you, who is frozen in your seat, breath hitching.
The elite man fiddles with a pen at his desk, clicking it to drown out the tense silence.
The silence in the room seems so heavy that you wonder how neither you nor Minho is feeling sick. Judging by the thick atmosphere between the three of you, it is easy to tell that he isn’t pleased right now.
He fidgets with the pen and you wait for him to finally speak.
“Do you find my daughter to be precious, Guard?” He addresses Minho with a stern voice, finally setting the pen down at his wooden desk with a smack.
“Yes sir,” Minho replies flatly.
“Are you willing to protect her at all costs, even at your life?”
After moments of silence, he answers back confidently. “Yes sir. I am.”
A hand comes to rest at his side, toying loudly with a handgun, which he eventually pulls out of his pocket.
Tears begin to well up in your eyes, yet Minho stays concentrated. There isn’t a single sign of fear on his face. He is unshaken, calm, and collected as if he had been foreseeing this exact scenario.
“Do you know why you were assigned to guard my daughter, Minho?”
“I know the reasons.”
“There was a leak to the rivals from a previous staff member that I had a precious daughter in my life,” He turns towards you, “the one that I had climbed to the top of my career to protect and assure her safety and security.”
He cleared his throat before darting back to Minho, “It took less than a day for her to be taken from my hands and placed in the hands of one of my greatest enemies.”
Minho pays attention to every word that he speaks and clears his throat, waiting for your father to continue.
“I care for my daughter more than anything in the world. Which is why I had appointed the most valuable, honest, and competent man in the family to ensure her protection.”
Minho nods.
“Please don’t kill him, Daddy.”
The boss meets you with cold eyes, disregarding your words to proceed with his lecture. “You are my most prized possession. I would hurt anyone or anything to make sure that not a single person touches you. The men who kidnapped you are all taken care of, wiped out by my command.”
He continues. “I know everything that goes on in your life. Every meal, every kiss, every injury, the staff must report every minor thing that occurs in your day. I have eyes on you at all times, and you’re more than aware of that.”
Your shoulders stiffen. He knew.
“Minho,” his stare is burning into the other man, “I’ll get to the point. Did you sleep with my daughter?”
He doesn’t blink. His body tenses up and his voice remains neutral.
“Yes.”
The boss turns the safety off of his firearm and you dig your head into your hands, unable to observe the scene that is about to unfold.
The gunshot is fired, but the man deliberately aims to the left of Minho, grazing his cheek with the bullet before standing up instantly from his seat. The guard doesn’t react with more than a blink as the blood pools at the cut.
“I trust you, Minho. You are a good man. If there is a single person who I would choose to give my daughter to, it would be you.”
Finally, Minho takes this as a sign to let his guard down for a moment as his shoulders drop, lip quivering slightly. It was evident that there was more emotion that the guard was holding back, especially when he took a moment to look away.
“You have my approval.”
Your eyes widen.
“Take care of my daughter. If you break her heart, I’ll feed your own heart to her for supper.”
“Understood.”
“Take her to dinner,” a wad of cash is pulled out from one of the drawers, “buy her flowers and anything else that she asks for.”
“Yes sir.” He responds, “I’ll make sure that she gets the treatment that she deserves.”
You run to embrace your father, to which he places an arm around you, rubbing your back before pulling away.
“Get yourself dressed more sufficiently, I will have a car ready for you soon.”
Minho follows you out of his office, letting out a breath that he had been holding in once the door was closed.
“Did you hear that?” Do you know what this means?” You beam at the man before grabbing at his cheeks and pulling him in for a kiss.
He lets out a surprised noise, hesitantly wrapping his arms around your waist and kissing back.
When you break the kiss, he stares back at you with the first big smile that you’ve seen from him displayed on his face.
“Let’s get you ready.”
Tumblr media
1K notes · View notes
0x1lovebot · 2 months
Text
— random bf! jeongin texts —
genre — crack, smau
warnings — unserious behavior😭, cursing, inappropriate jokes.
a/n — in honor of i.n’s birthday I wanted to make something fun for him!! (even though I barely have any time😭) ENJOY
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
© 2024 copyright. all rights reserved. @0x1lovebot.
1K notes · View notes
godslino · 2 months
Text
MIGRATION | bang chan first date series. strangers to lovers.
Tumblr media
pairing: bang chan x fem!reader word count: 5.5k genre: fluff, romance, falling in love at first sight summary: you've never been lucky when it comes to dating, but a blind date with chan just might turn that around
Tumblr media
chan | minho | changbin | hyunjin | jisung | felix | seungmin | jeongin · · · ♡ series masterlist · · · ♡ taglist · · · ♡
author’s note: hello and welcome to my first date series!! i seriously had so much fun writing this and i’m so excited to continue with the other members. i hope you all enjoy! if you liked it, please remember that any and all feedback is appreciated!! happy reading <3
“So…I know a guy.”
You groan, throwing your head back against the cushion of the booth you’re currently shoved into. Changbin drops his fork to gesture at you with his hand, a look of exasperation on his face.
“Come on, I haven’t even said anything yet!”
“The problem is that you’ve said anything at all.” You say, glaring at him as you reach for your drink.
Changbin, as much as you love him, is notorious for being the worst wing man in the history of wing men. His most recent pick, Jooyoung, was a friend of his from high school. A freelance writer, the owner of a snazzy apartment in one of the more sophisticated districts of Seoul, and conveniently single. They’d recently reconnected after a mutual friend threw a party that they both went to, and he was ecstatic to try and set the two of you up.
You’d been reluctant, rightfully so, but Changbin is anything but a quitter and you also just so happen to be the world’s biggest pushover (his pout is just too good, okay?), so you’d agreed on the off chance that it just might work out.
Long story short, it didn’t.
Jooyoung was probably the biggest asshole you’d ever been on a date with. Not that you were surprised, though. Changbin’s circle of friends when he was younger mainly consisted of grade-A douchebags who were born with a golden spoon in their mouths. Perks of being born into a wealthy family and attending one of the most elite private schools in the country, apparently. Changbin had attended a university on the outskirts of Seoul for a reason. Lesser known, laid back—to study music of all things—and the sole reason for his father’s headache, as he’d put it. That’s where he met you.
“Okay, but I think this guy might be the one.” He makes air quotes around the two words, and you scoff as you cross your arms.
“And what would you know about that?”
“Um, a lot? You’re my best friend, I know exactly what you’re looking for.”
This is the part where things go south—or so you assume. Changbin puts on the puppy eyes, jutting his bottom lip out to hell as he stares at you from across the table. You glare at him dead on, unwavering. He won’t get you this time. Not over your dead body.
“At least let me tell you about him?”
“No.”
“I met him at the company. He makes music just like me, only slightly better. And you know how I am, I don’t just say that stuff. That means he’s really good.”
Choosing to ignore him, you go back to poking at your noodles.
“He’s from Australia. Born here, moved there when he was young, then moved back to pursue music. Kinda ballsy if you ask me. But he speaks English, so at least communication won’t be as much of an issue as other guys.”
A small crack in your composure. The idea of this guy growing up somewhere other than Korea is…pretty intriguing.
Despite moving here three years ago for school, it’s still kind of hard to communicate when your Korean could be more polished than it is. You’d basically kept to yourself for the first year until you met Changbin. He’d easily integrated you into his group of other music majors, even though you stuck out like a sore thumb as both a foreigner and a stem major. But if it weren’t for him, you think that you might’ve hauled ass back home a long time ago due to the isolation. So to be introduced to someone who can speak english, under the prospect of possibly dating them, sparks a bit more interest.
Changbin notices the slight twitch of your brow and smirks, one side of his mouth pulling downwards. Bastard.
“Hmm, what else? Oh! Dude’s got a killer set of dimples. You’re into that, aren’t you? You used to go on and on about that younger guy in your physics class during senior year. What was his name—Jeongsuk? Jeong—Jinyoung? Jeongin! It was Jeongin.” Changbin snaps his fingers like he’s impressed with his own memory, pointing at you as you fix him with a blank stare. “He has dimplessss.” He sing-songs for emphasis.
And, really, this should not be the breaking point. You’re better than this. You’re not so shallow that you would throw away your pride for a man you’ve never met—let alone never seen before—all because he has dimples.
But, once again, you’re a pushover. A big one. So yeah, fuck it.
“What’s his name?”
Changbin blinks like he wasn’t expecting you to fall for it. “Seriously? That’s what got you?”
“You have five seconds to tell me his name before I change my mind.”
He scoffs, mouth agape. “I went as far as disregarding my own talents to play up this guy and his music making abilities—”
“Five.”
“—tried to give you a little bit of a backstory, too—”
“Four.”
“—and the dimples are the final nail in the coffin?”
“Three.”
“Chan! His name is Chan. God. Just—stop counting. It freaks me out.”
Chan. You throw the name around in your brain for a bit, pointedly ignoring the way Changbin is whining about how you sound like his mother when you do the whole number thing. It’s kind of…cute. Not enough to conjure up an idea of what he might look like, but putting a name to a faceless stranger with dimples in your head is gonna have to do for now.
“You swear this guy is normal?”
Changbin rolls his eyes. “Define normal.”
“Okay, let me rephrase myself,” you push your plate forward, laying your forearms on the table as an indicator that you’re serious, “Is he an asshole?”
“No.”
“Hm. Okay. So that’s a maybe.”
“What the fuck? I just said no.”
“Yeah? You also set me up with Jooyoung, remember? The guy who literally started flirting with the waitress right in front of me five minutes into our date? And then proceeded to yell at her when his fries weren’t salted?”
“How was I supposed to know…” Changbin mumbles, looking off to the side guiltily.
“Nevermind. Just—if this goes bad, I’m blaming you. And then I’m never going on a blind date with one of your friends again. Matter of fact, I’m never going on a date again, period. Deal?”
Changbin grins, the apples of his cheeks shiny under the restaurant lighting. He holds his hand out for you to shake, and you take it hesitantly, grimacing when he uses his strength to jostle your arm like a ragdoll.
“Deal.”
🎥🍿
Any hope you had for the date going smoothly starts to dwindle once Chan texts you the day of.
You’d gotten his number from Changbin, who had so kindly already given Chan your number before he’d even broached the subject with you. The resulting lecture about privacy and consent may or may not have extended the rest of your time at the restaurant, a sheepish Changbin rubbing at the back of his neck while you berated him for his lack of common sense.
When your phone buzzes on your bathroom counter, Chan’s name flashing across the screen, you mistakenly think that he might be messaging because he’s early. Which, given the fact that you were standing in nothing but a towel, hair still wet from your shower and face covered in moisturizer you hadn’t rubbed into your skin yet, would be less than ideal.
Chan [12:32p.m.]
Hey! I’m really sorry to have to do this, but can we push the date back an hour?
Something came up at the studio
I tried to get out of it but I have a deadline to meet, client probably won’t be too happy of their track isn’t done on time
Great. Already off to a rough start.
In his defense though, you appreciate the fact that he’s messaged a whopping two hours in advance. Most people probably wouldn’t be bothered to allow that much of a grace period.
You [2:33p.m.]
no worries!!!
you didn’t buy the tickets yet, did you?
Chan [2:34p.m.]
Nope! So we should be fine
I’ll purchase them for 6 and then be there to scoop you up around 5:30 if that’s cool?
You [2:36p.m.]
sounds perfect
hope stuff goes well at the studio!!
Chan [2:40p.m.]
You’re sweet
Thank you, I’ll see you soon :)
You’re sweet. You stare at the words on the screen, your brain buffering for a moment. A big fat loading circle floating above your head.
Suddenly it’s way too hot in the bathroom. You blame the fact that you shower with the water cranked all the way up to boiling, because really there’s no other explanation for the warmth spreading throughout your cheeks.
To be fair, it’s been almost a year now since you’ve had any sort of positive interaction with another male. On one hand, your last relationship ended in a ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ ordeal that most definitely gave the impression that it was you. On the other hand, most of the dates you’ve been on have ruined themselves within the first five minutes, never really giving you the chance to feel any sort of connection. Cocky attitudes, overly pushy encounters, and even someone who walked into the cafe you were seated at, took one look at you, and walked right back out. That one still hurts.
It’s a little sad that Chan is the only guy out of the mix whose elicited any sort of reaction out of you. Especially since you haven’t even met him yet.
The extra hour that you have to compensate for flies by a lot quicker than you expect, and before you know it Chan is messaging that he’s five minutes away.
You take one last glance in the mirror: a pair of light wash jeans that sit right above your hips, black halter top bodysuit, and a thin cream colored cardigan to tie it all together. Simple and cute. A movie date doesn’t really call for all the dramatics, and you’d hate to overdress for a first impression.
You’re in the middle of reapplying your chapstick when the doorbell rings.
Take it easy, you say to yourself, inhaling deeply as you reach for the door handle. You let the air out with one final huff, swinging the door open only to be met by a bouquet of daisies directly in front of your face.
You blink in surprise. Well that’s a first. Before you get a chance to speak, the bouquet is being lowered, and the moment Chan’s face comes into view causes a small gasp to fall from your lips.
He’s…cute. Beautiful, even. A bright smile, dimples that tuck themselves into his laugh lines as his eyes disappear into crescents much like the moon, and lips that make your head spin when his tongue darts out to wet them nervously. His hair falls messily across his forehead in a faded hue of purple with hints of brown, definitely unconventional and an obvious result of one too many washes, but he makes it work. He makes it work well.
He clears his throat, brings a fist up to his mouth to emphasize it, and then grins. “Hi there.”
It takes a second for your brain to catch up. Even his voice is attractive. He’s using english, which leads you to assume that Changbin has already told him that you’re not from here. His accent is there, not too noticeable but also strong enough to be picked up on.
“Hey.” You smile, rubbing a hand up and down your arm.
“These are for you. I, uh, as an apology for being late. Is it too much?”
You shake your head quickly. “No! No, these are—they’re beautiful. I love them. Thank you…Chan.” His name rolls off your tongue hesitantly, but it all disappears as soon as he flashes that smile again.
“Good, I’m glad,” his voice catches the breathy end of the laugh he lets out, “This is weird, isn’t it? I’m sorry, I don’t really do well with this kind of stuff. But you look really nice, and I’m excited. My car is parked just out front if you’re ready to go.”
Honest. Awkward. A laugh that makes you want to hear it over and over again. You were sold the minute his eyes met yours. Chan offers his elbow for you to take like you’re in some cheesy romance movie from your childhood.
Yeah. This one is definitely gonna go well.
🎥🍿
Chan might not show it, but he’s just as nervous as you are.
You wouldn’t be able to tell at first glance that he spent an entire forty-five minutes deciding on an outfit, only to settle with some jeans and a white shirt, a jacket thrown on top for some color.
When Changbin first proposed the idea of going on a date with you, he was adamant that he wasn’t looking for anything right now. But as soon as you opened the door, eyes wide and looking like the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, he’s glad he said yes.
“So what movie are we seeing?” you ask, frowning when Chan laughs. “What? What’s funny?”
“It’s a surprise.” He smiles, rushing forward to hold the door of the car open for you. When he puts his hand against the top part to block your head, you have to suppress the smattering of butterfly wings that start to clamor against your ribcage.
Chan is sweet. He double checks that you’re buckled in before driving off, he asks if there’s any specific music you want to listen to before foregoing it all entirely to ask about you instead, he listens with an attentiveness that has you feeling seen and heard, and he smiles with such genuinity and warmth that you feel cold once it disappears. You stare at him in awe, like he’s a figment of your imagination.
Chan’s been staring back, too. He spares glances in your direction when you’re not looking, feels the steady thump of his heart gradually increase whenever you lean a little too far to the left when he makes you laugh, and he thinks your voice is prettier than anything that’s ever played on the radio.
You learn more about him as he drives. He moved back from Australia when he was seventeen, he’s got two younger siblings and an adorable puppy named Berry back home (and pictures on his dashboard to prove it), he prefers Australia’s summers over Seoul’s winters but he finds more inspiration here in the city than anywhere else. You resonate with the fact that he doesn’t really have anyone here besides a small circle of friends. No family, no one to fall back on when things get tough.
Chan talks like he’s an old friend, like he’s re-telling a story you’ve heard a thousand times. He makes it easy to fall into step with him as if you’ve been here all along.
By the time the two of you get to the movie theater, the initial awkwardness that had hung in the air is gone, replaced by comfort and ease. Chan throws the car in park and all but books it out of his seat to open your door for you, and you giggle when he makes a dramatic bow as you exit.
The theater is kind of busy for a Thursday night. There are families with their kids lined up to get tickets and groups of teenagers at the concessions, all of which make for a crowded lobby. Chan glances down when you place a hand on his arm, mostly because you want to stay close, but also because it’s hard to ignore the feeling of being magnetized towards him. He smiles, bending at the elbow to allow your arm to slip into his.
There are cardboard cutouts along the sides of the lobby, all of which serve to promote the newest animated release about a family of ducks. You squint at the showtimes once the two of you make it to the front of the counter, letting your eyes scan the movie titles until you finally land on—
“Two tickets for Migration, under Bang Chan.”
The girl behind the counter looks up, her eyes bored. She can’t be any older than sixteen, most likely resentful about the fact that she’s stuck here on a school night. “The kids movie?” She asks, unimpressed.
Chan braves a glance in your direction and—ah, there goes that grin again. Cue the butterflies. You’d agree to a three hour long showing of static and white noise if it meant he’d never stop doing that.
“Yup, that’s the one.”
Tickets in hand, a smiling Chan right next to you, and a massive line for popcorn that honestly might have the two of you late for the previews. “We’re seeing a kids movie?” You ask, moving up a spot in the line.
“Mmhm. I spent so long looking at all the options. The romcoms seemed boring, Bin mentioned that the newest superhero movie was bad, and I figured a scary one was too cliché,” he eyes you sidelong, “Unless you’re into that.”
You huff out a laugh, not really expecting him to be so straightforward, “I definitely am not.”
“Hm, so the old yawn to put my arm around you trick won’t work?” His eyes are playful, but something about the idea of being in even more contact with him has your stomach doing flips.
“Nope. Sorry. Seen that one before.” You say, making him laugh, his earring dangling when he drops his chin towards his chest.
“I guess I’ll have to figure out something else then.”
Another thing you learn about Chan is that he enjoys interesting food combinations.
“You like peanut m&ms?” he asks, throwing a bag of them onto the counter when you nod your head. After he pays, he pockets his wallet and turns to you with a bucket of popcorn tucked under his arm and a large drink with two straws in his hand. “Could you grab the candy?”
First door, theater one. There are a bunch of parents and their kids entering ahead of you, all of them buzzing with excitement. It’s a little funny, the fact that two grown adults—no kid in tow—are walking into the showing of a kids movie.
Chan leads you to the very back row. “For the kids, just in case they can’t see over us.” He quickly clarifies after noticing the way your eyebrows shoot up in silent question, but even in the dim lighting you can still see the tips of his ears turning pink.
“Taking me to a kids movie and then propositioning me in the presence of five year olds? You’ve got some nerve.” You say, timing it perfectly as Chan is leaning forward to take a sip of the drink that’s placed in the cupholder between the two of you. He sputters around the straw in surprise, coughing into his fist.
“That’s not—” You laugh, cutting him off as he stares at you with red eyes from his coughing fit. The mood shifts after that, and Chan visibly relaxes into his seat as he starts throwing jokes out a lot easier than before.
“Learned this from my dad,” he says, opening the bag of m&ms, “It’s my favorite thing to do at the movies. Haven’t been in a while because—well, I don’t really have anyone to go with.”
You watch as he dumps the candy into the popcorn bucket, shaking it to mix everything together. He reaches in to grab a piece of popcorn and an m&m at the same time, popping it into his mouth.
“Oh my god,” he sighs, slumping into his seat, “Forgot how good that is.”
When you don’t respond, he looks over. “You okay?”
Are you? You’re not sure. Every bone in your body is screaming bloody murder because Chan is making it really hard to not want to lean over and kiss the concerned frown off of his stupidly pretty face.
The thing about it is that you don’t do blind dates. And you most especially don’t enjoy them. But Chan is different. Chan holds doors open for you and makes corny jokes. Chan laughs at everything like it’s his last day on earth and he’s making up for lost time. Chan listens when you talk and responds with genuine interest. Chan compliments the little girl in the theater lobby who’s wearing a princess dress to watch the new superhero movie. Chan shares something as special as his dad’s favorite movie snack with you. Chan is just…Chan. And you like him. A lot.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay, I’m just—thank you. For sharing that with me.” You say, the corners of your mouth lifting.
“Stop doing that.” He mumbles, eyes trained ahead.
“Doing what?”
“Smiling. It makes my head spin.”
Your heart slams against your chest. You’ve spent the entire date trying to make sense of the way Chan makes you feel, trying to put it all into words. Yet here he is, right in front of you, saying his thoughts as they come and absolutely ruining your resolve in the process. Like it’s easy for him.
There’s no time to answer when the lights go down, the screen up front widening to signal the start of the movie.
Just like any other kids movie, it’s easy to get caught up in all the surface level jokes while also understanding the themes. You and Chan laugh outwardly at some parts, hold your breath at the suspenseful ones. It’s almost like you’re a kid again, enjoying yourself fully for the first time in a really, really long while.
Chan was right, the popcorn and m&m combination is good. You reach back into the bucket for more, freezing when Chan does the same and his knuckles brush yours in the slightest of touches, sending a jolt of electricity up your arm. It happens a few more times, each one leaving his hand lingering for far longer than the last, until eventually he makes a show of digging really hard for an m&m and hooks his pinky with yours in between the popcorn. It’s cheesy and cliché but god does it make your stomach do somersaults.
About three-quarters of the way through the movie, when it’s clear that neither one of you are willing to take it the next step further, you lean into his ear.
“You okay? You look kind of tired.”
Chan turns, confused. He’s certain that he wasn’t dozing off. He did have a late night last night. He was up working on the track that still somehow managed to hold him back today, hoping to have everything polished so that he didn’t run into any obstacles before your date. But that didn’t really work out in the end.
“Huh? No, I’m fine. Honest.”
“You sure?” you ask, a slight lift to your voice, “I don’t know, you looked like you were about to yawn.”
The light from the movie hits the left side of his face, illuminating all of his features in a way that makes your breath hitch. He’s pretty. So, so pretty.
Chan blinks, slow, and then his confusion slowly turns to one of understanding. Cue the grin.
“You know, now that I’m thinking about it…I am kind of tired.” He makes a show of fake yawning, stretches his arms above his head (and not blocking any children since you’re in the back row, thankfully), before bringing his right arm down and around your shoulders.
You spend the rest of the movie like that, tucked into Chan’s side while his fingers move gently against your shoulder. He’s unbelievably warm, and eventually you find your head resting in the spot just between his shoulder and his neck, his cheek pushed up against the side of your head. The position makes it easier to reach up and pat his eyes dry at the end, a single tear slipping out as he sniffled and mumbles a ‘M’not crying’ that has you giggling and doting all over him.
He doesn’t move his arm for the entire walk back to the car, and you momentarily mourn the loss when he opens the door for you (again!) so you can climb in. When he finally gets in on the other side, he says nothing, just reaches over to intertwine his fingers with yours and places your joined hands on the center console like it’s something you’ve done a thousand times.
“Ready to go home?” He asks, looking over at you.
You glance down at your hands, then back up at him. “Is it weird if I say no?”
“Not at all,” Chan grins, throwing the car into drive, “I was hoping you would say that.”
🎥🍿
“For you.”
Chan plops down on the bench, a hand outstretched with a steaming hot chocolate ready for you to take.
“Thanks,” you smile, cradling the cup between your hands.
After some deliberation, you and Chan had decided to come to the Han River. It’s quiet, the bridge lights reflecting off the water as the sounds of the city fade into the background. The temperature is slightly on the colder side, the tail end of winter just barely there. When he notices the slight shiver of your shoulders after a particularly strong gust of wind, Chan shucks his jacket off in a heartbeat to drape over you.
“Oh, you don’t—”
“You’re cold,” he scolds, pulling at the collar of the jacket to tighten it around you. His hand lingers near the base of your neck, fingers itching to reach out and touch. He doesn’t though, just smiles and settles back into the bench. “Plus I think Changbin might actually kill me if something were to happen to you.”
“Oh please,” you roll your eyes, “Ignore him. I’m not a baby.”
Chan takes a sip of his own hot chocolate, licks his lips to catch the excess. Not that you’re staring. “I’m serious. I mean, I get it. He told me that you’re here alone and stuff.”
You hum in understanding, turning your head to stare out at the water. “So are you.”
It’s Chan’s turn to look at you now, his elbows resting against his knees, and you watch out of the corner of your eye as his face turns unreadable.
The silence stretches thin, nothing but the sound of cars passing and a dog barking nearby. It’s kind of comforting in a way. Being on your own in a new place has been one of the hardest transitions you’ve ever had to deal with. There were times where it felt like a mistake, where you wished that you’d never even gotten on the plane. But then there were times where you felt lucky to be experiencing the things you are; to be able to try new things and pursue a life for yourself that you never thought possible.
“How’d you do it?” you ask quietly, turning to meet Chan’s gaze. “I mean, you were young. Seventeen is basically still a kid. Being alone in a place like this is scary as an adult, I can’t even imagine what that was like.”
Chan smiles, but it’s sad. His eyes twinkle with something like resentment, the lights from the bridge making it look like he’s glowing. A flame that’ll never burn out. “Would you believe me if I said I’m still figuring it out?” The end of it comes out as a laugh, but you can tell he means it.
“I don’t know, being a big shot music producer with deadlines and clients seems pretty figured out to me.”
Chan nods and stares at the cup in his hands. “My parents hated it. Still do, I think.” You don’t say anything. Chan is grateful for that; grateful for the space you’re giving him to explain. “They wanted more for me I guess. But I’m not sure that more would’ve necessarily been what I wanted, you know? I’m content with where I am now. I’m doing something I love, even if it took a while to get here. They don’t see it.” He chews his lip nervously, fingers playing with the soggy material of the paper cup’s rim.
Chan doesn’t know why he’s saying any of this. He’s not the type to completely bare himself out to anyone, to scoop away at his insides until there’s nothing left besides the hollowness he feels whenever he thinks about how he traded his life back home for a life of music. But you’re different somehow. Chan knew since the moment he saw you, felt it in the way your eyes lit up whenever he spoke and in the ease of how well the two of you got along. He was doomed from the start.
“I see it.” you say, your eyes still fixed on the water. “I might’ve only just met you today, but I see it. And I get it, too. Maybe not to the same extent, but the feeling of wanting to do something for yourself even if it meant losing something else. There’s purpose in that, in you. It’s okay to be selfish if it means you’re prioritizing your happiness.” You let the words settle for a bit, hoping that you don’t sound too shallow. When you turn to look at him, he’s already looking back.
“You don’t know me enough to say that.”
“I don’t have to know you to believe in you, Chan.”
A beat of silence, and then he’s laughing, short and punctuated as he lets his head fall forward with a small shake.
“You’re…”
“What? Corny?” you supply, smiling over at him.
“No,” he says, meeting your gaze. “Perfect.”
You huff out an incredulous laugh, looking away to hide the blush that’s spreading across your cheeks. “You can’t just—god, now who’s corny? Huh?”
“I never said I wasn’t corny.” Chan argues, sitting up to face you fully.
“Yeah but you can’t just say stuff like that.”
“Why not? I think you like it.”
Your mouth opens and closes quickly, lost for words. Chan’s closer now, a lot closer than he was before. One arm thrown across the back of the bench, loosely framing you in, he bends it at the elbow to bring a hand up and tuck your hair behind your ear.
“I never said that.” you mumble, your gaze flicking down to his lips and then back up again.
“You want me to stop then?” he asks, voice just above a whisper. You know what he’s implying the minute his fingers trace the shell of your ear, moving down slowly until they start playing with the collar of his jacket.
“Is it bad if I say no?”
Chan’s hand is warm to the touch, ice to fire. You lean into it. A moth to a flame, one that’ll never go out.
“Not at all,” he repeats, just like earlier, “I was hoping you would say that.”
A dog barking in the distance. Cars beeping as they pass by. A plane flying overhead. A group of friends laughing as they ride past on their bikes. The minute Chan’s lips connect with yours, everything fades, the sounds warbling together like static. Unintelligible; nothing besides the feeling of Chan kissing you matters.
It’s slow, nothing more than a press, but you feel it in every fiber of your being. Kissing Chan feels like the poles of the earth are colliding, meeting in the middle and sending its molten core spreading throughout your entire body. Warm, warm, warm. Chan is warm. He’s soft and gentle and his lashes tickle your cheeks when his eyes flutter closed halfway through because he was too busy etching your features into his memory.
You’re the first to pull away, admiring the way Chan’s eyes slowly peel open, lips swollen and pink. Unable to resist, you lean in and peck them once more, giggling when he blinks at you in shock.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been as compelled to kiss someone as I was just now.” You smile.
“Me too,” he sighs, resting his forehead against yours. “I don’t normally kiss on the first date.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t normally do dates anyways. At least not ones that don’t immediately go up in flames.”
“What about now?” Chan asks, raising an eyebrow. “Have I changed your mind?”
“Hmm, I don’t know. I kind of told Changbin that if this was a disaster I was never gonna go on a date again.”
Chan laughs and pulls you into his side, tucked right under his arm like the shape of him was molded in a way to make sure that you fit perfectly in his embrace.
“Is it bad if I say I like that idea?” He asks, glancing down at where your head is resting against his chest.
“Nope,” you say before leaning up to kiss him once more. He smiles into it when he feels your fingers playing with the curls at the nape of his neck, humming softly against your lips.
“Worst date ever, then?” he mumbles against your mouth.
“Yeah,” you sigh, pulling back to stare into his eyes, big and brown and brighter than the stars, “Worst date ever.”
Tumblr media
[tags: @palindrome969 @summergirlsmj @n1staytiny ]
Tumblr media
© all rights reserved. godslino 2024. please do not steal, translate, or re-upload.
1K notes · View notes
scoupsofjisung · 1 month
Text
˚ ༘♡ ⋆。˚ texting bang chan happy father’s day (best dad of 7 kids fr)
🧸 paring: bang chan x f! reader
🧸 warnings: mentioned implied possible pregnancy as part of a joke, brushed past v quickly
🧸 author rambles: i’m just having fun at this point guys, and i have the most schoolgirl crush on chan thus my urge to flirt with him and threaten everyone and anyone for him. maybe surprisingly, gift giving is my lowest love language, however it’s an easy way to show u care fr. go pick a flower from outside and give it to someone u love asap 🫵
masterlist
blog info post!
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
1K notes · View notes
lixiesfreckless · 20 days
Text
Tumblr media
Into It | b. c.
➸ synopsis: the california sunset looks pretty damn good when you're on the hood of Chan's car.
➸ starring: bang chan x female reader
➸ word count: 3k
➸ general content: best friend!chan, car sex, drunk sex, chan is lowkey obsessed with you, mutual pining, dirty talk
➸ warnings: lots of swearing, sexual content, alcohol consumption, mentions of california(LMAO east coast on top)
➸ rating: 18+ MA
➸ author’s note: another oldie but goodie! also I don't even bias chan but I literally went insane writing this so what does that mean-
♫ into it- chase atlantic
Tumblr media
Far away.
You feel like your mind is so far away.
The engine roars in your ears as you and Chan zip around the outskirts of downtown Los Angeles, convertible top down to let the wind whip through the vehicle. 
Your hand dangles outside the car door, lazily twirling a half empty bottle of beer in your fingertips as you fully sink into the car seat. Your thoughts are fuzzy, his music is loud, and the breeze is enough to keep you from getting too hot. 
This is as close as you can get to bliss.
Palm trees lining the road, orange and magenta in the sky, hell— if heaven didn’t look like this, did you even want to go?
The car slows down enough for Chan to make a right turn, angling the two of you to a desert close to where they host raves and concerts every summer. By the time the current song stops playing, Chan is pulling the convertible off the road, driving over hardened clay and rocks until he’s about 50 yards away from the asphalt.
“Pass me one of those,” he says, putting the car in park and slumping into the seat. You reach down to the six pack of beer near your feet and pass one to him, bringing your own bottle up to your lips as he takes it.
The guy sticks the cap between his teeth, cracking it open with a sharp twist of his arm, and flicks the cap into the cup holder.
“That’s one way to crack open a cold one,” you chuckle, taking another swig.
“Too bad I’m not with the boys…” he sighs, narrowly dodging a swat from your hand as he laughs.
“Hush, I’m better than the boys.”
The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, letting the troubles of the week dissolve under the tangy taste of the alcohol and the bass from the speakers.
You can’t remember exactly when you started spending your Friday nights like this, driving to random places in the passenger seat of Chan’s car. Usually you’d prefer to spend your nights indoors, but with him, it was never overwhelming. He was your weekly dose of adventure, and you became addicted easily.
But how could you not when he was so…Chan?
He always knew what songs to play, what you felt like talking about, what kind of view would cheer you up— he became someone that knew you better than your best friend, even.
And there was something so disarming about his vintage band tees, beat up converse, blond curls and dimples— especially his dimples. They were a weapon and he used them.
And they reappear right as you notice you’re staring at him. Serves you right for zoning out in his general direction.
“Something on your mind?” He chuckles, and you pop the passenger door open, shaking your head.
“Nope. Just need to stretch.”
You walk around to the front of the car, and the shell dips slightly once you perch on the hood.
This beer is defective, you decide. Alcohol is supposed to blur your thoughts, not sharpen them.
And yet all you can think about is the man moving to lean against the front of the car, standing just a foot away from you.
Your mind pretends not to notice the way Chan’s gaze lingers on your lips, almost glazing over every time you take a swig from the bottle in your hand. Your body however, burns. Reacts like water on hot oil. It feels like every cell is dancing in the remnants of the sunset when he looks at you. 
It might just be the alcohol though.
You lean back and lie on the hood of the car, using your hands as a makeshift pillow behind your head as you watch the sky turn an even deeper shade of pink. Chan takes one glance at you and takes a long sip of beer as he quickly looks away, pushing the sight of your shirt riding up your torso far back into his mind. The…things he could do there-
“Shit, how many of those have we gone through,” you mumble, lazily shifting your eyes up to the sky.
“Uh, four?” Chan glances back at you, mentally cursing at the way your face matches the sky above, dusted with pink. He doesn’t know it’s from you staring at his arm veins. “We have water in the back if you want some-”
“No, no I’m good.” Your voice sounds like honey to him; maybe he should pass the bottle back to you, just so you’ll stay quiet. “Just feeling more than a little buzzed.” 
“Oh yeah?” He chuckles, and the huskiness in his voice practically pokes you in the side. “Now would be the best time to do something crazy then.”
“Something crazy?” You laugh out loud, then sit up slightly on the hood, leaning back on your elbows. “There’s nothing but desert for miles. What are we supposed to do-”
Your sentence stops dead in its tracks as your eyes meet with Chan’s, the heat rushing to your gut all at once as the wind blows his blond curls into his eyes. He doesn’t even hesitate this time; his eyes wander lower and lower on your face until they land on your bottom lip, trapped between your teeth. 
“God, why do you always do that…” he whispers, shifting his gaze back to the road.
…What? 
The wind whistles in your ears as you feel them growing hotter, unsure what to make of his sudden statement.
“Do…do what?” He looks back at you with tortured eyes, as if you’re the only water in the California desert.
“Bite your lip like that; it makes me think-” he stops and drains the rest of the bottle in his hand, then leaves it on the hood and shakes his head. “Never mind. I’m gonna turn the music up.”
Your eyes follow him as he trails along the side of the car, and you feel a certain window of opportunity beginning to close. Summoning most of your courage, you jump off the hood and walk up behind Chan, waiting for him to finish messing with the stereo before tapping him on the back.
“Yeah?” He turns around and barely has any time to think before you’re pressing on his shoulders, pulling him down slightly as you crash your lips onto his. He immediately catches your waist, letting out a surprised muffle that dissolves into a sigh as he pulls you against him.
You break apart after a moment, lips still tingly and buzzing with excitement, but you wonder if you’ve made the right decision as you look up at Chan, who still has his eyes closed.
“You’re drunk,” he whispers, finally looking down at you with a flushed face.
“Not drunk enough.” You twist the shoulder seams of his shirt between your fingers in consideration. “I’m sober enough to know that look. And if you don’t do something about it, then I-”
“You want me to do something about it?” He pulls your hips tight against his, and now that you’re leaning on him, you can feel the bass from the car reverberating through both of you. That combined with the buzz of the alcohol and his hands on your bare midriff nearly sends you over the edge, but you keep your composure.
And by that you mean you pounce on him— you love his voice, but you’re tired of talking about something you could be doing.
If you both were a little less tipsy, the kisses would probably be less frantic. But neither of you seem to care, hands grabbing at each other desperately as you search for better ways to pull each other closer.
“You have no idea,” he pants between kisses, “you have no fucking idea how badly I’ve wanted this.” You shudder into his lips, raking through his blond locks and tugging at the ends as Chan’s grip tightens on your hips. He takes a sharp inhale before picking you up, waiting for you to latch your legs around his torso before he slides his arms under your legs. As he walks around the car, you both never separate; you’re actually surprised when you feel the cool metal of the hood come into contact with the backs of your thighs.
He nestles himself between your legs, resting his hands on your thighs and tracing the distressed hem of your denim skirt as the bass of the song picks up. You’re lucky you’re on the hood and not the trunk; the subwoofers vibrating against you would have been too much for sure. 
He pulls away from your lips, dipping his head to catch his breath as he pants into the crook of your neck. To him, this is insane. He has you on the hood of his car. He has you on the hood of his car.
How is a man supposed to think straight in this situation? 
Meanwhile, his hot breath on your neck is driving you to the brink of insanity. Just a raise of your shoulder and he’d be kissing it. Shoot, he could make you crazy with his fingers just an inch higher too.
“Chan,” you whisper, not realizing how close your breathy voice was to his ear, and the last of his resolve practically evaporates off of him.
“Y/n…” his nose follows the curve of your neck as he makes his way up to your face, “tell me if I need to stop, I just…”
He hooks his hands around your knees and pulls, effectively pinning your hips together in a casual display of strength, and you gasp before he seizes your bottom lip between his, sucking and biting until a soft moan slips from your lips.
“Fuck, make that sound again,” he groans, hands sliding back up your thighs to the hem of your shirt. You relent, no longer keeping your sighs and sounds of pleasure to yourself as his hands slide under your crop top, around to your back.
He makes quick work of your bra, releasing the tension around your ribcage before sliding his thumbs along the underside of your breasts. Just thinking about all of the things he could do to you has both of you buzzing with anticipation, panting against each other’s mouths.
His thumb just barely grazes your nipple and you swear you see the world begin to tilt.
You don’t know what it is; normally a gesture that small wouldn’t elicit such a reaction out of you, but the alcohol in your veins and the bass under your thighs seem to bring every motion of his straight to your core. And usually you’d be embarrassed at how loud you are, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when he continues just like that, both thumbs barely putting any pressure on the peaks under your shirt.
Your head lolls back slightly, and Chan wastes no time in licking a thin stripe up the column of your neck, stopping right at the shell of your ear.
“Ideally, I’d want to take my time with you, but right now…” his voice is thick with lust as he flicks both of your nipples, and you jolt forward. “I don’t think you’d want me to.”
“Chan, please,” you gasp out, wanting to press your thighs together, “get on with it already.”
He obliges you, hands sliding down to your skirt and then back up under it, looking for the edge of your panties. Once he has them, he pulls them down and over your Nike blazers, tossing them into the convertible onto the passenger seat.
He then reaches behind you, pushing two empty bottles off the car as he presses you flat against the hood. The sound of the bottles breaking against the rocky terrain is barely registered by you though, you’re more focused on Chan’s free hand snaking back up your skirt.
Curses slip out of his mouth once his thumb brushes across your clit; he’s more than shocked to feel just how soaked you are, but you shake your head vigorously, catching his attention.
“Skip it,” you say breathlessly, looking directly into his eyes. He understands instantly, coffee colored eyes practically turning coal black seeing your desperation.
The sky seems to swirl different shades of purple and pink as the wind feathers over your body, and just past the contrails in the sky, you can see the stars beginning to poke their faces into the rosy backdrop.
There is a very real possibility that you are dreaming all of this.
But the sound of his zipper being pulled down snaps your senses into focus, and the possibility of Chan fucking you under a sky like this seems more urgent.
The next minute flies by, and before you know it Chan is lining himself up at your entrance, checking that the condom is on properly before lifting your skirt to your hips.
His eyes flicker to yours momentarily, and you nod before relaxing fully, letting your head rest against the hood as he holds onto your hips tightly.
And then you instantly tense up once he starts pushing into you.
It’s almost embarrassing how easy it is for him to slide in without really touching you, but the hiss he draws between his teeth tells you he’s not really focusing on that.
You’re focusing on how you didn’t catch a glimpse of him before he put it in, and now your entire lower abdomen is tingling in excitement over just how much of him there is. Silly how you were trying to sober up for this moment, only for you to feel high all over again with him fully inside you.
“I- shit, okay wow,” he hisses, dragging himself out and back in slowly. “You’re so warm, god-”
You can’t even respond, you’re so occupied by the feeling of his ridges along your walls that your fingers are already looking for something to grab onto.
Somehow in the haze of it all, you still want to urge him deeper, so you wrap your legs around his waist and watch as he tilts his head back, eyes fluttering closed mid-thrust.
“Oh fuck,” he moans, picking up the pace and holding your hips tighter as you whine, feeling him finally start to brush one of your sensitive spots.
Chan cannot process the scene playing out in front of him. You’re draped over the hood of his car, taking what he’s giving you so easily, face flushed and hair falling over your face from the wind. Your shirt is halfway up your torso, but your skirt is up six inches too high, high enough to see where he's sheathing himself inside of you. He couldn’t make this up if he tried.
The pressure building inside of you jumps to the next level once his hand slides up your shirt again, gently rubbing circles over your nipple as opposed to the faster thrusts down below. Your back arches into his hand as you gasp, squeezing your thighs around him tighter as you do so.
“Chan,” you whine, scratching your nails against the car, and a few more curses tumble out of his mouth as he stares down at you. 
“You’re so good y/n,” he pants, snapping his hips against you now, “better than I- ah, I imagined.”
“You’ve thought about this before?” You’re cut off by another moan; it’s a miracle how you can even speak.
Chan doesn’t reply; instead, he hooks his hands under your knees and drops them on his shoulders, then scoops his hands back under your hips and pulls them to his with a quick snap.
“I’ve thought about this before,” he says with a wicked grin, hitting you at just the right angle to pull a sharp gasp out from your lips.
“Oh my god, there-” you moan breathlessly, pressing your hands flat onto the hood of the car as he pounds into you relentlessly.
The sky is spinning. Your heart is pounding. You wish you could focus on something, anything other than the spongy part of you that Chan is hitting to the beat of the song under you, just so you could last a little bit longer. 
But the sight of him with your legs around his neck, eyes closed with strands of gold wisping across his face, the look of pure ecstasy painted across his cheeks, ensures that you have close to three seconds before the knot in your stomach unravels.
“Shit, don’t stop,” you say as you feel yourself coming undone, back arching into your release which only makes Chan pound deeper, heightening the intensity tenfold.
He cries out once you clamp down around him, spitting out random strings of curses until he’s emptying his restraint into the condom, slowing down his thrusts as he finally opens his eyes again, locking gazes with you.
He looks nothing short of ethereal with the now purple backdrop of the sky, framing his blond locks with lilac clouds as he slowly pulls out of you, doing his best not to overstimulate you. You almost tell him not to; being that full was nice, something you’d probably never admit unless you were actually drunk.
“Wow,” you breathe out, watching him lower your legs down to the hood. “That was…”
“Crazy, I know,” he laughs, still trying to calm his breathing as he looks at you. “But you were amazing, holy shit-”
“…better than the boys?” You tease, smirking up at him. 
He gives you a knowing look, picking up on the funny way you worded the question. But instead of getting flustered, he leans over the hood, caging you against it with his arms.
“Hmm…I don’t know. I think I’d have to try this a couple of times before I can give you a definite answer.”
712 notes · View notes
fizzydrink698 · 3 months
Text
consort vi | minho
Tumblr media
pairing: lee minho x reader
word count: 17.1k
genre: historical au, arranged marriage au, enemies-to-lovers
warnings: period-typical sexism, a boatload of family issues, a rapidly increasing amount of sexual tension, like reader is starting to go the tiniest bit feral about it
series masterlist | one | two | three | four | five
summary:
Minho paused, the lingering traces of cheer disappearing before your eyes. The shift in his mood was almost tangible, and it felt as if you had made some sort of misstep in a dance, thrown yourself and your partner out of rhythm.
His gaze flickered upwards, so very briefly, to look at you, before moving downwards. Down to your notes, down to where the space between your bodies was at its narrowest, barely a few fingers’ width between your skirts and his thigh. He took a breath.
Tumblr media
An uneasy sleep must have reclaimed you in the night, because you awakened to soft morning light streaming through the windows – and chambers entirely devoid of Minho.
You sat up, unsteady, the beginnings of a headache already forming. Your thoughts were scattered, muffled as if wrapped in cotton, barely intelligible under the dull throbbing.
An empty bedchamber. Did that disappoint you? The sheets beside you seemed undisturbed, indicating that he hadn’t joined you at any point in the night, hadn’t risen from the couch he’d been sleeping on last night when – 
Embarrassment – hot, ugly flashes of it – flared within you, so violent that you physically shuddered in an effort to suppress it. You wouldn’t be so careless again, risking something so mortifying and so vulnerable as being caught in a position like that.
A tiny voice in your mind uttered thanks for Minho’s order to keep servants out of his chambers without specific request. You didn’t want to imagine having to untangle these awful thoughts in front of an audience waiting to dress you for the morning. 
The more you dwelled on the situation, the more you could feel something in your chest twist. Shame, perhaps. You couldn’t help but picture last night again and again, your awful thoughts painting over your memories, imagining Minho’s eyes open instead of closed, imagining the curl of his lip as he watched you in disdain, maybe even in disgust–
No.
You felt your expression harden, breath expelling from you in one sharp burst. You hadn’t realised how much anger you could summon at merely an imagined Minho. Already, even at just the thought of him, you found yourself itching to rebuke him, to challenge the contempt you had imagined yourself.
There was a danger that you could spend the whole day in this bed, imagining all the ways in which you could argue with Minho.
So, instead, you forced yourself out of bed, determined to focus on the rest of your day and leave last night firmly in the past.
It was strange to realise just how quiet these chambers were. They were so far removed from the bustling of the palace’s lower floors that even now, as scores of nobles and servants alike rose from their beds and began their days, you could almost mistake the palace for being empty.
The spring morning air was no longer a shock of cold, but pleasantly mild. Perhaps you should make use of the weather today, you thought. It would be good to get some fresh air.
And then, you came to a sudden halt – as a flash of orange caught your attention out of the corner of your eye.
You turned your head, startled, to find a tabby cat perched on the low table of Minho’s chambers, staring you down.
This was not the pampered sort of housecat you had seen in the houses of your mother’s friends during your youth. While this cat seemed well-fed, there were tell-tale signs of the fights it must have gotten into. There was a pea-sized chunk missing from its left ear, and a faint scar on its little orange snout.
Perhaps this was a kitchen mouser? But how had it wandered so far into the palace, all the way into Minho’s chambers? How had it gotten past those heavy wooden doors, not to mention the guards stationed nearby?
You dared to take a step towards it – to no response. The cat continued to stare. Its tail twitched from one side to the other, slowly, almost lazily.
It didn’t move as you approached, instead continuing to eye you with an expression so distinctly unimpressed for such a tiny face.
Of course, the second you lifted your hand towards it, it jumped away from you in the blink of an eye. There was no panic to its retreat, just a vague sense of disdain as it withdrew from your reach.
For one brief second, you were bizarrely reminded of Minho.
To your own surprise, laughter bubbled up in your chest, slipping out between your lips. It lifted a weight off of your chest, leaving you feeling just a little lighter as you observed the way the cat shot you what could only be described as the feline equivalent of a scowl before it padded over to the bed and disappeared beneath it.
Deciding against following the cat and disturbing its hiding place, you chose to head for the door and request breakfast be served outside.
It seemed only right that the lingering worries of the previous night’s events would disappear in the light of a warm spring day.
Tumblr media
There was something so calming about the palace grounds in the morning. At your request, a table and chair had been set up at the base of a hill, just by the long winding steps back up to the palace itself, in perfect position for you to gaze out at the huge expanses of land in front of you.
Morning dew budded on the still blades of grass. Clouds slowly drifted across the sky above, the sun hiding behind them, only reappearing at just the moment the air grew too chilly. In the distance, a light layer of fog lingered amongst the trees of the royal forest, retreating further and further with each moment.
There was nothing but peace and quiet.
You breathed deeply, savouring the morning air, as you reached for the last slice of bread. Beside it, in a tiny porcelain dish, sat a little pat of creamy butter. You scraped the last of it up with your knife to carefully spread onto the bread.
Your plans for the day were the same as always. Studying, mostly. You were eager to crack open the most recent council records you could find, already making plans to note down the stances of each member, the factions that might have formed, anything that might be useful.
How soon would Minho talk to his father? How much time did you have to prepare? You should have pressed for more details.
You could ask him at dinner this evening, you realised. It was still such a strange idea, to think that you and Minho could talk to each other so…often, now.
Because you shared a bedchamber, a voice in your mind – one that sounded suspiciously like your mother – reminded you. You should be doing so much more than just talking.
A mouthful of bread lodged itself in your throat mid-swallow, making you cough and splutter as you reached for your tea.
Not that you were particularly eager for that, of course. Last night had been a brief moment of insanity, a sudden break from rational thought, brought on by returning to the bed that held so many strong memories. It had infected your dreams, and even seeped into your sleep-addled actions in the dead of night, but now you had recovered.
Now, once again, you were just as uninterested as he was. Moving to his chambers was good enough to mend your image as a successful, stable pairing. It didn’t matter what happened behind closed doors, because you had gotten what you wanted.
But before you could make an effort to divert your thoughts back towards the day ahead, the peace of the morning was broken.
You watched as a group of palace guards marched into sight, descending the palace steps – and you stilled when you saw the person they were accompanying.
Her Majesty, the Queen.
You sat up a little straighter, as your eyes met across the wide-open space of the palace lawns. She always seemed so perfectly put together, her long dark hair twisted and braided neatly into a bun, the soft and sweeping fabrics of her dress somehow spotless even when brushing against the ground.
In her fine features, there was so much of Felix. You almost wanted to look away.
Instead, you followed protocol to the letter, rising to your feet and bowing your head at her arrival. “Your Majesty.”
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she replied, and there was a genuine soft note of surprise to her voice that reinforced her words. “If you’re finished with your meal, would you like to accompany me across the grounds?”
You blinked, lifting your head in shock. You’d barely spoken to this woman in weeks. You’d half-expected her to ignore you. You’d half-given up on the affection the two of you had grown for each other during your childhood.
“Y-yes,” you replied, and cleared your throat. “Yes, I’d love to.”
She gave you a smile – one so deeply familiar that it made your heart ache for just a second – and inclined her head, silently offering you the place by her side.
You moved quickly, almost without thinking, barely retaining the grace expected for a lady of your position, as you tried to join her before she could change her mind.
Before the two of you could start walking, however, she first turned to glance at the guards behind her. With a firm, clear voice of a queen, she told them. “I trust I’m accompanied by guards possessing the respect of allowing two ladies some privacy while they talk. Am I not?”
The nearest guard’s eyes widened slightly in understanding, and he hurried to nod at her. “Yes, Your Majesty. Of course.”
“Delightful to hear. The usual twelve paces behind will suffice,” she said, her voice so casual that the comment could almost be described as offhand, before she finally set off. You had to quicken your steps slightly to catch up with her.
And, sure enough, the guards waited until you were twelve paces ahead before they followed – at the perfect distance to remain out of earshot.
This was the woman you remembered from your childhood. Always polite, always charming, and just a little cleverer than she seemed.
You fell into step beside her, searching for something to say to start the conversation. “I heard a delegation from the Lakelands are on their way.”
“Yes,” she said, nodding with a warm smile. “Most of the delegates only came to their position after I left, but I know a handful. Among them is a prince I last saw as a young boy. I look forward to seeing the man he’s now grown to be.”
“That will be nice,” you remarked, looking for something else to say. Something clever, or funny, or charming. It used to be so much easier to talk to her. “Do you miss the Lakelands?”
“Occasionally. Especially in the winter. I’ve never developed a taste for the cold that sets in here,” she said, but there was no trace of sadness in her voice. Nothing wistful. “But what about you? Are you keeping well?”
“Yes,” you replied – but it felt like a half-truth at best. “As well as can be.”
“I’m sure you’ve had so many pleasantries asked about your marriage,” she said. “That’s usually all people can think to talk about, with women like us.”
Her words struck something in you, hooking something strange and raw and tugging it out into the open.
“That’s usually the topic of conversation, yes.”
Her lips twitched, the briefest flicker of a smile. “Then we’ll speak about something else. Are you still keeping to your studies?”
 “Yes!” you exclaimed, unable to keep your excitement from rushing out. “Practically every day. Mostly, I’ve been focusing on my histories and geography, but I like to brush up on my languages every so often.”
“You did always love studying your histories,” the Queen nodded, and for the first time in your conversation, you picked up on the slightest hint of sadness in her tone.
It sparked a vaguely familiar feeling. An old desire to cheer her, the feeling so ingrained that it felt like slipping on an old favourite coat.
“My new tutor has helped quite splendidly,” you said, with a smile just a touch forced. “I hadn’t realised how much more I could learn with someone following me in my interests, instead of just telling me what I should be interested in.” 
The Queen smiled back at you, and hers seemed entirely genuine. “There seems so much to catch up on. I’ve been meaning to talk to you sooner.”
Her words, as light and carefree as she had offered them, managed to hit something deep within you. Your expression faltered, as you felt the words dig into you, like claws gripping your flesh, piercing you.
You blurted out your only thought. “Why didn’t you?”
The question came out in a rush, an outpouring of emotion that you had tried so hard to keep dammed. You watched the way she paused, caught off-guard by your sudden harsh words.
You swallowed, trying frantically to recover some sense of manners. “I mean, I…it’s just I’ve been…I’ve been so alone since…”
“…I know.”
Her gaze grew so soft, as she watched you sadly. There were moments, occasionally, when her eyes were so expressive, just as Felix’s were.
For a moment, you pictured what it must have been like for her, all those years ago. Newly married to a stranger, not just alone but alone in an entirely different kingdom. A kingdom that her father and her father’s father and his father before that had been at war with. A kingdom with a people who mistrusted her, who still mourned for her husband’s first wife, the beloved wife, the wife she must constantly be compared to in public and in private.
You wondered how long it took her to learn to hide those expressive eyes. You wondered if it saddened her to look upon her son, and see those same bright eyes shining back.
“I missed you,” you confessed. “I miss how it used to be.”
“So do I, sweetling,” she murmured. There were only two people in this world the Queen called ‘sweetling’. One was standing in front of her. The other was half a kingdom away, quiet and aching by the coast. “But that’s precisely why I’ve stayed away.”
“What?” You asked, sharp in your confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“There are whispers at court,” she began, before pausing. You detected the faintest of eye-rolls as she continued. “There always are. Right now, they are centred on you.”
“Me?” You repeated. “I haven’t heard anything.”
“Oh, the subjects never do,” she said, her tone sharpening just a touch. You knew she’d had her fair share of experience with court rumours. “It’s no fun for them if the rumour gets dragged into daylight and exposed for the nonsense that it is. Better to whisper in secret, and give their empty brains something to spin from nothing.”
“What are they saying?” You asked. You’d half-expected something like this to happen, but you’d always thought your first reaction would be worry, or fear – and yet, right now, the news filled you with nothing but anger.
“They’re harmless, for now. Idle gossip. But if any fuel is added to them, they could prove dangerous–”
“What are they saying?” You repeated, cutting her off. You needed to hear it. You already had an inkling, but you needed it in words.
She sighed. “…You and Felix. I’m afraid my son will always be a subject for scandal in your future.”
Felix.
You turned away, eyes searching for the horizon, for something to fix on in the distance.
You hated that this didn’t surprise you. You hated that your paranoia, your constant insecurity about how you were perceived, about how your issues with Minho were perceived, that constant nagging feeling of your marriage being forced under a magnifying glass, was partially justified.
“Anything in particular?” You finally managed to ask when your voice returned to you.
“The stories change every week. Nothing has truly taken hold, which is a good thing,” the queen reassured you. “But until you and Minho…well, when your marriage seemed on shakier ground, I thought it was wise to keep my distance. I thought it would make things easier for you.”
Easier.
Right.
A lump was forming in your throat. You did your best to swallow it down.
“I thought you were angry at me,” you admitted. “For marrying Minho, instead of your son.”
“You did marry my son.”
There was such strong feeling in her voice that it forced your gaze back to her. The queen’s jaw was set, her mouth curved downwards slightly. Years and years of learned authority, of power however scant it might be, radiated through her as she stood firm.
“Minho is my son. In every way that counts.”
You stared, silent, as the faintest hint of guilt began to warm your cheeks.
The queen continued to walk, her gaze softening as she fell back into old memories. “He was so tiny when I entered the palace. I helped him take his first steps. I helped him learn his letters, I selected his tutors and I watched him grow.”
She slowed her steps, as you reached the edge of the forest that surrounded the palace. The two of you would have to turn back soon, but you took a moment to observe the quiet of the trees, the way that sunlight filtered through the newly-grown leaves.
“I might not be called his mother, but he is my son,” she finished, quietly. “And I’m very proud of him.”
She blinked rapidly a few times, clearing her throat, and turned to flash you the briefest of knowing smiles. “As mule-headed as he can be sometimes.”
You couldn’t help but laugh – albeit quietly, softly, as the emotion of the conversation still kept its grip on you. 
There was a pull in you – that familiar one, the one that urged you to please others, the one that pushed you to say exactly the perfect thing – to praise Minho to the Queen. To call him a good man. You knew she would want to hear it, she would want to hear how happy you had turned out in spite of it all, that by pure serendipity, your marriage to Minho was just as splendid and happy as the marriage with Felix you had been awaiting your whole life.
But the words stuck in your throat. You practically choked on them. Not just because they were untrue.
Because for a second – for such a brief, unthinking second – you had wanted them to be true, just as badly as she did.
Something cold began to take hold of you. It started in your gut, unfurling his long icy fingers, grabbing and twisting and squeezing as it slowly dragged the rest of you into its grip.
Betrayal. In that moment, you felt – you knew – you had betrayed Felix.
Did it show on your face? The queen was watching you now, and you couldn’t imagine the expression you must have had.
You swallowed, trying with all you had to shove that awful pain away.
You needed to say something. Anything.
“Minho…he’s always…he never seems to care when people believe the worst in him,” you said, the words stumbling out of you, as if your mind was two steps behind your mouth. “It’s almost like he prefers it. I don’t understand it.”
The queen took in your words. After one long pause, in which her eyes studied you so intensely that it felt they were about to burn through you, she turned to look up at the palace on the hill. Even from this distance, it seemed to loom over you, waiting so impatiently for you to return.
“This place…” she trailed off. Her jaw tightened - and in that one instant, as her eyes flashed, you saw the teenage girl that had first stepped foot into this court, so far from home and facing such a nest of vipers. “It pulls something out of the people here. A way to protect themselves. My husband already had his ingrained when I came here. I felt it take hold within myself. I watched it form in Minho, that desire to push people away. And you…” she turned to you, briefly, and you blinked at the twist of amusement in her lips. “What opposites you and he are. How perfectly you mirror.”
You stared. Her words were vague, cryptic…and yet, you couldn’t help feel as if you had been insulted. You opened your mouth to protest, but the queen had already turned away back towards the palace.
“You can’t live in a place like this without growing a few thorns,” the queen sighed. “Like the roses in my gardens, I suppose. The ones without thorns are the first to be eaten.”
There was something layered in her words, something sad, something resigned.
You realised then that of all the members of the royal family she had just mentioned, there was one obvious name left unsaid.
“Let us return,” she said, finally. “Before those guards grow too curious and drift too close.”
Tumblr media
Not only did Minho keep his promise of returning for dinner again that evening, he arrived even earlier than you.
You almost stopped at the door, thrown by the sight of him at the table, as perfectly poised as he always was, flicking through a sheaf of papers by the side of his plate. He looked up at your arrival, eyes meeting yours, and something caught in your chest.
You hadn’t realised how strange it would be to see him in person after last night, how…affecting.
Clearing your throat, you gave him a tight smile and made your way to your seat across from him – unfortunately for you, as it gave you a clear unobstructed view of Minho at a time when you very much wished for anything but that.
You reached for the decanter in front of you, eager to pour yourself a drink to deal with this building lump in your throat. To your surprise, you found it to be filled with water, not wine.
“How was your day?” you asked, finally speaking, hoping to sound calm and collected.
Minho eyed you carefully, as if you’d offered some sort of complex riddle, and not a feeble attempt at small-talk. “…Slow. Until the Lakelander delegation arrives, there’s nothing urgent to take care of. I’ve been looking over budget proposals for the harvest season.”
The harvest season was months away. In fact, you were almost certain that the fields had only just been sown at all. That truly did seem like a slow day. “I see.”
You knew you should try to continue the conversation, to ask him more about his work. Instead, you let your eyes drop to the plate of food in front of you, words dying on your tongue as you tried and failed to push down the memories of last night.
It felt so…deeply indecent, to sit across from Minho, and pretend you hadn’t touched yourself just a few feet away from him. And it was only made more indecent by the fact that he didn’t know.
It was all you could think about when you looked at him. You knew a secret, and he didn’t.
For dinner, the kitchens had prepared some sort of fish beautifully. Perfectly cooked, tender and soft and practically melting in your mouth.
You barely tasted it. You just kept eating, preoccupied, eyes trained on your plate. You were certain that if you looked up at Minho for too long, you would give yourself away.
In fact, the longer you sat there, the more uncertain you became.
Were you acting unnaturally? Were you too quiet, too reluctant to make conversation?
But, then again, what exactly did acting ‘naturally’ in Minho’s presence entail? You might have finally found yourselves on better terms, but…
“Something on your mind?”
Your eyes jerked up to meet his, caught off-guard.
How long had Minho been observing you? It looked like he hadn’t even touched his food yet, one hand resting on top of his papers, his other arm propped up on the table, hand curled under his chin as he looked at you.
You made an effort to swallow down the food in your mouth, despite how dry your throat had become, and reached for your water with all the nonchalance you could muster. “Not particularly. I was just…”
Think of something, think of anything.
“Wondering about those budget proposals. The harvest season must be months away. Was there really nothing else more pressing?”
Minho was quiet for a second, just long enough to spark the tiniest flicker of nerves in the pit of your gut, before he let out a sigh. “My father likes to drip-feed me responsibilities, one at a time. If there is anything else more urgent, I won’t know until my next meeting with him. And that won’t be for several days.”
There was an edge of frustration in his voice, something long-suffering, as if this were the topic of multiple arguments in the past, arguments that never seemed to resolve themselves in his favour.
He reached for his water, taking a sip, before his gaze returned to you. “That will also be when I talk to him about you joining the council.”
For a brief moment, all thoughts about the previous night and your embarrassing secret disappeared from your mind entirely. You leaned forward, intrigued. “What do you think his response will be?”
Minho tilted his head slightly in thought – and it filled you with surprise at the fact that you recognised this subtle shift in Minho’s body language, that at some point you had come to learn how to read him, even slightly – and replied. “…I won’t mince words–”
“Do you ever?” You retorted, almost without thinking.
Minho’s lips twitched, fighting a smile, but continued without acknowledging your mildest of jabs. “It will be a hard sell. My father is not a revolutionary. A large part of his popularity has come from his upholding of tradition. But he’s been dragging his feet on filling this council seat for months now, and for good reason. It’s a political minefield, and you are the best compromise. I hope he’ll see that.”
Minho was right. Your appointment to the council, however perfect a resolution to the infighting between your father and the blue-blooded nobility, would not be an easy sell at all. “I hope so too.”
The rest of your dinner passed in relative quiet, but the little calm you managed to gain in that time soon evaporated when you exited the dining room – and found yourself confronted yet again with the question of sleeping arrangements.
Minho’s bed was now the site of two of your most scandalous transgressions. Both of which involved Minho, both of which rendered you almost completely unable to look him in the eye whenever you thought of them.
In contrast to your internal strife, however, Minho seemed perfectly at ease.
He transported his sheaf of papers from the dining table to the couch, seating himself comfortably and setting them down on the low table in front of him.
Actually, perhaps ‘stack’ of papers might be more accurate a description than ‘sheaf’. Just how much work went into preparing these budget proposals? Had he done so little in his office all day to bring so much work to do in his chambers? Or was this a far more demanding responsibility than you had assumed?
All evidence seemed to point to the latter, as Minho worked silently throughout the evening, brow furrowed just a hint in concentration. He didn’t look up once, not when you rose to start preparing for bed, not when you returned in your nightclothes, not even when you wished him good night. He returned the words with a quiet murmur, clearly too enwrapped with whatever he was working on.
He was so engrossed, he didn’t see the way you hesitated by the bed.
Should you invite him over? He might have had work to do, but this would be yet another night that you went to bed without him. You were sharing a bedchamber now, surely the two of you should…
At least once, you should…
You tried to decide on the words of the invitation, of how to phrase it. A suggestion that he should bring his papers to bed, if he had so much work still to do? That was a reasonable question, wasn’t it? If he refused, you could press him on it, demand to know why it was beginning to seem as if he were still avoiding you…
“Yes?”
You blinked, emerging from your thoughts, to find Minho had glanced over to you. You likely made a strange sight, hovering by the bed, still yet to get under its covers.
The words were on the tip of your tongue, carefully crafted, ready to ask.
And then, traitorously, you thought of last night again.
Minho had been on the other side of the room, able to sleep through it, but if he’d been next to you… 
You pictured it. You pictured jostling him awake in your sleep, the embarrassing sounds you might make. What you might do.
An awful, awful wave of embarrassment crashed through you because what if you tried to grab at him in your sleep?
You swallowed, turning away without even attempting to reply to Minho, and slipped under the bedcovers without another word.
In the morning, you woke to find that Minho had already risen long before you. The bedchamber was empty, and again the sheets by your side were untouched.
Tumblr media
When the third night elapsed in just the same way, and the fourth, it became clear that this couldn’t be mere coincidence. Minho didn’t just happen to be so enthralled in his work that he fell asleep on the couch four nights in a row.
He was refusing to sleep beside you. You might have forced his hand in letting you share his chambers, but apparently he would not let that extend to his actual bed.
You were half-convinced he still held that early contempt for you, that he was still stubbornly maintaining that unconquerable distance between the two of you out of disdain.
And yet, he still sat with you at every dinner. He talked with you about his day, about your studies, telling stories about a particular odious noble that had done something to irk him, or listening to you talk passionately about a particular historical figure or event that had come up in your research. He’d even teased you once, when you confessed that you didn’t have the patience to read through the handful of art history books that Seungmin had added to your list.
The two of you were very slowly developing some odd sense of…well, perhaps friendship was still too strong a choice of word, but at least an understanding around each other that definitely hadn’t been present in the first few weeks of your marriage.
Nowhere else had this become so apparent than on your fifth evening in Minho’s bedchambers.
For a change of scenery, you had decided to spend the afternoon catching up on your research in these chambers, taking lunch there with your books, enjoying the little pocket of quiet in which Minho’s bedchambers were nestled within the palace.
To your surprise, and delight, the cat was back.
Initially, it was just as sullen as you remembered. It eyed you from across the room, perched on the low table yet again, sat as tall and imposing as it could make itself.
That was, until you called for a plate of kippers to be brought to you.
Despite its surly appearance, the cat barely needed convincing before it wandered over to you and the plate of fish, taking each offered kipper from your hand without hesitation. After three fish, it allowed you the softest of pets between its ears. After six, it drew closer, jumping from the table to the seat next to you, a little more relaxed as it took yet another fish from your hand.
To your delight, once the plate was empty, the cat did not abandon you immediately. In fact, it curled up near you – not quite close enough to be within easy reach, but enough that you could lean over and give it slow and gentle strokes as you continued to read. It even began to purr, just a little, whenever you scratched just beneath the base of its ears.
The more attention you gave the cat, the more you realised just how cared for it seemed to be. How comfortable it was with being touched, how well-fed it was, how soft its fur was. Even in a palace, this was not at all typical for a kitchen mouser.
“Someone spoils you, don’t they?” You murmured, giving the cat more strokes. “I can see why, you’re lovely. So cute.”
The cat, while not acknowledging your words, leaned its head up into your hand a little, chasing after those little scratches.
You were close to abandoning your studies entirely for the day, ready to devote your full attention to this adorable little creature, when the bedchamber doors swung open.
The cat jolted a little, jumping from its place on the couch – but to your relief, did not run out of the room. Instead, it lingered by the low table, ready to disappear under it, and stared down the sudden arrival.
Minho, mouth still parted slightly in whatever greeting he’d been about to give you, was silent as his gaze flickered between you and the orange cat eyeing him from the floor.
“We have a visitor,” you told Minho, solemnly, gesturing to the cat.
Minho nodded, briefly, still looking between you and the cat. “Yes. Yes, she seems to like it in here.”
“‘She’?” You repeated, raising an eyebrow.
Minho’s expression immediately smoothed into the perfect neutral, refusing to give even the slightest bit of emotion away. “…I assume.”
“Mm. Well, she seems to be a sweetheart.”
“Does she?” Minho repeated, glancing at the cat again, who seemed to have now relaxed. She began to approach Minho’s feet, sniffing familiarly at his boots.
“I may have had to bribe her with a plate of kippers,” you admitted, increasingly amused by the way the cat began to weave her way between Minho’s legs, but managed not to let it show too obviously in your face. “She seems very well-fed, for a kitchen mouser.”
Minho made a non-committal sound in response, not meeting your eyes. “…Yes, well, I imagine people must toss her dinner scraps here and there.”
“I suppose so. But who would be so soft-hearted in this palace, to feed a kitchen cat from their own plate?” You wondered aloud.
Minho’s face was a mask at this point, unmoving, perfectly calculated. He made his way to one of his armchairs, attempting to ignore the way the cat followed him happily, jumping up and perching herself on the arm of his chair.
You continued. “In fact, I wonder what a mouser would be doing here, so far away from the kitchens. That’s quite a distance for a cat to wander unprompted.”
“I suppose so,” Minho stated, perfectly neutral, even as the cat moved from the arm of the chair to seat herself in his lap.
You continued to stare at him, wordless, eyebrow raised – and finally, he relented.
“I might have given her some scraps, once or twice,” he admitted, even as the cat nuzzled into his hand from where she rested nearby. “I suppose she can’t help it if she isn’t good at mousing, and goes hungry.”
“True,” you allowed, thoroughly unconvinced by his façade. “And do you know if this failed mouser has a name?”
“…I think I’ve heard someone call her Soonie,” Minho said, and finally let his hand drift over to Soonie and begin to give her gentle scratching behind her ears. She purred loudly enough that you could hear her from where you sat, utterly content to receive affection from someone she was clearly very familiar with. “Somewhere. At some point.”
“How odd. Not many kitchen mousers have names.”
“Mm,” Minho hummed, noncommittal, but when his eyes dropped down to glance at Soonie, he couldn’t hide the slightest of smiles.
You took in the sight, this cold and prickly prince melting as he pet the scruffy little tabby cat. Minho was still in his usual daily prince attire, all high-necked and formal. His legs were clad in those familiar riding leathers that you never let yourself look at for too long, so you moved your attention instead to his jacket. Instead of a royal scarlet, this one was a dark blue, the fabric glinting in the candlelight from the clusters of beading embroidered within it. It suited him, you forced yourself to admit, far more than red did.
In fact, you tried to remember the last time Minho had worn the colour red, but nothing recent sprang to mind. Perhaps…
“I’m meeting with my father tomorrow,” Minho told you, and immediately your attention was captured.
Tomorrow.
The word sparked something in your gut – not quite dread, or alarm, but something akin to that. Urgency.
You swallowed back your excitement, remaining as calm and neutral as you could. “And you’ll talk to him about the council?”
“That’s the plan,” Minho replied, enigmatic.
You paused, and a quiet fell over the room. It wasn’t as if Minho was expecting you to reply – in fact, as Soonie settled completely in his lap, chin dropping to rest on his knee, he was looking down and away from you.
But something still just…tugged at you. Just a little bit.
Your eyes darted down to the book in your hands, and as nonchalantly as you could, you spoke. “…Thank you.”
You saw Minho move out of the corner of your eye, head raising to look at you.
“…I’m just doing what I’m supposed to,” Minho said, his voice detached and light. “One of my duties is to recommend the most capable candidate I can find. Don’t think of it as a favour.”
His words rendered you speechless, heart beginning to pound in your ears.
Most capable.
You were the daughter of a rich, powerful man. You had been given many compliments throughout your lifetime.
None of them had ever caused the same kind of lump to form in your throat as you felt now. None had caused this kind of strange heat to bloom behind your eyes, this way your heart swelled.
Most capable.
And just like that, you were spurred into action. If you had only one night left to prepare yourself and construct the perfect defence to prove why you deserved to be on the council, you would take full advantage of it.
You began combing through the papers you had with you, reading voraciously, consuming every piece of information available to you. You did this throughout dinner, chewing absently as you turned pages and scrawled notes. You were so devoted to your studies, you made your way through two full cups of tea before realising, upon looking up, that it was Minho who poured it for you each time.
Your eyes met, just as he held the teapot over your cup to pour a third time, and your gaze held long enough to note the flicker of amusement in his before he looked away.
When dinner was over, you retreated back to the couch with more reading to finish. Minho did the same, taking up the same spot he did every evening, that familiar pile of paperwork set in front of him. There was a strangely companionable silence as the two of you worked into the night.
You almost forgot he was there, despite the sounds of his writing and the crisp sounds of paper-shuffling, slipping into a quiet rhythm of reading and re-reading until words began to blur together.
As the candles burned low, and the hours grew later and later, you felt your concentration start to slip. Your eyes would close, just for a few moments, and the will to open them again slowly began to elude you. Exhaustion crept up on you, an old friend, and you found yourself repeating paragraphs, reading over the same sentence again and again and unable to take in its meaning.
Your eyes closed again, and you vaguely remembered telling yourself it would be just for a moment.
Sleep found you instead.
Blissful, calm. Warmth from the fire. Papers slipping from your hand, but never landing on the floor. You felt safe, wrapped in the quiet.
Something brushed your arm. Soft. Fur. Soonie?
Your eyes opened, bleary, only to find grey instead of orange. The wrongness of it jolted you, your hand darting out to grab at something pale and moving.
Skin.
A hand. Soft.
Except for a callus on the edge of a knuckle on the middle finger. You recognised it, for you had your own on the very same finger. It was where the pen sat whenever you wrote.
Your gaze wandered, still sleep-fogged, and there was no surprise when you saw the hand attached to a Minho.
Your grip on him relaxed, fingers slipping from his, and you barely mumbled a half-formed thought. “Your hand matches mine.”
Your eyes closed again, just as Minho stilled, and you drifted back to sleep.
Tumblr media
You woke up, neck aching, still upright on the couch. Your books and papers lay scattered around you, from where you’d been too tired to put them away properly. Morning light streamed in from the windows, and despite the ashes in the fireplace indicating that it had long since burned out, you found yourself unusually warm.
Ah. You had fallen asleep in the previous day’s clothes – and with very familiar furs draped over you.
There was a brief flash of a memory, of Minho’s hand pulling the furs over you. You dimly recalled saying something, perhaps, but the details escaped you. You pushed the furs off of you, your movements unusually gentle as you handled the blanket, as if it commandeered an unthinking respect from you. Sentiment, maybe.
As always, Minho had risen before you and left your chambers, but today this observation filled you with equal parts excitement and nerves.
Were they discussing it right at this moment? Did their meetings take place in the mornings? Or in the afternoons? Would other items be brought up first?
It was maddening, to have so many questions and no way to pursue the answers.
With a night’s worth of sweat sticking to your skin, you made up a bath for yourself, even heating the water entirely on your own. The only oils in Minho’s bathroom were lavender, suited for relaxation in the evenings rather than energising in the mornings, but you made do. 
The water was a touch cooler than how you usually liked it, but you didn’t have the patience to heat more water. Instead, you stripped and climbed into the bath with as much grace as you could muster and set about cleaning yourself.
This wasn’t the first time you had bathed entirely without servants – in fact, since you had moved into Minho’s chambers, the only times a servant had been permitted to enter was to bring them dinner each evening.
You found yourself becoming…amenable to that arrangement. It gave Minho’s chambers a sense of quiet, a private solace, that could not be found anywhere else in the palace.
Perhaps that was why it was so jarring, almost invading, when you heard knocking from afar, the sound of a door swinging open, and a woman’s voice ringing out hesitantly. “Your Highness?”
You startled, upsetting the water, letting some of it slosh over the side of the bath and onto the floor. “Yes? Is something wrong?”
Footsteps approached – timid, rushed – and the voice drew closer. “You’ve been summoned, Your Highness. By the king.”
Your stomach dropped, your breath cut short.
“He…said it was urgent, Your Highness, but I can let them know you’re still bathing–”
“No,” you blurted out, quickly, sharply. You got out of the bath hastily, dripping water all over the floor. “Help me change into something quickly, and I’ll go now.” 
There was only one reason you would be summoned by the king on this particular day, and from the sounds of it, it wasn’t to congratulate you on your new position on the council.
You needed to stand your ground, to explain your reasoning in the face of his refusal. And if there was any chance of persuading him to grant you the position, to ignore the concerns of your gender…
Well, telling the king that he needed to wait to discuss urgent business until the princess finished drying her hair was not the kind of image you wanted to present to him.
And so, you were laced into a dress with impressive dexterity by your maid, the luscious fabric increasingly dampened from your dripping hair. Was it an uncomfortable sensation? Absolutely, but it was difficult to dwell on it when all you could think of was why you were be summoned, what could have happened between the king and Minho to warrant such an urgent demand for your presence.
Discussions must not have gone as smoothly as Minho intended – but not so disastrously as to be dismissed out of hand.
As you slipped on a pair of shoes, your maid gave one last attempt to persuade you to wait. “Your Highness, are you sure…”
 You turned, smiling politely at her. “Yes. I’m sure it will dry soon enough. Thank you for all your help.”
She returned your smile, somewhat nervously, eyes darting to the dishevelled aspects of your appearance, but seemed a little more assured. Marginally. Barely.
Before she could protest again, you marched straight for the door.
Of course, as was so often the case with grand gestures, there were certain factors you didn’t think through entirely.
The palace halls were unforgivingly cold, especially as your hair continued to slowly drip water down your neck, soaking into the back of your gown. It made every step uncomfortable, as every little drop of water that landed on the nape of your neck was another reprimanding shock of chill.
You made sure to stand tall, proud.
If your head was bowed, if your shoulders were slouched and your steps more resembling a scurry than a stride, you would have made a pitiable sight. It would look as if you were caught off-guard, as if you were panicked, incapable, scared.
But with your chin held high, with your shoulders back and a confidence steeling you, this was intentional. This was a statement. An image fit for songs, for stories, a princess devoted to her role and to the orders of her king.
As you drew closer to the king’s chambers, navigating through the ever-narrowing hallways, you felt your chest begin to tighten. You realised you might genuinely hate it here, this deep within the very depths of the palace, its cold little stone heart. A king might be well-defended here, the walls witness to nearly a thousand years of history, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were descending into a tomb.
And then, you heard the voices.
The last time you had been summoned by the king, you remembered catching a snippet of conversation at the very doorstep of his chambers. That was how close you had to get before Minho’s and the king’s voices could be heard through the thick wooden door.
But now? You heard them in the corridor - because they were loud.
Not quite a screaming match between father and son, but–
“–talk of duty, but what’s your solution, Father? Burying your head in the sand, that tried and tested trick?”
You almost stumbled, shock rendering you clumsy, because did Minho just say that to the king?
“Caution, boy, is not ignorance. How do you mistake the two? You’re well-versed in the latter.”
The two guards in front of you exchanged a glance. You noted that they did not share your horror. In fact, you could almost mistake it as…resigned.
“Was it age that turned your belly yellow? Is that my fate too? Cowardice?”
“I will not be lectured by a son still wet-around-the-ears on age.”
Not just resigned.
Long-suffering.
They’d heard this all before. Frequently, by the looks of things.
And then, as if that knowledge had unlocked something, had lifted the veil over your eyes, you could hear it. The hint of familiarity, the ease with which the two hurled insults at each other.
This was not the first time Minho and his father had quarrelled. In fact, you’d wager this wasn’t the first time this week.
The argument paused when the guards knocked at the door, announcing your arrival. As the doors swung open, you caught sight of Minho and his father – not a hair out of place, not even a flush of anger to their cheeks – glaring at each other with familial exasperation.
Minho looked away first, turning to look at you – and paused.
His Majesty followed his gaze, and you watched those regal eyes blink in surprise at your appearance.
You must have made a sight, your gown on its way to being ruined, your hair still slick and dishevelled, trying hard not to shiver in the cold of these chambers.
“Your Majesty,” you greeted, not even the slightest bit affected, and bowed low. You straightened up before offering Minho’s greeting. “Husband.”
“My dear,” the king spoke, just the slightest bit alarmed. “If my summons caught you at an inopportune time, I assure you it’s perfectly reasonable to delay answering until you’re presentable. Don’t concern yourself so thoroughly.”
You smiled brightly. The picture of obedience, of devotion. “I hated the thought of keeping you both waiting. I imagine I know what this conversation is about.”
The king’s gaze flickered between you and Minho at this, a frown soon beginning to form. Still, there was a subtle note of surprise in his voice when he spoke again. “I see. The two of you are conspirators in this…”
“Proposal?” you supplied, gently.
“Attack?” Minho offered, bitterly.
“…Folly,” the king said, finally, turning back to you.
You dipped your head, keeping your voice soft and sweet. “I’m sorry to hear that you see it that way. I believe it to be a fair compromise, to ease the tensions at court.”
“Yes, Minho said the same thing,” the king sighed, dismissive. “Both of you are blind to the same issue. Any conflicts that your position on the council might resolve are outnumbered by the discord it would certainly cause.”
Minho sighed, eyes darting up to the ceiling. You wondered how many times he had heard that argument this morning. “And yet, a good king prioritises the future of his kingdom above all else, is that not so?”
The king shot Minho a look. It didn’t take much to realise that those were likely the king’s own words that had come out of Minho’s mouth, not his own.
“Son–”
“Talk to her,” Minho interrupted, gesturing to you in pure exasperation. “Listen to her. Ask her anything. She’s more than qualified to be on the council.”
After a moment’s hesitation, in which it looked as if the king was debating whether to indulge his oldest son or nip this matter in the bud entirely, he turned to you.
“…Very well,” he said, giving in. You watched as he made his way to the splendid-looking chair behind a monstrosity of a writing desk, sinking into it. For a brief moment, you thought you caught something of a grimace in his expression.
Exhaustion? Perhaps. It must have been tiring work, running a kingdom. Let alone arguing with Minho too. You had first-hand knowledge of how that could drain your energy.  
The king’s eyes became fixed on you, almost pinning you to the floor, as he spoke. “Suppose you were on the council, and a message was received, warning of a great army about to invade. What would you advise?”
Your brow furrowed as you considered the question. You needed to remain calm, measured, and use every scrap of information you had studied.
“Which border is the army advancing toward?” you asked, thoughtful.
The king’s face remained unchanged. “The one we share with the Lakelands.”
Interesting. No cardinal direction given – you assumed that must have been on purpose – but still plenty of information to form an answer. The Lakelands were in the north, and under treaty with your kingdom.
“I would advise you to send missives to Lords Kim and Geum in the north with instructions to muster their forces and man our security garrisons along the border. I would also–”
“Which garrisons?” the king interrupted, gently but firmly.
“Yalrock and Banna. Yalrock is the largest garrison on the northern border, Banna is strategically advantageous because of its position on the river plains. You’d be forcing the army to march along the mountain passes instead.”
The king’s expression remained cold, neutral – and you realised, in that moment, exactly where Minho might have learned the same habit. “Continue.”
“I would also advise you to send word to our allies in the hills and across the Sunrise Sea, informing them that the Lakelands have broken our treaty pact.”
“Broken the pact?” the king repeated. “I never said the Lakelanders were the ones invading.”
“The treaty pact also forbids the harbouring of any forces with aggressive intent towards treaty members. In this scenario, the Lakelanders would be doing just this – unless they themselves were invaded by this army too, which I doubt if we received no summons for aid or word from our ambassador there,” you said. Was this too much detail? Were you rambling? You did your best to keep your words steady, unrushed. “Therefore, the treaty would be broken.”
From out of the corner of your eye, you caught Minho watching you, a hint of a smile on his face.
The king, while perhaps a touch surprised at your answer, pressed on anyway with another question, changing the subject entirely.
“…Suppose Lord Sun’s lands are failing to produce the amount of grain demanded of them. How would you advise me?”
“I would be confused,” you admitted, “because Lord Sun’s lands produce fish, not grain.”
“And why is that?”
“Because his lands are in the east, along the coast. The land there isn’t arable.”
“Why?”
“The weather is too hot in the summer, too dry. There isn’t enough freshwater for crop-growing.”
The quickness of your answer was rewarded with the smallest – almost unthinking – of nods from the king. He paused once more, and spoke again. “Suppose I wanted to–”
“Another question?” Minho interjected, sighing, as he wandered across the room and took a seat by the window. He rested his head against his hand, elbow planted into the plush armrest of his chair. 
The king shot him a look, either for the interruption, or for the flippant tone Minho had used, or perhaps even for the way he was lounging in the presence of his king, but he made no move to reprimand him. Instead, he turned back to you. “Suppose I wanted to offer a gift to the Lakelander delegation when they arrive next month to renew the treaty. A personal one, not a grand spectacle of an offering. What would you suggest?”
You paused. This wasn’t a question that could be answered with any of your recent studies of war or economics or geography. This was a question of hospitality, knowledge you needed as a queen, not as a councillor.
It took a moment, longer than it took with the first two questions, but soon there was an answer in your mind. “When the last Lakelander delegation came to this country to sign the treaty, one of the gifts they gave Your Majesty were wild rose seeds. Wild roses that were native to the Lakelands, difficult to grow in this climate, meant to symbolise a new peace and the care needed to maintain it. Her Majesty, the queen, still grows these roses in her private gardens, does she not?”
The answer to your question did not come from the king, but from Minho. “She does.”
“Then, I would suggest a bouquet of these roses. It would be symbolic of the care this kingdom has taken to nurture this new relationship with the Lakelands, a sign that we do not take their gifts for granted.”
The king eyed you carefully for a moment, silent. “…You weren’t present at the first signing of the treaty, were you? You’re too young for that.”
“You’re right, I wasn’t present, Your Majesty,” you replied. “But the queen graciously allowed me to play in her gardens when I was a child, and taught me the origins of those roses.”
Not quite. The queen allowed you and Felix to play in those gardens. She told you the origins of the roses when Felix tried to pick some for you, and accidentally cut open his palm on the sharp thorns of their stems. You remembered him, tears in his eyes, sniffling as Her Majesty held the both of you close and warned him gently that these roses were wild, were Lakelanders just like her and a little like him, and because of that, they were fiercely protective.
You remembered sitting and watching the two of them exchange smiles, and silently wishing that you were a Lakelander too. You wanted to be protective. You wanted to be like the roses, like them.
“Any more questions, Father?” Minho asked, jolting you from your memories. “Or has she proven our point? Impressively?”
And again, just as they had last night, Minho’s words stirred something within you. A kind of warmth, filling your chest.
The king regarded the both of you, silently, before sighing. “Your education is…indeed, as Minho says, impressive.”
Your heart soared, mind so entirely filled with elation that you almost missed his next words.
“But I’m afraid that still does not change the obvious. I did not secure decades of unprecedented peace under my reign by breaking with tradition. A woman sitting on the council is not tradition.”
You swallowed, heart sinking just as sharply as it had risen just moments ago.
“…There is precedent,” you pointed out, softly. “I found records of Princess Jiyoon on the royal council, less than two centuries ago.”
“That is true,” the king conceded, before tilting his head slightly. After a moment of consideration, he pushed himself out of his chair with the same half-grimace glimpsed earlier, and crossed the room towards a bookcase stuffed with leather-bound volumes. His hands hovered over them, fingertips brushing their spines, until he found the one he was searching for and pulled it from its stack with ease.
He made his way back to the two of you, opening the volume and thumbing through the pages as he walked, before offering the volume to you.
You took it, uncertainly, and looked down at what exactly he had handed to you.
Council records – but unlike the ones you had studied with Seungmin, you were shocked at just how much more detail this version contained. You supposed that made sense. The records in the library were likely censored, or edited for public consumption. These were private, a king’s own personal records, passed down from ruler to heir most likely.
Jiyoon’s name was there, listed amongst the other councillors, but these records included a strange symbol next to her name.
You frowned, and the king spoke again.
“I imagine you found no records of any contributions she made, correct? No votes cast, no motions brought to attention?”
“…No,” you admitted, reluctantly, looking up at him as dread began to curl in the pit of your stomach.
“There is a reason for that. Jiyoon filled a particular role. If you scour through the legal treatise of the time – dry reading, all of it, but it is there – you’ll find it. Jiyoon was not granted the role of an adviser, but of an observer. A silent one, there only to watch the council proceedings so that she could better educate her heirs in service of her husband. That is the precedent that Jiyoon set.”
Silent. Heirs. Husband.
Of course.
Of course. You should have known. That was what it always came down to. Centuries of royal women, millennia of royal women, and it was always the same.
Silent. Heirs. Husband.
You should have known. You should have known not to get your hopes up.
“What are you saying?” you heard Minho ask, dimly, as these thoughts repeated endlessly in your mind.
“The observer is required to be silent. She cannot vote, she cannot dissent, she cannot speak even when called upon to do so in session. She observes.”
Minho made a sound of disdain, maybe even disgust. “Then, what’s the point? Why have that great of a mind on your council if she can’t even use it? What a waste.”
“Perhaps, but that is the precedent you argue for. If you seek a compromise, that would be it.”
“A compromise? What–”
“I would accept it,” you interrupted, quietly. Your eyes were trained on the floor, voice barely above a murmur. Your brain still thundered with those three words, again and again. Silent. Heirs. Husband. “If Your Majesty were so gracious as to offer this role, I would accept it.”
You didn’t have to look at Minho to know the way his mouth was parted in surprise, astonished and outraged in equal measure. You could sense it in his tone when he spoke. “You can’t be serious.”
You raised your eyes to look at the king, purposefully avoiding Minho’s stare.
“I hope His Majesty knows that I don’t ask for this council seat out of personal ambition,” you said, softly, lying through your teeth to your king. “You said Jiyoon took the role as a duty to her husband and her children. If anyone objected to my position on the council, I would ask you say the same of me.”
“…You would take the council seat in service of Minho,” the king said, and even he sounded sceptical. You weren’t sure what that said about your marriage, but it wasn’t exactly promising.
“And our future children. We both take that duty very seriously.”
“Do you?” the king questioned, sharply, pointedly, but surprisingly it wasn’t you he was addressing – it was Minho.
You might have tensed at such an insinuation, but Minho practically bristled.
“Don’t,” Minho warned his father, straightening up in his seat. No, more than warned, he practically spat out the word. “I thought we agreed.”
Agreed? Agreed what?
You glanced between Minho and his father, sensing a tension that remained unspoken as the two eyed each other, jaws both set.
You were clearly missing something vital to this exchange, some secret piece of information – and, as always, the idea chafed at you.
And then, with a quiet and cold anger that you hadn’t heard in weeks, Minho told his father. “You owe me this.”
The king’s expression twisted. It was guilt, you realised. “Minho–”
“You owe me something.”
Another pause.
And then, finally, the king broke this staring contest with his son to look at you. “…The role requires complete silence. If I decided to grant you the seat on these conditions, and you flout them immediately, I will not look kindly on it. Do you understand?”
“I do,” you replied, solemnly.
“…Very well,” the king said, eventually. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”
You did it.
It was a hollow victory, yes, but a victory nonetheless.
You couldn’t quite muster happiness about it, or even gratitude, but there was a sense of achievement.
You nodded, quietly, and curtsied low before the king. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
When you lifted your head again, you found the king glancing between your face and Minho’s before he spoke again.
“You do have quite the mind,” the king said, gaze still shifting between the two of you. “You might not be able to speak in the council room but…well, you share bedchambers now. Whatever you might discuss in there is your own private business. Is it not?”
Tumblr media
Within days, news of your appointment to the council spread across the palace like wildfire.
You expected this, to some extent. Precedent or not, observer or not, this was still an undeniably shocking development. You knew there would be whispers about it, gossip passed around, growing and contorting with each telling and retelling.
All of this, and still you did not expect the conversation you happened upon one evening as you took a shortcut through one of the palace courtyards on your way back from a tutoring session with Seungmin.
The sun had just descended below the horizon, casting the square into shadow wherever the dim glow of torchlight did not quite reach. You caught snatches of voices as you walked, whenever you passed doors to parlours, to sitting rooms, to the dozens upon dozens of meeting places for the elite that resided within the court. Some of these doors were cracked open to enjoy the fresh air brought by the open-air courtyard on their doorstep, unaware of any passers-by.
And then, one particular comment caught your attention.
“Perhaps the poor girl is simply bored,” a haughty voice said, with a hint of laughter. “That council room might be a dreary place, but I’d wager it’s a damn sight better than her bedchambers.”
You froze, half within shadow, half without.
There was only one person that comment could possibly be referring to.
Immediately, you slipped behind one of the stone pillars lining the courtyard, heart pounding.
Finally, after all this talk of rumours, of whisperings at court behind your back, you finally had the chance to listen for yourself.
“Careful, Park,” another voice cautioned, although sounding more amused than concerned.
“A prince too scared to share a bed with his wife for weeks after the wedding,” the first voice – Park – scoffed. “What, did he hope no one would notice?”
A third voice chimed in, low and gleeful. “You want to hear something good? My wife heard a maid talking the other day. They change the sheets of that marriage bed every day. And they’re always pristine.”
Your face heated, something approaching bile threatening to burn the back of your throat. There was something about hearing your privacy be so…violated, and said so casually. Your bedsheets? They all talked about your bedsheets?
“You know my theory,” the third voice spoke again. 
“Your wife’s theory,” Park corrected, sounding dismissive.
“It makes sense. She’s saving herself for the other brother. Traded one for the other before, maybe she’s waiting to trade back when he comes home.”
Felix.
Traded one for the other. Is that how they saw it? Is that how they all saw it?
“He’s not coming back,” Park scoffed. “Not for a long time. Not unless His Highness fancies looking down and wondering why all his children have the Lakelander look to them.”
Your heart stopped. You felt the blood in your veins freeze, matching the ice­-cold anger settling into your bones.
“Gods be good, close the door before you say horseshit like that. Moron.”
This was more than fury.
This was wrath.
You stepped out of the shadows, just at the right moment to lock eyes with Lord Park as he stood by the doors, his too-late hand stilled on the handle.
“Good evening, Lord Park,” you said, voice so syrupy-sweet and cloying, and watched the blood drain from his face as he stared back at you in horror. You craned your neck to peek over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the two other men with him. “Oh, I see Lords Song and Ryu have joined you. How nice.”
“Y-Your Highness,” Park stammered, and there was genuine fear in his eyes.
He knew what you had heard. He knew the words that had come out of his mouth, and how close those words danced along the line of treason. It would take you only one conversation with Minho, or with the king, and his career would be done. His family. His fortunes. Possibly even his life.
You smiled brightly at him. “I look forward to seeing you next week at the council. I’ve heard you’re quite the contrarian. You’ve voted to reject the last, what is it, seven bills put forward by my husband?”
Park didn’t answer. Perhaps it was more accurate to say Park couldn’t answer. You wondered what could possibly be going through his head at that moment. You wondered if he had ever felt this afraid in his entire pampered little life.
You tilted your head slightly, eyeing him. “Perhaps from next week, you might find yourself second-guessing a decision like that. Don’t you think so?”
Park’s face, still pale, twisted into something approaching realisation. He seemed to grasp exactly what you were hinting at – the threat that remained unspoken.
“…Y-yes, Your Highness,” Park agreed, nodding erratically.
“And your companions? Perhaps they’ll have similar changes of heart?”
From behind Park, his friends stammered their assent, just as rattled.
You beamed.
“Perfect. Have a nice night.”
Tumblr media
You attended your first council meeting the very next week, finally taking that last empty council seat that had remained vacant for so long.
Sixty-two members attended the session in total.
You felt sixty-one pairs of eyes on you throughout.
You recognised quite a few of the faces in this meeting. Lord Young, as delightful as ever, sat just a few seats removed from the royal family – a position of great honour, especially for a man with neither blood nor marriage ties to the crown.
Lord Park had also made an appearance, and blanched the moment your eyes met his.
Good.
You paid the stares little notice, attention completely and utterly captivated by the debates that took place. Every idea proposed, every motion considered and accepted and denied, every opinion volleyed back and forth, you noted down.
You might have been silent, but you wrote feverishly. Pages and pages of scrawls, near indecipherable as you worked to keep pace with the spoken word of the other council members.
Minho was seated next to you. Of course he was – he served as a visible explanation for your presence there at all. To be useful to him, to educate his heirs and better his legacy. In the eyes of everyone else, your seat on the council was essentially just an extension of Minho’s.
You weren’t sure what to expect of him during these council meetings. You knew just how seriously he took his position as heir, and his duty to the kingdom – but you also remembered that carriage journey home from Lord Young’s orchards, the disdain he had for politicking, his derision in his voice when he talked of strings attached.
It turned out that in council meetings, Minho kept up the same perfect princely mask he always did in public. Never once raising his voice, never slipping into anger or mockery. Exemplary behaviour from the first second of the meeting to the last.
Except for one moment, when an old lord from the Tan family had loudly proclaimed an argument so poorly constructed, with parts so moronic that you made sure to underline his exact wording for its stupidity, that you heard the quietest of noises from Minho. When you glanced up at him, he was watching the debate with apparent rapt attention. If you weren’t sat so close to him, you would have missed the slightest way his jaw clenched, as if to fight a look of disdain as he watched Lord Tan blather on.
Minho proposed only one new bill – investment in a new mill, to be built in one of the kingdom’s slowly-dwindling rural villages, in the hopes of creating employment opportunities. You paused your notetaking to watch each council member cast their votes for or against the bill.
Most supported it. Some rejected it. Your eyes sought out Lord Park again, and you watched as he reluctantly raised his hand in favour of the bill, gaze nervously flickering towards you as he did so.
What an astonishing change of heart from the man. Who could have predicted?
Still, despite it all, the council meeting ended without incident. The issues tabled for the next meeting were fairly standard: a new maritime trade deal with a kingdom across the Sunrise Sea, preparations for next year’s census, the ongoing reports from the Lakelander delegation slowly making its way to the palace. You made note of it all, jotting down your own thoughts on each matter when you were able to, and kept the notes closely guarded on your person.
You made sure to take them straight to your bedchambers as soon as the meeting finished, intending to lock them away in your desk until dinner that evening, when you could discuss them with Minho.
To your surprise, instead of making his way back to his office to spend the rest of the working day, Minho followed you back to your shared chambers. You tried and failed not to focus on his footsteps, how they matched your pace precisely, echoing along the empty corridors.
The slightest sense of frustration sparked within you. If you had to be watched by gossiping onlookers, why couldn’t they at least see this? Minho ignoring his usual duties to accompany you back to your bedchambers? Let them whisper about that, sordid or not, that could at least be useful.
You pushed away the thought with one last scoff at your own poor luck, reaching your chambers without so much as a single pair of prying eyes to witness you.
“So,” Minho said, as the doors swung shut behind the two of you. “How did you find it?”
Frustrating. Exhausting. Borderline insulting.
“Informative,” you replied, collapsing into a seat. Your hands ached from how feverishly you had written throughout the meeting, and you began to clench and unclench your fists in the hopes of relieving the pain. “I made a few notes.”
“I noticed,” Minho commented, eyebrow raising as he appraised the pile of papers at your side. “They look…detailed.”
“They are,” you confirmed, picking the papers up and beginning to flick through them. “If I can’t speak my mind in that room, writing will just have to do.”
For now, you added internally. You refused to accept that this silent role would last forever.
“Can I…read them?” Minho asked, and his question came out hesitantly, almost cautiously.
You looked up, surprised. You weren’t sure how much use these notes would be – you were both just at the very same meeting after all – but there was something about the request that was almost…endearing.
Minho. Endearing.
Hell had truly frozen over.
“Of course,” you replied, holding the notes up.
Minho paused for a moment before, slowly making his way towards you. When he sat next to you, he was close enough that his jacket sleeve brushed your bare arm.
You cleared your throat, focusing your attention on anything but how close he was. “These pages are about the logging site proposals, this one was on the Lakelanders’ progress, this…oh, this page is actually about Lord Tan.”
“Lord Tan?” Minho repeated, one eyebrow raised.
“Yes. He’s…” you trailed off, trying to think of a polite way to phrase it. “…He’s a blithering idiot, honestly.”
Minho, to your surprise, laughed. Openly, loudly, with a note of genuine delight. A few weeks ago, you wouldn’t have thought him capable of producing such a sound.
“Do you know how many hours of my life I have wasted listening to that old man ramble incoherently?” he asked. “There were moments I was driven half to madness. But he was my father’s first real supporter when he became crown prince, so he’s adamant on keeping the man around.”
You watched as Minho turned the page over, half-smiling to himself.
“He’s a sentimental old fool like that, sometimes,” Minho said, too lightly to really be considered critical – or treasonous.
“Who was your first supporter?” You asked, curiously.
Minho paused, the lingering traces of cheer disappearing before your eyes. The shift in his mood was almost tangible, and it felt as if you had made some sort of misstep in a dance, thrown yourself and your partner out of rhythm.
His gaze flickered upwards, so very briefly, to look at you, before moving downwards. Down to your notes, down to where the space between your bodies was at its narrowest, barely a few fingers’ width between your skirts and his thigh. He took a breath.
“…Felix,” Minho said, softly, discreetly shifting away as he held your notes out to return them. “He was the only one to never doubt me. Not even for a second.”
Yes. Yes, that sounded like Felix.
You took back your notes, and tried not to notice how Minho avoided your touch as your notes exchanged hands.
A new silence fell between you.
Stifling.
Deafening.
You tried to take a deep breath, and stood up, making your way over to your desk to lock away your writings from prying eyes.
From behind you, Minho’s voice brought you to a halt.
“We haven’t talked about Felix,” he noted. “…And we probably should. At some point.”
He said it so plainly, so devoid of nuance or emotion. As if it were a mere observation, a comment about the weather and nothing more. As if his words didn’t strike something deep and vulnerable within you, like fingers clumsily probing a freshly-formed bruise.
You hated his apparent nonchalance. You despised it, and you envied it because you might never be able to do the same. To speak Felix’s name as if it meant nothing to you.
To speak his name as if…
To speak…
You…
Realisation – cold, violent realisation – hit you at once.
You had not. Not once. In months.
It had been months. And you had not spoken Felix’s name.
Not since your wedding day.
Others had. Countless others had. They murmured it gently and sweetly like Her Majesty, or they crowed it before you mockingly like those noblemen, or they threw it at you, cold and cryptic and horrifically empty like Minho.
They dragged him out of your memories where you kept him locked away.
Away, where he was safest to you. Safest from you. Safest for you.
“…No. We haven’t,” you said, and the words were quiet. Pained. Final.
The two of you did not speak again that day.
Tumblr media
Soon enough, your father found you.
Your mother, all those weeks ago when she summoned you for that painfully awkward afternoon tea, had at least shown you the decorum your new status demanded and sent you a formal request.
Your father, a proud man, a pragmatic man, had no patience for such etiquette.
You were in the library, sat with Seungmin and poring over budgetary records with tired and bleary eyes, when he came marching in. He was flanked by two panicked guards, too fearful of your father’s status to lay their hands on him, too mindful of their duty to let him wander freely.
They fixed you with beseeching looks. “Your Highness, we – no one told us…y-your father…”
“Desires to speak with his daughter,” your father finished, in a tone you’d never heard from him before. “Urgently.”
Usually, your father was calm, collected, never one to show even a hint of vulnerability.
Now, here, he was impatient. Almost rattled.
You rose to your feet, so thrown off-kilter by the situation that you were a touch unsteady. After a moment, you nodded to your guards. “Very well. Please leave us.”
They did just that – and so did a third guard who had been sat just a few paces away from you and Seungmin.
Your father’s eyes darted to your tutor. “Him too.”
Seungmin, however, stayed seated. Slowly, he laced his fingers together and rested his hands on the table in front of him, returning your father’s glare with an unimpressed stare.
“It takes a bold man to order around a princess,” Seungmin remarked. Gently, as always, but firmly.
Your father’s expression hardened. He opened his mouth to speak back, but you cut him off at the pass.
“He’s right, Father,” you said. You couldn’t quite shake the nerves from your voice. You supposed that was only natural, after a lifetime of loyally following his orders and keeping your mouth shut in the process. “What’s wrong? Has something happened to Mother?”
Your father stared at you for a moment, almost…bewildered. He recovered quickly enough. “Your mother is fine, which is more than I can say for the state of your…of…” he gritted his teeth, swallowing back whatever he desperately wished to say, and instead cut straight to the point. “You took a seat on the council?”
His question, and the venom behind it, almost took you aback.
Still, you lifted your head, trying to stand firm. “Yes, I did.”
“How could you be so…foolish?” your father demanded to know, anger giving way to frustration. “I could have protectedyou there.”
It took you mere moments to read between his words.
You didn’t take a seat on the council.
You took his seat.
“Could you?” you said, swallowing. “Or would you have protected your own interests?”
Your father’s eyes blazed at the accusation. You knew the look. Your own temper was a family trait – and it certainly didn’t come from your mother.
He thundered his response. “You are my daughter! My interests are your interests!”
“Are they?” You shot back, your voice rising to match his.
“We are family, we are blood–”
“And what have I done, except increase our family’s legacy?” you interrupted him. “I did that, I secured our first council seat.”
“And what seat is that?” he replied, incensed. “A mute councillor, never to vote, never to speak?”
Your face burned, as you tried to think of a rebuttal to his questions. Something began to twist in the pit of your stomach.
Your father sighed, fixing you with a stern look. “Let me be frank, girl, if you’re so eager to play politics. Your position is not secure.”
You swallowed. “I know–”
“No, you do not,” he snapped, briefly raising his voice, before dropping his voice to a more controlled volume. “You inspired the love of the people, but what else? I know half a dozen lords are plotting your annulment, and another dozen with their own girls waiting in the wings. What will you do with that council seat, when a proposal comes to terminate your marriage? Watch silently when they vote to cast you aside?”
You stared at him, as that twisting sensation in your gut finally earned a name: dread. You tried to respond. “Royal marriages are a king’s prerogative, they can’t–”
“Yes, they can,” your father said, simply. “Any silver-tongued politician could convince the king that your marriage is a matter of the state. Perhaps if you were married to the younger prince, you’d be safe, but you’re married to the heir–”
At those words, coming out of your father’s mouth of all people’s, your vision turned red. Your response, when it came, hung heavy in the air.
“And whose fault is that?”
Your father’s eyes widened, and he hissed. “Mind your tongue.”
“I did,” you said, your voice cracking. Before you could top yourself, words began tumbling out of your mouth, every secret silent thought that had festered in the darkest, most vulnerable corners of your mind, spilling to the surface. “I was happy and content and loved, and I still bit my tongue and let you scheme to take it away. I married the right brother for you, are you still not satisfied?”
In an instant, your father stormed his way towards you, eyes blazing as he loomed over you. “Be careful, girl.”
For a moment, you thought he was threatening you. Your own father.
And then you watched his body crumple slightly, panic and concern finally bleeding through all that pomp and anger. “Especially about…that. Him.”
You watched him take a deep breath, rendered speechless. You had never – not once, in all your life – seen your father like this.
He seemed almost…scared.
“If there are plots to annul your marriage, there are plots for something far darker. Annulment would be catastrophic, but bearable. But any whispers of adultery, of treason? To see you executed…”
Gently, he lifted his hand to cup your cheek. And for a moment, you were four years old again, showing your father your very first letters, beaming as he called you his little princess, long before the rest of the kingdom was obliged to.
“You are my child. My only child. Doubt my intentions, if you must, but do not doubt my love.”
You were stunned into silence. His words should have been touching, and you supposed on some level that they still were. But you felt almost numb as you absorbed them. Was it shock, hearing your father speak of his emotions so plainly? Perhaps.
There was a small part of you that whispered if this was all just too little, too late.
Your father dropped his hand and stepped away from you, silence filling the air between the two of you.
Then, he paused, and turned his attention to something behind you.
For a moment, you felt confusion, turning to follow his glare – before embarrassment consumed you.
Seungmin, of course, had been sitting there the whole time.
“And you,” your father interjected, his voice cold and bordering on menacing, pointing at your tutor. “If you breathe a word of this–” 
Seungmin, despite showing the very clear signs of awkwardness one would expect from someone who had just witnessed such an intense and private family dispute, managed to keep calm as he replied with unfailing honesty.
“I am no fool. This position keeps my family fed, and will see my sisters marry well. I am only here at Her Highness’s request, and if the princess goes, this job goes with her,” Seungmin said, fiercely. “…And if nothing else, I know about your reputation, sir. I would rather like my tongue to remain inside my head.”
Your eyes widened.
That was a bold insinuation on Seungmin’s part. Tongue mutilation had been outlawed years ago, deemed too brutal a punishment when death was a surer way to guarantee silence.
You half-expected your father to deny this with bluster and offence. And yet, all he did was eye Seungmin silently, before nodding once and turning to the door.
As he approached it, your father spoke one final time to you.
“Keep your wits about you. You’ve made a dangerously bold move, and your enemies will use it against you,” he warned, before finally leaving, letting the heavy door slam shut behind him.
The echo of it reverberated across the library, as you stared after him with far more questions than answers.
It was Seungmin who first broke the silence, clearing his throat with just a touch of unease. “…Well, I imagine you’re no longer in quite the right mindset for last year’s harvest calculations. Would you like to finish our sessions early today, Your Highness?”
You didn’t speak. You barely looked at him, in fact, as you silently sank back into your chair.
Seungmin waited a moment or so longer, beginning to tap nervously on the smooth wooden surface of the table in front of him. “…Your Highness?”
“I…” you trailed off, as you realised the incriminating words that had fallen from your own lips just moments ago, and your head jerked towards Seungmin in panic. “Don’t… I don’t know how much you report to Minho about our lessons. But…please don’t tell him what I said about being…you know, about…”
“Biting your tongue?” Seungmin supplied for you, but his tone was heavy, knowing. He knew that wasn’t the offending part of your outburst.
“Yes,” you replied in the same tone, and when your eyes met, you knew you had an understanding. “He’s a smart man, I’m sure it’s nothing he doesn’t already know, but…it just seems cruel. I think. To hear it directly.”
Seungmin observed you for a moment, brow furrowing just a touch. He opened his mouth as if to say something, hesitated, before speaking anyway. “Actually, you should know that I don’t ‘report’ anything to Minho. Sometimes, he asks questions about what we study, and I answer them. Nothing more.”
You blinked, and before you could stop yourself, your curiosity won out. “What kind of questions?”
Seungmin eyed you again, and for a split-second, you could have sworn something akin to amusement quirked the corner of his mouth. Whatever it was, it disappeared in an instant, as he replied. “He asks about what interests you. Once, he asked about a book he’d seen you reading, and took a copy for his own use.”
“Oh.”
Whatever you were expected, it wasn’t that. A strange, unbidden feeling began to spread in your chest, warm for just a moment before common sense returned and drove it away.
“Well, I suppose that makes sense. Minho sometimes takes an interest in my education. Perhaps he wants to test me on it, make it a competition or something.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Seungmin said, perfectly politely. “Or something, indeed.”
Tumblr media
Soon after that, the first move was made against you.
Details were leaked about the maritime trade deal discussed in the council meeting. Confidential details that were now freely gossiped about, within the palace and without. No one could say for sure who was the source of those leaks, but the evidence was damning.
Before you joined the council, there hadn’t been a single leak in years. And now, after you attended your first meeting, sensitive information was being bandied about within days.
There was only one simple conclusion to be drawn about the identity of the leaker.
You.
Your father was right. Whoever your enemies were, they’d been scheming, and they did use your position on the council against you.
Perhaps the library would have been a better place to take a breath, dwell on the knowledge a little longer, turn it over in your mind alone to work out the whos and whys and how to press forward.
But your feet drew you to your chambers, through the doors, and even once inside they refused to let you sit idle. You paced, backwards and forwards, going over the situation, the accusations about to be levelled at you, the defences you might need, the evidence you had and did not have to prove your innocence.
You paced and paced, and thought and thought, until your head spun and your feet threatened to leave its imprints in the stone beneath you, until it became clear to you exactly what you were doing.
You hadn’t chosen these chambers for silent contemplation.
You were waiting here.
Because when you imagined defending yourself, you didn’t picture a faceless mob before which to protest your innocence. You didn’t picture the king, and his councillors, and the lords scheming behind your back.
You pictured Minho. His expression flickering between accusing, betrayed, angry, cold, pitying, wounded. It was him you wanted to convince before any others, as illogical as it was.
It was hurt, perhaps, maybe, at the idea that Minho thought you would betray his trust. You knew how he’d pushed hard for your position on the council. You would never throw it back in his face like this, and you needed to make sure he knew that.
You questioned just when Minho’s good opinion of you had become so…important.
Eventually, the chamber doors opened, and your words came spilling out at the mere sight of Minho in the doorway.
“I didn’t do it,” you declared. You wished you could be calmer. You feared that the panic in your voice would mislabel you guilty.
Minho, blinking in surprise for a moment at your sudden outburst, regarded you calmly. “Ominous words to hear when entering a room.”
“I’m not the leak,” you clarified, with little patience for his cleverness. “And don’t pretend you haven’t heard about it. I know the information being spread, and I know fingers are pointing in my direction. With some reason, I suppose, but it was not me.”
“You seem agitated,” Minho remarked, maddeningly, all but ignoring your words as his hands moved to begin undoing the fastenings of his jacket. It was some sort of rigid construction, high-necked and broad-shouldered, and perhaps once the imposing princely sight of him in it might have intimidated you. Now, there was a familiarity to the sight – and a bizarre comfort that came along with it, perhaps. “Usually I’m the one to spark it. It’s actually quite bemusing when something else is the source.” 
You stared at him for a second. Off-guard, waiting for any kind of actual response to what you were saying. When none came, irritation sparked in your chest. “Minho–”
“You’re innocent,” Minho said simply, halting you in your tracks. “I know. I told my father as much.”
It took you a moment to register exactly what he said, your head too full of practised arguments to leave much room for the recognition that Minho didn’t need to hear them.
He believed you without them.
It felt as if you had been barrelling towards something at high speed, a runaway horse, only to come to a sudden jarring stop. Air left your lungs in one unconscious breath, like a weight that had crushed your chest had been lifted.
“…Good,” you said, haltingly, and then relief struck you with such a violence that your eyes began to sting with tears.
At the sight of them, Minho’s expression shifted instantly from flippancy to something bordering on horror.
Frustrated, and more than a little mortified, you wiped them away impatiently. “Don’t. I’m fine.”
Minho opened his mouth, about to speak–
“No,” you interrupted, pointing at him, embarrassment warm in your cheeks. “This is just a serious allegation to be faced with, and I’m…relieved that I don’t have to waste my time defending myself.”
You managed to regain your composure, with no more tears threatening to make an appearance and humiliate you further. Taking a deep breath, you refused to look at Minho, refused to know if he believed your words or if that damned expression still lingered on his face.
“People are talking,” you said, finally.
“…People always talk. We’ve discussed this before.”
“It’s different now. I thought it was just idle gossip before, but…” you trailed off. “My father came to me a few days ago. He believes some of the nobles are scheming to dissolve our marriage. Free you up to marry a daughter of their own, and have me removed.”
Or worse.
You hadn’t fully comprehended what your father had hinted to you that day, not until now. You could see it all now. The image of your execution, a hundred smirking noblemen awaiting it, ready to thrust their own girls into your role. Perhaps to perish after you. Their scheming would not end with your death. They would simply turn on each other, try again and again, a dozen dead brides falsely accused and outmanoeuvred and doomed from the start.
And then, you snapped out of your dark thoughts when you realised that Minho had closed the distance between you, standing almost toe-to-toe.
His eyes sought your gaze, and held it.
“They can’t do that,” Minho said, firmly, gently. Certain. “We are married, and nothing can change that now.”
“It could. It would be easy, really,” you argued. “There’s no real proof of our consummation. You could say it never happened, and our marriage could be annulled by day’s end.”
“I would not,” Minho said, firmly. “Believe what you will about me, but I would never break off our marriage with a lie like that. Those are a craven’s actions, not mine. I swear it.”
Perhaps to your surprise, you found that you believed him. Minho could be called a great many things – indeed, you have called Minho a great many things – but ‘craven’ was not one of them.
Minho’s lips set into a grim, serious line. “Is that what concerns you? That I would set you aside?”
Would he?
Even after so many years around Minho, after weeks of being married, you still could not guess his true intentions.
“…I don’t know,” you confessed.
Something small flashed in Minho’s eyes. It looked like hurt.
“You have done a lot for me these past few weeks. More than I ever expected. More than I could ever ask for, truthfully. I think…I hope that we are friends, or at least something approaching it,” you told him, because it was true, and the lastthing you wanted was to destroy this budding trust you had developed between the two of you. Still, he deserved total honesty. “But I know you didn’t want this marriage, Minho.”
Minho was silent for a moment. You knew he couldn’t refute it, and he didn’t try to.
Instead, to your surprise, his hands lifted to rest gently on your shoulders. You could feel their weight on you, and how warm it was. Solid. Grounding.
He held you there and when he finally spoke, his tone was serious – grave, almost.
“…The night before Felix left for the coast, he came to me,” Minho admitted. “He made me swear – on my life, on his, on my mother, on my crown, on everything I have ever valued – that I would protect you from harm.”
Your lips parted in shock.
Felix.
“I love my brother, more than anything. He was once my only friend, in all the world. The very best of me,” Minho said, words beginning to pour out of him, as if finally freeing thoughts he had kept buried deep inside for months, perhaps even years. “I didn’t tell him how much he meant to me, not really. And now…”
Minho swallowed, eyes closing for a brief second, before meeting your stare again with a quiet intensity.
“He will never forgive me for marrying you. Never. The least I can do is honour the last thing – the only thing – he has ever asked of me.”
You didn’t know what to say.
A sudden realisation hit you. A small piece of an inscrutable puzzle, revealed.
“Is that what you meant, when you told your father he owed you something? For making you marry me?”
Minho swallowed, pausing for a second, and answered.
“Yes, in short. My father and I have had our squabbles but this marriage…it was the first true fight we had. The first time he’s ever had to order me to do something as a king, not asked me as a father. We haven’t seen many things eye-to-eye since. He doesn’t…understand,” he said, and then, almost to himself, “but he doesn’t need to. I know I’m doing what is right.”
There was a terrible sadness in his eyes, a shocking vulnerability. It was almost alien to see such an expression on Minho’s face, to glimpse beyond the walls he so skilfully kept up.
Unthinkingly, you surged forward and wrapped your arms around him.
He stilled in your hold, tense with surprise. You ignored it, squeezing him tightly, pressing your face into his chest. It was an awkward embrace, perhaps. The hard edges of the embroidery on his jacket dug into your cheek, stitching rough against your soft skin, and Minho’s movements were stiff and unpractised as he returned the hug.
But it didn’t need to be perfect. It only needed to prove the one thing you intended to show him.
Trust.
Tumblr media
That night, when dinner was cleared, Minho retreated to his couch and paperwork. You left to change into your sleepclothes in private, as usual, and returned to slip quietly into bed.
There, however, you fidgeted and fumbled with exactly what to say before finally, bravely, breaking the silence. “…You can sleep in the bed. Next to me. If you were…unsure about it.”
Minho’s stare in response was indecipherable. But he nodded once, and when he finished whatever report he had picked up from the pile of papers, he disappeared to the bathroom and reappeared dressed for bed.
White linens. Thin, soft. You remembered them from your wedding night.
It was enough to make your breath hitch – and, embarrassed, you rolled to your side to avoid looking at Minho, lest you stared too openly at him.
You heard him pull back the covers on his side, and felt the weight of him sink into the mattress. He seemed to keep his distance, as not a single part of you touched, and yet you were painfully aware of his presence there.
Silence fell over the two of you, interrupted only by quiet breaths in tandem.
Something squeezed gently in the pit of your stomach. You recognised it as something like anticipation, which was bizarre, as you knew nothing was going to happen.
Nothing would happen.
…And yet, you supposed it would be easy for Minho to shift closer towards you. You could imagine him reaching over, and setting his warm hand on the curve of your hip.
Would he turn you, so you were facing him? Perhaps, but you could also see him keeping your back to him. Letting you hide your face, a small mercy, because he would probably know how embarrassed you would be.
Your eyes drifted shut.
It would be easy for him to press his face into the back of your neck, his mouth into the crook where your neck and shoulder met.
And perhaps he would whisper, soothingly, as his hand travelled lower, seeking the hem of your nightgown, sliding it up your thighs and…
No.
Your eyes snapped open as you scolded yourself, a mixture of excitement and shame heating your face. You banished every remotely inappropriate thought from your mind, turning to lie on your back and stare up at the ceiling.
You wondered, briefly, if Minho was looking up at the same thing too. You refused to glance over at him to check. The thought of seeing his face after all…that that had been swirling in your thoughts? Absolutely not.
It took far longer than usual to fall asleep in the deafening silence, but eventually you managed to.
The next morning, you awoke and realised, for the very first time, you had woken up before Minho. He was sleeping peacefully, unaware that the two of you must have turned to face each other in the night, bodies still a careful distance apart.
With one exception – Minho’s left arm lay outstretched, the knuckles of his hand just barely kissing the delicate skin of your wrist.
You stared at where your hands touched, skin-on-skin.
And you did not move your hand away.
Tumblr media
589 notes · View notes
linosspam · 8 months
Text
- stray kids reaction (maknae line)
- when you send a picture of them sleeping
- boyfriend! stray kids x fem reader
- fluff | sfw
- hyung line
—————
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
—————
a/n - lmk if you enjoyed it and would like me to make more fake texts!
- linosspam
2K notes · View notes
bangchanisinmymind · 9 months
Text
his pillow
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
pairing; bangchan x reader; smut
Chris was on tour the past month, you missed him like crazy even though he did everything he could to be with you, he would be home in a few days after all but he left you the keys of the dorm so you can stay there if you missed him and felt alone, he left a few of his sweaters and one bottle of his perfume along with his earrings. Other than the different daily life you had to fit in without him or the boys you started feeling needy a lot easier, even if you saw him on TV you couldn't put your filthy thoughts away.
After struggling nearly a week and edging yourself with those edits you decided to please yourself for the first time in a while. You knew it was against his rules, he only let you touch yourself when he wanted and when he was with you. When you returned home you got quickly in his room, undressed and searched for the toys he hides for the kinky times. He had a lot, he used most of them on you but the only suitable for now was that huge fat dildo which you took out with excitement and arousal already dripping down your thighs.
You downloaded a vibration app this morning so you reached for your phone to turn it on and put it straight to your core. The vibrations travelled through your body that suddenly left and replaced with the sound of your phone ringing. It was Chris, you forgot it was the time for your videocall. You were nearly crying because of the stimulation and fear rushed through your veins but you managed to hide your naked body when you put his pillow under your chest and laying on your belly putting your phone in front of you.
"baby? Is everything okay? You usually pick up immediately and-" he stopped talking the second he saw your exposed collarbones and the dildo behind you. "hi Channie everything is okay how are you?" you said with sweetness in your voice as you tried to make everything seem normal. "does my girl need me?" he groaned feeling his erection grow when he saw your naked ass when you lowered your head to hide in embarassment.
"yes daddy I need you so bad I want to cum a lot today, can I? Please?" you whimpred and when you saw him nodding you slowly got up reaching for the dildo. "babygirl you're not ready for that yet, we need preparation first. Take my pillow" he said, voice an octave down. You did as he said and put his pillow between your legs, not sitting on it yet.
"wanna show daddy?" he said causing you to move the phone closer showing him your wetness. "that's my baby, now put the phone back and sit on the pillow" you did exactly as he said, you were now on your knees, his pillow between and touching your core, you reaching back grabbing your ankles to the feeling.
"now move" he growled and you started to move your hips, whimpers leaving your lips feeling the friction that turned to moans when you picked up the pace making the bed shake. You felt your high approaching when you heard him say "put three fingers right now in that tiny hole of yours all together until it reaches your knuckles", taken aback by his dominance you put three of your fingers on your mouth sucking at them and then in you.
"in an' out as fast as you can" he whispered and you started moving up and down to your fingers. Your movements started to be more messy feeling the knot in your stomach tightening. "pull your fingers out and cum on my fucking pillow" he commented as you did so and now you were face down to the mattress, hands on your phone to let him see you bopping your ass up on his pillow once again when your orgasm hit you.
"good job babe" he said when you came down your high now looking at him through the screen panting. "take the dildo now" he said making you horny again with only his voice. You stand up, your tummy full of cum since you laid directly on his pillow, him groaning at the sight when you took the dildo in your hands once again.
"you know what to do, I won't tell you anything, I'm just gonna jerk off watching my girl okay?" "mhm" you said sliding the dildo in you screaming at the size. "ah-ah Chris ah it's too big too big" you cried out eyes shut "sit on it like a chair,like it's my cock, relax on it baby you're already wet" he whimpred when you put your whole weight down leaving a high-pitched moan.
"i'll move fast now I need it- *moan* I deserve it right? *moan* i'm your good girl" you started moving in and out faster the fact you could hear Chris moaning too made you feel like cumming already. "would love to cum in you hon" he said full of lust as he finished on his fingers. "mmm cu-cumming" you tried to speak as you felt your liquid running down the mattress, because of your continues movement it reached between your ass making those lewd sounds both of you absolutely loved and you didn't stop moving until you felt it reach your knee.
"ah it was- was so good" you said laying on his pillow again which was full of your cum. "mm babygirl you're the best and you're mine, my baby is gonna be rewarded isn't she?" he said feeling proud of how good he had teached you "yes daddy I was so good today" you said feeling the heat rising up to your face.
"are you gonna clean up now?" he said " I have to, it's a mess" you showed him the bed and he replied "don't wash my pillowcase I wanna feel you, I'm gonna be home in two days or so, can you do it babygirl?" he said with a low voice
"yes daddy anything for you" you said as you continued talking about your day and then finally hung up and sleep on his sweater which you took out from the closet
masterlist
© @/bangchanisinmymind on tumblr | do not translate or copy my work without permission {feedback is highly appreciated! comment/DM for requests!}
2K notes · View notes
abiaswreck · 7 months
Text
Tumblr media
Monarchs: Blood Favor
Pairing: Vampire Chan x Human Fem Reader
Summary: Chan is a great leader. You’ve known him your whole life. You trust him. You also trust him to teach you new things after things escalate between you.
Warnings: 18+ minors DNI due to adult content. Blood feeding, Virgin MC/inexperienced MC, MC has a praise kink, corruption kink, size kink if you squint, fingering, unprotected sex/PIV, heavy use of petnames(Baby, baby girl, good girl. I have to. It’s Chris.)
Word Count: 10,800 and some change
Author’s Note: Oh my god I’m finally updating this series. It’s been a year! Holy cow! I’m sorry! 😭 I will say I’m not sorry for this Chan. 😤 He’s a 300 year old vampire with a consenting virgin in his lap. Enjoy though. I’m glad I finally got this baby out. And those who have been invested in the series let me know if you caught some references and I’d love to know what upcoming fic in the series you’re excited for!
Tag List: @lee--felix, @nymeriaaa, @hyuckilstan, @9900z, @jess-1404 , @formysakeamaryllis, @skzflix-au, @downforseochangbin, @lotus-dly, @cb97percent, @moasworld, @nixtape-foryou, @skizzel-reblogs, @svintsandghosts, @jeyelleohe, @starryoong, @djeniryuu, @toplinelix (Message me if you would liked to be added or removed. You’ll be notified when I post!)
Tumblr media
Scared doesn’t cover what you felt as you sat in the office waiting for the vampire leader. Chan, as you knew him, agreed to meet you when you sent a letter asking to speak to him. You needed a favor, or rather, his help. Your father is sick, and the bills are piling up. As a last attempt, you hoped for Chan’s graciousness after 40 years of your father’s work for him. 
The door opening behind you causes you to turn around to face it. You hadn’t seen the leader up close in a while. The same as you remembered him. His undead state preserved his appearance. 
He took confident strides across the office to where his desk sat. The courage you had vanished. A dark aura surrounds Chan. Despite being a compassionate leader, he is an indisputable, powerful creature. You saw what his men could do with less strength. 
Now here you sat pestering him when he had more pressing matters to deal with. You planned to keep your conversation short and to the point of avoiding dragging out the situation. The longer you stay in the same room with him, the quicker you’ll fall apart from intimidation. Even knowing Chan since childhood, he still scared you and the last thing you wanted was to anger him. 
He sat down with a huff, giving all his attention to you. “I am sorry if I kept you waiting.”
“No, I wasn’t waiting long.” You shook your head as you sat down across from him. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
“Of course. How is your father doing? I meant to check in. Unfortunately, I have been busy.”
“Sir, forgive me.” You clutched your hands in your lap, trying to hide your anxious trembling. The daunting image of your frail, sick father haunted you to the point you might cry. He needed your support now more than ever. “He’s not doing well. Felix believes there is better care outside the city. I don’t have the funds. I hoped you might help.”
Chan’s deadpan expression was impossible to read. Is he upset? Angry at the request? There was no shift in his tone when he spoke, either. “How much are you asking for?”
“Five thousand. I have done everything minus the business. I can not sell it. It’s providing for my family and it’s my home.”
“I am not a charity. Running a town to keep the humans here safe from what is outside those walls is my job. I can not just give every struggling family inside money.”
“I understand that, I do. But I also know how much good my father does for you and without him, it has hindered you and your newborns. If he recovers, he can—”
Chan had cut you off mid-sentence, his tone harsher. “So you are expecting me to just help you? What do I get?”
“Sir, I have nothing to offer you.” Your mind raced, searching for words to say. There were no other options left. You needed to convince him to help you. Your father didn’t deserve to die from not being able to accept the care he needed. “He has given you so much of his time. Not once disappointed you. I am asking you for the generosity of your heart.”
“What heart? I am undead.” Chan looked amused by your words as a smile appeared on his face. He sifted in his seat, hands now clasped together, resting in his lap. His piercing gaze is tearing you down by the second. Doubt filled you, telling you wouldn’t get any help here. All you wanted was to disappear. Let the ground open up and swallow you whole. Anything that was an escape from the moment right now. You perked up hearing him speak again. “You have something to offer me.”
 “I will give it to you. Just tell me what, and I will.” You said without hesitation. Not caring if you sounded eager.
“You have your blood. That’s what you can offer me.” You were uncertain of his meaning, taken aback by his words. Asking for clarification, feeling discouraged the longer he went on. “I’m sure you are aware of stock workers.”
Yes, you were indeed familiar with the job. There were people in town that dedicated their life supplying sustenance. The workers paid to be fed from. A decent amount of people will do such a job, but unsure if you could. Especially with the vampire leader himself. 
“I’ll give you the money. In return, you will provide for my hunger till I’ve decided the debt is paid.”
The offer conflicted you. Your father would benefit from the deal, even though Chan is asking for a lot. There were a bunch of questions flooding you at once. You lacked knowledge of how often he fed or what your body would go through trying to keep up with the demand. Deep down, you knew you would give anything for your father’s well-being. He fought this hard to survive and you would do the same for him. 
Despite the numbness coursing through you, your hand reached up from your lap to over the table towards Chan before you processed what you were doing. You needed to say yes now before you backed out. You could deal with the consequences later. All that mattered was gaining the funds. You forced yourself to look at Chan as he looked between your eyes and hand. He must know how nervous you were. Still, you kept your hand steady, wanting to show your dedication to the deal. 
His icy hand came over to grab yours to shake. “I’ll get the money to you by tonight. I’ll summon you when I need your work. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
Truthfully, you had no preparation for what was coming. It was too late now. Chan made good on his word. Roughly twelve hours later, he visited your home to hand you the gold. He wished your father luck with his health before leaving without another word. You appreciated the discretion from him. You kept the details of the meeting to yourself, not wanting the rest of your family to know. Regardless, the reassurance of the gold perked even your father up. Your uncle would leave with him in the morning to Rellbridge. A few days of travel for the higher chance of recovery. 
Tumblr media
While growing up, your family often took trips to the river outside the city. The river was wide, running cold even in the middle of the heat wave summer brought. A small patch of land sat in the middle of the river. Grass covered the stretch of land with a large tree sitting in the middle. 
Your older brothers often swam across to the island. All three of them were adventurous, risk takers, or foolish, as your mother said. You never went deeper than waist high into the water. The river was deceiving. Eerie peacefulness on the top with a sweeping current able to surprise anyone if not prepared. 
The boys loved the challenge. 
However, teenage boys can be cruel, teasing you about how scared you were, teasing how everyone else can swim across the small stretch with ease. You always wanted to prove them wrong. 
You practiced, grew as a swimmer overall. Determined to show not only were you capable, but willing to conquer your fear. Once you were ready, you swallowed down the uneasiness and took the risk. The rush was exhilarating. You had done what you considered impossible. Even beating two of your brothers. 
Thinking back on such events only motivates you today. As childish as it is, fear can’t run your life. The task is normal for many, so it's not a big deal. Stock workers provide blood every day. So can you. 
As you did before, you take a deep breath now and walk up the estate steps. 
The estate Chan owns is busy at all hours of the day. A true epicenter of the town. You could find several of the clan members here at various times. Besides them, a human city council was here in one wing of the estate. The group oversaw the town during the day, dealing with a majority of human affairs. Civil issues that didn’t require Chan’s attention. Either way, people are coming or going. 
When you made it inside, one of Chan’s staff greeted you. Thankfully, Chan had informed the staff earlier about your arrival.
“I can escort them.” Says a voice coming from behind you. A quick glimpse back revealed one of the younger leaders you knew as Seungmin. “Follow me.”
“Thank you for the help.”
“It’s not a problem.” Seungmin shrugged indifferently. “This house is a maze.”
The walk is quiet. You stay on Seungmin’s heels, avoiding several groups of people moving throughout the home. How Chan finds any peace here is surprising. 
Rounding a corner, Seungmin almost collided with Felix. “Oh Seungmin! I was looking for you. I need your help.”
“Let me drop this human off and I’ll come with you.” Seungmin half turns to you. “What’s your business, anyway?”
“Uh, an arrangement. I am to offer my blood.”
“I see. A blood favor.” Seungmin nods, continuing to lead you down the familiar hallway to Chan’s office. “You should be ecstatic. People beg to be in your position. Be thankful for this intimate opportunity. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.”
You hesitated to respond. Felix seemed to pick up the uneasiness, giving a playful swat against Seungmin’s arm. “He is teasing you. Ignore him, we all do.”
“There is truth in my words.”
“Even if that may be, don’t scare the poor human.” Felix points to a nearby door. One you recognize from before. “It’s there. Go inside.”
After a quick word of thanks, you slipped past the heavy doors into the office. Chan is already at his desk this time, engrossed in a heap of papers. His hand scribbled with a pen over the stack. He doesn’t look up, only offering a word. “Yes?”
“I came as quickly as I could.” 
“Ah, forgive me,” says Chan, looking up for a moment. He stops writing, places the pen back in the holder, and collects the papers to tuck away in a desk drawer. “I must have lost track of time. Please, come closer.”
Anxiety twisted your stomach as you walked across the office. A quick wipe of your hands against your clothing couldn’t stop the nervous sweat from forming. 
In reality, you are safe. 
The safest place in the entire world, to be honest. Yet, the idea of an undead creature taking your life force for sustenance is jarring. Once again, you remind yourself how stock workers provide this service and have for years. They live full enjoyable lives; you tell yourself. You can do this. 
Perhaps Chan can read minds after all this time in existence. His first words on the matter are a question laced with concern. “Are you sure about this? Speak now if you have any hesitation.”
“Yes. I am here by free choice, and not by force. I swear.”
“If you are uncomfortable, please tell me. We’ll go back to the original arrangement. You can always pay the loan back. I’m sure friends of the family would help.”
“I don’t have the money.” You shake your head. Now is not the time to debate your decision, already having mustered up the strength to show up. Pushing the annoyance down, you plead with Chan. “Please, let’s just do this. I can close the debt sooner and it’s easier for all of us.”
“Alright. I don’t want you to feel this is your only choice.”
You stand your ground with your response. Chan doesn’t press the subject further. Instead pushes his chair backwards to create space between the desk and himself. He pats a knee, encouraging you to sit. Your eyes widen. He’s suggesting you sit on his lap? You may know each other well, but this is a wild request. 
Take a deep breath. The proximity is so he can feed. That’s all it is. There is nothing to worry about. 
With that in mind, you sit on his knees. 
Chan is breathtaking up close. He’s seen death, been through wars, lived hundreds of years, and yet no signs of aging. He remains as he was when turned. 
Your eyes meet his. They search yours, watching with curiosity, trying to read your face. The intimidation is still there even when he doesn’t mean it. You swear he can see through you. Straight down to your beating heart.
Can he see how it skips a beat? 
Unable to keep eye contact any longer, your gaze drops to his lips. Though even with paled skin, his lips still hold color. Still plush and inviting. It’s no secret that many find Chan handsome. Plenty of people in the city gossip about him, about his lips, and the cost they would pay for one kiss. Seungmin wasn’t wrong. You can name several friends who would envy such a moment up close. 
Chan’s voice stirs you from your thoughts. “Your heart is beating so fast.” 
Words remain trapped in his throat. What can you say? This was not what you expected. Most stock workers don’t elaborate on their work. Now Chan acts so casual with you on his lap. Even a hand on your thigh to keep you from slipping off. 
“What are you so afraid of?” He asks, voice low. “You’ve known me for years and I’ve never hurt you.”
All you can focus on is the hand on your thigh. His other hand sneaks around your frame to hold you to him. The contact causes goosebumps to form where he touches. He expects you to be calm? 
“It’s not you.” You attempt to keep your voice stable. “I’ve never been in such a position before.”
“With a vampire?”
“With anyone.”
“Well, that is something you don’t hear every day.” Your gaze immediately settles somewhere across the room. The playful tone in his voice causes you to regret the sudden confession. “Lucky for me to be your first.”
Mercifully, Chan doesn’t tease you more. Only asking for confirmation to continue one last time. Still, you don’t back down. You take another deep breath, ready to get this moment over with. 
The hand on your thigh moves, coming up to brush the hair away to expose your neck. You curse at yourself. You could have made his life easier by wearing it up or out of the way. Chan doesn’t appear bothered. “I’ll be as merciful as I can be. I’ll only take a moment. Try not to move too much.”
You tilt your head to the side, feeling his soft lips against your neck. A shaky sigh leaves you as his lips continue to ghost over the skin, searching, looking for a pulse. You didn’t expect the gentleness from Chan. Not from the creature who has single-handedly taken out a group of elite vampire hunters. 
The sharp pinch of his fangs sinking into the skin catches you off guard. You try your best to keep still as a board. I’ll only take a moment. The words echo in your head. A hand of yours grabs a fistful of his shirt to ground yourself. You fight every instinct to not to pull away from him. 
A small whimper slips past your lips, causing Chan’s grip to tighten around you, keeping you trapped against him. An occasional groan leaving him reverberates through his chest as he continues to feed. You let your eyes shut, waiting for him to finish. As time ticked on, you grew weaker. 
A ‘mere moment’ went on for an eternity.
At last Chan pulls away, hand reaching for a handkerchief out of his pocket to bring to the bite. Your hand replaced his, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. 
The gentle touch returned, guiding your head to rest on his shoulder. “Try not to move. Give yourself a moment.”
“Your touch is comforting.” You mumble out. “I didn’t expect that.”
“I may be undead, but I don’t lack sympathy.”
You tried to focus on his words. The gears in your brain are stuck in mud, sluggish while trying to process. The patterned rug in front of you spun. Your eyes trail over to the clock in the room. The hands were blurry. No matter how much you blinked to clear your vision, the dizziness grew. Closing your eyes provided some relief. Chan’s advice seemed reasonable. You were in no rush to move. The thought of walking seemed risky. 
It couldn’t have been more than a second. You don’t remember passing out. Only realizing what occurred when coming to. Your eyes flutter open, taking in the surroundings. You were in a bedroom of some sort. Thick dark curtains are drawn shut. The room is dim, only illuminated by a lamp on the nightstand by you. The eiderdown quilt covering you was soft under your fingers. Chan spared no expense on his belongings. 
Chan. 
The bite. 
The sound of him feeding off of you came back. 
Your fingers trailed up to your neck. The area is tender to the touch. Two small marks remained where his fangs pierced the skin. The wounds have scabbed over. 
Did he place you here? 
You smiled to yourself. How kind of him. There was a couch in his office. He could have left you there. Instead, he placed you in a bed, tucked under the blankets to stay warm. 
Speaking of the vampire, he came through the door across from you. “She awakens.”
“How long was I out?”
“Only an hour.” Chan saunters over. He sits on the edge of the bed, hand extended beside you to the nightstand where a glass bottle sits. “I had them prepare this for you.”
“What is it?”
“Beetroot juice. It will help you. Or so Felix tells me. He’s got more knowledge than I do.”
You accept the bottle from Chan. The juice is a dark plum color. The taste itself is earthy but bitter. Even with the added hint of honey, it’s not pleasant to consume. You sip with no rush to finish the juice. 
“Awful, I know.” Chan picks up on the distaste. “Visit the clinic when you can. Felix can test your blood. We have medication for those who are anemic. I believe they’re called Blaud’s pills. They’re common among a couple of our stock workers.”
“I’m sorry for all this inconvenience.”
“Oh nonsense. I’m sorry for the trouble I caused you. You did so good for me.”
The simple praise sends a wave of warmth through you. Good? For him? Your mind tries to run with his words. Heart fluttered at such a comment. You inwardly scold yourself for thinking his words mean anything more than generic friendliness. You try to squash your thoughts down.
“How often do you need me?”
“Not every day.” Chan let out a chuckle at your sigh of relief. “Every couple of days will suffice. We can make a schedule. To be fair to each of us.” Chan places a hand on your knee, thumb caressing you over the blanket. The smile he offers seems genuine. “Please rest as long as you need. It’s no trouble for me. Then go see Felix if you need to. He’s available.”
Tumblr media
The feedings become easier. Chan required less blood thanks to the schedule you decided on. He revealed he was grateful for the blood favor. Without the agreement, Chan would have continued feeding inconsistently.
The excuse? 
He was too busy to feed. 
There were bigger issues, he said. Chan argued he could manage his hunger. No one was in danger. He knew his body, and his limits from years of experience. 
Truthfully, that wasn’t your concern. Your heart sank. The one working so hard to keep his city running sacrificed himself. The creature stretched himself thin. Not feeding causes a handful of issues. From overall weakness to slowed healing times. 
Chan was okay with these risks? 
He’ll at least feed consistently for the duration of the deal. That’s better than nothing. Stubbornness to help will keep you coming to the scheduled appointments. Especially now the fear is gone. 
Despite that, there is a new growing problem. The attraction you have is getting stronger. You tried to let the feelings go. He’s just being kind. The concern he shows for you is normal. You are a human while he’s a vampire. It’s nothing more than that. The lingering touches aren’t happening. A figment of your imagination. There is no possibility that he…
The thoughts melt away when Chan hoists you higher onto his lap. His lips are inches from yours. The full, swollen lips haunting your dreams for the last week. The same lips muttered the familiar line of praise of how good you are for him. 
That damn praise will be the death of you. 
If the proximity doesn’t take you out first. 
Your gaze often finds his lips. Today is no different. Watching them move when asking about your well-being. The second time he repeats himself is when you can speak. “I’m sorry. Being lightheaded is making me delirious.”
His lips curl up into a smile, voice lower, and taunting you. Almost as if he can see right through you. “And what makes you think that?”
“I want to kiss you.”
Self control flies out the window when Chan gives you permission. There is no hesitation as you close the distance, slotting your lips against his for a brief, timid kiss. You cling to any part of him your fingers can reach. He’s not close enough to you. Even with your whole body curling to press against his. You want another. A million more if possible. Every dream of his kiss doesn’t compare to the real thing. From the sound of things, the desire appears to be mutual. 
“Again.” Chan says in a hoarse whisper. “I want another taste of you.”
Chan’s fingers find your chin, pulling your face closer to him. He takes the lead this time around. You attempt to match his energy. Lips sloppily trying to follow. A warm sensation pools in your gut. In this moment, only the two of you exist in this time and space.  
Your chest tightens when you pull away to breathe. Reality sinks in like gravity, yanking you back down from the clouds you floated away to. You kissed the town’s leader. He allowed you, then asked for more.
“I shouldn’t…” you say, eyes wide in panic. “I…” 
“What’s wrong?” Concern flashes over the vampire’s face. “Whatever is the matter?”
Your mind races. What have you done? You were here to supply blood. What do you do now? The only plausible solution is to move to another city and never show your face again. Not only did you kiss this man, but it was your first kiss. You just kissed a 300-year-old vampire. Not some average man in the city. No, you saved it for a heat of the moment with Chan of all people without a second thought.
“Please tell me what’s causing this distress.” The vampire moves into your line of sight. His arms are the only reason you don’t melt into a puddle on the floor. The hold tightens when you attempt to squirm away. “Talk to me.” 
“I don’t know why I did that. I’ve never…” As your words trail off, Chan encourages you to continue. “No one has kissed me till today. A woman in her twenties and never been kissed. Oh, you must think I’m so pathetic.”
“No,” Chan coos, continuing to reassure you. “Of course not. You’re young. Still figuring life out. There is no rush for these experiences.”
This creature doesn’t understand what door he is opening. The sweet words that are only going to feed your delusion. This must be a dream. You can’t fathom a reality where this is happening to you. Now he sits in front of you with a grin on his face as if he is proud the series of events occurred.
“I am dreaming. I have to be.”
“But you’re not.” Chan leans in closer, lips almost touching your own once more. “Can I have another from you? I quite enjoyed myself.”
The creature knows his way with words. To be expected with his age. Such an extended time on earth he’s bound to learn a few lines. Your thoughts dip negatively. He must think you are clueless. Most of your knowledge comes from gossip among your friends and a few late night self indulgent moments. You never felt close enough to someone to try anything until now. 
The leap into the unfamiliar territory is magnetic with Chan. You have the free will to stop, but you don’t want to. No, you long to see where this moment goes. 
You kiss the vampire again. His lips distract your worries. You focus on the way his tongue slips past your lips to deepen the kiss, how one of his thumbs rubs comforting circles against the back of your hand, and you stop fighting the growing desire flourishing inside of you. 
“Do you want us to continue? Tell me what you want.” Chan asks. The serious tone is back when you nod. He’s not accepting the action as an answer. “Say it or I won’t.”
“I want you to kiss me again and I want you to touch me.”
“Good girl.” He praises. “You must understand consent and communication are very important. How will I know? Or if you want it? I can’t read minds.”
“I understand.”
“Good. You can deny anyone and everyone. The priority is you and what you want.” Chan’s hand tugs on the hem of your shirt. “Can I unbutton your blouse?”
Once Chan hears a vocal response, his fingers move with precision, undoing every single button. He peels back the flimsy material to reveal the thin undergarment. Icy fingers brush over your breast with a featherlight touch. Your breathing hitches with the gentle squeeze. He kneads the soft flesh, causing your nipples to harden from the teasing.  
“But what about the door?” You squeak out, realizing you answered before thinking of the consequences. Your head whips around to glance at the unlocked door. “We’re in your office.”
“Don’t worry. These are private quarters. No one enters without permission. Staff know not to let anyone in while you’re here. I wanted you to have privacy during the feedings.”
Privacy? Chan genuinely cared about your comfort. He thought about everything. 
“How is this?” He asks. “Good?”
“Yes.” You answer. Uneasy to ask for more. “But can you?”
“Can I do what, baby? Do you need my hands somewhere else? Show me where.”
“Here.” You reach for his hand, leading him down to your parted thighs and against your clothed pussy. “I need you here.”
A quick shift of your hips lets you grind against his hand. The wetness makes your clothing stick to your folds. It’s rough yet not a painful friction. One that sends a zing of pleasure up your spine. Yes, this is what you need. The contact provides some relief. 
“Do you want me to show you the pleasure you’ve never felt? It’s okay to want it. Don’t be ashamed.”
“Please.” Your words come out a whine. “I…I’ll go crazy. It’s not a terrible pain, but I ache.”
“I know.” Chan stands up, arms holding you to him. Your limbs tighten around him, clinging to avoid being dropped. You might as well be a feather in his hold. There’s no struggle as he crosses the room to a half opened bedroom door. “Let me take care of your hunger for taking care of mine.”
A soft kick to the door with his foot reveals the same room you woke up in the first time he fed. He places you down in the middle of the bed, hands helping remove the layers of clothes you have. You expected to be eager for the first time being intimate with someone. Yes, your stomach flips with anticipation, but Chan provides a safe space. One where you don’t feel vulnerable being naked. 
“Can you take this off?” You say tugging on his shirt.
“Whatever you wish.” Chan nods, not hesitating to shed the shirt, letting it fall off the side of the bed. Saliva pools in your mouth at the sight. All the muscles hidden under his clothes are on display. Skin you desperately want to touch.  
The bed dips where Chan kneels on the bed. His callused hands are rough against your skin, running up and down your thighs. He lets you set the pace. When you are ready, you part your thighs. You chew on your bottom lip, trying to gauge his reaction. You were already wet when you crawled into his lap when you first arrived. Now you swear you are dripping down onto the bedding just from his hungry gaze. 
“Beautiful.” He mumbles. Chan starts at your knee. Lips placing soft kisses on your inner thighs moving higher. Your body buzzes with anticipation. The tingling sensation between your legs drives you mad. He knows you need relief, and he tortures you. He already proved how gentle he can be. Now you just want him to hurry and help. 
You couldn’t blink, afraid the beautiful sight in front of you would disappear. Or worse, another dream you would wake up from. Chan’s fingers ran over your slit experimentally. No set pattern. Just the soft, repeated action to let you get used to the sensation. Curiosity ate at you, wanting to know what it would feel like if his fingers slipped inside you. Maybe something else? Would Chan go that far if you allowed him? 
“Have you ever touched yourself like this?” Chan asks casually. His eyes are back on your face, waiting for the answer. “I ask only to know how slow I need to go.”
“Yes.” You moan, focusing on his fingers, finding your clit to circle. It’s distracting. Hard to focus on your words. “But I- Oh, it’s too embarrassing.”
“Tell me. I won’t laugh. Be honest with me.”
“I-I’ve grinded against a pillow.”
“Mmm, never thought I would be jealous of a pillow.” You groan, throwing an arm over your face to hide the embarrassment. Chan only chuckles in response. “I jest. I’m sorry.”
His fingers continue the methodical touch, earning him a few more soft moans from you. When you peek at him, he still has his eyes locked on you. “Would you like my finger? See how you like it?” Chan asks, well aware of your breath hitching at the suggestion. 
“Yes, please.” 
Cautiously, a finger dips inside of you. Experimental with the prodding, testing the waters of comfort. The sensation is indeed foreign, but not unpleasant. Not when knowing what pleasure is on the horizon. 
“You’re doing so good for me. Can I add another?” Chan rubs reassuring circles on the side of your hip with his other hand. You nod, relishing in this gentle side of him again. The side you never expected. Two weeks ago, you could panic talking to him and now you never could imagine cruelty from him. Especially when he speaks with praise. “You’re such a good girl. Look at you. Look how my fingers get sucked in.”
“Full. So full.”
“I have no doubts. Pretty hole of yours is greedy.”
A third finger slips in. Your hole stretches around the width, accepting more of him with ease. Even your body wants him with the same desire. All you can do is squirm in your spot. The familiar feeling of too much and not enough comes back. “Oh Chan! Please, that’s…”
“That’s what, baby girl? Tell me. Does it hurt?”
“No. I want more.”
“I already told you. Use your words.” He’s so calm, collected while you sit here falling apart on him. “Say it.”
“Can I have your cock?” The words are foreign to you. Words you never muttered to anyone. If someone else heard you, it would be embarrassing for you to say such things. At the moment, this is right, meant to be. “I wanna feel you.”
“Do you?” The amused grin is back on his face. A look of triumph. The creature wanted you to be a desperate mess in front of him. You realize the cocky bastard is teasing you. “Say please again.”
The word barely leaves your lips by the time Chan pulls away, eager to remove his remaining clothing. Seconds later he’s back on the bed, slotting himself between your legs. You are so exposed, but not a single ounce of fear. Not with Chan. 
His body is in your sight, trailing down the smooth expanse of his chest down to his hand where he strokes his cock absentmindedly. Your eyes widen in shock. “You won’t fit.”
“I assure you I can.” Chan chuckles while hovering over you. One hand rests by your head while the other lines the head of his cock against your wet pussy. He’s right there. The realization that Chan is the first to have you so intimately hits you. The soft, caring tone is back. “Breathe, just breathe for me. Remember, we’re in no rush.”
“Slowly, please.” “Of course. Tell me if it’s too much.” You only gasp when his cock slips into you. He stayed true to his word, taking his time as he inches deeper with shallow thrusts. The low guttural moan slips out of him. “Ah, so warm and tight.” 
Your desperate plea for a kiss is heard by the vampire, leaning down to capture your lips. As expected, everything he does is soft. This care, the touch, the push to allow you to enjoy the new experience at your own pace. Currently, you are the only other creature in this world besides him and he’s determined to show you the tenderness you deserve. 
“Let’s see if we can relax you.” Chan says while his fingers find your poor swollen clit again, still sensitive from earlier. 
“I feel,” Your hips squirm against the bed. “Oh I feel something.”
“Good.” Chan encourages. “Don’t fight it. Embrace it.”
As you always do, you trust Chan’s words, allowing your body to accept all his touches. An unfamiliar sensation hits you out of nowhere. Your wall clenches around his cock, core feeling a furious rush of pleasure spreading throughout our body. Its toe curling, powerful enough to drive your mind blank, replaced with a satisfying fuzziness. 
In a few seconds, the pleasure was gone as quickly as it arrived. The sound of his thrusts is louder now, with the wetness that formed. Chan can bury himself deep inside you now. Every inch of his cock inside your walls, moving back and forth, pulling almost all the way out to sink back to the hilt. The initial stretch subsides with your body getting used to his size. 
“There we go. Better?”
“Yes!” There is desperation in your voice when you speak. Arms wrapping around Chan’s neck to keep him close. “Please. I want it again. I want more.”
You can hear the smile on his face when he speaks. “You don’t even know what you are asking for.”
His kiss is hungry this time around, tongue slipping past your lips when you moan. Your own tongue is timid against his, unsure how to match his enthusiasm. Chan doesn’t appear bothered with your inexperience, rather enjoying every second. 
Chan pulls away, sitting back on his knees when you need air. His hands are on your hips once more, pulling you closer to him, eyes locked on your pussy. “You take my cock nicely. So gorgeous when I fuck you.”
No one has ever addressed you in such a brazen manner. Hell, you have never heard Chan speak this way to anyone. Yet something about how the vampire speaks with a face full of adoration makes you want to encourage him. Just as his words inspire thoughts you never thought you would say out loud.
“You’re so deep inside.” You gasp out, hand trailing down to your lower stomach. If you dared to look down, you swear you could see him. “I don’t want you to stop.”
Chan’s gaze darkens. Your words appear to have the same effect on him. He leans forward, muscular forearms keep you trapped underneath him. All you can do is cling to him as his pace quickens. There is a proud smile on his face as your nails dig into his flesh. 
His thrusts are relentless. Chan’s shaped like a man, but fucks like a beast with the way he doesn’t tire out, able to maintain the consistent pace, and forcing another orgasm out of you. Thoughts melt away other than the pleading for more. He may drive you insane with how effortlessly he can bring you pleasure in a matter of minutes. 
“I will ruin you in the best way possible.” Chan growls in your ear. “I swear, no one will ever compare. They will dream of the pleasure I can bring you.”
You believe him. 
Tumblr media
Chan is running late today. You sat in his office, watching the time tick by at an agonizingly slow pace. The clock across the room revealed two hours had gone by. You heard from the staff that he was out of town on his way back this morning, yet the sun had risen. 
You stayed unsure what to do. Most of the time, the wait minimal. Chan is a busy man, but he tried to make sure to not keep you waiting. He knew you had the business to keep operating. Today, a Saturday, you could handle a late opening. 
When Chan came through the office door, you could see the front of his shirt torn with several large gashes. The once white fabric now stained a dark red, undoubtedly blood. The material soaked, caked in enough that it was still wet. You have never witnessed Chan hurt anyone. Not even a bug. However, it didn’t mean he wasn’t capable. 
The leader froze, hearing you gasp. His face mirroring your shocked look. “I forgot I summoned you. It’s not human if that is your concern. A vampire’s blood.”
“What happened?”
“There was a vampire terrorizing cities.” Chan fumed as he crossed the distance to the fireplace. He aggressively ripped the shredded shirt off his body. Without a second thought, he tossed the remains in the flames. “I was tracking her for a while now, in case she neared us. I assumed the hunters would kill her, but she was clever. Slipped out of their grasp a few times now. She was foolish enough to come close.”
Your heart nearly caved in on itself at the sight in front of you. Chan survived a mauling. Large lacerations covered his broad back.
Vampires heal at a sped up rate. 
Yet Chan wasn’t. 
Your arms wrapped around your knees. You were unsure how to help. A million questions ran through your head. Should you offer your blood? Would yours be enough? Was he even in the mood? 
Chan’s fist slammed against the wood banister, causing you to flinch. “She threatened everything I have created!”
Cautiously, you unfolded your limbs. Pushing off the couch, it took only a few strides to close the distance. You placed a hand on his shoulder. Chan’s tense body relaxed under your touch.
“Come.” You muttered. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Chan turned, moving away. He headed straight for the connected bathroom. You followed, allowing the vampire to continue to vent. The annoyance radiated off, hotter than the sun. “We can coexist. We have for centuries, but there are a select few that will go to the ends of the earth to stop it. Human and vampire.”
Chan plugs the sink, running the hot water to fill the basin. The steam fogs up the mirror in front of you. You could barely make out how only your reflection showed up. He half turns to face you. “I hope you never have to run into either.”
“It’s a shame. You care for all of us without a second thought, and yet the church still thinks you’re an abomination.”
“They assume we keep you for livestock.”
“We’re not.” You huff. Anger courses through you. “We have freedom. No one holds us here.”
“I know. They say you need liberation.” Chan digs around the drawers near his sink. He pulls out a rag, which he aimlessly tosses into the water. His jaw is clenched tight. His fists rest on the counter. You worry he may break the counter out of rage. “The worst part about tonight? She wasn’t alone. She had a newborn. A young man, a boy. So young and lost.”
“What will happen to him?”
“He will stay. I will undo what she has taught him.” Chan let out a sigh, shutting off the water. “If you have other obligations, you may leave. I can find a stock worker.”
“No, I’ll stay.” You closed the distance between you two. Your hand reaches into the warm water, fingers brushing Chan’s fingers to take the rag from him. He turns to face you, leaning against the counter, watching you wring out the excess water before bringing it to his chest to wipe away the dried blood. 
“I can do it myself, you know?”
“I am aware. You always take care of us. Let me take care of you.” You peek up at Chan to see a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, amused by your words. You asked for clarification on his gaze. “What is it?”
“Those innocent eyes of yours are trouble for me.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Yes you do or you wouldn’t have waited for me this morning.”
“I waited because I am in debt to you.” You explain, hand still working to clean the last few spots of blood off his skin. “I respect you enough to work around your needs.”
Chan’s hand found yours to stop you. Smile gone, replaced with concern. “If you are uncomfortable with what happened between us, you must tell me. I want your honesty.”
“Uncomfortable, yes, but not for the reasons you are assuming.”
“Enlighten me.”
“I lack experience.” You shrug. “I’m a fool in front of you.”
“Then I will teach whatever you desire to learn if you wish.”
Your eyes find the floor, attempting to hide how flustered the suggestion makes you. All you want is more of Chan. To feel his hands on you again. For him to recreate that pleasure. You tried at home with your own touch. It wasn’t enough to bring back that rush of bliss no matter what you tried. You gave up in defeat, too frustrated at the lack of release.
Now the simplest touch had your body reacting, tingling with desire. One glance from him had your thighs pressing tight. You craved him. Anything to have his mouth, his hands, and his cock. Nearly going delirious with your desire for him. You were nearing hysterics. One night with him and you were losing self control. Ready to offer your entire body to him. 
He will entertain the idea. How could you turn down such a tempting offer?
Chan takes the rag from you, letting it fall back into the water. “Tell me, did you touch yourself at the thought of me?”
“I tried, but it wasn’t the same as you.” You shake your head, frustrated with the blank expression on the vampire’s face. “That look…You think I’m a fool. Or worse, pathetic.”
“No, never. It would honor me to be the one to show you the world of pleasure.”
“We shouldn’t talk about this now. You need to feed. You need to heal. That should be our priority.”
“I’m fine. Right now, I want you. I need you.” Chan reached for your hand, guided down to his crotch. He holds it against the hardened bulge. You gasp, surprised to learn how you affect him. The hand over yours tightens the grip. “See what you do to me? 300 years on this earth and one touch from you drives me to insanity.”
“Chan, I-“
Both of Chan’s hands cup your face now. “Tell me it happens to you. That you need me as much as I need you.”
Chan needs you. The familiar wetness forms between your thighs. All it takes is his words. Because you need him too. He’s the only one that can make you feel this good. The both of you are two sides of the same coin. Two minds heading the same direction, craving to be connected. 
“Yes, I do. I give you all of me.”
The room is hot, your skin warm to the touch, yet his hands and lips are ice. Every moment of contact burns, not in pain, but a shock to your system. Chan turns you to face away from him, his chest flush against your back. The eagerness in him causes Chan’s fingers to fumble with pulling the hem of your dress up. You giggle, trying to help without getting in his way. His hand travels between your legs. You can’t move, trapped against his body. Two fingers slip inside with ease, scissoring in movement to prep you for him.
“Now what’s this?” He questions. Your attempt to pull away only encourages him. “I thought you wanted my touch. Why try to escape it now?”
“Please! Just…” Your words trailed off with a frustrated groan. His fingers aren’t enough. You want his cock, want the stretch, and the fullness again. 
“Patience, babe.” He mumbles behind you. A soft nibble on your ear lobe causes you to sink further into his hold. You can hear the smile in his voice. “I will take my time with you. My reward for surviving the night.”
His fingers never faltered. In and out, working you open. The orgasm is unexpected when it hits. Your hands ached, clinging to any part of Chan you could reach, needing to ground yourself. As well to keep you from falling because of your weak shaking knees. The lingering buzz of the orgasm fizzles out. 
You gasped as Chan’s fingers pulled out, gently circling your sensitive clit. Your hips shift away to ease the overstimulation. It’s no use, his fingers follow, keeping the attention on your clit. “Chan please. Enough of this teasing.” You whine, pressing your ass against him. He groans at the friction against his clothed cock. “Let me have you. Haven’t I earned it?”
“You will ride me. So I can watch your beautiful body. We’ve earned that today.”
Your response never makes it out of your mouth. Not when Chan stops touching you to guide you to the bedroom. Both of you haphazardly throw clothes across the room. The thin dress you wear almost tears off your frame out of excitement. 
Chan falls back in the bed with a huff, positioning himself in the middle, head resting on the pillows. You join soon after, knees on either side of his hips while your fingers work the length of his cock. Chan is the desperate one now, staring at you through half-lidded eyes. Breathy gasps and low groans from your teasing. He’s a work of art sprawled underneath you and for you alone. 
“I want to feel you deep inside me.” You say while shifting your hips forward. “I can’t wait a moment longer.”
Your hand guides Chan’s cock to your wet folds. His head tilts back, enjoying the wet warmth sheathing around him. Your eyes fluttered shut as you sank down onto Chan’s cock. Tiny, shaky breaths left you as stilled. The stretch is satisfying. You wanted to move, to savor the drag of his cock against your walls. Chan picked up on your eagerness as well, reminding you to be patient. Give your body time to adjust.
Slowly, you worked your hips up and down. Your hands rested on his chest for leverage. The familiar heat pulls into your gut. Even with this series of events happening so often, it’s delightful, as if for the first time. 
“There’s my good girl.” Chan grips your hips to help guide you up and down. “Nice and steady, baby. We don’t want you to tire out so soon, do we?”
“No,” you say between breaths, “I want to go as long as I can.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Something about the adoration on Chan’s face creates a warmth inside of you. He looks at you as if you are the only other being in this world. The sex you have together is something more. Perhaps your brain is teasing you with such an idea. There is no possibility of your town’s leader falling for you. The softness, the care for your wellbeing, and pet names he uses? It can’t be for nothing. 
Chan’s sudden words break you from your thoughts. “You’re thinking too much. Enjoy yourself.”
His eager fingers find your swollen clit, circling the bundle of nerves, causing you to clench around his cock. If you move, his fingers follow your movements, never breaking contact. He locked his eyes where you connect, watching his cock sink inside your wet hole. 
“Come on baby, don’t disappoint me. Give it to me.”
Your hips grind down, keeping Chan’s cock buried deep inside you. His fingers continue to tease your clit. The growing orgasm hits, pushing you over the edge. Pleasure rushes you, causing you to dig your nails into his chest. The last thing you see before closing your eyes is the satisfaction on Chan’s face. 
You pray he means it all. Hopefully, you are not just a play toy for the vampire, but something more. You want that reality. More than these sessions with him. Perhaps eventually you will have the courage to ask. Until then, you will enjoy every ounce of pleasure he brings to your body and you’ll soak up every praise that leaves his lips. 
Tumblr media
Chan is in a better mood today. Rather, a playful one when he finishes feeding. Less blood loss means the weakness that follows isn’t dreadful. He still lets you rest on him. To check on your well-being, fingers sneak to your sides to tickle you. Your giggling fills the office. 
“Such a sweet moment ruined by you!”
“Ruined?” Chan playfully mocks. “Providing enjoyment is what you mean.”
“Oh, you are trouble.” 
“Trouble? You are the one causing trouble, and I am just a poor fool caught in your web.” Chan shifts you in his lap, helping you slot your knees on either side of his hips. His hands anchor around you to hold you in place. The amused expression changes, darkens to the familiar one of lust. “You danced in my mind during my meeting this morning when I should have been listening.”
“What did you imagine?”
“You, right here.” Chan says while hoisting you up in one fluid motion, forcing you on your back onto the desk. Contents on the desk fell off the edge. Official documents crumple under you. Chan is unbothered, eyes roaming over your body. “Spread out all pretty for me.”
Panic runs through you as your hand bumps an inkwell resting in the corner. The small container topples over. Blank ink runs off the edge onto the rug below. A noise of shock leaves you concerned about the rug below. 
“Leave it.” Chan mumbles into your neck. “It’s fine.”
His lips are everywhere at once, kissing your lips, down your jaw, over the fading bite marks, to the sensitive places that cause you to cling to him. Chan thrives with your squirming, nowhere to go when his body keeps you pinned against the desk. All you can do is helplessly arch into him, hips shifting under him, to entice him to move on from his teasing. His touch becomes overwhelming, yet not enough at the same time. 
“Chan, teach me.” You gasp out. “Teach me how to be good for you.”
“Is that what you want?” He mumbles across your skin. Lips placing kisses across a collarbone. “Teach you how to be perfect for me?”
“Yes.” You nod, hands wandering over his shirt down to the front of his trousers. “Tell me how to touch you, how to touch myself, the best position to present myself to you. I want to know it all.”
“How can I resist you?” Chan pulls away to bunch the fabric of your skirt against your stomach in a rush. A low groan slips past his lips. You are bare, no undergarments this time around. “You did this for me?” He asks, relishing in the small nod you offer in response. “How naughty.”
“Makes it easier for both of us.”
Chan watches as his fingers slip inside you with ease. The wet sounds of his fingers working in and out fills your ears. His voice lowers. “I’m sure the thought of me kept you soaked all day. So damn desperate for me.”
“Yes. Always think about you, too.” You gasp, head falling back. Your heart pounds in your chest. There is no shame in being so exposed in front of him, only desire now that you are comfortable fooling around with Chan. “I-I couldn’t even focus on work.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
A knock at the door caused you both to freeze. Not once during your sessions has there been an interruption. Chan doesn’t pull away. Two fingers curl inside of you, pressing against the familiar gummy spot. You bite your lip to muffle the moans threatening to come out. 
The knock occurs again. This time, a voice comes from the other side. “Sir, I apologize. You’re needed upstairs. It’s urgent.”
Chan huffs in annoyance. He struggles, contemplating what to do. To help the decision, you offer reassurance by saying you wait. You staffed the store well today. The employees won’t miss you. 
“I’ll be gone for only a moment.” Chan says, pulling away. He brings both of fingers in his mouth to suck the remnants of your taste. He gives one last remark before moving towards the door. “When I get back, I want you on your hands and knees naked on that bed. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Chan halts with his hand on the door handle. Your giggle breaks the playful glare he gives you. He leaves, shaking his head. A warmth of pride fills your chest. You may be weak at his praise, but the vampire is weak at the use of titles. A fun way you learned to even the playing field. 
Hopefully, using the title earns a fun reward. 
Tumblr media
There is someone else in Chan’s office when you come in tonight. A vampire. One you have never seen before. Chan motions you closer when sensing your hesitation. 
Elegance is the first word that comes to mind when you see the vampire up close. His posture is straight as a board while he sits. The suit on his thin, lanky frame is pristine, not a wrinkle anywhere. It’s sinful how beautiful this vampire is. Sharp features paired with big doe eyes that briefly glance over at you. His voice is soothing when he speaks to Chan. It’s not uncommon for outsiders to visit town. This is the first time you have seen another vampire that isn’t one of Chan’s creations. 
Chan grins when you come over to him. “This is Seonghwa. He is our neighbor. An elder of Hongjoong’s coven.”
“Hello,” you mumble shyly before turning to Chan. “I can come back later when you are free.”
“Nonsense. Stay with me. We won’t be long. He has another meeting with Jisung after this.” 
You want nothing more to sink into Chan’s embrace. Though the two of you are not open about the relationship you have. If it even is a relationship. That’s another reason you are here. To ask for clarification. If this is still just business to your leader or if it’s something more. 
The arm snaking around your waist to pull you into his lap reassures you. Chan wants you here, besides him. He’s willing to show you off in front of another coven leader. If you meant nothing, this public affection wouldn’t happen. 
Chan goes on with the conversation. “It’s true though. I killed her.”
“An ancient one? I’m impressed, Chan. Years of the church hunting her and you destroy her in one night.”
“I had too. Hongjoong would do the same. I told him I would take care of her. He needed to deal with that hunter infestation.” 
“An inconvenience.” A sigh left the other vampire. “But under control.” 
“Seonghwa, you understand that Hongjoong’s ways are not practiced here. Fewer eyes are on us. It’s why you see so many hunters.”
The other vampire rolls his eyes. “No, we have hunters because we are closer to the coast.” 
“Even more reason not to attract attention. He’s set in his ways, I know, but you must break some of his habits. Before it gets worse.”
“So you let your humans suffer?”
“We are careful. No, selective is a better word.” Chan leans forward to pick up a small glass container sitting in the middle of his desk. “If this works as well as you say, then even better for us.”
“Try it.” Seonghwa suggests. “Works on old and fresh wounds.” 
The smell of floral hits your nose when the jar is opened. Chan dips a finger into the dark salve, pulling out a small amount. You lean away from his approaching finger. There are a million concerns. The most prominent being the lack of knowledge of what ingredients are in the foreign substance. 
“It’s safe. A medicine to help the pain.” Chan’s voice is soft when he speaks. He waits to see if you continue to protest. You relax in his hold, tilting your head to the side to expose the freshest bite. 
The tension in your body melts the second the salve comes in contact with the bite. All the remaining pain dissipates. You can release the breath you were holding thanks to the relief. 
“See, always trust me.” Chan offers a reassuring smile. He allows you to take the jar to examine, already returning to his conversation with Seonghwa. “The compelling isn’t helping either. It can wear off.”
“Compulsion is not used often. An old practice. Not practical. Only used for interrogation.”
“All I ask of you is to be careful.” Chan heaves a sigh. “Onto other news, I heard Felix accepted the apprentice.”
“Yes.” Seonghwa smiles wide, fond of the person they discuss. “I think she can do a lot of good with proper training. My background lacks modern medicine. She’s eager to learn.”
You tune out the conversation. The topics are of no real importance to you. Nor is it any of your business. Truth be told, Chan was distracting you. The hand wrapped around you wanders under the hem of your blouse so the pads of his fingertips found a sliver of bare skin on your side. The soft, mindless caressing was feather light. Every brush sent a tingle through you. Such a harmless action. Though one that ignites something inside you. 
Eventually, Seonghwa stands from his seat, pulling on his jacket. “Thank you Chan. Now excuse me, Jisung is waiting. I don’t think I’ll be much help, but I will tell him what I know. I will take your advice and talk to Hongjoong as well.”
“If anyone can convince him, it’s you. He listens to you.”
“He does on occasion. The benefit of being his partner.” Seonghwa’s gaze turns to you. He points at the jar. “Please use the salve when the pain starts. It will help.”
Without another word, Seonghwa leaves. The office door shuts as the two of you remain in silence for a few minutes. Chan’s touch doesn’t stop. The question you wanted to ask is on the tip of your tongue. All you have to do is say it. Then you will finally have your answer. You can stop stressing over it. 
“What is troubling you? Hm?” Chan questions with concern. His other hand finds your chin to turn your face towards his. “I figured you were nervous because of Seonghwa, but your heart still beats so fast.”
You search Chan’s eyes. How could you ever have feared this man? Surreal how the short time has changed your entire outlook on him. Now, his charm has entrapped you. Stuck in love, desperate to know if it’s mutual. Perhaps he can shatter your delusion lightly. He’s been consistent with his kindness with you. 
You swallow the lump in your throat before mustering the courage to speak. “I can not fall in love with you.”
“Why not? Am I not worthy of your love?”
“No, the opposite.”
“You should never say such things.”
“You can have anyone. Why a woman with a silly crush?”
“Because she cares for me.” Chan’s hand brushed the hair away from your face. “She sees me at my lows and still wants to ease the burden. One of the few that makes me realize I’m cared for.”
It’s an honest answer. Straight from the source. An answer you didn’t expect. You spent so much time doubting the possibility his feelings were genuine, you never expected this as a reality. Butterflies swarm in your stomach. Any words you have for a response twist your tongue, keeping you silent. 
“If you wish to end this, I won’t stop you. The choice is always yours to make. I ask, for me, to consider waiting a little longer. A chance to let us flourish.”
“No!” you cry out, stomach lurching in panic. The outcry causes Chan to chuckle. Your words come out in a rush. “I want to continue. It scared me to bring it up.”
“Such a silly human.” He places a kiss on your forehead, following his words. Another on the tip of your nose. A final one on your lips. “Stop being afraid to tell me how you feel. I thought we were over this.”
Chan shushes your protest with another kiss, distracting you from your thoughts. There is no fight for dominance when the kiss deepens. Only a soft push and pull from not being close enough. He leaves you breathless every time. 
Chan is the one to pull away, knowing you won’t. The corners of his mouth curl up. He relishes in satisfaction knowing he’s the cause for the longing consuming every fiber in your being. 
“I hear your father is making a wonderful recovery.”
“He is, thanks to you.” You wrap your arms around his neck. “He’s excited to come home, to go back to work. The happiest he’s been in years. We wish to pay you back.”
“It’s unnecessary. You already paid the debt.” Chan shakes his head. “Your family owes me nothing.”
“But you don’t run a charity, your words.”
“A leader is only as strong as his people. I have to put their care first.” The corners of his lips turn down towards the floor. Remorse heavy in his voice. “I often say things in the heat of stress and regret it afterwards. Something I’ve always struggled with.”
“But you still helped.” You respond, not missing a beat. A hand of yours ghosts over his chest. “You say you have no heart. The one under this flesh from when you were human is still here. It may not be exactly like ours, but that doesn’t mean you lack one.”
Chan nods, staying silent. Your brows knit together in confusion. Something else appears to be on his mind. It’s unusual to see him struggling to find words. You encourage him to speak. 
“Changbin’s birthday is coming up. The town is celebrating.” Chan clears his throat, now speaking with more confidence. You can’t help but smile at the nervousness he has over a simple question. Over 300 years on this earth and he can still get flustered. “I want you by my side. Would you be interested in being in my company for the party?”
“I’d feel honored to go with you, but I’ll need to find something to wear.”
“I won’t protest you being naked.” Chan mumbles while nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. His soft lips brush over the familiar sensitive spot. He nearly distracts you from his words. You smack his arm lightly, earning you a nip in the skin of your neck in retaliation. Chan pulls back with a smile. “You are too easy to tease. I’ll contact a seamstress. I’ll have them make you something for the event. How’s that?”
“Better. Do I have to earn it?”
“I can think of an arrangement.”
Your eyes roll in response. Chan’s playful mood is a welcome addition. You hope it stays a while. He deserves happiness. He deserves these moments of peace after the chaos being a leader brings. Your heart swells with love, knowing you can provide this space for him. He can tune the rest of the world out and collect himself. You want nothing more for him and you plan to continue showering him with affection. For as long as you can.
Tumblr media
Series Masterlist
©︎Abiaswreck | Do not copy, repost, or translate | As always, reblogs are appreciated! Feel free to comment, reblog with feedback, or send me an ask. I’d love to hear from you!
1K notes · View notes
skzdarlings · 19 days
Text
bodyguard: the first guard | part one | chan/reader
masterlist. part one of the previous story.
PART ONE.
( READ ON AO3. )
A sequel to the Bodyguard. Miroh's daughter is assigned a bodyguard of her own. The past is confronted when old friendships and new enemies are pushed to the brink.
Tumblr media
pairing: bang chan/reader content info: sequel to the bodyguard (felix/reader). this is a new reader perspective. please note this story will contain a great deal of physical violence, some committed against the reader and some committed by her. this will include fighting, training, torture, and parental abuse. there will also be explicit sexual content. chapter word count: 7500 words.
enjoy <3
-
B E F O R E
Felix takes his place in formation.  He is the youngest in the youth regiment at only ten years old, but he is no less competent.  They all belong to the same special-ops program, a group of specially selected children raised for armed service.  They are in the employ of Mister Miroh – and he says they will save the world. 
The world is full of shadows, dank black holes and grimy stains so embedded that no regular agent can scrub them out.  The young subjects of the soldier program are not regular agents.  Their existence is their mission.  
Felix has no life outside of the house of Miroh.   
He stands straight.  He looks forward.  His feet are the appropriate width apart and his hands are folded behind his back.  He holds this position as the trainers scour the lined formation, studying the young soldiers and reprimanding any flaw. 
They need the best soldier for this mission.  This is the most important assignment the regiment will ever receive.  Felix has trained his whole life for this.   
“Miroh has many enemies,” speaks the head trainer.  It is a familiar speech, more important now than ever.  “But our target is his local rival.  This enemy family has been a corrupting force for generations, taking through inheritance what it has not earned.  Miroh is not like The Enemy.  Miroh is a solider like you.  He came from nothing, fought for scraps, and built his own business one brick at a time.  He understands the world and he will fix it through you. You will be his hands in the places he cannot reach.  Your role is an honourable one.” 
A trainer passes Felix.  Felix straightens his spine that last infinitesimal degree.  They touch his shoulder but do not reprimand him.  It makes his pulse hammer with anticipation. 
Felix is one of the best.  There is a possibility they will pick him, if only because the actual best has a habit of—
“Oh, cheer up, mate,” Chris’s voice comes from a few rows back. “You know what they say: all work and no play makes—”
He is interrupted by a whoosh of air, probably a trainer punching him in the stomach. Felix closes his eyes so he does not wince.
“Bang Christopher Chan,” the head trainer says, his voice booming across the facility floor.  “Step forward.” 
Felix hears a frustrated sigh, then Chris stomps through the lines to reach the front row.  Everyone looks at him. 
He is an unassuming character.  Not very tall but deceptively strong.  Curly black hair and dimpled cheeks.  Felix remembers that smile, the lilting and friendly, “Call me Chris,” when Felix was just six years old and first thrown into the regiment. 
Bang “Call Me Chris” Chan is the best soldier here.  Or he would be, if he did not hate the honour. 
Even now he is glaring.  Like the rest of them, he is dressed in combat clothes, the pitch black of Miroh.  Unlike the rest of them, he stands with a lazy hunch in his shoulders.  His dark hair is dishevelled and he scowls like a petulant teenager.  He is thirteen going on fourteen but he is far from a normal teenage boy.  Even compared to the rest of them, Chris is something special. 
“Bang Chan,” the head trainer says.  “You have been chosen for this assignment.  Congratulations.” 
Felix is not surprised.  When Chris is forced to apply himself, it is abundantly clear he is the best soldier in the program by a huge margin.   Felix is also not surprised when Chris responds with his usual verve and ire.   
“Yeah, uh, you can go ahead and shove your congratulations up your ass, mate,” Chris says.  He crosses his arms stubbornly.  “Even if we kill this guy, do you really expect us to believe that’s the end of it?  You’re putting us in the middle of a fight we didn’t start.”   
He addresses the soldiers behind him just as much as the trainer.  He even glances at Felix who glares back at him, unimpressed with the rebellious dramatics.  Chris never learns.  He gets more chances than the rest of them because he is so good.  If he wanted, he could be unstoppable.  He could use his strengths for good. 
Instead, he just looks at the trainer and shakes his head.
“Nah,” Chris says.  “You started this fight.  I’m not ending it.”
A few of the adult guards move towards him.  The gathered soldiers take a collective breath, watching with anticipation.  It is common knowledge that thirteen year old Bang Chan can take a regular adult guard in a matter of seconds.  When it comes to Chris, the question is not who will win, but will he fight at all? 
He stands there like he has no intention of fighting.  But before anyone can grab him, the door opens. 
Miroh enters. 
The room is so tense and silent, his footsteps reverberate like thunder.  Miroh is every inch a soldier even in his blazer and tie.  He walks with purpose, his face intent. 
Walking behind him, keeping decent pace despite her smaller frame, is his daughter. 
Miroh is a fighter who does not believe in unearned inheritance, so his daughter is trainee soldier like the rest of them.  She is the same age as Chris.  She trains with the regiment, one of the better agents, but she was not in contention for this particular job.  People have tried to kill The Enemy before and it did not work, resulting in the death of innocents.  Miroh wants a strong heir and he is not above putting her through the same grueling regime as the rest of them, but he will not recklessly risk her life. 
It is fair to Felix.  Miroh’s world makes sense.  He believes in it.  He believes in him.
So he is rapt as Miroh approaches. 
The adult guards fall back and the young soldiers stand at attention.  Miroh’s jaw is set with grim determination.  He stares at Chris.
Chris drops his crossed arms.  He is smart enough not to run his mouth at Miroh directly, but his frustration is clearly simmering beneath the surface.  His fingers curl and uncurl in little fists. 
Miroh stands in front of him.  He speaks loud enough to address the entire room.
“I do not begrudge your desire for information,” Miroh says.  “You’re soldiers, not animals.  I acknowledge that you wish to know about the long-term goals for this company.  But that is not your job or your purpose.  This business is deliberately compartmentalized so if one cog in the machine fails, the apparatus does not cease to function.  The results of your missions speak for themselves.  What we’re doing is good work. That is all that matters.”
“Says you,” Chris blurts.  Even he looks surprised by his own retort, though he does not take it back.  He looks Miroh in the eye. 
Miroh looks back.  Then he reaches into the holster beneath his long coat and draws a gun.  It is smooth, second-nature.  Miroh is used to getting his hands dirty.  His steady hand points the gun at Chris. 
The trigger has not been pulled but the trainers already flinch.  They know Chris is the best and they have worked hard to shape him, even if his stubborn mind is not molded as easily as his body. 
Chris, himself, does not flinch.  He stares down the barrel, unrelenting. 
“You don’t want to do that.” 
The soft interjection makes everyone pause.  Heads turn and eyes dart, everyone’s attention transferring to the thirteen year old girl in the shadows.   
Miroh does not lower the gun but he looks at his daughter.  Chris looks at her too.  Felix is not sure who is more bewildered. 
The girl, herself, is calm.  She has indubitably mastered a stoic countenance, not a hint of emotion anywhere on her young face. 
“He’s the First Guard,” she states simply.  “This is not worth killing him over.”
The First Guard.  The other kids in the regiment sometimes call Chris that, though he doesn’t like it so it is usually behind his back.  Chris does not like that he has been singled out.  Chris does not like anything about the program. 
This is Miroh’s second attempt at the youth soldier program.   The operation raises soldiers from childhood to fight, to withstand pain, to feel no fear.  This training is supplemented with medical treatments, hormonal injections that are only effective if administered in the crucial developmental years of childhood.  It aids in building a body for soldiership, to take a hit just a little harder than most. 
Chris is the only survivor from the first round of injections.  He survived every test that followed.  He is stronger for it, even stronger than the rest of them.  He is a singular asset.  He will never be replicated. 
Thanks to The Enemy, none of them will ever be replicated.  The Enemy recently attempted to recruit Miroh’s developers and killed them when he did not succeed.  Detailed knowledge of the treatment died with them.   
Miroh can never accomplish anything with his enemy on perpetual offense.  Felix knows the stories like the rest of them, the generations of corruption wrought by a single wealthy family with its iron fist wrapped around the country’s throat.  Miroh wants to free them.  Felix knows if they kill this one man, if the household is left to rot in the hands of its weak successor, then Miroh can finally set everyone free. 
It is a noble honour.
Chris does not see it that way.  He never has.  Maybe it is different for him, having watched those other children die.  Felix understands it was a sacrifice, but a necessary one.  The Enemy cannot be killed by a regular soldier.  So many more innocents will die if he is left unchecked.  Surely that is worth the price of a few soldiers.  Wars have casualties.  It will be worth it.
It has to be worth it. 
Bang Chan, the First Guard – call me Chris – takes a deep breath.  It sounds frustrated.  He glares at Miroh’s daughter who is unaffected. 
Felix looks between them.  Then his gaze lands on another soldier in the formation.  Seo Changbin is in the first row, a boy one year older than Felix.  Not the best soldier, not second best, but not the worst. His most notable trait is his humour and his friendship with Miroh’s daughter.  They are close – at least as close as anyone can be down here. 
Changbin is looking at her right now, his gaze searing with intensity.  Their eyes meet briefly and he shakes his head, a small motion, just enough for her to see.  Despite his clear warning to stop, she is not dissuaded from addressing her father. 
“With all due respect, sir,” she says to Miroh, “Eliminating Bang Chan would be a mistake.  He’s the best soldier in the operation.”
“The best,” Miroh says.  He presses the barrel of the gun against Chris’s forehead.  Chris goes tense and everyone takes a breath.    
His daughter is still unmoved.  She is a quiet character in general.  Felix has barely heard her speak never mind argue.  She keeps her head down and goes about her work obediently.  She is a good daughter and a better soldier.     
Maybe that is why Miroh hesitates. 
“He is not the best if this is how he conducts himself,” Miroh says. 
“Father, aren’t you the best at what you do?” she asks without hesitation.  “Surely a proper soldier like you should be able to control a little boy.  Are you saying you are not capable of that task?  It takes no skill to shoot a teenager.  What message do you send to the rest of us if you have to resort to desperate measures to keep your own army in line?”    
The silence is deafening.  Even with a gun plastered to his forehead, a little dimple of amusement pops in Chris’s cheek.  Changbin exhales.  Felix is sick of standing still but he holds his form despite the growing tension. 
The seconds feel like hours.  Eventually, Miroh lowers the gun. 
“Guards,” he says.  The adult guards are immediately at his side.  “My daughter has faith in our order.  I would be remiss as a father to fail her.”  He looks down at Chris and speaks with a snarl in his upper lip, “Let us all try our best to succeed.” 
Miroh snaps his fingers and points at Chris.  The guards swarm him, two of them taking an arm each.  At least Chris is smart enough not to struggle.  He is an indomitable force but he does not have an army at his call.  He lets himself be seized. 
“Take him to the Cell,” Miroh says.
An instinctive hiss leaves the mouths of a few soldiers.  They have all been trained to withstand various degrees of torture, but the Cell is one of the worst.  Even Felix shudders at the mention of it.  It is a small windowless room buried deep in the bunker of the training facility, a small prison cell with no light and no warmth.  Everyone has taken a turn in isolation, camped on the hard ground in the damp and cold and dark.  Down there, minutes feel like days, days like years.  At least literal torture causes sensation.  The Cell is a great black nothing. 
Chris does not argue, knowing it would be useless, but he does glare at Miroh as he is hauled away. 
“Take her too,” Miroh says. 
With a snap of his fingers, two more guards surface and grab his daughter.  Her stoic expression finally fractures, true surprise bursting on her face. 
“Me?” she asks. 
“As my daughter, your perspective is acknowledged and appreciated,” he says.  “As a soldier, you need to remember your place.  Throw them in together.  Double the people, double the time.” 
Felix would not want to be shoved in that tiny space with another person.  Certainly not if the trade was double the duration. 
But then, Felix does not like company.  He does not understand the exhausted look on Changbin’s face.  Changbin isn’t being punished, so why would he feel anything? 
Felix watches.  He holds his form even where others begin to wane. 
The guards and their prisoners leave.  The door closes and Miroh looks over the regiment.
“Who’s the second best?”  Miroh asks. 
There is a beat of silence, the scene settling.  The trainer finally clears his throat and looks down at his papers. 
“Lee Felix Yongbok,” he says in that booming voice.  Felix’s heart soars just as high.  “Step forward.”
Felix marches forward, keeps his eyes ahead.  Miroh approaches him.  Felix does not flinch, not even when Miroh circles him like prey.
“He’s young,” Miroh says.  “What do you have to say for yourself, boy?”
“I want to do good,” Felix answers.  “I’m ready.” 
They put a gun in his hand and a beanie on his head.  He enters the world looking like a normal ten year old boy. 
He puts a bullet in the head of The Enemy. 
He suspects one day he will be back for the son and granddaughter. 
He hopes it will be soon. 
-
P R E S E N T   D A Y
Despite your father’s remarkable propensity for making you feel like a child, you are a grown adult.  You are intelligent and conniving and dangerously competent.  In some ways, having been raised like a soldier beneath his merciless iron fist, you are more steadfast, more severe.  Your life is carved into his, your fates tethered as one to his success.  You are your father’s daughter, a Miroh, irrevocably a product of his upbringing.   
You do not show weakness.  You do not throw tantrums.  You might spend twenty minutes in the lobby bathroom, splashing cold water on your face, and you might spend another five minutes shining your shirt buttons, then ten more folding and re-folding the lapel of your long coat – but walking into his office almost forty minutes late is not the same thing as throwing a tantrum. 
You think you’re composed until you walk through that door, then the week’s anxieties expand in the cage of your chest.  You are capable but you are not stupid.  Miroh might be your father but he is a totalitarian man of influence and it would be foolish not to be wary of his power. 
You are more apprehensive than you appear, but you march in there like a soldier, shoulders back and head high.  You inherited your father’s marble expressions and stone stature.  No one would ever guess your palms were so clammy, your neck hot and damp with sweat. 
“I’m here,” you say by way of greeting.   You are not characters to indulge in artificial small talk.  There is no affection here and pretending otherwise is a waste of everyone’s time.  
“I won’t bother with pre-amble,” he says, predictably.   ”You know why you’re here.”
“I do,” you say.  “And I don’t agree with it.”
“I know you don’t.”
The argument ends just like that.  You knew it was a dead-end protestation before you opened your mouth, but you had to say something.  You are adamantly opposed to your father’s latest imposition.    
A personal, twenty-four hour bodyguard.   For you.    
The decision was not made lightly.   Your father’s business rival perished just under a month ago, the bloody circumstances extreme and mysterious.  Until Miroh can ascertain what truly transpired at that house on that fateful night, then he cannot be too careful when it comes to guarding his own legacy.
Your father is a military tactician and business man.  He is in the habit of bracing for every eventuality with a detached, pragmatic determination.   Of course he wants you watched. This bodyguard assignment is imperative in protecting his house. 
“I have a security team,” you say. 
“They are insufficient,” he replies. 
“I trained them myself.”
“They are too numerous.”
“I’ll cut down the roster.”
“Rotations open vulnerabilities.”    
“And who’s to replace them?” Your patience snaps. “One of your dogs?”
“You are also one of my dogs,” he says, voice soft for such a venomous retort.  It stings like a slash across your chest.  “I would not disparage them.” 
“Oh, of course, my apology.”  You speak with the same false gentility.  “What a thoughtful master you are.”
“I must be,” he says, “because the dogs still come when I call.” 
There is so much contempt in his voice.  He looks at you with more hatred than he ever directed to his worst enemy.   It makes you want to leap across this room and throttle him with your bare hands, like you can shake the animosity right out of him. 
You are too old to feel like a little girl on the verge of tears, demanding to know why her father does not love her.   You have long since accepted there is no easy answer to that question.  You would say that Miroh is simply not capable of love but you know that is not true.  He can love.  He just doesn’t love you.  
You are the perfect heir, his exact replica in ability and countenance, but it is not enough.  It will never be enough.  No matter what you do, no matter how faithfully you obey him.   You have bloodied your hands in the shadows while he takes the public credit.  You have helped build the reputation of the family name.  You have given him everything. 
He rewards you with this.   
You are not stupid.  Regardless of his excuses, he does not want you under surveillance for your protection.  You both know your personal training puts you leagues ahead of the overwhelming majority of agents.  Your security team is a superfluous accessory as is.
Miroh has just witnessed the collapse of a previously impenetrable legacy.  This does not put him at ease.  The battle technician accounts for every possible manoeuvre.  You know he foresees his own downfall just as easily as he sees his success.  Unseated before his time, reputation annihilated, replaced by someone as savage and persistent as him. 
A bodyguard will not protect you from the world.  It will protect Miroh from you. 
For all your inner turmoil, you are a steadfast rock, standing across your father in his office and exchanging a knowing glance.  You are just like him.  Of course he is scared of you.  Of course he hates you.  Of course he needs you.  
The feeling is devastatingly mutual. 
“Who is it?” you ask, calmly. 
“Agent Slump, step forward,” your father calls one of the guards posted at the back wall.  “This is your new bodyguard officer.  He will accompany you at all times, day and night, including your office hours and service train—”
The agent steps forward as your father speaks.  You draw your gun out of your chest holster and shoot when the man steps into your periphery.  It blows through his shoulder and knocks him down, all in a piercing shriek that reverberates around the small room.  The other guards flinch in the ringing aftermath. 
You look at your father and re-holster your gun.  You lay the lapel of your long coat back over your chest. 
“He leaves something to be desired,” you say.  “I would have thought you learned your lesson with these undertrained toy soldiers.  Maybe a better bodyguard would have kept your wife alive.” 
Your own mother died during complications in childbirth.  Miroh remarried a few years later, a woman he genuinely seemed to cherish, a woman who was killed in retaliation for a deal gone sour.  Nothing fills your father with more righteous fury than the mention of her.  Miroh loved her almost as much as he hates you. 
You know better than to retaliate with such childish rejoinders, but you want to hit him where it hurts, see something real on that stoic face.  It garners you a flicker of rage, bathed in all that loathing, and it makes you smile. 
“Let me know if you can find a competent replacement,” you say.  “Until then, I have work to do.” 
You turn heel and march to the door.  The guards move out of your way despite lack of command.  They have never respected you the way they respect your father, but they do fear you and it works the same way. 
You are dressed for the office but after an unproductive hour spent stewing in agitation, you give up.  The head of your security team accompanies you across town to the primary training facilities.  Hidden in plain site, here Miroh has trained and developed some of his most deadly assets. 
You are one of those assets.  You spent your childhood in this facility, training among an elite selection of children, raised for the purpose of violence and victory.  It was a unique program.  It has never been revived, the medicant administered to the children lost and yet to be replicated.  
You are one of the few still living. 
Your training was relatively more lax.  As Miroh’s daughter, the trainers could not let you die.  But neither he nor they had qualms with letting you suffer.  Miroh never admonished them and you never complained, at the time naively thinking that if you could prove yourself then he would care about you.
A foolish aspiration long since abandoned. 
But the training has served you well over the years.  It certainly comes in handy when you need to fucking punch something. 
Your security team is comprised of regular soldiers so it does not take much to best them in a fight.  The exertion is nonetheless liberating.  You have always felt more at ease in action than behind a desk.  Combat clothes are less stifling than formalwear.  There is a reason Miroh never paraded you at parties the way his late enemy did with his late daughter.  Your place is in a fight and always has been.  
After a few rounds in the ring, you stop to rest.   Your team knows when to leave you alone to brood.  You lay back on the mat, flat in the ring. 
There is a moment, as often passes, where you question your entire life.  It has been a long, vicious fight, clawing your way to your position, that the road back out seems like an impossibly arduous task.  Too much has happened, too much pain and loss.  It has to mean something. 
You cannot surrender now.  The very thought has you reeling, physically painful to even consider.  
This is where you belong.  It is an irrevocable truth.  You are a Miroh. 
“Yah, murder princess,” comes a voice and the thud of booted steps.  “Just three rounds?  Tsk.  You’re getting soft.”
You roll over, grinning even though you know better.  You look up at Changbin who is dressed in similar fatigues, his bulky arms crossed over his broad chest, his dark bangs brushing his smirking face. 
“I was waiting for a real fight,” you reply.  “Looks like I’m still waiting.”
He barks out a laugh. 
Changbin is one of the few survivors of your father’s special-ops program.  Unlike others who were imported from your father’s overseas operations, Changbin was raised right here alongside you.  You do not even remember meeting him; he has just always been there.  
He is a few years younger but he always held your attention, both because of his skill and his ability to retain a sense of humour.  It was an often sought breath of relief in the conditions of your training. 
You look at Changbin now, grinning and more jovial than someone like him should be.  It is a testament to his resolute strength that he can hold a dual personality inside him.  He has always been that way.  He can flip between a stoic soldier and goofy guy in the blink of an eye.  It is part of the reason you have never let yourself entirely trust him.  Though you are fond of him, he is like you: just a little too good at what he does. 
“Haha, the princess thinks she’s a comedian now,” Changbin says.  He nudges you with the tip of his boot.  “If you want to make me laugh, you should try fighting.” 
“Oh, I see.”  You cannot help but rise to his bait, like always.  He is a perpetual little brother even though he is not your real brother and certainly not little anymore. 
You swipe at him and he jumps back.  Just like that, the pair of you fall into a long practiced dance.  
It is not the gentle footwork of a real dance, but a violent collision and parry of limbs.  It is just as musical and in sync, and somehow almost as tender.  You know each other’s weaknesses as well as strengths.  You know how to beat each other and how to prolong surrender, where to give advantage so the other can continue.  You used to fight until the trainers called a tie, saving you both from selection for the loser’s punishment.  To everyone else, it looked like a fight.  To you, it was a conversation and consolation.  Even if you had been in solitude for weeks, in that moment you were not alone. 
Changbin reads you now, in every swipe and jump and dodge.  In your matching black clothes and matching strength you collide and converse.  Your frustration strains in every vein and his enquires are plain in the deliberate pause of his complicated steps.
“Daddy problems, ah, murder princess?” he asks, grinning. 
He catches your fist before it collides with that smirk, twisting your wrist so you are forced to follow with a heavy drop.  You roll together, a back and forth until you individually spring to your feet and face each other.  You wait for the next move with equal calculation.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” you say, batting a hit. 
“Really?” he asks.  “Because there are rumours in the pig pen that the general was looking for a big strong soldier to protect his little princess.” 
He lets you clock his jaw but it is a satisfying smack nonetheless.  A drop of aggravation is wrung out with your sweat.  You wipe your brow. 
“There was a change of plans,” you say.
Changbin laughs.   He is loud, always so loud for someone who can be so stealthy. 
“Of course!” he shouts.  “Keeping the doctors busy today, are you?”
He really knows you too well.  It is mutual.  You side-step a movement and body-check him. 
“Guess that’s what the general gets for choosing from the pig pen,” you say.  You infuse your father’s title with all the sardonic venom it deserves and pig pen with the same playful mockery as always. 
“Don’t be jealous,” Changbin teases right back, catching your taunt as easily as he catches your punch.  “If you keep practicing, one day you might be almost as good as me.” He has been making the same wisecrack for years, laughing to himself every single time. 
“Funny,” you say dryly. 
“I am the best,” he continues to tease, embellishing his movements with an unnecessarily dramatic flair.  “I’m sure that’s why the general doesn’t want me on bodyguard duty, right?  I need a real job, not protecting the princess.”
There are a few rapid-fire moves, too taxing for speech.  Then you manage, “Right.”  You take his offered opening and catch the back of his knee with yours.  “I’m sure it has nothing to do with your probation after the last field mission.” 
You expect to take him down but you do not expect the weight of his crash.  It is not like Changbin to fully collapse under you, almost like he was truly surprised. 
You are just as dazed by the impact.  You loom over him, staring bemusedly, like you have no idea how he got on the floor. 
It is not like Changbin to take a hit so personally.  Of all your father’s soldiers, he was always the best at shrugging off his individuality in favour of a mission.   He does not tend to dwell on his losses anymore than he lingers in his victories.  The past is a heavy thing to carry into battle.  He knows to leave it behind.  There is always another job around the corner. 
“You’re not still upset about that?” you ask.
The mission was shortly before the enemy’s downfall.  Years ago, one of your father’s child soldiers betrayed an operation.  Lee Felix switched sides and the enemy did not let your father forget it.   But Miroh is an ever-calculating general who knows which battles are worth fighting.  After one failed attempt at seizing the enemy’s daughter, he waited until the enemy came to him instead.  
When he finally did, you caught him.  You sent Changbin after his daughter and waited for the enemy’s imminent surrender.  He retracted his operation but Felix, that loose canon of a traitor-turned-bodyguard, fucked the Mirohs a second time and disappeared with her.  They all died a week later. 
Changbin was noticeably uneasy after the job, but you did not think much of it.   You were not worried about Changbin taking the mission too personally.  Yes, Felix was a former soldier in this regiment, but Changbin is not sentimental.  You chalked up his despondency to his loss.  It is not like him to let a target slip through his fingers. 
“Upset,” Changbin says.  “Me?”
You know him too well.  The joking tone is diminished, buried beneath the weight of his gloom.  He tries to smile but it does not fit on his face, too big and too wide of a grin. 
You tip your head, your regard scrutinous.  You have no idea how to talk to him with real depth.  You look at each other and understand it, but vocalizing it is another matter entirely. 
Like he can read your thoughts, his face scrunches up and he says, “Yah, you, cut that out!”  He shoves you as he gets to his feet, both of you stumbling.  “I’m fine,” he says.  “Come on, hit me again.” 
You are certainly better at conversing that way.
You take a starting stance but you are interrupted when someone from your security team whistles.  It is a warning whistle, the sharp tone a code for the arrival of your father.
You and Changbin straighten, turning to watch as Miroh approaches with a flank of armed guards behind him.  They are all dressed for combat in their black uniforms and black masks.  The half-mask is regulation for all field agents.  It covers the bottom half of the face and serves as protection in the event of smoke from explosions or exposure to noxious aerosols and gasses.
It also undoubtedly turns a human soldier into a less-than-human figure.  It obscures features, faces, flaws. 
Sharp eyes stare at you, every face uniform and expressionless.  There are half a dozen of them.  Your father’s usual security detail trails behind them.  Your security team eyes them in turn.   The whole room feels like a pot about to boil over.    
“What is this?” you demand.  
“This is my adherence to our agreement,” your father says. 
“Our agreement?” you ask.
“Yes.”  He stops in the middle of the room, standing straight and steady.  He looks at ease, like he barges in here with a small army every day.  “You tasked me to find a competent replacement bodyguard,” he says.  “So here is how this will go: whichever agent can beat you in a fight, right here, right now, will be your new bodyguard.  If you defeat them all, I will drop the issue and leave the matter of your personal security to you.” 
You look at his soldiers then at him.  You force yourself to composure.  It is not like you to instigate so much confrontation. You prefer to keep your head down and get the job done.  Your father does not love you but he knows your work is reliable.  Usually that is enough.
This entire escapade with the enemy has unravelled everyone.  The house of Miroh should be more stable than ever, your father taking over assets left behind by the enemy, but the whole world feels changed.  It is off its axis.  You feel unsteady, your body braced for attack with no reprieve.  You feel like you are looking at the world through someone else’s eyes.  Everything feels wrong.
In difficult times, you fall back on training and soldier instinct.  You are a battle technician, just as competent as your father.  He is not going to drop the issue and this is a fair compromise.  You can fight these guards.  Half a dozen well-trained field agents is a handful but not impossible.  Your body is built to be a little faster, a little stronger, to take a hit harder. 
“Fine,” you say, a single grating syllable.  You bite the word.  Through clenched teeth, you add, “Let’s do this.”
You and Changbin exchange a look.  He reflects your confusion, knowing you can easily take these guards, knowing Miroh knows that too.  It makes you feel even more uneasy.  Your father must be planning something but you do not know what.  But you cannot control him.  You can only control yourself.  You can fight these guys.  You can win. 
You take a swig of water then stretch.  The first guard takes a position in the fighting ring.  You brace yourselves with a starting stance, measuring the other. 
You wait, sweat dripping down your brow.  You feel their eyes on you, every soldier, your father, your friend.  Changbin stands off to the side, sitting in shadows.
It is where your kind belongs.  You are not regular soldiers. 
The fight begins and you take him down swiftly.  Your game with Changbin was just that, a game.  This is real.  This is a battle.  This is what your body was made to do. 
One by one, you take out the agents.  They charge at you, they swing at you, they even try to taunt you.  You deflect it all.  Your fist connects with a temple, your foot their knee.  You pop joints and flip soldiers and springboard back to action. 
You are getting tired by the last soldier but you do not let it show.  You sweat profusely, breathing hard, but you run at him and take him down.  Your bodies are a swirl of limbs and powerful movements.  Then he is on the ground, groaning, and you are rising, victorious. 
“Well?” you say.  You cannot help but grin, elated from the sheer exertion of exercise, and proud of your triumph.  There is a small, stupid part of you that hopes underneath everything, your father is proud too.  That he must relent and admit you are good.  
Miroh just stands there, unmoving and unaffected.  It dims your smile, frustration returning.  It simmers hot beneath your skin. It distracts you. 
Pain explodes in your left cheek, so sharp and searing it turns the world dark for half a second.  You see lightning flashes as you stumble, falling onto your side.  There is another guard in front of you, one you did not even see enter the room.  Did he drop down from the ceiling? 
He is a blurry shape.  You blink the stars out of your eyes, holding your throbbing head until clarity returns. 
Then your stomach drops. 
It is not a guard looming over you.  He wears the same black combat uniform and the same half-mask, but everything about him is different, everything from his build to his stance to the ice cold slash of his dark eyes.  Emotionless.  Empty. 
“Ah, I see,” you say, a breathless slur of words.  You cannot stop your voice from shaking.  “The First Guard.  I should have known.” 
There are only two living soldiers who can fight at your level.  The only two survivors of your father’s special-ops program.  One of them is Seo Changbin.
The other is Bang Christopher Chan. 
He stands over you in his combat gear, unflinching and barely human.  Even without the mask, you doubt you would see any humanity.  There is not a single shred of the boy he once was.  Chan was a problem for Miroh, once.  That was a very long time ago. 
That boy, Chris, is dead.  He has been dead for years.  The soldier in front of you is someone – something – else. 
You get to your feet, slowly and shakily.  He watches you.  He does not speak and he barely blinks, his gaze a meticulous perusal, his body braced for anything. 
Chan has the bloodiest, dirtiest hands of them all.  He does your father’s worst missions, assignments with details that even you are barred from knowing.  He is terrifyingly efficient, deadlier than any weapon in Miroh’s arsenal, and that is saying something because it is a substantial arsenal.  
Your own hands are dirty but it is nothing in comparison.  He is fast, he is deadly, and he feels nothing.  He looks at you like a machine scans a calculation.  A broken bone here, a fracture there.  You are certain he is already picturing a hundred different ways to contort your broken body. 
“Right,” you say. 
You are a strategist.  You know how to fight.  You know when not to fight.  But it is like instinct.  You look at him and something says fight him.   
You feel your father’s eyes on you.  You are not sure who is teaching who a lesson. 
You take a swing at Chan.  He dodges it.  He swings too, faster, but you anticipate it.  You tuck and roll, moving faster than you have ever moved in your life.  You are seldom pushed to the brink of your abilities like this.  Even half your skillset is double what most adversaries possess. 
But Chan is too much.  You spend the fight on constant defense, blocking swing after swing, hit after hit.  You take advantage of the smallest opening and crack your fist on his chest, only to realize he deliberately opened himself to it.  He grabs your wrist and twists you around before you can retaliate.  You are not used to such brute strength.  You follow his twisting to prevent a sprain or fracture, which he anticipates.  He grabs you by the throat and yanks you into him, right off your feet. 
You choke, blue swarming your rapidly blurring vision.  He slams you down on the ground, further disorienting you, still clutching your neck.
You dive somewhere deep inside your head.  You collect yourself as per your training, then swing your knee up between his legs.  It does not fully incapacitate him but it does discombobulate him.  He lets go of your throat and you slide between his legs, jumping up behind him.  He turns just in time to take a kick to the stomach, blasting him backwards to the end of the ring.    He prevents a worse fall by forcing himself down on one knee. 
You take the second he is down to catch your breath.  You try to calculate your next move but your adrenaline is dwindling.  Hopelessness settles in your chest.  You cannot win this fight.  At best, you can prolong it, but—
For the second time, you are blind-sided by pain.  It shatters down the right side of your body, a winded shove that blows right through you.   But it is not Chan.  Chan is still getting to his feet. 
You look up only for Changbin to bring his fist down in your face.  It knocks you off your feet and you land with a heavy thud.  Your heart races inside your aching chest. 
You have never fought Changbin like this. 
“What are you doing?” you hiss when he grabs you by the neck and drags you onto your feet.  You come to your senses and fight back, but you are hurt and tired and he has been recuperating. 
He punches you clear across the jaw and knocks you down again.  The world tilts sideways, spotted with black and blue.  Changbin drops on top of you.  You cannot even wrestle him, so disoriented.  He gets you flat on your front and pins you down. 
Then he takes a second to whisper in your ear, “Stop fighting me, murder princess.  Who do you want as a bodyguard?  Me or that thing?” 
If you were not so tired, you might have laughed. 
Your life is so backwards.  Changbin is helping you by beating the shit out of you.  But it is undoubtedly helpful.  He is right.  If Chan beat you, then Chan would be your bodyguard.  Your father would win.  He would have one of his agents glued to your side.  An agent you would never be able to shake no matter what you did. 
But it is not Chan over you.  It is your friend.  Someone from the same shadows as you.  Someone your father was not anticipating.
Changbin grabs you by the neck and yanks you up.  You look at your father with blood dribbling out of your mouth.
“I win,” Changbin says. 
Your father does not look happy.  That should upset you.  You and Miroh are bound as one. 
But it gives you a thrill.  His abomination of a soldier looms to the side, still staring at you, like he expects the fight to continue any second.  You suppose Chan’s life is one big fight and always has been. 
It doesn’t have to be that way for you, you think to yourself, a dangerous thought, one conjured by the feeling of your only friend holding you in his arms.  It looks like a death grip to anyone else, purely technical, but you feel it, the way he cups your injuries carefully despite his bulk and power.     
Miroh is scared.  He is getting desperate.  He wants you brought to heel.   In doing so, he is only stoking your resentment.
That pot starts to boil over.
“Well?” you say, in a voice as rough as gravel. 
“Yes,” your father says with a petty little snarl.  “I suppose you have won, haven’t you?” 
Changbin helps you off the ground.  You suffer through your pains.  You can feign steadiness for another minute, for long enough to retaliate.
You climb out of the ring.   You pass the other injured guards.  You walk right up to your father. 
Miroh stares at you.  You have identical glares, measuring each other.  Two soldiers with the same fire in their blood. 
You punch him.  It is a nice sharp shot across the face, using all the strength you have left.  You are one of the best.  Despite your injuries, it is still one fucking hell of a punch.
Miroh falls back in an undignified sprawl, hitting the hard ground with a painful thud.  He is good but he is not you. A fall like that would not have broken your bones the way it clearly fractures his arm.  
“Until next time, father,” you say. 
You step over him.  His security team immediately surrounds him, helping him up.  Your team comes to your aid as well.  Changbin follows too, coming right up to your side.  He grabs your arm and slings it around his shoulder, taking the brunt of your weight seconds before you would have collapsed. 
You look back over your shoulder.  The injured guards are tending their wounds.  Chan is looming in the background like a living shadow.  Miroh is clutching his arm and staring at you with fury pouring out of him.  You walk away, smiling despite your injuries. 
Your father should know better than to hit you.
You always hit back.
467 notes · View notes
hyunsvngs · 8 months
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 - modern royalty au!lee felix x female reader
wc: 10.6k words
rating: 18+. MDNI
cw: felix and mc being dumbasses, no use of y/n, sickeningly sweet petnames, ANGST, fluff!!, smut warnings under the cut
synopsis: your childhood best friend, the prince lee felix, is due to be betrothed in an arranged marriage organised by his mother. the problem is, you’re her top choice - and you’re also secretly madly in love with him.
a/n: our first fic on the blog!! if anyone has any questions or any thoughts to share with me please feel free. this fic is my baby and i hope you all enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it ♡
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
sw: dryhumping, use of petnames in bed, no actual sex!!, soft cutie felix except nsfw!!!!
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
You'd loved Lee Felix since the day you met him.
Of course, your brain had always convinced you that he was unattainable. You weren't without status, so to speak - your mother was famously known as the Queen's lady-in-waiting, and it was through her job that you'd had the pleasure of meeting the two princes, Felix and his elder brother Chris. You and Felix had clicked instantly. You had no other siblings yourself, and your father had died in the army when you were a baby, leaving your mother widowed and you without one of your intended parental figures.
Felix had taken that all in his stride, though. The day he met you he stumbled up to you with the grace of Bambi's first movement on ice, all short chubby limbs flailing everywhere and eyes formed in crescent moons with the size of his smile. Chris had taken less interest in you. Although polite, he was three years older than the both of you and already had his own group of friends, but you and Felix hadn't even started formal education yet - and you were inseparable as soon as you met. You were enchanted by him, he had been your first crush, and your first love once you were old enough to understand what that was.
You began your life as a shy, timid little girl, just as clumsy as your best friend. Your knobbly knees were always bruised and scarred, peeking out from the tops of your white knee socks and covered in whatever bandages Felix could find to wrap around you. Felix had brought you out of your shell, introduced you to some of his other 'friends' - at the start, they were just kids with similar status to him, but they really did form a tight knit group eventually. Now, you were known to always be by the side of Felix and his group, getting up to whatever secret debauchery you could manage that wouldn't risk any of your positions in society. Your mother, thankfully, had turned a blind eye to most of it, and the Queen was always too occupied to notice.
When you were younger, you and Felix loved to go out gallivanting. You'd stumble to the nearest beach, bags of towels and books in your canvas bags and giggle as you threw them on the sand. You had some form of an unofficial book club, just the two of you. You saw him practically all day everyday, but you'd both discussed and had decided to designate a Saturday afternoon to discuss whatever books you'd found in the extensive palace library and you both avoided any and all kinds of book talk on any other day in the week. The beach had become your place to gush over whatever literature had caught your attention, with the calming waves of the sea crashing behind you and the tweeting of whatever birds had made an appearance that day.
Now, though, you were both of age. You were both twenty one, and that meant that marriage was around the corner for Felix. He'd been so busy lately, you'd barely had the chance to see him. You took upon completing mundane tasks of your own, helping your mother with anything the Queen asked for (much to her polite gratitude, but she definitely knew why you were sulking around), and sometimes you even helped the cooks make food for the whole palace. Felix had teased you relentlessly once he'd seen you in your white frilly apron and you'd had to chase him out of the kitchen with a wooden spoon.
It was weird not having your best friend around so much. Chris was already married, being the heir to the throne, despite the fact there were rumours he would abdicate to Felix. Felix hadn't told you anything about that, and you were sure he would have. Even Chris leaving had left a hole in your heart - no more seeing his muscly eye-candy group of friends around. Well, they still showed up uninvited sometimes. You were pretty sure Changbin and Jisung were never actually invited, not even by Chris, but they lingered around him like they were his little brothers, too.
"Hey, you've been making that daisy chain for like, twenty years," A familiar giggle chimed from above you, and you looked up. Ah yes, your Prince. You'd gotten so lost in memories that you'd been wasting a Saturday afternoon with him. Fuck, you're such an idiot. Felix was looking down at you in your position in his lap, your head nestled on top of his crossed legs in the dress slacks he was supposed to wear everyday. He was wearing a white silk shirt on top of it, billowing in the summer breeze, but the top two buttons were still undone due to the heat of the sun. The summer always made your Prince's freckles shine more on his tan skin, the fawn dots even extending to the exposed skin on his chest. Needless to say, you waited impatiently for the hot season to come around every year. His teeth were gleaming in his smile, radiating sunshine and the gleam bouncing off of the bleach blonde mullet he'd managed to convince his mother to let him have.
You had to deflect. He couldn't know you were upset at not seeing him, although you were nearly certain he must have worked it out already. You shrugged dismissively, looking back at the daisy chain in your hands. Your thumbnails were stained with green from the plant stems, but you were still determined to finish it. You were making it for him, as a crown, because you knew he'd keep it until the flowers wilted, and then he'd get the flowers pressed and he'd put them in his scrapbook. He was such a good friend. His scrapbook was full of mementos of the two of you, even sometimes extending to the whole group - you and Felix, your friends, and Chris and his friends. It was mostly full of just the two of you, though.
"Sorry, Lixie. I guess I'm not all there today. Sorry," You mumbled. "What were you saying?"
"I was saying about Rochester and how he's a possessive asshole- no, you know what, that's not important. What's on your mind, sugarplum?" The cheesy nickname worked exactly how he intended it to, making you giggle and your cheeks burn with embarrassment. You nudged his tummy softly with your elbow, the silk brushing against your skin and making goosebumps rise on your arms. Felix dog-eared the page of the book that he was reading from and shut it softly, placing it beside you both. It was one habit of Felix's that you absolutely hated - like, how could he sleep with a clear conscience knowing that he had creased the delicate pages of so many classics? You'd given him so many bookmarks over the years, even personalised ones that you'd crafted in your spare time with both of your names on, but he always lost them or claimed he'd forgotten them in your book club outings. He leaned back on his palms, smiling down at you fondly. You shifted, turning slightly to see him better. You felt the soft cotton of the navy and white plaid picnic blanket brush against the bottom of your bare legs. You weren't really allowed to wear short skirts, or low cut tops, but on a summer's day like this you were permitted to wear a knee length skirt, so long as it was a thick fabric. Nothing too revealing was allowed.
You hummed in response to him, finding him still staring at you. "You want me to be honest, Pixie?"
Felix giggled at his own cheesy nickname, then nodded eagerly, strands of hair falling over his face before he pushed them back. His forehead had a thin sheen of sweat adorning it. "I always want you to be honest with me."
You ignored the butterflies causing a storm in your stomach over the statement. He was so understanding, so sweet - he always had been, like when he would bandage up your scraped knees or comfort you when something went wrong in your favourite TV show. He was even understanding during one of your many nights of debauchery, when you'd all been playing Seven Minutes in Heaven like the horny teenagers you were and you'd been picked to go in with Felix. You'd been bright red, stuttering and giggling nervously about how you'd never had your first kiss and Felix understood, rubbing your arm softly with his dainty hand and insisting you didn't have to do anything that you weren't ready for. You were so embarrassed, but he made you feel so at ease, and you'd both sat in the storage closet and gossiped about Chris instead.
That was the moment you'd fallen in love with him, you think. You were fifteen.
"I'm worried," You admitted, finally letting the flower chain drop from your fingertips and onto your tummy. Felix instantly shot up. His smile had fallen, and he was now looking at you with a concerned look, brushing hair back from your face and tucking it behind your ear. The butterflies started fluttering even faster, if it was possible. You looked up into his brown eyes, and you looked at his freckles, thinking about the many times you'd tried to count every single one. This was your best friend. This was the love of your life. Your Prince, as you affectionately called him in your head. You could be honest with him. If you couldn't, who could you be truthful with? "I'm worried because I know you're getting married soon. We barely see each other as it is anymore, and I miss you, to be honest. It will be soon, won't it?"
Felix hummed. He nodded thoughtfully, eyes drifting to the daisy chain on your tummy. You saw a small smile at the end of his lips as his fingers brushed over it. He knew it was for him. He'd made you many over the years, too, and you'd kept them in your own scrapbook, despite it being much emptier than his. "It will be soon. My mother is picking the right candidate at the moment. But..."
You furrowed your eyebrows. He hadn't looked back at you, still gazing at the daisy chain and beginning to rub reassuring circles on your side. "... But?"
The smile finally formed on his lips. "You do realise you're her top option, right?"
You shot up from his lap, eyes widening. Felix bit his lip, holding in a laugh. He was laughing at you, that bastard, but it did make sense. You were the Queen's favourite, and she knew how close you and Felix were. She wasn't a nasty or a ruthless Queen. She was a people person, she always donated money to charity and the homeless rating in your country was literally almost zero. She'd done so much for people since she was in power, and she never cared about status - not that it had ever affected you, but she did treat everyone as her equals. She was like Felix in that way, a sweetheart, and she always permitted you and Felix to go on journeys wherever you wanted, so long as you kept safe and there was a guard in the area, just in case. There was one in the meadow with you now, but you couldn't even see them from where you were sitting. She was just... so cool, down to earth. She understood what it was like to be young, within reason.
You were flustered. Your brain had instantly gone to thinking of getting married to Felix, spending nights with him but not in the way you used to, and even... Well, you had to consummate the marriage, didn't you? You were extremely inexperienced in that department, save for a few drunken childish kisses with Chris' friend Changbin when you were just a bit younger, but you still found your mind racing and going through your deepest, darkest fantasies. Fantasies that you would never entertain outside of shoving a hand down your underwear in your bed at night and whining into the satin pillows. You had to hide that you were thinking about that, what the fuck is wrong with you? Time to deflect.
"Well, she does love me," You said boldly. Felix shook his head, punching you in the arm, perhaps a bit harder than he meant to because you let out a hiss and punched him back too hard, in the leg. His smile dropped, groaning and grabbing the spot on his shin where you'd hit him. "But, would you be okay with that, Lixie? It's... me. We'd be like... you know."
"Married? Well, yeah," Felix laughed, still holding his leg. You sighed, giving him a flat look. You needed to keep yourself occupied, so you picked up the daisy chain on the blanket and started to fiddle with it again, threading it through with nimble fingers. Felix finally let go of his leg, throwing himself onto his side so he was lying down on the blanket and facing you. He'd started to fiddle with the cover of the book. Another thing you were getting prepared to tell him off about. "I know what you mean. Honestly, though? I can't think of anyone better to do it with," You felt yourself suppressing a smile at his words, said lowly in that deep voice of his. Everytime he said something like that, your brain instantly went to shit, he liked me back, and you couldn't have that showing on your face when you knew deep down that wasn't the truth. He was unattainable- no, wait, now he wasn't that unattainable, now that you've actually stopped being angsty and depressing and actually thought about it. "I mean, you are my best friend, sugarplum."
You let out a fake laugh at his use of that stupid nickname again, and it seemed to placate him. Best friend. Yeah. Because one thing you hadn't thought about during your insane train of thought, one thing you had always considered and had been the main factor in not confessing to him, was that you couldn't risk ruining the friendship you had built up with him for sixteen years.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
Unattainable. He was unattainable. You felt yourself mulling over that thought over and over as you paced in your bedchambers, in your silly Disney pyjamas that now barely fit you and you would never let anyone see. You had no one you could even talk to about this. It was clearly royal intel, secret information, and the only person you could have possibly talked to now never comes around anymore because Chris decided to get fucking married and now spends most of his time boning his wife for an heir. Or just because he likes boning her, you weren't sure, but Felix told you that he'd heard enough through the walls to know that boning was definitely occuring every night. Anyway, Changbin wasn't around much anymore, and he was your top confidant - bar Felix.
You liked living in the palace, but would you like living there as a Princess? Well, fuck yeah, obviously. It was like something out of The Princess Diaries, one of your favourite films which you and Felix had watched over and over. He hated it. You had a good, solid reputation. You were a high member of society due to your mother's job, and you and your mother were even placed on the royal side of the palace for your living quarters. You had a massive bedroom, an extravagant en suite with a relaxing bathtub and a sitting room with a huge TV that you and your mother always curled up in front of. How could it even get any better? You had seen Felix's room, when you were younger, but it kind of became unspokenly forbidden when you got to your teenage years, lest something gets out of hand. You understood it, actually. You'd been going through enough hormones to know that you had definitely come dangerously close to propositioning him a few times.
You had propositioned Changbin, obviously. You two had your first kisses together, and also a few drunken kisses, but you'd ended up as just friends. He was probably the only one who knew about your feelings for Felix, and he admitted you weren't his type anyway. You were sure he was in love with Felix's friend, Hyunjin, but you never commented on the way he looked at Hyunjin like he'd hung the stars in the sky. You couldn't really say anything either, knowing full well that you looked at Felix the same.
You needed to speak to Changbin. The unbearable amount of anxiety at not knowing was mounting in you. But it hit you, then, in the middle of your pacing and chewing on your thumbnail. You looked at the copy of Jane Eyre that Felix had given you, placed on your bed. Your mother knew. She had to have known you were a choice, surely, and she hadn't even told you?
You shook your head, resuming pacing. You couldn't blame her. Felix wasn't even meant to tell you. It made sense, though - you'd received pretty much the same education as a royal, and you and Felix were inseparable. You knew you had the etiquette, the social skills (thanks to Felix). You were pretty much a Princess without being a Princess. It had to be you, right?
Did you want it to be you?
You threw yourself onto your bed, wrapping the soft pillow around your head and screaming incoherently into the fabric. It didn't help. Who were the other choices? You thought of other girls who lingered around the palace, ones that had definitely had crushes on your Prince growing up and had given him fleeting glances with blushed cheeks and an agape mouth. None of their names even came to mind. Maybe a Princess from another country, for a marriage of creating alliances? You could see the Queen considering that. She was always very logical, but you also knew she had her son's best interests in mind. Chris had married a Princess from a different Kingdom, actually, but his marriage wasn't even arranged. He'd been in love with her since they were teenagers, and they could only meet once or twice a year in arranged legal meetings. You remember them having perhaps not so quiet dates together. Everyone knew, and when they announced their engagement everyone was happy but not surprised. Felix had taken too long to find a wife, and even the thoughtful Queen couldn't let that slide. People were asking questions, personal questions about his demeanour and whether he was off putting, and she couldn't deflect the questions for much longer.
You hadn't even noticed you'd drifted off, and you woke up to your face still smushed in the pillow. You immediately inhaled sharply upon waking up, taking in the light outside. You'd drooled all over your pillow, leaving a huge wet patch and your hair was knotted every which way, making you look like you'd been dragged backwards down the hedge. Damn. Thinking too hard has taken its toll on you, really.
A knock on the door made you spring up from your bed, smoothing down your hair with one hand, before another three knocks came in succession and you paused your movements. It was yours and your mother's secret knock - one knock, then three quick ones after. She'd seen you in worse states. Much worse states, even hungover states that you'd cried over while she held a bucket to your head and had promised to keep it a secret. You padded over to the door, opening it slightly just to make sure it was in fact, her. It was, obviously. Not even Felix knew your secret knock.
She came in and sat on the big armchair in front of the fire. Neither of you had said anything. You stood awkwardly, wringing your hands. She finally looked at you, a kind look on her face.
"I have two things to say," She smiled. You loosened up a bit, realising that it was just your mother. She'd always been stuck by you. It had been only the two of you, after all. It was all you knew. You nodded, rushing over to sit cross legged in front of her like a child. "First of all, the Queen would like to meet with you in an hour. Second of all, you're seriously still wearing those Dumbo pyjamas? The legs aren't even long enough anymore, I can see your knees, they're meant to be trousers not shorts-"
You blinked owlishly. Her rant went in through one ear and out the other, before she realised you weren't listening. She sighed. You blinked again, pulling the ends of your pyjama trousers absentmindedly to try and make them longer. "The Queen... wants to meet with me?"
Your mother nodded. She wasn't giving anything away by her face, but she definitely knew. She knew. She knew what you were going to be told. God, why couldn't she just ignore her job duties for once and be a fucking mother? You chided yourself mentally, she was a great mother. But you were frustrated. You needed to know now, not in an hour!
"Just... just me, and her?" You questioned, cocking your head to the side. Your mother shook her head, fingernails picking at a loose thread on her skirt. She was avoiding eye contact. What the fuck is going on?
Oh God, it's not you, is it? Fuck.
"Felix will be there," Your mother stated. She jumped up sharply. "I'll help you pick an outfit, dear. Come." She beckoned you to the armoire in the corner and you followed dutifully.
Your mother began to flick through pieces of fabric hanging off of hangers, and you tried to ignore the anxiety now mounting again in the pit of your stomach.
You so badly wanted it to be you. Just for once, you wanted to be selfish.
An hour later, on the dot, you stood outside the main hall. It was where everyone - royalty and staff alike - ate food together. That was, again, one of the kind Queen's rules. It was also where her throne was, where she had meetings with people. You'd never been on the receiving end of such a formal meeting, but one of the Queen's maids had come and collected you from your room five minutes before the allocated time. You'd managed to run a brush through your hair, thank God, and your mother had put you in a baby blue pinafore dress that came down to mid-knee on top of a white long sleeved turtleneck. The turtleneck was far too warm for the weather, but you knew the Queen would appreciate the conservative outfit. You stared down at the Mary Jane's on your feet.
You shut your eyes, trying to control your breathing, before realising you really couldn't afford to be late. Maybe you'd fucked up and done something wrong. You raised your hand, knocking softly on the door, but it swung open with the small force of your knock. The Queen sat on her throne, flipping through the pages of a book. Your Prince stood behind her, leaning over the throne, pointing at certain pages and giggling. She was smiling fondly at the pages, rubbing her fingertips over certain ones and mumbling statements to her son. She'd began to age slightly, with wrinkles adorning her eyes and mouth, but she didn't look any less beautiful. She had long, dark hair and freckles, just like Felix, but her smile was as kind as Chris'.
Oh? They seemed happy, at least.
You cleared your throat. The Queen, her Majesty, looked up at you and smiled acknowledgingly, shutting the book on her lap. She beckoned for you to come in and you did a small curtsy before shuffling into the lavish room. You could smell the kitchen from here, and you knew the cooks were whipping up something fierce by the enticing smell of it. You hadn't had time to have breakfast, because you'd slept in, and lunch was still around two hours away. You hoped your stomach wouldn't grumble too loud as you eventually approached the throne.
Felix smiled at you. He was wearing a similar pair of dress slacks to yesterday, but this time his silk shirt was a baby blue, the Kingdom's colours. A silver chain rested on his neck and you took note of the earrings dangling from his ears - another impulse decision you'd both done when you were younger. You know Felix had gotten in trouble for it at first, but the Queen seemed to be buying him a lot of expensive earrings lately. She knew what it was like to be young, after all. You smiled back awkwardly, rubbing your sweaty hands on your pinafore. It was then you realised you were in the Kingdom's colours too. Very patriotic of your mother.
"You want some tea, sugarplum?" Felix's voice drew you out of your thoughts, and you winced at the nickname. In front of his mother? In front of the Queen? Seriously? Your eyes seemed to convey a similar message to him, a flat glare, but he simply giggled. You saw him pouring from a teapot into a dainty teacup, and reverted your eyes to the Queen. She was still looking down at the book in her lap, and you looked down at it in confusion.
It was the scrapbook Felix made for the two of you. It was full of pictures from when you were younger to now, full of cinema tickets from secret outings and full of pressed flowers. Some of your favourite book quotes had even made it into there, scrawled in both of your handwritings. Even your school graduation pictures were in there. You'd been sent to a private school for the upper society, obviously, but you still had a normal graduation - albeit small, and full of snobby people.
"Thank you for meeting me, your Majesty," You were babbling in awkwardness. Oh, God. It was like word vomit, you couldn't stop it. "I'm really glad to meet with you today. I'm just wondering, have I done something wrong? You never ask to meet me."
The Queen laughed, her eyes forming crescent moons exactly the same as Felix's. Felix appeared at your side then, handing you a small teapot with what looked like peach tea in it. Your favourite, because of course, your Prince remembers that. You awkwardly shifted on one foot to the other, taking small sips of the tea to try and cool your nerves and almost screaming because it was still scalding hot. Felix was trying to hold in a laugh beside you, you could tell without even looking at him. Bastard.
"You haven't done anything wrong, sweetheart," The Queen's voice was soft, and she was now looking at you, taking in your outfit. She nodded approvingly. "You look lovely, very sophisticated. I believe I've made the right choice."
Your cheeks burned red. No. Fucking. Way. "T-The right choice? Do you mean...?"
The Queen beckoned over one of her staff members and they scurried over in a similar manner to the way your mother would have done. They placed a box in her hands, a small black velvet box that looked like it could be opened seamlessly. A... ring box? "I apologise, sweetheart. I've kept you in the dark a little bit with all of this. Would you bring her a chair, dear? A comfortable one."
The staff member scuttled over to grab a small chair with a red pillow on top of it and placed it behind you. You looked to your left side, still in shock, and the staff member simply smiled and motioned to the chair. You muttered a thanks in acknowledgement and sat on the pillow. Damn, the chair was comfortable. Felix was still standing, watching you hold your teacup awkwardly in a sweaty hand. He looked like he was about to die of laughter. God, you hated him so much, but you also really didn't. He just loved to tease you.
Maybe he would in bed, too-
"So, as you probably know, our favourite boy hasn't found someone to court yet," The Queen began speaking once you were sat down. Felix groaned, and his mother simply laughed. "Hush, now, sweetheart."
"Mum, you said you wouldn't be mean-"
Their dynamics always amazed you. She took the piss out of him, to put it quite literally, but in such an eloquent manner it could be easily missed as them having a difficult relationship. They didn't. He was a mummy's boy, through and through. It was one of the things you loved about him. You could tell a lot about a man from the way he treated his mother.
"Felix, hush now," She admonished again, but the smile on her face didn't leave. Felix mumbled something and then went back over to the side to fiddle with the teapots. Good, he should feel awkward. You looked at her outfit, beautiful in an ornate sense, pearl clips pinning her long, dark hair up so you could see the freckles on her face that matched your Prince. "I took it upon myself to find Felix a bride. I hope you don't think I'm cruel for doing so, I do have my baby's best interests in mind."
Felix groaned, putting his face in his hands. "'M not a baby-"
"You always will be to me, sweetheart. But it was time to get you courting, to get you married. I couldn't do that when you're always gallivanting discussing books with this one now, could I?" Your cheeks burned. You started to stutter out an apology, but she held up a hand to stop you. "Nonsense, sweetheart. Your friendship is one I've always admired. You're inseparable, and it is lovely to see you both so happy. You know that I value your mother highly, also."
You nodded, grinning. You felt a bit more at ease at the praise. The tea had also cooled down slightly too, so you started to sip it again, ignoring the way Felix was intently watching you with an evil smile to see if you'd burn your tongue again.
"Then, I thought about it. I thought, well, I do value your mother extremely highly, and you've been very helpful as of late. Obviously, that is because this one isn't taking up all of your time again," She nodded her head towards Felix. It was such an informal motion that you laughed in shock, and she giggled, a chiming similar to Felix's laugh that shouldn't have come from a middle aged woman who was literally the top of society. You still weren't completely getting at what she was saying, but you were enjoying the conversation. It was just praise, praise, praise. Amazing. "So, I want to offer you something. I want you to know you can decline, and you and your mother will remain here in your current roles. It would make me very happy, however, if you agreed to marry Felix."
You blinked. Okay, yeah, you kind of knew that's what she was getting at, but still - coming out of her mouth you thought you were going to have a heart attack. Your eyes flitted to Felix, who was simply nodding at you in encouragement, eyes widened. He... what, had he convinced her with that scrapbook? He wanted to marry you? Ugh, he probably just wanted to marry you so he didn't have to marry someone he didn't know. He doesn't even know you like him like that. But... a little part of you wanted to be selfish. You scratch his back by not letting him marry someone he's not close with, and he scratches yours by at least pretending to be in love with you. Could you deal with that, though? The pretending?
You nodded in acknowledgement at what the Queen said, looking at your tea again. The tea leaves were floating around in the liquid, mocking you, as if saying you were so fucking dumb. Of course you were going to say yes. "Um... may I ask, your Majesty, what would happen if I said no?"
You refused to look at Felix. The Queen hummed, looking down at the box in her lap. Oh, that was a ring box, definitely. Funny, in a weird way. "Well, this way, if you got married, you'd be able to spend a lot of time together. You'd see each other a lot. You'd be happy. If you decline... I'd have to find someone else for him to-"
"I'll do it," You grimaced at cutting the Queen off, but you couldn't even bear to think of him with someone else. Instead of chiding you, she beamed from ear to ear, and Felix rushed over to you.
He leaned down, wrapping his arms around you and leaning in for a hug. He felt so soft, all silk and soft skin, but you knew what was underneath that shirt. You'd seen it, and now you were definitely going to see everything else. He smelled of lavender and orange blossom, that expensive perfume he's always spraying on himself, but you could smell notes of the flowers in the meadow that were still left on his skin from yesterday.
Okay, yeah, you could get used to this.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
You didn't get a proper engagement, but that was alright. You'd been given the ring pretty much straight away after your meeting, and when you'd got back to your room after lunch your mother was still there, but now she was gushing, almost bouncing off the walls.
The ring was beautiful. Even using that adjective felt like an understatement. It was clearly an heirloom, passed through generations. The gem in the middle was blue tourmaline, and whilst it matched the Kingdom's colour it was extremely rare - or so you thought, you weren't sure - and it was surrounded by a cluster of diamonds and placed on a thin gold band. You'd always dreamed of getting engaged, even letting yourself think about getting engaged to Felix sometimes, when you were feeling particularly selfish. You always thought it would happen on the meadow, or on your guys' beach that you'd had less time to go to these days because it was further out. You didn't think you wanted it to be pretty lavish, just you two, so you weren't that angry about just being given the ring and told to prepare for an outing with Felix later on. He was your safe place, and you did want to talk privately about the engagement, so you weren't too angry.
You thought about it a lot, looking down at the gem glinting in the light. Your mother had left, and you were now just sitting at your vanity staring at your own hand. The public knew who you were. They knew you were Prince Felix's best friend, and more than a few people had deemed you two as soulmates, people from a similar status who were bound to fall in love and get married. Now, it just felt very one sided. You knew you were in love with Felix, and you'd agreed to the marriage with little thought, but now you felt a bit anxious. How were you going to pretend not to love him when you had to sleep next to him every night? Or when you had to go on dates with him? The engagement would be formally announced tomorrow, with the outing tonight being specifically for you to wear the ring in the public's eye and for you two to dial up the romance and get people speculating. The engagement party was planned to take place tomorrow night after the announcement, with everyone important there.
It was a beautiful ring. You just weren't sure you could pretend any more. You were sick of pretending to just view him as a friend.
When the night rolled by, you'd dressed in something a bit cosier - not too warm, because the nights weren't getting cold much anymore. You'd switched your pinafore and long sleeve for a thin knitted jumper and some long linen trousers, throwing a long but light jacket on top. You had to look sophisticated, respectful even. You deemed you looked alright after tucking the jumper into the trousers and adorning a belt, and when you swung the door open to your room, Felix was stood there.
He'd also put on a thin jumper in lieu of his thin billowing silk shirts, but he still looked just as good in the blue cable knit staring you in the eyes. He'd even put on a long coat just like yours. It was like you were matching, but you hadn't intended to. You looked up at him, meeting his eyes, and you swore you'd never seen him look happier, not even when you'd moan in delight eating his homemade brownies or when you'd go sick after eating too many of said brownies because they were too good. His hair was neatly styled, pulled back in a stylish half up-half down ponytail, with a few strands dangling in his face.
"Hey, sugarplum," He spoke, voice low. You groaned, pushing him out of the doorway and leaving the room, shutting the door behind you. He laughed in delight at your annoyance and linked arms with you. It was then you noticed he had a flower in his hand - just one stem, but the meaning was enough to almost make you cry.
"Oh my God, Felix, is that-"
"Baby's breath," He unlinked his arm with you, passing the stem to you. When you two were younger, you'd been entranced by the baby's breath growing in your meadow and you'd both been determined it was the work of fairies. It was too beautiful to be normal, and you and Felix had collected them endlessly until there was basically none left. You called them fairy flowers, and that's sort of where Felix's nickname had come from - your mother had called him Pixie affectionately when he'd revealed that he really thought these flowers were part of a fairy's little garden. He pretended to hate it, but you know he secretly loved it when you called him that. Chris had told you.
"You remembered. We used to call them fairy flowers," You brushed your hand over the flower, grinning at the softness. Felix chuckled, whispering a 'yeah'. He quickly pinched the flower from you again, tucking it behind your ear. You quite literally swooned, smiling up at his own beaming face. It got a bit awkward for you then though, because you couldn't even pretend not to be in love with him now, before you're even married. You found yourself in a state of word vomit again. "Jeez, dial down the PDA, Romeo. We're not even outside yet."
You walked off, leaving Felix trailing after you laughing at your words. "'Jeez'? What are you, a frat boy? You need to stop reading fanfictions, you know," He slung his arm around your waist, leading you out of the palace grounds. You rolled your eyes, ignoring him, but you leaned in closer to his touch. Tonight was meant to just be a late night walk, full of holding hands and perhaps acting like normal people getting some street food from a dodgy merchant that would give you a bad tummy for a few days. Once you'd left the ornate gates, with one of the guards waving you both goodbye, you started to walk down the street and into the busier part of town. The palace wasn't too far from the hustle and bustle of the city, because again, the Queen apparently loved to be normal. People came to the palace all the time and took pictures and whatnot, but they were never allowed into the actual building. That was too far, and a danger to security.
You both began to walk, feeling the much cooler breeze blow through your hair and rattle the petals upon your ear. It was a bit ticklish, but he'd put it there, so it was staying there. His arm stayed around your waist, but it was comforting. You'd done stuff like this a million times. You were both extremely affectionate and loved touch anyway, so it wasn't strange. Of course, it felt different. You were engaged to him now. You could like... kiss, and stuff. You felt like a high school girl kicking her legs and twirling her hair over her crush, but you decided you were going to allow it because you were still young, and still yet to have a lot of your firsts with someone.
Once you got to a street where there were a few people milling around, Felix motioned to a wooden bench on the side of the path. Overgrown moss and bushes wrapped around it, but it still looked quite cute. "Wanna sit down here for a bit? I think we should probably have a chat, you know. About everything," When you looked at him, he looked embarrassed for once, strange given his usual brazen nature. You found yourself wanting to comfort him, so you nodded, sitting down on the bench and smoothing your trousers down. He sat next to you, turning to face you on the bench and fiddling with the cuffs of his coat.
"Felix, are you okay about marrying me?" You blurted out. "I mean, I know you probably don't want to marry anyone else, but you won't even get the chance to try to get to know everyone. You're stuck with me."
Felix furrowed his eyebrows. His head snapped up to you. "Um, what the fuck? You're my best friend. I am absolutely okay with getting married to you."
Your chest heaved. You felt reassured, but still not completely relieved. "But... Lixie. We'll have to kiss. And we'll be sharing a bed. You know we have to consummate the marriage, right?"
There was that smirk on his face again. You regretted ever saying anything. "You've been thinking about having sex with me?"
You groaned, putting your head in your hands. You heard Felix chuckling next to you, his shoulders shaking the whole rickety bench. You finally looked up at him, punching him in the leg again. His laughter ceased as he yelped. Good, bastard. "You know what I mean, Lix. We are literally going to have to, or the marriage won't be like, real. Or something, I don't know."
"You do know, you know everything. You're smarter than me," Felix chided you. He sighed, leaning to put his head on your shoulder. "What are you actually worried about? Tell me."
"It's just..." You couldn't say it. But maybe you could, and phrase it differently. A conditional question, to answer the real question inside of you. "What if we fell in love?"
Felix hummed, shutting his eyes softly. "Then everyone would have been right about us."
"Y-You... you wouldn't mind it? What about our friendship?"
He rubbed his cheek against you comfortingly. "It would only be made better, sugarplum," He pulled back, grinning at you. Oh no. That smile meant a Dumb Felix comment was incoming. "Plus, I know you think I'm smoking hot, so-"
"Felix!" You whined. He stuck his tongue out at you cheekily, making you roll your eyes. You turned away from him, staring ahead at a large tree on the other side of the path.
"I mean, we are compatible. Would it be so bad?" He sounded insecure now. You looked at him. His eyes were gleaming from the moonlight, and he did look really nervous. Perhaps... he wants to know if you'd hate him if either of you caught feelings. He wants to know if you think it would ruin your friendship. Honestly? After that conversation, you didn't. You shook your head, smiling softly at him. He stuck his tongue out again, trying to lighten the mood, and you did it back. You both had a fit of giggles afterwards, hitting each other while laughing like you always do.
Then, you saw it. A distinctive flash of a camera behind Felix, towards the end of the path. Oh, yeah, you're meant to be like, loving it up right now. You grabbed Felix's arm, pulling him in.
"Wh- wha-"
You brought his ear to your mouth, looking down at it and whispering. "There's a reporter taking pictures behind you. Don't look, but we should probably be more affectionate."
Felix pulled away, nodding solemnly. You could practically see the cogs turning in his head as he spoke, then a lightbulb going off. "Kiss me."
"H- Huh?!"
"Or, I'll kiss you, I don't mind. But that would really prove a point, wouldn't it? So caught up in each other that we forget royal etiquette?" He'd leaned back more comfortably on the bench, slinging an arm behind you. His fingertips were dancing up your shoulder as you were turned to face him, faces only inches apart. You licked your lips. He licked his own. The flash appeared again. Oh, the reporter liked that.
"Felix... I don't know-"
"I know it's not your first kiss, sugarplum. Can't back out of kissing me now," You internally groaned at the mention of him knowing what you and Changbin had done. Fuck Changbin, stupid blabbermouth. Felix was smirking, looking at you.
"Fuck it. As long as it won't be awkward?"
"We're gonna have to kiss a lot more, may as well kiss now," He shrugged. You shrugged. He was right. Eventually, you nodded. His fingertips carried on tracing shapes on your shoulder - you managed to make out a flower, a heart, maybe even a cat's head. Or a dog's head, you weren't sure. His other hand went up to your chin, fingertips coming to lift your head up to be closer to him once again. His eyes went to yours, a silent question in those deep brown eyes, and you nodded in response.
With that, you were being kissed by your first love. Your one sided love, to be precise, but you actually couldn't find it in you to care. You didn't even realise the camera flashing repeatedly as you pressed your lips against his, a chaste but open mouthed kiss. His lips were extremely soft, and you fluttered your eyes shut and leaned in to get more. He obliged, hand now going to the back of your head to bring you in further. You whimpered at the dominance the grab showed, and he let out a sharp breath of air through his freckled nose in response. You wanted more, so much more. Your lips pressed against each other over and over, a little messy but you liked it like that. Just as you tried to get your tongue against his, he gently pulled away, with one more small peck to your nose.
You were embarrassed when you realised you'd tried to follow him for more kisses. You quickly avoided eye contact, and Felix elbowed you.
"Look at me!" He whined for attention. Ah yeah, same old Felix. You'd forgotten what he was like in that ten second kiss. He still had issues with wanting to be the centre of attention. You looked at him awkwardly, fists clenched in your sweaty palms. You almost felt bad the beautiful ring had to live there. Once you'd looked at him, his sad face fell and he smirked. "Good, huh?"
"W-Was I... good? I've only ever kissed Changbin," You admitted, grimacing. Felix sat up sharply, putting a hand on your knee. You almost flinched away to try and sedate your own sexual desires, but he would get suspicious.
"Uhhh, yes! It was good, I really enjoyed that. Thank you for doing that for me," Felix comforted. When you nodded in response, he grabbed your chin again and placed another peck on your lips. "I... honestly? I kind of wouldn't mind kissing you again."
The boy's boldness shocked you everyday, and you'd known him for sixteen years. "For... for practice, right? When we're married, we're gonna have to do it loads, so-"
"Yeah, yeah, one hundred percent. For practice," Felix agreed. He was nodding eagerly. He suddenly shifted, looking down at the watch on his wrist. "Aw, shit. We should probably head back. Wanna watch a film in your room when we get back?"
You grinned. Back to the same old. This was better, though now you knew you'd be thinking about being on your back with him on top of you making out while you were watching a film. Quickly, you realised something. "That will look so sus though, now that we're engaged."
"We'll keep it a secret," He wiggled, elbowing you. You found yourself laughing, jumping up to walk back to the palace. You held your outstretched hand to him.
"Your majesty?"
"Ah, yes, my fine maiden," Felix giggled, sliding off the bench to grab your hand. You both started to walk to the edge of the path, skipping along as if you had no cares in the world. You heard rustling, probably the sounds of the reporter leaving.
You hoped you'd done okay. You hoped you'd made it believable. Well, you probably had, given your actual feelings - but had Felix?
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
You'd woken up the next day with a piece of popcorn stuck to your forehead and another person snoring next to you. You blinked yourself awake drearily, leaning up on your palms and looking around your room. Your TV had turned onto standby, and you looked to your right. Felix was in your room. Felix was in your bed. You'd- oh, no. You'd totally just fallen asleep watching a movie, nevermind. Totally fine.
No, actually. Totally not fine!
You shrieked, grabbing Felix's slender waist and wiggling him awake. He'd borrowed a pair of your more comfortable clothes and the t-shirt had been just a bit too small, riding up with every move and now exposing nearly his whole tummy. You tried to ignore it, continuing to shake him awake. The piece of popcorn stuck to your forehead fell onto the bed with an unceremonious noise and you groaned. Eventually, after what felt like hours of shaking your best friend, he opened his eyes and gave you a wide smile, pulling you in for a cuddle. You ignored how lovely it felt and tried to get him to regain consciousness and morality.
"Felix."
"Hmm?"
"You are in my bed."
"I know, dummy- Oh." Felix shot up, nearly sending you flying off the bed. His hand landed on the piece of popcorn, crumbling it into your pristine white sheets. You tried not to cry. His eyes widened, staring at you. "What's the- have you checked your phone? What's the time?"
You shook your head, reaching over to grab your phone. You seldom went on your phone, preferring to read and spend time with Felix, but you had it in case of emergencies and also sometimes for TikTok, but you'd never admit that. You blinked. 11am.
You'd missed breakfast, but you also had zero missed calls or texts on your phone. No one had woken you? Weird. You flipped the screen to show Felix, and he leaned in closer. You were brandishing your wallpaper of the two of you on the beach last summer, but you didn't care. He grabbed your phone, entered your passcode and clicked on the phone app.
"No one even tried to wake us?" He asked. You shook your head. He laid back down, seeming weirdly reassured. You didn't question it, slinking up next to him and putting your head on his shoulder. He moved his arm accordingly, pulling you into his chest and still clicking random buttons on your phone. Eventually, he landed on the search tab, and typed in 'news'. Oh, shit. Was it announced?
Yep. In blaring headlines, multiple news media sources were now releasing reports with every single detail of the story, including pictures of the two of you last night. The titles were all similar, going along the lines of "the sweet Prince and beloved best friend confirmed to be engaged!" or "sophisticated best friend and the lovely Prince taking a romantic late night stroll!". You scoffed, clicking on one and scrolling down. The pictures were cute, to be honest. Some even showed the two of you laughing and hitting each other last night, or you two walking home hand in hand and skipping as if you were kids. One picture, however, is what stuck with you. It was the two of you mid-kiss, Felix's hand on the back of your head and his other holding your shoulder, keeping you in place. It was fucking hot.
"Damn, we look good, you know?" Felix mused, zooming in on the picture. You hummed. You did, you couldn't deny that. "My mum was so real for thinking of us getting married. Like, we totally look good together. Imagine our kids."
Imagine what we'll do to make kids, you thought, but you bit your tongue. You giggled, slapping Felix's chest playfully, then a thought came into your stupid lizard brain. "Hey, Lix?"
"Yeah?" He was still scrolling through an article, laughing at some of the sentences. Everyone loved the two of you, but a few were jealous that you'd managed to snag him. Good.
"Did you mean what you said last night? About practice?" Felix's thumb stopped on the screen. His eyes darted to you, his hair still mussed from sleep. He just stared at you, and you lost your nerve. "Sorry. Weird thing to say. I was just wondering-"
"No, not weird. I meant it. You wanna make out? For practice?" Felix locked your phone, chucking it to the end of the bed. You didn't have time to scold him for throwing your things around like that before his hand was carding in your hair, fingertips scratching at your scalp. God, you loved it when he did that. Your eyes shut in bliss. You totally forgot what he asked. "Hey, earth to sugarplum."
"Hmm? Oh, yeah. Sure. For practice."
Okay, so you were totally being super selfish. But, you were going to be having sex with him soon. You could do a little making out to prepare, right? You were just a woman, after all. Nothing wrong with that. His fingers gripped your hair with a different intensity then, pulling at the strands slightly, and you choked back a whine. You opened your eyes, looking up at him.
He hummed, looking at you. He tilted his head to the side, thinking. "Maybe... yeah," He grabbed your arm, pulling you over him. He positioned you exactly how he wanted you, on top of him, straddling his hips. His dainty hands went to your waist, rubbing circles. "Yeah, like this. For practice."
"For practice," You agreed solemnly. You were beginning to think that maybe it wasn't for practice. Maybe he just wanted to. He scooted up, leaning up against the pillows so he was sat up and you were sat on top of him. You tried to ignore the fact that you could feel what was going on between his legs through your thin sleep shorts. You couldn't get too wound up during this, just in case it was just for practice. Knotting your hands into the fabric of his - your - white t-shirt, you leaned down, brushing your nose with his. You were being selfish, but bold, but mostly selfish.
Felix's eyes flitted down to your lips, leaning up to place a soft kiss there. You smiled softly, and he returned yours with a smile that could only be described as filled with fondness. You bit your lip, noticing the way his eyes honed in on your teeth and perhaps his grip tightened on your hips just a bit, but he'd always deny it.
"Lixie." You muttered. You were too shy. He knew exactly what you meant, and raised one hand up to grab at the back of your head. He brought your lips to his, attaching his mouth to yours in a way that was completely different from yesterday. Yesterday was for show, but this seemed personal, hungry almost. You decided you were going to take what you could get. You pressed your lips to his harder, making him choke out a noise of surprise. It was messy, again, open mouthed kisses that were nothing akin to precise or experienced, but you could get to know each other, get to know what you liked. Right at that moment, all you knew was that you liked him, and you would be so pissed off if he didn't let you get your tongue in his mouth like he did last night.
Your hands went up to his face, cradling his cheeks in your palms and slipping your tongue into his mouth. Your tongues brushed against each other, and you whined, hips kicking up just slightly before you managed to stop yourself. He grabbed your hips, flipping you over so he was on top of you, not breaking the kiss. His lips kept brushing against yours as his tongue entered your mouth, groaning at the feeling. You couldn't stop breathing heavily through your nose, your hands roaming up his back and landing on his hair, pulling him down to kiss you harder. Your lips felt bruised, swollen, but you never wanted to stop kissing him.
With that thought, he bit your lip, pulling away and letting it release against your teeth. You squirmed, licking your lips excessively to try and stop them feeling so swollen. Felix looked debauched, his hair even more tangled and his lips just as red and swollen as yours. His eyes were dark, staring down at you.
"Baby. Bestie. I'm sorry, but I'm- I'm sorry..." He whispered, his head going to the crook of your neck to place soothing kisses there. He was breathing heavily, shifting ever so slightly on top of you. You felt it then, what he was apologising for. His length was rock hard, the shaft pressing into your core and giving you just the slightest bit of stimulation. "'M so fucking hard, sugarplum, I'm sorry."
"I-It's okay, Lixie. I think I'm... I'm wet, too," You whispered, and he threw his head back, groaning. "Practice makes perfect, y'know. We can keep making out." Felix nodded eagerly, and he grabbed your thighs, linking them around his hips. He ducked to place a few more kisses on your neck, biting a little at the area where your throat met your jaw. You let out a moan, neck bearing to the opposite side to give him full access and he clearly approved, biting harder.
"Baby, c-can I just," He ground his hips into yours, groaning and stuttering his words out. He immediately stopped, looking down at you. "Can I? I can make us both feel good, no sex. We can just grind a little on eachother. I won't put it in, I promise-"
With that, a knock on the door interrupted you both. You were fully prepared to start swinging at whoever was on the other end. Felix looked like he was about to die, cheeks flushed and hair tangled every which way. You both stared at each other in disbelief. Okay, so you had kind of really lost yourself there, and now somebody is at the door while the nation's favourite Prince is currently on top of you grinding into you with full intent to cum. You'd only just announced your engagement. You could've got pregnant before you even got married. Jesus, what is wrong with you? You sighed, moving to sit up, and Felix moved off of you. He ran a hand through his knotted hair.
"I should... fuck, Felix, what do we do?" You knew you both looked the image of lust, lips kiss bitten and swollen and hair everywhere. You could even feel the wet patch in your sleep shorts. Shit, okay.
Felix looked to be holding back a laugh. You felt terrified, but you almost laughed too, in pure disbelief. You both covered your mouths before you shot off the bed, slipping your shorts off your legs and replacing them with a pair of longer trousers from your drawer. You honestly couldn't care less if he'd seen you in your underwear, you'd bathed together when you were younger. You motioned to the en suite dramatically and Felix ran in there instantly, still giggling quietly, locking the door behind him. You shook your head fondly as another knock was firmly punched against the door. Jesus, couldn't even give you a second?
"Coming!" You called, walking over to the door and trying your best to fake yawn loudly so they thought you'd just woken up. When you opened the door, Chris stood there, a happy smile on his face.
"Okay, I'm so coming in! Why didn't you tell me you and Felix are serious now?" He pushed you back into the room, throwing himself onto your bed dramatically. It was quite funny, seeing him lying on the bed you'd just accosted his brother on. He was resting against the messy sheets in a perfect suit and tie. You shook your head, letting out a laugh.
"Okay, we're not. It's an arranged thing, Chris. We're still only best friends," You chose your words wisely, fiddling with the drawstring on your trousers. Chris hummed, giving you a strange look. Changbin. Fucking Changbin, he'd definitely said something. God. "And, why didn't you ask your own brother this? I'm simply an accessory."
"Because my own brother is currently locked inside your bathroom pretending he's not there?" Chris replied instantly. Your eyes widened.
"No, he's not. Why would you even think-"
"Okay, well. I know he is, so," Chris shrugged. You sighed.
"Felix, you can come out," You said. The lock slowly clicked open and Felix emerged, looking sheepish. Thank God the shock of Chris arriving had made his boner go down, so now he didn't look too lustful. He'd also clearly ran your brush through his hair before coming out. You couldn't say the same for yourself.
Felix threw himself down on the bed next to you and Chris, groaning and stretching his limbs. "Did anyone ask where we were?"
Chris chuckled. He fiddled with the wedding band on his left hand. "Yep. I made up an excuse, said you'd gone out for a walk again and were getting food out. I had a feeling you'd both be spending the night together. Princess Diaries again?"
You shook your head. "Nope. It's too real now."
"Mind you, I don't think there was this much 'practising' going on between Mia and her potential husband in the second one," Chris looked up from his hand. You averted your eyes.
"Dunno what you mean-"
"How much did you hear, what the fuck?!" Felix shrieked. Oh, great, thanks.
"I mean, the walls are thin, dude. I heard a lot on my way down the corridor. But, I'm glad you two are having fun with it, at least. Arranged marriages can be shit sometimes," Chris stretched similarly to Felix, before reaching down and clapping Felix on his back harshly. Felix groaned, throwing himself around the bed in protest. "Anyway, I should be off now. Congratulations again, guys. You should probably get ready for the party tonight though."
Chris began to walk out of the room, and Felix stood up.
"I should... go. With him. You know?" You nodded in response to his statement. He waited until Chris had rounded the corner, and leaned down, pressing a swift peck to your lips. You squeaked in surprise, cheeks burning crimson. He giggled, giving you a sweet wave and running off. "See you later, bestie!"
You wondered if you’d ever be permitted to drop the bestie, maybe once you’re married to him, but it couldn’t come soon enough. You wanted to let yourself be selfish just this once.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
2K notes · View notes
taetr4ck · 2 months
Text
LOVE IN SCRIBBLES — ten things hwang hyunjin writes in his love letters for you
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
hwang hyunjin x reader, no warnings — heart-wrenching fluff
a/n : FICK IT WE BALL !!!!! hwang hyunjin debut in this account wahoo !!!! i hope yall ENJOY MWAH i love this man sm i wsnna cry
Tumblr media
bang chan / minho / changbin / hyunjin / jisung / felix / seungmin / jeongin
i. how are you, my love? i noticed that you’re not quite yourself lately. i hope the world isn’t giving you a hard time.
ii. ah, i can’t seem to sleep properly these days. i always seek your comfort — it’s never been the same since i left you for tour. ah, i can’t wait to come home. i can’t wait to come to my home.
iii. in the past, i used to dream of how to conquer the world. but now, my only dream is to give the world to you.
iv. i still can’t fathom how ravishing you are. ah… it makes my face hot every time i think about it. you must be sculpted by the gods and goddesses, don’t you think..?
v. “i love you to the moon and back.” that was the first time you said i love you to me. i didn’t give it much thought, not until chan-hyung told me that “our heart pumps 2000 gallons of blood a day, which is equivalent to the amount of gasoline it would take to drive to the moon and back.” so you’re saying that you love me every time your heart beats, which is constant..? it made me cry so hard i started to believe in eternal love. it's nice and warm to be loved by you.
vi. i’m so glad we exist at the same time.
vii. i was about to give up on my passion, but you believed in me, so here i am — happier than ever — with a passion that was once almost abandoned.
viii. you are the only muse i would choose to paint for the rest of my life.
ix. “if i had a flower for every thought of you, i could walk through my garden for eternity.” — that was what your drunk self said to me three years ago. it never left my mind since.
x. if i were to choose over everything else, i would always choose you.
Tumblr media
⋆ taetr4ck, est may 2023. / requests open
461 notes · View notes
astraystayyh · 3 months
Text
Echoes of love
Tumblr media
"to love someone is firstly to confess; i am prepared to be devastated by you."
Chapter ii. to remember
genre : memory loss trope. angst. slow burn. unrequited love except you were in a loving relationship and everything changes overnight.
pairing : minho x reader. (3racha cameo)
summary : if given the choice would you love minho again? yes, you would've once said in a heartbeat. but now, you aren't sure of your response anymore.
cw : depiction of a nightmare and anxiety attack. allusion to mc having a bad family history with alcohol. suggestive in the end (allusion to sex but no smut). reader had she/her pronouns.
word count : 11k words.
song recs : the night we met/terrible love/black friday/cover me/already gone/enough.
chapter i. skz quotes series masterlist.
A.N: PT. 2 IS HERE!!!! i hope you'll enjoy this one, she's my baby and i put so much work and thought into her, so feedback is highly highly appreciated!!! thank you to my @forlix for being with me every step of this journey, i love u the most<33
Day 33. 
With a gentle, absentminded sweep, your fingers trace the delicate contours of your wrist, a faint dance with the pulse beneath your skin– the cocoon of the soul you’re gradually growing accustomed to. It is a trying task, you've found out, to no longer yearn to flee from your body, leaving the weight of your worries for your bones and flesh alone to bear. 
A subtle fragrance floats in the air surrounding you- the familiar gardenia and honey tones of your sweet perfume. It is a scent you reserve for special occasions, such as this one- your first date, in three months according to the world, in more than a year for your memory. 
You swiftly retrieve a mirror from your pouch, checking your appearance for the tenth time in mere minutes. Your nude lipstick is still, unsurprisingly, in place, and you smile reassuringly at your reflection. She smiles back, though sometimes you half-expect her not to. In defiance, perhaps, maybe even repulse. 
The melodious chime of the café's bell captures your attention, and the man you've been awaiting finally enters. He confidently strides in, clad in a blue polo and black slacks, an evident effort poured into his appearance. 
Standing before you, his warm, gleaming eyes meet yours, effortlessly melting your lingering worries. You smile at him, he beams at you. 
“Did I keep you waiting?” Changbin, your date, asks as he pulls the chair adjacent to you. 
“No, just in time.”
Two weeks ago. 
Day 17. 
“Use me. Use me to remember,” Minho whispers, the distance between your lips resembling the thin edge of a blade. 
You close your eyes, the world narrowing down to the sound of your heartbeat, a rhythmic drum drowning out any attempt at coherent thoughts. Kiss him, your heart chants, kiss him and all your memories will flood back. But what if they don't? What if the abyss persists before the brightest beam of light?
A tender kiss lands on your forehead, gently interrupting your tumultuous thoughts. Minho’s lips are as warm, as soft as you remember them. They're now imprinted into your skin, no longer a hazy memory beyond your reach.
His hands cradle your hair, smoothing it down, making the ringing in your ears soften. You surrender to his gentle embrace, to the soft tide of emotions rippling from him to you, pulling your wounded soul to safe shores. 
“You need to forgive yourself,” he whispers, his words echoing against your skin, lips still pressed to your forehead. A rush of warmth overwhelms you, all your senses coming to life, ringing the alarm- he sees you, he sees through you.
“None of this is your fault,” he assures, a sudden cooling balm against your scorching wounds. These are the words you've been aching to hear. You didn't know, but Minho did, reading between the lines of your quivering lips and your reluctance to look into his eyes. 
He knows you better than you know yourself. 
“Don’t blame yourself, please.”
“But all I do is hurt people,” you confess, tears streaming down your face like a relentless downpour, soaking Minho's hands. 
You expect punishment to strike you, bolting lighting aiming straight for your heart as you finally admit to your biggest sin- the shadow of sorrow that trails your every step. It is the way it has always been since you were a child. It is what you fled from. 
What you don't expect is for tenderness to cradle you instead— in Minho's warm hand as he gently guides you to his chest, your ear resting above his steady heartbeat. Its rhythmic cadence akin to a lullaby- you shouldn't apologize for existing, you hear it sing to you. 
“If you need forgiveness, I’ll give that to you. you’re forgiven, okay? I forgive you. Today and tomorrow. I'll forgive you until you'll forgive yourself.” 
“Okay,” you nod, muffled words against the fabric of his shirt.
“Now, will you please come back with me? The cats will miss you a lot if you don’t,” he suggests, pressing his cheek onto the crown of your head. 
“I don't want to leave them,” you reply in a small voice, dewdrops gathering in your eyes at the thought of running again. 
“You don’t have to. It’s your home too.”
“Okay,” you sigh in acceptance, relief, encircling his waist with your arms. He is all inviting, like an open book, and you're resting between his pages, scribbled with love confessions for you. 
The world stills, waves slowing their relentless crash against the shore, as you draw in a deep breath from the pits of your soul. You don't remember all you’ve once felt for Minho. But you know it must have been safe, like stumbling upon a haven and then learning it was specially carved for you. 
“I miss you, Minho.”
“I know, I miss you too.”
Day 19. 
“Minho, can you come to the kitchen please?” your voice reverberates through the house, weaving through the air and reaching the bedroom where Minho has been ensnared, his less-than-graceful complaints echoing loudly for the past hour. You had sealed him within without explanation, only making him promise not to leave the room until you told him to, much to his dismay, and deep down, amusement. 
He chuckles lowly to himself as he rises from the bed, before making his way to the kitchen. There, he finds you near the doorway, hands concealed behind your back, dusty flour adorning your cheek like an artist’s absentminded paint stroke.  
“So…,” you trail off and Minho smiles, crossing his arms before his chest.  
“So?”
“A situation may have happened.” 
“Which situation?” he inquires amusedly, attempting to peer past you into the kitchen. Your extended arms block his view.
“You know how I got a concussion from the car accident,” you ask. 
“I do.”
“I think it may have affected my cooking abilities.”
“But you didn't have any to begin with?” he muses, tilting his head to the side innocently. 
“Shut up,” you playfully admonish before clasping your hands in a silent plea. “Will you help me?” 
“Mm, what are you making?” he inquires, leaning against the doorway.
“Pudding.”
“Pudding?”
“For you.”
“Oh.” 
A blush creeps up Minho’s neck as he grapples to find a reply, his surprised gasp hanging into the air. You giggle faintly, entertained by his sudden speech impairment. 
In response, Minho takes a step forward, delicately brushing away the flour on your cheek, his thumb hovering near the corner of your mouth. “How did this get here?”
“Huh?” you sputter, pink splashing across your cheeks like spilled Rosé. 
Minho is testing your waters, dipping one toe in, hoping he’ll find your reassuring embrace lurking beneath the surface. Did you blush from the heat of the stove or his touch? Minho doesn’t know. Minho needs to find out. 
“And you also forgot this,” he lightly pouts, reaching over your head to the hanger behind you, caging you between his arms. 
He’s sacrificing his heart, placing it on the frontlines of hurt once again. Yet, when you look up at him, dewy eyes flickering to his lips, Minho feels a single match lighten up in his core, not enough to burn all his doubts. But enough to signal hope. 
Hope is a perilous possession, akin to cradling a fragile glass that threatens to shatter at the slightest tremor. Hope is the only thread Minho can now hang onto. 
“You forgot your apron,” he finally says, withdrawing two aprons from the hanger. He drapes one over your head before placing a hand on your shoulder, gently turning you around. He silently ties the strings into a ribbon, his fingers brushing against your spine. He can distinctly remember the feel of your bare skin beneath his fingertips, silky, smooth, intoxicating. 
“There, a pretty knot,” he whispers, not moving back an inch, waiting for you to swivel around. Yet, you remain silent, undoing your hair from its loose ponytail. Your hair cascades over your shoulders, resembling the unveiling of curtains, and Minho senses something unfurling in the depths of his stomach.
“Tie it for me?” you whisper, handing him the hair tie without looking back. Your fingertips brush against each other, and Minho inhales deeply.
“Sure,” he says, voice thick with emotion, he needs to drink water. He needs to drink you in. 
He gathers your hair strands in another low ponytail, trembling hands as they brush against the nape of your neck, akin to powerless leaves before the autumn breeze. He’s close, so close to you, so much his chest almost brushes against your back. 
As soon as he’s done, Minho swiftly steps back before doing something he’ll surely regret, like placing a tender kiss on your shoulder, or worse, confessing that he misses the simple act of brushing your hair at night. 
“So, pudding,” he clears his throat, rolling up the sleeves of his white hoodie. your eyes follow his movement, lingering on the veins protruding on his forearms. Minho feels a bit foolish for wanting to flex for you. 
“It’s really easy actually. bring me two eggs?” 
“Sure,” you grin, heading for the fridge as Minho retrieves sugar from the cupboard, throwing away the odd liquid mixture you managed to conjure. 
You stand beside Minho, eyebrows furrowed as he explains why the milk needs to be brought to a boil before adding the cornstarch, or how adding the vanilla at the very end will help preserve its flavor. You listen intently, nodding along, and the tension between you dispels, leaving place for something comforting, familiar– you’re erasing the remnants of his sobs, the sight of him crumbling over the green kitchen tiles. 
“Let's leave it to chill,” he finally says, closing the fridge’s door. 
“Okay,” you nod, packing away the butter. Minho leans against the countertop, an ember of curiosity ablaze at the tip of his tongue
“Why did you want to make pudding?” he asks and you freeze in place. 
“To see if I’m capable of not being a lost cause,” you respond playfully but the undertones of your voice indicate otherwise- laden, charged. One more match that you could light up? 
“Really?” he says softly, taking one step toward you. 
“No,” you giggle faintly and he nods, a gentle smile unfurling on his face, gradual as the eclipse of a moon.
“It was supposed to be your birthday gift. That's why I locked you in the room. I even bought little birthday hats for the cats, silly I know, and very late, but, turns out I’m a horrible-” 
“I wanna see the birthday hats,” he cuts you off.
“Really? They’re really ugly.” 
“It's my birthday gift, right?”
Five minutes later, you and Minho are seated on the floor, legs crisscrossed, three perplexed cats before you, and on their heads, obnoxiously neon green hats.
“They look so…” you tilt your head, assessing the view before you. 
“Stupid?” Minho suggests, eliciting a startled snort from you that swiftly transforms into an almost maniac cackle, which in turn, catches Minho off guard. He gazes at you bewilderedly before succumbing to a fit of giggles, which intensifies your laughter, as you punctuate his shoulder with light hits, tears streaming down your face in an attempt to regain composure.
One hundred matches light up in Minho’s heart at the sight, all at once.
“My God, they look so stupid, I’m so sorry,” you laugh harder, your body collapsing to the ground, hands tightly clutching your stomach. 
They can laugh again, the house sighs in relief, something other than sobs can still echo within my walls. 
Day 22. 
“I miss the sea,” you sigh softly, cradling a cup of chamomile tea between your hands. Minho, absorbed in his book, glances up to find a melancholic expression etched on your face—a poignant blend of sorrow and longing that he knows weighs heavy on your heart. 
“We saw it over at the bridge, no?” he ventures tentatively, setting the book aside on the living room table.
“Yes, but I miss the sand, and the waves lapping at my feet. I miss feeling the sea, not just seeing it.” 
“I’d take you, in a heartbeat,” he says assuredly, ready to bring you the moon if only you dare ask. “But it's far, and you can't get into a car.” 
“I can try.” 
“You can?” he questions, hope budding in his eyes.
“I mean- I want to, it's just… I don't know,” you retract, nails drumming anxiously against your cup, gaze lost into the amber liquid.  
“Talk to me, yeah?” he smiles softly, draping a reassuring hand on your arm. His thumb swipes across the slate of your shoulder, and an impossible knot in your throat untangles. 
“The accident took a lot from me. My health, my memories, a year of moving forward.” You quiet down, eyes meeting his in a barely veiled vulnerability. Silence speaks of your hardest loss— him. 
“Can you help me get the sea back?”
Minho’s radiant smile is louder than any spoken agreement.
Thread by thread, drop by drop, your fears unravel as Minho lowers all the car windows’ before gently guiding you into the car seat, dispelling any prospect of feeling confined within the vehicle. 
He remembers everything, even the panic that gripped your being when you went into his enclosed car, nearly a month ago. 
“Can I blindfold you? It might help, so you wouldn't see the car lights since it’s night,” he suggests.
“Yeah, that'd be nice,” you agree, your hand lightly gripping the car seat.
“Hey, hey,” he calls out gently, “I'm here, okay? The second you feel overwhelmed I'm stopping this car.”
“Will you drive safely?” 
“Of course. I promise you.” 
Your nod is met with the softening of Minho's eyes, as he delicately tucks a strand of your hair behind the curve of your ear. 
“I'm proud of you,” he whispers, tone laden with so much tenderness, love, that your throat becomes a garden, vocal cords bound not by thorns but the delicate blossoming of flowers. 
With a gentle touch, Minho wraps a tie around your eyes, cocooning you in a tranquil darkness. His hand seeks yours instinctively, fingers intertwining with yours akin to the wind weaving through the strands of your hair.
In this moment, every fracture within you is delicately filled by Minho.
He starts driving, a soothing piano instrumental playing out of the car’s speakers- his hand still in yours. “Breathe,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing a soothing path across your palm. 
“Follow my touch.” A gentle sweep to the right, an invitation to inhale slowly. “In,” his voice guides, and you draw in a deep breath.
Another caress to the left, a silent directive to release your confined breath. “Out,” he whispers, and you exhale, surrendering to the rhythm orchestrated by his thumb.
He raises the music’s volume, his touch becoming a maestro, speaking silently to you. You’re grateful for it, for the way in which he’s driving- avoiding curbs and speeding, safely, making the wheels float across the road. 
Your heart still constricts in your chest, anxiety squeezing your veins, bleeding them dry, but you focus on Minho’s thumb, you let it guide you, like a compass navigating the dark tunnels of your heart. 
“We're almost there,” he reassures as he stops by a red light. 
“I look silly, right?” you reply, giggling a bit. 
“What?” he asks, confused. 
“I can feel you looking,” you clarify. 
“How so?”
“My right cheek is tingling.” 
Minho snorts incredulously. “What does that even mean?”
“You have a piercing stare. You're like melting through my skin and vibrating my bones.”
“Idiot,” he chuckles. My my my idiot, Minho grieves to say once again. The human heart is peculiar, he learns day after day, mourning the loss of a myriad of minuscule things, even words. 
“And, you don't look silly,” he clears his throat minutes later, as he finally parks by the beach.  
“You look pretty,” he utters, unraveling your blindfold, and you blink, caught between the sudden light and the weight of his words. “You always do,” he concludes, a whispered confession that lingers like the afterglow of a sunset, painting your world in golden hues.
“Minho, I…” you trail off, eyes landing on the vast sea ahead, blending into the sky in an alluring shade of turquoise. “We're here!” you shout bewildered, a magnificent grin on your face. 
“We are,” Minho smiles, drinking in the delight in your expression. 
“Oh my god I missed the sea!” you giggle as you undo your seatbelt, quickly opening the car’s door and taking off running. 
Minho follows closely behind, captivated, as he watches you glide across the shore, the sand ricocheting off the soles of your shoes. You look like a fairy, bending the wind to your will, coaxing it into a choreography that mirrors the rhythm of your movements, your messy footprints marking your pathway to happiness once again. 
Upon the sand, you finally settle down, and Minho walks over, sitting beside you. Both of you quietly gaze ahead, entranced by the moon's silver glow caressing the water’s surface. Each shimmering wave resembles glistening diamonds, a celestial mirror reflecting the lights in the sky.
“Have I ever told you why I love the sea?” you speak after a while, tone softer, more content. 
“You did.” 
“Can I tell you again?” you say. Can I tell you what I still remember? He understands. 
“Of course.” 
"There was a beach near our home, back then," you reminisce, a nostalgic aura enveloping your words. “And whenever I felt lonely I used to go there and watch the waves, to calm me down. But, one time, I was really overwhelmed so I ended up crying. And then, coincidentally, it started raining too.” 
Your eyes widen slightly, a hint of amusement in your voice. “At that moment, I chuckled at the timing, how the sky was crying with me.”
“Ever since that day, I liked to believe that the sea is made up of the sky’s tears, the ones that fell in sync with those of humans, so it'd comfort us. And the tears grew from a pond to a river, to a vast ocean, as humans cried more and more. That's why sometimes the sea’s waters are gentle because those are tears of happiness falling somewhere. Sometimes they're stormy, since someone is crying out of anger. Sometimes they're melancholic, just relentlessly crashing against the shore, because someone is in pain. Like we are.”
A tranquil hush falls over the night as you quiet down, before turning around to meet Minho’s teary eyes, mirroring yours.
“And if the sea persists through tempests and tranquility, if it goes on despite the myriad of emotions it holds within, then so will we.”
Hope isn't fragile, as Minho once believed. Hope scrapes its bloody palms against the rough surface as it climbs defiantly to the pinnacle once again. Hope picks out rugged stones with weathered hands and builds a home out of them. Hope is strong, it clutches onto the thinnest threads so we’d endure and endure once more. As many times as we need to. 
“Well, the sky isn't crying right now,” Minho notes.
“I know,” you smile softly, “Because we're holding on to hope.” 
Day 26. 
Under the soft glow of the TV, Dori settles comfortably on your shoulders, nuzzling her tiny nose onto your face every now and then. Soonie and Doongie are a bit far away, playing with a piece of yarn, captivated by its vibrant red threads. 
It is an ordinary, comforting setting to watch a movie with Minho, on a Sunday night, a bowl of popcorn nestled on his lap while his cats lounge around. So familiar that the world around you blurs, like the vague brushes of an impressionist painting— a vivid déjà-vu sensation clinging to your body. You’ve lived this scene before. You want to live it again, now and in the future. More and more. 
However something is different— your skin tingles, a buzzing sensation that travels from thigh to knee to hand, as if your body knows that something’s amiss. Minho’s touch perhaps, his palm casually resting upon your skin. 
You don’t know where this urge is coming from— to lay your head on his shoulder, to have him run his fingers through your hair. Even more, to lose yourself in the nutmeg and peppermint notes of his cologne, to disintegrate your worries into his hold and rest. 
“Would you mind if some of my friends came over?” Minho speaks up suddenly, cutting off your trailing train of thought. 
“Hm?” you hum absentmindedly before clearing your throat. “I mean, no, I don't mind. Who are they?”
“Han and Chan. They’ve been asking about you for a while now.” 
“Sure, this is your home.”
“It is yours too,” he says, gaze locking onto yours. His eyes are like a dark tapestry woven with threads of stardust- you’d never tire of looking into them, into the universe they seem to cradle within. 
Do you know that there is a galaxy inside you? You almost slip out, words in an urgent race against your mind. You barely stop them at the tip of your tongue, before smiling and peeling your eyes away from his, painfully, like scratching a burn scab long before it heals. 
“They’re here,” Minho announces as someone knocks on the door. 
“Okay,” you smile, a tad nervous. You’re not even sure what for. 
“If they annoy you too much tell me, I’ll kick them out,” he reassures, raising his brows playfully at you. 
“That's mean,” you giggle, albeit soothed by his words.
“They already love you,” he grabs your wrist, his thumb gently swiping over your pulse. “No need to be worried.” 
He drops it, as though a countdown is ingrained into his brain— never to touch you for more than ten seconds. Wouldn't it be selfish, pathetic even, to ask him for more? 
As Minho heads to open the door, you linger in the living room, idly fidgeting with the hem of your sweatshirt. It is a weird circumstance to greet strangers who know you— you may have brushed against their shoulders in an alley and not known who they were. 
Your thoughts dissolve as two men saunter into the living room, stopping in their tracks once their eyes land on you. They’re both beautiful– that is the first thing you note, closely followed by how relieved they seem to see you. Simultaneous soft sighs escape them, gentle smiles blooming across their faces. Tentatively, you return the gesture.                          
Minho takes the initiative to introduce them. “Yn. This is Chan,” he points to the man on the right, clad in black from head to toe, his smile grows wider, his eyes disappearing into moon crescents, two dimples peeking gleefully on his cheeks. 
“And Han,” the younger man, sporting a Supreme t-shirt despite the cold, beams at you, highlighting his round cheeks, and an adam-apple that weirdly resembles a heart. 
“I want to hug you but Minho put us on a strict no-touch notice because of your ribs,” Han speaks first, a small pout tugging at his lips as he glances at Minho, who simply rolls his eyes at his words. 
“You can never keep something for yourself,” Minho sighs, rubbing the space between his eyebrows. You stifle an amused giggle. 
“And she technically doesn’t remember us so it’d be weird for her to hug a stranger,” Chan notes, offering you an understanding smile. 
“Hey, I didn’t mean it in a creepy way! more of ‘Oh my god I’m so happy you’re alive, thank you for still being here, I was so worried about you’.”
“But were you worried?” you ask, tilting your head to the side.
“Of course, I-”
“Then why weren’t you at my bedside?” you question, an eyebrow raised, and Minho chuckles at your words. 
“W-what?” Han asks, glancing worriedly at the two men by his side. 
“Why weren’t you there sobbing when I woke up? It doesn’t look like you were worried,” you muse, throwing a wink to Minho who walks over to you.
“Right, you should’ve sent her a pic of you crying,” Minho adds, as you drape a hand on his shoulder. 
“A picture for every day you didn’t come see me,” you say solemnly as Han’s face grows paler by the second. 
“I-I didn’t, I really was worried, I swear, I kept asking Minho every day about you and…” he trails off as giddy smiles break out on your face and Minho’s before you both burst out laughing. 
“You guys are evil,” Han laments, as Chan pats his back in faux sympathy, a string of giggles falling from his full lips. 
“I’m sorry. we made you dinner to make up for it,” you grin and Minho looks at you pointedly. 
“He made you dinner,” you correct with a huff, and Minho smiles, satisfied, raising his brows smugly at his two friends. 
“Let’s choose a movie then!” Han claps, turning to the TV as Minho sidles by his side.
“I’ll set up the table,” Chan announces.
“I’ll help you,” you offer, and he nods, clearly grateful for your assistance.
You’re taking out four plates from the cupboard, Chan effortlessly bringing out the glasses, clearly familiar with the nooks and crannies of your home, when he suddenly speaks.
“How are you, Yn?” 
“Do you want the truth?” you ask back, and he grins. “Always.”
“I’m okay. Right now. I don’t know if I’ll still be tomorrow, you know? It all fluctuates so much.” 
“Mm, I understand,” he says, and something about his tone indicates that he isn’t saying this just to comfort you. “And that’s okay too. What you went through wasn’t easy, but good times will come again. They always do, you know, just like the sun always comes back after the rain.”
“The sun,” you repeat, as you glance out at the living room, where Minho is laughing at something Han just said, his head tipped back, bunny teeth peeking out. 
Perhaps the sun rays were by your side all along. 
“Thank you, Chan,” you beam at him. “Truly, for being worried about me too.”
“It's nothing to thank us for. We care about you, even though you don’t remember us,” he pouts, a hand on his heart in mock offense. 
“Hey, it’s not my fault I got amnesia!” you chuckle. 
"Excuses!" he drawls with a playful tone as he exits the kitchen, and you can't help but laugh quietly to yourself. You recognize what he's doing—making light of your accident to alleviate the weight on your heart.
The night blurs in your memory, but this time it is tinged with happiness and laughter. The three men recall fun stories of their time together, a seven-year bond rooted in love and care, albeit silently. You witnessed it in the details—Chan ensuring the food was on their plates first, Minho peeling shrimp for Han, the latter rubbing Chan’s arms when he complained of being cold.
Then you saw it directed towards you– how they put on the movie you wanted and watched in anticipation as you took the first bite of food, draped the fuzziest blanket around you, and rushed to your side simultaneously when you stumbled on your feet.
You were loved, although you didn’t know of it. The accident took away your memories but it didn’t plague theirs. 
“Thank you,” you beam at the two men as you walk them to the door. Opening your arms wide, you invite them in for a hug. Han embraces you first, a large smile on his face, and you gently beckon Chan in too. “Easy,” he whispers in Han's ears, careful not to put any pressure on your ribs. They both pat your back as you wrap an arm around their respective shoulders before leaning away.
“I’ll call you,” Minho bids them farewell, tipping his chin forward. They wave to him before finally leaving
You close the door, leaning against the auburn wood. Minho watches you, a soft smile playing on his face.
“Good?” he inquires, closing the distance between you.
“Mm, good,” you reply with a smile as he halts just an inch away. His intoxicating scent envelops you, permeating your bones and flowing through your veins like liquid warmth.
A torrent of memories floods your mind—images of you pressed against this same door. It is dark, a stark contrast from your first memory, a lone lunar beam of light slashing through the night. Minho’s hands grip your waist with a fevered urgency, while yours entwines around the nape of his neck, in passion, in hunger, almost as if you were deprived of him for so long.
You angle his mouth closer to yours, his lips pressing against your own repeatedly, a desperate attempt to brand the contours of his mouth into your soul. His hair, a cascade of midnight silk, tickles your fingers with an electric charge, like the crackling of the air before a storm. His tongue sweeps across your lower lip, seeking entrance, one you willingly surrender, white flag easily thrown to the ground. With every kiss, your bodies meld together, so much so that you could merge into the door, disappearing into the shadows as one.
“What's wrong?” Minho breaks your trance and you snap out of your reverie, a bright flush adorning your cheeks. 
“N-nothing,” you stammer. 
“You’re all red, do you have a fever?” he asks, coming closer, his hand pressed to your forehead. His woody scent envelops you once again– everything about him is enticing— his cologne, his lips on you, his fingertips dragging underneath your shirt, his eyes piercing yours, undressing you before his hands ever could.
“Yn?” he questions and you grab his jaw, angling his face away from you. 
“Stay like this, don’t look at me for a moment.”
“What?”
“Just… please,” you say and he chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief, and yet he complies, his side profile now facing you.
How does he live with these memories each time he looks at you? 
You take in a deep breath, focusing on his silhouette. It might seem counterproductive to fixate on the same man consuming your thoughts, but how could you not when he was mere centimeters away, his eyes averted from yours?
You exhale softly as your gaze glides along the graceful curve of his neck, a solitary mole resting just beneath his sculpted jawline, leading the way to his plump lips, a cupid's bow delicately carved by the hands of the divine archer himself — crafted to be kissed, to be adored.
Your eyes trail up, tracing the high bridge of his nose, another mole perched at its pinnacle, sharp and smooth as if chiseled by a master sculptor, one who dedicated months to perfecting his artistry. His eyes are a mesmerizing brown, punctuated with long lashes that flutter like the delicate wings of an angel with each slow blink.
Minho sweeps aside strands of his hair, his fingertip delicately fluffing them upwards. It dawns on you, a sudden revelation of the necessity of art — to immortalize such beauty for generations to come.
You imagine admirers gazing upon Minho, sighing in sheer amazement, their hearts tightening with emotions that words struggle to encapsulate in the face of this epitome of beauty. Inside and out, you reflect, inside and out. 
“You told them not to drink around me, right?” you ask softly.
A blush grows from the base of Minho's neck to the tip of his ears, like roots expanding into the soil. He sighs before finally looking at you.
“I did. How’d you figure it out?” he wonders.
“I asked Han if he wanted a drink, but he refused so categorically that I assumed he didn't like alcohol. But most of his stories were of him drunk,” you chuckle quietly, and Minho shrugs sheepishly.
“We get loud when we drink. You don’t like that,” he says simply as if it’s a given, an absolute certainty that he’d do anything but make you uncomfortable.
He's beautiful, the light of his heart basking his face in a glow that even Michaelangelo's skillful hands wouldn’t be able to replicate.  
And he loves you. 
Till when? Your heart sounds out in alarm. Till when will he love you? What if the grains of sand slip away from the hourglass before you can reciprocate his love? Two stars colliding at disparate speeds, never converging into a singular entity, destined to erupt and scatter into cosmic dust.
How long do you have left? How many more days will he love you for? 
How many more days do you have to love him back? 
Day 30. 
Minho is sick. 
He tried his best to conceal it from you, as he came back from his dance studio, strands of his hair clinging to his forehead, a thin sheen of perspiration above his right eyebrow. Yet, his uncharacteristic silence betrayed him, as he quietly retreated into the shower, emerging with a solemn expression on his face. 
Seated on the bed, book long forgotten by your side, you bit your lip tentatively. “You're okay?” you inquired, perched on the edge, concern etched in your gaze.
“Mm, just tired,” Minho responded, his attempt at reassurance falling short as he laid down on the floor mattress. “Can you turn off the lights?” he softly requested. “Hurts my eyes.”
“Yeah, of course. Will you sleep now?”
“I think so.”
“Okay then. Good night, Minho,” you uttered gently, the veins in your heart tangled with worry. “Good night,” he whispered in return.
In the stillness of the night, you were roused by soft whimpers escaping Minho's lips. He writhed in apparent discomfort, his features contorted with an unseen anguish. His pupils moved furiously underneath the thin layer of his eyelids, betraying the tumultuous thoughts raging in his mind. 
You've never seen Minho so disrupted in his sleep, mouth slightly hung agape as if he struggled to breathe in the depths of his dreams. Your worry for him came back to haunt you ten times fold.
You lean over the bed, gently shaking his shoulders. “Minho, wake up.”
“No... no-no, don't-don't go,” he whispers, caught in the vines of a restless dream, seemingly wrapping around his mind, trapping him in. “Minho, come on wake up,” your pleas grow more insistent, but so do his. “Don't go, s-stay,” he implores, voice broken, prompting you to abandon your bed and join him on his mattress.
“Minho!” you call out, shaking him until his eyes finally flutter open. He gasps for air— as if inhaling his first breath on this earth, shooting upright, wide-eyed and disoriented. 
His gaze locks on yours and he instantly cradles your face in his sweaty hands, bringing you closer to him until your noses bump into one another. “You didn't go,” he whispers, and you shake your head. “I'm here.”
“Fuck,” he swears, releasing his hold on you and sinking back into the pillow. 
“Minho, what's wrong?” you ask softly, afraid you're treading on stormy waters.
“I… I don't know. I don't feel good,” He admits, fingers tugging at the collar of his shirt, as if the fabric morphed into a vise around his throat. A flush creeps up his neck, red dots splashing across his ivory skin. A droplet of sweat traces a slow path down his temple, as the white fabric clings uncomfortably to his warm skin.
“Do you have a fever?”you ask, placing your hand on his forehead, sensing an unusual heat radiating beneath your touch. “Minho, where is your thermometer?”
“Bedside drawer,” he breathes out.
Fetching the thermometer, you gently tug at his chin, opening his mouth to check his temperature. “Stay still”" you instruct, watching anxiously as the numbers climb steadily.
“40°C, fuck Minho, you have a really high fever,” you exclaim as he shuts his eyes, an unmistakable weariness claiming him, rendering him malleable, akin to the silk pillow he's resting on. 
“I feel dizzy,” he admits, burying his face into the covers. 
“You need to take a cold shower now,” you urge a sudden lump materializes in your throat at the sight of his suffering. 
“It's okay, I'll just sleep.”
“No, no, it's far from okay!” you almost exclaim, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes as if you were peeling an onion—your own emotional layers unraveling, exposing the depth of your concern for Minho.
“Minho, please, you have a really high fever,” you plead, feeling an unexpected surge of panic at his unwillingness to cooperate.
“Yn… are you worried about me?”
“I am.”
“It feels nice. Please be worried about me more,” he mumbles, eyes still closed, eliciting an incredulous laugh from you. 
“You are so unbelievable, my god,” you pull him up and he doesn't resist, nearly stumbling on his feet.
“Okay?” you ask, running your hand through the nape of his neck.
“Mm,” he hums, burying his head in your shoulder. “Sleepy.”
“I know, you'll sleep after the shower,” you reassure softly, guiding him to the bathroom, his entire body weight leaning onto yours. There, you turn on the light, your right hand holding Minho's waist tightly as you lead him to settle atop the toilet.
“Can I take off your shirt?”
“Are you planning to undress me?” he smiles lazily, hooded eyes locked onto yours.
“No, I just-” you stammer, but he’s quick to cut you off.
“Because I don't mind.”
“I can't believe you're flirting with me while you're sick.”
“I always am, I can't help it,” he says, raising his hands as a silent signal for you to remove his shirt.
“You're awfully candid tonight,” you observe, seizing the edges of his shirt and drawing it over his head. His tongue glides across his lips, his gaze drawing tantalizingly slow over your form, and you clench his shirt tighter in your hands. He's the one with the fever, yet it's you who feels ablaze, flames of longing licking at your every sense.
“Come here,” you beckon, the icy water now flowing as you turn the knob. He reaches his hand out to you, and you grasp it, guiding him under the frigid cascade, soaking you both.
“C-cold,” he stutters, and you nod, your breath escaping in short, visible puffs.
“I-I know, just a little longer,” you reassure.
2 a.m. is a peculiar time to shower, the water droplets echoing against the tiled floor is the only sound that can be heard. That, and your labored breaths in tandem with the chilly embrace of the water filling your bones. The quiet makes way for other unspoken sentiments to surge forth, electric and palpable, heightened by the way Minho gazes at you through the liquid curtain, his hands clinging tightly to your arms for stability.
Droplets of water weave seamlessly through his hair, and an unexpected pang of jealousy grips you— you envy the liberty of those water beads as they thread through his locks, tracing the contours of his broad shoulders, nestling in the enticing recesses of his collarbones, without fearing the consequences of such acts. You don't dare look further down, wary that the rivulets on his skin may lead to your own undoing. Instead, you close your eyes thanking the stars that you weren’t wearing a white shirt, which would have turned translucent by now. You don’t even want to contemplate the consequences of such a premise.
After a few minutes, you turn off the water, stepping out of the shower and swiftly enveloping Minho in a towel.
“Go change, I have some spare clothes in here. Oh, and don't wear a top,” you instruct.
Minho chuckles quietly and you roll your eyes. “Shh. Make sure to dry your hair too.”
Taking your time in getting dressed, you peel off each wet layer, depositing them into the washing machine, before donning a spare pajama from a cabinet. You stroll to the kitchen to pour Minho a glass of water and retrieve medicine from the drawer, lingering at the counter long enough to ensure he'd be dressed by the time you return to the room.
You knock softly before opening the door, and the sight of Minho freezes you in your tracks. The room basks in warm, orange hues from the lamp's glow, playing upon Minho's skin and casting enticing shadows on the contours of his muscles—a masterpiece created by the skilled hands of light. His toned arms rest between his legs, back against the headboard, and an inexplicable urge to flee washes over you, your heart sinking to your knees in the face of his long-avoided vision of beauty.
You swallow the tumultuous thoughts raging within you before handing him his medicine, which he drinks diligently. Pressing your palm to his forehead, you're relieved to find a slight reduction in his temperature. “It will go down more once the medicine takes effect,” you assure.
“One of my students had a nasty cold. I think I got it from him,” he explains, and you nod, your hand lingering near his. Your fingers twitch as his pinky brushes against yours—akin to birds fluttering their wings in anticipation, awaiting, aching for a release from their cage, at last.
“I'm tired,” Minho sighs, closing his eyes. “Lay down,” you gently instruct, and he complies, resting his head on the pillow.
“It's cold,” he whines, swaying like a child throwing a bedtime tantrum. He's endearing, melting the frost that had gathered in your heart.
“You have a fever, silly,” you chuckle, pushing strands of his hair from his forehead, twirling them around. “Your hair's gotten longer,” you muse as you braid a tiny section of his bangs, only to undo it again.
“Can you play with my hair some more?” he requests softly.
“Of course,” you reply, threading your fingers through his locks, jet black as if all the stars in the sky collided, leaving behind nothing but a dark abyss.
“Please stay healthy, Min. Take care of yourself too.”
“But I like it more when you take care of me,” he pouts, before sighing shortly after. “I'll probably regret a lot of my words tomorrow, right?”
“Why is that?” 
“Because you don’t feel the same for me,” he confesses, leaving you silent, grappling with the echoes of his words. What do you feel for Minho?
The question jolts the breath from your windpipe violently, an unyielding force crashing against your lungs till the answer finds its footing on your tongue.
“Can I ask you something?” you finally speak, cringing at the sound of your voice disrupting the fragile quiet. 
“Anything.” 
“Where did your scar come from?” you inquire, gesturing towards the mark just below his belly button.
“I got surgery a long time ago. I’m kind of self-conscious about it,” he confesses, a bit shyly. 
“Really? But it’s beautiful, it looks like a strike of lightning,” you sincerely remark, coaxing a tender smile from Minho, unfolding like the gradual sunrises of autumn.
“This is exactly what you told me months ago.”
“Did I?”
“Mm, and then you traced it with your fingertips,” he grabs your hand, hovering it over his stomach. You can easily slip out of his grasp; you choose not to. 
“Like this?” you murmur, tracing his scar gently, fingertips grazing his skin like a lit fire, subtly enough not to scorch. His flesh tenses beneath your caress, muscles constricting as you navigate from right to left—a trajectory of dusty stars akin to the Milky Way, his skin soft to the touch, rippling beneath you with thinly veiled goosebumps.
“Yes,” he breathes out, his gaze wide, running furiously over your face. Yet, your attention lingers on his skin, shadows dancing across its surface, its honeyed hue a shade you wish to sear behind your eyelids. Your hands ascend and descend, mapping his body which blushes in response, as if his very being memorized your touch, imprinting your fingerprints onto its memory. You slide down his forearms, pausing over his fragile veins, seemingly offering you his life.
Silence envelops you, punctuated only by the weighty exhales escaping you both, for there are feelings that words cannot encapsulate, no matter how much human languages strive to, ultimately succumbing to the profundity of silence— the one language only souls comprehend.
Your hands ascend to his neck, thumb grazing the tender skin cradling his pulse. It resonates throughout your bones, echoing from his being to yours as if you’re harboring two lives within you.
“You… you could've kissed me over at the bridge,” you whisper, bringing to light the question that’s been lingering at the back of your mind. “Why didn't you?”
“I wanted you to kiss me because you wanted to. Not because you longed for our past or our future. I wanted you to want me in the present,” Minho explains, vulnerability seeping into his words, like honey melting into a warm cup of tea. 
“I’m scared,” you admit, your voice a fragile murmur, even as your head leans forward, hair cascading around Minho’s face, enclosing him in an intimate curtain. Minho gently grabs your hand and cradles it against his cheek, pressing a tender kiss to the center of your palm. 
“Right now. Do you want me?” he asks simply, offering himself openly to you. 
Do you want him?
After a momentary pause, you tentatively lean in, planting a gentle kiss upon his forehead. A resonant exhale escapes him, as your lips trace a path along his cheeks, leaving behind a trail of tiny kisses. Moving to the tender skin beneath his eyes— as easily bruised as your emotions—you bestow soft pecks to it as if seeking forgiveness for every tear he shed in your name.
His eyes remained closed, his trust evident in the surrender of his being to you. The answer to your internal query is written all over his features— the hushed exhale escaping his body, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the tranquility nestled between his eyebrows. 
Yes. Yes, you do.
Your lips finally meet Minho’s in a delicate union, unmoving like rose petals folding onto one another. A surge of warmth emanates from the depths of your heart, coursing through your entire being like sunrays, submerging your soul in a tranquil white glow.
Leaning away ever so slightly, you press a tender kiss on his lower lip, enclosing it between your own. Your hand cradles his jaw, running gently through his damp strands. Your lips move against his slowly in a saccharine kiss, parting, only to meet again, in the same tenderness, perhaps a growing one as you become accustomed to the contours of his lips, to the languid moves of his mouth, following your rhythm. You were leading the dance, his lips mere puppets to your heart’s wishes. He didn't rush you, only allowed you to kiss him, whichever way you wanted. 
A pause, a moment suspended in time, your hands trembling as they rest upon his cheeks, his palm hovering above your own, offering a comforting press. The gesture reassures you in your curiosity that won’t be satiated, urging you to seal your lips on his with a tentative fervor. The world outside dissolves into a distant murmur, the seconds blending into a timeless run, you slamming the door before your worries protesting at the entrance of your mind. Tomorrow, you’ll find the answers. Tonight, you are kissing Minho.
As you press a final, lingering kiss to his velvety mouth, visions of you at peace flood your being. You see yourself sinking into the warm pool of your aunt’s country club, you see yourself walking on the beach with sand molding to the contours of your feet, you see yourself laying on the grass while observing sunrays weaving through the trees. And then, amidst your most serene memories, the act of pressing your lips to Minho stands out, the warmth of his mouth against yours eclipsing all other sensations.
Leaning away, you rest your forehead on his shoulder, and Minho's hands cradle your hair.
"Which lip balm do you use,” you giggle against his bare skin, relishing in the sweet taste of his lips.
“Yours.”
Day 31.
Minho’s nose is buried in the crook of your neck, his arm draped across the expanse of your stomach. He sinks further into you, binding himself to your body, anchoring his hold on your being. You are warm, your skin is soft to the touch and Minho doesn’t want to wake up from this tender dream, akin to plummeting into a sea of silky pillows, falling into a blanket of clouds. 
Except, he's awake, Minho realizes with a jolt. He blinks repeatedly, allowing the sunrays to stream to his eyes, his pupils dilating once they settle on you— so much their obsidian depths swallows the brown of his irises whole. You stir beneath his touch, making your cheek press upon the crown of his head. He's fully awake now, snatched from the velvet threads of his dreams made up of you, thrown into your arms once again after thirty-three days. 
A soft gasp escapes Minho’s lips, the air stolen from his lungs as if it was yours to claim. Echoes of the night replay in his mind— a fever, you tending him to me, a cold cascade of water, you tracing his scar, and then, the kiss.
You kissed him. A long shiver runs down his spine at the memory, a subtle twitch that stirs you from slumber once again. 
What does one kiss mean? The question dances wildly in Minho’s mind. More importantly, what do you want it to mean? 
Minho whines softly, closing his eyes for a few seconds, relishing in the fragrance of your hair, in the serenity that floods his being each time he’s around you. This was his most restful slumber in weeks, because you were near, his mind recognizing you, relaxing underneath your touch, drifting to a mindless sleep. 
Reluctantly, he untangles himself from you, a bittersweet departure from your arms. Work was calling his name. 
He prayed you’d call his too soon. 
….
You wake up to an empty bed, the only lingering trace of the night you spent being the tingling of your lips, as if aching to be kissed once again. You sigh, running a hand through your face. It was much easier to succumb to your heart’s wishes when it was late at night, when minho laid bare beneath your touch, so enticing in the gentlest of ways. When you were cradled by the moon’s soft glow, blanketed by the night’s cloak of darkness.
But it was light now, the sun was glaring as it streamed through the windows, exposing all the flawed ways of your mind.
What does one kiss mean? 
Nothing, if it wasn’t minho who you had kissed. If it wasn’t as tender as the meeting of your lips. 
The tomorrow you believed far quickly came, and you still beheld no answers. A few hours drifted by and you still knew nothing. What does this kiss mean? It's late afternoon and you’re strolling through the park nearby and you can't find an answer. The question rings in your mind as you sit by a bench, and you still don’t know.
“You seem preoccupied,” a voice quips up nearby and you startle. You hadn’t even noticed the man sitting by your side. His arms crossed before his chest, making impressive muscles constrict beneath the snug fabric of his black shirt, a cascade of fluffy black curls sat at the top of his head, a slight smirk etched on his lips.
“Pardon?”
“I said you seem preoccupied.”
“No i heard that,” you roll your eyes subtly, “do i know you?”
“No. You just look worried, that's all.”
“You really don’t know me?” you ask, a tad apprehensive, unsure if this was someone else your memory faulted you of. 
“No? Are you a celebrity of some sorts?” he inquires, tone much more cheerful, angling his body towards you.
“No, i’m not,” you giggle, before quieting down, an exhausted sigh escaping your body. “Is it that obvious then?”
“Yeah. I’m afraid so,” he pouts sympathetically, tone almost desolate and you huff, burying your face in your hands.
“Do you need help with something?” he offers after a while, his concern evident in the frown of his brows. You are comforted by the anonymity of talking to a stranger, you were but a blank canvas to him. You wouldn't see him again, anyways. 
“I feel lost. I can't seem to find the answers I'm looking for.”
“Maybe you’re just not asking the right questions.”
Oh. 
The guy claps his hands suddenly, long before you could dwell on his words and their implications
“I actually have a question for you!” 
“Ask away.”
“Do you want to go on a date with me?”
“No?” you chuckle, amusement dripping from your voice. “I don't know you?” 
“That's the point of a date.”
“Are you this bored?” you smile, arching an eyebrow at him. 
“I'm not bored. I just need to take my mind off things,” he shrugs, a slight smirk on his face. but you somehow see beyond it, right into the dull twinkle of his eyes. Maybe he also couldn’t find the answers he was looking for.
“So you're using me?” you fake outrage and he giggles, a high pitched sound that reverberates through the playground, making some kids nearby stare at you. You stifle a surprised laugh. 
“I'm not using you if I tell you upfront why I asked you out.”
“You are right, but i decline your kind offer,” you say solemnly and he nods, shaking his head in defeat.  
“Here is my card, in case you change your mind. Or need a little escape, call me,” he smiles, handing you a sleek black card before getting up and dusting his pants. “See you,” he says, as if he was sure you'd call him back. you stare in disbelief at his retreating figure, before glancing down at the card. 
Mr. Seo Changbin, you read, CEO of Gold’s Gym— the largest gym branch in the country.
Oh wow.
The amused smile lingers on your lips as you gaze ahead, lost in thought, contemplating the words spoken by Changbin. Maybe he was right; perhaps you are afraid of asking the right questions. Sucking in a deep breath, you decide to take the longer route home, eventually finding yourself outside your favorite bakery; the one you discovered on one of your many walks with Minho.
You go to open its door when an unexpected tingling at the back of your neck freezes you in your tracks. Your heart tightens in your chest as you turn around slowly, greeted by the sharp eyes of two familiar faces—Lia and Mari, your coworkers from before your accident. A tentative smile graces your lips, but the alarms of warning in your mind intensify. 
“Hey, yn!” 
“Hey, guys,” you greet back, taking a step backwards from them. 
“How have you been since… You know, your accident,” Lia pouts, but the question lacks sincerity, as if they were wearing masks before you, concealing their true intentions. You wonder which one they'll put on next.  
“Good, i’ve been good,” you force a smile, as their eyes move up and down your body, judgment dripping from their gaze.
“We wanted to come see you but we didn’t know if you were still at your listed address. Since your boyfriend lives there.”
“Oh, um, yeah, I still live there.”
“But didn’t you forget about him?” Lia feigns ignorance and you feel anxiety picking at your skin like relentless protruding needles. You want to run. 
“Lia that’s rude. I think he's her ex-boyfriend now," Mari chuckles, mockery palpable in her tone.
“Poor Minho, he must suffer a lot. Say hey to him from me,"Lia smiles, a chilling feline grin, her eyes narrowing down like a hawk peering at his prey. 
“I will.”
“We’ll see you at work. If you’re still able to keep up with the tasks,” they leave, ugly laughs echoing after them, and an urge to throw up overtakes you, the scent of pastries furthering your nausea. You hasten your steps toward your building.
You’re almost safe, almost, keys trembling in your hand as you struggle to enter your apartment, when the door adjacent to you opens. Your neighbors smile at you, although it is a gesture tinged with pity. You painfully smile back before slamming the door.
Yeart hammering in your chest, you press your back against the door, hand clawing at your throat. 
“Did you know she got into a car accident, and apparently she forgot her boyfriend?”
“Really? They were so cute though.”
“Yeah, it’s a shame.”
Their words suffocate you, stepping atop your lungs, syllables choking you from within. Is this what everything thought of you? Did they all pity you for the accident? For forgetting your lover? Did they see you as a burden, a parasite plaguing his life? Is this what Han and Chan saw when their eyes lingered on you? Is this what the librarian and florist whispered to each other each time you passed by? 
You didn’t know these people and yet they had their minds set on you, fixated storylines you couldn’t change, no matter how much you tried to rewrite them.
Your thoughts spiral like the unloosened screws of a ticking clock. Minho, the unanswered questions, the expectations of others—everything converges in the base of your mind, making your ears ring cacophonically within your skull.
You slide down the door, fingers trembling as you take out your phone then Changbin’s card from your pocket. You dial his number with haste. You needed a breather, to talk to someone who knew nothing of you, of who you were, of who you could be. 
“Hello?” his voice booms clearly through the phone.
“Changbin,” you breathe out. “Let's go on a date tomorrow.”
You were asleep when minho came back from work, your back turned towards him, soft exhales escaping your body. He didn't want to disturb you, so, he made sure to come earlier the next day, a strawberry and cream pastry in his hand that he knew you loved. Perhaps, you’d both talk about your kiss today, what it meant for you both. 
But, he doesn’t find you home. The only indication that you had just left was the lingering scent of your perfume, tickling his nose as if to mock him. Poor minho— the gardenia and honey tones spelled out in the air; the one fragrance you strictly reserve for dates. The one you used to put for him.
It looked like you found your answer after all. 
Day 33. 
“Did I keep you waiting?” 
“No, just in time,” you smile as Changbin pulls the chair in front of you, settling down with ease, a pang of confidence coloring his movements.
“How are you, today?” 
“Better, i think,” you falter under his scrutinizing gaze, your facade cracking. “I don't know, it’s all complicated,” you sigh and he nods, signaling for the waiter to take your drinks order. Chai latte for you, hot chocolate for him. 
“Spill, what’s preoccupying you?” he leans forward, arms crossed on the table. 
“You don’t even know my name,” you giggle, looking around at the warm interior. Cozy, faint music playing in the background, taupe chairs and amber tables, the smell of cinnamon rolls wafting through the air. Minho would like it here. 
“What's your name?”
“Yn.”
“Okay, Yn,” he emphasizes, a slight smirk on his face. “Spill.”
You shake your head as the waiter places down your drinks, wrapping your fingers around the heated cup, hoping the warmth would seep into your being through your palm lines. 
“Did you want to become a therapist by any chance?” you muse, arching an eyebrow at him.
“No, it’s just fixing others' problems helps me forget my own,” he winks and you snort at his honesty. it was admirable, how frank he was to a complete stranger. 
“Fine, it’s a long story, but basically…” you lick your lips, wondering what’s the best way to go on about this. “I got into a car accident and I lost my memory of the past year and so.”
Changbin winces at your words and you sigh. “Yeah. Except I was in a relationship before…”
“And you totally forgot about it?”
“I did. It hurt him a lot.” 
Changbin nods in understanding, taking a sip of his drink. He places his chin on his palm, carefully eyeing you. 
“But how does that make you feel?” 
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You're the one who lost your memories after all.” 
“I feel guilty for forgetting such a relationship.” 
“Why is that?”
“Because everyday i can see why I fell in love with him.”
“And you don't love him now?” 
“No,” you quickly say before pausing, shoulders dropping under the weight of your questioning. “I don't know. It's complicated.”
Changbin absentmindedly tugs at the charms of his bracelet, gaze flicking down to his wrist for a couple seconds, before locking on yours intently.  
“Describe him to me in one sentence.”
“You sound like my annoying French teacher,” you roll your eyes and he huffs, not offended in the least. “Look, I just want to know my competition.”
“Do you have a retort for everything?”
“What can I say? I'm witty and all that,” he shrugs confidently and you giggle before quieting down, muling over his question. “In a sentence…” you muse, fingers drumming along your cup. You don't even realize that a fond smile has unfolded on your lips, but Changbin does.
“He's the light rain that falls during spring, that makes the flower bloom and the smell of earth waft through the air. He brings things back to life, in a way.” 
Changbin smiles softly, tilting his head to the side. “Can you really not see it, or are you hiding the truth because you're scared?”
“What do you mean?” 
“Yn, he brought you back to life.” 
“I… no.” you pause, voice faltering. “Did he?” 
You see Minho pushing you on a wheelchair to your home. Minho protecting you from your mind. Minho washing your hair. Minho making you tea. Minho baring his soul to you. Minho helping you cook. Minho bringing the sea to you. Minho holding your hand. Minho comforting you before comforting himself. Minho forgiving you so you'd forgive yourself. Minho devastating himself so you'd piece your heart together. Minho, minho, minho.  
“Fuck, he did,” you whisper in realization, as a grand feeling swells in your heart suddenly, pushing your heart against the confines of your ribs. Flowers bloom into your entire body, petals melding into the coursing blood in your veins, butterflies fluttering their delicate wings across your chest, an effulgent light flooding in like the sun was spilled inside your very core. 
“Aren’t I so smart,” Changbin grins, satisfied at the awestruck expression on your face.
“What should I do?” you ask anxiously, gripping the edges of the table. 
“Go talk to him. Don't waste any more time.”
“You are right, oh my god,” you grab your purse, standing up abruptly. “I have to go, I…”
“It's okay, don't worry about me, I'm always the side chick,” he sighs in faux sadness and you giggle, swatting his shoulder. 
“Thank you so much. I'll repay you for this, I promise!” you start walking before stopping and turning around. 
“Oh and Changbin?”
“Yes?”
“You know what to do too. They made you that bracelet right? You haven't taken your eyes off of it.”
“Shut up,” he grumbles, “those are my lines.”
“They are mine now too,” Laughter dances from your lips as you flee the café, taking off running to your home. It was near, merely a five-minute walk, nestled beside the playground where you encountered Changbin. Yet, urgency propels your steps, a fervent need to reach Minho swiftly. You had wasted thirty-three days, three million seconds that could’ve been spent with Minho. You don’t know how many more breaths the universe might extend, what if the stars tire of your reluctance and blow the winds of his love to another soul? You couldn’t stomach it. 
You climb up the stairs, chest heaving, breaths escaping your being in an erratic rhythm. you didn't even know what to say, your words remained unscripted, unsure of what confessions will spill forth when your eyes will meet Minho's. Yet, you're not worried. You know that whatever surfaces would be surging from your heart. 
What you don’t anticipate is for an uncharacteristic silence to find you at home, the scent of your perfume faintly wafting into the air. Minho sat in the living room, a bag by his side, his head downcast. The cats watching you from the corner of the room. 
A desert- dry sensation clings to your mouth, your tongue heavy as if crafted from lead. Your once vibrant excitement extinguishes, much like a match blown out, leaving only a lingering stench behind. 
“Minho?” 
“Yn,” he responds, eyes actively avoiding yours. “I was waiting for you. I... I'll be gone for a few days, a week at most.”
“What? Where to?”
“I already told my parents to come pick up the cats so you don't have to worry about feeding them. The fridge is stacked, so you-” his voice falters, “so don't worry about that either.”
“Minho... what-what are you saying?”
“I need time away, alone. I'm sorry, I tried, I tried so hard, Yn, but there is only so much I can take,” he whispers, and your heart shatters, tiny million pieces blown away by the wind.
“Minho, look at me,” you crouch before him, your hands resting on his knees. He still avoids your gaze.
“Minho, please,” you plead, and his eyes finally lock on yours. They glisten with tears, reflecting light akin to a celestial mirror.
“My heart hurts so much, but it's not your fault. Loving me once doesn't mean you'll love me again, and it's okay if you want to see other people. I just... I need to go somewhere, for a little. I need to make room for the pain because it's overwhelming me,” he confesses, his words eating at your insides. Was it too late? Have you lost him?
Minho gently takes away your hands before standing up. Fear overwhelms you as you watch his shoulders drop, his eyes glazing over the walls one last time. He will come back, but not here, not to you. He's bidding goodbye to the home and you because you killed his hope. He would leave everything behind but echoes of him that you'd be sentenced to hear alone, every day, every night.
“Minho,” you seize his wrist, “Minho, don't go.”
"Why?" he asks in the smallest voice you've heard from him. He's like a river cut off by a dam, yearning to run back home, to flow the way it used to, back to you. His heart rings loudly in his ears, pain overwhelming him, yet your touch calms him down. You are the knife and the medicine, the scorch and the cooling balm; you are everything at once.
“I'll make room in your heart, I'll take out all the bad weeds and start again. Just don't go.”
“What do you mean?” He's breathless, hope inflating in his heart, clouds parting to reveal the sun.
“I know things won't go back to the way they used to. I don't think I'll ever remember everything, but I want you to tell me,” there is a lump growing in your throat, but you push it away. Your voice breaks and cracks, yet you still speak. You need him to know.
“I want you to take me to all the places we've visited and then tell me how we fell in love in them. I want you to show me how I loved you,” your hand trails down his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, pulling him closer. “I want to learn you, what you like, what you hate, what makes you angry and what makes your heart flutter.”
“And I want to love you, not because you love me, but because my heart chose you," your hand travels up his arm, settling right down at his cheek. Your thumb swipes across his tender skin. “I choose you over and over again. It's you, Minho, it's always been you.”
“You want me again?” he says tentatively, eyes wide, pouring onto yours—your galaxy to love, to admire, to peer into for the rest of your life.
“I want you. Please don't go.”
“Swear it, please.”
Instead of ephemeral words, you softly press your lips to his, as you did last night. “I swear,” you whisper against his mouth. “I'm falling in love with you,” you peck his lips, hand snaking up against his neck, moving his mouth closer to yours. “Not falling,” you say, pressing your forehead to his, nuzzling his nose against your own. “I'm coming back. I'm coming home.”
“You came back to me,” he whispers, voice hoarse.
“I'll always do,” you promise, a grin overtaking your mouth. “Can you kiss me, Minho?”
Minho blinks in amazement, his eyes darting all over your face, each blink resembling the capture of an image. He's stitching this moment into his mind, the hue of your cheeks and the gleam in your eyes. He missed the way you're looking at him, the slight shiver running through you as he brushes his lips against your own, slowly savoring the feel of you so near. His hands find your jaw, cradling it softly, and then he kisses you, just like how he dreamed of doing for the past month.
The kiss is dizzying, far different from your previous one. You’re no longer grasping at elusive cigarette smoke, fleeting through the gaps between your fingers. You are no longer awaiting a beacon of remembrance to shine upon your mind. You have minho, and he's delicately nibbling your lower lip, eliciting a soft gasp from you. His tongue glides across the tingling expanse, soothing down the pang of hurt, asking you for more. You willingly give it to him in a fervent, whirlwind kiss, his hands finding solace in the curve of your waist, while yours become poets, weaving tales in his hair, tugging at his strands the way you've always yearned to. 
It is muscle memory, to press your body against his, to gasp into his mouth, to match the rhythm of his tongue, the way it circles tantalizingly around yours, the way you groan against his mouth, as he briefly parts from you, his giggle a sweet prelude to meeting your lips once again with increased fervor. His tongue weaves words against the roof of your mouth— I missed you, I want you, I love you.
Minho snakes his hand around your lower back, guiding you back until his legs find the couch. He eases you down, fingers hooked through the loop of your jeans. You kiss him again, a cadence as natural as breathing. Time unravels, rewinding to mend the fractures in his heart, erasing thirty-three days of heartbreak in mere seconds. You kiss him, again and again, thirty three days of longing exploding in your touch.  
“Are you crying?” you whisper against his lips, your thumbs delicately swiping across his damp cheeks. Unaware of his flowing tears, he closes his eyes, embarrassment coursing through him. “I'm here,” you reassure, peppering his face with kisses – from his ear to his nose, cheeks to the corner of his mouth. “I'm here, honey. I want you.”
“Only me?” he questions, tone fragile.
“Only you,” you kiss him again, tenderly, inhaling life through his lips. “Let me show you how much, hm?”
Your lips trace a path down his neck as you draw his shirt over his head. An ivory canvas, he is meant for you to mark, to touch however you desire. Your lips graze the scar on his stomach, kissing it in the way you've ached to do since two nights before.
You're sinking to your knees before him and yet you’re the one in control, rippling shivers all over his skin. He’s impatient, needing you close, so he quickly pulls you up, before hovering over you, his hands drawing everywhere, running wild across your body. He missed the plush feel of your skin, the contours of your body that he yearned to explore once again. He's a prisoner deprived of the light for so long, sinking into the sun once again. 
Minho's eyes never leave yours, as he touches you, moves in you in ways your soul seems to remember. He's gentle, removing strands of your hair out of your eyes, smoothing down the side of your head. All encompassing, drinking in your moans and groans, burning you up and soothing you all at once. “Good?” he asks, again and again, waiting to hear your affirmation before picking up speed again. Your answer is yes each time he asks, as he seals the void in you, the one he's been carefully stitching up for the past weeks. You store his glazed eyes and scrunched eyebrows in the gallery of your mind, you make room for new memories with Minho. 
You're overwhelming him, in the most beautiful ways, contradicting feelings coursing through him like a rain flood. He's aching yet relieved to have you beneath him, lost in waves of pleasure so he grabs your hand to anchor himself, entwining his fingers with yours, before bringing it to his mouth, placing a tender smile on your palm. You beam at him, trust reflecting in your eyes as you bare your being to him. It is a rare fortune to be chosen by you not once, but twice, he can't believe how lucky he is to have you as his guiding star.  
Your eyes never leave Minho’s, a shimmering pool mirroring your emotions. You see everything you feel in him—your better reflection. You had missed him, you were home now. “Miss you,” he whispers as he buries his face in your neck, seemingly hearing your thoughts. “Missed you so much,” he mumbles as your hands tangle in his hair, tears descending gently upon your cheeks, as they are on his. “Please don't leave me again.”
“I won't- I won't,” you promise, as light floods your vision, reaching the pinnacle of your pleasure. Colors burst before your eyes in a kaleidoscope, resembling shades of Minho— the warm brown of his eyes, the honeyed hue of his skin, the pink tint of his ears whenever he's embarrassed, the red of his lips, swollen as they kiss you. Tonight and tomorrow and every day after this one. 
Day 1.
In the hushed aftermath, your head rests upon Minho’s bare chest, listening to the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat, calming down as the seconds trickle by. His arm curls around your body protectively, keeping you from slipping off the couch. Your knuckles trail up and down his shoulders, soothing the places where you had scratched too hard. His hand seeks yours, delivering a kiss as tender as the silence enveloping you—quiet and secure. The forgotten past doesn't matter; you will rewrite your story once more.
“Do you think our designated stars are sad somewhere far away?”
“Why would they be?” 
“I don't know. Don't you think it's bittersweet how they missed out on so many days of loving one another?”
“I don't know, did they?” he muses, planting a tender kiss on your shoulder. “I think mine loved you all the same.” 
700 notes · View notes
godslino · 2 months
Text
PIECE BY PIECE | minho first date series. friends to lovers.
Tumblr media
pairing: minho x fem!reader word count: 6.2k genre: college au, mutual pining, fluff, angst warnings: drinking, referenced injury (very minor) summary: minho, on a drunken whim, asks you out on a date.
Tumblr media
chan | minho | changbin | hyunjin | jisung | felix | seungmin | jeongin · · · ♡ series masterlist · · · ♡ taglist · · · ♡
a/n: finally!! the minho part!! i’ve been sooo excited about this one since i first got the idea. i hope you guys enjoy! once again any and all feedback is appreciated, happy reading <3
“Dude, I think it’s clean.”
Minho looks up from where he’s scrubbing the counter, eyes narrowed. So what if it’s his third time going over every surface in the kitchen?
“Are you going to help me or are you just gonna sit there and make more crumbs?”
Jeongin’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline. He holds up his hands in surrender, the bag of chips in his lap crinkling. “I’m just saying. You’re acting like she’s never seen the place before.”
That’s the problem. You’ve seen his place. Minho has to stop the shudder that threatens to overtake his body at the thought.
“So you’re not helping? Great. Get out.”
“I live here!” Jeongin whines. “Why do I have to get out? You can’t banish me like this.”
“I can and I will. Now leave. I have two hours to make sure everything is ready and I am not going to vacuum for a fourth time.”
“Yes mom,” Jeongin rolls his eyes as he unfolds his legs from underneath him.
He stops just short of the kitchen counter, points an accusatory finger at Minho’s disheveled figure still hunched over an imaginary stain.
“For the record, Chan hyung would never do this to me. He loves my crumbs.”
Minho throws the scrub daddy at him.
🏠
The night it happens, all it takes is approximately three shots and a pep talk from Hyunjin for Minho to finally find the nerve to ask you out.
“You’ve got this,” the younger boy says, words slurred, his hands steady on both Minho’s shoulders. The bass thumps loud in the other room, drowned out by the walls of the kitchen until it’s nothing but garbled nonsense going in one of his ears and out the other, vibrations low in his chest.
“I’ve got this.” Minho repeats, the thrum of alcohol already spreading to his fingertips. He feels warm, light on his feet. His limbs are starting to loosen up and his insides are turning to jelly. He might even be floating.
“You look hot.”
“I look hot.”
“She’s gonna say yes.”
“She’s gonna say yes.”
“You’re gonna venmo me twenty dollars.”
“I’m gonna venmo you twenty dollars.” Minho parrots before he can even process what he’s saying. Changbin, who’d been watching the entire thing unfold from where he stands with his back pressed against the sink, snorts.
“Wait, what the f—”
“Go get her!” Hyunjin screams, pushing him through the door of the kitchen with one last pat on the back, “And send me my money!”
Minho stumbles over himself, just barely able to stop in time before he goes crashing into a group of people. The living room is crowded: there’s furniture pushed up against the walls, bodies pressed front to back in the middle of the floor, a makeshift DJ stand in the corner where Chan is controlling the music from his laptop, drink in hand. Minho catches his eye from across the room, the glow of the LEDs reflecting off the toothy grin he shoots his way, dimples on full display.
“Hey!” Minho feels someone grab his arm, and he turns to find you staring up at him. “Where’d you go? You said you were gonna get a drink.”
Minho follows your eyes down to where you’re staring at his empty hands. “I—uh, well. I ran into Hyunjin and we took a few shots.”
The pout you give him does nothing but spur on the fluttering of his chest, his brain still hyper aware of the way your hand was resting on his elbow. “Shots? I want shots!” you whine, and Minho has to avert his gaze from staring at your lips when your pout only worsens.
“How much have you had?” he tries to ask over the music. There’s a shitty pop song playing, high pitched and wonky. If he remembers in the morning, he’ll make sure he berates Chan about his DJ-ing abilities.
“What?” you scream back, tiptoeing to bring your mouth closer to his ear.
Minho is only a man. A man who's been in love with you since the moment you accidentally spilled your coffee all over Hyunjin in the quad during freshman year. He remembers that day well, remembers the way your eyes went wide and your lips parted. He also remembers the way he wished it was him with the large wet stain on his shirt, that way it was him that was offered to have his lunch bought as an apology.
He’d never admit it, but sometimes really late at night, when the moon is high in the sky and he’s feeling oddly sentimental, he counts his lucky stars that Hyunjin had been in a relationship at the time. Minho doesn’t know what he would’ve done had he been forced to watch the two of you hit it off—some form of arson, presumably. Anything to take the edge off. But because of the fact that Hyunjin was not trying to have his head cut off by said girlfriend at the time, he invited Minho along as some sort of collateral damage. That’s when the two of you became friends. Kind of perfect if you ask him.
With the jumbled mess of butterflies in his stomach that he gets whenever you’re near him, and the threat of the alcohol slowly seeping through his skin, his brain short circuits the minute your breath grazes the shell of his ear. When your hand follows not long after, fingers gripping the nape of his neck to hold him in place, he almost passes out.
“Min? What’d you say?”
Minho is rendered completely useless by you. Absolutely ruined. Your existence has thrown his entire plan to woo you off course and now his mouth is opening and closing like a badly programmed robot. Pathetic. Nuts and bolts for brains.
By the grace of God (or some other higher being that Minho’s never bothered to believe in until this very moment) he finds his voice, but not before you’re pulling back with a confused look on your face.
“I asked how much you’ve had to drink,” he says, straining against the music.
A saccharine sweet grin that has him seeing stars spreads across your face, “Not enough!”
Minho is not an enabler. Never has been, never will be. There was one time, back in that fateful freshman year that also introduced the two of you, that he let Hyunjin get blackout drunk. A terrible decision on his end, if the earful he got from Chan the next morning was anything to go by. And as if that wasn’t enough, he was finding remnants of the resulting hacking session for the following week. So yeah, never again.
But while Minho isn’t an enabler, he is smitten, and the way your hand feels wrapped around his wrist as you drag him into the kitchen has his soul threatening to leave his body. He thinks that maybe he could do anything as long as you asked. He also hopes you can’t feel the way his pulse is rabbiting beneath his skin, right under the press of your thumb.
“There’s, like, nothing here.” you say as you rummage through the cupboard near the window, nose scrunched and a frown on your face.
Minho laughs, rounds the kitchen island to crouch down and open the cabinet under the sink. “That’s because you don’t know where to look,” he smirks, pulling out a fresh bottle of tequila. “Also, Chan hyung is greedy. He knows people like you will go scavenging his supply if he isn’t careful.”
“I resent that.” you frown, taking the bottle from him. “Besides, people like me deserve to have fun too.”
“Mhm, sure.” Minho says, grabbing a solo cup. He holds his hand out for the bottle, pours just the right amount before sliding it over and following it up with a can of coke.
“A man after my heart.” you joke, holding your cup up to him in a mock toast before downing it in one go. Minho watches with so much focus, fighting against the way his head spins. He doesn’t even know if it’s the alcohol anymore, it might just be the effect you have on him. Dizzying—you flip his entire world on its axis in the best way possible.
Minho’s gonna be seeing your exposed neck in his dreams later, he’s sure of it—it’s branded into his memory.
“That…is so fucking bad.” you giggle, holding your cup out. “Another one.”
Minho clicks his tongue. “I don’t know…”
“Pleaseeee Min,” the lilt in your voice sounds oddly familiar. Minho holds his breath just in case you—yup. There it is. There goes that pout again.
It’d be so easy for him to lean down and kiss it right off your lips. He could blame it on the alcohol, maybe, but then that takes away from how he actually means it.
He sighs instead. “It’s gonna cost you.”
“An arm and a leg?”
“What? No—I meant some water.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Three shots and a full bottle of water later, Minho knows you’ve hit your limit. Cheeks flushed pink, a dopey grin on your face, pupils blown wide. Even in this state, Minho is certain that you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“Anotherrrr,” you slur, waving your cup in his face.
Minho shakes his head. “No can do. You’re cut off.”
“Please,” you whine, placing both hands on his shoulders, “I’ll do anything.”
Minho, completely taken back by the sudden closeness of your body to his, freezes.
“Anything?” he asks before he can stop himself.
This is stupid. You’re drunk. There’s no way you’re going to remember anything in the morning, much less within the next thirty minutes. He’s pretty sure that you’ll lose control of all your senses soon, which is why he’s already texted your roommate Jiwoo to unlock the door so he can carry you inside. Nothing he hasn’t done before.
“Anything,” you repeat, eyes going cross-eyed where they’re fixing on the mole he has at the tip of his nose.
This is stupid. But then again, so is Minho. A big, stupid fool that blames everything on the fact that he’s so in love with you it hurts. This might be the only chance he gets to shoot his shot.
Minho takes a deep breath, says something similar to a little prayer that’s more like Hey, if anyone’s listening, help a guy out, and hopes that the twenty bucks he sent Hyunjin works.
“Go on a date with me.” he says slowly, wincing when your eyes snap up to meet his gaze.
Well, there’s really no going back from that. The only thing that could possibly grant him redemption now is banking on the fact that you don’t remember anything in the morning.
Minho waits with bated breaths, watches as your eyes search his for a long while. He waits for the anger, the disgust, the visible repulsion that he starts to think might happen the longer the silence continues.
He’s about to backtrack, quickly conjuring up an excuse about how Oh, haha, gotcha! when your hands suddenly drop from his shoulders. You grab the cup, your chin tipped upwards, and hold it out for him to fill.
“Okay.”
“O…kay?”
“Yeah. Okay. Pour me another one.”
The next morning, when Minho all but drags himself into the kitchen in search of water and something to soothe the throbbing in his head, he nearly spits a mouthful at Jeongin, the poor guy too busy eating his cereal to realize he’s gotten a front row seat in the splash zone.
Y/N [10:34am]
so
when do you want to do that date?
🏠
Are candles too much?
Minho has options: clean linen, lavender breeze, ocean mist, warm vanilla. He really just needs something to get rid of the smell of cleaning spray.
He thought that having a night in for a first date would be ideal—less pressure, no unwanted attention, a bathroom that he can run into when he starts to hyperventilate if you smile at him for too long. But now that it’s happening, he’s convinced that every surface of his and Jeongin’s shared apartment will scare you away if anything so much as looks off-putting.
Minho is, to put it simply, freaking out. All the other times you’ve been over to his place were on a completely platonic level. Movie nights with all the other guys in tow, dropping off food that you felt generous enough to buy every once in a while, one time because you’d accidentally worn Minho’s jacket home from a party and needed to return it to him.
But this is different. This is a date. Minho’s not dreaming—he already pinched himself a dozen times in the bathroom mirror, tiny red marks on the inside of his forearm to prove it. He’s going to open the door, invite you in, cook for you, and then proceed to resist the urge to tell you how beautiful you are for however long the night continues on after that. He can practically hear Jeongin’s laugh in the back of his head, sneering at how pathetic his inner monologue sounds right now.
He needs to find another stain to scrub.
By the time you’re knocking on his door, Minho has changed his outfit seven times. Sweats were too casual, a button up was too fancy. Should he not have done his hair? No, that’s just lazy, the way his fringe is swept up and out of his forehead adds a nice touch that doesn’t scream Hey! I’m trying to woo you! You’ve never been the type to be impressed by grand gestures and shows of confidence anyways, he knows that well.
One time, when a guy from one of the frat houses hired the campus quartet to sing a song for you in the quad as he stood there with big beady eyes and a bouquet of roses in his hand, you’d all but ran from the scene, Minho following close behind as you called out to him over your shoulder. It’s one of his fondest memories. As soon as the two of you made it around the back of the science building, you’d doubled over in laughter, the both of you in disbelief at what had happened. Minho has had that information tucked into the deepest parts of his brain ever since, saved just in case he needed it.
(Later that night, in the safety of his own bed, he’d laughed maniacally at the situation. Something about watching you reject another guy filled him with a sense of joy he couldn’t explain. He just hoped he was never going to be on the receiving end of it.)
He does a quick once over of the kitchen: double checks that all the ingredients are out, blows a speck of dust off the glass stovetop, spins the tiny floral arrangement he bought so that it’s sitting at just the right angle. When the doorbell rings, the chime bouncing off the walls of the apartment, he visibly pales.
He has to reel it in, to remember that it’s just you. You might not even be here with any intentions other than to fulfill your end of the deal; one date in exchange for the extra three shots he poured you the other night. Minho takes a deep breath, grips the doorknob with conviction, and decides that he’s determined to show you the way you deserve to be treated. The opportunity is there, and he’s gonna take it.
As soon as the door swings open, every nerve that had somehow crept its way into his brain disappears, the sight of you standing on the other side immediately sending the anxiety scrambling and replacing it with fondness instead.
“Hi,” you smile, and Minho sees images of you coming home to his apartment flash across his mind. After class, after work, in the winter when it’s cold and your nose is tinted pink, on rainy days where the ends of your hair are damp and you have a wet umbrella in tow. He could get used to it. He’s so in love that it hurts.
“Hey,” he breathes out, stepping aside to make way for you, “Come in. Are you hungry?”
“Starving, actually. Been saving myself all day since I don’t always get to have your cooking.” You hop on to one of the stools, your attention momentarily stolen by the flower arrangement. One point for Minho.
I’d cook for you every day, he wants to say. But that’s weird, right? So instead, “Well then I guess today is your lucky day.”
“Yeah, I guess it is.” You say softly.
Minho can’t see you with the way his back is turned, hands moving to grab out the knife and cutting board, but if he could he’d see the way your eyes are staring softly at his back, the ghost of a smile on your lips.
Conversation flows easily after that, despite Minho’s original worries about it being awkward. You’re not necessarily treating it as a date, and he isn’t really either. It feels more like a glorified hangout, just the two of you spending time together with the added glances and smiles that normally wouldn’t be there.
Minho finds it easy to get lost in you. He finds himself craving to know more about your day, about the things that’ve been on your mind lately and the hobbies you’ve picked up. Most of the conversation is a continuation of stuff that’s fallen through the cracks during the times you see each other, but he doesn’t miss the way you ask about him too, your eyes shining with genuine interest. It makes his heart slam against his ribcage.
“How are your cats doing?”
Minho looks up from the cutting board, follows your gaze to where it’s fixed on the scattered pictures that litter his fridge. “They’re good,” he says, smiling down at a head of garlic, “My mom sends pictures all the time. She says they claw at the door to my room when they miss me.” He smashes the garlic under the knife’s blade by hitting it with the heel of his palm. “It’s cute.”
“You’re cute.”
Minho, in a very flashy demonstration of what it means to be cool, calm, and collected, slices his thumb mid-chop.
“Shit.” he mutters, dropping the knife.
It’s not that bad, just a little nick, the surprise was mostly what scared him. He probably doesn’t even need a bandaid. But despite how small it is, nothing stops you from hurriedly walking up to him and taking his hand in yours, his thumb held closely to your face for inspection.
“Are you okay?” You turn his hand over between your fingers, the soft pads of them against his calloused ones. Minho is dumbfounded, struggling to find the words to say.
“Yeah—um, it’s fine. My fault. I was distracted.” He stammers out, pulling his hand back and holding it up. He wiggles his fingers, making a show of bending and twisting his thumb that, at most, has just a small cut on the side. “See? Perfect.”
Your face relaxes, and then you’re laughing. Why are you laughing? Either Minho looks like a complete idiot or he’s suddenly the funniest person in the world for being clumsy and reckless and almost ruining the night by losing a finger. Whichever one it is, he doesn’t care, as long as he gets to hear that sound again.
“Let me help cook, please? I know you said you would do it all but clearly you’re a threat to the integrity of this meal.” You say, bumping your hip against his to move him away from the cutting board.
Minho scoffs. “I wouldn’t have done that if you didn’t catch me off guard.”
“So what? You admit that I make you flustered?”
Oh.
Minho wasn’t prepared for this. He wasn’t prepared for the—the flirting that’s clearly happening. You’re flirting with him, right? Why else would you have called him cute or given him that suspicious side eye after you asked that question?
You and Minho have joked around like this before, but it was always empty with no real feelings attached—as far as he could tell. You’re a naturally friendly person, getting along with others comes easy to you. He’s seen the way you talk to the other guys and has always just assumed he was no different in your eyes than they were. Sure, there were moments where maybe your hand lingered on his arm for a little while after he made you laugh, or the two of you would steal glances across the room. Sometimes when Hyunjin said something stupid you’d both catch the other’s eye and make a face, just another funny way of proving that you were both on the same wavelength most of the time. It’s kind of why Minho is so taken with you—he’s never met anyone that gets him the same way.
Reluctantly, Minho puts his pride aside and allows you to help. And as it turns out, you’re actually really good at cooking. Minho doesn’t have to instruct you much, and before he knows it you’re both working like a well-oiled machine, scooting past one another as you switch places between the stove and the sink, reading each other’s minds without even having to ask.
“Taste this.” You say, holding the spoon up to his mouth. Minho leans forward, front teeth poking out, and brings the spoon into his mouth. You cup your hand under his chin to catch any droppings, watching in anticipation as he smacks his lips together.
His eyes light up, big and brown and twinkling under the light of the kitchen. “Perfect.” He smiles.
“Oh you have—uh,” you stop him with a hand on his forearm just as he’s about to turn back to the sink, your other hand hovering next to his face hesitantly, “It’s just, um, your—here.”
Minho’s eyes go wide when your thumb swipes against the corner of his mouth, your touch feather light. It’s so intimate, the only sound being the music playing low from the speaker on the counter. He’s half convinced that you’re able to hear his heartbeat, blood pumping loud in his ears.
“You had some sauce…on your face.” You say shyly, your palm still pressed to his cheek.
“…Oh.”
Minho’s never really looked into your eyes from this close up before. He’s always known they were beautiful, the shape of them soft, full of nothing but the world. He can see himself in them from here, and, selfishly, he hopes you can see yourself in his, too.
He might be imagining it when your gaze flicks down to his lips for just a fraction of a second, but there’s no time to unpack any of that when the sauce starts bubbling over the edge of the pot, spilling on to the burner as loud sizzling and smoke fills the kitchen.
It’s chaos. The bottom of the pot is burnt and there’s only so much of it that’s salvageable. He only bought the exact amount of ingredients too, because this is a self-proclaimed no-food-waste household (as explicitly stated in the napkin contract he has with Jeongin, much to his dismay). So, hooray for conscious consumption of goods!
At the end of it all, there’s no one to blame. You’re both guilty of…whatever that was.
Minho tries to reassure you that it’s okay as he dials the number for the pizza place just down the street, simultaneously shutting down all your attempts to pay as an apology. It doesn’t matter to him, he’d do anything as long as it means he gets to spend time with you. At the end of the day, it’s another memory that he’ll hold close to his heart.
“Listen,” you say, swallowing down a mouthful of pizza, the both of you seated on his couch with a half-eaten box of pizza open on the coffee table, “I know you wanted to cook and all—which, by the way, I’m still sorry—but this is so good. However I’m sure whatever you made would’ve been better.”
Minho chuckles. “Stop lying,” he wipes his hands on a napkin, “I can guarantee you that whatever I cooked wouldn’t be as good as this anyways.”
“Stop selling yourself short, Min. You’re good at everything you do.”
The words fall from your lips so easily, like it’s something you’ve convinced yourself of long ago. Minho’s never been the type to bounce around from one thing to another, always choosing to stick with it until he has it down to a science. Cooking is one of them. Jeongin can attest to all the times Minho has berated him with tasting his latest dishes, chasing him around the apartment with a spoon. The words tighten themselves around his heart.
“I’m not,” he rolls his eyes, “But nine times out of ten, grease and mozzarella cheese are gonna win. I know that for a fact.”
You laugh, and the conversation gradually diverts into a debate about the top ten best greasy foods in existence. You’re heated, half kneeling on the couch with a finger pointed at him as you plead your case for onion rings, when your eyes go past Minho’s head and settle on the shelf of games in the hallway.
“You have games?” you ask, suddenly giddy with excitement as you hurry over to inspect the selection.
Minho watches with fond eyes, collects the plates and napkins to throw away. “Yeah, most of them are Innie’s. We don’t really use them. Sometimes when we’re drunk, other times when we’re bored and decide to wager money for fun.”
You hum, not really paying attention. Monopoly, Chutes and Ladders, some decks of cards, Uno—you scan the shelf until your eyes light up at what you find hidden at the bottom.
“Min! Can we play Jenga?”
“Jenga?” Minho asks, re-entering the living room. The coffee table is clear now, and he sits between it and the couch, his back against the cushion. “Isn’t that kind of boring? We have other stuff there.”
“It’s only boring if you play it the way it’s supposed to be played.” You roll your eyes. Minho turns to you when you situate yourself on the floor beside him and only momentarily contemplates running to the bathroom when your knee knocks against his. He’s been holding it together pretty well so far, however The Sauce Incident had him ready to book it if anything had gone further.
“Well how else are we supposed to play it?” He frowns.
“We make up our own rules.”
The pieces scatter across the wood of the coffee table, clacking as you diligently begin putting them together. “This is a date, right?” You ask, stopping for a moment to turn and assess his response.
Minho stills. He genuinely forgot the grounds on which tonight had even happened in the first place. Spending time with you makes him forget everything else. And, despite his fears in the beginning, being on a date with you has felt so natural that it almost seems like you’ve done it a thousand times before.
Your eyes meet. For a moment, Minho lets himself wonder what it’d be like if he went for it right then and there. “Yeah,” he says slowly, unblinking, hoping you can see the sincerity on his face, “A date. One of the best ones I’ve ever been on, actually.”
He almost cries out in victory when your face flushes pink. “Now who’s a liar?” You ask quietly, going back to piecing together the game.
Minho has learned something new tonight: he really likes seeing you flustered.
“Why do you ask?” he decides to cut you the slack, “Or what does this being a date have to do with Jenga rules?”
He waits as you finish the stack, your tongue sticking out in concentration. You’re so cute. Minho mentally pockets that image for safe keeping.
“Sorry, okay, it’s done. But basically, if we pull out a block, we get to ask the other person a question.”
“And if the tower falls…?”
“Hmm,” you think for a moment, chewing on your bottom lip, “Oh! I know. If you lose you have to tell me why you asked me on a date.”
Minho’s stomach flips. “Okay. If you lose you have to tell me why you accepted the date.”
Something unreadable passes over your face, but it’s gone in an instant. You hold your hand out for a shake, and Minho wraps his fingers around it gently.
“Deal.”
“Why are you taking all of the middle pieces?” Minho pouts.
The two of you have gone through a couple turns by now, throwing out random questions for the better half of fifteen minutes. Favorite colors, childhood foods you wouldn’t eat, the best memory you have from high school. Minho’s learned a lot, has fallen for you a lot more. But that was always a given. It’s impossible not to when he can feel the warmth from your body where you’re seated next to him, your presence overtaking all of his senses.
“Because I’m trying to win,” you laugh, putting your freshly pulled piece at the top. Just a little crooked, too. To piss him off. “Favorite movie?”
“Ponyo. Easy. My turn.”
“Seriously? Why Ponyo?”
“One question at a time, princess.”
He means it as a joke, really. He doesn’t even realize what he’s said until after the fact, the nickname making your heart skip a beat. Minho notices, the corners of his lips tugging downwards as he suppresses a smile. He manages to flick one of the side pieces until it gives way.
“What’s one thing you regret?”
“Ooh, getting deep I see.” You laugh, taking a sip of your soda. There’s a long pause, and then, “I regret spilling my coffee on Hyunjin that day.”
Minho’s brow furrows. You…regret it? He runs through all the possible reasons in his head. Surely it can’t be because you regret becoming friends with them, friends with him, right?
“Why?” He chances.
“One question at a time, princess.” You echo, laughing at his shocked expression.
You remove the last middle piece. “On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate our first date?”
Minho’s brain is going a thousand miles a minute. “A ten. Wouldn’t trade it for the world.” He says it fast, wastes no time in moving forward to remove his own piece. He doesn’t even notice that your cheeks have gone pink again, too busy itching to ask his next question.
“Why do you regret spilling your coffee on Hyunjin?”
Minho watches you, lets his mind wander to the worst possible thing you could say in this situation, and mentally prepares to book it to the bathroom.
You take a deep breath, “I regret it because I wasn’t supposed to spill it on him. I was supposed to spill it on you.”
Wait, what?
Minho blinks. “What are you talking about?”
This is humiliating for you. A terrible thing to have to admit. Up until this moment, you’d thought that this information would follow you to your grave. You press the heel of your palms to your eyes, “This is so embarrassing,” you groan.
Minho pulls one hand away. He’s not really sure what to say, mostly because he’s confused, but, “You can tell me.”
“I had…” you start, looking up at him slowly, “A plan. With Jiwoo.” Minho nods for you to continue. “I’d seen you and Hyunjin walking through the quad a few times, and I thought that you were cute, but I didn't know how to approach you. So I did something stupid and decided that I would literally just crash into you. But I fucked it up.”
I thought that you were cute. The words echo in Minho’s ears like a bell. All this time, all those stolen glances and lingering touches, all the ways you would make hope spike in his chest that maybe you felt the same—they were real.
“So you, wait—” Minho shakes his head, “So you’re telling me that all this time…”
You roll your eyes. “Yes, Min, really. All this time.”
Minho’s never been skydiving, but he imagines that this is what it feels like. Free falling—his soul hurtling towards earth at a horrifying speed, slamming back into his body right here in his living room with a force so strong it would knock him off his feet if he wasn’t already sitting on the floor. You were interested in him first.
Wordlessly, you lean forward, pulling out a piece with practiced ease. Minho waits with bated breaths.
“Can I kiss you?”
Minho feels like he might pass out. “Am I dreaming right now?”
“You didn’t pull out a piece.”
He scrambles forward, clumsily nudging a piece on the side that ends up sending the entire tower toppling over. You smile at him, soft and sweet. “Looks like you have to pay up with an answer. You know, since you lost.”
Minho doesn’t care. “Because I like you,” he breathes out, “I asked you on a date because I like you. I like you so much, ever since I saw you that day. And, funnily enough, I’ve always wished you’d spilled that coffee on me instead, too.”
The confession feels like a weight lifted off his shoulders. He’s spent so long pining after you, laying awake at night thinking about how this would go down if he ever got the chance. He never expected for it to happen like this, much less for you to possibly feel the same.
Panic slowly starts to rise in his chest when you don’t respond. He watches as you reach an arm over, build a small tower out of a few pieces, and then knock it over. You turn to him with a small smile, “Oops, I lost too.”
Minho is so in love with you that it hurts.
“I accepted the date because I like you, Minho. I’ve just been waiting for you to ask.”
He doesn’t think twice before he’s surging forward, cupping your face with one hand and kissing you with a tenderness that has you melting into his touch.
There’s no fireworks behind his eyes, no big bang or grand display of whatever it is that happens in the movies. But there’s a warmth, it starts out small in the center of his chest and spreads throughout his entire body, lights his skin aflame and travels all the way to his fingertips. You’re like that. A gentle presence, someone who worms their way into the very essence of his being and burrows into the deepest parts of him, like it was never his to begin with. Kissing you is slow, and deep, and right. He wouldn’t want it any other way. Minho doesn’t ever want to stop.
He lets his other hand fall to your waist, pulls you closer until you’re practically straddling him with his back against the couch, your knees on either side of his hips. Minho lets out a long, drawn out groan when you tilt his head back farther, his lips parting and allowing you to lick inside of his mouth. It’s so good. So good. He can’t believe he ever lived without knowing what this felt like; lived without ever having you this close before.
After a while, Minho reluctantly pulls back, holding you by the shoulders. When he looks up, your eyes are half-lidded. You look utterly debauched, cheeks pink and lips swollen from how hard they’d been pressed against his own. “We should probably slow down.” He tries hard to convince himself, too. “Talk about it all, you know? I don’t—this isn’t a one time thing for me. I don’t want it to be. I like you. I want you to know that.” He says softly, reaching up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear.
You lean into his hand, smiling when he flattens his palm to let your head rest there. “You’re like, so perfect that I want to kiss you until you forget your own name.”
Minho’s ears go red, his head falling forward until it rests against your collarbone. The feeling of his breath against your skin makes you laugh and run a hand through his hair, rubbing at the back of his neck fondly.
“This is gonna be so bad now that you say stuff like that.”
“Bad? No, I think it’s cute. You’re cute.”
“Shut up,” he whines, but there’s no bite to it. Not when he can look up and press a kiss to your lips. A dream come true. The entire world in his hands, exactly where it was always meant to be.
🏠
In the morning, when Jeongin comes back home, one hand covering his eyes just in case, he calls out,
“Everyone better be dressed! Or else I’m ripping up that napkin and making a new one with No fornicating on the furniture added into the fine print.”
When he doesn’t get a response, he rounds the corner, and finds the two of you nestled into the couch. Minho’s back is pressed into the cushions, his arms wrapped tightly around you as you nuzzle your face into his neck.
Jeongin huffs out a laugh, sends a quick text to Hyunjin that reads: Negative. Clothes are still on. But they’re so cute it’s almost sickening.
He snaps a picture to send to the group chat, grabs a piece of cold pizza, and retreats to his room.
Yang Jeongin Fanclub
jeongin: [Attachment: 1 image]
chan: AWWWWWWW
jiwoo: i’m gonna cry
changbin: dude is that the good pizza from down the street?
hyunjin: FINALLY
hyunjin: wait
hyunjin: does this mean i have to send back his $20?
Tumblr media
[tags: @palindrome969 @summergirlsmj @n1staytiny @strwbrrychannie ]
Tumblr media
© all rights reserved. godslino 2024. please do not steal, translate, or re-upload.
1K notes · View notes
hanjisick · 11 months
Text
— COOKIES
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
order #6 of the coffee shop series: a cookie
ingredients. y/n x barista!felix. he’s never had a gf before. hopeless pining on felix’s end. mostly fluff with some angst. also the boys keep trying to play shitty wingmen again.
allergies. making out and felix being awkward
size. 3.2k
special add ons. felix is a sociable, confident, kind barista at yellow wood café. but once you show up on one rainy day, you turn him into a mess.
Tumblr media
you hadn’t prepared for the rain to come so quickly.
the forecast had said that it would only pick up in the afternoon, and you figured that you would be home by then. so of course, you had left your umbrella at home.
you decided to run into the nearest building, hoping to stay there until the rain had died down a little.
it was a coffee shop, one that you hadn’t been to before. you had no clue how you didn’t know the place existed. it seemed like just your type of hang-out spot.
the difference between the café and outside was stark. looking through the windows, it was gloomy and intense, while inside, the atmosphere was warm and cozy. the smell of coffee brewing and people chatting filled your senses.
“can i help you?” you had been staring off for a minute now, your entire body drenched in rain.
“sorry,” you apologized, “i was just looking for somewhere to be until the rain stopped.”
“you’re alright! could i get anything for you while you wait?”
your eyes stared the barista up and down. he was around your age— and was the epitome of sunshine. his features were gentle and strikingly beautiful.
his name tag read “felix.”
then, you drifted towards the menu on the counter, written in chalk, slightly smudged.
“are the cookies any good?” you questioned, staring at the cute plastic containers full of baked goods, specifically the heart-shaped chocolate chip cookies.
“well, i baked them myself, so they better be good.” felix’s shy smile told you that he was proud of his baking.
“i’ll buy one and see for myself.”
usually, the freckled barista wasn’t nervous at comments like these, but your gentle eyes made his heart flip in ways that he didn’t quite understand. “will that be all?”
“for now.”
he rang you up, handing you the cookies straight out of the container.
without waiting to sit down, you bit into the cookie.
two of felix’s fingers met his neck, checking his pulse quickly— a nervous habit of his.
but his nerves turned into excitement as your eyes lit up.
“i’ll take two more cookies and a mocha, please!”
felix couldn’t help but smile widely, “our muffins are really good too. we have blueberry and chocolate chip right now, but i’m working on a recipe for a cappuccino muffin.”
you cut his ramble short, “i’ll try both. and a brownie.”
“got a sweet tooth?” he rolled up the sleeves of his baby blue cardigan to begin making your mocha, “i don’t want you to get any cavities.”
“i’ll have just one bite of each and bring it home with me,” you reasoned, taking a stool at the bar, “i have nothing better to do, anyway. the rain says it’ll last for another hour.”
“so you’re gonna spend that hour taste-testing the treats?”
“i’ve never been here before, i better start working on my regular order.”
“will you be a new regular?”
“if the mocha is good. otherwise i think i’ll just go back out into the rain, i’m already drenched anyway.”
there you go again. causing felix to worry about how good his barista skills were in a way that nobody does.
he couldn’t help but drizzle a chocolate heart on top before handing it to you.
immediately felix jumped back. “your hands are freezing!”
“that’s what happens when you’re in the rain.”
you couldn’t help but chuckle at felix’s concern. it wasn’t bad at all.
“i think this goes against every rule we have here,” felix shrugged off his cardigan, throwing it across the counter.
immediately your quiet laugh died down, your stomach twisting with butterflies. mostly at how kind the freckled boy was, but you couldn’t ignore the way that the white shirt under it clung to him tighter.
“thank you.” you wrapped yourself in the cardigan, breathing in a faint scent of a fruity perfume, almost masked by the overwhelming smell of coffee.
“felix,” chan, his boss, nudged him with a grin, “did you just do what i think you did?”
if it were any other barista, they would’ve been scolded. but felix had taken up a large spot in chan’s heart, one that meant that he refused to rebuke the boy.
“she was cold! right, y/n?” he defended, “she just came in from the rain outside.”
“so you’re just gonna give every customer your clothes if they’re cold?”
you could see a faint red tint forming on felix’s ears, “well no! but she’s new, i wanted to give her a warm welcome.”
there was a familiar look in chan’s eyes, one that felix could spot from miles away. one of knowing.
“alright then. i’m glad you were able to earn us a new customer. even if it meant giving up your clothes.”
“do you have any paper?” you interrupted with a mouthful of muffin, “and maybe a pen too?”
felix was thankful that you saved him from chan. “yeah! i’ll get it for you. hold on.”
thirty minutes later, once a spot of sunlight through the clouds had appeared, you were gone.
felix glanced over at your spot, sadness pulling on his heart, full of what if’s.
what if you didn’t come back? what if that was the last time he would see you?
he noticed the piece of paper left behind.
the title read, “felix’s bakery ranking.”
first place was the cookies. second was the brownies. then the chocolate chip muffin, then the blueberry.
“she must love chocolate,” felix jumped at jeongin’s voice from behind him, “she also got a mocha, right?”
“how do you know? you weren’t even here.”
“chan was telling the group chat.”
“he was doing what?” felix reached for the phone in his back pocket to confirm his words.
“talking about how you were mesmerized by that girl.”
“was not!”
“you totally were,” chan patted his back, “i’ve never seen you smile that wide.”
“says a lot for how much he smiles.”
felix groaned as jeongin flipped over the scrap paper.
“see you at 3 tomorrow,” he read out, looking up at felix whose eyes widened, turning to chan.
“i don’t work tomorrow! can i work tomorrow?”
“so it isn’t just you being kind?”
“i need to get my cardigan back.”
“you’re a terrible liar. just admit that you want to see her again.”
“just schedule me to work tomorrow!”
the next day, felix was walking on clouds.
the boy normally walked with a pep in his step, serving customers with a comfortable kindness that nobody else could replicate, but today there was an extra hint of sweetness to everything that he did. even some of the most unobservant customers had pointed it out.
but each of the boys knew exactly why he was acting the way that he was, thanks to the messages that chan had sent.
as the vintage clock on the wall inched closer and closer to 3, felix became more dazed, clumsy even.
“are you sure that he should be working right now?” minho shot chan a questioning look.
“just let him get it out of his system.”
“but we’re cleaning up his spill messes all for a girl that he had one conversation with. he’s hopeless.”
“i don’t even think he’s had a girlfriend before.”
“really?” minho’s eyebrows raised, “with how all of the girls stick to him like glue?”
“i don’t think he knows how much of a heartthrob he is.”
chan glanced towards felix, who was busy chatting with two girls who had stopped by just a few minutes ago, “he’s clueless sometimes.”
the bell on the door rang as you stepped in, blue sweater in hand, eyes darting across the room to find the blonde boy who immediately abandoned his conversation.
“i came to return this,” you slid it across the counter, just as felix had done the previous day, “and get a cookie as well.”
“just the cookie?”
“and a mocha.”
“your total will be—“
“just give it to her for free,” chan whispered from behind, trying to help the frantic boy.
“it’ll be free today,” felix stumbled on his words, “and maybe i could heat the cookies for you too? they’re better warm.”
“that would be great,” you took a seat at the same spot as before, “your customer service is top tier. free service and a cardigan on a rainy day?”
“we try.” felix couldn’t wipe the smile off of his face, or take his eyes off of you.
even when you weren’t paying attention to him, typing on your laptop and munching on a cookie, he would stare at you, just barely hiding behind the espresso machine.
“why don’t you ask for her number?”
felix jumped as yet another barista appeared from behind him— something that had been happening too much recently. or perhaps he was just less focused on his surroundings.
“i can’t do that. what if she rejects me?”
“she would’ve let you down by now, do you know how obvious you’re making it?” hyunjin tried to reason with him.
“i guess that’s true, but i’m nervous. she’s really pretty.”
“so? you’re pretty too.”
felix gave the compliment a light laugh, “but she’s intimidatingly pretty.”
he kept an eye on the way your eyebrows furrowed in concentration, your finger tapping to the rhythm of the café’s record player on the table.
“you’re such a hopeless romantic. just get her number. she’s gonna leave again and you’re gonna be upset that you didn’t.”
“maybe.”
with those words in mind, felix shyly approached you, hands fumbling with the hem of his shirt.
“hey,” he started, almost chickening out just from your eye contact.
his fingers went to his throat, checking his pulse, “do you think i could get your number?”
when you stared at him in silent shock for a moment, he continued, “not as, like, a weird thing! i just want to be your friend.”
he could see hyunjin out of the corner of his eye, ready to pull out his hair in frustration.
your smile faltered, but you still took the phone from his hand, saving your name as y/n.
“text me later.” there was a hint of sadness in your voice that felix didn’t fail to pick up on, but he didn’t dare to comment on it.
he ran off into the back room, ready to scream over the most embarrassing, disappointing moment in his entire life.
hyunjin followed close behind, “felix! what the hell?”
“i got nervous!”
“so you decided to friend-zone her?”
“she could’ve friend zoned me first!”
“she obviously wasn’t going to!”
“but if she did then i think i’d die!”
hyunjin was close to slamming his head against the nearest wall. “i’m gonna die right now if you don’t walk back out there and tell her that you’ve spent the whole day thinking about how pretty she is!”
“she’ll think i’m weird!”
“then i’ll do it!” felix tried to hold him back but failed as hyunjin opened the door, only to be met with an empty spot where you used to be.
felix let go, his shoulders dropping.
“where is she?”
“i guess she left,” hyunjin turned to see his devastated friend.
“did i fuck up that badly?”
hyunjin bit his lip, trying not to make it worse for him than it already was. but the truth was that, yeah, he did.
“maybe she’ll be back.”
felix texted you that night while he sat in bed, deciding on, “hi it’s felix! :)”
he kept his cardigan next to him.
perhaps it was a little creepy, but he decided to sniff it. it smelled different than usual. perhaps that’s what you smelled like.
perhaps he would never even get to know what you smelled like.
tears brimmed his eyes as he shut off his phone, staring up at the fan on his ceiling, letting the noise drown out the eerie silence.
felix wanted to slap himself for being such an idiot. he had no problem talking to people, he was the most extroverted extrovert that an extrovert could get. but he couldn’t help but question everything he did in front of you, even if he had just met you.
you didn’t respond.
when felix showed up to work the next day, it was like the sunshine was hidden behind a rainy cloud.
he knew that it shouldn’t have affected him as much as it did. he knew that checking to see if he got a text every minute wasn’t normal, or whip his head toward the door every time a customer came in.
so felix spent another night in his bed, phone in hand, staring at the text that he sent.
would it just be easier to forget about you? it’s not like he had anything going with you anyway.
it was only when he set it down for the night and closed his eyes that it began to ring, and he sprang right back up, eyes widening as he stared at the caller ID.
it was minho.
“hello?” felix answered, voice filled with sleep.
“you were upset at work today,” he stated, “is it because of that girl?”
“you could see it?”
“everyone could. like we always do.”
“i’m just gonna try to forget about it.”
“don’t.”
“what do you mean?”
“you have her number, right? come clean, text her that you were nervous. ask to meet up.”
“like a date?”
“exactly. ask her on a date.”
felix chewed on his lip, anxiety clouding his judgment once again. would he have the courage to even do that?
“chan said that you’re not allowed to work until you sort out your sadness. and nobody wants to cover your shifts, man.”
when minho hung up the phone, felix laid back against his pillows, letting out a breath of air that he didn’t know he was holding. then he checked his pulse.
opening your texts, he began typing. ‘i lied. it was something weird. you’re really pretty. you can block me if you want.’
he deleted the message.
‘actually,’
no.
‘i meant to ask for your number in a not-friend-way,’
no.
‘sorry for the other day. i was anxious and said the wrong thing, but i really wanted your number because i think you’re gorgeous. do you want to go out sometime?’
he sent the message and resisted the urge to chuck his phone across the room. instead, he threw it back down onto the bed, grabbing the nearest pillow and squeezing it as hard as he could.
minutes later, felix heard his phone buzz. he scrambled to pick it up.
‘that’s ok. i was a little disappointed, you’re rly cute :)’
it buzzed again.
‘wanna come over tomorrow and watch a movie or something?’
his fingers shook, trying to type back, ‘sounds great! does 5 work?’
you reacted to his text with a thumbs up, and then he was back to squeezing the pillow.
felix didn’t work the next day. instead, he spent the day showering, squealing, spam-texting friends, and preparing for his first-ever date.
when you opened the doorbell, you were met with quite possibly the cutest sight in the entire world.
there felix was, holding a box of freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies in his shaky hands. “i baked these for you, kind of as an apology, kind of because i wanted to impress you. and i know you like the cookies.”
you giggled at his honesty, letting him inside as you took the box, “thank you felix, you’re such a sweetheart.”
he checked his pulse.
“sorry for the mess. i tried to clean a little, but i don’t have people over often.”
“it’s okay,” he was quick to reassure you, “my house doesn’t look all that clean either. kind of comes with being a human.”
you laughed, taking a seat on the couch. he followed your actions.
“so, about the whole number thing,” he toyed with the rip on his black jeans.
“i thought you were really really beautiful.”
suddenly, he was way too aware of how close you were to him. but he wouldn’t let himself get nervous again.
“one of my coworkers was telling me to ask for your number and i was nervous and thought that you wouldn’t like me like that.”
felix sighed, “so i ended up saying the wrong thing and giving you the wrong idea.”
when he looked back up, you were smiling, holding in laughter. “that’s honestly adorable.”
“really?”
“i got sad, i thought you were just that kind to everyone and that i was developing some crazy ego thinking that a boy as attractive as you would like me.”
“you think i’m attractive?” his ears were on fire by now, completely stiff as you leaned in to look him in the eyes.
“i don’t understand how you don’t know how attractive you are.”
“what do you mean?”
“do i have to spell it out for you?”
“probably.”
“i think you’re gorgeous.”
“i also think the same about you. you looked so cute eating all happily, and when you smile, it makes me want to kiss you.” he chewed his lip, trying to not regret his bold words.
something tense was in the air, something that made felix’s heart pound a thousand times faster.
“then do it.”
felix froze. was he supposed to tell you that he had never kissed a girl before, much less sat this close to one?
“well, are you going to? or are you getting shy again?”
“i’ve never kissed anyone.” he let his heart thud out of his chest at the confession.
your eyes visibly widened, “you? you haven’t had your first kiss?”
“or held hands with a girl. and i’ve never had a girlfriend.”
“that’s impossible.”
“i don’t know how to prove it.”
“your awkwardness does the job.”
you decided to make a move, “but i can show you how if you’d like.”
felix’s mouth went dry, unsure of what to do or say.
“it’ll come naturally. just let it happen,” you smiled reassuringly as he nodded.
climbing onto his open lap, your hands carded through his blonde hair.
you leaned in to meet his lips briefly, his eyes burning into your own.
it was a soft and gentle kiss, just like him. but his eyes were full of desire for more.
“can i have another?” his hands met your back, pulling you into him.
this time, the kiss lasted longer, so much longer that he began craving more of you, so he did what he saw in all the movies.
he slipped his tongue into your mouth, grinning against your lips in pride at his actions.
felix’s hands traveled to your waist as took your word, letting go of his anxieties and doing what came naturally.
and without even realizing it, he began to take the lead.
all of the feelings were overwhelming. the way that you tugged on his hair, how close your bodies were, the way your tongue felt against his own.
he never wanted to stop.
until his phone began ringing.
you pulled away and he let out a shaky breath, slowly opening his eyes to stare at your features up close.
“felix, your phone,” you reminded him.
he jolted out of the daze, reaching for it.
chan.
he was about to just cancel the call when he saw the spam texts, asking where he was.
with a heavy sigh, he answered with you still on his lap.
“did you make up with y/n?”
“be quiet! i’m with her right now!”
you let out a laugh.
“oh! tell her hi!”
felix hung up on his friend with a groan, turning the ringer off.
“can we go back to kissing again?”
“after he’s done blowing you up,” you pointed at the buzzing phone.
Tumblr media
2K notes · View notes