mystic messenger…? In 2025?

“Morning, beautiful. What can I get you?” you sing, putting on your most exaggerated barista manner. She laughs, soft and sleepy.

“I’m sorry you beat me here today,” she says, slipping off her coat. There’s something about the way she looks in the early morning—her hair, which is normally pristine, is just slightly fluffed, like she brushed it a little too fast; her big eyes have a sort of puppy dog quality, as though she can’t quite keep them all the way open. You admire and adore her when she’s put-together and pristine; but when she’s even the tiniest bit in disarray, you find her absolutely intoxicating.

“I wouldn’t have, if…” you trail off, absentmindedly spraying disinfectant on the (already very clean) counter.

“If…?” She joins you behind the bar, hangs her coat on a hook. You pretend not to notice her as she comes up behind you, waiting waiting till you feel her soft, small hand on your side to react. You close your eyes gratefully and tilt your face toward hers; she kisses your lips once, with such gentleness it makes your fingertips tremor.

“Ugh, if you’d just move in with me already,” you whine, dramatically slumping over the counter. Her hand slips from your side up your back, agile fingers finding the tension between your shoulder blades and rubbing it away with the casual ease of someone who knows your body as well as she knows her own.

“It won’t be much longer until we can afford our own place together,” she says, and her sweet voice and her fingers on your back are almost enough to lull you back to sleep—right here, standing in the cafe with your apron on and your face pressed into the counter. “It’s not practical for me to move all my things to your place for us to then have to move again so soon.”

“Not soon enough for me,” you mutter. You don’t mean to be grumpy with her—but it’s just so early, and you had to spend last night alone in bed once again, and her simple good night texts just aren’t cutting it anymore.

She moves away from you then, and you hear the sounds of her rummaging around in the cabinets.

“I know how you feel, but we need to have patience,” she murmurs, and suddenly you feel guilty for whining to her, for laying uselessly across the counter, for behaving like a child. Begrudgingly, you lift your head and begin spraying down the gleaming wood all over again.

“You’re the goddess of patience and self-control and I’m just your grouchy, miserable disciple,” you tell her. You wipe down the counter with big, circular motions; behind you, she’s plugging in the industrial-size coffee grinder, pulling down packets of fresh beans from the cabinet. Even with your back turned, you can sense her movements. You’ve memorized all her patterns: the way she carefully unrolls the tops of the brown paper bags of coffee beans, leans forward and takes one tiny sniff, closes her eyes to enjoy the scent for a moment, then rapidly gets to work, pouring the beans in the grinder with a businesslike efficiency.

You can’t help but grin as you hear the beans cascading into the grinder—just on time.

She’s quiet for a moment as she grinds the beans. She doesn’t like to shout over the sound, and you don’t ask her to. You tuck your rag back into your apron pocket and move into the larger dining space, start setting chairs upright at the tables.

You peer at her out of the corner of your eye as you carefully arrange the chairs: perfectly symmetrical, four around each little round table. Her tongue pokes out a tiny bit as she focuses on the coffee, and you know she’s counting in her head. It’s these little things that first drew you to her—the quiet, meticulous way she works to make things just right. And as you grew to love her, you uncovered the unbridled desperation with which she quests for perfection, and you fell in love with this, too—her longing, her prudence.

You turn over the last chair and survey the dining room: it’s neat, just the way you like it; the dark wood is scrubbed clean and the tabletops shimmer.

Jaehee finishes grinding the coffee. 

“You’re not my disciple,” she says simply, and at first you don’t remember what she’s responding to. But she always remembers—never leaves you hanging, never leaves a thought unanswered. She pauses and you see from the way her hand lingers too long on the side of the coffee grinder that she has more to say. “And I’m not as patient as you seem to think I am,” she says at last, her voice unexpectedly quiet. 

“Oh?”

On the pretense of bringing her the glass jar for the freshly-ground beans, you move closer to the counter. You’re surprised to see that she’s blushing, a light pink dusted over her cheeks. It doesn’t seem like she’s going to say more, so you slip around the bar and set the jar beside her, slide an arm around her waist. She squirms delightfully at your touch.

“What on earth could my perfect girlfriend be impatient about?” you say into her ear. She shuts her eyes and exhales, sounding a little unsteady. Again, you’re taken aback—it’s usually not so easy to affect her, especially here at the cafe. You’ve tried—oh, you’ve tried to flirt with her while working, skating a hand over her hip as she peers into the pastry case, winking at her from across the crowded dining area—but normally she’s so composed here, all efficiency and priorities.

But now—and maybe because it’s still dark out, practically nighttime, and maybe it’s because your schedules have prevented you from spending the night together for days—she’s flustered, cheeks distinctly pink, body frozen in place. So you take advantage of the rare moment of weakness, experimentally sliding your hand down to the small of her back. She keeps her eyes closed but you hear her breath hitch in her throat. Interesting.

“I have to start the drip coffee,” she whispers, but she’s leaning into your touch. You love her at all times: chatting with customers, hair tucked cutely behind her ears; trying out a new recipe, eyebrows knitted with concentration; falling into your bed at night, looking so small and lovable in a too-big t-shirt. But you love her like this perhaps the most: face pink, open, vulnerable; every muscle in her body on high alert and attuned to you.

“So start the coffee,” you say. “Don’t mind me.”

She laughs, and it turns into a startled cough as you shift so you’re behind her, arms wrapping around her waist, dancing over the front of her neatly-pressed apron.

She chokes out your name, scolding, and you giggle.

“You can multi-task, right?” You slide your hands lower, feeling her prominent hip bones through the apron. You press your nose into her back, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo: coconut and vanilla.

She hesitates, and you think she might push you away; “Later,” she’ll say—patient as always, cool as a cucumber. But: “I’m making the coffee,” she says. “I take no responsibility for—whatever you’re going to do.”

Your heart skips a beat. Pressed against her back, you feel the way her muscles tense, anticipating your touch. Above the counter, her efficient little hands busy themselves with the coffee maker. Under the counter, you drift your hands lower, over the smooth fabric of her skirt, pulling it taut against her thighs.

She fills the coffee pot with cool water from the sink that’s, thankfully, within reach; you glide your hands down her thighs, questing for the bottom of her skirt, where the soft, neat fabric flares out just below her knees.

You find the bottom edge and grasp it in one hand, bunching it up against her legs. She pours the water into the coffee maker, her pink tongue peeking out over her lip again. If not for the tiny bit of water that spills over the side of the coffee pot—so unlike her—you’d never know anything was out of the ordinary.

“Could you tell me what it is you were impatient for?” you whisper into the back of her neck. You can see she gets goosebumps at the feeling of your breath, so you part her hair and, experimentally, exhale directly on the skin. She noticeably shivers.

“Suffice it to say I was thinking about you,” she says, voice a little high-pitched, and you giggle and slide one hand up her thigh. Her skin is warm and supple under your fingertips. With the hand that’s not exploring under her skirt, you caress her side, over her arm.

“What were you thinking about me?” you ask her. Your hand quests higher, just barely grazing her underwear. She doesn’t make a sound, but you can feel how fast her heart is beating.

“I was…I just…ahhh.” She tries valiantly, but you graze her underwear again, startled and delighted to find a tiny spot of wetness on her perfect satin panties. 

“Don’t you need to make the coffee?” you murmur into her ear, peppering little kisses down the side of it and then taking her earlobe into your mouth. You suck it gently and feel her shoulders quiver.

“I…y-yes.” She’s been frozen in place, but now she goes for the coffee filters, puts one in. You rub your index finger over her underwear again and she deposits the filter into the coffee maker with perhaps too much force. You stroke her again, making a slow, tight circle with your finger; you pull her hair off her neck with your other hand, tug your fingers through it. She tilts her head back, but her legs are steady.

You want to see her unsteady.

So you curl your finger, flicking it against the silky fabric of her underwear. She’s persistent, stubborn—even as you feel the way her body is shaking against yours, she scoops a small, deliciously scented heap of coffee into the filter.

You increase the pressure the tiniest bit, flit your finger more quickly against her, and she keens, back arching as the scoop falls from her hand. There’s coffee on the floor.

“Oh, I need to…”

She reflexively bends, as if to clean up the spilled coffee; and you know it goes against all of her instincts, but you stop her with a firm hand on her shoulder, spin her to face you. The look on her face is almost too much for you: her eyes are gigantic above her pink cheeks. You feel your own legs quivering and remind yourself that she’s the one you want to see unraveled. You press her back against the counter with both hands and her eyelids flutter shut, the spilled coffee forgotten. You bunch up her skirt again, more vigorously this time, and slip a hand up and under the waistband of her panties.

You know better—you’re probably breaking about a million health code regulations right now, and you see in her eyes that she’s thinking about that too. But then you slip one warm, questing finger inside her, curling it upwards, and the anxiety on her face dissolves instantly.

“Was this what you were thinking about when you missed me last night?” you ask her. With your thumb, you put pressure on her clit again—its hot beneath the pad of your finger, pulsing as though relieved to be touched again. She stammers something you can’t understand, and you curl your finger inside her, making a little circle on her clit with your thumb at the same time.

She’s shivering now, fingers grasping at your waist. You slide your finger deeper and she grabs at you harder, and finally—finally—you see her give in, letting out a quiet, beautiful moan as her legs give out and she clutches at your waist for support. You brace her with one hand and push her harder into the counter, continuing your unrelenting pressure on her clit.

She’s shaking, shaking, and move your finger inside her, holding her tight as she trembles violently against you.

“Take a deep breath,” you murmur, and she does, and you move your fingers to the rhythm of her heartbeat. As she exhales, you insert a second finger into her, curling up beside the first; this undoes her completely, and her head falls forward onto your shoulder as she comes, hands grasping handfuls of your apron.

She’s panting and you stroke her hair off her face with one hand. Her shirt has come untucked and her skirt is bunched around her hips. And she’s every bit as perfect like this—flushed and needy—as she is when she’s composed and coolheaded.

“Was it okay that I did that?” you whisper into her hair—too little too late, you think, but suddenly you’re so conscious of the large, empty dining area behind you, the coffee grounds on the floor.

She doesn’t say anything. “Sweetheart?”

She lifts her head to yours and there’s a mischievous twinkle there, a look you’ve rarely seen—once or twice, lying beside you on her perfectly-made bed, but certainly never here in the cafe.

She kisses your lips, quick and soft, taking you by surprise.

“There’s something I’d like to do, and it…it’s probably not a good idea.”

You grin. “Whatever it is, I’m in.”

She takes you by the hand, interlacing her delicate fingers with yours. You follow wordlessly as she leads you into the dining area. The curtains are drawn, but you still feel somehow exposed.

“Would you please…um, sit on the table?” she asks. Her gaze is averted and she hasn’t bothered to fix her untucked shirt. You want to fix it for her. You feel nervous, suddenly, and you can’t explain why.

But you obey her, because of course you do—sliding up on the table with ease. And she’s touching you, her coffee-scented hands on your legs, her efficient fingers untying your apron, unzipping your pants.

And for a moment, you’re lost—lost in her soft fingers on your thighs as she tugs your pants over your hips. But then you look up and see the cute sea glass light fixture, and oh my god, you’re in the cafe right now, and your heart starts pounding.

“Jaehee, this…”

She looks back at you with such adoration that you’re lost for words.

“Will you let me do this for you?” Her fingers are on your underwear now, pulling it down your legs, and it’s happening so quickly, and your head’s spinning, and that stupid light fixture is swinging back and forth over your head like a pendulum.

“The…table,” you mutter.

“This is what disinfectant is for,” she says, and you think god, we’ll have to bleach the whole damn place, and then you stop thinking entirely as she tugs your underwear all the way off in one swift motion and her head disappears from your line of sight as she sinks to her knees.

You lean back, propping yourself on the table with your elbows, and you know what’s coming right before it happens—you tremble in anticipation, feeling vulnerable and desperate.

Her tongue flits over you, warm and startling and delightful. You hold your breath, arms shaking beneath you as her tongue caresses you, darting in and out of her mouth. You lean back further, closing your eyes and let the sensations roll over you like an ocean wave. She moves faster now and your hips rock upward involuntarily as her tongue dances over you, tearing you apart so impossibly gently.

Sensing your need, she gives you more, increasing the pressure, turning your head around. You can hardly feel the hard wood table beneath you anymore, and the light fixture means nothing, and you’re no longer at work but in a void full of only you and her.

She slips her finger where her mouth was and kisses up the soft skin where your hip meets your thigh. Her finger takes up the rhythm her tongue began and your body is dissolving like salt in water.

And then her mouth is on you again, and you think you say her name, leaning forward, twisting yourself into an impossible position as you tangle a hand in her hair. And even like this, bent almost double on the cafe table, your thighs are shaking uncontrollably and the room is dissolving around you.

You can’t take it anymore; your head is going to explode; and you open your eyes and see the light fixture dangling above you again, and the empty room that’s usually full of chattering customers, and her tongue darts out again, and again, and again, and you’re gasping for air, legs flopping helplessly against the hard wood.

One last wave crests and breaks over you and you let yourself go. Jaehee grips your thighs with both hands, holding you in place, and you feel indistinguishable, meaningless sounds tearing from your throat as you forget who, or where, you are.

And then it’s quiet. Quiet and so still.

Vaguely, you feel her pulling away, standing up and curling her little hands into yours. She’s warm against you and you lean into her instinctively; she kisses your forehead, your ear, your shoulder. She’s saying something and you have to shake your head to clear it, desperately tugging yourself back to reality.

“…do that,” she says, laughing the soft laugh that makes you think of the bells on the door of the cafe.

“Um,” you manage. You have to catch your breath. “What did you say?”

“I absolutely cannot believe we did that,” she repeats. You’ve still got the height advantage, perched on the table, and she leans her face on your chest. You envelop her, wrapping both arms around her neck.

“I’m serious,” you tell her after a moment. “You have to move in with me.”

She pulls away a little and you pat the spot beside you on the table. She hesitates, deliberates—then something breaks in her eyes and she hops up beside you. You rest your head on her shoulder.

“Why?” she asks.

“Because if we keep spending nights apart we’re going to keep fucking in the coffee shop,” you say.

“You really shouldn’t say ‘fuck’ at work,” she says reflexively, and you burst out laughing, shaking the little table.

“You just ate me out on a table. In the dining room. Of our cafe. And you’re lecturing me about swearing?”

She pauses as if she’s not sure what to say to that; you take her hand and squeeze it and she squeezes back.

“We’re going to have to disinfect everything in here now,” she says slowly. “Twice. Three times. At least.”

You raise your entwined hands and press a kiss to her wrist, holding it there for a moment to feel the way her pulse quickens. Then you let go, hopping off the table with energy you didn’t know you had.

“Good thing we got here early, then,” you say. You turn back to look at her and there’s the most beautiful look of surprise and puzzlement on her face. Then she laughs.

“Yes,” she says. “And by the way, I’m planning to sleep at your apartment tonight.”

You crawl onto the bed—and unlike her, you leave wrinkles. You slip into place behind her; she is quiet as you lift your hands to her shoulders—still as you run your thumbs over her tense muscles.

You press harder, and she sighs: a tiny sound, like a small animal going to sleep. 

“It’s okay if you’re sad,” you tell her. You aren’t sure if sad is quite the word you mean, but somehow it feels right. She grieves her mistakes, you think—she is heartbroken when she thinks she has failed.

“Oh, I’m not—” she begins. But she stops herself. She is learning, day by day, that she doesn’t have to be resilient and strong when she’s here, in her own home, with your hands on her skin. “I shouldn’t be,” she corrects. But this isn’t quite right, either.

“You either feel bad or you don’t feel bad,” you tell her—and your voice sounds too stern, you think, but you want her to listen. “Should is irrelevant.”

She sighs again: louder this time, like the wind in the trees. You press your thumbs harder into the spot where her neck meets her shoulders and she shifts beneath you, like she just might allow you to unwrap the hard shell she’s worn all day. 

“Will you let me tell you a story?” you ask her. She makes a sound that’s almost a laugh, because she knows this game.

“It depends on the story,” she says. There’s a catch in her voice that tells you she knows just what you are going to say.

“You’ll like it,” you tell her. You run your fingers down her back. Her shirt—stiff and perfectly pressed, even after a day at work—is in the way, you think. You wrap an arm around her waist, going for the buttons, and she shivers delightfully. “Make it easier for me?” you ask her.

She is already on it, deft fingers flying over the buttons. You sit back on your heels as she shrugs it off; wait patiently as she folds it (she always does).

“It’s a story,” you say, fingers on her smooth skin now—pressing between her shoulder blades, feeling for the points of tension—“about a beautiful shop owner. She was intelligent and practical and absolutely captivating.”

She laughs—a real one this time—pulling her long hair to the front so it’s out of your way.

“I’m not captivating,” she says.

“Who said it was about you?”

You can tell that she’s smiling; she knows this part of the game, too. She knows it all—just like she knows the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when she makes you laugh; the way you mutter to yourself when you’re getting ready in the morning; the face you make whenever she calls your name.

“Go on,” she says. She is weaving her fingers her fingers through her hair, tying it into a neat little braid. You slip her bra straps off her shoulders and rub away the lines they’ve left on her perfect skin.

“The charming—and also very sexy—shop owner did one million things every day,” you continue. You run your fingers down her back and she makes another tiny little sound—so you slide them under the waistband of her skirt, rub your thumbs along her spine. “She knew it was that many, because she counted. And she did every single one of them with care and grace. She was almost always perfect.”

Jaehee arches her back, and you slide a hand around her side and undo the single cloth button that’s holding her skirt on. It puddles beautifully around her hips, and your hands dip lower, making gentle circles on her lower back.

“But even though she was a princess, she was human,” you continue—and Jaehee cuts you off with a soft laugh, reaching back to lay a hand on your knee.

“I thought she was a shop owner, not a princess,” she murmurs. You blow on her neck and she shudders.

“Hush,” you tell her. “She was both, of course. And being human meant that, even though she did nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine things perfectly every day, sometimes there was one thing left over, and that made her sad.”

Jaehee is only half-listening to your story, you think. She is listening to your hands, too: tasting them on her skin. You skate your fingers around her front, run them up her thigh. Her breathing is shallow.

“Not—sad,” she says—gasping more than speaking—and you grin.

“She looked so long and hard at that one thing,” you murmur—inching your fingers across her thigh, pressing your lips to her shoulder—“that she forgot about the other nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine things she did perfectly that day. Do you want to know what some of those things were?”

You ghost a finger over her underwear and she hisses a syllable that sounds like yes.

“She woke up at sunrise,” you tell her. “She got dressed in the dark and somehow ended up looking like she’d walked out of the pages of a fashion magazine. And she—did I mention that she had a prince?”

She is so warm. You move your finger against her—so soft, so slow—and she makes the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard: a sort of humming, tremulous and needy.

“She did,” you say. “She had a prince, and she made him a beautiful cup of coffee in the morning. She wrote his initials in the foam.”

You tug her underwear to the side and she slips out of it—so quick, letting it fall to the floor. She is messy, you think, only for you.

“She opened up her shop all by herself—her prince had the day off, you see. She made hundreds of perfect cups of coffee. She baked a new kind of bread she’d come up with that smelled like it was made by the angels themselves. She smiled at people who were kind to her and people who were in a hurry and people who weren’t nice at all.”

You flutter your index finger against her and she reaches back with both hands to grasp your thighs. You lean forward—press your cheek against hers.

“But even the people who weren’t nice could see how magnificent she was,” you say. You slip a finger inside her and she squeezes your legs like she is afraid she is going to fall. 

“She was,” you say, moving faster, faster—feeling her tremble, holding her steady with your other hand on her hip, “unbeatable.”

She falls apart.

And you go with her—copying the shaking of her hips with your fingers; matching her rhythms, chasing her heartbeat.

Her breathing slows. You follow her.

“Oh,” she says. Then she is turning in your arms, wrapping her legs around your waist and pressing her lips to yours. She’s rainfall-soft like this: shaky and longing. “I’m jealous,” she purrs.

“Of what?”

“Of that woman!” she tells you. She draws back and her cheeks are pink and her eyes are bright and her hair has fallen out of its braid. “It sounds like you love her a lot.”

You laugh, because she is teasing you—because her hair is a mess and she doesn’t know—because she is smiling now, and her muscles feel like melted butter under your fingertips.

“It was you all along, princess,” you say. Her hands are on your waist, now—creeping under your shirt, skimming over your skin. It is your turn to shiver.

“Would you tell me more,” she whispers, “about what I am?”

Jaehee sees everything. She hears the heartbeat in words; she understands the rhythms in her neat and beautiful world. She feels your thoughts and tastes your infatuation.

And you see her, too—for everything that she is. Ferociously tender. Exquisitely imperfect. 

And: “Mine,” you tell her. “You’re mine.”

Her smile shimmers. “Without a doubt.”

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Let me know if you’d like to be added to my taglist!

Zen

This suggestion of yours comes off as completely unexpected for him, if not outright odd. Zen will feel a bit weird about this at first since he's so determined to be the 'caretaker' in your relationship, but it's really about him never receiving such a lighthearted form of affection before in his life. He's a giver, but there's more to that side of him than just him enjoying spoiling his lover, although that's very much true as well. There's nothing wrong about letting your partner dote on you sometimes! So, go on, catch him off guard as he nervously babbles on about you not needing to do something like that for him. No words are needed, just lift him up into your arms and shut him up with a loving kiss to his lips. And oh, he will melt at that. It's honestly kind of amusing to see Zen get so bright red in the face as he stares at you with this totally lovestruck look in his eyes. Will giggle like an awkward lovestruck teenager about it. He really likes this... It'll just take him some time to admit it out loud.

Jaehee

Now, she's the type to get all defensive and respectfully refuse your offer at first. Why? Well, she says that it's simply a silly thing to do and there's no comprehensive point to it... but, in reality, she's embarrassed and a little bit self-conscious about herself. After all, if you pick her up like that, you'll be that much closer to each other! What if she's too heavy or you won't like something about her up-close? Jaehee, much like Zen, is someone not used to receiving affection or being doted on. It's a bit overwhelming to her, and she's scared of accidentally pushing you away with her awkward reactions. So, you'll need to have a quick talk with her about this. Reassure her that you just want to try something new with her and see how both of you feel about it! Once she does agree to it, she'll still be all shy and nervous, but it does help ease her insecurities once she sees that you are, in fact, having the time of your life twirling her around. She even managed to chuckle with you eventually. Despite her initial thoughts, Jaehee finds that she genuinely enjoys feeling like a smaller person between the two of you, especially after a stressful day at your cafe. She won't ask you to pick her up outright... but, she's really easy to read whenever she wants you to hold her, whether she realizes it or not. You never tell her this, though. She just thinks that you're a very perceptive person.

Jumin

Oddly enough? He finds this idea genuinely intriguing. Now he wants to try this out just to see whether or not you can actually lift him off of the ground (he is the tallest character in the game after all!). Of course, he'll be very careful with you, since the last thing he wants is for you to get hurt. But... well, he believes in you! It's a rather funny sight to see: with you grunting and huffing in pure determination as you slink your arms around his waist, all while Jumin is standing there as stiff as a telephone pole to not throw off your balance on accident, blurting out occasional encouragements such as 'you can do this, darling.' He's a sweetheart. Elizabeth is definitely having the time of her life watching you guys struggle, though. Oh, but once you do manage to pick him up? He's awestruck, but not surprised. He knew you could do it! After all, if there's one person who can do the impossible, it's you. Jumin is honestly almost as excited about this as you are. It'll take him a couple of minutes to actually relish in the feeling of your arms gripping his waist and your chest being pressed up against his. This is... really nice, he thinks. He likes this.

Saeyoung

Saeyoung is the type of person who daydreams about being carried around like a pretty princess he is but is too shy to say it to you. Well, no, to be more precise, he's too shy to say it to you outright. He'll joke around the topic quite often but will play it off as nothing but some mischief on his part. He wants to be cooed and coddled over... but he has trouble with voicing his needs. It's one thing for him to spoil you rotten, and it's completely another to ask for that himself. So, your best bet is to just... go for it. Catch him off guard as he's joking about him being your prettiest princess and lift him into your arms bridal style. If you thought you saw Saeyoung flustered before, you saw wrong. His face will become almost the same color as his hair as he stares up at you, choking on his own words. It's painfully obvious that he likes this, though. So, go on, whisper to him about how pretty he is with a soft smile on your face. He will bury his face into the crook of your neck, but you can see the outline of a giddy smile as he does that. It's time to spoil your defender of justice!

Jihyun

It'll definitely take you some effort to pick up this man. But hey, with enough determination and perseverance, you can do anything! Jihyun will be worried about you straining yourself, though. He'll even get you some plush pillows and a thick blanket so that if you do fall, you won't hurt yourself. His biggest fear is him falling atop of you, so be ready for him to twist himself at impossible angles just so that you won't tumble under him. You might even have to scold him about it since it's just not right for him to fall onto the hard floor while you get the advantage of a soft blanket! Once you do manage to successfully lift him off of the ground, though? He... kind of just goes limp on you, like a cat being grabbed by the scruff of their neck. It's partly because he doesn't want to ruin this and partly because this is so odd for him. Jihyun has never been picked up like this before! (And no, Saeyoung carrying him on his back out of Magenta does not count.) He does relax a bit once you giggle and coo over how cute he is when he's surprised. He may or may not get inspired for a new painting depicting the weightless bliss of your love's embrace. Is it cheesy? Yes. Do you mind? Of course not.

Ray

He won't like the idea of it at first. In his eyes, he's supposed to be the prince to carry you around in his arms! Besides, it's kind of scary to him. He makes sure to look presentable to you at all times, but if you pull him so close to you... surely you'll notice just how boney and thin he is under all those layers keeping his body hidden from view. Surely you'll get disgusted by him. He doesn't want that. So, Ray will need some gentle coaxing before you manage to pick him up. He needs to feel safe to agree to this. So, it might take you a few tries. Give him time to think it over! Reassure him with a gentle smile on your face and compliment him to the best of your abilities, without pushing too hard, of course! It's kind of like getting a jumpy cat to accept your pets in that sense. Once he does agree, it's best to be gentle and patient with him. He might get overwhelmed in the process or start feeling very insecure about himself. He'd also feel bad for getting so emotional over such a trivial thing. Once you two get passed all of this at your own pace, though? Ray will like it way more than he thought he would. Being held by you like this... Oh, it makes him feel so warm and safe. He can't help but wish you could stay like this forever. This might be a good chance for you to dip your head down and kiss him on the cheek, calling him your favorite prince. He will think about that for days to come, that's for sure.

Suit Saeran

Honestly, the only way I can imagine you getting a chance to pick up this man is over a stupid dare or something. Believe it or not, this Saeran is fairly easy to manipulate once you figure out how he thinks. Of course, you'd never do anything to hurt him... But, what's so bad about having a little fun? So, go ahead, boast about how easy it would be for you to lift him up. He won't believe you, outright laughing at you for even suggesting that you can pick him up like that. And, just like that, he falls right into your trap. With a cocky glint in his eyes, he challenges you to put your money where your mouth is, since you're so sure of yourself. Unfortunately for him, that's just what you've been waiting for. So, go ahead, scoop him up like the scrunkly kitty he is, and watch his jaw drop. He's so shocked that he won't even get angry at you right away. But, once he does come to his senses, he'll quickly wrench himself away from your arms and start an argument right on the spot. Mostly, because he feels threatened. How can you just- pick him up like he weighs nothing nothing? That's not right! He's the strong one! Now you have a very offended Saeran on your hands that is absolutely determined to prove you wrong and pick you up next time. Will he actually succeed, though? Who knows.

GE Saeran

Oh, he will outward ask you to carry him around the house almost daily. Why not? He likes having your arms wrapped around him like the warmest blanket! Plus, this gives him a chance to just relax and admire your beauty, what more could he ask for? You two may or may not have created a wordless signal for you to literally carry him out of the room if he wishes to leave for some reason. Mostly to avoid his brother's stupid shenanigans. He doesn't have to deal with that. He'd much rather get carried away in the arms of his love without any care in the world, much to the surprise of Saeyoung the first time this happened. Saeran genuinely finds it so amazing that you can just pick him up like that. Will ask you tons of questions about how you even manage to do that. Are you naturally strong? Or are you working out? Or maybe he's just perfectly fitted to be picked up by you? He'd call it fate.

VAE Ray

Now, this is a tricky one. You have to be very careful with him! Not only because of his own nervousness but also because of his burns. It's not impossible to pick him up, but you'll need to talk it out first and then try as you go. VAE Ray is more open to the idea of getting picked up by you, but he has no idea what's the best way to do this! He never was carried in someone's arms like this. It'll be a bit awkward and silly as you two take it one step at a time. Does it hurt when you put your hands here? Or there? Is it okay for you to squeeze his side a bit? Or is it uncomfortable? It's a shared effort between the two of you. But... it makes Ray feel very touched to have you so concerned about his well-being. It feels nice. And once you do manage to successfully pick him up in your arms without any discomfort for him, he can't help but gently nuzzle into your shoulder, his heart absolutely melting from this lovely feeling.

Unknown

Much like Suit Saeran, he won't believe you at first. But, in contrast with Suit, Unknown has no desire to argue about something so stupid. You just can't and that's that, now get back to work. He has no time for these idiotic shenanigans of yours! So... well, you gotta take him by surprise. But, not completely. Unknown is a very jumpy person, so just lunging at him like that wouldn't be the best idea for both of you. Play around with the idea at first, make a few teasing remarks as you two work on your individual duties. He'll only scoff, but it's a start. Give him a few verbal warnings. He should know that you're planning something. If you're already acting annoying, he has some idea of what to expect. He just doesn't believe that you can actually pick him up. Unknown rarely leaves his workspace, but once he does, now's your chance. And, once you do lift him from the ground? Well, it's the first time you saw such a shocked expression on his face. Though, he does start struggling and arguing with you after a few fleeting moments of shocked silence. Was it worth the punishment you'll probably get for such a bold move? Well, that's for you to decide.

SE Saeran

SE Saeran is not one for physical contact. There are things he's okay with, there are things he's not okay with, and there are many, many things he doesn't know how to feel about. Truth is, he's just not used to positive physical contact with people. He learns at his own pace, but... it's still disheartening at times. It feels like there's something inherently wrong with him or something, even if he tries to distract himself from these negative thoughts as he works on himself in therapy. So, while you can bring this up with him in a playful manner, I don't really see him wanting to try that. He'll find it intriguing, though. Are you really that strong? That's impressive. He'll pat you on the head for that. While you might not get to pick him up... he'll use that idea of yours differently. So, that's how you end up throwing Saeyoung over your shoulder and carrying him out of the room after he tried and failed to make pancakes. It tugs a genuinely amused chuckle out of Saeran as he watches you go. And who knows? Maybe one day, he won't mind trying this out with you. It's not a 'no' it's a 'not now'. And you're perfectly okay with that.

Rika

I genuinely think she's more or less used to people suggesting that to her. It's easy to pick her up! She's compact! At least, that's how you word it, much to her amusement. She doesn't mind it, really, especially if she sees just how excited you are about this. So, go ahead, twirl her around in your arms like the princess she is, and see her squeal and giggle in delight. Her laugh is extremely contagious, so by the time you put her down, you're both laughing like there's no tomorrow. Rika is not going to go out of her way to ask you to pick her up, but she definitely has no issue with that. It makes her happy to see you happy. She definitely has a soft spot for being carried bridal style, though. She's usually all cheeky and flirty with you whenever you pick her up, but if you lift her in bridal style and look down at her with a loving smile on your face? Oh, she's an absolute mess. Still, it's way too endearing to see her try and hide her giddy smile in her golden locks as her face grows redder and redder by the second. Just be careful, since she will pay you back tenfold for that. Not that you're complaining, of course.

Vanderwood