୭🧷✧˚. ᵎᵎ 🎀

Minho didn’t do flashy.

He didn’t need to. He did exclusive.

Her Gucci collection didn’t come from store shelves.

It came from private appointments, whispered calls, and sketches sent to his inbox for approval. Each one designed with her in mind.

A velvet handbag dyed to match the flush on her cheeks when she came for him.

A pair of gold heels engraved with his initials under the sole, so she’d always have him beneath her.

A perfume created by the Gucci lab with notes of peach nectar and white musk — he named it “Mine.”

“I want her to smell like she belongs to me,” he’d told them. “And something sweet. She is sweet.”

He never let her see the invoices.

She didn’t need to.

He’d slide rings onto her fingers mid-conversation, like it was nothing.

Fold jackets over her shoulders in rooms that weren’t cold, just to see her wear his name.

And when Gucci sent over a mini-dress designed for events — deep green silk, bare-backed, dripping with subtle crystals — he only had one response:

“She’ll wear it at home. No one else gets to see her in that.”

And she did.

In their bedroom.

With nothing underneath but a thong he bought to match.

────୨ৎ────

He once got her a travel bag.

Cream leather, soft as sin. Her initials embossed in rose gold on the side.

She laughed. “I don’t travel enough to need this.”

“You will,” he said, zipping it open. “Check the inside.”

She did.

It was packed.

With envelopes.

Each one labeled in his neat, sharp handwriting:

• Paris – for the kiss on the Seine.

• Tokyo – for the night we stay in.

• Milan – for the Gucci headquarters. I want them to see how perfect you are in person.

He’d planned it all. First class, black cars, suites with balconies — and a new outfit for each destination, custom-tailored to her measurements.

“Minho,” she whispered, teary-eyed.

He only smiled, pulling her into his lap. “Told you. You don’t lift a finger unless it’s to touch me.”

And she did.

────୨ৎ────

He swore he just came for a wallet.

Simple. Clean. Black leather, nothing flashy — just something to replace the worn one he’d been using for three years.

But the second she sighed, it was over.

Minho followed her gaze without a word.

The bag was a soft cream Gucci Jackie — butter leather and gold hardware. She didn’t even say anything, just looked once and turned away like it was nothing.

Like she didn’t know he noticed.

He tapped the glass counter lazily. “We’ll take the bag too.”

The cashier brightened. “Anything else? It comes in a set with three—”

“Yes,” he cut in. Didn’t even let her finish.

His Girl turned, eyes wide. “Wait—”

“Choose the other bags,” he said simply, leaning back on the counter. “Whatever you want, kitten.”

The cashier smiled. “Follow me, Miss.”

This wasn’t the first time. Not with Minho.

Her collection was ridiculous by now, a full spectrum of spoiling.

Minho never blinked. Never asked twice.

He just gave.

Like the day he came home with a little velvet box and pulled out a diamond collar.

Not a choker. Not jewelry.

A collar — dainty but unmistakable. With his name engraved in cursive at the center, studded with tiny black diamonds.

“Come here,” he’d said that night, low and calm, snapping it around her throat.

“Now everyone knows who my kitten is, right?”

He’d tilted her chin up, kissed her mouth softly.

And then ruined her on the floor like she was made to be taken with his name glittering at her neck.

God, he loved how it looked when she went down on him like that.

Diamond collar catching the light. Tears sparkling on her cheeks. His hand fisted in her hair while she gagged so sweetly around him.

“Mine,” he’d growled, hips thrusting deeper, “look how fucking pretty my girl is like this.”

Minho didn’t just spoil. He claimed.

────୨ৎ────

He cooked for her like it was sacred.

Wouldn’t let her near a single knife or pan. Just sat her on the counter, fed her from the spoon, kissed her when she whined.

“Let me help—”

“No.”

“But—”

“No, kitten. Sit there and look pretty.”

He’d press kisses to her knee. Sometimes he’d undo the straps of her dress and fuck her right there against the fridge before the water even boiled. He liked to see her tits bounce.

She was soft. Sweet. So good for him.

And he?

He was everything. Rich, controlled, a little dangerous — but hers.

────୨ৎ────

It wasn’t supposed to be used like this.

The scarf had been a gift — crimson silk, embroidered with tiny cats and cherries, a nod to her two favorite things. He’d tied it gently around her neck when he first gave it to her, pressing a kiss just beneath the knot.

But now, it was wet with spit and stuffed between her lips.

“Shhh, baby,” Minho cooed, thumbing away a tear from the corner of her eye. “You’re being so good for me, aren’t you?”

She whimpered, breath catching as he thrust deeper — slow, thick strokes that made her toes curl.

He was behind her, one hand fisted in her hair, the other resting on the small of her back, keeping her arched just the way he liked.

The scarf fluttered with every moan she choked on. Her Gucci gift — now her gag — pressed into her tongue like another brand of ownership.

And he loved it.

Loved seeing her spoiled and ruined, all at once.

A trembling doll made just for him.

“I should buy you another,” he murmured, voice low and amused. “One for every time I make you cry on my cock.”

He pulled back slightly, admiring the string of saliva that connected them to the scarf.

“Maybe one for every orgasm too. Hm?”

She could only sob in response, her walls fluttering around him like she was already saying yes.

────୨ৎ────

Minho had one room in their house locked.

She wasn’t supposed to go in.

But she peeked anyway, one day when he was gone for schedules.

What she found was a vault.

Dozens of boxes. Wrapped. Labeled.

Gucci. Cartier. Loewe. Rare editions. Archived pieces.

All neatly stacked, waiting for the right moment.

Shoes she hadn’t worn yet.

Dresses he never let her even see.

She was still standing there, stunned, when he walked in.

Caught red-handed.

“Tch,” he clicked his tongue. “Curious kitten.”

Before she could apologize, he was already lifting her.

He sat her down — right on top of the stacked boxes. Velvet, silk, leather beneath her thighs.

She gasped.

“Since you’re up here,” he said, pushing her skirt up with slow fingers, “might as well give you a reason to come back.”

Her back hit the wall of the closet. He slid in without warning, one hand around her throat, his other gripping her thigh.

“Every one of these gifts,” he grunted against her ear, “is yours. But I’m your favorite, right?”

She nodded desperately, gasping against his mouth.

“Say it.”

“You,” she whimpered. “You’re my favorite gift.”

He smiled.

And made her scream that line three more times.

────୨ৎ────

But oh — she was in love with him. Not just the diamonds or the handbags or the silken scarf still damp with the memory of him.

No, she loved the way he looked at her when she was curled up on the couch in his hoodie, hair a mess, a cat asleep on each thigh.

She loved how he melted when she fed his babies before he even got the chance — Soonie, Doongie, and Dori happily flocking to her, as if she’d always belonged.

And he did too.

Some nights, he came home exhausted. His limbs heavy from hours of practice, his voice hoarse, his energy drained. But then he opened the door — and there she was.

His girl. His home.

Bundled up in the blanket he always said was too warm, half-asleep, a drama playing on low volume, and the cats purring beside her like guardians.

Her eyes lit up when she saw him.

“You’re back,” she whispered.

And he’d kneel at her feet, bury his face in her stomach, arms wrapped around her waist like a man starved.

“You stayed up?”

“Always.”

Because no matter how much he spoiled her — she was the one who gave him peace. Who gave him softness. Who never let him go to bed without a kiss, or leave the house without a snack.

He pressed his lips to hers, slow and sleepy.

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever bought,” he teased, and she smacked his arm.

“I’m not for sale.”

“Exactly,” he murmured. “You’re priceless.”

And she was.

The one thing he couldn’t put in a shopping bag.

He's normally so collected, so stable. He is in control, he has everything under control. He keeps the staring to a minimum. He doesn't push you, he stays within the boundaries he ought to as a friend. He allows you to cuddle with him and goof off the way you always do, never letting the darker parts of him take over when you do. He never takes advantage of your comfort with him. But today he just can't be that man.

The day started off rough. The whole week he's been overworked, his family won't stop hounding him about getting a girlfriend and visiting for an upcoming holiday he doesn't care about. And probably worst of all, you've begun coming over to his place and stealing his clothes when you hang out. You say it's more comfortable, he loses a little part of his self control to the wind every time.

It also doesn't help that just last night his stupid roommate Minho decided to tell you that you look hot in Jisung's clothes. You blushed so sweetly at the compliment but Jisung knows his hyung wasn't flirting with you. Not genuinely anyway, he was flirting with you on Jisung's behalf. Riling him up. Teasing him.

He's a cruel man.

Which brings Jisung to the current moment. He closes the door behind you as you enter the house, he kicks off his shoes as he watches you send a casual wave to Minho who leans lazily against the counter. The dark haired man smirks and ushers you over with a single finger and Jisung only narrows his eyes with clenching fists when you prance over to him with light steps and let him feed you a cookie. Minho treats you like you're his cat. 

The sight is adorable really, the older man laughs with sparkling eyes and ruffles your hair and you giggle at him and step on his foot. On purpose he figures. Minho retaliates with a tickle attack that has your beautiful laughter echoing through the room. Melodic, cheerful, utterly carefree. It should make him happy to see the two of you getting along, normally it would too. He's not even a jealous guy. But today it just pisses him off.

He rolls his eyes and comes over to grab your wrist and drag you off. You let him but turn around slightly as you're pulled off. Minho laughs again, the playful glint in his eye never leaving, and feeds you one more cookie before patting you softly on the rear in an odd but comfortable silent goodbye.

When you enter the room Jisung runs his other hand through his hair and sighs. You let go and give him space, moving to his closet and digging around for one of his white over sized t-shirts. When you find it you smile giddily and throw it over his desk chair, peeling off your attire as you turn away from your best friend.

It shouldn't even phase him anymore. You're so comfortable with him he might as well be your brother. The thought disgusts him. He tries not to watch you undress to your pretty red lace panties, but finds himself admiring the way you pull his t-shirt over your head and hug it to yourself as you walk towards the bed.

He walks up behind you mostly in a daze, his head is empty of everything but you. The shirt barely covers your ass as you crawl onto the bed in front of him. He stands behind you watching your ass sway in your panties while you crawl. Intrusive thoughts seem to take over in that moment and he lands a rather harsh slap against the right cheek, unconsciously smiling to himself as he hears the loud clap followed by a small sweet yelp.

He wouldn't even be mad if you turned around and slapped his perverted ass right in the face. However instead of putting him in his place like you probably should have, you simply giggle softly and roll over on your back with your knees bent smiling up at him innocently.

Despite him knowing full well this is normal for you, that you mean nothing by it other than being comfortable around him and that it's probably entirely a platonic thing, It makes for a very lewd sight as you lay directly in front of him enticingly.

He knows how wrong it is to be thinking of his friend this way, he knows very well you are definitely NOT thinking any dirty thoughts during your hang outs with him, and it makes him feel like a criminal. He is definitely breaking at least 20 friend codes with the way he's gazing at your body right now.

Your legs are spread and the shirt has risen up, exposing all too much of your pretty curves and the delicate lace fabric that compliments your body so well. Your back is slightly arched off the mattress, displaying so clearly the prominent indent of your waist and the soft voluptuous curves of your hips and thighs.

He wants to touch you so bad he considers he may actually need therapy. Your arms are lying defensively down on the mattress, and he knows you probably wouldn't fight him if he did decide to touch you. The way that turns him on makes him feel disgusting.

He does give in slightly, only enough to where he knows you'll be too oblivious to take it any way but platonically, after-all you've always been a cuddly pair. You don't have to know what he's actually thinking in his head, nor the way it goes straight to his dick, you don't need to know how foggy you make his head feel.

He climbs slowly on top of you, your legs on either side of his as his face hovers above yours. His hands instinctively slide up your legs and to your waist, he squeezes the skin there and relishes in the soft feeling in his hands and the way your back arches slightly further off the bed while you unconsciously spread your legs a bit further with a small gasp. You're sensitive, it makes him smile as his thoughts stray even farther into the depths of hell and insanity, he really hates himself.

He'd probably feel a lot less disgusting if you weren't so innocent with things like this, the difference between your innocence and his makes him feel like he's taking advantage of you, perhaps also your friendship as a whole. Of course he doesn't only see you sexually, you're still one of his best friends. He still loves you like he never thought he could another person.

But you don't know this, you don't feel the same, it feels wrong. He feels like a sinner in church when he's alone with you. While you think of this as a cute little cuddle sesh with your bestie, he's desperately trying not to imagine digging his nails into your hips and slamming you further into the mattress or perhaps kissing you breathless while he lifts your shirt up and gropes you like a madman. He feels himself harden to an extent of borderline agony in his sweats at the thought.

He IS disgusting, knows this, and wishes he had more control over his thoughts and feelings than he currently does.

You're still looking up at him with a silly smile on your face, clearly entirely oblivious to everything as always. He relaxes (or tries to anyway), resting both hands on either side of your hips while he lays his head down on your chest. He takes comfort in the large plush swells he feels through the fabric. He feels a headache coming on at the lack of bra when he feels a nipple against the side of his face. The world just fucking hates him today. He can't even help the longing (read: desperate and pathetic) sigh that falls from his lips.

Of course you take it as he's just tired or stressed and not that he is trying really hard not to thrust his boner against your thigh in desperation like some kind of dog. He's so ashamed he genuinely wants to cry and has to bite back what he knows would be a rather pathetic and entirely humiliating whimper. However despite this (or maybe in spite of this, really) your gentle fingers lace through his hair, petting him so softly it would make anyone feel like they're precious.

He does take comfort in it. He loves having his hair played with, it makes him feel safe. He just wishes he didn't also think about how it'd feel to have you tugging at his hair in this exact position but a far different context. He hates the way he throbs in his pants, hates how pathetic he is and how much it hurts. He hates even more that he also kinda likes how it hurts, how you've got him so desperately wrapped around your finger, how you somehow manage to edge him without even being aware of it. Masochistic tendencies are not below him, apparently.

You giggle again, bringing your other hand up to rub his back. "Rough day?" Your voice drips of affection and honey and he almost melts, almost.

Instead he groans and huffs an irritated "hmph." His voice comes out raspy and deeper than usual, likely from the strain in his pants. He slides his hands back up to your waist and grips you harshly while turning his head to bury his face in between your breasts, shaking his head between them. His hair tumbles around on his head as he does it and you giggle again.

From your perspective it probably looked like an adorable gesture but from his it was anything but. He wants to rip your shirt off. He's so painfully hard and frustrated by the fact that he can't do all the things he wants to do. He wishes he could actually feel the skin of your breasts.

Their size is all too tempting and based off the parts of her body he has felt, he knows they would be incredibly soft and squishy. So impossibly smooth he is not sure he would be able to let go of them, perhaps it's good that you have him in the friend zone and he can't actually do that. Which is why he takes what he can get and nuzzles against them through the fabric like a kitten might, eyes glossing over even further with unrelenting lust.

You hum and seemingly in retaliation for the harsh grip still on your waist, you remove your hand from his head and tickle his side much like Minho had to you not even half an hour prior.

He supposes it's a fair punishment really. His grip is so hard he knows it's going to bruise, he will never admit that he really hopes it does, that even in a platonic sense he can mark you. Not only that but there's also no way it doesn't hurt by now. He has a tendency to grab you like this, usually unconsciously, but he's normally not this rough with it.

And well, he's incredibly ticklish. Like unbearably so. In fact he's so ticklish his immediate response to your tickling is to remove his hands from your waist and grab both of yours. He breathes heavily as he slams them above your head on the mattress, his face is now directly in front of yours and his glare is strong as he gazes into your eyes. In truth he loves the sight, and even as he glares at you he takes in the lovely view and commits it to memory. Jack-off fuel for at least a month.

You play around like this very often, Jisung has never once been genuinely angry with you nor does he typically react the way he just did. His mind is clouded with arousal and the ache in his pants in combination with the desperation he feels has genuinely ticked him off even further than his general frustration from earlier somehow.

You still don't react much other than a small gasp and the briefest moment of shock in your eyes before it shifts to simply gazing sympathetically back at his heated glare. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were that stressed out."

He feels even more annoyed with you apologizing when he's so very obviously the problem here. You make no move to get him to release you either and he hates and loves how you always let him do what he wants with you. Never being weirded out with it and always accepting him as he is, all his flaws included.

He goes to say it isn't your fault, grip not loosening in the slightest but the glare softens as he furrows his brows. "Y/n no... I-"

However, he's interrupted by the door swinging open all too casually. You both look over to see Minho standing in the doorway in complete horror. "Oh.. oh my god. Oh my god no. Shit. I'm sorry!" His face is bright red trailing all the way from his neck to the tips of his ears as he covers his eyes and swiftly turns around, slamming the door behind him. 

Jisung feels his own blush creep up his face. Even if you aren't actually doing anything this position and your prominent lack of dress is bound to give off a heavily sexual impression, he knows this well. And that in combination with the fact that he has been sporting the most raging hard boner of his life this entire time is so humiliating he thinks he actually will cry this time. His own lingering frustrations and the fact that he still has to fight the urge to grind his hips against you don't help either, and he feels even more pathetic with how easily his eyes well up with tears.

His lip trembles slightly as he goes to pull away from you, face beet red and eyes glossy with unshed tears. "Mm so sorry.. h-he definitely thinks w-we're.." He sniffles and hangs his head as he goes to move completely off the bed. You are faster and immediately stop him however, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him back into yourself. Your thighs are flush against him and the softness brings him a small sense of relief in combination with even more arousal and he can't hold back the whimper this time. Both emotional and horny, he is so overwhelmed he can't think straight.

You guide his head back into your chest and he all too eagerly wiggles his face back between your breasts with a whine and what almost sounds like a sob. He realizes he is actually full on crying now, tears soaking through the fabric of the thin t-shirt you're wearing. He is embarrassed of course, but simply can't help but let it all out when your magic hands find their way back into his hair.

You massage his scalp with a calculated care that forms goosebumps all along his neck and arms. His chest swells, his stomach tickles with an absurd amount of butterflies, and his dick twitches again in his sweats all at once. He feels a little less pathetic at the more relieved and now muffled whimper he lets out this time.

"It's okay Sungie.. I'm not upset, I can explain it to him later if you want me to." He whimpers and sobs sadly in response, gripping tightly back onto your waist as a way to ground himself enough to speak.

Even so, his mouth and brain refuse to cooperate with him and he only mumbles incoherently. "B-but I.. he.. mm.... I-I don't.." You tug lightly at his hair, not hard enough to hurt but enough to get his attention. He wishes he was prepared enough to stop the loud whine that rumbles all the way through his body.

"Shh.. Relax bub, we can talk about it later, it's not a big deal." You run a hand up and down his spine while the other continues massaging his scalp. Jisung shifts uncomfortably and slides his hands down your sides, subtly memorizing the curvature of your body. He grabs your thighs, sliding you up the bed so he can properly lay on top of you. Your legs remain wrapped around his waist as he nuzzles further into your chest. The shirt is so soaked with tears that in certain places on your chest it has become see through, he nudges the plush of one breast with his nose with a sniffle and watches in awe as it jiggles at even the smallest movement. He whines and thrusts his aching cock against the mattress below you, overwhelmed by how much he wants to suck on your skin. Like a drug that might fix all his troubles and cure him of his frustrations.

You still don't seem to notice his behavior is anything but sweet and friendly, laughing softly at how cute he is. Completely unaware that even with all of this he is STILL so thoroughly mind fucked with arousal, mind swarming with nasty thoughts and daydreams. This ignorance encourages him to venture a bit further, testing the boundaries of what you will enable him to do to you. Too overwhelmed, turned on, humiliated, and turned on by being humiliated to think rationally enough to stop himself.

He groans. It's loud and very obviously sexual, even if your naive self will never pick up on it. It's deep from the bottom of his throat and it comes out more of a growl than anything. He's never heard himself make such a noise before in his life. One hand still on your thigh he slides the other hand up slowly, seductively slow. If it wasn't incredibly obvious before it should have been now but alas, you don't pick up on a thing even as his hand slides up to your hip. It slows to a brief stop, sliding a thumb under the strap of your panties as the other fingers wrap around your hip.

He's no longer actively crying but still sensitive and in a very whiny mood, if you pull away he will break down again and he knows this. His eyes are once again glossed over with arousal even with his face drenched in tears and he wets his bottom lip before subtly sinking his teeth into it to maintain whatever little self control he has left that's keeping him from tearing the panties off you right this second. Instead he pulls the panty string away from your skin a small distance, relishing in the small view of the hip bone it was doing a terrible job of hiding. He lets go with a mischievous smirk, enjoying very thoroughly the way your body jerks slightly and you gasp at the snap.

You only pull his hair a little in retaliation this time, not trying to upset him or cause him to spiral any further, but just enough to demonstrate your acknowledging what you think is him playfully trying to cheer himself up. He whimpers again, loving the feeling of your hands on him even if it isn't sexual or romantic to you, it definitely is to him. His masochistic ways love the way it stings for the briefest of seconds when you pull his hair. Your actions only serve to spur him on even further. His hands are tantalizingly slow as he glides them up your waist, sliding the shirt to bunch up just below your breasts.

You shiver as he runs a nail along the curve of your waist. He happily observes it with an endeared smile while taking in the bruises forming at your waist and hips. He loves how his hands are imprinted into your skin, thinks that's how it should always be. He lets his mind imagine what you'd look like with bruises from both his hands and mouth on your neck and chest as well. His sigh is shaky as his dick twitches again against the fabric of his pants.

He leans back, hands still on your waist, and observes you from above. You're beautiful as always, and your expression holds no discomfort with his actions. You smile at him sweetly while your hands drop to either side of you. You look so vulnerable like this, practically trapped, so easy to pin down. He bites his lip harder now, taking in such an attractive sight. No other woman could make him feel this way. He's sure of that much.

He decides not to pin you down again for now, favoring the idea of getting his hands even just a little closer to the beautiful, perfectly rounded swells he has become rather obsessed with. No one had to know how much he thought about your chest, nor the way he stared when you weren't looking. The way he imagined what they would feel like gripped in his hands or on his lips, the way he imagined what they would look like had he somehow been graced with the privilege of not having god damn clothing in the way.

But whether anyone knew or not, all of it was true. He was obsessed, in truth he never felt that attracted to other women's breasts not to mention the straight undeterred obsession he feels for yours. Never before had he even been interested in other women, he can't help but wonder why that is.

He's careful and slow, hesitant as he slides his hands up slightly to rest with the bunch of the shirt directly under your breasts. He watches your reaction carefully and slowly slides his fingers over the skin on the side of your breasts, not directly touching them but close enough to almost feel them.

The action lifts the shirt just enough to show the lowest portion of your boobs, nipples still entirely covered. His breathing shakes as he thinks about it, looking into your eyes as you stare patiently back at him. You still make no effort to stop him, only stretching your arms over your head with a pleased hum escaping your beautifully parted lips. He watches entranced as the shirt lifts the tiniest bit higher in your stretch. Your back arches fully and your body curves in the most enticing way he has ever seen, he groans as your chest pushes up with the arch. Your breasts perfectly shaped and so much easier to see with the new angle.

You smile guilelessly, gently as your hands remain above your head softly caressing his silk sheets. Your body is curved for him so perfectly he has to fight the urge to kiss every inch of your skin to worship the absolute goddess you most definitely have to be. He can't resist however the subtle thrust of his hips towards you. He manages enough restraint to not let his dick touch you but his hardened length now dripping with precum is so painfully obvious in his grey sweatpants. If you notice this, you don't show it and stay smiling sweetly at him.

His dick is so close to where he feels it belongs that it makes him feel crazy. His fingers unconsciously wrap around the bunch of your shirt and he tugs. "Please.." His voice is soft, a pleading whine as his mind has finally crossed the border into submissive pussy-drunk arousal. At this point he is so hooked and out of it you could literally step on him and he'd still moan. "Please y/n.. please" The desperation in his last word makes it sound like if you say no he'll not only start crying again but he might just keel over and die.

Your expression is shocked at first, but then quickly morphs into a deep concern. He was normally so strong and now he was falling apart in front of you (for you, really, but you still don't see it that way). "Baby it's okay, you're okay." Your voice is the softest it's ever been, you bring your hands up to wipe the tears from his face. "I'm right here bubs, whatever you need. I just want you to feel better." He whines and grinds his hips in the air again while rubbing his face against one of your hands. He inhales deeply to calm himself down slightly, breathing in your comforting scent.

He then gently and hesitantly begins lifting your shirt up. Your breath hitches at the cold air assaulting your nipples but you allow him to expose your body to his yearning eyes. As soon as your hardened nipples come into view he can't stop the thrust of his hips against your clothed pussy. He whines and whimpers pitifully as he gently rocks his hips back and forth against you. His eyes roll back slightly and he moans as soon as he lifts the shirt from over your head, throwing it across the room. You gasp and look up at him in shock.

With his hips still subtly rocking against you he moves his hands to grip both of your breasts. He moans loudly and groans at the way your soft breasts feel in his hands. Even better than he had imagined, he may very well become addicted. Your breathing has gone ragged, gasps escaping your lips each time his fingers graze your nipples. He growls, loving having you react to his touches. He pinches one nipple between his fingers and toys with it, observing the way you squirm on his sheets. He twists and you yelp, not pained but surprised. The sound is so arousing he groans and dips his head towards the other breast. He continues to play with you while he kisses the swell of your boob. You sigh shakily and unconsciously meet his thrusts with a subtle one of your own.

"Ah.. s-so perfect." He moans, sucking a dark red bruise into your breast. Your whimper is like music to his ears, he wants more. He moves down to your nipple and begins sucking on it happily, he's too out of it to even realize what it is exactly he's doing to his best friend but it feels so good.

His unoccupied hand goes to your thigh pulling you flush against him and relishing in the way you moan at the action. His hand slides back down to your hip, a strong grip holding you to grind against you harder. His moans turn into a string of curses, hips stuttering as he nears his high. His whimpers are full of pain and desperation as he falls apart on you.

"I've got you bub.. you can let go it's okay." You lay a gentle kiss to his head despite the rocking of your bodies as he grinds himself against you, then you gently massage his hair again. He sighs and relaxes in response to your touch, a broken moan escaping him as he comes undone in his sweatpants. His hips continue for a good thirty seconds through incoherent pleas and mumbles of your name against your nipple.

Once he has returned to earth he looks up at you like a kicked puppy, eyes again sparkly and glossed over with more tears as his lip trembles, expression completely fucked out but also lost and confused. He had never looked so vulnerable.

You stop him before he can even begin to apologize. Pulling him closer and cradling him in your arms as he sobs again. "Shh Jisung.. s'okay. I'm here and everything's okay you don't need to think right now. Let's just get you cleaned up and then we can cuddle okay?" He nods hesitantly in your shoulder and nuzzles into your hair. "Good boy, can you roll over for me?" You softly tap his hip to get him to lay on his back.

He does as he's told and looks up at you sadly with tears slowly falling from his eyes, but he tries his best to stay silent as you begin removing his pants. He's embarrassed but also too fucked out to do it himself. "I'll be right back, stay still for me." You walk out and into the bathroom before returning with a warm cloth.

You are careful and gentle as you removes his clothes, avoiding looking anywhere you don't have to in order to avoid embarrassing him any further. You then gently wipe him off, trying not to let yourself falter at his pained cries and whimpers of overstimulation.

Feeling you take care of him makes him feel safe and loved despite all of the mess that today has brought. However, he would also be lying if he said he didn't actually enjoy the way your touches hurt and overwhelmed him. He buries his desire for more and tries his best to simply be grateful for the amount you just gave him, when he totally deserved to be kicked right in the crotch for being a pathetic horny man who wants his best friend to ruin him.

You remove his shirt too, he isn't sure why really, he knows it isn't dirty. You then walk off to his closet and grab two of his baggy comfort tees and a pair of boxers from his drawer. He stays sniffling with a pout on his lips on the bed and doesn't even try to hide the way he watches your ass when you walk away, nor does he try to be subtle about checking out your lace panties and the way your boobs bounce as you walk back towards him.

He sighs content as you slide the comfy tee over his head and he raises his hips to help you with his underwear. He takes the other shirt from you and puts it gently on the bed before looking up at you and burying his face against your stomach as more tears fall from his eyes.

He's full on shaking now and he isn't exactly sure why. Nothing makes sense to him right now, his head feels funny, he's tired, mad at himself, embarrassed, ashamed, afraid, he has a head ache, he's dizzy. He's never felt so overwhelmed in his entire life. His arms wrap tightly around your body and he shakes with more sobs, body wracked with pent up frustration even his climax couldn't free him from. He can't even breathe.

"Baby.. please lay down Sungie.. please lay down for me." He chokes on a sob and gasps for air, whining as he forces himself to pull away and lay down like you tell him to. You grab the t-shirt from the bed and set it on the nightstand by his bed for later, picking up on the fact that he wanted it to stay off for now, whatever the reason may be.

He immediately curls into a ball sniffling, so fragile he may shatter if you aren't careful and you grab his favorite blanket from the side of the bed and drape it over him. You climb under it with him and he immediately sobs again and pulls you into him, desperately trying to be as close to you as possible. He knows how pathetic he must look but he can't help it. He's overwhelmed and so scared of losing you that he's now having a panic attack.

"Jisung.. You're scaring me, what's going on?" He starts hyperventilating at that, not wanting to have to explain his feelings for you, or why he did the things he just did, or how hard it is to be around you when you're.. well.. you. He doesn't want to have to say he's crazy about you, that he wants you to be his, that every little moment you share means so much more to him then it ever will to you, that every little seductive act you unconsciously make is agonizing to him. He doesn't even want to have to tell you about how work is stressing him out, about how tired he is. He doesn't wanna tell you that you're the only thing that makes it better, that you make everything better, and he simply cannot think straight with you around. That he doesn't even want to.

"I'm sorry baby, you don't have to tell me. I'm so sorry, breathe for me please. It's okay I'm right here, I'll take care of you." You rub his back and allow him to rest his head on top of your chest again. It's a comforting pillow and your hands, he swears they have healing powers, the way they make everything feel okay.

He gasps for air and tries to regulate his breathing. Holding your other hand up to his lips, his voice is hoarse and broken when he speaks. "Please.. Please d-don't leave.. Don't leave me.." His lips kiss your knuckles as he talks. He isn't opposed to begging for forgiveness and dropping on his knees to plead you to stay if it comes down to it.

"I'm not going anywhere, would never leave you bub." You kiss the top of his head and snuggle against him, tightly holding him close as you try to convey the truth in your words through your body. "Never."

"Really?" He looks up at you with sparkly sweet eyes, sensitive and wavering.

"Yes Hannie, would never leave you. You're irreplaceable to me, I love you."

He gasps, even though there's no evidence you mean it any way but platonically, he is taken off guard by the fact that you have never said those words to him in a format that wasn't a joke. For once he chooses not to overthink it, no matter how you mean it, he's happy.

He smiles brightly at you, the child like grin you've grown to love returning. "I love you too y/n"

You smile at him softly before pulling him back down into your chest, there you both fall asleep for the night. You, naked except for your panties under the blanket with marks littering various parts of your skin and him, almost fully clothed wrapped up tightly in your arms as if maybe you could shield him from every hardship of the world with your arms alone.

Stray Kids Masterlist

Taglist: @my-neurodivergent-world

minho stares at you from his spot at the foot of the bed, shirt askew from your previous activities together, dark hair disheveled despite the comb he ran through it just moments ago, fingers lingering over the pants they just buttoned. the bags under his eyes have deepened since the last time you two were together, shades of purple and green peaking through the carefully-crafted pale skin, giving him a gaunt appearance similar to that of a theatrically tortured artist. it isn’t too far from reality, you suppose, considering his harsh working conditions.

he turns his back towards you again, as if that were enough to shield himself from your watchful eyes, and huffs, “nothing i do is cute.”

you playfully nudge your foot against his backside, to which he grabs your toes and playfully tickles at the sole. giggling, you swat at his hand, and he tightens his grip, though he ceases his attack. his thumb rubs at your ankle instead, gently, a contrast to the way he had you just moments ago, and you soften at all of the words left unspoken in such a tender action.

“quite literally millions of people would disagree with you.”

“i don’t care what millions of people think about me.” but it’s the way his jaw ticks as he says it, the way his fingers let go of you in favor of dressing himself, the way his nose wrinkles once again and a frown tugs at the corners of his lips, that lets you know you’ve struck a nerve.

“min–”

but he doesn’t let up, even as he tugs his socks on. “millions of people also call chan-hyung cringe when he’s just being happy. millions of people constantly body shame bin because they think body weight has anything to do with morality. millions of people flood us with hate when we do anything these days. so no, i don’t care what millions of people think about me when those very same people treat us like disobedient zoo animals.”

though his voice is firm as he speaks, his shoulders shake with the anger his tone lacks. you reach your hand out to touch him, to pull him into you and hush away all of the built-up frustration sex couldn't dispel, but he’s getting up from the bed before your fingers could even brush against him. the air around you stills as he stands in your bedroom. minho’s fist clenches by his side, releases as he takes a mindful breath, but his shoulders are still stiff and his jaw twitches as if he’s trying to taste the words before he says them. because minho wrinkles his nose when he’s frustrated and he shows affection with tickles and he expresses the vulnerability of anxiety through the comfort of righteous anger. you watch him as you would a cornered animal liable to bite anything that dares to get too close, breath still and heavy in your lungs, hands helplessly limp in your lap.

“i’m sorry,” he says after a few moments, and his shoulders finally sag. “i shouldn’t have– it’s not your fault.”

and because minho lashes out when the world becomes a bit too much to bare, he also curls in on himself when he knows he’s fucked up, when he knows his enamel has erroded and your skin has burned from the venom in his words, when he’s spilled too much of himself and he’s trying to scoop his guts back into his abdomen before they have a chance to stain your carpet. your movements are quiet as your arms wrap around his waist, cheek pressed against his back just in case the sadness in your eyes is too much for him right now. minho stiffens for just a moment, ready to fight or flight, but your fingers resting against his waist ground him, and he tilts his head back to tenderly bonk it against yours. always such a cat, through mannerism and attitude.

“‘s okay,” you reassure him. “i have a twitter account, you know. i see what they say.”

“chan-hyung banned felix from checking it last week because of how much it fucks with him,” minho laughs, but it lacks any real humor. “hyunjin doesn’t even post his art anymore because of how much hate it got. can you believe that? can you imagine being so excited to share your hobby with the people who claim to love you only for them to bash it because you aren’t the next picasso or whatever? we aren’t people to them. we’re just… i don’t know anymore. all i know is we put so much of ourselves out there just to be spat at and ridiculed for the things that make us human.”

your fingers trace at the muscles you can feel through his shirt, the muscles he’s so diligently worked for even if he’s too shy to show them, the muscles earned only through his dedication to his craft, and minho keens under the attention, places his arms over yours and allows you to help hold him upright, even just for a moment.

you place a kiss on his back, mumble, “it’s not fair,” to let him know you’re here, you’re listening, you’re here to give him whatever it is he needs, whether it’s another round of rough sex or it’s him with his back towards you but his heart in his throat and overflowing with all of the things he tries so hard to bottle up. his broad body leans into you for a breath of a moment before he finally turns around, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed, and you guide him back to your bed, where he buries his face in your chest and inhales the scent of your skin as if it’s the only thing that could possibly matter to him right now.

and he rants like that, cheek squished against your tummy as your fingers run through his hair, arms wrapped around your waist, your legs wrapped around his torso. he rants until his brow is no longer furrowed and his mouth relaxes, until his spine is no longer bending from the weight of the k-pop industry and he’s free to drop his atlas act so he can be human, until his eyes are half-closed and he’s looking at your lips as if they hold all of the secrets to happiness in between them. they might, as far as he’s concerned, because he swears that as soon as he presses his own against them, everything that isn’t you becomes background noise and all he can focus on is how your breath fans across his face as his skin tries to stitch itself into yours.

but then, you feel his mouth twitch up into a smile, and his arms slowly remove themselves from your waist, and you’re scrambling trying to get away from him before he has a chance to snatch you up.

“minho–no–” you squeal as you dodge the hand grabbing at your ankle and leap over his body on your bed.

he pouts and makes another swipe at you. “c’mon, jagi, i’m sad, remember? come over and comfort me.”

“a tickle monster is what you are! keep those fingers to yourself, mister!”

“that’s not what you were saying ten minutes ago.”

“yah! you can’t hold me accountable for the things i say when you have your face between my thighs.”

his cocks an eyebrow at you, satisfied smirk on his lips as he tries to predict your movements. “do you think that would hold up in a court of law? ‘but, your honor, his tongue was in my pussy!’ how could i have known i was agreeing to a treasonous act?’”

you throw a pillow at him, heat pooling in your stomach and cheeks, and he laughs at your flustered reaction. “what treasonous act could i possibly be committing right now?”

“not letting me tickle you, you brat,” he whines. “i know at least soonie would find you guilty.”

“you bribe him with cat treats!”

“that’s irrelevant.”

“that’s completely relevant! bribery in the court is no laughing matter!”

“i’ll give you something else to laugh about then.”

he feigns a lunge to your left, to which you fall for, and before you can properly recover from that slip up, he manages to get an arm around your shoulders and drags you back onto the bed, and you’re giggling and kicking your feet because you’ll be damned if you go down without a fight.

“gotcha.” minho laughs victoriously as he wrestles you underneath him, fingers running up and down your sides, powerful thighs pinning you in place and rendering all of your wiggling useless, eyes shining with elation and something dangerously close to love.

You don’t mean to fall asleep, but you do.

It had been a long day of work after an even longer week. Normally it would have been fine for you to come home and crash, but when it’s the only day Chan has had off in two weeks, it sucks.

Not that he minds, though. Really, he doesn’t. Seeing your cheek cutely squished into the arm of the couch, and hearing your soft breaths and little noises while you sleep makes him happy. 

It’s just… he wishes you were awake to help him out.

It’s been days since you’ve seen each other, and while you’ve had plenty of phone calls and face times, but to have you physically… 

Chan sucks in a breath and sinks lower in the couch, spreading his legs to try to avoid his cock getting much friction between his legs. It’s hard-- painfully so-- but he can’t make himself wake you up. You’d told him once that it’s a good sign that you both get sleepy when you’re together, it means you’re comfortable and safe together. And you deserve the sleep after having such a tough week, and you’re so deep in your nap and--

“Ahh,” he hisses, bunching his fists up on his thighs. Fuck, the look of your mouth hanging open, your cute lips… if he could just be a little more bold, you probably wouldn’t mind if he woke you up…

No, he can’t. You need the rest, clearly.

Fuck, but now that he’s spread his legs apart, your feet are pressed to the side of his thigh, and even that innocent touch feels like it’s setting him on fire.

Fuck, he thinks. I’ve gotta calm down or I’ve gotta move.

So he tries to move, and he tries to be careful but you suck in a deep breath when he tilts away from you, and when he looks over, your sleepy eyes are open and peering over at him.

“How long have I been asleep?” Your voice is so god damn precious, all sleepy and pouty and soft. Fuck.

“Uhhh… Half an hour? I don’t-- I’m not sure actually, I--”

“Channie?”

Oh shit. Of course your eyes caught the tent in his pants, he wasn't even trying to hide it. Somehow he feels embarrassed about it even though you’ve seen it plenty of times, but for you to wake up after being so vulnerable with him sitting right there like this--

“Do you need some help?”

He doesn’t have the willpower to say no.

“I was gonna let you sleep, baby. I wasn’t trying to wake you up.”

“It’s okay,” you assure him, sitting up slightly and turning so your back is against the arm of the couch. You rub the sleep out of your eyes and stretch your tense shoulders and neck.

“You can sleep. Why don’t you get some more rest? I’ll be okay.”

“No,” you whine, “I want you.” You reach out for him, and yeah, there’s no fucking way he can say no now.

“Okay,” he says, scooting toward you. He groans softly at the feeling of his boxers and pants shifting against his aching crotch, and you have the nerve to giggle at him.

“You think it’s funny?” he asks playfully, reaching up to pinch your cheek. “You’ve been all cozy and sleepy and I’m so hard it hurts, baby.”

“Let me help you then,” you coo, sliding your hands down his chest. Your voice drops and you all but purr your next words. “I wanna cockwarm you.”

“Mm, I’d love if you did.” He rests his hands on your knees, fingers moving back in forth in a gentle scratch. “D’you wanna go to my room?”

You shake your head.

“Want you now, right here.”

“But what if Jeongin comes home, baby?”

“Don’t care,” you mutter, words slurring from a mix of remaining drowsiness and desire. You reach out and pull him in by his biceps until he relents and his hands latch onto your upper thighs, his thumbs brushing ever so gently against the seam of your pants. Your legs part, and his hands drift higher, blatantly teasing over your crotch.

“Mm… If you’re sure.” His voice is just above a whisper as he leans in, head tilted, eyes heavily lidded. His full lips brush yours, just barely. Not enough.

Your arms wrap around him, one hand sinking into his soft hair, the other pressed flat against his broad shoulder. Once again your actions lead him further, pulling him in, entranced. His kiss is heavy against your lips but soft to the touch. You kiss him back lazily, savoring every touch he gives you. His lips on yours, his hands starting to work you free of your pants.

You help then, pulling them and your underwear down in one movement, leaving it behind your knees. Sinking lower into the couch, you present yourself to him this way.

“Put it in.”

“Baby,” he chuckles, dipping his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts. “You need to be stretched first. Let me eat you out, yeah?”

“No.” You shake your head and frown at him. “I want it. Put it in, Channie. Please.”

“Y/N,” he says in warning, but you huff and reach down, shoving at his hands to make him hurry up.

“I want to feel you. I like it tight sometimes. Don’t you?”

“Oh, baby,” he sighs-- or is it another wanting hiss?-- leaning in close once more. “It’s always tight. So fucking tight and hot for me, aren’t you?” His breath fans across your face, and you give a small mewl of interest and try to catch his lips with yours.

“You need to let me stretch you,” he whispers so close that your lips brush together.

“No.”

“Baby.”

“No,” you whine. “I want you to work me open on your cock. Don’t tell me no, Channie. I want it so bad.”

“So bad, huh?” He fidgets a little, and when you hear the quiet rustling of fabric, you know you’ve got him. “How ‘m I gonna tell if you’re wet if you don’t want me to finger you first?”

“Don’t care.”

He laughs softly in your face and drops his head to your shoulder.

“Mmm, you’re being a bit of a brat today, huh? ‘Don’t tell me no.’ ‘Don’t care.’ What’s gotten into you?” You’re slightly distracted by the wet trace of his tongue against the side of your throat, but you manage an answer.

“I’m tired and I want you inside me before I start screaming.”

“Screaming?” he laughs again. “I can make you scream, baby. But that’s not what you mean. Are you needy? Want me that bad?”

“Need you, Channine,” you whine, squirming, trying to get your cunt closer to him. Your cheeks touch his thighs, and you can’t help the twitch of desire you get from knowing his cock is so, so close. “Stop teasing me and let me hold you.”

“Hold me?”

“Cockwarm you!” You snap with no venom.

“Okay, okay!” He laughs again against your neck. “Don’t get worked up, baby, I’m gonna give it to you.” He peppers kisses up your jaw as you blindly reach for his dick. When your fingers nearly grasp it but fail to get purchase, he moans with a breathy ahhh.

“Fuck, c’mere.” Chan takes your hand and spits into it, then guides your hand in place. You wrap your fingers around his thick shaft and rub his spit upward, smearing it on his head as much as possible.

“Ahh, your hands are so nice.”

“Mm?” You tug slightly, pointing him toward your cunt, and he jolts and groans and finally, finally, finally gives you what you want.

His fat tip prods at your hole, dipping in just barely, pulling back, pushing a tiniest bit further to test how far he can realistically get with just the slick of his spit to start. But once he’s gotten past the widest point of his head, your warm, wet cunt flutters around him, he has to fight back every urge he has to bury himself completely.

“Ohh, fuck,” he sighs. “You’re so wet, huh? You like the idea of cockwarming me that bad?”

“Yes.” You nod frantically and try to push down onto him, but you’re pinned between the armrest and Chan and fuuuck is that a good place to be. “More, more, please. Just do it, slide in until I tell you to stop.” 

You expect him to play the concerned boyfriend and ask if you’re sure, but it seems he’s finally thinking with his other head.

“Yeah, fuck.” He nestles one knee between you and the back of the couch, and the other leg hangs off the edge of the couch to give him the leverage to move as he plunges deeper. As deep as he is in lust, he keeps a careful ear trained on the sounds you make. The whimpers, the gasps, the way your breath catches in your throat.

“Hold on,” you say with your face scrunched up and a hand pressed to his chest. He takes your hand in one of his, raises it to his face and kisses your palm.

“You’re so good to me,” he mutters. “You take it so well.”

You breathe through the pinching pain, and as it subsides you grab for Chan’s sides, balling your fists in his t-shirt.

“It’s good.” Your mouth mushes the words together and you have to try again so he can hear you properly. “It’s good. I’m good. Keep going.”

“More?” he asks, but without waiting for a response he hovers over you with his lips to your forehead, and you feel that uncomfortable, nagging pinch of there not being enough god damn room.

“You’re so fucking big,” you dry sob, and he stops again.

“I thought you could take it, huh? You’re the one who said no. You said you wanted it tight.”

“I do, I do.” Your arms latch around him, not leaving any room for him to pull away. “I want it.”

“Just a little more then, okay? Then we can watch a movie or something, yeah?”

You nod and close your eyes tight.

Breathe in. Relax, relax, relax.

Out.

In. Relax, relax.

Out.

“You’re so good to me,” he says again. You know he’s finally done by the way he nuzzles into your neck and sighs contentedly. “D’you wanna lay down?”

“Not yet,” you mutter. “Like feeling surrounded by you.”

“Mmkay.” He sounds tired now, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “Did I mention I love you?”

“You love cockwarming.”

At first, he doesn’t react. Doesn’t even pause from the conversation he was having with Felix about some sauce. It was like he didn’t even feel your tiny fingers settle against the firm muscle.

Oh, so he’s unbothered? That’s cute.

You squeeze. Still nothing. He just flips the page of the menu like this is a damn novel.

Okay. You see how it is.

So you up the ante - your fingertips creeping slightly higher, slipping over his inner thigh. And squeeze. 

That’s when you see it. The slight twitch in his jaw. The way his fingers tighten ever so slightly around the menu.

You let your nails drag just against the fabric of his jeans, pretending to be in a conversation with Chris, and taking a sip of your drink.

You trail slow circles over the fabric of his jeans, adding a little pressure. There's a subtle shift in his posture.

Oh you love it. You smirk to yourself, fully convinced you’re ruining him. You don't see the little smirk on his face. You totally miss that. 

And then, his legs suddenly spread wider. Like a silent invitation, a challenge.

You freeze. Oh. Oh, no.

That was not the reaction you were expecting.

You glance at him, to see that he's absolutely  unfazed. His eyes are dark and sharp. The corners of his lips curving up in the slightest smirk, amused as hell.

He is absolutely playing with you. Then, in the softest, most condescending tone imaginable, he leans in and whispers,“You done? I don’t mind putting on a show.”

Your throat goes dry.

“You sure you wanna start something you can’t finish?” he adds and your soul leaves your body.

You try to pull your hand away. Well, bad idea. Because his hand snaps down, gripping your wrist and bringing it to rest on him. Not on his thigh, nope. On the very noticeable bulge that's starting for form in his pants. 

Your brain short circuits. Ok. This isn't part of the plan. You just wanted to tease him, and now, you're trapped. 

He turns back to flip through the menu like he's not covering your hand with his big one, squeezing his bulge. 

You are panicking.

The guys are still talking and laughing, completely unaware that you are currently being held hostage under the table. You try to shift your hand. Nope.

Minho just tightens his grip slightly, thumb brushing slow circles against your skin, mocking you.

Then, he looks at you. The smirk. The pure, unfiltered lust in his gaze - it completely disarms you. 

He leans in slightly, voice low and smug as hell as he asks, “You nervous, baby?”

YOU. ARE. LOSING. IT. 

Your face? On fire. Your confidence? Shattered.

“You guys gonna order or what?” asks Han, putting down the menu.

“Yeah, I’m starving.” Felix adds, stretching and sighing as Hyunjin still fusses over the chicken. 

And then, just to absolutely ruin you, he does the unthinkable. He spreads his legs even wider and gently humps into your hand. 

You glitch in real time, as he just smirks and leans back, sipping his drink like he didn’t just destroy you in public.

Then, as if that wasn’t enough, he has the audacity to whisper, “We’ll finish this later. Just remember, you asked for this.”

And just like that, he releases your wrist, acting like nothing happened.

You are so fucked.

Minho: 1. You: 0.

Divider: @saradika-graphics

“Minho?” you asked, slightly distracted, still not sure why he was acting so… off. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away, only huffed, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. His foot tapped a little too fast on the floor, his gaze never meeting yours. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though there was a playfulness in his tone you couldn’t quite place.

You glanced at him, a little puzzled now. “Are you sure? You don’t look fine. You’re acting weird.”

Minho huffed again, louder this time, as if he was putting on a show. “I’m not acting weird,” he said, looking at the ceiling as though it held the answers to the universe. “It’s just… it’s whatever.”

You narrowed your eyes, trying to figure out what was really going on. Minho was being unusually cryptic, and it was driving you a little crazy. He’d been fidgeting this entire time, making it obvious that something was bugging him.

You set your phone down and turned your full attention to him. “Okay, now you really have to tell me what’s going on, because something’s not right.”

He turned his head toward you, a tiny grin forming at the corner of his mouth, but he refused to say anything. You studied him closely. His outfit was the same as always; there was nothing new there. He wasn't upset about anything in particular, but he was acting weirdly distant. It was as if he was expecting something from you.

Finally, he broke the silence. "It's just...I can't believe you didn't notice," he continued, his voice dripping with mock annoyance. "You've been sitting right here the whole time, and you didn't even see it."

“See what?” you asked, still unsure of what he was talking about, your mind racing through possibilities. “What am I missing?”

Minho sighed dramatically, shifting again, this time looking at his reflection in the window. “Nothing. Never mind,” he said, clearly trying to sound like he wasn’t affected, but you could tell he was enjoying this a little too much.

You were about to give up when it hit you like a bolt of lightning.

His hair!

Minho's hair is usually messy, but it was nicely done today, shorter and more professional than usual.

“Oh!” you said, finally getting it. “Did you get a haircut?!”

Minho froze, his lips curling into a mischievous grin, but his eyes remained playful and a little teasing. “Took you long enough,” he said, still pouting like he was holding onto his frustration for dramatic effect. “I was starting to think you were really going to ignore it.”

You blinked, realizing how obvious it had been all along. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t notice right away!” You immediately reached over to ruffle his hair, grinning. “But it looks good, babe! You look great.”

His face softened just a little, but his playful teasing didn’t fade. “It’s fine. I mean, I know I look good, but I wanted you to notice. I thought we were closer than that,” he said, feigning an exaggerated look of hurt.

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re impossible! I was just distracted!”

Minho leaned back against the couch, a smug smile spreading across his face. “Mmhmm, distracted,” he repeated, clearly enjoying how much he was messing with you. “I’m still waiting for a good enough apology.”

You leaned in, narrowing your eyes with a grin. “Alright, alright. I’m sorry for not noticing sooner, but it looks really good. You’re more handsome than usual,” you teased, knowing exactly what he wanted to hear.

Minho pretended to think about it, then shrugged, his grin growing wider. “Okay, fine. I’ll let it slide this time. But next time? You better notice immediately.”

You chuckled, rolling your eyes, but you knew he was just teasing. You gave his hair another playful ruffle. “I swear, next time I won’t even blink without noticing. You’ve got me trained now.”

“Better,” he said, his tone light as he relaxed again. But then he added with a smirk, “But seriously, it looks good, right? I mean, you weren’t totally wrong for not noticing immediately…”

You shook your head, laughing at how he kept pushing it. “You’re ridiculous, Minho.” But deep down, you knew how much he secretly enjoyed the attention, even if he played it off.

//

.001 | yn’s circle

.002 | minho’s circle

-

Knocking on Minho’s door has become part of your routine. Every day you found yourself in front of that wooden door, knocking firmly against it.

It always ended the same way. A muffled "go away," sometimes accompanied by the sound of his cats padding across the room, as if they alone were allowed to witness his pain. But today, you didn’t walk away. You could tell the others were beyond worried and you've had enough.

“I know you’re in there,” you said, arms crossed as you leaned against the frame. “You can’t ignore me forever, you know.”

Silence.

You exhaled sharply. "Lee Minho, I swear—"

The door finally cracked open. Just a sliver, enough for his sharp brown eyes to glare at you. His hair was a little messy, and there was an exhaustion about him that had nothing to do with sleep.“What do you want?” he muttered.

You ignored the irritation in his voice. “To see you. To talk to you.”

His grip on the door tightened. “There’s nothing to talk about. You've seen me now.”

“Minho, you—”

“I said there’s nothing to talk about.” His voice was hard now, like stone, cold and unyielding. “Just leave me alone.”

He started closing the door, but you pushed against it before he could. “No.”

That made him pause. “No?”

“No,” you repeated stubbornly. “I’m not going to leave you alone just because you decided to shut yourself off from the world.”

His jaw clenched. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Your voice softened, the anger ebbing away into something closer to sadness. “Minho, I know you. You’re not okay. And pretending you don’t care doesn’t make it any less true.”

His gaze flickered. For the briefest moment, something in his expression cracked - but just as quickly, he rebuilt his walls. “I don’t need your pity,” he muttered.

“I’m not here because I pity you,” you shot back. “I’m here because I care.” The words hung in the air between you, heavy and unspoken for far too long.

Minho looked away first. “I don’t need anyone.”

You sighed. “You can keep saying that, but it won’t make it true.”

Silence stretched again. He was staring at the floor now, his fingers curling into fists. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “I can’t dance anymore.”

Your heart clenched at the defeat in his voice and you shook your head. “Yes, you can.”

“No,” he said, sharper this time. “I can’t. I’ve tried, and it’s not the same. My body - it doesn’t move the way it used to. I’m slower, weaker. I mess up things that were second nature before. It’s gone.”

Your chest tightened. You had seen him try - alone in the practice room when he thought no one was watching. The frustration, the way he’d stumble and curse under his breath, the way he’d leave without looking back. You took a step closer. “Minho-”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” He turned away, gripping the door as if he wanted to slam it shut again.

But you weren’t done. “Minho.” Something in your voice must have made him pause. “You don’t have to be perfect right now,” you said softly. “You just have to try.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, with a sigh, he muttered, “You’re exhausting.”

A small smile tugged at your lips, knowing you won. “I know.” And this time, when he closed the door, it wasn’t all the way.

-

The next day, you found Minho sitting in the practice room. Not dancing. Just sitting - back against the mirrors, legs stretched out, watching his reflection like he didn’t recognize the person staring back.

You sat down next to him without a word. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, just heavy. Finally, you broke it.

“You know,” you said, hugging your knees, “when I first joined the group, I thought you hated me.”

Minho blinked, caught off guard. “…What?”

You smiled faintly. “You were so intimidating. Always so serious, so good at everything. I was scared to mess up in front of you.”

Minho scoffed. “You? Scared? Yeah, right.”

“I mean it,” you admitted. “But then I realized something - you weren’t actually scary. You were just focused. Because you cared that much.”

He exhaled, looking away. “Doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Yes, it does.” You turned to him fully. “Minho, dancing is you. It’s in your blood, in your bones. An injury doesn’t change that.”

His jaw clenched and he shook his head firmly. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it,” you pleaded with him. “Make me understand what's keeping you from your passion.”

His hands curled into fists. “What if I’m never as good as before?” The raw honesty in his voice nearly broke you.

“What if you’re better?” you countered and Minho froze. You reached out, your fingers brushing his lightly. “You’re not starting over, Minho. You’re growing. And yeah, it’s going to be hard, and it’s going to hurt. But you’re still you.”

For a long moment, he just looked at you. And then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. It wasn’t a promise but it was a start.

-

The next time you found Minho in the studio, he was standing. Not dancing. Not stretching. Just standing like a soldier preparing for battle, shoulders stiff, fists clenched.

You watched from the doorway, waiting. If you pushed too hard, he’d shut down again.

Slowly, he raised a foot, testing his balance. Then he tried a step - hesitant, uncertain. Another. And another. But the moment he attempted a turn, his body faltered. He caught himself before he could fall, but you saw it. The frustration. The fear.

Before he could storm out, you stepped forward. “It’s okay.”

Minho flinched, shoulders tensing. “Go away.”

“No, Min,” you told him firmly and gently cupped his face.

Minho's eyes grew wide as he swallowed softly, the warmth of your hands oddly calming. He exhaled sharply. “Why do you keep-”

“Because you’re worth it,” you said firmly, thumbs drawing a small pattern against his skin. “Because I know you. And because I refuse to watch you give up on yourself.”

He stared at you, something in his gaze unreadable. Then, finally - finally- he lowered his gaze to the floor and whispered, “I don’t know how to do this.”

Your chest tightened. “You don’t have to do it alone, Min. We can work on this together.”

For a moment, he hesitated. And then, without another word, he let you wrap him into a firm hug, enjoying your soothing presence for a moment.

-

The days passed in a rhythm of their own. Some were good. On those days, Minho moved with a shadow of his old self, the precision of his steps slowly returning. You saw glimpses of the dancer he had once been - the fire, the grace, the intensity.

But some days were bad.

On those days, he couldn’t even make it through a routine without stopping, his frustration boiling over. He lashed out - not at you, but at himself. And then one day, everything snapped.

It was late, the studio dimly lit. You had been practicing together for hours, working through a routine, when Minho’s footwork slipped on a turn. It wasn’t a bad fall, but it was enough. Enough for his patience to shatter.

“Damn it!” The sound of his voice - raw, broken - echoed through the room. Before you could react, he slammed his fist against the mirror. Not hard enough to break it, but enough to send a painful thud through the air. “I can’t do this,” he growled out, voice shaking. “It’s not working. I’m-” His breath hitched. “I’m not me anymore, I'm fucking broken.”

Your heart clenched as you hesitantly took a step forward. “Minho-”

But he wasn’t listening. He pressed a hand to his forehead, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving with the weight of something far deeper than just dance. And then, so quietly you almost didn’t hear - “I don’t deserve this.”

Your breath caught. “Deserve what?” you whispered.

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Anything. The group. The stage. You. I was already expendable before,” he said, voice hollow. “Now? I don’t even belong here.”

Something in you snapped, eyes burning fiercely. “Don’t you dare say that.” Minho looked up, startled. “You think you don’t belong?” you demanded. “You think we wouldn’t be less without you? Minho, you’re the main dancer of this team. You always have been. You're our friend..And nothing can change that.” His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t speak. You swallowed hard. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be you. And that’s enough.”

Minho exhaled, something crumbling in his expression. “I don’t know if I can do this,” he admitted, so quiet it was almost a plea.

You reached for his hand. “Then let me believe for you until you can.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. But then - slowly - his fingers curled around yours. And for the first time, he truly didn’t push you away.

-

Things changed after that night. Minho still struggled, but he let you see it now. He let himself lean on you, even if only a little. And somewhere along the way, between long hours in the studio and late-night conversations, you realized.

The pain he carried wasn’t just from the injury. It was older. Deeper.

One evening, as you sat side by side in the practice room, Minho finally spoke the words you never expected. “I was ten the first time someone told me I wasn’t good enough.” You turned to him, heart pounding. “My teacher,” he continued, voice eerily calm. “She said I had talent but not drive. That I’d never make it unless I proved I deserve it.” He let out a breath. “She wasn’t wrong.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “Minho, you can't be serious.”

“I’ve spent my whole life proving I belong here,” he murmured. “And now? Now, I don’t even know who I am without dance.”

Your chest ached. “You’re our Minnie,” you whispered. “That’s enough.”

He looked at you then - really looked at you. And for the first time, you saw something fragile beneath the confidence he always wore like armor. Something scared. Something hopeful. And that was when you knew he was healing. Maybe not all at once. Maybe not even soon.

But he would.

-

The day of the showcase arrived faster than either of you expected. Minho hadn’t performed in months. This wasn’t an official stage - just a small even for fans. But it was the first step. And he was terrified.

You found him backstage, pacing. “You okay?” you asked gently.

He exhaled sharply, his hands trembling slightly as he looked at you. “No.”

You smiled fondly and nodded gently. “Good. That means it matters.”

He scoffed. “You and your stupid optimism.”

You took his hands, feeling the soft tremor in them and squeezed them. “Minho, you can do this.” He hesitated. “You don’t have to be perfect,” you reminded him. “Just dance. I'll be right there with you.”

Minho swallowed harshly. Then, slowly, he nodded. When you two stepped onto the stage, the music began.

And when he moved - hesitant at first, then stronger - something changed. The fire returned. Not the same as before, but something new.

And as you caught the beaming faces of the others at the side of your stage, you realized that Minho was back on track.

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you groan, refusing to answer.

minho chuckles, rolling onto his side, propping his head up with his palm. he’s still completely bare, but he doesn’t seem to care, his other hand dragging across your skin absentmindedly. his fingertips skim your arm, your stomach, your thigh—soft, lazy, like he’s mapping you all over again.

"should i call an ambulance?" he teases, voice dripping with mischief. "or a priest?"

"shut up," you mumble, turning your head toward him. your limbs feel too heavy to move, but the way he's looking at you makes warmth bloom in your chest.

minho grins, his bunny smile peeking through before he leans down, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your forehead. "i’m taking that as a ‘yes, my beautiful boyfriend, i am alive, and you are the absolute best, most skilled man to ever exist.’"

you roll your eyes, but a weak laugh escapes you. "you’re so annoying."

"and yet, you love me," he sings, shifting to sit up. his body stretches, muscles flexing under the dim evening light filtering through the curtains. then, he sighs and pats your thigh.

"alright, superstar, let’s get you cleaned up before you start fusing with the sheets."

you groan in protest, barely managing to turn your head towards him. "too tired."

minho snorts, rolling his eyes. "yeah, no shit. you look like you just ran a marathon."

you blindly reach out to smack his arm, but he easily dodges, amused. "watch it," you mumble, voice sluggish. "i’ll bite you."

his smirk widens. "you promise?"

"minho."

"alright, alright," he laughs, patting your thigh before slipping out of bed. "stay put, baby. i’ll take care of you."

you whine in protest, curling further into the sheets, but minho only clicks his tongue. he’s already moving, already taking charge in the way he always does when it comes to taking care of you.

"lazy girl," he mutters, "if i leave you here, you’ll just pass out and then complain later."

you peek at him through half-lidded eyes as he grabs a clean towel from the drawer. he’s still bare, wearing sweats and no shirt, still nonchalant about it, and the way he moves—effortless, unbothered—makes you want to drag him back into bed.

but before you can even consider it, minho is already kneeling back beside you, gently coaxing you onto your back as he wipes you down with the warm, damp towel. his touch is tender, patient, and even though he’s not saying much, you can feel the quiet care in every movement.

"..you okay?" he asks suddenly, voice softer now. he’s not looking at you, too focused on his task, but you can tell he’s listening.

"yeah," you murmur, watching him. his brows are slightly furrowed, lips pursed in thought as he works.

"sure?" he finally glances at you, and for a moment, the teasing is gone. it’s just minho—serious, attentive, waiting for your answer.

your chest tightens at how much he cares, even when he doesn't always say it outright. "i’m sure, min."

he studies you for a beat longer before scoffing lightly. "good. otherwise, i’d have to start putting a ‘handle with care’ sign on you."

you swat at his arm weakly, making him laugh.

after he finishes cleaning you up, minho tosses the towel aside and pulls the blanket over you before grabbing a fresh shirt from the drawer—one of his, of course. he slides it over your head, helping you slip your arms through.

"there, all warm and cozy," he hums, patting your head. "now stay."

your chest flutters at his words, but before you can dwell on it, he’s already moving. he disappears into the kitchen, and you hear the sound of running water. a moment later, he returns with a warm, damp towel in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

"here," he says, sitting beside you and pressing the glass to your lips. "drink."

you hesitate. "i’ll spill it—"

"i got you, lovely." his tone is softer now, less teasing, more patient. he tilts the glass gently, watching as you take slow sips. when he’s satisfied, he sets it aside and gets back up.

"where are you going?" you grumble, voice muffled as you nestle deeper into the covers.

"to make some amazing food," he replies, already pulling on a new pair of shorts. "unless you wanna eat air for dinner?"

"nooo, stay."

he sighs dramatically. "baby, you need to eat."

"you too," you mumble.

"that’s why i’m cooking," he replies, amused. "what do you want? something light? soup? or do you want something heavier?"

you peek up at him through sleepy eyes. "can i have rice?"

minho snorts. "you always want rice. what kind?"

"something warm. and comforting. and yummy."

he flicks your forehead lightly. "wow, such a specific request. thank you, i now have so much to work with."

"you’ll figure it out. you always do."

his expression softens, but he quickly masks it with another teasing scoff. "yeah, yeah. you’re lucky i love you."

you grin. "i am."

minho stares at you for a moment, something unreadable in his gaze, before he leans down and presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. "brat."

"stay for a bit." you say, pulling him and not giving him another option.

minho pauses, lips twitching. "so clingy, baby," he teases, but the way he’s already climbing back onto the bed betrays him.

he slides in beside you, his arm immediately wrapping around your waist as he pulls you into his chest. his skin is warm, comforting, and you melt into the embrace without hesitation.

"five minutes, hun," he murmurs against your hair, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple.

"ten," you counter, tucking yourself closer.

minho huffs, but he doesn’t argue. instead, he lets his fingers trail up and down your back, absentminded and soothing.

minho chuckles, his hold tightening for a brief moment before he finally sighs. "alright, time’s up. let me go make food before you start nibbling on my arm."

"you okay?" he asks, not looking at you, but his focus is entirely on you.

"yeah," you murmur, watching him.

"you sure?" this time, he does look at you, brows slightly furrowed. "not sore anywhere? i didn’t go too hard?"

a laugh bubbles out of you, weak but genuine. "minho, i’m fine."

he eyes you for a moment longer before huffing. "you say that, but if i catch you wincing later, i’m gonna scold you."

you smile sleepily. "you always scold me."

"for good reason," he mutters. then, after a beat, he clicks his tongue. "you’re so messy. i should start making you sign a waiver before we do anything."

"minho," you whine, burying your face in the pillow. "can you not bully me while i’m recovering?"

"i’m not bullying you, i’m lovingly teasing you. there’s a difference."

"not really."

minho smirks. "you love it."

you glare at him, but it holds no heat, and he knows it. with a satisfied hum, he tugs you into his chest, shifting you into a more comfortable position. his body is warm, solid, and you melt into him without hesitation. and then he gets back up.

then, with zero warning, he leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek, then your nose, then your lips—quick, soft pecks that make you giggle.

"min—"

"shh," he smirks, giving one last kiss before pulling away, and getting up. "go back to resting, superstar. stay put. i mean it. don’t try to get up."

"i’m not five," you grumble.

minho raises an eyebrow. "yeah? then stop acting like a clingy toddler."

"you love it."

he smirks. "i do."

then, before you can retort, he disappears into the kitchen.

you sigh dramatically but let your eyes flutter shut, knowing that when you wake, minho will be there—with food, with warmth, with care, even if he’ll mask it with teasing.

and that’s definitely more than enough.

for a while, the only sounds filling the space are the distant clatter of pots and the occasional muttered curses from minho. you drift in and out of light sleep, the warmth of the blanket and the lingering scent of him keeping you comfortable.

after what feels like forever, he finally returns, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of rice and soup.

"okay, sit up, lazybones," he announces, setting the tray on the nightstand. "i made chicken porridge. best thing for post-marathon recovery."

you roll your eyes but obediently sit up, stretching. "you’re never gonna let that go, huh?"

minho smirks. "nope." he lifts the bowl and scoops a spoonful, blowing on it before holding it out to you. "here."

your heart swells at the gesture, but you still pout. "i can feed myself."

"i know," he replies simply, still holding the spoon. "but i wanna do it."

you sigh but lean forward, letting him feed you. the warmth of the porridge spreads through you immediately, soothing and comforting.

minho watches you, satisfaction flickering across his face. "good?"

you nod. "really good."

"obviously," he sniffs. "i made it."

you giggle, letting him feed you a few more spoonfuls before taking the spoon from him. "i got it now."

"mm." minho leans back against the headboard, watching you eat with lazy contentment. then, casually, he says, "if you don’t finish it, you’re getting another scolding."

you narrow your eyes. "you’re so bossy."

"and yet, you listen to me."

you groan. "unfortunately."

minho smirks but doesn’t push it. when you finish, he takes the tray and sets it aside before tugging you back down into his arms.

"there," he murmurs, pulling the blanket over both of you. "all taken care of."

you sigh happily, pressing your face into his chest. "you’re the best, you know that?"

minho chuckles, low and warm. "yeah, i know."

you slap his arm lightly, making him laugh. but then, he presses another kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

"get some sleep, baby," he murmurs. "i got you."

and with his arms around you, steady and sure, you believe him.

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You missed him. Not just his touch, but everything else too. The way he always brought food over (making excuses about how he had extra), held you tight when you had a hard day and how his cats lived with you more than they did with him. Oh you missed the cats. They were literally your kids - and this dirty divorce had given him full custody of them.

And Minho? He was a mess. Not that he’d admit it.

And Jisung had had about enough of his best friend and his brooding.

---

Jisung: OKAY EVERYONE STOP.

Chan: What's up?

Hyunjin: What did you do?

Jisung: NOTHING. THIS IS ABOUT MINHO.

Seungmin: What did he do?

Jisung: He’s been moping for WEEKS. And I'm sick of it.

Changbin: You sure? That’s just his face.

Jisung: LISTEN. IT’S ABOUT Y/N.

Hyunjin: Ohhhhhh.

Felix: I KNEW IT.

Minho: What the hell is going on?

Jisung: OH LOOK WHO DECIDED TO SHOW UP. Jisung: YOU, SIR, ARE A DRAMA QUEEN.

---

Minho sighed. This was the last thing he needed right now.

---

Minho: I’m not moping.

Felix: Sure. And I’m not Australian.

Hyunjin: Yeah, totally not glaring at your phone at all.

Minho: It’s not about her.

Jeongin: Are you sure you didn't accidentally click her name in your contacts 12 times yesterday?

Chan: What's going on, Min?

Minho: I don't even know what you guys are going on about!

Minho: We were friends. With benefits. Not lovers. She was nice in bed. That’s it.

---

There was complete silence in the chat for a minute before it exploded.

---

Chan: No, Minho. No. No. No.

Seungmin: Okay, first of all, what the actual fuck?

Hyunjin: Bro, you did not just say that.

Jisung: YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKING LOSER.

Changbin: 😡

Jeongin: Hyung, she's an angel, how could you?

Felix: We’re literally trying to save you from yourself.

Minho: Well don't.

---

Minho hated himself. He absolutely hated himself. But he couldn't dwell on the self hate because Jisung just sent a video of Minho pacing his living room like a caged animal, while ranting about you being gone.

---

Hyunjin: Wow. Ok.

Minho: 🙄

Minho: Stop. Just stop.

Chan: Look, you’re obviously miserable. Why not just talk to her?

Seungmin: Yeah, genius. It’s not like she doesn’t live 20 feet away.

Minho: What if she doesn’t feel the same?

Jeongin: I'm sorry, but you’re an idiot.

Hyunjin: Dude. She liked you enough to start this whole thing. You just have to get over your dumb commitment issues.

Changbin: Honestly, just confess. Worst-case scenario, you cry into Dori.

Minho: I hate you all.

Jisung: Hate is a strong word for someone who’s about to sob into his cat.

Minho: Fine. I’ll talk to her.

---

Minho sat on his couch, heart pounding as he stared at your number on his phone. He’d been backed into a corner by his idiot friends, and now there was no escape.

And knowing you, he had a feeling that this was going to be the single most difficult task ever.

With a frustrated groan, he stood and grabbed his hoodie. He was going to do this. Because he loved you so much, and he was miserable without you.

Across the hall, in your apartment, you were getting some work done, sipping on coffee. You heard the doorbell, and when you opened the door, you saw Minho - disheveled, nervous, and yet, as handsome as ever. And your traitorous heart did that stupid thing it always did around him.

“Hey,” he said softly, eyes meeting yours. “Can we talk?”

Minho hadn’t been this nervous in a long time. He stood at your doorstep, heart racing, and palms sweaty, his usual confidence nowhere to be seen.

And he confessed. Nothing dramatics. Just a straightforward, “I love you.”

You'd stared at him as if trying to figure out if he was high. Or had hit his head somewhere. Or if he was simply horny.

But no. Then came his little speech. I know I don't deserve you. I was an asshole (of course he was). I was afraid (as if you weren't). And more than anything - I hurt you. And I hate myself for it. Ok now that you could work with.

But as hard as you tried, sometimes you just couldn't contain that bratty side of you (one that he apparently loved).

You crossed your arms, glaring at him like he’d just run over your dog.

“You can’t just waltz over here, say ‘I love you,’ and expect me to fall into your arms,” you snapped, looking infuriatingly hot with your brows furrowed and your lips pursed in defiance. “You rejected me, Minho. Do you know much that hurt me?”

His stomach twisted.

“I… I wasn’t ready -” he stuttered, looking terrified.

“Yeah, well, now I’m not ready,” you said, taking a step back and slamming the door in his face for dramatic effect.

You leaned against the door, fuming and freaking out all together. Your hands shook so hard as you wrapped your head around the fact that Minho just confessed to you and you slammed the door on his face.

And Minho stood in the hallway, a mix of shock, frustration, and - God help him - arousal bubbling under the surface. You were bratty when you were mad, of course. It made him want to kiss you and throttle you all at once.

---

Minho: She hates me.

Hyunjin: No, she doesn't. She slammed the door on your face didn't she?

Minho: How the hell are you so accurately right?

Jeongin: It's his thing.

Felix: What happened?

Jisung: Wait. Did you confess?

Minho: YES.

Minho: AND SHE SLAMMED THE DOOR IN MY FACE.

Hyunjin: Obviously.

Chan: So she didn’t say no?

Jisung: LMFAO.

Jeongin: She’s mad at you? Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.

Minho: SHE SAID A SIMPLE “I LOVE YOU” WOULDN’T WORK ON HER. WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!

Seungmin: It means she’s not an idiot.

Changbin: Exactly. You rejected her and took months to realize you’re in love. She deserves a little groveling.

Minho: GROVELING?

Felix: Oh, for sure.

---

He was not groveling. No way. Lee Minho didn't grovel. Hell no.

---

Jisung: Yeah, buddy. You gotta pull out all the stops now. Dinner, flowers, interpretive dance. The works.

Minho: STOP.

Hyunjin: Actually, the dance idea is kinda sexy. Imagine Minho doing a hip roll to apologize.

Felix: STOP IT. I’M WHEEZING.

Minho: CAN YOU ALL BE SERIOUS FOR TWO SECONDS?!

Chan: Look, the point is, you hurt her feelings. You need to show her that you’re serious.

Minho: How?! She's a damn brat. She enjoys torturing me.

Jisung: If she’s a brat, she’s gonna want to see you sweat.

Minho: She frustrates me.

Jisung: So you're sure you're just frustrated and not turned on right now?

---

Damn Jisung.

---

Jeongin: YAHHHH

Felix: You’re INTO IT???

Changbin: My man’s in love AND down bad.

Minho: Please.

Felix: Okay, focus. If groveling isn’t your style, do something you.

Hyunjin: Yeah. Seduce her with your weird cat boy energy or whatever.

Minho: You’re all useless.

Seungmin: Says the man who just admitted to being horny and clueless.

Chan: Minho, she clearly wants you to prove yourself. You’ve got to show her you’re willing to put in effort.

Hyunjin: Write her a song. Serenade her. Cry through it.

Minho: I don’t cry.

Jisung: LIES. I’ve seen you cry at those pet videos.

Minho: JISUNG YOU'RE DEAD.

Minho: What if she never forgives me?

Jeongin: She will. She’s just mad. Just play along.

Hyunjin: He’s right. Drama makes us hotter.

Minho: You're all insane 🙄

Chan: Insane but not wrong. Now, go apologize properly.

---

Minho paced his living room, his mind racing through ideas - romantic dinner? A heartfelt speech? Maybe just tossing himself at your feet and begging?

He needed a plan.

---

Minho: Fine. Give me ideas to make her forgive me.

Jisung: OHOHOHOHOHO.

Felix: Oh, this is gonna be good.

Hyunjin: Okay, everyone, let’s brainstorm.

Changbin: Classic dinner and flowers. Can’t go wrong.

Jisung: No, no. She’s mad. You need to go BIG. Like, dramatic big.

Minho: Like what? Fall to my knees in the rain?

Hyunjin: YES. Bonus points if you sob.

Minho: I’m not doing that.

Seungmin: You’re all useless. Look, Minho, she’s mad because you hurt her. You need to make her feel special. Do something that shows you actually care.

Jisung: STRIPTEASE.

Chan: Jisung.

Felix: WAIT. THAT’S ACTUALLY KIND OF FUNNY.

Hyunjin: Picture this. You show up at her door, music playing, and just start taking things off.

Minho: I want to win her back. Not make her think I'm horny.

Jisung: Coward.

---

Obviously he knew this would happen. He knew it.

---

Chan: Okay, let’s regroup. Minho, what does she like?

Minho: Being mad at me, apparently.

Jeongin: Sounds like she has taste.

Minho: She likes reading. And baking. And…dancing.

Felix: Aha! Bake her something!

Hyunjin: And while it’s baking, do a little dance. Shirtless.

Jisung: OOOH. Combine the ideas. Show up with baked goods and then do the striptease.

Minho: Oh my God.

Seungmin: You could apologize like a normal person, you know.

Felix: Where’s the fun in that?

Jisung: No, no. We need something iconic.

Felix: Okay, serious suggestion: Show her that you actually listened to her. Her favorite food? Or something thoughtful that shows you care about what she likes.

Minho: Like…?

Hyunjin: Cook her favorite meal.

Chan: Or bring her flowers that mean something.

Jisung: Or do the striptease.

Minho: STOP WITH THE STRIPTEASE.

Felix: It’s not a bad idea, you know. Women love confidence.

Minho: I’ll do the cooking idea. But if this backfires, I'm gonna hunt each one of you down and then see what happens.

Jisung: Lies. You’ll be back to cry about it.

---

Minho got to work. He spent hours perfecting your favorite meal, rehearsing his apology in front the mirror, and trying not to think about how much he wanted to kiss you. God, he just wanted to cuddle you and tell you how much his life sucked without you in it.

When he finally knocked on your door, you opened it to find him standing there, holding so many containers of food and looking uncharacteristically nervous.

“Hi,” he said, voice soft. “Can I come in?”

You crossed your arms, and sighed.

"Minho, I really don't have the time-"

"I made your favorite," he said, holding up the containers. "And I will grovel if that's what it takes."

You did love it when he cooked for you.

“This better be good.”

Minho stood in your living room, wringing his hands as you sat on the couch, glaring at him. He set the food on the coffee table and looked at you, his sharp tongue failing him for once.

“I was afraid,” he finally said, voice low.

“Afraid of what? Being happy?” You asked, arching an eyebrow.

Minho winced.

“Yes. No. I mean…God, I don’t know. You’re everything to me, okay? And I was scared I’d ruin it. And then I did ruin it, and now I’m standing here like an idiot, begging you to let me fix it.”

“You… you really mean that?” You asked, your voice softer now, your eyes obviously filling up with tears.

“I’ve been a mess without you. I love you and I’m sorry it took me so long to realize it, but I do. I love you, and I’ll spend as long as it takes proving it to you.” he whispered, and you sighed, standing up and stepping closer to him.

“You’re such a dumbass, you know that?”

“Yeah, I've been told.”

And then he cupped your cheeks with his hands and kissed you. Rough and messy, the tension melting away as your arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer.

“You better not mess this up.” you muttered against his lips.

“Not a chance.”

---

Minho: We’re trying the relationship thing.

Felix: OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG!!

Hyunjin: FINALLY.

Jisung: Thank you 🙏

Changbin: Congrats, lover boy.

Chan: Proud of you, Minho.

Felix: Did she like the food?

Minho: Um, it kinda went cold. She’s heating it up now.

Hyunjin: LMAO.

Jisung: What about the striptease? Did you do it?

Minho: 🙄🙄🙄

Jisung: ANSWER THE QUESTION, COWARD.

Minho: We did strip. So… hehe.

Felix: SIR.

Hyunjin: NOT THE “HEHE.”

Jisung: I CAN’T BREATHE.

Changbin: YOU DOG.

Chan: Minho, for the love of God.

Minho: You asked.

Jisung: My dude really said, “She forgave me, and then we got NAKED.” ICONIC.

Jeongin: Please. I just came here to see if Minho hyung was still single, and now I want to bleach my brain.

Chan: Can we not, for once, be so feral?

Hyunjin: You’re in the wrong chat for that, Christopher.

Jisung: Anyway, so… did you, like, destroy the house or… ?

Minho: I will never speak to any of you again.

Jisung: YOU CAN’T JUST DROP “WE STRIPPED” AND THEN LEAVE.

Felix: It’s called a cliffhanger, Ji. Let the man be mysterious.

Hyunjin: Yeah, mysterious about how whipped he is.

Felix: Totally

Divider: @saradika-graphics