FURTHER THAN FOREVER

"Please don't do this."

SYNOPSIS

Your wedding day is fast approaching, and your tailor is getting dangerously close to risking it all.

What’s in a name?

Vast amount of textile knowledge. Impeccably dexterous hands transforming rolls of fabric into pure elegance with unmatched finesse, wearing the callus on the skin like a badge of honor representing the immense dedication to the craft. A fine art passed from father to son like the reigning throne. Generations of tailors, the family tree of which even included overseers of the royal wardrobe at one point.

That was what it meant to be a Lee. 

The name might have carried a reputation, but at the end of the day, it was the reputation of a mere merchant. The Lees didn’t come from old money. Even though their financial well-being granted them a social standing of slightly above common folk, they were by no means a member of the higher class, which meant no fancy schooling, no manners training, no socialite gatherings, none of that. They knew their place. If they dared get carried away, they would immediately be reminded of it anyway.  

…which was why the only son of the Lees had a problem with these brandy-drinking, business-debating, rent-collecting spoiled brats to begin with. He despised aristocrats with his whole entire soul.

They might have inherited all that land or those factories from their great-grandfathers who actually knew the value of manual labor, but it was the working class they looked down upon that kept them wealthy. Put these snobs in the middle of a field, and they wouldn’t know jack shit about harvesting the produce they were famous for. Their wives? No perceptible skills other than being china dolls and ordering the estate staff around, playing palace in their manors just to get a little taste of queendom.

Then again, these people were the ovens of bread and the barrels of butter to the Lees, so…

“Keep your mouth shut, son!”

If Minho could maybe give a pass to one family, that would be Lord Bang and her ladyship. They were the exception to the rule for treating the rest of the mortals like actual human beings, and they brought huge business to the atelier with the seasonal banquets they threw every three months. 

Damn, were those a big deal. It could quite literally make or break you.

Solely receiving an invitation was considered a huge honor by the socialite, let alone attending. These extravagant evenings were the place to be to retain status as well as for the freshly-turned-eighteen debutantes to be introduced to the public for marriage prospects. 

Or to flaunt themselves to procreate blue-blood inbreds, as Minho would call it. 

While most estates had their in-house dressmakers, throwing large sums of cash for a bespoke gown sewn by the renowned seamster of the town was a sign of…

They called it prestige, but Minho knew they meant something else.

It was that time of the year again. The atelier was buzzing like a beehive with all the gowns needed to be made for the upcoming Spring Banquet. Even though catering to a bunch of demanding ladies and their overindulged daughters was not his favorite thing in the world, Minho still clenched his teeth and worked his magic out of the endless respect he had for his father. Once the Spring Banquet was over, he could at least work with more decent people who were truly appreciative of his craft since summer was usually the wedding season. Six more weeks of this hell, then he could take genuine pleasure in his work again.

Nevertheless, life always had a way of derailing plans for better or worse.

“Mother, stop it!”

“This is the first time we have received an invitation, and we are going!” the woman dragged her daughter into the shop while turning several heads in her direction and flashed a forced but syrupy smile at Minho, “Good afternoon. We would like to have a gown made for this pretty young lady here and immediately, please. Money is not an issue.”

Immediately. Sure. As was common knowledge, money had the magical power to make one work faster and much more efficiently.

“I understand, my lady, but I’m afraid the earliest immediately I can offer you is four weeks,” Minho calmly responded.

“I don’t think you understand, young man,” the woman clenched her teeth through her smile and widened her eyes psychotically, “This is for Lord Bang’s banquet.”

“Mother!”

“So is everything else we have underway,” Minho pointed at the large leather-bound notebook on the counter filled with names of customers and the specifications of their orders.

“Now you listen to me,” the woman took two slow steps towards him and spoke menacingly, “This is going to be my daughter’s debut in the high society, and if she makes a poor impression because of your incompetency, I will burn this place down with you in it.”

Sure. As was common knowledge, money was the number one instrument of arson.

Minho’s blank eyes watched you leave the shop and wait outside as soon as this pretty on the outside rotten on the inside lady’s sentence was punctuated. Not only were you clearly dying of embarrassment, but also you couldn’t have been more reluctant for this unlike literally everybody else who came in for a banquet gown. He took a deep breath to muster a little more patience and explained.

“The banquet is in May. Simple math would dictate the gown shall be finished by the time of the event, but you have the liberty of seeking an allegedly faster seamster, my lady. You will end up here when you’re inevitably unsatisfied with the results anyway, but by then it will be too late to have everything ready in due time,” he went behind the counter and grabbed a quill, “Four weeks. Would you like to put your name down?”

The woman muttered something under her breath and gave him the details he requested regarding fabric choices and style. Once Minho was done scribbling with his less-than-legible cursive, he glanced outside the shop window again and saw you petting a stray cat. 

A cat. A furball that velvet-loving ladies wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole, but it was rolling around in your lap as you were tickling it, not giving a damn how your skirt was getting ruined. He smiled to himself.

“Please have the young lady come here tomorrow at noon for her measurements.”

“Tomorrow?” the woman cocked a brow, “I thought you said four weeks.”

“That’s when you will receive the end product, my lady.”

“Oh,” she finally grasped what this subtly insolent tailor meant all along, “Very well then. I shall send her along.”

As she was leaving the shop, she let out a loud shriek seeing all the fur on her daughter’s dress, and scared the life out of the poor kitten. All Minho could do was snort, having no idea why he was this amused.

The next day you were a no-show at the agreed-upon time, and after waiting for maybe five minutes out of courtesy, Minho sent the staff away for lunch, refusing to have them bend to someone’s whim just because they were a paying customer. When you finally showed up five more minutes later, rather than the delicate elegance of a maiden, you barged into the shop with the manners of a delinquent.

“Please… excuse… my tardiness!” you managed to utter some muffled words while heavily panting and took a minute to catch your breath.

Judging by the hair in slight disarray and the beads of sweat on your forehead, you’d obviously been running. Minho reached for the copper water jug on his desk and poured a glass for you.

“Are you always this punctual to all your appointments, my lady?” he attempted to pass his annoyance as humor while handing you the cold drink to rejuvenate yourself. You downed the entire thing in three large gulps.

“I had to make a little detour to buy some liver for the little guy outside,” you heaved a deep sigh and handed the glass back to him, “I’m actually in a hurry. Can we get this over with, please?”

So you technically missed your appointment that you almost didn’t get in the first place… because of a cat?

Really?

“I’m afraid we don’t have any of our female staff available right now,” he informed you, “If you prefer, you could come in after—”

“Just take the damn measurements so that my mother can shut up, will you?”

Huh?

Minho didn’t know what to be befuddled over first—your complete disregard for proper language or your nonchalance over the prospect of a man semi-intimately touching you. He would have to help undress you so that he could take precise measurements over the corset, and just the mere thought of it was categorically scandalous.

“I can’t possibly do t—”

“Yes, you can,” you interrupted him and looked at him with pleading eyes, “Listen, I have somewhere I really need to be, and I have to make it look like I was here the entire time. I am most certainly not after damaging your reputation. I beg you to help me with this.”

“What can possibly be more important for a young lady than the Spring Banquet?” Minho creased his brows in confusion.

“Madame Laurent.”

“Who?”

“Madame Laurent!” your eyes gleamed with childlike wonder, “She is coming all the way from France to give a lecture about feline health at the university hall, and I simply cannot miss it. Please!”

Well, that connected a lot of dots for Minho, and a part of him was utterly endeared. He was used to the high class acting like they owned the goddamn place wherever they went and making life decisions based on what was going to happen to their last names. Then there was you, sneaking around to go to some cat class. He bit inside his cheeks to stop himself from laughing.

“Fine. Follow me, please,” he led the way towards the back.

The small room you entered looked like it functioned as half a storage unit and half a changing room with rolls of fabric stacked on top of each other, various instruments laid on a large wooden desk, and a tall Cheval mirror in one corner. There was also a neatly made mattress on the floor in stark contrast with the overall untidiness of the place. Minho placed his notebook on the table, picked up a measuring tape from a drawer, and proceeded to hesitantly undo the ribbons on your back, entirely clueless about how not to make this more awkward than it already was.

“Care to divulge your name?” you attempted small talk to diffuse the condensing tension in the room.

“It’s Minho, my lady.”

“Minho,” you echoed his name, “Do you live here?” 

“For the time being,” he responded, “There is so much work to do for the next couple of weeks, so I don’t want to waste time commuting.”

You could tell he was trying to be mindful to the best of his ability, standing as away from you as he could, not even directly touching your skin but over the measuring tape. An utter professional. You caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror as he was doing his job. Very stern expression like he was angry and his lips slightly pouted due to how focused he was, yet still extremely good-looking. You forgot why you were there and what you were doing for a second, and just admired his sharp features with the tiniest of butterflies flapping their wings in your stomach.

Whereas for Minho, this was hell on earth with how hard he was repressing every unholy thought duplicating itself in his brain to prevent having an erection right behind you.

“All done,” he tied the last ribbon on your back, “You can come back in a week for your first fitting.”

“I will not forget this,” you impulsively kissed him on the cheek and dashed towards the front door, “Thank you!”

Minho felt a hard kick inside his ribcage, and the small piece of skin you pressed your lips on burned for days.

Your encounters outside the atelier, however, were limited to mere coincidences. 

The first time, Minho ran into you in the town market where he had no business being other than overhearing your mother telling you to buy spices during your fitting one day. The second time, you spent an unnecessarily long time at a haberdashery because the owner said something about Mr. Lee’s son dropping by sometime in the afternoon to pick up a package.

Then Minho started regularly visiting the university hall to check if they were holding any lectures about anything remotely related to animals because you seemed to be attending every single one of those. He would wait for you outside just so he could see you from afar as the circle of ladies surrounding you kept knowingly giggling while nudging you.

Then you started passing by the tavern garden every Friday evening just because Minho’s friends loudly asked if he was coming to their usual Friday gatherings one time. You couldn’t do much besides making prolonged eye contact, but the gentlemen at the table were having the time of their lives smacking Minho’s back with rowdy teasing laughter.

The one time you unknowingly crossed paths was at the park on a warm June evening. Minho wanted to unload his mind watching the swans after a long day at work whereas you were on your way home walking through it. Having complete tunnel vision on you, floating much more gracefully than all the swans in the pond, he blurted out without thinking.

“My lady!”

Your heart skipped a beat hearing his voice. There was no one around, and even though you were in public, it felt more secluded than the dressing room at the atelier. After exchanging pleasantries, it was so obvious you were both trying to come up with a conversation topic so that nobody had to leave just yet.

“We didn’t have a chance to talk after the banquet,” Minho finally found one and held onto it for dear life, “I hope I was able to do a decent job dressing you.”

“Please, decent would be an insult to your magnificent work, but I am not sure if I was able to carry it well enough during all that waltzing,” you spoke while internally reciting every prayer you knew that he wasn’t able to hear how fast your heart was beating, “Do you know how to waltz?”

“No.”

“Would you like me to teach you?”

“I don’t dance.”

“Yes, you do!”

You suddenly grabbed his hands and pulled him close, showing him the very basic steps as he clumsily followed along. You were laughing so much that his heart was about to give out.

He wanted to kiss you. He wanted to kiss you so bad.

But…

Even when your steps came to a halt, he couldn’t stop staring at your face. At your eyes. At your lips. Curled into a bright smile that rendered him too stunned to talk.

“Are you waiting for me to ask?” you finally pierced the silence.

“Ask what?”

“To kiss me.”

Do not say that. Do not say such things. Your lips are no joking matter to me.

“That would be highly inappropriate,” he averted his eyes instead.

“It would, wouldn’t it, my good sir?” you faked a gasp and carried on with exaggerated manners, “Yet you are waltzing with a fair maiden where no one can see you. What ulterior motives must you harbor?”

His cheekbones raised ever so slightly, but he was visibly blushing even under that pastel dusk. Well, if he wasn’t going to make a move for fear of being highly inappropriate, then you could be inappropriate enough for the both of you. You would gladly take the matter into your own hands. You would gladly take his beautiful face in between your hands.

And kiss him.

“May you have a pleasant evening,” you casually spoke after that lightning-fast peck, “I certainly will have one.”

All he could do was touch his lips as he watched you walk away. What a woman, he thought to himself. Beautiful. Fearless. Nothing like the rest of her kind.

The last name Lee might have carried a reputation, but at the end of the day, it was the reputation of a mere merchant. Minho knew his place. Case in point, a lady and a seamster could never end up together. He was fully aware of that and had to act accordingly.

Yet nothing was able to stop him from falling hopelessly in love with you. More and more with each passing season. It was summer, fall, winter, then spring again.

You were due for a visit again.

Minho was at least guaranteed to intentionally meet you four times a year. You were the first to arrive at the atelier every couple of months for a new banquet gown, yet always late for your measurement appointments so that no one would be around.

And he was getting a little less professional with each encounter. 

No more over-the-tape touching. It was only the silhouette of his fingertips, but it was still skin-to-skin, and you were shuddering when he touched you. You would steal glances from each other in the Cheval mirror, trying to see the other’s reaction to the subtle baits you were throwing at one another. Sometimes you would tilt your head to the side, and he would inhale that flowery essence you loved wearing. God, you smelled so good.

He just knew you tasted good, too.

“Tell me something. You have been going to these banquets for a year now,” Minho uttered while working on your waist behind you, “How come no gentleman has asked for your hand in marriage yet?”

“Because I tell them I am not a virgin,” you leisurely shrugged.

“WHAT?”

You burst out laughing loudly at how scandalized he was, more or less the same reaction you would elicit from the young lords trying to approach you.

“Calm yourself, I’m as untouched as a cactus,” you clarified while wiping the tears from your eyes, “but nobody needs to know that.”

“Why would you even do that? Your–Your reputation—”

“If your appendix bursts, it does not damage your reputation, does it? Why do I not get the same treatment, then?” you continued more seriously, “If I get married, they will chain me to some manor, and I will be treated as a breeding factory. God forbid if a woman has aspirations…”

“Do you have aspirations?”

“Yes,” you smiled at him in the mirror, “I would like to study veterinary medicine.”

Why was he even surprised? Of course, you did. You lost your entire mind whenever you saw a stray animal on the street. You were sneaking out to university hall lectures while your peers were at a church listening to Sunday sermons. Minho felt his heart swell to the point of combustion. 

But all of those wholesome feelings instantly disappeared when he kneeled before you. 

His face was directly in front of your crotch, and he noticed a familiar scent emitting from you. Tangy. Not quite sweet, but carried those notes nevertheless. A bit intense. He instinctively looked up at you trying to read your face. You weren’t showing any color, but your pupils were blown wide and your lips were slightly parted.

He swallowed.

His urges started running wild. Even you knew they did with how his breathing became slightly irregular. The thought of getting under your skirt and burying his face between your legs was rapidly consuming him.

Maybe it was for the best that the loud ringing of the phone echoed in the atelier, scaring the life out of both of you, but it at least managed to clear the reddish-pink haze that was about to invade every single corner of that tiny dressing room.

After he closed the shop that day, Minho sat on the pavement and let the kitty he now named Grape climb onto his lap, thinking to himself how he could let you know about his feelings for you while petting him. He had to do something since they were getting a bit more untameable with each passing day. Maybe you would go to the park again. Maybe he could take you to some lecture on human emotions or something. Maybe Grape could be his accomplice, but how was he supposed to go about this? Say he made his little confession, then what? Would you accept it? What would your family say? You were a little rebel, but did you have it in you to stand up to them if he promised to be by your side through everything?

Minho couldn’t sleep that night even though he exhausted himself with a hundred different scenarios, but little did he know his world was about to shatter before he got to do any of that.

Merely several days after the Spring Banquet, a small crowd of people dropped by the atelier with you among them. Minho knew one of the women accompanying you—that was Lady Seo without a doubt, but something wasn’t right at all.

You weren’t supposed to be here for another few weeks. Why were you—?

Your eyes were puffy and the skin around them was raw red like you were harshly rubbing it, the perfect evidence of you crying over something. There was resentment written all over your face. Concern crawled all over his body, and Minho started burning with the early shades of rage.

“A little earlier than usual for the next banquet, I see,” he calmly greeted the circle of women, “To what do I owe the pleasure, my lady?”

“Oh, we are here for a much joyous occasion this time,” Lady Seo chirped and lifted your hand for Minho to see better, “The young lady is joining the Seo family, and we wouldn’t have anything less than a wedding dress carrying the Lee signature!”

You were staring at the floor blankly like you had given up all hope. The second Minho caught a glimpse of your ring-adorned finger, he felt his heart getting ripped off his chest.

“A… A wedding dress…”

“Why, yes! Mr. Lee couldn’t speak highly enough of his son’s niche, and we simply must have the best for our future bride.”

Future bride. Minho was in sheer disbelief and rampant denial that those words were referring to you. Deep inside he knew this day was going to come, but it still felt like…

It felt like this was his fault for being too late.

“Certainly,” he forced a levelheaded smile to the best of his ability and turned his gaze on you, trying to stay still while he was stabbing himself in the chest with his own words, “Does the young lady have anything in mind, or would she like to receive recommendations?”

You finally looked up at him, bloodshot eyes utterly grief-stricken like you had just come back from a funeral. It was a funeral if you thought about it—a forced visit to Dr. Yang to prove you were lying and your hymen was in fact very much intact. All your dreams, all your hopes, all your love for Minho were mercilessly slaughtered by a conversation that took place between two families, and you had absolutely no say in the matter.

“Do you make black wedding gowns by any chance, good sir?” you asked through the most broken of smiles lacing all your features.

“She is surely jesting,” your mother let out a loud laughter while pinching your arm and loudly whispered, “This is barely appropriate. Stop offending your mother-in-law.”

“I am sure whatever you come up with will more than suffice,” your voice cracked as you slightly bowed your head at Minho, “I will be in your care.”

Care? In his care? This was not how he wanted to take care of you. You were going to go to school. He was going to wait for you and take you to the park afterwards, then ask you to tell him all about it. He had the utmost faith in you that you would be giving lectures on feline health someday. He wanted to take you to Paris when he saved enough money so that you could meet Madame Laurent again, and maybe ask you to marry him while he was at it.

Yet the reality was colder than the harshest winter.

“Then I will work on some patterns today, and we can discuss them tomorrow with the young lady,” he scribbled your name in his notebook and uttered emphatically, “At noon.”

You had done this many times before. You knew what it meant at this point.

Come five to ten minutes later when nobody’s here.

The next day you arrived at the atelier to allegedly get your measurements taken when there was absolutely no need; Minho already knew everything by heart. He just wanted to touch you again.

Maybe for one last time.

You didn’t even exchange pleasantries because there was nothing pleasant about any of this, and just proceeded to the dressing room in deafening silence. Minho wanted to ask you so many things, but all the words he couldn’t utter formed a gigantic knot in his throat. If he so much as made a sound, he was afraid he was going to break down crying.

And the last time he cried was when he was twelve years old.

It was a simple and professionally required act, measuring. Measuring your chest. Measuring your waist. Measuring your inseams for whatever reason as though bridal gowns came with dress pants, but he was measuring anyway. That seemed to be the only way to carve the exact outline of your body into his mind forever. Get indecently close to you, memorize the notes of your scent, kneel in front of you with begging eyes as if he was about to hit you with another proposal, and importantly…

Most importantly…

Watch the way goosebumps broke on your supple skin every time he touched you.

Each time you were in this room, the distance Minho kept between you two was noticeably shrinking, and this time around there was nothing left to shrink anymore. You had never felt him this close to you, flush against your body as he was measuring your bust from behind you. You could feel his body temperature seeping through you. His scent. His cologne. 

His entire existence. 

You leaned back into his chest and touched his hand while holding his gaze in the mirror. The room was so quiet that you could hear the screaming heartbeats of each other perfectly clearly. You watched how his hand reached for your chin in the reflection to turn you around. It hurt so bad when you looked into his deep brown eyes. It hurt so good when he brushed his thumb on your cheek.

You were dying in agony when he pressed his lips on yours. 

Much different than that one kiss you stole from him all those months ago. It felt like sinking in a bottomless ocean. Deep. Slow. Wet. Neither of you had the courage to open your eyes, and the darkness made it feel like you were kissing for hours. It was supposed to be an innocent show of affection maybe, but it was deteriorating way too rapidly. A little deeper, a little harder, a little quicker, and a little wetter. He was burning and so were you and you were letting him touch you and he was trying so hard to abstain, but…

He was a man. He was a man in love.

He dropped the tape tangled around his fingers and harshly pulled you in, throwing gallons of gas on the fire that was barely containable as it was. You felt the coldness of the wall he pressed you against on your back, giving you instant shivers, but you didn’t care. You had dreamed about this for so long. He had dreamed about this for so long. Touching you, kissing you, tasting every inch of your skin until he diminished you into a panting moaning mess, desperate to feel him in the worst ways and—

One touch between your legs, and reality hit Minho like a freight train about to be derailed.

“God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me,” he jolted in his place and backed away, “I–I couldn’t help it.”

You didn’t know what exactly it was you were feeling. Sadness? Anger? Disappointment? A nauseating concoction of them all?

”Do you… not want me?”

“No, it’s not that! It’s never that!” 

Minho was between a rock and a hard place. He knew what he wanted, but there was also the undeniable truth. What was he supposed to do? Disregard everything all at once, or be a decent human being and…

Let you go?

“You are… engaged,” he managed to say with an almost inaudible voice.

All this time, you hoped. You hoped he would protest to making this godforsaken dress. You hoped he would ask you not to go through with this. You hoped he would tell you that he loved you. Maybe you even foolishly thought he would want to marry you instead.

But apparently, you had hoped in vain.

“A fact you should have remembered before initiating, don’t you think?” you scoffed with disdain.

“Please…”

“If you are done with the measurements, I shall take my leave,” you quickly put your linen dress back on and walked out without looking at him to hide your tears threatening to fall, “I won’t be back again until the day of my final fitting.”

When the front door closed, the four words Minho couldn’t say out loud to save his life turned into a fist, and declared his throat as its residence for the foreseeable future.

Please don’t leave me.

He was losing sleep, and you were haunting his every waking thought. Every piece of fabric he cut was another breath taken away from him. Every stitch he sewed was another wound inflicted on his skin. The day of delivery was fast approaching, but Minho felt like his life was ending.

On the day of your final fitting, he was expecting you to come around noon again, but you were nowhere to be found. You didn’t show up in the afternoon. You didn’t show up in the evening. He never thought he would feel this way about seeing you in a fucking wedding dress, but he was getting worried.

“I need to run. Take care of the place,” Minho entrusted the shop with one of his apprentices, “I don’t know when I’ll be back. Lock the door and leave if I’m late.”

He scoured all the places he could think of. The park. The market. The tavern area. Even the university hall to see whether there was one of those beloved animal lectures of yours. You weren’t anywhere. His last resort was to pick up the dress and go to your estate to check on you with some excuse. He was going to make something up on the way. 

But before it even came to that, seeing you by the closed shop door, Minho was so relieved that his knees almost gave way. 

“There was a lecture series today,” you looked at him with blank eyes, “About loss.”

He wanted to say something. He needed to say something, but Minho forgot all the words he knew. You weren’t talking. You stood there in front of the atelier for god knows how long, and it seemed like it fell upon you to break the silence once again.

“I came for my fitting.”

Minho’s gaze slowly turned from your face towards the floor, and his shoulders drooped in resignation. You proceeded in silence. He fished for the keys in his pocket and opened the door, locked it from inside after you walked in, then led the way to the dressing room. Your gown was neatly pressed and placed on a hanger. He gave you some privacy to change, and when you opened the door again to signal him to come in for the final adjustments, Minho felt like he was walking towards a gallows tree. There you were, in all your glory, shining like you never had in pristine whites. He took slow steps towards you and knelt before you to check the length of the hem of the skirt.

God, you were beautiful.

You were in a wedding dress. A wedding dress. If he didn’t do something, you were going to slip away. Forever.

He had been such a coward ever since he lent his heart to you, never having the courage to do the things he was yearning to do, yet you were… you were nothing but…

Minho had enough.

“Please don’t do this,” he whispered.

It was a whisper, but he may as well have screamed at you. His eyes were fixated firmly on the hem. You were stunned like a bolt of lightning just struck you, incredulous at what you just heard. 

“Don’t get married,” his voice quivered like he was on the brink of crying as he hugged your legs, “Please.”

As if he was controlled by some unknown entity, his hands slid your skirt up. He finally looked up at you. You met his gaze, not knowing what to anticipate. You didn’t want to hope; he could step back at any moment like he did the last time, but a part of you just couldn’t help it.

“Minho…”

That was enough for him to risk it all.

He began to place little kisses up your thighs. Your skin was even more supple than he had always imagined. You heaved a very deep sigh and closed your eyes while leaning against the wall.

It didn’t feel that cold this time around. 

Minho was in a complete trance. Just kissing, kissing, and kissing everything his lips came across. Your legs, your thighs, the barely noticeable wet trace on your underwear. His fingers clutched the waistband of the thick fabric and slid it down, and down, and down, in disbelief that he was actually looking at the most intimate part of you fully exposed for him. Soft. Warm. Inviting.

There was no turning back from this anymore.

“I love you,” he whispered against you and closed his mouth on your cunt.

You felt those three words everywhere on your body.

Your fingers were tangled in between his silky locks, guiding his head instinctively. The amount of pleasure you were feeling was in lethal doses, much more intense than anything you were able to provide yourself. So wet and slippery, much warmer compared to your own fingers.

Minho, on the other hand, was dying.

He had an inkling about what you would taste like when your scent dissolved on his tongue, but he never thought it would be this savory. This condensed. This right. Unable to get enough, he was sinking deeper into your pussy, thinking he could maybe feel you like he was supposed to if he occupied the same space as you.

You clasped your hands on his shoulders and pulled him up, tasting yourself on his mouth as he swirled his tongue around yours, but it wasn’t enough. You wanted to see what he looked like naked. You wanted to feel him inside you. You wanted to belong to him.

And Minho wasn’t stopping this time.

“Can we…?” he took one look at his mattress on the floor then at you again.

“Yes.” 

You placed your hands on his beautiful face and felt how much he was trembling under your touch. From anticipation. From excitement. From nerves. 

“I love you, Minho,” you stressed the word while looking deep into his eyes.

That was the moment he said a mouthful of fuck you to everything.

You stripped each other as fast as you could, never leaving each other’s lips alone. Sitting on the mattress, you ran your hands on Minho’s bare torso and admired his naked figure for some time. He was so beautiful it made you want to violently cry. 

He laid you down on your back and quickly descended between your legs to pick up where he left off, locking his arms on your legs, too afraid to let you go. His tongue glided all over your folds first, making sure he replaced all your slick with his saliva before his lips trapped your clit. He was slurping on the engorged bundle of nerves with lazy swirls of his tongue, ears intently listening to how deep your moans were coming from. The harder he sucked, the more you were tugging at your own hair. The uneven ground your sounds of pleasure were stacked on eventually collapsed, and you found yourself arching into his mouth with cries ripping through your throat, wet mess staining all over his chin and glistening under the dim light of the room.

“Touch me,” Minho pleaded while hovering over your body, “Please.”

Then and only then did you notice the abysmal condition he was in, and it tickled you inside that he wanted you this much. So concerningly hard you could trace the veins on his cock. Tip flushed dark pink and about to leak. Utterly mouthwatering. You held him in a firm but careful grip and listened to his quiet moans when he made you stroke his girth. If you kept it up, he was actually going to cum before… before he could even…

He guided his cock to your soaked entrance and pressed his tip against you, proceeding with very shallow thrusts to make sure you were comfortable with his pace. His thumb was gently caressing your clit to compensate for the mild discomfort as he paved his way into you. More. A little more. Halfway in. Just a bit more. Almost there.

Then a cul-de-sac.

You felt like a long-lost piece of you clicked into its place whereas Minho almost lost his mind when he disappeared into you completely. The sensation was too intense. 

“Not enough,” he lowered his face down to kiss you and pressed his forehead against yours, “I’m finally inside you, but it’s just not enough.”

How could it ever be enough when you violently loved someone from afar for that long? How could it ever be enough when all the I love yous you were able to utter to their face were in your dreams? How was he ever going to be able to avenge all the lost time if not by desperately making love to the love of his life, sweaty, loud, drowning each other in kisses?

“Be my wife,” he spoke into your lips, “I swear on everything good and pure I’ll spend the rest of my life to make you happy.”

Too consumed with desire. Too overwhelmed with emotion. You were on the brink of happy tears, trying to produce a single word, but your mind wasn’t cooperating.

“Marry me,” he beseeched while quickening his thrusts, and buried his face in the crook of your neck, “Marry me. God, I love you!”

You held him in your embrace as tightly as you could and let him run towards his high however fast he wanted. Minho barely managed to pull out at the last second, and finished on your chest, shooting milky white drops to trickle down your breasts. You were both so deliriously happy in each other’s arms, not being able to get enough of one another at any cost. 

Just kissing. Kissing. And kissing some more while waiting for your feet to touch the ground.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do from this point on,” he intertwined his fingers with yours, “but do you want to start by ripping your dress to shreds?”

You uttered the words you’d been practicing so hard to come across as convincing, but without having to pretend for once.

“I do.”

You kissed into one another’s smiles again. You knew what kind of obstacles you needed to face before you could be at peace, but you weren’t dreading it. You had Minho, and he had you. Nothing else mattered other than how much you loved each other.

Longer than tomorrow.

Further than forever.

Exxxtraoddinary? Appreciate with a pudding.

© 2025 Feelfolio.

Translations & reposts of any kind are prohibited.