Taemin pushed himself away from the desk, the rusty wheels of his computer chair screeching across the floor. What had he just read? He couldn’t stop thinking about it—the author’s message, the author’s note—the story... it all seemed so relevant, so strangely intuitive. The author had invented a scenario where “Taemin” and “Onew” were having an affair, and that “Minho,” in a fit of jealous rage, took out his anger on their leader. But in real life, Taemin and Onew were having a mock-relationship in order to make Minho notice him, to make him stay home at night—or at least take Taemin out instead.

            And the couch-scene—Taemin didn’t even know where to begin with that. He contemplated writing the author an appreciatory note, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not yet. He couldn’t even gather his thoughts enough to comment on the story. The whole thing was so confusing, so invocative of a mix of varying emotions. With the relevancy of certain issues, Taemin also found the ual chemistry interesting. He liked that the author allowed him to be in charge. It was and enticing, indicative of a reality that Taemin privately entertained from time to time when he was feeling exceptionally adventurous...

            He wondered what it would be like to push Minho down on the sofa like that, undo his pants and take him in his mouth. What would Minho say? What would he do? Would he turn him down? Push him away? Or would he judge him, scold him, tell him he was erted? Not his type. Too young, not “masculine” enough. In truth, Taemin really didn’t know what he would do. It was pretty obvious that Minho-hyung liked guys too, right, so would it really be so weird for Taemin—also a guy—to come on to him? Or would he just see him like a little brother? A forever-maknae with zero uality? Perhaps he would only pat his head like a puppy and say, in that deep voice of his, “Oh, Taeminnie, you’re so cute...” as if that was what Taemin would be going for. Cute? He didn’t want to be cute. He wanted to be y. Hot. Desirable. able.

            Just what would Minho do if he presented him that way...? Wasn't he just as good-looking as those other idols? Certainly, enough fans seemed to think so... I mean, even he knew he was pretty. But maybe Minho didn't want pretty. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe the always-strong Minho despised weakness. Even the author portrayed "Taemin" as pretty, but maybe Minho—the real one—didn't want a frail, shy, "pretty" boy; but an assertive, direct, and passionate man... 

            I can be those things, he thought. It seemed possible enough. The fiction gave him courage.          

            At the thought, Taemin replayed the author's fantasy in his mind again, over and over, picking out the parts he enjoyed the most, the parts he embellished and wanted to be true. Seeing Minho that way—submissive and gentle, it was so y. Even with his lecherous tendencies, Taemin really believed in Minho’s good-heartedness, that his gentility and sweet spirit superceded all that; would ultimately overpower the strong, unbridled drive of his hormones in the end. In fact, the he found himself wanting him more and more each time he read fanfiction, especially 2Min_Dreamer’s. Something about this author stuck out to him, spoke to him, resonated with him. Something about it just seemed right even though he didn’t know much about the author at all; he didn’t even know their gender, but assumed it to be female. Didn’t even know where they lived, though he assumed Korea, because of his/her exceptional Korean and very little English. No birth-date, no trivial information, no quotes or even a real DP. They didn’t communicate with other members much and the messages were few. But people tended to really like 2Min_Dreamer’s work and often praised it many times over, though the author’s responses were sparse in return. Nope, nothing to enlighten Taemin on the author’s personality. And he had been, up till now, too afraid to ask, not wanting to offend or be too forward. After all, he himself had very limited information on his account; he went as far as to say he lived in Seoul, but also left his birthday and gender a secret. So, really, he couldn’t judge the author for doing the same.

            Still, the slap took him by surprise—not because he couldn’t imagine himself hurting his hyung in that way, but because he could. He could, and he secretly wanted to. How could the author be privy to such complicated emotions? As if he was in Taemin’s head, or heart—how could he know anything about Taemin’s years of frustrations, pining, and his own jealousie