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Taekwoon has gone blond and it’s steadily driving Wonshik insane.

He’s been cataloguing his slow descent into madness with every strand that falls into Taekwoon’s eyes, side parted and swept over, every time it’s slicked back wet after a shower. He feels like a man dying of thirst taunted by water sitting just out of reach every time Taekwoon runs his hands through it, pushes it back, shakes it from his eyes.

It’s given him a new look of intensity, when he sits at home with his sketchpad designing a new line for the Autumn/Winter season, when Wonshik visits him at work for lunch and finds him in the workshop unable to tear his eyes away from the machine beneath his hands.

And now, it’s the sweetest torture when he’s here at the store for the fitting of Taekwoon’s new designs that he’ll soon be modelling, and Taekwoon is nudging his arms out at his sides with firm but gentle touches, a dash of impatience, and he can’t reach forward and just sink his fingers into his boyfriend’s hair like he so dearly wants. He’s become a mannequin beneath Taekwoon’s hands, just the landscape for his canvas, and it takes everything he has to stay still and not give in to his need to touch.

He wants.

He wants to drape Taekwoon over the workbench behind him and detail every inch of his appreciation for his inspired hairstyle choices, absolutely no regard for the customers who might hear outside. But no matter how much he might want, he never pushes — even though the him of a few years back wouldn’t have hesitated. Didn’t hesitate, he thinks wryly, remembering his stinging cheek. But this is Taekwoon’s place of work, his passion, and Wonshik never wants to put that in jeopardy.

He gets lost in his head instead, at first on his knees to witness Taekwoon’s Adam’s apple bob where he has his head thrown back and is gasping for breath. He can so easily, vividly picture the roles reversed, fingers tangled in Taekwoon’s hair, tugging. He’d lived it last night. But it’s not enough. It never is. He wants Taekwoon so much, all the time, that he’s sure he could shake apart with it, like all Taekwoon needs to do is pluck at a single thread and he’ll unravel at the seams just like the suit he’s sculpting around him right now.

He manages to drag himself back to reality, blinking hard to shake the haze of cotton wool, and a glance at Taekwoon reveals a knowing glimmer in darkened eyes staring straight back, a smug smirk playing around the corners of plump lips.

He knows. Of course he knows exactly the kind of thoughts passing through Wonshik’s head at any given moment like the slow, hypnotic drizzle of honey, had heard every one of them detailed as they tumbled from Wonshik’s mouth while Taekwoon’s tongue swirled around the head of his cock.

And maybe they won’t come to fruition, not yet. Not here. But that look Taekwoon is giving him is a promise and Wonshik will see that it’s fulfilled.