"You give me fever"

"Runnin' high"

.

.

.

.

"Got my body beggin'"

"No denyin'"

Five more concerts, approximetely two and a half months of restless nights and about 76042 days of torture.

On a scale from “Hey, I'm doing good and nothing can stop me“ to a scale of “Oh my GOD, bro, kill me“, Seungmin is thinking he's feeling around “I'm fantazising of stuffing my stylist full of my every second of the day“.

Well, maybe its not that bad. Surely. He begs to differ. It was easier with the last stylist he's had for the last tour Stray Kids have been on. The hands fixing his collar or his hair hadn't mattered then. He hadn't thought twice about someone kneeling in front of him to perfect the way his shirt is tucked in, or how his accessoires would be angled. He never felt anything because it was pracrical— nothing more than a job. The eye contact hadn't mattered, brushing hands hadn't mattered— not to him, anyway.

But now it does. It does matter. It made his heart skip three beats and his shoulders tense up. He caught himself looking, again and again. It angered a part of him. After all he prided himself on being rather distant to the staff literally touching him, perfecting him. Its a safety issue. The logical thing would be to switch stylists with Felix or Hyunjin— or whoever else. Its just that he couldn't bring himself to do that because, partially, he didn't want someone else.

So, he choose suffering. Imagining those soft lips on his own, wondering how they tasted. He imagined bending his stylist over— hell he wouldn't mind being bend over himself if that's what she's into. Fact is, at every concert this tour he had to go out on stage sporting a semi and ended the night jerking off in his hotel room.

Until that changed because he couldn't hold out anymore.

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