Contains: Slow burn, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining (extensive, embarrassing, mutual), one (1) rival who is genuinely a good person and deserved better, Bang Chan being a leader in all contexts including personal ones, Hyunjin noticing everything visual as a threat, Jeongin being twenty-four and wiser than everyone, the chip going back in the bag, a kiss that took eighteen years and approximately four years of active denial to happen, group chat chaos, the word obviously doing a lot of heavy lifting
Summary:
Here is what Y/n knows about Kim Seungmin, age twenty-five, the person she has known longest in her entire life: he eats fish bread from the tail first, he has three different laughs, and his jaw does something specific when he’s trying not to react to something.
She has memorized it. She is not thinking about it.
This is a lie she has been telling herself for approximately four years. Possibly longer. Definitely longer.
Then Park Junho shows up at a party, Chan makes a phone call, Hyunjin notices a book that hasn’t turned a page in fifteen minutes, and eighteen years of Thursdays finally run out of patience.
Obviously.
Yeeei I decided to let out another short story from my notes haha, I wasn’t really sure about this one but meh, here u go
The thing about Kim Seungmin is that he has been my best friend for so long that I have genuinely stopped being able to remember a version of my life that didn’t have him in it.
We met when I was eight and he was seven — I am one year older, a fact he brings up exactly never and I bring up whenever it’s useful —we were both in the same after-school program and he sat next to me on the first day because it was the only seat left and told me, very seriously, that I had pencil lead on my cheek. Not unkindly. Just as a fact he thought I should have. I wiped it off. He nodded. We were best friends by the end of the week.
That was eighteen years ago.
Eighteen years of growing up beside each other, of navigating the specific chaos of adolescence with someone who knew every version of you and chose to stay anyway. Eighteen years of shared lunches and borrowed notes and bad movies and the kind of easy silence that you only build with someone over a very long time.
He is my person. That’s the simplest way to put it. In every version of my life, Kim Seungmin is my person.
The problem — and there is a problem, there has been a problem for longer than I am comfortable admitting — is that somewhere in the last several years, the word person has started to feel like it isn’t quite enough for what I mean when I say it.
I don’t think about this.
I have made a very deliberate decision not to think about this, because Seungmin is my best friend and has been since we were eight years old and some things are more important than feelings that I have very successfully not examined for going on four years now.
—————————————————————————
Eighteen years later he is asleep on my couch with his mouth slightly open and I am trying to watch something and failing because the volume is low so I don’t wake him and the subtitles are moving too fast and I keep reading the same line.
This is a normal Thursday. This is what Thursdays look like. Has looked like, for years.
I turn the volume up slightly.
He shifts. Doesn’t wake up. The jaw does the thing it does when he’s half asleep, slightly slack, and I look at the TV.
Normal Thursday.
The party is Jisung’s idea, which means it is nobody’s idea specifically and everyone’s problem generally.
What starts as a few people, casual, come over becomes approximately twenty people in an apartment that comfortably fits twelve, and by nine PM someone has reorganized the furniture and someone else is DJing from their phone and Jisung is delighted in the way that he always is when a gathering exceeds his own expectations for it.
I am on the couch between Felix and Jeongin. Seungmin is in the chair by the window.
He has a drink he’s been nursing for an hour and is talking to Chan beside him in the low-key way they do, the two of them capable of holding a full conversation in about thirty words between them.
“That guy keeps looking at you,” Felix says.
I follow his eyeline. Tall, easy smile, the kind of face that makes a good first impression.
Standing near Jisung, clearly part of his music program orbit.
“Okay,” I say.
“His name is Junho,” Jeongin says, from my other side. “He’s nice. Jisung’s friend.”
“You’ve met him?”
“For like three minutes. He seemed normal.” Jeongin considers this. “For a Jisung friend, very normal.”
Across the room Junho catches me looking and smiles. Not aggressively. The polite opening kind.
I smile back.
Felix makes a small sound.
“What,” I say.
“Nothing,” he says, in the tone that means something, and eats a chip.
Junho comes over. His name is Park Junho, he’s twenty-seven, he’s in Jisung’s music production program, and he is — Jeongin was right — remarkably normal. He asks about my work with actual curiosity, the follow-up questions landing in the right places. He has a sense of humor that is dry enough to be interesting without being exhausting. He’s good at conversation in the specific way that means he’s also good at listening.
We talk for a while. It’s easy.
“Your friend keeps looking over,” he says at some point, nodding in the direction of the chair by the window.
I don’t need to look to know which friend. “That’s Seungmin.”
“He’s been doing it since I came over here.”
“We’ve been friends since we were kids,” I say. “He’s just — he pays attention to things.”
Junho looks at me for a moment. A considered look, not unkind. “Sure,” he says.
Seungmin and I walk home the way we always do. Same route, always, for years — past the convenience store, past the park, past the corner where the bookshop used to be.
“He seemed fine,” Seungmin says, eventually.
“He was.”
“Nice?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
I wait. He doesn’t add anything. We pass the convenience store.
“He said you kept looking over,” I say.
Seungmin is quiet for three full seconds. I count them. “He doesn’t know me,” he says.
“That’s not a denial.”
“It’s an observation.”
“Seungmin—”
“The bookshop corner,” he says, and we turn, and that’s the end of that.
—————————————————————————
Junho texts two days later asking if I want to get coffee. I say yes because he was genuinely interesting and I am twenty-six years old and I am allowed to get coffee with someone interesting.
I tell Seungmin on Thursday.
We are at my apartment. He arrived with convenience store snacks at seven, which is what he does, which has been what he does for years, and we are watching something neither of us is fully paying attention to and I say, during a lull, “Junho asked me for coffee.”
Seungmin reaches into the snack bag. Takes out a chip. Eats it. “Okay.”
“Just okay?”
“Did you want a different response?”
“I don’t know, something with more than four letters.”
He looks at me sideways. This is not the even face — this is the other one, the one with something running behind it that he’s decided not to surface. I know both. Have known both for eighteen years. “Have fun,” he says. “Five letters.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Six words: I hope you enjoy the coffee.” He turns back to the TV. “Better?”
I stare at the side of his face. He does not acknowledge this.
“He mentioned that you were watching us talk,” I say.
“I was in the same room.”
“Seungmin.”
“People exist in rooms, Y/n. It’s a feature of rooms.”
I give up and eat a chip and the TV plays and neither of us says anything else about it and the jaw does the thing and I look at the TV and not at the jaw.
—————————————————————————
Coffee with Junho is good.
He’s easy company — the conversation moves without effort, he makes me laugh twice with things that are actually funny rather than things that are trying to be funny, and he pays for the coffee before I can and doesn’t make it a thing. By the end of it I am genuinely glad I said yes.
He walks me to the corner near my building and says he’d like to do this again and I say yes and mean it and go upstairs.
I am in my apartment for maybe eight minutes when Chan calls.
“How was it,” he says. No greeting.
“Fine. Good. He’s nice.”
“Nice.” Chan repeats it the way everyone repeats it. I am beginning to resent this word.
“Why do people keep saying it like that.”
“Like what.”
“Like it’s a verdict.”
Chan doesn’t answer that. “Seungmin came over tonight,” he says instead.
I sit down. “Why.”
“Said he was nearby.”
“He lives twenty-two minutes away.”
“I know.”
“By subway.”
“I know, Y/n.”
I look at the ceiling. “What did he do.”
“Ate my leftovers. Watched forty minutes of a documentary about deep sea creatures.
Didn’t mention you once.” Chan pauses. “Which is how I knew he was thinking about you the entire time.”
“Chan—”
“How long are you two going to do this.”
“There’s nothing—”
“Y/n.” And it’s the Chan voice, the one that has actual weight in it, the one that has been leading people since he was a teenager and hasn’t stopped. “I have known both of you for years. I have watched both of you for years. I am telling you, as someone who watches things carefully, that Kim Seungmin did not eat my leftover rice because he was in the neighborhood.”
I say nothing.
“He came,” Chan says, “because he needed somewhere to be that wasn’t his apartment, alone, thinking about you on a date.”
“It was coffee—”
“Y/n.”
“—not a date—”
“Y/n.” Gentle. Final. “Think about it. That’s all I’m asking.”
He hangs up.
I think about it.
The thinking does not produce a clean conclusion, which is the problem with thinking about things you have deliberately not thought about for years. You don’t get a clean conclusion. You get a pile of evidence you’ve been ignoring.
The evidence is, in retrospect, extensive.
The way he shows up on Thursdays without being asked and has for so long that Thursday became his without either of us deciding it. The way he learned which snacks I actually like versus which ones I settle for and stopped bringing the settling ones. The way he sat with me on a hospital floor for six hours when my grandmother was sick and didn’t talk much and didn’t need to. The way he knows my three different laughs the same way I know his.
The jaw thing.
The not-a-denial.
I put my phone face down on the coffee table and look at the ceiling for a long time.
The next Sunday at Jisung’s, Junho is there — Jisung’s doing, deliberate as everything Jisung does that looks accidental — and Seungmin is in his chair, and I am watching both of them without watching either of them, which is an uncomfortable way to spend an evening.
Hyunjin sits beside me at some point. Doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “You know what’s interesting about Seungmin?”
“Many things,” I say carefully.
“He reads a lot.” Hyunjin looks at the chair by the window, where Seungmin has a book open. “But I’ve been watching him for twenty minutes and the page hasn’t turned once.”
He gets up and leaves before I can respond.
I look at Seungmin. The book is open. The page has not turned.
As I’m looking, he looks up — the way he does, like he feels it — and we make eye contact across the room. He holds it for a second. Even, steady, saying nothing.
Then he looks back at the book.
The page turns.
—————————————————————————
Junho asks me to dinner on a Wednesday. A specific restaurant, a specific time, the kind of ask that has weight to it.
I read the text four times.
Then I do something I have not done in approximately four years of carefully not examining things: I sit down and am completely honest with myself.
I like Junho. He is genuinely, uncomplicatedly good — funny, curious, easy, the kind of person that making plans with feels low stakes and pleasant. There is nothing wrong with him. Objectively, going to dinner with him is the reasonable thing to do.
I am twenty-six years old and my best friend is twenty-five and has known me since I was eight and I have memorized the way his jaw moves when he’s trying not to react to something and he went to Chan’s apartment on the night of my coffee and ate leftover rice and watched deep sea creature documentaries and didn’t say my name once.
I put my phone down.
I know what I’m going to do.
I just need to figure out if he does too.
Thursday. My apartment. Seven PM. He arrives with convenience store snacks.
He sits. I sit. The TV is on. Ten minutes pass in the usual silence, which tonight has a different texture — or maybe the same texture it’s always had and I’m just finally feeling it properly.
“Junho asked me to dinner,” I say.
He takes a chip out of the bag. “Okay.”
“You have to stop saying okay.”
“It’s a word, Y/n—”
“It’s four letters that mean nothing—”
“It means okay—”
“Seungmin.” I turn to face him properly. He has the chip halfway to his mouth and stops.
“I’m twenty-six. You’re twenty-five. We have known each other for eighteen years. And I need you to say something that is not okay, because I think there is something you have not said and I think I have not said it either and I am very tired of not saying it.”
He puts the chip back in the bag.
That’s how I know he’s actually listening. Seungmin does not put snacks down unless something has his full attention.
“What do you want me to say,” he says. Carefully.
“Something true.”
He looks at the TV. Looks at his hands. Looks at me — and this is the look, the one I’ve been trying to identify for years, the one that is not the public face or the even face or any of the other faces, just the actual one, unmanaged.
“I went to Chan’s,” he says. “On Saturday.”
“I know.”
“I wasn’t nearby.”
“I know that too.”
“I just needed—” He stops. Tries again. “I didn’t want to be in my apartment. Knowing you were—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to. “And I know that’s not — I know I don’t have a right to that. You’re allowed to—”
“Seungmin.”
“—go to dinner with whoever—”
“Seungmin.”
“—I’m not saying it’s not fine—”
“Kim Seungmin.” He stops. I look at him. “I’m not going to dinner with Junho.”
Silence.
“I texted him this morning,” I say. “I told him I should have been honest with myself sooner.”
Seungmin stares at me. “Why.”
“Because,” I say, “I have been sitting on this couch for — honestly, longer than four years, let’s be real — thinking about things I decided were not worth examining and they are extremely worth examining and I’m twenty-six and you’re twenty-five and we have wasted a completely unreasonable amount of time.”
“I’m younger than you,” he says, which is such a Seungmin response to that sentence that I almost laugh.
“By one year—”
“Three hundred and sixty-five days—”
“Are you seriously doing this right now—”
“I’m just being accurate—”
“Seungmin—”
“How long,” he says, and now he’s not deflecting, the question landing differently.
“Actually.”
I look at him. “Four years minimum. Probably longer. You?”
He has the expression of someone calculating something. “I was twenty-one,” he says.
“I think. We were at Jisung’s — a different party, before he moved — and you werelaughing at something Hyunjin said and I just—” He stops. “I just thought, oh. And then I spent approximately three years deciding what to do about the oh.”
“Three years,” I say. “You sat on it for three years.”
“I was being careful.”
“Seungmin, that’s insane—”
“You sat on it for four—”
“I didn’t know I was sitting on it—”
“Yes you did,” he says, simply, and he’s right, and I know he’s right, and he knows I know he’s right, and we look at each other and the eighteen years of Thursday evenings and convenience store snacks and the same route home and the bookshop corner that isn’t a bookshop anymore are all very present in the room.
“We’re both idiots,” I say.
“Deeply,” he agrees.
“Equally.”
“Debatable — you sat on it longer—”
“You knew first—”
“Knowing first and acting are different things—”
“Seungmin,” I say, and he stops, and I close the distance on the couch, and I kiss him.
He makes a surprised sound for approximately one second — which I am keeping forever, that sound, the one that means something genuinely caught him off guard — and then his hand comes up to the back of my neck and he kisses me back like he has thought about the specific logistics of this and has opinions, which is the most Seungmin thing that has ever happened, and I grab his shirt and think: eighteen years.
Eighteen years of the same route and the same couch and the same person, always the same person.
Obviously.
When he pulls back he’s looking at me with an expression that is new — I have a complete catalog of his expressions and this one is not in it — warm and a little undone and certain.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I say.
“For the record,” he says, “I was going to say something eventually.”
“When.”
He considers this. “Soon.”
“Soon,” I repeat.
“Relatively.”
“Seungmin—”
“The concept of soon is subjective—”
I kiss him again to make him stop talking, which works, and his hand tightens at the back of my neck, and the TV plays something neither of us is watching, and this is also a normal Thursday. Just a different kind.
—————————————————————————
The group chat the next morning has forty-seven messages.
The first one is from Jisung: I KNEW IT
The second is from Felix: I told you all in JANUARY
The third is from Hyunjin: the book. I called it. The book was the tell.
Chan has sent only one message, near the bottom: Finally.
Below that, from Jeongin: noona and seungmin hyung 🥹🥹
I show Seungmin, who is still on my couch, who reads through the messages with the expression of someone who is pretending to be neutral and is not even slightly neutral.
“Hyunjin noticed the book,” I say.
“I knew Hyunjin noticed the book,” he says. “Hyunjin notices everything visual. It’s annoying.”
“Felix told them in January.”
“Felix has been insufferable about this since at least November.”
“How long have they all known?”
Seungmin thinks about it. “Jisung? 2022 probably. Chan around the same time. Felix and Hyunjin more recently. Jeongin—” He pauses. “Jeongin figured it out because he figured out your side first, actually. He told me last year that you got quiet when I left rooms.”
I stare at him. “He told you.”
“He said, and I’m quoting, hyung I think you should do something about it before she gets tired of waiting.”
Seungmin looks at the phone.
“He’s twenty-four. It’s embarrassing.”
“He was right.”
“He was extremely right.” He hands my phone back. “I got a talking to from Chan too, by the way. He said if I didn’t handle it he would handle it for me.”
“He told me he called you.”
“He called me three times over two months.”
“Chan,” I say, with feeling.
“Chan,” he agrees.
I look at the group chat. At forty-seven messages from people who have apparently been watching us orbit each other and yelling about it in a chat we couldn’t see for at minimum two years.
“We were really obvious,” I say.
Seungmin tilts his head. “You were obvious. I was subtle.”
“The book, Seungmin. Hyunjin clocked the book.”
“I was reading the book—”
“The page—”
“I was processing what I’d read—”
“For fifteen minutes—”
“It was a dense passage—”
I take his face in my hands, which stops the sentence. He looks at me. The new expression again — the warm undone certain one that I am going to spend a lot of time learning.
“Obviously,” I say.
He almost smiles. “Obviously,” he agrees, and lets me have it.
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contains: college au, slow burn, mutual pining, denial (her), patience (him), bestie who engineers everything, han jisung being a menace, sofia being the real mvp, fluff, light tension, confession, happy ending, plus size reader, market date, dwaekki keychain makes an appearance because of course it does, I wrote something else that I never posted ad it from that lol
warnings: a kiss lol
summary: Bang Chan doesn't do anything on purpose. He doesn't try to be the kind of person who fills a room, or remembers how you take your coffee, or shows up with tteokbokki on your longest day of the week. He just does. You have decided not to notice. It's not going well.
Meanwhile your best friend Sofia has decided to get involved, Han Jisung has her number now for some reason, and the universe appears to be conspiring against her denial with zero remorse.
coming back to yourself looks different for everyone. sometimes it looks like a bench in a courtyard at dusk. sometimes it looks like a market on a saturday afternoon and a boy paid attention from week one
So here’s part 3c if anyone liked it, I have more of these dabs on my notes 🫶🏻 I have from other members too.
Chapter Three: Accidentally on Purpose
The thing about admitting something is that once you do, you can’t un-admit it.
This is not a complaint. It’s just a fact that I’m sitting with on Saturday morning while Sofia makes coffee and hums to herself with the energy of someone who has been proven right about something significant and is choosing not to make a big deal about it while making a very big deal about it.
“You’re humming,” I say.
“I hum,” she says.
“You hum when you’re smug.”
“I hum when I’m happy.”
“You’re happy because you’re smug.”
She sets the coffee in front of me and sits down across and folds her hands. “Tell me what happened,” she says.
“Nothing happened,” I say. “We talked. On a bench.”
“And?”
“And — I told him it wasn’t a no.”
She makes a sound that is not words but communicates a great deal.
“Sofia—”
“I’m not saying anything—”
“You’re saying everything—”
“I’ve been waiting,” she says, “for weeks. I have been engineering situations. I have been giving Han your number—”
“That was you—”
“Of course that was me. I have been leaving you two alone at every possible opportunity and you have been so determined to be in denial about this and I just—” She picks up her coffee. “I’m just happy,” she says. “That’s all.”
I look at her. At the seven years of her I have accumulated, all the versions of her that have showed up and stayed. “Thank you,” I say. “For the engineering.”
“Anytime,” she says. “It was fun.”
Chan texts at noon.
-Are you busy today
I look at the message for approximately three seconds longer than necessary.
-Not until three. Why?
-There’s a market near campus on Saturdays. Han mentioned you like markets.
-Han mentioned.
-Okay I asked Han what you like. Same thing.
I stare at the screen. Put it down. Pick it up.
-I’ll meet you at the east gate at one.
Three dots. Then: Okay.
Then: Y/n.
-Yeah.
I’m glad it wasn’t a no.
I put the phone down on the table. Sofia, from the kitchen, says: “Your face is doing something.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“You’re smiling at your phone.”
“I’m allowed to smile—”
“At your phone specifically—”
“Sofia.”
“Go get ready,” she says, warmly. “You have a market to get to.”
The market is the kind that takes up three blocks and sells everything from vintage records to handmade ceramics to street food that smells like the best decision you’ll make all day. We walk through it slowly, the way you walk through markets when you’re not looking for anything specific and everything is interesting, and Chan walks beside me with his hands in his pockets and we talk the way we’ve been talking for weeks — easily, genuinely, the kind of conversation that doesn’t feel like work.
He buys me something from a street food cart without asking what I want, which I would normally find presumptuous, except he hands me exactly what I would have ordered and looks completely unsurprised when I say so.
“You mentioned it,” he says. “At the study session. You said you’d been thinking about it all week.”
“I said that in passing—”
“I pay attention,” he says, simply.
I look at the food in my hands. Look at him. “You pay a lot of attention,” I say.
“To specific things,” he says, and the way he says it, looking at me, leaves no ambiguity about what the specific things are.
We keep walking.
There’s a stall with keychains.
I stop without meaning to — it’s automatic, the way I stop at anything small and charming — and Chan stops beside me and looks at the display. Enamel pins, small charms, the kind of handmade things that have personality to them.
And there, in the second row, is a small enamel dwaekki.
I stare at it.
“What,” Chan says.
“Nothing,” I say. “Just—” I pick it up. It’s tiny and perfect and the embroidered eyes are done in a way that is very similar to my keychain back in my bag. “I have a dwaekki keychain,” I say. “I use it to manifest things.”
He looks at the charm. Looks at me. “Does it work?”
“Surprisingly well,” I say.
He takes it from my hand gently and turns to the stall owner and pays for it before I can say anything, and then holds it out to me.
“For the collection,” he says.
I take it. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” he says.
I wanted to. Again. Simple. No performance.
I close my hand around the little dwaekki and think about specific things and paying attention and a bench in a courtyard and I’m glad it wasn’t a no.
“Chan,” I say.
“Yeah.”
We’ve stopped walking. We’re at the edge of the market where it gives way to a quieter street, and the afternoon light is doing something warm and the city is going on around us and I am twenty-six years old and I have been careful for weeks for no reason that holds up anymore.
“I like you,” I say. Out loud. To his face. Like a person who has decided to stop being in denial about things. “I have since the library. Before the library, probably. Since the first time I saw you and I decided not to notice, which didn’t work.”
He looks at me.
“Sofia knows,” I continue, “and Han knows, and I think Changbin knows because he makes a face sometimes, and basically everyone knew before I admitted it to myself andthat’s — embarrassing, honestly, but here we are and I’m—”
“Y/n,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Can I—”
“Yes,” I say, before he finishes.
He laughs — the warm rough one, surprised out of him — and steps forward and his hands come up to my face the way they’re apparently supposed to, certain and gentle, and he kisses me on a quiet street at the edge of a Saturday market while the afternoon does its gold thing around us and I think: obviously. of course. there it is.
When he pulls back he’s still smiling.
“I’ve been wanting to do that,” he says, “since you told me you throw people in the deep end and stand by the side of the pool.”
“That was week one,” I say.
“Week one,” he confirms.
“You could’ve just said something—”
“You were very committed to not noticing me,” he says. “I didn’t want to push.”
“I was terrible at not noticing you,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “It was very endearing.”
I make a sound. He laughs again and his hands slide from my face to my shoulders and he pulls me in and I go, obviously, because this is BangChan and the afternoon is gold and the little dwaekki charm is in my hand and some things are just inevitable.
“Sofia is going to be insufferable about this,” I say, into his shoulder.
“Han already texted me three times,” he says.
“Of course he did.”
“He sent a voice note.”
“What did it say.”
“I’ll play it for you later,” he says. “It’s long.”
I laugh. He laughs. The market goes on a street over and the city goes on around us and I think about weeks of careful and denial and Sofia’s engineering and Han’s hypothetically and all the small accumulated things that have been pointing here the whole time.
“Chan,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“I’m glad I stopped not noticing.”
He squeezes my shoulders. “Me too,” he says. “Come on. I want to show you the record stall.”
We walk back into the market, his hand finding mine like it’s always done that, like it was always going to, and I close my fingers around it and around the little dwaekki charm and think:
accidentally on purpose.
that’s exactly what this is.
—————————————————————————
Later, Sofia’s version of events:
“I knew from the library. Week one. He looked at her twice and I thought — okay, I’m going to need to get involved. Han was already texting me by week two. We made a plan.
It was a very good plan. Did it take longer than expected? Yes. Was it worth it? Look at her face. Yes.”
—————-—————-—————-————————
Han’s voice note to Chan, played on a quiet street after a Saturday market:
“OKAY so I was RIGHT and you OWE me and also Cas is great and you better be good to her because Sofia will end you and I will help and also I’m really happy for you this is so — okay I’m not crying I’m just — okay I’m a little — ANYWAY you’re welcome, you would never have done it without me, love you, bye, ALSO—” [voice note continues for four more minutes]
AAAAND THATS IT
I’ve had this on my notes for ages and i decided it was a good idea to just drop it here and just you know, sorry if there are mistakes, this is based on another story I have somewhere, that’s why the dwaekki keychain is a dwaekki keychain HAHA
contains: college au, slow burn, mutual pining, denial (her), patience (him), bestie who engineers everything, han jisung being a menace, sofia being the real mvp, fluff, light tension, confession, happy ending, plus size reader, market date, dwaekki keychain makes an appearance because of course it does, I wrote something else that I never posted ad it from that lol
warnings: none — this one's just warm
summary: Bang Chan doesn't do anything on purpose. He doesn't try to be the kind of person who fills a room, or remembers how you take your coffee, or shows up with tteokbokki on your longest day of the week. He just does. You have decided not to notice. It's not going well.
Meanwhile your best friend Sofia has decided to get involved, Han Jisung has her number now for some reason, and the universe appears to be conspiring against her denial with zero remorse.
coming back to yourself looks different for everyone. sometimes it looks like a bench in a courtyard at dusk. sometimes it looks like a market on a saturday afternoon and a boy who paid attention from week one
Sooo I changed the colors according to who’s texting Jisung is green Sofia is orange, y/n is pink and Bangchan is blue
Chapter Two: The Problem Gets Worse
The problem gets worse on a Tuesday.
Tuesdays are my long day — back to back seminars, a practicum observation in th afternoon, and a late supervision meeting that runs until seven. By the time I get out I am running on caffeine and the specific kind of tired that lives behind your eyes, and all I want is food and the couch and Sofia who will make tea without being asked because she knows what Tuesdays look like.
I text her from the elevator.
-Coming home. Need food and silence.
She texts back immediately.
-About the silence — funny story.
I stare at the message.
-Sofia.
-He was just HERE, I couldn’t say no
-WHO
-He brought food!! He knew it was your long day!!
I stop walking in the middle of the hallway outside our apartment.
Bang Chan knew it was my long day.
Bang Chan brought food.
Bang Chan is, apparently, inside my apartment right now.
I stand in the hallway for a full thirty seconds engaging in a silent conversation with the ceiling.
Then I open the door.
The apartment smells like tteokbokki and there are three people on my couch — Sofia, Chan, and Han Jisung who absolutely was not mentioned in any of the texts and who looks up when I come in with the expression of someone who has been waiting specifically for this moment.
“Y/n!” Han says, with great enthusiasm.
“Han,” I say, with less.
“You look tired,” he says, helpfully.
“Long day,” Chan says, from the couch, and his voice is warm and easy and he’s in a grey hoodie and he’s holding a container of tteokbokki toward me like an offering. “We figured you hadn’t eaten.”
I look at the tteokbokki. Look at him. Look at Sofia, who has her hands folded in her lap and is radiating innocence like a lighthouse.
“How did you know it was my long day,” I say.
“You mentioned it,” Chan says. “Last week. At the music building.”
I mentioned it. In passing. As a throwaway comment. And he remembered.
“Oh,” I say.
“Sit down,” he says. “You look like you need to sit down.”
I sit down. On the couch. Next to him. Because the couch is where he is and there is nowhere else to sit unless I take the armchair which would be weird and obvious and I am not going to be weird and obvious.
Han immediately pulls out his phone and starts a voice note. “Okay so we were talking about the pedagogy thing—”
“Han,” Chan says.
“Just one question—”
“She just got home—”
“It’s a quick one—”
“Han.”
Han puts the phone away with the expression of someone standing down temporarily and definitely not permanently. I eat tteokbokki and try to remember what it feels like to be a person with normal feelings and a normal heart rate.
“Good?” Chan asks, nodding at the food.
“Really good,” I say. “Thank you. You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” he says.
Simple. No performance. Just: I wanted to.
I look at my tteokbokki very hard.
Han stays for two hours.
This is relevant because Han Jisung in a social situation is like a natural force — he generates conversation the way weather generates clouds, constantly and without apparent effort, and the two hours pass in a way that feels like thirty minutes and includes: a debate about language immersion versus structured learning that somehow becomes a debate about whether instant ramen counts as a cultural experience, Han doing an impression of his Korean professor that makes everyone laugh until they can’t breathe, and Chan explaining a music theory concept using exclusively food metaphors. because I told him I don’t read music and he adapted immediately without being asked.
At some point I stop noticing that I’m being careful and just — stop being careful. The couch is comfortable and the tteokbokki is gone and Chan is close and warm and telling a story about a recording session that went wrong in multiple ways and he’s funny about it, self-deprecating in a way that doesn’t fish for reassurance.
“So the whole track was unusable,” he’s saying, “and it’s two in the morning and Changbin is just — sitting on the floor, not saying anything, and Han—”
“I was processing,” Han says.
“You were crying—”
“I was processing emotionally—”
“He cried,” Chan tells me, and Han throws a cushion at him.
I’m laughing, and Chan is laughing, and his shoulder is against mine on the couch in the way that has happened gradually without either of us adjusting, and Sofia is watching all of this from the armchair with an expression I recognize as victory.
I make a mental note to deal with that later.
“I should go,” Chan says, eventually, checking his phone. “Early studio session tomorrow.”
He stands. Han stands, with considerably more dramatics. We walk them to the door, which takes approximately four minutes because Han has to finish a thought he’s been having and Chan has to find the jacket he took off at some point and left on the kitchen chair.
In the doorway, Chan turns back.
“Thanks for letting us invade,” he says, to me specifically, and the hallway light is doing something to the way he looks that I am choosing not to think about.
“You brought food,” I say. “Invasion forgiven.”
He smiles. The real one. “Get some sleep,” he says. “You had a long day.”
And then they’re gone and Sofia closes the door and turns around and looks at me.
“Don’t,” I say.
“I literally haven’t said anything—”
“You’re doing the face—”
“Y/n,” she says, “he remembered your schedule. He brought you food. His shoulder was against yours for forty minutes and neither of you moved.”
“We were sitting on a couch—”
“His shoulder, y/n.”
I go to my room. I close the door. I sit on my bed and look at the ceiling and think about tteokbokki and grey hoodies and I wanted to.
“I know!” I say, to the ceiling, or possibly to Sofia through the door, or possibly just to myself.
From the other side of the door I hear Sofia make the sound of someone who has won something.
She has. I just can’t say it yet.
The campus is not small but it has the particular quality of all campuses in that the people you’re thinking about appear constantly.
Chan is in the library on Wednesday. In the café on Thursday — he’s already there when I arrive and spots me immediately and waves me over like it’s the obvious thing, and I sit with him for an hour before my seminar and we talk about everything except the things I am not saying out loud.
On Friday Han texts me.
-how do you feel about chan
I stare at the message.
-who gave you this number
-sofia he sends back, immediately, followed by: -ANYWAY
-Han
-I’m just asking!! as a friend!! who has known chan for six years and can see things!!
-What things
-THINGS
he sends.
-just. hypothetically. if someone had feelings. would you want to know
I put my phone down. Pick it up again.
-I’m not having this conversation
-that’s not a no!! he sends.
-goodbye Han
-Y/N!—
I put my phone in my bag and go to my seminar and spend fifty minutes thinking about the word hypothetically and what it means that Han Jisung, who has known Chan for six years, used it.
The thing that breaks me is small.
It’s always something small.
Friday evening, campus courtyard, I’m sitting on a bench going through practicum notes when Chan sits down next to me without preamble, the way he does everything, like it’s already been decided.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I say.
He has coffee. He hands me one without asking, which means he remembered how I take it, which means he’s been paying attention to how I take coffee, which means—
“You okay?” he says.
“Fine,” I say. “Just a lot.”
“The practicum?”
“The practicum, the assignment, the—” I gesture vaguely at the general concept of having a lot of feelings about someone sitting next to me on a bench. “Everything.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “You do that thing.”
“What thing.”
“When you’re overwhelmed you get very still. Like you’re waiting for it to pass.” He looks at me.
“Does it pass?”
I look at him. “Eventually,” I say.
He nods. “I’ll wait,” he says, simply, and drinks his coffee, and sits with me while the courtyard goes quiet around us and the evening gets darker, and he doesn’t push and he doesn’t perform and he just — waits. The way he does everything. With complete patience and complete certainty.
I drink my coffee.
The feeling doesn’t pass exactly. But it shifts.
“Chan,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“Why do you—” I stop. Try differently. “Han texted me.”
A pause. “What did he say.”
“Hypothetically,” I say, “if someone had feelings, would I want to know.”
The courtyard is very quiet.
“What did you say,” he says, carefully.
“I said I wasn’t having that conversation.”
“That’s not a no,” he says. Quietly. Like he’s quoting something.
I look at him. He’s looking at me with an expression that is patient and warm and completely done waiting, the same one I have been learning to read for weeks, and the bench and the courtyard and the evening are all very still.
“No,” I say, slowly. “It’s not a no.”
He exhales. “Okay,” he says.
“Okay,” I say.
Neither of us says anything for a moment.
“Sofia’s been helping Han, hasn’t she,” I say.
“Since week one,” he confirms.
“I knew it.”
“She’s very committed.”
“She’s a menace,” I say.
“She’s effective,” he says, and the corner of his mouth moves, and I laugh despite myself, and his shoulder finds mine on the bench the way it does, the way it always does, and I let it stay there this time without making a list of reasons not to.
contains: college au, slow burn, mutual pining, denial (her), patience (him), bestie who engineers everything, han jisung being a menace, sofia being the real mvp, fluff, light tension, confession, happy ending, plus size reader, market date, dwaekki keychain makes an appearance because of course it does, I wrote something else that I never posted ad it from that lol
warnings: none — this one’s just warm
summary: Bang Chan doesn’t do anything on purpose. He doesn’t try to be the kind of person who fills a room, or remembers how you take your coffee, or shows up with tteokbokki on your longest day of the week. He just does. You have decided not to notice. It’s not going well. Meanwhile your best friend Sofia has decided to get involved, Han Jisung has her number now for some reason, and the universe appears to be conspiring against her denial with zero remorse.
coming back to yourself looks different for everyone. sometimes it looks like a bench in a courtyard at dusk. sometimes it looks like a market on a saturday afternoon and a boy who paid attention from week one
Soooo if anyone reads this, and would like the rest just let me know
Chapter 1- The problem with Bangchan
The problem with Bang Chan is that he doesn’t do anything on purpose.
That’s what makes him so insufferable.
He doesn’t try to be the kind of person who fills a room. He just walks into one and ithappens anyway — the way people look up, the way conversations adjust, the way the air does something. He doesn’t try to have that laugh, the one that’s warm and a little rough at the edges and lands somewhere in your chest if you’re not careful. He doesn’t try to look like that at eight in the morning in a university hoodie with coffee in one hand and sheet music folded into his back pocket.
He just does.
This is the problem.
I am twenty-six years old, I am pursuing a degree in education with a focus on English language teaching, and I have a crush on Bang Chan that I am handling extremely well.
“You’re staring,” Sofia says, from beside me at the library table.
“I’m thinking,” I say.
“You’re thinking at him specifically.”
“I’m thinking in his general direction. It’s a free campus.”
Sofia puts her pen down and looks at me with the expression she has been perfecting since we were teenagers and which I have never successfully defended against. “Y/n,”
she says. “He looked over here twice.”
“He’s looking for a seat.”
“He found a seat. Two tables over. And he’s still—”
“Sofia.”
“—looking over here—”
“Sofia.”
“He’s cute,” she says, simply, like this is helpful information I didn’t have.
“He’s twenty-eight,” I say. “He’s basically a graduate student. He’s—” I look at my notes.
“I have an assignment.”
“You have a crush.”
“I have an assignment.”
She picks her pen back up with the expression of someone who has made a decision and is not going to announce it yet. I have learned to be afraid of that expression. I am afraid of it now.
“Don’t,” I say.
“I’m not doing anything,” she says.
“You’re doing the face.”
“I don’t have a face—”
“Sofia. Whatever you’re planning. Don’t.”
She looks at me with wide innocent eyes. “I’m just sitting here,” she says.
This is the last moment of peace I will have for the foreseeable future and I don’t know it yet.
Bang Chan comes into my life through Sofia, which is how most disasters arrive.
It starts three weeks into the semester. Sofia, who is studying communications and therefore knows everyone within a five-kilometer radius of campus through some kind of social osmosis, announces over breakfast that we’re going to a study session that evening at the music building.
“I don’t study music,” I say.
“You study education. Some of them are doing a music education unit.”
“I’m not doing a music education unit.”
“It’ll be fun.”
“Sofia—”
“Chan will be there,” she says, into her coffee, very casually, not looking at me.
I open my mouth.
Close it.
“I don’t know who that is,” I say.
“The guy from the library,” she says. “The one you’ve been thinking in the direction of.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Y/n—”
“I have readings.”
“You finished your readings yesterday. I watched you finish them.”
I look at her. She looks back with the expression of someone holding all the cards and knowing it. The problem with Sofia is that she has been my best friend for long enoughto know exactly where all my exits are and how to block them.
“One hour,” I say.
“One hour,” she agrees, already smiling.
The music building study session is in a large practice room with too many people in it and not enough chairs, and I spend the first fifteen minutes wedged against a wall with my notes trying to make myself useful to the education angle of things and pretending that I am not acutely aware of exactly where in the room Bang Chan is at all times.
He’s with two others — Han Jisung and Seo Changbin, both music production students, both apparently incapable of sitting still. Han is doing three things at once, some combination of writing, listening to something on one earbud, and eating chips.
Changbin is reading something with the focused energy of someone who takes everything seriously.
And Bang Chan is—
He’s helping someone with their sheet music. Patient, attentive, leaning over slightly to point something out, and the person is nodding and clearly understanding and I think: he’s a good teacher. And then I think: stop noticing things about him.
“Hi.”
I look up.
Bang Chan is standing in front of me.
Not across the room. In front of me. Close enough that I can see the small chain of his necklace and the way his hair falls slightly across his forehead and I am not handling this extremely well.
“Hi,” I say.
“You’re in education, right?” He says it easily, like we’ve spoken before, which we haven’t. “Sofia mentioned. I’m doing a unit on music pedagogy — could use a second opinion on something if you’re not busy.”
I look at my notes. Look at him. “Sure,” I say, in a voice I would describe as controlled.
He sits down next to me. Pulls out a folder. “I’m Chan,” he says.
“Y/n,” I say.
He smiles. And I think: this is going to be a problem.
The second opinion takes forty-five minutes and covers three topics and somewhere in the middle of it I forget to be nervous because he’s genuinely interesting to talk to, the kind of person who listens with his whole face and asks questions that are actually about what you said rather than what he planned to say next.
This is worse than him just being attractive. This is significantly worse.
Across the room, Sofia catches my eye and raises her coffee cup.
I look away.
“You disagree with the scaffolding approach,” Chan says, not accusatory, curious.
“I think it depends on the learner,” I say. “Scaffolding works for some people but for others it creates a dependency that’s hard to dismantle later. Especially with language acquisition.”
He’s quiet for a moment, actually considering it. “What do you do instead?”
“I throw them in the deep end and stand by the side of the pool,” I say. “Metaphorically.”
He laughs. The laugh. The warm rough one that I was specifically trying not to be in the vicinity of at close range.
“That’s actually—” He’s writing something down. “Can I quote you on that?”
“It’s not that profound.”
“It kind of is,” he says, and looks up, and we’re close enough that the looking up means we’re looking directly at each other, and the room does the thing where it gets quieterwithout actually getting quieter.
“Anyway,” I say.
“Anyway,” he agrees, and looks back at his notes, and I look at the wall and breathe.
From across the room Han Jisung is watching us with an expression of absolute delight that I do not like one bit.
“He likes you,” Sofia says, on the walk home.
“He asked me a pedagogical question.”
“He asked you a pedagogical question for forty-five minutes.”
“It was a complex topic.”
“Y/n.”
“Sofia.”
“He wrote down what you said.”
“He’s thorough—”
“He asked for your number to send you the finished unit.”
“That’s just—” I stop. He did ask for my number. I gave it to him. This happened and I filed it under professional academic exchange and I stand by that categorization.
“That’s networking,” I say.
Sofia looks at me with the fond exasperation of someone who has loved me for years and knows I’m lying. “Sure,” she says. “It’s networking.”
She says it the way she says things when she’s decided something. The face is back.
“Sofia,” I say. “What are you planning.”
“Nothing,” she says, and smiles, and I am not even slightly reassured.
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The hospital discharge was supposed to be the end of the line.
The contract stipulates a week of rest in the dedicated ward for new mothers, followed by a transfer to a corporate apartment for a month of recovery and transition. It is clean, efficient, and guarantees a swift, professional departure. But Minho and Jisung dismantle that plan with a quiet, efficient determination.
The day you are cleared to leave, you find Minho talking to the nurse manager while Jisung packs your single hospital bag. When you mention getting the address for the recovery apartment, Minho turns, his expression calm but absolute.
“We’re taking you home,” he says.
“But the agreement-”
“The agreement is for your health and comfort,” Minho interrupts smoothly. “And our house is more private, more comfortable, and already fully staffed. We can monitor you better there. The baby is only ever a few steps away.”
Jisung zips the bag, his movements surprisingly delicate. “You shouldn’t be alone right now,” he murmurs, not meeting your eyes. “You just had a baby. We’re not leaving you in some clinical building.”
“You’ll want to breastfeed, right?” Minho asks, after he organizes the rest. “It’ll make it easy.”
You know it is illogical. You know it violates the entire point of the transaction. But the thought of leaving the warmth of their care is unbearable. You don’t fight it. You follow them.
⋆｡°✩
Four months in, the lie is too heavy to lift.
You are supposed to be gone a month after the delivery, before really, for the initial recovery period. The guest room is supposed to revert to a guest room, your presence a fading memory, a warm story the boys will tell the baby someday. But the guest room doesn’t exist anymore. It is your room. Your clothes are folded neatly in the custom closet. Your favorite oversized mug, the one Han bought you after you complained about the tiny ceramic ones, is always the one Minho pours tea into. Your reality isn't a temporary contract, it is a deeply ingrained, comfortable routine.
You spend most of your nights in the master bedroom, the baby’s bassinet pulled right beside the king-sized bed, ostensibly for easier nighttime feeds. But you know it is for warmth. Minho always curls into your back, a silent, heavy anchor. Jisung usually drapes an arm or a leg across you, a soft, snoring weight that proves you are safe and wanted.
This shift is most obvious at 3 AM.
You sit on the edge of the bed, the electric breast pump whirring softly, the rhythmic tug of the flanges the soundscape of your new existence. Your shoulders ache, and your eyes feel gritty.
“She hungry?” Jisung murmurs, already sitting up.
“You don’t have to stay awake,” you whisper, feeling guilty.
“I know,” he says, not bothering to lower his voice beyond his usual sleep-mumble. He doesn’t try to help, but he leans over, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Okay, look. This STAY sends me a picture of his dog wearing a tiny, ridiculous hat. It looks like a sad biscuit.”
He holds the phone up, and you crack a genuine smile, the exhaustion receding slightly. Jisung is loud, distracting, and exactly what you need.
Minho grows at the sounds and rolls over. “Sleep when you’re done,” he murmurs, his touch intensely grounding. “I’ll take the first wake-up.”
⋆｡°✩
The baby achieves a monumental level of disaster. Jisung, ever the drama queen, volunteers to take the lead.
“Okay, darling,” he sings, holding the tiny legs. “Papa is the best diaper changer in the world. This is just like changing the sheets on my bed, except… messier.”
He starts off with focused enthusiasm, but a rogue foot kicks a fresh mess onto his favorite gray hoodie. Jisung emits a sound that is half-yell, half-whimper, pulling his hands back as if the diaper is rigged with explosives.
“Minho! Backup! This is like a Level Five Bio-Emergency!” He scrambles back, accidentally knocking over the tub of wipes. He looks utterly defeated, the energy draining from his face as he stares at the catastrophe. “I tried, I really tried. I’m just… I’m not built for high-pressure sanitation, hyung.”
Minho, who had been watching from the doorway, sighs, the sound is exaggerated, but his eyes are warm with exasperation and fondness. He moves with clinical calm, stepping over the fallen wipes.
“It’s a tiny person, Ji,” Minho mutters, taking his place. “Not a philosophical debate.” Minho manages the change flawlessly, his hands steady and precise, demonstrating the practiced efficiency you’ve come to rely on. “See, easy,” Minho says, snapping the fresh diaper closed. His face is triumphant. But then, he attempts the swaddle.
He tries the classic diamond fold. The baby’s arm pops out. He tries the straightjacket fold. The baby’s leg shoots free. Minho’s lips thin, and a rare, genuine crack shows in his calm. He grunts in frustration. “Why is this so difficult? I watched the tutorial three times.”
You chuckle, stepping in. “It’s physics, not choreography, Appa. You have to anchor the shoulder.”
You take over, effortlessly tucking the little arm and wrapping the blanket tight and secure. The baby, instantly comforted, stops wriggling. Minho stares at you, his eyes wide, then slowly softens into an expression of pure, unadulterated awe.
⋆｡°✩
You hum softly, a melody you learned from Jisung's demo reel years ago, as you snap the little teddy-bear footie pajamas around her wiggling legs.
“Such a good girl,” you coo, gently kissing the top of her head. “My little mischief maker.”
The baby, wide-eyed and content, reaches up and grabs a handful of your hair, pulling tight. You laugh, bending down to let her clutch the strands. The simple, messy intimacy of the moment, the soft chaos of dressing a 5-month-old, fills you with an overwhelming rush of love, the purest kind, completely untainted by the complex origins of this family.
You feel the change in the air before you see them. You know if you looked up you would find Minho and Jisung standing silently in the doorway, their shoulders brushing. They haven't made a sound.
Jisung is leaning against the frame, his energy completely subdued. His expression is soft, his gaze locked entirely on you and the baby, a faint, trembling smile on his face. It’s the look of someone watching a dream they never thought would come true.
Minho is less relaxed, his posture attentive and still, like a statue carved out of devotion. His eyes, however, are wet. He makes no attempt to wipe them away, allowing a single, quiet tear to trace a path down his cheek. He isn't looking at the baby's tiny face; he is watching the way your hands move, the way your body leans, the unstudied, effortless rhythm that has become the bedrock of their house.
They stand there for nearly a minute, silent, breathing in the scene. They are not waiting to be acknowledged; they are simply watching you belong.
⋆｡°✩
A week later, You’re in charge of introducing the baby to the slightest taste of puréed apples. The attempt is a messy, beautiful disaster. The baby gurgles happily, wearing more applesauce than she eats, her tiny fist grabbing at the spoon.
“She’s an artist!” Jisung declares, wiping a green smear off his own cheek. “A true abstract expressionist.”
You laugh, the sound warm and easy, but a sudden, sharp ache makes you pause. You shift in your seat, your bra instantly feeling tight and damp. You glance down, the right side of your shirt is already blooming with a faint, telltale circle. You forgot to pump.
“Hold her,” you say quickly, standing up. “I need a towel.”
You move toward the kitchen, but Minho is already standing in the doorway, quiet, observant. He doesn't look at the mess on the baby; he looks directly at the damp patch on your shirt. He knows immediately.
Jisung is too busy cooing at the baby to notice. “Wait, Appa, she’s almost done with her finger painting!”
Minho ignores him, his gaze never leaving yours. “Watch her, Ji.”
Jisung, mollified by being put on baby duty, settles in front of the high chair. Minho silently guides you out of the kitchen and into the nearest quiet room.
“Clogged?” he asks, his voice low.
“No, just full,” you whisper, embarrassed, pressing your arms across your chest. “I meant to pump an hour ago. I don’t want to hand-express… It takes forever.”
Minho studies you. His gaze is intense, analytical, but devoid of judgment. His focus is on the problem and the need for relief. He steps closer, reaching up to gently touch the curve of your breast over your shirt. You gasp, the contact sending a sharp jolt of sensation through you.
“The pump is loud,” he murmurs. “And slow.” His eyes drop to your lips, then back to your eyes, a question hanging heavy and intimate in the air. “I can help?”
You don’t say no. You can’t. The ache is relentless, and the offer of his focused, intense care, disguised as something so primal, is overwhelming. You nod once, unable to speak.
He pulls you deeper into the room, away from the light. He unbuttons your shirt and slips down your bra with practiced ease. He reaches out, not with hesitant fingers, but with his mouth, wrapping it firmly and entirely around your nipple and areola.
It is a primal gasp of relief that escapes you as he begins to pull. He is warm, firm, and deliberate, suckling slowly, his tongue working to draw out the pressure that has been building for hours. He swallows, with a quiet focused sound that makes your eyes fly open.
Minho is focused, his hands cradling your breast, his eyes closed in concentration. The rhythmic pull is exactly what you need, but the small, satisfied noises he makes feel undeniably intimate, a new level of physical knowledge that only he possesses.
He pulls away only when the pressure eases and the leaking subsides. A drop of milk escapes, tracing a path down your breast. Minho follows it instantly, lapping up the drip with a slow, deliberate movement of his tongue, ensuring not a single drop is wasted. He looks up at you, his mouth wet with your milk, his eyes dark and honest. He just looks at you like you are the most natural, necessary thing in the world.
He gently wipes your skin with the edge of his shirt and slowly rebuttons your blouse, his knuckles brushing your collarbone.
“Better?” he asks, his voice rough.
“Yes,” you breathe, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
“Good.” He presses a quiet, firm kiss to your forehead. He opens the door and guides you back toward the kitchen, but Jisung is already marching toward you, his arms crossed over his chest, lips pushed out in an exaggerated frown.
“You guys took, like, forever!” Jisung huffs, but his eyes are searching, noticing the slight flush on your cheeks and the careful way Minho is standing close to you. “What was the big emergency that I couldn’t help with? I’m good at towels!”
Minho just rolls his eyes, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips.
Jisung looks between the two of you, his pout softening into something genuinely needy. He throws his arms around your shoulders, squeezing you tight. “It’s not fair! You guys had a secret moment of intense care and I missed it! I want to be the one who gets to, you know, help with the private things sometimes, too. I’m an Papa!”
Minho gently detaches Jisung and bumps his shoulder. “Maybe later. Go get the baby down for her nap. I’ll make coffee.”
Jisung sighs dramatically, but the genuine worry leaves his eyes. He gives you one last, quick squeeze. “Promise I get included next time there’s a secret mission of comfort?”
“Promise,” you murmur, heart full.
You stand there alone, your body tingling, your mind spinning. This accidental family you’ve built has blurred every line, replaced every clause, and created a new need you didn't know you had. You close your eyes, consciously choosing to melt into the warmth, letting the terrifying, beautiful fear of loss wash over you. The conversation about staying is inevitable. But right here, right now, curled between the two fathers of your baby, you know you are already home.
Summary: They've been looking for the final member of their pack for years, a ache that never fades and always exists. Only, when they finally find you, they find a version of you that has been broken. Will they be able to make you whole again?
Pairing: Stray Kids OT8 x F!Reader
A/N: I actually can't believe this is it guys... I just want to say a huge thank you for all of your support throughout this series. You all have been so sweet and supportive and more than I ever could've asked fro!!! I'm so proud of this series and it was such an absolute blast to write.
Thank you for joining me on this journey <333
Groaning, you press your pillow tighter against your face. “I’m okay with being late,” you say, voice muffled by your pillow. “Actually, how about I just stay home today?”
There’s a faint chuckle and then hands are grabbing your wrists, careful fingers curling around the width of your arm and pulling. The pull is gentle but of course, you’re not really trying to fight them regardless, so with a single pull, the pillow is up and away from your face and replaced by Seungmin’s face.
There’s a faint smirk on his face as he stares down at you, brow quirked. “We both know you’ll regret staying home later.”
Pouting, you shake your head. “I guarantee you I won’t.”
“Hmm-mm,” Seungmin says. “Well, if you insist, I might have to take some extreme measures. Would you rather I pull in the big guns then?”
Your eyes widen. “You wouldn’t.”
The smirk deepens. “We both know I would.”
And for a moment, one long passing moment, it’s just silence. You and Seungmin stare back at one another, trying to bait the other one out. A million thoughts pass through your head in that moment and the most pressing is you should probably just get up. But, that smaller, louder voice says; don’t give in.
So you don’t.
“You’re bluffing.”
Seungmin’s smirk breaks out into a wide grin. Before you can blink, he’s leaning back, letting go of you and making his way out the door in record time. Your lips part as his body disappears around the corner, and instantly, you know you’ve made a grave mistake.
“Seungmin, wait! You don’t—”
“I heard someone doesn’t want to get up this morning!”
Horror strikes you as you meet Changbin’s waiting gaze, the man stepping into your room.
“Changbin,” you call, being particular in your use of his full name. “I’m getting up. You don’t have—”
Your words are cut off by a loud squeal. Instantly, it becomes impossible for you to form coherent words as giggles burst past your lips out of your control. Changbin, who’d crossed the distance over to you in seconds flat, mercilessly tickles your sides.
“St–Stop!” You gasp, kicking your feet out. “Stop! I-I’ll get up!”
You manage to maneuver yourself to your feet, batting Changbin’s hands away until finally, finally he stops. Breathless, you stand there, clothes dishevelled, hair a mess on your head and let your eyes drift from Changbin who stands in front of you grinning, to Seungmin who leans against the archway to the door, smirking.
“I told you I would.”
Huffing, you brush a piece of unruly hair from your face. “Getting Binnie involved, Minnie, really?” You roll your eyes but the smile on your face is telling. “Now, that’s taking it too far.”
Seungmin shrugs. “You wouldn’t get up.”
“What’s going on?” A new voice calls, and soon Jeongin’s head is popping in beside Seungmin’s. He takes one look at your dishevelled state and Changbin who stands next to you, and a knowing smile curls on his lips. “Did Y/N get the tickle attack?”
“She sure did,” Changbin snorts as you glower at him. “Someone wouldn’t get out of bed this morning.”
“I told her I would,” Seungmin teases.
You huff at all three of them. “Evil. The lot of you.”
“Just hurry and shower or else we really will be late.”
This time you do listen to Seungmin; mainly because you’re already up but also because you know that if you don’t, Seungmin will recruit Changbin once again. You can’t suffer through two tickle attacks today, that’d be too much.
An hour later and you’re showered, dressed and ready for the day. As you make your way into the kitchen, you’re instantly hit with a very pleasant smell.
“Lixie,” you call, pulling his eyes on you. “Did you wake up early and bake again?”
“I sure did,” the boy calls, turning away from the counter to make his way over to you. You grin as you meet his eyes, leaning your cheek towards him as he presses a warm, firm kiss at the corner of your mouth. “Brownies. Your favourite.”
Your tummy rumbles just at the mention, moving towards the table as Felix swiftly moves to do the finishing touches.
“And I’ve made a more nutritious, fulfilling breakfast. Which you should eat before brownies,” Minho says, setting a plate down for you with a small smile as you take a seat next to Hyunjin. His hand finds your thigh the second you sit down and you press a kiss to his forehead in response.
“Thank you, Lino,” you smile back up at the alpha, before looking down at your full plate. “It looks delicious.”
You’ve just taken your first bite when Changbin comes walking in with a pouting Han and a laughing Chan trailing behind him.
“You’re not the only one who needed a tickle attack this morning, princess,” Changbin hums with a shit-eating grin as Han moans behind him. “Sleepy head here wouldn’t let go of Chan until I came in.”
Han just moans louder, none of what he’s saying making any coherent sense. He sends Changbin a glare before shuffling past the man, who sends him a slap on the ass on the way. Han falls into a heap on the open seat next to you, draping himself dramatically over you.
“To be fair,” Chan pipes up, pressing a kiss to Felix’s lips as he maneuvers around the boy for a cup of coffee. “I kept him up late last night.”
Han’s cheeks burn a bright red.
“Oi,” Jeongin calls, walking into the kitchen with Seungmin; the last two to join for breakfast. “No sex talk during breakfast.”
Chan just wiggles his brows at the boy. “I didn’t see you complaining the other night, Innie.”
Jeongin turns an even brighter red than Han.
Minho drops a plate in front of Han, ruffling the boy's hair, before placing the other plate in front of Chan. The grin on his face is trouble as he turns to Chan. “And who was the one making all that noise last weekend when we spent the night together, Channie?”
Like a domino effect, Chan’s face bursts into red.
“You’re evil,” he says to Minho.
You let out a snort, finishing bringing a fork-ful of food towards Han’s lips.
“I wouldn’t be so smug, Y/Nnie,” Seungmin grins from across the table, sending a sharp wink your way.
Your eyes widen, raising your finger and pointing it right at him. “You’ve done enough this morning, Minnie.”
Seungmin just laughs.
“Was everyone having fun these past few days and I just didn’t know about it?” Hyunjin frowns from beside you. “Not cool.”
Changbin snorts and leans towards Hyunjin. The look on his face is downright lecherous; “don’t worry, Jinnie. I can keep you company tonight.”
Hyunjin doesn’t waste a second. “Gross.”
“Yah!”
“You all are animals,” Jeongin deadpans, shaking his head as he shoves a handful of food in his mouth. You watch with a quirked brow, still shocked to this day that he doesn’t choke when he eats like that.
“Enough sex talk,” Felix’s voice carries in, moving towards the table with small containers in each hand. “I’ve made you all a to-go box of brownies for a treat later today. Y/N and Han got extra because they’re special.”
You and Han turn to each other, grinning ear to ear.
“What!” Hyunjin calls, voice pitching in a whine. “That’s not fair!”
Felix just shrugs his shoulders. “Omega privilege.”
“This is discrimination,” Changbin pouts.
Jeongin nods next to him. “I agree.”
Without wasting a beat, Han sticks his tongue out at them. “You snooze, you lose.”
Changbin’s hand raises to throw a piece of food at him, but Minho’s reflexes are quicker.
“You throw that food and I’ll take your whole breakfast away.”
Changbin slumps in defeat.
One by one, Felix hands out the containers to everyone. You smile at him brightly when he hands you yours, thanking him softly. This will definitely get you through your day.
“Y/N, Seungmin and Felix,” Chan calls, pulling your eyes on him. “You all have classes today, yeah?”
Seungmin nods. “Y/N’s is earlier than mine so me and Felix are gonna go early and hang out in the library. I’ll pick up Y/N after hers and she’ll sit in on my lecture just so she’s not waiting alone.”
You groan at the thought. “Your classes are always so boring.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Seungmin rolls his eyes.
“I like sitting in on Lixie’s more,” you shrug. “I get to eat the leftover treats.”
Felix winks at you. “I like when you sit in on my lectures too, sunny.”
Seungmin just sighs and Chan lets out a soft laugh.
“Sounds good,” he nods to Seungmin. “Me, Bin and Hannie will be at work all day so I just wanted to make sure everything else was good.”
“I can also come by and pick Y/N up after lecture,” Jeongin offers, meeting your eyes then Chan’s. “I’m finally getting caught up on my pile of homework and have got nothing else to do today.”
You turn to him with sparkling eyes. “Ah, really?”
He laughs; “if that’s okay with everyone else.”
The whole table nods and shrugs in response, until Jeongin turns to Seungmin and Chan.
“Allows me to actually focus during class,” Seungmin says and you stick your tongue out at him.
Chan nods after; “works for me.”
You grin, turning to Jeongin; “yay! Thank you, Innie.”
He flushes faintly; “of course, baby.”
“Lucky,” Hyunjin pouts from next to you. “I want Innie and Y/Nie time.”
Minho just shakes his head; “you have back to back classes to teach today.”
Hyunjin drops his head on the table; “I know! I’m so busy, I hate it.”
That you can’t blame him for. School’s been crazy recently, you know you’re feeling burnt out too.
“I feel the same, baby,” Han says, nodding sympathetically at Hyunjin. “We’ve been so busy at the studio recently.”
Changbin hums; “it has been a lot.”
“This is the first day in weeks that I’m not swamped with homework,” Jeongin frowns.
“Normally I’d call you all dramatic but I’m just as swamped,” Minho sighs.
“We’ve all been feeling this way, huh?” Chan asks, letting his eyes drift across the entire pack.
You nod. “The only thing keeping me going is the long weekend coming up.”
“Yes!” Felix practically shouts, pointing at you with excitement, “I can’t wait.”
“It will be nice,” Seungmin agrees.
Silence carries for a moment. Everyone gets carried away with the anticipation of the long weekend coming up soon. For the past few weeks, it’s been non-stop go, go, go for everyone in the pack. The house was a mess of homework, lyrics, music sheets, etc. In fact, the pack had only really been able to spend time all together during breakfast. It was your one solace for the days, knowing that at the very least, you’d be able to see your soulmates in the morning and start your day off right.
Of course, it wasn’t like you didn’t get to see them ever. You had spent the night before with Seungmin but you hadn’t seen anyone else because you two didn’t get home until late. Chan and Han, for example, had clearly spent the night together but you know Hyunjin had come home from work at seven and fell asleep instantly.
There were small, brief moments but you missed being together with everyone.
“Han-ah,” Chan calls a moment later, turning to the omega. Said boy perks up beside you at the call of his name, blinking awake given that he’d been dozing off on your shoulder two seconds ago.
“Yes, Channie-hyung?”
“The track for our client,” he starts, “is it almost done?”
Han’s brows furrow, obviously confused by the random question. Still, he nods. “I should be able to get it done today with Binnie’s help.”
Said alpha sends a thumbs up.
“Jinnie,” Chan then calls, turning to the beta. “You don’t have any classes tomorrow, right?”
Hyunjin shakes his head. “No, I’m done today after six-ish.”
“You’ll be done by tonight, Minho?”
Moving to grab the dirty dishes, Minho hums; “probably be home around ten.”
“Channie,” you call, shaking your head. “What’s going on?”
“We’ve all been swamped with work for the past few weeks. And I know I speak for all of us when I say that I’m absolutely exhausted,” he explains, to which a chorus of agreements echo around. “I know you guys have no classes tomorrow because it’s a long weekend,” he continues, eyeing you, Jeongin, Felix and Seungmin. “Do you think your homework could wait three days?”
Turning to the other three, you all share looks of similar confusion.
“Mine can wait,” Felix nods, shrugging. “It’s usually just baking anyways.”
Jeongin stands up, moving to help Minho with the dishes. “Like I said, I’ll be done with my pile of homework by today thankfully.”
Which leaves you and Seungmin.
Turning to the boy, you both nod.
“We should be good too,” Seungmin says to Chan.
“Perfect,” Chan grins, face splitting into a wide smile. “Looks like we’ll be taking a trip to the beach house this weekend!”
There’s a split moment of silence, and then, as per usual for this pack, absolute chaos breaks out.
Hyunjin is jumping to his feet with a cry of victory like he won some sort of battle only he knew about, before reaching across the table and grabbing Jeongin around the shoulders and pulling him into a crushing hug. Jeongin looks disgruntled by it, but he doesn’t fight Hyunjin either as he’s smothered by kisses and the smile is telling on his face.
Changbin is grinning at Felix who’s beaming back at him with just as much excitement. Han has moved to practically throw himself on Chan, arms locked around the older man's shoulders and pressing kisses against his cheek.
And, in typical Minho and Seungmin fashion, they share small smiles of their own.
Laughing at the chaos, you turn to Chan, only to find his eyes already on you.
“We can finally have the vacation you’ve always deserved.”
Lips parting, Chan’s words surprise you, just briefly, touched by the sincerity and meaning behind them.
And then, a soft smile curls onto your own lips.
“I look forward to it.”
That night, you all drive over to the beach house and after resting for the night, you spend the entire next day together.
After a nice lunch spent together, you all head out to the beach. This time round, you have no reservation about thrusting yourself into the water the second you lay eyes on it. You have fun playing around and messing with the boys and even manage to drag Minho into the water for a little bit (which is something you’re secretly very proud of; knowing he can’t resist your charms).
After the beach, everyone heads in to shower and get dressed for dinner. You all decide to go out for dinner and give Minho a break from cooking, which is a special treat since it isn’t often all nine of you go out for dinner together. Then, when you get back home, you all settle into the living room and watch a movie. This time it’s Han who wins the pick, and he chooses a cute, whimsical animated movie for everyone to watch.
Everyone was now currently cuddled together in a large pile just softly chatting with one another.
You elected to remain silent, content just watching them as they laughed and chatted with one another. It had been a wonderful day, a day spent with your pack, playing, laughing and simply just being together. You loved days like these, cherished them, even more so because it was rare all of you got to be together at once in this way. No worries of work or stress of school or things to do.
Just… being together.
You watch as Hyunjin smothers Jeongin in kisses as the boy desperately tries to block them (unsuccessfully). Or how Han has curled himself around Minho, head nestled into the crook of his neck, both of them sharing content, fond smiles. Felix is laughing as Seungmin teases Changbin, trying to egg the alpha on.
Then, you catch Chan’s gaze. He’s already looking at you, a soft smile on his lips. You were curled in his lap, his arms wrapped around your waist as you leant against his chest.
You hadn’t known he’d been watching you.
“What?” You ask, smiling up at him.
Chan shrugs; “nothing.” He whispers. “Just admiring how beautiful you are.”
Cheeks flushing, you nudge him; “oh hush.”
Chan just laughs; “what? It’s true.”
You roll your eyes, but the warmth on your cheeks and the smile on your lips doesn’t fade.
And for a moment, you let the silence follow, letting your eyes drag across the pack once more.
Then, turning back to Chan, you reach for his hand. His eyes follow your movement, confused, but lets you thread your fingers through his own.
“I’m so happy,” you say.
Blinking, Chan’s lips part. His eyes search yours, letting your words sink in, and then, his hand is squeezing your own in return.
“You are?” He asks, as if he needs the reassurance.
“I am,” you assure, nodding. “I’ve never been this happy.”
“Neither have we.”
It isn’t Chan who responds, but Changbin. Blinking, you turn, meeting Changbin’s eyes as he smiles at you. When you look across the rest of the pack, everyone is smiling at you too.
“You make us whole, sunny,” Felix says, voice soft and gentle.
“And we’re so proud of how far you’ve come,” Minho adds.
You feel your vision blur, happy tears welling in your eyes as you stare back at them all. Chan pulls you closer, hugging you as Hyunjin leans forward to cup your cheek.
It’s moments like these, even a whole year later, you’re reminded of how far you truly have come. You still have your bad days, of course, but its nothing like before. You’ve grown and healed and you're proud of how hard you’ve worked to do so. And most importantly, how your pack has been there for you every single step of the way.
Without them, you wouldn’t be who you are.
You wouldn’t have found yourself.
And that meant more to you than anything.
“I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you guys.”
It’s true. The pack always tells you how strong you are, how proud they are of you and you appreciate it. You know you are strong.
But they’re the ones who’ve made you strong.
“I mean that,” you say. “I’m strong but I’m stronger because of you guys. Being with you all, being in this pack, it’s what gave me the strength to heal.”
Brushing your hair behind your ear, Chan presses a kiss to your forehead.
“We feel the same.”
Eyes fluttering shut, you lean into his touch. “And now we can spend the rest of our lives together.”
Without needing to reveal yourself, you still fed both your boyfriend and the audience.
Chris was doing a livestream in his room, voice warm and familiar as it drifted down the hallway. You sat by the kitchen table, phone popped up against a water bottle, half-listening to him through the screen while going through your study notes.
You’d been dating for years – long enough that sneaking around felt almost funny now, but after he’d finally told fans he was seeing someone, you both agreed: privacy mattered. Love didn’t need a face reveal.
… much to the dissatisfaction of his curious fans. But that had always been the agreement – support him, but never interrupt the little world he built with STAY.
From the screen, you heard him laugh lightly. “No, I ate earlier,” he said easily, shaking his head at the chat.
You frowned.
You’d been with him all evening. He definitely had not eaten.
Liar.
You sighed, stood up, and quietly headed to the stove. A simple plate: rice, chicken, some side dishes. Food he liked and definitely needed.
The hallway light was dim as you padded towards his room. The door was half open, the soft glow of the ring light spilling out. Inside, you moved carefully, staying well out of frame as you slipped the plate onto the desk beside him.
Then you were gone again, retreating like nothing happened.
Chris glanced to the side. His eyes softened instantly, and a small laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
“Oh,” he murmured, voice fond. “This is so sweet.”
He stood, picked up the plate, and turned it towards the camera with a shy grin. “Look, my girlfriend brought me food.”
The comments flooded in
CUTEE
COUPLE GOALS 🤍
SHOW HER PLS
MAPPY HER ALREADY
WE WANNA SEE HER!!
Chris laughed, shoulders shaking.
“Should I ask her to come here~?” he teased, eyes flicking toward the doorway. He already knew the answer. He just enjoyed pretending otherwise.
“Babyyyy!”
Then, louder, playful and whiny, “Babyyyy!”
“Babe, can you come here for a sec?”
You froze in the hallway.
The camera was still on.
Yet you moved back to the doorway where you knew you’d be safe, but not centimeter past it.
When you saw his teasing grin, you just shook your head quickly, eyes wide, refusing to even step fully inside.
“Why nottt?” Chris dragged out, pouting dramatically.
You only scrunched your nose at him in response. No way. Not yet. Not even your voice. Not the risk.
“Pleaaase?” he tried again, smiling too sweetly to ignore.
You hesitated. Then, with a quiet sigh, you stepped just BEHIND the camera. Carefully, you raised your hands and made a small heart with your index and middle fingers right in front of the lens.
The chat lost its mind.
Chris laughed, utterly charmed and steped closer to you and the camera as well. “They think that’s cute,” he said, between the screen and you. “They’re spamming that you should talk.”
Before you could escape again, he gently caught your hand and tugged you closer – careful, always careful not to pull you in frame. “She doesn’t want to show herself yet,” he told the fans, apologetic but calm.
“Sorry,” he mouthed towards the camera, but the apologetic look he gave the camera wasn’t meant for them. He squeezed your hand, reassuring.
That was when you got an idea. You knew that they wouldn't drop until they got what they wanted... So what better way to get STAY's attention off of you than...
In one smooth motion, you slipped your hand away, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and tugged it up just enough for the camera to catch a glimpse of his toned abs… then you bolted for the door.
The reaction was instant.
The chat exploded.
Chris yelped, eyes wide, ears burning as he hurriedly yanked his shirt back down. “Yah—!” He cleared his throat, flustered, trying (and failing) to regain composure. He turned his head, just in time to see you at the doorway, shaking his head with an amused, helpless smile.
“Babe—”
Before he could finish, you flashed him the most innocent smile and a not so apologetic finger heart, then disappeared down the hall, door clicking shut behind you.
“God—” Chris muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair.
He looked back at the camera, embarrassed but laughing
“My girlfriend, everyone,” he said fondly. “Brings me food and drives me crazy.”
contains: +18, kinda slow burn, chan's a gentleman but he teases like a pro, fingering, handjob, nipple play, protected sex, masturbation (f.), lots of worship, reader’s a bit impatient, yappy chan (<3)
authors note: english is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in advance
⋆｡°✩
summary: After your first date ended without a kiss, you and Chan spend a week building... tension. On your second date, a broken zipper and Chan's inability to stop teasing you leads to way more than just a kiss.
The first date hadn’t been anything extravagant, but somehow, it had still felt like the kind of night you’d remember longer than you should.
He had picked a quiet place, the kind where the music was soft and the lighting made everything feel like a secret. Chan had been exactly the kind of charming you couldn’t prepare for, not loud, not showy, but in the way he listened. In the way his smile lingered just a second too long after you said something. He had made you laugh, too, not in that polite, date-appropriate way, but until your cheeks ached.
By the time you both stepped outside, the night air was cooler, wrapping around you in a way that made the warmth between you feel sharper. You walked side by side, your hands brushing until he simply took yours, his palm warm, fingers curling around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. Every so often, his other hand would drift, the lightest brush against your waist as he guided you around a group on the sidewalk, the quick press of his fingers at your back.
But he didn’t kiss you.
Just a soft press of his lips to your cheek, and it lasted long enough for you to feel his breath linger, long enough to tell you he wanted it as badly as you did.
You stood there frozen for half a second after he pulled away, your skin still tingling where his mouth had been.
You drove home thinking about him, the way his cologne had settled into the air between you, the way his hands felt around yours, how your chest had tightened when he leaned in, how unfair it was that someone could make you feel so much without even crossing that line. Chan was polite, maybe even stubbornly so; he wasn’t going to kiss you on the first date. But every touch he gave you sent chills rippling down your spine, the kind you’d remember far longer than you should.
So when Chan texted later:
second round? same charm, new place?
You didn’t even pretend to play coy.
idk… will you kiss me?
The reply came faster than you expected.
depends
You stared at the screen. That was it? Depends? Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, heart doing something stupid in your chest.
on what?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
on whether you ask nicely
You could hear the smirk in his text. That confident, teasing edge he had only let slip a few times tonight; when he caught you staring at his hands and when he leaned close enough to whisper something that definitely didn't need to be whispered.
haha. i don't beg, Chan.
didn't say you had to beg
just said ask nicely
there's a difference
You bit your lip, face warming even though you were alone.
fine. will you PLEASE kiss me on the second date?
The response was immediate.
see? that wasn't so hard
and yeah. i will
Your stomach flipped.
—
The week between dates felt longer than it should have.
You had texted every day, good morning messages that turned into hour-long conversations, random photos of coffee cups and sunsets, voice notes that made your day actually enjoyable. Chan was funny in a way that caught you off guard, the kind of humor that came easy and natural, never trying too hard. He remembered small things you had mentioned in passing. Asked how your presentation went. Sent you a song because "the lyrics reminded me of something you said."
He was sweet. Thoughtful.
And then, sometimes, he'd send you videos.
The first one came on a Wednesday. Just him at the gym, phone propped up somewhere, weights in hand. The angle was casual, too casual to be accidental. You watched him lift, watched the way his jaw tensed, the way his shoulders flexed. And then he groaned, low and rough, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Another video came Friday. This time he was stretching, arm pulled across his chest, neck tilted and a great, great frame of his hands. Another groan, and your brain short-circuited in the middle of a work meeting.
You didn't reply for an hour. You knew what he was doing. By the time Saturday came around, date number two, you were wound so tight you could barely think straight.
—
He picked you up this time. Showed up at your door in a black jacket, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair slightly damp like he had just showered. His cologne hit you first, familiar and devastating.
"Hey," he said, smiling in that way that made your knees forget how to work.
"Hey you."
His eyes dragged over you and you watched his throat bob as he swallowed.
"You look..." He trailed off, shook his head. "Yeah. Let's go before I forget I'm supposed to be a gentleman."
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
The drive was easy, comfortable. Dinner was at a small Italian place tucked into a corner you had never noticed before. Candlelit, intimate, the kind of place where you had to lean in close to hear each other. Not that you minded.
Chan was charming. Effortlessly so. He made you laugh so hard you almost knocked over your wine, told stories that had the perfect punchlines, listened like every word you said mattered.
But underneath it all, there was something else. Something simmering.
The way his gaze lingered on your mouth when you spoke. The way his hand found your knee under the table, thumb brushing against your skin. The way he leaned in when he talked, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him.
"You've been quiet today," he said softly, eyes locked on yours.
"Just thinking."
"About?"
You took a sip of wine, buying time. "About whether you're going to keep your promise."
His smile was slow, dangerous. "Which one?"
"You know which one."
Chan's hand squeezed your knee gently. "I always keep my promises."
"Do you?"
"Always." His voice dropped lower. "But I never said when I'd kiss you."
Your breath caught. He grinned, leaning back in his chair like he hadn't just made your entire body light up.
"You're terrible," you muttered.
Chan just… laughed. “Let’s go to the next stop?”
“Next stop?”
“Yeah, of course. You thought this was it? No, I have a whole schedule with you.”
—
The next stop was a rooftop bar, one of those places with fairy lights strung overhead and the city sprawling out below like stars. Chan's hand found the small of your back as he guided you through the crowd, and you were hyper-aware of every point of contact.
He ordered drinks while you leaned against the railing, letting the cool night air calm your racing pulse. When he came back, he handed you something fruity and way too pretty to drink quickly.
"Trying to get me drunk?" you teased.
"Trying to get you relaxed." His eyes glinted. "You seem tense."
"I wonder why."
He stepped closer, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look at him properly. "If you want me to kiss you that badly, you could just—"
And that's when you felt it.
A soft pop near your ribs. A sudden looseness in your dress that definitely wasn't there before.
You froze.
"What's wrong?" Chan asked immediately, reading your expression.
"Um." You pressed your hand to your side, where the zipper had apparently given up on life. "I think... my dress just broke."
His eyebrows shot up. "Your dress?"
"The zipper. Side zipper. It just—" You huffed out a laugh because of course this would happen. "It just gave up."
Chan's lips twitched. "How bad is it?"
"Bad enough that if I move my arm, you're going to see things you probably shouldn't see."
His eyes darkened slightly, but his smile stayed playful. "Things?"
"Chan."
"I'm just asking for clarification."
You rolled your eyes, but you were fighting a smile. "My bra. And possibly my underwear, depending on how catastrophic this failure is."
"Matching?" The question came out before he could stop himself.
You didn't blush. Didn't look away. Just met his eyes with a small, knowing smile. "That's—that is not relevant information."
Something shifted in his expression. The playfulness was still there, but underneath it, heat. Real, palpable heat that made the air between you feel thick.
"So they are matching," he said slowly, and his gaze dropped. Just for a second. Just long enough to flicker down to where your hand pressed against your side, where the broken zipper had left a gap in the fabric. Long enough for him to catch the smallest glimpse of black lace against your skin.
When his eyes came back up to yours, they were darker. Hungry. "Fuck," he breathed out, so quiet you almost missed it.
Your pulse kicked up, but you didn't move. Didn't try to hide. There was something thrilling about the way he was looking at you, like he was trying very hard to be respectful and losing the battle spectacularly. But he didn't look away. He shifted, angling his body to block you from the crowd's view. "Okay. How do you want to handle this?"
You appreciated that he wasn't making it weird, well, weirder than it already was. There was something sweet about how quickly he had moved to shield you, even while teasing.
"I don't know. Do you have a safety pin? A sewing kit? A miracle?"
He thought for a second. "I have my jacket in the car."
His stare felt like burning alive, like every nerve ending in your body had suddenly woken up and taken notice. His jaw was tight, his hands flexing at his sides like he didn't quite know what to do with them.
You tilted your head, emboldened by the way he was barely holding it together. "You okay there, Chan?"
"No." He let out a sharp exhale, running a hand through his hair. "No, I'm really not."
"Need a minute?"
"I need—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. His hand came up to rest on the railing beside you, caging you in without actually touching you. "God, stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you know exactly what you're doing."
You smiled. "I'm not doing anything. My dress broke."
"Right. Your dress." His eyes dropped again, he couldn't help it, tracing the line where fabric met skin, where lace peeked through. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Just your dress."
"Just my dress," you confirmed, voice soft.
He was so close now you could feel his heat, could see the way his chest rose and fell with each carefully controlled breath. His free hand lifted, hovering near your waist like he wanted to touch but didn't trust himself to.
"I'm—" His thumb brushed against your hip, barely, "I'm supposed to be a gentleman." He broke off with a rough laugh.
"Who said you’re not?"
His eyes snapped back to yours, pupils blown wide. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The sounds of the bar faded into background noise, the chatter, the music, all of it distant and unimportant compared to the way he was looking at you.
"I need to get my jacket," he finally said, voice strained.
"Okay."
"From the car."
"Okay."
"And you need to stay right here. Don't move. And definitely don't lift your arm."
"Wasn't planning on it."
But he still didn't move. Just stood there, staring at you.
"Chan."
"Yeah?"
"The jacket?"
"Right. Yeah. Jacket." He stepped back, dragging a hand over his face. Then he paused, turning back with that dangerous smile, except now it was edged with something feral. "Is it all black?"
Your lips curved. "Why does it matter?"
"It matters."
"Go get your jacket, Chan."
He held your gaze for another beat, then shook his head like he couldn't believe this was happening. "God—"
"You like this, don't you?"
"Love it." The word came out rough, honest. "I fucking love it."
And then he was gone, moving through the crowd faster than necessary, and you were left standing there with your heart racing and your skin buzzing and the absolute certainty that this night was about to get a lot more interesting.
Chan returned a few minutes later, slightly breathless, holding his leather jacket. He draped it over your shoulders carefully, his fingers brushing your collarbone as he adjusted it.
"There. Crisis averted."
The jacket smelled like him, cologne and something warmer, more personal. You pulled it tighter around yourself.
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it." He was still standing close, his hands resting lightly on your arms. "Though I have to say, this night is not going the way I planned."
"No?"
"No. I had a whole thing. Very smooth. Very romantic." His thumb traced a small circle on your shoulder. "And now all I can think about is the fact that you're wearing matching underwear."
Your breath hitched. "Oh my god."
"Sorry. I'll stop." But he didn't move away. "Actually, no. I won't. Because that's kind of driving me crazy."
"It was just—I always match. It's not like I planned—"
"You always match?" His voice dropped, rough around the edges. "That's... that's worse, actually. That's so much worse."
"Why is that worse?"
"Because now every time I see you, I'm going to wonder."
The air between you felt charged, heavy. His hands were still on your arms, his face close enough that you could see the exact moment his gaze dropped to your mouth.
"Chan?"
"Yeah?"
"Can you kiss me already?" He froze. Completely still, his hands on your arms, his eyes locked on yours. "Please." The word came out softer, and something in his expression shattered.
"Fuck," he breathed, and then his hand was cupping your jaw, tilting your face up to his. "You can't just—"
"I can," you interrupted, holding his gaze. "And I am."
His thumb brushed across your bottom lip, his touch reverent and desperate all at once. He leaned in, close enough that his lips barely ghosted over yours, a whisper of contact that made your breath catch. "You're really something, you know that?"
And then, he kissed you.
It wasn't soft. Wasn't tentative or testing. It was sure and certain, like he had been thinking about this for days, which, judging by the way his other hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, he probably had.
Your hands found his chest, fingers curling into his shirt as you kissed him back with everything you had been holding in all night. All week. Since the moment he had decided to be a gentleman on the first date and leave you wanting.
He made a sound low in his throat, a groan tangled in relief, and deepened the kiss, angling your head just so. His tongue swept across your bottom lip and you opened for him immediately, tasting the whiskey he had been drinking, something sweet and dark and perfectly him.
Your back hit the railing and his body pressed against yours, solid and warm, one hand still cradling your face while the other splayed across your lower back, holding you steady. The jacket started to slip from your shoulders and he caught it without breaking the kiss, adjusting it back into place even as his mouth moved against yours like he was starving.
When he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, you were both panting.
"Should've done it sooner."
"Probably." He kissed you again, softer this time but no less devastating. "But this was worth the wait."
You hummed against his mouth, and he smiled into the kiss.
"We should probably leave," he murmured between kisses. "Before I forget we're in public."
"Where are we going?"
He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the heat in his eyes made your stomach flip. "Anywhere that's not here. Your place? Mine? I don't care, I just—" He kissed you again, quick and desperate. "I really need to get you alone."
Your heart was racing. "Mine's closer."
"Perfect." He took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "Let's go."
As he led you through the crowd, his jacket secure around your shoulders and his hand warm in yours, you caught the smile on his face, satisfied and a little bit smug.
"What?" you asked.
He glanced back at you, eyes bright. "Nothing. Just thinking about how you're still wearing that matching set under my jacket."
"Chan—"
"And how I'm really looking forward to seeing it properly."
Your face went hot, but you squeezed his hand. "Drive fast."
His laugh was dark and promising. "Yes ma'am."
The drive to your place felt both endless and too short. Chan kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh, his thumb drawing absent patterns against your skin that made it impossible to think straight.
Every red light felt like torture. At the second one, you put your hand over his, stilling his movements.
Your apartment building came into view and you had never been more grateful to live on the second floor. Chan found parking quickly, too quickly, like he had manifested the spot through sheer willpower, and then you were both getting out, his hand finding yours immediately.
The walk to your door was quiet, charged. You fumbled with your keys and he stood behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, his breath against your neck.
"Nervous?" he murmured.
"No."
"You're shaking."
"That's your fault."
The door finally opened and you stepped inside, Chan following and closing it behind him with a soft click. The lock turned. And then you were alone, really alone, for the first time.
He leaned back against the door, watching you with dark eyes as you set your bag down, his jacket still wrapped around your shoulders.
"So," he said.
"So."
"Nice place."
You laughed, breathless. "You haven't even looked around."
"I'm looking at something better." His gaze dragged over you, slow and deliberate. "Come here."
You crossed the distance between you, and his hands found your waist immediately, pulling you flush against him. This kiss was different, deeper, unhurried now that you had privacy. His tongue swept into your mouth and you made a sound that had him groaning in response.
His hands slid up your sides, careful of the broken zipper, and then he was shrugging his jacket off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. His fingers traced the gap in your dress where the zipper had failed, feather-light touches that made you shiver.
"I've been thinking about this," he murmured against your lips. "All week. Just... thinking about you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." His mouth moved to your jaw, your neck, finding that spot below your ear that made your knees weak.
"That's why you sent those videos?"
He smiled against your skin. "You liked them though."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." He nipped at your pulse point and you gasped. "I could tell."
His hands were still exploring, tracing the broken zipper's path, fingers brushing against lace. He pulled back just enough to look down, and his breath caught.
"All black," he said, almost reverent.
"Told you."
"You didn't tell me anything." His finger hooked into the lace edge of your bra, just barely, and your breath hitched. "You made me think about it all night."
"Good."
He made a sound low in his chest, something between a laugh and a groan. "You're trouble."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true." His eyes met yours, dark and wanting. "Can I...?"
You knew what he was asking. Nodded.
His fingers found the broken zipper, working it down slowly, carefully, until your dress loosened completely. It should've felt more significant, maybe, but instead it just felt right; Chan's hands on you, his eyes drinking you in.
The dress slipped down and you stepped out of it, standing there in just the black lace set and your heels. His gaze traveled over you, slow, burning, and when his eyes met yours again, they were absolutely molten.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're—" He shook his head like words were failing him. "Come here."
You stepped closer and he pulled you in, kissing you hard, his hands everywhere now, your waist, your hips, sliding up your back. Your fingers worked at the hem of his shirt and he helped you, shrugging it off impatiently.
"Bedroom?" he asked against your mouth.
"Down the hall."
He lifted you easily, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you, his mouth never leaving yours. You directed him between kisses, left, second door, and then you were falling onto your bed together, his weight pressing you into the mattress in the best way.
His mouth traveled down your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your tits above the lace. "Tell me if I should slow down."
"Don't you dare."
He laughed, the sound vibrating against your skin. "Yes ma'am."
His hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your tits through the lace, and you arched into the touch. The calluses on his fingertips, rough from the gym, from guitar, from whatever else kept his hands this perfect, caught slightly on the delicate fabric, sending little sparks of sensation through you.
He took his time, mapping every inch of exposed skin with his mouth, your sternum, where he paused to feel your racing heartbeat with his lips, your ribs, tracing each one like he was counting, the soft curve of your stomach. Each kiss was deliberate, worshipful, memorizing the way your skin heated under his attention.
"Chan," you breathed, fingers threading through his hair. It was softer than you expected, and you could smell his shampoo mixed with his cologne.
"Mm?" He looked up at you from where he had been kissing just above your hip, and the sight of him, pupils blown so wide there was barely any brown left, lips swollen and wet from his mouth on your skin, hair a complete mess from your hands, looking absolutely wrecked already, made heat pool low in your belly, made your thighs clench.
"You're taking forever."
His smile was slow, dangerous, the dimple in his cheek appearing. "Am I?" His fingers traced the edge of your underwear, the touch so light it was almost not there, just the ghost of sensation that made you want to scream. "I'm just... appreciating."
"Appreciate faster."
He laughed against your hip bone, the warmth of his breath spreading across your skin, making goosebumps rise. "Where's the fun in that?" His mouth moved lower, kissing along the lace edge, his tongue occasionally darting out to taste bare skin. "Besides, you look so good like this. All impatient for me."
You tugged his hair gently, pulling him back up, and he went willingly, crawling up your body. He settled his weight between your thighs, and you could feel every inch of him, the hard planes of his chest against your tits, the ridges of his abs against your stomach, and him, hard and insistent through his pants, pressing right where you needed him most. The friction of the fabric, the heat of him even through the layers, it was almost too much, except that it was nowhere near enough.
"I've been patient," you said, rolling your hips up against him, feeling the way his cock twitched at the contact.
His breath caught, a sharp inhale that you felt against your neck, eyes fluttering closed for a second like he was trying to compose himself. "Fuck—okay, that's not fair."
"All's fair."
"Is it?" He rocked against you deliberately this time, a slow grind that had the seam of his pants pressing against your clit through the thin lace, the friction making you both gasp. His forehead dropped to yours, breath coming faster, hot against your lips. "You're gonna kill me. You know that?"
He kissed you hard, deep, tongue sliding against yours. His hips moved in a slow grind that had you seeing stars, the rhythm steady and purposeful, like he was fucking you through your clothes, testing what made you gasp, what made your nails dig into his skin. Your hands found his shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to leave crescents, and he groaned into your mouth, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours.
"Can I—" His hand slid up your back, fingers finding the clasp of your bra with the kind of ease that would've made you self-conscious if you weren't so desperate. He paused, thumb rubbing small circles on your spine. "Can I take this off?"
"Please."
The clasp gave way with a soft click and the lace fell away. His gaze dropped, pupils dilating even further, you didn't think that was possible, a low groan rumbling deep in his chest that you felt as much as heard. "Jesus Christ." His hand cupped your tit, palm hot against your skin, thumb brushing over your nipple almost reverently, watching it harden into a tight peak under his touch. The contrast of his rough hands against your soft skin made you shiver. "You're so—I don't even have words."
"Then stop talking."
His eyes flicked up to yours, amused, that dangerous smile playing at his lips. "You want me to stop talking?"
"I want you to do something."
"I am doing something." He lowered his head, tongue flicking over your nipple, a quick teasing touch that had electricity shooting straight between your thighs, and your back arched off the bed. "See? Doing lots of things."
"F-fuck, Chan—"
"What?" He sucked your nipple into his mouth, gentle at first, just his lips and the barest suction, then harder, teeth grazing, tongue swirling, and your fingers tightened in his hair. When he released you with a soft pop, the cool air hitting wet skin making you gasp, he was grinning. "You were saying?"
"I hate you."
"I doubt that." His mouth moved to your other tit, giving it the same attention, licking, sucking, the occasional graze of teeth that made you jerk, while his hand palmed the one he had left wet and wanting, fingers rolling your nipple, tugging gently. The dual sensation, the heat of his mouth and the pressure of his fingers, had you writhing beneath him. "You like me. You asked me very nicely to kiss you, remember?"
"That was before you decided to torture me."
"This isn't torture." His teeth grazed your nipple harder this time and you gasped, hips bucking up involuntarily. "This is foreplay."
"It's torture."
He kissed his way back up to your mouth, slow and thorough, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His lips were so soft and you could feel the slight roughness of stubble on his jaw scratching against your chin. "Tell me what you want then."
"You know what I want."
"Maybe." His hand slid down your stomach, fingers playing with the waistband of your underwear, dipping just beneath the lace and then retreating, over and over. "But I want to hear you say it."
You grabbed his face with both hands, making him look at you, and the heat in his eyes nearly undid you. "Touch me. Please."
His pupils dilated impossibly further, the last bit of brown disappearing into black. "Where?"
"Chan—"
"Tell me where." His fingers dipped just below the lace, not nearly far enough, just barely brushing. "Here?"
"Lower."
"How much lower?" He was definitely teasing now, enjoying watching you squirm, watching the way your chest heaved with each frustrated breath. "You gotta be specific."
You grabbed his wrist, guiding his hand down, and his breath stuttered when you pressed his against you through the lace. "There. Touch me there."
"Fuck," he breathed when his fingers finally slid beneath the lace, through your wetness. His whole body went rigid, every muscle tensing. "You're so—how are you this wet already?"
He circled your clit with gentle pressure and you moaned, hips rolling up into his touch, chasing more friction. His fingers were perfect, long and skilled. "Is this what you wanted?" His voice had gone rough, strained, like he was barely holding himself together. "Is this what you've been thinking about?"
"Yes—god, yes—"
"What else?" He increased the pressure slightly, circles getting faster, and you could feel your thighs starting to shake. "What else did you think about?"
"Your fingers," you managed, words coming out breathy and broken. "How they'd feel—oh—"
He slid one finger inside you and you both groaned, you at the sensation, at the stretch, at finally having something inside you, him at how easily you took him, how wet you were, how your walls clenched around even just one finger. "Like this?"
"I need more, Chan—"
He added a second finger, the stretch more noticeable now, a slight burn that quickly melted into pleasure, curling them just right, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur. "Better?"
"Yes—don't stop—"
"Wasn't planning on it." His thumb found your clit while his fingers worked inside you, pumping slowly, deliberately, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room, and the dual sensation had you gasping, had you seeing stars behind your eyelids. "You feel so good. So fucking good around my fingers."
"Chan—"
"I love the way you say my name." He kissed down your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, his teeth scraping over your pulse point. "Say it again."
"Chan—"
"That's it, baby." His pace increased, fingers curling with each thrust, finding that spot inside you over and over, thumb circling your clit in steady rhythm that was quickly unraveling you. You could hear how wet you were, could feel it dripping down to his palm. "You're so close, I can feel it. Can feel you tightening around me."
You were almost gone now, words dissolving into incoherent sounds as pleasure built low in your spine, spreading through your limbs like fire. Your nails raked down his back, hard enough to leave red lines, and he groaned against your neck, the sound primal and desperate.
"That's it," he murmured, his own breathing ragged now. "Take what you need. Use my hand. I want to feel you come."
"I'm—I'm so close—"
"I know." He adjusted the angle of his fingers, pressing up harder, and hit something inside you that made your whole body jerk, made you cry out. "Right there, baby? That's the spot?"
"Yes—right there—don't stop—please don't stop—"
"Not stopping." His fingers worked faster, harder, exactly where you needed, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit with each thrust. "Come for me. Let me feel it. Wanna feel you squeeze my fingers."
The orgasm slammed into you like a wave, your body arching completely off the bed, back bowing, as waves of pleasure rolled through you. Your thighs clamped around his wrist, your walls clenching rhythmically around his fingers, and he worked you through it, fingers gentling but not stopping, drawing it out, prolonging it until you were shaking, pushing weakly at his wrist.
When you finally opened your eyes, vision slowly clearing, he was staring at you like you had just performed a miracle. His hand was still between your thighs, fingers still inside you, and you could see them glistening when he slowly withdrew them.
"That was—" He shook his head, seemingly at a loss. "You're so fucking beautiful when you come." He brought his fingers to his mouth, maintaining eye contact as he sucked them clean, and the sight made your still-sensitive core clench. "... and you taste incredible."
You pulled him down for a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, salty and sweet and intimate, your hands already moving to his belt. The metal clinked as you worked it free.
He caught your wrists, but loosely, like he didn't really want to stop you, his thumbs rubbing circles on your pulse points. "We don't have to—"
"I want to." You held his gaze, made sure he could see how much you meant it, how badly you wanted him. "I really want to."
Something in his expression shifted, the control he had been holding onto, slipping. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You worked his belt free, popped the button of his pants, the sound loud in the quiet room. "Unless you want to keep being a gentleman?"
He laughed, breathless and a little desperate. "I think we're past that point." He helped you push his pants and boxers down his hips, lifting slightly to kick them off completely, and then he was bare above you, and fuck.
He’s so beautiful. All lean muscle and smooth golden skin, a trail leading down from his abs that you wanted to trace with your tongue. His chest rose and fell rapidly, abs clenching with each breath, and you could see the sheen of sweat on his skin. And his cock, hard and flushed, curving slightly up toward his stomach, already leaking at the tip, made your mouth water, made you clench around nothing.
"You're staring," he said, but his voice was strained, his hips shifting slightly under your gaze, his cock bobbing with the movement.
"You're worth staring at."
His hand wrapped around himself almost unconsciously, a slow stroke from base to tip, collecting the precum and spreading it, and you watched his stomach muscles clench, watched a vein in his neck stand out. "If you keep looking at me like that, this is gonna be over embarrassingly fast."
"How am I looking at you?"
"Like you want to eat me alive."
You smiled, slow and deliberate, licking your lips. "Maybe I do."
He made a choked sound, his hand tightening around himself, squeezing at the base like he was trying to hold back. "Jesus—you can't just say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because—" He cut himself off with a groan when you reached out, replacing his hand with yours. His cock was hot and heavy in your palm, silk over steel, and his hips jerked forward into your grip. "Fuck—because I'm barely holding on here."
You stroked him slowly, learning what he liked, firmer at the base, where your fingers couldn't quite touch around his girth, a twist of your wrist at the tip that made him curse and his thighs tremble. His precum made the glide easier, slicker, and you could feel every ridge, every vein under your palm. "Then don't hold on."
"You sure?" His hand covered yours, stilling your movements, and you could feel how his fingers were shaking.
You kissed him, soft and sure, feeling his lips tremble against yours. "I want you."
He reached for his pants, fumbling in the pocket for his wallet, and you watched his hands shake as he pulled out the condom. Found it, tore it open with shaking hands, nearly dropping it. You watched him roll it on, watched the way his jaw clenched when he touched himself, the way his eyes squeezed shut for a second, and then he was settling between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, hot even through the latex.
He pushed in slowly, so slowly, and you both gasped at the sensation. The stretch was perfect, that edge of too much that quickly melted into exactly right. He was thick, much thicker than his fingers, and you felt every inch as he sank into you. He buried his face in your neck, breathing hard, body trembling with the effort of holding still, and you could feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest.
"Fuck," he groaned against your skin, the word muffled and desperate. "You feel—I can't—give me a second or this is gonna be over before it starts."
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper until he was fully seated inside you, and felt him twitch, felt every pulse of his cock. "You feel so good."
"Don't—" His hips jerked forward involuntarily, grinding deeper. "Don't say things like that. I'm trying to—I'm trying to hold on."
"I don't want you to hold on." You rolled your hips experimentally, clenching around him, and he made a sound that was almost pained, almost a whimper. "I want you to move."
He lifted his head to look at you, and the expression on his face, desperate and wanting and barely hanging on, sweat beading on his forehead, lips parted around harsh breaths, made your heart race. "Oh, fuck."
"Chan. Move."
He did. Pulled out slowly, the drag of him against your walls making you both moan, and pushed back in. He set a steady rhythm, deep and thorough, his forehead pressed to yours, breath mixing.
"Is this—" His breath hitched, voice strained. "Shit, is this how you want it?"
"Faster," you managed. "Harder."
His control snapped. He grabbed your hip with one hand, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, the other braced beside your head, bicep flexing as he held himself up, and fucked into you exactly how you had asked, faster, harder, the sound of skin meeting skin obscenely loud in the quiet room, the headboard starting to hit the wall with each thrust.
"Fuck—you feel so good—" He was gone now, words tumbling out between gasps, filter completely gone. "So tight and wet and—god—perfect—didn't know it could feel this good—"
Your nails dug into his shoulders, his back, dragging down hard enough to make him hiss. The slight pain seemed to spur him on, his hips snapping faster. "Don't stop—right there—Chan—"
"I'm not—I'm not gonna last—" His rhythm was getting erratic, chasing his release, each thrust slightly off-beat, desperate. "Touch yourself. I want to feel you come again. Need to feel it."
Your hand slipped between your bodies, finding your clit, still sensitive from your first orgasm, and the added stimulation had you clenching around him hard. He groaned, deep and guttural, hips stuttering.
"That's it—fuck, that's so hot—" He buried his face in your neck, his words muffled against your skin, lips moving against your pulse. "Come with me—please—I'm so close—can't hold it—"
"I'm—oh god—"
Your second orgasm hit different, deeper, longer, starting from where you were connected and radiating outward, pulling him right over the edge with you. He came with a broken sound of your name, hips jerking erratically as he spilled into the condom, and you felt every pulse of it, felt him throbbing inside you.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just lay there breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat, heartbeats gradually slowing, still connected. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours, could feel his lips pressed against your neck, could feel the occasional aftershock flutter through both of you.
Finally, he lifted his head, brushing sweaty hair out of your face with shaking fingers, his touch so gentle compared to how he had just fucked you. "So," he said, breathless and grinning, that dimple appearing again. "Was that worth waiting for?"
You laughed, pulling him down for a kiss, soft and sweet and completely at odds with what you had just done.
"Yeah, it was."
—
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contains: +18, ex-boyfriend younger brother Jisung, Noona kink, unprotected sex(don't) Masturbation(m) desperate Jisung, soft dom Jisung, Jisung's brother's an asshole, kind of plus size reader. I don't remember what else but is it that intense I guess haha.
summary: Coming back to your hometown after a failed attempt to be a journalist was something you didn't expect. However finding your ex's little brother was something you definitely you were not expecting.
Minors please do not interact.
You had left that tiny village in Seoul behind, and you had left it behind for more than one reason. You narrowed your eyes as you searched the shelves. It shouldn't be that difficult to find an alternative to milk...
“Are you trying to find a type of milk that won't give you the trots?” You jumped when you heard that voice beside you and rolled your eyes.
“the trots” isn't even a real term. Cow's milk upsets my stomach.
"Like I said, you shit yourself alive."
"fuck off, okay?" You hit the cheerful boy who, amused by teasing you, pulled you in for a big hug.
“I'm glad to see you too. Are you staying around for a while?” You nodded, not wanting to give any more explanation than that. “Cool. Tonight we're celebrating Chan's birthday. Why don't you come?”
You thought about it for a few seconds, but it didn't take you long to choose between that plan and staying home another night, listening to your mother's hints while you ate dinner.
It might seem like bad luck to run into your ex-boyfriend at the supermarket right after having to move back in with your mother because you had run out of money and your attempt to live in the capital had ended in financial failure.
It might also seem like the last thing you needed was to see your ex-boyfriend happy and kicking as usual, but nevertheless, you were glad to recognize that familiar straight smile and that straight, dark hair.
“Sure, send me the address?”
“What address? Are you a metropolitan now?” He laughed, making it clear that he still enjoyed teasing you. "Eight o'clock, same ol' bar.”
“Done, idiot.” You laughed and shook your head, and something in your stomach churned as he walked away and you stood there in the supermarket aisle with that carton of oat milk in your hand, wondering if it was a good idea.
Your old room was like a box of memories. You fixed your dress as best you could. It wasn't that you had grown much, but washing had shrunk it.
It was a very fun dress, short with a white flared skirt and lots of sunflower prints. Sunflowers.
You looked at yourself in the mirror, remembering the scene at the supermarket that morning.
Han Hyusung had been your partner for five years. For as long as you could remember, you had been in love with him.
As a child, you hadn't had much luck. No matter how many times you tied that stupid blue bow in your ponytail or how much you stole your mother's lipstick in the mornings, Hyusung was more obsessed with his superhero stickers than anything else.
So one day, fed up with his indifference, you approached him at the playground and pushed him furiously until his face was planted in the sand.
To your surprise, that day, Hyusung thought you were trying to wrestle with him and suddenly wanted to play with you.
And before you knew it, you were in the dancing class.
You hated dancing.
But it was an opportunity to spend your afternoons with Hyusung, or so you thought, until you realized that all those fantasies of boy-accompanies-girl-home-and-gives-her-a-goodbye-kiss were shattered by that quiet little bundle named Hna Jisung who was always glued to you.
A smile spread across your face at that memory.
Jisung was completely inseparable from his brother. Wherever Hyusung went, did, or started, Jisung followed. However, Jisung was different from his older brother. He lacked that outgoing and social personality that charmed everyone around him.
So the years passed, and while Hyusung laughed as he recounted anecdotes about the past weekend, surrounded by his impressed Dancing students, Jisung was at the back of the class, training tirelessly.
The years passed, and your dream of becoming Hyusung's girlfriend came true through constant and tireless effort. You came to think that he was the man of your life and to believe in happy endings: yours was married to Hyunsuy with three children.
However, the years chipped away at that fantasy as reality seeped through the cracks in your lives.
The perfect Han family fell apart when Hyusung and Jisung's parents decided to divorce. The unexpected family crisis took a heavy toll on everyone, and while Jisung dealt with the situation as you would expect him to (quietly, just supporting his parents without expressing much of an opinion on the matter), Hyusung was a different story.
You understood his pain, but Hyusung didn't know how to deal with it. His temper tantrums and drinking problem got worse, and as a result, your relationship deteriorated.
He gave up on himself, and he gave up on you too.
It was a painful time, one you tried to forget by any means necessary.
Back in the present—and at that bar—you realized that you couldn't hold a grudge against Hyusung even if you wanted to. It was one of the best parts of reconnecting with your past. You shared a few beers with your old friends and with him, followed by various anecdotes and jokes, most of which were bad, but after several beers, they started to seem funny.
Before you knew it, it was time to go home.
You weren't surprised that Hyusung had preferred to stay for a few more beers rather than walk you home, even though you were visibly drunk.
Part of you remembered with bitterness how you used to feel every time that happened when you were dating. But you weren't anymore.
It had been over for years
You smiled like an idiot as you walked down the street, feeling the cool air clear your head and play with the strands of hair that had come loose from your ponytail.
Your steps stopped in front of a building and your smile widened. The place where you had spent years dancing. It was on the ground floor of a building and was still as you remembered it: white walls with a painting of a bad replica of Michael Jackson. It was a little tacky and over the top, but now you loved it.
You were surprised to see that one of the windows still had the light on.
You should have guessed that it was probably the cleaning staff, but a spark of hope made you imagine your old teacher was there.
Mr Hong was a warm and sincere man who used to tell you, “You won't get anywhere without passion,” and he was right.
You found yourself emboldened by alcohol, walking through the wooden door to enter the facility. The reception area was empty and dark, but as you approached the training room, you could hear the heavy, labored breathing of someone dancing.
“Mr Hong?” you asked, so as not to startle whoever it was when they turned around and saw you.
The figure in the center of the room was not Mr Hong, not by a long shot.
They wore the most common yet dangerous combination a man could wear... Grey loose sweatpants and a white t-shirt. He had his back to you, so you couldn't see anything but his hair glistening with sweat, and a little lower down, your eyes noticed the way the white fabric clung to his back. His back was broad and muscular, and as it sloped down, his waist narrowed in a rather... illegal way, you might say.
Ugh... you'd been single for quite a while, and it was taking its toll on you.
He didn't seem to hear you, he was so focused, but you apologized anyway before considering running away from that Adonis.
“Um... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you, I thought I'd find Mr Hong...”
He turned toward your babbling, revealing a handsome face, and smiled, brushing his hair back to clear his sweaty forehead.
“It's okay,” he murmured, and you had trouble hearing what he said. Then you realized he wasn't murmuring; it was just his shy tone of voice. “You're not bothering me at all.”
“Thank you, good night...”
“Wait.” You stopped short, wishing that disgustingly sexy stranger would let you go so you could avoid embarrassing yourself further. “Um... you didn't recognize me, did you?”
“Did you appear in an issue of Vogue that I missed buying?”
“Jisung?” He murmured, as if trying to refresh your memory, and suddenly looked adorably shy. “Your ex's weird brother?”
You were stunned.
“Hanie?”
“Yeah, well, I'm... 22 now and...”
"SUNGIE!?
"I'm taller than you.
"quokka-hannie!?
"I could knock you out with one punch. Theoretically.
“Oh my god!” You ran towards him without thinking twice and threw yourself into the most suffocating hug he had experienced in years. His initial reaction was one of tension, which didn't surprise you. Jisung always got nervous when shown affection, but that had never stopped you from giving him tight hugs whenever you could or messing up his hair on purpose.
Little by little, he relaxed, and by the time his arms wrapped around you, your thoughts couldn't help but turn to how firm and strong he felt around you.
How could he have changed so much? There was no trace left of that skinny little boy with glasses and a hairstyle that made his head look bigger than it was and his prominent bucktooth smile.
Now he looked like a Vogue Asia model, but even if he weren't, Seungie had always been special to you.
You closed your eyes, not caring much that the hug was lingering and the silence that came with it. You suddenly felt self conscious, you had gained some weight, you were heavier now, despite that Jisung didn't seem to mind by the way he held you.
He had always been a quiet and deeply understanding soul.
“Wow, are you kidding? Congratulations!” You slapped his arm, hurting your poor hand more than his strong, bulging biceps. “Seoul International Dance Competition?”
Jisung had just told you that he had gotten a position as a judge in the Seoul International Dance Competition, after winning numerous awards and becoming the youngest judge in several generations.
He had told you all this after you asked him what he had been doing all those years and he replied, “Not much.”
He definitely hadn't changed a bit.
You were both sitting on the floor, cross-legged as you used to do in the old days. That scene wasn't strange; Jisung always helped you with your training, sometimes staying with you for extra time, something his older brother had never intended to do.
“How did it go for you?
“Well, I got a job at an online newspaper.” They fired me after six months of low pay. Who would have thought that a degree in literature had no future?“ You laughed at your own sarcasm. ”So I'm back living with my mother. A life of success, as you can see."
“I'm glad. I mean... I'm not glad you got fired, I'm glad that...”
“I understand, Hannie.” You laughed. “Why didn't you go to the get-together this afternoon?”
“With Hyusung and the others?” You nodded and he shrugged. “I don't blame them, but I feel like they're not very interested in me and it makes me uncomfortable.”
There was a silence, which made you reflect on that sad truth.
“Do you think that about everyone, Jisung?”
“Not you.” You looked up at him, surprised at how quickly he had answered that. A wave of shyness washed over him once he realized what he had said on impulse. “I mean... you... weren't like the others. You cared.”
“You too, Jisung.” You smiled, remembering something that you no longer knew if it still made you sad. "Or do you think I never realized that it was you who reminded Hyusung of our anniversaries? That time he gave me the Taeyeon album... there was no way Hyusung could have known that I liked it. A few days later, I asked him if he knew who the queen of OST was, and he had no idea.
“Idiot,” Jisung snorted, hitting his forehead with his open palm.
"I thought he would at least bother to Google it. How useless."
“Hyusung was never an idiot, Hannie.” You murmured, looking down again. You were supposed to be over it by now. “It was just a lack of interest.”
“You used to hum ‘What do I call you’ whenever you cooked. And in the car, on the way back from practice,” he said casually. Something in your heart shrunk at the thought that he remembered that through the years, as if it were remotely important. “I can't believe he didn't notice.”
That meaningful silence floated between you again. You didn't know if it was the alcohol that was making you see (and feel) fictional things.
You came to a comfortable silence, then talking again about the things he'd done, he had been training to be an idol, apparently Chan had the magnificent idea, saying that Jisung was and quote "an all rounder, way too good to not be appreciated by people"
“Well, what about you?” Being so observant, I'm sure you do much better with girls than your brother does." You joked, but something inside you didn't want to know the answer to that question.
It would be ridiculous to deny that Jisung and you didn't have a special connection. Although you would never have dared to fantasize about crossing that line, your ability to read him was undeniable. Knowing when he felt uncomfortable and when he wanted to go home but didn't have the courage to say so. When he needed to be told he was good enough and picked up from the gym so he wouldn't end up hurting himself by training so hard. You used to be the one who did those things.
You used to be the one who pretended to be too drunk at parties to go home alone so that Jisung would walk you home and be spared that torture.
The one who took him—angrily—to the doctor when he got injured during practice but didn't tell anyone so he wouldn't be disqualified from the championship.
The one who congratulated him on every achievement when everyone else just shrugged, taking his successes for granted and undermining his accomplishments.
The one who encouraged him to talk to his classmates instead of sitting in the back and pretending he wasn't there.
The one who accompanied him to those same classmates' birthday parties so that his anxiety wouldn't get the better of him and he wouldn't end up staying home.
It wasn't strange that Jisung remembered your little things; after all, you remembered his.
“I'm not really good with girls, noona.”
There it was... It was common in the culture for man to call an older woman "Noona" but the way he'd said it would always make something in my stomach churn, I sighed and tilted my head to took at him.
"Well, don't beat yourself up. If you ever feel pathetic, remember that I signed up for Dancing classes to impress someone.
Jisung smiled, looking at the floor, but his voice was determined.
"Me too."
You raised both eyebrows, trying to remember the names and faces of the girls in your class.
“Oh... Really? You never told me that.” You laughed, but a drop of bitterness sank into your stomach.
“Did you feel anything when you saw him again?” she said, changing the subject drastically. His gaze suddenly fixed on you, cutting you like a knife. “Do you still love my brother?”
“Uhm... I...” You felt the words stuck in your throat and your brain struggled to understand the situation. “It... it's been years since then and...”
“I know,” he said. “I've missed you so much.”
Your heart skipped a beat. And automatically, your reason punished it.
“Jisung, we're... we can't... your brother and I...” You gave up trying to form a long sentence. “It wouldn't be appropriate.”
“Just a kiss, Noona" he replied. How fucking unfair it was...He yearned and it made tour knees weak. The the way he licked his lips made you want to do one of two things: throw yourself on top of him or throw yourself off a bridge. You hadn't decided yet. “For Taeyeon's album.”
“That's not...”
“Let's dance then.” He smiled suddenly, showing you his buck teeth, and stood up. “If I win, you kiss me. If I don't... I'll still be ‘jisungie’ and we'll forget about this forever.”
“I'm not going to win, not even as a joke. Let's use a fair system: rock, paper, scissors...”
And he won before you could even finish that sentence.
His laughter lifted you up when he sat back down next to you.
“Well, noona, look on the bright side: I'm legal now, so... you're not going to jail.” he said but his voice was quivering even though his confident image
“No, but I'm going to hell.”
“Well... if it's true that people wear leather there, I'll do whatever it takes not to miss the sight.”
You found it hard to breathe.
You had always known Jisung's shy and compassionate side, but never this one. You were completely stunned by this new facet of him, in which there was no hesitation or insecurity.
Your eyes drifted down to where his shirt had loosened slightly across his chest, and now you could see Jisung's well-formed pectorals peeking through the opening of his shirt at the intersection of his chest.
Holy Virgin of Forgiveness.
“just a kiss Noona, please" he said straight to your ear, you don't know when he'd gottent hat close but he was almost shaking it was endearing.
"only one..." you murmured, pressing your lips against his, and the little moan he stifled between them gave you life. Your hand inevitably slid down between his pectorals, touching that firm, masculine chest, while his went straight to your hips, he was desperate, messy, like he'd been waiting for this moment for years (and maybe he had) Your mouth, which had started out somewhat shy, had given in to Jisung's insistent tongue, which kept pressing and pushing its way in little by little until it had the full access it wanted. Me whined, brows furrowed as his fingers press into your flesh, squeezing what now belonged more to your butt than your hips, but you didn't complain. He was whimpering again, his hands were restless and you were growing impatient.
You wanted more.
However, Jisung pulled away suddenly, almost pushing you, leaving you confused and breathless, like the rest of you.
“Shit...” he whispered, looking at you as if he were seeing you for the first time or had just realized that it was you he was kissing.
His eyes widened in surprise and his lips parted to say something that never came out.
It hit you like a bucket of cold water.
“He's changed his mind,” you thought.
A twinge in your chest made you jump to your feet, determined to run away and never look back.
“I'm sorry.” You didn't know why you were apologizing, but you had time to think about it while you finished getting to your feet. “I should go.”
You heard “Noona...” behind you, but you ignored it.
He probably felt guilty. How ridiculous, you thought as you considered calling a taxi, since it was getting very late.
At that moment, a message from Jisung lit up your phone screen.
Hanji
-hey-noona can we talk?
-please
-I'm an idiot
-let me explain
-😭😭😭
You didn't want to talk to him. You felt embarrassed and ridiculous, getting your hopes up about him.
For God's sake, you were the older one, your head should have worked better than that.
You were just one of those early teenage crushes that when you grew up you thought, “Ugh, did I like that?
”Another message snapped you out of your reverie.
-“Please... I don't want you to be mad at me, noona.”
Something inside you softened, recognizing little Seungie again in those words. You didn't want to go back, but you could easily imagine Jisung not sleeping a wink that night, agonizing over that mistake.
You didn't want that for him...
You sighed.
It took you more than twenty minutes to think it over at the door, but finally, you went back into the gym, looking for Jisung. There was no sign of him in the dance room, so you went into the locker room and showers.
You could hear the sound of water, and that caused your imagination to run wild in a very inappropriate way.
Okay, you knew the showers in that place. Once you entered the bathrooms, each shower had its own separate door, and if it was closed, there would be no problem because you couldn't see anything at all.
Your plan was to go in, yell at Jisung that everything was fine, and leave.
You turned the doorknob.
It was just one detail, a tiny detail that changed everything.
Jisung hadn't closed the door to his shower.
You stood there, stunned by the image.
The water fell from the shower onto Jisung's naked body, which was in a slightly different position, with his back against the wall and his eyes closed. His muscles were tense and his face contorted into small grimaces. You realized that the sound of the water coming out of the shower camouflaged the sounds coming from Jisung's mouth every time he made one of those grimaces.
Moans.
His right hand held the erection between his legs firmly but gently, caressing it with a continuous back and forth motion.
Your fingers let go of the doorknob in shock and the door swung open, hitting you squarely in the face.
“Ouch...” you complained, and that's when Jisung noticed you, looking more stunned and embarrassed than you were. His face was flushed, his lips were swollen as if he had been biting them.
“N...noona!?” He covered himself as best he could, making you feel even more perverted than you already did. “I'm sorry, no...please don't think I've been disrespectful, it's just that...shit.”
“Shit...” You remembered how he had said it in the same tone when you kissed, and suddenly, something clicked in your head.
Was that why Jisung had pulled away from you so abruptly?
“Is this... is this because of the kiss?”
Jisung looked at you, stunned by your lack of reaction, and nodded slowly, like a child caught stealing from the cookie jar ten minutes before dinner.
However, you were somewhere else.
No one had ever desired you like that before.
Even though Hyusung liked having sex with you, it wasn't the same. You had never seen him get hard before you actively provoked him and set out to “prepare” him for action.
With Jisung , it seemed like that button popped at the slightest touch.
You weren't listening to him, but you were aware that Jisung was still talking.
“...the door, I'm so sorry, noona, I thought you weren't coming anymore. I was waiting after the message, but you didn't reply and... damn, I'm so sorry...” he was shaking, maybe from embarrassment, maybe since you were staring right at his hard length
“Jsung, can I join you?” you asked bluntly. And you enjoyed the look on his face when he nodded slowly.
Your clothes eventually fell to the floor. It was funny, because even though Jisung was the one with the perfect body, he looked at you in awe as you undressed, as if he were looking at some marvel. Despite, you were conscious, how your belly hung just a bit low, the way your stomach had some rolls.
Your cheeks were red and he kind of noticed your hesitation. He moved towards you, shy almost, his hand found your forearm and pulled you closer to him.
The hot water caressed your skin almost as sweetly as Jisung did later.
"you're beautiful, Noona" he said staring down at you, he wasn't the talked, but he was definitely taller than you
"please I need to touch you, I've dreamt about this moment, please Noona" he sounded desperate, his voice shaky and he seemed like he was about to plop on his knees if you asked.
You were stopped by Jisung's lips, hungry, desperate, you whined as you're hands found his shoulders, seeking support..
"you have no idea Noona, how fucking gorgeous you are, I need you so bad, it hurts, just your face alone can make me feel so desperate..." He gritted through his teeth, he seemed pained by the things you were trying to imply about your body.
The way he called you Noona it made tour knees weak, but he didn't know that.
Your lips and his met again in a slow, deliberate kiss. Jisung's body was glorious. Your fingers caressed, touched, and explored every part they could, while his did the same, although it was more difficult for him given his fixation on your butt.
Your soft breasts felt incredibly good against his firm pecs.
You took your time to play
You masturbated each other in turns. First you did him, then he did you.
You were moaning, your back against the cold wall, while his fingers caressed around your clit and along your lips, alternating the areas he paid attention to.
"J-jisung..." You moaned as he pressed his fingers into you, he hissed and hid his face in the crook of your neck whining.
"s'so tight... Noona"
You whimpered at the sound of his voice, he seemed to catch on and murmured in your ear..
"like that? Huh? Like when I call you noona" you moaned louder,.your cheeks burning and him pushing his fingers faster inside you, the sound of his voice making you clench around his fingers.
"you're clenching so hard everytime I call you Noona.." he kissed you neck, slow, his tongue dragging across the skin and then biting your shoulder softly
Your walls contracted in a clear sign that you were more than ready, and that's when Jisung pulled his fingers away, pulling you toward him to kiss you again.
“Hold on to my shoulders.”
“Wh...?”
You didn't have time to process it. His hands gripped the outside of your thighs and with a strong thrust, he lifted your legs up to his hips. You gasped, wrapping your arms around his neck as your legs instinctively did the same around his hips.
Jisung smiled at how well you adapted to the maneuver and kissed you again. You could feel his erection against your lower belly.
“Han...” you murmured. “This is dangerous... oh fuck.” His hands had lifted your butt a little higher until his tip was perfectly aligned with your entrance, and he penetrated you, pulling your butt back down until he was fully inside you.
"Fuck... Fuck you're so tight, please let me...please Noona, I need to move"
You were gone, he was so deep inside you and you couldn't form the words so he grabbed you by the neck and made you look at him.
"Noona... Please tell me I can move...shut not gonna last please please noona" he was shaking, his eyes were teary and you could feel him pulsating inside you, you whined and clenched around him, making his hand tighten on your neck.
"Ji... Please just fuck me" it was all he needed, his hands gripped your thighs again to help stabilize you, and his hips began to rock back and forth in a desperate way.
The danger that it could go wrong added a delicious tension that only made it better as Jisung fucked you again and again, without letting go. You felt every one of his firm muscles as they supported your weight, and something about him holding you while he fucked you felt so masculine and exciting that, without meaning to, your nails began to dig into his shoulders and your voice began to turn into high-pitched screams.
He picked up the pace, his hands now grabbing your butt to press it closer and closer against his erection with every thrust. Your legs slipped down a little, but you tried to push hard to keep them locked around his hips.
You were close, so damn close to having the best orgasm of your life. Jisung was moaning as if his life depended on each thrust.
Just one more thing and you'd be ready.
You lowered one of your hands between your bodies to stimulate your clitoris, knowing it would be the final push to send you over the edge, but that movement destabilized you and you almost fell. Jisung quickly caught you, pulling out of you.
“Damn, I'm sorry, it's...” You apologized, unable to finish because of the kiss he gave you.
“It's okay, come here.” You thought Jisung wanted to resume the position he seemed to like so much, but instead his hands took your arms and led you out of the shower. “Lean there,” he ordered, referring to the sink. You placed your hands on the cold marble countertop and realized with panic that you were staring at your reflection in front of the sink.
You had never “seen” yourself that way during sex before. Your eyes began to notice details about your nakedness that you didn't want to notice: the inelegant way your breasts fell at that angle. The curve of your belly...
Jisung pushed your wet hair to one side and kissed your neck, making you forget.
“You're beautiful, Noona, you have no idea how horny you make me.”
You wondered why he had changed position until...
“Ufff...” You gasped when his fingers began to trace circles around your clitoris.
His smile through the mirror was, to say the least, a blessing.
“Better now?” he murmured with satisfaction, and you moaned in response.
Had he noticed? Of course he had noticed.
If Han Jisung had noticed the lyrics of the songs you hummed while making tea when he was little and had Googled them to find Taeyeon, of course he was going to notice when you needed your clitoris stimulated to come.
You moaned his name when he pushed into you again and, with his free hand on your waist, he began to relentlessly fuck into you
Your orgasm didn't take long to arrive, and when it did, you were grateful for Jisung's grip because your legs felt like butter.
Jisung held your hips with both hands and continued to thrust in and out mercilessly, his gasps and whimpers increasing your body's sensitivity, causing you delicious pain from hypersensitivity.
Finally, he pulled away, and your eyes caught sight of his hand masturbating his erection in the mirror as you felt something warm spill down your back.
“Did you order coffee with plant-based milk? Otherwise, you'll get the trots .”
You rolled your eyes.
“Stop with that joke, Hyusung. It's old.”
“Like you? Ohhhh daaaaaamn.”
“Shut up, Jisung.”
You laughed as the waitress brought your breakfast on a tray, which probably included more pancakes than you needed.
“Enjoy your meal!”
“Hey, do you guys want to go to the movies later? But no romantic movies, or you'll end up falling in love with me again, and that's not the plan.”
“Seriously, Jisung, kill him. I would, but I'm busy eating.”
Both brothers laughed. They were sitting across from you, side by side. Shining in such a unique and different way between them.
Jisung and you had decided not to tell Hyusung anything, for now.
And although there was a fun side to it, like when Jisung would sneak into your room at night to sleep with you and kiss you for hours on end. Or when you would pick him up from dance class and stop at the old vacant lot to have sex in the back of your car for lack of a “safe” place.
Beyond all the excitement, you knew that the beautiful friendship between the three of you was at risk, and that broke your hearts.
Maybe Jisung's a little more than yours, you thought.
Your eyes focused on your plate, staring at that half-eaten muffin.
Why would Jisung sacrifice his relationship with his brother for something like that? It wasn't like...
You hated those damn insecurities, but you couldn't silence them from time to time.
Familiar notes began to fill the café and pulled you out of your thoughts. They clashed with the generic pop music that had been playing until a few seconds ago.
Your eyes rose to Jisung when you recognized the melody of “What do I call you” and you bit your lower lip to hide your smile.
⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content · graphic sex · rough sex · orgasm denial · dom/sub dynamics · dirty talk · aftercare · possessiveness · emotional vulnerability · toxic ex / abusive relationship (past) · physical assault · violence · blood · protective behavior · minor alcohol mention · language
notes: in which your regular bartender minho lets you stay at his apartment when your toxic ex-situationship gets physical — and things spiral from there.
The bar doesn’t have a sign. Just a brass door with no handle and a button that glows red when you press it. Inside, it’s all velvet and shadows—low jazz crooning from invisible speakers, smoke curling from too-expensive cigars. The kind of place that smells like secrets and old money.
You don’t belong here. But you come anyway.
Mostly for him.
Minho’s behind the bar like always. Shirt black, sleeves rolled just once, collar stiff against the sharp line of his neck. He doesn’t look up when you walk in, doesn’t smile. He never does.
You don’t need him to.
It starts like most nights do—low lighting, soft jazz, the smell of expensive bourbon and even more expensive cologne drifting through the speakeasy’s velvet-lined walls. The kind of place that pretends not to notice you unless it wants to.
He always notices you.
Minho’s already at the bar, polishing glassware with deliberate, almost surgical focus. No smile. No greeting. He doesn’t do small talk—just glances at you when you slip onto the stool you always take, his gaze lingering for a moment too long on the bare skin above your knee before it flicks away like you imagined it.
He slides a drink toward you without asking.
Tonight it’s something amber and sharp—neat, no garnish. Not the floral bullshit you usually order to irritate him but don't actually enjoy.
“You’re learning,” you murmur, fingers curling around the glass.
“You’re predictable,” he says, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement. Approval, maybe. It’s hard to tell with him.
You take a slow sip, letting the burn settle in your chest before you speak again.
“Gonna make fun of me tonight, or just stare at my legs?”
He doesn’t miss a beat.
“Why can’t I do both?”
You raise an eyebrow. He’s in a mood.
Good.
You lean in a little, voice dipping low. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you liked me.”
Minho finally looks at you head-on, the edge of a smile ghosting across his mouth.
“If I liked you,” he says, smooth as glass, “you’d know.”
The heat that curls low in your stomach has nothing to do with the liquor.
You shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve been playing this game for weeks—weeks of drawn-out glances and sharp tongues, of letting your knee graze his thigh beneath the bar, of asking him questions you already know he won’t answer just to hear the dry curl of his voice when he tells you no.
But tonight, the rules feel different. The air feels heavier. Charged.
You blame it on the day you had. On the message you didn’t answer. On the fact that your body still remembers the way your so-called lover grabbed your wrist last night when you dared to pull away first. The apology this morning was short. Cold. Like a favor he did you.
You’re tired of favors. Of men who act like your body is borrowed space.
So maybe that’s why you’re here again. Why your dress is a little shorter than usual. Why your smile is a little sharper. Why you stare at Minho like you want him to cut you open and see what’s underneath.
“I think you like me,” you say, swirling the amber in your glass, eyes fixed on his fingers as he reaches for a bottle behind him.
He uncaps it without a word. Pours slow—like he’s buying time or maybe making you wait on purpose. The line of his jaw is clean and sharp in the bar’s dim light, a profile carved in something colder than marble.
You’ve never seen him fluster. Not once. That’s part of why you keep coming back. That composure, that razor-thin control—you want to see it slip. Just once. Just enough to know what he looks like when something matters.
But Minho doesn’t rattle. Doesn’t rise to the bait. He sets the bottle down, replaces the cap with the same care you imagine he uses with everything else—his knives, his words, his hands.
“I think you like being watched,” he says finally, without looking at you. “That’s not the same thing.”
Your lips curl. “Is that what you do? Watch me?”
He glances up, and the full weight of his gaze hits you square in the chest—dark, steady, measuring.
“Only when you want me to.”
You swallow. Hard.
There’s nothing coy about it now. No masks, no playful deflection. Just static in the air and the slow realization that this isn’t banter anymore.
It’s foreplay.
Your thighs press together instinctively beneath the bar. The liquor burns differently now—hotter, deeper.
Minho sees it—how your legs shift, how your breath stutters—but he doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t need to. The power slips over him like a second skin, smooth and effortless, like he was born to unravel people slowly and never touch them at all.
You try to hold your ground, try to find something clever to say, but the words stick to your tongue. They don’t come.
He leans forward—just slightly, just enough that you catch a whisper of his cologne, clean and sharp like crushed pepper and steel. The kind of scent that makes you ache without knowing why.
“You always drink faster when you’re upset,” he murmurs. “Didn’t think he’d blow you off again.”
Your stomach flips.
You didn’t tell him that.
Not out loud.
But you’ve mentioned him in passing before—your almost-boyfriend, your never-quite-yours. The man who texts when he’s bored and shows up when he’s drunk, who fucks you like a secret and then disappears for days. You’ve never named him. You never had to.
Minho’s too observant for that.
You look away, embarrassed, a little raw.
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
Minho hums like he understands. Not kindly—accurately. Like a blade understanding the softest part of skin.
“Didn’t think you would.”
His voice is soft. Low enough that it doesn’t carry over the jazz humming through the room, but not so low that it misses the mark. It slides under your skin, settles there. Warm. Heavy.
You press the rim of your glass to your lips, but don’t drink. You’re stalling. He knows it.
“Is this where you offer comfort?” you ask, tilting your head toward him, trying to claw some of the power back with your voice. “Tell me I deserve better?”
Minho chuckles—quiet, sharp-edged. “You know you deserve better.”
He lets it hang there for a beat too long, until you can feel the unspoken part of it clawing up your spine.
You deserve better, and I could give it to you. But I won’t.
Not yet.
His fingers flex against the bar’s edge. It’s the first crack in his control tonight, the only betrayal of the restraint wound tight through every part of him. You don’t think he even notices it—but you do.
Because that’s what this has always been, hasn’t it? A standoff. A war of glances and gestures. Who can make the other want without asking.
You swirl the last inch of liquor in your glass, watching the amber catch the low light, pretending like you’re not memorizing the shape of his hand against the bar.
Minho isn’t looking at you anymore. Not directly. His eyes are focused somewhere beyond you—on a bottle that doesn’t need touching, a thought that doesn’t need voicing. But his body betrays him in small, precise ways. That flex of his hand. The stillness of his shoulders. The slow, measured breaths like he’s giving himself rules to follow.
Don’t reach for her.
Don’t say her name.
Don’t touch unless she begs.
You can feel it—how close he is to undoing himself. How he’s fighting it like it would cost him something if he gave in.
And that makes you reckless.
“Why haven’t you?” you murmur, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “If you’ve thought about it—which you have. Why haven’t you done anything?”
You lick your lips—subtle, involuntary—and his eyes drop to your mouth like it was the only thing in the room worth watching. Just for a second. Just long enough to make your pulse thrum in your throat.
“You’re not going to offer comfort,” you say, quieter now, more to yourself than him. “That’s not your game.”
Minho doesn’t deny it.
“I don’t comfort girls who let men treat them like that,” he murmurs, voice like slow smoke. “I fuck it out of them.”
Your breath catches.
You can’t help it.
It punches the air straight from your lungs—just for a second. Just long enough for your lashes to flutter and your grip on the glass to falter and your entire body to go still.
You should’ve known that’s where he’d take it. You should’ve seen it coming. But hearing it—feeling it—low and steady like that, like an invocation and not a threat?
It’s something else entirely.
Your thighs clench beneath the bar. Instinctive. Useless. You feel suddenly too warm in your skin, in your dress, in this damn chair. Like the room’s shrunk down to just the two of you and the weight of those words lingering in the air between them.
He said it like a fact. Like a promise. No smirk. No tilt of his head. No performance.
Just Minho—staring at you with that terrifying, surgical precision that’s never been louder than it is now.
He knows what he just did.
Knows you’re squirming. Knows you’re soaking. Knows exactly where your mind’s gone—and he hasn’t even touched you.
Your tongue darts out again, a nervous reflex.
And that’s when he leans in.
Not by much—just enough that his mouth is close enough to graze the rim of your glass if you tilted it.
“I’d start with your mouth,” he says, barely louder than the jazz, like he’s confessing something obscene to a priest. “Because I know you’d still try to be smart with it. Even while you’re choking.”
Your stomach drops.
Your fingers curl tight around the edge of the counter to ground yourself, but it’s no use. His voice is a velvet hand at your throat, gentle enough to tease, firm enough to hold
Minho doesn’t linger.
He doesn’t let the silence stretch into tension, doesn’t wait for your reply, doesn’t press a single inch further into the ache he’s just created.
He simply pulls away.
Smooth, unbothered, like he didn’t just fillet you open with nothing but words. Like your insides aren’t still ringing with the ghost of him. He reaches for a towel, wipes a nonexistent smudge from the rim of a coupe glass, and then—casually, almost bored—slides the folded slip of paper toward you across the polished marble.
Your bill.
Back to business.
It’s maddening. Unbearably normal. Like he didn’t just spit filth into your ear that made your spine arch in the seat. Like he didn’t just speak to you like he already owned your body and was only waiting for the right time to claim it.
Your hand moves on autopilot.
Fingers dip into your purse, fishing out your card, swiping it through the reader like this is any other night, like you’re not unraveling at the seams. Like you’re not trembling just slightly beneath the surface of your skin, still burning with every word he spoke to you moments ago.
The reader beeps.
Declined.
You blink.
Try again. Slower this time. Like it might make a difference.
Declined.
The air shifts.
You don’t look up. Can’t. You stare at the reader, thumb hovering over the chipped edge of your card like pressing harder might fix it. Like it wasn’t inevitable. Like you haven’t been running on fumes and stubbornness and overdraft protection for longer than you want to admit.
You exhale through your nose. Force a quiet laugh. “Sorry,” you mutter, trying for nonchalant. “Guess it’s been a week.”
Minho doesn’t move.
You finally glance up—and he’s already looking at you.
Not annoyed. Not smug. Just still. Measured.
Then he takes the bill back without a word.
Folds it in half.
Tucks it beneath the register.
“It’s okay,” he says, and his voice is different now—softer, low and careful like a hand on the back of your neck. “I’ve got it.”
You hesitate. “No, really. I can come back tomorrow—”
“I said it’s okay.”
The quiet in his tone settles over you like a coat. Warm, heavy. Weighted with something you don’t quite recognize yet.
You search his face for a catch. A smirk. A condition.
But there isn’t one.
And that—that’s what undoes you more than anything else.
Because it’s not a trade. Not a tease. Not a power play.
It’s just kindness.
Uncomplicated. Unexpected.
From him of all people.
You swallow hard. Nodding feels dangerous, so you don’t.
You just sit there, small and grateful and aching in a way you didn’t expect.
“I’ll pay you back,” you say quietly. “Next time.”
Minho doesn’t respond right away. Just tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours.
“You’re not a charity case,” he says finally. “I know you’ll settle.”
You nod again. This time it lands.
He straightens. Pulls your empty glass away, sets it behind him.
“You staying a while?” he asks. Not teasing. Not performative. Just… offering.
And you want to say yes.
But your throat is tight and your wrist still hurts beneath your sleeve and your body feels like too much tonight—too raw, too full, too loud.
So you say, “Think I’ll head out,” and your voice sounds gentler than it should. Like you’re asking permission.
Minho nods. Doesn’t question it. Doesn’t try to stop you. Just wipes the bar in front of your empty seat like he’s already preparing for the next ghost to sit down.
You stand slowly. Adjust your bag over your shoulder, glance toward the hallway that leads to the exit.
He doesn’t say anything at first. But you feel him watching you—not your ass, not your dress, but the way you cradle your arm. The way your hand hovers over your wrist like you’re guarding something.
And then—
“Did he grab you?”
Your spine stiffens.
Like someone cracked ice down your back.
You don’t turn around right away. You just stand there, shoulders drawn tight, fingers white-knuckled around the strap of your bag.
“Excuse me?” you ask, voice sharper than you mean it to be.
Minho doesn’t flinch.
He doesn’t repeat himself, either. Just waits.
You finally turn, chin lifted in that familiar tilt—the one you wear like armor, the one you’ve perfected for moments like this. When someone sees too much. When someone dares to ask.
“I don’t need you psychoanalyzing my love life,” you say flatly. “It’s none of your business.”
Minho says nothing.
Which somehow makes it worse. And for some reason, you can’t stop talking.
You huff a laugh, bitter and breathless. “Jesus. You let one card decline and suddenly you think you’re my therapist?”
Still nothing.
Just that same steady gaze. Not pitying. Not cold. Just... seeing.
And maybe that’s why it stings. Because he’s not wrong.
You fold your arms, fingers pressing hard over the bruise like you can erase it by force. “He didn’t mean to,” you finally mutter.
Minho’s voice is quiet. Even.
“But he did.”
You look away.
It’s not a fight. He’s not raising his voice. He’s not accusing you of anything. But something about the way he says it—flat, factual, calm—makes you feel like you’ve been caught doing something shameful.
You shake your head. “It’s not that simple.”
His expression doesn’t change. “It never is.”
You exhale hard through your nose. Every part of you wants to run. You don’t like feeling cornered like this—especially not by someone like him. Someone who doesn’t play pretend
Someone who sees everything and speaks only when it counts.
“I’m not some broken girl who needs saving,” you snap.
“I know.”
And again—it’s not cruel. Not dismissive. Just a truth, spoken plainly.
That disarms you more than anything else.
He knows.
He knows you’re angry and proud and stubborn. He knows you want control, even when it costs you peace. He knows you’re clawing your way through something you don’t want to name yet. He knows—and still, he said nothing until you were already walking away.
You sigh. The kind of sigh that tastes like surrender.
“I’m fine,” you say. Softer now. “Okay? I’m fine.”
Minho doesn’t agree. Doesn’t argue. Just nods like he’s filing it away for later.
And then, gently:
“Text me when you’re home.”
You look at him.
Really look at him.
The dark sweep of his lashes. The slow tension in his jaw. The barest flex of his fingers against the rag he’s holding—like he’s grounding himself on the bar instead of reaching for you.
“I don’t have your number,” you say, quiet again.
He doesn’t even blink.
Just reaches for a napkin. Writes it down in clean, deliberate strokes. Slides it to you without flourish, like it’s nothing.
You take it with fingers that don’t feel like yours.
The napkin is soft, a little damp in one corner, the ink bleeding just slightly where his pen dragged too slow over cheap paper. His handwriting is neat. Precise. The kind you’d expect from him. Not a flourish in sight.
You stare at the numbers for a beat too long.
Like if you memorize them now, maybe you won’t have to admit how much you care that he gave them to you.
“I’m not going to cry in the cab,” you mutter. Not to him. Just to yourself. A warning. A promise. A lie.
Minho’s mouth twitches—too fast to call it a smile. “Good. They charge extra for that.”
You roll your eyes, but the sound that escapes you is almost a laugh.
Almost.
You fold the napkin once. Then again. Tuck it into your purse like it’s fragile, like it’s worth something, like it matters. You don’t say thank you. Can’t. The words would taste too much like gratitude and not enough like the armor you’re trying to put back on.
He doesn’t press. Just nods once—final, quiet—and goes back to polishing the same glass he’s been holding all night. Like none of this ever happened.
You walk away before you can change your mind.
Before you do something stupid, like apologize for flinching. Like ask him to say it again, that he knows you’re not broken. Like ask if he’s ever been hurt in a way that still echoes years later.
The hallway is dim. The velvet curtains at the door part with a whisper. The street outside is colder than you remembered.
You step into it anyway.
That night, lying on your side with the city leaking through the blinds in long gray stripes, you stare at your phone screen for too long.
You’ve opened a new message three times. Deleted it each time.
Minho’s number sits untouched in your contacts now. Just a string of digits and a name that feels like something you shouldn’t be allowed to keep.
Eventually, you type:
[you]: home.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Then nothing.
Then:
[bartender]: good. sleep.
You stare at it for longer than you should.
Just those two words. No punctuation. No fluff. Just simple, clean concern dressed up like a command.
You can almost hear his voice in it—low, even, with that deliberate edge that makes everything sound like a dare.
You think about typing something back. A joke. A thank you. Something to make it lighter.
But it’s too late for pretending now. And maybe—just maybe—you like that he didn’t say take care or sweet dreams or anything that would let you brush this off as ordinary.
Because it’s not.
You set the phone on your nightstand.
And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep before the sun rises.
The bass is too loud.
It rattles your ribs, crawls down your spine, settles behind your eyes like a headache waiting to happen. Bodies press in on all sides—sweaty, glittered, half-drunk strangers shouting lyrics they only know the chorus to. The lights strobe fast enough to make you nauseous.
You wish you were having fun.
You should be having fun. It’s Maya’s birthday. Everyone showed up. Friends, coworkers, mutuals you forgot you still followed. You wore the good dress, the one that makes you feel like the sexiest version of yourself. You downed two shots at the bar and danced until your skin burned.
And for a while—it worked.
Until he showed up.
You feel him before you see him. Isn’t that always the way?
That weight in the room. The static against your skin. The sharp twist in your stomach that feels too close to guilt to be anything else.
You turn. And there he is.
Leaning against the bar like he owns it, drink in hand, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make a show of it. He doesn’t look at you at first. He never does. Always lets you spot him first. Lets you feel him before he lets you see him.
Your heart drops anyway.
It’s been three weeks since you told him not to text you again.
Not after the last time—not after his fingers curled too tight around your wrist and left a bloom of purple that took a week to fade. Not after he said your name like a curse when you tried to walk away. You were never his. That was the whole point. And yet… it never seemed to matter.
You turn back toward your friends. Pretend you don’t see him.
It works for ten minutes.
Then a hand slides around your waist.
“You look good tonight.”
You freeze.
His breath is warm against your ear. Familiar. Suffocating.
You force a smile, even as your whole body goes still. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he murmurs, voice syrup-smooth. “Say hi to my favorite girl?”
Your throat tightens. “I’m not your anything.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” His fingers flex at your waist. Not hard. Not yet. Just enough to make you feel like you’ve already lost something.
You shove his hand off. Step back.
“I said don’t.”
He laughs—soft and cruel. “You’ve got some nerve, walking around like that. That dress. That mouth.”
You’re not sure what breaks first—the fear or the fury.
But your hand moves before your mind can catch up, pushing at his chest, not hard enough to knock him back but enough—enough to draw a line, enough to say stop, stop, STOP.
He stumbles back half a step, but the grin doesn’t falter. If anything, it widens.
“Oh, she’s got teeth tonight.”
You hate that he says it like he’s proud. Like he likes it when you push back—because it means he gets to push harder.
“Don’t touch me,” you spit, louder this time. Louder than you meant it to be. Louder than the beat crashing around you.
A few heads turn. Not many. Not enough.
He laughs, cruel and close and reeking of entitlement. “Calm down, drama queen. We used to have fun, remember?”
You take a step back.
He follows.
His hand shoots out again, this time not for your waist—but for your face. Fingers clamp around your jaw, sudden and firm, yanking you forward so fast your breath lodges in your throat.
You gasp.
Pain sparks where his thumb digs in. Your hands shoot up instinctively, trying to pry him off, nails raking across his skin in desperation.
“I said don’t fucking touch me!” Your voice breaks—sharp, raw, real—and for a second, just one, the crowd parts around the two of you like the air shifted.
He leans in closer. His mouth is at your ear. “You think you’re better than me now?” he snarls, voice low and mean. “Is that it? That little bartender got you feeling brave?”
The blood drains from your face.
Because you never mentioned Minho. Not to him. Not to anyone who would repeat it.
It hits you like a punch to the chest. Not just the shock of his voice, low and poisonous in your ear—but what he said.
That little bartender.
Minho.
He knows.
You don’t know how. Don’t know who told him or what he heard or why it matters to him at all—but the fact that he said it means he’s been watching. Listening. Picking up pieces you didn’t even know you were leaving behind.
Your stomach lurches.
“I said—” you shove him with everything you have, panic fusing with rage “—get off me!”
This time, he stumbles. Actually stumbles.
His grip slips from your jaw, and you recoil like you’ve been burned, taking three steps back so fast you nearly trip. Your chest is heaving. Your eyes sting. The club feels too loud, too tight, the lights flashing like warning signs behind your eyelids.
But he recovers fast.
Too fast.
And now he’s pissed.
“You fucking slut,” he spits, voice ugly and thick with venom. “You think someone like him is gonna want you for anything more than your mouth? You think he’s any different?”
You don’t stay to hear the rest.
You turn.
You run.
You don’t care that your friends will wonder where you went, that your drink is still half-full on the table, that your heels weren’t meant for this kind of escape.
You just run.
Out through the club doors, down the street, across the crosswalk without waiting for the signal. You walk like if you stop, he’ll catch up. Like the weight of his voice will sink into your skin and stay there. Like you’ll never feel clean again if you don’t keep moving.
You’re breathing too fast. Hands shaking. Vision blurry. Heart thudding like it’s trying to break out of your chest.
You swallow around the knot rising in your throat, the panic curling its claws up your spine, pressing down hard on your ribs like punishment.
And before you even know where you’re going, your feet are taking you there.
You don’t remember making the turn. Don’t remember crossing the street. You just blink—and suddenly the neon glow of the bar bleeds into your vision, cool and low and familiar in the haze of your panic. The bar. His bar.
And he’s there.
Outside, leaning against the brick wall near the back entrance, one arm crossed over his chest, the other holding a lit cigarette between two fingers. The glow of the cherry lights his face in pulses—his cheekbone, his mouth, the sharp line of his jaw. His sleeves are rolled up, and there’s a smear of something on his forearm.
He hasn’t seen you yet.
Not until your steps falter and the click of your heels dies out beneath the sound of his exhale.
Then—he lifts his head.
And his whole body goes still.
You must look like a disaster. Eyes wide. Breath shallow. Shoulders drawn up like a cornered animal. Your lipstick smeared, hair falling out of place, the strap of your dress slipping.
But he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t move.
Just watches you.
The silence stretches for a moment too long. Then, quietly—
“Did something happen?”
Your throat tightens at the sound of his voice.
Low. Measured. But not indifferent.
There’s something else beneath it. A thread of tension wound so tight it barely makes it to the surface. The kind of control that only comes from practice. From restraint.
He doesn’t take a step toward you.
Doesn’t reach out.
Minho can read a room better than anyone you’ve ever met, and right now, you’re a room filled with alarms—flashing, screaming, crumbling.
He sees it.
“I…” Your voice falters. “No.”
You mean yes. You mean everything.
But the syllables won’t fit in your mouth.
He nods once. Slow. Like he hears what you didn’t say.
The cigarette between his fingers burns to the filter before he drops it to the pavement and crushes it beneath the heel of his boot.
You don’t realize you’ve been swaying on your feet until your hand shoots out to brace against the wall.
Minho’s eyes flick to the motion, then back to your face. He still doesn’t move.
Instead, his voice softens—somehow quieter than before, like he’s afraid even sound might be too much for you right now.
“I’m just down the block.”
You blink at him, still catching your breath.
“My place,” he adds, nodding toward the street, toward the night that still hums like static around you. “Nothing weird. Just… quieter. Warmer. No one else there.”
You hesitate.
Not because you don’t trust him—you do, in ways you probably shouldn’t—but because your whole body still feels wrong. Like your nerves are too close to the surface, like any wrong move might set them off again.
Minho sees it.
He doesn’t rush to reassure you. Doesn’t over-explain or fumble for comfort.
Just lifts a shoulder in a light shrug and says, dryly, “I have cats.”
Of all the things he could’ve said. “Cats,” you repeat, the word catching oddly on your tongue like it doesn’t belong in a night like this. Like it’s too soft, too domestic, too absurdly normal for the way your heart is still hammering inside your ribs.
Minho nods. “Three of them.”
You raise an eyebrow—wary, trembling, but still capable of curiosity. “Three?”
“Soonie. Doongie. Dori,” he says. “They're spoiled. Judgmental. Loud as hell.” His tone doesn’t change. Still calm. Still flat. But there’s something careful behind it. Like he’s offering you a rope. Something to hold onto. Something that doesn’t smell like sweat and fear and everything you just ran from.
You nod. Just once. And somehow, that’s enough.
His apartment is small. Not cramped, not cold—just lived-in. Clean in that intentional way, like someone takes pride in it but doesn't obsess. The floors are wood, soft under your bare feet when you kick off your heels by the door. The kitchen glows faintly from the under-cabinet lights he left on, casting long amber streaks across the floor.
And the cats… the cats are waiting.
One sits perched on the back of the couch like he owns the place—which, judging by the scratch marks in the armrest, he might. Another peeks out from under the coffee table. The third appears from the hallway, tail high, meowing like you’ve personally offended him by existing.
You blink again.
“They’re boys,” Minho explains as he hangs his keys. “But they act like little old ladies. Dori’s the mouthy one.”
The meowing continues. A chorus now. You’re too stunned to respond at first. But then—Doongie, maybe?—pads up to you with those wide, judgmental eyes and headbutts your calf like it’s his god-given right.
Something inside you breaks. Not in the sharp, painful way. Not like at the club. No. This is different. This is soft. Shaky. This is the moment your body decides it’s safe enough to start crumbling. You crouch down—slow, careful—and let your fingers curl into his fur.
You don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel it drip from your chin. Until your breath stutters. Until you fold over completely, arms wrapped around a cat who didn’t ask for this, face pressed into the warm softness of something alive and gentle.
Minho doesn’t say anything. He doesn't touch you. You feel him move quietly behind you—setting a glass of water on the coffee table, flicking off the main lights until only the soft kitchen glow remains. And then… he just sits. A few feet away. Cross-legged on the floor, still in his black button-up and rolled sleeves, watching you like you’re made of glass and still trying to figure out if the cracks were already there.
You stay curled there on the floor for a while—knees tucked beneath you, fingers knotted in soft fur, cheek pressed to Doongie’s side like it might anchor you to something solid.
The apartment is quiet, save for the occasional swish of a tail or soft thump of paws. You can feel the warmth of Minho’s presence without looking at him. He doesn’t crowd you. Doesn’t try to fix it. Just stays—close enough that you don’t feel alone, far enough that you don’t feel trapped.
Eventually, your breath starts to come steadier. The shaking dulls. And when you finally lift your head, cheeks sticky with dried tears and eyes too tired to hold anything else, he’s still there—arms resting loosely over his knees, gaze steady. You wipe at your face with the back of your hand, half-laughing, half-apologizing.
“Sorry,” you murmur, voice rough. “I didn’t mean to—fall apart all over your cat.”
Minho shrugs. “He probably liked it.”
You snort, exhausted. “He’s purring.”
“Doongie’s kind of a slut for attention.”
You laugh—a real one this time, hoarse and soft—and drag your fingers through Doongie’s fur once more before sitting up straighter, wiping your cheeks with the sleeve of your dress.
Minho stands slowly, careful not to startle the moment, and disappears into the hallway without a word. A minute later, he’s back, holding a folded bundle in his arms—what looks like a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie so worn it’s probably been through a hundred washes. He sets them gently on the arm of the couch beside you.
“Shower’s through there,” he says, nodding toward the narrow hallway. “First door on the right. Towels are on the rack. The water takes a second to heat up.”
You blink up at him, the offer settling slowly over you like warmth. He doesn't say you look like a mess. Doesn’t tell you to clean yourself up. Just offers you comfort in the quietest way he knows how. You nod.
The bathroom is small, clean, and filled with that same soft golden light that seems to follow him everywhere. You peel yourself out of your dress, step under the spray, and let the steam unwind you. It’s the first time all night you feel like you’re breathing in something clean. Like maybe there’s still space in your skin for something that isn’t fear.
You stay until the water starts to run cold. When you finally step out, dressed in his clothes, skin still damp and flushed from the heat, your heart thuds with a strange, fragile kind of relief.
And then you see it.
The couch. The cushions have been cleared, a blanket folded neatly at the foot, pillow fluffed, a glass of water on the side table. One of the cats is curled up like a sentry near the armrest, blinking at you lazily as if to say it’s fine now.
You stare for a second. Because it’s not just that he made up the couch. It’s that he didn’t assume. Didn’t point you toward his bed. Didn’t insist. Didn’t press. He just knew.
You sit down slowly, tucking the blanket over your legs, body sinking into the cushions like they were waiting for you.
Minho reappears from the hallway, already dressed down—black joggers, a loose hoodie hanging off one shoulder, hair damp like he rinsed off too. He gestures toward the light. “You good if I kill this?”
You nod. He flips the switch. The room dims. He doesn’t say goodnight. Doesn’t do the awkward lingering thing. He just turns, quiet as always, and heads for his bedroom.
And for a moment, you let him go.
For a moment, you think it’s fine. But the second the door clicks shut, something tightens in your chest. Your breath catches. Your pulse jumps. That same fear from earlier curls back in under your skin—not loud, not sharp. Just a whisper now. A what if. What if he comes back. What if he finds out where you went. What if this silence isn't safety at all, but the space before another breaking point.
You sit up. “Minho?”
A beat. His door opens again. The light from his room spills into the hall. He’s already halfway back into the living room when he says, “Yeah?”
Your throat works around the words. They feel small. Silly. Needful. But you say them anyway. “Can you stay?”
He pauses. Looks at you. And you can tell—he knows. Knows exactly what you mean. Knows it’s not about him. Not about company. Not about flirting or closeness or warmth. It’s about safety. It’s about knowing the world can’t get to you if he’s there. He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t make a sound. Just disappears for a second, then comes back with two blankets folded under one arm and a spare pillow under the other. He drops them on the floor beside the couch, shrugs out of his hoodie, and settles down without a word.
The hoodie slips off his shoulders in one smooth motion, revealing the thin black tank top underneath—clinging just enough to map the sharp cut of his collarbones, the slope of his shoulders.
You don’t mean to stare.
But the fabric hangs loose at the chest, dipping just low enough to expose the curve of ink over his left pectoral—black lines disappearing into shadow, something abstract and intricate. Just a glimpse. Just enough to wonder what the rest of it looks like when he breathes.
Minho doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just too tired—or too gracious—to call you on it.
He lies on his back beside the couch, one arm tucked under his head, the other draped loosely over his stomach. Doongie circles once on the rug, then collapses beside him like a guard, chin resting on his forearm.
You turn onto your side. The room is still. Not quiet—still. Like the air itself is holding its breath. You don’t sleep. You can’t. Not with the phantom heat of a hand still lingering on your face. Not with the aftershocks of fear still curling around your ribs. Not with the weight of this unfamiliar kindness just a few feet away, warm and steady and unearned.
So you watch him. And eventually, he turns his head. Eyes open. Heavy-lidded but focused. A slow drag up your face. Your cheekbone. The faint shadow blooming just below your temple. His jaw ticks, subtle but sharp, and he doesn’t look away. You don’t flinch.
“Didn’t know you had a tattoo,” you whisper.
He blinks. Like the words take a second to land. “Mm.”
His gaze flicks down briefly—to where the fabric clings to his chest, then back to your face. There’s no smirk, no warning, just a shift in the air, like gravity tilting. “Wanna see it?”
The question isn’t loaded. It’s not teasing. It just is. You nod. Minho sits up slowly, one hand tugging at the hem of his tank top. The fabric slides up and over his head in one clean motion, soft and soundless. He tosses it to the side and leans back on his elbows, the muscles in his arms flexing, loose and languid.
The tattoo stretches across the left side of his chest—black ink, fine lines, bold shapes. It isn’t a compass. It’s a storm. A swirl of wind and waves, jagged mountains etched in silhouette. At its center, the faint outline of a wing—fractured and rising, like something caught between ruin and flight. The ink moves with him, flexes when he breathes, like it’s alive beneath his skin.
You stare.
Not because it’s beautiful—though it is—but because it feels right on him. Like he was born with it. Like whatever storm he came from left its mark on the inside first, and this was just its echo.
Your hand moves before you can stop it.
Slowly, like reaching for fire. Like asking for permission with the space between your fingers. When you don’t meet resistance, you touch him.
Just a single point at first—your fingertip landing lightly on the edge of the wing, where ink meets skin just beneath his collarbone. His breath hitches, subtle but real, a flicker of tension in his chest. You feel it before you hear it. Then you trace. Softly. Reverently. Down the curve of the wing, across the stormline where jagged wind spirals out into broken waves.
Your touch drags slow, deliberate, following the black lines like you’re learning a language. One that only his body speaks. Minho doesn’t move. He just watches you. The way your lashes lower, the way your lips part slightly like you’re holding your breath for him. The silence between you is thick but not heavy—dense with something neither of you are ready to name.
When your finger glides over the highest peak—inked mountain just above his heart—his head tilts back slightly, like the contact pulls something from him. His throat bobs with the swallow he doesn’t bother to hide. You pause. Right over his heart now. The skin is warm. Steady. And for a second, the storm beneath your own ribs goes quiet—like his rhythm tames yours without trying. He exhales.
His eyes flutter shut for a beat, then open again—slow, measured. He looks at you like you’ve unraveled something in him, like your touch left ink on him instead. But when his gaze drops lower, it changes. Softens. Darkens. And then his hand moves. Carefully. Cautiously. Like he’s seen too many things break when touched too fast.
He lifts it to your face, the backs of his fingers ghosting along your jaw—light enough to be mistaken for air. He doesn’t go straight for the bruise. He lingers near it, watching you, waiting for the slightest sign of retreat.
You don’t give it.
So he shifts—just slightly—until his knuckles brush the edge of the swelling beneath your eye. You flinch. Not because of the pain. Not because it hurts. Because of how gentle it is. Like he’s afraid to hurt you, like he doesn’t know how to hold something unless he’s sure it won’t shatter. Like he wants to carve your bruises from your skin and wear them instead. His fingers hover there. Still. Tense. A breath away from trembling.
“Fucker’s lucky I wasn’t there,” he murmurs.
You inhale—slow, shallow. The air catches in your throat like it’s thick with something unspoken, something too big to name. Minho’s hand starts to pull back. And maybe that’s why you speak. Maybe that’s why you reach for something else, anything else, before the room folds in too tightly.
“So,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “that tattoo.”
Minho pauses. Just for a moment. His eyes flick back to yours, and he knows what you’re doing. Of course he does. The deflection is transparent, but he lets it happen anyway—lets you steer them away from the heaviness still clinging to your skin like ash.
“What about it?” he murmurs, settling back on his elbow, the other hand now resting on his chest near the ink you traced. You mirror him slightly, folding into the edge of the couch, letting your cheek rest against the pillow, eyes fixed on the storm etched into his skin.
“The wing,” you say after a beat. “In the center. What’s it mean?”
He’s quiet for a second.
Then: “Freedom.”
You blink. “It’s broken.”
His mouth quirks—barely a smile, not quite bitter. “Yeah. It usually is.”
You don’t know what to say to that. So you say nothing. Just let your gaze trace the peaks and spirals, the places where black lines blur like smoke, the edges of him carved in ink instead of bruises. His body tells a story too. You just haven’t read all the pages yet.
Minho shifts again, slowly lying back down on the floor, the side of his arm brushing the base of the couch now. You're above him on the couch, laying on your side so you can look at him.
“You can ask,” he says softly.
“About the tattoo?”
“About anything.”
You hum—soft, skeptical. The kind of sound that curls into the quiet and lingers, not quite a no, not quite a yes. You’re tired now. The real kind. The kind that settles into your limbs like gravity, like wet sand. Your eyes flutter half-shut, your voice feather-light.
“That sounds dangerous.”
Minho lets out a low exhale, something between a laugh and a sigh.
"Maybe.”
Your gaze slips to his again—his eyes open, trained on the ceiling like the answers might be there if he stares hard enough. One hand still rests loosely over his chest, the other pressed against your cheek.
You reach for it. Not with purpose. Not even with need. Just because it’s there. Because it feels like the thing to do.
Your fingertips graze his, gentle, thoughtless. And then his hand shifts—just slightly—so his pinky catches yours. Hooks. Holds.
It’s not a kiss. It’s not a confession.
But it feels like both.
You don’t speak for a while. Don’t need to.
The silence feels clean now. Like rain after smoke. Like you could fall asleep inside it without drowning.
Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe too loud. Just lets you anchor there—your hand half-curled over his, your lashes brushing your cheek as your eyes slip closed.
But then, soft and slurred, half-dreaming:
“You have a nice voice.”
You feel his hand twitch. Just a little.
“Yeah?” he says, and it’s quieter than anything else he’s said tonight—rough around the edges like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the compliment.
You nod against the pillow. “Mhm.”
There’s a beat.
“You’ve heard me say some pretty fucked-up things.”
A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. “Have I?”
He huffs a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Just a sound with history behind it. With edge. With weight.
“Don’t play innocent,” he murmurs. “You remember.”
You do.
Of course you do.
Words like silk and smoke, coiled tight with implication. The things he said across the bar, into your drink, into your skin without ever laying a hand on you.
You remember all of them.
But you’re tired. Softened. And the edges of those memories feel dulled now—faded by warmth and flannel and the rhythm of his breathing a few feet from your chest.
So you hum again, lashes still pressed to your cheeks. “They didn’t sound fucked-up at the time.”
Minho’s quiet for a while after that. The kind of quiet that hums.
You can feel it in the space between your bodies—how the air thickens again, but not with tension. With memory. With the weight of everything you haven’t said and the things you probably never will.
“That’s the problem,” he says eventually, voice low enough that you almost miss it.
Your eyes open again. Just barely. The room is still steeped in shadow, but your vision finds him easy—half-lit, half-lost in the floor beside the couch. One arm tucked beneath his head, the other still tethered to yours.
You study the line of his jaw, the way it tenses and relaxes like he’s caught between restraint and regret. He’s not looking at you anymore. Just staring at the ceiling again, like maybe it’ll answer for him this time.
“You say that like you’re proud of it,” you murmur.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just exhales, rough and dry.
“No,” he says. “I say it like I don’t know how to stop.”
That hurts in a way you didn’t expect. Not because of what he said—but because of the way he said it. Like a flaw in the foundation. Like a truth carved into him long before you ever stepped foot inside that bar.
You shift a little, turning more fully toward him, cheek pressed deeper into the pillow. Your fingers are still slotted with his. His skin is warm. Callused at the tips.
“You don’t have to stop,” you say quietly. “Just don’t lie about what you mean.”
That gets him.
His gaze flicks to yours—fast, sharp. Like he wasn’t expecting that. Like no one’s ever said it to him quite like that before.
“I never lied,” he says.
You blink at him. Slow. Sleepy. “No. But you hide.”
Minho doesn’t answer. Just watches you. Face unreadable. Chest rising slow beneath the ink on his skin.
And then, almost too soft to hear:
“I don’t want to scare you.”
That makes you pause. The silence stretches thin and long between you.
“You don’t.”
Minho swallows. His thumb brushes, barely, against your knuckle.
“Not yet.”
You shake your head. Your voice is nearly gone now—nothing but a breath. “I think I’m harder to scare than you think.”
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite not.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I’m starting to believe that.”
The air settles again. Like the truth came in and made itself comfortable.
You close your eyes, finally letting your body sink into the couch. Letting the warmth of him—his hand, his presence, his voice—press into all the places that still feel fragile.
“Don’t stop talking,” you whisper.
He blinks. “What?”
“Your voice,” you murmur, already half gone. “It’s nice. It helps.”
And when you drift off like that—quiet, safe, held by nothing more than the sound of him—Minho stays awake long after. Eyes on the ceiling.
Still talking.
Just in case you can still hear him.
You wake to the scent of coffee and something faintly savory—garlic maybe, or eggs. The couch beneath you is warm where your body curled into it, blanket tangled around your legs. A cat is pressed to your ribs like a living paperweight, tail flicking once when you stir.
For a moment, you forget where you are. Forget what happened. Forget him.
Then the ache hits. Dull and deep, low in your chest and blooming outward. You shift to sit up, and it all comes back.
The club. The hands. The words.
The running.
And then—Minho.
His apartment is quiet now, but not empty. There’s music playing low from somewhere down the hall. You follow the sound on slow feet, dragging the blanket with you like armor.
You find him in the kitchen, barefoot in gray sweatpants and a loose black t-shirt, sleeves pushed up. He’s at the stove, spatula in one hand, coffee mug in the other. There’s a pan of eggs on the burner. A second mug waiting beside the sink.
He doesn’t turn when you enter. Just glances over his shoulder and says, “Mornin’.”
His voice is rough with sleep. Deeper. It hits somewhere low in your spine.
You hover at the doorway, feeling small in his clothes—his hoodie draped over your frame, sleeves too long, the hem brushing your thighs.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Making breakfast,” he says, cutting you off with casual finality. “You still eat, right?”
You blink. “I… yeah.”
“Good.” He turns back to the pan. “Then sit.”
You do. Quietly. At the counter, fingers curling around the warm ceramic of the mug he left for you. It smells like cinnamon.
He plates the eggs. Adds toast. Pushes the dish toward you and leans back against the counter with his own. He eats without looking at you at first, fork moving in clean, efficient motions.
When he does speak again, his voice is softer.
“You don’t have to go back.”
Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth.
“What?”
Minho lifts his gaze. Steady. Calm.
“I’m serious. If you don’t feel safe there…” He trails off, jaw tensing. “Stay here.”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
He doesn’t let the silence stretch far.
“I’ve got room,” he adds. “Cats already like you. You don’t snore.”
That last part earns the smallest smile from you. “You don’t know that.”
“I was up half the night,” he says, mouth twitching. “I’d know.”
You look down at your plate, pretending to rearrange the toast like that’ll somehow buy you time to think. But the words—stay here—they’ve already lodged themselves under your ribs. Warm. Unexpected. Real.
And terrifying.
“I don’t want to be a burden,” you say finally. Quiet. Like if you speak too loud, you’ll ruin the softness of it all.
Minho sets his fork down.
The sound is soft, deliberate. When you glance up, he’s watching you again. Really watching—like he does when he’s about to say something that’ll cut deeper than you expect.
“You’re not.”
Just that. Nothing flowery. Nothing performative. Just the fact of it, laid bare on the table between you like it shouldn’t be questioned.
You want to believe him.
You almost do.
But then your fingers twitch near your coffee, and the pain in your face pulses a little sharper—pulling you back into the fragile ache of your own body. You shift to look away, to hide the swelling that’s bloomed across your cheekbone and down to your jaw.
But Minho doesn’t let you.
He moves around the counter slowly, like he’s trying not to spook you. His hand is warm when it finds your chin again—fingertips brushing along your jawline, coaxing your face toward his. Gentle. Grounded.
“Let me see.”
You don’t pull away.
You don’t want to.
His thumb ghosts beneath your cheekbone, skimming over the darkened bloom that’s bloomed overnight. His brow furrows—not in pity, not even in anger. Just... stillness. A silence that hums with the kind of fury he’s learned how to wear like armor.
His voice is low when it comes.
“I hate that he touched you.”
You blink. Something thick swells in your throat, too full to swallow down.
“I hate that I didn’t find you first.”
That hits you harder than it should.
You try to speak—but your voice sticks somewhere behind your teeth. So you just nod, your cheek pressing into his palm like your body can answer for you.
Minho doesn’t let go—not yet. His fingers trail down to the edge of your neck, where the fabric of his hoodie pools at your collarbone. You’re not sure if he realizes how close he’s gotten. How the warmth of him wraps around you now, even without touching anything else.
“I want you to stay,” he says again, steady now. “Not because I feel bad. Not because you need help. I want you here.”
Your next breath comes too fast. Too shallow.
His thumb moves again—just a gentle stroke along your jaw.
“Say something,” he murmurs.
You breathe in once, shaky and thin. “Okay.”
The corners of his mouth pull—slow, subtle. Not quite a smile. Something quieter. Relief, maybe.
He lets your face go with that same care—like he’s afraid it’ll leave a mark if he’s not gentle enough. Then he steps back, returns to his plate, and picks up his fork again like he didn’t just hand you the softest kind of shelter.
You take another bite of your eggs.
They taste better than they should.
You don’t move in all at once.
There’s no official decision, no suitcase moment. Just the slow accumulation of things—your toothbrush beside his, a sock that somehow never made its way back into your bag, a t-shirt folded neatly at the foot of the bed that you don’t remember taking off. A rhythm forms. One that begins with his voice in the morning—low, rough, coffee-laced—and ends with the soft click of the front door when he comes home from the bar past midnight, thinking you’re asleep.
You never are.
The apartment starts to feel different. Lived-in. Yours, even if you never say it out loud. Your shoes by the door. Your laughter echoing off the tile. Your perfume clinging to his sheets like memory.
Minho doesn’t comment. Not once. He just starts making a second cup of coffee without asking. Starts keeping almond milk in the fridge. Throws your laundry in with his like it’s never been separate.
And you—you watch him fall into it as easy as breath.
He moves through the apartment like smoke. Silent, confident, present in ways you’ve never been used to. There’s no performance with him, no empty gestures. If he folds your towel, it’s because it needed folding. If he brings home your favorite tea, it’s because he remembered. And if he looks at you too long in the mirror while you brush your teeth, it’s because he wants to, not because he expects anything in return.
One night, he comes home late. The bar ran over, and the cats had started pacing like they could feel the quiet shift without him. You’re curled on the couch in one of his hoodies, a half-finished movie playing on low, just waiting for the lock to turn. When it does, and he steps inside—shoulders drawn, eyes tired, the scent of smoke and whiskey clinging to him—you don’t say anything at first.
Just watch him.
He slips off his boots. Shrugs off his jacket. Walks into the kitchen and pours a glass of water like he’s not sure how to be here yet.
Then he grabs the pack from the counter.
You sit up.
“Minho.”
He pauses. Doesn’t look at you.
You rise slowly, tugging the sleeves of the hoodie over your hands, padding barefoot to meet him.
“You said you were trying to quit.”
“I am.”
“You’re also lighting a cigarette at midnight.”
He exhales through his nose. Tired. “Rough night.”
You stop just short of the threshold between the hallway and the kitchen, bare toes curling against the tile, the silence stretching taut between you.
“Want to talk about it?” you ask softly.
“No,” he says.
Not harsh. Not clipped. Just final.
Minho pulls the cigarette from the pack with that same familiar motion—two fingers, flick of the wrist. The sound of the lighter clicks once, twice, before the flame catches. He doesn't look at you as he inhales, jaw tight, lashes low. The cherry glows in the dim.
You wrap your arms around yourself.
He leans against the counter, exhales slow, smoke curling up toward the ceiling. It swirls around the line of his jaw, catches the faint sheen of sweat at his temples, clings to him like it’s part of his skin.
You hate how good he looks like this. Angry. Quiet. Unreachable.
But you hate more that you can’t reach him.
“Was it something at the bar?”
His lips twitch. He doesn’t answer.
You step closer, voice gentler now. “You don’t have to carry it alone, you know.”
“I’m not,” he says. Still not looking at you. “I’m carrying it just fine.”
You frown.
“Minho—”
“I said I’m fine,” he snaps.
And this time, it is clipped. Sharp. The kind of sharp that cuts more than it means to. He finally looks at you then—eyes rimmed with something hot and unreadable, mouth hard.
The silence that follows is cold.
You shift your weight, wounded but trying not to show it. “Okay.”
Minho’s jaw ticks. Like he wants to take it back, but doesn’t know how. Like everything in him is fraying at the edges, and you just happened to be the softest thing close enough to get caught in it.
He curses under his breath. Stubs the cigarette out halfway through, presses the filter down into the tray until it smears.
Then, quieter: “It’s not you.”
“I know.”
He runs a hand down his face, palm dragging hard across his mouth like he’s trying to erase himself. Then he sighs and looks at you—really looks at you. The hoodie swallowed around your frame. The bare legs. The worry softening your brow.
His voice breaks a little on the next part.
“Had a guy come into the bar tonight. One of those types—smiles too wide, looks through women instead of at them. He kept cornering this girl, leaning over the counter, asking me why I gave a shit when I told him to back off.”
You say nothing. Just listen.
Minho swallows. “He called me a cockblock. Said I must’ve been jealous.” His gaze drops, eyes narrowing. “Said I looked like the kind of guy who watches.”
You don’t interrupt.
“He grabbed her arm when she tried to leave. Wouldn’t let go."
The words hang there. Not just what he’s saying—but why he’s saying it. You feel it bloom in your chest. Cold. Familiar.
You walk the last few feet.
He doesn’t stop you this time.
Your hand finds his wrist—warm, tense, still trembling slightly. You run your thumb over the bone there, grounding him.
“You’re not that kind of man.”
“I know,” he says. “But I wanted to be.”
That makes you pause.
He looks up. His voice is low. Bitter.
“I wanted to slam him into the bar. Make him bleed. Make him feel small. And the worst part?” A breathless laugh. “I would’ve enjoyed it.”
“I know,” you whisper. “But you didn’t.”
“Yeah, well. Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.”
You squeeze his hand.
It’s quiet for a while. The kitchen lit only by the soft amber under the cabinets, casting warm shadows along the tile. The cats have settled somewhere in the living room. Even the city feels hushed.
He rubs his thumb over your palm absently.
Then, suddenly: “He looked at her the same way—”
He stops himself. His jaw locks.
You swallow.
He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. You know.
And he knows you know.
So you step closer. Gently. Carefully. Press your forehead to his shoulder, breathing him in—smoke and soap and something like home. You pluck the cigarette from his lips and he lets you, watches as you toss it into the sink.
“Come to bed,” you murmur.
He doesn't move.
You tug on his hand again. “Please.”
Minho glances at you—eyes a little too tired, a little too dark—but he lets you guide him.
He doesn’t say much once you're in the bedroom. Just peels his shirt off and tosses it into the corner. You catch a glimpse of the tattoo on his chest again—the wing in the center of the storm, fractured, fighting to stay airborne.
You turn away to climb into bed, give him space.
But when you settle under the blanket, he’s already there. Already behind you. Warm and solid, arm slipping around your waist without hesitation. His chest to your back, his breath against your neck.
He’s quiet for a long time. And then:
“I hate that I couldn’t stop it. What happened to you.”
You close your eyes.
His fingers tighten slightly against your side. Not rough. Just firm. Just real.
“I think about it more than I should,” he murmurs. “What I’d do if I saw him again.”
You shift, just enough to feel him breathe differently—like your movement catches him off guard, like he wasn’t expecting you to respond. But you don’t turn around, not yet. You just let your voice slip into the quiet, soft and slow.
“What would you do?”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then another.
His breath ghosts across your shoulder. “Don’t ask me that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’d scare you.”
His voice is quiet, but not gentle. Measured. Sharp at the edges like he’s spent all night filing it down.
You blink slowly into the dark, heart thudding, air thick between your bodies. You feel him behind you—warm, solid, tense. A wall at your back. A shield. A fuse.
“Tell me anyway,” you whisper.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t exhale.
And just when you think he might pretend he didn’t hear you, Minho speaks.
“I’d wait,” he says, voice low, words heavy like molasses. “Wouldn’t say anything. Wouldn’t warn him. Just watch. Let him come close. Let him think he could try again.”
Your breath catches.
His fingers curl slightly where they rest on your waist, grounding himself in the shape of you.
“Then I’d take his hand,” Minho murmurs, “the one he used on you, and I’d break every fucking finger. One by one. Slow. Make sure he remembered why.”
A chill snakes down your spine.
Not fear.
Just something colder. Older. Like someone had finally said the thing you weren’t allowed to say out loud. That it wasn’t okay. That it would never be okay.
“And when he screamed,” Minho continues, voice almost tender now, “I wouldn’t stop. I’d make sure he understood what it feels like to lose control. To be small. Helpless. The way he made you feel.”
You turn in his arms.
Slowly. Deliberately.
Face to face now.
His jaw is clenched. Eyes storm-dark. He looks dangerous like this. Not because he’s violent. But because he’s loyal. Because he means every word and there’s no drama in his voice—just truth. Cold and clean.
You reach for him without thinking.
Your hand moves to his face, fingers threading into the hair at his temple, thumb brushing the curve of his cheekbone like you’re trying to soothe something in him—or maybe in yourself. And Minho… he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t soften either. He just lets you hold him, lets your touch settle over the anger still thrumming in his bones like a warning bell that hasn’t stopped ringing.
“You wouldn’t scare me,” you whisper.
His brow twitches, just slightly. “You should be scared of a man who wants to hurt for you.”
“No.” You shake your head. “I’ve been scared before. You’re not that kind of man.”
His mouth parts. His breath hits your lips. The weight in his eyes shifts—something cracks beneath it. Not entirely. Just a fracture. A weakness. A truth.
“You don’t know what I’d do,” he murmurs.
You lean in, close enough that your breath brushes his skin when you speak.
“I don’t need to,” you whisper. “I know what you’ve already done.”
His brow furrows, but you go on—soft and steady, the words falling between you like they’ve been waiting for a place to land.
“You made space. You listened. You held me when I couldn’t hold myself. You let me have silence without asking for anything in return.” Your fingers press more firmly against his jaw, thumb brushing just below his lower lip. “That’s enough. That’s more than anyone else ever did.”
Minho’s eyes darken—not with lust—but with something thicker. Something closer to reverence. Like the weight of your trust is heavier than all the violence he ever imagined inflicting in your name.
His hand rises slowly, palm cupping your cheek with a gentleness that borders on fragile. His thumb swipes beneath your eye like he’s checking for something he missed.
“I don’t deserve that,” he says, voice raw.
“Maybe not,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his. “But you have it.”
And that’s what breaks him.
Not dramatically. Not all at once.
Just enough to make him move.
Minho kisses you like he’s falling. Like he’s been holding himself upright for so long, he doesn’t remember what it feels like to give in. His mouth finds yours, and there’s no hesitation in it—only heat, only hunger. His tongue slides against yours with a quiet groan that vibrates in your chest.
You gasp softly when he pushes you back, his body pressing you into the mattress, weight balanced on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you. One hand slips under your shirt, fingers skimming up your ribs, pausing just beneath the curve of your breast.
He pulls back barely an inch, eyes flicking over your face like a question.
His breathing is uneven, but his touch isn't. His hand rests there—still beneath your shirt, just barely cradling your breast like he's not sure he deserves to hold anything so soft. So willing. His thumb strokes gently, slowly, and his eyes search yours like he's waiting for a line to cross. Or worse—waiting for you to pull away.
You don’t.
Instead, you reach for the hem of your shirt, dragging it up with trembling fingers. You don’t break eye contact. Don’t speak.
You just offer.
And Minho accepts.
He helps, silent, peeling it over your head with quiet reverence. He looks at you like you’re made of something rare and unrepeatable. And when his gaze drags over your chest, down the soft swell of your ribs to your stomach, he breathes your name like a confession.
His voice is wrecked when he says it—your name, cracked and reverent like he’s saying it for the first time. Like it’s a word he isn’t worthy of.
“Fuck, look at you.” His hands drag down your sides, slow and sure, palms wide and heavy like he’s trying to ground himself. He shifts over you, mouth lowering to your breast, and he moans as soon as his lips close around your nipple—no restraint, no performance. Just need. He sucks hard. Just once. Like he can’t help himself. Then he pulls back, panting, and shakes his head like he’s already losing it. “I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”
You smile—lazy, wrecked, already warm all over—and tilt your head just enough for your lashes to sweep up, gaze locked on his. You reach for him, fingers trailing down his arm until your palm flattens against his chest, right over the fractured wing. “I’m not looking at you like anything,” you whisper.
Minho’s breath stutters—one of those shallow, fractured exhales that says he doesn’t believe you for a second. Not when your palm is flat against his chest, thumb grazing the tip of that wing inked over his heart. Not when your eyes look like that—half-lidded, dark, shining with something he’s not sure he deserves.
“Yeah,” he mutters, voice rough. “Keep lying to me.”
But he doesn’t pull away. He watches you. Watches the way your hand trails lower, slow and certain, down the cut of his abdomen. Fingertips ghosting over the faint dip of muscle, over the waistband of his pants, teasing the edge like you’re not sure yet—like he has any say in it anymore.
Minho goes still. Not because he doesn’t want it. God, he does. He’s so hard it hurts, cock straining against the fabric, already leaking for you. But there’s something in his face—tightness around the mouth, tension in his jaw. A flicker of control barely clinging to the edge. And you see it. You see all of it. So you press your lips to his collarbone—soft, reverent—and whisper, “Let me.”
Minho shudders. And then he nods. You sink down the bed a little, propping yourself on one elbow, other hand already slipping beneath his waistband. He lifts his hips to help, pants shoved just low enough to free him. His cock springs up, flushed and thick, tip slick with precome, veins standing in sharp relief.
“Jesus,” you murmur, fingers curling around the base. “You’re so hard…”
“Because of you,” he rasps. “You lying, teasing little thing—”
You give him a slow stroke, and he chokes.
You give him another stroke, tighter this time, and the sound he makes punches straight through you—low and ragged, a shattered groan caught in the back of his throat. His hips twitch, almost against his will, and you can feel the restraint vibrating through his body, every muscle tight like he’s on the verge of snapping.
“You’re shaking,” you whisper, almost teasing. “What happened to all that control?”
Minho laughs—just barely. Just a breath.
“Keep talking like that,” he mutters, “and I’ll ruin you before you even get the chance to try.”
But the way his eyes flutter shut when you twist your wrist on the upstroke says otherwise. “Hah—fuck—” He’s panting now, head tipped back, one arm holding himself up beside your head for support while the other fists the sheets like he needs something—anything—to hold onto.
You lean up, breath brushing the underside of his jaw, your voice soft and honey-sweet in his ear.
“You gonna beg for it?”
He freezes. His eyes snap open, and there’s something electric in the silence between you. His cock throbs in your hand, twitching like the idea alone nearly undid him. He turns his head slightly, lips brushing yours.
“Do you want me to?” he whispers.
You smile, smug and slow. “Wouldn’t hate it.”
He groans—deep, guttural, wrecked—and it makes your cunt clench. He looks like he could devour you whole, like he might if you ask nicely. Or if you don’t.
“I’d get on my fucking knees if you told me to,” he mutters, mouth moving along your jaw, your cheek, your throat. His hand finds your hip and grips, firm enough to bruise. “I’d crawl. I’d beg. I’d say please—is that what you want?”
You don’t answer. You just stroke him again—slow, tight, deliberate—and feel the way he shudders against you, how his whole body flinches like your hand alone is enough to wreck him.
“Mm— baby, slow down—fuck—” He buries his face in your neck, teeth grazing skin.
“I’ll give it to you,” he murmurs. “Anything. You want me desperate? Pathetic? Done. Just say it.”
You hum, soft and pleased, lips brushing his temple. “I think I like you pathetic.”
Minho groans—“Fuck, you’re evil,”—but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he sinks into it. Into you. Every stroke of your hand wrings another sound from his throat, each more desperate than the last.
You swipe your thumb over the slit, smear precum down the shaft, and his entire body jolts.
“Shit—don’t—f-fuck—”
“You gonna make a mess in my hand, baby?” you ask sweetly, tightening just a little. “Gonna come like this? Without even being inside me?”
He growls. “No.”
You blink up at him, lips parting in mock surprise. “No?”
Minho pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes absolutely wrecked. Hair messy, jaw clenched, throat flushed with effort. He’s trying so fucking hard not to lose it.
“I’m not coming until I’m inside you,” he says, voice low, dark, edged with pure hunger. “Until I’m fucking deep in that pretty cunt, feeling you squeeze me while I lose it. You think I can come just from your hand?”
He leans in, nose to yours, breath harsh. “I’d beg for the chance to do it right.”
You blink once. Then twice. Then you let go of his cock. Minho groans like it physically hurts.
“Then beg.” He stares at you. One long, heavy moment. Then he kneels back on his haunches, hands splayed on your thighs, and dips his head.
“Please.”
Just one word—but fuck, the way he says it. Voice hoarse, raw, like it’s scraped from the bottom of his chest. His lips graze the inside of your knee as he speaks again.
“Please, let me in. Let me fuck you slow. Let me feel you stretch around me.”
You exhale shakily.
He presses another kiss higher. “Let me make you come on my cock. Let me ruin you so good you forget anyone else ever touched you.”
Your thighs tremble. He reaches for your underwear, eyes flicking to yours for permission, and when you nod—barely, breathless—he tugs them down with reverence, slow enough to make you whimper.
Minho drags your underwear down your legs like it’s the last ribbon off a present, like beneath it is something he’s been waiting his whole life to unwrap. When the fabric slips past your ankles, he tosses it somewhere behind him without a glance. His gaze never leaves you. You’re already soaked.
He sees it—feels it when he runs two fingers through your folds, slow and deliberate, spreading you open with a breathless “fuck me.” His knuckles tremble.
He sees everything. Every flutter of your lashes, every twitch of your thighs, every slick sound his fingers make as they glide through you, slow and reverent. His knuckles tremble, but his touch doesn’t falter—not even a little. If anything, the way his hand moves only deepens, turns hungrier.
“Fuck me,” he breathes again. He parts you with two fingers, spreads your folds and watches your cunt clench on nothing, dripping for him, aching.
“Look at you,” he mutters, like he can’t help it. “So wet I can see my reflection. What the fuck did I do to deserve this?”
You’re panting now, back arching just slightly off the sheets, eyes half-lidded but fixed on him, on the way he looks at you like you’re something sacred and ruined all at once.
“Touch me,” you whisper. “Please.”
Minho sinks two fingers into you in one smooth stroke—slow, thick, curling just right until your breath hits the back of your throat. He groans, low and guttural, watching your cunt stretch around his fingers like it’s something holy.
“So fucking tight,” he grits out, voice wrecked. “How the fuck am I gonna fit my cock in you if you’re already this tight around my fingers?”
The question is low, more to himself than to you, but it rips through you like heat, like lightning. Your walls flutter helplessly around his fingers at the thought, and Minho groans—long, drawn out, wrecked.
“Oh, you like that,” he breathes. “You want me to stretch you open, don’t you?”
Your answer is a breathy whimper, more sound than word—your hips canting up, your fingers curling in the sheets. Minho watches you, chest rising and falling like he’s the one being touched, like you are the thing unraveling him.
“Fuck,” he hisses, and then he’s lining up. His cock drags through your folds, thick and flushed, already smeared with your slick. He grinds once—slow, deliberate—letting the head catch against your clit before slipping lower. When he presses in, the stretch burns, even as your cunt welcomes him, soaking and clenching and shaking just from the promise of it.
“Jesus—ngh, fuck—you’re tight,” he growls, jaw clenched, forehead tipped against yours. “Gonna ruin me.”
He gives you an inch. Then another. Then thrusts the rest of the way in with a groan that sounds like it’s been caged in his throat for weeks.
You cry out—sharp, startled, stretched to the brim in one sudden, devastating motion.
“Minho—”
“Shh,” he pants, not stopping. His hips roll into yours, hard and deep, dragging his cock through your walls like he’s trying to etch himself into them. “You can take it. I know you can. Look at you—fuck—made for this.”
The first few thrusts are brutal. Snapping, deliberate, filthy. Your thighs tremble. Your back arches. He pins your hips down like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t keep you there. Every time he sinks back in, your breath knocks out of your lungs, and his name falls from your lips like a prayer—wrecked, endless, real.
“Just like that,” he grits, cock dragging against your walls, soaked in you. “Let me fuck it into you—let me make you feel me.”
But then— Then he slows. Not because he has to. Because he wants to. Because he wants to feel all of it. His hand slides under your thigh, hikes your leg higher around his waist, and he sinks into you again—slower this time. Deeper. His hips roll instead of snap, the rhythm shifting into something that feels closer to worship than fucking.
He fucks into you slow, deep—each thrust wringing a breathy moan from your throat, each drag of his cock carving his name deeper into the heat of you. The sweat on his skin glistens under the low light, hair clinging to his forehead, jaw tight with effort and restraint. You’re clinging to him now—arms looped around his shoulders, nails dragging across his back, body arching to meet every roll of his hips. And then he says it—low, ragged, right in your ear.
“Feel good?”
You gasp, nod, whisper-plead a breathless “Yes.”
He hums—a soft, dark thing, almost smug. He thrusts a little harder, just once, like a reward, like a test. “Yeah?” he pants. “How good? Tell me."
You try—but your voice catches. It’s just air at first, punched out of you by the deliberate grind of his hips, by the thick, aching stretch of him moving so slowly inside you you could scream. You manage a broken, breathy sound: “So—fuck—so good…”
And Minho groans. Long, low, full of grit. He kisses your jaw, your cheek, your lips—messy, hot, open-mouthed. His breath fans against your skin as he mutters, “That all you’ve got for me, baby?”
You dig your nails in—fuck him, he knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly how good he feels, the way his cock strokes that spot just right, again and again, with filthy precision. The way his hand curls around your thigh to keep you spread for him, to keep you right there
You whimper his name—soft, ruined—like it’s the only word you remember, and he groans, sharp and deep, lips dragging along the sweat-slick curve of your throat.
“God, you feel—” he pants, voice splintered, barely holding. “You feel so fucking good, baby. You’re so tight, so warm, you—fuck, you ruin me.”
Another thrust—slow, deep, devastating—and your head falls back against the pillow, mouth open in a silent cry. Minho watches your face twist, watches your chest heave, and it breaks something in him.
“I—shit—I think I’m in love with you.”
It slips out like a sin. Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Like he couldn’t hold it in one second longer.
Your whole body goes still beneath him—just for a moment. Like your brain’s catching up. Like his words are a second kind of penetration, sharp and unexpected. He freezes, too. Breath held. Eyes wide. The moment burns.
And then you whisper, broken and trembling: “Say it again.”
Minho doesn’t hesitate this time. “I love you.”
He moans it into your mouth, like it hurts to say, like it hurts more not to. His hand slides up your side, tender now, reverent.
“I fucking love you,” he says again, forehead pressed to yours, hips still rolling deep, slow, full of everything he never knew how to say before now.
“You hear me? You’re not just someone I fuck, you’re—god, you’re everything.”
Your lips part—words rising up like breath, like instinct—but you don’t get the chance.
Minho kisses you before you can speak.
Not soft. Not tentative. It’s all tongue and teeth, heat and hunger, the kind of kiss that steals thought and gives only feeling in return. His mouth crashes into yours like he’s been starving for it—like he’s still starving, even now, with his cock buried deep inside you and your body curled so sweetly beneath his.
You gasp into him, and he drinks it down—tongue licking into your mouth, filthy and tender and real.
And then it’s all friction.
The slow roll of his hips turns urgent, dragging moans from your throat he swallows between kisses. He fucks into you like he means it now—like every thrust is a promise carved into your bones. You cling to him, helpless against the way your body arches, the way your cunt tightens around him, soaked and pulsing, every nerve on fire.
“M-Min—hah—Minho—”
He pulls back just long enough to look at you—just long enough to let you see how wrecked he is, how far gone, how in it he is with you.
“You’re mine,” he pants, voice rough and wrecked, thrusts hitting deeper now, harder, his hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him. “You hear me? Say it.”
You nod, broken. “Yours—fuck, I’m yours—”
And that’s all he needed.
He groans—loud, guttural—and buries himself deeper, cock twitching as he fucks you through it. His thrusts lose rhythm, chasing his high, and you’re barely hanging on, every drag of him inside you rubbing all the right places, the sweet heat spiraling again in your belly.
You’re both so close. So close.
And when you come again—tight and soaked and shaking all around him—he feels it. Feels you flutter and pull and milk him until he can’t hold back anymore.
He buries his face in your neck, gasping your name as he spills inside you, hips stuttering, voice wrecked.
“I love you—fuck—I love you, I love you—”
It’s not gentle when he comes.
It’s everything.
And when the tremors subside, when your nails loosen from his back and your breaths sync again, he still doesn’t let you speak.
Not yet.
He just kisses you.
And kisses you.
And kisses you.
You learn something about Minho that night. That as nonchalant and unshakable as he seems—cool and composed, cigarette smoke and sharp tongues—when he gets going, he doesn’t stop. Not until you’re crying his name again. Not until your thighs tremble and your voice is wrecked and your body’s too boneless to beg for more, even though your eyes still plead with him.
You lose track of how many times.
The night runs long and slow and molten—fucking turns to touching, touching turns to laughing, and every kiss feels like a secret passed between mouths.
Now, the room is quiet again. Still.
You’re sprawled across the sheets, skin bare, limbs warm and heavy with exhaustion. The duvet’s been kicked down to your ankles, your body slick with the soft sheen of sweat, your chest rising in steady, sated waves.
Minho is gone—but only for a second.
You hear the quiet thud of the fridge door, the sound of a glass under the tap. When he returns, he’s shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and he’s holding out a glass of water like it’s some sacred offering.
“Drink,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and sex. You sit up just enough to take it, careful not to meet his eyes at first—and then you see them.
The marks. Dark smudges blooming across the sharp cut of his hips. Nail trails raked down the meat of his shoulders. A bite on his collarbone, faint and already bruising. All yours. And suddenly you feel… Shy.
You didn’t before—when his mouth was on you, when his hands were everywhere, when your back arched and you begged him not to stop. But now, in the soft quiet, with morning somewhere close on the horizon, it hits you. So you reach for the blanket, dragging it up your chest like modesty matters, like you didn’t spend the whole night unraveling beneath him.
Minho sees. Of course he sees.
And he smiles.
That slow, crooked thing. The one that doesn’t show teeth but somehow says everything.
“Oh?” he murmurs, placing the water on the nightstand before crawling back into bed. “Now you’re shy?”
You don’t answer. Just burrow into the pillow, cheeks hot. He slips beneath the duvet anyway—doesn’t give you a choice. Just tugs it down again with a smug little hum, eyes flicking across your face like he’s trying to memorize the exact shade of your embarrassment.
“I like the marks,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Wish you’d left more.”
You blink at him. He just keeps going—slow, lazy kisses trailed down your arm, his body curling around yours like he can’t bear the distance. One arm loops under your waist. The other hooks over your thigh. And then he’s half on top of you, all weight and warmth and him. Clingy.
He tucks his face into your neck like it’s the only place he knows how to breathe. His nose nuzzles behind your ear, lips brushing the shell of it when he speaks again—low, slurred, thick with sleep and smugness.
“Gonna have to start wearing long sleeves to work.”
You choke on a breath, eyes fluttering open. “Because of me?”
“Mm.” He kisses your jaw. “Unless I want to get fired.”
You raise an eyebrow. "You work at a bar, not an office."
“Yeah,” Minho hums, lazy and amused. “But people tip more when I’m unmarked.”
The words slip out casual, offhand—like a throwaway comment he doesn’t mean anything by.
But your smile falters anyway.
Just a flicker. Just enough for him to see it.
You shift beneath him, eyes drifting away, teeth catching your lower lip before you can stop the twist of something sour in your gut. You don’t say anything—not right away—but your silence says enough.
Minho stills.
Then lifts his head, just barely, so he can see your face.
“Hey.”
You blink up at him, startled by the sudden seriousness in his voice.
“Does it bother you?” he asks, tone low. Honest. “Because I’ll quit.”
Your heart stutters.
“What?”
“I mean it.” His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “If you don’t like it—me working there, people flirting, whatever—I’ll quit. I don’t give a fuck about the tips.”
You open your mouth, but he cuts you off before you can answer.
“I only took that job to kill time. To pay rent. But you—” His brow furrows. “You’re not something I’m willing to risk for a few extra bills thrown in a jar.”
You swallow hard.
He watches you.
Your eyes search his face—his furrowed brow, the firm set of his mouth, the dark smudge of sleep still softening the corners of his eyes—and there’s no doubt. No teasing in his voice, no smirk on his lips. Just Minho. Serious. Steady. Unflinching in his honesty.
“I’d rather be yours than anyone’s favorite bartender,” he says, quieter this time.
Your throat tightens.
And for a second, you can’t speak. You can only stare, caught between the weight of his words and the way his fingers stay curled so gently around your jaw—like you might vanish if he lets go.
You whisper, “I don’t want you to quit.”
He waits.
You blink slowly, pulling in a breath thick with the scent of him, the warmth of his body still heavy across yours. “I just didn’t like the idea of someone else looking at you like I look at you.”
Minho’s expression shifts—barely, but you feel it. Something in his chest loosens. His eyes soften, flicking between yours.
“No one else gets to,” he says simply. “Not anymore.”
You exhale, shaky with something that feels suspiciously close to relief. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He leans down, brushes his lips against yours—so soft, so sure. “They can look all they want. But I go home with your marks on me. I come home to you.”
Your pulse trips. Your hand fists the sheets at your side, but he feels it. Feels the way the tension bleeds out of you when he says it like that. Like a promise.
And then he flops on top of you.
Dead weight. Limbs loose. Hair flopping messily across his forehead as he buries his face in your chest with a dramatic sigh.
You laugh, startled. “Minho!”
“Mmm,” he grunts, nuzzling between your breasts. “Too early for serious talks. Thought we were in our post-sex cuddling era.”
You squirm under the sudden weight, still giggling, breath hitching when his cheek brushes the swell of your breast. “We can’t be in our post-sex cuddling era if you suffocate me in it.”
He hums again. Doesn’t move.
Just slings an arm over your ribs like a human paperweight, sighs through his nose like he’s never been more at peace. “Shhh,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “You love it.”
You do.
You really, really do.
You let your fingers find his hair, carding gently through the tangled strands at his nape. He melts into it, chest rising and falling slow against your stomach. The silence between you stretches—soft, golden, alive with the echo of everything that came before. Of everything that now lingers.
Minho doesn’t say anything else for a while. He just breathes you in. Lets you trace lazy shapes along his spine. Lets his lips ghost across your skin every now and then, aimless, unthinking. Like he needs the taste of you to fall asleep.
Eventually, you murmur, “You’re not really gonna wear long sleeves, are you?”
He snorts into your chest. “Hell no.”
“Good,” you whisper.
He hums again, content. Almost purring.
Then, after a beat: “Might even go shirtless.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”
“Mmhmm.” His voice is muffled against your skin, low and lazy. “Let ‘em see everything. Let ‘em know I’m taken. Ruined. Whipped.”
You huff a laugh, warm and breathless, chest shifting beneath him. “You’re not whipped,” you tease, even though your heart trips a little at the word. The way he says it like a badge of honor, like something he wants people to know.
Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t even lift his head.
“Babe,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin with every syllable, “I let you suck a bruise into my neck while my dick was still inside you. I think the jury’s in.”
Your face heats instantly. “Oh my god—”
He grins, smug and sleepy and so clearly unrepentant. “Should’ve taken a picture. Hung it behind the bar.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I’m so serious.” He nuzzles into your sternum, exhales a satisfied sigh. “Caption it: Do not touch. Fed and fucked.”
You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “You’re insane.”
He chuckles. “I’m in love.”
The words land softer than they should, but firmer than you'd expect. Not casual—comfortable. Like truth in its final form. And you feel it, all the way down: the weight of his affection, the certainty of it, so tangled up in the ridiculous things he says that it feels like breathing.
You wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer even though there’s nowhere left for him to go. “You’re still insane,” you whisper, lips pressed to his hairline.
“And you’re stuck with me.”
The truth of it rings out between you—not heavy, not sharp. Just there. Simple. Whole. You are. He is.
His fingers drum a slow beat against your ribs. He studies you for a second longer, then tucks himself back in, face hidden against your skin, every inch of him wrapped around you like a shield.
“Go to sleep,” he murmurs, already halfway there. “We can fall in love more tomorrow.”
You close your eyes.
And you do.
It’s been a few weeks.
A few golden, quiet, full-bodied weeks—where everything that once felt fragile now feels real. Whole. Yours.
Minho had asked you properly—booked out the bar for the night, turned the lights low, played your favorite song on vinyl, and gave you a private bartender show complete with one too many shirtless shaker tricks and your name carved into a lemon twist.
He cooked, too. And kissed you between courses. And pulled you into his lap to ask—not casually, not like it was assumed—if you’d be his girlfriend.
You said yes.
Of course you did.
And now you live together. Officially. Your clothes are in his drawers. His toothbrush sits next to yours. He makes you coffee and you fold his laundry and somewhere in the haze of shared spaces and soft kisses, you forgot what it felt like to flinch.
And then it happens fast.
One moment, you’re walking up the block—hands tucked into your sleeves, heart light from the texts Minho sent not even ten minutes ago.
[Minho] : hurry up[Minho] : wear that thing i like
[Minho] : might be drunk by the time you get here if i keep taste-testing the menu
The bar’s glowing ahead, amber light spilling out of the windows like warmth. You’re already rehearsing the way you’ll slip onto a barstool, lean over the counter just far enough for him to grab your waist and kiss you across the spill mat—
You weren’t expecting him.
The ex.
Slurring your name like a threat. Blocking the sidewalk like a curse you thought you’d buried for good.
And for a second, it startles you. Not because you’re afraid—no, not anymore. But because how dare he.
How dare he still think he has access. How dare he act like the time you spent clawing your way out of the wreckage didn’t matter. Like the scars he left didn’t teach you how to fight.
You meet his stare.
Voice steady. “Get out of my way.”
“Oh, now you’ve got a mouth?” he slurs, taking a step forward. “What, dick that good it grew you a backbone?”
You don't flinch.
Not when he leans in, not when he sways close enough for you to smell the sour reek of alcohol clinging to his breath like bile. Not even when his voice drops lower, curling around your name like it still belongs to him.
It doesn't.
"You heard me," you say again, firmer this time. "Move."
But he doesn't. He laughs instead—ugly, mean, mouth curled in that old, familiar smirk that used to make your stomach sink.
Now it just makes you angry.
“You always thought you were better than me,” he sneers, stepping closer, invading your space like he owns it. “Acting like you're some fucking saint now, just ‘cause you got a new dick to suck—”
You move to sidestep him, but his hand shoots out—grabbing your wrist, hard.
Too hard.
You stumble back with a gasp, shoulder slamming into the brick wall of the alley beside the bar. Pain sparks up your arm, sharp and hot where his fingers dig into your skin.
"Let—go of me—"
He doesn't.
His grip tightens.
“Don’t fucking walk away from me—”
And then it happens in a blink.
A blur of dark hair, a sharp crack of movement, and suddenly your ex is off you, shoved back so fast and so hard he nearly falls into the curb. The momentum knocks him sideways, but he catches himself, stumbling back with a curse.
Minho steps between you.
Calm.
Controlled.
Lethal.
Minho’s voice is low. Measured.
“You have until the count of three.”
Your ex scoffs, bloodshot eyes narrowing. “The fuck are you gonna—”
“Three.”
No warning. No buildup.
Just violence.
Minho’s fist slams into his jaw with a sickening crack, the force of it snapping his head sideways. He stumbles—off-balance, stunned—but Minho doesn’t let up. Another punch, straight to the ribs, and you hear the breath leave his lungs in a strangled wheeze.
Your ex hits the ground hard.
But Minho’s not done.
He drops to one knee beside him—precise, deliberate—and grabs his hand.
The hand he used on you.
You freeze, breath caught in your throat.
Because you remember.
“Then I’d take his hand, the one he used on you, and I’d break every fucking finger. One by one. Slow. Make sure he remembered why.”
And now—
Now you watch it unfold in real time.
Minho takes that wrist in both hands, pins it to the pavement, and presses down—hard—until your ex screams.
“No—no, fuck—stop—!”
Minho’s grip doesn’t waver.
He curls his fingers around one of your ex’s.
“First one,” he mutters—almost gently. Like he’s naming something, not destroying it.
Then he bends.
The crack is sharp, grotesque. It splits the air like a firework misfired—brief and brutal and final.
Your ex howls, voice cracking as he thrashes beneath Minho’s knee, but it doesn’t matter. Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.
Just shifts to the next finger.
“Second.”
Another break. Another scream.
You don’t look away.
You should—maybe. A part of you knows that. But the rest of you, the part that remembers—remembers shaking hands, bruised ribs, the way your ex used to whisper apologies into your hair while you cried onto the bathroom tile—that part of you watches.
And breathes.
Minho leans closer.
Not loud. Not unhinged. Just cold.
“Third.”
Crack.
Your ex is crying now. Tears, snot, spit—he’s babbling nonsense, slurring pleads that dissolve into whimpers.
“Stop—please—I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean—”
Minho grabs the fourth finger. “You meant it every time.”
“Fourth,” he says, and the word falls like a guillotine.
He pulls.
The snap is quieter this time—deeper, more internal. A tendon giving way. A joint yanked cruelly from its socket. Your ex lets out a broken sound, not quite a scream anymore. Not loud. Just raw. Hollow. The kind of sound a man makes when he realizes no one’s coming to save him.
Minho still hasn’t raised his voice.
Hasn’t needed to.
Because this isn’t rage. It isn’t revenge.
It’s justice.
Delivered slow. Delivered steady. Delivered by the man who saw every crack in you and loved you anyway—especially because you survived them.
Minho shifts again.
“Fifth.”
“No,” your ex gasps, eyes rolling, lips slick with blood from where he must’ve bitten through them. “No—no more, I—please, please, I—”
But Minho’s hand is already there, curling around that last finger like a closing grave.
And this time, he doesn’t say anything.
He just looks at him—right in the eyes. Like he wants this to be the last thing your ex ever remembers when he reaches for something in the dark.
Then he snaps it clean.
The sound is sickening.
The scream is hoarse. Shredded. Barely human.
“Touch her again,” Minho murmurs, bending the wrist back until the guy writhes, “and I’ll break your fucking spine next.”
And finally—finally—Minho lets go.
He rises slowly, like he’s not rushing to leave the wreckage behind, like he wants your ex to feel every second of what it means to be beneath him. A shadow cast by justice. A reminder that some hands don’t heal—they answer.
He turns to you.
And all of it—the sharpness, the stillness, the steel in his spine—it bleeds away when his eyes meet yours.
He sees the shock there, the tremble hiding in your shoulders.
And he moves to you—not with fire this time, but with the same careful quiet he always gives you after storms. Hands gentle. Expression softer now, but no less certain.
“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek.
You nod—but it’s shallow. Fragile.
So he cups your face in both hands, grounding you.
“Look at me,” he says. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.”
genre: smut, fluff-ish, neighbours au, friends with benefits
summary: You accidentally walk in on your neighbour having sex with his boyfriend. The boyfriend has an interesting suggestion.
wc: 66.7k and counting
a/n: features a soft-bodied, aromantic reader who uses she/her pronouns
warnings: hard / soft dom San (smth smth duality), bratty sub Wooyoung, sub reader, but everyone is a switch to some degree, communication about boundaries (sexual and non-sexual), established Woosan, eventual queerplatonic relationship, so so so much smut -> sexual content in every chapter (except pt 9)
a comprehensive list of smut warnings can be found at the bottom of this post bc there are so many pls send help, and each chapter has their own specific warnings as well
chapter 1: in which Wooyoung has a suggestion
2.4k
chapter 2: in which Wooyoung escalates things (again)
7.4k
chapter 3: in which Wooyoung earns himself some pussy
8.0k
chapter 4: in which Hongjoong checks up on you
9.5k
chapter 5: in which San gives you a call
7.9k
chapter 6: in which teamwork makes the dream work
8.1k
chapter 7: in which you and San buy groceries
5.7k
chapter 8: in which San trusts you with something dear to him
10k
chapter 9: in which Wooyoung breaks a rule
7.7k
chapter 10: in which you are the filling in a Woosan sandwich or smth like that; the writer will think of a better title later hopefully ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
TBA
chapter 11: in which you take care of San
TBA
chapter 12: in which Wooyoung is a bad influence
TBA
chapter 13: in which Wooyoung yet again escalates things
TBA
chapter 14: in which you top a babygirl (Wooyoung. It’s Wooyoung.)
TBA
smut warnings: threesomes, voyeurism / exhibitionism (first time accidental), degradation kink (Woo), praise kink (reader/San), degradation as praise, vaginal / anal sex & fingering, condomless sex with IUD, creampie, sloppy seconds, dirty talk, finger sucking, (guided) masturbation, cunnilingus, blow jobs, hand jobs, spanking, body worship, cumplay, cum shots, face sitting, frottage, rough sex, BDSM, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, edging, orgasm denial, dacryphilia, nipple play, pain kink, spit kink, hair pulling (not @ reader), rimming, felching, choking, bondage / shibari, sex toys, brat taming, dumbification, objectification, biting / marking, squirting, pussy spank, phone sex, nudes, sex tapes, spitroast, dry humping, cumming in pants, thigh-riding, titty fuck, blindfolds, double penetration (vaginal & vaginal / anal), subspace, facial, pegging, aftercare, dom drop (once), safe words, pet names (‘sweet / good girl’ & ‘baby’ are used for reader)
more warnings might get added: the whole fic and all smut is outlined, but i could get hit with inspiration (or forgot something)
Summ: after having surprised your boyfriends on their vacation trip, an unexpected situation happens when you least expect it, hopefully, Yoongi does not care and is eager to help.
Warning: sex while menstruating, unprotected sex (be safe guys) somno (consent is key) poly relationship, reader is horny af and I blame it on her period.
Word count : 14k (sorry again 😖)
a/n: So, hi again, I'm posting this drabble since I'm working on my the In the soop series, and its taking me more than expected, so I hope this keeps you anticipating, I appreciate good feedback, but remember, be constructive not destructive <3
It was one of the greatest questions of mankind.
To be or not to be?
Was it the chicken or the egg first?
Would it be a good idea to have sex while having your period?
It wasn't for sure a daily question, because from the time you became aware of that bizarre process of your body and mind, you also became aware of the reactions to it.
From your alarmed teenage brother "You're bleeding to death!" at the sight of a stain on your pajama pants, to years later, the "Ew, but it's blood" from your first boyfriend.
Yes, it was blood.
Blood like the kind that covered almost every damn movie of the resident evil saga that both your first boyfriend and your brother watched with enthusiasm.
But no, it was yours that one who made them cringe.
You sighed letting your arms fall to either side on the mattress. It had been a week since you arrived to the mountains where your boyfriends where filming their much needed vacation. Your period arrived unexpectedly and you really never had that conversation, you just assumed that there was no sex during menstruation, since most guys didn't like it, so you never asked your current partners about it.
What was the problem now? Well, you had been as horny as a cat in heat for almost 4 days.
And of course, your boyfriends weren't much help, specially the cute motherfucker sleeping next to you.
You turned your head slightly on the pillow to look at that dangerous little bastard. He could easily look like an angel, with his sweet features, almost feminine in how fine they were.
But Min Yoongi was cruel.
When he pretended not to notice the effect his distracted glances, pouts or slight smiles had on you.
Yoongi was surrounded by that fake indifference that could have you kicking on the floor for his attention and the most you'd get was a lazy look and a "Behave, you idiot."
That's how adorable Min Yoongi was..
But let's rewind a little and see how it all started...
You met him by mistake, and a mistake that brought to you the best years of your life, you were only 18 when you moved to Korea and decided to apply for a job as a makeup artist, you were part of a company who later got absorbed by the Bighit company, so you forcefully had to see them, despite not being a fan of the mainstream kpop groups, you decided to give it a chance. Of course you got along pretty fast, being the youngest made it easier for you. Everything happened so fast, it was the youngest of them, Jungkook who decided to risk it all and shoot his shot, inviting you to dinner, of course you couldn't deny, it was a friend after all, but again, you couldn't deny your feelings, feelings you though you didn't have.
So long story short, you started dating Jungkook, and after a few months, it happened. You were at the company late at night, working there for a long time brought you more responsibilities, now you were part of the creative team and you had more work to do, so essentially, you needed to be there to get work done. That night, you happened to be walking around the guys studios, and the sweet sound of a melody caught your ear, it was Yoongi's piano, it was so late and you were so tired, you couldn't help but get close to hear. His door was opened, which was weird since it never was, you apologized for interrupting but surprisingly he asked you to enter, another weird thing since you were almost sure he didn't like you, he was just so cold and quiet around you, so you never really approached him properly.
—You should be home, what are you doing here?
He asked looking almost annoyed by your presence.
—I have work to do, I want to finish as much as possible, I didn't want to interrupt, I just heard the melody and couldn't help but get close I'll go now, in sorry...
You turned back to the door but his hand on your wrist stopped you, he dragged you and made you sit on the small bench.
He sad beside you and began to play, you were speechless, of course you were aware of the talent he had, and it was mesmerizing for you to hear him play and rap. Again, it all happened so fast yet you remember everything single thing as it was yesterday, he was playing and looked almost irreal, you were dating Jungkook, so you didn't know why those thoughts were appearing, you didn't notice the way he was looking at you, neither how close he was getting, one thing lead to another and when you least expected it, he kissed you, he closed the distance between you two and pressed his lips against yours, what where you doing?...
Tht night, you left without saying a word, feeling like a traitor for doing Jungkook so wrong, it was months later, when you found out, it was Jungkook's idea for that to happen, at first, you were angry because of how that made you feel, but later, you realized how if that didn't happen you wouldn't be where you are today.
And speaking of today... The memories of all those shared kisses between the two of you weren't helping your actual state.
You sighed remembering all that and couldn't help but think back to your first time with him.
Oh, that didn't improve your condition.
You sighed turning over in bed while Yoongi mumbled something in his sleep.
You pouted as you watched his sleepy face. His straight dark hair falling over his forehead. That perfect curve of his eyes, the adorable childlike shape of his little face, his small, pink lips hiding the sweetest smile you'd ever seen. And you couldn't help but lean in to kiss him softly. His eyelids twitched and you thought he would wake up, but soon his body relaxed back into deep sleep.
You should leave him alone.
Your failed again as you slowly pulled the comforter away from his body and lowered yourself to rest your head on his stomach. You smiled as you felt his belly rise and fall to the sound of his quiet breathing and then decided that Yoongi was too sexy to sleep in peace that morning.
Your hand descended to his gray sweatpants (which he had bought to sleep in because Yoongi hated to play sports and only did it in very specific situations) toward his crotch area. Your fingers ran along the fabric of the pants and you raised an eyebrow as you felt the hardness of dick beneath it. You bit your lower lip as your fingers molded to the shape of it and began to stroke gently moving your hand up and down.
A soft moan came from Yoongi's mouth and you laughed softly watching him sigh at the pleasant sensation. He was awake, but the sleepy smile he had on gave you the green light to play alone for the moment.
You licked your lips, stopping your hand movement to pull the pants down. You knew perfectly well that Yoongi only wore underwear when strictly necessary, so you weren't surprised that he wasn't wearing them.
His morning wood popped free, flopping onto his stomach. Your fingers grasped it again, this time feeling the warmth of his skin and you continued to stroke. The tip had a lovely dark pink color that was gradually fading as it moved down Yoongi's off-white colored shaft. That pale hue made the veins mark bluish under his skin and you loved it.
You were caressing in rapt fascination as if you were looking at a work of art by Renoir himself, but no, you were talking about Yoongi's dick.
You leaned in slowly, still stroking until your lips were pressed to the underside of his penis, almost at the end of the shaft and you kissed slowly, making sure they were tongue kisses. You moved up slowly, going all the way up the shaft and looked up to find Yoongi with his eyes fixed on you.
—Oh, keep going, pretend I'm not here.
He said, raising an eyebrow.
—I see you two are getting along really well.
You laughed softly, shook your head and watched his smile appear.
Every time he smiled, you wanted to eat it up.
No, not his smile.
You parted your lips to press the tip into them and Yoongi held his breath, hissing through his teeth. His knees bent a little and you repositioned yourself between his now spread legs to give you better access. You closed your eyes and decided to lose yourself in Yoongi's delicious salty taste, your head bobbing up and down in a slow but intense rhythm. That low sound coming from Yoongi's throat was extra motivation and every time he moaned it was a small victory for you. His fingers buried themselves in your hair, caressing it lovingly as you sucked, licked and kissed his erection passionately. You pulled it out of your mouth, never taking your eyes off Yoongi and with a smile, descended until your tongue caressed one of his testicles. Yoongi moaned throwing his head back on the pillow and you continued to lick and play with your tongue on his testicles while your hand masturbated his hard and now wet member by your saliva and his pre-seminal fluid.
—Fuck . He gasped, gritting his teeth
—What's wrong with you this morning?
You laughed softly, clearing your mouth so you could answer.
— I don't know, maybe it's my period.
You rested your hand on the mattress and with the other you grabbed his erection from the base to keep it still while you licked the tip briefly.
—My hormones are a bit altered...
You put the tip in your mouth listening to Yoongi's moan and resumed the rhythm by licking and sucking the sensitive head of his erection for about twenty seconds before pulling away for a few seconds and putting it back in your mouth, this time with the intention of seeing how deep you could take in his member.
You felt his whole body tense up at your attempt and his fingers tighten in your hair as your stubbornness ended up causing you to gag and you had to pull away coughing with tears in your eyes.
Mental note: Don't try to do everything you see in porn.
—Are you okay?
Yoongi sat up with a jump, leaning over you to check you weren't dying while you caught your breath.
Wow, nothing was as sexy as watching you struggle to keep from drowning like a trout out of water. You thought sarcastically.
—Better?
—Yes... yes.
—Good.
Your body was suddenly in the air for a few seconds before hitting the mattress so hard that you bounced off and it took you a few seconds to understand that it was Yoongi who had literally thrown you against him.
His mouth pressed against yours aggressively as he positioned himself on top of you and his lips moved down your neck as his hands kneaded your breasts on top of your clothes shamelessly.
—Yoongi...
you gasped, unable to help but find it difficult to speak while he was touching you like that. You heard a "huh" in your neck and your breath cut off as you felt his erection on your stomach.
— I...I got my period and....
He pulled away and you guessed he had forgotten that detail, with the way he was trying to fuck you.
—Is it because it hurts?
He said, looking at you.
—Ehmm...What?
—Singing in C major...
He rolled his eyes, looking almost annoyed
—C'mon, you know what I mean , what else would it be, doing it on your period.
You blinked in confusion.
—No... well, yes. I don't know. I've never done it. How should I know?
Yoongi frowned looking even more confused than you.
—What do you mean, you've never...? I thought you didn't want to do it because it hurt!
—What!? No! It was because men don't want to...you know, when the battlefield is all... bloody....
—What the fuck are you talking about?
Yoongi looked at you as if you were saying the Earth was flat, between a mixture of bewilderment and "you're a dumb ass". You loved him even when he used that expression.
—You know what? You can explain it to me later, I don't have the time right now.
You opened your eyes wide, parting your lips to ask him to wait but he didn't give you time to react. Your pants came down along with your panties and you were afraid to imagine what it would be like down there but you couldn't focus on the fear much longer because Yoongi had already penetrated you.
Then you realized that sound came out of your mouth.
You squealed.
Yoongi stood still and you could see the tension in his face when he didn't know how to interpret your scream.
—Are you...?
—FUCK YES.
A small chuckle of relief escaped him and his hands went to your hips clutching them in place to stop you moving and he began to set a slow but steady rhythm, starting softly.
You closed your eyes, whimpering his name, in pleasure. You couldn't quite explain what was happening but it was as if your sensitivity had increased threefold and you could feel even the texture of Yoongi's veins as he penetrated you.
Fuck, it was as if your vagina was so awake that all it needed to do was talk.
Your body squirmed as you moaned so loudly that someone in the building would probably have woken up because of you.
You couldn't have cared less though.
Yoongi's hands rested on either side of your head and he lowered himself until his face was inches from yours. You thought he wanted to kiss you, so you raised your head towards him but one of his hands clutched your jaw with some roughness, while the intensity of his eyes burned you.
—Don't you ever ask me again, let alone assume that anything about you or your body disgusts me, do you understand?
The grip on your jaw tightened to borderline painful and you loved it. You moaned softly closing your eyes as the rhythm of his hips continued and nodded weakly.
—Good, now turn around so I can fuck you properly.
You gasped as he released your face, so hard that your head fell back on the pillow and you hurried to sit up to follow his orders as soon as he was out of you.
As you did so, you caught the image of him naked, his firm erection stained red and his eyes full of desire. Something inside you grew warmer with that image. He didn't care.
He doesn't care.
You turned around, positioning yourself on your hands and knees and soon felt Yoongi lining up at your entrance to thrust inside you.
From then on there was no coherent thought. One of his hands gripped your hips, the other gathered your hair into a ponytail which he pulled frequently as he fucked you fast and hard from behind.
You whimpered, pleaded, moaned and screamed, but nothing seemed to arouse Yoongi's pity.
Until it was too much.
You cum like you could never remember before in your life and you were sure it might as well have been a micro faint when you fell onto the mattress. Yoongi carefully pulled out of you and ordered you not to move for a few seconds, until you felt the warm thickness of his cum fall on your back and ass. You heard his gasps as he patiently stroked himself, spilling every last drop on you.
Once he was done, he collapsed beside you on the mattress and looked down at you with a smile before moving in to kiss your lips sweetly.
You felt a warmth in your chest. Maybe it was your hormones making you too sentimental (among other things) or maybe it was the realization that Yoongi loved your body and your nature as a woman so much that your femininity was not a restriction to him.
You were always complaining that it wasn't, but the truth was that Yoongi was so romantic.
—a hundred and thirty five.
You furrowed your brow without understanding what he meant.
—Wh-what?
—On average, one fuck a day, during the four days of your menstruation, multiplied by the years we've been together. That's a hundred and thirty five fucks you owe me.
Okay, you might as well leave it at that Yoongi had his own unique way of being romantic.
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Warning: y/s is a crybaby, she's jealous and it shows, Yoongi is sorry but won't have it, aside from that, this is fluffy comfort and words of love. Choking, just a little bit, suggestive thoughts and that's it i think.
Summ: Being in a secret relationship with "the" band of the moment was by far an odyssey, it was not a secret how jealous you could get sometimes, and they would do things on purpose to make you mad, even when you tried not to show it, however not feeling quite good that specific day had an effect on you, and seeing you boyfriends have a little too much fun with 'that' girl made you lose it.
Word count : 13k(msorry)
Date: April, 19 2022
a/n: Right, I'm posting this as a first story, i had this in my drafts for so long I just needed to throw it out. I don't remember the time i wrote so it might not be that good, but i don't wanna loose it so il leave it here. i usually post nsfw but i wanted to start soft and I'll eventually show the dark side of this lol. I appreciate a good feedback, so do not hesitate, also be constructive not destructive.
The headache I had was becoming unbearable, I had been assigned to cover for a stylist who had called in sick, and of course, the staff was not going to risk the members by keeping a sick hairstylist. It was these moments that reminded me why I only worked in the music area and not as a stylist or makeup artist, of course I was capable to do it, but my patience was not so much under pressure, so once we had finished, I didn't hesitate to throw myself on the couch in the dressing room, my head was throbbing and my mood was going downhill. Several minutes had already passed and on the monitoring screen I could see how the guys were having fun and laughing in that interview. I got distracted for a moment and when I turned to see the screen again, I saw the girl who had been causing so much controversy but so much joy for the BTS fans, Halsey.
So, great, Halsey was there, as a surprise I guess, I couldn't hold back the smile that adorned my lips, I liked seeing them like that, genuinely happy, and Halsey was a good person, at least as far as I had known her, I was never a big fan of her music, but she seemed to get along with them, so it was all good.
The minutes passed and I was starting to get irritated with the way they were looking at her, although I wasn't going to deny my jealousy, I've always tried to stay out of it and not get carried away with my thoughts, however, the headache and my mood seemed to say otherwise and my annoyance only increased. My eyes wouldn't leave Jimin, who seemed quite comfortable being almost on top of her.
Can't they give her her own microphone?
Ugh, I wanted to stop watching them, it was starting to annoy me too much, I tried to calm down but couldn't, their bracelets, their matching outfits, ah, and what was that? Perfect mentioned Yoongi, of course, perfect.
I felt my blood boiling, so i decided to get up and go to the car, I knew it was the last interview of the day, so I went to manager Sejin and asked him if I could go to the car, he clearly noticed my state and as always in his concern, he asked if everything was ok.
"I am, there is nothing to worry about, you know how much these interviews stress me out, I just need to rest." Sejin narrowed his eyes without believing much in my words but he let me go, I mentally thanked him for not asking more questions, while I was gathering my things I could hear the commotion that the guys were making as they came back, I tried to do it as fast as possible so I could escape, but it was impossible.
I watched as they entered one by one, I frowned when I noticed that Namjoon was not there, but seconds later I saw him enter the dressing room together with Halsey, wonderful, just what I needed...
She saw me and smiled broadly, something that only made me feel terrible.
"y/n!!! What a surprise, I haven't seen you in a while, I'm so glad you're here." Without thinking about it, Halsey came closer and wrapped me in a tight hug, kissed my cheek and smiled even wider than before. "I was just asking Joon about you, it's good that you are accompanying him in these things, it can get tedious and it's great to have someone to take you out of the routine even for a moment, isn't it Joonie?"
Joonie?
The audacity of this woman, I restrained the urge to roll my eyes, and it seemed that Namjoon noticed it, since I got a glimpse of the way his frown was furrowing, I tried to put on my best smile and cleared my throat to be able to answer, at this point, the rest of the guys seemed to be very interested in what I had to say.
" Yes, it's so good seeing you too, I'm glad to hear that your collaboration is going in the best direction. I listened to it and well, you have a beautiful voice that suits it amazingly." While my words were genuine, the following was clearly a very direct dig at the seven who seemed pleased with my response.
"I mean, the guys have already told you how perfect and wonderful you are, I guess I have nothing more to say after such praise, I don't blame them, they are absolutely right." The smile on her face told me that she definitely had no idea about the reality of things, while looking at the guys, I could tell the hint of surprise and confusion at what I had said.
"Now, I really hate to say goodbye, but there's a car waiting for me, it was nice to see you, i hope to see you in the future, and congrats on the song. I'm sure it will go great." Without further ado, I gave her a short hug, grabbed my stuff and headed to the door. Of course the guys were even more confused, and I was more irritated than ever.
As soon as I was home I didn't hesitate to rush to the shower, wanting to scrub the stress out of me with soap. Once ready, I changed into my most comfortable pajamas and jumped into bed.
My head still felt like it was about to explode, and it definitely got worse when I heard the sound of the door opening. I think it was the first time in 7 years of our relationship that I hated hearing the sound of the door opening.
I tried to pretend to fall asleep while the noise increased, a few seconds passed, and I noticed how suddenly silence was the only thing that filled the place. Just when I was about to get up, the door to my room opened, and a black-haired man peeked his head out looking for a sign to enter.
"Noona? Can I come in?" Jungkook, it was more than obvious that they would send Jungkook to check that everything was okay.
"Yes, you can come in" my voice sounded muffled and somewhat irritated, which made jungkook frown.
I watched as he closed the door to my room and approached the bed. I looked at him from where I stood and couldn't help but sigh as I noticed the youngest of the seven, he was still in the same clothes from the interview but no makeup or shoes. He smiled at me and didn't hesitate to climb onto the bed, his hands traveled to my waist and in a second he pulled me to him, squeezing me and clinging me to his chest. I couldn't help the sigh that left my lips the moment I felt him close, my arms moved on their own and wrapped around him tightly, hugging him as if I was afraid he was going to disappear.
"What's wrong, Noona? You left without even saying goodbye, do you feel sick? Do you need me to call the doctor?" I quickly denied all his words, instead I hugged him tightly, feeling my eyes start to sting, which only indicated one thing, crying.
Jungkook pulled me away from him and cradled my face in his hands, concern filling his face.
"Baby, please tell me what's wrong, I hate seeing you like this, please." His words made my heart flutter, I knew that they all worried about me, and Jungkook had always made it clear, it was endearing.
"I'm just stressed and tired, I'm exaggerating, don't mind me." I grunted and lifted my face showing that all traces of crying were gone. He smiled, caressed my cheeks and moved closer to meet his lips with mine, I sighed and didn't hesitate to reciprocate, I loved the taste of his lips against mine, his hands traveled to my waist once again and he squeezed me gently, making me gasp slightly at the sensation.
He pulled away as he let out a light chuckle, which made me blush in a second.
"Cute" he murmured before leaving a small peck on my lips. "I'm sorry the hyungs made you feel bad, you know we all love you the same way and there's nothing or no one that will make us change our minds."
His words took me by surprise, making me lower my gaze for a moment in sorrow. I bit my lower lip and did not hesitate to hug him once again. I was so lost in his arms that I didn't notice the door opening once more, until I felt the bed slightly undulating next to me, clearly on the side where Jungkook was not. I pulled away from him slightly and turned my face to see Namjoon sitting there looking at me with a pout, yoongi and Jimin were also there, while hoseok, taehyung and jin were standing at the foot of the bed.
"We are truly sorry, you know we love you more than anyone else, and there is no one who can replace you." This time Jimin spoke softly, a slight pout on his lips and seemed to want to get closer, but he looked hesitant. The rest of the boys looked almost desperate, looking for an answer from me, anything to tell them that everything was okay.
I bit my lips and didn't know what to say, as I was quite embarrassed, Halsey had a boyfriend and her relationship with the boys was evidently professional and work related, of course, they were friends, but only that. I turned to Jungkook and hugged him tightly, hiding my face in his chest, which made him giggle. He didn't hesitate to put his arms around me and leave a kiss in my hair.
"She is clearly annoyed with you, I was clearly interested in snacks, losers." Jungkook laughed and as soon as he stopped I felt a pair of hands grabbing me from behind.
A gasp escaped my lips, and when I realized, Namjoon was pulling me to him, leaving me on his lap, which only made my face turn into all shades of red.
"Baby...Please don't be upset, I'm really sorry, you know it's all business, I never meant to make you feel bad." His words came out almost in a whisper, and of course, he was right, I was overreacting because of my annoyance and irritation.
"She called you Joonie" an unconscious pout appeared on my lips making the dimpled man laugh, and I swear I could hear the others let out slight giggles.
"You know I'm yours, baby, only yours, no need to feel jealous." His hands traveled to my face to caress it gently. Having the rest of the guys there, made it all quite familiar, being all together in my room, me on Joon's lap, yes, it was definitely all quite familiar, although the context was quite different, if you know what I mean....
Anyway, my thoughts were starting to consume me wandering way too far from what was happening, memories of other occasions filled me and I couldn't contain myself from biting my lips. Of course Namjoon noticed. He always does, as a low chuckle came out of his mouth making me feel almost like floating, one of his hands caressed my face while the other one went down to my waist.
"What are you thinking of, love? That mind of yours flies so fast, care to share?"
He murmured In a low tone that always made my knees weak and my head fuzzy.
"Hyung, you are making her blush too much, let us at least say something too" it was Taehyung who came closer to pull me into his arms, without waiting he started to fill my face with kisses as well as apologies for making me feel bad.
"Jagi, you know we love you, I love you the most but that's a different conversation, please forgive us."
Well, it was definitely a hard image to resist, just when I was about to say something I heard several grumbles from the others, who were complaining at taehyung's words.
"Yah, you don't love her more than us, brat" said Jin, coming closer to stand near me, as well as Yoongi and Hoseok who looked amused at the situation.
"I'm sorry I reacted like that, I was irritated and tired, but you know I didn't mean it, I love you guys it won't happen again." At this I felt how more arms tried to wrap around me without really succeeding, I noticed how Yoongi stayed behind, looking at everything with a smile. It seemed like Jungkook noticed it, so he threw a pillow at the older one while laughing.
"Yah, Hyung, aren't you going to hug her? I think she was most upset with you when she saw us in the dressing room." Said Jungkook while still laughing lightly, making Yoongi blush, something that didn't go unnoticed by anyone in the room. The aforementioned scratched the back of his neck, not really knowing what to do, Hoseok left a space next to him and pulled his hand to bring him closer to the bunch of bodies on my bed.
"Don't be shy hyungnim, it's been almost 8 years, get over it already." With that comment, Hoseok got a kick from Yoongi and laughter from the other five in the room. Yoongi reached over and grabbed my face to close the distance and kiss my lips, which I didn't expect. Yoongi was usually reserved when it came to affection, so it was a bit of a surprise when he kissed me. His hands roamed over my waist and torso. It was looking all innocent, until his hand wrapped around my neck with some strength, my eyes went big and of course, my face turned red. He looked at me with some intensity and something else I couldn't describe, as he came closer to my face, I could hear how my other boyfriends were whispering God knows what.
"I don't want to hear again that you are jealous, I don't want to take other actions, although I'm sure you wouldn't mind those." He smiled and oh god, it was that smile that made me turn into a quivering mess. I wanted to say something but I was way too focused on him to even do something. "I need you to understand that you are ours, and if you're ours there is no human force that will manage to make us stop loving you, so quit it, or we'll show you how it is."
A quite high moan escaped from my lips,it was now a different atmosphere, before I knew it, hands were once again trailing all over my body, they were soft but it was a matter of time for them to turn into something else.
So, this is the first time i post something here, i usually only read, bit my AO3 got deleted for some reason, so i might be posting my stories here, the tags are about what i write, so if anyone is interested in reading my stuff I would love to know
