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Tags: smut, enemies to lovers, sexting, nudes, public groping, size kink, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), Dom Changbin, rough sex, breeding kink, soft aftercare
Word count: 4.7k
Summary: A drunk dare. One obscene nude you should’ve deleted months ago. You send it to the loudmouth classmate you hate most—Changbin. What you don’t expect? His filthy response. Or how fast it spirals into late-night thirst traps, voice notes, and him promising to fuck you so good you won’t be able to walk.
This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!
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You didn’t even want to go out that night.
It had been one of those weeks—back-to-back deadlines, sleepless nights, and that argument with Changbin during Tuesday’s group presentation that had left you pacing your room afterward, teeth clenched, cheeks hot.
He was too much.
Too loud. Too confident. Too all over the place.
Every class, every group chat, every hallway you tried to exist in—he was there. Smirking. Teasing. Rolling his eyes at your notes, talking over you during discussions, always finding ways to get under your skin like it was a personal hobby.
But your girls had insisted. “You need a break. You need tequila.”
So you’d gone.
Lip gloss, crop top, shots lined up like soldiers.
By midnight, the living room was a haze of heat and laughter. Someone had started a game of truth or dare with twisted rules. Everyone was half-drunk and full of bad ideas.
You should’ve seen it coming. The moment your turn came and the bottle pointed at you, a few smirks lit up around the circle like a warning.
“Okay,” Layla grinned, “truth or dare?”
You hesitated. Truth was safe. Predictable. But everyone had been choosing it all night, and you’d mocked them for it. Now it was your turn to be bold.
“Dare.”
Layla didn’t hesitate.
“Send a nude to Seo Changbin… or run a full lap around the football field naked. With a suction dildo stuck to your forehead.”
The room howled.
Someone immediately got up to rummage in a drawer. “I have the dildo!”
Your stomach dropped.
You tried to laugh it off, eyes wide. “Are you fucking insane?”
“You’ve got beef with him, right?” someone snorted.
“This is perfect.”
“You’re always bickering, it’ll shake him up.”
It wasn’t the nudity that scared you. It wasn’t even Changbin.
It was what was already in your camera roll.
A photo you’d taken months ago during a particularly filthy night, when you were feeling reckless and painfully needy. The lights had been low, your skin warm, your thoughts wicked. You’d spread yourself wide open on the sheets, wet and glistening, lips parted, your own fingers pulling at your skin. Your face was in it. Your expression ruined.
You had stared at it afterward, thinking: This is too much. No one can ever see this.
But you hadn’t deleted it.
And now… your hand hovered over it. Over the send button. The whole room was watching you, waiting.
You felt drunk. Braver than you should’ve been.
So you said, too calmly, “Fine.”
And tapped send.
It only took thirty seconds for regret to sink in like poison.
What had you just done?
He was going to lose his mind. Or worse, not react at all. He could ruin you. Show people. Mock you in class. Bring it up next time you tried to speak during a lecture.
You curled into the couch, face hot, eyes burning from the alcohol and the humiliation chewing through your stomach. Your phone buzzed once.
Then twice.
You turned it over.
Changbin 💢:
Did you mean to send that?
You stared at your phone like it had grown teeth.
Your thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Every possible answer felt wrong. You almost typed “ignore it”, but deleted it. Then you typed:
“It was a dare. Just forget it.”
Another ping.
Changbin 💢:
That’s not the kind of photo you send as a dare.
You swallowed.
Your face was burning. All the background noise in the living room—the music, the laughter, the clinking glasses—faded to a soft murmur. The heat of the dare was starting to wear off, replaced by a sick rush of adrenaline and humiliation.
Changbin 💢:
Jesus fucking Christ.
I… I didn’t know you looked like that.
You’ve been walking around class with that between your legs?
You tightened your thighs instinctively.
You typed:
“It was a stupid dare. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
But he wasn’t letting it go.
Changbin 💢:
You already had that pic?
That wasn’t a selfie. That was planned.
You took that for someone. You were gonna send it eventually.
You bit your lip.
“It’s old. I never sent it to anyone.”
Changbin 💢:
That makes it worse.
You paused.
“Why?”
Changbin 💢:
Because I’ve never wanted to fuck someone I hate more than I do right now.
You looked so good. So fucking wet. Like you needed someone to take care of it.
You blinked.
Your stomach flipped. The burn between your legs sharpened. You weren’t sure if it was arousal or pure nerves—probably both.
“This is insane.”
“You’re insane.”
“You’re still the asshole who makes me want to throw things in class.”
You deleted it all.
Instead:
“You’ve seen it now. Can you just forget it?”
The reply came back instantly.
Changbin 💢:
No fucking way.
Changbin 💢:
You’re seriously gonna act like you didn’t send that on purpose? Like you don’t want me thinking about it?
Changbin 💢:
You want me hard for you, don’t you?
“No.” “Fuck off.” “Stop.”
You didn’t send any of those.
“You’re full of yourself.”
Changbin 💢:
Nah, princess. You’re the one dripping in that pic, not me.
You closed your eyes.
He was unraveling you.
The way he talked in person was always irritating—too loud, too smug. But here? In text? At 1:03 a.m.?
He was… different. Sharper. Controlled. Bold in a way that went straight to your core.
“You’re lucky I’m drunk.”
Changbin 💢:
You think I need you drunk for this?
I’d still be hard for you even if we were sober in the library.
You bit back a noise.
Your thighs rubbed together involuntarily.
Changbin 💢:
You want me to send something back? Would that make it fair? Even the score?
Your fingers twitched.
“You’re bluffing.”
Changbin 💢:
Try me.
Your pulse quickened.
“You’re not actually going to—”
Ping.
The photo loaded slowly.
Dark sweatpants. No shirt. His abs were tight, skin glowing with a warm amber sheen like he’d taken the pic right after a workout. His hand tugged the waistband down low, and the bulge beneath was unmistakable—huge, thick, pressed to the fabric like it was dying to be freed.
You inhaled, sharp.
The outline of his cock was ridiculous. Heavy. Thick at the base, curving up. The tip clearly outlined. The kind of size that made your body react before your brain caught up.
And his caption?
Changbin 💢:
Now you can imagine what’s gonna fill you the next time you talk back in class.
You didn’t realize your mouth had gone dry until you swallowed hard.
Someone from the living room called your name. “Babe! Your turn!”
“I’ll be right back,” you called, voice strained.
You grabbed your phone, pushed off the couch, and disappeared into the hallway. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere you could breathe.
And think.
And maybe—just maybe—look again.
Because for the first time since you’d met him, you weren’t sure if you hated him… or if you just didn’t know what to do with how badly you suddenly wanted him.
—
You thought you could outlast the tension.
After the photo he sent—the dick print, the way it looked too big to even be real, the caption that made your thighs clench—you told yourself it was just late-night chaos. That once the sun came up, you could pretend it hadn’t happened.
You left him on read.
Muted the conversation.
Avoided every look in class, kept your expression cold, distant.
But Changbin?
He was different now.
Quieter. Sharper. Dangerous.
He still joked with the guys. Still sat in the same row as always. But whenever your eyes flicked up, he was watching you—really watching. Like he could still see that photo of you spread open and dripping every time you bit your lip or crossed your legs.
And when your professor assigned a partner project and called out his name alongside yours?
You knew it was over.
Later that afternoon, the library was quiet. Too quiet. The air between you was thick with something unsaid as you stood beside where he sat, laptops open, pretending to focus.
You tried not to look at him.
Tried not to remember the outline of his cock stretching grey fabric. The way he’d said “what’s gonna fill you next time you talk back in class.”
Your body hadn’t forgotten.
You’d touched yourself to that image more times than you were ready to admit.
“You’ve been quiet,” he murmured, eyes on the screen.
You didn’t look at him. “I’m working.”
“Right.”
“That’s what you were doing the other night too, huh? Working?”
You stiffened.
“I didn’t take you for the type to keep that kind of photo in your phone. Or was it just waiting for someone better to see it?”
You finally turned. “Are you done?”
He leaned back slightly in his chair, smirking—but something darker hid behind his eyes. He leaned in towards you, low and quiet.
“No. Not even close.”
You didn’t notice when he stood. But you did feel it when he moved behind you.
At first, it was just his hand brushing your shoulder as he leaned to peek at your screen.
Then he didn’t move away.
Instead, you felt the heavy press of his chest behind you. His palm slid slowly—casually—over your back. Lower. Resting at the curve of your waist.
And then he shifted—just slightly—and you felt it.
The unmistakable weight of him.
Hard. Thick. Pressed right up against your ass.
Your breath hitched.
“Miss me?” he whispered.
Your cheeks burned. “You’re disgusting.”
“Am I?”
“Because this…” his hand flattened against your hip, pulling you subtly back into his body, into his cock—“says otherwise.”
You should’ve shoved him.
Should’ve snapped, slapped, screamed.
But your body betrayed you.
Your thighs clenched. Your breathing went shallow.
And when his fingers brushed the hem of your skirt, you didn’t move away.
If anything—you leaned back.
“You liked it,” he murmured, lips just behind your ear.
“You liked knowing I saw you like that. That I wanted to fuck you from the second that photo lit up my screen.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“You keep saying that,” he murmured, voice dropping lower, hungrier. “But your body doesn’t agree.”
His hand slid lower, palm resting on your ass now—really grabbing, squeezing, like it was his already. He rutted against you once, slow, just enough to let you feel the size of him again.
You gasped, barely holding in the noise.
“Poor thing,” he whispered.
“Trying so hard to act like you don’t want this cock stretching you open.”
You closed your eyes. “We’re in a fucking library.”
“And you’re soaked,” he growled. “Aren’t you?”
You were.
You hated him for it.
But God—you wanted more.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice a low rumble in your ear.
“Tell me you don’t want me pushing these panties to the side and sliding in right here.”
You didn’t say anything.
And neither did your body.
Because for the first time, you weren’t sure who was in control—him, or the ache between your legs screaming for more.
His grip on your waist didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened—fingers flexing into the curve of your hips like he wanted to memorize the way you fit under his hands.
You told yourself to move.
To snap out of it.
To shove his cocky ass away and slap the heat off your face.
But instead… you shifted.
Barely. Subtly. Almost like a breath.
Your hips arched back just the tiniest bit—and you felt him twitch.
Big. Hot. Hard against you.
And god help you, you did it again.
This time, he chuckled. Low and raspy.
“Keep doing that and I’m gonna take it personally.”
His voice buzzed against the shell of your ear, warm and wicked.
“I can swear you’re wet.”
“I’m not,” you breathed, barely able to form the words.
“No?”
One of his hands slid from your hip, slipping lower, slow and deliberate. Your skirt offered no protection—his fingers eased beneath the hem with practiced ease, knuckles brushing your thigh.
“Then you won’t mind if I check.”
You gasped. “Changbin—”
But it was too late.
His hand slid up. Under your skirt. Under your panties.
And then—his fingers paused.
Right at your slit.
Slick. Dripping. Heat soaked through cotton and flushed onto his fingertips.
He let out a quiet groan, something dark and pleased.
“Fuck me…”
You froze.
“You’re soaked.”
You should’ve died of embarrassment.
Instead, you whimpered—barely, breath catching in your throat. Your thighs twitched, instinctively trying to close, but his hand was already there, slipping further, middle finger pressing through the wetness and parting you open.
“Look at that,” he muttered. “Fighting me in public, dripping for me in private.”
“You can’t—” you whispered, but your voice cracked halfway through.
“I can,” he said. “And I am.”
His fingertip circled your entrance, not quite pushing in. Just enough to tease. To test how badly your body wanted him.
And it did.
God, it did.
“All this just from my picture?” he murmured. “You really are a dirty little thing.”
“Changbin, we’re—someone could—”
“Then stay quiet,” he whispered, lips grazing your ear. “Be a good girl and let me feel what you’ve been hiding from me.”
You squirmed against him, helpless. His hard-on grinding into your ass. His hand between your legs. Your body betraying everything your mouth refused to say.
But then—he pulled back. Slow. Measured and wicked.
“Not here,” he muttered. “Not yet.”
You let out a shaky exhale, unsure if it was relief or frustration.
“You’re not ready.”
He said it like a promise. Even more like a plan.
—
That night, your phone lit up before midnight.
Changbin 💢
You touching yourself right now?
You swallowed, heat curling in your stomach.
“No.”
A lie.
You’d been thinking about his finger, barely there, slicking through your folds. The way he pressed against you like he could fuck you through your clothes. The restraint he showed—pulling away just when you were about to lose it.
Changbin 💢:
Liar. You were dripping earlier. You think that goes away?
Changbin 💢:
You want help?
Your breath caught.
Then another message.
📷 An image.
A mirror selfie. Taken low. No shirt. Sweatpants slung low on his hips. But this time… no filter, no teasing.
His cock was hard. So obvious. Thick and curving up in those grey sweats, the head visibly straining against the fabric. His hand was wrapped around the base, gripping himself through the material.
Your core clenched.
Changbin 💢:
You made me like this. Do something about it.
Another ping.
🎧An audio file.
You hesitated… then tapped.
His voice—low, breathless, filthy—filled your room.
“Wish you were here right now. I’d be in you already. So deep you’d cry. Want you moaning my name with your thighs wrapped around my waist.”
You bit your knuckle.
“Bet you’re wet again just hearing this.”
You were.
And you knew damn well… this was only the beginning because it was obvious that you knew you should stop.
Mute the chat. Turn your phone off. Go to sleep.
But instead, you hit play again.
Changbin’s voice filled your room for the second time, low and unsteady.
“Wish you were here right now. I’d be in you already. So deep you’d cry. Want you moaning my name with your thighs wrapped around my waist.”
Your hand had already slipped under the waistband of your shorts. Shame curled hot in your chest, but it wasn’t enough to stop you.
Not with his voice saying things like that.
Not when your body was still aching from what he’d done in the library.
You typed, hesitant:
“You’re a menace.”
Changbin 💢:
And you’re quiet. You touching yourself again?
“No.”
Changbin 💢:
You’re such a bad liar.
Another ping. Another message.
Changbin 💢:
Say my name once, and I’ll show you the real thing. But let me hear how down bad you are first.
Your legs squeezed together.
He wasn’t letting up.
Not just the teasing — the control. The way he peeled you open without even being in the same room. It was like he’d figured out every weakness you had and was pressing on all of them at once.
You typed:
“You want me to say your name?”
Changbin 💢:
Just once. Out loud. Right now.
I know you’re touching yourself, i just want to hear you.
Your heart pounded. You stared at the audio reply button. Your thumb hovered.
Me pulling your legs apart. Spitting on your pussy.
Sliding in nice and slow while you beg me to ruin it.
You let out a shaky breath.
Changbin 💢:
C’mon, baby.
Be a good girl and let me hear how badly you want it.
The words good girl punched straight through your resolve.
Your finger hovered over the record button.
You didn’t overthink it. Didn’t script it. But at the back of your mind, you knew shouldn’t have done it.
You knew the second you hit record—you were crossing a line you couldn’t uncross. But the heat in your stomach, the ache between your legs, the way Changbin’s voice still echoed in your ears? It all left you trembling.
So you moaned. You whimpered.
And you said his name.
“Changbin…”
You sounded so fucking needy. So shameless and desperate.
Exactly how you felt.
You hit send with your heart in your throat, thighs clenched tight around your own hand. And then you waited—seconds dragging, breath caught in your chest.
Then: ping.
🎥A video.
No caption. No warning.
You hesitated, pulse in your ears, then tapped it.
The first thing you saw was skin—his hand, wrapped tight around the base of his cock. Thick. Hard. Heavy. His head was a darker shade of his skin, glistening with precum, veins running thick along the shaft.
The next thing you heard?
His voice. Ragged. Strained.
“This what you want, baby?”
He was filming from above, cock in his fist, his abs flexing as he pumped slowly, steadily. Each stroke was loud and wet. His hand moved like he was imagining you were already wrapped around him—tight, dripping, ruined.
“Been jerking off since you moaned my name,” he growled. “You sound so fucking pretty when you’re begging.”
You bit your lip so hard it almost bled.
“Wanna cum in you so bad,” he panted. “Wanna watch it drip out of you. Want you to feel it for days.”
And then—he grunted. Shuddered.
And came.
Ropes of it. Thick spurts shooting across his abs, the head of his cock twitching violently in his grip.
“That’s all for you,” he breathed, voice wrecked.“Next time, I’m doing that inside.”
The video ended, but you were done for.
You stared at your screen like it had punched you in the stomach. Heat licked down your spine. Your hand had slipped between your legs again before you even realized it.
You replayed the video.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
You wanted to taste it. Feel it. Be under it.
Then your screen lit up again.
Changbin 💢:
You still there?
Your fingers trembled. You didn’t even overthink it.
You typed:
“I need you.”
[📍Location Shared]
And hit send.
—
You barely had time to think.
One knock. That’s all it took.
You opened the door and he was on you—mouth crashing into yours, body pinning you flat against the wall like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
He kissed like a man possessed.
Like your voice note had ruined him. Like your moan had carved something primal into his chest and he couldn’t shake it loose.
His tongue slid past your lips, rough and greedy, tasting you like he had to claim you first.
“Fuck,” he growled against your mouth. “Took you long enough.”
You barely had time to respond—his hands were already under your shirt, palming your tits like they were his, thumbs flicking your nipples until you whimpered.
“This all for me?” he asked, breath hot.
“This pussy been soaking since the second I sent that video?”
You gasped as he shoved one leg between yours, grinding up against your clothed heat—his cock already hard, pressing through his sweats like a weapon.
“God,” he groaned. “You feel so fucking good.”
“Can’t wait anymore.”
He picked you up like you weighed nothing, carried you into your own apartment without breaking the kiss, and dropped you—hard—onto the kitchen counter.
Before you could speak, your shorts were yanked down and off. Your panties, too. Ripped aside with one rough pull.
“Fucking knew it,” he muttered as he spread you open. “Look at this wet little pussy. So damn ready for me.”
“You’re such a—”
“Say it,” he snarled, two fingers sliding through your folds, circling your clit just right.
“Say it while I ruin you.”
You choked on a moan, hips jerking up. His fingers dipped inside—thick, slow, curling—testing you.
“Tight,” he hissed. “So fuckin’ tight already.
How the hell you gonna take my cock, baby?”
You looked down—and froze.
He’d pushed his sweats down just enough, and there it was. All of it.
His cock was thick. Long. Veiny. Angry-red at the tip, already leaking. You’d seen the outline. You’d watched him stroke it on video. But up close?
It was fucking terrifying.
And you wanted every inch.
“I’m gonna mess you up real pretty.” he whispered, dragging the head through your slick folds.
“You’re not walking tomorrow.”
You whimpered, thighs trembling.
“Changbin—fuck—”
“What’s that, princess?” he smirked. “You scared of this cock now?”
“Shut the fuck up and give it to me.”
That was all he needed.
He lined up and slammed in—
The stretch was obscene. Your back arched, a broken cry ripped from your throat. He didn’t wait. Didn’t tease. He bottomed out in one brutal stroke, hips snapping forward until his balls slapped against you.
“FUCK,” he growled, head dropping to your shoulder. “Tight little cunt’s squeezing the shit outta me.”
You clawed at his back, desperate to breathe, but it felt too good. The way he filled you—so deep, so thick—you felt him in your stomach.
“Took it all, huh?” he rasped, pulling back just to thrust in harder. “Greedy little thing.”
He fucked you like he meant it. Like he was punishing you for every time you rolled your eyes in class. For every time you told him to shut up.
You were moaning like a pornstar—loud, shameless, wrecked—as he pounded into you on the kitchen counter, sweat dripping, his abs flexing with every thrust.
“You were made for this cock,” he groaned. “Fucking built to take it like a good girl.”
He pulled out suddenly, grabbed your wrist, and dragged you into the living room.
“Bed’s too far. Couch. Now.”
You stumbled, legs shaking. He bent you over the armrest, slapped your ass once—hard—and buried himself inside again with a brutal snap of his hips.
“This ass…” he groaned. “You know how many times I’ve stared at it in class?”
“Wanted to fuck you bent over all the damn desks.”
Your moans were broken now—choked sobs of pleasure every time his hips slammed into you.
He wrapped his hand around your throat, not too tight—just enough to own you.
“You love this, don’t you?” he growled. “Big cock splitting you open. My hand on your neck. My cum dripping out of you.”
“Yes—fuck—yes, Changbin, please—”
“Please what?”
“Please don’t stop.”
His grip tightened. His thrusts turned savage.
“I’m gonna cum inside you,” he warned. “I want it leaking down your thighs when you go to class tomorrow. I want everyone to know this pussy’s mine.”
You clenched around him—hard—and he lost it.
“Fuck—fuck—baby—”
He came deep inside you, groaning like he was unraveling from the core. Hot spurts filling you up, cock twitching inside your walls.
You collapsed forward, shaking.
But he wasn’t done.
He pulled out, flipped you onto the rug, and dropped to his knees.
“Need to taste you.”
His tongue went straight to your core, licking up his own mess, spreading it across your folds as he devoured you like he’d starved for days.
“Not leaving till you cum on my face.”
And you did.
Screaming his name. Shaking. Barely able to think.
Your first mistake had been sending that photo.
But your biggest mistake?
Letting him in.
Because now?
You’d never get him out.
—
You couldn’t move.
You were sprawled out on your back on the rug, blinking at the ceiling, your entire body throbbing with the aftershocks of what he’d just done to you. You felt wrecked in the best, most glorious way.
And yet—somehow—Changbin was the one panting like he’d just gone through hell.
He lay beside you, arm thrown over his face dramatically.
“I’m filing a formal complaint,” he groaned. “Your pussy should come with a fucking warning label.”
You wheezed out a laugh.
“Says the guy who just broke my uterus.”
He turned his head, looked at you.
And melted.
The shift was instant—his gaze softened, mouth twitching into the tiniest smile. He scooted closer, propped himself on one elbow, and brushed your sweaty hair off your cheek.
“You okay?” he asked, voice gentle. “Like… really okay?”
You nodded. “More than okay.”
He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for ten years. Then leaned in and kissed your forehead, your nose, your cheekbone—everywhere but your lips, like he was saving those for dessert.
“I swear I didn’t mean to fuck you like a caveman,” he mumbled. “I blacked out. You made that sound and I was just—gone.”
“You were terrifying,” you whispered, smiling. “In the hottest possible way.”
That made him grin.
He reached over for the hoodie he’d left slung on the chair and helped you into it—actually helped, like lifting your arms, guiding it over your head, kissing your shoulder once it was on.
Then he grabbed a warm towel, knelt between your legs, and started cleaning you up with the softest, most careful touch.
“Can’t have my girl leaking all over the carpet,” he murmured.
“Your girl?”
He looked up with a cocky smirk.
“You just let me raw dog you and you screamed my name for the neighbors, baby. Don’t play shy now.”
You tried to glare, but he leaned forward and kissed your knee. Then your thigh. Then higher.
“Next time,” he said, “I’m taking you slower. Gonna edge you until you’re crying.”
Your stomach flipped.
“You’re already thinking about next time?”
He glanced up at you with a boyish little shrug.
“I think about you all the time.”
Your heart stuttered. Because it didn’t sound like a line. It sounded real. Raw. Like the truth.
He saw your expression shift and leaned in, his lips brushing your temple.
“Not just the sex,” he murmured.
“I think about you when you fight with the professor. When you tie your hoodie strings in knots. When you roll your eyes at me like you always do.”
“Binnie—”
“I like you,” he whispered.
Simple. Honest.
And it hit you harder than any orgasm.
You buried your face in his chest. He chuckled and wrapped his arms around you, one big palm cupping the back of your head like he could hide you there forever.
“You hungry?” he murmured.
“Starving.”
“Good. I got us pizza and fried chicken.”
You looked up. “You really ordered food while I was moaning your name?”
He smirked. “Actually did it on my way here but I can multitask baby.”
You laughed into his chest, and he kissed your head again.
When the food arrived, you sat curled in his lap, eating from his chopsticks while he kissed sauce off your lips between bites.
Later, when you were tucked into bed and halfway to sleep, he whispered:
“You were fucking perfect tonight.”
“I’m gonna be addicted to you now.”
You didn’t say anything back. You just pulled his arm tighter around you and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles.
Because you already were.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Authors note: Its been a hot minute without a Binnie smut 💪🏻 How are we liking this cute little enemies to lovers?? 🤭❤️
𝓹airing ꒱ ˒˓ Hyung Line x gn! reader ˒˓ new relationship ˒˓ insecure reader ˒˓ 𝓰enre/ angst, hurt-some comfort (not for all), implied cheating? In a heated argument, they tell you that you are just a rebound, but that’s a lie, right?
[ 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆. ] — I’ve had this sitting mostly finished for a hot minute, so I figured I’d finish it to tide y’all over til OFAF, this was requested by @chainbinnie and I’m so sorry that it’s been sitting in my drafts for so long! Let me know what u think! <3
Part 2
Maknae Line
Chan:
You wake up to your phone buzzing against the nightstand. You don’t even open your eyes but you feel a smile spread across your face.
It’s always him.
You roll onto your side, hair falling in your face as you squint at the screen. The brightness stinging your tired eyes, but it’s worth it.
Channie 🐺: Morning, baby.
A second later, a selfie loads. He’s standing in the bathroom mirror, chest bare as a few stray water droplets roll down the dips and contours of his muscles, his sweatpants hanging lose at his hips with his hair still damp and curling at the ends like he didn’t bother to dry it properly.
His dimples are half-hidden behind his phone, like he’s trying to hide his face but shamelessly show off the rest of him. There’s a tiny smudge of toothpaste on the corner of his mouth.
You half-laugh, half-choke as your eyes take in every inch of him, thumbs already flying.
You: GOOD MORNING 😭💞
You: you must be trying to kill me 😮💨
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Channie 🐺: It’s just a picture.😉 Don’t die on me today, yeah?
You press your phone to your chest for a second, trying to slow your heart rate, warmth spreading through you like sunlight under your ribs.
It’s only been a few months since you started dating, Not long enough to feel this safe. Not long enough for this to feel so real.
And yet…
It was like you’d known each other for years the way you fell into the comfort of each other’s presence, feeling like you just fit in a way you couldn’t explain.
The rest of your day passes in a blur of moments, your mind and heart looking forward to tonight.
Dating a celebrity comes with its drawbacks backs, the main one being the busy schedule. So when you find time to be together you take every opportunity.
Today must still be a busy day at the company cause even though you send your usual mid-day check in text to make sure he ate something, and then later a voice note reminding him to take breaks.
He wasn’t reading them til hours after and the photo of your coffee was left on delivered for longer than normal.
You tried not to let it bother you, knowing he’s busy and when he gets in the zone he’s all in on what he’s focused on so you figure you’ll let it be and you’ll see him later.
It’s easy to let yourself be absorbed by your work letting the time fly by at a comfortable pace til you’re clocking out and making your way home.
You sit with your headphones in as you scroll mindlessly on your phone, thinking of what to order for dinner tonight and excited to see your boyfriend.
when the article pops up, you don’t even register it at first. It’s just another headline, meant to suck you in for clicks, a blurry picture and another attempt at stirring something out of nothing.
STRAY KIDS’ BANG CHAN SPOTTED WITH RUMORED EX?! — FANS FULL OF QUESTIONS!
You frown at the screen for just a moment, letting your thumb hover over the image.
The photo is grainy, zoomed in too far. The man in the picture looks similar to Chan but in low quality way so it’s hard to say for sure.
There’s a girl beside him, her face turned away. The angle makes it look like they’re walking together, close enough that their shoulders almost touch.
You scoff.
You know how this works. You know how people take something and run with it.
Still, you find yourself clicking on the link.
By the time you’ve read the whole thing, there’s a knot sitting in your stomach that wasn’t there before.
You knew he had been dumped by his ex a couple months before the two of you met, he had been open about his dating history since the very beginning, wanting you to know exactly what came with dating someone in his world.
You knew that they had been together for quite a while and that their breakup was hard on him, but you also knew that he would never have asked you out if he wasn’t ready for another relationship…. Right?
After all the place where the photo was taken is a restaurant you had showed him a few weeks ago and he loved it, you planned several dates while you were there, and he has even gone there for lunch a few times since.
So you don’t text him about it. Not right now, it’s probably just a misunderstanding.
You tell yourself you’ll bring it up later, casually, like it doesn’t matter.
Cause it doesn’t….
Does it?
When you show up at the dorm that evening, Chan looks exhausted. Hoodie swapped for a worn t-shirt, hair shoved under a beanie, dark circles smudged under his eyes.
He smiles when he sees you, soft and familiar, arms opening automatically. You let him hug you, but your mind is back on the article.
“Long day?” You ask.
He hums into my hair. “Always.”
Youpull back, studying his face. He looks the same. Feels the same. Warm hands, steady presence, that quiet steadiness that always pulls you in.
So why does the picture keep flashing behind your eyes?
You sit on the edge of the couch while he grabs you both a water from the kitchen. The dorm is quiet for the first time since you’ve been together. Without the sound Changbin’s shouting or Felix laughing.
the living room feels like its own small, closed-off world.
You clear your throat when he comes back giving you a questioning look as he set a bottle down in front of you.
You figure now was probably the best time to bring it up.
“I saw something today.” Your voice is a little scratchy from nerves.
Chan pauses, his own bottle halfway to his mouth.
“Yeah?” he smirks a little, waiting for you to continue.
“An article.” You try to sound casual, but he can see that something is wrong.
“What about?” His shoulders tense just slightly as he lowers the water.
“This.” You pull out your phone and show him the picture.
“Seriously? That?” He leans back, squints. Then he sighs, long and tired.
“What do you mean, ‘that’?”
He sits beside you, elbows on his knees. “It was a fan. She recognized me outside a café and asked for a picture. That’s literally it.”
“It doesn’t look like that,” you add weakly.
“Because cameras and people lie,” he says, a little sharper than before.
“You know that,” he looks at you pointedly.
You shift. “Then why haven’t you responded to my texts all day?”
“I didn’t think I had to.” his words land wrong.
“Why not?” you press. “You always respond to my texts”
Chan turns to you, brows knitting together. “I didn’t think getting a picture of your coffee cup was something I needed to respond to, not when I have more important things to do.”
“I’m not saying that,” you add quickly, but his words stung a little.
“I’m just saying it would’ve been nice to hear from you instead of reading about your day from some headline.”
His jaw tightens. “So you believe them over me?”
“That’s not what I said,” you defend.
“But that’s what it sounds like.” He stands looking down at you with slight hurt.
“Sorry if seeing my boyfriend with his ex makes me a little nervous!” Your hands are shaking a little bit so you clench them into fists in your lap.
“I told you it was a fan, not my ex!” His face contorts in a way I’ve never seen.
Our voices are loud. You don’t remember either of you deciding to raise them. You realize you’re also standing glaring up at him.
“I trust you,” you tell him. “I just—this stuff makes me feel weird.”
You hesitate, and He notices.
“Weird how?” he asks, more firmly.
Your chest feels tight. “Like I don’t really know where I stand.”
Chan exhales through his nose. “What is that supposed to mean?”
You shrug, but it’s defensive. “It means you have a past. A really public one. And I don’t know where I fit into that.”
“You fit because I chose you,” he says. “I’m with you. Isn’t that enough?”
The way he says it, like he’s tired of this conversation, and frustrated that you even brought it up, like he’s sick repeating himself.
It hits a nerve you didn’t know was raw.
“Sometimes it feels like I’m just… filling space,” you say.
Chan looks at you like he doesn’t recognize you.
“That’s not fair.” his voice is strained as you stare at each other.
The room feels smaller.
You don’t know who says it first. You don’t know when it stoped being a conversation and turned into a fight.
“I just don’t get why you’re so calm about this,” you snap. “Like it doesn’t matter.”
“Because it doesn’t,” he fires back.
“Then why am I the only one who feels like this is a problem?” you quip back.
“Because you’re making it one.” his words hit and sink like a pit in your stomach.
The words are out before you can catch them.
“Maybe it’s a problem because I feel like you’re not over her-" his shout cuts you off.
“YEAH? SO MAYBE I’M NOT!”
The air goes still.
Chan’s mouth parts. His eyes widen, just a little.
“Wait—” he starts.
You feel something in you tilt. Slide. Start to fall.
He opens his mouth like he can take back the words, but you’re already spiraling, already feeling that sinking pain in your chest.
He takes a step towards you but you move back.
“I didn’t—I don’t—I just-“ he struggles to find the words his eyes pleading with me.
The words don’t even sound real at first. They float in the air between you, ugly and heavy and wrong.
Your chest caves in.
Chan’s face changes instantly. His eyes widen, panic crashing in like a wave. “No—no, I didn’t mean—”
But you’re not hearing him anymore.
There’s a high-pitched ringing in your ears, like something just snapped inside your head.
You nod once, like your body needs to confirm it heard him right.
“Okay,” you say softly.
You grab your bag from the couch. Your hands are shaking so hard you almost drop it.
“Wait,” Chan says, stepping forward.
“Please, that’s not what I meant. I was angry, I didn’t—”
You don’t look at him.
You walk toward the door, every step feeling like it weighs a ton.
He follows you, faster now.
“Stop. Just stop for a second,” he pleaded, his voice breaking.
You reach for the handle.
His fingers close around your wrist.
You flinch like you’ve been burned, ripping your hand away, turning on him, eyes stinging, vision blurred.
“Don’t touch me.”
The words come out sharp, venomous, dripping hurt.
Chan freezes.
You see it then—really see it. The fear in his eyes. The way his chest is rising too fast. The way his hands are half-raised, like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
But it doesn’t matter.
You open the door and slam it behind you.
Lee Know:
Lee Know is kind enough to you, and that’s almost the problem.
warm enough. Nice enough. Not the kind of kind that wraps around you and pulls you close. His kindness is measured, controlled, like everything else about him.
It’s a hand on your back when you step off a curb. It’s a quiet “text me when you get home” that sounds more like a habit than a real want. It’s him holding doors open and remembering how you take your coffee.
It’s never him letting you in.
Still, the morning starts the same way it always does.
Your phone buzzes, soft against your pillow.
Lino 🐱: You up?
You smile, blinking at the screen.
You: Barely. Good morning, Minho.🩷
You get out of bed and start your morning routine, you are slipping on your shoes before your phone buzzes again.
Lino 🐱: Practice all day. Don’t be annoying while I’m gone. <3
You snort.
You: I can’t make any promises.
You send a heart. He reacts to it with a thumbs-up.
And you tell yourself that it’s normal, you chat with friends in the hallways, laughing and making plans for the weekend. Enjoying the natural warmth and closeness that comes from good friends.
You stumble across the article in between classes.
You scroll past it at first, not even fully reading the title, but when your eyes pick up his name, you swipe back. You stare at the headline like it might change if you give it long enough.
STRAY KIDS’ LEE KNOW SEEN WITH EX-GIRLFRIEND — STAYS IN UPROAR!
The picture is worse than you expect.
They’re close. Too close. Her hand is mid-gesture, like she’s laughing at something he said. His face is turned toward her, expression soft in a way you don’t see very often, and he’s holding the door open for her to exit whatever restaurant they were just at.
You swallow.
You know you shouldn’t but You open the article anyway. It doesn’t say much. Speculation mostly. A reminder of how public his last relationship was. How messy the breakup had been.
Your phone buzzed and you read the text notification bubble.
Lino 🐱: don’t forget to eat. 🥪
Followed by a picture of an aesthetically pleasing sandwich, its wrapper matching the logo in the picture from the article.
You feel a lump form in your throat and any appetite you had is long gone.
You don’t text him back.
The dorm that evening feels colder than usual.
Lee Know is in the kitchen when you arrive, cutting fruit with careful precision. The motion is neat. Controlled. Like everything he does.
“Hey,” he says when he sees you.
“Hey.” You stand there for a second, not sure where to put yourself.
He slides a bowl toward you. “You didn’t eat today, did you?”
You blink. “How did you—”
“You always get like this when you haven’t eaten much,” he gives a half-hearted smile before going back to the fruit.
You almost laugh. Almost.
You sit at the counter, pushing the fruit around with your chopsticks.
He watches you for a moment. “What’s wrong?”
You hesitate. Then you pull out your phone and show him the article.
His eyes flick over it. Once. Twice.
He exhales through his nose.
“Seriously?”
“That’s what I said too,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.
Lee Know’s mouth twitches. “Funny.”
“That’s it?” you ask before adding.
“That’s all you have to say?” you know he can see the hurt on your face, but he just rolls his eyes.
“What do you want me to say?” his tone is flat.
“I don’t know,” you admit.
“It’s a picture.” He sets the knife down, turns to face you fully.
“With your ex.” you press.
“With someone I used to date,” he corrects.
“There’s a difference.” he states.
“Is there?” you ask.
He stiffens. Just a little.
“Yes.”
You look at him, really look at him. He’s standing there with his arms crossed, weight on one foot, expression calm. Closed. The same way he looks when fans ask too personal questions.
The same way he looks every time you try to get too close.
“Then why does it feel like there’s still something there?” you ask quietly.
“There isn’t.” His jaw tightens.
“But you don’t look at me like that,” you say before you can stop yourself.
The words hang in the air between you.
“Like what?” Lee Know’s eyes narrow.
“Like you love me,” you say.
That gets a reaction.
It’s small, but it’s there. A flicker of something in his eyes.
“You think I don’t?” he asks.
“I don’t think you let yourself,” you say.
He looks away, and that’s enough of an answer. Your chest feels heavy.
“Why are you even with me, Minho?” You hate how needy the words make you sound.
He frowns.
“What kind of question is that?” his tone is annoyed and not at all reassuring.
You shrug not knowing what to say, but he just stares at you waiting for a response.
“Sometimes it feels like I’m… convenient,” you admit.
“That’s ridiculous.” He scoffs softly.
“Is it?” you push.
“You keep me right here.” You hold your hand out in front of you.
“Close enough to touch. Not close enough to let me in.”
His shoulders tense.
“That’s not fair,” he says.
“Then what is fair?” you ask.
when he doesnt respond to continue.
“Because it feels like I’m standing in front of a wall you won’t even admit is there.”
He turns away, staring at the sink. The silence stretches.
You hate it. You hate how familiar it feels.
“You’re not over her,” you say quietly.
Lee Know turns back to you slowly.
“That’s not your place,” he says.
The words are calm and even as they cut away any hope you had.
Your heart stutters.
“It is if I’m the one standing here now.” You let the hurt show through your words.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustration slipping through the cracks.
“Then explain it to me,” you say. “Explain why you keep me at arm’s length. Why you don’t let me in. Why you still look at her like—”
“Like what?” he snaps.
You flinch.
“Like you’re still in love with her,” you finish.
His lips press into a thin line.
You feel yourself slipping. Falling into the same spiral you swore you wouldn’t. But you’ve spent too many late nights wondering this to not say anything.
“I’m just a rebound, right?” you say voice soft.
“Someone to pass the time until you figure yourself out,” you say, hoping he denies it.
Lee Know laughs once. It’s sharp and empty.
“And what if you are?”
The words hit like ice water. Your breath leaves your lungs in a rush, and for a moment, you can’t move.
Lee Know’s face changes almost immediately. His eyes widen, just slightly. His mouth opens like he wants to pull the words back.
“No,” he says. “That’s not what I meant.” his voice is serious, but his eyes show the panic he's feeling.
But you’re already stepping away from the counter, away from him.
Your hands feel numb as you grab your jacket.
“Wait,” he says, reaching for you.
You turn and give him a pained smile.
“Maybe you should figure that out before you hurt someone else.”
You don’t raise your voice; you don’t have to. The hurt in your eyes is louder than your words.
Lee Know freezes.
You walk to the door, open it, and step into the hallway.
Behind you, he says your name.
But you don’t turn around.
Changbin:
Your phone buzzes right before your alarm goes off.
You groan, rolling over, hitting the snooze button and wishing you could fall back asleep, but you’re already half-awake.
Picking up your phone you see a notification that makes you smile.
Binnie 💪: MORNINGGGG
A selfie follows the text, with him in the gym mirror, cheeks puffed out, hair sticking up in a dozen different directions, his tank top tight on his frame.
He’s making a peace sign and a ridiculous face that still manages to make your chest warm.
You smile, typing back without thinking.
You: Good morning, Bin. Have a good day today. Don’t forget to eat. I’ll see you tonight 😘
he responds a few minuets later.
Binnie 💪: I will! 🫡
You grin like an idiot before begrudgingly make your way to the shower to get ready.
The day feels light after that. Normal and easy, you start on your work and everything is going great.
Until it isn’t.
The article shows up in your feed just as you sit down to have lunch.
You don’t even register it at first. You recognize the format immediately. bold headline, blurry picture, speculation dressed up to get clicks.
STRAY KIDS’ CHANGBIN SECRET MEET UP WITH EX?? —
Your stomach drops anyway, and despite your better judgment you click on the link.
The picture is grainy, taken from across the street. But Changbin’s car is unmistakable even with the tinted windows you can still make out the two figures.
The wide shoulders are undeniably his as he’s half-turned toward someone just blocking them from view. A girl’s arm is visible, hand resting briefly on his shoulder.
You scroll on, heart thudding in your chest.
Words like reconciliation and unfinished business jump out at you as fans speculate.
You close the tab.
You tell yourself you’ll ask him about it later, that you’ll handle this calmly, like the mature individual you are.
But by the time you’re standing outside the dorm that evening, your blood is heated and your mind is racing from the hours you’ve had to over think.
Changbin answers the door with a grin.
“There you are!” he says, pulling you into a hug so tight it almost knocks the air out of your lungs.
“I thought you were going to ditch me,” he teases,
You laugh weakly, hugging him back.
“Now why would I do that?” The joke falls flat but he doesn’t seem to notice as He leads you inside, talking a mile a minute about practice, and about a new verse he’s been working on.
You nod along, smiling and laughing when you’re supposed to.
But your mind is somewhere else.
When there’s finally a break in his rambling, you clear your throat.
“Binnie.”
He looks at you immediately. “Yeah?”
“I saw something today.” Your voice is hesitant, and he notices.
“What kind of something?” His smile falters but doesn’t disappear.
You pull out your phone and show him the article.
The reaction is instant.
Changbin stiffens. His shoulders tense. His eyes flick away from the screen like it burned him.
“Oh—come on,” he says, a little too fast.
“That’s not—” but you cut him off.
“Then why are you acting like this?” you ask.
“Like what?” He blinks.
“Like you just got caught,” you accuse.
His eyes narrow, and his smile vanishes.
“I didn’t get ‘caught.’” he uses air quotes as if that negates what you just said.
“Why are you panicking?” you prod.
“I’m not!” he snaps.
“You are!” You counter.
“It’s just annoying. These articles are always annoying.” He runs a hand through his hair, pacing now.
“Then why can’t you look at me?” Your voice is low, and your eyes show the sadness you're trying to keep inside.
He stops moving, shooting you a dark look.
“What does that have to do with anything?” he asks, voice rising.
“It has to do with everything!” you match his tone.
“Because you look guilty!” you don't understand why he's reacting like this.
“I’m not guilty of anything!” he yells.
The word echoes in the room making You flinch.
He seems to realize how loud he got, because his eyes widen slightly.
“I didn’t mean to—” you cut him off as something in you snaps too.
“Then explain it,” you say, voice pleading.
“Explain why-" he cuts you off.
“Because I’m tired of this!” he shouts. “I’m tired of people assuming things about me.”
“I’m not ‘people,’” you shout back.
“I’m your partner!” Your words ring out through the empty dorm.
He freezes for a second at that.
Then he laughs, breathless and sharp, but he doesn’t say anything just shakes his head.
Your heart stutters.
“What is that supposed to mean?” You hate how pathetic the question sounds.
“It means you’re acting like this is some huge betrayal when it’s not,” he scolds, as if you are the problem for bringing it up.
“Then why does it feel like one?” you fire back.
“Why do you look like you’ve been hiding something since the second I showed you that article?” you try to calm down but your heart is racing.
Changbin opens his mouth, but he's at a loss.
You see it then.
The hesitation, and the guilt, it makes your chest tighten.
“Right,” you say, voice shaking.
“Because I’m just here to hold the place for the person you really want,” you spit the words out like they burn.
“That’s not—” he starts.
“Isn’t it?” you interrupt.
Changbin’s breathing is heavy now. His fists clench at his sides, you can see the emotions running through him as he stands there.
You open your mouth to tell him to just tell the truth, but when he sees you open your mouth, something in him snaps, and he shouts.
“YES OK?!”
“I got with you because I thought it would make her jealous,” he yells.
The word slams into you.
He doesn’t stop there.
“And it worked.”
The room goes silent.
The only sound is your own heartbeat in your ears.
Your mouth opens, but no words come out, tears sting your eyes as you find it hard to breathe.
Changbin’s face drains of color almost immediately. His eyes widen like he can’t believe what just left his mouth.
“No,” he says, stepping forward. “Wait- that’s not—“
You step back.
Your hands are shaking so badly you have to grip the hem of your hoodie to keep yourself from falling apart.
“So that’s it,” you whisper.
“No!” he says, panic flooding his voice.
“That’s not all you are. That’s not what I meant,” he tries to take back the words that are echoing in your brain.
“But it’s what you said,” you reply.
You grab your bag from the chair.
“Wait,” he says, rushing toward you.
“Please, I was angry. I didn’t think—” He reaches for you, but you yank your arm away.
“Don’t.” Your voice is quiet.
Changbin stops dead, his hand lingering in the air as if fighting with himself.
You walk to the door, every step heavy.
“Don’t go,” he says, voice breaking.
“I messed up. I know I did. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” he's pleading as tears fill his eyes.
You turn the handle.
“You don’t get to be sorry after that,” you whisper as you leave.
The door closes with a soft click.
The hallway feels endless, and despite the numbness your legs carry you without you really telling them where to go.
Your phone buzzes.
You pull it out only to shut it off.
Hyunjin:
Hwang❣️: Good morning, angel.
His text brings a smile to your face as you move from one work meeting to another, his morning texts come a little later than yours but Sometimes there’s a selfie to make up for it.
soft lighting, hair falling into his eyes, lips curved into that small, private smile he says is only for you. Sometimes it’s of a painting or drawing he stayed up late working.
His words are always gentle and sweet.
You reply the same way you always do.
You: Good morning, pretty boy. Have a good day today. I’ll see you later ❣️
He reacts with the same heart emoji.
It feels like something sacred.
You love the way that Hyunjin loves like an artist. He notices the way sunlight hits your face, the way you tilt your head when you’re listening, the way you tuck your hands into the sleeves of his hoodie when your hands get cold.
He tells you you’re beautiful in ways that feel like he’s painting you with his words instead of just looking at you.
But sometimes, when he thinks you aren’t paying attention, he stares past you, like his mind is somewhere else, or maybe someone else.
You tell yourself it’s nothing.
The post is on a fan account, one you follow cause you love the way they keep track of the boys better than you can sometimes, so you smile and tap the notification that says ‘new post’.
OMG?!? 😱 Hyunjin’s been meeting up with his ex again?😱
There’s a photo attached. Blurry. Taken from far away.
Two figures sitting on a bench in a small park. One of them is unmistakably him, his long limbs, familiar posture, head tilted slightly as he listens. The other is a girl with her hair pulled back, head resting on his shoulder while his arm is wrapped around her.
They look… comfortable.
You swallow and even though you know you shouldn’t you spiral into the post.
It leads you to a thread of similar posts all of them dating from the time you started dating, to even before you got together.
Him and this girl, there were pictures of drawings he’d done pointing out how they resemble his ex and the pictures, so many pictures.
Some clear as day, others were a little more of a reach, but the ones that were undeniable made your heart feel like someone had it in a death grip.
You don’t confront him right away.
You waited, trying to think of what to say to him.
That night, the walk to the dorm felt heavier than usual, like you were moving towards something inescapable.
Hyunjin is in the living room, sketchbook open on his knees, pencil moving slowly across the page.
He looks up when you walk in and smiles.
“You’re late.” His voice is teasing, but you don’t smile.
“Sorry,” you say.
“Got caught up.”
He sets the sketchbook aside and stands, stepping toward you. His hands hover at your waist, he smiles at you before his arms wrap around you pulling you against him.
You let him touch you, but your chest feels heavy, and the embrace feels forced.
You sit together on the couch. He leans into you, head resting against your shoulder.
For a moment, it almost feels normal.
Then you speak.
“Are you still seeing her?” Your voice is soft, but the question hits him hard.
His body goes still.
“Who?” he asks softly.
“You know who,” you say.
“Where did you hear that?” He pulls back, eyes searching your face.
“So you are,” you whisper.
Hyunjin exhales slowly.
“It’s not like that—” he starts but you interrupt.
“Then what is it like?”
He looks down at his hands.
“We talk.”
“What is there to talk about?” you ask, tone flat.
He hesitates, and that’s enough of an answer.
“How long?” Your chest tightens.
“Since before I met you,” he admits.
The words feel like a knife sliding between your ribs.
“Why?” you ask.
He looks at you then, really looks at you. His eyes are bright and vulnerable.
“Because I never stopped caring about her,” he says.
Silence stretches between you.
“I care about you too,” he adds quickly.
Your laugh comes out hollow.
“That’s not comforting, Hyunjin.” Your tone is unamused.
He leans forward, hands reaching for yours.
“I don’t think love is always something that only fits one person at a time.” he tries to meet your eyes, trying to get you to understand.
You pull your hands back from him, your eyes flashing with something close to disgust making him flinch.
“What does that mean?” you ask.
“It means,” he says slowly, carefully, “that I can love you. And still love her.”
Your throat closes as your mind races.
“So what am I, then?” you whisper.
He opens his mouth, but no words come out.
You feel something in you break.
“I’m your second choice, aren’t I?” you say, voice breaking at the end.
“Someone to keep you company while you hold space for her.” You want him to deny it, but you both know it's true.
His eyes fill with tears instantly.
“No,” he says. “That’s not—”
“But it is,” you say.
“You’re with me now, but the second you can be with her, you’ll leave.” Your hurt bleeds through your words.
“I didn’t mean for it to hurt you.” He drags a hand down his face, voice cracking.
“How could it not?” you ask, voice rising from a whisper.
He shakes his head, tears slipping down his cheeks.
“I love you.”
“And you love her,” you spit.
“Yes,” he whispers.
The word hangs in the air.
You stand slowly.
“So you’re asking me to share you?” The words are bitter on your tongue.
“I’m asking you to understand me,” he pleads, tears running down his face.
You shake your head feeling your own tears hot and heavy, grabbing your bag from the floor you move towards the door.
“Isn’t having me enough?” he cries, voice breaking.
You pause at the door.
“That’s the problem,” you say softly. “If you still love someone else… do I even really have you in the first place?”
He steps toward you, hands outstretched.
“Please. Don’t go. I can figure this out. I just—” his voice is choked as tears stream down his face.
You step back.
“No, I deserve more than second place.”
His hands fall to his side as he shakes with a sob.
You open the door with shaking hands and behind you, he collapses to his knees.
-> You're everything Changbin has ever wanted. He's just got to make you see that.
changbin x fem!curvy!reader
best friends to lovers, suggestive, hurt/comfort, MINORS DNI
5.5K
warnings: making out, cursing, implications to masterbation and sexual content, thigh riding, thigh kissing, hair pulling, touching, Changbin (the man deserves his own warning), low self esteem and poor body image, weight and body insecurities
I know I am a sfw writer BUT THIS is an exception bc I was feeling feisty lol
Part 1, Part 3
-------------------------------------------------
"No way," you insist, shaking your head. "You’re strong, but not that strong."
The two of you have been going back and forth for so long that Changbin’s honestly lost track of how it all even started. All he knows is that you’re standing in the middle of his bedroom with your arms crossed, wearing a teasing little smirk that's obviously meant to rile him up.
It's working.
"Please," he scoffs, flexing his bicep just to show off. “I could pick you up with one arm.”
You laugh at him – actually laugh – as if you haven't seen him bench two times your weight before.
"You’d drop me."
His gaze drifts over you then, slowly, completely unapologetic. Starting at your face, sliding down the line of your shoulders, lingering along the curves of your body.
He takes his time checking you out, letting the silence between you gradually turn into tension.
By the time his eyes meet yours again, you're done laughing, and there’s a small, confident smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
"Wanna bet?"
Before you can say another word, his arm (singular) sweeps under your legs in one quick motion. A surprised, high-pitched gasp leaves your lips as the world tilts, and you instinctively throw your arms around his neck to hang on tight. Suddenly you’re in the air, balanced bridal-style in the crook of his right arm. He’s holding you easily, as if you weigh nothing, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
"You were saying?"
Your breath quickens as you stare up at him.
God, he’s handsome. And smart. And tall. And perfectly proportionate.
Strong, warm, the perfect amount of cocky but never in a way that makes you feel small. If anything, the way he looks at you makes you feel like the most important person in his life. Like he’s proud to be holding you.
Your fingers brush lightly against the back of his neck, absentminded and affectionate.
“Wow,” you breathe, the word slipping out in a shaky exhale. “I guess I was wrong this whole time.”
“About what?”
“About you,” you say, voice gentler now, “and about me.” Your arms tighten a little around his neck as you bring yourself closer to him, a content and happy sigh when his nose nuzzles yours. When you smile, it feels like fireworks going off inside his stomach.
“I’m perfect just the way I am. No matter my weight.”
“Exactly,” Changbin murmurs, leaning a little closer.
“I finally see myself the way you see me.”
“Exactly.” His nose crosses yours, eyes closing and lips tingling with anticipation.
“And now that I do, we should have sex.”
“Exact—” His eyes pop open, pulling back slightly. “Wait, what?”
“We should have sex.” You smile at him like this is the most obvious conclusion in the world. “Because you've been secretly in love with me since the day we met, haven't you?”
“I have, but…hold on, how do you know that?”
You just hum softly in response, a fond little sound that makes it very clear you’re not going to explain. Instead, you press your palm to his shoulder and give him a gentle shove.
Suddenly, he’s falling back onto your living room couch, a surprised grunt leaving him as the cushions—
Hold on, since when was he in your apartment?
Before he can finish his thought, you’re climbing over him, settling across his lap just like you did before. Same black lingerie, same stockings, same mini skirt riding up your thighs.
“What are you…?”
“Shh,” you whisper into his ear, “just let it happen.”
He doesn't have time to question when your mouth finds his neck, and whatever protest he might have had dies instantly.
His hands react before his mind can catch up, sliding to your waist and tightening there as your lips brush along his skin, impossibly warm and soft. The touch sends tremors down his spine.
Your fingers drift lower, gliding slowly down the center of his chest, each inch of movement leaving his nerves buzzing. By the time they reach the button of his jeans, his sanity is all but gone, his whole body tense with anticipation.
Your hand slips beneath his waistband, the heat of your palm making his breath hitch. Changbin’s head falls back against the couch, a low groan spilling from his throat as your fingers curl around him.
His eyes squeeze shut, every goosebump on his body coming to life as your grip tightens just enough to make his hips twitch beneath you and—
Your name tears from his throat in a startled gasp as he bolts awake.
A dark ceiling. A fan circling above his head. A gentle hum coming from his mini fridge in the corner.
He's in bed – alone. As to be expected at 4am on a week night.
Changbin just stares at nothing for a long second while reality settles back into place.
“Damn it…”
He drags a hand down his face, but then freezes. Because his other hand is currently inside his sweatpants.
He sighs heavily and pulls it out, flopping it against his mattress in defeat.
This isn’t even surprising anymore, honestly. He's been waking up in similar situations for the last three nights now. Every time he closes his eyes, there you are again. In his dreams. On his lap. In his head. And apparently his subconscious has decided to stop being subtle about it.
Actually, this last dream felt so real, Changbin legitimately believed it for a second.
It’s been three days. Three whole days since you gave him a lap dance in your living room. Three whole days since he asked if he could kiss you. Three whole days since you scrambled off his lap and ran away like the apartment was on fire.
And he hasn’t stopped thinking about you for a single second.
Which is great. Fantastic, really. Because clearly you’re upset, and he isn't able to do anything about it.
He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck as he sits up in bed.
Of course, you’re upset! He crossed a line that obviously wasn't supposed to be crossed.
You were just trying to prove a point, and he was supposed to be helping boost your confidence, making you feel comfortable in your own skin. That was the whole deal. A friend helping a friend. Nothing complicated, nothing more.
Grinding on his lap? Totally fine.
Pulling his hair? Doesn't bother him one bit.
Kissing you? Apparently way too much.
He groans again, dropping back and accidentally slamming his head against his headboard like the unlucky idiot he is.
Everything is ruined.
His friendship with you is ruined because he can’t possibly pretend he doesn’t want you. And your friendship with him is ruined because he made you so unbelievably uncomfortable that apparently you can't even be bothered to text him anymore.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, he’s been unbearably wound up since that night. Like…painfully so.
Every time he closes his eyes, he sees you. Exactly the way you looked that night.
Black lace hugging your waist. Those ridiculous little buckles circling your thighs. The sway of your mini skirt every time you took a step toward him. The slow, shy way you climbed onto his lap, and then when you finally, finally settled on top of him.
Your fingers twisting in his hair. Your chest against his chest. Your hips dragging over his lap. Your little sounds every time he pulled you down harder.
But the best part by far was the way you seemed to know exactly what you were doing to him. There was this confidence in you that he'd never seen before. Not demeaning or uncertain, but bold and sexy. You moved against him like you were perfectly pleased with the kind of mess you were making of him.
And fuck, he wanted to be a mess for you.
The memory keeps going, each detail sharper than the last, until his body reacts before he can stop it.
Changbin groans and rolls over, shoving his face into his pillow like it might smother the images out of his head.
It doesn’t work. If anything, closing his eyes just makes you clearer.
It's not like he hasn't tried to deal with his problem. He has! Multiple times.
But apparently his brain is determined to sabotage him, because every attempt at taking care of himself just turns into another vivid replay of you grinding against him, but nothing he does accurately mimics what that felt like.
So now he’s stuck in this miserable limbo where he feels like the worst friend alive and also desperately, hopelessly wants to see you again.
He reaches for his phone.
This is a terrible idea. A truly horrible idea. But the thought of allowing this awkward era of silence between the two of you to stretch on and on and on, potentially never talking to you again?
Definitely worse.
He opens your text thread and stares at the message box for a long moment.
[binnie] Hey
He thinks for a second. Then adds…
[binnie] Hey…are we okay?
His thumb hovers over the send button. It's not the best of texts, he knows that. But his 4am horny and alone brain can't think of anything else right now. He exhales slowly and sends it.
The message shows as read, but nothing from you immediately comes up.
No typing bubble. No reply. Just the quiet hum of his apartment and the dull thud of his heart somewhere in his throat.
He tosses his phone onto the mattress beside him and presses the heels of his hands into his tired eyes.
“Good job, dumbass,” he mutters to himself.
Five seconds later, his phone buzzes.
Changbin practically dives for it. Your name lights up the screen, and his stomach drops.
[y/n] we're ok
That’s it? No emoji. No reassurance. No details. Just a vague, anxiety-inducing two word text that does little to convince him you're being truthful.
He watches the words like they might rearrange themselves into something less ominous if he reads them enough times.
They don’t.
[binnie] Can we talk?
[y/n] sure
Good. That’s what he wanted, isn’t it? To talk. To clear the air. That’s what he's supposed to do in this situation, right?
So why does his stomach suddenly feel sick?
Probably because he knows what you're going to say.
You’re going to tell him you felt uncomfortable. That you value your friendship with him and want to keep boundaries normal. You’re going to say it would be better if he didn’t blur lines like that again.
And it's not that he doesn't want to hear how you're feeling. He does. He wants to get everything out in the open. But he can’t force you to feel the way he feels. He can’t insist you should have let him kiss you. He can’t pour his heart out when it’s clear you don't feel the same way. If he wants to keep you in his life at all, he has to tread carefully.
He types a reply…
[binnie] When should I come over?
[y/n] whenever. im not sleeping tonight.
His stomach twists again.
Not sleeping? Are you sick? Did he really cause you so much discomfort that you can't even sleep?
Great. Now he feels like real shit.
[binnie] Okay. Be there in a bit.
But first, a shower.
::
The drive over feels shorter than usual, which is unfortunate because it gives Changbin almost no time to figure out what he’s actually going to say when he sees you.
Part of him wants to address it head-on, rip the bandaid off even if it burns for a moment afterwards, so things can start healing sooner than later.
But if he knows you at all, he knows that’s not how you handle things. You’ll take the long way around, circle the topic a dozen different ways before you ever land on it. Confrontation has never really been your thing, and he respects that because he respects you.
But he also knows himself. And he knows it's gonna be a struggle to hold himself back.
Outside your door, Changbin stops short. Normally, he would’ve just walked right in. He’s done it a hundred times before without thinking twice. But tonight he hesitates, hovering near the handle before slowly pulling back. He lifts his knuckles and knocks.
He braces himself for the inevitable. Awkwardness. Distance. Maybe a little bitterness. Or even worse, that polite smile you give people after you've already internally decided to cut them off.
Instead, you answer the door wearing pajamas. Which, logically, makes sense. It’s almost 5am. Of course you’re in pajamas.
The problem is your pajamas are silk shorts that barely reach the tops of your thighs and a loose T-shirt that looks suspiciously familiar.
Because he’s about ninety-nine percent sure that’s his shirt. The faded black one with the tiny cracked logo on the front that disappeared from his closet like two years ago. The one you swore you didn't take.
“That's my shirt.”
“Huh?” You glance down like you forgot what you were wearing, casually pulling at the material. “No, this is mine.”
No apology. No embarrassment. Just a small shrug before you step aside to let him in.
Changbin walks past you, trying very hard not to notice the way your silk shorts shift when you move. Or the way the hem of your his shirt brushes against the top of them.
Great. You're about to friend zone him while wearing his clothes. That feels unnecessarily cruel.
“Umm,” you say softly behind him as he toes off his shoes, “was the drive okay?”
He turns and gives you a small nod.
For a moment neither of you say anything.
Changbin can't help but study you, searching for any usual cues. Your smile, a teasing glint in your eyes, the little things that always give away what you’ve been feeling.
But for the first time, he can’t read you.
He wants to step closer, to wrap his arms around you or even just brush your hand, but your body language isn’t very inviting. So he holds back, letting the quiet sit between you both, desperate to know how you’ve been, but unsure if he's allowed to ask at this point.
Then you gesture vaguely toward the living room.
“Have a…seat…” Your voice dies the moment you realize exactly where you’re pointing.
The couch.
That goddamn couch.
Your hand freezes midair before closing and dropping awkwardly to your side.
You’re both just standing there. Staring at it. The silence stretches on for several moments, thick and painfully aware of itself.
Changbin can barely stand it. The bandaid is right there, just waiting to be ripped off. But you don't say anything, so he doesn't say anything.
Instead, he slips his hands into his pockets, pressing his lips together to keep from commenting. Whether you mean to or not, your thighs rub together when you catch him glancing at you.
And, yes, Changbin notices.
“Thirsty?”
His eyes dart away from your thighs, just a beat too late to be subtle. “What?”
“I mean, did you want something to drink?” you correct quickly, stumbling over your words as you realize how that first question probably sounded.
“Oh. Uh, sure.”
You turn away immediately, suddenly very focused on your mission to get him a beverage, ears burning as the embarrassment settles in.
Behind you, Changbin hangs his head to hide the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s endearing, honestly, how flustered you get when your brain moves faster than your mouth.
You swing open the fridge and lean forward to peer inside, low-key hiding your face behind the door. Changbin leans against the counter, hands still in his pockets, watching you search the tiny fridge for an unconvincing amount of time.
Awkward doesn’t even begin to cover it. You are masterfully avoiding the elephant in the room.
Following your lead is fine, he tells himself. But the urge to cut through the friendly avoidance and say what's actually on his mind keeps getting stronger.
“All I have is water. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
You grab a bottle and toss it to him, not even willing to risk the chance of brushing fingers.
For a moment, the two of you just stand there in the quiet of your kitchen, the only sound being the soft crack of the water bottle lid when Changbin opens it.
He tips it back, lifting his chin as he takes a long drink. Across the kitchen, he can feel your eyes on him when you think he’s not paying attention. It’s the most directly you’ve looked at him since he arrived.
So he keeps drinking.
Just to see how long you’ll keep staring. Just to see how many times your eyelids will flutter and your lips will part while watching his throat bob with each drink.
Then his eyes shift – and land on you mid-sip.
Your gaze snaps away instantly, your whole body reacting like you’ve just been caught committing a crime. Suddenly, the countertop is super fascinating. Truly groundbreaking stuff that requires your complete and total attention.
Changbin lowers the bottle slowly, fighting the urge to smile.
Ah, yes. Finally. He can read you again.
The way you shift your weight like you’re trying to decide where to stand. The brief glances that never quite last long enough to count as eye contact. The tight set of your shoulders.
It’s obvious you’re uncomfortable, just as expected. But not for the reason he anticipated.
You’re nervous around him in a way you’ve never been before. There's a faint flush creeping up your neck. Your thighs press together when you think he’s not looking. And that little hitch in your breath when your eyes meet for more than a second? Both adorable and very telling.
You’re trying to hide it. And doing a decent job, honestly.
But Changbin knows you too well. Right now? You’re flustered as hell.
But it's not just that. Maybe he’s getting ahead of himself, but he could almost swear…you’re a little turned on.
He can see it. Not in a mocking way, but rather he can sense the air around your body change. He can feel the effect he has on you, the way your body betrays any and every attempt at appearing normal.
Oh fuck, it's true. You’re all hot and bothered, and there’s no way to fully hide it. Every nervous shift, every stolen glance, every subtle shiver gives your true feelings away and ignites something in him he can’t ignore.
It's in his chest, twisting and pulling, insisting that he can’t just stand here anymore. He can’t keep letting the tension sit like some invisible wall between you two.
He’s done waiting. The bandaid is coming off one way or another. If he doesn’t act now, he might never get the chance to.
“Listen, about the other night—”
“Okay, you got me. I lied. It is your shirt. I know what you’re about to say, but it’s not my fault. Stealing runs in my family. Remember my Uncle Lee? Forty years and that was on good behavior.”
“Stop.”
“Just be grateful it was only your shirt.”
“Stop.”
“Fiiine, your Supreme hoodie is also in my closet. But I'm not giving it back! Anyway, I got soy sauce on it and the stain won't come out, so—”
“___, stop.”
Your shoulders jerk, heart flipping, guilt prickling across your chest and written all over your face. You know he sees right through you and your antics. This time, he won't let your deflecting humor cover this one up or push him away.
“We need to talk about what happened that night.”
You look away. “I don’t want to.”
“Why not?” His voice is soft and patient, but the edge of insistence is definitely there.
You say nothing, just watch the opposite wall with your lip caught between your teeth.
It’s subtle at first. The way he stands a little closer than necessary, like he’s giving you space but also closing in on your defenses, kindly tearing down your walls.
The walls you keep so carefully in place, built with deflection, humor, and avoidance. They start to splinter under the quiet weight of his presence. Not forced. Not rushed. Just persistent. Willing to stand there for as long as it takes, waiting for you to let him in.
It’s unsettling. Because no one does this to you. No one gets this far.
But Changbin does.
And lately, that thought has been sitting heavier on your heart than you know what to do with. Because ever since that night, there’s been this quiet, gnawing fear you can’t shake. This feeling that maybe you’ve been holding back too much. That maybe you haven't been honest enough.
That eventually he’s going to decide you’re not worth the effort after all.
That he’ll get tired.
That he’ll leave.
The thought tightens something deep in your chest, sharper than you expected.
“Because,” you admit, “I’m scared it’ll change things between us.”
Changbin’s fingers hold your chin, guiding your gaze back to his. “Why does that have to be a bad thing?”
You gaze up at him, heart thudding in your ears. “Run as fast as you can,” it tells you, “before he leaves you first.”
But you don’t want to leave. You don’t want to go back to being someone people only ever get halfway to. You don’t want to be alone.
He’s looking at you like you’re something special. Something beautiful. And that’s the problem. You’ve never really seen yourself that way. So accepting the way he looks at you feels almost impossible, like trying to step into a version of yourself you’ve never believed in.
“I'm sorry.” A small, ashamed apology that makes his heart clench.
“For what?” he asks gently.
“I don’t know. I just feel like I should be.”
“If you’re apologizing for being sexy, please don't.” His hand pulls away from your chin to instead rub the back of his neck. “I’m the one who crossed the line when I asked for a…you know.”
“A kiss?” you finish for him, easing out of his space as you fall back against the counter, palms braced behind you, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “You didn’t cross a line.”
“I didn't?”
“Mm-mm.” You shake your head. “I was the one grinding on you and pulling your hair anyway,” you add quietly, gesturing between the two of you. “When two people are doing stuff like that, it’s natural to want to kiss.”
“Did you want to?”
You swallow, feigning ignorance. “Did I want to what?”
“Kiss me.”
“I don't know.”
“I think you did.” He takes his time closing the distance, giving you the chance to move or stop him. But you don't. So his hands settle on the counter behind you, one on either side of your hips, leaning into you. “Do you want to now?”
Your body reacts first – chest dipping and rising with deeper breaths, knees drawing closer together, lips parting slightly as you stare up at him, fingers twisting nervously into the fabric of your shirt.
It would be so easy to call you out right now, and you know it. The way you’re breathing, the way you keep looking at his mouth, the way your whole body starts instinctively leaning in too, until there's barely an inch of space left between you.
But then you back away again. “Sorry.”
“You know, you keep apologizing, but you're not actually apologizing for what happened,” he says. “I don’t regret it. And if I had to guess…neither do you."
Without answering, your eyes quietly drop to his lips. And this time, they stay there.
Almost immediately, as if on command, Changbin leans in, the movement so subtle you might have missed it if you weren’t watching him so closely. His chin edging forward, his head tilting just enough to line up with yours, his eyes beginning to flutter closed.
But he stops just short, a quiet, eager breath slipping past his lips as he waits, giving you space and time to meet him halfway.
“Can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“Are you going to friend zone me?”
“We’re friends,” you say automatically. “Aren’t I supposed to?”
“No.”
“Then what should I do?”
His hands settle lightly on your waist, barely more than a brush, but enough to draw you a small, pleading inch closer.
“You should kiss me.”
You don’t even know what happened in those next fleeting moments. Only that one second he’s looking at you like his world has stopped, and the next your lips are crashing into his.
Changbin melts. Instantaneously.
The moment you collide, his mouth opens to yours without hesitation, pulling you closer, deeper with every hungry motion. He doesn’t pause to wait for you to catch up or adjust; he just kisses you like he’s always wanted to, letting every craving and desire he’s held back spill into the press of your lips.
Sparks explode behind his closed eyes, fireworks in his chest, traveling through his body and popping in his stomach. Goosebumps bloom across his arms and up the back of his neck, wherever your hands roam. A shiver runs through his body that makes his bones vibrate. His skin feels electric, like glitter dusted over every nerve ending.
But his mind…his mind goes completely blank.
In this moment, nothing else exists but you, him, and the way every fiber of his body is alive with you.
His hands slide around to your waist, catching in the fabric of your shirt as it rides up along your ribs with each pass of his hands. He pulls you flush against him, guiding you without a word until your legs part naturally around his thigh, your hips settling against it like your body already knows where it wants to be.
Your fingers slip into his hair, tightening on instinct every time his thigh flexes beneath you. The movement sends sharp, electric pulses through you, little flashes of heat that leave your hips chasing the feeling, wanting more of him in every way he’ll give it.
He acts on instinct, in response to every inch of you. The sensation of your hips rolling against his thigh, your tongue drawing past his lips, your fingers in his hair. It’s enough to make something restless unfurl inside him, tension winding tighter with every second.
Because as much as he’s unraveling for you, there’s a strong pull to see you unravel too. To be the one who does that to you.
And then your legs clamp shut around his thigh — hard. And the sound that leaves your throat nearly drops Changbin to his knees.
He stills for a moment when you jerk in his arms, body stiffening but also clinging to him. You don’t pull away, but your breath is uneven, lips hovering where they’re already searching to be kissed again.
And then he looks at you.
Holy shit, he’s never seen you like this before.
There’s a softness to you that you've never shown, something fragile in the way you hold onto him. But beneath that, something else flickers. Something stronger. Bolder. You’re stepping into something you’ve never let yourself be before.
It undoes him completely.
Maybe this is what it feels like to watch someone you already thought was everything…become even more.
He grips your waist and lifts you like it’s nothing, setting you on the counter with an ease that makes your breath catch. Before you can even steady yourself, he guides you to the edge, his hands sliding up your thighs, gently parting them so he can step in between.
You immediately grab his collar and pull him back into you. But he doesn't go for another kiss. No. Instead, he drops.
Down to his knees, sparkling eyes fixed on you the whole time, wordless but asking.
Your breath hitches as his hands settle on your knees. Not forceful. Just certain. He presses a soft kiss to the inside of your knee first, and then looks up at you again.
Your fingers move to his hair without thinking, threading through it as you watch him.
Another kiss, higher this time. His lips linger at the center of your thigh. The faint press of his teeth follows, just enough to make you inhale sharply, leaving behind a mark that is quietly, unmistakably his.
He moves again, closer, your legs opening a little more under his touch. His hand spreads along your inner thigh, warm and grounding, holding you there as his mouth follows.
Each kiss is unhurried. Intentional. Dare you believe…even loving.
He’s mapping you out. Learning you. Savoring you.
There’s a low hum against your skin, almost absentminded, like he’s completely lost in it, like every inch of you is something worth pausing for.
And the way he looks at you from there — on his knees, between your legs, careful but sure.
It feels reverent. And absolutely terrifying.
Your hand tightens in his hair, body going tense as he moves in slowly, the warmth of his breath and faint brush of his lips slipping through the thin fabric of your pajama shorts.
A gentle kiss…
“Changbin…” you breathe, fingers tightening just a little more. “Wait.”
He stops instantly.
Looks up at you, and what he sees has him on his feet in the next second.
There are tears in your eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he asks urgently. “Did I hurt you?”
“No. No.” Shyly, you pull your shirt down between your legs, covering the inside of your thighs as your gaze lands anywhere but on him. “I’m just…”
You’re overwhelmed.
How can he look at you like that? How can he worship your body like that? What’s there that's even worth worshipping? No one has ever treated you like this. Not even you.
So to have someone like Changbin kneel for you, the combination of it all sends your heart and body into a frenzy of gnawing self-criticism you don't know how to control.
Years of doubting yourself, of quietly believing you weren’t enough, keep threading through your mind, stopping you from fully sinking into this moment.
You don’t want to hover halfway, caught between fear and desire. You want to let yourself fall completely into his hands, into his lips, into everything he’s giving you.
But you're not quite sure how to do that. And you're not quite sure how to tell him that.
Fortunately, he doesn’t need you to. Understanding softens his expression, and Changbin’s hand moves to stroke your hair. No questions. No blame. He already knows.
“It’s okay,” he says. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
Your shoulders loosen just a fraction. Your hands drift up his chest, settling around him, and you press your face into him for a moment, breathing in his warmth that seems to steady you.
“I'm sorry.”
“I told you,” he murmurs, “you don’t need to apologize for anything.”
He pulls back just enough to capture your lips again, hand cupping your jaw gently.
But this kiss isn’t like the last one. It’s slow but firm, and laced with a yearning that feels deeper. He presses you into his chest, aligning every inch of you to him, inhaling like he’s trying to draw your very essence into himself.
When he finally releases you, it's almost like his whole body sighs in relief, while you’re genuinely sad that his lips have left yours.
He rests his forehead against you, lingering there just long enough for your pulse to spike and your mind to start turning to mush.
“I…”
Your heart starts hammering. Somewhere deep inside, you realize you’ve started holding your breath, wondering how he’ll finish that sentence. And, more dangerously, wishing he would end it a certain way.
“I…I’m okay with waiting. So don’t worry about me,” he says softly.
“Oh,” you whisper, caught between a rush of relief and the sting of disappointment. “Thank you.”
“Wanna watch a movie but get distracted and start making out halfway through?” Changbin adds with a sly, almost comical wink.
You giggle, a little breathless. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds fun.”
He lets go to set up the movie, leaving you perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging in an attempt to appear casual when he glances back at you.
Your gaze follows him, heart twisting as you wonder how you never noticed this side of him before – this mix of tenderness, patience, and heat.
But that tight clench in your chest? It aches from years of carrying so much self-doubt, and also the thought that you could really fall for him…if only your insecurities would let you.
As you jump off the counter and head for the living room, your eyes land on him – sitting on that goddamn couch, remote in one hand, the other invitingly tapping his lap.
And for the first time in a long time, you feel your insecurities start to give way to something more.
( 애인 ) 𝒾n which ︵ grief is just love with no place to go. you were the light in their everyday lives, the one who saw them clearly and loved them through the noise, only to be lost in the sharp silence of a single mistake. now, they're left to navigate a world that feels too quiet, holding onto the fading echoes of your voice while learning to live with a love that can no longer reach you.
angst 8O68 major character death guilt accidental death isolation depression suicidal ideation ( jeongin's ) vomiting ( felix's ) panic attacks self-loathing fighting emotional & verbal hurt
oops my finger slipped. also i deadass teared up for some of these now i have a migraine. please don't dox me
⌨️ like&&reblog for a kiss. ── #click4masterlist to see more.
CHAN
it was his fault. it didn't matter how many times people told him otherwise, because he knew the truth.
the words he’d spat at you were still vibrating in the air of the apartment, ghost echoes that refused to fade even though the person they were aimed at was gone.
chan sat on the edge of the bed, his head hanging between his knees, his fingers digging into his scalp until it stung. the silence in the room was physical. it was heavy, pressing against his eardrums like deep water.
he could still see the way your expression had shifted—that split second where your face went from concern to absolute devastation. he’d been awake for forty-eight hours, fueled by nothing but cold brew and the crushing pressure of a comeback deadline.
when you’d walked into the studio with a container of home-cooked food and a gentle plea for him to just come home for an hour, he’d snapped.
"can't you see i'm busy?" he’d barked, his voice raw and ugly. "i don't need a babysitter. i need you to leave me alone so i can actually do my job."
you hadn't shouted back. you never did. you’d just stood there, the plastic bag of food crinkling in your hand, your eyes glassy. you’d apologized—god, why did you apologize?—and turned around.
ten minutes later, the rain had started. twenty minutes later, his phone had buzzed with a call from an unknown number. thirty minutes later, the world had ended.
chan stood up abruptly, his legs feeling like lead. he walked into the kitchen, his eyes landing on the counter where your keys usually sat. they weren't there. they were in an evidence bag at a police station, probably scratched or bent from the impact.
he reached for a glass of water, but his hand shook so violently that he had to set it back down. he looked at the clock. 3:00 am. this was usually the time you’d text him to see if he was heading back, or if he needed a ride. he pulled his phone out of his pocket, his thumb hovering over your name in his contacts.
1 unread message.
he hadn't opened it. he couldn't. it was sent at 11:42 pm, exactly three minutes before the timestamp on the police report. his heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, painful rhythm. he finally tapped the notification.
i'm sorry for bothering you, channie. i left the food on the table. please eat it when you get a chance. i love you so much. drive safe if you come home later.
chan let out a sound that wasn't a sob—it was more like he’d been punched in the gut and all the air had been forced out of him at once. he sank to the floor, his back sliding against the cold refrigerator.
"i'm sorry," he whispered into the empty kitchen. "i'm so sorry."
the members had tried to come over. changbin had stayed for four hours yesterday, just sitting on the sofa in silence because chan wouldn't speak. minho had brought over a bag of groceries, wordlessly stocking the fridge before leaving with a heavy hand on chan’s shoulder. they wanted to help him carry the weight, but they didn't understand that he deserved to be crushed by it.
if he hadn't been so cruel, you would have stayed. you would have sat on the studio couch and fallen asleep under a blanket while he worked. you wouldn't have been on that bridge. you wouldn't have been in the path of a driver who couldn't see through the torrential rain.
every decision he’d made that night had led to you being gone.
he stood up and walked toward the hallway, his feet dragging. he opened the door to your shared bedroom, the scent of your perfume still clinging to the pillows. it was a soft, floral scent that usually made him feel like he could finally breathe. now, it felt like it was choking him.
he saw your favorite oversized hoodie draped over the back of a chair. he picked it up, burying his face in the soft fabric. he expected to feel a sense of closeness, but all he felt was the stinging reality of your absence. the hoodie was cold.
he went to his desk in the corner of the room, the one he rarely used because he was always at the studio. sitting there was a small stack of mail he’d ignored for days. on top was a postcard you’d bought a week ago, something you were planning to send to your parents.
chan is working so hard, you’d written in your neat, looping script. i'm so proud of him. i hope we can all grab dinner when he’s less busy.
"less busy," he choked out, a bitter laugh escaping him.
he was free now. the comeback was delayed. the schedule was cleared. he had all the time in the world, and none of it mattered. he realized then that he’d spent so much time protecting his time with you, guarding his work, and being the leader that he’d forgotten how to just be your person.
and now, he’d never get the chance to learn again.
the sun started to peek through the blinds, casting long, pale strips of light across the floor. it was a new day, which felt like an insult. how was the sun still rising? how was the world still turning when you weren't in it?
he walked back to the kitchen and saw the container of food you’d left. he hadn't touched it. he opened the lid, the smell of braised short ribs—his favorite—wafting up. you must have spent hours on it.
he took a bite, but he couldn't taste anything. it felt like ash in his mouth. he forced himself to swallow, tears finally spilling over and dripping into the container. he ate the whole thing, shivering in the quiet apartment, every bite a penance, every swallow a reminder of what he’d thrown away for the sake of a song that he now hated with every fiber of his being.
he looked at his reflection in the dark screen of his laptop. he looked like a ghost. his eyes were bloodshot, his skin sallow. he looked exactly how he felt: hollowed out.
he reached for a notepad and a pen. his hands were still shaking, but he pressed the tip to the paper. he didn't know who he was writing to—maybe to you, maybe to the void, maybe to the version of himself that had been so arrogant as to think he had forever.
i’ll never forgive myself, he wrote. the ink bled into the paper where a tear hit it. i spent so much time trying to be everything for everyone else that i broke the only thing that actually mattered. you were my home, and i locked the door on you.
he folded the paper and tucked it into the pocket of your hoodie. he stayed there on the floor long after the sun had fully risen, a leader with no one to lead, a producer with no music left in him, just a man sitting in the wreckage of a life he’d accidentally destroyed with one tired, sharp word.
LEE KNOW
it was the silence that felt like a physical blow. lee minho was a man who understood the nuances of noise—the rhythmic thud of a heavy bass line in a practice room, the demanding meows of three cats, the sharp, teasing banter that had been the foundation of your relationship for years. but this silence was different.
it was a vacuum, sucking the air out of his lungs until his chest ached with the effort of breathing.
he was sitting on the floor of his living room, exactly where he had been three days ago when the two of you had had the fight. the remnants of it were still there, mocking him. a knocked-over stack of dance magazines, a half-empty bottle of water, and the heavy, invisible wall he’d built in the heat of the moment.
he’d been exhausted—beyond the point of rational thought. the choreo for the new title track wasn't clicking, his legs were aching, and when you’d shown up at the dorm with a gentle reminder that he’d missed your anniversary dinner, he’d turned into someone he didn't recognize.
"i'm trying to actually build a career here," he’d snapped, his voice a cold, jagged blade. "i don't have time to worry about a calendar every five minutes. if you’re so lonely, go find someone who doesn't have anything better to do than eat overpriced pasta."
he remembered the way you’d recoiled, as if he’d physically struck you. he remembered the way your lip had trembled for a fraction of a second before you’d pulled your mask of composure back on, like you were trying to make the hurt smaller.
you hadn't yelled. you hadn't even said anything. you’d just set your keys on the counter, looked at him with a hollow kind of disappointment, and walked out into the rain.
"go then!" he’d yelled after you, driven by a toxic mix of pride and fatigue. "don't come back until you realize the world doesn't revolve around your dinner plans!"
and you hadn't.
minho stared at his phone, the screen cracked from when he’d thrown it against the wall after the police officer had left his apartment. he’d been staring at the last text he’d sent you, sent only ten minutes after you’d left, when his heart had finally caught up with his mouth.
i’m an idiot. i’m sorry. come back and i’ll make you the stupid pasta myself.
it was marked as delivered. it would never be read.
a soft weight pressed against his side. soonie bumped his head against minho’s arm, letting out a small, questioning meow. the cat knew. animals always knew when the person who smelled like home was missing. minho reached out, his fingers trembling as he stroked soonie’s ears, but the comfort he usually found in his cats was gone. he felt like a fraud.
how could he take care of them when he’d failed so spectacularly at taking care of you?
he stood up, his joints popping, and walked toward the kitchen. he saw your favorite mug sitting in the sink, a ring of dried coffee at the bottom. he couldn't bring himself to wash it. if he washed it, the last physical evidence of your morning together would be rinsed away, down the drain and into the dark.
he leaned against the counter, his eyes burning. minho didn't cry easily. he was the one who kept his emotions tucked away in neat, categorized boxes. but the box labeled you had burst open, and the contents were suffocating him.
he found himself walking toward the hallway closet. he pulled out your heavy winter coat, the one you’d forgotten because you’d been in such a rush to leave his anger behind. he buried his face in the faux-fur collar, inhaling deeply.
it still smelled like your shampoo—something bright and vanilla—and for a split second, his brain tricked him into thinking you were just in the other room.
"i didn't mean it," he choked out, the words muffled by the fabric. "i didn't mean any of it."
he thought about the "what ifs" until his head throbbed. what if he’d just taken a nap before you arrived? what if he’d just said happy anniversary instead of complaining about the choreo? what if he’d run after you the moment the door clicked shut?
the police told him the driver hadn't seen you through the sheets of rain. they told him it was instantaneous, that you didn't suffer. they meant it to be a kindness, but to minho, it was a horror.
he had been the last thing you’d seen—not a sunset, not a smiling face, but his sneering expression and the sound of his cruel voice.
he wandered back into the living room and saw your keys still sitting on the counter. he picked them up, the metal cold against his palm. dangling from the ring was a small, worn-out keychain he’d given you as a joke a year ago. it was a cat with a grumpy face that you’d insisted looked exactly like him when he woke up.
he gripped the keys so hard the edges bit into his skin. he deserved the pain. he deserved the silence. he deserved the way the apartment felt like a tomb.
minho sat back down on the floor, the darkness of the evening beginning to swallow the room. he didn't turn on the lights. he didn't deserve the light. he just sat there with soonie, doongie, and dori hovering nearby, a man who had spent his whole life learning how to move his body with perfect precision, only to realize he’d stepped on the only thing that had ever truly anchored him.
he closed his eyes, and in the quiet, he could almost hear your laugh—the way it used to cut through his moods like a flashlight in a dark basement. it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever known, and he was the one who had silenced it.
"i'll find you," he whispered into the empty air, a promise that felt more like a plea. "next time, i'll find you and i won't let go. i'll never let go."
but for now, there was only the rain against the window and the crushing, eternal weight of the things he had left unsaid.
CHANGBIN
the gym was empty, the fluorescent lights humming with a clinical, biting edge that made the space feel more like a cage than a sanctuary. changbin was staring at a heavy barbell, the iron plates stacked high, but he couldn't bring himself to reach for it.
his hands were shaking. it wasn't the kind of tremor that came from a heavy set of reps; it was the kind that came when your world had collapsed and you were trying to hold up the ceiling with nothing but your bare skin.
it had started with something so stupid. a misunderstanding about a schedule, a missed call, and a week of built-up pressure that he’d decided to unload on the one person who didn't deserve it.
"you're always just there," he’d groaned, his voice dripping with a frustration he didn't actually feel toward you. "don't you have anything else to do? i'm trying to focus on my life, on the group, and i feel like i have to constantly check in with you like i’m reporting to a boss. it’s exhausting."
the silence that followed had been sharp. he’d watched you slowly set down the bag of laundry you’d brought over—his laundry, that you’d picked up because you knew he was too busy to do it.
you hadn't looked angry. you had just looked tired. a deep, bone-weary kind of tired that he’d been too blind to see.
"i'm sorry i'm such a burden, binnie," you’d said softly. "i'll let you get back to your focus."
you’d walked out of the dorm, and he’d let you. he’d actually sat back down on the sofa and felt a twisted sense of "victory" for finally getting some space. he’d waited an hour, then two, his pride slowly dissolving into a hollow ache.
he’d finally picked up his phone to text you a half-hearted apology, but the screen was already flooded with news alerts.
major accident on the highway. flash floods. multiple casualties.
now, changbin sat on a weight bench, his head in his hands. the smell of iron and sweat—usually the things that made him feel powerful—now made him feel nauseous. he looked at his reflection in the wall-to-wall mirrors. he looked strong. he looked like the powerhouse everyone expected him to be.
but inside, he felt like a house of cards in a hurricane.
he’d spent his whole life building himself up, making himself sturdy so he could be a shield for the people he loved. but what was the point of a shield if you used it to crush the person you were supposed to protect?
he reached into his gym bag and pulled out a small, crumpled receipt he’d found in his pocket earlier. it was for a pair of high-end running shoes you’d bought him two weeks ago because you noticed he was complaining about his arches. you’d spent your own savings on them, joking that you were "investing in his gains."
he’d never even thanked you properly.
"i'm so small," he whispered, his voice cracking in the vastness of the gym. "i'm so pathetic."
he finally stood up, but instead of lifting, he walked over to the corner where he kept his personal locker. inside sat a small, handwritten note you’d tucked into his gym bag months ago: don't overdo it today. your muscles need rest, and i need you in one piece. love you!
he pressed the paper to his lips, his shoulders finally heaving. the tears came then—not the quiet, dignified kind, but a violent, racking sob that tore through his chest. he collapsed back onto the bench, the note clutched in his fist like a lifeline.
he thought about the way you used to wait for him at the door, the way you’d always have a protein shake ready, the way you’d listen to his rough demos and tell him his verses were the heart of the song.
you were the only person who saw seo changbin—not the rapper, not the idol, not the bodybuilder, but the man who was often scared he wasn't enough.
and he had told you that was exhausting. he had told you that you were exhausting.
the guilt was a physical weight, heavier than any plate in the room. it was sitting on his chest, squeezing the air out of him. he realized with a terrifying clarity that he would never be able to out-work this pain. he couldn't sweat it out. he couldn't lift it away.
it was a part of him now, a permanent shadow in his peripheral vision.
he stayed in the gym until the sun started to bleed through the high windows, turning the iron plates into silhouettes. he didn't want to go home. home was where your shoes were still by the door. home was where the laundry you’d dropped off was still sitting on the floor, a monument to his own cruelty.
he finally gathered his things, his movements slow and robotic. as he walked toward the exit, his eyes caught the "maximum capacity" sign on the wall.
"i'm at capacity," he muttered, a bitter, broken laugh escaping him.
he walked out into the cool morning air, the city beginning to wake up around him. people were starting their days, coffee cups in hand, oblivious to the fact that the world was missing its brightest light. changbin pulled his hoodie over his head, hiding his face, and began the long walk back to an apartment that was no longer a home.
he didn't know how to move forward. he didn't know how to be himself anymore. how to exist without you.
but as he walked, he kept his hand in his pocket, his fingers tracing the edges of your note. it was the only thing he had left that wasn't heavy.
HYUNJIN
the studio apartment was bathed in a cruel, mocking gold as the sun dipped below the horizon. it was the kind of light hyunjin usually lived for—the perfect golden hour that he would spend hours trying to replicate with tubes of ochre and zinc white.
but now, the light just felt like an intruder. it crept across the floor, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and the half-finished sketch still sitting on the easel in the corner.
hyunjin was sitting on the floor, his back against the cold brick wall. his long hair was a tangled mess, falling over his eyes, but he didn't have the energy to push it back. his hands, usually so expressive and nimble, were stained dark with charcoal and dried ink, looking bruised in the twilight.
he couldn't stop looking at the door.
it was the last place he’d seen you. he could still hear the sharp, echoing thud of it closing—a sound that had felt like a period at the end of a sentence he wasn't ready to finish.
they had been working on a new performance, and hyunjin had pushed himself past the breaking point. his muscles were screaming, his mind was a frayed wire, and when you had shown up at the practice room with a gentle suggestion that he was overworking himself, he had lashed out.
it wasn't even about you. it was about the fear of not being perfect, the crushing weight of expectation. but you were the one standing there, and you were the one who caught the edge of his tongue.
"you don't get it," he’d hissed, his voice cold and unfamiliar. "you just sit there and watch. you don't understand the pressure. you’re just annoying me right now. if you’re so worried about my health, go worry about it somewhere else. i don't need you hovering over me like i’m some child."
he remembered the way you’d gone still. the way your eyes, usually so full of warmth and soft encouragement, had shuttered. you hadn't even argued. you’d just nodded once, picked up your bag, and left.
"i'm sorry," you’d whispered. "i won't distract you anymore."
two hours later, the manager had walked into the studio, his face pale, his hands shaking as he held his phone.
now, hyunjin reached out and touched the canvas in front of him. it was a portrait of you he’d started weeks ago. he’d wanted to surprise you for your anniversary. he’d captured the way the light hit the bridge of your nose, the specific curve of your smile that only came out when you were laughing at one of his jokes.
but it was unfinished. your eyes were still just empty outlines, waiting for the depth and color he’d promised to add.
he’d never add it. he couldn't. every time he picked up a brush, he felt like he was suffocating.
"i'm sorry," he whispered, the words sounding thin and pathetic in the empty room. "i'm so sorry, i didn't mean it. i was just tired. please, just come back and tell me i’m an idiot."
he stood up unsteadily and walked to the small table by the window. your coffee mug was still there, half-full of cold, stagnant liquid. beside it sat a small scrap of paper where you’d doodled a little ferret while waiting for him to finish a painting session.
he picked up the paper, his fingers tracing the shaky lines. you weren't an artist, but you always tried for him. you’d draw little things to make him smile, to remind him that life existed outside of the lines and the shades.
he collapsed into the chair, clutching the scrap of paper to his chest. the grief wasn't a sharp pain anymore; it was a dull, constant ache, like a bone that had set wrong.
it was the realization that he had spent his whole life trying to create beauty, trying to capture the essence of the world on a flat surface, while the most beautiful thing he’d ever known had been right beside him, and he’d thrown it away because he was tired.
he looked at his paints. the reds looked too much like the sirens he’d seen in his nightmares. the blues were too cold, like the rain that had been falling that night.
hyunjin grabbed a tube of black paint and a palette knife. in a sudden, violent burst of movement, he smeared the dark pigment over the unfinished portrait. he covered your smile, your hair, the bridge of your nose. he couldn't bear to look at the ghost of what he’d destroyed.
when the canvas was nothing but a void of wet, glistening black, he dropped the knife. it hit the hardwood with a hollow metallic sound.
he sank back onto the floor, the shadows of the room finally swallowing him whole. he’d always been a man of colors, of light, of vibrant expression. but as he sat there in the dark, hyunjin realized he had finally painted his masterpiece. it was a perfect representation of his heart: empty, dark, and utterly silent.
he closed his eyes, praying for a dream where the door would open again, and you’d tell him that the light was perfect for a sketch. but the only thing that met him was the silence, and the knowledge that he was finally alone with his art.
HAN
the noise in the studio was usually a comfort to han jisung—a messy, chaotic layer of synth pads, vocal chops, and the frantic clicking of a mouse. but tonight, the silence was screaming. it was a high-pitched, ringing void that seemed to radiate from the empty swivel chair in the corner of the room.
jisung sat at his desk, his hands hovering over the keyboard, but he couldn't remember a single chord. his brain felt like it had been short-circuited. every time he closed his eyes, he saw the same frame: the harsh, fluorescent light of the hallway reflecting in your eyes as you looked at him with a mixture of shock and pure, unadulterated hurt.
it had been such a small thing. he’d been struggling with a bridge for seven hours, the melody slipping through his fingers like sand. when you’d pushed the door open, balancing a tray of iced coffee and your own laptop, he hadn't seen his best friend. he hadn't seen the love of his life, his everything.
he’d seen another distraction.
"can you just—for once—not be in here?" he’d snapped, the words coming out louder and sharper than he’d intended. "i have actual work to do. i can't be your emotional support animal twenty-four-seven. just go. find someone else to cling to for a night."
you hadn't snapped back. you were used to his moods, his high-strung anxiety, his "genius" tantrums. but this had been different. he’d targeted the one thing you were always self-conscious about: your fear of being a burden.
you’d stood there for a long beat, the ice in the coffee cups rattling against the plastic. "okay, hanji," you’d whispered, blinking tears back, your voice so small it barely carried over the hum of the cooling fans. "i'll go."
you’d turned on your heel and disappeared. and jisung, fueled by a toxic surge of adrenaline and a desperate need to finish the track, had turned back to his monitors. he’d worked for another three hours, convinced himself the song was a masterpiece, and finally reached for his phone to send you a meme as a peace offering.
the notifications were already there.
the police report mentioned the rain-slicked pavement and a driver who hadn't seen the pedestrian in the crosswalk. it mentioned the time: 11:14 p.m.
jisung had sent his stupid meme at 11:16 p.m.
now, he grabbed the edges of his desk, his knuckles turning white. he felt like he was drowning in the air of his own studio. he stood up, his legs shaking, and walked over to the corner chair. on the floor beside it was a small, crumpled-up piece of paper. he picked it up, his breath catching in his throat.
it was a doodle. a little quokka with oversized headphones, holding a heart. you’d probably drawn it while waiting for him to finish his previous session, waiting to show it to him when he finally took a break.
"i'm so sorry," he choked out, the sound echoing off the soundproof foam on the walls. "i'm so sorry, angel. i didn't mean it. i love you. i love you clinging to me. i need you to cling to me."
he sank to his knees, burying his face in the seat of the chair where you always sat. it still smelled like your laundry detergent—something soft and clean. he grabbed the fabric, bunching it in his fists, and finally, the dam broke. jisung was a loud person—he laughed loud, he talked loud, he rapped with a piercing intensity—but his grief was a quiet, jagged thing.
it was a series of broken gasps and muffled sobs that felt like they were tearing his lungs apart.
he thought about all the lyrics he’d written about love, about loss, about the "one that got away." they all felt like a joke now. they were just words, shallow and meaningless compared to the crushing reality of your absence.
he realized he’d spent so much time trying to capture the perfect emotion on a track that he’d failed to protect the real emotion standing right in front of him.
he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. he scrolled through your messages, his thumb trembling over the screen. your last text to him was from that afternoon: don't forget to eat, sunshine. i'm bringing coffee later. see you soon!
"sunshine," he whispered, a bitter, agonizing sob escaping him. "you called me sunshine."
he looked at his monitors—the glowing bars of the song that had cost him everything. he reached out and hit the delete key. then he hit confirm.
he watched as the project file, the work of ten hours, the work he’d prioritized over your life, vanished into nothing. it didn't make him feel better. it didn't bring you back. but it was the only thing he had left to sacrifice.
the sun began to creep through the small window of the studio, a pale, grey light that didn't feel like morning. it felt like the end of the world. jisung stayed on the floor, curled into a ball next to your empty chair, the little quokka drawing pressed against his heart.
he was a songwriter, a storyteller, a man who always had a witty comeback or a clever rhyme. but as the world woke up without you, han jisung found he had finally run out of things to say. the only thing left was the silence, and the ghost of a girl who had once called him her sunshine.
FELIX
the apartment still smelled like the apology brownies he’d pulled out of the oven only an hour before the phone rang. it was a sweet, heavy scent—the kind of smell that usually made felix feel like he was wrapped in a warm blanket. now, it made him want to claw his own throat out.
he was standing in the middle of the kitchen, his hands still dusted with a fine layer of powdered sugar. the bright blue mixing bowl was sitting in the sink, half-filled with soapy water. everything was so incredibly normal, so horrifyingly domestic, that it felt like a sick joke.
it had been his fault. he knew it with a certainty that felt like lead in his veins.
they had been fighting over something so small it didn't even have a name. he’d been coming home later and later, his body aching from the physical toll of a world tour, his mind frayed by the constant need to be "on." when you’d gently suggested he take a break—just one night to be lee felix instead of stray kids' felix—he’d snapped.
"you think it's that easy?" he’d rasped, his voice dropping into that deep, jagged register he only used when he was truly hurt. "you think i can just turn it off? you have no idea what i do for this. you’re just sitting here in this perfect little bubble i built for us, judging me. if you hate how much i work so much, then why are you even here?"
the look on your face had haunted him for the forty-five minutes you’d been gone. it wasn't anger; it was the look of someone who had just realized the person they loved most in the world thought they were a burden.
you hadn't even grabbed a proper coat, just your keys and your shoes, walking out into the freezing slush of a seoul february.
"i'll leave you to your work then," you’d said. as much as you tried to hide it, your tears had slipped down your cheeks. that was the worst part. like you had been trying to hide yourself from him.
the phone call from the hospital had been short. precise. the kind of words that didn't leave room for hope. a patch of black ice, a driver who couldn't stop in time, and a girl who had no business being out in a storm without a coat.
felix felt the first wave hit him then. it wasn't grief—not yet. it was a physical rejection from his own body. he stumbled toward the small bathroom off the hallway, his knees hitting the tile with a bone-jarring thud. he barely made it to the toilet before he was retching, his stomach turning itself inside out.
he puked until there was nothing left but bitter bile and the lingering, nauseating taste of the chocolate he’d sampled earlier. he stayed there on the floor, his forehead pressed against the cold porcelain, shivering so hard his teeth clattered. his blonde hair, which he’d spent so much time styling for your date night at home, was damp with sweat and stuck to his temples.
"please," he gasped into the empty, tiled room. "please, not her. anyone but her. take me. it was me. i said it. please."
he crawled back into the hallway, his movements slow and agonizing. he reached the coat rack and saw your spare scarf hanging there—the soft, pink one with the loose threads at the end. he pulled it down, wrapping it around his hand, pressing it to his face.
it still smelled like the perfume he’d bought you for christmas.
he thought about your hands. he thought about how they were always warm, even when his were like ice. he thought about how you used to trace the freckles on his cheeks like they were stars in a constellation only you could see.
and he thought about how those hands were now cold, sitting in a room with white sheets and bright lights, because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
the sunshine of the group.
that’s what everyone called him. he was the one who brought the light, the one who gave the hugs, the one who made sure everyone else was okay. but as he sat on the floor of his dark hallway, felix realized the sun had finally gone out. he had extinguished it himself.
he looked toward the kitchen, where the brownies were still sitting on the cooling rack. they looked perfect. they looked like a "sorry" that would never be heard.
he let out a sound—a high, broken keen that didn't sound like a human voice at all. it was the sound of a boy who had finally realized that all the brownies and heart-shaped notes and grand gestures in the world couldn't fix a broken soul.
he’d wanted to give you the world, but instead, he’d given you the street on a rainy night.
he curled into a ball on the floor, the scarf clutched so tight his fingers went numb. he didn't want to get up. he didn't want to go to the hospital to identify a body that used to be his home. he just wanted to stay here in the dark, in the smell of chocolate and the cold, until the world forgot he ever existed.
"i'm sorry, angel," he whispered, his voice a ghost of itself. "i'm so, so sorry."
the clock on the wall ticked—a rhythmic, heartless sound that reminded him he was still alive, and you weren't. and for lee felix, that was the greatest punishment of all.
SEUNGMIN
the air in seungmin’s apartment was stagnant, heavy with the scent of unwashed coffee mugs and the faint, lingering smell of your favorite citrus perfume. he was sitting at his small dining table, the one where you’d spent countless nights helping him memorize lyrics or just arguing over which convenience store had the best spicy ramen.
in front of him was a notebook, open to a blank page. his pen was held loosely in his hand, the tip resting on the paper until a small, dark blot of ink began to spread, staining the wood beneath. seungmin was known for his precision—for the way he hit every note with surgical accuracy and the way his life was organized into neat, predictable rows.
but precision didn't help when the world stopped making sense.
he’d been the one to start the fight. it was a stupid, prideful thing about timing and careers. he’d been stressed, his voice feeling strained after a long recording session, and when you’d suggested he take a day off to rest, he’d turned that sharp, observational wit of his into a weapon.
"you’re so focused on the now, but i’m trying to build something that lasts," he’d said, his voice quiet but biting. "you don't get it because you don't have to be perfect for anyone. i do. so just stop acting like you know what's best for me. it’s annoying."
he remembered the way you’d blinked, the hurt flashing behind your eyes before you’d masked it with that careful, yet kind, expression you only used when he was being particularly difficult.
"i'm sorry for being annoying, seungmin," you'd said, eyes wet. you hadn't slammed the door. you’d closed it softly, with the same gentleness you’d always shown him.
that was four days ago.
the call had come from the hospital later that night. a driver had run a red light. a pedestrian in the crosswalk. no time to react.
seungmin finally dropped the pen. it clattered against the table, the sound echoing too loudly in the silence. he stood up, his movements stiff, and walked into the kitchen. on the counter sat a small box of herbal tea you’d bought for him because you were worried about his throat.
he hadn't even opened it yet.
he reached out, his fingers tracing the plastic wrap. he’d spent his whole life being the anchor, the one who stayed grounded while everyone else drifted. but without you, there was no ground left to stand on.
he walked toward the window, looking down at the street below. the city was still moving, people were still laughing, and the cars were still rushing through the intersection where everything had ended. it felt like a betrayal.
how could the world be so loud when you were so quiet?
"you didn't deserve that. you're too kind to me. too good," he whispered, his forehead pressing against the cold glass. "too good for me."
he went to his closet and pulled out a hoodie—one you used to steal all the time because it was too big for you. he buried his face in the fabric, desperate for a hint of you, but the scent was fading, replaced by the sterile smell of his own life.
he thought about all the times he’d teased you for your "poor life choices," all the times he’d played the role of the cynical boyfriend while secretly counting down the seconds until he could see you again. he’d been so busy being the person who knew everything that he’d forgotten to be the person who said anything.
he couldn't remember the last time that he told you he loved you. it hadn't been on the last day he'd seen your face. but what about before that?
he tried to retrace the weeks, digging through the mundane conversations about groceries or the weather, looking for the words. it felt like they had just slipped into the background, something assumed rather than said.
maybe he’d muttered it while you were half-asleep, or maybe he’d just thought it so loudly he convinced himself he’d actually spoken it aloud. now, the silence of the room just made the lack of it feel heavy, like a debt he’d forgotten to pay until it was too late to settle up.
what if you'd died doubting that he had? that he did love you?
seungmin sank to the floor, his back against the bed, pulling his knees to his chest. he wasn't a messy person, but his grief was a disaster. it was a jagged, unpolished thing that didn't fit into a four-four time signature.
he closed his eyes and tried to remember the sound of your laugh, but all he could hear was the click of the door closing and the sound of his own cold voice telling you to go.
"i'm an idiot, pup," he choked out, the nickname feeling like a physical weight in his throat. "i'm just an idiot."
he stayed there until the room went dark, the only light coming from the streetlamps outside. he was waiting for the buzzing of his phone, for a message asking for an sos, for a rescue flare that would never come.
the most observant man in the room had missed the only thing that mattered, and now, seungmin was finally left with a silence he couldn't fix.
I.N.
the cold on the rooftop was the only thing that felt honest anymore. it was a sharp, biting wind that cut through the layers of jeongin’s coat, stinging his cheeks and numbing the tips of his fingers. he stood near the edge, his chest heaving as he tried to catch a single, clean breath of air.
but the oxygen felt thin, like it was being filtered through a thick layer of ash.
it had been two weeks since the news. two weeks since you walked out of his apartment, teary-eyed and hurt, because of him. because of his cruelty.
and jeongin felt as though he had been submerged underwater the entire time. the world was a blur of muffled voices, bright stage lights that felt like needles in his eyes, and a relentless, crushing pressure in his lungs.
he didn't think he would ever breathe properly again. the simple act of inhaling felt like a betrayal. how could he fill his lungs when yours had stopped?
he leaned his weight against the cold metal railing, his head dropping into his hands. his body felt heavy, a shell of the person he used to be. every muscle ached with the fatigue of trying to pretend he wasn't hollow.
tucked between his shaking fingers was a small, faded slip of paper—a ticket stub from the very first date the two of you had gone on. it was a movie he hadn't even liked, a poorly paced thriller that you’d spent the entire time whispering critiques about into his ear.
he had kept it in the secret compartment of his wallet, a lucky charm he’d pull out whenever the pressure of being an idol felt like it was too much to carry. it was his anchor. it was proof that he was loved by someone who didn't care about his stage name.
for a split second, the wind whistled through the vents of the building, and jeongin’s heart stopped. it sounded like a hum—the specific, soft melody you used to absentmindedly whistle when you were focused on a task.
"angel?" he breathed, his head snapping up from his hands.
his eyes darted frantically across the rooftop, his pulse racing with a sudden, agonizing burst of hope. for one beautiful, terrifying moment, he expected to see you leaning against the doorway, your hair windswept and a teasing smile on your face, telling him he was being dramatic.
but the roof was empty. the hope died as quickly as it had flared, leaving behind a coldness that was even deeper than before.
he looked down, his gaze drifting toward the street below. across the road, a girl was walking, her laughter carried upward by the wind. she was glowing under the streetlamps, her hand firmly interlaced with a boy’s as they swung their arms between them.
they were young—his age—and happy, and entirely oblivious to the fact that a world had ended just a few stories above them.
in the distraction of the moment, jeongin’s grip on the ticket stub loosened. a stray, aggressive gust of wind caught the corner of the paper, snatching it from his numbed fingertips.
the ticket stub fluttered out of his hand, caught by a stray gust of wind, and he watched as it danced over the edge of the railing, disappearing into the dark abyss of the city below.
"no," he gasped, his body lunging forward, his hands grasping at the empty air where the paper had been a second before. "no, please. wait!"
he gripped the railing so hard the metal dug into his palms, his eyes scanning the darkness for a flash of white. but the street was a sea of moving lights and shadows, and the ticket—the last tangible piece of that first night—was gone.
it wasn't just the ticket. it was the realization that he couldn't hold onto any of it. not the smell of your hair, not the sound of your voice, not the way you looked when you were laughing at his terrible jokes.
it was all leaking away, dissolving into memory, and he was powerless to stop it. soon, he feared, even the memories would start to fray at the edges, and he would be left with nothing but the shape of a person he used to love.
the first sob broke out of him like a physical wound. it was a jagged, raw sound that tore through the quiet of the night. he collapsed onto his knees, his forehead pressing against the cold concrete of the roof. sobs racked his thin frame, violent and unforgiving, shaking him until his vision blurred with tears.
he felt so small. he was supposed to be the one who stayed strong, the one who kept the peace, the one who smiled through the exhaustion. but the smile was gone, replaced by a grief that was too big for his body to contain.
jeongin looked through the gaps in the railing at the drop below. it would be so easy. a single step, a moment of weightlessness, and then the quiet. the noise in his head would finally stop. the constant, agonizing ache in his chest would vanish.
he could follow the path of the ticket to the ground, and maybe, in whatever came next, he would find you waiting there with that same ticket in your hand.
he stood up slowly, his legs feeling like lead. he placed one hand on the top of the railing, looking down at the pavement. the thought of the impact didn't scare him; what scared him was the thought of waking up tomorrow and having to do this all over again.
but as he looked out over the city, he stopped. his hand gripped the metal until his knuckles turned white.
"i don't get to go," he whispered, his voice thick with salt and despair.
he didn't deserve the easy way out. he didn't deserve to escape the pain he felt. if he left now, who would remember the way you looked in the morning? who would remember the specific way you’d tuck your chin when you were embarrassed? if he died, those memories died with him, and he couldn't let you disappear completely.
he had to live with it. he had to carry the weight of your absence until it became a part of his bones, a permanent shadow in his soul. that was his duty to you. to bear the pain, to feel every second of the silence, and to keep your name alive in a world that had already moved on.
jeongin slid back down against the wall, his face hidden in his knees as the wind continued to howl around him. he stayed there long after his tears had dried, long after his skin had turned blue from the cold. he was alone on the roof, a boy who had lost his anchor and his heart, and for the first time in his life, he didn't try to hide the darkness.
he just sat there, breathing in the cold air, waiting for the sun to rise on a world that would never be bright again.
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they call you clingy on tour : hyung line ( part two )
➪ pairing : hyung line skz x reader
➪ summary : a continuation to part one. your boyfriend realizes how badly he messed up, now he has to beg you to hear him out, you however are very spiteful.
➪ other notes : i made all of the endings like this on purpose, no part 3 will be made :) maknae line version should be out soon but it’s i still don’t have a specific date yet.
In which you gave them a silent treatment after both of you got into an argument
Hers's my masterlist if you are interested to read more of my work! hihi!!
Maknae Line
Bang Chan
At first, Chan respects your silence.
He thinks you need space. He’s mature so he tells himself that backing off is the right thing. But as the hours pass, the silence settles into the room like a storm cloud, and it weighs on him in ways he doesn’t expect.
He keeps himself busy. Cleans the kitchen. Does the laundry. Organizes the files on his laptop. Anything to distract from the heavy stillness between you.
But your silence cuts deep.
He glances over at you often watching your face when you’re scrolling on your phone or pretending to nap. He knows you’re hurting. And that he caused it.
At night, he lies beside you without touching you, just quietly whispering things like:
“You know… I didn’t mean to make you feel alone.”
The next day, he gives up the waiting. He stands in the doorway, voice raw:
“Baby, please. I can take you yelling at me. I deserve it. But don’t shut me out like I’m a stranger… Not you.”
And when your eyes finally lift to meet his teary, unsure, he walks straight to you and wraps his arms around you tight, whispering apologies against your hair like prayers.
Lee Know (Minho)
Minho doesn’t chase silence.
In fact, when you stop speaking to him, he stops speaking too. Cold glances. Tense air. A dangerous quiet.
He walks past you like he doesn’t care but you see it. The way his eyes linger just a second too long. The way he silently places your slippers by your feet when you forget. The way he keeps the food warm even though you don’t come to eat with him.
He pretends not to be bothered.
But inside, he’s spiraling.
Minho is the type to hurt in silence. And your silence feels like punishment. Like rejection. Like abandonment.
He breaks the distance eventually, catching your hand when you walk past him and holding it just tightly enough to make you stop.
“I know I don’t say sorry well. I know I push too hard. But don’t disappear from me like this.”
He lifts your hand to his cheek, eyes flickering.
“Just tell me what to do. Anything. I’ll do it. Just talk to me again.”
Changbin
Changbin takes your silence personally.
At first, he reacts loudly pacing, muttering, sighing dramatically in hopes you’ll react.
“Okay! Fine! I messed up! I said something stupid! You don’t need to treat me like a ghost.”
But when you still don’t respond, he gets quiet. Really quiet.
He sits on the edge of the bed, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. You can feel the regret radiating off him.
He’ll start doing small things, placing your favorite snacks where you can see them, playing your comfort playlist on low volume, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders when he thinks you’re asleep.
One night, he knocks on the door gently and speaks with a voice barely above a whisper:
“I know you’re angry. And you have every right to be. But… please don’t hate me. Please don’t leave me alone like this.”
He won’t stop trying until you turn to him, until your silence breaks and he’ll apologize ten more times just to make sure you really know how sorry he is.
Hyunjin
Hyunjin is dramatic by nature but when it comes to your silence, it hits different.
At first, he’s confused. Then anxious. Then flat-out emotional.
He tries everything, talking, hugging you from behind, doing over-the-top aegyo just to get you to laugh.
“Are you doing this because I said that dumb thing? I didn’t mean it, you know that, right?”
He writes a poem about it. Then paints something. Then leaves the painting by your bedside without saying anything.
Eventually, he breaks down, not in anger, but in fragile desperation.
“You not talking to me… it makes me feel like I don’t exist in your world anymore.”
He’ll cry quietly in the corner of the room, curled up on the floor like a lost child, until you sit beside him. When you finally speak, even one word, his head shoots up and he wipes his tears, whispering:
“Don’t ever shut me out like that again. I’d rather you scream at me than pretend I don’t matter.”
