after some rummaging and random swinging of the arm in the darkness, you finally switch on the lamp.
cracking your eyes open, you almost make out the time.
2:04 am.
you proceed to curse your own bladder for giving up on you post the birth of your son, baby!yuji. shoving the heavy arm off of you, you give it a light tap as if to assure it that youâll be back.
a gesture mostly engraved into your autonomic nervous system.
you walk, half-asleep to the bathroom.
clicking itâs light on, you blink rapidly, and then failing to adjust to the assault of such brightness you squeeze your eyes shut and trudge on, purely on instinct.
you sit down, ready to relieve yourself, when the door youâd forgotten to shut close behind you, creaks open.
âmamamamamaâ baby yuji babbles on, rubbing his eyes with his little fists.
this had become routine for the two of you.
âmama what doin?â he questions,
âoh baby, mamaâs just peeingâ you rub your face, unfazed.
and then as if the party was just getting started, a much larger presence also appears, right behind your son.
eliciting a loud yawn, with his entire frame filling up the entrance sukuna scratches his head looking you up and down,
âwhat are you doing, woman?â
âoh just grilling a steak, want some?â you didnât know why heâd ask you that, frankly it was too late at night for you to tolerate such stupid questions.
âno silly!â yuji chimed in, âmama peeingâ atleast someone here was sensible.
your husband just nods in acknowledgement, arms crossed leaning on the door,
watching you.
seriously?
âhello?â you wave your hand at sukuna, motioning him to leave âwhat happened to privacy?â you question.
âyeah son, yaâ gotta go mom needs spaceâ he tilts his head towards yuji who just sticks his tongue out. guess stubbornness ran in the family.
you narrow your eyes at him.
âi married you and impregnated you and saw you give birth and we have a son together wife, so really what privacy?â
âtouchĂŠâ you click your tongue. seriously, the irony in your whole family watching you pee wasnât lost on you.
then, mid-stream, he whistles at you.
âyou look sexy as hell right nowâ
âryo!â you clutch your stomach, trying not to laugh, âiâm trying to pee!â
âby all means, donât let me stop youâ he raises both hands as if in mock surrender.
âi wasnât gonna!â you chuckle while wiping yourself.
you pull your pants up and walk towards the sink.
turning on the tap you hiss at the ice cold water hitting your poor, previously warm fingers.
yuji circles about in the limited space of the bathroom, singing âwash, wash, washâ his kindergarten teacher probably taught him that.
âcan you not stay even a second away from me?â you question as you feel sukunaâs arms snake around your waist.
his heavy breath tickles your neck making you shudder.
âi canâ
âso why are you here?â
a beat of contemplation, perhaps.
âokay, i canâtâ
you giggle again, moving to wipe your hands on the towel all nice and dry.
âalright party people, weâre done hereâ you announce walking out of the bathroom with your ducklings husband, and son following suit.
firefly; iâm back with more baby!yuji who else cheered?
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After songs leak, the members accuse you without hesitation, isolating you with cold stares and cruel whispers. When the truth is revealed, itâs too lateâthe damage is done, and trust between you is shattered.
The first thing you notice is the silence and not the comfortable kind. Itâs the kind that usually fills practice rooms when everyoneâs too tired to talk, or when Chan is focused on producing.
This silence is sharp.
It presses against your ears, heavy and suffocating, like youâve walked into a room where something has already gone wrong.
You step inside anyway.
Eight pairs of eyes turn to you, none of them are warm.
âWhat?â you ask, forcing a small laugh, trying to brush off the tension crawling up your spine. âWhy are you allââ
âWhere were you last night?â Chanâs voice cuts through you. Itâs calmâfrighteningly soâand it hits you with a coldness that makes your heart stutter.
You blink confused by the sudden interrogation. âDorm. Why?â
Then Minho scoffs under his breath, a sharp, bitter sound that makes you flinch.
âYou actually expect us to believe that?â he mutters, his gaze fixed on the wall behind you as if looking at you is beneath him.
Your chest tightens. âBelieve what?â
Hyunjin tosses his phone onto the table. It slides toward you, stopping just short of your hand.
You look down, and your heart doesnât just dropâit feels like it stops entirely.
Clips. Snippets. Audio files.
Unreleased tracks.
Your tracks.
They are the unreleased tracks from the album youâve all been pouring your souls into for months. You see the titles of songs that came from hours of sleepless nights, heated arguments, desperate rewrites, and shared tears. All of itâthe culmination of your hard workâwas out there.
Leaked.
âNoâŚâ your fingers trembling as you scroll through the social media threads and the links. âNo, thisâthis isnâtââ
âYou were the last one using the studio computer,â Jisung says flatly.
You freeze, the phone nearly slipping from your hand. âIâyeah, I was, but that doesnât mean I had anything to do with this!â
âThen what does it mean?â Changbin snaps, voice sharp. âBecause thatâs the same computer the files were pulled from.â
You feel like the ground has suddenly disappeared beneath your feet, leaving you suspended in a void where your own brothers are looking at you like a criminal.
âI didnât do this,â you say, quieter now. âYou have to believe me.â
Felix looks away, his jaw tight. Jeongin refuses to meet your eyes. Jisung is staring intently at his own shoes. Hyunjin just crosses his arms, his face a mask of hurt and anger.
And Chan⌠Chan just watches you like heâs trying to read something youâre not saying.
But thereâs doubt there. You see it, and seeing it hurts more than any of the accusations.
âYouâre the only one who had access at that time,â Seungmin adds, his tone cold, calculated. âItâs not exactly a stretch.â
âThatâs insane,â you whisper. âWhy would I leak our own album?â
âFor attention?â Minho says with a shrug. âWouldnât be the first time idols did something stupid for buzz.â
Your head snaps toward him like he slapped you.
âWhat?â
He doesnât flinch. He doesnât take it back. He just stares at you with a chilling indifference.
âOr money,â Changbin adds. âGod knows how much those clips are worth.â
âThatâs not funny,â you choke out. âThatâs not evenâdo you hear yourselves?â
But they donât soften. Not a single one of them offers a hand or a kind word.
âI didnât do this,â you repeat, voice cracking now. âI swear, I didnât.â
Chan exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair.
âWeâll let management handle it,â he says finally. âUntil then, justâŚstay out of the studio.â
The words hit you harder than if he had screamed at you.
Stay out.
Like you donât belong there. Like youâre a threat to the very thing you helped build. Like youâre the problem they need to contain.
ââŚokay,â you whisper, the word barely audible.
No one stops you when you turn around and walk out the door.
The next few days feel like a blur of quiet cruelty.
Itâs the little things that hurt the most.
No one sits next to you at the kitchen table anymore; they leave a conspicuous, empty gap as if your presence is contagious. No one calls your name when theyâre ordering food or headed to the convenience store.
The group chats, once a constant stream of memes and chaotic energy, go silent the moment you reply to something.
Minho brushes past you in the hallway like youâre a piece of furniture, not even bothering to acknowledge your existence. Hyunjin doesnât even try to hide his glares when you accidentally catch his eye.
Changbin mutters things just loud enough for you to hearââunbelievable,â âcanât trust anyone.â
Even Felix⌠sweet, kind-hearted Felix, who usually hugs everyone until they canât breathe⌠avoids you like youâre made of glass thatâs already shattered.
And Chan? Chan doesnât look at you at all. He stays buried in his work, eyes fixed on his screens or his feet, treating you like a ghost haunting the dorm.
That hurts the most of all.
Eventually, you stop trying. You stop going to practice because the atmosphere is too toxic to breathe. You stop hanging around the common areas of the dorm because the silence is too loud.
Because every time you do, it feels like youâre begging for scraps of trust theyâve already decided you donât deserve.
One night, you hear them all laughing in the living roomâa genuine, loud sound that used to include you. For a split second, habit almost pulls you out of your room to join them.
Almost.
Then you remember the way they looked at you.
Like you betrayed them.
Like you ruined everything.
You turn back to your bed instead, burying your face in your pillow to cry where no one can hear you.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
Itâs a week later when everything breaks.
Management calls a mandatory meeting for everyone. All nine of you are ushered into a sterile conference room. You sit at the very end of the long table.
The room is thick with an uncomfortable energy until one of the head managers clears their throat and opens a laptop.
âWeâve concluded the investigation.â
Your heart pounds so loudly youâre sure everyone can hear it.
Chan straightens up in his chair, his hands clenched into fists on the table.
âSo?â he asks.
The manager slides a thick folder onto the table, the sound of paper hitting wood echoing in the quiet room.
âEvidence shows that the leak did not come from any of you.â
Silence.
Absolute, deafening silence.
You donât move. You don't even think youâre breathing.
âIt was one of the new interns,â they continue. âThey accessed the files after hours. We have CCTV footage and email recordsâcommunication with external media outlets. They were paid to leak the tracks.â
A sharp intake of breath echoes somewhere down the table.
You continue to stare at your hands. Theyâre shaking, but itâs not from fear anymore. Itâs from a hollow, crushing realization.
âWhat?â Changbin whispers.
Seungmin leans back slowly, looking like heâs just been punched in the gut. Hyunjinâs face goes deathly pale, his gaze dropping to the floor. Felix looks like heâs on the verge of a breakdown, his eyes welling with tears.
And Chan finally looks at you. He really looks at you for the first time in what feels like a lifetime.
ââŚyou didnâtâŚâ he starts, voice unsteady.
You let out a short, hollow laugh that has no humor in it. Of course you didnât. You had told them that. You had told them until your voice was hoarse and your heart was broken.
âI said I didnât,â you murmur, still refusing to look up from the table.
No one speaks. Thereâs nothing left to say that can undo the last seven days. No apology can take back the cold shoulders, the venomous whispers, or the way they looked at you like you were a stranger. They didn't just doubt you; they abandoned you when you needed them to be your family the most.
The sound of a chair scraping against the floor breaks the silence.
Footsteps approach you, hesitant and slow.
âHey,â Chan says softly, standing right in front of you. He reaches out a hand as if to touch your shoulder. âIâweâIâm so sorry, Iââ
You stand up before he can finish. You donât do it violently, and you donât make a scene. You just move enough to make him retract his hand, creating a physical boundary between you and the leader you used to trust implicitly.
âI need some air. Excuse me.â you say.
Your voice is calm. The kind of calm that comes after the storm has already leveled the house.
It makes Chanâs expression twist with a fresh wave of pain.
âCan we please talk about this?â he pleads, his voice cracking.
âLater,â you cut in, though you aren't sure if 'later' will ever actually come.
You donât wait for permission or for them to explain themselves. You just turn and walk out of the room, the door clicking shut behind you.
They donât go after you right away when the door clicks shut.
It isn't because they donât want toâitâs because none of them actually know how.
The room feels different now. Heavy in a way that makes breathing feel like work. The truth sits on the table between them like something alive, something ugly.
They were wrong.
Not just factually incorrect, but fundamentally cruel.
Chan drags both hands down his face, the skin stretching under the pressure. He paces the length of the room once, then twice, before stopping abruptly.
âWe fucked up,â he says, his voice sounding hollow, like it's echoing from the bottom of a well.
No one argues with him. Because there is absolutely nothing left to argue.
âI told you,â Felix whispers, voice trembling. âShe kept saying she didnât do itâŚâ
âAnd we didnât listen,â Hyunjin finishes quietly, his usual composure completely gone.
Jisung leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. âWe accused her like it was already proven.â
That breaks something.
Because they all remember it nowâthe details they chose to ignore in their anger. They remember the way your voice shook when you pleaded with them. They remember the way your hands trembled when you held Hyunjinâs phone.
The way you kept saying I didnât do thisâover and over, like if you said it enough times, theyâd finally believe you.
But they didnât.
Chan exhales sharply. âWe fix this.â
Jeongin shakes his head slowly. âYou canât just âfixâ something like that, Hyung. You don't just glue that kind of trust back together.â
âI know,â Chan says, quieter now. âBut we have to try.â
Because now, they finally understand. It was never about whether you were innocent or guilty. It was about the fact that when things got hard, they didn't believe you.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
You donât come back that night.
Or the next night.
Or the one after that.
Every single day that passes without your presence in the dorm feels like a punishment. Your bedroom door stays closed, a silent barrier that none of them dare to cross. Your things remain untouched on the shelvesâyour favorite mug in the cupboard, your shoes by the doorâand your absence becomes a physical thing, louder and more intrusive than any noise you ever made.
Itâs four days later when the front door finally clicks open.
You step inside cautiously, moving like a stranger in a house you've lived in for years. Youâre careful, quiet, keeping your shoulders hunched as if youâre trying to take up as little space as possible.
Itâs the movement of someone who doesn't quite feel like they belong anymore.
Eight heads turn immediately.
The tension is instant.
âHey,â Chan says, standing up too quickly, like heâs afraid youâll disappear if he doesnât move fast enough.
You give a small nod. âHi.â
Thatâs it. No smile. No warmth. Just a polite, distant greeting that hurts more than if you had walked in screaming at them.
Felix is the first one to bridge the gap. He walks toward you slowly, his hands held out slightly as if heâs approaching something fragile that might shatter at the slightest vibration.
âYouâre backâŚâ
âJust to grab some things,â you reply softly.
The words land like a physical punch to the gut of everyone in the room.
âThings?â Changbin repeats, panic flickering in his voice. âYouâre⌠leaving?â
You hesitate for a second, and that hesitation says more than a thousand words ever could.
âNo,â Chan says quickly, stepping closer. âNo, youâre notâweâre not letting it end like that. Please⌠just talk to us.â
Your grip tightens on your bag.
âI donât really know what there is to talk about.â
Minho flinches at the coldness in your tone. Seungmin looks down at his hands, unable to face you. Hyunjin finally finds his feet and steps forward, his voice quieter and more broken than theyâve ever heard it.
âWeâre sorry.â
You donât respond, so he keeps going, the words tumbling out in a rush.
âIâm sorry. I shouldnât have looked at you like that. We shouldnât have assumed the worst. You didnât deserve that.â
Jisung runs a hand through his hair, clearly frustratedâwith himself. âI said things I didnât mean. I was angry and I took it out on you, and thatâs notâthereâs no excuse for that.â
âI avoided you,â Felix adds, his voice breaking. âEven when I knew something felt off. Iâm so sorryâŚâ
Jeongin steps closer, eyes glossy. âI didnât defend you. I just stayed quiet. Thatâs on me too.â
Seungmin exhales shakily. âI pride myself on being rational, but I wasnât. I hurt you.â
Minho finally looks at youâreally looks at you. Thereâs something raw and bleeding in his expression now.
âI said you just wanted attention,â he mutters, the words tasting like ash. âThat was⌠messed up. Youâve never been that person. I knew that in my heart, and I just⌠I chose to ignore it.â
All of them owning every look, every word, and every silence.
No excuses about the stress of the comeback. No deflecting onto the intern.
Just pure, unadulterated guilt.
And Chan steps in front of you last. His voice is the quietest of all. âI shouldâve believed you. More than anyone else in this world, I should have been the one standing in front of you.â
Thatâs the one that cracks something in your chest.
Because heâs right.
Out of all of themâthe leader, the one who calls you family more than anyoneâhe should have known.
âI trusted evidence more than I trusted you,â he continues, eyes shining. âAnd thatâs not what a leader does. Thatâs not what someone who cares about you does.â
A heavy silence settles over the dorm. All eyes are on you, waiting. You swallow hard, feeling the lump in your throat.
ââŚI get why you were upset,â you say slowly. âThe situation was bad. I understand that.â
Relief flickers across a few faces but it fades just as quickly when you continue.
âBut you didnât just get upset,â you add, voice tightening. âYou decided it was me. Immediately.â
No one interrupts. Because they canât.
âYou didnât even hesitate.â
Your hands tremble slightly, but you keep going.
âI kept telling you I didnât do it. I was right there, and none of you believed me.â
You donât stop.
âI felt like I was begging just to be trusted. And thatâsâŚâ you shake your head. âThatâs not how itâs supposed to be.â
Chan looks like heâs about to reach out, to say something, but you take a small step back. Just a few inches. That tiny movement says everything.
âI forgive you,â you say.
They all freeze.
âBut I donât feel okay yet.â
The words are soft and painfully honest. Theyâre somehow heavier than anger.
âI donât think I can just⌠go back to normal like nothing happened.â
Minho clenches his jaw, his eyes dropping to the floor. Hyunjin looks away, his shoulders shaking. Changbin nods slowly, accepting the weight of your words even though it clearly hurts him to hear them.
âThatâs fair,â Chan says. âYou donât have to.â
You shift your bag on your shoulder.
âIâm not leaving the group,â you add quietly. âBut⌠I need time.â
No one argues. They donât have the right to demand anything from you anymore.
âTake all the time you need,â Seungmin says gently.
Felix wipes his tears. âWeâll wait.â
Changbin nods. âWeâll do better.â
Jeongin gives you a small, shaky smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Minho just mutters, âWeâll prove weâre worth trusting again.â
Chan steps back, giving you space this time.
âWeâre not giving up on you,â he says softly. âEven if you need distance⌠weâll be here.â
You nod, but you donât move closer to them. Not yet.
And they notice that too.
The way you linger near the edges.
The way your voice stays careful and guarded.
The way you look at them like youâre measuring every word, every action like youâre walking on eggshells around people who were once your safest place.
It hurts.
But they donât rush you.
They donât demand hugs or smiles or forgiveness.
They justâtry.
Small things at first.
Gentler voices when they speak to you. Softer approaches when they enter a room you're in. They check in without pushing for an answer. They give you all the space in the world, while making sure you never actually feel alone.
Because they know now that trust isnât something you say sorry for.
Itâs something you rebuild, brick by brick, day by day.
And this time, theyâre not letting it break again.
Simon never tries to fight with you, or turn a disagreement into an argument, when you want to do something or have an idea, he complies, not because he doesnt care , but because he likes doing anything with you, as long as he is with you it doesnt matter what you both do, whatever you want, happens, and you of course dont overwhelme him or be controlling, and you dont cross any line.
But today, after such tiring day at base, hours of complecated things trying to get solved, he just wants to go home and rest, like an old sloth.
So when he arrives, he gets welcomed by the sight of you being all bubbly and energy, its a familiar sight normally, but now, he has no mood for anything, so when you walk to him to give him a welcome hug, he does hug you, but not as tight and warm as always.
You dont say anything, you just assume he had a bad day at work, and when you pull away looking up at him "Darling welcome back i missed you" , you say with a happy smile, your husband is home after such a boring day, and you cant wait until you both cook together, thats what you wanted, and you know he wont say no, right?
He gives you a curt smile as he drops off his jacket and keys lazily. "Im going to shower", he says walking away to the bathroom without looking at you, you frown a bit at his tone but you dont blame him, again.
Simon takes his sweet time in the shower, you wait on the couch, scrolling on whatever just to pass time, then there he is, coming out of the shower, his broad torso is full in display, wearing only a towel covering his lower half, leaving the rest to imagination (even though you dont have to imagine, you know his body like the back of your hand)
He walks straight to the bedroom, and as he was going down the hallway, he reaches the kitchen, thats when you stop him with your voice "Cover up quickly, we have some cooking to do", you say excited
He spares you a glance, "im not hungry, cook alone"
That made your heart drop, excuse me? What did he just say? You stand up and walk to him
"What do you mean you're not hungry? Did you eat something at base??", you say, trying to cover your disappointment
He leans on the board of the kitchen door, crossing his arms, a scowl on his face
"I didnt eat, but im not in the mood", he says with a cold tone, and that was your last string
"What the hell? You're standing only on the cup of coffee you drank this morning and you say you dont have the mood to eat?? This isnt about mood Si, you should eat! And i want to cook with you"
You say scolding him, he grimaces at the loud tone, "I said i dont want to eat, cook yourself okay? Dont make me repeat things"
You scoff , "this isnt about 'want' Simon, you should eat, and i missed you all day, i was waiting for you to come so i could spend time with you cooking, and you now say you want to eat? At least-" you want to continue but he cuts you off, with a very angry tone, that you're not used to
"For god sake i said im not in the fucking mood! Which part of that you dont undrestand huh?? You think i was just sitting in the desk and waiting for the day to end so i can come home and cook whatever shit to cook? Im a lieutenant, i have responsibilities, im not jobless like you, having nothing to do all day, and when i say no it means no, i think you got it your way too much you cant accept that word, grow the hell up"
And with that, he stomps to the bedroom, and slamming the door as loud as he can, he removes the towel angrily, mumbling some curses under his breath as he wears the random boxer that his hand caught, then he just lays on his stomach on the bed, too tired to reflect on what he said or on you, he just sleeps the minute he feels the softness of the bed and allure of the sheets.
Meanwhile you, standing frozen in your place , not believing what he said, your mind not processing what he just said, your heart breaks as his words ring in your head, you try to compose yourself, but your lips cant help but tremble, your eyes cant help but cry, and you cant help but feel so misundrestood and wronged.
You look at the kitchen, the ingredeants on the counter mocking you, you walk slowly and arrange everything back in its place, crying silently hurt, your appetite is gone, the only thing you feel inside now is your heart beating so fast, and the soffesticating feeling of holding back your sobs, shuffeling into sniffles.
You sit on the couch, crying, because thats only how you'll eventually calm down, but never stop being hurt, after some minutes your sobs reduces, you wipe your tears and glance at the bedroom door, you contemplate for a moment then you walk slowly, as you reach the door you open it slowly, not making any noise, and you peak your head inside, and there he is, fast asleep on the bed, not even bothering to cover himself with a blanket.
You hesitate for a moment, he has hurt you yeah, but god...you couldnt stop your legs as they walk to the bed and cover him up, you look down at him and the sight of him makes you start crying all over again, so you decide to not sleep next to him, because your shoulders wont stop shaking the bed and your suffeled sobs will wake him up, and you dont want to feel like a burden more that you already do feel, so you leave quietly and go to the guest room, its enough for you, and you can sulk how ever you want.
The next day comes, its dawn when Simon wakes up by that annoying ringtone of his phone, and there is no good news in what he hears, his captain ordering him to come as soon as possible.
He doesnt even notice your absence , doesnt bother to wash his face, putting on whatever his hand grabbed from the closet, phone, keys, thats it, and he leaves.
After some hours, You woke up from such restless sleep, you feel an uneasy feeling in your stomach as you remember what happened, and the fact that you'll face him again is unsetteling, you never fight like this, so you dont know how to act, and dont know if you'll even be able to hold back your tears if you even hear his voice.
You walk out of the guest room, inspecting where he is, so you wont be shocked if he just shows up from nowhere, but the house is silent, so silent, and when you look everytwhere, you drown in disappointment, he isnt home.
It hurt more than him being home, he is gone? Just like that? That hurts much more than intended.
Meanwhile him, after the meeting, the problem they indured finally was solved ,the tension in the base softens, everyone's happy with the results, and so he is.
The day goes smoothly for him, and as he was in his office, forgetting that he has been doing paper work for the whole noon, he feels his stomach protest, angry growls like its saying "Dont forget about me you asshole"
He stretches and look at his wrist expecting to see the time on his watch, but eventually he didnt wear it, so he grabs his phone instead to look at the time, and there it is, his lockscreen wallpaper.
A picture of you, back 9 months ago when you both went on a picnic in a forest, next to a beautiful lake, you smiling at the camera as you insisted to capture you while the huge mountain covered in snow is behind you, along with the lake, since then he never changed it.
And then when it was that he recalled what happened last night, and god, his appetite is gone again, did he really just say those words? To you? His wife? The person he loves with his whole heart? His wife? When you were just trying to take care of him like you always do and never fail? Who just want time with him? Away from chaos? He just told you you have no life?
"Fucking hell...", he mutters under his breath, feeling like shit all over again, he opens your contact but then he stops, no, you dont deserve a call, you dont deserve a small sorry, you deserve the world, and he knows how you're feeling right now, he knows exactly that you're feeling like the biggest burden in his life now, when god helps him you're the only good thing in his life.
He continues his day being grumpy, short answers, barking orders here and there, just wanting for the day to end and fix the shit he made, but only to be stuck on an emergency, again, and it made him lose his mind, he knows your bedtime, and he is sure when he comes back, you'll be asleep, so not only you being hurt all day ,but sleeping while you never got the apology you deserved.
Meanwhile you, Mesirable.
You spent the whole day sulking, every car engine voice you hear you jump out of your place, even though you know exactly what his car engine sounds like, and now, he isnt home.
So you go to the guest room again, and you lay down, reflecting on what he said for the millionth time in that day, feeling more insecure than ever.
Sleep didnt come, and so does Simon, worry leaks into your heart, but you dont call, you're a burden to him, remember??
While Simon, already in the garage half an hour ago, just sitting there, trying to rehearse the apology he wanted to say, in the passenger seat, your favorite snacks, and random ones too, he didnt know what to pick, he didnt know what the hell to do.
When he finally gathered the courage, even though he knows you'll probably be asleep, he leaves his car and walks to home.
He opens the door with such silence, his military training of being silent are working now, he sees the lights are off, and he walks slowly to the bedroom, but its empty, he frowns and look around, but you are no where, and then his eyes drift over the guest room door, he walks there and open the door quickly, and it stardled you, who you were sitting on the bed and scrolling on the phone.
You look up shocked, 'when did he comeback?? Fuck fuck fuck what am i supposed to do now', you think to yourself as you look at him, you were supposed to pretend you're asleep when you hear him comeback, but now there is no running away.
Meanwhile him, the sight of you, eyes puffy, tired, hair a bit messy from turning left and right trying to sleep, Just you...
It made the whole apology vanish, the bag of snacks in his hand is forgotten, and his throat feels dry.
You notice the look on his face, and worry highens, he looks like he's in shock, and the worse scenarios comes to your mind.
"Is everything okay?", you ask hesitantly, like even the sound of your voice will bother him.
That tone of yours, just your voice, the insecure look on your face, your slightly trembling hands, after a whole day of feeling like shit, made something snap inside of him.
He drops the bag on the floor, closes the gap between you in three steps, get cups your face, looking at you for a slight second, then he kisses you.
His lips are so warm on yours, the kiss is slow and sensual, and its replacing all the shitty script he was rehearsing before, and doing more.
His hand trembles as he positions your face to make his tongue enter your mouth, speaking its own language to fix the mess he made.
You've been caugh off gaurd, but then you feel like water in his arms, you surrunder compeltly to his kiss, this one is not like the other ones, not the playful ones, not the one filled with lust while making love, not the ones after a long deployement or long day, its diffrent.
He is apologising, with his lips, hands, tongue, warmth, just this intimacy.
He deepens the kiss, kissing you like his life depends on it, and just when he feels like he'll faint from the lack of air, he pulls away, heavy breathings coming out both of you, he keeps his eyes closed but you open them, he looks so vulnurable and so...scared.
He opens his eyes and it locks on your, he stays quiet for a moment, then he finally speaks.
"If you werent in my life, id be dead by now, and if i made you feel like you dont mean anything, then id rather die"
That does it to you, again, those tears, those endless salty fluids, you start crying again.
And with that he hugs you tightly, so tight like he is holding for his dear life "Im so sorry, so so so sorry", he whispers in your hair, feeling more like shit the whole day.
You try to speak but couldnt, you feel so overwhelmed you dont know how to express what you're feeling, and he knows it.
"Shh...i know...i know my love i know", he whispers, his voice couldnt be more gentle than this.
You feel so safe, like a huge rock got lifted off your chest, and you just cling to him, needing the comfort you've been seeking since you heard that loud tone of his, and you start to calm down.
After some moments, when he felt you relax and better, he cups your face and look down at you, your eyes puffy, face wet and red with tears, hair framing just right, its the most beautiful sight he has ever seen.
"You're so beautiful", he whispers, and just before you could react to it, his mouth is on yours, your neck, your shoulders, his hand roming all over your torso as you felt it sneak under your shirt.
So now you know his way of apologising, not just heartaching and warming words, but with intimacy, very sensual intimacy.
And just like that, you woke up in the bedroom instead, body all sore and satisfied from the love making feeling his naked skin hugged over your naked skin, holding you in his sleep like a Ring Buoy, and you'd never complain, and of course, you're not to be blamed.
cw: fem!reader, sunshine!reader, bucky being a grumpy old man whoâs also very much in love with his gf, tiktok trend
đŕž authors note: ive been seeing these typa fics for so long and no one that ive seen has included my husband so yk i canât leave him out ahaha.
bucky barnes masterlist â๨ŕ§ËâĄË navi
âi wanna do a thing.â you say, standing in front of your boyfriend with a shit eating grin on your face.
bucky looks up at you unamused.
âplease.â you plead. âyouâll love it i swear.â you whine, still trying to pull bucky up from the couch.
you hear your boyfriend let out a long, loud sigh before he eventually lets you pull him off of the couch.
he stands in front of you, his thick arms crossed over the other.
your lips curve into a smile, âraise your arms.â
buckyâs eyes narrow at your choice of wording. âwhat the fuck for? you want to fuck?â
you gasp, âwhy is your mind so dirty? i just want you to raise your arms.â your lips form a small pout, knowing that no matter how much your boyfriend tries, he cannot resist saying yes.
with a very rude, roll of his eyes. bucky slowly raises his arms in the air causing his tight fitted henley, to lift a bit.
you canât help but ogle at the bare sight of his defined stomach before you have to focus at the task you have to complete.
âright, my arms are fucking up. what else?â you almost let out a giggle at the bored look on his face.
âjust⌠stay there.â you say, stepping closer so youâre both chest to chest.
âthatâs exactly what imâ mmphâ you interrupt his words, quickly leaning up on your toes and pressing your lips against his. you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling the back of his hair softly, just how he likes. almost as soon as you do that, you hear a groan and the touch of his hands on your arms, sliding down your waist until they reach the curve of your hips, pulling you impossibly closer.
you smile against buckyâs lips, pulling back and seeing his lust filled gaze, still focused on your full lips. âyou melted.â you pant, cupping his cheek.
âi- what?â
âyou dropped your arms, which means you melted into the kiss.â you giggle, giving him a small peck. âyouâre so adorable sometimes.â
âi hate it when you call me adorable.â bucky frowns, tightening his hold on you.
âand yet, im still the love of your life.â you grin.
Synopsis: It starts as joke and have been running between you and Minho for a while â until it isnât anymore. (2,4k words)
It starts as a joke.
The first time you say it is when he cooks dinner.
Youâre sitting at the kitchen counter, chin in your hands, watching him move around and looking annoyingly good doing something as mundane as stirring a pan. His focused, dark brown eyes. The strands of hair falling over his forehead. The sharpness of his jaws. The slope of his nose.
He wipes his hands on a cloth when heâs done. Then slides a plate toward you.
âEat before it gets cold,â he says without the slightest of zest.
âThank you, my beautiful, private chef,â you teasingly say.
You pick up the fork, taking a piece of the pan seared salmon and shove it into your mouth. It tastes exactly as it looks. As you expected.
âOh my god,â you gasp, eyes widen dramatically.
He rolls his eyes immediately. âWhat.â
âThis is amazing,â you gasp, clutching your chest like youâve just been emotionally wounded by good food.
The compliment doesnât seem to faze him much as he continues eating his own dinner. Yet he looks just as attractive when heâs eating.
You put your hands under your chin, tilting your head slightly to the side as you dreamily sigh, âYouâre hot and good at cookingâŚâ
He only looks at you, unimpressed. And yet, his indifference is the biggest part of his charm.
You lean forward and sweetly say, âPlease, marry me.â
He doesnât even look up from his own plate of dinner. âNo.â
Your lips curl into a pout. âNo?â
âI already cooked for you. Thatâs more than enough commitment,â he simply answers and ever so casually, taking a sip of water.
The answer comes out so smoothly, so unexpectedly but at the same time, itâs so Minho. You burst out laughing, completely amused. And ever since, you canât help but teasing him with the same joke, anticipating what his answer will be.
-
A week later he comes home with a fresh haircut.
Youâre on the couch scrolling through your phone when he walks in, casually kicking off his shoes like he didnât just drastically increase the apartmentâs attractiveness level.
It amazes you how Minho losing a few inches of hair makes you stare and feel warm all over.
He notices as he walks to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. âWhat?â
âYou look hot,â you say, biting your lower lip like it would help supress the dirty thoughts forming in your head. âLike⌠illegally hot.â
âItâs just a haircut,â he says, matter-of-factly.
You wait until heâs sitting on the sofa with you, scooting closer until youâre right there next to him and stare at him all over again with heart in your eyes.
âGosh, I have the hottest man in the world as my boyfriend,â you sigh, a finger playfully tracing the prominent vein on his arm.
As usual, Minho is unfazed. Heâs on his phone, typing on the screen with so much focus. You lean in closer, close enough to place light, little kisses along the side of his jaw and then a final one on the skin behind his ear, catching the hint of his perfume there.
âIâd destroy the world if you married someone else,â you feign seriousness as you whisper into his ear. âSo please⌠marry me.â
That gets him turning his head toward you and stares at you for a long second. Then he shrugs and says, âSounds like a you problem.â
With that, he turns his focus back on his phone, ignoring the way you pout and glare at him from the side.
But after a while, you smile as you soften around him again. You wrap your arms and legs around him, clinging to him despite him rejecting your playful proposal for the second time.
-
One evening youâre both sprawled on the couch. Minho is lying on his back with a cushion propped under his head and you â you lay on top of him with his muscular chest as your pillow, your legs are tangled with his. His arm wrapped around your back, fingers absentmindedly playing with the end of your hair.
Even doing something mundane like this â just watching a movie, cuddling on the sofa in a contented silence â feels special with him. It really is not about what youâre doing but who youâre doing it with.
You glance up at him and find him so focused on the TV, looking comfortable and warm and frustratingly boyfriend-shaped.
You sigh contentedly and softly call his name, âMinho.â
âHm.â
âPlease marry me.â
He doesnât even look away from the screen. His tone flat and uninterested as he asks, âWhy should I?â
You subtly shrug and say, âSo we can do what married people do.â
One hand glides down to the base of your spine, threading his fingers there. He turns his head slightly. âLike what?â
You think about it seriously for a moment, humming in solemn. âWe can open joint bank accounts.â
âTerrible idea.â
âGetting a mortgage.â
âEven worse.â
âBuying matching coffins.â
He finally turns fully toward you. âWhat?â
âSo when we die we can be buried next to each other,â you explain matter-of-factly.
He stares at you like heâs reconsidering every life choice that led him here. âYou skipped a lot of steps.â
You coyly shrug and grin.
âIâd prefer to be cremated though,â he says, putting both hands on your back now.
âOh?â You softly gasp, slightly surprised. Then, a second laterâ
âOh!â you gasp again, the kind that comes with an idea. A strange, weird idea. âWe can have our ashes pressed into diamonds and inherit it to our future children.â
Minhoâs lips quirk into a half smirk. âThatâs actually a good idea,â he agrees.
You beam and snuggle closer, feeling proud of yourself. You burrow your head into the crook of his neck and softly whisper, âSo letâs get married, yeah?â
He pats your head like youâre an overly affectionate cat. âNo.â
The proposal isnât that serious but your head lifts anyway when he rejects you for the third time. âNo?â
This time, he looks at you when he says it again. âNo.â
âWhy not?â
He holds your face with both hands like youâre a fragile object but the answer he gives you is nothing like it. âCause youâre getting harder to tolerate,â he flatly replies.
Instead of feeling offended, you crack a laugh and bump your nose with his. âI hate you,â you say, affectionately.
âSee? Hard to tolerate,â he says, smirking.
But with each rejection, you find yourself falling harder for him. And a tiniest bit of hope that heâll marry you. For real.
-
The joke continues.
Every time he does something nice.
When he brings you coffee.
âPlease marry me.â
When he fixes the loose cabinet door youâve been ignoring for months.
âPlease marry me.â
When he wordlessly hands you a blanket because he noticed you were cold.
âPlease marry me.â
His responses are always the same level of unimpressed.
âUnlikely.â
âNo thanks.â
âAbsolutely not.â
Or his personal favorite:
âIâm not in the mood.â
Even when youâre already tucked in bed, drowsy and tired, ready to sleep. You look at Minho whoâs peacefully lying beside you with eyes closed. You lean in to his ear, whisper while half asleep.
âPlease marry me, Minho.â
Minhoâs eyes snap open and slowly, he turns his head toward you. He gives you a look of disbelief. Then he runs his fingers down your face to force you to close your eyes.
âGo to sleep.â
âButââ
This time, he cuts you off with by pressing a sudden, hard kiss on your lips. When he pulls away, he mutters, âYour proposal has been postponed.â
And you canât really complaint when he shut you up like that. So instead, you snug closer to him and try to sleep. At the same, youâre already planning on proposing again tomorrow.
-
Weeks pass.
The joke never really stops. It just becomes part of your routine now.
As Minho is busy preparing dinner in the kitchen, you hug him from behind. You wrap your arms around him, resting your head on his shoulder and feeling comforted already by the mere feel of his body against you.
Minho continues cutting ingredients like this is just another Sunday afternoon. The sounds of his knife hitting the cutting board are the only thing filling the silence. Untilâ
 âPlease marry me,â you say, voice a little muffled as your mouth pressed to his neck.
Minho sighs but continues cutting the carrot now. âYouâve proposed to me twelve times today.â
You grin and teasingly say, âSo?â
He turns his head, looking at you like heâs both impressed and bewildered that you havenât given up already.
You donât waver. Instead, you feel encouraged. âStatistically one of them will work eventually,â you confidently say.
He smirks and simply says, âGood luck with that.â
-
One night you come home exhausted. Work had been long and irritating and your brain feels like itâs running on fumes. When you open the apartment door, the smell of food greets you immediately.
Minho stands in the kitchen, the sleeves of his dark sweater rolled up to his elbows, putting too much focus on plating dinner.
Just the sight of him is enough to make the weight of the day vanishes into thin air. âIâm home,â you weakly announce.
âYouâre late,â he says without looking up.
You walk up to him, giving him a quick hug while letting out a sigh. Like youâre trying to exhale all the heavy, worried minds out of your head. When you pull away, you offer him a small smile.
âIâm just going to put my bag away and wash up,â you say.
He seems to notice that youâre more exhausted than usual. He gives you a quick kiss on the lips before letting you go.
When you return, heâs already set everything on the dining table and now, filling your glass with red wine. You take your seat, stomach grumbling at the mouth-watering smell of the food in front of you.
Itâs when Minho takes his seat, you finally allow yourself to start eating. It feels good to come home to the man you love and eat the food he cooked. You couldnât be luckier than this.
âGood?â he asks.
You have to stop yourself from shoving more food to properly answer him. âSo good,â you say with stuffed cheeks.
He smiles at that, warm and affectionate, before getting back to his own plate of dinner.
At the end of the dinner, you feel so content. Literally. Figuratively. You have a small sip of wine before leaning in to the side until your shoulder meets his and stay there.
You tilt your head, meeting his eyes. âThank you for dinner,â you genuinely mutter.
Minho puts an arm around your shoulder. âGlad you enjoyed it,â he says, followed with a quick kiss to the top of your head.
You have another sip of wine and feeling playful when you look at him again. Then you hesitantly ask, âMarry me?â
For once, he doesnât respond immediately. Instead, he looks back at you. He studies your face for a moment. Then, finally answers, âOkay.â
Wow! Thatâs a first.
But you know him too well to know that heâs only saying that as a joke, to boost your ego. Or lighten up your mood after a long, tiring day.
âYouâre not supposed to say yes. Youâre supposed to reject me,â you tell him, half-laughing.
He tilts his head slightly and blinks his eyes a few times. âWell, I changed my mind.â
You canât tell if heâs being serious now or just messing with you. You nervously laugh and decide to entertain the idea. âOkay, letâs go to the city hall tomorrow and get a marriage certificate.â
âOkay,â he repeats.
Your heart starts beating faster. âYouâre joking, right?â you carefully ask.
âIâm not,â his voice is calm. Serious.
Your stomach flips. âMinhoâŚâ
The arm around your shoulder feels warm and steady. He looks you in the eyes as he says, âI though you always wanted me to say yes.â
Your brain struggles to catch up. âWait, are you actuallyââ
âYes.â
You sigh, a part of you still struggling to believe this. âMinho, I need to know if youâre serious.â
He raises an eyebrow. âWhy would I joke about that.â
You stare at him, completely stunned. âBut I thoughtââ
âThat it was just a joke?â he finishes.
You nod weakly.
He nonchalantly shrugs. âIt started that way. But I thought about it.â
âAnd?â you whisper.
He looks at you like the answer is obvious. âAnd I decided I wouldnât mind doing those things with you.â
Your voice comes out small. âEven the cremated part?â
He sighs like heâs fed up of you doubting his proposal. âIf thatâs what you want.â
A shaky laugh escapes you, half disbelief and half overwhelming emotion. âYouâre really proposing right now?â
âYouâre the one who proposed first.â
âThat was a joke!â
âAnd this isnât.â
The room feels very quiet suddenly. Despite the confusion, the suddenness of this moment, and the fact that it hasnât sunk into you⌠your eyes start to sting.
âYouâre seriousâŚâ you mutter to yourself while laughing in disbelief.
He gently squeezes your shoulder. âDo you want me to ask properly?â
You nod quickly.
He takes a small breath. Then, in the most Minho way possible, he says, âDo you want to marry me so we can open a joint bank account, get a mortgage and have our cremated ashes turn into diamonds?â
You burst into tearful laughter. âYes. A thousand time yes,â you say immediately.
He nods once, satisfied. âOkay.â
With that, he pulls you into his arms like this was the most normal conversation in the world. That this is not him finally asking you to marry him and said yes to marrying you.
You cling to him, still laughing in disbelief. âTold you, one of them will work eventually,â you mumble into his shoulder.
âI know.â
You tilt your head up, looking at him in love and disbelief that youâll have your forever with him. âMarry me, Minho,â you softly murmur itâs almost a whisper.
He leans in and places a chaste kiss on your lips. when he pulls away just enough to look at you, he smiles and says, âAlready working on it.â
-
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!Ryomen Sukuna; who falls in love with the concubine he hated the most
Every woman brought to his estate understood the rules of survival before they even crossed the threshold.
You bowed until your forehead touched the tatami. You spoke only when spoken to. You anticipated his moods, read the terrifying language of his four eyes, and offered flattery or tears depending on what type of amusement he was seeking that day.
To center your entire existence around Ryomen Sukuna was the only way to ensure your head remained attached to your shoulders.
Except you didn't.
You hadn't knelt when he first entered your quarters three months ago. You had been lying on your side, propped up on an elbow, reading a translated scroll from the northern provinces, and you had merely shifted your gaze to look at him, entirely unimpressed by the sudden, heavy drop in atmospheric pressure that usually accompanied his presence.
"Stand when I enter," he had commanded, his upper eyes narrowing into dangerous, ruby slits.
You had turned a page. "Then leave and enter again. Perhaps I will feel like it next time."
The attendants behind him had turned white as ghosts, bracing for the inevitable spray of blood. Sukunaâs jaw had set, a terrifying, low growl vibrating from his chest. But you hadn't trembled.
You hadn't scrambled to fix your posture. You had just looked at him with an expression of profound boredom.
If he wanted to kill you, he would kill you. Fawning over him wasn't going to change his nature, so you simply refused to waste the energy.
He hadn't killed you. Instead, he had left, the doors slamming shut with enough force to rattle the shoji screens.
And that was the exact moment the nightmare began. Because from that night onward, Sukuna became an insufferable, permanent fixture in your life.
"You are eating that wrong."
You stopped your chopsticks halfway to your mouth, letting out a long, slow exhale through your nose. It was midnight.
You had been looking forward to a quiet, solitary meal of cold rice and pickled plums, but Sukuna had simply materialized in the corner of your room ten minutes ago, dripping wet from a thunderstorm, and had proceeded to sit directly on the edge of your bedding.
"I am eating it the way I have eaten it for more than twenty years," you said, not looking at him. "If my technique offends you, the door is exactly where you left it."
Sukuna scoffed, leaning back on his palms. His massive, tattooed frame took up half the space in your small room, his lower arms crossed over his chest while his upper right hand casually reached over and swiped a plum straight from your bowl.
"You have a wretched attitude," he remarked, popping the fruit into his mouth and chewing lazily. "The women in the east hall weep with gratitude if I so much as glance toward their courtyard. You look at me like I am a stray dog that ruined your garden."
"Stray dogs are quieter," you muttered, finally looking up to glare at him. "And they don't steal my food."
Sukunaâs lower mouth twitched into a sharp, jagged grin. He loved it. The realization turned your stomach, a strange, dizzying mixture of irritation and heat.
He didn't come to your room because he wanted a concubine; he came because he was a creature driven entirely by conflict, and you were the only person in the entire empire who refused to give him the satisfaction of a fight. You gave him nothing. You gave him a wall of pure, unbothered apathy, and it was driving him entirely insane.
He leaned forward suddenly, crowding your space. The smell of the storm, ozone and rain, rushed over you. Before you could pull back, his large, calloused hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around your jaw.
It wasn't the brutal, bone-crushing grip he used on his enemies. It was controlled, a heavy, unyielding restraint that forced your face up toward his.
"You should fear me," he murmured, his upper eyes tracking the movement of your throat as you swallowed. His thumb thumbed the soft skin right beneath your lower lip, a deliberate, electric friction that made your toes curl inside your robes. "A single flick of my finger, and this pretty little throat splits wide open."
You met his gaze evenly, refusing to let the wild, frantic thudding of your heart show on your face. "Then do it. I'm tired of your bragging."
Sukuna froze. For a second, the silence in the room was deadly. Then, a loud, booming laugh tore from his throat, the sound rough and genuine as he released your jaw, shifting his weight until he was practically draped over your lap, his heavy head resting casually against your thigh.
"Insufferable," he muttered, closing all four of his eyes as if he owned the space. "Utterly insufferable."
You stared down at the King of Curses currently using your legs as a pillow, your hand hovering over his unruly pink hair, entirely tempted to shove him off. But you didn't. You just sighed, picking up your chopsticks again, ignoring the way his subconscious weight felt entirely too natural against you.
The shift happened. In Sukunaâs dictionary, words like love or devotion were meaningless concepts invented by the weak to justify their dependency. He would never admit to favoring you. If anyone asked, he would simply say you were a minor amusement, a dull distraction from his boredom.
But the rest of the estate wasn't blind.
The servants noticed that the rare silks brought from the western raids, the ones Sukuna usually threw into the treasury to rotâsomehow kept finding their way into your wardrobe because he had casually grumbled that your current robes looked "like rags."
The guards noticed that if Sukuna left your courtyard irritated, he was significantly less likely to execute someone in the main hall.
And then there was the incident with the lord of the northern clans.
During a formal banquet, the lord had made a passing, disparaging remark about your status, calling you an "eccentric, useless mouth to feed" who didn't know her place.
You hadn't even heard the comment; you had been across the pavilion, systematically ignoring Sukunaâs attempts to make you try a cup of sake.
But Sukuna had heard it.
He hadn't made a scene. He had simply stood up, walked over to the lordâs table, and dismantled the manâs entire lineage within three seconds, leaving the pavilion drenched in red before sitting back down next to you, casually picking up his chopsticks as if nothing had happened.
"You're exhausting when you're angry," you had murmured, wiping a stray drop of blood from the sleeve of your robe with a click of your tongue.
Sukuna hadn't answered. He had just grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand toward him until you were forced to use your sleeve to wipe a smudge of gore from his cheek instead. He hadn't asked. He had just assumed your hands belonged on his skin.
Late one evening, weeks later, the heat of the summer had turned the air thick and oppressive. You were lying awake in your bed, staring at the ceiling, when the shoji screen slid open without a sound.
Sukuna stepped inside. He looked exhausted, the heavy marks of a curse battle still lingering in the tension of his shoulders. He didn't speak. He just shed his heavy outer robe, letting it hit the floor, before crawling directly onto your sleeping mat.
"Go away," you groaned, trying to roll over to the far edge. "It is too hot for this."
"Silence," he grunted, a large, heavy arm snaking around your waist from behind. He hauled you back against his chest with a single, effortless tug, his massive body completely enveloping yours.
His chest was blazing hot, a furnace of pure cursed energy, and his face buried itself directly into the crook of your neck.
"You cling too much," you muttered, though you didn't actually fight the hold. It was a useless endeavor anyway.
"What nonsense," Sukuna rumbled, his voice thick with sleep, his lower arms tightening around your hips, anchoring you so securely to him that you could feel the rhythmic, heavy thud of his heart against your spine. "You are small. You fit here. Stop complaining."
You lay there in the dark, his breath warm against your skin, his long, sharp fingernails absentmindedly tracing patterns into the fabric of your garment near your ribs.
He was completely unaware of how intimate the gesture was, how entirely possessive his body became the moment he was near you. He thought he was just resting. He thought he was just taking what was his.
You turned your head slightly, looking back at him. His eyes were closed, his expression unusually peaceful in the dim moonlight.
"You're an idiot, Ryomen Sukuna," you whispered softly.
A faint, arrogant smirk touched his lips, though he didn't open his eyes. His hand moved up, his fingers lacing through yours with a casual, unthinking pressure, locking your hands together against the bedding.
"And you are still breathing," he murmured into your skin, his grip tightening just a fraction more. "Be grateful I find your stupidity so entertaining."
You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into his terrifying, inescapable warmth, finally accepting that while the King of Curses would never say the words, his actions had already rewritten the entire world around you.
finding out this ârelationshipâ doesnt matter to him as much as it does to you.
Ęá´É´É˘á´Ęá´É´ x Ęá´á´á´ á´Ę
ɢá´É´Ęá´: á´É´É˘ęąá´
9 months.
It has been 9 months since you started dating Chris. The way you two met was nothing special. You were a new barista at his local cafe.
One coffee date turned into two, and next came the late night dinners at fancy private restaurants, the late night calls, lovey-dovey words, it truly felt like you were on top of the world.
Keyword, felt.
You noticed the changes immediately.
You noticed the way his tone shifted when you brought up meeting his family or friends.
You noticed the way he changed the topic whenever you mentioned moving in together.
You noticed how he kept postponing family dinners, how he told you to keep quiet when he was on the call with his one of his members, how he stopped calling you, stopped showing up to dates, and how his words turned into empty promises.
This was the third time that you got stood up this month.
Usually, he would call off the date because of work. This time you didnt hear anything from him. He wasnt responding to your calls or texts.
You really wanted to talk about your concerns, and possibly work out the growing problems between you two.
Hence why you were outside his door, ready to fix everything.
The part you werenât ready for, however.. was for his precious member Han Jisung to open the door.
âHi-..â You mumbled softly, well this was awkward.
âHey.â The boba-eyed boy stood behind the door. âSorry, you are..?â
âOh- Im y/n.. is Chris here?â You shifted uncomfortably. âIm his girlfriend.â
You see him looking inside the room nervously when someone called out from inside. âWhoâs at the door?â It was Chris. You heard him come out from his bedroom and approach the front door.
âIts your girlfriend..?â
âYou have a girlfriend?â Someone else yelled out from the dorm, both of them staring at Chris.
That was when you saw him. He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of you, his two members trapped in the awkward silence between the two of you.
âCould you guys..give us a moment?â
Your eyes trailed the two as they walked out of the dorms. You stepped in, closing the door behind you.
âWhat the fuck was that?â
âWhat are you doing here..?â
âThats not the point- you stood me up, Chris. This is the third time this month.â You looked around, feeling stumped.
He avoided eye contact with you, as if he could not care less. âLook, I was busy okay? Something came up.â
âYou were in your dorm room chilling with your friends while I waited atleast an hour for you!â
summary: you fell for him, but the timing was just wrong
pairing: bang chan x fem!reader
genre: heavy angst, no comfort
word count: 4074 words
a/n: got a sudden burst of inspiration and got a bit carried away... enjoy the angst fest âĄ
Masterlist
~°~
The first time you realize youâre in love with Bang Chan, heâs half-asleep in the makeup chair.
The band schedule had been brutal that week â three back to back music shows, a fansign, rehearsal sessions that stretched past midnight â and yet he still smiled at everyone who walked into the room. He always did that, he always made sure to make everyone feel important, including you.
âDid you sleep at all?â you murmur, dabbing concealer beneath his eyes.
Chan cracked one eye open, âTwo hours⌠ah maybe three if you count passing out in the car.â
âYouâre impossible,â you shake your head.
âLeader duties,â he smiled at you softly.
âYou need to take care of yourself, Chan, youâre taking too much stress.â You sighed.
âWellâŚâ he said softly, his voice was rough with exhaustion, âyou are here to take care of me.â
Your hands stilled.Â
Itâs dangerous, the way he says things. Dangerous because heâs warm in ways he doesnât even realize. This is just who he is â gentle, respectful, attentive and impossibly kind. He treats everyone well, but sometimes it feels different with you. Different because it's the way he texts to make sure you got home safe. In the way he saves you a seat without thinking about it, like of course thereâs always supposed to be a place for you beside him. In the way his eyes find yours first whenever he laughs, like your reaction is the one heâs waiting for.Â
And maybe none of it means anything, and your heart is selfish enough to want to believe it means more, because he smiles at everyone like that. He always makes everyone feel a little chosen anyway.
But then when the room empties out, the noise fades, and he looks at you with an unbearably tender gaze that feels lingering and far too intimate to be called innocent.
And thatâs the cruelest part of all. Not your feelings for him. Not the uncertainty. Not even the fear of rejection. But the quiet, devastating truth that he already belongs to someone else.
Everyone in the SKZ team knows about the relationship. Itâs not publicly known, but enough people in the industry whisper about it. A female idol from another group. Beautiful, talented, sweet from what youâve heard.Â
You want to hate her. God, you want to hate her so bad⌠but you canât.Â
Because she makes him happy, thereâs a softness in him whenever he talks about her that makes it painfully obvious how deeply he cares. And maybe thatâs what destroys you most of all, that sheâs good to him. That she makes him happy in ways you never could.Â
They are perfect for each other because they belong in the same industry and live the same K-pop idol life. They go through the same exhausting schedules, the same pressure, the same understanding of what it means to live under constant scrutiny. She understands parts of him you never could. Youâre just a girl trying to make it through the month without falling behind on bills. Quietly ordinary in every possible way. While sheâs everything dazzling, like truly, sheâs the kind of girl loved by millions. The kind of girl cameras adore, the kind of girl songs are written about.
And standing beside her, youâve never felt smaller.
So instead of being jealous of her, you do the only thing you can. You stand there quietly as SKZâs makeup artist, smile when youâre supposed to, and let yourself break a little more each day.
******************************************
âHyung,â Changbin called from across the room, âyour girlfriend sent coffee again.â
The entire dressing room erupted into teasing.
Chan laughs, cheeks pink as he accepted the drink carrier from staff. âShe said I sounded tired.â
âWhipped,â Hyunjin said immediately.
âDisgustingly whipped,â Seungmin added.
You kept your head down, pretending to organize brushes. You think youâre hiding it well, but Chan noticed the shift in your mood immediately â he always noticed.
âYou didnât have your morning coffee yet,â Chan said suddenly, walking and holding out the cup toward you. âTake mine.â
Your throat tightened. âItâs okay.â
âI can share.â
You finally looked at him, and that was your mistake, because there it is again⌠that gaze. That quiet, lingering fondness he always carries in his eyes, like looking at you is the most important thing in the world.Â
And for one horrible, stupid second, you let yourself imagine this isnât borrowed affection. That maybe, just maybe, the way he looks at you means something more and it wasnât just in your head.Â
Then his phone lit up.
my girl <3
The screen flashed with a new message.
Miss you already.
And just like that, reality crashed back so hard it nearly stole your breath.
You stepped away before anyone noticed the crack in your expression.
âI need to clean the other station,â you lied.
Chan watched you go.
That was the day you decided you needed to set strict boundaries with him. He was taken and you would never be a homewrecker. If you continued staying close to him, it would only get worse. Your feelings would deepen, settle in places you wouldnât be able to scrape out later.Â
God, you felt pathetic. Like why would you even let yourself think like this in the first place for a taken man. You were the problem.
So, you made a decision, you would avoid him. Not completely, of course. You still had a job to do. You still powdered his face before performances, still fixed his hair between takes, still smiled politely when the camera was around and when it wasnât.Â
But you stopped lingering and letting conversations stretch beyond what was necessary. You stopped replying to his jokes the way you used to, instead you kept your eyes on your work, hands busy, focused elsewhere, like anywhere but him.
And whenever he tried to pull you into ease, into familiarity, you didnât follow.
You could tell it was getting to him.
The way his smiles didnât come as easily around you anymore. The way his gaze lingered a second longer, like he was trying to figure out what changed and when he stopped being allowed to reach you the way he used to.
But it had to be this way, because if he knew, if he ever found out what you were really feeling â it wouldnât just be messy. It would ruin everything. The team, the trust, the easy comfort that had always existed between you.
And worse than all of that⌠he would look at you differently, maybe with disappointment or even disgust, for daring to feel something like this when he already loved someone else.
So you swallowed it down, all of it, and strictly kept your distance.
It kept going for weeks, until one evening after rehearsal, he cornered you near the backstage hallway while everyone else packed up.
âDid I do something wrong?â
The question caught you off guard.
âWhat?â
âYouâve been distant lately.â
âIâve just been busyââ
âYouâre lying,â his voice was sharp when he cut you off.
You busy yourself stuffing products into your kit. âChanââ
âDid someone say something to you?â he asks. âAre you uncomfortable working with us?â
âNo! God, no.â
âThen why are you avoiding me?â
Because Iâm in love with you.
Because every time you smile at me I forget youâre not mine.
Because hearing your girlfriend call during touch-ups feels like swallowing glass.
Instead, you forced out, âYouâre overthinking.â
Chan stared at you for a long moment, then quietly asked, âAm I?â
You couldnât answer that, not when heâs looking at you like that.
His gaze didnât move away from you.
âIt doesnât feel like I am,â he said sadly.
âIâm just focused on work,â you said again, quieter this time.
âRight,â he said, after a pause, but it didn't sound like he was convinced. âJust work.â
He studied you for a moment longer, like heâs trying to pull an answer out of you without words.
âJustâŚâ he started, frustration creeping into his voice. âJust tell me what I did wrong.âÂ
You shook your head immediately.Â
âYou didnât do anything wrong.â
But you donât elaborate further, you just let the heavy and suffocating silence stretch.
Then his phone lit up and her name flashes across the screen.
Neither of you move at first.
His eyes flick down to it, then back to you â like heâs still waiting for the ringtone to stop, like heâs desperately trying to hold this conversation.
You swallowed hard.
âYou should answer her,â you said softly. âI should go. Iâll⌠catch you later.â
Before he can respond, before he can stop you, you turn away quickly and leave, forcing your feet to keep moving, not daring to look back.
Behind you, he exhaled faintly. Chan looked at the screen for a long moment before sighing, his thumb hovered over the call and then he declined it.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket, but he didn't move right away. He was too exhausted and too overwhelmed to move, so he just stood there staring at the ceiling, his eyes stinging as tears built up.Â
******************************************
He tried again and then again the next day. And the day after that.
But it was always the same now. You found a reason before the conversation could even begin â work, schedules, something urgent that couldnât wait. Anything that kept things contained and professional.
At first, he still tried to reach you through the gaps. Small questions and lingering glances. He showed quiet patience that seemed like it could stretch forever.
But slowly, even that faded.
Chan stopped trying to close the distance.
He stopped looking for you the way he used to between takes. He completely stopped waiting near your station after rehearsals and stopped turning casual moments into something more just by the way he stayed a little longer than necessary.
Now, when he spoke to you, it was strictly about work. He spoke in a way that was polite and detached, like there had never been anything softer between you to begin with.
It was what you wanted.
You kept telling yourself that.
That this was better. That you had done the right thing before anything could spiral into something messy and irreversible.
But still, the quiet that followed didnât feel like relief. It felt more like an absence and you didnât know what to do with that.
It went on for four days.
Four days of careful distance, professional exchanges and pretending that nothing had shifted, when everything clearly had.
And then the day before the weekend finally arrived. At the end of your shift, you let out a breath you didnât realize you were holding.
At least you could rest for a couple of days, and you wouldnât have to keep pretending tomorrow. At least there would be space to breathe without having to carefully measure every interaction, every glance or every word.
You gathered your things a little quicker than usual, already thinking ahead to the quiet of your room, the comfort of shutting the world out for a while.
As you made your way toward the bus stand, the evening air felt softer than usual. The streets were busy, but not overwhelming. People were heading home, just like you, wrapped up in their own routines, and somehow, in that quiet in-between, your mind drifted again⌠to him.
You kept recalling the past and how it used to be easier. Chan would sometimes stay back after his schedules ended, casually offering you a ride home as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You used to laugh it off, decline politely, insist you were fine taking the bus. But you never won the argument and heâd always end up driving you home anyway.Â
And somewhere along the way, those rides became something more than just a way to get back. Sometimes youâd make spontaneous stops at an ice-cream place, sitting in his car with the engine off, talking for hours about nothing and everything, ending up laughing over the smallest things. Youâd make him try flavours his typical indecisive Libra self would never choose on his own, teasing him until he finally gave in, only to decide he actually liked them. And somehow, between shared scoops and easy conversation, it always turned into something warm, light, and effortlessly fun, like the world outside didnât exist at all.Â
Other times, he would buy you hotteok from a small roadside stall, that felt warm in your hands against the night air. He always preferred the ones filled with red bean paste, insisting they tasted better that way, while you argued the cinnamon sugar ones were superior.
Sometimes he would park his car in front of the Han River, the city lights stretching across the water in quiet reflections while everything else slowed down around you. Youâd sit side by side, sharing snacks his mom sent him from Australia, unwrapping them carefully like they were something precious. Heâd always insist you try first, watching your reaction with that small, expectant dimpled smile of his. And then heâd talk about his childhood back in Australia, the streets he grew up on, the sun that felt different there, the way home used to sound and smell. He spoke about it casually, but there was always a hint of softer nostalgia underneath.
Youâd listen without interrupting, occasionally asking questions when his voice trailed off, while the river moved quietly outside the windshield like it had all the time in the world.
And in those moments, it never felt like anything complicated. It was just him and you, and a car full of borrowed stories, shared snacks, and a kind of peace you didnât realize youâd start holding onto.
It was simple and mundane, easy in a way you didnât realize youâd start missing until it was gone. Now, the memory sat differently in your chest. He doesnât do that anymore and itâs your fault.
You swallow hard, pushing the thought down as quickly as it rises.
You ruined a good thing, you recall sadly. You lost a great friendship, all because you couldnât control your damn feelings. In hindsight, you realized that feeling had always been there, quietly building in the spaces between conversations and shared silence.
Oh if only you had understood your own feelings back then.
By the time you understood you were in love with him, he already started falling for someone else. Or maybe even if you had realized and confessed back then, he wouldâve rejected you anyway, because you were no match for him, his feelings for you were always platonic for sure. The thought settles heavily, but you donât fight it this time, because it feels like the truth youâve been avoiding.Â
The bus arrives with a low hiss of brakes.
You step onto the bus, letting the doors close behind you with a soft mechanical sigh that feels louder than it should. The world outside is cut off in an instant, replaced by the dim, familiar interior of late evening travel.
You move down the aisle and take the seat at the very end of the row, near the window. From here, the city stretches out like a moving painting â streets glowing with gold and white lights, brake lamps bleeding into soft red streaks, buildings dissolving into blurred shapes as the bus pulls forward.
Everything keeps moving.
The hum of the engine fills the space around you, steady and low, vibrating faintly through the seat and into your bones. It should be comforting in its predictability, something to anchor you, something to keep your mind from drifting where it shouldnât.
But it doesnât work tonight. You lean your head against the cool glass beside you, letting the slight chill press into your skin. The movement of the bus rocks you gently, almost like itâs trying to lull you into stillness. Your body feels heavy in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion, and everything to do with carrying too much you donât know where to put.
You slip your headphones on without thinking, more out of habit than intention, and let your playlist begin on its own.
At first, itâs nothing more than background noise. Familiar songs pass through your ears without meaning, soft melodies that donât ask anything of you, that donât require attention or emotion. They drift in one side and out the other, barely registering.
And then everything changes when you hear his voice.
Eternity by Bang Chan starts playing.
It hits you so suddenly that your entire body stills, like something inside you has paused without permission. It feels almost unreal at first, like your mind is playing a trick on you, like it shouldnât be possible for him to exist here â in something so ordinary, so mundane, so far removed from where he actually is.
But he does.
He fills the space inside your headphones completely, as if there is no room for anything else. As if the world outside the bus, the people sitting around you, even your own thoughts, have all been pushed aside just to make space for him.
You remember adding this song. When he talked about his pet dog, Berry, and how much he missed her. A breath caught in your throat before you can stop it, small and unsteady, followed by another that you try to control but fail to steady. Your fingers curl slightly in your lap, pressing into your palms as if grounding yourself physically could stop whatâs happening internally.
But it doesnât.
The lyrics donât simply play. They settle. They sink in slowly, deliberately, as if theyâve been waiting for you specifically. Each line feels heavier than the last, threading through every carefully built barrier youâve spent weeks putting up, slipping through the cracks you thought you had sealed tightly enough.
Memories rise without warning, uninvited and sharp at the edgesâquiet laughter during late schedules, shared silence that never felt uncomfortable, the easy comfort of sitting beside him without overthinking what it meant. And then, more recently, the distance. The careful politeness. The way everything between you shifted without either of you saying it out loud.Â
You turn your face slightly toward the window, pressing your forehead more firmly against the glass. The cold against your skin is sharp enough to ground you for a second, to remind you where you are, to remind you that this is just a bus ride home and nothing more.
Outside, life continues in fragments. People get on, people get off, conversations begin and end without meaning to linger. No one looks long enough to notice anything beyond the surface. No one sees the way your expression tightens, the way something inside you quietly starts to break apart without sound.
You swallow hard, forcing your breathing into something steady, something controlled. But it doesnât matter how still you sit, how tightly you hold yourself together, or how carefully you try to look away from what youâre feeling.
Because itâs already there and the tear slips anyway.Â
God, you just want to go home and sleep.
******************************************
Award show season becomes torture.
You stand backstage adjusting the clasp of Chanâs in-ear monitors when she arrives.
Sheâs even more breathtaking in person. The kind of beauty cameras never fully capture. And Chanâs entire face lit up when he saw her.
Not polite, it was just pure admiration. Deeply in love kinda gaze.Â
âBaby,â he breathed.
Your chest caved in.
She wrapped her arms around his waist carefully, mindful of his outfit. âYou look so handsome.â
âAnd you look so beautiful, baby,â he said quietly, eyes softening as if the world around them had faded out.
âI missed you.â She said cupping his face.
The intimacy of it felt private. You shouldnât be standing here witnessing this.Â
You step back immediately. âIâll go check the others.â
Neither of them notice you leaving. Like you didnât even exist and that hurt more than it should.
That night, after the performance, Chan finds you alone on the rooftop of the venue parking structure.
Cold wind whipped past as you stared over the city lights below.
âYou disappeared.â
You didnât turn around. âNeeded air.â
A silence settled between you.Â
âDid seeing her upset you?â
Your heart stopped. Slowly, you looked at him.
Chanâs expression was unreadable. He looked hesitant.
âI donât know what you mean.â
âYes, you do.â
You laugh weakly. âChanââ
âYou look at me like your heartâs breaking.â
The words shattered something inside you.
You shake your head immediately. âDonât.â
âDonât what?â
âDonât say things like that.â
His brows pull together. âWhy not? Isnât that the truth?â
âNo,â you whispered, finally meeting his eyes, âitâs not.â
The wind felt freezing now. Chan stepped closer, way too close. You stepped back immediately and he held your wrist to stop you.
âStop running away from me, dammit,â he snapped, though his voice betrayed a slight shake.
âChan, itâs⌠letâs not talk about it, please.â You sighed sadly, âmy heart canât handle this conversation.â
âI justâŚâ he started, then stopped, like the sentence didnât know where to go.
His eyes flicked away from yours. And when he spoke again, it was quieter, carefully stripped of anything that sounded too honest.
âI just donât like when things feel different between us.â
âIâm sorry. I was just buââ
âBusy with work,â he cut you off immediately, a faint edge slipping through before he could stop it. âYeah. You said that.â
He sighed, running a hand down his face.Â
âI know,â he said finally, quieter now. âI know youâre busy.â
The silence stretched.
You took a step back. âChan, just⌠let it go, okay? This is getting too much.â
At that, something in his expression flickered, he looked pissed at this point.
âIâm not trying to make it âtoo much,ââ he said, making air quotes around the word.
You swallowed. âChan, I didnât mean it like that.â
âThen donât say things like that.â
You frowned slightly. âLike what?â
His jaw tightened.
âLike you canât handle talking to me,â he said, slower now. âLike Iâm something you have to escape from.â
That landed heavier than it shouldâve.
âI wasnât trying to!â you said defensively. âIâm here minding my own business. Youâre the one trying to make an issue out of a situation thatâs nothing!â
âOh yeah?â His voice snapped sharper now. âStop lying.â
âI am not lying! Iâm just doing my job. Iâm giving you space. Thatâs all it is.â
His breath came out sharper this time.
âSo it is space.â
âItâs notââ
âThen what is it?â he interrupted, frustration finally breaking through the restraint. âBecause it feels like Iâm being erased from your life one interaction at a time.â
The words stole the air from your lungs. For a second, neither of you moved.
And then his voice dropped, âIâm not okay with this.â
That was all he gave you. Just the raw and unfiltered truth. Your throat tightened.
âChanâŚâ
âBeing not around you is making me lose my mind, canât you see that?â He said shakily.
You froze slightly. âWhat⌠why does it matter?â
His breath came out uneven now, like he hated that heâd said it.
âBecause I care about you,â he said, voice breaking at the edges. âI donât know how to deal with losing you.â
And there it is, the worst part, because you know he does. Chan loves deeply and fiercely. He gives pieces of himself to everyone he treasures. But not the way you ache for him, his one was purely platonic for you.
So you smile sadly and say the only thing that will save you both.Â
âI know.âÂ
His face fell slightly.Â
âYou should go back to her,â you continue softly. âSheâs probably waiting.âÂ
For a second, something flickers in his expression, it looked like a mix of conflict, guilt, longing. Itâs gone almost immediately.Â
Chan looked away first.Â
ââŚYeah.âÂ
That one word nearly killed you. He hesitates before leaving. Like he wanted to say more.Â
But in the end, he walks away. And you let him, because loving him means accepting that sometimes someone can give you tenderness, trust, late-night conversations, lingering looks, just a little bit of their heart, while the rest belongs to somebody else. The one they truly want.Â
warnings : smut!! , jake loves tats đ , lots of kissing , hickeys , neck biting/sucking , handsy/touchy jake , not proofread! , backshots , fingering , a little cum eating , unprotected sex (donât risk it) , cream pie!! , dirty talk , teasing , multiple orgasms , biting , overstimulation(?) , slight choking.
a/n : i wrote this while i have two other unfinished fics sitting in my drafts (keep an eye out for those đ). hopefully theyâll be finished soon as im going on holiday on tuesday so iâll be able to write loads đ¸. as always, lmk if i made any mistakes/missed anything out & enjoy!! likes & reblogs are very much appreciated đ¤
Two weeks ago, you told your boyfriend, Sim Jake, that you were spending the afternoon with your friend at a new cafe in town, pretending to care enough about overpriced coffee and mediocre pastries to make the lie believable.
Little did he know, you were laying face-down on a tattoo bed while somebody pressed fresh ink into the skin between your shoulder blades and down the full length of your spine.
This wasnât your first tattoo, though.
Jake knew about the delicate piece on your forearm - the one he absentmindedly traced whenever your hand rested near his. He also knew about the tiny butterfly behind your ear.
This one was different.
Bigger.
Hidden.
And entirely yours.
You kinda knew he wouldnât approve, but you did it anyway.
Well - maybe âwouldnât approveâ is slightly dramatic.
Heâd probably stare at you with that unreadable expression he wore whenever you did something impulsive, sigh under his breath, and ask why you hadnât told him first.
Which is exactly why you didnât.
Because if he knew you were getting another tattoo - this time stretched delicately down your spine - he wouldâve insisted on coming with you.
Not that you didnât want him to, of course, but with this one you wanted to give him a nice surprise.
You arrived at the tattoo studio, the air smelling faintly of disinfectant wipes and lavender. You smile at the lady sitting by the tattoo bed and she waves you over.
âY/N, right? Come take a seat.â she pats the bed beside her as you approach.
You nervously explain the placement of the tattoo and what kind of design you want. You pull up Pinterest on your phone and manage to find a similar photo. The artist nods, telling you sheâs able to do it.
Youâre buzzing with excitement but also shaking with nervousness. You already have tattoos, but small ones. One on your forearm and the other behind your ear. Those didnât hurt much, but youâre afraid this one might.
You take a deep breath before pulling your shirt over your head and removing your bra. You tie your hair into a messy bun and lay face down on the bed before sliding your phone out of your bag pocket.
Thereâs a threat of messages from Jake.
Jake: i hope youâre having fun, love
Jake: let me know if you need me to come get you
Jake: or if you need any more money
You smile at the screen and type out a fast response, just in time since the tattoo artist is now back with fresh ink, disinfectant wipes, and tissues.
She tells you to lay flat and take deep breaths. You try.
Hours later, youâre finally finished. The lady bandages up your new tattoo and gives you some tips to help keep it clean. She then lets you stand and gather your things. You pay and leave the shop.
You exhale deeply once you step out into the cool, night air. Shit. Itâs already dark.
You pull out your phone and see a longer thread of messages from your boyfriend.
Jake: where are you?
Jake: are you still with your friend?
Jake: 3 missed calls
Jake: answer the phone please
Jake: iâm coming home early
You sigh and shove your phone into your back pocket.
He worries like this a lot, not always, but sometimes. Itâs partly your fault for running off places and not letting him know where youâre going and how long youâll be out.
You stop at a bus stop and check the app on your phone. 5 minutes.
Surprisingly, the bus isnât late and it arrives 5 minutes later. You scan your card and hop on, finding a seat upstairs.
The bus ride is only around ten minutes, but as youâre driving, your phone continues to buzz in your back pocket.
You finally reach your apartment building and head inside quickly. You pull your keys out of your handbag, but when you reach the door, itâs already unlocked.
You push open the door and toe off your shoes.
âBaby?â your boyfriend calls from the living room.
His footsteps approach quickly before he appeared at the end of the hallway. His eyes scanned you head to toe. âWhy didnât you answer your phone?â
Before you could even open your mouth to respond, he reaches you in three long strides and pulls you into his arms.
The sharp sting across your back made you suck in a breath. âOw-â
He raises an eyebrow at you. âYou just winced like a i stabbed you, baby.â
âThat sounds dramatic.â you try to lighten the mood, but his serious expression doesnât soften even a fraction.
He lifts his hands and places them on your shoulders, his thumbs rubbing small circles through the thin fabric of your shirt. âWhy were you out so long?â
âIâm sorry, I lost track of time.â you try shooting him a soft smile.
âOf course, you did.â He sighs and runs a hand down his face. âI thought I told you to let me know if youâd be out late.â
âI know, Iâm sorry.â you whisper.
He doesnât say anything else. He just stares at you, his serious, dark eyes finally softening. âItâs fine. Iâm glad youâre okay.â
The two of you make your way to your bedroom after that, changing into pjs and settling into bed. You slip into bed, careful not to lay on your back because of your new tattoo.
Jake slips into bed beside you and immediately wraps his arms around your waist. You hold your breath as he pulls you closer so your back is flush against his bare chest.
His hand slides under your tank top and his fingers begin tracing gentle patterns on your stomach as the both of you fall asleep tangled up in each other.
The next morning, you wake up to hear Jakeâs soft snoring behind you. You slip out of bed quietly, careful not to wake him, and pad into the kitchen, your bare feet silent on the wood.
You make your way into the kitchen and begin making breakfast for the two of you. Sausages, bacon, eggs and toast.
You grab the bread from the cupboard and shove four slices into the toaster, you pull out the bacon, eggs, and butter out of the fridge.
Then you bend down to grab the sausages from the freezer but your ass pushes back against something instead when a pair of large, familiar hands pull you backwards.
You straighten up quickly, startled, and spin around. Your boyfriend stands facing you, hands on your hips, with a smug grin creeping onto his lips. âMorning, sweetheart.â
âMorning.â you smile up at him.
âYou making breakfast?â he nods towards the items on the counter before looking back at you.
âYeah,â his hands grip your hips tighter. âI hope youâre hungry.â
At that, his smirk just widens. âOh, I am.â
You gasp as he spins you around and pushes your chest flat against the counter, his hips pushing against your ass. âJake!â
A low chuckle escapes his throat as his large hands squeeze your hips tightly. "Jake..." you repeat, but this time it comes out breathier than expected.
That's when you feel him freeze behind you. One of his hands leaves your waist and comes up to your neck to gather your hair into a makeshift ponytail.
"What is that?" forget skipping a beat, your heart actually stops beating and restarts again faster than before.
"What's what?" you manage to say as you turn to look at him over your shoulder.
His brows are knitted, eyes dark. You feel him run a finger over the bandage peeking out the top of your tank top, his fingers feather light. "This."
"Oh..." you whisper.
"Are you hurt?" his voice left his throat harsher than intended. "What have you done, y/n?"
"It's umm..." you fumble over your words. "nothing."
"Nothing?" he scoffs, voice tightening. "that's not nothing."
You sigh and spin around to face him fully. "I wanted to wait and surprise you when it had healed."
"Healed?" his eyes widened, tone becoming accusatory. "Tell me that's not what I think it is..."
"It's a tattoo." you admit, voice no higher than a whisper.
"When did you get it?"
"Yesterday."
"Fuck, y/n." he grips your waist and spins you around again.
His fingers trace the edge of the bandage again before he pulls at it gently. You wince as the tape pulls at your skin.
"Take your shirt off." he's not asking. He's telling you.
You pause for a moment before reaching down for the hem of your tank top and pulling it over your head. When you lift it, Jake sees that the bandage disappears into the waistband of your shorts.
This time, he's not gentle when he begins pulling at the bandage again. He dips his finger into the waistband of your shorts and pulls them down just enough to see the larger horizontal bandage on the small of your back. Shit.
The bandage is fully off now. You feel vulnerable. Is he mad? Does he like it? Does he hate it?
You spin around to face him again, only to be met with a smug smirk plastered on his lips. His eyes lift to meet yours. "Show me again, sweetheart."
You smile, a chuckle escaping your throat as you turn your back to him and move your hair out of the way so he can see the full length of the tattoo. He lift his hand and trails a single finger down the side of the permanent ink. "D- do you like it?"
"I don't know. It's... big" he sighs. "You should've let me come with you."
"I knew you'd say that." you laugh as he turns you around again with a gentle hand on your waist.
Before either of you even get chance to say anything else, his hands are on you and his lips are on yours. Itâs not rushed, but itâs not gentle either. His hands slide up and down your bare sides, his thumbs brushing just below your bra. Your hands reach up to grip his shirt and pull him impossibly closer.
He groans low in his throat and it goes straight between your legs. You feel heat flushing up your neck and your panties becoming wet. This wasnât how this was supposed to go.
At least he likes it.
He backs you up until your back hits the counter and you wince against his lips. âSorryâŚâ he whispers before diving back in, biting your bottom lip gently and soothing it with his tongue.
Then suddenly youâre being lifted onto the edge of the counter and his hands are patting your knees so he can stand between your thighs. You gladly let him and instantly wrap your legs around his waist, keeping him pressed against you.
Eventually, he pulls back from the kiss and rests his forehead against yours. âFuckâŚâ
âYou do like it, then?â you tilt your head slightly.
âYes, I fucking like it.â he smirks down at you. His hands drop from your hips and slide down to your thighs, fingers digging into the soft skin.
âStill shouldâve let me come, though.â he adds but you just roll your eyes. âWas it a guy?â
âNo.â you chuckle, hands coming up to cup his cheeks.
âGood.â is the last thing he says before his lips are on yours again. His tongue pushes its way inside your mouth and tangles with yours. Your hands drop from his face and tug at the hem of his shirt.
âOff.â
You didnât have to tell him twice. He reaches behind his head and pulls off his shirt in one swift motion. Your hand reaches for the back of his neck and you pull him back onto you. He groans against your mouth and reaches behind you to unclasp your bra.
The straps fall down your arms and he practically rips it away from you, throwing it somewhere onto the kitchen floor.
Then you reach down for his belt but he stops you with a firm grip on your wrist. âNot yet, sweetheart. Patience.â
He lifts you off the counter, holding your body up against his with his hands on your ass. You wrap your arms around his neck to steady yourself and giggle as he carries you to the bedroom. On the way there, he buries his face in your neck and places open mouthed kisses along your jaw and down to your collarbones.
He kicks your bedroom door shut behind him and lowers you onto the bed, suddenly being gentle - only because of your new tattoo - despite the hunger in his eyes.
You look up at him as he sits you down, and he just smiles devilishly at you. He drops to his knees before you and taps your leg. âShorts off.â
You reach down and slowly, purposely, pull your shorts down your long legs. He watches the whole thing with that specific, hungry gaze he only ever gives you when heâs desperate for you.
Now youâre completely naked apart from your panties with him kneeling between your legs. His eyes remain locked onto yours as he leans down between your thighs and licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit on your soaked panties. âYou already this wet fâ me, doll?â
You nod eagerly and a needy whine escapes you. He licks again, and again, and again until youâre begging him to take off your panties.
âJake⌠please, take them off.â you say, reaching down to try and do it yourself. He stops you. Again.
âWhat did I say earlier, sweetheart? Patience.â he growls before pushing your panties to the side and slipping his middle finger into your tight hole.
You cry out, your hand flying to tug at his hair. He adds another finger and begins moving them slowly. Not just slow, like, hardly moving at all.
Heâs such a tease.
âJakeâŚâ you breathe. âstop teasing me.â
He chuckles and looks up at you through his lashes. âYou want more?â
You nod quickly.
âAsk how I like.â he demands.
You whine and wriggle beneath him, rolling your hips upwards to meet his hand. âI want you⌠so bad. P-please.â
He smirks, satisfied, and quickens his torturing pace. He adds a third finger and he begins pistoning them into you, curling them at just the right angle.
It doesnât take much more before youâre whining and rolling your hips upwards, desperate for more of him.
He takes the hint and pulls his fingers out of you, bringing them to his mouth and licking them clean. He doesnât break eye contact as he does so.
A moan escapes you while watching him. Then heâs on you again, pushing you further up the bed so he can hover above you. He buries his face in your neck and sucks at the sensitive spot just below your ear before kissing you slowly, letting you taste yourself on him.
You didnât even realise he was pulling your panties down until he pushes two fingers back inside of you and presses his thumb against your clit.
You arch your back off the bed and wrap your arms around his neck, keeping his lips pressed against yours.
He slides his tongue into your mouth again, wanting to taste you. All of you.
It doesnât take much more until youâre coming on his fingers. âNgh- Jake⌠IâmâŚâ
âI know, baby,â he whispers into the crook of your neck. âlet go fâ me.â
And you do. Your walls clench around his fingers and you tug harder at his hair, earning a low groan from your boyfriend.
He doesnât stop rubbing your clit with his thumb or curling his fingers inside you until youâre basically begging him to stop.
âT-too much⌠ahhâŚâ you wriggle beneath him, trying to move away from the sensitivity.
He pulls his fingers out of you slowly and watches as a white string of your come, connecting you to his fingers, breaks.
He lifts his head from the crook of your neck and kneels between your thighs. âTurn over.â
You flip yourself over quickly and raise your ass into the air. Just how you know he likes it.
He slaps your ass cheek hard, ripping a choked moan from your throat. Then you hear the soft clinking of his belt undoing before it falls to the ground. You look over your shoulder and see him unbuttoning his jeans. He tugs them, and his boxers, down his waist and throws them somewhere on the floor.
When he turns back to you, he trails his finger down your spine. Not directly on your tattoo, but beside it. You wince, the skin still red and sensitive.
âSâ so fucking sexy.â he whispers before tapping his leaking tip against your clit.
You clench around nothing, still needing more despite coming minutes earlier.
âPlease Jake⌠fuck me, please. Need you so bad.â you beg.
âYou need me, huh, princess?â he chuckles, the smirk audible in his voice, as he lines himself up with your dripping entrance.
He doesnât say anything else; he just pushes into you slowly, feeling you stretch around his thick cock.
âSo tightâŚâ he groans before leaning over you, pressing his bare chest to your sore back. He digs his teeth into your shoulder, his hands gripping your hips so tight itâll definitely leave marks, as he bottoms out and soothes the marks with his tongue.
He sets his pace, not too slow but not too fast. Not yet.
You reach underneath you, taking it upon yourself to touch yourself. The teasing is getting too much. You need more. More of his touch. More of him. You use your middle and ring finger to circle your clit, but you only manage a couple seconds before heâs grabbing your wrist and pulling it behind your back.
âYou just canât wait, can you, baby?â he chuckles before slamming into you so hard you cry out, tears already pricking at the corners of your eyes.
His thrusts are aggressive and hard now as the bed rocks against the wall every time his hips slam into your ass.
Despite coming minutes before, youâre getting close to the edge again. He feels it when you clench around him and grip the bedsheets tighter. He loops his arm underneath you, his bare chest pressing against your back, and connects his fingers with your still-sensitive clit.
He doesnât slow down, not once. If anything, his thrusts are getting harder and harder.
âJ-jake⌠Iâm closeâŚâ you manage to whine.
âCome for me.â he grunts as he releases your wrist and grips your hip even tighter than before (if thatâs even possible).
Youâve become a whining, wriggling mess beneath him after you come, but he doesnât stop. He chases his own release, reaching to wrap his hand around your neck and pull your back towards his chest.
âGonna come inside you, yeah?â he whispers against the shell of your ear before sucking another mark onto your neck.
When he comes, he bites your neck hard and his hand tightens around your neck. When he finally stills inside of you, you can feel his cock pulsing and the thick ropes of come filling you up.
Youâre both panting. Both sticky with come and sweat.
But too exhausted to even give a shit.
a/n2 : this is the longest fic i've wrote so far and i genuinley think it's a piece of art lmao but i'll let you guys be the judge of that. i tried my best and like i always say, i'll get better eventually đ¤
warnings : this feels a little rushed sorry!! , mingi loves calling reader baby hehe , morning sex with no plot lmao , head (f receiving) , unprotected sex (donât) , kissing , slight choking (not rlly) , biiiig dÄąck mingiđ , pls lmk if i missed anything!
a/n : i literally havenât wrote anything for AGES and i apologiseđ¤. iâve had no motivation whatsoever and ive been so stressed with college work/assignments (my teacher pmo) but iâll defo be trying to write more!!
You wake up to find your bedroom silent and pitch black, the only light being the soft glow of the moon shining through your blinds.
You thought your sleep schedule had been getting better, but youâd started waking up in the middle of the night again. Youâre not sure why.
Actually, you know the exact reason why. Itâs because your boyfriend, Song Mingi, is on tour again. Heâs thousands and thousands of miles away from you and the comfort of your apartment.
You rub your eyes and sit up in your bed, reaching for your phone on the nightstand. You turn on the screen and see the time reads 3:47am. Below is a thread of notifications from Mingi.
Heâs probably telling you to get some sleep or to eat properly - not just instant noodles.
He knows you worry and he knows you get lonely without him. Thatâs one of the many things you love most about your boyfriend. He notices everything.
Mingi: sleep well beautiful
Mingi: iâll be home before you know it
Mingi: donât worry too much
You type out a quick reply before throwing your phone onto the mattress.
Eventually, after what feels like an hour of tossing and turning, you manage to fall asleep again.
ââââ
The next time youâre woken up, itâs by the sun illuminating your bedroom and⌠a wetness between your legs.
You find yourself trying to wriggle away from the sensitive pressure between your legs, but something is holding you down.
Or someone.
You blink open your sleepy eyes and look down to find your boyfriendâs head between your thighs. His arms are wrapped around your thighs, keeping you pinned down. That explains why you couldnât move.
You arch your back off the bed and reach down, letting your fingers card through his annoyingly perfect hair.
You see the moment he realises youâre awake when he lifts his head, revealing his shiny lips and chin. âGood morning, baby.â he smirks up at you.
You canât help but giggle as he dives back in, sucking your already-sensitive clit into his mouth. You whine in response, tugging at his hair and rolling your hips upwards.
He wastes no time pushing two fingers inside of you, pumping them slowly as he effortlessly reaches all the right spots.
âMingiâŚâ you moan his name, somehow already close to the edge.
He doesnât respond. He just quickens his movements. His tongue flicks over your clit faster and his fingers push further inside of you, curling at just the right angle. Your legs tremble as you warn him youâre about to come.
âM- ahh⌠Mingi, Iâm closeâŚâ you whimper seconds before your release coats his fingers.
He pulls his fingers out of you slowly and brings them to his mouth, licking them clean while holding your gaze.
He releases your thighs and moves quickly, hovering over you. He buries his face in your neck and inhales deeply. âGood girl.â
âYou couldnât wait until later?â you chuckle (although you arenât complaining) and wrap your legs around his waist.
âAnd miss out on waking you up in the best way possible? Absolutely not.â he groans as he begins kissing and nipping at your neck. One of his hands grips your hip tightly and the other rests beside your head, careful not to put all of his weight on you.
He leaves a trail of kisses from just below your ear all the way down to your collarbone. You didnât even notice he had shifted his weight to unbuckle his belt and pull down his jeans just enough to free his hard length.
Saying Mingi is big is an understatement. Heâs huge. Not just length, but girth, too. Youâll never get over how good the stretch feels when he pushes inside of you.
âTell me you missed me, baby.â he whispers hoarsely against your neck as he lines himself up with your entrance. But he doesnât wait for you to respond.
You open your mouth to speak but heâs already pushing inside of you. He groans against your neck and mutters something that sounds like a mix of your name and âfuckâ.
You cry out embarrassingly loud and your nails dig into his shoulders through the thin fabric of his shirt (which he didnât bother to remove).
He groans again and removes his hand from your hip, bringing it up to wrap around your throat instead. He squeezes, but not enough to cut off your breathing, just enough to show heâs in control. But damn you already knew that.
He bottoms out and heâs already panting into the crook of your neck. âFuck, baby⌠needed you so bad.â
Then heâs moving. Thrusting deep and agonisingly slow. One hundred percent on purpose.
âMingiâŚâ you breathe, although youâre not even sure why.
âUse your words, love. Tell me what you want.â he smirks before lifting his head to capture your lips in a slow but hungry kiss. His fingers tighten around your neck for a moment, urging you to speak.
âMoreâŚâ you manage to say.
âMore?â he chuckles low in his throat. âGreedy little thing.â
He listens, though. With practiced ease, he quickens his pace and shifts ever so slightly to angle himself deeper inside of you.
When your walls begin clenching around him, you know youâre not going to last much longer. Heâs kissing you when you squeeze his cock and he lets out this delicious, deep groan straight into your mouth. You swallow it, your tongue pushing into his mouth before mingling with his.
He lowers his head again and pushes his face into the crook of your neck. His thrusts are messy and ragged now as he gets closer to the edge.
He removes his hand from your throat and reaches between your bodies to rub fast, tight circles on your clit.
âAhh⌠Iâm close.â you manage to whisper.
âLet go, baby. Come for me.â he encourages, thrusting faster.
Your pussy clamp around him as you come which leaves him following seconds later. He basically collapses on top of you as his hot ropes of come fill you up. Heâs a panting, groaning, sweaty mess when he lifts his head from your neck for the final time.
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Biker!Sukuna who doesnât under any circumstance allow you to ride without a helmet. It doesnât matter if youâre going down the street no helmet no ride
Biker!Sukuna who had to BEG you to get on his bike for the first time. You were petrified ykw thatâs not even the right word anymore. You shook, you cried, you protested for the longest time until he swore on his life nothing would happen
Biker!Sukuna who has tattoos all over his body. looks like a canvas in your eyes
Biker!Sukuna who is six foot tree and towers over anyone in the room you included
Biker!Sukuna who is a gym rat with a STRICT schedule. No days missed, no days half assed
Biker!Sukuna who gets dirty looks from men his own age (jealousyyyyyy) and gets loving stares from women
Biker!Sukuna who had the worst RBF of all time. âKuna are you okay?â âWhy wouldnât I be?â âYou lookâŚI donât knowâŚ.mad at everythingâ âIm having the time of my life right nowâ
Biker!Sukuna who had to work hard to convince your parents he wasnât some ex convict murderer and that he was a safe person for you to be around
Biker!Sukuna who genuinely likes adding new tweaks to his bikes. He like finding really hold bikes and turning them brand new too
Biker!Sukuna who rides around with chiikawa stickers on his helmet because you put them there when he was sleeping
you have convinced Biker!Sukuna to put on a hello kitty face mask once. Hes begged you to delete the photo. You printed it and framed it and now it hangs in your bedroom
Biker!Sukuna who doesnât want to introduce you to his friends because theyâre a bunch of dickheadeds (especially gojo)
Biker!Sukuna who likes to pick you up from your classes on his bike. He likes to show you off to whoever will look your way. Matching helmets, matching jewelry, he even wrote your nickname on his bike
Biker!Sukuna who surprisingly hasnât gotten into one fight. Itâs not that he doesnât know how to fight trust me he does, but heâs never needed to. A mean look is truly enough with his height snd build.
Biker!Sukuna who can cook really well. Carrying takeout on a motorcycle isnât easy.
Biker!Sukuna who runs so fucking hot, winter time is the best time to cuddle with him because you will under any circumstances be cold. Now summer thats your personal hell.
Biker!Sukuna who doesnât get your name tattooed but he got your bike helmet tattooed over his heart
Girls hit on Biker!Sukuna a lot almost everyday. He has a really simple solution to this problem, every time he comes to pick you up from class he wont let you on the bike without a kiss. doesnât matter where he just wants a kiss. He also really likes the look of despair in the girls eyes when they find out heâs dating the ânobodyâ on campus
Biker!Sukuna who tells you he hates your pets but he ends up treating them the same way he treats you
When you found out Biker!Sukuna had a little nephew you would not rest until you got to meet the little guy. He just so happened to be asked to babysit the little man and was given the okay to bring you along. Meeting little Yuji for the first time in your opinion was better than meeting Sukuna for the first time. He was just the sweetest thing ever you found it almost impossible that he was related to the big scary man he calls âUncle kunaâ
Biker!Sukuna who gets so butthurt when little Yuji says âYou too pwetty to date Uncle kuma!â It didnât help the fact you thought it was the funniest thing to ever come out of someoneâs mouth. Thats also how you earned the nickname pretty lady.
Biker!Sukuna who acts like he cant stand Yuji but when the two of you are asleep on the couch, stickers all over both your faces looking so relaxed he canât help but have a pinging in his chest.
Biker!Sukuna who was surprised when you made friends with Choso. That boy doesnât like anyone except his little brother so the fact heâs comfortable around you just solidified all the marriage plans he had in his head
Biker!Sukuna who was cornered alone by both his nephews and they practically begged him to be groomsmen in the wedding. He hasnât even proposed yet!
Biker!Sukuna who loves taking you on midnight joy rides. The sounds of freedom you make when the wind is flying past both your faces makes him feel warm
Biker!Sukuna who has you yuji and choso as his wallpaper
Biker!Sukuna who is so happy youâre not scared of him like everyone else he wouldnât know what to do if you thought he was just some biker tattooed thug
( ě ě¸ ) đžn which ︾ youâre the one who quietly anchored him through every long night, even as he unintentionally pushed you to the edges of his world. when a single, sharp moment of tension on a rainy highway changes everything, he's left to navigate a silence he never expected and the weight of words he can never take back.
9O17 stress neglect verbal-argument car-accident grief major character death heavy guilt panic attacks bittersweet ending
i know i literally just dropped an angst fic not too long ago but. the voices told me to & also i highkey teared up writing this
â¨ď¸ like&&reblog for a kiss. ââ #click4masterlist to see more.
THE AIR IN CHAN'S STUDIO was thick with the hum of computer fans and the smell of lukewarm black coffee. it was a familiar scent, one that usually felt like home, but lately, it just felt like a reminder of how little youâd actually seen him.
you were curled up on the edge of the black leather couch, your backpack slumped against your legs. chan had texted you at three in the morning, a frantic string of messages saying he missed you, that he needed to see you before your morning lecture, and to please come by the studio.
so, youâd woken up early, skipped breakfast, and swung by with two toasted bagels that were now sitting cold and forgotten on the console. but since youâd arrived forty-five minutes ago, heâd said maybe ten words to you.
"just a second, baby," heâd muttered, his eyes glued to the monitor as he chopped up a vocal line. "this transition is messy. i just need to smooth it out."
that was thirty minutes ago.
you watched the back of his headâthe way his shoulders were hunched toward his ears, the tension visible in the line of his neck. he was drowning in this comeback. you knew how it went; the closer the date got, the more he disappeared into the music until there was nothing left of 'channie' and only 'bang chan the producer.'
it wasn't just today, either. it had been weeks of missed dinners and "i'm five minutes away" texts that turned into five hours of silence. your relationship had been shoved to the back burner so many times the pilot light was starting to flicker.
but you weren't the type to pick a fight over it. you knew him. you knew he didn't do it because he didn't care; he did it because he cared too much about everyone elseâthe members, the fans, the legacy. he was a perfectionist, and you were the person who understood that better than anyone. so, you just sat there, scrolling through your phone and watching the cursor on his screen move back and forth, back and forth.
it hurt, in a quiet, dull way, to be in the same room as him and still feel like you were miles apart. but you swallowed it down. he was stressed, and the last thing he needed was you adding to the weight on his back.
you leaned your head back against the cushion, the rhythmic thump-thump of the bass line acting like a lullaby. your eyes started to grow heavy. the studio was warm, and the lack of sleep from his late-night texts was finally catching up to you.
"chan?" you murmured softly, your voice thick with sleepiness.
he didn't even turn around. he just hummed, a distracted sound that meant he hadn't actually heard you.
"i'm gonna... just close my eyes for a second," you whispered, more to yourself than him.
he didn't respond. the only sound in the room was the clicking of his mouse and the rain that had started to smear against the high windows of the building.
the low, rhythmic thumping of the track finally pulled you under. your head lulled to the side, pressing against the cool leather of the sofa as you drifted into a shallow, restless nap.
a sudden, sharp chime from your phone jolted you awake. you blinked, disoriented by the dim studio lights, and fumbled for the device.
8:42 a.m.
"shit," you hissed, the word catching in your throat. your lecture started in eighteen minutes, and the university was at least fifteen minutes away on a good day. "channie, iâm so late. i have to go."
he didn't even flinch. his fingers were still dancing over the keyboard, eyes bloodshot and fixed on a wave file. "mhm. drive safe, baby," he murmured, his voice flat and robotic. he wasn't really there; he was somewhere inside the music, lost in a loop of percussion.
in a blind panic, you started sweeping your belongings off the coffee table. your notebook, a stray pen, your chargerâyou shoved them into your tote bag without looking, your movements frantic and uncoordinated. your hand brushed against a small, silver object near his keyboard, and you swept that in, too, thinking it was your own thumb drive.
"crap. have you seen my pen? the oneâ"
he shook his head, even though he hadn't really heard you. "check the bag," he muttered.
you decided you could come back and grab it later. you leaned over him, pressing a lingering, desperate kiss to his cheek. he smelled like caffeine and stale air. he leaned away slightly, not out of annoyance, but because you were blocking his view of the left monitor.
"bye, channie. i love you. eat the bagels, okay?"
"yeah, yeah. talk later," he muttered, already reaching for his headphones.
you rushed out of the building, the heavy glass doors swinging shut behind you. the moment you stepped outside, the sky felt like it collapsed. the rain wasn't just falling; it was a vertical ocean, thick and grey, turning the parking lot into a blurred mess of asphalt and water.
you scrambled into your car, the interior immediately smelling like wet denim. you gripped the steering wheel, your heart hammering against your ribs. you hated this. youâd always hated driving in the rainâthe way the world lost its edges, the way the tires felt like they were floating instead of gripping.
you looked back at the studio entrance, a part of you wanting to run back inside and beg him to drive you. just for twenty minutes. just so you didn't have to face the highway like this.
but you looked at the glow of his studio window on the third floor and shook your head. he was already drowning in work. heâd been up all night. the last thing he needed was to play chauffeur because you were "a little nervous" about some rain. you didn't want to be a burden. you didn't want to be another thing on his to-do list.
"get it together," you whispered to yourself, wiping the fog off the inside of the windshield with your palm.
you shifted the car into gear, the windshield wipers clicking at their highest speed, and pulled out into the downpour.
the knuckles of your hands were white, gripping the steering wheel so hard they cramped. the rain was a violent, drumming percussion against the roof of the car, deafening and relentless. every time a semi-truck passed in the opposite lane, a wall of muddy water slammed against your windshield, momentarily blinding you. your heart was a frantic bird trapped in your chest, fluttering against your ribs. you hated this. you hated every second of this drive.
then, the carâs bluetooth system chimed. the caller ID on the dashboard screen flashed: channie âĄ
you exhaled a breath you didn't know you were holding, a small, hopeful smile twitching at your lips. maybe heâd snapped out of it. maybe he realized he barely looked at you before you left and wanted to say he loved you. you hit the 'accept' button on the steering wheel.
"whatâs wrong, channie?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly as you squinted through the gray haze of the downpour.
"my flash drive," he snapped. his voice wasn't warm. it wasn't the voice of the man who tucked you in or called you 'baby.' it was sharp, jagged, and vibrating with a suppressed fury that made your stomach drop. "i need it. do you have it? you were in a rush, throwing your shit everywhereâdid you take it with you?"
the light ahead turned red. you slammed on the brakes a little too hard, the car hydroplaning for a terrifying half-second before the tires caught. breathing heavily, you reached into the passenger seat and began frantically digging through your tote bag. your fingers brushed against cold metal.
you pulled it out. his silver drive. the one with the final masters. the one that represented months of his blood, sweat, and literal tears.
"oh my god, yeah, i do," you breathed, the guilt hitting you like a physical blow. "iâm so sorry, chan! i must have swept it up when i was grabbing my pens. i'm at a light nowâcan i give it to you right after my lecture? i'll drive straight backâ"
"no!" he shouted, and the sheer volume of his voice through the car speakers made you flinch. "no, iâitâs due today. itâs due now. the engineers are waiting on those files. god, youâre always doing this."
the light turned green. you took your foot off the brake, your vision already starting to swim as the first hot tear tracked down your cheek. "doing what? it was an accident, i was justâ"
"you're always so messy," he cut you off, the words coming out in a cold, rhythmic stream of resentment. "youâre cluttered. youâre all over the place. you don't think, you just move. i'm trying to hold a career together, i'm trying to finish this for the guys, and youâre just... youâre not focused enough. you're never attentive. you just come in here, distract me, and then leave with the one thing i actually need to do my job."
"chan, please," you whispered, your voice breaking. you reached up to wipe your eyes, but the movement made the car veer slightly toward the edge of the lane. you jerked the wheel back, your breathing becoming shallow and jagged. "i didn't mean to. i just wanted to see you. you asked me to come over."
"i asked you to come over to spend time, not to create more problems for me to fix," he ranted. he sounded so tired of you. so utterly finished with the 'mess' of your presence. "iâm so tired of dealing with your messes. iâm trying to focus on my career, but iâm constantly having to check behind you like you're a childâ"
the rain was coming down even harder now, a literal curtain of water. you couldn't see the lines on the road. the tears were making everything a blurred, kaleidoscopic mess of red brake lights and gray asphalt. your chest felt tight, your lungs refusing to take in enough air.
"shit," you whispered under your breath as the car hydroplaned again, the steering wheel feeling loose and useless in your hands. you gripped it tighter, trying to blink away the moisture. "channie, i really am so sorry about the usb, but can we do this in a minute please? itâs raining and iâm driving andâ"
"no, weâre doing this now," he shouted, his frustration peaking. "i'm tired of the excuses. i'm tired of you being 'sorry' every time you do something careless. grow up already! i have so much on my plate and you just add to it. it's like you don't even care about how hard i workâ"
"i know, i know, iâ"
you were looking at the dashboard, trying to find the button to clear the fogging windshield. you were trying to find the words to make him stop hating you. you were trying to stay in your lane.
you didn't see the black SUV that had lost control in the opposite lane. you didn't see it cross the median.
all you heard was a sudden, deafening blare of a horn.
"chanâ"
the world turned into a cacophony of violence. the sound of metal screaming as it was crushed like paper. the shattering of glass, a thousand diamonds exploding into the air. your bag beside you was thrown, a sudden, brutal weightlessness followed by an impact that stole the very concept of breath from your body.
in the studio, chan heard it all.
he had been mid-sentence, his mouth open to deliver another stinging remark about your lack of responsibility, when the sound hit him through the phone. it wasn't a sound he recognized at firstâit was too loud, too industrial. a sickening crunch. and then, the most terrifying sound of all: nothing.
it was a noise that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
just the faint, rhythmic pitter-patter of rain hitting a microphone somewhere far away.
his heart didn't just skip a beat; it felt like it stopped entirely. a cold, disgusting wave of nausea curled in his stomach, making him lightheaded.
"baby?" he asked. his voice was small now. the anger had vanished, evaporated by the sudden, chilling silence on the other end. "hey. that wasn't funny. pick up the phone."
nothing.
"baby? baby, answer me," he said, his voice breaking. he stood up so fast his chair flipped over behind him. he gripped the phone with both hands, pressing it so hard against his ear it hurt. "baby, please. talk to me. say something. i'm sorry, okay? i didn't mean it. just tell me you're there."
the line hissed with static. he could hear the rain. he could hear a faint, distant siren beginning to wail in the background of the call. then, a sharp click.
the line went dead.
chan stared at the screen. call ended. his fingers were shaking so violently he almost dropped the phone. he hit the redial button. his breath was coming in sharp, ragged gasps.
âthe person you are trying to reach is not available. please leave a messageâŚâ
he hung up and called again. and again. and again. he didn't even realize he was crying until a tear hit the screen of his phone. he was already grabbing his jacket, his keys, his mind a blurred mess of every cruel thing heâd just spat at you.
heâd been so worried about a silver drive. heâd been so worried about a deadline.
he called again.
âthe person you are trying to reach is not available. please leave a messageâŚâ
he fell to his knees in the middle of the room, the phone still pressed to his ear, listening to your voicemail greeting over and over like a lifeline. his stomach twisted with a question that threatened to shatter his mind.
had his cruel words been the last thing you heard? his anger had been the last thing you felt?
the answer was yes.
the silver usb drive sat in the center of the mahogany desk like a jagged piece of shrapnel. it looked smaller than it had two weeks ago. less significant. it was just a bit of metal and plastic, slightly scuffed on one corner where it must have hit the pavement or the dashboard, but otherwise perfectly intact.
it was functional. it held the files. it held the "future" chan had been so desperate to protect that heâd sacrificed the only thing that actually mattered.
the comeback had happened, technically. the company had pushed it through because schedules were already locked, because the industry doesn't stop for tragedies, because the wheels of the machine keep turning even when the driver has been crushed.
but chan hadn't been there. he hadn't gone to the music shows. he hadn't sat in on the final meetings. he had become a ghost in his own life, haunting the halls of the building like a man waiting for a sentence that had already been carried out.
the studio was cold. heâd turned the ac down to sixty degrees days ago and just left it there, wanting the air to feel as biting and sharp as the guilt in his chest. it didn't feel like a place of creation anymore. it felt like a tomb.
the bagels were gone. heâd thrown them away in a fit of violent, shaking sobs three days after the accident, the plastic bag crinkling in a way that sounded like the crushing of metal. the coffee cups had stayed, though. he couldn't bring himself to move them.
there was a ring of dried brown liquid at the bottom of the one youâd sipped fromâthe one heâd ignored while he was working. he stared at it for hours sometimes, tracing the rim with his thumb, wondering if a single microscopic trace of you was still clinging to the ceramic.
one night, the silence had become too loud, and the mess heâd once scolded you forâthe stray pens, the crumpled papers, the way youâd tuck your shoes under his deskâhad started to feel like an accusation.
heâd grabbed a bottle of industrial-strength cleaner from the janitorâs closet and scrubbed every inch of the leather couch until his knuckles were raw and the room smelled like bleach and chemicals. he wanted to scrub away the memory of his own voice. he wanted to bleach the sound of his anger out of the walls.
but when he was finished, all he was left with was a sterile, empty room that didn't smell like you at all. and that was worse. that was infinitely worse.
the members tried. they always tried. they were his brothers, his family, but right now their presence felt like a suffocating weight. every time they looked at him with those soft, pitying eyes, he wanted to scream. he wanted them to hate him. he needed someone to tell him he was the villain in this story, because the version where it was "just an accident" was one he couldn't live with.
it was changbin and minho who came in today. they didn't knock; they knew he wouldn't answer anyway. they brought food in a plastic bagâsomething warm, something that smelled like ginger and soyâand set it down on the console. the same spot where youâd left his lunch.
"eat, hyung," changbin said, his voice low and steady. he reached out a hand, hovering it near chanâs shoulder but not quite touching. "you haven't left this room in twenty-four hours."
chan didn't look up from the usb drive. "i'm not hungry."
"chan, itâs been two weeks," minho said, his tone firmer, the kind of tough love he usually used to snap the members out of a funk. "the police report came back. the other driver was hydroplaning. it was the weather. it was the rain. it wasn't you."
the word rain triggered something in him. it felt like a physical strike to his jaw.
"don't tell me that!" chan roared.
he stood up so abruptly his chair screeched against the floor, a sound like a dying animal. he slammed his palm against the mixing console, the vibrations rattling the speakers.
"don't you dare tell me it wasn't me! i was on the phone. i was screaming at her. do you know what the last thing i said to her was? i told her she was a mess. i told her she was a distraction. i told her she didn't care about my work."
his voice cracked on the last word, crumbling into a jagged, wet sound. his chest was heaving, his vision blurring as the hot, stinging tears finally spilled over.
"i made her cry while she was driving on a highway in a monsoon because i was worried about a stupid piece of silver plastic," he choked out, pointing a trembling finger at the usb drive. "she was apologizing. she was saying she was sorry while she was trying to stay on the road, and i just... i kept going. i wouldn't let her hang up. i wouldn't let her breathe."
he sank back into his chair, his head falling into his hands. the bravado, the anger, the leaderâit all vanished, leaving behind only the hollowed-out shell of a man who had broken his own world.
"i made the last thing she ever heard a lie," he whispered into his palms. "i told her she was a burden. she was never a burden. she was the only reason i was even doing any of this. and now i have the music, and i have the career, and i have this fucking drive... and i don't have her."
changbin and minho exchanged a look of profound, helpless sadness. there was no script for this. there was no leader-talk chan could give himself to fix it.
"she knew you loved her, chan," changbin tried again, his own voice thick with emotion. "she knew how stressed you were. she always understood."
"that's the problem!" chan sobbed, a harsh, broken laugh escaping him. "she always understood. she sat on that couch for hours just to see the back of my head. she took my shrapnel and she just... she smiled and told me she was proud of me. she deserved someone who would look at her. she deserved someone who would tell her the mess was the best part of his day. and i didn't do it. i chose this. i chose the work."
he reached out and grabbed the silver drive, his fingers curling around it so tight the edges dug into his skin. he wanted it to hurt. he wanted it to leave a mark.
"get out," he said, his voice suddenly cold and dead.
"hyungâ"
"get out! please."
he didn't look up until he heard the soft click of the heavy studio door. alone again. the silence rushed back in, filling the spaces between his shallow breaths.
he looked at the computer monitors. the software was open, the project file for the lead single staring back at him with its colorful bars and complex waveforms. the music you had been so proud of. the music you had died for.
he picked up the usb drive and held it over the port. his hand shook so violently he couldn't line it up. he tried again, his teeth grinding together, a low noise of frustration building in his throat. he wanted to see the files. he wanted to see the mess heâd been so worried about.
but he couldn't do it. every time he moved the drive toward the computer, he heard the honk of that horn. he heard the sound of the metal. he heard the way the line went dead.
he pulled his hand back and threw the drive across the room. it hit the far wall with a dull thud and skittered across the floor, disappearing into the shadows under the leather couch.
chan didn't go after it. he just sat there in the dark, the blue light of the monitors reflecting in his hollow eyes. he pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled to your name. he knew it was useless. he knew the phone was sitting in a plastic evidence bag at the precinct, cracked and water-damaged.
he hit the call button anyway.
he closed his eyes and leaned his head back, listening to the ringing.
one. two. three.
âthe person you are trying to reach is not available. please leave a messageâŚâ
he didn't hang up this time. he let the beep happen. he sat there for a long time, the silence of the recording eating up the space in the room.
"i'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the cooling fans. "i'm so sorry. the studio is clean, baby. itâs so clean. thereâs no mess at all. and i hate it. i hate it so much."
he stayed on the line until the system cut him off, staring at the spot under the couch where the silver drive lay forgotten in the dust. he was a professional at making music, at layering sounds and fixing glitches, but he realized then that no amount of editing could fix a life.
the rain started to hit the windows againâa soft, rhythmic tapping that sounded like fingers against glass. chan flinched at the sound, pulling his knees up to his chest on the producer's chair. he was a man who lived for the beat, for the rhythm, for the sound.
but for the first time in his life, he just wanted the world to be quiet.
he reached over and clicked the power button on the console. one by one, the lights went out. the monitors faded to black. the hum of the speakers died.
and there, in the absolute darkness of the room where you used to wait for him, chan finally let out the breath heâd been holding since the crash. it wasn't a release. it was just a beginning.
the beginning of a year where the music wouldn't play, and the rain wouldn't stop, and the mess would be the only thing he ever wanted back.
the seasons had shifted, though chan only knew this because the light hitting the studio floor in the evenings was a different shade of gold. it was spring now. outside, the city was blooming, people were shedding their heavy coats, and the air probably smelled like wet earth and fresh growth.
but inside the four walls of his studio, it was still that gray, suffocating morning in february. for chan, the rain had never actually stopped.
he was stuck in a loop. it was like a track heâd produced where the skip was so subtle you didn't notice it until you realized youâd been listening to the same four bars for three months. his life was a sequence of "what ifs" that played on a constant, maddening repeat.
what if he hadn't sent that text at 3:00 a.m.? what if heâd let you sleep in? what if heâd just turned his chair around for five seconds when you walked in with those bagels? if he had just looked at youâreally looked at youâhe would have seen how tired you were.
he would have seen that you were rushing. he would have seen the silver drive sitting too close to your bag.
he spent a lot of time staring at the door. heâd sit in his chair, the one he used to spin around in to tease you, and heâd wait for the click of the handle. his brain knew you weren't coming back, but his body hadn't caught up yet.
every time the hallway quieted down, heâd find himself holding his breath, waiting for the sound of your sneakers or the soft hum of you humming one of his demos under your breath.
depression wasn't a weight for him; it was a thinning. he felt translucent. heâd stopped eating anything that required effort, surviving on protein shakes and the occasional granola bar minho forced into his hand. his skin was sallow, the dark circles under his eyes looking like permanent bruises. he looked like a man who was disappearing, and in a way, he was. he was fading into the static of your absence.
it was 4:00 a.m. on a tuesday when the silence got too loud again. the studio was dark, save for the low glow of his monitors and the tiny, blinking red light of his hardware. he reached for his phone, his thumb hovering over your contact.
he knew it was full. the mailbox had been full for six weeks. he knew the phone was likely sitting in a cardboard box at your parents' house, or tucked away in a drawer at the police station, the screen shattered into a spiderweb of glass. but the act of calling was the only thing that made him feel like he was still anchored to the earth.
he hit dial. his heart did that familiar, painful stutter as he waited through the rings.
âthe person you are trying to reach is not available. please leave a messageâŚâ
he closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool edge of his desk. you used to have a personalized one, but deleted it because you hated the sound of your own recorded voice. he'd been there the day you tried to record it. he could almost see you saying itâthe way youâd scrunched your nose in embarrassment, the way youâd laughed right after the recording ended.
"hey," he whispered into the mouthpiece. his voice was gravelly, unused for hours. "itâs me. obviously."
he let out a breath that sounded more like a shudder.
"i finished the track today, baby. the one you liked. the one with the heavy synth in the bridge. the members think itâs the best thing weâve done in years. everyone is so happy with it. but i... i deleted your favorite part. that vocal chop you kept humming? i took it out.
"i couldn't leave it in. i didn't deserve to keep the version you liked. it felt like stealing. how am i supposed to put something out into the world that you were the only one who truly understood?"
he paused, listening to the faint hiss of the line. he liked to pretend he could hear you breathing on the other end, just listening to him talk like you used to while he worked.
"i'm so sorry, my love. i'm so sorry i called you a mess. iâve been looking around this room, and i realized... i was the mess. you were the only thing in my life that made any sense. you were the only thing that wasn't a deadline or a chore or a performance. you were just... you. and i treated you like an inconvenience."
he felt a tear track down his nose and drip onto his hand, but he didn't move to wipe it away.
"i found your charger today. the one with the little yellow tape on the end so i wouldn't accidentally take it to the company. it was behind the couch. i tried to plug it in, just to see if it still worked, but then i realized i don't even have anything of yours to charge anymore. i just held it for a while. it still smells a little bit like that lotion you use. the vanilla one."
his grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white. "i really like that one," chan added softly.
"if i promise to never skip a meal again, will you just show up in a dream tonight? just one? i just need to see your face without the rain. i just want to see you sitting on the couch again, even if you're not talking to me. iâd take you being mad at me.
"iâd take you never speaking to me again if it meant you were still driving that car. i would have given up the music, baby. i would have thrown the drive in the river myself if iâd known."
the line timed out, the automated system cutting him off with a cold, digital beep. chan didn't pull the phone away from his ear. he just sat there in the dark, listening to the dial tone.
he thought about the drive. the silver usb was back in his desk drawer now, tucked away like a shameful secret. heâd accessed the files, but he hadn't changed anything other than that one deletion. every time he opened the project, he saw the last save date. february 12th.
he hated that date. he hated the rain. he hated the way his coffee tasted nowâbitter and metallic, like he was drinking the regret straight from the cup.
he stood up, his joints popping from hours of being curled in the chair. he walked over to the window. the city was quiet, the streetlamps casting long, lonely shadows across the pavement. it wasn't raining tonight, but the ground was still damp from a shower earlier in the evening. the reflections of the lights looked like streaks of neon tears on the asphalt.
he imagined your car on a night like this. he imagined you turning the heater on, singing along to the radio to try and ignore how nervous the wet roads made you. he imagined the exact moment heâd called you. the vibration in your cup holder. the way you would have reached for it, wanting to hear his voice, thinking he was calling to say something kind.
"i'm sorry i was the reason you were distracted," he whispered to the glass. "i'm sorry i was the last thing you had to deal with."
he walked back to the couchâthe black leather one heâd scrubbed so hard it was now slightly discolored in patches. he lay down, pulling a hoodie over his head, trying to trap the stale air inside. he didn't sleep much these days.
when he did, he usually woke up reaching for his phone to tell you about a dream, only to feel the cold, empty space beside him and remember all over again.
it was a cycle. a loop.
three months. ninety days. two thousand, one hundred and sixty hours of replaying a ten-minute phone call.
chan closed his eyes and tried to remember the way you looked when you were laughing at one of his stupid jokes. he tried to focus on the sound of your voice instead of the sound of the crash. but the crash was louder. the crunch of metal was a permanent layer in the mix of his life now, a frequency he couldn't eq out.
he reached out and touched the spot on the floor where your bag used to sit.
"goodnight, baby," he murmured into the empty room.
he didn't expect an answer. he didn't even hope for one anymore. he just needed to say the words into the void, hoping that somewhere, in some version of the universe where heâd been a better man, you were tucked safely into bed, and the silver drive was nothing more than a piece of plastic on a desk.
but in this world, the drive was on the desk, and chan was on the floor, and the rain was waiting just outside the window to start all over again.
he fell into a fitful, shallow sleep around 5:30 a.m., his hand still clutching the phone. he dreamt of the studio, but it was filled with water. he was swimming toward the couch, trying to reach you, but the harder he kicked, the further away the couch drifted. you were sitting there, holding the usb drive, pointing at the door. your lips were moving, but no sound was coming out.
itâs okay, you were saying. itâs okay, channie.
but it wasn't. it would never be okay.
when he woke up two hours later to the sound of the cleaning crew in the hallway, the first thing he felt was the crushing weight of the daylight. another day of being the person who stayed. another day of being the reason you left.
he sat up, rubbed his face with his hands, and looked at his phone.
152 unread messages from the members. 0 from you.
he stood up, walked to the desk, and turned on the monitors. the hum of the fans filled the room, a low, constant drone that sounded like a mourning song. he opened the project, highlighted the entire vocal track of the new song, and lowered the volume by three decibels.
it sounded emptier. hollower.
"perfect," he whispered, his voice breaking. "it sounds just like the house."
he stayed there for the rest of the day, a ghost working on a ghost of a song, waiting for the sun to go down so he could call your voicemail and apologize for the things heâd said when the world was still bright.
six months. a half-year of the world tilting on an axis that felt permanently wrong. for chan, the passage of time wasn't measured in months or weeks anymore, but in the slow, agonizing evaporation of his own edges.
the fire that had fueled his anger in the beginningâthe hot, white-hot rage at the driver, at the rain, at his own reflectionâhad finally burned itself down into a cold, gray ash.
what was left was the deep quiet.
it was a silence that lived in his bones. it wasn't just the absence of sound; it was the absence of weight. he felt like a hollowed-out tree, still standing but entirely empty on the inside. he was back to work at the studio because the company demanded it and because his members needed him, but the "bang chan" everyone knew was gone.
the man who used to stay up until dawn obsessing over the frequency of a snare hit, the perfectionist who wouldn't let a single breath go unedited, had been replaced by someone who just... didn't care.
his desk was a disaster. it was a crushing, bitter irony that he couldn't stop thinking about. for years, heâd teased youâsometimes gently, sometimes sharplyâabout your mess.
heâd laugh at the way your bag always overflowed with receipts and loose pens, or how youâd leave half-finished cups of tea in every room. heâd called you cluttered. heâd told you that you needed to be more focused.
now, he was the one living in a wreck. his studio was littered with empty energy drink cans and crumpled snack wrappers. there were stacks of lyric sheets with coffee stains on them, most of them half-finished and abandoned. heâd forget to save files. heâd lose his keys twice a day.
he was messy in every sense of the word, his brain too clouded with grief to maintain the rigid structure heâd once used to define himself. he had become the very thing heâd used as a weapon against you on that last morning, and every time he looked at the chaos on his desk, it felt like a ghost was laughing at him.
it was a tuesday evening when it happened. heâd dropped his phoneâagainâand it had skittered across the floor, sliding deep into the dark gap beneath the black leather couch.
chan sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to come from his soul. he got down on his hands and knees, pressing his cheek against the cold floorboards to peer into the shadows.
his fingers brushed against something hard and plastic. he thought it was his phone, but when he pulled his hand back, he was holding a cheap, blue ballpoint pen.
he froze.
he knew this pen. it was the one youâd been frantically looking for right before you left for your lecture. he could still see you in his mind's eye, patting down your pockets, huffing in frustration because you were already late. youâd asked him if heâd seen it, and he hadn't even looked up from his monitor. heâd just muttered something under his breath without a second thought.
you must have dropped it right there, next to the couch where youâd been napping.
chan sat back on his heels, the pen clutched in his palm. it was just a piece of plastic, worth maybe fifty cents, but to him, it felt like a holy relic. he brushed the dust off it with the hem of his hoodie, his thumb tracing the teeth marks on the cap where you used to chew on it when you were stressed.
he felt a sudden, sharp pang in his chestâthe first real feeling heâd had in weeks. it wasn't the dull ache of depression; it was a stabbing, vivid grief.
he tucked the pen into the front pocket of his hoodie, right over his heart. he didn't even go back for his phone.
he walked over to his desk and sat down. for six months, the silver usb drive had stayed in his drawer. heâd touched it, moved it, even held it against his forehead while he cried, but he hadn't plugged it in. he couldn't bring himself to look at the data. it felt too much like an autopsy.
but tonight, with your pen in his pocket, he felt a strange, quiet pull.
his hands shook as he opened the drawer. the drive caught the light, its scratched surface a testament to the violence it had survived. he didn't let himself think. he just shoved it into the port.
the computer chirped. the drive icon appeared on the screen, labeled simply: CB97_FINAL_MASTERS.
chan clicked through the folders, his breath hitching as he found the project file from that morning. the file heâd been screaming about. the file heâd valued more than your safety.
he hovered the cursor over the file properties.
last saved: february 12, 2026. 9:02 AM.
the air left his lungs in a rush. he remembered the timeline. heâd called you at 8:52 am. heâd spent ten minutes tearing you apart, telling you how your lack of focus was ruining his career, how your messiness was a burden he couldn't carry anymore.
the timestamp on the save was three minutes before the call ended. three minutes before the sound of the crash.
he realized then that while he was shouting at you, you hadn't just been listening. you had reached into your bag, found the drive, andâdespite the rain, despite the terror of driving, despite the tears he was making you cryâyou must have been thinking about him.
you had probably been checking your bag at the red light, making sure the important little thing was safe, perhaps even planning how to get it back to him as fast as possible.
you were caring for him while he was destroying you.
chan clicked the file open. the digital workspace loaded, the familiar wave files of his members' voices blooming across the screen. he hit play.
it was the track you liked. the one with the synth bridge. but as the music filled the studio, it didn't sound like a hit song anymore. it sounded like a funeral march. every beat was a heartbeat heâd helped stop. every lyric was a word heâd wasted.
he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. the blue light of the monitors washed over him, making his skin look ghostly. he felt the weight of the pen in his pocket, a tiny, physical pressure against his ribs.
"i'm so sorry," he whispered into the empty room. "i'm so, so sorry."
he didn't turn the music off. he let it loop. he sat there for hours, listening to the perfection heâd demanded, realizing that it was entirely worthless. the mix was clean. the vocals were crisp. the transition heâd been so worried about was seamless.
and he would have traded every single note of it to have one more "messy" afternoon with you. he would have traded his entire career to see one more half-finished cup of tea on his console.
as the sun began to peek through the blinds, casting long, pale strips of light across the cluttered studio, chan didn't move to clean up. he didn't reach for an energy drink. he just reached into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the blue pen.
he realized then that the "bang chan" he was supposed to beâthe leader, the perfectionist, the producerâwas a lie. the mess was the truth. the clutter was the life. you had been the only one who lived in the real world, and heâd been too busy trying to polish the edges of a song to notice that the world was beautiful because it was broken.
he finally reached out and clicked 'save' on the project. not because he wanted to work on it, but because he wanted to update the timestamp. he wanted to move past february 12th, even if it was only by a fraction of a second.
the computer chirped again.
last saved: august 20, 2026. 5:44 AM.
chan let out a long, shaky breath. he stood up, his legs stiff, and walked toward the door. he didn't turn off the lights. he didn't tidy the desk. he just kept his hand on the pen in his pocket and walked out into the quiet hallway.
for the first time in six months, he didn't feel like he was drowning in the rain. he just felt tired.
he walked down to the parking lot, the morning air cool and crisp against his face. it wasn't raining. the sky was a pale, clear blue, the kind of color you used to say looked like fresh ink.
he got into his car and sat there for a moment, looking at the empty passenger seat. he reached into his pocket, pulled out the blue pen, and set it carefully in the cup holder.
"we're going home now," he murmured.
he started the engine and drove out of the lot. he drove slowly. he stayed in his lane. he didn't check his phone. he just watched the road, the blue pen rattling slightly in the plastic holder, a small, messy piece of you finally coming home.
the quiet was still there, but as he drove through the waking city, it didn't feel quite so deep. it felt like a beginning. a messy, cluttered, imperfect beginning.
and for now, that had to be enough.
the date on the corner of his monitor felt like a heavy weight, though the numbers themselves were small. february 12th. one year.
chan stood by the window of the third-floor studio, his forehead resting against the cool glass. outside, seoul was being swallowed by a familiar, grey downpour. the rain streaked down the pane in jagged lines, blurring the world into a smear of neon signs and headlights.
he watched the cars crawl along the wet asphalt below, their brake lights glowing like embers in the mist.
a year ago, the sight of the rain would have sent him into a spiraling panic, his lungs tightening until he couldn't draw air. now, it just felt like a quiet companion. the sharp, stabbing agony that had defined the first few monthsâthe kind that made him want to claw his own skin off just to escape the guiltâhad finally settled into something different.
it was a dull, permanent ache. it was a part of him now, like a break in a bone that never quite knit back together right. he didn't fight it anymore. he just carried it.
he turned away from the window and looked at his desk. it wasn't the sterile, bleached workspace of six months ago. there were loose papers scattered everywhere. a half-empty bag of pretzels sat next to a stack of external hard drives. three different colored pensânone of them hisâwere rolled into the groove of the console.
heâd stopped trying to scrub the mess away. he realized, with a clarity that only comes through total wreckage, that the mess was the point. a life without clutter, without distractions, without someone accidentally taking your usb drive because they were rushing to be somewhere important... that wasn't a perfect life.
it was just a lonely one.
he walked over to the console and sat down, but he didn't sit in the producerâs chair. he sat on the edge of the black leather couch, the one that still had a tiny, faded water stain from a cup of tea youâd spilled two years ago.
he pulled a notepad toward him. heâd been writing a song for weeks. it wasn't for the next album. the company didn't know about it, and he wasn't sure heâd ever release it. it wasn't for the fans, and it wasn't meant to be a chart-topper.
it was just for the chaos. it was a song about the way your laugh sounded when you were mid-sentence, the way youâd always lose your keys in the bottom of your bag, and the way youâd apologize for things that weren't your fault.
it was a song for the girl who made his life beautiful by making it complicated.
as he looked over the lyrics, the studio door opened. it wasn't a soft, hesitant knock. it was the loud, unmistakable sound of seven people who didn't know how to be quiet if their lives depended on it.
"breakfast is here!" hanâs voice bounced off the acoustic foam walls before he was even fully in the room.
chan looked up as the members piled in, one by one, carrying bags of food and cardboard carriers of coffee. minho was at the front, looking as unbothered as ever, while felix trailed behind him with a wide, bright smile that seemed to challenge the gloom of the weather outside.
"we decided the studio needed more people," hyunjin said, dropping a stack of napkins onto the console without asking. "and more food. mostly more food."
seungmin and i.n. started clearing a space on the large wooden table in the corner, pushing aside chan's notebooks and cables with a reckless lack of concern that would have made the old chan go ballistic. changbin followed them, already tearing into a bag of pastries.
"sit down, hyung," felix said, gently grabbing chanâs arm and pulling him toward the table. "you haven't eaten anything but coffee today. we checked your trash can."
chan let out a soft huff, a sound that was dangerously close to a laugh. "you guys are invasive, you know that?"
"itâs in our contracts," lee know replied dryly, handing chan a plain paper bag. "open it."
chan took the bag. he could feel the warmth through the paper. he opened it and looked inside. it was a bagel. toasted, with just a bit of cream cheese melting on the edges. simple. unremarkable.
it was the first thing heâd been offered on that morning a year ago.
the room was suddenly very full. seungmin was arguing with han about a melody theyâd heard on the radio, while hyunjin was trying to show i.n. something on his phone. changbin was mid-story, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten donut, and lee know was watching them all with that quiet, observant smile he wore when he was content.
chan sat there, the bagel in his hand, and for the first time in three hundred and sixty-five days, the air in his lungs didn't feel like lead.
he looked at his membersâhis brothers. they knew. they knew exactly what today was. they knew why the rain felt heavier and why the silence in the studio had been so thick lately. they hadn't come here to give him a speech or to tell him it was time to move on. they had just come to bring the mess back into his life.
they had come to be the distraction he once thought he hated.
"hey, chan-hyung," seungmin called out, leaning across the table. "han thinks the bridge in that new track should be faster, but i think it needs to breathe more. what do you think?"
chan looked at han, who was already nodding aggressively. "it needs energy, hyung! like a heartbeat!"
"no," chan said, his voice quiet but steady. he felt the eyes of all seven of them drift toward him. "seungmin is right. it needs to breathe. you can't rush the important parts."
the conversation erupted again, louder this time, as they debated the merits of tempo and emotion. chan found himself joining in. he corrected han on a technical point, laughed when changbin made a self-deprecating joke, and even nudged i.n. when the younger boy tried to steal a piece of hyunjin's breakfast.
it was a strange, soaring feeling. it wasn't that the sadness was goneâit would never be goneâbut it was as if the room had expanded enough to hold both the grief and the life at the same time. he felt light.
he felt like he was allowed to be in this moment, even though you weren't. that he was allowed to breathe. allowed to live.
he realized that the best way to honor the love youâd given him wasn't to stay frozen in the second you left, but to live the way youâd always wanted him to.
he took a bite of the bagel. it tasted like salt and bread and a memory that didn't hurt as much as it used to. it was a tribute. it was a quiet promise.
they stayed for over an hour, turning the studio into a chaotic den of crumbs and loud voices. by the time they started packing up to head to their own schedules, the room felt different. the once ugly silence had been broken, replaced by the lingering warmth of people who loved him.
"see you at practice, hyung?" felix asked, pausing at the door.
"yeah," chan said, nodding. "i'll be there in twenty minutes."
once the door clicked shut and the hallway faded into silence, chan walked back to his desk. he picked up the silver usb driveâthe one that had been the catalyst for his nightmare.
he didn't feel the nausea anymore. he didn't feel the urge to throw it across the room. he just looked at it. he saw the scratches. he saw the wear and tear. he saw the physical evidence of a day that had broken him.
he plugged it into the computer.
he navigated to the project fileâthe one with the synth bridge, the one youâd loved. he hit the spacebar.
the music filled the room. the bass was deep, the synths were shimmering, and the vocals were clear. but this time, he didn't hear the screech of tires over the melody. he didn't hear the sound of the metal crunching during the chorus.
he just heard the music.
he leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes. he let the sound wash over him, every note a reminder of a time when the world was bright. he realized that he didn't have to delete your favorite parts to be sorry. he didn't have to punish himself to prove he loved you.
loving you was the legacy. the mess was the legacy.
outside, the rain continued to fall, a steady drumming against the glass. but inside, chan was just breathing. he was sitting in the middle of a messy studio, with crumbs on his desk and lyrics about a girl who chewed on her pens, and for the first time in a year, he wasn't waiting for the crash.
he was just listening to the song.
he reached out and turned the volume up, just a little bit, until the music was louder than the rain. he stayed there until the track ended, and then, with a hand that didn't shake, he hit play again.
and when he closed his eyes, you were smiling softly right next to him.
( ě ě¸ ) đžn which ︾ youâre the one who quietly anchored him through every long night, even as he unintentionally pushed you to the edges of his world. when a single, sharp moment of tension on a rainy highway changes everything, he's left to navigate a silence he never expected and the weight of words he can never take back.
9O17 stress neglect verbal-argument car-accident grief major character death heavy guilt panic attacks bittersweet ending
i know i literally just dropped an angst fic not too long ago but. the voices told me to & also i highkey teared up writing this
â¨ď¸ like&&reblog for a kiss. ââ #click4masterlist to see more.
THE AIR IN CHAN'S STUDIO was thick with the hum of computer fans and the smell of lukewarm black coffee. it was a familiar scent, one that usually felt like home, but lately, it just felt like a reminder of how little youâd actually seen him.
you were curled up on the edge of the black leather couch, your backpack slumped against your legs. chan had texted you at three in the morning, a frantic string of messages saying he missed you, that he needed to see you before your morning lecture, and to please come by the studio.
so, youâd woken up early, skipped breakfast, and swung by with two toasted bagels that were now sitting cold and forgotten on the console. but since youâd arrived forty-five minutes ago, heâd said maybe ten words to you.
"just a second, baby," heâd muttered, his eyes glued to the monitor as he chopped up a vocal line. "this transition is messy. i just need to smooth it out."
that was thirty minutes ago.
you watched the back of his headâthe way his shoulders were hunched toward his ears, the tension visible in the line of his neck. he was drowning in this comeback. you knew how it went; the closer the date got, the more he disappeared into the music until there was nothing left of 'channie' and only 'bang chan the producer.'
it wasn't just today, either. it had been weeks of missed dinners and "i'm five minutes away" texts that turned into five hours of silence. your relationship had been shoved to the back burner so many times the pilot light was starting to flicker.
but you weren't the type to pick a fight over it. you knew him. you knew he didn't do it because he didn't care; he did it because he cared too much about everyone elseâthe members, the fans, the legacy. he was a perfectionist, and you were the person who understood that better than anyone. so, you just sat there, scrolling through your phone and watching the cursor on his screen move back and forth, back and forth.
it hurt, in a quiet, dull way, to be in the same room as him and still feel like you were miles apart. but you swallowed it down. he was stressed, and the last thing he needed was you adding to the weight on his back.
you leaned your head back against the cushion, the rhythmic thump-thump of the bass line acting like a lullaby. your eyes started to grow heavy. the studio was warm, and the lack of sleep from his late-night texts was finally catching up to you.
"chan?" you murmured softly, your voice thick with sleepiness.
he didn't even turn around. he just hummed, a distracted sound that meant he hadn't actually heard you.
"i'm gonna... just close my eyes for a second," you whispered, more to yourself than him.
he didn't respond. the only sound in the room was the clicking of his mouse and the rain that had started to smear against the high windows of the building.
the low, rhythmic thumping of the track finally pulled you under. your head lulled to the side, pressing against the cool leather of the sofa as you drifted into a shallow, restless nap.
a sudden, sharp chime from your phone jolted you awake. you blinked, disoriented by the dim studio lights, and fumbled for the device.
8:42 a.m.
"shit," you hissed, the word catching in your throat. your lecture started in eighteen minutes, and the university was at least fifteen minutes away on a good day. "channie, iâm so late. i have to go."
he didn't even flinch. his fingers were still dancing over the keyboard, eyes bloodshot and fixed on a wave file. "mhm. drive safe, baby," he murmured, his voice flat and robotic. he wasn't really there; he was somewhere inside the music, lost in a loop of percussion.
in a blind panic, you started sweeping your belongings off the coffee table. your notebook, a stray pen, your chargerâyou shoved them into your tote bag without looking, your movements frantic and uncoordinated. your hand brushed against a small, silver object near his keyboard, and you swept that in, too, thinking it was your own thumb drive.
"crap. have you seen my pen? the oneâ"
he shook his head, even though he hadn't really heard you. "check the bag," he muttered.
you decided you could come back and grab it later. you leaned over him, pressing a lingering, desperate kiss to his cheek. he smelled like caffeine and stale air. he leaned away slightly, not out of annoyance, but because you were blocking his view of the left monitor.
"bye, channie. i love you. eat the bagels, okay?"
"yeah, yeah. talk later," he muttered, already reaching for his headphones.
you rushed out of the building, the heavy glass doors swinging shut behind you. the moment you stepped outside, the sky felt like it collapsed. the rain wasn't just falling; it was a vertical ocean, thick and grey, turning the parking lot into a blurred mess of asphalt and water.
you scrambled into your car, the interior immediately smelling like wet denim. you gripped the steering wheel, your heart hammering against your ribs. you hated this. youâd always hated driving in the rainâthe way the world lost its edges, the way the tires felt like they were floating instead of gripping.
you looked back at the studio entrance, a part of you wanting to run back inside and beg him to drive you. just for twenty minutes. just so you didn't have to face the highway like this.
but you looked at the glow of his studio window on the third floor and shook your head. he was already drowning in work. heâd been up all night. the last thing he needed was to play chauffeur because you were "a little nervous" about some rain. you didn't want to be a burden. you didn't want to be another thing on his to-do list.
"get it together," you whispered to yourself, wiping the fog off the inside of the windshield with your palm.
you shifted the car into gear, the windshield wipers clicking at their highest speed, and pulled out into the downpour.
the knuckles of your hands were white, gripping the steering wheel so hard they cramped. the rain was a violent, drumming percussion against the roof of the car, deafening and relentless. every time a semi-truck passed in the opposite lane, a wall of muddy water slammed against your windshield, momentarily blinding you. your heart was a frantic bird trapped in your chest, fluttering against your ribs. you hated this. you hated every second of this drive.
then, the carâs bluetooth system chimed. the caller ID on the dashboard screen flashed: channie âĄ
you exhaled a breath you didn't know you were holding, a small, hopeful smile twitching at your lips. maybe heâd snapped out of it. maybe he realized he barely looked at you before you left and wanted to say he loved you. you hit the 'accept' button on the steering wheel.
"whatâs wrong, channie?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly as you squinted through the gray haze of the downpour.
"my flash drive," he snapped. his voice wasn't warm. it wasn't the voice of the man who tucked you in or called you 'baby.' it was sharp, jagged, and vibrating with a suppressed fury that made your stomach drop. "i need it. do you have it? you were in a rush, throwing your shit everywhereâdid you take it with you?"
the light ahead turned red. you slammed on the brakes a little too hard, the car hydroplaning for a terrifying half-second before the tires caught. breathing heavily, you reached into the passenger seat and began frantically digging through your tote bag. your fingers brushed against cold metal.
you pulled it out. his silver drive. the one with the final masters. the one that represented months of his blood, sweat, and literal tears.
"oh my god, yeah, i do," you breathed, the guilt hitting you like a physical blow. "iâm so sorry, chan! i must have swept it up when i was grabbing my pens. i'm at a light nowâcan i give it to you right after my lecture? i'll drive straight backâ"
"no!" he shouted, and the sheer volume of his voice through the car speakers made you flinch. "no, iâitâs due today. itâs due now. the engineers are waiting on those files. god, youâre always doing this."
the light turned green. you took your foot off the brake, your vision already starting to swim as the first hot tear tracked down your cheek. "doing what? it was an accident, i was justâ"
"you're always so messy," he cut you off, the words coming out in a cold, rhythmic stream of resentment. "youâre cluttered. youâre all over the place. you don't think, you just move. i'm trying to hold a career together, i'm trying to finish this for the guys, and youâre just... youâre not focused enough. you're never attentive. you just come in here, distract me, and then leave with the one thing i actually need to do my job."
"chan, please," you whispered, your voice breaking. you reached up to wipe your eyes, but the movement made the car veer slightly toward the edge of the lane. you jerked the wheel back, your breathing becoming shallow and jagged. "i didn't mean to. i just wanted to see you. you asked me to come over."
"i asked you to come over to spend time, not to create more problems for me to fix," he ranted. he sounded so tired of you. so utterly finished with the 'mess' of your presence. "iâm so tired of dealing with your messes. iâm trying to focus on my career, but iâm constantly having to check behind you like you're a childâ"
the rain was coming down even harder now, a literal curtain of water. you couldn't see the lines on the road. the tears were making everything a blurred, kaleidoscopic mess of red brake lights and gray asphalt. your chest felt tight, your lungs refusing to take in enough air.
"shit," you whispered under your breath as the car hydroplaned again, the steering wheel feeling loose and useless in your hands. you gripped it tighter, trying to blink away the moisture. "channie, i really am so sorry about the usb, but can we do this in a minute please? itâs raining and iâm driving andâ"
"no, weâre doing this now," he shouted, his frustration peaking. "i'm tired of the excuses. i'm tired of you being 'sorry' every time you do something careless. grow up already! i have so much on my plate and you just add to it. it's like you don't even care about how hard i workâ"
"i know, i know, iâ"
you were looking at the dashboard, trying to find the button to clear the fogging windshield. you were trying to find the words to make him stop hating you. you were trying to stay in your lane.
you didn't see the black SUV that had lost control in the opposite lane. you didn't see it cross the median.
all you heard was a sudden, deafening blare of a horn.
"chanâ"
the world turned into a cacophony of violence. the sound of metal screaming as it was crushed like paper. the shattering of glass, a thousand diamonds exploding into the air. your bag beside you was thrown, a sudden, brutal weightlessness followed by an impact that stole the very concept of breath from your body.
in the studio, chan heard it all.
he had been mid-sentence, his mouth open to deliver another stinging remark about your lack of responsibility, when the sound hit him through the phone. it wasn't a sound he recognized at firstâit was too loud, too industrial. a sickening crunch. and then, the most terrifying sound of all: nothing.
it was a noise that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
just the faint, rhythmic pitter-patter of rain hitting a microphone somewhere far away.
his heart didn't just skip a beat; it felt like it stopped entirely. a cold, disgusting wave of nausea curled in his stomach, making him lightheaded.
"baby?" he asked. his voice was small now. the anger had vanished, evaporated by the sudden, chilling silence on the other end. "hey. that wasn't funny. pick up the phone."
nothing.
"baby? baby, answer me," he said, his voice breaking. he stood up so fast his chair flipped over behind him. he gripped the phone with both hands, pressing it so hard against his ear it hurt. "baby, please. talk to me. say something. i'm sorry, okay? i didn't mean it. just tell me you're there."
the line hissed with static. he could hear the rain. he could hear a faint, distant siren beginning to wail in the background of the call. then, a sharp click.
the line went dead.
chan stared at the screen. call ended. his fingers were shaking so violently he almost dropped the phone. he hit the redial button. his breath was coming in sharp, ragged gasps.
âthe person you are trying to reach is not available. please leave a messageâŚâ
he hung up and called again. and again. and again. he didn't even realize he was crying until a tear hit the screen of his phone. he was already grabbing his jacket, his keys, his mind a blurred mess of every cruel thing heâd just spat at you.
heâd been so worried about a silver drive. heâd been so worried about a deadline.
he called again.
âthe person you are trying to reach is not available. please leave a messageâŚâ
he fell to his knees in the middle of the room, the phone still pressed to his ear, listening to your voicemail greeting over and over like a lifeline. his stomach twisted with a question that threatened to shatter his mind.
had his cruel words been the last thing you heard? his anger had been the last thing you felt?
the answer was yes.
the silver usb drive sat in the center of the mahogany desk like a jagged piece of shrapnel. it looked smaller than it had two weeks ago. less significant. it was just a bit of metal and plastic, slightly scuffed on one corner where it must have hit the pavement or the dashboard, but otherwise perfectly intact.
it was functional. it held the files. it held the "future" chan had been so desperate to protect that heâd sacrificed the only thing that actually mattered.
the comeback had happened, technically. the company had pushed it through because schedules were already locked, because the industry doesn't stop for tragedies, because the wheels of the machine keep turning even when the driver has been crushed.
but chan hadn't been there. he hadn't gone to the music shows. he hadn't sat in on the final meetings. he had become a ghost in his own life, haunting the halls of the building like a man waiting for a sentence that had already been carried out.
the studio was cold. heâd turned the ac down to sixty degrees days ago and just left it there, wanting the air to feel as biting and sharp as the guilt in his chest. it didn't feel like a place of creation anymore. it felt like a tomb.
the bagels were gone. heâd thrown them away in a fit of violent, shaking sobs three days after the accident, the plastic bag crinkling in a way that sounded like the crushing of metal. the coffee cups had stayed, though. he couldn't bring himself to move them.
there was a ring of dried brown liquid at the bottom of the one youâd sipped fromâthe one heâd ignored while he was working. he stared at it for hours sometimes, tracing the rim with his thumb, wondering if a single microscopic trace of you was still clinging to the ceramic.
one night, the silence had become too loud, and the mess heâd once scolded you forâthe stray pens, the crumpled papers, the way youâd tuck your shoes under his deskâhad started to feel like an accusation.
heâd grabbed a bottle of industrial-strength cleaner from the janitorâs closet and scrubbed every inch of the leather couch until his knuckles were raw and the room smelled like bleach and chemicals. he wanted to scrub away the memory of his own voice. he wanted to bleach the sound of his anger out of the walls.
but when he was finished, all he was left with was a sterile, empty room that didn't smell like you at all. and that was worse. that was infinitely worse.
the members tried. they always tried. they were his brothers, his family, but right now their presence felt like a suffocating weight. every time they looked at him with those soft, pitying eyes, he wanted to scream. he wanted them to hate him. he needed someone to tell him he was the villain in this story, because the version where it was "just an accident" was one he couldn't live with.
it was changbin and minho who came in today. they didn't knock; they knew he wouldn't answer anyway. they brought food in a plastic bagâsomething warm, something that smelled like ginger and soyâand set it down on the console. the same spot where youâd left his lunch.
"eat, hyung," changbin said, his voice low and steady. he reached out a hand, hovering it near chanâs shoulder but not quite touching. "you haven't left this room in twenty-four hours."
chan didn't look up from the usb drive. "i'm not hungry."
"chan, itâs been two weeks," minho said, his tone firmer, the kind of tough love he usually used to snap the members out of a funk. "the police report came back. the other driver was hydroplaning. it was the weather. it was the rain. it wasn't you."
the word rain triggered something in him. it felt like a physical strike to his jaw.
"don't tell me that!" chan roared.
he stood up so abruptly his chair screeched against the floor, a sound like a dying animal. he slammed his palm against the mixing console, the vibrations rattling the speakers.
"don't you dare tell me it wasn't me! i was on the phone. i was screaming at her. do you know what the last thing i said to her was? i told her she was a mess. i told her she was a distraction. i told her she didn't care about my work."
his voice cracked on the last word, crumbling into a jagged, wet sound. his chest was heaving, his vision blurring as the hot, stinging tears finally spilled over.
"i made her cry while she was driving on a highway in a monsoon because i was worried about a stupid piece of silver plastic," he choked out, pointing a trembling finger at the usb drive. "she was apologizing. she was saying she was sorry while she was trying to stay on the road, and i just... i kept going. i wouldn't let her hang up. i wouldn't let her breathe."
he sank back into his chair, his head falling into his hands. the bravado, the anger, the leaderâit all vanished, leaving behind only the hollowed-out shell of a man who had broken his own world.
"i made the last thing she ever heard a lie," he whispered into his palms. "i told her she was a burden. she was never a burden. she was the only reason i was even doing any of this. and now i have the music, and i have the career, and i have this fucking drive... and i don't have her."
changbin and minho exchanged a look of profound, helpless sadness. there was no script for this. there was no leader-talk chan could give himself to fix it.
"she knew you loved her, chan," changbin tried again, his own voice thick with emotion. "she knew how stressed you were. she always understood."
"that's the problem!" chan sobbed, a harsh, broken laugh escaping him. "she always understood. she sat on that couch for hours just to see the back of my head. she took my shrapnel and she just... she smiled and told me she was proud of me. she deserved someone who would look at her. she deserved someone who would tell her the mess was the best part of his day. and i didn't do it. i chose this. i chose the work."
he reached out and grabbed the silver drive, his fingers curling around it so tight the edges dug into his skin. he wanted it to hurt. he wanted it to leave a mark.
"get out," he said, his voice suddenly cold and dead.
"hyungâ"
"get out! please."
he didn't look up until he heard the soft click of the heavy studio door. alone again. the silence rushed back in, filling the spaces between his shallow breaths.
he looked at the computer monitors. the software was open, the project file for the lead single staring back at him with its colorful bars and complex waveforms. the music you had been so proud of. the music you had died for.
he picked up the usb drive and held it over the port. his hand shook so violently he couldn't line it up. he tried again, his teeth grinding together, a low noise of frustration building in his throat. he wanted to see the files. he wanted to see the mess heâd been so worried about.
but he couldn't do it. every time he moved the drive toward the computer, he heard the honk of that horn. he heard the sound of the metal. he heard the way the line went dead.
he pulled his hand back and threw the drive across the room. it hit the far wall with a dull thud and skittered across the floor, disappearing into the shadows under the leather couch.
chan didn't go after it. he just sat there in the dark, the blue light of the monitors reflecting in his hollow eyes. he pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled to your name. he knew it was useless. he knew the phone was sitting in a plastic evidence bag at the precinct, cracked and water-damaged.
he hit the call button anyway.
he closed his eyes and leaned his head back, listening to the ringing.
one. two. three.
âthe person you are trying to reach is not available. please leave a messageâŚâ
he didn't hang up this time. he let the beep happen. he sat there for a long time, the silence of the recording eating up the space in the room.
"i'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the cooling fans. "i'm so sorry. the studio is clean, baby. itâs so clean. thereâs no mess at all. and i hate it. i hate it so much."
he stayed on the line until the system cut him off, staring at the spot under the couch where the silver drive lay forgotten in the dust. he was a professional at making music, at layering sounds and fixing glitches, but he realized then that no amount of editing could fix a life.
the rain started to hit the windows againâa soft, rhythmic tapping that sounded like fingers against glass. chan flinched at the sound, pulling his knees up to his chest on the producer's chair. he was a man who lived for the beat, for the rhythm, for the sound.
but for the first time in his life, he just wanted the world to be quiet.
he reached over and clicked the power button on the console. one by one, the lights went out. the monitors faded to black. the hum of the speakers died.
and there, in the absolute darkness of the room where you used to wait for him, chan finally let out the breath heâd been holding since the crash. it wasn't a release. it was just a beginning.
the beginning of a year where the music wouldn't play, and the rain wouldn't stop, and the mess would be the only thing he ever wanted back.
the seasons had shifted, though chan only knew this because the light hitting the studio floor in the evenings was a different shade of gold. it was spring now. outside, the city was blooming, people were shedding their heavy coats, and the air probably smelled like wet earth and fresh growth.
but inside the four walls of his studio, it was still that gray, suffocating morning in february. for chan, the rain had never actually stopped.
he was stuck in a loop. it was like a track heâd produced where the skip was so subtle you didn't notice it until you realized youâd been listening to the same four bars for three months. his life was a sequence of "what ifs" that played on a constant, maddening repeat.
what if he hadn't sent that text at 3:00 a.m.? what if heâd let you sleep in? what if heâd just turned his chair around for five seconds when you walked in with those bagels? if he had just looked at youâreally looked at youâhe would have seen how tired you were.
he would have seen that you were rushing. he would have seen the silver drive sitting too close to your bag.
he spent a lot of time staring at the door. heâd sit in his chair, the one he used to spin around in to tease you, and heâd wait for the click of the handle. his brain knew you weren't coming back, but his body hadn't caught up yet.
every time the hallway quieted down, heâd find himself holding his breath, waiting for the sound of your sneakers or the soft hum of you humming one of his demos under your breath.
depression wasn't a weight for him; it was a thinning. he felt translucent. heâd stopped eating anything that required effort, surviving on protein shakes and the occasional granola bar minho forced into his hand. his skin was sallow, the dark circles under his eyes looking like permanent bruises. he looked like a man who was disappearing, and in a way, he was. he was fading into the static of your absence.
it was 4:00 a.m. on a tuesday when the silence got too loud again. the studio was dark, save for the low glow of his monitors and the tiny, blinking red light of his hardware. he reached for his phone, his thumb hovering over your contact.
he knew it was full. the mailbox had been full for six weeks. he knew the phone was likely sitting in a cardboard box at your parents' house, or tucked away in a drawer at the police station, the screen shattered into a spiderweb of glass. but the act of calling was the only thing that made him feel like he was still anchored to the earth.
he hit dial. his heart did that familiar, painful stutter as he waited through the rings.
âthe person you are trying to reach is not available. please leave a messageâŚâ
he closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool edge of his desk. you used to have a personalized one, but deleted it because you hated the sound of your own recorded voice. he'd been there the day you tried to record it. he could almost see you saying itâthe way youâd scrunched your nose in embarrassment, the way youâd laughed right after the recording ended.
"hey," he whispered into the mouthpiece. his voice was gravelly, unused for hours. "itâs me. obviously."
he let out a breath that sounded more like a shudder.
"i finished the track today, baby. the one you liked. the one with the heavy synth in the bridge. the members think itâs the best thing weâve done in years. everyone is so happy with it. but i... i deleted your favorite part. that vocal chop you kept humming? i took it out.
"i couldn't leave it in. i didn't deserve to keep the version you liked. it felt like stealing. how am i supposed to put something out into the world that you were the only one who truly understood?"
he paused, listening to the faint hiss of the line. he liked to pretend he could hear you breathing on the other end, just listening to him talk like you used to while he worked.
"i'm so sorry, my love. i'm so sorry i called you a mess. iâve been looking around this room, and i realized... i was the mess. you were the only thing in my life that made any sense. you were the only thing that wasn't a deadline or a chore or a performance. you were just... you. and i treated you like an inconvenience."
he felt a tear track down his nose and drip onto his hand, but he didn't move to wipe it away.
"i found your charger today. the one with the little yellow tape on the end so i wouldn't accidentally take it to the company. it was behind the couch. i tried to plug it in, just to see if it still worked, but then i realized i don't even have anything of yours to charge anymore. i just held it for a while. it still smells a little bit like that lotion you use. the vanilla one."
his grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white. "i really like that one," chan added softly.
"if i promise to never skip a meal again, will you just show up in a dream tonight? just one? i just need to see your face without the rain. i just want to see you sitting on the couch again, even if you're not talking to me. iâd take you being mad at me.
"iâd take you never speaking to me again if it meant you were still driving that car. i would have given up the music, baby. i would have thrown the drive in the river myself if iâd known."
the line timed out, the automated system cutting him off with a cold, digital beep. chan didn't pull the phone away from his ear. he just sat there in the dark, listening to the dial tone.
he thought about the drive. the silver usb was back in his desk drawer now, tucked away like a shameful secret. heâd accessed the files, but he hadn't changed anything other than that one deletion. every time he opened the project, he saw the last save date. february 12th.
he hated that date. he hated the rain. he hated the way his coffee tasted nowâbitter and metallic, like he was drinking the regret straight from the cup.
he stood up, his joints popping from hours of being curled in the chair. he walked over to the window. the city was quiet, the streetlamps casting long, lonely shadows across the pavement. it wasn't raining tonight, but the ground was still damp from a shower earlier in the evening. the reflections of the lights looked like streaks of neon tears on the asphalt.
he imagined your car on a night like this. he imagined you turning the heater on, singing along to the radio to try and ignore how nervous the wet roads made you. he imagined the exact moment heâd called you. the vibration in your cup holder. the way you would have reached for it, wanting to hear his voice, thinking he was calling to say something kind.
"i'm sorry i was the reason you were distracted," he whispered to the glass. "i'm sorry i was the last thing you had to deal with."
he walked back to the couchâthe black leather one heâd scrubbed so hard it was now slightly discolored in patches. he lay down, pulling a hoodie over his head, trying to trap the stale air inside. he didn't sleep much these days.
when he did, he usually woke up reaching for his phone to tell you about a dream, only to feel the cold, empty space beside him and remember all over again.
it was a cycle. a loop.
three months. ninety days. two thousand, one hundred and sixty hours of replaying a ten-minute phone call.
chan closed his eyes and tried to remember the way you looked when you were laughing at one of his stupid jokes. he tried to focus on the sound of your voice instead of the sound of the crash. but the crash was louder. the crunch of metal was a permanent layer in the mix of his life now, a frequency he couldn't eq out.
he reached out and touched the spot on the floor where your bag used to sit.
"goodnight, baby," he murmured into the empty room.
he didn't expect an answer. he didn't even hope for one anymore. he just needed to say the words into the void, hoping that somewhere, in some version of the universe where heâd been a better man, you were tucked safely into bed, and the silver drive was nothing more than a piece of plastic on a desk.
but in this world, the drive was on the desk, and chan was on the floor, and the rain was waiting just outside the window to start all over again.
he fell into a fitful, shallow sleep around 5:30 a.m., his hand still clutching the phone. he dreamt of the studio, but it was filled with water. he was swimming toward the couch, trying to reach you, but the harder he kicked, the further away the couch drifted. you were sitting there, holding the usb drive, pointing at the door. your lips were moving, but no sound was coming out.
itâs okay, you were saying. itâs okay, channie.
but it wasn't. it would never be okay.
when he woke up two hours later to the sound of the cleaning crew in the hallway, the first thing he felt was the crushing weight of the daylight. another day of being the person who stayed. another day of being the reason you left.
he sat up, rubbed his face with his hands, and looked at his phone.
152 unread messages from the members. 0 from you.
he stood up, walked to the desk, and turned on the monitors. the hum of the fans filled the room, a low, constant drone that sounded like a mourning song. he opened the project, highlighted the entire vocal track of the new song, and lowered the volume by three decibels.
it sounded emptier. hollower.
"perfect," he whispered, his voice breaking. "it sounds just like the house."
he stayed there for the rest of the day, a ghost working on a ghost of a song, waiting for the sun to go down so he could call your voicemail and apologize for the things heâd said when the world was still bright.
six months. a half-year of the world tilting on an axis that felt permanently wrong. for chan, the passage of time wasn't measured in months or weeks anymore, but in the slow, agonizing evaporation of his own edges.
the fire that had fueled his anger in the beginningâthe hot, white-hot rage at the driver, at the rain, at his own reflectionâhad finally burned itself down into a cold, gray ash.
what was left was the deep quiet.
it was a silence that lived in his bones. it wasn't just the absence of sound; it was the absence of weight. he felt like a hollowed-out tree, still standing but entirely empty on the inside. he was back to work at the studio because the company demanded it and because his members needed him, but the "bang chan" everyone knew was gone.
the man who used to stay up until dawn obsessing over the frequency of a snare hit, the perfectionist who wouldn't let a single breath go unedited, had been replaced by someone who just... didn't care.
his desk was a disaster. it was a crushing, bitter irony that he couldn't stop thinking about. for years, heâd teased youâsometimes gently, sometimes sharplyâabout your mess.
heâd laugh at the way your bag always overflowed with receipts and loose pens, or how youâd leave half-finished cups of tea in every room. heâd called you cluttered. heâd told you that you needed to be more focused.
now, he was the one living in a wreck. his studio was littered with empty energy drink cans and crumpled snack wrappers. there were stacks of lyric sheets with coffee stains on them, most of them half-finished and abandoned. heâd forget to save files. heâd lose his keys twice a day.
he was messy in every sense of the word, his brain too clouded with grief to maintain the rigid structure heâd once used to define himself. he had become the very thing heâd used as a weapon against you on that last morning, and every time he looked at the chaos on his desk, it felt like a ghost was laughing at him.
it was a tuesday evening when it happened. heâd dropped his phoneâagainâand it had skittered across the floor, sliding deep into the dark gap beneath the black leather couch.
chan sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to come from his soul. he got down on his hands and knees, pressing his cheek against the cold floorboards to peer into the shadows.
his fingers brushed against something hard and plastic. he thought it was his phone, but when he pulled his hand back, he was holding a cheap, blue ballpoint pen.
he froze.
he knew this pen. it was the one youâd been frantically looking for right before you left for your lecture. he could still see you in his mind's eye, patting down your pockets, huffing in frustration because you were already late. youâd asked him if heâd seen it, and he hadn't even looked up from his monitor. heâd just muttered something under his breath without a second thought.
you must have dropped it right there, next to the couch where youâd been napping.
chan sat back on his heels, the pen clutched in his palm. it was just a piece of plastic, worth maybe fifty cents, but to him, it felt like a holy relic. he brushed the dust off it with the hem of his hoodie, his thumb tracing the teeth marks on the cap where you used to chew on it when you were stressed.
he felt a sudden, sharp pang in his chestâthe first real feeling heâd had in weeks. it wasn't the dull ache of depression; it was a stabbing, vivid grief.
he tucked the pen into the front pocket of his hoodie, right over his heart. he didn't even go back for his phone.
he walked over to his desk and sat down. for six months, the silver usb drive had stayed in his drawer. heâd touched it, moved it, even held it against his forehead while he cried, but he hadn't plugged it in. he couldn't bring himself to look at the data. it felt too much like an autopsy.
but tonight, with your pen in his pocket, he felt a strange, quiet pull.
his hands shook as he opened the drawer. the drive caught the light, its scratched surface a testament to the violence it had survived. he didn't let himself think. he just shoved it into the port.
the computer chirped. the drive icon appeared on the screen, labeled simply: CB97_FINAL_MASTERS.
chan clicked through the folders, his breath hitching as he found the project file from that morning. the file heâd been screaming about. the file heâd valued more than your safety.
he hovered the cursor over the file properties.
last saved: february 12, 2026. 9:02 AM.
the air left his lungs in a rush. he remembered the timeline. heâd called you at 8:52 am. heâd spent ten minutes tearing you apart, telling you how your lack of focus was ruining his career, how your messiness was a burden he couldn't carry anymore.
the timestamp on the save was three minutes before the call ended. three minutes before the sound of the crash.
he realized then that while he was shouting at you, you hadn't just been listening. you had reached into your bag, found the drive, andâdespite the rain, despite the terror of driving, despite the tears he was making you cryâyou must have been thinking about him.
you had probably been checking your bag at the red light, making sure the important little thing was safe, perhaps even planning how to get it back to him as fast as possible.
you were caring for him while he was destroying you.
chan clicked the file open. the digital workspace loaded, the familiar wave files of his members' voices blooming across the screen. he hit play.
it was the track you liked. the one with the synth bridge. but as the music filled the studio, it didn't sound like a hit song anymore. it sounded like a funeral march. every beat was a heartbeat heâd helped stop. every lyric was a word heâd wasted.
he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. the blue light of the monitors washed over him, making his skin look ghostly. he felt the weight of the pen in his pocket, a tiny, physical pressure against his ribs.
"i'm so sorry," he whispered into the empty room. "i'm so, so sorry."
he didn't turn the music off. he let it loop. he sat there for hours, listening to the perfection heâd demanded, realizing that it was entirely worthless. the mix was clean. the vocals were crisp. the transition heâd been so worried about was seamless.
and he would have traded every single note of it to have one more "messy" afternoon with you. he would have traded his entire career to see one more half-finished cup of tea on his console.
as the sun began to peek through the blinds, casting long, pale strips of light across the cluttered studio, chan didn't move to clean up. he didn't reach for an energy drink. he just reached into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the blue pen.
he realized then that the "bang chan" he was supposed to beâthe leader, the perfectionist, the producerâwas a lie. the mess was the truth. the clutter was the life. you had been the only one who lived in the real world, and heâd been too busy trying to polish the edges of a song to notice that the world was beautiful because it was broken.
he finally reached out and clicked 'save' on the project. not because he wanted to work on it, but because he wanted to update the timestamp. he wanted to move past february 12th, even if it was only by a fraction of a second.
the computer chirped again.
last saved: august 20, 2026. 5:44 AM.
chan let out a long, shaky breath. he stood up, his legs stiff, and walked toward the door. he didn't turn off the lights. he didn't tidy the desk. he just kept his hand on the pen in his pocket and walked out into the quiet hallway.
for the first time in six months, he didn't feel like he was drowning in the rain. he just felt tired.
he walked down to the parking lot, the morning air cool and crisp against his face. it wasn't raining. the sky was a pale, clear blue, the kind of color you used to say looked like fresh ink.
he got into his car and sat there for a moment, looking at the empty passenger seat. he reached into his pocket, pulled out the blue pen, and set it carefully in the cup holder.
"we're going home now," he murmured.
he started the engine and drove out of the lot. he drove slowly. he stayed in his lane. he didn't check his phone. he just watched the road, the blue pen rattling slightly in the plastic holder, a small, messy piece of you finally coming home.
the quiet was still there, but as he drove through the waking city, it didn't feel quite so deep. it felt like a beginning. a messy, cluttered, imperfect beginning.
and for now, that had to be enough.
the date on the corner of his monitor felt like a heavy weight, though the numbers themselves were small. february 12th. one year.
chan stood by the window of the third-floor studio, his forehead resting against the cool glass. outside, seoul was being swallowed by a familiar, grey downpour. the rain streaked down the pane in jagged lines, blurring the world into a smear of neon signs and headlights.
he watched the cars crawl along the wet asphalt below, their brake lights glowing like embers in the mist.
a year ago, the sight of the rain would have sent him into a spiraling panic, his lungs tightening until he couldn't draw air. now, it just felt like a quiet companion. the sharp, stabbing agony that had defined the first few monthsâthe kind that made him want to claw his own skin off just to escape the guiltâhad finally settled into something different.
it was a dull, permanent ache. it was a part of him now, like a break in a bone that never quite knit back together right. he didn't fight it anymore. he just carried it.
he turned away from the window and looked at his desk. it wasn't the sterile, bleached workspace of six months ago. there were loose papers scattered everywhere. a half-empty bag of pretzels sat next to a stack of external hard drives. three different colored pensânone of them hisâwere rolled into the groove of the console.
heâd stopped trying to scrub the mess away. he realized, with a clarity that only comes through total wreckage, that the mess was the point. a life without clutter, without distractions, without someone accidentally taking your usb drive because they were rushing to be somewhere important... that wasn't a perfect life.
it was just a lonely one.
he walked over to the console and sat down, but he didn't sit in the producerâs chair. he sat on the edge of the black leather couch, the one that still had a tiny, faded water stain from a cup of tea youâd spilled two years ago.
he pulled a notepad toward him. heâd been writing a song for weeks. it wasn't for the next album. the company didn't know about it, and he wasn't sure heâd ever release it. it wasn't for the fans, and it wasn't meant to be a chart-topper.
it was just for the chaos. it was a song about the way your laugh sounded when you were mid-sentence, the way youâd always lose your keys in the bottom of your bag, and the way youâd apologize for things that weren't your fault.
it was a song for the girl who made his life beautiful by making it complicated.
as he looked over the lyrics, the studio door opened. it wasn't a soft, hesitant knock. it was the loud, unmistakable sound of seven people who didn't know how to be quiet if their lives depended on it.
"breakfast is here!" hanâs voice bounced off the acoustic foam walls before he was even fully in the room.
chan looked up as the members piled in, one by one, carrying bags of food and cardboard carriers of coffee. minho was at the front, looking as unbothered as ever, while felix trailed behind him with a wide, bright smile that seemed to challenge the gloom of the weather outside.
"we decided the studio needed more people," hyunjin said, dropping a stack of napkins onto the console without asking. "and more food. mostly more food."
seungmin and i.n. started clearing a space on the large wooden table in the corner, pushing aside chan's notebooks and cables with a reckless lack of concern that would have made the old chan go ballistic. changbin followed them, already tearing into a bag of pastries.
"sit down, hyung," felix said, gently grabbing chanâs arm and pulling him toward the table. "you haven't eaten anything but coffee today. we checked your trash can."
chan let out a soft huff, a sound that was dangerously close to a laugh. "you guys are invasive, you know that?"
"itâs in our contracts," lee know replied dryly, handing chan a plain paper bag. "open it."
chan took the bag. he could feel the warmth through the paper. he opened it and looked inside. it was a bagel. toasted, with just a bit of cream cheese melting on the edges. simple. unremarkable.
it was the first thing heâd been offered on that morning a year ago.
the room was suddenly very full. seungmin was arguing with han about a melody theyâd heard on the radio, while hyunjin was trying to show i.n. something on his phone. changbin was mid-story, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten donut, and lee know was watching them all with that quiet, observant smile he wore when he was content.
chan sat there, the bagel in his hand, and for the first time in three hundred and sixty-five days, the air in his lungs didn't feel like lead.
he looked at his membersâhis brothers. they knew. they knew exactly what today was. they knew why the rain felt heavier and why the silence in the studio had been so thick lately. they hadn't come here to give him a speech or to tell him it was time to move on. they had just come to bring the mess back into his life.
they had come to be the distraction he once thought he hated.
"hey, chan-hyung," seungmin called out, leaning across the table. "han thinks the bridge in that new track should be faster, but i think it needs to breathe more. what do you think?"
chan looked at han, who was already nodding aggressively. "it needs energy, hyung! like a heartbeat!"
"no," chan said, his voice quiet but steady. he felt the eyes of all seven of them drift toward him. "seungmin is right. it needs to breathe. you can't rush the important parts."
the conversation erupted again, louder this time, as they debated the merits of tempo and emotion. chan found himself joining in. he corrected han on a technical point, laughed when changbin made a self-deprecating joke, and even nudged i.n. when the younger boy tried to steal a piece of hyunjin's breakfast.
it was a strange, soaring feeling. it wasn't that the sadness was goneâit would never be goneâbut it was as if the room had expanded enough to hold both the grief and the life at the same time. he felt light.
he felt like he was allowed to be in this moment, even though you weren't. that he was allowed to breathe. allowed to live.
he realized that the best way to honor the love youâd given him wasn't to stay frozen in the second you left, but to live the way youâd always wanted him to.
he took a bite of the bagel. it tasted like salt and bread and a memory that didn't hurt as much as it used to. it was a tribute. it was a quiet promise.
they stayed for over an hour, turning the studio into a chaotic den of crumbs and loud voices. by the time they started packing up to head to their own schedules, the room felt different. the once ugly silence had been broken, replaced by the lingering warmth of people who loved him.
"see you at practice, hyung?" felix asked, pausing at the door.
"yeah," chan said, nodding. "i'll be there in twenty minutes."
once the door clicked shut and the hallway faded into silence, chan walked back to his desk. he picked up the silver usb driveâthe one that had been the catalyst for his nightmare.
he didn't feel the nausea anymore. he didn't feel the urge to throw it across the room. he just looked at it. he saw the scratches. he saw the wear and tear. he saw the physical evidence of a day that had broken him.
he plugged it into the computer.
he navigated to the project fileâthe one with the synth bridge, the one youâd loved. he hit the spacebar.
the music filled the room. the bass was deep, the synths were shimmering, and the vocals were clear. but this time, he didn't hear the screech of tires over the melody. he didn't hear the sound of the metal crunching during the chorus.
he just heard the music.
he leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes. he let the sound wash over him, every note a reminder of a time when the world was bright. he realized that he didn't have to delete your favorite parts to be sorry. he didn't have to punish himself to prove he loved you.
loving you was the legacy. the mess was the legacy.
outside, the rain continued to fall, a steady drumming against the glass. but inside, chan was just breathing. he was sitting in the middle of a messy studio, with crumbs on his desk and lyrics about a girl who chewed on her pens, and for the first time in a year, he wasn't waiting for the crash.
he was just listening to the song.
he reached out and turned the volume up, just a little bit, until the music was louder than the rain. he stayed there until the track ended, and then, with a hand that didn't shake, he hit play again.
and when he closed his eyes, you were smiling softly right next to him.
or: being fwb with someone you have feelings for is hard, even harder when he's a douchbag who doesn't even bother introducing you as a friend, like where is the friends in friends with benefits? well, it's none existent now, because you're about to be more than friends, he just needed a little wake up call.
warnings: MDNI! smut with some plot, fwb!chan, generic plot, some angst if you squint, jealousy, possessiveness, he's an asshole (but he redeems himself), college au, college parties.
wc: 4.8k
The sheets were twisted around your legs, damp with sweat and smelling like sex.
Chan laid sprawled next to you, one arm thrown over his face, chest still rising too fast. You watched the ceiling above you, counting the seconds until heâd roll over and say something stupid â or worse, nothing at all.
This was how it always went. A text at midnight, usually after some party where youâd spent the whole night pretending not to watch each other. His place or yours, never sober enough to bother with a condom unless one of you remembered at the last second.
No talking afterward unless it was 'nice' or 'I should go'.
You werenât his girlfriend. He wasnât your boyfriend.
It had started last semester, after a particularly messy game of beer pong where heâd cornered you in the bathroom, fingers already under your skirt. Neither of you had asked what it meant. it just happened.
Chan shifted beside you, the mattress creaking as he sat up. You didnât look at him, but you could feel his eyes on you. âYou good?â he asked.
âYeah,â you said, because thatâs what you always said.
He reached for his jeans on the floor, the fabric rustling as he dug for his phone.
The silence stretched too long. You rolled onto your side, pulling the sheet up just enough to cover yourself. Chan glanced at you, thumb still tapping his screen. âYou want me to go?â
You almost laughed. âYou always do.â
Something flickered in his expression â too fast to name â before he shrugged. âRight. Well.â He stood, hopping into clothes that were scattered throughout different areas of your room.
He didnât kiss you goodbye. He never did.
The front door clicked shut behind him, and you exhaled, staring at the ceiling again.
It was fine. This was fine.
You had midterms next week anyway.
~
The first midterm exam was a blur of half remembered formulas and caffeine jitters that made your hands shake.
You scribbled your last answer with thirty seconds left, then bolted for the door before the professor could call time.
Outside the lecture hall, the air was thick with the smell spring, too cheerful for the hollow feeling slowly growing in your chest.
You spotted Chan immediately. He was leaned against the bike rack, scrolling through his phone like he hadnât just ghosted you for 3 days. His head snapped up when your shoes scuffed the pavement, and his mouth quirked into that stupid smirk that made your stomach flip.
âHey,â he said, like it was nothing. Like he hadnât left you tangled in the sheets with your thighs still sticky and your pulse pounding in your ears.
âHey,â you echoed, adjusting your backpack straps. The silence stretched, awkward.
Chanâs phone buzzed. He glanced at it, thumb swiping absently, and something bitter curled in your throat. âBusy?â you asked, nodding at the screen.
Chan's smirk didnât waver as he pocketed his phone. "Just a group chat. some study session tonight." He shrugged, "You should come."
You snorted. "Hard pass. Iâd rather stab my eyes out with a highlighter."
He answered you with a laugh, and you hated how your chest tightened at the sound.
You were about to make an excuseâlibrary, laundry, literally anythingâwhen a voice cut in from behind you. "Chan! There you are."
You turned to see a girl with a sleek dark ponytail and a textbook clutched to her chest. Her smile faltered when she noticed you, then went back to normal. "Oh. Hi."
"Hey, hae," he said, voice suddenly lighter. Too light.
The girl â hae â sidled up next to him, close enough that her elbow brushed his arm. "You disappeared after class," she said, flicking her ponytail over one shoulder. "I was gonna ask if you wanted to grab a drink before our next class." Her gaze slid to you, "Unless you're busy."
You clenched your teeth so hard your jaw ached. Chan shifted his weight, "Nah, just catching up withâ" He gestured vaguely at you, and the omission stung more than it should have.
Not his girlfriend. Not a friend. Not even a name worth mentioning.
haeâs smile widened. "Cool." She hooked a finger through Chanâs belt loop â his fucking belt loop â and tugged. "Letâs go. You still owe me notes from Tuesday."
You watched them walk away. Your nails dug into your palms, but you forced your face into something neutral, something unbothered. You were fine. This was fine.
By midnight, the anger had curdled into something hotter, something restless under your skin. You were halfway through a half assed attempt at studying when your phone buzzed
u up?
you stared at it before typing back,
yea
his reply came immediately
dorm's empty, come over?
~
Chan was already shirtless when he opened the door, hair mussed like heâd been running his hands through it. His grin was lazy, familiar. âHey.â
You didnât answer. Just stepped inside and let the door click shut behind you.
It was fast, no pretense of tenderness tonight. His hands dug into your hips, your back hitting the wall before you could make it to his bedroom.
You wrapped your arms around him, trailing kisses down his neck, âdamn, missed you too,â he snickered.
~
After, tangled in his sheets. again. you stared at the ceiling. again. Chan sprawled beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, chest still rising too fast. again. The silence was sticky with everything you werenât saying.
âSo,â you said finally, voice too loud in the dark. âhae.â
Chan stiffened. His arm slid away from his face, but he didnât look at you. âWhat about her?â
You rolled onto your side, propping yourself up on one elbow. âYou let her drag you away by your belt loop like some fucking lapdog.â
A muscle twitched in his jaw. âWe study together. Itâs not a big deal.â
âSure.â You laughed, âAnd Iâm just some girl you fuck when youâre bored.â
Chan sat up suddenly, sheets pooling at his waist. âThatâs not what this is.â
âThen what is it?â You kept your voice steady, even as your pulse hammered in your throat. âBecause, as it seems, weâre not serious. You made that real clear today.â
âYouâre pissed because I walked away with hae?â
âIâm pissed because you let her drag you away.â You fully sat up now, looking at him next to you as you tried real hard to hold your tears back.
âYou didnât even introduce me. Just âcatching up withââ like Iâm some random you bumped into.â
âOh, so now weâre doing introductions? What, you want me to tell people youâre my girlfriend?â he regret the words right as they spilled from his mouth, and you looked back it him in disbelief.
The word hung between you. before you decided to swing your legs off the bed, reaching for your clothes on the floor. The fabric was still warm from his hands. You yanked your shirt over your head.
âDonât flatter yourself.â
You didnât wait for him to reply. The floor was cold under your bare feet as you stepped into your jeans, yanking them up. Chan didnât move, he might have wanted to, but he didn't.
His silence was worse than anything he couldâve said â proof that heâd let you walk away a hundred times before and wouldnât stop you now.
Your bra was somewhere near his dresser, but you didnât bother hunting for it. Just tugged your sweater on over your t-shirt. Chanâs fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you, but he stayed put, jaw clenched tight.
âYouâre really leaving?â he asked, like he couldnât believe youâd actually go through with it.
You scooped your shoes off the floor without answering. The laces dragged as you shoved your feet into them, not bothering to tie them.
The doorknob was cool under your palm, and for half a second, you hesitated â stupid, pathetic hope curling in your chest. But there was no sound of footsteps behind you, no hand on your wrist pulling you back. Just silence.
you twisted the doorknob, letting the door slam behind you as you left.
~
The week passed in a blur, your textbooks spread across your desk. You aced the rest of your midterms â probably because Chan wasnât in your bed, or your head, or your vagina every other night.
The irony wasnât lost on you. Still, your fingers hovered over his contact in your phone more times than youâd admit, thumb almost brushing the call button before youâd snap it shut and toss it onto your pillow.
The fifth time your roommate, yunjin, caught you staring blankly at the same page of your psychology textbook for forty minutes, she ripped the book from your hands and slammed it shut.
âNope,â she declared, tossing it onto your bed where it landed with a thud. âWeâre done here.â
You blinked up at her, your brain still foggy from three nights of fitful sleep, âWhat?â
âYou,â Yunjin said, grabbing your wrist âare going to a party.â She yanked you upright with surprising strength for someone who subsisted entirely on instant ramen.
âAnd before you argue â no, you donât have a choice. Iâve watched you mope around this room like a victorian widow for a week now. Itâs pathetic.â
You opened your mouth to protest, but Yunjin was already rifling through your closet. She tossed a sparkly cropped black top at your face, followed by jeans so tight youâd have to lie down to zip them.
âPut these on,â she ordered, then paused, eyeing your unwashed hair with disdain. âActually, shower first.â
The hot water did nothing to loosen the knot in your chest, but the steam cleared your head enough to remember how to function like a human being.
By the time you emerged, Yunjin had laid out your makeup on the desk, textbooks gathered and thrown somewhere, âSit,â she commanded. and you sat there with your hair still in a towel while she did your makeup.
âYouâre being weirdly intense about this,â you muttered as she swiped blush across your cheeks.
Yunjin didnât pause. âSomeone has to be. Youâve been acting like your life ended because one idiot boy canât figure out his feelings.â
She grabbed your chin, tilting your face toward the light to inspect her work. âNews flash, the world is full of idiot boys. Tonight, weâre going to remind you that you donât need any of them.â
~
The party hummed with the kind of manic energy unique to college students who'd just survived midterms â music too loud, sticky floors, red cups getting passed around.
You let Yunjin steer you through the crush of bodies, her grip on your wrist unyielding as she carved a path toward the kitchen.
The scent of cheap vodka and sweat hung thick in the air, and you focused on that instead of the way your pulse jumped when you spotted Chan across the room, leaned against a wall with some guy friend of his.
He hadn't seen you yet. His head was tipped back in laughter, the familiar curve of his throat exposed under the dim overhead light.
Sakura spotted you first, her face lighting up like a flare in the dark. "Oh my god, there you are," she crowed, reaching across the kitchen island to snag your wrist then pull you in a hug. Her fingers were sticky with punch, but you didn't pull away as she dragged you into their orbit.
chae was perched on the counter beside her, legs swinging lazily as she sipped something pink from a plastic cup. The familiar sight of them loosened something tight in your chest.
"You look like shit," chae announced cheerfully, kicking your hip lightly with the toe of her boot. The bluntness made you laugh. It was the kind of honesty only she could get away with, delivered with charm that it felt like affection.
"Thanks," you deadpanned, stealing her drink for a sip. "Midterms."
Chae wrinkled her nose. "Ugh, don't remind me. I had to bribe my TA just to look at my paper."
She leaned in conspiratorially, her breath warm against your ear. "Also, Yunjin texted us. We're under strict orders to distract you tonight." Her fingers made air quotes around the word, nails glittering under the kitchen's light.
The conversation flowed, uncomplicated for once, the kind of chatter that didnât require thinking.
You leaned into the counter, letting their voices wash over you, the tension in your shoulders easing for the first time in days.
It was almost enough to make you forget the way Chanâs gaze had flickered toward the kitchen twice already.
Then mingyu stumbled into you, his elbow knocking your ribs as he reached past you for the vodka.
you recognized him, he's someone from chan's obnoxiously big circle of frat guys.
"Shitâsorry," he mumbled, blinking at you with the bleary focus of someone three drinks deep. His face lit up in recognition. "Oh hey! Youâreâ" He pointed at you, brow furrowing. "Chanâs girl, right?"
The words hit like a bullet. Sakuraâs cup paused halfway to her lips. Chaeâs eyes widened, darting between you and where Chan was now very much not looking in your direction.
You forced a laugh, "Not even close."
mingyu blinked at your response, then shrugged. "Cool, cool." He leaned against the counter beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours.
"So what do you go by, then?"
"Just my name works fine,"
He was easy to talk to in a way, no loaded silences. Just easy smiles and stupid jokes. It was casual. Nice.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Chan stiffen. His drink hovered halfway to his lips, frozen mid sip as mingyu leaned in to whisper something in your ear, his hand settling lightly on your waist to steady himself.
The music pulsed, loud enough to drown out whatever nonsense mingyu was murmuring, but you laughed anyway.
Chanâs cup hit the counter with a sharp crack. His jaw was tight, fingers flexing at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from crossing the room.
You met his gaze across the sea of bodies, holding it for a few seconds.
mingyu followed your line of sight and snorted. "Damn. If looks could kill." He didnât move his hand, though. "You sure youâre not together?"
You took a slow sip of your drink, the sweetness cloying on your tongue. "just play along."
Chan pushed off the wall abruptly, shouldering through the crowd toward the backyard. The screen door slammed behind him with enough force to rattle the frame. You exhaled.
mingyuâs thumb stroked absently over your hipbone. "You okay?"
"Fine," you lied.
chae, after watching the entire scene, slid off the counter with a sigh. "Iâm gonna go see where Yunjin wandered off to," She paused, squeezing your shoulder. "we'll be back, okay? Donât do anything stupid."
sakura sighed, "Too late for that." But she followed chae anyway, leaving you alone with mingyu and the ghost of Chanâs stare still burning against your skin.
mingyuâs laugh was low as he leaned in. "So, not Chanâs girl, that means you're free to dance?"
You hesitated, then nodding. "Yeah. Letâs dance."
some time passed. you let him spin you around, laughed at his jokes. It was easy, too easy, to pretend you werenât counting the minutes since Chan stormed outside.
You were mid sip of some sickly sweet concoction mingyu had shoved into your hands when the crowd parted like a curtain, and chan emerged from the middle.
His gaze locked onto mingyuâs fingers curled around your waist, and something dark flickered behind his eyes.
"Can I talk to you?" he asked, but it was not really a request.
mingyu tried to step in, "Hey, manâ" but it didn't really work.
"Alone," Chan snapped.
You tilted your head, smiled, "Weâre busy."
Chanâs jaw twitched. He stepped closer, his voice dropping low, "Five minutes. Thatâs all Iâm asking."
You hesitated, long enough to watch his throat bob, before sighing. "Fine." Turning to mingyu, "Iâll be back."
"Take your time."
Chan didnât wait. He grabbed your wrist and pushed through the crowd, his grip firm on your wrist.
he took you to an empty room upstairs, shutting the door behind him. He exhaled sharply, raking his free hand through his hair. "What the fuck was that?"
You yanked your arm free, "Dancing? Pretty sure youâre familiar with the concept.
Chanâs laugh was jagged. "With mingyu?" He stepped closer, crowding you against the wall. but you held your ground, tilting your chin up. "Youâre really gonna play this game?"
"Weâre not serious," you mimicked, throwing his words right back at him. "Thatâs what you said, right? Or did your 'study buddy' blow your brain too?"
His hands flexed at his sides. For a heartbeat, you thought he might walk away, he always did, but then he moved, one palm slammed against the wall by your head while the other gripped your hip, fingers pressing into the same spot mingyu had touched minutes ago.
"You think I donât see what youâre doing?"
You swallowed hard. "Enlighten me."
"Bullshit revenge act." of course, he read right through you. "You wanted me to watch."
You arched a brow. "And if I did?"
"Then mission fucking accomplished."
The party noise faded to a dull roar, drowned out by the rush of blood in your ears. Chanâs chest heaved inches from yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips.
"Youâre such a hypocrite," you hissed, "You donât get to act jealous when youâ"
Chanâs mouth crashed into yours before you could finish, clacking in a kiss that was more teeth and tongue than anything. His free hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the angle. It was messy, desperate, fuelled with all the pent up anger you suppressed all these days.
When he finally pulled away, his lips were swollen, pupils blown wide. "I donât want him touching you," he ground out, thumb swiping roughly at the smudged gloss on your chin. "Ever."
"You donât get to decide that."
His grip tightened, fingers pressing into the soft skin just above your waistband. "Watch me."
Chanâs mouth was on yours again before you could protest, his teeth scraping your lower lip in a way that sent a jolt straight to your core. You arched into him, nails digging into the fabric of his tank top as he crowded you back against the wall, his thigh slotting between yours with bruising pressure.
"Fuck you," you gasped against his mouth, but your hips rolled against him on instinct, chasing the friction.
"oh I will," he growled, hands sliding under your top, his palms were rough against your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts as he yanked the fabric up.
The cool air hit your skin just as his mouth did â tongue swiping over your nipple, teeth following in a sharp bite that made you gasp.
"Youâre such an asshole," you breathed, but your fingers twisted in his hair, holding him there.
he laughed against your skin, one hand already working the button of your jeans. He didnât bother undoing it fully, just shoved the fabric down your thighs enough to slide his fingers past the waistband of your panties.
You were wet â had been since he dragged you up here â and his groan vibrated against your collarbone. "Fuck, youâre dripping," he muttered, dragging two fingers through your folds. "This what you wanted? Me losing my goddamn mind watching someone else's hands all over you?"
You keened when his fingers circled your clit, the pressure almost painful.
"You donât own me," you managed, but the words dissolved into a whimper as he pushed two fingers inside without warning, curling them just right.
Chanâs breath hitched at the way you clenched around him. "Donât I?" He worked you ruthlessly, his thumb pressing tight circles against your clit as his fingers fucked into you. "Tell me to stop, then."
any retort died in your throat when he twisted his wrist, fingers crooking, hitting that spot that made your knees buckle. "IâFuck!" You bit down on your lower lip hard to try to conceal any sounds, but the moan tore free anyway as he sped up, his palm grinding against your clit with every thrust.
"You gonna come for me?" His voice was rough, laced with a challenge. "Or you still thinking about him?" The bastard punctuated the question with a sharp twist of his fingers, and you came with a choked cry, hips stuttering against his hand as he worked you through it, prolonging the pulses until your thighs shook.
Before you even caught your breath, Chan was on his knees, yanking your jeans the rest of the way down. He didnât give you time to recover, just hooked your thighs over his shoulders and buried his face between your legs.
His tongue was flat and hot against your oversensitive clit, licking into you like he was starving. You writhed, but he held you firm, his fingers digging into your thighs as he sucked gently at your clit before lapping at you.
The pleasure coiled tight again. He hummed against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine, and you arched off the wall with a gasp, your fingers pulling at his hair for purchase.
"FuckâChan," you choked out, throwing your head back against the wall, your eyes screwed shut.
He pulled back just enough to blow a cool stream of air over your wetness, watching the way you shuddered before diving back in with renewed hunger. His nose bumped your clit as he fucked his tongue inside you, savoring the way your hips jerked against his mouth.
You could feel the tension building again, tighter this time, intensefied, your thighs trembling where they bracketed his head.
"Look at me," he growled against your skin, his breath hot.
You forced your eyes open, looking down to meet his gaze through the messy tangle of your lashes. His lips were slick, his chin glistening. His tongue circled your clit lazily, once, twice, then flattened against it with firm pressure.
the sight alone made you cum again with a sob, your back bowing off the wall as your orgasm ripped through you, sharper than the first.
Chan didn't let up, his mouth working you through it until you were whimpering, oversensitive and raw, your hands fisting in his hair to tug him away. He relented only to press a filthy, open mouthed kiss to your inner thigh.
he rose from his knees, his mouth slick with you, before you could catch your breath, he crushed his lips to yours, messy, desperate, tasting yourself on his tongue.
his hands slid under your ass to lift you up effortlessly. The bed hit your back a second later, mattress springs creaking under the sudden weight as he climbed over you, caging you in with his body.
You arched under him, nails scraping down his back. "Too bad weâre not serious," you taunted, throwing his words back at him with the same smirk he used to give. "Right?"
"You drive me fucking insane," he gritted out, dragging his teeth down your throat. His hips grind against yours, the hard line of his cock pressing into your thigh through his pants.
"You know that? Every goddamn timeâ" His hand fumbled between you, yanking his zipper down with impatience. "Every time I see someone elseâs hands on you, I want toâ" The words dissolved into a growl as he shoved his pants down just enough to free himself, thick and flushed against your stomach.
Chanâs breath stuttered. He caught your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head as he reached between your legs with the other, fingers dragging through your wetness.
"Shut up," he muttered, but there was no heat in it â just raw frustration as he lined himself up, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance. "Justâfuckâjust let meâ"
You gasped as he pushed in, The stretch burned. He was bigger than you remembered, or maybe youâd just forgotten how he felt after days of pretending you didnât care.
"Fuck," he groaned, hips stuttering as he bottomed out. "Youâreâgodâstill so tight."
"Missed your ego, mostly."
your legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper. The friction was maddening, the way he filled you so completely it stole your breath.
Chanâs laugh was ragged, his forehead dropping to yours as he rolled his hips in a slow, torturous grind. "You like that?" he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction when your nails dug into his shoulders. "Missed this, didnât you?"
"and I missed you"
you let out a shaky sigh at that, his words never sounded this affectionate before.
"You donât get to say shit like this afterâ"
Chan kissed you before you could finish, deep and desperate, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he was chasing the taste of your anger.
"I know," he muttered, after he pulled away, "Iâm a hypocrite. An asshole. Whatever you want to call me." His hips rolled again, "But i'm yours."
The words barely had time to register before Chanâs hips snapped forward, driving into you with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs.
The bedframe rattled against the wall with each thrust, the sound muffled by the distant thump of bass from the party downstairs.
âTell me youâre mine, tooâ he demanded, but it was more like a plea.
The words slipped out before you could stop themâ"Yours," you gasped, nails raking down his back as his hips stuttered against yours. "Only yours."
Chan groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your collarbone where his teeth had marked you moments before. His hands slid under your thighs, hooking your legs over his elbows to drive deeper, and suddenly you were full in a way that made your vision blur at the edges.
"Say it again," he demanded, his voice rough with something that wasn't just lust â something desperate.
You arched under him, meeting each thrust with a roll of your hips that drew a strangled moan from his lips. "Yours!" you repeated, louder, eyes rolling back when he hit that spot that made your toes curl.
"You take me so well," he murmured against your sweat slick skin, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Always so perfect for me, fuckâ" His hips snapped forward, the angle shifting just enough to drag a whimper from your throat. "Look at you. Mine."
The possessiveness in his voice sent a jolt straight to your core, the heat coiling tighter with every filthy word.
His thumb trailed up to your clit, circling roughly as his pace grew frantic. "Come with me," he ordered, his voice wrecked. "Let me feel itâgod, pleaseâ" he begged.
You shattered with a cry, your back bowing off the mattress as the pleasure crashed over you in waves.
Chan followed with a groan, his hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside you, his forehead pressed to yours as he rode out the aftershocks.
For a long moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing and the distant thump of bass from below. Chan's weight slumped against you, warm and familiar, his lips brushing your temple in a kiss so tender it made your chest ache.
He exhaled sharply, rolling off you to collapse onto his back beside you. His arm flung over his eyes.
The bed creaked as you turned onto your side, studying the sharp line of his jaw, the way his throat worked as he swallowed. "I think," you said slowly, tracing a finger down his sweat damp chest, "i think you just proved a point."
"mmm, and what point would that be?"
"That you're an idiot," you said simply.
His arm slid away from his face, revealing dark eyes gone soft at the edges. "Yeah," he admitted quietly. His fingers found yours, threading through them, "But now I'm your idiot now."
"Yeah," you agreed softly. "You are."
a/n: yes I borrowed hae's character from @starlostjisung 's exchange series (I hope u don't mind queen I couldn't think of anyone..), notice how she's a bitch in both universes đđ
á˘đŠ fem!reader, a small motherâs day gift from son!yuji and husband!sukuna
âmama?â a high-pitched voice and chubby hands grabbing at your cheeks wake you up.
sleepily, you grumble and shift around in the soft sheets of your bed, sinking into the mattress but blearily opening your eyes.
yuji stands at the side of your bed with a messily-cut heart-shaped card. he smiles widely, jumping up and down and placing it into your hands when you sit up.
âopen it!â he giggles.
a rougher voice chimes in, ânot too loud, brat, sheâs still waking up,â and a large, scarred hand comes down to ruffle yujiâs hair.
âoh, sorry,â he whispers, trying to be the quietest he can.
a soft chuckle escapes you as you open the card, and read the letter with messy handwriting and backwards letters. at the bottom is a drawing with bright colors, a drawing of you, yuji, and sukuna. on the left is a blob the color of your hair with a smiley face, a smaller pink blob is what youâve learned is yuji, and the big pink blob is sukuna, a little more apparent due to the angry eyebrows and the smile with sharp teeth. little arms come out of the two blobs, and they give you a large heart.
sukuna watches your eyes travel through the words on the card, and how your lip begins to wobble and your eyes become teary.
your chest and face become warm and a smile takes over your face as tears stream down your cheeks.
underneath, the drawing is captioned: âbest mom in the world!â
âi love you, mama, this much!â yuji stretches his arms as wide as he can with furrowed brows, trying to somehow increase his arm length but to no avail, before he grunts and gives you a tight hug after being put on the bed by sukuna.
âi love you too, baby,â you whisper, leaving a plush kiss on his chubby cheeks, causing him to giggle and grab your face, and place two aggressive kisses to each cheek.
sukuna gently pats yujiâs back, âalright, come on brat. go get dressed, weâre going out for breakfast.â
yuji gives you one last tight hug before sprinting off to his bedroom.
âyouâre a great mother,â sukuna sits down on the bed as he wraps an arm around you and leaves a kiss on your forehead, âthe best, especially to the kid.â
you smile as he wipes the tears from your cheeks, and his arms embrace you in a hug, and when heâs about to give you a little peck on the cheek, the door swings open.
âhurry, hurry, clothes!â yuji exclaims, then runs back out the room.
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sukuna upsetting his pregnant wife by eating her food she was craving bc heâs a fatty and her breaking down in tears because of hormones and he has to beg and plead for her forgiveness.
âbaby, Iâll buy as much as you want, Iâll buy everything they have in the store for you.â
tears are all ready dripping down your chin, it was too late. The damage has already been done.
âI donât even want it anymore,â you sobbed, âyou killed my love for them.â
if sukuna didnât feel bad before then best believe your words had just struck him in the heart. âIâll make it up to you I swear, Iâll sleep on the couch, Iâll do anything.â
you begin to cry even more, âI donât want to sleep alone.â
âfuck.â Sukuna muttered to himself, he just canât seem to say anything right.