Genre:Heavy Angst, Breakup Fic, Emotional Hurt(mostly just hurt)
Warnings:Strong language, depictions of anxiety, panic attacks, depression, heavy emotional distress.
Word Count=1,450 words
Inspiration:Beautiful by Bazzi ft. Camila Cabello
My first angst post pls don’t judge😩
11:42 PM
The neon sign across the street flickers through your bedroom window, casting a dull, sickly yellow glow over the tangled sheets. It’s too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your ears ring and your chest feel like someone is standing on it.
You look at your phone. No notifications.
Beautiful angel.
That’s what he used to call you. He’d murmur it into the crook of your neck at three in the morning when the rest of the world stopped existing. His voice would be raspy, thick with sleep, his hands tracing lines along your spine like he was trying to memorize your anatomy. You were his muse. He was your anchor.
Except anchors drag you down to the bottom of the ocean if you don’t let go.
The front door clicks open. The sound cuts through the silence like a gunshot. You don't move. You just listen to the heavy, dragging footsteps coming down the hallway of the apartment you shared. Shared. Past tense. Everything is becoming past tense lately.
Jisung stops at the doorway. He looks like a ghost of the boy you fell in love with. His hair is a messy, unwashed nest, his eyes are bloodshot, and his shoulders are completely slumped under an oversized black hoodie. The stench of stale energy drinks, studio sweat, and pure, unadulterated exhaustion follows him into the room.
"You're still awake," he says. His voice is flat. No inflection. No affection. Just empty.
"Couldn't sleep," you reply, your voice cracking slightly. You sit up, pulling your knees to your chest, creating a physical barrier between you and the boy who used to be your safe haven. "We need to talk, Han."
He lets out a sharp, cynical laugh, throwing his keys onto the dresser. The metal clattering makes you flinch. "Oh, brilliant. The fucking 'we need to talk' speech. Exactly what I need after a sixteen-hour shift of losing my mind."
"Don't do that," you whisper, the anxiety already tight in your throat, a familiar knot twisting tighter and tighter until you can barely draw breath. "Don't turn this into you being the fucking victim. I've been sitting here for days, Jisung. Days. Waiting for you to look at me. Not look past me, but actually look at me."
Jisung rubs his face with both hands, pulling at his skin violently. "I am working! I am trying to build a fucking life for us, Yn! Do you think I want to be losing my goddamn mind in the studio every single day? I'm empty. I have nothing left to give!"
"Then why are you still giving it to everyone else but me?!"
The shout slips out before you can stop it. It hangs in the air, toxic and heavy.
12:05 AM
The argument escalates like wildfire. It always does now. There is no middle ground, no gentle landing. Just screaming, crying, and the slow, agonizing dismantling of a three-year relationship.
"You're never fucking here!" you scream, tears finally spilling over your lashes, scalding hot. "And when you are, you’re a ghost! I am lonely, Jisung. I am so fucking lonely in this house with you!"
"And you think I'm perfectly fine?!" Jisung roars back, his face flushing a dangerous, angry red. The veins in his neck stand out. He steps closer, his hands shaking violently at his sides. "I am drowning! I wake up every single day with a goddamn weight on my chest, feeling like I can't breathe, feeling like everything I touch turns to absolute shit! My mind is a fucking warzone, Yn! I come back here because I want peace, but I just get hit with your fucking expectations!"
"My expectations?!" You let out a broken sob. "My expectation was for my boyfriend to remember my fucking birthday last week! My expectation was for you to not walk past me like I'm a piece of furniture! I don't care about the music, I don't care about the fame, I wanted you. But you're not here anymore. You left a long time ago."
Jisung stops. The anger drains out of him in a terrifying second, replaced by a hollow, bleak expression. He looks down at his shaking hands. The depression that had been looming over both of you for months finally takes full shape in the room. It’s an invisible entity, suffocating the life out of whatever love was left.
"I can't do this," he whispers, his voice trembling. "I can't... I can't keep trying to fix you when I am broken into a million fucking pieces. I don't have the pieces to fix myself."
"I never asked you to fix me," you say, your voice dropping to a desperate, ragged whisper. You get off the bed, taking a hesitant step toward him. "I just wanted you to hold my hand while I was broken. We were supposed to be broken together."
"Well, look at us!" he screams suddenly, kicking the plastic laundry basket near the door. It cracks, pieces of plastic flying across the hardwood floor. "We aren't fucking fixing each other, Yn! We're just dragging each other straight to hell! Look at you—you're shaking. You're crying because of me. I do this to you. I make you miserable."
"No, Ji, please—"
"Yes!" he barks, a sob tearing from his own throat now. He covers his mouth, his eyes wide and frantic. The panic is setting in for him now. You can see it—the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way his eyes dart around the room like he's looking for an escape from his own skin. "I'm toxic for you. You're miserable. I'm fucking miserable. I love you so much it's killing me, and it's killing you too."
12:30 AM
I'm hurtin' bad, data-mine your mind...
The way you look should be a sin, you're my beautiful angel.
The lyrics he wrote for you—the ones he used to play on his acoustic guitar while you sat on his lap, tracing the tattoos on his chest—now feel like a mockery. There is nothing beautiful about this. It is ugly. It is raw, bloody, and full of regret.
Jisung drops to his knees on the floor, his head in his hands, gasping for air. The anxiety attack has him in a chokehold.
Every protective instinct in your body screams at you to go to him, to wrap your arms around him, to let him hide his face in your neck like he always did. You move forward, dropping to your knees in front of him. You reach out, your fingers brushing his trembling shoulder.
"Ji, hey... look at me. Breathe. Just breathe with me," you sob, trying to stabilize your own cracking voice.
"Don't touch me!" he shies away, pulling back violently as if your touch burned him. "Don't... fucking touch me, Yn. Please. Just... let me go."
The words hit you like a physical blow to the chest. The air leaves your lungs. Let me go.
"You mean it," you whisper, the reality sinking in, cold and heavy like lead.
Jisung looks up, his face soaked in tears, his lips pale and trembling. He looks so young, so incredibly fragile, and so utterly defeated. The spark that used to light up his eyes whenever he looked at you is completely gone. There is only a dark, endless void of depression.
"We're destroying each other," he says, his voice barely audible over the sound of the traffic outside. "I love you. I love you so fucking much. But I can't be your boyfriend anymore. I don't even know who the fuck I am anymore."
You sit back on your heels, the hardwood floor freezing against your skin. The silence returns, heavier this time. The finality of it settles into the corners of the room. It’s over. The fights, the late-night crying sessions, the desperate attempts to hold onto a dying flame—it’s all over.
"Okay," you whisper.
That single word feels like tearing a piece of your own heart out and handing it to him.
"Okay."
1:15 AM
You don't pack everything. You can't. Your hands are shaking too much to fold clothes, so you just throw a few essentials into a duffel bag. Every object in the room has a memory attached to it. The polaroid of you two at the beach sticking to the mirror. The matching mugs in the sink. His oversized hoodie that you're currently wearing—the one that smells like him.
Jisung stays on the kitchen floor, his back against the cabinets, staring blankly at the wall. He doesn't try to stop you. He doesn't say a word. The silence between you now isn't the comfortable kind you used to share; it's the silence of a graveyard.
You walk to the front door, the heavy duffel bag slung over your shoulder. You turn around to look at him one last time.
He looks so beautiful, even when he’s completely broken. He’s still the boy who held you through your worst panic attacks, the boy who wrote songs about how gorgeous you were when you didn't believe it yourself. He was your beautiful angel, and you were his. But angels aren't meant to live in the dark, and right now, you are both completely blinded by it.
"Goodbye, Jisung," you say, your voice dead, devoid of any energy left to fight.
He doesn't look up, but you see his shoulders shake as a fresh wave of silent sobs wracks his body. "Goodbye, Yn."
You open the door, step out into the cold, damp night air, and pull it shut behind you.
The click of the lock echoes in the empty hallway, signaling the end of the most beautiful, painful chapter of your life. You walk down the stairs into the dark, completely alone, leaving the boy you love to drown in his own silence, knowing you no longer have the strength to save him.
Warnings:🔞 18+ ONLY. This is a work of fiction and does not reflect the real-life identities of the idols involved. Do not repost or translate. Minors DNI.
@yuzulixie @niku0704
A Morning of Reclamation
The first thing you register is the weight—a heavy, warm arm draped across your waist, pinning you to the mattress with possessive, unconscious strength. The second thing is the heat. Felix's body is molded against your back, his chest pressed to your spine, his breath a slow, rhythmic tickle against the nape of your neck. The duvet is tangled around your legs, thick and plush, trapping the warmth of two bodies that spent the night learning each other.
The curtains are thin, cheap things you'd meant to replace months ago. They do nothing to filter the late-morning Seoul sunlight that spills across the bed in golden ribbons, catching the dust motes floating lazily in the air. The room smells like sleep and sex and the faint, lingering scent of his cologne from last night—something woody and clean that now mixes with the natural musk of his skin.
You don't want to move. Every muscle in your body is pleasantly sore, a tender ache that reminds you of every position he'd pulled you into, every time he'd whispered praise into your skin as you came apart beneath him. But your bladder is insistent, and the slight shift of your hips is enough to disturb the man behind you.
A low groan rumbles from his chest, the sound vibrating through your back. His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You feel him—the unmistakable press of his semi-hard cock against the curve of your ass, warm and thick even through the thin fabric of the panties you'd managed to keep on during the night.
"Don't," he mumbles, his voice a wrecked, gravelly rasp. The Australian accent thickens his words, dragging them out into something almost unintelligible. "Don't you fuckin' move."
You laugh softly, but it catches in your throat when his lips press against the back of your shoulder, his morning stubble scraping against your sensitive skin. His hand slides from your waist down to your hip, fingers digging into the flesh with a lazy possessiveness.
"Felix, I need to pee."
"Hold it."
"I can't—"
"Five minutes." His voice is deeper now, the sleepy rumble sharpening into something more focused. He shifts behind you, propping himself up on one elbow, and you feel his gaze on the back of your head. "Actually, make it ten. I haven't had my morning look at you yet."
You roll over to face him, and the sight steals your breath.
Felix's hair is a disheveled disaster—dark blond strands falling across his forehead, sticking up at odd angles from sleep. His eyes are still heavy-lidded, the freckles across his nose and cheeks stark against his pale, sleep-flushed skin. The sunlight catches the dusting of gold on his cheekbones, making him look like something out of a fever dream.
But it's his smile that does you in. Soft, genuine, the corners of his lips turned up in a way that says I got you. You're mine now.
"Morning, roomie," he says, the nickname a deliberate taunt.
"Roomie?" You raise an eyebrow. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
He leans in, kissing the tip of your nose. "What do you want me to call you? Girlfriend? Baby? Mine?"
The last word sends a shiver down your spine. He says it with such casual confidence, like it's the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it is. Maybe it always was.
"Mine works," you whisper.
His smile widens, and then he's kissing you, a slow, languid exploration that tastes of morning breath and intimacy. His hand cups your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you feel the cool bite of his rings against your heated skin. The contrast is electric—the cold metal pressing into the warmth of your cheek, his tongue sliding against yours with a deliberate slowness that makes your toes curl.
He pulls back, resting his forehead against yours. His voice drops an octave, the deep morning tone that makes your stomach flip.
"You have no idea how good it feels to wake up with you in my bed. In my arms." His thumb traces your jawline, featherlight. "I've dreamt about this for months, you know. Waking up and being able to touch you without it being weird. Without having to stop myself."
"I know," you breathe. "Me too."
He hums, a satisfied sound, and his hand drifts down your neck, over your collarbone, stopping at the swell of your breast. He traces the edge of your nipple through the thin cotton of your tank top, his touch light and teasing.
"Can I?" he asks, his eyes meeting yours. There's no hesitation in them, just a quiet request for permission, a sign of respect even as his fingers continue their lazy circles.
You nod, and his hand slides under the fabric, palm flat against your breast. His calloused fingers—rough from hours of clicking and gripping his mouse—scrape against your sensitive skin as he squeezes gently. He watches your face, cataloging every micro-expression, every sharp inhale.
"So pretty," he murmurs. "So responsive. I love the sounds you make when I touch you."
His thumb finds your nipple, circling it slowly, and your hips buck involuntarily against his. He chuckles, low and dark.
"Eager, are we?"
"Shut up."
He doesn't shut up. Instead, he rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, the pressure just right, and you gasp. He captures the sound with his mouth, kissing you deeply, swallowing your moans as his hand continues its deliberate torture.
When he breaks the kiss, he moves lower. His lips trail down your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point, sucking a bruise into the sensitive skin just below your ear. The sting of the hickey sends a jolt of heat straight to your core.
"I'm gonna mark you up, baby," he says against your collarbone, his voice vibrating through your bones. "I want everyone who looks at you to know you're taken. I want you to feel me all day."
He pulls your tank top down, exposing your breasts to the cool morning air. The sunlight cuts across your skin, and Felix's breath hitches. He stares at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, and in this moment, you believe him.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Look at you. All for me."
He lowers his head, taking one nipple into his mouth. The heat of his tongue, the gentle scrape of his teeth, the way he sucks and swirls—it's methodical, attentive, like he's studying you the way he studies a new game mechanic. His hands are on your hips, fingers digging into the waistband of your panties, and you can feel the shift in his energy.
The lazy domesticity is evaporating. His focus sharpens, narrows, locks onto you with the same intensity he reserves for a ranked match. Every breath, every movement is calculated to maximize your pleasure, to pull you deeper into his orbit.
He switches to your other breast, giving it the same attention, his mouth hot and wet. When he finally pulls back, your nipples are hard, sensitive peaks, slick with his saliva.
"Good girl," he whispers, the praise hitting you like a wave. "You taste so good. I could spend all morning right here."
He doesn't, though. He moves lower, kissing down your stomach, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. His hands push your panties down, and you lift your hips to help him. He tosses them aside without looking, his eyes fixed on the space between your thighs.
"Already so wet," he observes, his voice a low rumble. He spreads your legs with his shoulders, settling between them. "Is this all for me? From the night? Or did my words do this to you?"
"Both," you admit, your voice embarrassingly breathy.
He smirks, and it's the most arrogant, self-satisfied expression you've ever seen on his face. "Good answer."
He doesn't tease you with his mouth first. Instead, he runs his fingers—those calloused, ringed fingers—through your folds, gathering your slickness. The cool metal of his rings presses against your sensitive lips, and you whimper at the sensation.
"Look at me," he commands, and you do. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, the morning light dancing in them. "I'm going to make you come on my fingers first. Then I'm going to taste you. And then, baby, I'm going to fuck you so deep you forget your own name."
Your mouth goes dry.
He slides one finger inside you, slow, deliberate. The stretch is just enough to make you gasp, and he watches your face intently, drinking in your reaction. He moves it in and out, curling it slightly, searching for that spot that makes your vision blur.
"There," he murmurs when he finds it. "Right there."
He adds a second finger, pumping them in and out of you with a steady rhythm. His thumb finds your clit, circling it with just the right pressure. Your hips buck, trying to fuck his hand, but he presses his other arm across your hips to still you.
"Uh-uh. Let me work. You just lie there and take it."
His pace quickens, his fingers working you toward the edge with practiced, focused precision. The sounds coming from your pussy are obscene—wet, sloppy—and they only fuel his determination.
"That's it," he coaxes. "I can feel you clenching. You're close, aren't you? My good girl's about to come on my fingers."
He applies more pressure to your clit, and that's all it takes. You shatter, your orgasm ripping through you in waves, your cries swallowed by the morning light. He works you through it, slowing his fingers but not stopping until your body stops trembling.
As you come down, he pulls his fingers out, bringing them to his lips. He sucks them clean, his eyes never leaving yours, the sight so obscene it makes your pussy clench on nothing.
"I'll never get tired of that taste," he says, his voice husky. "Now roll over."
You do, turning onto your stomach, and he positions himself behind you. The heat of his cock presses against your drenched folds, and he rubs the tip through your slickness, teasing the entrance.
"Ready for more?" he asks, though it's rhetorical.
He slides in, slow and deep, the stretch making you gasp into the pillow. He bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass, and he stills, letting you adjust. His hands grip your hips, his rings cold against the flushed heat of your skin.
"Fuck, you feel perfect," he groans, his accent thickening. "Always so tight for me."
He starts moving, a slow, deep rhythm that rocks your body against the mattress. The angle is perfect, his cock hitting that sweet spot deep inside you with every thrust. He leans forward, his chest pressed to your back, his lips against your ear.
"Look at us," he whispers. "Months of watching you walk around the apartment in those tiny shorts, wanting to bend you over the kitchen counter. And now I've got you in my bed, taking my cock like the good girl you are."
His hand comes around to your front, his fingers finding your clit again. He rubs it in tight circles as he fucks you, the dual stimulation pushing you toward another orgasm.
"You gonna come for me again?" he asks, his voice strained. "Gonna soak my cock with your cum?"
"Yes, fuck, Felix—"
"That's my name, baby," he growls. "Let go. I've got you."
Your second orgasm crashes over you, harder than the first, your walls clenching around him as he continues to thrust, chasing his own release. He groans, a deep, guttural sound, and buries himself deep, spilling inside you with a shudder.
He stays there for a moment, breathing heavily, his weight a comforting pressure on your back. When he pulls out, his cum drips down your thigh, and he reaches down to smear it over your pussy with possessive fingers.
"Mine," he says, kissing your shoulder. "All mine."
He flops onto his back, pulling you with him until you're draped across his chest. His hand cards through your hair, his breathing slowly evening out.
"Good morning," he says, a lazy grin on his face. "Best wake-up I've ever had."
You laugh, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. "Same."
He hums, content. "Now you can go pee."
You smack his chest, but you're smiling. As you disentangle yourself from him, he catches your wrist, pulling you back for one more kiss—soft, sweet, full of promise.
"Hurry back," he says, his voice dropping back to that deep, intimate register. "I'm not done with you yet."
I’ve been working really hard on my new Hyunjin fanfic and I finally have it up on Wattpad! It’s a dark romance/psychological thriller called THE MADMAN.
If you like "Doctor x Patient" tropes and a lot of tension, please go check it out and give me a follow! It would mean the world to me.
Read it here: https://www.wattpad.com/story/410626126?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_writing&wp_page=create&wp_uname=Bonniebutnotblue
If the link doesn't show search THE MADMAN
And look for this one⬇️
Pls support me and pls read my other published books about skz..
🔞 18+ ONLY. This is a work of fiction and does not reflect the real-life identities of the idols involved. Do not repost or translate. Minors DNI.
The apartment smelled like instant ramen, fabric softener, and Felix’s stupid vanilla vape.
Not in a bad way, though.
In a dangerous way.
The kind of smell that clung to hoodies left on your bedroom floor. The kind that settled into your lungs until you started associating it with comfort. With home.
With him.
You stared at the ceiling of your tiny Seoul apartment while the sound of aggressive keyboard clicking echoed from the living room.
“BRO WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE WAS CAMPING THERE?!”
A beat.
Then louder:
“THAT’S LITERALLY EMBARRASSING.”
You snorted into your pillow.
Two months ago, if someone told you your roommate would be a loud Australian gamer boy with freckles, platinum blond hair, and the attention span of a raccoon holding an energy drink, you would’ve laughed in their face.
But rent in Seoul was criminal.
And desperation did strange things.
It started with a late-night post on a roommate app:
> Looking for roommate ASAP. Apartment in Hongdae. Must pay rent on time and not be weird.
Simple.
Reasonable.
Then came Felix.
---
At first, his profile looked suspicious.
No normal person used a gaming chair photo as their main profile picture.
His bio literally said:
> “Producer/gamer. Clean sometimes. I cook eggs.”
You almost ignored it.
Then he showed up to the apartment viewing wearing an oversized hoodie, black sweats, glasses slipping down his nose, and carrying a convenience store iced coffee like it was emotionally supporting him through life.
“Sorry I’m late,” he’d said breathlessly. “I lost track of time.”
“You mean gaming?”
He looked genuinely offended.
“…Maybe.”
And somehow that became your roommate.
---
Living with Felix was surprisingly easy.
Mostly because he acted like a giant overgrown cat.
He wandered around at 3AM looking for snacks. Fell asleep on the couch mid-stream. Bought unnecessary LED lights for the apartment because “the vibes matter.”
Sometimes you’d wake up to hear him softly singing while cooking ramen.
Other times you’d walk into the kitchen and nearly die because he’d be standing there in gray sweatpants and absolutely no shame.
You learned things about him quickly.
Felix cursed when he lagged.
He hated mornings.
He got clingy when sleepy.
And he had a habit of leaning too close when showing you things on his monitor.
“Look,” he said one night, grabbing your wrist dramatically. “Look at this guy’s aim. That’s illegal.”
You leaned over his gaming chair, trying to focus on the screen instead of the warmth of his hand still around your wrist.
“Mhm.”
“You’re not even looking.”
“I am.”
“You’re staring at my side profile.”
Your eyes widened instantly.
Felix slowly turned in his chair, one eyebrow raised.
Then he grinned.
That stupid grin.
“Caught you.”
“You’re insane.”
“You think I’m pretty.”
“You smell.”
“Wow,” he gasped. “Bullying in my own home.”
“You pay half the rent.”
“Still traumatic.”
You rolled your eyes and tried to walk away, but he caught the hem of your hoodie sleeve before you could escape.
“You hungry?”
“…A little.”
“I’ll make ramen.”
“You’ll burn the apartment down.”
“That happened one time.”
“Felix.”
“Okay twice.”
---
It got worse after that.
Not the roommate situation.
The tension.
Because once you noticed Felix, you couldn’t unnotice him.
You noticed the way his voice deepened when he got tired.
The way he pushed his hair back while gaming.
The way he’d casually rest a hand on your waist while squeezing past you in the kitchen like he didn’t realize what it did to you.
Sometimes he streamed late into the night while you studied on the couch nearby.
His fans loved you.
Not because they knew who you were.
But because they could hear you occasionally in the background.
“Lix, tell your girlfriend to stop laughing at me.”
“I’m not his girlfriend,” you called out automatically.
Felix muted his mic for exactly two seconds before looking over his shoulder.
“You sure?”
Your stomach flipped violently.
“Go back to your game.”
He laughed under his breath and unmuted.
---
The first time things almost crossed the line happened during a thunderstorm.
Very cliché.
Very annoying.
The rain hammered against the apartment windows while Felix sat on the floor beside the couch, controller in hand.
You were wrapped in a blanket beside him, half-watching the game.
“Can you stop dying?” you muttered.
“I’m literally carrying my team.”
“You’ve screamed six times.”
“That’s tactical screaming.”
“That’s not a thing.”
Felix paused the game just long enough to look at you.
His blond hair was messy from running his hands through it all night. Glasses low on his nose. Hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows.
Pretty.
Unfairly pretty.
“What?” he asked quietly.
“…Nothing.”
“You’re staring again.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
The room suddenly felt too warm.
The storm outside crackled loudly enough to shake the windows a little.
Felix leaned back against the couch beside your legs, tilting his head up to look at you.
“You know,” he said softly, “you get nicer when you’re sleepy.”
“I’m always nice.”
“You threatened to throw my keyboard away yesterday.”
“You deserved it.”
“For what?”
“You kept screaming into your mic.”
“That was competitive passion.”
“That was demonic.”
Felix laughed, head falling back against the couch cushion.
And before you could think better of it, your fingers brushed through his hair.
Silence.
Actual silence.
Felix slowly looked up at you.
The smile on his face disappeared completely.
Not in a bad way.
In a dangerous way.
His eyes dropped briefly to your lips before returning to your face.
“You do that a lot,” he murmured.
Your hand stilled. “Do what?”
“Touch me like you don’t realize what you’re doing.”
Your heartbeat stumbled.
“I…”
Felix stood up slowly.
Too slowly.
Now he was directly in front of you, knees brushing yours where you sat curled under the blanket.
The apartment suddenly felt tiny.
“Tell me to move,” he said quietly.
You swallowed.
Didn’t speak.
Felix’s hands landed on either side of you against the couch cushions.
Not trapping you.
Giving you space to leave.
But you didn’t.
“You’re staring again,” he whispered.
“You keep mentioning it.”
“Because you keep doing it.”
His voice had dropped lower now. Softer. Rough around the edges.
Rain filled the silence between you.
Your breath caught when his fingers brushed lightly against your knee through the blanket.
Testing.
Waiting.
“Felix…”
“Hm?”
“You’re really close.”
“I know.”
“You’re annoying.”
A small grin tugged at his lips.
“But you like me anyway.”
The worst part?
He sounded sure.
Completely sure.
Your fingers tightened around the blanket.
Felix noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
His gaze dragged slowly over your face before settling on your mouth again.
Then, very quietly:
“If I kiss you right now… are you gonna act like you hate me tomorrow?”
Your brain completely short-circuited.
Because Felix wasn’t teasing anymore.
No smug grin.
No joking tone.
Just warm eyes and the smell of vanilla and rain and fabric softener surrounding you until you couldn’t think straight.
“You talk too much,” you whispered.
Felix’s smile returned slowly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He leaned closer.
Close enough that you could feel his breath this time.
Close enough that one more inch would ruin both of you completely.
And then his hand slid gently around your waist as he murmured against your lips:
“Good thing you’re finally letting me.”
The air in the room suddenly felt heavier, thick with the humidity creeping in from outside and the tension that had been building between you for months. Felix didn’t move away. If anything, he moved closer, one large hand sliding from your waist to the small of your back as he pulled you flush against him.
You could feel the rapid beat of his heart through the fabric of his hoodie, fast enough to match your own.
“You have no idea,” he said softly, his voice dropping into that low register that always made your stomach flip, “how many times I’ve had to walk away from you in this kitchen. How many times I’ve had to pretend I was focused on a game just so I wouldn’t do exactly this.”
His thumb brushed along your jaw, tilting your face up toward his. The playful gamer-boy grin was gone now. In its place was something steadier, more dangerous, especially when he noticed the way your breath caught at the touch of his fingers near your ear.
He leaned in slowly, his nose brushing yours. The familiar scent of vanilla and laundry detergent wrapped around you until it was impossible to think clearly.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, barely a breath away from your lips. One final chance.
His other hand slipped into your hair, not rough, just firm enough to send a shiver down your spine.
“Tell me now,” he murmured, eyes flicking between your eyes and your mouth, “or I’m not letting this go.”
You didn’t tell him to stop.
Instead, your fingers tangled into his soft blond hair, pulling him the rest of the way down to you.
The kiss hit like a spark against gasoline.
Months of lingering stares, teasing comments, accidental touches in cramped kitchen spaces, late-night gaming sessions on the couch, all of it crashed together at once. Felix let out a quiet sound against your lips as his arms tightened around you, like he’d been holding himself back for far too long.
He pulled you closer until there wasn’t an inch of space left between you, the back of the couch pressing against your legs as the room spun warm and dizzy around both of you.
When he finally broke away, breathless, his forehead rested against yours for half a second before his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, lingering there just long enough to make your pulse stumble.
The air in the living room is thick, charged with a static that has nothing to do with the thunderstorm rattling the windowpanes outside. The only light comes from the erratic, neon pulse of the RGB strips lining the ceiling—deep purples and electric blues that cast long, dancing shadows across the walls, painting your skin in bruised hues of violet.
You are pressed back into the plush fabric of the couch, your breath hitching as Felix looms over you. The first kiss had been a collision, a desperate release of months of stolen glances and accidental touches in the kitchen. Now, the kiss has evolved into something slower, hungrier, and far more dangerous.
Felix’s hands are everywhere. One is buried deep in your hair, his fingers gripping tight, while the other is splayed across your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the callouses on his fingertips—the rough, hardened skin from countless hours at his gaming rig—scraping deliciously against the sensitive skin of your hip. The contrast is maddening: the roughness of his palms against the softness of your curves.
As he pulls back just an inch, his forehead rests against yours. His breathing is heavy, ragged, mirroring your own. When he speaks, his voice is a low, subterranean rumble that you feel in your chest more than you hear in your ears.
"I've wanted to do that since the day you moved in," he rasps, the vibration of his deep tone sending a shiver straight down your spine. "God, you have no idea how hard it's been, pretending I didn't want to tear your clothes off every time you walked past me in the hall."
He shifts, his weight pinning you further into the cushions. As his hand slides up from your waist, the cool metal of his rings bites into your warm skin. The chill of the silver is a sharp, electric contrast to the heat radiating from his body. He drags those rings slowly up your ribcage, a deliberate, torturous trail that makes your back arch instinctively.
"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave as he sees your reaction. The praise is a physical blow, leaving you breathless and aching for more. He loves the control, the way he can make you unravel with just a few words and a look of intense, focused adoration.
He captures your lips again, but this time it isn’t a question—it’s a claim. He tastes like mint and longing, his tongue swirling against yours with a chaotic energy that demands everything. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing to erase every millimeter of space between you. The friction of his denim against your thighs is almost unbearable, the hard line of his cock pressing firmly into you, letting you know exactly how much he’s been craving this.
Felix groans into the kiss, a sound of pure, unadulterated want. He breaks away to trail kisses down your jawline, his lips hot and demanding. He finds the sensitive spot just below your ear, sucking a bruised mark into your skin that marks you as his.
"Not here," he pants, his voice sounding wrecked. "I can't... I can't do this on the couch. I need you in my bed."
He doesn't let you go. In one fluid, chaotic motion, he hooks his arms under you and lifts you, your legs still locked around his hips. You cling to him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his oversized hoodie. As he carries you toward the hallway, the thunder crashes outside, a violent roar that echoes the turbulence in your own heart.
The transition to the bedroom is a blur of neon light and heavy breathing. The moment your back hits the mattress, the atmosphere shifts from tentative longing to urgent necessity. Felix is over you in a heartbeat, his presence overwhelming and all-consuming.
He strips his shirt off in one motion, revealing the lean muscle of his chest and the frantic beat of his heart. He looks at you with an intensity that feels like it could burn, his eyes scanning every inch of your face as if he’s memorizing you. He reaches down, his calloused hand sliding under the hem of your shirt, his rings grazing your stomach as he lifts the fabric.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers, his voice raspy and thick with emotion. "Finally... you're finally mine."
He leans down, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that tastes of victory and surrender. His hands move with a focused precision, navigating the buttons and zippers of your clothes with a desperate hunger. Every touch is a revelation, every gasp a confession of the tension that had been simmering between you for months.
As he slides your underwear down, his fingers linger on your thighs, squeezing firmly. He looks up at you, a smirk playing on his lips, though his eyes are dark with lust.
"I'm going to take my time with you," he promises, the deep vibration of his voice sending a final, jolting spark of electricity through your entire body. "I'm going to make sure you remember exactly why we waited this long."
He moves upward, his body sliding between your legs, the heat of him searing through the last remaining barriers. Just as the first wave of pure, explicit intensity crashes over you, Felix leans in, his breath hot against your skin, and whispers one last command that leaves you shivering and completely undone.
i keep feeding you all the fanfics you demand… and in return i kindly ask you to tag me whenever you find a GOOD fake text message felix fanfic because i’m OBSESSED with those omg
Okay but why is everyone on the stray kids side of tumblr so badass
Like I feel you guys are all so hot and cool and funny and I feel like a little emo nerd on their first day of school just clinging to my moots like
But seriously, you guys are all so phenomenal and creative. I’ve seen so many amazing fanarts, mood boards, fanfics and even some like shitposts which are deadass hilarious af
I’m just sat on the sidelines awkwardly applauding you all cause you’re all amazing man and idk how else to express it 😭
take a look at my girlfriend — shes the only one I got!
or: times different skz members got hit on, and they proudly showed you off as their partner.
wc:4k (500 ish each)
warnings: none! ot8(separate) x reader, fluff, crack, nonidol!au
a/n: a little treat for hitting 2k hehe ૮(˶ᵔᵕᵔ˶)ა
chan — 'she even loves the music that my band makes'
The couch at the studio has a permanent dent in the cushions from where you always slouched. You didn’t plan on becoming a fixture there — it just happened. His late nights turned into your late nights, his takeout orders became your takeout orders, and when you fell asleep for the first time waiting for him to finish editing, the studio stopped feeling like his workplace and started feeling like yours too.
At first, it was just weekend visits. dropping off lunch, then lingering a while till he finished up. Then the weeknights where you’d wait past midnight, because going home alone felt lonely and wrong when he was still working.
2racha—changbin and jisung— stopped asking why you were there (han occasionally slept on the other side of the couch anyway). Even the security guard waved you through without checking your badge.
Tonight was no different. You were curled under his hoodie, half watching some reality show on your laptop while Chan tweaked a vocal track for the third hour straight.
an intern had arrived an hour ago, all bright laughter and eager questions. You didn’t mind at first, Chan was patient with newbies, always explaining things twice if needed. But then her chair inched closer to his. Then she started getting touchy when it wasn't necessary.
Chan didn’t even look her way, just leaned back in his chair, occasionally putting space between them. You watched from the couch, the laptop screen long forgotten.
Then she asked the question, voice pitched too high, “So, are you single, or…?”
You held your breath without meaning to. chan’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. Then he turned his head, just enough to catch your eye over his shoulder, and the corner of his mouth twitched, jerking his thumb to your direction, “I’m married, actually,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
The intern’s face froze. Her gaze darted to you, then back to Chan, like she was trying to reconcile the idea of him belonging to someone with the fact that you were just… there. Quiet, half buried in his hoodie.
Chan didn’t wait for her to recover. He tapped his wedding band against the edge of his laptop and nodded toward the door. “that's a wrap for today, you should head out. It’s late.”
minho — 'you got me trippin' in finesse'
you've learned to read Minho's body like a second language, he's a dancer after all. You know his tells before he even speaks.
the way his shoulders relax when he’s finally nailed a routine, the quick tap of his fingers against his thigh when he’s impatient, the slight tilt of his head when he’s watching someone else move. It’s all punctuation in a conversation you’ve been having for months without saying a word.
You met at a studio mixer last summer, back when you were still just the barback for the afterparty, refilling drinks and dodging sweaty elbows. He’d been the one to notice you first, initiating a conversation with you over the counter.
Later, when the music switched to something slow and sultry, he’d pulled you onto the dance floor without asking, and you hadn’t protested.
Minho isn’t the type to flaunt things, though. He keeps his private life private, and you respect that, just a quiet understanding that some things don’t need an audience.
right now, you’re leaning against the doorway of studio 3, watching him run through a new routine with the team. Sweat glinting at his temples as he mirrors the others. You’ve seen this drill a hundred times, but it never gets old.
The music cuts abruptly mid step, and Minho’s gaze snaps toward the sound system — only to land on you instead. his expression turns into a soft smile, and you grin right back at him, raising your water bottle in a silent greeting.
One of the newer dancers, a woman with her hair tied in a tight topknot, follows his line of sight and raises an eyebrow.
Topknot leans into his space as he adjusts the music, her elbow brushing his arm. “You always this serious during practice?” she asks, he doesn’t look up from the playlist, just shrugs one shoulder.
Undeterred, she adds, “Bet you’re fun outside the studio, though. You ever take anyone out after hours?”
Minho’s fingers pause over the soundboard for half a second before he taps the play button again, letting the music swell back to life. He doesn’t answer her, just steps away to reset his position in the center of the room.
But topknot doesn't get a hint, it seems. She sidles closer, her voice dropping. “Come on, do you have a girlfriend or something?” She flicks her eyes toward you, still leaning in the doorway, and adds, “Or are you playing hard to get?”
You take a slow sip of your water. He’s never been one to entertain this kind of thing — not because he’s rude, but because he doesn’t see the point in feeding into games.
Still, you can tell the moment he decides to shut it down. He turns his head just enough to catch your eye, and the corner of his mouth twitches.
“nah,” he says, loud enough for the room to hear. “I already have someone.”
Topknot blinks, then laughs, like she thinks he’s joking. “Yeah? Where are they, then?”
Minho doesn’t hesitate. He lifts his chin toward you, and the smirk he’s been holding back finally breaks through. “Right there.”
changbin — 'guy.exe: 6 5'6 feet tall and super strong'
a matte black dumbbell rolled from Changbin’s grip and thudded against the rubber gym floor. He’d been at it for two hours— shoulders, back, arms, a relentless workout that left his top sticking to his skin in abstract patches of sweat. You watched from the bench near the water cooler, half hidden behind your phone, pretending to scroll while stealing glances at the way his muscles flexed under the lights.
Three years together, and the sight of him still made your pulse skip.
The gym was mostly empty, mid afternoon lull, just a few die hards and the staff wiping down machines. You’d come straight from work, still in your office slacks, your hair barely holding onto its ponytail. Changbin had texted earlier with a come keep me company and a winking emoji. who were you to turn down an excuse to watch your boyfriend work out?
A woman, early twenties, in one of those matching pink gym sets, hovered near Changbin’s bench while he adjusted the weight rack. You caught the tail end of her question, something about his deadlift form, but then she made her move. "Damn tho, you’re built like a god. Single?"
Changbin snorted, wiping his forearm across his forehead.. "Do I look single?" he said, shaking his head like the idea was ridiculous. Then, without hesitation, he tilted his chin toward you standing a few feet away, there, and grinned. "That’s my girl."
The woman followed his gaze, blinking at you like she’d only just noticed the water cooler, the benches, the entire half of the gym you occupied. You raised your hand in a half wave. "Sorry," he added, not sounding sorry at all.
You expected her to leave, but she just smirked, propping a hand on her waist. "Lucky girl," she said, loud enough for you to hear. then, to Changbin "You ever wanna trade up, you know where to find me." yikes.
Changbin’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyebrows did a little jump, He shot you a look—girl you seein' this?—before shrugging. "Nah," he said, casual as anything. "I’m good." He moved towards you and planted a kiss on your cheek, "Better than good."
hyunjin — 'hopelessly devoted to you'
You and Hyunjin had been neighbors in that crumbling apartment complex where the pipes groaned louder than the tenants, and your first real conversation happened because he'd left his studio door ajar.
The scent of paint had pulled you in like a lure, and there he was, sleeves rolled up, forearms smeared with charcoal, halfway through painting something that looked like a storm given human form. and you were mesmerized.
By the time you started dating, you'd learned to love the mess of him — the way his hair stuck up in every direction after hours of working, the paint streaks on his jeans, the fact that he'd forget to eat unless you nudged a takeout container into his line of sight. He balanced his chaotic creativity with a quiet steadiness that surprised you.
his art thrived on bold strokes and screaming colors, his love language was more subtle, warming your cold fingers between his palms, humming off key to your favorite songs while he cooked food for you, tracing the curve of your shoulder blade when he thought you were asleep.
The gallery showing was his first major one. You'd watched him prepare for weeks. frames piling up near the door, muttered debates about lighting choices at 3 am. When the invitations finally arrived, he'd handed yours over, "You don't have to come," he'd said, but you knew he wanted you to be there.
You'd kissed the worry from his forehead and tucked the invitation into your wallet, where it stayed until the corners softened from handling.
Now, standing near a table with a champagne flute you hadn't touched, you watched him work the room. Hyunjin moved through the crowd like water, slipping effortlessly between conversations without ever seeming anchored to any one group.
His laugh carried over the murmur of guests, and you felt that familiar warmth curl behind your ribs. This was his element, even if he'd never admit it. The way people leaned in when he spoke, how their eyes flicked toward his hands when he gestured — he commanded attention without trying, and you loved him most like this, alive with his passion.
The girl approaching him now had been circling for a while. You'd noticed her earlier, lingering near his largest piece, her head tilted in a way that suggested admiration.
When she touched Hyunjin's elbow, you saw him startle slightly before turning with that polite smile he reserved for strangers.
You couldn't hear them over the gallery's din, but her body language was clear. fingers tucking hair behind her ear, the slight lean forward. Hyunjin nodded along, hands stuffed in his pockets, already scanning the room for an exit.
You didn’t move, not yet anyway, because part of you wanted to see how he’d handle it.
That’s when he saw you. His eyes flicked over her shoulder, and something in his face shifted, relief.
You stood from the table, weaving through the crowd, the girl hadn’t noticed you yet, too busy tilting her chin up at him, one hand now resting on her collarbone.
“...really think we should discuss your technique, over some coffee?” she was saying as you slid into place beside him, close enough that your hip brushed his.
Hyunjin exhaled, barely audible, as you laced your fingers through his. His palm was warm, slightly damp from nerves, and you squeezed once, “Oh, he’d love that,” you said, sweetly. The girl blinked, her smile freezing as you added, “I’ll come too, I’m his girlfriend.”
“Yeah,” he said, and you could hear the grin in his voice before you even looked towards him. “she's my muse.”
jisung — 'everywhere I go I keep her picture in my wallet'
"Jisung." You poked his shoulder with your socked foot from where you were sprawled across the couch. "I will perish."
He didn’t look up from his phone, thumb scrolling lazily. "Dramatic."
"No, listen—" You rolled onto your stomach, pressing your cheek against the cushions. "My stomach is eating itself."
This time, he glanced over, one eyebrow raised. "You just ate two hours ago."
"Snacks aren’t food," you said gravely.
Jisung sighed, tossing his phone onto the coffee table with a soft clatter. "Fine," he said, dragging the word out like it physically pained him. "But if I'm going out in the middle of the night, you're eating the weird gummy worms I pick out."
You grinned, kicking your legs against the couch cushions. "Deal."
The convenience store felt both too bright and eerily empty at 1 AM. Jisung grabbed a basket, tossing in the usual suspects, chips, chocolate, those inexplicably neon gummy worms, and went over to the counter to pay when the cashier leaned over the counter. "You again," she said, grinning. "Third time this week."
Jisung blinked, setting the basket on the counter "Uh, yeah."
she picked up the contents, scanning each one as she went on. "I mean, you could be here for the snacks or whatever ," she said, waving a hand, "or you could admit you keep showing up for the ambiance." Her grin widened. "And by ambiance, I mean me."
jisungs mouth gaped, "Oh no, no, I'm—Married. Very, extremely married." then he pulled out his wallet, flipping it to the clear plastic sleeve where a polaroid of both of you rested. one where you were kissing his cheek and he had a big, wide grin on his face, then pulled out his card to pay.
she blinked, her grin faltering for half a second before she leaned back, shrugging with exaggerated nonchalances as she took the card from his hand "Damn," she said, clicking her tongue. "Figures the cute ones are always taken."
The apartment was dark when he got back, you were still in your spot on the couch, waiting impatiently for him. "Finally"
Jisung let the door slam shut behind him, you barely had time to process the dramatic thud before he was crossing the room in three long strides, arms outstretched, the plastic bag dangling from one hand.
He crashed into you with the force of a man who’d just survived a warzone, his face buried in the crook of your neck before you could even ask what was wrong. “I got hit on,” he mumbled into your skin, voice muffled.
You blinked, arms frozen mid-air around him, the crinkling snack bag pressed awkwardly between your ribs. “...By who?”
“The cashier,” he hissed, His cheeks were still flushed, the tips of his ears pink like he’d sprinted home instead of walked. “you’re coming with me next time. No. More. Solo. Snack. Runs.”
felix — 'the perfect pair'
the first time Felix walked into the community kitchen, he nearly dropped an entire tray of freshly chopped carrots.
You'd been there six months already — long enough to know that the dented metal tray was older than both of you combined, and that the carrots were destined for a stew that would feed sixty. You lunged without thinking, catching the edge just as it tipped, fingertips brushing against his.
"Thanks," he said, his sleeves were already rolled up past his elbows, "I swear I'm usually better at carrying things."
Felix still drops things sometimes, never the carrots again, but last month it was a spoonful of cinnamon that poofed into a cloud across the counter. You laughed so hard your ribs ached, and he grinned like he'd meant to do it, like every little accident was just an excuse to hear you laugh.
Now, twelve months deep into this rhythm — Saturday mornings at the kitchen, Sunday afternoons tangled in his double bed, it's your little routine now.
This morning, he's leaning against the fridge, peeling labels off donated jam jars while humming off key. "Mrs. eom asked if we're doing the pumpkin soup again," he says, glancing at you. "Told her we'd have to check with the boss." He winks. You're not the boss. There is no boss. But this is Felix's favorite joke, his way of stitching you into the center of his stories, even when you're just scrubbing pans in the corner.
this new volunteer has been hovering around him all morning. You recognize the tilt of her head, she keeps finding reasons to step into his space, keeps finding reasons to strike up conversations, and he's too kind to turn her down on the get go.
she might've mistaked his kindness for something else though.
He's handing her a knife to chop chilis when she "accidentally" grazes his wrist. "You're always so patient with everyone," she says, he replies with a simple "thank you", polite as ever, but you could tell he was uncomfortable.
You don't move. Because Felix is already walking over to your station, he bumps his forehead lightly against your temple "Rescue me," he murmurs into your hair, and you can feel her stare burning holes in your back.
"Tell her yourself," you whisper, amused. you're already reaching for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. Felix exhales, relieved, before turning back to her with that easy smile.
"Oh! Almost forgot," he says brightly "This is my favorite person. The reason I never miss a Saturday."
And just like that, the room tilts back into place, Felix glowing like always, you beside him, and the quiet understanding that some things, like this kitchen, like his hand in yours, aren't up for grabs.
seungmin — 'I'd risk it all for you '
stadium lights blazed down, bright enough as if the sun was still up, turning the sweat on Seungmin’s skin into glitter. He wiped his forearm across his brow, smearing a streak of infield dirt in the process, and grinned at the roar of the crowd still thrumming through the stands. The mic in his hand was warm from being passed around, and the interviewer, was standing just a little too close. Her perfume was floral, aggressive.
"Kim Seungmin," she said, "Another incredible performance tonight. That last play — were you trying to give your fans a heart attack?"
Seungmin laughed, easy and practiced, the sound swallowed up by the noise around them. "Nah, just wanted to keep things interesting." He shrugged, adjusting the cap perched on his damp hair. The fabric of his jersey clung to his shoulders, heavy with sweat and adrenaline.
"Interesting is one word for it." She tilted her head, leaning in enough that the mic brushed his chest. "You’ve been on a hot streak this season. What’s driving you?"
Seungmin exhaled through his nose, a quick, amused breath. "Same thing as always," he said, gaze drifting past the interviewer's shoulder toward the stands. "Love of the game."
"That’s it? Just pure passion? No special someone in the stands tonight?"
Seungmin let the silence stretch just long enough for the tension to coil — then, he spoke again, "Actually," he said slowly, "yeah. My girlfriend’s here."
The interviewer blinked. The mic slipped a fraction in her grip.
The crowd erupted, a collective 'ohhh' rippling through the stands. Somewhere in the noise, someone wolf whistled. Seungmin didn’t react, just kept that easy, knowing smile, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
"we've been together since college," he continued, voice carrying effortlessly over the din. The interviewer recovered quickly, professionalism snapping back into place, but her grip on the mic was tighter now.
“That’s sweet,” she said, and it wasn’t insincere, “Care to share more? The fans would love to hear.”
Seungmin’s gaze flicked back to where you were sitting — third baseline, five rows up, right where you always were, and his expression softened. “She hates when I talk about her in interviews,” he admitted, laughing under his breath. “But she’s the reason I don’t overthink pitches. And the reason I do stretch before games.”
The interviewer opened her mouth, probably to pivot back to safer baseball territory, but the cameraman beat her to it, swinging the lens abruptly toward the stands. The stadium screen flickered, then locked onto your face, blown up fifty feet tall for thirty thousand people to see.
Your lips parted in surprise, the nacho you’d been mid bite hovering forgotten in your hand. Seungmin’s chuckle echoed through the speakers, "There she is,"
A nearby fan elbowed you, grinning. "Girl, you’re famous now!" she stage whispered. Your cheeks burned, but you managed a small wave at the camera, awkward, The crowd ate it up, cooed like it was the cutest thing they’d ever seen.
On screen, Seungmin’s smile went crooked, like he was trying not to laugh at you. "See?" he told the interviewer, nodding toward the screen. "Told you she hates this." The mic caught the rasp in his voice, the one that only showed up when he was tired or fond. Tonight, it was both.
Jeongin — 'love struck girl, I'd tease her.'
"You would pick the one night we’re out of ice cream to confess you like me," Jeongin had said that night two years ago, his voice cracking halfway through the sentence. He’d been holding a half melted pint of strawberry between you like a peace offering, or maybe a shield.
The confession had been an accident, words slipping out during one of those aimless midnight drives where the radio played nothing but old love songs and static.
You’d blamed the music, blamed the summer heat, blamed the way he’d drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat.
But Jeongin, ever meticulous, had pulled into the nearest convenience store parking lot, then returned with the ice cream as if that solved anything. but it only got that confession out of you that was begging to crawl out of your throat days prior.
Now, standing in the crowded glow of your friends apartment, you watch Jeongin from across the room. He’s holding a drink he hasn’t sipped yet, nodding as some woman you don’t recognize — a friend of a friend, probably — talks animatedly about something.
The way she gestures tells you it’s a story, not small talk. Jeongin’s always been a good listener, the kind who leans in just enough to make people feel heard, but tonight there’s a stiffness in his shoulders you recognize.
Hyunjin bumps your elbow with a fresh beer. "You’re staring," he sing songs under his breath.
You take the bottle without looking. "I’m observing."
"Same thing." He follows your gaze, then snorts. "Oh, her. She’s new. Felix invited her. Something about crypto startups? I tuned out after 'blockchain.'"
The woman— crypto girl —leans closer to Jeongin, her hand brushing his sleeve as she laughs. You don’t move. Jeongin’s fingers twitch against his glass, then still.
Then, clear across the room "So… are you single?"
Hyunjin chokes on his drink.
Jeongin blinks, caught off guard. For a second, he looks like he might laugh it off, might deflect like he used to when strangers flirted with him at bars back when you were just friends. But then his gaze flicks to you and his posture shifts.
"No," he says, quieter than usual. "I’m engaged."
Crypto girl’s eyebrows shoot up. "Really? I wouldn’t have guessed."
Before she can say more, you’re crossing the room, setting your beer down on the table beside Jeongin with a clink. "What wouldn’t you have guessed?" you ask, voice light.
Jeongin exhales, something close to relief. His fingers find yours without hesitation "That I’m taken," he says, squeezing your hand.
Crypto girl’s smile falters. "Ah. My bad." She retreats with a half hearted salute, already scanning the room for someone else to talk to.
Jeongin watches her go, then turns to you, sheepish. "Sorry."
"You’re apologizing for existing attractively now?" you tease, bumping his shoulder.
He rolls his eyes, but his thumb traces circles over your knuckles. "Shut up."
a/n: I hope at least one person gets all the lyrical references I made in this or I might just cry
I had lost count of how many times I’d heard about him.
Every visit to my friend’s apartment came with the same ritual, a fresh update on Lee Know, the neighbor from 4B.
“He was taking out the trash in just a tank top yesterday, Y/N. I nearly passed out.”
Or: “I heard him singing in the shower through the wall. His voice is literally angelic.”
Or the classic: “If I don’t get a chance with him soon, I’m going to spontaneously combust.”
I would nod, laugh, and remind her that she’d been saying this for six months without ever actually making a move. But secretly, I understood. The few glimpses I’d caught of Lee Know in the hallway, his sharp jawline, almond eyes that crinkled when he smiled, that effortless good looks, were enough to make anyone’s brain short-circuit.
So when she called me on a lazy Saturday afternoon, claiming she needed company while she waited for Lee Know to come fix her kitchen sink, I didn’t hesitate.
“You’re actually going to talk to him this time, right?” I asked, settling onto the couch with a bag of chips.
“Absolutely,” she declared, pacing the living room. “I’ve prepared an entire conversation. I’m going to ask him about his cats. Girls love guys who love cats, right?”
“Genius strategy.”
Except the universe had other plans.
Twenty minutes before Lee Know was supposed to arrive, her phone buzzed with a frantic text from work. An emergency. A client crisis. She had to go in, just for an hour, maybe two.
“No,” she wailed, clutching her phone like it had personally betrayed her. “This is my moment. My chance. I can’t leave now.”
“Go,” I said, already reaching for the remote. “I’ll babysit the apartment. Tell him you got called in, and he can still fix the sink. I’ll let him in.”
“Really? You’d do that?”
“Of course. It’s just fixing a sink, not rocket science.”
She threw her arms around me in a grateful hug, then scrambled to grab her bag. “Okay, okay. Do NOT flirt with him. He’s mine.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The door slammed shut, and I was alone.
I spent the next thirty minutes half-watching a drama and half-anticipating the knock that would eventually come. When it finally did, a sharp, confident rap against the wood, I felt a jolt of something I refused to name.
I opened the door.
And there he was.
Lee Know stood in the hallway, tools tucked under one arm, wearing a simple black t-shirt that clung to his shoulders and loose sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His hair was swept back, a few strands falling forward, and his smile was easy, casual.
“Hey,” he said, his voice lower than I expected. “Your friend texted me. Said I’d be fixing the sink for a pretty audience instead.”
I laughed, stepping aside to let him in. “Something like that. She got called into work. I’m just the stand-in.”
“Stand-in audience.” He walked past me, close enough that I caught a hint of something clean and faintly musky. “I can work with that.”
The next hour was… interesting.
Lee Know worked methodically, crouched under the sink, his hands moving with practiced ease. I sat on the counter nearby, watching, making small talk. I asked about his job, his dancing, his cats. He answered with dry humor and the occasional pointed look that made my stomach flip.
“So your friend,” he said, not looking up from where he was tightening a pipe. “She talks about me a lot?”
“You have no idea.”
“Good things, I hope.”
“Very good things.” I paused. “She might have a little crush on you.”
Lee Know emerged from under the sink, wiping his hands on a rag. His eyes met mine, and there was something knowing in them. “And what about you?”
“Me?”
“Yeah. Do you have a little crush on me too?”
The question hung in the air, bold and unexpected. Heat crept up my neck.
“I think I’m just the messenger,” I said, deflecting.
He smirked. “Messengers are allowed to have opinions.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Because the truth was complicated, tangled up in loyalty to my friend and the undeniable pull I felt toward him.
He finished the sink in silence after that, but the tension didn’t disappear. It thickened, wrapping around us like smoke.
“It’s all done,” he announced finally, packing up his tools. “Sink’s fixed. No more dripping.”
“Thanks. I’ll let her know.”
He didn’t move toward the door.
Instead, he leaned against the counter, arms crossed, head tilted. “Your friend’s not coming back for a while, is she?”
“Probably not. Another hour. Maybe two.”
“Good.”
The word landed heavy.
“Why is that good?” I asked quietly.
He pushed off the counter and walked toward me, slow and deliberate. Each step felt calculated. He stopped close enough that I could see the faint mole under his eye.
“Because I’ve been watching you watch me all afternoon,” he said. “And I want to know what you’re thinking.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“I think,” I said slowly, “that you’re dangerous.”
“Dangerous how?”
“Dangerous like… I shouldn’t be standing this close to you.”
His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from my face. The touch was light, but it sent a spark down my spine.
“And yet here you are,” he murmured.
“Tell me to stop,” he said softly. “Tell me this is a bad idea, and I’ll leave.”
Every rational thought screamed at me to do exactly that.
But I didn’t.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
That was all it took.
His mouth met mine, warm and insistent, and my hands found their way to his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt. He kissed me like he’d been waiting for permission, like the restraint he’d been showing had been barely holding together.
His hands slid down my sides, gripping my waist, pulling me flush against him. I could feel the heat of his body through my clothes, the hard lines of muscle under the soft cotton.
“I’ve noticed you too,” he breathed against my lips. “Every time you visit. Every time you walk past my door. I’ve noticed.”
My brain was a haze of want. I tugged at his shirt, pulling it up, needing to feel his skin. He helped me, yanking it over his head and tossing it aside without breaking the kiss.
My fingers traced his chest, smooth and warm, the faint outline of his abs making my breath hitch. He shuddered under my touch.
“You’re killing me,” he muttered.
“Good.”
He laughed, low and rough, then lifted me onto the kitchen counter. His hands slid up my thighs, pushing my skirt higher. My breath caught as his fingers brushed the damp fabric of my underwear.
“Already?” he asked, his voice teasing but darker now.
“Shut up.”
He didn’t. He just smiled against my neck, pressing a kiss there, then another, then another, working his way down to my collarbone. My head fell back, my fingers tangling in his hair.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of my underwear, pulling them down slowly. The anticipation was maddening. I bucked my hips, trying to rush him, but he held me steady.
“Patience,” he said.
“Forget patience.”
Lee Know’s laugh vibrated against my skin. “I like you.”
Then he knelt between my legs.
The first touch of his mouth made me gasp. He was precise, deliberate, his movements controlled in a way that made everything feel more intense. My hand fisted in his hair, my breathing uneven. He took his time, building the tension until I was trembling, until I was begging, until I finally broke with a cry I couldn’t hold back.
He stood again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
I pulled him up for another kiss, tasting myself on his lips. My hands fumbled with his jeans, undoing the button, pulling down the zipper. He pressed closer, and I wrapped my hand around him, moving once, twice.
His groan was rough. “You’re going to make me lose control.”
“Good.”
I guided him closer, feeling the tension coil again between us. He paused for a second, meeting my eyes.
“Last chance to back out.”
I didn’t answer with words. I just pulled him closer.
We both let out a breath at the same time, the moment hitting all at once. He stilled briefly, his forehead resting against mine.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
“Yeah,” I whispered.
Then he moved.
Slow at first, controlled, like he was trying not to rush it. My legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer. His hands braced on either side of me, muscles tightening as his pace picked up.
The rhythm built steadily, tension climbing again, sharper this time. My breath caught, my grip tightening on him as everything blurred into sensation.
I felt it building again, low and intense. His breathing turned uneven, his control slipping.
“Come with me,” he said, his voice strained.
I couldn’t have stopped even if I tried.
The release hit hard, pulling everything out of me at once. He followed right after, his head dropping to my shoulder as he exhaled sharply against my skin.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then he pulled back slightly, his expression softer now, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He pressed a light kiss to my forehead.
“Your friend’s going to kill me,” he said.
I let out a quiet laugh. “She’s going to kill both of us.”
“Worth it.”
He helped me down from the counter and handed me a towel. We got dressed in silence, but everything felt different now, heavier, like we were both aware of what had just happened.
When my friend finally came back, Lee Know was already gone. The sink was fixed. The apartment looked untouched.
“Is it done?” she asked, dropping onto the couch.
“Yeah. All fixed.”
“And Lee Know? Was he cute?”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “Extremely.”
“I knew it,” she sighed. “One day. One day I’m going to make my move.”
