Super Junior, SHINee, EXO

[valentinesxoxo]

𐔌 . ⋮ valentines 4k special .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ × ❨ new gen 11 p! links ❩

vivian hugo ۶ৎ

wet & grinding for more × you’re needy for him × he lied that he was gonna go slow and gentle × he’s so pussy drunk .. × he finally comes home × yummy cum ! × you have to stay quiet or else × you both needed this .. × he’s talking to you through it × just licking the tip

michael kaiser ۶ৎ

all he wants is you × stay quiet.. × you told him to go harder .. × you couldn’t help yourself but to jerk him off × he’s so big you couldn’t help yourself × he’s such a tease × he missed you so much × pleasing you while pleasing himself × this is perfect × he’s so mean

sae itoshi ۶ৎ

this is hot × so oily × missionary cus you love his face × what a nice view × you gotta work for it × how he fingers you × grinding on him cus you missed him × mmmm × it’s just so good × he’s clingy when he misses you

bunny iglesias ۶ৎ

you both needed it and it shows × you’re a moaning mess for him × another quickie in the car before his training × whatever pace you wants because he doesn’t mind × morning sex with him × he stopped moving so you had to do the work × up and down and repeat × take your punishment × ouuu he came back from practice needing you × jerking him off

lmao you a lame if you steal ts.. the real owner is @valentinesxoxo

julian loki ۶ৎ

yummy blowjob × just the tip × pulled out in time × bounce on it like a good girl × ride it like there’s no time left × you needed him so bad × in front of the mirror so you can see but you fold easily × tehehe you asked for it × you asked him to go harder on you × you wanted it badly

don lorenzo ۶ৎ

you both couldn’t keep quiet × backshots everyday × he couldn’t stop teasing you × sitting on his face & more × what he sends you while you’re gone × he loves your thighs × you’re a good girl for him × creampie × he filled you up

teddy knight ۶ৎ

pretty missionary × he’s so big.. × what a teaser × sorta body size kink .. × he’s bigger than you think × he’s so aggressive today × this is sexy af × cute close up × a quickie in the car × oops he’s teasing again × tehehe

[godmadeaterribleerror]

lover

✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦

✦summary: dean learns, slowly, that he's actually pretty good at being boyfriend material. it would be nice if you'd stop pining after him long enough to notice✦

✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, friends with benefits to lovers, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love because it's the best way to be, dean's down so bad, shameless smut (facesitting, praise kink, big dick dean, fingering, pussy spanking, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, mean dean, dean has an orgasm rule and you. benefit. dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦

✦wc: 12.5k✦

✦author's note: request! super normal about this one✦

You tell yourself, over and over again, that this is going to be the last time. It’s not something that’s meant to be held onto, so you can just… let go.

But then you find yourself here. Between tangled sheets with your legs spread wide, your nails digging into Dean’s bicep and his cock dragging through your wet, sensitive cunt.

“There you go,” he coos in your ear, every thrust deep and rough. “That’s my girl, takin’ me so good, so- Good-“

Dean moans, pressing up against the soft, gummy spot inside of you, and your eyes roll back in your head.

He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough  and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.

What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.

You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.

“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-

You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.

He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.

But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-

“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“

You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.

“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“

You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-

“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“

Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.

For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.

Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.

“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.

You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.

“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”

And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.

When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.

He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.

Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.

And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.

You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.

You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.

“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.

“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”

“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.

“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”

“That was unrelated.”

“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”

You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.

“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“

“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.

It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.

You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time. 

You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.

Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep. 

“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“

Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-

“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”

Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.

But you did it. You held the line.

And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.

Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.

And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.

And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.

“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.

“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”

You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”

“Uh huh.”

You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.

“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.

“That’s what I said.”

“Dean-“

“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.

Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.

“Uh- Hey, Dean-“

“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.

“Dude-“

“Shut your face-“

“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“

“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”

Sam sighs. “Dean-“

“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“

“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.

He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.

Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.

“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.

“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.

“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“

“Henry’s?”

“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”

“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.

“Whatever you want.”

God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.

“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.

The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.

The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.

He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.

“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”

“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”

“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”

You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”

“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“

“No, you don’t.”

He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.

It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.

“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.

“You?”

“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“

“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“

“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”

“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”

“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”

“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs  had you learned to play?”

Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“

“I think we do.”

“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“

“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”

“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”

“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.

“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“

“You could teach me.”

“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”

“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.

“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”

You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“

“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”

You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”

Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.

You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.

“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”

You blink. “What?”

“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”

“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”

“Yeah. I know.”

You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.

“You alright-“

“Yep. I- I’m good-“

“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“

“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.

“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.

“You are old.”

“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”

Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-

Hold the line.

“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.

“That all I am to you? Some wine?”

“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”

“Good cheese, huh.”

“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.

When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.

“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“

“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”  

“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”

You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.

Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.

His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.

But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.

It just feels different.

“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.

If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.

For once, you decide not to try.

The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.

He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.

“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.

“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.

“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”

You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.

The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.

Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.  

Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.  

You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.

Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.

“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.

“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”

“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”

“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”

Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.

“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.

“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“

“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”

You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.

“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.

You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-

“Hey.”

You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.

“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”

“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.

“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”

“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.

The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”

And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.

So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.

Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.

“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.

He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.

“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.

“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”

Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.

“Dean-“

“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.

“Oh- Okay.”

Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.

“Get your book.”

You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“

Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”

He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.

Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.

Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.

A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”

You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.

“Shit- Dean-“

“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.

You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.

But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.

“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”

You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.

“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”

You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.

“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“

“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“

“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”

“It doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it does-“

“Nah.”

“Dean-“

“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”

Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.

“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“

“Would you care?”

Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.

“Would you care-“

“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”

Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.

“What-“

“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”

Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”

“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“

“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“

“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.

“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”

He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.

“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.

“You were-“

“Sweetheart-“

“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”

Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.

“Dean-“

“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”

You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-

“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.

“What’d you mean, are we dating?”

“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”

“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“

“What the fuck is necking?”

Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”

Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.

“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”

You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.

He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.

“Did you… Not think we were dating?”

You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.

“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”

“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.

“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“

“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.

“’Bout three months.”

“Three months?!”

“That’s what I said, baby-“

“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”

Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.

“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”

“How would I have known-“

“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”

“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.

“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“

“Sam was there-“

“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”

You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.

“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.

“Yes, it was-“

“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”

He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”

“Friends do that-“

“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.

“Um- Maybe?”

Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“

“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“

“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.

“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”

“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”

Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”

You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.

“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”

You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re nice to me-“

“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.

“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“

“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”

You swallow. “Help you?”

“Yeah.”

“With what-“

“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”

You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.

Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.

You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.

“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”

His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.

“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“

Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.

And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.

You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.

But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.

Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.

You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.

“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”

That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.

“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“

“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.

Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“

“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”

And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.

You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.

“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”

“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“

You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.

“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.

You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.

“Doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“

Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.

“Look at  you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”

“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“

“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”

You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.

“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”

“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.

His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.

“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“

“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”

You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.

“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”

You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.

“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“

“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”

Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“

“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”

Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.

Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”

He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.

Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.

“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”

“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.

“Isn’t it?”

You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.

But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.

“De- Dean-“

“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”

You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.

“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“

You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”

That’s what does it. My girl.

The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.

Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.

“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”

“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”

“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.

“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”

He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.

You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.

“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.

“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“

“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“

“Dean-“

“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”

You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.

Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.

You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.

And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.

Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.

He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.

“I’m serious, baby-“

“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.

And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.

You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.

“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“

You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.

“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“

You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.

And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.

Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.

“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”

You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.

“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“

“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”

You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.

“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”

Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.

He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.

“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.

“’M sorry-“

“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“

He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.

“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”

You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.

Dean is going to take care of you.

He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.

“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.

“N- No.”

“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”

You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.

“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”

“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”

You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”

Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.

His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“

He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.

But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“

He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.

“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“

He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.

Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.

You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-

You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.

But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.

“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”

Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.

“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“

He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.

Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and  you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.

You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.

Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.

“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.

“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”

“It- It’s your stupid rule-“

“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”

You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.

“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.

“Dean-“

“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”

You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.

“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”

You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.

“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”

You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.

“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”

And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.

“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”

“I- I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.”

You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.

He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.

Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.

“Sorry-“

“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”

A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.

“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.

“You’re big.”

He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.

“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”

You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.

“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“

He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.

“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“

You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.

But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.

“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”

You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.

“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”

“Fu- Fuck you-“

“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”

Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.

“Please-“

The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.

“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”

You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.

You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.

Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.

“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”

Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.

The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.

It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.

“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“

You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“

Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.

“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.

You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.

“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.

Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.

“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."

✦End note: if i write enough of these it's gonna happen to me guys trust ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[linoxpudding]

Out Of Line - Bang Chan

summary: when your boyfriend misinterprets your joke, it leads to a painful fight fueled by stress and fear

pairing: bang chan x fem!reader

genre: angst, hurt/comfort

word count: 3216 words

a/n: based on this request ♡

Masterlist

~°~

The apartment was warm that evening.

Your legs were tangled with Chan’s on the couch, the lights dimmed except for the TV where some overly dramatic k-drama couple were arguing for the fifth episode in a row. A bowl of pretzels sits between you. You feed him one. He steals two from your fingers. You swat his hand. He laughs, soft and breathy, leaning his head against your shoulder.

For once, he’s not in the studio and his phone isn’t buzzing. It was that rare moment where he was all yours.

You push a pretzel between his lips. He bites it, smiling around it, eyes crinkling as he looks at you.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he murmurs. “I just missed this.”

Your heart swells.

“Why are they crying again?” you mutter, watching the screen.

“Because it’s episode twelve,” Chan replies, completely serious. “Everyone cries in episode twelve.”

The k-drama couple on screen starts arguing, it was something about choosing love over ambition. You scoff.

“Of course he chose love, classic,” you say. “Men in k-dramas are all the same.”

Chan hums, distracted.

“You know,” you say lightly, eyes still on the screen, “sometimes I wonder if you’d choose the work over me if it came down to it.”

You laugh a little at the end because you mean it like a joke. A harmless, you work so much kind of joke.

The k-drama actors continue talking, voices filling the silence so you don’t notice right away that Chan didn’t laugh. Instead, his body went rigid beside you. The pretzel bowl shifted as he pulled his hand away. His arm slips out from behind you, the warmth gone so suddenly it makes you cold. You turn your head, confused, and see his jaw tighten, eyes fixed straight ahead.

“What did you say?” he asks.

“Oh—” you shift, already sensing it went wrong. “I was joking. You’re always working, so—”

“So what?” he cuts in.

His voice isn’t loud. That’s what makes it worse.

You sit up slightly, the pretzel bowl tilting. “Chan, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just—”

“You think I choose it?” he snaps, finally turning to you. His eyes are sharp now, guarded. Defensive. “You think I want to be there all the time?”

“No, I—”

“Because if I don’t work, everything falls apart,” he continues, words spilling faster now. “If I don’t stay up, if I don’t push, if I don’t make sure everything’s perfect, then I’m failing them. I’m failing my job.”

“That’s not what I said,” you say softly.

“But that’s what you meant,” he insists. “That I care more about work than you.”

You reach for his arm instinctively. He pulls away.

“Chan,” you say, a little desperate now, “I swear, I was joking. I didn’t think—”

“That’s the problem,” he says flatly. “You didn’t think.”

The words sting more than you expect. You blink, trying to keep your voice steady. “That’s not fair.”

He stands up abruptly, the couch shifting under you. The k-drama keeps playing, some dramatic confession happening completely unnoticed.

“I work my ass off every single day,” he says, pacing once. “I carry so much on my shoulders and the one place I don’t want to feel judged is here.”

“I’m not judging you,” you say, standing too. “I admire you. You know that.”

“Then don’t make jokes about things you don’t understand,” he snaps.

“I’m sorry baby.” you whisper.

“You don’t understand what’s on the line for me,” he continues, pacing now, hands running through his hair. “If I mess up, if I slow down, people suffer. The group suffers. This isn’t some nine-to-five job I can just clock out of.”

“I know that,” you say, standing too, voice shaking. “I’ve never once told you to stop working.”

“But you resent me for it,” he says. “I can hear it every time you say things like that.”

Your chest tightens. “I don’t resent you. I miss you.”

He turned to you sharply. “Don’t put that on me.”

You felt small under his gaze.

“Don’t act like I’m neglecting you when I’m breaking myself just to keep everything together,” he continued.

Tears burned behind your eyes. “I was joking, Chan. I swear. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But you did,” he said coldly.

The words landed hard. You stepped closer, reaching for him. “Please don’t shut me out over one stupid joke.”

He stepped back. “Maybe you should leave.”

You froze. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

You laughed weakly, hurt leaking into your voice. “C’mon. You’re really kicking me out over this?”

“I said,” he finally turns, eyes cold in a way you’ve never seen before, “please leave.”

A small, disbelieving laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. “C’mon. Don’t be so dramatic.”

His jaw clenches. “I’m not being dramatic. I need space.”

You stare at him, searching for the Chan who was feeding you pretzels ten minutes ago. “Over that?”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Please.”

Something in his tone made your throat burn.

“Okay,” you whispered.

You grabbed your bag with hands that felt numb. He didn’t follow you. Didn’t say anything else. Hell, he didn’t even look at you as you walked to the door.

You pause with your hand on the handle, half-expecting him to stop you, but he didn’t.

You sighed sadly and walked out. When the door clicked shut behind you, Chan exhaled shakily. He grabbed the remote and turned the TV off, plunging the apartment into silence. He ran a hand through his hair and let out a frustrated groan.

******************

The walk back to your apartment felt longer than usual.

At first, all you felt was anger. He didn’t even hear you out and just snapped when you tried to fix it. That anger sat hot in your chest and made your steps sharp against the pavement. You replayed his words over and over in your head and the way he would not even look at you when you tried to explain instead he just kicked you out… just like that.

You wanted to stay and to fix it but he did not let you.

Your fingers curl around the strap of your bag as you walk with your jaw tight. You wondered how someone who loves you so deeply could shut you out so completely. You wonder why he always assumed the worst when it comes to himself. You wonder why one joke was enough to push you away.

Then the anger started to soften.

It turned into confusion and sadness. That familiar ache of missing him even though it has barely been twenty minutes. You thought about the way his shoulders tensed, the way his voice sounded less angry and more wounded.

So, by the time your apartment building comes into view, guilt creeped in quietly.

You slowed your steps. 

You know he is stressed. You have always known. You know how much pressure he puts on himself, how little rest he allows himself, how deeply he fears letting people down. You know how much his work means to him, especially because so many people rely on him.

Maybe that is why it hit so hard. Maybe that is why such a simple, careless joke felt like an accusation to him.

You unlocked your door and stepped inside, closing it softly behind you. The apartment felt emptier than it should. You dropped your bag by the door and sat on the edge of your couch, staring at your phone.

Your thumb hovered over his name. Usually he would’ve bombarded your phone with his worried texts asking if you reached home safely, but tonight there wasn’t even a single text from him. You must’ve hurt him deeply. You teared up thinking about how he must be feeling now.

You typed messages like:

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Please don’t shut me out.

But then you deleted it. Then you typed again.

In the end, you locked your phone and set it face down beside you.

He asked for space, so despite everything, you still want to respect that.

You told yourself you will talk tomorrow, when things are calmer. When his emotions are not so raw. You fall asleep with a heavy heart, hoping he is okay.

******************

After you left, Chan just sat on the couch and stared blankly at the TV. It’s like he can’t move his body, it’s just glued to the couch. Reluctantly, he stood up and walked into his room.

The door shuts a little harder than he means it to.

He then started cleaning. Not because his room is dirty, but because his hands needed something to do. He straightened the bed even though it’s already neat. Picked up clothes that were never out of place. Lined his albums perfectly. Rearranged things that don’t need rearranging.

His movements were sharp. He was letting out all his anger.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered to himself, breath coming fast. “I shouldn’t have told you to leave.”

He knows he overreacted. He knows you were joking. He knows you never meant it the way his mind twisted it into something ugly and terrifying.

But logic didn’t make it stop, because the truth that he never says out loud, is that he’s always scared.

Scared of losing you. Scared of hurting you with his absence. Scared that one day you’ll look at him and realize you deserve someone easier, someone who’s there more.

At the same time, he can’t let go of his responsibilities.

He pressed his palms against the desk, his head hanging low.

So many people depend on him.

The members—his brothers—who trust him with their futures. The staff. The fans. The promises he’s made to everyone.

If he slips, the band falls. If he rests, he feels guilty. If he keeps this up, he might lose you forever.

His chest tightened.

“I’m trying,” he whispers to the empty room. “I’m really trying.”

And then it hits him all at once.

The way he pushed you away and was so harsh on you over a silly joke. The echo of the door closing.

His shoulders started to shake before he realized he’s crying.

A sob broke free, it was harsh and broken, and he clamped a hand over his mouth like that might stop it. 

He sinks down onto the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.

“I always knew this would happen,” he choked.

Every time you went out together secretly, every time he couldn’t show up for your dates because of his work, the way he had to hide you—there was always that quiet, poisonous thought in the back of his mind.

One day she’ll realize she could do so much better.

That she could choose someone who doesn’t cancel plans.

Someone who isn’t constantly exhausted.

Someone who doesn’t carry the weight of so many lives on his shoulders.

You stayed anyway, through everything, but now… he pushed you away himself.

A small, broken sound slipped from his lips.

“I can’t live without you.”

He laid down on the bed, curling slightly onto his side, one arm tucked beneath his head. Tears soaked into the pillow, his breathing uneven as exhaustion finally dragged him under.

He fell asleep with your name on his lips and the fear that this time, he might’ve lost the only thing that ever made him feel human.

******************

The next morning, Jeongin knocked lightly on Chan’s door.

“Hyung?” he calls out.

There was no response.

Jeongin frowns. Chan was never this hard to wake up, especially on a working day. He opened the door slowly and stepped inside.

“Hyung, we have to leave soon,” he said again.

Still nothing.

Unease settled in his chest as he walked closer to the bed. Chan was curled under the blanket on his side. Jeongin noticed his face was pale and his hair was damp with sweat. The maknae reached out and gently shook his shoulder.

“Hyung.”

Chan groaned softly but did not open his eyes.

Jeongin placed the back of his hand against Chan’s forehead and immediately pulled it back.

“You have a fever?” he asked, voice rising in concern.

Chan let out another weak groan. Jeongin rushed out of the room and returned a few minutes later with food, water, and medicine, setting everything carefully on the bedside table.

“Hyung, you should rest today,” Jeongin said firmly.

“I’m fine,” Chan muttered hoarsely, trying to push himself up. “I can go.”

“No,” Jeongin said immediately. “You are not fine.”

Chan swung his legs over the side of the bed anyway, but the moment he tried to stand, he swayed. His hand gripped the mattress, his breathing was uneven.

Jeongin catches him quickly. “Yeah, no. You are definitely not leaving.”

After some effort, he convinces Chan to lie back down. Chan barely argues this time, eyes squeezed shut, exhaustion written all over his face.

Jeongin hesitates only for a second and once he makes sure Chan is lying down, he leaves his room before pulling out his phone.

He scrolls to your name and presses call.

You answered almost immediately.

“Noona,” Jeongin said, his voice gentle but serious. “Chan hyung has a high fever.”

Your heart drops. “What?”

“He almost fainted trying to get up,” Jeongin continues. “I gave him medicine and food, but he needs rest.”

“I am coming over right now,” you say without hesitation.

Jeongin exhales in relief. “Okay. I am leaving for the studio now, but please come soon, yeah?”

“Yes,” you reply softly. “Thank you for calling me.”

After you hang up, you do not waste another second.

You grab your bag and head out, stopping first at the pharmacy for fever medicine, pain relievers, and cooling patches. Then you go to the grocery store and pick up soup ingredients, bottled water, and his favorite snacks—the ones he eats even when he says he is not hungry.

As you make your way to his place, worry settles deep in your chest.

The fight feels so small now and all you can think about is getting to him.

******************

When you finally reached his place, Jeongin was already gone. The apartment was quiet in a way that felt so wrong.

You took off your shoes without making a sound and walked straight to his room.

As you approached his bed, seeing Chan like that broke your heart. He looked smaller in bed, his usually strong frame curled in on itself and his lips were slightly parted as he breathed shallowly. His skin was flushed, and the faint crease between his brows told you he was still in pain even in his sleep.

You knelt beside the bed, the movement instinctive and careful as you lifted your hands and cupped his face. His cheeks felt warm beneath your palms, a little too warm, and the heat seeped into your skin instantly.

Your chest tightened.

“Channie…” you whispered, barely louder than a breath.

Your thumbs brushed gently along his cheekbones as you tried to ground yourself in the feeling of him. The anger from the night before dissolved completely, replaced by guilt and worry so sharp it almost hurt.

You should have stayed. You should have tried harder.

He stirred slightly at your touch, a faint sound leaving his throat, and you steadied his face as if you were afraid he might disappear if you let go.

“I’m here,” you murmured softly, more for yourself than for him. “I’ve got you.”

He stirred again, this time more fully, lashes fluttering as he slowly opened his eyes. They were glassy and unfocused at first, but then they found you.

“Baby?” he whispered groggily, voice rough.

“Yes,” you said immediately. “What happened, baby? You were fine last night.”

He swallowed, his throat clearly hurting. “I think the exhaustion finally got to me,” he admitted quietly. He let out a weak laugh that quickly faded into a tired exhale. “And also… crying the whole night probably contributed to it more.”

Your heart dropped at his words.

“You cried the whole night?” you asked softly, your thumb brushing over his warm cheek without thinking. “Why? Talk to me, baby.”

His lips trembled, and his eyes filled again before he could stop it. He turned his face slightly into your hand, as if your touch was the only thing keeping him together. “Gosh,” he whispered, blinking rapidly. “I really don’t deserve you.”

“Hey,” you said gently, leaning closer so he would not feel alone. “None of that. Not right now. Tell me.”

He took a shaky breath, chest rising unevenly. “I’m sorry I pushed you away,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m sorry I told you to leave.”

You shook your head immediately, tears stinging your own eyes. “Oh no, baby. I crossed a line too. I shouldn’t have made that joke. I knew you were already stressed.”

He frowned weakly, brows knitting together. “No,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I should have listened instead of shutting you out.”

“I should have been more careful with my words,” you replied quietly. “I never meant to make you feel like you weren’t enough.”

“And I never should have made you feel unwanted,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, you just looked at each other, the air between you heavy with everything that had been left unsaid, but finally it felt like everything was resolved. The fight from the night before felt distant now, replaced by understanding and relief.

“We both made some mistakes,” you sighed softly, squeezing his hand. “But we’re okay now.”

He looked at you uncertainly, eyes searching your face. “Yeah?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Yeah.”

Relief softened his expression, and you leaned in to kiss him.

“No,” he murmured weakly, lifting a hand between you. “You’ll get sick.”

“I don’t care,” you said simply, and kissed him anyway.

The kiss was gentle and brief, careful because he was still warm and weak. He let out a soft giggle into the kiss, the sound muffled against your lips.

“You’re insane,” he whispered.

“Yes,” you said with a small smile when you pulled back. “Insanely in love with you.”

He smiled tiredly at you, eyes half-lidded but full of affection.

You stood up then, wiping your eyes and straightening your shoulders, trying to sound firm even though your heart was still tender. “Okay, mister. I’m nursing you back to health now. You just lie down and focus on getting better.”

He groaned softly but did not argue.

“I am going to make you soup,” you continued. “Something warm and easy on your throat. You are going to lie here, drink water, and rest.”

You looked down at him pointedly. “Arasseo?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied obediently, voice hoarse but playful.

You giggled, unable to stop yourself. “Gosh, you’re so cute.”

He smiled sleepily.

“I’ll be right back,” you whispered. “Just rest.”

He nodded and you leaned down once more, pressing a soft kiss to his lips and then another to his forehead, lingering there for a moment before gently guiding him back into the pillows. Your fingers brushed through his hair, slow and comforting, until his eyes finally closed again.

-----------------------

Permanent Taglist 1:

@pixie-felix @multi-fandommaniac @emilyywhyy @geni-627 @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @brycesgirl @scribblesnsketches05 @lov3rachan @maddy24207 @river121798 @doodlebob2005 @stay-tiny-things @seungminnieinthebuilding @justwonder113 @nyaaa-cat @brbwritingfanfic @inlovewithstraykids @enhaskzverse @enhacolor @thisisnotjacinta @peskybirdysya @galaxygurlll @n4tr3ad5 @imnotsupposedtobedoingthis @linos-pudding-cup @xdbug-bob @7sunny07 @skzfangirl143 @felixsonlyrealwife @nougatjade @ysljoon @silentreadersthings @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @inmyfelixera @kokinu09 @ye0lkkot @ilovedallywinston @lexlikesbts @rachawritingblog @millannniii @meelbarnes @nebs4real @icannotbelieveit @kayleefriedchicken @chranassaurus @rrhwang @chuahuahua @sturniolos4life16 @delulumel @mbioooo0000

[brokenapple]

caleb love's giving you deep, messy creampies, he’s just finished fucking you senseless, dumping his entire load inside your throbbing pussy. the air in the room is heavy and damp, thick with the scent of your shared sweat and the sharp, salty sweet smell of his cum dripping out of you.

his hands touching you with a restless, possessive energy. he squeezes the soft curve of your waist before sliding his palms up to cup your soft plump breasts, kneading the aching flesh. his thumbs drag repeatedly over your swollen and bruised nipples until you’re whimpering and squirming under him.

"still so sensitive," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. he shifts, bracing himself on his elbows to look down at you. his eyes are dark and heavy, tracking the way your chest heaves while your pussy throbs around his semi hard cock.

he begins to withdraw, but he makes the movement agonizingly slow. he retreats millimeter by millimeter, letting you feel every ridge of his cock and the slick friction of it sliding against your perfectly filled pussy. the sensation makes your hips twitch involuntarily, your internal wall muscles clenching desperately around his cock as he leaves you.

he pauses when he’s halfway out, his eyes dropping to the point where you’re joined. he waits for the ripples of your orgasm to settle, and then, with a deliberate, wet tug, he slides the rest of the way out. the sound of the wet seal breaking is loud in the quiet room.

caleb doesn't pull away. instead, he hooks his fingers under your thighs and spreads your legs even wider, pinning your knees toward your shoulders. the cool air hitting your stretched, aching pussy makes you shiver violently.

"look at that," he whispers, his gaze fixed on you. the thick, white cream he just pumped into you is already starting to pool at your opening. it looks so stark against your flushed skin, a heavy, pearly globule beginning to lose its battle with gravity as it overflows.

you feel the first hot drip of his cum slide over your taint and down to your ass. the sensation is ticklish and so humiliatingly public under his intense stare. you quickly bring your hands up to cover your face, your cheeks burning from the heat of it all.

"don't hide," he says, though he doesn't pull your hands away. he uses one hand to spread your lips further, exposing the way his hot seed is overflowing from your depths. it pulses out in a slow, viscous stream, coating your skin in a thick layer of white.

he watches it intently, his thumb tracing the path of the drip as it runs down. "it’s so much..." he notes, his voice thick with pride. "your still so full of me."

you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to swallow the small, embarrassed sounds catching in your throat. you can feel the wetness soaking into the sheets beneath you. every time you try to hold it in, more of his load seems to spill out, hot and heavy.

"try to push a little more out for me, baby," he urges softly. his thumb brush against your clitoris, a light, teasing touch that makes your pussy ache. "i want to see how much i filled you up."

you let out a shaky breath, your abdominal muscles bracing as you do what he asks. a fresh surge of his cum escapes, a thick rope of it sliding out all at once and spilling onto the sheets. you can't help but moan into your palms from the sensation.

he loves this part just as much helping you bathe and cleaning his hot cum out of your pussy after he’s had his way with you.

he carries you to the bathroom, the water already steaming in the tub. he settles you into the nice warm water, the heat stinging pleasantly against your sensitized skin. he sits down behind you, pulling you back against his chest as the water begins to turn cloudy from the mess between your legs.

he reaches between your thighs, pushing them apart so he can get a good look at you. he gently rubs your lips, cleaning the outside with fingers slick with soap and water. then, he slowly slides one of his long fingers deep inside you. making you gasp, your hands gripping his forearm as you feel his finger searching within your hot, wet walls.

he moves his finger in a slow, hooked motion, dragging the remaining seed out of you. the sensation is blunt and full, a deep pressure that makes your toes curl under the water. he does it again and again, meticulous and patient, ensuring he clears every bit of his slickness out of you and savoring the feeling and the way it makes you squirm.

between each stroke, he presses soft, wet kisses to your shoulder and the nape of your neck. his breath is warm against your damp skin. "almost clean," he murmurs, his finger swirling inside your pussy one last time before he finally withdraws it.

you lean your head back against his shoulder, exhausted and tingling. while he holds you gently, his hands resting protectively over your stomach, just feeling the rhythm of your heart while you finally begin to settle.

[forriku-deactivated20260315]

toji’s hybrid bunny gf ૮ ⍝ ⸝⸝ ⍝ ྀིა

“c’mon, bun, what’s got you all worked up today?”

toji murmurs, his deep voice rumbling against your ears as you straddle his lap on the bed, your soft tail twitching behind you while you grind down shamelessly on the growing bulge in his pants.

you’ve been like this all afternoon. clinging to him, nuzzling into his neck, your fluffy ears flopping with every needy wiggle.

he knows it’s just one of your bunny traits, that constant heat bubbling under your skin, making you so damn clingy and desperate for his attention.

and he always indulges you. because who wouldn’t with a sweet thing like you?

“toji... please,” you whimper softly, your voice all breathy and small, rolling your hips slowly, feeling that thick hardness press right against your aching pussy through your thin panties.

“need you so bad... mmnghh.. it aches.” you whined.

he chuckles low, his big hands sliding up your thighs to squeeze your round ass, pulling you closer to him. “yeah? my needy little bun can’t wait, huh? been humpin’ me like you’re in heat all day.”

you nod early, ears drooping as you hide your face in his shoulder, but he’s already flipping you over, manhandling you onto the mattress face down with your ass up in the air- because he knows exactly what you need. a good, hard pounding to shut that whining up.

your fluffy tail flicks excitedly as he yanks your panties aside, exposing your slick, puffy pinkish folds, already dripping and swollen from all that grinding.

“look at this pretty pussy, so fuckin wet for me,” he growls, his massive hand cupping you roughly before he spreads you open with his thumbs, watching your hole clench around nothing.

you’re so small compared to him- that size difference between you two making everything look obscene. his cock’s gonna stretch you to your limits and he loves it. you love it. everytime.

“toji, hurry.. please, put it in,” you mewl, voice muffled into the sheets, pushing your hips back to him like a desperate little animal.

toji smirks, freeing his thick cock from his pants— it slaps heavy against your ass, fat and veiny, the tip already leaking precum that he smears over your cheeks.

“shhh baby, i got you, mkay? gonna give you what you need, nice and deep..”

he lines up and thrusts in slow at first, but fuck- you’re always so tight, your walls sucking him in like you’re made for this.

you gasp loud, “ahhhh! toji.. it’s so biiig... feels so full,” you whined, your body trembling as he sinks even deeper into your poor cunt, splitting you open.

he doesn’t hold back after that— he grabs your hips with bruising grip and starts pounding you into the mattress roughly. the bed creaking under his brutal thruss. your puffy pussy squelches with every slam, your juices coating his cock, dripping down your thighs in a messy creamy trail.

“that’s it... such a good bun, taking it all, that feel good, baby?” he coos, voice husky as he watches your ass jiggle with each thrust, your tail quivering.

you’re getting dumber by the second, mind getting mushy from the stretch, the fullness, nothing to do but lay there and take his cock like the needy bunny you are.

“feels good, huh? my pretty girl’s pussy lovin’ this cock.” he murmurs, leaning down to lick your neck.

“yes yes.. mmnnghh.. haaah toji- harder... don’t stop, keep fucking me...” you cry out softly, your claws scratching the sheets, ears flat against your head, your body shaking from the relentless pounding.

he’s so deep. you can feel him kissing your cervix with every brutal snap of his hips, fucking into you like he means it, his ridiculously big cock churning your insides into the shape of him.

“gonna fill you up, bun, breed this tight hole full, y’want that, hm?” he groans, leaning over you, his massive frame caging yours as he ruts faster, chasing his climax.

you’re tapping out on the sheets, the sensation too much for you. “too much, tojiii— haaahh, m’bout to cum...!” you sob, tears soaking your flushed face but he just coos, “you can take it, this what you wanted, ain’t it? cum for me again.”

and you do. squirting a little around his cock, making everything even messier as he slams in one last time, pumping hot thick ropes of cum deep inside, his cum overflowing and leaking out around his girth.

“mmmnghhh...” you whined into the sheets, your eyes crossed, tongue lolled out and your legs shaking violently as he grinds even deeper into your cunt, making sure not a single drop of his cum go to waste.

he pulls out slowly, watching his seed drip from your puffy, well-fucked pussy then flips you over to face him gently, kissing your forehead. “such a good bunny for me.” but as you catch your breath, body still twitching and sensitive, he smirks down at you.

“we ain’t done though, this pussy can take more loads, right, baby?” toji cooes.

“uh-huh... wan’ more...”

for this req

[archivegyu]

masterlist

Where It Always Led

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

posting early cuz it’s my birthday 😔🤓

Two weeks later

The early morning light cast long shadows across the road as Seungcheol slowed the car to a stop in front of the entrance. The airport was just beginning to wake up, travelers trickling in with their suitcases and sleepy expressions. He shifted the car into park but kept the engine running.

"So," he said, his voice sounding too loud in the quiet car. "This is it."

She nodded, her fingers toying with the strap of her seatbelt. "This is it."

The oversized duffel bag in the backseat looked too small to hold six months of her life, but she'd always been practical that way. Minimal. Careful. Unlike him, who'd nearly lost sleep for a week preparing for this moment and still didn't feel ready.

They'd been walking on eggshells around each other since that night two weeks ago. Since the text message that had hung in the air between them, acknowledged but never discussed. Every morning since, he'd wake up thinking today would be the day they'd talk about it. Every night, he'd go to bed knowing another opportunity had slipped away.

If you asked me to stay, I would.

You know why.

Those words had replayed in his mind constantly. But instead of giving him courage, they'd paralyzed him. Because what if he'd misunderstood? What if she meant something else entirely?

And so day after day, they'd circled each other in their apartment, polite and careful and desperately normal. She worked on her project. He practiced for the comeback. They ate dinner together. Walked Kkuma. Watched movies with careful space between them on the couch.

And all the while, Barcelona loomed closer.

"I have something for you" he said suddenly, reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small velvet box, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Just... something small."

Her eyes widened slightly. "Cheol, you didn't have to—"

"I wanted to" he said quickly.

She took the box, her fingers brushing his in the process, and he felt that familiar spark even now, even here. When she lifted the lid and saw the compass pendant inside, her breath caught.

"It's beautiful" she whispered.

"I thought, you know, since you're going somewhere new..." He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know it's cheesy."

"No," she said, looking up at him with those eyes that always saw right through him. "It's perfect."

Without warning, she unclasped her seatbelt and leaned across the center console, wrapping her arms around his neck. Seungcheol froze for a heartbeat before his arms came up to hold her close. He allowed himself to breathe her in, knowing this might be the last time for months.

"I'm going to miss you" she murmured against his neck.

His arms tightened around her. "I'll be right here when you get back."

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes searching his. "Promise?"

He nodded, not trusting his voice. Then, before he could overthink it, he leaned forward and pressed a soft, brief kiss to her forehead; the kind of gesture that could be friendly, could be more, could be anything they wanted it to be.

"Text me when you land" he said as she pulled away.

She nodded, clutching the compass pendant in her hand. "Take care of Kkuma for me."

"Always."

A security guard tapped on the window, pointing to the "no waiting" sign above them. They were out of time.

"I should go" she said, reaching for the door handle.

"Yeah" he agreed, his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. "You should."

She opened the door and stepped out, retrieving her bag from the backseat. Seungcheol watched in the rearview mirror as she slung it over her shoulder, the weight of it momentarily throwing her off balance.

Ask her to stay. Just ask her.

But he didn't. He couldn't. Not here, not like this. Not as a last-desperate attempt to keep her from an opportunity she deserved.

She appeared at his window, motioning for him to roll it down. When he did, she leaned in one last time.

"Goodbye, Cheol."

"It's not goodbye," he said, reaching out to squeeze her hand briefly. "It's just see you later."

She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "See you later, then."

And then she was walking away, each step taking her further from him, disappearing into the sliding doors of the terminal. Seungcheol watched until he couldn't see her anymore, feeling like a part of him had gone with her.

Ask me to stay, her last glance had seemed to say. Just ask.

But he hadn't. And now she was gone.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Three months later

Seungcheol's alarm blared at 5 AM, pulling him roughly from sleep. He reached out blindly, fumbling for his phone on the nightstand to silence it. As he sat up, rubbing his eyes, Kkuma stirred at the foot of his bed, giving him a look that clearly communicated her displeasure at the early hour.

"I know, I know," he mumbled. "Too early."

Kkuma responded with a dramatic stretch and yawn that somehow managed to take up three times her actual size on the bed.

"Drama queen," he muttered fondly.

But he had his reasons for the early wake-up. Stumbling out of bed, he made his way to the kitchen, putting on coffee before opening his laptop. 5 AM in Seoul meant 10 PM in Barcelona. Her time. Their time.

Three months of this routine, and it still didn't feel normal. Nothing about the apartment felt normal without her. It was too quiet, too orderly, missing all the little traces of her that had made it feel like home; her half-empty coffee mugs, her textbooks spread across the table, her slippers by the couch.

Kkuma padded into the kitchen after him, her nails clicking on the hardwood floor. She sat by her empty food bowl and stared at him expectantly.

"That's not why we're up early and you know it," Seungcheol told her, but he filled her bowl anyway. "You're getting spoiled."

Kkuma gave what could only be described as a smug little wag of her tail before diving into her breakfast.

The video call connected with a soft chime, and her face filled his screen. She was in her small Barcelona apartment, the city lights twinkling through the window behind her.

"Hey," she said, her smile warm even through the pixelated connection. "You look tired."

"Good morning to you too," he replied with a soft laugh. "How was your day?"

She launched into stories about her classes, about the famous architect she was studying under, about the old buildings and new techniques and the way everything was different but fascinating. Seungcheol listened, coffee forgotten in his hands, watching how her eyes lit up when she talked about her work.

Midway through her story about a field trip to Sagrada Familia, a blur of white fur suddenly jumped onto Seungcheol's lap and thrust her face directly at the camera.

"Oh my god, Kkuma!" she squealed from the other side of the world. "Hi baby! Are you being good for Cheol?"

Kkuma's tail wagged frantically at the sound of her voice, and she pawed at the screen as if trying to reach through it.

"She misses you," Seungcheol said, trying to angle the laptop so Kkuma wouldn't disconnect the call with her enthusiastic sniffing. "Though right now she's mostly trying to figure out where your voice is coming from."

"Kkuma-yah, I miss you too!" she cooed. "Are you taking good care of our Cheollie? Is he feeding you enough treats?"

"She gets plenty of treats," Seungcheol defended himself, even as Kkuma gave a pitiful whine that suggested otherwise. "Don't listen to her, she's manipulating you."

"My baby would never," she gasped in mock offense. "Look at that face. That's the face of honesty."

On cue, Kkuma tilted her head and gave her most innocent look directly into the camera.

"See? Angelic."

"This angel stole an entire chicken breast off the counter yesterday," Seungcheol said dryly. "Then had the audacity to hide under your bed where I couldn't reach her."

She laughed, the sound warming him even from thousands of miles away. "She knows exactly where her safe zones are. Smart girl."

Kkuma, apparently satisfied with her video appearance, jumped down and trotted away, mission accomplished.

"She sits by your door sometimes," Seungcheol said after a moment. "Waiting for you to come out."

"Just Kkuma?" she asked, her voice lighter than the weight of the question.

Seungcheol hesitated. Three months of these calls, and they'd never once mentioned that text exchange. Never once addressed what had hung between them the day she left. It was easier this way, safer. But lately, he'd been wondering if safer was worth it.

"No," he admitted quietly. "Not just Kkuma."

She bit her lip, glancing away briefly before meeting his eyes again. "I miss you too. More than I thought I would."

His heart stuttered in his chest. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, that nervous habit again. "It's strange. I'm having the time of my life here, but sometimes I'll see something, or eat something, or just... experience something, and my first thought is always that I wish you were here to see it too."

Seungcheol swallowed hard, recognizing the opening for what it was. A chance. Maybe not perfect timing, but when had they ever had that?

"About what you texted," he began, his voice low. "The night before you left for Barcelona. When you said..."

"If you asked me to stay, I would," she finished for him.

"Yeah." He took a breath. "Did you mean it?"

She didn't hesitate. "Yes."

"Why?"

The same question he'd asked three months ago. He watched as she closed her eyes briefly, gathering courage or thoughts or both.

"Because you're home to me" she said finally, simply. "Not the apartment. You."

The words hung between them, clear and honest even across thousands of miles and a slightly laggy internet connection. Seungcheol felt something loosen in his chest, a tension he'd been carrying for so long he'd forgotten what it was like to breathe without it.

"I should have asked," he said softly. "Not because I wanted to hold you back, but because I wanted you to know that's where I wanted you. With me."

"Why didn't you?"

He ran a hand through his hair, searching for the right words. "I was scared. That maybe I was reading too much into everything. That maybe what we had was just... comfortable. That maybe you deserved better than someone who could never have a normal life."

She smiled, a little sad around the edges. "You've always done that. Made decisions for both of us because you thought it was what was best for me."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," she said. "Just... stop doing it. I know what I want, Cheol. I've known for a long time."

His heart was hammering now, the sound of it almost drowning out the early morning quiet of the apartment. "And what is it that you want?"

"You" she said simply. "Us. Whatever that looks like."

The admission hung between them, an ocean and six time zones and three months apart, but somehow closer than they'd ever been in the years of living under the same roof.

"I love you" he said, the words finally breaking free after years of being trapped behind his ribs. "I've loved you for so long I don't remember what it was like before."

Her eyes shone with unshed tears, but her smile was bright enough to rival the Barcelona lights behind her. "I love you too. I always have."

A sudden crash from somewhere off-camera made Seungcheol jump. "What was that?"

"Hold on," she said, disappearing from view for a moment. When she returned, she was laughing. "My roommate's cat knocked over a plant. For a second there, I thought it was Kkuma. I'm so used to her chaos."

"Speaking of chaos" Seungcheol said, angling the camera to show behind him where Kkuma had returned and was now delicately placing one of his shoes in her bed. "Your dog has a new habit."

"Is she... stealing your shoes?"

"Only the left ones," he said with exasperated fondness. "She takes them to her bed, sleeps with them for exactly one night, then puts them back by the door. Almost like she's borrowing them."

Her laugh echoed through his speakers. "That's the cutest thing I've ever heard."

"Less cute when I can't find my shoes in the morning," he grumbled, but couldn't keep the smile off his face. "I think she smells you on them or something."

"Aww, Kkuma-yah," she cooed at the screen. "Are you missing me that much?"

Kkuma's ears perked up at her name, and she trotted back over to the laptop, shoe forgotten.

"Three more months," Seungcheol said, reaching down to scratch behind Kkuma's ears. "Then you'll be home."

"Three more months," she agreed. "And then we start for real."

Kkuma gave a little bark, as if adding her approval to the plan.

"I have to go to bed," she said reluctantly. "Early class tomorrow."

"I know," he nodded. "Sleep well."

She hesitated, then touched her fingers to her lips before pressing them to the camera. A virtual kiss.

"Goodnight" he whispered, even as the call disconnected.

The apartment was quiet again, but it didn't feel as empty as before. Seungcheol reached for his phone, opening his messages to send her one more thing before she slept.

[5:43 AM] You: I should have asked you to stay. But now I'm asking you to come home to me when you're ready. I'll be waiting.

He set his phone down, looked at Kkuma who was now curled contentedly with his shoe, and headed to the shower to start his day, feeling lighter than he had in years. The timing had never been theirs. But maybe, just maybe, the future could be.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Three months later

Seungcheol hummed to himself as he arranged the welcome home banner across their living room. Tomorrow was the day! After six long months, she'd finally be coming home. He'd taken the day off from practice, cleaned the apartment (twice), and bought enough flowers to make their home look like a botanical garden.

"What do you think, Kkuma?" he asked, stepping back to examine his handiwork. "Too much?"

Kkuma, who was busy arranging her toys in a perfect circle in the middle of the living room floor, her own version of welcome home preparations, didn't look up.

"Yeah, you're right," he nodded as if she'd spoken. "Could use more lights."

His phone rang, and he smiled when he saw Jeonghan's name on the screen.

"Hey, what's up?" he answered, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder as he continued stringing fairy lights around the room.

"Just checking if you're home," Jeonghan replied, voice slightly raised over what sounded like airport announcements in the background.

"Yeah, why? Need something? I'm kind of busy getting ready for tomorrow."

There was a strange pause, then Jeonghan's voice lowered conspiratorially. "So you're definitely at the apartment right now? Wearing actual clothes and not just your boxers?"

Seungcheol frowned. "Yes, I'm wearing clothes. What's going on?"

"Good. Stay there. I'm bringing you something."

"Can it wait? I still have to pick up the cake and—"

"Trust me," Jeonghan cut him off. "You're going to want this delivery."

Before Seungcheol could press further, Jeonghan had hung up. He stared at the phone for a moment, then shrugged and went back to his preparations. Jeonghan was always cryptic; it was part of his charm. Whatever he was bringing could wait.

Forty minutes later, just as Seungcheol was putting the finishing touches on the dining table setting, a key turned in the lock. He looked up, surprised. Jeonghan had a spare key for emergencies, but he usually knocked first.

The door swung open, but it wasn't Jeonghan who stepped through.

It was her.

She stood in the doorway, a tired smile on her face, hair pulled into a messy bun, wearing an oversized hoodie and leggings like she'd been traveling for hours, which, Seungcheol realized with a shock, she had. Behind her, Jeonghan gave him a wink over her shoulder before disappearing back down the hall.

For a moment, Seungcheol couldn't move, couldn't speak, could barely breathe. She wasn't supposed to be here. Not until tomorrow. His brain struggled to catch up with what his eyes were seeing.

"Surprise?" she said softly, dropping her bag to the floor.

Kkuma, who had been sleeping under the coffee table, suddenly perked up. She lifted her head, sniffed the air, and then exploded into motion, racing toward the door with a series of yips and cries that sounded almost like sobs.

"KKUMA!" she cried, dropping to her knees just in time for the tiny dog to launch herself into her arms, wiggling and whining with such enthusiasm it looked like she might vibrate out of her own fur. "Oh my god, I missed you so much!"

Kkuma's entire body was wagging, not just her tail, as she frantically licked every inch of face she could reach, crying in what could only be described as pure joy.

Seungcheol watched, still frozen in place, as the woman he loved laughed and cried at the same time, burying her face in Kkuma's fur. The shock was wearing off slowly, replaced by a rising tide of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him.

"You're early" he managed to say, his voice sounding strangled even to his own ears.

She looked up at him, still cuddling a hysterical Kkuma. "I finished my final project two days ahead of schedule. Called Jeonghan to see if he could pick me up and surprise you." Her smile turned uncertain. "Are you... happy to see me?"

That broke the spell. Seungcheol crossed the distance between them in three long strides and dropped to his knees beside her, not caring that he was crushing some of the rose petals he'd scattered by the entrance.

"Happy doesn't begin to cover it" he said, voice rough with emotion.

And then, finally, after years of waiting for the right moment, after months of loving her from a distance, after a lifetime of almost and not yet and maybe someday, Seungcheol leaned forward and kissed her.

It was soft at first, a gentle press of lips that asked a question. But then her hands, still holding Kkuma—came up to cradle his face, and the kiss deepened into an answer.

yes, this, finally, us.

When they broke apart, they were both breathless. Kkuma, squished happily between them, gave Seungcheol's chin a congratulatory lick.

"I'm home" she whispered against his lips.

"You're home" he agreed, pressing his forehead against hers. "A day early."

"I couldn't wait another day" she admitted. Then, noticing the decorations for the first time, her eyes widened. "Oh my god, did you do all this for me?"

Seungcheol felt his ears turn red. "I wanted it to be perfect for you tomorrow. I had a whole plan."

She looked around at the banner, the flowers, the fairy lights, and the perfectly set table, then back at him with shining eyes. "It is perfect. You're perfect."

Kkuma barked in agreement, then suddenly wriggled free of her arms and dashed to the bedroom. They exchanged puzzled looks, but a moment later, she returned, proudly carrying something in her mouth.

"Is that..." She squinted. "Is that my slipper?"

Seungcheol burst out laughing as Kkuma trotted up to her and gently placed the slipper at her feet, then looked up expectantly, tail wagging.

"She's been hiding your slippers under the bed for weeks," he explained. "I think she's been collecting them for your return."

"You saved my slippers for me?" she cooed to Kkuma, who responded by darting away again, presumably to retrieve the other one. "That's the sweetest thing ever."

"That dog loves you more than anything," Seungcheol said softly.

She looked up at him, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Just the dog?"

He reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, her nervous habit that he'd somehow adopted as his own. "Not just the dog."

After a welcome home dinner with the takeout Seungcheol had originally planned for the next day, they found themselves on the couch in their apartment. Her head rested on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around her waist, their fingers intertwined in a tangle of belonging. Kkuma had settled half on her lap and half on Seungcheol's.

A bridge between them, just as she'd always been.

"I've been thinking," she said, tracing patterns on his palm.

"Hmm?" Seungcheol turned his head to press a kiss to her hair, still not quite believing he was allowed to do that now.

"Remember what you said once? About timing never being our thing?"

He nodded, the memory clear despite the months that had passed. "The night before you decided on Barcelona."

"Yeah." She shifted to look up at him. "I think maybe we were wrong about that."

"How so?"

"Maybe our timing has always been exactly what it needed to be" she said thoughtfully. "Maybe we needed all those years to grow into the people who could do this right. Maybe we needed the distance to find the words."

Seungcheol considered this, thinking back over all the moments that had led them here; from childhood friends to roommates to this new, precious thing they were building together.

"Maybe," he agreed, squeezing her hand. "Or maybe we were just too scared to see what was right in front of us."

She laughed softly. "That too."

Kkuma gave a little grumble as if adding her two cents to the conversation, then repositioned herself to sprawl dramatically across both their laps, belly up, paws in the air.

"I think someone's demanding attention" she giggled, obligingly rubbing Kkuma's exposed belly.

"She's been insufferable since you left," Seungcheol said fondly. "Did I tell you about the time she hid my car keys because I was leaving for practice?"

"No!"

"Buried them in her toy basket. Like she thought if I couldn't leave, you couldn't either."

She leaned down to kiss Kkuma's nose. "My smart, devious little protector."

The three of them sat there in the quiet apartment, bathed in the soft glow of the fairy lights Seungcheol had hung earlier, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt completely at peace.

No countdown to goodbye. No words left unsaid. No fear of what might break if they crossed the line they'd been toeing for years.

Just this. Just them. Finally.

"I love you" he said, because he could now, because the words no longer felt too big for his chest. "I think I've loved you from the beginning."

She smiled, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his jaw. "Some things are invisible until you're ready to see them. But they're always there, waiting."

Kkuma gave a contented sigh between them, as if to say it was about time they figured it all out.

Outside, the city hummed its familiar night song. Inside, in the space they'd built together, time finally seemed to be on their side.

[archivegyu]

masterlist

timing has never been our thing

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

The practice room lights had long since dimmed to that late-night fluorescent glow that made everything feel slightly unreal. Seungcheol rolled his shoulders, feeling the satisfying pop of tension releasing after hours of choreography. The room was quieter now, most of the members having filtered out one by one as midnight approached. Only Mingyu remained, sprawled across the floor with his long limbs stretched out like a starfish, chest rising and falling as he stared at the ceiling.

Seungcheol's phone buzzed on the bench where he'd left it.

kkuma's other human

[10:43 PM] Cheol: I'll be late again. Save me some dinner if you can?

[10:59 PM] Her: Already done. It's in the blue container. Don't forget to reheat properly this time.

[11:00 PM] Her: Kkuma misses you. She keeps sitting by the door.

[11:01 PM] Her: I think I do too.

Seungcheol's thumb hovered over that last message. The casual confession stole his breath, not because it was unexpected, but because it was so honest. So simple. The way she'd always been with him, even when he couldn't find the courage to be the same.

He typed out three different responses before deleting them all.

[11:07 PM] Cheol: Will be home soon :))

"You're smiling at your phone again," Mingyu observed, not bothering to lift his head from the floor. "It's painful to watch."

Seungcheol slipped the device into his pocket. "I'm just tired."

"That's not what tired looks like. That's what whipped looks like," Mingyu said, finally sitting up with a groan. "You're texting her, aren't you?"

Seungcheol didn't answer, just turned to gather his things from the bench. The silence was answer enough.

"You know," Mingyu continued, "I could literally feel you thinking about going home all day. Like, mid-practice, your eyes would drift to the clock. You weren't even trying to hide it."

"I was focused" Seungcheol protested weakly.

"Yeah, on getting back to her."

There was no heat in Mingyu's words, just a knowing smile as he stood and stretched, joints popping. "You hungry? I think that chicken place around the corner is still open."

Seungcheol hesitated, fingers playing with the strap of his bag. He thought of the blue container waiting in the refrigerator, of Kkuma at the door, of her waiting up despite how late it was. But another text lit up his screen.

[11:10 PM] Her: Don't rush. I'm working on my project anyway. Just come home in one piece.

"Yeah," he said finally, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Let's go."

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The night air was cool and thick with the scent of rain that hadn't quite fallen yet. Mingyu drove with the windows cracked, one hand loose on the steering wheel while the other occasionally reached for the fries balanced on the dashboard. They'd ordered too much food: fried chicken and fries and side dishes that spilled out of paper bags, but neither seemed to mind as they pulled into an empty parking lot overlooking the city.

Seoul sprawled below them, a constellation of lights blurring together through the slight fog. Seungcheol took a bite of chicken, savoring the spice as his eyes drifted over the skyline.

"She made dinner," he said quietly, almost to himself.

Mingyu glanced at him. "And you're here eating gas station chicken with me instead?"

"She said not to rush," Seungcheol defended, though his voice lacked conviction. "She's working on her project."

"Right," Mingyu nodded, taking a long sip of his drink. "The one about architectural innovation or whatever, yeah? She's been obsessed with it."

Seungcheol's lips quirked into a proud smile. "She's brilliant. Everyone in her program thinks so."

"And you think so most of all."

"I've always thought so," Seungcheol admitted. Then, after a beat: "I feel like I've watched her grow up. From the kid who'd share her lunch to the woman who's going to design buildings that change the way people live."

Mingyu hummed, thoughtful. "You should've seen her face when you nailed that high note in practice today. She was looking at you like you hung the stars."

Seungcheol's hands slowed, a fry halfway to his mouth. "She came to practice?"

"Yeah, for like an hour. Said she had a break between classes. She sat in the back." Mingyu frowned, turning to face him. "You didn't see her?"

"No," Seungcheol murmured, feeling his chest tighten. "I didn't."

He set the food down, suddenly less hungry. There was a moment of silence between them, broken only by the distant sounds of the city and the occasional rustle of paper bags.

"You ever feel like you missed your chance before you even had one?" Seungcheol asked suddenly, staring out the window.

Mingyu stopped mid-bite. "What do you mean?"

"With her," Seungcheol clarified, his voice lower now. "You ever think about how long I've known her? How many years of my life she's been there? And I still haven't..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

"Haven't told her," Mingyu finished for him.

"Yeah."

"Why not?"

Seungcheol's laugh was hollow. "Timing. It's always been terrible timing." He leaned back in his seat, eyes fixed on the ceiling of the car. "She was with someone. Then I was. Then life got in the way. And now that we're both free... I'm scared it's too late. That maybe I waited too long."

Mingyu's usual playful expression had faded, replaced by something more serious. "If it's real," he said slowly, "maybe timing's just an excuse."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with truth. Seungcheol felt them settle in his chest, uncomfortable but necessary.

"I'd rather stay close than risk it all," he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know if she sees me the same way. But if I say something and she doesn't... I lose her. I lose all of it. I'd rather hurt quietly than break us."

Mingyu was quiet for a long moment, his eyes focused on the windshield where drops of rain had started to appear.

"You think keeping quiet keeps her close," he said eventually. "But hyung... some things are already changing, even if you stay silent."

Seungcheol turned to look at him, feeling something cold slip down his spine. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Mingyu said carefully, "that study abroad program she's thinking about. The one in Barcelona for next semester. You ever wonder why she hasn't talked to you about it yet?"

The world seemed to tilt slightly on its axis. "Study abroad?"

"Shit," Mingyu breathed, closing his eyes briefly. "You didn't know."

"No," Seungcheol said, his voice suddenly dry. "I didn't."

"She probably hasn't decided yet," Mingyu rushed to add. "But Joshua said she was looking into this prestigious architectural program. Something about studying under some famous architect and getting international perspective for her thesis project."

Seungcheol swallowed hard, feeling like the air had been knocked from his lungs. "Barcelona is... far."

"Yeah," Mingyu agreed softly. "It is."

The rain fell harder now, drumming against the roof of the car in a steady rhythm that matched the pounding in Seungcheol's chest. He thought of the apartment they shared, of the blue container in the refrigerator, of Kkuma waiting by the door. Of her saying she missed him through a text message because it was easier than saying it out loud.

Just like it had always been easier for him to love her in silence than to risk everything on words.

"I have to go home," he said suddenly, reaching for his bag. "I should be there."

Mingyu didn't argue, just started the car and pulled back onto the road. The drive back to the apartment was quiet, rain streaking the windows and blurring the city lights into smudges of color.

"You know," Mingyu said as they pulled up to the curb, "sometimes I think about what would happen if you just told her. No perfect timing, no grand gestures. Just... the truth. What's the worst that could happen?"

"She could leave," Seungcheol said, hand already on the door handle.

"Or she could stay," Mingyu countered. "She could choose you. She could already be choosing you every day, but you're too afraid to see it."

Seungcheol stepped out into the rain, the cool drops a relief against his heated skin. He leaned down to look at Mingyu one last time.

"I'll think about it," he promised.

Mingyu nodded, his expression gentle. "Good. Because I think she's been waiting for you to catch up for a while now."

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The apartment was quiet when he unlocked the door, slipping off his shoes in the entryway. The lights were dimmed, casting a warm glow over the space. Kkuma didn't come running this time, which meant she was either asleep or—

"Hey," her voice came from the living room, soft and slightly raspy, like she'd been dozing. "You're back."

Seungcheol crossed the room and found her curled up on the couch, her laptop balanced on her knees and Kkuma snuggled against her side. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, glasses perched low on her nose, and she wore one of his hoodies: the old gray one he thought he'd lost months ago.

The sight of her made his heart ache.

"I'm back," he said simply, setting his bag down.

She smiled, that small, tired smile that always felt like it was just for him. "How was practice?"

"Long," he said, moving to sit beside her. "How's the project?"

"Long," she echoed, closing her laptop and setting it aside. "But I think I'm finally getting somewhere. The review board seemed impressed with the preliminary sketches."

He nodded, watching as she stretched her arms above her head, the too-long sleeves of his hoodie falling back to expose her wrists. "That's good. You've been working hard."

"Not as hard as you," she said, turning to face him fully. "You look exhausted."

"I'm fine."

"Liar," she accused gently, reaching out to brush a strand of damp hair from his forehead. "You're pushing too hard again."

The casual touch made his breath catch, but he managed a small smile. "Says the woman who fell asleep at her desk three times this week."

"That's different," she protested, though her eyes crinkled with a smile. "I'm a student. I'm supposed to be sleep-deprived and caffeinated."

"And I'm an idol. I'm supposed to be practiced and prepared."

She rolled her eyes, but her expression softened. "Did you eat? I saved you some dinner."

"I did, with Mingyu. But I'll have yours for lunch tomorrow."

She nodded, seemingly satisfied with that answer. They fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that had always been easy between them. Seungcheol watched as she absentmindedly stroked Kkuma's fur, her eyes drifting to the window where rain still pattered against the glass.

"Mingyu mentioned something," he said before he could stop himself. "About Barcelona."

Her hand stilled on Kkuma's back. She didn't look at him right away, and in that hesitation, Seungcheol felt his heart sink.

"It's just a possibility," she finally said, her voice careful. "Nothing's decided."

"But you're considering it."

She sighed, finally meeting his gaze. "Of course I am. It's a good opportunity for my thesis. The kind that could really set me apart when I graduate."

"When were you going to tell me?"

"Soon," she said quietly. "I was waiting for the right time."

"The right time," he repeated, a bitter taste in his mouth. "Timing has never been our thing, has it?"

She looked at him then, really looked at him, with an expression he couldn't quite read. "What do you mean?"

Seungcheol felt the weight of all the words he'd never said pressing down on him. All the moments he'd let slip away because the timing wasn't perfect. All the chances he'd missed because he was too afraid to take them.

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head. "Forget it. It's late."

She reached out, her hand finding his wrist. "Seungcheol."

The sound of his name on her lips had always been his undoing. He looked down at where her fingers wrapped around his wrist, right where his pulse was racing.

"If you don't want me to go," she said slowly, "just say it."

He swallowed hard. "It's not that simple."

"It could be," she pressed. "Just tell me why you want me to stay."

The moment stretched between them, fragile and vital. Seungcheol felt himself at the edge of something enormous, something terrifying and beautiful all at once. He thought of Mingyu's words: Sometimes I think about what would happen if you just told her.

But years of habit were hard to break. Years of keeping his feelings locked safely away, where they couldn't hurt either of them. Where they couldn't change what they had.

"I want you to be happy," he said finally, his voice low. "Even if that's in Barcelona."

Her hand slipped from his wrist, and he immediately missed the warmth. "Right," she said, her voice just a touch too even. "Of course."

She stood then, gathering her laptop and nudging Kkuma gently to the side. "I should get some sleep. Early class tomorrow."

"Yeah," he agreed, watching as she moved away from him. "Goodnight."

She paused at the edge of the living room, turning back to look at him. For a moment, he thought she might say something else, might push him further. But instead, she just offered a small smile.

"Goodnight, Cheol."

He watched her disappear down the hallway, listened to the soft click of her bedroom door. Only then did he let his head fall into his hands, a ragged breath escaping him.

Timing has never been our thing.

But as he sat there in the quiet apartment, rain still falling outside, he wondered if maybe timing had nothing to do with it at all. Maybe it was just him, always standing still while the world moved around him. Always waiting for the perfect moment that would never come.

Maybe some things were worth the risk of imperfect timing.

Maybe she was.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Seungcheol's phone buzzed on the coffee table, startling him out of his thoughts. He reached for it, expecting a message from one of the members, but instead found her name lighting up the screen.

[12:34 AM] Her: If you asked me to stay, I would.

He stared at the message, heart hammering against his ribs. His fingers trembled slightly as he typed out a response.

[12:35 AM] Cheol: Why?

The three dots appeared immediately, then disappeared. Appeared again. Disappeared. He waited, holding his breath.

[12:38 AM] Her: You know why.

And maybe, finally, he did.

[archivegyu]

masterlist

unspoken, yet known

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

AUGUST 8 — SEUNGCHEOL’S BIRTHDAY

A soft sigh escaped your lips when you unlocked the apartment door. The click of it closing behind you was familiar and comforting. The scent of morning coffee still lingered faintly in the air, left from the to-go cup you prepped earlier—his, not yours. You slipped off your shoes, dropped your bag by the wall, and padded into the kitchen, hair slightly tousled from the afternoon sun and a long half-day at uni.

Your phone buzzed.

A video call.

Incoming call from Drunk Gyu 

You picked it up, leaning lazily against the counter. “Let me guess, you’re calling to interrogate me.”

Mingyu’s face popped into view, sweat-slicked hair pushed back with a towel around his neck. “We’re just checking in. Totally normal. Definitely not to say someone is pouting.”

Joshua leaned over from behind him, sitting on the floor of the practice room. “He waited until 12:03. You didn’t call. Or text. He thinks you forgot.”

You blinked, stunned. “Wait, he stayed up that late?”

“Correction,” Joshua said, raising a finger. “He was already up. He was with Woozi, in the studio. Jihoon was working on a new arrangement, and your sulking best friend sat there staring at his phone in the dark like he was waiting for a prophecy.”

Mingyu chuckled. “At 12:03, he sighed so loud we thought something broke. Said, ‘She must be tired…’ Then walked out like a rejected K-drama second lead.”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, running a hand down your face.

“And,” Joshua added, “Cheol told us that he came home at, like, 3 AM. To quote him ‘I woke up three hours later annoyed’ then, found your note next to a packed breakfast and thought you were avoiding him.”

“I had class” you said defensively, though your voice softened. “Today’s a half day, I swear.”

“Then why does he think you’re gone till night?”

“Because I might have told him my schedule was full just to buy time for the surprise?”

Joshua gasped dramatically.

Mingyu leaned in closer. “So you’re cooking something up. I knew it.”

You smirked. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Your eyes flicked briefly toward the empty tote bag by the front door. You hadn’t even bought the ingredients yet. There was dinner to prepare, decorations to set up, and a cake to pick up. Your window was tight, but you were determined.

Joshua wagged a finger. “Well, better make it count. He’s been sulking all day. Even Minghao told him to go lie down somewhere.”

You laughed, already heading for the door again. “Then I’ll make it worth the wait.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

The city was golden and bright, dusted with the warmth of a late summer afternoon. You strolled with Kkuma trotting happily beside you, her new pink bow bouncing with every step.

First stop: the bakery.

A quaint spot tucked into a side street, lined with ribboned boxes and pastries that sparkled under glass. You stepped inside, the bell above the door chiming.

“Back so soon?” the baker greeted with a knowing smile.

“It’s his birthday,” you said, crouching to pat Kkuma. “I need a cake that’s… not plain. Not white. Not boring. He pouted for an hour last year because I gave him a minimalist one.”

The baker laughed. “Sounds like he’s particular.”

“He’s sentimental,” you corrected. “And dramatic.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “So... something cute? Thoughtful?”

“With effort,” you added. “Like, it has to look like I lost sleep over it.”

“Got it. Leave it to me.”

You left the shop with a receipt and a promise to come back in two hours. Kkuma trotted beside you, her ears twitching.

Next was the gift shop. You wandered between shelves of candles and accessories before settling on a simple silver bracelet. Not flashy. Just… sincere. You had it engraved with the words:

“with you, always.”

You turned the small box in your hand, heart fluttering at the thought of his face when he’d open it.

On your way out, you spotted a set of pastel hairpins: lavender, peach, and daisy-patterned. You looked down at Kkuma.

She stared back with resigned eyes.

“I know,” you said. “You thought Cheol was the shopaholic in this house.”

She sighed (you swear she did), and followed you anyway.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

By early evening, the apartment had transformed.

The lights were dimmed. Soft fairy lights strung along the ceiling glowed in a warm hue. You lit a few candles, small ones, nothing too dramatic, just enough to give the room a flicker of intimacy. You cooked carefully, triple-checking the taste, adjusting the plating. Bulgogi, kimchi pancakes, soft egg rolls, seaweed soup.

You set the table, added a handwritten note under his plate that read:

“For the one who never lets me feel alone. Happy Birthday !!”

Kkuma sat by your feet, freshly brushed, with one of her new pins clipped into her fur.

You held the cake, tiny candles flickering, and stood by the entryway, the soft hum of music playing low in the background.

The door clicked open.

Seungcheol stepped in, shoulders slumped from exhaustion. He froze the moment he looked up.

You.

The lights.

The food.

Kkuma, who immediately barked and ran to him.

He picked her up with one arm, still staring.

You smiled, lifting the cake gently.

“Happy birthday, Cheol.”

His expression cracked, eyes glassy, smile shaky.

“I thought you forgot.”

“I never forget,” you said softly. “You just had to wait a little.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Dinner passed in a haze of warm lights and quiet laughter. The living room, usually scattered with Kkuma’s toys or forgotten laundry, had transformed into something soft and thoughtful: dim lights, a candlelit table, the faint scent of soy and sesame oil wafting through the air.

Seungcheol was glowing under it all. Not from the candles, not from the wine, but from something gentler. His eyes were crescent-shaped from smiling too much, and his shoulders had lost that weighted, practice-room tension.

“You really made all of this?” he asked again, looking at the food like it had just told him a secret.

“Mhm.” You fought the grin tugging at your mouth as you refilled his bowl. “Twice, if you keep asking.”

He scooped another helping of rice with exaggerated reverence. “I’m serious. This is…” He took a bite, chewed, and let out a dramatic groan. “Okay, no. This should be illegal. You could honestly take over the world with this marinade.”

You shook your head, laughing. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“No, I’m being realistic. If you ever betray me, please do it after dinner.”

You tossed a napkin at him, and he dodged it with a smug smile, eyes twinkling under the golden light. Then came a quieter beat, one that didn’t need to announce itself. He lowered his chopsticks and looked at you with a kind of fondness that made the room feel smaller.

“I didn’t realize how much I missed this,” he said, voice softer now. “Coming home to you. Just… being here.”

You paused mid-reach for the pitcher of water, surprised. “You’ve only been gone a day.”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling faintly. “Felt longer.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. So you looked at him a moment longer, then rose from your seat.

“I got you something.”

His gaze followed you as you crossed the room. You came back with a tiny wrapped box, not flashy, not extravagant—just you, wrapped in care. You placed it gently in front of him.

Seungcheol blinked. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know.”

He opened it slowly, carefully peeling away the tape like he was afraid to ruin whatever was inside. When the lid came off, he stared.

It was a silver bracelet. Simple. Clean. The kind he could wear every day.

His thumb grazed the small engraving on the inside.

“with you, always.”

He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he closed the box gently, like sealing in something delicate. Then he stood up from his seat, the chair legs scraping softly against the floor, and walked toward you.

When he wrapped his arms around your waist, it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud.

It was quiet. Steady. Honest.

His head lowered, resting gently against your shoulder. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just let out a breath, like this was what he’d been waiting for all day without realizing it.

“I really love it,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

You placed a hand gently on the back of his head. “I’m glad.”

He stayed there a little longer, his grip loosening just a bit, but his thoughts only tightening.

If only you knew how much of me is already yours.

He didn’t say that part out loud.

Instead, he let the silence speak for him, and held on a little longer.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Later that night, the three of them— Seungcheol, her, and a half-asleep Kkuma— ended up in his room instead of the living room like they’d originally planned. The shift was unspoken, effortless. His room always felt warmer anyway, a little smaller, a little softer. Familiar.

The bedside lamp was dim, casting golden shadows across the room. Outside, the city moved quietly beneath them, but in here, everything had settled into something quieter. Safer.

She was curled up next to him under a shared blanket, legs tucked beneath her and sweater sleeves pulled past her wrists. Kkuma was nestled in her lap, already asleep, little breaths even and steady.

Seungcheol scrolled through the movie options with one hand, trying to ignore how close she was. How she smelled like vanilla and clean laundry. How his heart had been pacing with a quiet urgency ever since dinner ended and they sat down together like this was just another normal night.

It wasn’t.

He turned to her with a small, knowing grin. “Let’s watch Made of Honor.”

She groaned. “Why this one again?”

“It’s funny and chaotic!” he said with a shrug, like it didn’t mean more than that.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

His heart stalled for a beat, but his smile didn’t falter.

She threw a handful of popcorn at him, laughing. He caught one piece in his mouth and grinned like an idiot, like this, her laughter, this version of home. It was something he could hold onto. Something he wanted to.

Eventually, her laughter faded into a soft, comfortable quiet. She leaned into his side, her head barely brushing his shoulder, but it was enough to make him forget the movie had even started. His body went still. Not rigid, just focused. Aware of her warmth, her presence, the weight of how easy this felt.

The movie played on, but his attention kept drifting. He’d seen this film enough times to memorize the lines, but tonight, the only thing he could memorize was the slope of her cheek in the golden light and how her fingers absentmindedly stroked Kkuma’s fur.

There was a part of him, maybe the reckless part, that wanted to reach for her hand. Just to hold it. Just to know how it felt to be allowed that much.

But he didn’t.

He never did.

By the time they were halfway through the second movie—Love, Rosie—her head had gently slipped onto his shoulder. Her breathing slowed. Eyes closed. Sleep found her easily.

Seungcheol turned his head to say something about the scene. He had a joke on the tip of his tongue. But the moment he looked down at her, words disappeared.

She was asleep, soft and unguarded. Kkuma had shifted, curling closer into her chest.

And he just… looked.

There was no other way to put it, he looked at her the way someone does when they’re trying to hold a moment still. Trying to memorize every detail so they could carry it through time.

She didn’t know.

She didn’t know how many versions of this moment lived in his memory. How many times he’d chosen silence just to keep things the way they were. How many times he’d wanted to say something and instead, just like now, said nothing at all.

But he loved her.

He loved her the way you love someone you never want to lose.

Quietly.

I hope you always feel how much I love you, he thought, staring at the way her face softened in sleep. Even when I say nothing at all.

He reached for the remote and clicked the screen off. The room dimmed into stillness. He adjusted the blanket, pulling it gently over her shoulder, tucking it beneath her chin like she’d done for him once months ago, when he’d fallen asleep on the couch after a rough night at practice.

Then he lay back, careful not to jostle her or wake Kkuma, and settled beside them.

He let himself stay like that. Close, quiet, content.

And just before sleep started to pull him under, he turned his head, eyes still on her.

“Goodnight,” he whispered. A pause. A breath.

“I love you.”

Soft. Gentle.

A secret tucked into the dark.

One she’d never hear.

Not yet.

[archivegyu]

masterlist

invisible string

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

There’s a golden softness to late afternoons in Seoul. The kind that melts into the floorboards and sneaks into the corners of rooms. In Seungcheol’s apartment, it spills in through the wide living room windows, lazily painting everything with that hazy warmth only spring can offer. It catches in the ridges of your coffee mug, glimmers against the silver edges of your ruler, and warms the back of your neck as you hunch over the center table.

The apartment is quiet, save for the low hum of your laptop fan and the occasional scribble of your stylus across the screen. Your project , fills the display in layers of blueprints and notes. Post-its clutter the table’s edge, reminders of measurements and deadlines, and in the middle of it all, there’s you; oversized hoodie, glasses slipping down your nose, hair pulled back in a lazy bun.

And next to you, lying belly-up with a kind of careless peace you envy, is Kkuma.

She lets out a little huff, tail twitching as if in a dream. You reach over to scratch behind her ear with your free hand, lips twitching into a tired smile.

This is what most of your evenings look like lately. Half-finished sketches, cold takeout, and a drowsy dog keeping you company while your best friend dances himself to the bone in some faraway practice room.

You hadn’t meant to stay here long. When Seungcheol first offered his spare room, you’d told yourself it was just for a few months — until your life calmed down, until rent became less of a monster, until breathing felt easier.

But the months stretched, and the apartment never stopped feeling safe. He never made you feel like a guest, either. It wasn’t his place. It became yours too. The kind of home that smells like coffee and fabric softener, where the walls are filled with memories neither of you ever had to say out loud.

The front door clicks open a little past eight.

You don’t look up. You don’t need to.

The soft shuffle of sneakers on tile. The familiar thud of a duffle bag hitting the entryway floor. Then the drag of tired footsteps across the wood, slow and heavy, like gravity itself decided to cling to him today.

“I’m home,” he calls, his voice quieter than usual. Rough around the edges.

Still, you smile without looking. “There’s kimchi fried rice on the stove.”

He pauses, then: “Did you cook or order again?”

“Define ‘cook.’”

He laughs under his breath. A real one. Not the polite, camera-ready kind.

You finally glance up and find him standing a few feet away, hoodie soaked through, bangs sticking to his forehead, sweat glistening at his collarbone. Exhaustion clings to him like second skin, but his eyes are gentle, warm when they land on you.

“You’re still working?” he asks, nodding toward the screen.

You shrug. “Final review is next week.”

“You said that last week.”

“I meant it then, too.”

He shakes his head, kneels to pet Kkuma. She perks up, tail wagging in sleepy little thumps against the floor.

“She’s spoiled now,” he mutters. “Doesn’t even greet me at the door anymore.”

You hum without thinking, eyes drifting back to your screen. “She likes people who feed her on time.”

He snorts. “I’m taking a shower. Don’t pass out on the floor again.”

You raise a hand in lazy salute, already tuning back into the chaos of your canvas.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

You’re fast asleep by the time he finds you again.

Curled up on the center table, cheek pressed to your folded arms, a pencil still tucked between your fingers. Your laptop screen has dimmed to black, casting the room into a warm hush. Kkuma lies beside you, paw resting near your knee like she’s been guarding you all evening.

Seungcheol exhales quietly from where he stands in the hallway, towel slung around his shoulders. His hair is still damp, shirt clinging slightly to his skin from the shower. His body aches from practice, but his chest aches for something else entirely.

He steps forward, careful not to wake you. There’s something fragile about the scene; the way your face is turned toward the window, the way your brows are relaxed, mouth slightly parted, like the weight you always carry has finally slipped off for just a moment.

And God, you still wear that hoodie he gave you two winters ago— fraying at the sleeves, too big for your frame, swallowed by the fabric.

He kneels beside the table.

“You weren’t supposed to fall asleep like this,” he murmurs softly, reaching to brush a stray hair out of your face.

You don’t stir. You never do, not when you’re this tired. It’s something he’s learned from the years. How you give everything you have until your body stops you. How you always say you’re fine even when you aren’t. How you carry the weight of the world in silence.

He hesitates, then gently scoops you up in his arms. You sink into his chest instinctively, head resting against the hollow of his shoulder. You smell like shampoo and his vanilla lotion you pretend not to like.

Your fingers twitch once in your sleep, curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt.

And that’s what does it; that tiny movement, that subconscious reach for him. Like something inside you knows, even now, even half-asleep, that it’s him.

He carries you to your room, nudging the door open with his foot. Lays you down slowly, carefully, like you’re something precious. Something breakable. His fingers linger on your wrist for a second too long before he pulls the blanket over you.

Then, without thinking, he reaches up and grazes the back of his knuckle along your cheek.

“Night, pretty girl,” he whispers, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Even your dreams deserve rest.”

He closes the door quietly behind him.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Back in the living room, Seungcheol sinks into the couch, rubbing his hands over his face. The quiet presses in; thick and full of everything he’s never said.

Kkuma climbs up beside him, paws light on the cushion. She flops down, tail flicking once, then still.

He chuckles softly, leaning back. “She’s gonna burn herself out before she even graduates.”

Kkuma yawns.

“She doesn’t take care of herself unless someone makes her. It’s annoying,” he says, his voice softer now, gentler. “But… I wouldn’t want anyone else to be the one who reminds her.”

Silence stretches between him and the dog.

“You know, I’ve been trying to ignore it. For years, maybe. Told myself it was just comfort, or familiarity. Like she’s just… always been here.”

He stares up at the ceiling, eyes half-lidded.

“But it’s not that. It’s never been that.”

His voice wavers just a little.

“I’m in love with her.”

There. He says it. Not to you. Not to anyone who can answer. Just to the only soul in the room who might understand.

Kkuma lifts her head slightly, ears twitching.

“I don’t even know when it started,” he continues, his eyes growing distant. “Maybe it was when she stood up to my bully. Maybe when she shared her candy and said I could have the red one.”

A soft laugh escapes him, short and breathless.

“Maybe I’ve always known.”

He reaches down and pets Kkuma’s head again, more to ground himself than anything.

“I don’t know what she’d say if I told her. I don’t know if she’d laugh, or freeze, or leave.” His voice turns quiet. “But I’d rather have her here, like this, than risk losing her at all.”

He looks toward your closed bedroom door.

“So maybe I’ll just wait a little longer.”

The city hums quietly outside the windows. And in this in-between, not quite night, not quite morning; he sits in the golden aftermath of everything unsaid, gently held by the thread that’s tied you to him all this time.

[hanscheesecakeuh]

WHEN SILENCE BREAKS

Part 2

pairing: Lee Minho x reader genre: angst, emotional hurt/comfort. emotional realism, healing, slice of life summary: After days of distance, Minho takes accountability for his cruelty, opening the door - slowly - to repair and reconciliation. word count: ~2.8k c/w: emotional vulnerability, crying. guilt and self-loathing. difficult conversations. slow-burn reconciliation. earned comfort and healing a/n: Hi againn. This part leans into honesty and the slow start of healing. Nothing is magically fixed, but it’s a step forward. Thank you for reading. <3 Part 1: HERE ➤ skz masterlist (REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!)

The silence that followed was not a reprieve; it was a sentence. For Minho, it was a life sentence in a prison of his own making, with you as the warden, the guard, and the ghost haunting the cellblocks. The first three days were a masterclass in psychological torture, administered with a chilling, quiet precision that was far more painful than any shouted argument could ever be.

You didn’t leave. That was almost the worst part. Your presence was a constant, physical reminder of what he had lost. You moved through the apartment with a soft, deliberate grace that made you seem ethereal, untouchable. You were a ghost of the life you had shared, and he was the living dead, forced to watch you haunt the spaces you once filled together.

The morning after the explosion, he woke up on the sofa, his body stiff and aching. He heard the shower running and knew you were getting ready for work. By the time he’d dragged himself into the kitchen, you were already there, dressed and sipping a glass of water. You didn’t make coffee. You didn’t even look at the coffee grinder. You just stood there, bathed in the morning light, looking out the window.

“Good morning,” he’d tried, his voice hoarse and tentative.

You turned your head slightly, acknowledging him with a small, polite nod. “Morning.” The word was devoid of warmth, a simple statement of fact. Then you turned back to the window. The conversation was over before it began.

He watched you finish your water, place the glass in the sink, and grab your bag. You walked toward the door, and for a heart-stopping moment, he thought you were going to leave without another word. But you paused, your back to him.

“There’s leftover jjajangmyeon in the fridge,” you said, your voice flat. “Don’t let it go to waste.”

Then you were gone. The click of the lock echoed in the silence, and Minho sank into a chair, his head in his hands. It was a lifeline, he realized. A tiny, thread-thin lifeline. You were still thinking about him, still caring for him on some basic, mechanical level. But the gesture was so devoid of affection, so functional, that it felt like a cruelty. It was the care one might show a stranger, a roommate, not a partner. It was the care of someone performing a duty, and it hollowed him out completely.

The days fell into a painful, predictable rhythm. You’d come home, exchange quiet greetings, and then retreat into separate worlds. You’d cook a small meal for yourself, eat alone at the table, and clean up. He’d wait until you were locked in the bedroom before he’d scavenge for leftovers, eating standing over the sink, the food tasting like ash in his mouth. He’d sleep on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, replaying his words over and over again in his head, each memory a fresh stab of pain.

He noticed everything. He noticed that you stopped wearing the hoodie of his that you loved. He noticed that you took your phone calls in the bedroom, your voice a low murmur he couldn’t decipher. He noticed that you no longer hummed along to the music playing softly from your speaker. You were systematically erasing him from your daily life, piece by piece, and it was eating him alive.

He was caught in a torturous paradox. He was desperate to fix it, to break the silence, to fall at your feet and beg for forgiveness, but he was terrified of making it worse. Every time he worked up the courage to approach you, the memory of your face - the shattered, empty look in your eyes - would paralyze him. He had no right to demand your attention. He had no right to ask for anything. He had broken your trust, and now he had to live with the consequences.

On the fourth night, the silence became unbearable. It was a thick, suffocating blanket, and he was suffocating under its weight. He found you in the living room, meticulously folding a blanket you’d gotten from the dryer. Your movements were slow, precise, a task you were pouring all your focus into to avoid thinking, to avoid feeling.

He stood in the doorway for what felt like an eternity, his heart hammering against his ribs with a force that made him feel dizzy. He knew this was it. He couldn’t live like this anymore. He had to face you, even if it meant you told him to get out, even if it meant you told him it was over for good.

“Can we… can we talk?” he asked, his voice a barely audible rasp, rough from disuse and suppressed emotion.

Your hands stilled on the folded fabric. You didn’t turn around. Your posture was rigid, a wall of resistance. “There’s nothing to talk about, Minho.”

The finality in your tone was a punch to the gut. “Yes, there is,” he insisted, taking a hesitant step into the room. “Please. Just… five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

A long, heavy silence stretched between you. He could see the tension in your shoulders, the slight tremor in your hands. Finally, you let out a small, resigned sigh, the sound full of weariness. You placed the perfectly folded blanket on the back of the sofa and sat down on the very edge of the cushion, as far away as possible. You gestured vaguely toward the armchair opposite you.

It was a formal, sterile arrangement, like a business negotiation, not a conversation between lovers. It made his stomach twist with a fresh wave of nausea. He sat, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white. He couldn’t look at you. He stared at a loose thread on the rug, gathering the shreds of his courage.

“I’m sorry,” he began, the words feeling clumsy, inadequate, like a child’s clumsy attempt to fix a shattered vase. “I’m so, so sorry. For what I said. For everything. There’s… there’s no excuse.”

He risked a glance at you. Your face was a mask of stoicism, but your eyes glistened with a sheen of unshed tears, and the sight gave him the strength to continue.

“I was tired, and I was stressed, and I felt like I was drowning,” he said, his voice cracking under the weight of his own confession. “I was scared. Every time I went into the studio, I felt like I was failing. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw someone who wasn’t good enough. And I was so scared of disappointing everyone, of disappointing myself, that I just… I broke. And I took it all out on you.”

He took a shaky breath, the words tumbling out now in a torrent of regret. “I said horrible, cruel things that I didn’t mean. Not a single word. When I said you didn’t understand… that was the biggest lie of all. You’re the only person who ever tries to. You’re the only person who sees me when I’m not Minho from Stray Kids, but just… me. And I threw that back in your face. I hurt the one person who means everything to me, and I hate myself for it.”

He finally met your gaze, and his own vision blurred with tears that were now freely falling down his cheeks. “When I called your comfort a lie… when I said you were watching me… I was just projecting my own garbage onto you. I was the one who felt like a lie. I was the one who felt like a fraud. And I was so scared that you’d see it, too, that I pushed you away before you could. It was the most cowardly, pathetic thing I’ve ever done. And I am so, so sorry.”

He sat there, his chest heaving, completely exposed. He hadn’t just apologized; he had laid his soul bare, every ugly, insecure part of it. He had given you the truth, and now he had to accept your judgment, whatever it may be.

“I know I don’t deserve it,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “And I’ll understand if you can’t… if you can’t forgive me. But I had to tell you. I had to tell you how sorry I am. That I love you. And that I was wrong. About everything.”

The silence that followed was different. It wasn’t cold or angry. It was heavy, filled with the weight of his words. He watched you, watched as a single tear finally escaped and traced a slow path down your cheek. You didn’t wipe it away.

“You hurt me, Minho,” you finally said, your voice quiet but steady, laced with a pain so deep it resonated in his very bones. “You didn’t just say mean things. You took the one place I felt safe, the one person I felt completely myself with, and you made it feel like a trap. You made my love feel like a burden.”

Your voice trembled slightly, but you held his gaze. “Every time I tried to help, you acted like I was attacking you. Every time I tried to comfort you, you acted like I was pitying you. You made me feel like… like my presence in your life was the problem. That I was the thing making it worse. Do you know what that feels like? To have the person you love most in the world look at you with… with contempt? To feel like you’re suffocating them just by existing?” “I know,” he choked out, his voice thick with a fresh wave of tears. “God, I know. And I am so, so sorry. I was so wrapped up in my own hell, I didn’t see I was pulling you in with me. I didn’t see I was setting you on fire, too.”

You looked down at your hands, twisting a loose thread on the hem of your sleeve. The anger in your posture seemed to melt away, replaced by a profound, bone-deep weariness. “The worst part,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, “was that a part of me believed you. For a second, when you said it was a lie… I wondered if I was just being naive. If I really didn’t get it. If I was just… in the way.”

That admission shattered him completely. It was one thing for him to know he had hurt you; it was another thing entirely to know he had made you doubt yourself, doubt the purity of your own intentions. He had poisoned the well.

“No,” he said, his voice fierce with a sudden, desperate urgency. He leaned forward, his hands reaching out instinctively before stopping himself, hovering in the space between you. “No, don’t ever think that. You were never in the way. You were the only thing that was right. My head was just too full of noise to see it. I was the one who was lost. You were the one holding the map, and I threw it away.”

A sob escaped you then, a small, broken sound that seemed to release the tension you’d been holding for days. It was the first crack in the dam, and it was all he needed to see. He couldn’t bear the formal distance anymore. He couldn’t bear the armchair that felt like it was miles away.

He slowly pushed himself up from the chair and crossed the small space between you. He sank to his knees on the floor in front of you, just as you had done for him on that horrible night. He didn’t touch you, not yet. He just looked up at you, his expression raw and unguarded, a silent plea.

“I was wrong,” he said again, his voice soft but certain. “I was scared and I was weak and I was wrong. You are the best thing in my life. You are not a burden. You are not a lie. You are the truth. And I am so sorry I made you question that.”

He watched you, his heart in his throat, waiting. You looked at him, really looked at him, your tear-filled eyes searching his face. You saw the regret, the desperation, the love that had been there all along, buried under layers of stress and fear. After a long, agonizing moment, you gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But it was an opening. A crack of light in the darkness.

Slowly, tentatively, he reached out and took your hand. Your fingers were cold. He wrapped his hands around yours, enveloping them in his warmth, trying to pour all the love and remorse he felt into that simple touch. He didn’t say anything else. He just held your hand, his thumbs stroking the back of your knuckles, a silent rhythm of apology.

He stayed there, kneeling on the floor, holding your hand, until the shuddering of your shoulders subsided. The silence in the room was no longer a weapon or a verdict. It was becoming a space for healing.

Finally, he spoke, his voice barely a whisper. “Can I… can I hold you?”

You looked at him for a long moment, your eyes swollen and red, and then you nodded again, this time more surely.

He moved onto the sofa beside you, not crowding you, but close enough to offer his presence. He hesitated for a second before gently wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You were stiff at first, your body still guarded, but then, slowly, you leaned into him. The moment you relaxed against his chest, a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding escaped him in a rush. He tightened his hold, pulling you closer, tucking your head under his chin. It felt like coming home after a lifetime lost at sea.

He held you like that for a long time, a quiet, desperate embrace. He didn’t try to kiss you or make grand promises. He just held you, a silent testament to his regret and his relief. He could feel the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his, a fragile but steady drumbeat of life.

“I’m never going to let that happen again,” he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “I promise. I’ll be better. I’ll talk to you. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. No more walls. No more shutting you out.”

You shifted slightly in his arms, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “It’s not just you,” you said, your voice still hoarse from crying. “I need to be better, too. At seeing when you need space, not just comfort.”

“We’ll be better,” he corrected gently, reaching up to cup your cheek, his thumb wiping away a stray tear. “Together.”

A small, fragile smile touched your lips, the first one he’d seen in what felt like an eternity. It was a ghost of a smile, but it was beautiful. “Together,” you agreed.

He leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. It wasn’t a kiss of passion, but of reverence, of apology, of a profound and desperate love. When he pulled back, he looked into your eyes, and for the first time in weeks, he saw the warmth he had been so desperately missing. It was dimmed, fragile, but it was there.

He shifted on the sofa, pulling you down with him until you were lying together, tangled in each other’s arms on the cushions. He wrapped himself around you, one arm around your waist, the other cradling your head to his chest, your legs intertwined. He held you tightly, as if you might disappear if he let go.

“Stay with me,” he whispered into the darkness of the living room, the words a prayer.

You snuggled closer, your hand coming to rest over his heart, feeling its steady, reassuring beat beneath your palm. “I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured, your voice thick with sleep and exhaustion.

The tension had finally melted away, replaced by a soft, healing quiet. The argument still hung in the air, a scar on the history of your relationship, but it was no longer an open wound. It was a reminder of what they had almost lost, a testament to the fragility of trust and the strength of the love that had fought to reclaim it. In the quiet closeness of the sofa, with Minho holding you as if you were the most precious thing in the world, a promise was made - not with words, but with the steady beat of his heart against your ear. A promise to do better, to love better, to never let the silence become a weapon again. And as sleep finally claimed you both, it was a promise you both intended to keep.

[forriku-deactivated20260315]

pussy slapping with sukuna ♡ ⸝⸝ ˕ ก ʔ⠀

sukuna loves making you cum several times before even pulling out his cock.

loves turning you into a dumb mess before he thinks about fucking you properly.

he says it’s because your tight little pussy always cries when he stuffs you full and he ain’t wrong. with his massive body and that monster between his legs, he knows you need the prep but he also do it because he gets off on seeing you beg for his cock.

right now, he’s got you perched on his lap, your back pressed to his hard chest, legs spread wide over his thick thighs. the full-length mirror in front of you shows everything— your flushed face, your tits heaving and your dripping cunt on full display, his big hand already cupping it possessively. “look at that pretty mess,” he growls in your ear, his voice low and rough, breath hot against your neck. “gonna make you soak my fingers first, woman. watch.”

you whine, already squirming before he even started, but he locks an arm around your waist, keeping you pinned. his free hand slides down, two thick fingers spreading your folds open, exposing your swollen clit to the cool air. “fuck, ryo, please...!” you beg, voice needy, but he just chuckles. “please what? use your words or i won’t fuck you.” but he doesn’t wait.

he shoves those thick fingers deep into your pussy, curling them hard against that spot that makes you see stars. you gasp loud, “aahhhh! oh god, too deep—!” your hips buck up, but he holds you down, pumping rough and fast, the wet squelch of your pussy getting fingered filling the room .“that’s it, take it,” he murmurs, watching your reflection, eyes locked on where his fingers disappear inside you. “feel how fuckin’ wet you are? suckin’ me in like a greedy little thing.” he pulls them out slow, just to slap your pussy hard.

smack!

you yelp, “haaahh! ryooo!” your juices splattering to his fingers and to the floor, your puffy clit throbbing from the sting.

he slaps it again, harder, palm connecting with a wet slap that echoes. “look at it jiggle for me. fuck, i love slappin’ this juicy cunt.” you’re whining nonstop now, “mnnnghh!! please more— ahhhh!” your legs shaking as he alternates— fingers plunging back in, twisting, then out for another slap slap slap. your pussy’s swollen and puffy, slick dripping down his hand, pooling on the floor.

“gonna cum already? do it, baby. squirt all over my fingers again.” he speeds up, thumb rubbing your clit in messy circles while his fingers fuck you open.

you’re loud. almost embarrassingly so. but who can blame you when he has you like this?

“yes yes, ryo— fuuuck, i’m cumminggg!” and you do. hard. clear liquid gushing out of your pussy, soaking his palm, spraying onto the floor. he groans, “shit, atta girl. give me once more.”

but he doesn’t stop. he keeps on going and abusing your cunt. he adds a third finger, stretching you wide. “too much? nah, you can take more. i know this pussy.”

slap! right on your clit, making you wail, “mmnghhh! ryooo i can’t—” tears pricking your eyes, your mind going fuzzy.

“yes you can. cum again, i said.” he’s relentless, fingers pounding deep into you, slapping your sopping folds between thrusts.

another squirt. even messier, drenching his arm, the floor a puddle beneath you.

he finally slows, pulling his fingers out with a filthy pop, your pussy clenching around nothing. gaping and leaking.

but he’s not done. he lifts you like you weigh nothing, flipping you to face him, then shoves you down so your cunt’s in his face. “keep em spread,” he says. tongue lapping broad and hungry, sucking your clit into his mouth while his hands grip your ass, spreading you wider.

you’re grinding on his face. “ryooo...! your tongue— hnnghh... feels so good, don’t stop!” he slurps loudly, spitting on your hole just to lick it up, tongue fucking you deep.

slap!

his hand comes down on your pussy, then again, making you jolt with each wet smack. “cum on my mouth, baby. give me another.”

you do. squirting right into his face, liquid dripping down his chin as he swallows what he can, growling “fuck yeah, drown me.” your legs are shaking, words barely coherent.

he licks you clean, then sucks his fingers slow, eyes on yours, tasting every bit of your mess. “sweet as fuck.” with a grin, he tosses you onto the bed like a ragdoll, your body bouncing.

he stands, pulling out his cock— it springs free, huge and veined, precum leaking.

he lifts your legs over his broad shoulders, folding you in half and slaps his thick cock against your folds— coating himself in your slick.

“gonna fill you up now, yeah?” he growls, but instead of thrusting in, he grinds the swollen tip right on your clit, slapping again and again until you’re squirting one last time, arching off the bed with a choked sob.

he catches the spray on his cock, using it to lube up before finally pushing in slow, watching your pretty face twist as he feeds your cunt with every inch of hi his big cock.

“that’s my girl. now take it all.”

[sevsevteen]

The dorm lights were dim when you got home, your body buzzing with nervous energy. You barely had time to drop your bag before you heard footsteps approaching - firm, purposeful.

“Hey,” Seungcheol’s voice called from the hallway.

You turned, expecting a casual greeting. What you didn’t expect was the crease between his brows, the tension simmering just behind his eyes.

“I need to talk to you,” he said.

You followed him to the living room, confused, where the weight of the conversation hit before it even began.

“They sent me the finalized schedule for next month’s shows.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, a smile tugging at your lips. “I got the offer for Last Night’s Lounge! I was going to tell the managers yes tomorrow.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tensed. “You’re not going.”

The air dropped.

“What?”

“I said you’re not going,” he repeated, more carefully this time, like he was trying to stay calm. “You’re declining that show.”

Your brows furrowed. “Why would I decline? It’s a huge channel - millions of viewers. They don’t just hand out solo variety slots to me on the norm.”

He didn’t flinch. “That’s not the point.”

“No, it is the point.” Your voice rose, disbelief cracking through. “Cheol, I barely get solo offers. Everyone else gets their time– Hoshi on talk shows, Seungkwan in variety. Even Hao’s been invited to do dance panels. I finally get a shot to show me, and you’re just– what? Pulling the plug?”

Seungcheol folded his arms, lips pressed tightly together. “You don’t know how that show works. The hosts, the editing - it’s notorious. They don’t respect idols, especially not female idols. It’s all innuendos and forced reactions. I’m not letting them put you in that kind of position.”

“So what? I can handle it myself.” You shot back, hurt turning sharp.

“It’s not about whether you can handle it.”

“Then what is it about?”

His eyes met yours. Unmoving. Solid. Heavy.

“I know them,” he said, quiet but resolute. “I’ve seen the way they talk. I’ve seen what they’ve done. I’m not risking you being another clip that goes viral for the wrong reason.”

He hesitated for a moment. “I’m not risking you being made uncomfortable for the sake of views.”

Silence stretched between you.

You knew he was right.

You’ve seen the videos, the clips, the articles. But it wasn’t the show that angered you, it was him stripping your right to choose.

You wanted to argue. You wanted to scream that he didn’t get to be both your groupmate and your gatekeeper.

But then he said the one thing that shattered everything:

“Either you decline it, or I will do it for you.”

Your heart dropped.

“You…what?”

His voice didn’t waver. “I will ask the company to decline it if you don’t. Leader’s discretion.”

Your world froze.

“You–” Your throat closed up. “You’re going to overrule me?”

“It’s for your safety.”

“No, Cheol. It’s control.” Your voice cracked with disbelief, with betrayal. “Do you even trust me?”

He took a step forward. “It’s not about trust. Please. It’s about protecting what matters to me.”

But all you heard was: “I’m not going to even let you choose.”

Your fists clenched, eyes burning with something between fury and heartbreak. You didn’t have a voice left to fight him with - not when the decision was already made.

You turned on your heel.

And as you walked away, the words slipped out - too quiet for the fight, but too loud to take back.

“I needed you to believe in me. Not speak over me.”

Seungcheol stood alone in the dim living room, the silence louder than any shout.

He didn’t chase after you.

Because maybe this time, he knew he’d gone too far.

And you–

You’d just learned what it felt like to be silenced by someone you trusted most.

.

It had been a tense few days.

You barely spoke a word to Seungcheol. Not at dinner. Not in the van. Not during schedules.

And today - during practice - was no exception.

The studio was filled with the usual sounds: stomping sneakers, a bass-heavy beat, and the echo of synchronized breaths. The members were preparing for an intense stage, and everyone was trying to stay focused. Or, at least, pretend they could.

“Hey, tighten the angle of your turn at beat eight,” Seungcheol called from the mirrors. “You’re opening too wide.”

You didn’t even blink in his direction. “Noted,” you said, voice clipped with a formal tone.

He paused. “What?”

You turned toward him slowly, then gave a small, sharp smile.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot I wasn’t allowed to make my own decisions.”

The room froze.

Jeonghan looked up mid-sip from his water bottle. Jihoon’s hand stilled over the computer mouse. Even Hoshi, usually the one to smooth over awkward moments, was blinking slowly like he wasn’t sure if he heard you right.

Seungcheol straightened. “Yah.” His tone was warning. Leader-like.

But you were already stepping forward, jaw tight, that false smile still plastered across your face. “No, really, do you want to run the whole thing yourself? I mean, you do such a great job of deciding what’s best for all of us.”

“That’s enough.”

“Why? You don’t like it when someone makes decisions for you without asking?” You shot back.

The air shifted.

Everyone felt it - the snap. The rip of fabric tension pulled too tight for too long.

“Are you still upset about the show?” Seungcheol asked, jaw clenched now. “I told you why I–”

“You silenced me.” Your voice cracked, loud now. You didn’t care who heard. “You didn’t even ask me. You didn’t trust me to handle it. You pulled rank because you thought you knew best.”

“And I do know best!” he yelled back, louder than anyone expected. His voice boomed across the walls. “I’ve seen what happens on those sets. And I wasn’t going to let them chew you up and spit you out just because you wanted a little more attention—”

You flinched, jaw dropping.

Seungcheol froze. The moment the words left his mouth, he knew.

Your eyes darkened. “A little more attention?”

The boys were statues now. Even those who usually had a word for everything, were stunned into silence.

“I trained with you since I was a kid, Cheol. I gave up my family for this. I gave up myself for this. And one of the few times I ask for something for me, you make it sound like I’m desperate for validation?”

You shook your head, biting down the lump in your throat as you moved closer to him.

“You keep saying you’re protecting me,” you said, voice low, trembling. “But it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like you just don’t believe in me.”

With each word, your finger pressed gently against his chest - not to hurt, but to make him feel it.

He blinked, startled by the contact.

“Hey—” Jeonghan reached out instinctively, but you slipped past his hand, already turning to walk away.

Wonwoo made a move, but Hoshi held him back.

Your footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Then the slam of the practice room door.

No one spoke.

Not for a long time.

Seungcheol still stood in the center of the room. Breathing heavy. A hand on his waist. The other curled in a fist.

“I didn’t mean that,” he said softly, to no one in particular. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

But the silence answered for you.

--

a/n were you expecting a happy ending...

a/n2 i caved in, here's the highly req pt 2 😚

forgiveness doesn’t come easy

[hanscheesecakeuh]

WHEN SILENCE BREAKS

Part 1

pairing: Lee Minho x reader genre: angst without comfort, relationship breakdown, emotional realism, slice of life summary: Exhaustion and insecurity push Minho to lash out, shattering trust and leaving only silence in the aftermath. word count: ~2.7k c/w: no comfort, emotional neglect, verbal/emotional abuse during conflict, idol burnout & extreme work pressure, self-worth issues, relationship breakdown, emotional distress, hurt with no immediate resolution a/n: Just a small note before this part. It’s meant to be heavy and unresolved, and there’s no comfort here - only hurt and distance. Please take care while reading. <3 Part 2: Loading ↻ ➤ skz masterlist (REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!)

The first sign that something was wrong was the coffee.

For the better part of a year, your morning ritual had been a quiet, synchronized dance. You’d wake to the faint, pre-dawn light filtering through the blinds, the warmth of Minho’s body still a lingering presence in the bed beside you. By the time you’d shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, the rich, dark aroma of his hand-ground coffee beans would be perfuming the air. He’d be leaning against the counter, a sleepy softness in his eyes that only you ever got to see, and he’d push a steaming mug toward you without a word.

Lately, the ritual was gone. You woke to an empty, cold side of the bed. The coffee maker sat silent and cold. Most mornings, he was already gone, leaving behind nothing but the faint scent of his cologne and a palpable void where his presence should have been. You started making the coffee yourself, but it never tasted right. It was just bitter, hot liquid, lacking the essential ingredient of his quiet care.

The second sign was the silence.

Minho was a man of comfortable silences. He could sit with you for hours, your legs tangled together on the sofa, a movie playing softly in the background, and say nothing at all. The silence would be full - a tapestry woven from shared breaths, the occasional brush of his fingers against your skin, and a profound sense of contentment. Now, his silence was a weapon. It was sharp and brittle, a wall of ice he erected the moment he walked through the door. He’d come home, his movements stiff and economical, drop his bag, and retreat into himself. You’d ask about his day, and you’d get a one-word answer. You’d tell him about yours, and you’d be met with a vacant stare, his mind clearly a million miles away, lost in a world you weren’t allowed to enter.

The third sign was the music.

You used to fall asleep to the sound of him humming. Sometimes it was a snippet of a new track they were working on, sometimes just an aimless melody he’d invented. It was the soundtrack to your shared peace. Now, the only music came from his headphones, a tinny, rhythmic beat you could hear through the foam even from across the room. He was always listening, always processing, always working. He’d fall asleep with them on, his brow furrowed even in slumber, as if his subconscious was still running choreography in his head.

Weeks bled into a month, and the distance between you grew into a chasm. You felt less like his partner and more like a ghost haunting his life, a spectator to his slow-motion implosion. You saw the exhaustion etched into the lines around his mouth, the way his shoulders curved inward as if bracing for a constant blow. You saw the flicker of frustration in his eyes when a dance move didn’t land perfectly in the mirror he’d installed in the living room. You saw the insecurity he tried so hard to hide, the fear that he wasn’t enough, that he was falling short of the impossible standards he set for himself.

You tried, God, you tried. You filled the refrigerator with his favorite foods, which often went untouched. You drew baths scented with lavender and eucalyptus, which he’d stand in for five minutes before getting out, claiming he was too restless. You offered back rubs that ended with him flinching away from your touch, muttering that his muscles were too sore. Every attempt to reach him was met with a gentle but firm rejection, a quiet reinforcement of the wall he’d built. He was pushing you away, slowly and methodically, and you were starting to wonder if there would be anything left when he was done.

The breaking point didn’t arrive with a bang, but with a slow, agonizing build of pressure, like a tectonic plate shifting beneath the earth’s surface. It was a Thursday. He’d been at the company building since six a.m. for a full group schedule, followed by a seven-hour dance practice that ran long, and then a late-night vocal recording session. It was nearly two in the morning when you heard the key turn in the lock.

You were waiting for him on the sofa, a book unread in your lap, a mug of tea long since cold on the coaster beside you. The door swung open, and he stumbled in, and the sheer force of his exhaustion hit you like a physical wave. He wasn’t just tired; he was hollowed out. His face was ashen, his eyes sunken and bruised with fatigue, and there was a tremor in his hands as he fumbled with his shoelaces. He moved with the pained, deliberate gait of a man much older than his years, every joint and muscle screaming in protest.

He dropped his duffel bag by the door. It landed with a heavy, final thud that seemed to echo his own defeat. He didn’t head for the shower or the kitchen. He just stood there for a moment, swaying slightly, before making his way to the sofa and collapsing onto the far end, as far from you as possible. He didn’t bother to kick off his sneakers. He just leaned forward, burying his face in his hands, his entire body radiating a profound and utter defeat.

The silence that followed was different. It wasn’t his usual cold, defensive silence. This was a broken, empty silence. It was the sound of a dam about to burst. You watched him, your heart aching with a fierce, protective love. You wanted to gather him in your arms, to absorb all his pain, to tell him it was okay to not be okay, to be strong for him when he couldn’t be strong for himself.

You waited, giving him a moment to just breathe. The minutes stretched, each one thick with unspoken words. Finally, you couldn’t bear it anymore. You slid off the sofa, sinking to your knees on the floor in front of him. The plush carpet was a small comfort against the cold dread seeping into your bones.

“Hey,” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper, afraid to startle him. You reached out, your fingers hovering just above his knee before gently resting there. “Tough day?”

He flinched. It wasn’t a big movement, just a subtle tensing of the muscle beneath your hand, but it was a clear, visceral rejection. It felt like he’d slapped you.

He didn’t look up. His voice was muffled by his palms, rough and shredded from hours of use. “What do you think?”

The words were sharp, edged with a bitterness that was new and frightening. You swallowed past the lump forming in your throat. “I made jjajangmyeon,” you said softly, trying again. “Your favorite. It’s in the fridge, I can warm it up for you.”

This time, he lifted his head, and the look in his eyes made your breath catch. They were bloodshot, wild, and burning with a feverish, desperate frustration you’d never seen before. There was no trace of the gentle, playful Minho you loved. This was a stranger wearing his face, a man cornered by his own demons.

“Don’t,” he bit out, his voice low and dangerous. “Just… don’t.”

“Minho, I’m just trying to help,” you pleaded, your hand still resting on his knee, a desperate anchor in the storm.

“Help?” He let out a harsh, guttural laugh that was devoid of any humor. It was a raw, ugly sound that scraped against your ears. “How is this helping? You and your… your noodles and your quiet worrying. Do you really think that fixes anything? Do you think a hot meal is going to magically make me a better dancer? Is it going to erase the hours I’m spending in the studio, falling short of what’s expected of me?”

Each word was a lash, striking at your attempts to care for him. “No, of course not, I just… I hate seeing you like this. I’m worried about you.”

“Worried?” he scoffed, his voice rising in pitch and volume. He shoved your hand away from his knee, the push harder than he probably intended. “You sit here in this perfect little bubble, in this cozy apartment, and you worry. You go to your job, you come home, you make dinner. You have no idea what you’re worried about! You have no concept of what it’s like to have every single move you make scrutinized, every note you sing analyzed, to feel like you’re letting down millions of people every single day!”

He shot to his feet, his sudden movement making you flinch back. He started pacing the length of the living room, a caged animal lashing out. “You look at me with those eyes, and all I see is pity! It’s disgusting! It makes me feel weak, like a charity case you have to take care of!”

“That’s not fair!” you protested, scrambling to your feet as well. Your own voice was shaking now, a mixture of hurt and rising indignation. “I don’t pity you! I love you! I’m trying to be your partner!”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t!” he roared, spinning around to face you. The outburst was so loud, so full of raw fury, that it felt like a physical blow. He took a step toward you, his face contorted with an anger so pure and terrifying it stole the air from your lungs. “Maybe you

should just leave me the hell alone! You don’t get it. You will never get it. The pressure, the expectations, the constant, gnawing feeling that you’re not good enough, that you’re a fraud and everyone’s about to find out… you don’t understand any of it!”

He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, his eyes wild and unfocused. He wasn’t just yelling at you anymore; he was yelling at the world, at his managers, at the fans, at the mirror, at himself. You were just the unfortunate, convenient target in the room.

“All this… this comfort,” he sneered, gesturing wildly around the apartment, at the soft lighting, the blanket you’d left draped over the sofa, the cold mug of tea on the table. “It’s all a lie! It’s a fantasy! It’s a reminder of a life I can’t even have right now! You trying to ‘take care of me’ just reminds me that I’m failing at the one thing I’m supposed to be good at, and I can’t even have a moment of peace because you’re always here, watching me!”

The word “lie” was a bullet to the chest. The word “watching” was the twist of the knife. It was so vile, so completely opposite of everything you felt for him, that for a moment, your brain simply refused to process it. You stared at him, your mouth slightly agape, the air completely knocked from your lungs. The fight, the urge to defend yourself, to scream back that he was wrong, that he was being cruel and unfair - it all evaporated in an instant, replaced by a cold, creeping numbness.

You saw the man you loved standing in front of you, his face flushed with anger, his eyes blazing with a fire that was burning you alive. But you also saw the flicker of panic behind the rage, the sheer terror in his soul that had birthed this monstrous outburst. He wasn’t angry at you. He was terrified of himself. And in his terror, he had picked up the sharpest weapon he could find - your love for him - and had used it to slice you open.

You couldn’t do this. You couldn’t stand here and be his punching bag, no matter how much he was hurting. You couldn’t absorb his pain anymore when it was being weaponized against you. Every part of you screamed to run, to escape the toxicity of the moment, to shield the most fragile, tender parts of your heart from further damage.

You didn’t say another word. You couldn’t. Your throat was thick with unshed tears, but they wouldn’t fall. Crying felt like a luxury you couldn’t afford, a sign of weakness he would only see as another failure. Instead, you just looked at him, one last time, and let him see the absolute devastation in your eyes. You let him see that his words had hit their mark. You let him see that he had broken you.

Then, you turned.

Your movements were slow, almost robotic. You felt as if you were moving through water, every limb heavy and uncooperative. You walked away from him, away from the epicenter of his pain and rage, and headed down the short hallway toward the bedroom. You didn’t slam the door. You didn’t make a sound. You just closed it softly, the final, gentle click of the latch sounding like the guillotine coming down, severing whatever had been between you.

You leaned back against the cool wood of the door, your legs finally giving out. You slid down to the floor, pulling your knees to your chest, and finally, the silence you left behind was deafening. In the living room, Minho stood frozen, the adrenaline of his tirade crashing out of him like a receding tide, leaving behind a barren, horrifying landscape of regret.

The silence was no longer a weapon. It was a verdict.

He could hear the faint, shuddering sound of your breath from the other side of the door, and it was the worst sound he had ever heard. He looked down at his own trembling hands, then at the cold mug of tea on the coaster, then at the duffel bag slumped by the door like a dead body. He saw the scene through your eyes, and the reality of what he had done crashed down on him with the force of a collapsing building.

He hadn’t just been angry. He had been cruel. He had taken your love, your unwavering support, the one pure and good thing in his chaotic life, and he had called it a lie. He had accused you of pitying him, of smothering him, of watching him like a hawk. He had taken your deepest fears for him and twisted them into your personal failings.

The image of your face just before you turned away was seared into his memory - the way the light had simply vanished from your eyes, replaced by a hollow, shattered emptiness. It wasn’t the look of someone who was angry. It was the look of someone who had had their soul crushed. And he was the one who had done the crushing.

He stumbled backward until his legs hit the sofa, and he collapsed onto it, the same spot he had been in minutes before, but everything was different now. The anger was gone, replaced by a crushing, suffocating guilt that was a thousand times heavier. He buried his face in his hands, but this time, he wasn’t hiding from the world. He was hiding from himself. A raw, broken sob escaped his lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated self-loathing.

He had crossed a line. Not just a line, but a chasm. He had said things that could never be unsaid, planted seeds of doubt and hurt that would likely never fully die. He had shattered the sacred trust between you, the unspoken promise that no matter how bad things got, you would always be each other’s safe harbor. And in his moment of weakness, he had blown up the harbor.

The jjajangmyeon sat in the refrigerator, growing cold, a testament to a kindness he had just violently and irrevocably rejected. The apartment was silent, but it was no longer just silent. It was empty. You were still here, physically just a few feet away in the other room, but he had never felt more alone in his entire life. He had broken the one thing he couldn’t bear to lose, and as he sat there in the suffocating darkness, he knew with terrifying, absolute certainty that this wasn’t something he could fix with an apology. This was a wound he had inflicted, and he had no idea if it would ever, ever heal.

[forriku-deactivated20260315]

your body feels wrecked, trembling beneath megumi as he pushes back inside you for the third time tonight. your voice is already hoarse, throat raw from how much you’ve been crying out his name, but the second his cock drags deep into your sore walls, another broken sob escapes your lips.

“g-gumi, i can’t—ahhh, f-fuck—” you choke, clinging to his shoulders, nails digging into sweat-slick skin. his messy black hair sticks to his forehead, strands falling into his dark, glassy eyes as he looks down at you. his chest heaves, his breathing rough, but his voice stays steady, soft even while he’s fucking you into the mattress. “you can. i know you can, baby.” his tone is low, coaxing, and it only makes your pussy clench tighter around him.

he grits his teeth, hips snapping hard, faster, the sound of skin slapping filling the room. “shit—you feel so good. so fucking good every time,” he groans, voice breaking as your cunt squeezes around him.

you cry out, head thrown back, moans spilling shamelessly—loud, messy, uncontrollable. “aauughhh... too fast—please—! oh my god, gumi, i—i can’t stop—” your thighs shake violently, your whole body twitching as another orgasm claws through you.

he doesn’t slow down. if anything, the way your walls flutter around him makes him pound into you harder, his weight pressing you deep into the sheets. “fuck, that’s it… give it to me again. you’re so good for me,” he whispers against your mouth, kissing you sloppy, swallowing the choked whimpers that keep spilling out.

you try to push weakly at his shoulders, overstimulation hitting so hard your legs spasm uncontrollably. “s-too much, it’s too much—” megumi catches your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand while his other grips your thigh, holding you open for him. his eyes stay locked on your tear-streaked face, lips parted, breath hot as he fucks you rough and relentless. “i know, baby. i know it’s a lot,” he pants, voice strained. “just one more. let me have one more.”

his words shatter you, and all you can do is sob his name over and over, brain melting from the pace, from the way his cock rams into the same spot so deep it makes you scream. “ahhh—! g-gumi—fuck, i’m—i’m cumming again—!”

he lets out a guttural groan, hips stuttering but never stopping, pressing sloppy kisses to your cheek and jaw as your body convulses under him. “good girl… fuck—you’re perfect. my perfect girl.” your moans echo through the room, loud and broken, mixing with the wet, filthy sounds of him dragging in and out of your creamy and throbbing pussy until you’re left babbling, crying, nothing but a dumb mess on his cock—exactly how he wants you.

when he finally stills, his chest heaving against yours, megumi presses a soft kiss to your temple, voice quiet and ragged. “sorry… i was too rough.”

you shake your head weakly, still catching your breath, lips brushing his jaw. “n-no… i like it… i love it when you fuck me like that.” his eyes darken, cock twitching inside you as it hardens again almost instantly. his jaw tightens, breath shuddering as he looks down at your ruined body under him. “…fuck. don’t say that unless you’re ready for more.”

[yanderenightmare]

Bakugou Katsuki

♡ TW: sugarbaby reader, pregnancy

♡ FEM reader

You haven’t been taking his calls or answering his texts.

He’d been occupied enough not to take notice for a while, or feel too miffed even if he did. He figured you were busy too. But not even granting him a spare minute ain’t like you. From the very start of your arrangement, even when battling exams and deadlines, you’ve always made time. 

Sure, you’ve missd a few messages here and there, but you’ve always spammed him with apologetic texts and cute little emojis afterward, followed by a rambling phone call—sweet little voice in his ear while he’s been out on patrol, telling him stupid little nothings and asking him stupid little questions, taking his mind off the tough shit like you do so well.

But lately? Fucking radio silence.

Now, despite his reputation, he can be an understanding guy. He’s aware that you have a life outside of being his sugarbaby. And shit’s been known to come up, after all—you could be busy with school, friends, family—there could be a lot of reasons behind it. Heck, he’d even be fine if it were simply because you wanted some space. And though he’d appreciate a heads-up, he’s not so pigheaded to feel entitled to one.

But this? Sending back his money? Now, that just makes no fucking sense. 

The fuck does that even mean, huh? What, so you’re just done now, suddenly? No more? Like what? Did he do something? Say something? Fuck you wrong?

Nah, you got some explaining to do, which is why, unprofessional as it may be, but right on character, he’s outside the door to the little apartment he’s been paying for one early Saturday morning, tapping his foot in the wait after knocking.

And boom, there you are, a minute later, in pajamas, a cozy cardigan wrapped around you with a pair of slippers on your feet, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, with a croaky little, “Hello?”

He doesn’t return it—too busy taking you in. He hasn’t seen you in a couple of months. Four now. Maybe more. Shit, must be, right? Because he’s certain that big ass baby bump on your belly wasn’t there before.

“Mr. Bakugou!” Your eyes shoot open wider than twin moons once you notice him, instinctively wrapping the cardigan around yourself as though to hide what he’d already seen. 

You give up on the effort only a beat later, realizing it was too late, only to start bawling, those much awaited apologizing barreling off your wet lips as you drop your pitiful face in your hands, “I–I–I’m sorry–I didn’t realize, and before I–before I knew it–it was already too late–I’m–I’m sorry–”

All the stuff he’d had on his chest goes out the window, and instead of giving you an earful, he goes mute, only able to stare at you for what feels like an eternity in his head, thoughts speeding along like cars on a highway. Before any of them settle, something more primal takes the wheel, and with a big scarred hand on your belly and the other on the small of your back, he turns you around and guides you inside.

Swallowing thickly, his mind finally catches up with his body, and he notices he’s using his father’s tactics and feels grateful for having picked them up. Shit, he even sounds like him, saying softly, “Let’s go sit.”

He gets down close with you on the couch, knee against your thigh as he takes your hand in his, feeling it squeeze him back in tremors while he looks at you as you cry—glossy-cheeked and raw-eyed—by the looks of your state, he doubts it’s just from today. 

He waits on you until your tears calm down into sniffles before speaking, reciting comforting lines he’d heard before. “Hey, I'm not mad. Alright?” His other hand gently angles your chin as he finds your eyes and locks gaze. “No one’s mad at you. You understand?”

Your lip still wobbles, breath shaky with blurred and bleary orbs swimming in salt. Still, you end up nodding your head.

“Good. Now…” he continues, making sure to keep his voice low. “What are you sending my money back for?”

With your teeth planted in your lip, the tears resurface. “I…” you gasp. “I don’t know what I’m doing, but–” Tripping over your own sniveling, you shake your head. “But I can’t work for you when I’m like this.”

You’re sobbing again now. And no longer able to sit idly by and give you your space, he pulls you close. Admonishing you softly, “What are you talking about?” while you cling to him, bawling harder now into his chest.

He holds you like that for a while, thinking about what a dumb idiot you are. What was your plan? To hide it from him? Raise the kid by yourself while still in university? Give it up for adoption? His head spins with unanswered questions, but now’s not the time, feeling you jolt along with your hiccups as your crying slowly dies down again, leaving your body slack with exhaustion. 

“Alright then,” he starts anew. “So, here’s what’s going to happen, you listenin’?” 

You nod your head against his shoulder, and he continues, “We’re gonna pack a bag, alright? Just essentials, I’ll buy whatever else you need. Then we’ll get you in the car and drive back to my place. It’ll be easier for me to take care of yah there. I have cooks, trainers, and a doctor on house call. You’ll have everything you need.”

You pull away at that—weak-limbed like you barely have the strength. And yet, you use the last of it to give him a guilty look. “But-”

“No buts,” he cuts you off firmly, though sweetly, “We’ll figure out the rest together, alright? Don’t worry.” Cupping your cheek in his warm hand, you nuzzle into it with another shivering sniffle, so rattled and brittle against him, he’s sure that one meek protest was all you had the strength for.

He can’t believe you’ve kept this from him all this time, carrying it alone like an idiot.

“In any case, you’re not staying here alone. And that’s final.”

♡ BAKUGOU KATSUKI masterlist ♡ BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA masterlist

[benyhime]

The Song He Didn't Write IV

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

Genre: Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Break-up | Infidelity | Emotional Drama

Warnings: Cheating, emotional neglect, mentions of postpartum emotions, strong language

Word count: 6.2k

Summary:

She gave him her mornings, her trust, her heart.

Then he asked for something more a baby. But as her belly grew, his presence faded. Studio nights turned into late-night excuses, and their love songs became radio silence. Now, lying in a hospital bed, soaked in pain and betrayal, she waits for the man who once promised to be her home. If he walks through that door, maybe there’s still a chance.

But if she gives birth before he arrives…

Yoongi will never get the chance to say I'm sorry.

And she will never look back.

A/N: I had several versions of how their story would unfold. A few times I wasn't sure. When I started writing, something didn't feel right. Until yesterday. This story literally flowed from my fingers quite naturally. So, happy reading for those who have been waiting.

🖤

You stood in front of the hotel room door, nervously wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans. You knew this day would have to come eventually. The day you’d have to face him.

In your mind, you’d played out a thousand scenarios of how your conversation would go. 

Your first meeting after all this time.

Did you want this?

Absolutely not.

Did you feel like you owed it to him?

No.

But somewhere deep inside your wounded, shattered heart, one of its broken pieces whispered that it was the right thing to do. After all, you had a daughter together. And if not for yourself, if not for him, then at least for her, you should see him.

Even if it was just this one last time.

You pressed the doorbell.

“Here goes nothing…”

🖤🖤🖤

You were slowly starting to feel like yourself again.  

For the most part.

You had mama’s Min to thank for that. She'd taken care of you during your recovery, making sure you had everything you needed. She helped you find a good pediatrician for your daughter and a gynecologist for yourself. You had never lived in Daegu, so you didn’t know your way around like she did.

The two of you existed in what could almost be called perfect harmony.

With one exception.

You both seemed determined to ignore the elephant in the room.

The better you felt, the more aware you became that it was only a matter of time before you’d have to talk about what had happened and, more importantly, about what should come next.

You had blocked Yoongi on every possible platform and channel, completely cutting off any way for him to reach you.

But you knew Yoongi wasn’t stupid. You knew it wouldn’t take him long to put two and two together to realize who was helping you and where you were.

After mama’s Min spoke to her son for the first time, Yoongi didn’t call her again for a long while. You could see the anticipation on her face every time her phone rang, and the quiet disappointment that followed when his name didn’t appear on the screen.

How did you know so easily that she was disappointed it wasn’t him?

Because that same feeling, the sting of waiting, the ache of disappointment, had been your constant companion for the last forty weeks of your pregnancy.

Yoongi’s behavior was nothing like the man you once knew.

He wasn’t the same person you had fallen in love with. He wasn’t the Yoongi who used to show up outside your office when it rained, just to drive you home so you wouldn't get soaked .

He wasn’t the Yoongi who would quietly fix broken things in your old apartment without ever being asked.

The Yoongi you now acted as if someone had flipped a switch inside him. Resetting him to factory settings. Turning a loving, attentive partner into a cold-hearted bastard.

So when you saw the disappointment on Mrs. Min’s face, you said nothing.

Because really what could you possibly say?

Your relationship with her had its unspoken rules. She comforted and cared for you, and you let her.

Not the other way around.

But that unspoken arrangement was starting to crack.

You’d been wondering for weeks why she never asked about what had happened.

Why you ran away from the hospital.

Why you turned to her for help.

Why Yoongi wasn’t there with you in the first place.

Could she have known what her son had been doing behind your back?

Maybe.

Otherwise, she wouldn’t have helped you. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Still, one quiet afternoon after the baby had fallen asleep and the apartment was spotless, leaving Mrs. Min with nothing to tidy or fuss over, you decided it was finally time to face it. To tell her the truth.

You had just made tea for the both of you and brought it into the living room. It felt like the right moment.

Better now than never.

You poured the tea into the cups and sat beside her on the couch. You didn’t know how to start, how to find the right words. So you decided to just rip off the band-aid and say it straight.

And that’s exactly what you did.

“Eomeonim… Yoongi cheated on me.”

The moment the words left your lips, your chest tightened, and your eyes burned. You drew in three unsteady breaths before finally daring to look up at the woman who was almost, but never truly, your mother-in-law.

Mrs. Min held her teacup midair, as though she’d momentarily forgotten what she was about to do. Her eyes closed. When she finally opened them and met your gaze, there it was, the same quiet, piercing look Yoongi often gave you when he was lost in thought.

“I know.”

Her words echoed in your head.

Just a simple I know and everything it carried.

Silence fell. Emptiness.

Only the pounding in your ears and the uneven beat of your heart.

It felt like being betrayed all over again. You knew she could have known so why did it still shock you? Why did it still hurt this much?

Was it because all those suppressed emotions were resurfacing and making themselves known?

"D-did you know?"

Mama Min set the tea down on the table. Her movements were deliberately slow, as if she were gathering her thoughts.

"You used to come over for dinner alone. You practically never showed up together anymore. When I was over, I saw how he treated you, how absent he was. At first, I thought maybe he was stressed, like a father-to-be. Yoongi always had the tendency to overthink things. So one day…" you noticed her hands tightening around her mug.

"One day, I visited him at the studio. I came over unannounced, and I caught them there."

She didn't say anything more. She just grabbed your hand. 

Neither of you said anything more. You drank the rest of your tea in silence.

It was a difficult conversation, but a necessary one so you were glad you let it out. And once again, you were grateful she was by your side. 

But slowly, something shifted in the air.

You caught her talking about Yoongi in a completely different tone.

At first, they were subtle hints, dropped in passing, supposedly addressed to your daughter, but in reality you knew that the recipient of these words was you.

You heard her say:

"You look so much like Daddy. Would you like to meet him?"

or

"Daddy would definitely sing you lullabies. Would you like to hear a lullaby written by Daddy?"

And there were conversations, too.

Conversations not between you and Mama Min, but between her and her husband.

She usually had those conversations at night, when she thought you were asleep.

Or when she thought you couldn’t hear. The walls weren’t thick enough to muffle her quiet words as she spoke about how overwhelmed she felt by it all. How she wanted to help, but didn’t want to interfere. How she thought you two should meet, and that Yoongi should see the little one.

You knew her anger toward her son wouldn’t last forever. You couldn’t count on that.

You couldn’t count on anyone to feel the same way about Yoongi as you did, least of all his own mother.

You weren’t that naive.

You knew it was only a matter of time before the dust began to settle.

And still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something you didn’t know.

It all started with Yoongi’s dad calling his wife.

One night, on your way to the bathroom, you heard Mrs. Min talking to her husband through the door of your room.

You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop but one sentence stopped you in your tracks.

"...But she looks just like Yoongi! Yebo, what are you talking about!?" Your heart skipped a beat when you heard those words.

Does Yoongi’s dad suspect your daughter isn't Yoongi's?

In fact, when you think about it, Mr.Min has only come to the apartment twice since you gave birth less than two months ago. You thought he wanted to give you space, that he didn't want to get involved.

But you noticed a strange coldness radiating from him. This man was always so kind to you, so effusive and so warm. He accepted you into the family faster than his wife.

That's why, when you first greeted him at the door, he merely nodded at you and didn't say a word. 

You felt something was wrong.

Throughout his entire visit, he wasn't as warm with you as he had been in the past. In fact, he didn't even speak to you. You even had the feeling that he was angry with you.

Only when he took your daughter in his arms did a wide smile immediately appear on his stern face.

Although, even when you watched them from the side, you noticed that Mr. Min was looking very closely at the little one. You felt as if he was examining her with a magnifying glass. Looking carefully at every little detail of her small face.

You felt his father was on the other side - Yoongi’s side. Worse still, you had the feeling that the more he talked to his wife, the more you felt that mama Min was starting to distance herself from you.

You had a really bad feeling that something strange was happening behind your back.

So when mama Min brought up the topic of meeting with Yoongi, you knew it was time to make a decision.

You were rocking the baby to sleep while Mrs. Min washed the dishes. She didn’t have to; there was a perfectly good dishwasher right beside her but it seemed she needed something to keep her hands busy while she talked to you.

“You know, I talked to Yoongi.”

Hearing his name, you felt every muscle in your body tense. You couldn’t see her face, but from the tone of her voice, you could tell the subject was as heavy for her as it was for you.

You didn’t respond, and Mrs. Min took your silence as permission to go on.

“I’m not defending him  don’t think I don’t know what he did was wrong. But I do think it’s time for you to stop hiding and talk to him. You both need to speak to each other like adults. You have a daughter together, after all.”

You looked down at the small bundle in your arms. At her tiny mouth that looked exactly like her father’s, at her button nose, at those soft, chubby cheeks.

You exhaled slowly.

Mrs. Min was right.

Deep down, you knew she was right. Maybe you had overreacted that day in the hospital, running away, cutting him off completely, pretending that silence could somehow protect you from the pain.

You had suffered deeply then. It broke you that you’d gone through almost your entire pregnancy alone, feeling abandoned and unseen. Yoongi’s absence at the hospital had been the final blow. It was Jimin who had helped you through everything, who had stayed by your side until the very end.

In some small, bitter way, you knew you had acted out of spite. You wanted him to hurt, to feel even a fraction of what you’d felt. To show him that he couldn’t shatter you and walk away untouched… even if, in truth, you were the one left in pieces.

Your heart had been ripped apart. And now, as you looked at your sleeping daughter, you weren’t sure anymore if your pride outweighed everything that had happened.

But Mama Min was right.

You didn’t owe him anything.

You owed her. Your daughter. 

"Eomeonim..." you began slowly, composing every word you wanted to say. You knew you had to weigh your words carefully. You didn't want to offend the woman who had helped you so much. After all, Yoongi was her son. Whether she was angry with him or not didn't matter. Because in the end, you knew she would forgive him sooner or later.

If she hadn't already forgiven him.

"...I don't know if I can handle it, if I'm strong enough."

You didn't want to show weakness; you wanted to be as strong as the woman standing before you. But you weren't her. You've always been very emotional. And you were afraid that this emotionality might cloud your judgment once again.

Mama Min turned toward you, set the dishcloth on the counter, and, after wiping her hands on her apron, walked over to the couch. She sat down beside you and gently ran her hand over your hair, the way someone might comfort a child.

For once, the gesture didn’t feel patronizing. It didn’t bother you at all.

You needed the warmth, the closeness, the simple proof that someone still cared. After so many months of silence and indifference, that small act of kindness nearly undid you.

"I know, honey, and I know you're scared, but you both need to talk. You need to resolve this situation for this little princess. She'll definitely want to meet her dad, and she'll want him in her life. Just try, y/n. I know this conversation won't be easy. I know he hurt you. But this isn't just about you anymore. Okay?"

You looked into her eyes, the same eyes Yoongi had inherited. Mama Min might be intimidating, confident, and sometimes sharp-tongued, but you knew she was a kind woman with a heart forged from many life experiences.

You agreed, for her and your daughter's sake.

Mama Min promised to take care of the little one while you talked.

Now you were nervously pressing the button that summoned the elevator. You were supposed to meet Yoongi in his hotel room. You didn't want to meet him in your rented apartment.

You didn't want to reveal your location. Even if you suspected he knew where you were.

As the elevator ascended, your stomach twisted tighter with each passing floor, your heartbeat drumming unevenly in your chest. You wiped your sweaty palms on your jeans, forcing yourself to breathe evenly, to stay composed. But when the soft chime announced your arrival, calm was the last thing you felt.

The hallway was quiet, too quiet. Only two doors stood at opposite ends, and it didn’t take long to find the one you were looking for.

PH 770.

You stopped in front of it, your fingers trembling slightly as you pressed the doorbell.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the lock clicked, and the door opened. You expected to see Yoongi but it wasn't him standing there.

Instead, you were met with Jimin’s warm, familiar smile, his eyes softening the tension that had been gripping your chest.

“Y/N, you’ve made it! I’m so happy to see you! You look good. How have you been?”

Jimin didn’t let you get a word in. He wrapped you in his arms and hugged you tightly as if he hadn’t seen you in a year.

There was always something comforting about the way Park Jimin hugged you. Everyone loved Jimin, his kind heart, his warm, easygoing nature and you were no exception.

He had been there for you during the final weeks of your pregnancy, back when Yoongi would vanish for days, nights. Jimin had been the one to comfort you, he bought the most beautiful clothes for your daughter.

“For our little princess,” he’d said, handing you yet another meticulously wrapped designer outfit.

“Jiminaa, she might wear it once, if at all! She already has so many clothes! I swear she has more than I do” You scolded him lightly, though the paper bags with Dior emblazoned on them betrayed your inability to refuse.

Sometimes Tae would come along with Jimin, sometimes Jungkook. Jin had apologized, saying he didn’t want to get involved. Hobi tried, but you could tell it was hard for him, so you reassured him that you wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t visit. You understood.

Namjoon, though… you hadn’t seen him even once.

So when Jimin finally released you from the hug, still smiling warmly, you were caught off guard to see Namjoon standing behind him.

He looked… unsure. Awkward, even. For someone usually so articulate, it was surprising to see him struggling for words. It was as difficult for him as it was for you.

“Y/N,” he said, your name soft, hesitant.

You froze, unsure what to expect or how to react, your gaze locked on his. And yet, it was Namjoon who made the first move, breaking the silence between you.

“Oh fuck it, come here!”It definitely wasn’t as comforting as Jimin’s hug, but it wasn’t the worst either.

When Jimin hugged you, it was like floating on a cloud of warmth and happiness, as if the world had softened around you.

Namjoon’s hug, on the other hand, felt heavy, like someone was pressing down on your chest. It felt like someone was crushing your insides and testing the strength of your bones.

“Joonie, I appreciate your hug, but you're suffocating me…” You barely managed to get the words out, your nose buried deep in Namjoon's chest.

“Oh God! Sorry, my bad!” You felt the oxygen rush back into your lungs as you pulled apart.

The moment was fleeting, because the moment Namjoon released you from his embrace, your gaze fell on the figure sitting in the armchair at the back of the room.

You felt a sudden knot in your stomach as his cold gaze pierced you.

Jimin, sensing your sudden change of mood, grabbed your hand and stroked the back of it with his thumb.

"It'll be alright, don't worry. We're here to help" you heard a voice beside you. But the emotions boiling inside you muffled the sounds of Jimin's voice so effectively that you couldn't hear his words.

You were now standing in the hallway of the room, staring directly into the icy gaze of the man you loved more than anything else.

Yoongi was dressed in his favorite dark navy pants and a fitted black shirt elegant, composed, calculated. It caught you off guard.

He wasn’t usually like this. At home, or when he met with friends, Yoongi lived in his comfort zone: soft sweatpants, loose T-shirts, hoodies that smelled faintly of his cologne.

But the man standing before you now wasn’t that Yoongi. This one had dressed to impress or maybe to remind you of the power he once held over you.

Either way, you could tell it was intentional. Every button, every fold, every quiet ounce of control in the way he carried himself.

All of it was deliberate.

He wanted to intimidate you.

You felt someone pulling you by the hand into the room. You were completely oblivious to what was happening to you.

"Hyung..." If you had been still alert, you would have heard the scolding tone in Jimin's voice as he uttered those words. Or you would have noticed Yoongi swallowing nervously beneath his facade of indifference. But you didn't notice any of it; you were busy trying to keep your remaining nerves in check.

Jimin guided you gently to the couch, and now there was an oak designer coffee table separating you from Yoongi, a table that suddenly felt more like a wall.

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. Every time your eyes drifted in his direction, your chest tightened painfully. The man sitting across from you was the same one you had once loved with every piece of your heart, the same man with whom you had a daughter.

But now, when you looked at him, all you could see were the memories that hurt: the silence, the betrayal, the nights you cried alone while he was nowhere to be found.

Each breath you took felt heavier, and for a moment, you wished you could just disappear before your heart broke all over again.

A gentle hand began to rub your back. Jimin’s, steady and comforting. But before he could say anything, Yoongi’s voice cut through the air, sharp and cold enough to slice through your composure.

“You’re doing a great job, Y/N. Acting like I’m the villain in this story. Bravo. You should get an Oscar for this performance.”

You froze. Slowly, you lifted your head, confusion clouding your features as your eyes met his.

What was he talking about?

His words made no sense to you.

“Yoongi…” Namjoon began carefully, but you didn’t even hear him.

Your own voice came out small, trembling, barely audible in the heavy silence that followed.

“What are you talking about?”

Yoongi let out a low, humorless laugh, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned forward slowly, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together in front of his mouth. 

He looked at you, examining you as if you were a curious animal he was seeing for the first time and didn't know what to do with you. His movements were calm, deliberate, almost too controlled.

When he finally spoke, his voice was cold, stripped of warmth, stripped of the tenderness you once knew.

It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t pain.

It was distance.

And that, somehow, hurt the most.

“Are you going to keep pretending and putting on this whole show? Seriously? After all this time?”

You couldn’t make sense of what was happening. His words didn’t add up, none of it did. Your eyes searched his face desperately, trying to find some trace of the man you used to know, some hint that this was all a terrible misunderstanding.

But Yoongi only leaned back in his chair, his lips curling into a cruel, mocking grin.

“You really want me to say it out loud, don’t you?” His voice dripped with venomous calm. “You should be grateful I even agreed to meet you. If it weren’t for my mother… if it weren’t for Jimin and Namjoon, you’d never have seen me again.”

The words struck you like a slap sharp, stunning, humiliating.

For a few seconds, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Then, slowly, the numbness gave way to something hotter, darker. Rage burned through your veins, steady and consuming, like magma tearing through everything in its path.

“What did you just say?” Your voice trembled, but your anger made it stronger. “That I’m lucky you wanted to meet me?!”

Your whole body was shaking now. He had the audacity to say something like that after everything he’d done.

After the pain.

After the betrayal.

After what he’d done to your daughter.

How he’d shattered your life… and still had the nerve to act like you were the one who owed him.

“You fucked that bitch Lee Sung-kyung, and I’m the one who’s supposed to be grateful?!”

“Y/n-ssi…”

You didn’t even realize when you’d gotten to your feet one moment you were trembling in your chair, the next you were standing over him, glaring down with fire in your eyes. Jimin’s hand caught yours, his grip tight, as if he genuinely feared you might leap across the room and claw Yoongi’s face.

You jerked your hand free and took a step forward. Something in that movement must have triggered him, because Yoongi rose from his chair too slow, deliberate, his expression unreadable.

Now you were face to face.

“Whoa, whoa calm down, guys. Let’s just talk this through,” Namjoon tried to intervene, but neither of you was listening. His voice barely registered you were both too far gone, locked in your own storm, deaf to everything and everyone around you.

The tension between you was thick, electric, coiling in the air like a storm about to break. You locked eyes, neither willing to back down, hurling silent challenges that spoke louder than any words.

You could see the faint flush creeping up his neck, the muscle in his jaw tightening. His eyes  sharp, merciless. There was no trace of the man you had loved. Only the cold, simmering fury of someone who looked at you like an enemy.

“You have the nerve to call me out after what you did to me?”

Yoongi’s voice was low, seething, the kind that made the air feel heavier. You could see how furious he was. Every word gritted through clenched teeth, every breath a visible effort to keep control. The calm, composed Yoongi you once knew was gone, replaced by the same wild anger burning through your own veins.

“What I did to you?! What have I possibly done, Yoongi, what?!” you spat, your voice breaking with rage. “What have I done to you besides giving you the child you claimed you wanted so desperately? The same child you abandoned the day you found out I was pregnant!”

You hadn’t even realized how close you’d gotten until your noses were almost touching, your breath mingling in heated fury.

“Guys, please,” Namjoon’s voice broke through, gentle but tense. “Take a breath. You need to listen to each other, not tear each other apart.”

You had to give him credit he was doing his best. But this wasn’t a situation that could be fixed with calm words. Not anymore.

“Hyung, take a deep breath and calmly tell y/n what the doctor told you.”

Huh?

Doctor?

You looked at Jimin, confused.

What's going on here? You came to resolve the custody situation for your daughter, and now you're being accused of who knows what. Now Jimin's mentioning a doctor? What kind of circus is this?

Yoongi tore his gaze from you for a moment, looked at Jimin, then at Namjoon, who handed him a white folder.

"Here, read this." Yoongi tossed the folder on the table in front of you, not even bothering to hand it to you.

You looked at the slightly open folder and then at Namjoon who slightly nodded towards the document.

Slowly, you bent down, as you picked it up. Your eyes caught the bold letters at the top:

Seoul Reproductive & Andrology Clinic.

The name of the doctor blurred in your vision as you read the next line:

Diagnosis: irreversible male infertility due to obstructive azoospermia.

Your throat closed.

The words didn't make sense at first. They couldn't.

Yoongi's breathing was ragged, his chest heaving as if every breath hurt. 

“Now tell me again,” he said hoarsely, “who cheated on who first Y/N.”

The paper shook in your hands, your mind struggling to process the truth and the realization that you had both been bleeding from different wounds all along.

Was that the reason he’d started pulling away even before you got pregnant?

In an instant, flashes of all those nights came rushing back. The quiet evenings when you’d tried to initiate intimacy, full of soft hope and excitement, believing maybe tonight would be the night a little miracle finally happened.

But he’d been reluctant.

Yoongi had started to pull away even before you conceived. Somewhere along the way, you noticed the spark in him had faded. The warmth, the tenderness, the eagerness that once came so naturally.

You’d read on forums that this sometimes happened to couples trying for a baby. That sex could start to feel like a chore rather than something born out of love. So you’d done everything you could to keep that from happening. You’d worn the lingerie he liked, touched him the way he always responded to, and tried to keep things light, playful. You didn’t want to be the woman with a fertility app in one hand and a timer in the other, announcing, “It’s ovulation day, let’s go!”

He’d withdrawn into himself, shut down emotionally. But you never once imagined that infertility could be the reason for his silence. You’d assumed it was about work, the endless projects hanging over him like a storm cloud.

So you did what you always did when Yoongi was having one of his darker days. 

You gave him space. 

You didn’t push, didn’t pry. You just stayed close enough so he’d know you were there, like always.

But never ever did it cross your mind that it could have anything to do with Yoongi being infertile.

Except… that wasn’t true, was it? Because if it were, your daughter wouldn’t even exist.

“Yoongi… this must be some kind of mistake,” you managed to whisper, staring at the paper in disbelief.

Yoongi saw the shock on your face, and a glint of triumph flickered in his eyes  as if your confusion had just confirmed his suspicions.

A bitter, mocking laugh escaped his lips. You looked at him, then at Namjoon and Jimin, desperate to see some trace of understanding in their faces, some sign that this was just a cruel joke.

“So? What do you have to say for yourself now?” Yoongi’s voice was laced with venom. “I repeat my question. Who betrayed who first, Y/N? You really thought you could hide it from me? You’re just like the rest of them looking for an easy life and a gullible man to give it to you. But your little plan didn’t quite work out, did it? You couldn’t get pregnant with me, but you managed with someone else. What did you think would happen huh? You probably thought; No you hoped  that bastard was mine. That’s why you clung to that lie for so long, isn’t it?”

You had to sit down.

His words were echoing inside your skull, pounding with every heartbeat, each one cutting deeper than the last.

Bastard. 

His cruel words about your daughter hurt you more than his suggestion that you might have cheated on him.

Now it all started to make sense. 

Mr. Min’s coldness, the strange tension between his parents, those whispered conversations late at night.

You glanced at Namjoon again, but this time he avoided your eyes. Then at Jimin. His expression - soft, apologetic.

In that moment, everything became crystal clear.

No one believed you.

They all thought you were a cheater.

With trembling hands, you placed the sheet of paper on the oak coffee table and looked up at Yoongi this time without anger.

A strange calm washed over you. 

Suddenly, you understood everything.

“So you cheated on me out of revenge?” Your voice was quiet but steady. “Because you thought our daughter was the result of my alleged affair?”

Yoongi scoffed, his laugh sharp and bitter.

“Your daughter is the result of your affair, Y/N. I came here to set things straight, because I don’t want my mother dragged into your childish games anymore. She knows. I sent her the same document I showed you. Why do you think she pushed you to meet me today? She knew you needed to stop deluding yourself. We won't keep helping you. I came here to tell you that, and to tell you to disappear from my life for good. Your things are already packed in boxes. Send my agent the address where you want them delivered. And I don’t want you contacting me or my family ever again. Is that clear?”

His cold, detached tone sliced through you like a knife. The pounding in your ears wouldn’t stop. Thoughts collided and screamed in your head:

That’s not true!

She’s yours!

I never betrayed you!

You wanted to say it out loud, to beg him to listen to give you a chance to explain. But then you remembered the one thing that silenced you completely.

Yoongi had slept with Sung-kyung out of spite. Instead of talking to you, instead of facing the problem together, he’d made the decision for both of you and destroyed everything in the process.

Pride took over you.

“So according to you, our daughter is proof that I cheated on you?” you asked anyway, though you already knew the answer.

“Your daughter,” he corrected coldly. 

“And not just that. I saw the pictures, the late dinners, the meetings with some man. It all added up. Sung-kyung confirmed it one night when she came to see me. She told me you’d confessed to her that you’d fallen in love with another man and betrayed me. That pregnancy… that child… is just proof she was right.”

You started to laugh.The absurdity of it all, his accusations, his claims about your supposed infidelity, it was so far-fetched, so utterly ridiculous, it almost felt surreal. And the fact that he mentioned Sung-kyung had told him? 

That was the final touch of irony.

“I don’t believe this is happening” you said aloud, laughing in disbelief. You knew you probably looked unhinged at that moment, but you didn’t care. They’d already judged you without even bothering to hear your side of the story.

You stood up from the couch, your pulse racing. You looked at all three of them.

“You three know better than anyone else in this room, how easily photos can be manipulated, how situations can be twisted and overinterpreted. Yes, I went to dinners. But they were strictly professional, and I was never alone. Yet you never bothered to ask me, did you? You preferred to believe some jealous bitch who’s been into you for years and befriended me just to be close to you.”

Your voice cracked slightly, but you didn’t stop.

“And our daughter? You think she’s proof of my infidelity?” You scoffed at this ridiculous accusation.

“Tell me, Yoongi did it ever cross your mind, even for a second, that maybe, just maybe, she’s yours? That I could’ve been telling the truth? That you could’ve talked to me about what was going on with you? We could’ve gone to a doctor, done more tests. But instead, you chose to react the way you did?”

You looked at him then really looked at him and for a fleeting second, the fury that burned in you tangled with something raw and painful. His expression faltered, the confidence in his eyes flickering under the weight of your words. You could see the conflict there, the hesitation he was trying so hard to hide behind that cold mask.

Your throat tightened. 

He just stood there, jaw clenched, eyes dark and unreadable and that silence between you hurt more than any insult he could have thrown your way.

“Yeah, just as I thought”

You drew in a shaky breath, your chest constricting, your heart splintering into dust with every word that left your lips.

“I get it. You’ve been used before by women, by people who only ever wanted something from you. I know trust doesn’t come easy for you. But I thought…” your voice cracked under the weight of everything you’d held back.

“ …I thought that after almost six years, I meant something to you. That I wasn’t just another person trying to grab a piece of Min Yoongi.”

For a heartbeat, the room fell utterly silent, the kind of silence that screams louder than any argument, heavy with all the things neither of you dared to say.

“Fine,” you finally said, your tone turning sharp. “We’ll disappear from your life. No problem. I have no intention of staying with someone who doesn’t respect me. I refuse to share any space with a cheater or with someone who’s just shown me who he really is and where I snad in your life.”

You saw something flicker in Yoongi’s eyes then pain, maybe? But he hid it quickly behind that cold, practiced indifference.

“Jimin. Namjoon.” You turned to them, your voice breaking but steady enough to sting. “I’m disappointed in you. I really thought at least one of you had the courage to tell me to my face what you thought of me. Especially you, Jimin. You were there with me in the last months of my pregnancy. Didn’t you think I deserved to know?”

Jimin opened his mouth, guilt flooding his expression, but you raised your hand to silence him,you weren’t finished yet.

“Save it. I don't want to hear it anymore” You said. 

“I’ll ask your mother for one last thing, Yoongi. Because I owe her that much… and because I respect her.”

Your voice was steady, but the tremor beneath it betrayed the storm inside you. “I’ll ask her to run a DNA test on my daughter to prove to you who’s right. I won’t be involved, so you can’t accuse me of faking the results. But when the results come back, and you finally learn the truth…”

You paused, meeting his eyes. Eyes that once made you feel safe, but now felt like shards of ice. With all the strength and defiance you had left, you said:

“Don’t look for us. Don’t try to contact us. From this moment on, we don’t exist to you.”

Those were the last words you left him with before you turned and walked out of the room.

Only in the elevator did your composure shatter. Silent sobs breaking free as tears streamed down your face, the pain finally spilling out.

When you closed the door to that hotel room, you promised yourself that you closed the door on your old life too.

Somewhere deep inside, a small, fragile part of you still wished he would say he was sorry. That he’d look at you with the same honesty he once had and admit he was wrong. If he did, if he showed even a flicker of remorse, you knew you’d let him back in. You’d go to therapy, work through the pain, rebuild what was broken. You wanted that, not just for yourself, but for your daughter. For the family you once dreamed of.

But standing there, staring into the hollow version of the man you’d loved, you finally understood something: love wasn’t enough anymore. Apologies couldn’t erase the nights you cried alone, the betrayal that cut through you, the months he let you carry everything on your own while he chose pride over truth.

You realized that forgiving him would mean teaching your daughter that it’s okay to accept half-love. That it’s okay to let someone destroy you, as long as they say sorry afterward. And that, you couldn’t do.

So even if a piece of your heart still longed for him, the rest of you, the wiser part knew this was the end. Because loving him had already cost you too much.

If he didn’t want anything to do with you, if he didn’t have the decency to ask, to listen, to believe if he had to betray you with her because he’d convinced himself you had done the same, then you wouldn’t be the better person this time.

You would disappear. You would start over, somewhere far away, where his shadow couldn’t reach you.

And maybe, just maybe one day, you and your daughter would find happiness again.

Part III

a/n 2: I don't quite know how to write the way you write in the US. I know that in America, if there's a pause in dialogue, it appears like this -. However, here we write with dots … It's a bit of a struggle for me, but I decided I'd write simply, the way I'm taught. I didn't study English, so I don't want to make any major mistakes. I hope you'll forgive me :)

Tag list:

@llallaaa @lindsayjoyg @tea4sykes @captainchrisstan @kam9404 @yoongiiuu93  hoelychildofgod misschelliejeon granataepfelchen @bts123746 canarystwin baechugff namkookshi @amarawayne magicshop96 futuristicenemychaos rinkud hanaohreally libbieminie gaslysainz jajabro annyeongbitch7 solephile tryingtotwice @butterymin @queenbloody @mygagustd93

[benyhime]

The Song He Didn’t Write Part II

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader (established relationship, now broken

Genre: AU| Drama| Angst| Hurt/Comfort| Family-Centric| Domestic Fiction| Slow Burn (Post-Breakup)| Motherhood

Warnings: Infidelity|Postpartum emotional distress|Mentions of stalking/harassment by fans|Light birth trauma|Emotional manipulation (off-screen)|Betrayal by a loved one|Discussion of motherhood and traditional cultural expectations| Mentions of physical symptoms (nausea, weakness, etc.)

Word count: 3.2k

Summary: You gave birth alone, not by choice, but because the man you loved betrayed you. With your world falling apart, you called the only person you expected would stand by your side.

A/N: Thank you @rottingbedpost for your support and being a beta for this chapter!

I just want to remind you that English isn't my first language, so be gentle ;) There will definitely be a few more chapters. The next one will be Yoongi's POV. I hope you like it.

Part I

It wasn't that you didn't want anyone with you in the delivery room. You did very much so.

You wouldn't have minded if his mother had been there, or even your own (if she had made it to the country in time).

The truth was, you wanted Yoongi to be there.

You remember lying in his arms one evening, your warm, bare bodies still tangled together under the duvet.

He was lazily tracing circles on your back while you calmed your racing heartbeat to the rhythm of his.

"Do you think it’ll be a boy or a girl?" he murmured.

"I think I need to actually get pregnant first, Yoongi," you replied, laughing under your breath.

You liked how much your fiancé dreamed of having a child. How deeply he wanted to have one with you.

It reassured you, made you feel like you were his endgame.

That you were it for him.

And as you lay there thinking about his question, something crossed your mind.

Something that has been bothering you lately.

"Yoonie, shouldn’t we, you know… get married first? Just… formally?" 

Yoongi shifted you in his arms so he could look you in the eyes.

"Does it matter to you? Do you want us to be?"

Did you?

What would it really change, besides having your name officially added to his family registry and gaining the legal benefits of being his wife?

You understood that Yoongi might not want to go through with that just yet, not because he wasn’t ready. You’d been together for five years now, one year of engagement.

The issue wasn’t emotional. It was... practical.

HYBE - and the boys - had a very well-oiled system when it came to hiding their relationships.

No one ever found out unless they wanted them to.

And Yoongi was known for fiercely guarding his privacy.

Which is why you were so shocked, four months ago, when suddenly a blurry photo of your face was splattered everywhere across every social media platform imaginable.

You even made it onto the evening news!

Of course after that, nothing stayed hidden from the media or the sasaengs.

Even though you weren’t a public figure, and your face was technically blurred when the pictures came out, they still found out who you were.

Where you worked.

Where you usually bought your morning coffee.

What size shoes you wore.

Every - single - piece of information was dug out. 

Hell broke loose.

Nothing seemed to matter, not the fact that Yoongi was nearly forty, not that he had every right to be in a relationship. Not even the fact that you weren't a public figure.

To the media, the two of you became a feeding frenzy.

You had to take a break from work because strangers - people you didn’t even know started coming to your department just to secretly take photos of you.

Yoongi was furious.

And his anger only grew when he heard what the label had discovered.

Someone from your close circle had sold your photos to the press.

That was probably why Yoongi didn’t want to tempt fate by adding the risk of your wedding pictures leaking to the public.

Not yet.

Not when he still hadn’t found the mole.

What’s more, fans had no idea that you two had been together for five years.

To them and to the public your relationship was still brand new.

“Not necessarily. I’m happy with what we have now,” you whispered, scooting closer and curling into his chest.

“But are you sure we want to become parents?” you asked quietly. “I mean, considering how the media reacts to us?”

Hearing the uncertainty in your voice, Yoongi gently turned you onto your back, shifting so he was now leaning over you.

You looked into his eyes, those smoldering, emotion-filled eyes that had always seen straight through you.

“Jagi... I’m thirty-nine. I’m not getting any younger,” he said softly. 

“And I feel ready. I want to have a child with you. I want to build a family with you. My mom adores you and you know that woman. The fact that she accepted you so quickly is a miracle in itself.”  he chuckled and continued. 

“My dad’s basically in love with you. My six brothers? I’m pretty sure they love you more than they love me. You’re always patient, even when I don’t deserve it. You’re warm, you’re kind, and you have the funniest laugh in the world.”

You rolled your eyes at that because let’s be honest, your laugh could only be compared to a piglet’s snort.

But Yoongi never seemed to mind. In fact, he always did everything he could to make you laugh out loud just to hear it.

“I’d be a complete idiot not to want this. Not wanting you. I want you baby” he whispered in your ear, then placed a gentle kiss on your neck. 

“I want us.”

Yoongi leaned down, pressing his face into the crook of your neck.

He kissed the delicate skin there and gave it a gentle bite, reigniting that familiar fire inside you.

Your body responded to his touch like a live wire, like it had been made to feel only him.

“Let me—” 

A kiss.

“Make—” 

Another, this time against your collarbone.

“A —”

His hands slid slowly along the sides of your body as you became more and more ready for him.

“Baby —”

You felt his hands tighten around your breasts, his thumbs teasing your hardening nipples.

“With you”

That night he made love to you three more times, as if he wanted to erase all your worries and doubts with his body.

All of this, you thought to yourself, was a memory of another life. A life you lost forever the moment your partner decided to betray you. 

To cheat on you.

Now, you were nervously waiting in the room with your newborn baby, anxiously anticipating the arrival of the one person who could take you both somewhere safe.

When the door opened, your breath caught in your throat. You were terrified that you wouldn't be able to handle it, that you wouldn't be able to go through with the plan. You were terrified that you wouldn’t be able to slip away unnoticed, but apparently, luck was on your side that day.

And most importantly, you were afraid she wouldn't be on your side.

But she was.

“Are you ready?”

A woman’s brisk, focused voice rang out in the room. You nodded, unable to force out a single word. You were too scared that if you tried to speak, you’d start crying and you wouldn’t be able to do what you’d made up your mind to do.

“Good. The car’s waiting. Give me the baby.”

You handed the tiny bundle to the woman, who gently placed it into a car seat secured to a stroller frame. You had no idea where she’d gotten the seat or the stroller.

But you didn’t ask. 

Not today. Not now.

“Ready?”

“Yes, Eomeonim.”

“Then let’s go. We’ve got a long road ahead, and you’re still very weak.”

Mama Min.

You were grateful for everything she did for you. You loved this woman. And although the beginnings of your relationship weren't particularly warm, over time you could say without hesitation that she became the second most important woman in your life, right after your own mother.

When you wanted to leave the hospital and didn’t know what came next, when the future felt like a vast, terrifying void, there was one thing you were sure of.

You knew who you could turn to. 

Who would help you.

Who would understand you.

Even when it meant choosing you over the best interest of her own son.

Mama Min.

A woman stronger than steel.

A woman who had carried her entire family on her back through its darkest hours.

A woman who would tell you to your face without sugarcoating a brutally honest opinion about who you are and what she thinks about you.

She was a woman with the strength of three hundred men.

A woman who raised two sons even while battling heart problems of her own.

A woman who never gave up, who pushed forward no matter what, because she knew she had to. Because she knew she had to fight. Because she knew giving up was not an option. 

Mama Min was strong.

And right now, you need that strength.

You knew you couldn’t take away this woman’s chance to be close to her first granddaughter.

Yoongi’s brother had two sons, and the whole Min family erupted with joy when they found out you were expecting a little girl.

You had feared the Min family might be disappointed.

After all, in many parts of Asian culture, the deeply-rooted patriarchy often whispers that a woman should first bear sons.

But fortunately, nothing of the sort happened.

Mr. Min poured himself a glass of whisky out of pure joy (just one, due to his liver).

He tried to hide his tears under the excuse of clearing the table, but you saw the tiny droplets forming in the corners of his eyes.

Mama Min, at first glance, didn’t look especially thrilled but you knew.

She showed love the same way her youngest son did: through actions.

Suddenly, your plate had a noticeably bigger portion of meat, something usually reserved for her grandsons and sons (depending on which one she loved more that day).

Another time, as you were leaving her house, you discovered a container of kimchi and tteokbokki in your bag, the dish you’d recently been devouring like a woman possessed.

When, in your first trimester, the nausea hit like a tidal wave and you were throwing up farther than you could see, she showed up every morning without a word, and made you traditional seaweed soup miyeok-guk.

It didn’t just calm your stomach or sit better than anything else which, at that point, was basically nothing.

You knew seaweed was rich in iron and iodine.

You knew she made that soup because it was her way of caring.

Although the way she forced you to eat that soup would have indicated she was irritated, you knew better. You saw the flicker of worry in her eyes. You knew she went to the market every morning to choose only the freshest ingredients for you.

“Eat. Before it gets cold.”

She said in a harsh tone without even asking if you wanted it, if you could swallow it down. To others it might've sounded harsh. But it wasn’t. Not to you. You knew better.

Mama Min  knew you had no strength to cook. So she cooked for you and Yoongi. She knew that every smell made you retch, that's why she cooked other dishes first thing in the morning at her home, so you wouldn't have to smell the food being cooked. She would pack it in plastic boxes and put them in your fridge.

In fact, you were vomiting even after drinking plain water. But surprisingly, the only thing you could manage to keep down was that damned seaweed soup.

So when Jimin left and you reached for your phone with shaking hands and said just one word to her -

“Eomeonim” 

She knew something had happened. And she was by your side in the blink of an eye.

“Eomeonim, I swear, if I see that soup one more time...” you muttered as she slid another bowl of miyeok-guk in front of you.

"Eat, and stop whining" you heard in return, in a harsh tone.

You saw the frustration on her face; you also saw the pain she was trying to hide behind an unreadable expression.

You knew her anger was directed at someone else.

Her youngest son.

At Yoongi. 

“Miyeok-guk is traditionally eaten for the first 30 days after giving birth. I ate it, my mother ate it, and so did her grandmother. You won't fight tradition. This soup provides iron and minerals, and you were anemic during pregnancy and still are. I won't let my granddaughter's mother become weak and that something happens to her.”

My granddaughter's mother.

Not her son's fiance, not her son's baby mama. No. 

Her granddaughter's mother. 

You thanked her with a bow, handing back the little bundle that had just fallen asleep in your arms, and sat down at the table in your new apartment that she set up for you.

But you couldn't shake the feeling, that it was as if fate was laughing at you again, showing you that it had more in store for you than you thought.

Yoongi gave his parents this building in Daegu as a gift. Mama Min managed the property. So when you called her in tears from the hospital, she immediately got dressed and came to pick you up. She told you that one of her tenants had just moved out and that you should move in.

You didn't question this proposal, you agreed immediately.

The apartment was perfect for your needs. The kitchen wasn't too big, and it opened onto the living room. The apartment also had two rooms, a small bathroom, and a bathroom next to your bedroom. Mama Min slept in the smaller room, and you slept in the other.

When you arrived at the apartment, it was practically nightfall. She helped you wash, fed you, and let you sleep while she took care of her granddaughter. You weren't sure if you'd heard correctly when you fell asleep, but you thought that mama Min was sobbing quietly. You didn't have the energy to consider what you'd heard. The moment your head touched the pillow and felt its softness, your consciousness drifted straight into Morpheus's arms.

At the time, you didn't think about why she hadn't asked about Yoongi, about your current state, your decision to leave asap or why you were alone in that delivery room. You didn't question why she hadn't asked, why he wasn't with you. Or why she'd even agreed to this without batting an eyelid. You still felt too weak to give it a proper thought. 

But now that you feel cared for and safe, you know you're slowly getting closer to having that conversation with her.

When you finished your second helping of soup, that she practically forced on you, you knew the moment had come. You had to talk.

“Eomeonim... “ You took a deep breath, but you felt tears welling up in your eyes, despite everything you wanted to continue, you wanted to explain yourself, but you also wanted to understand why she was helping you. 

“Yoongi he…I— ” You continued but your voice cracked. Just mentioning his name caused you too much pain, the control that you had over your emotions slipped. The pain was just too real. To compose yourself you tilted your head back and closed your eyes, preventing more tears to spill, clenching your fists so hard that you felt your nails digging into your thighs, so hard that there would definitely be marks the next day. 

You were weak. 

So, so weak.

All the anger you’d been bottling up for so long began to pour out of you. You had no control over your body, over your emotions anymore. You started trembling all over.

“Enough!” she snapped.

“You’ll lose your milk if you keep falling apart like this! I know what you want to say. I know what he did to you. And I know, I know how hard it is for you. I truly understand, that's why I'm here. That’s why I want to help you. But right now, you have to think about her. You can't let her suffer because of her father’s foolish choices. That’s something her grandmother will deal with. You need to take care of her and yourself. Do you understand?”

The firmness tone with which Mama Min uttered these sentences caused a delicate flame of strength to awaken in your body, a strength that you had to find within yourself. This flame was small for now, like a lit match. 

But it was there.

“You can scream, you can throw those plates if that’s what it takes to get your anger out, but you cannot despair, and you cannot give up. Not now. Not when you’ve become a mother, Y/N.”

You looked at the woman from beneath your clumped, tear-soaked lashes. Thick tears were streaming down your cheeks, and your nose was running. You wiped your face with your sleeve and nodded.

There was something in Mama Min’s posture that gave you strength.

And even though you wanted to cry, wanted to wallow in self-pity, she was right.

Your daughter came first.

You yourself become now a mother. And as hard as it is, you need to get your shit together. 

Only after taking care of your baby would you be allowed to fall apart. 

So you nodded again, looked at your sleeping daughter, and reached for her, gently pulling her small body close to yours. Inhaling that intoxicating baby smell, you thought there would be time for everything. For now, you have to think, taking small steps, about what to do next.

Her soft breathing and the familiar scent of her skin calmed your nerves.

And just when you thought you’d managed to stop the wave of hysteria, Mama Min’s phone lit up.

You saw who was calling.

Yoongi.

Mama Min looked at you, then at the phone, and let out a long sigh.

“I have to answer. He’s been calling me since yesterday. I don’t want him to get suspicious. And you, don’t say a word.”

You didn’t even have time to respond before she turned her back to you and picked up the call.

“Hello?”

You stared at her back, not even realizing you were holding your breath.

“How should I know where she is? She’s your fiancée, not mine.”

…

….

“I went to Daegu to help my great-aunt on my uncle’s side, you know her, Grandma Lee. Don’t you remember? She used to give you candy.”

Yoongi must have interrupted her, because when she slightly turned toward you, you recognized that familiar look of irritation on her face, the same one you’d seen on Yoongi many times. A look that said "cut the crap".

You couldn’t hear what he was saying, not from that distance, but you could guess.

“Why are you looking for her? Did something happen?”

A moment of silence.

You stared at the woman with such intensity, you didn’t even notice the milk beginning to drip from your breasts.

“My granddaughter?”

…

“When? Yesterday?”

…

“And you're only telling me this now?!”

…

"I don’t care that it didn’t even cross your mind! My granddaughter was born, and I have every right to know!"

…

….

…..

“What happened to make you start looking for your daughter and Y/N? Are they not with you at the hospital?" The last sentence was dripping with sarcasm. It seemed that although mama Min was trying not to blow your cover, she herself had a hard time containing her emotions . 

After a longer pause mama Min spoke again. This time more firm. Her voice betrayed emotion, betrayed that she knew why you weren't at the hospital.

“Clearly, she had a reason, don't you think?”

Uh-oh.

Mama Min pressed the phone tighter to her ear. You saw her fingers clench around the black Samsung, knuckles whitening with pressure.

“Yes, you're my son. But I don’t remember raising a cheater. The Yoongi I know respected women. He had a good heart. He loved Y/N. My Yoongi would never leave his fiancée - the mother of his child - alone in a hospital. I don’t know who I’m talking to right now, but you are not the son I raised. I don’t blame the girl for running. Y/N fell in love with a man who turned out to be a pathetic, little boy.”

With that final sentence, Mama Min ended the call.

And you had never felt such immense respect, such awe for her until that very moment.

Part III

Tag list:

@llallaaa @lindsayjoyg @tea4sykes @captainchrisstan @kam9404 @yoongiiuu93  hoelychildofgod misschelliejeon granataepfelchen @bts123746 canarystwin baechugff namkookshi