💌 “OMG SECRET SECRET IS SO AMAZING,I LOVE THIS SONG THATS SO BEAUTIFUL… “welcome to my blog”!!
ׂ╰┈➤ hiii! i'm jasmine and im a new stray kids fanfic writer and creator. i am willing to have anyone with ideas to interact kindly, and only for requests or ideas.
— — This is my Stray kids fanfic blog,but will probably turn into a joint blog for weak hero class also!!right now, i do not have a schedule for things im posting!! ฅ^._.^ฅ
i’m really busy atm so writing isn’t a priority to me right now!! I will try to start writing again soon but i need to focus on some family stuff!!
・❥・✎ intro → masterlist → taglist ✎ ・❥・
‧₊˚✧ what i write ✧˚₊‧
• smau
•one-shots
•member x 9th member
•fluff to angst
•angst to fluff
• drabbles
‧₊˚✧ what i don’t write ✧˚₊‧
• big age gap between members/reader
• NSFW. if you want NSFW works, find someone else.
summary: part one. how did jisung accidentally following you on the street turn into him having a crippling obsession with you that he just can’t deal with? and how does it affect the fact that he, as dumb he is, kills people sometimes?
warnings: non idol au, jisung is dumb, like really dumb, graphic violence, blood, mentions of gore, mentions of suicide(nobody done it or will), obsessive behavior, cursing, homicidal behavior/psychopathy, brutal codependency, obsessive love, throwing up, chan and jeongin as flirty side characters, reader kisses minho once, asshole minho but he’s nice on the surface, men pissing, sexual content(mentions of men jerking off, humping, fingers down throats, jisung getting turned on while puking???, nothing too explicit)
word count: 15k
you’re already having a bad day. everything that had the chance to go wrong, did. so yeah. you’re in a mood. you’re also being followed on the street and you’re very aware of it.
the guy behind you is broad, not that tall. very obviously trying to act like he’s not behind you. which makes it worse. he’ll look anywhere but at you, shop windows, the sky, a fucking pigeon. every time you slow down, he slows down. you speed up? oh look at that, so does he.
you stop suddenly just to test it and he nearly walks straight into you, then jerks back.
what the actual fuck is his problem?
you turn around. squint at him. he freezes. there’s a solid five seconds where neither of you say anything. his eyes are huge. his lips are left open in a little circle. literal :o
he’s… cute tho. big(still, wide, not tall), a little dopey looking, hair slightly messy, eyes wide in that oh shit oh fuck kind of way.
for context, jisung was following a girl he wanted to kill later. nothing personal, he just enjoys killing people. we’ll get to that later. his thought chain so far has been:
okay. target. follow target. do not lose target. wow she walks fast. shit where did she go. oh there she is. okay. keep following.
he’s supposed to be following someone else. but you see, jisung doesn’t think a lot, so he ended up mixing you up with that girl and following you instead of the one he meant to follow.
“hey.” you say. “are you lost?”
no matter how shitty your day was, this guy seems genuinely… off. shocked may be the right word. either way, you put your hand on his arm, squeezing a bit, running it up and down his bicep.
jisung’s little thoughts now:
oh.
that’s it. that’s the thought.
oh.
now he’s looking at you properly. he’s dumb, but not too dumb to realize now that he has been following the wrong person. for like… ten minutes.
instead of oh fucking shit, his brain goes:
not target.
but nice.
very nice.
she touched arm.
:)
“…yeah.” he says. yeah. that seems correct. he nods too. “yeah.”
you blink at him. because wow. okay. there is nothing behind those eyes. but he’s not scary like you thought he would be, he’s just… stupid.
“oh, okay.” you say, a little more gentle now. “that’s alright.”
your hand is still on his arm. you don’t even notice. he does. he is only noticing that.
hand. warm. nice.
“do you know where you’re trying to go?” you ask.
“…home.” he says. nailed it. absolutely crushing it.
“yeah, i figured that part.” you mumble, smiling. he thinks you’re beautiful. “which way?”
jisung looks around. left. right. straight. they are all equally meaningless to him. he has no idea where he is. he has no idea where he lives in relation to here. he is, in every sense of the word, deeply and profoundly lost.
“…that way?” he says, pointing somewhere. not confidently. not even convincingly. just… offering it up.
you glance in the direction he pointed. then back at him. then back at the direction. you exhale through your nose. jesus christ. “okay.” you say. “i’ll walk you. c’mon, i got you.”
jisung’s brain:
walk. together.
she is coming.
what was i doing?
“come on.” you say, giving his arm a small squeeze before letting go.
he immediately misses it. like. instantly. but he follows you without question, falling into step beside you. because omg hi you’re nice.
but you walk with him.
“you should probably pay more attention.” you mutter after a minute. “you could’ve ended up anywhere.”
“mhm.”
he has not learned anything.
you glance at him again. he smiles a little. for no reason. god. what a fucking idiot.
jisung has already completely forgotten about the original girl. the target. the plan. all of it. gone. evaporated. replaced entirely with:
you are nice.
i like you.
you slip your arm through his. little hand settles on his forearm, your elbow hooked into his, holding into him. he seems stable enough. he’s dumb, but he’s broad, so you trust him.
arm. you are holding arm. the arm is mine. you chose my arm.
this is the best thing that has ever happened to him.
“so, what’s your name?” you ask.
you can practically hear the gears in his head trying to turn and just… not.
name. yes. he has that. important. should say it.
“jisung. han jisung.” he says. “han jisung.”
yeah buddy, heard you first time.
“okay. i’m y/n.”
fits.
“well, jisung.” you continue, gently pulling him back when he starts drifting too far toward the edge of the sidewalk. “do you recognize anything around here?”
he looks around. buildings. street. a guy walking a dog. a trash can. none of it means anything to him.
“…no.”
“okay. that’s fine. we’ll figure it out.”
we.
we is good.
you adjust your grip on his arm slightly, hooked into him, guiding him along.
“what do you usually do?” you ask. “like, in your free time.”
he perks up a little at that. this, he can answer. kind of.
“cats.” he says.
“…cats?”
he nods. “roommate has three.”
he holds up three fingers. just in case.
i like them. i look at them. they sit on me.
you smile.
“oh, yeah? what are their names?”
“oh! uh, uh, dori. and uhh… and soonie and doongie. i think.”
“that’s great. by the way, do you at least know what your building looks like? color? anything?”
he looks around. more intensely this time. building. yes. there is a building. he goes inside it. often.
“…it has a door.” he says.
you press your lips together. you’re trying so hard not to laugh. “okay. that’s nice. we’ll find it.”
“yeah.”
he likes that you’re walking him. he would follow you anywhere.
he looks down at you again. you’re focused, watching the street, brows slightly furrowed in concentration as you try to solve the fucking impossible puzzle of where the fuck does this man live.
pretty.
“what about your roommate?” you try again. “name?”
“minho. he has cats.”
“you’re fucking killing me.”
he immediately looks concerned.
no.
do not kill her.
bad.
“no.” he says quickly.
you blink at him, confused for a second, then wave it off. “not literally. it’s a figure of speech.”
he nods slowly. processing. okay.
so, you two keep walking like that.
every so often, you check in.
“anything look familiar yet?”
“no.”
“this street?”
“no.”
“that shop?”
“no.”
“we’ll find it eventually.”
it’s okay if we don’t.
as long as you’re still hooked into his arm, gently guiding him through the world, he doesn’t really care where he ends up.
“do you at least remember how long it took you to get here?” you try.
“…i walked.”
“i gathered that.”
he nods.
good. you understand.
“your cats will be happy to see you.” you say, smiling at him.
“mhm. i like the cats.”
“yeah? do they like you?”
he nods.
“that’s adorable. i wish i had cats. would love to invest in one but—“
he stops. your arm gets yanked a little, and you stumble half a step.
“hey, what the fuck—”
he tugs your arm.
“mm—” he makes this weird little noise. a sound. “mm.”
he points. you follow his finger. it’s… a building. just a normal ass apartment building. nothing special.
you look back at him.
he’s still pointing.
“mm.”
“that’s your place?”
“mine.”
miracles do happen.
he tugs your arm again, already moving toward it. come on, keep up.
“okay, okay—jesus.” you laugh under your breath, letting him drag you along. “you found it. congrats. proud of you.”
you go up the stairs. he leads this time, well, “leads” is generous. he just moves with confidence because he knows where he lives. (you hope)
you end up in front of a door, and he lets go of your arm only to knock.
there’s a pause. then the door opens.
oh hello DADA.
okay. wow. that’s a man. you didn’t expect that. he’s hot. put together in a way jisung absolutely is not.
he looks at jisung first, then at you, then back at jisung.
“where the hell have you been?” he says.
before jisung can answer (not that he would), the guy reaches out and grabs him. literally. both hands on jisung’s arms.
“i am so sorry.” he says immediately, looking at you now. “i am so sorry, did he bother you? he just, he does this, he leaves, he doesn’t tell me where he’s going, and then he just disappears—” he gently shakes jisung’s arms. “—and then i have to go looking for him, and—god, thank you. seriously. thank you. you have no idea.”
“…uh. yeah. no problem.”
jisung is just standing there. being held. completely content. what a cutie.
“i’m minho, by the way.” he adds quickly, shifting one hand just enough to gesture at himself before immediately grabbing jisung again so he doesn’t wander off mid conversation.
“y/n.” you say.
“y/n.” he repeats, nodding. “again, thank you. he would’ve ended up god knows where.”
he gives jisung another small shake. jisung sways slightly. still fine.
“he said he was lost. so i walked him. let him lead, kind of. he did well.”
he did well. pfft.
“do you want to come in?” minho asks. “seriously, i can—i don’t know, get you something, water, tea, anything, this idiot owes you his life, honestly. i was about to start calling hospitals.” he gestures with his head toward jisung, who is still just… existing.
you laugh a little, shaking your head. “no, it’s okay. i should probably head home.” and you mean it. as weirdly entertaining as this whole thing has been, you are tired.
you reach out and give jisung’s arm a small pat. “try not to get lost again, okay?”
leaving.
jisung does not like this development, not one bit. but he also does not have the brainpower to stop it, so he just nods. “okay.”
that’s it. there we go. we got home. we’re fine. you’re fine, he’s fine, minho seems to be fine.
“bye, boys.”
“bye.” minho says.
jisung says nothing at first, just watches you, then, a second late “bye.”
when you’re gone, minho immediately looks at jisung.
“what the fuck did you do?”
jisung blinks.
“…walked.” he says.
fucking hell.
the second the door shuts, minho locks it(he locks it every day, fuck knows how jisung keeps getting out), and he doesn’t even turn around fully before jisung starts tugging on his arm.
minho sighs. “what?”
another tug. “minho.”
“i’m right here.”
“minho.”
“i did not disappear in the last two seconds, what.”
jisung is practically vibrating. like, actually. there is energy in his body that does not usually exist, this is new, alarming, a little bit beautiful. “girl.”
minho closes his eyes.
“yeah.” he says slowly. “i noticed the girl.”
“i was supposed to follow another girl i wanted to kill but it wasn’t the girl it was her and she said are you lost and i said yeah and, and, and then we walked and she asked about cats and i told her about the cats and she was happy with me and we walked more and i didn’t know where i was but then i found it and she came with me and she’s nice.” all in one breath.
minho calmly starts guiding jisung backward by the shoulders. “shoes.” he says.
“i really liked her and still like her and i saw a—“
“shoes.” minho repeats, nudging his foot.
jisung looks down. oh. right. shoes. he bends down, almost losing his balance, yanking one shoe off. “—and she said i was killing her but i really didn’t want to and i wasn’t so—” other shoe goes flying somewhere near the wall. close enough.
minho gently grabs his arm again before he can wander and positions him in place. “stand.”
jisung stands, then continues. “—and we walked a lot, her hand was in mine, bro, and then we walked more and i didn’t know anything but it was fine because she was there—”
“that’s nice, buddy.”
“yeah.”
minho said it’s nice. it is nice.
minho reaches out and fixes the collar of jisung’s shirt a little. “next time maybe don’t lose the target immediately.”
minho knows about jisung’s murder hobby. does he support it? absolutely not. but he knows jisung likes doing it, and for fuck’s sake, he loves the guy. he’s too good of a friend to drop jisung just because of this. he can try to control it, but he knows he’ll never stop it from happening. and that’s fine with him.
“…okay.” jisung says. he will not remember this. minho already knows that, doesn’t even bother pushing it.
instead, he leans back slightly, crossing his arms, watching jisung now. he has this… look. soft. dopey. weirdly dazed. that’s not usual on him, not at all. jisung never really feels, never really shows emotion. minho has learned this a long time ago. now he sees something else happening.
“can i see her again?” jisung asks.
minho raises an eyebrow.
okay, also new. jisung does not usually care enough to want a repeat.
“…maybe.” he says.
“okay. cats?”
“yeah, go bother the cats.” minho waves him off.
jisung turns instantly and wanders off down the hall like he didn’t just, let’s list it, fail a murder, get escorted home, develop his first ever crush. all in the span of an afternoon.
minho watches him go. shakes his head.
next morning at theirs, minho walks into the kitchen, pretty much just half awake, shirt hanging off one shoulder, boxers twisted on his hips. he scratches his stomach. yawns. drags a hand down his face.
“fuck.” he mutters.
standard greeting to the day.
he grabs a mug. coffee. water. fuck knows how men make coffee. all while, and he processed this information but it’s too common to care about it now, on the kitchen floor, jisung is crouched down, fully folded into himself, elbows on his knees, staring intently at dori.
the cat is chewing on his finger. just… gnawing.
jisung just watches. big eyes.
he is biting. this is his activity.
the cat bites a little harder. his finger twitches, but he doesn’t pull away.
he is stronger than me. i accept this.
coffee machine comes to life. minho leans against the counter, arms crossed, staring into the void while it does its thing. it’s quiet for a second.
“minho.” jisung says. he’s still being consumed by the animal.
“mm?”
“i want to see her again.”
there it is. first thought of the day. you.
minho pours the coffee, milk, stirs it. “yeah?”
“mhm.”
the cat adjusts his bite.
“she’s…” jisung pauses. this is difficult. words are hard. he has like five. he’s using all of them. “…beautiful.”
minho glances down at him. he sees the same thing he saw last night, weirdly gentle for someone who kills people, and unbelievably new.
“is that so?” minho says, sipping his coffee.
“yes. she held my arm.”
“that’s crazy.”
“yeah. twice.”
“twice, huh. serious stuff.”
jisung nods.
the cat finally lets go of his finger. he stares at it, then gently pokes the cat’s head. no hard feelings. cat takes his finger back into his little mouth. jisung smiles at him.
minho knows jisung. knows how he’s built, or rather, how he isn’t. jisung isn’t just dumb. that would be simple. almost comforting. he is empty in places where other people aren’t.
jisung doesn’t process things like other people do. doesn’t attach meaning the same way. most of the time, he just… moves. acts. exists. there’s no overthinking, no guilt, no lingering. something is seriously off with the guy. even the worst parts of him, the parts minho doesn’t touch, doesn’t encourage, but has learned to live alongside, they don’t weigh on him. they don’t echo. they just… happen. and then they’re gone.
you’re new and you stayed.
minho feels something close to hope. whatever jisung feels, he feels in a straight, uninterrupted line, full force, no filters, no moderation. so of course it’s big. of course it’s already everything.
“do you think she’ll let me have sex with her?”
minho chokes. coffee goes down the wrong pipe. he coughs, turns away, laughing under his breath.
jisung looks up at him. confused. head tilting slightly.
why is he making that noise.
minho wipes his mouth, still coughing a little, shaking his head.
jisung waits, patient, because he asked a question, and minho answers questions. that’s how the world works.
minho exhales, sets the mug down. looks at jisung, at the way he’s there on the floor, pulling his finger away from the cat’s mouth to watch it shine in the light. he’s not being weird about what he just asked, he’s just genuinely curious.
“maybe.” minho says. “if you try hard enough.”
jisung nods.
for the first time in… maybe ever, jisung is reaching toward something that isn’t violent, isn’t empty, isn’t just instinct. he’s… drawn to someone. he wants. he likes.
this means a lot to minho.
“you should go see her again, then.” minho says.
jisung looks up from the floor. “really?”
minho shrugs. “yeah.”
jisung looks back down at the cat. he sticks his finger back toward its mouth.
“bite again.” he says softly.
minho watches him, then looks away, smiling.
jisung is okay. he thinks this is a fair idea. minho said it. he trusts minho.
in jisung’s little world, one thing has always been true. as long as minho is here, everything, in jisung’s world, is fine.
and that’s how they end up outside later. minho is walking next to jisung, one hand holding a bouquet of flowers. he’s dressed properly now. jeans, shirt, actual human being presentation. so hot.
jisung is… jisung. hands in his pockets. slightly hunched. eyes wandering.
“wait. we’re here.” jisung says.
minho raises an eyebrow slightly. that’s rare, coming from jisung. he’s so sure now, but jisung forgetting things is a given. jisung remembering something this clearly? yeah. okay. wow.
“alright.” minho mutters.
they walk a little further, then he stops. turns to jisung, and shoves the bouquet into his chest.
jisung grabs it automatically. looks down at it. then back up at minho. “…flowers.”
“yeah. flowers. you give those to her.”
jisung nods.
give to her. okay.
minho rubs a hand over his face. “okay. listen to me. this is important.”
jisung straightens slightly, locked in asf.
“you go up to her.” minho starts. “you say hi. you tell her you’re glad you saw her again. you give her the flowers. you tell her you think she’s pretty. you do not tell her about the murder thing.”
“…okay.”
“i’m serious.”
“okay.”
“not even a little bit.”
“okay.”
“not as a joke. not casually. it’s a big no.”
“okay.”
minho studies him for a second. trying to see if anything stuck. it didn’t. but that’s fine. this is as good as it gets.
“and don’t say anything weird about sex right away.” he adds.
“…when then?”
“not…” minho exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “not immediately. just talk to her first. be normal.”
jisung nods.
be normal.
he has no idea what that means.
he looks at the flowers again, then at minho. “you coming too?”
“no.”
jisung frowns slightly.
“you gotta do this alone.” minho says.
jisung stares at him, thinking.
usually minho is there. always. minho talks. minho handles things. minho makes sense of the world when jisung doesn’t. but now he’s not coming.
“…alone.” jisung repeats.
“yeah.”
a pause.
“…okay.” and he means it, because minho said it.
minho nods once, then reaches out, fixing the way jisung is holding the bouquet so he doesn’t look like he’s about to strangle it. “good.” he says. “just… don’t scare her.”
jisung nods again. serious. focused.
minho steps back and gives him a small push forward. “go on.”
jisung takes a step, then another, then turns and keeps going.
minho watches him, and then he turns the other way. hands in his pockets. maybe he’ll go drink something. maybe call hyunjin if he’s nearby.
and jisung is left alone. and it’s… noticeable.
he drifts. a little left. a little right. he walks where he thinks you were. not exactly. just… close enough for his brain.
he sees a cat. stops dead in his tracks.
“…cat.” he says.
he crouches. the flowers nearly get crushed in the process, bending awkwardly in his dumb grip. god, something is so hot about this man being this dumb.
“hi.”
the cat does not give a shit about him. walks right past.
jisung watches it go.
soft. small. gone.
he stays crouched for a few seconds longer, then stands up and continues walking.
then it’s a guy walking by too fast. jisung turns his head and watches him.
walking fast. why fast?
he almost follows him. almost. but then…
you.
wait, you.
his brain, for once in its entire miserable existence, locks onto the right person instantly.
bag on your shoulder. walking, minding your own business. exactly the same. exactly right.
jisung stops and freezes. his whole face shifts. eyes wide, something bright and stupid and happy flickering in them.
“y/n—” he waves. full arm. so dumb and so sweet and so happy you’re here. “y/n—”
you look up, who the fuck is yelling your name like that— oh. jisung.
are those flowers?
he stops right in front of you. too close. breathing a little heavier than necessary.
“hi.” he says. “i’m glad i saw you again you’re pretty these are for you.”
he shoves the bouquet toward you.
“…hi?” you say, a little stunned, and slowly manage to take the flowers. “thank you.”
there’s a beat of silence, which he does not process as awkward or anything like that, by the way.
he’s adorable.
“you found your way back?” you ask.
he nods. “yes.” pause. “minho helped.”
you smile a little. “figures.” you adjust your grip on the flowers, glancing down at them. “these are really pretty.”
“yeah.” he says. like he had anything to do with that.
another pause.
this is really strange, but also really fucking soft. dreamy, kind of. so… pure. so spring. so pink flowers and so lambs in video games.
he shifts his weight slightly. “i… wanted to see you again.”
you look back up at him. “…yeah?”
he nods. “yeah.”
and he keeps standing there like a… dick. okay, point is that he’s really stiff and waiting. not for anything specific, just… there with you. because in his head, this is already enough. he found you. you’re here. you’re talking to him. you took the flowers.
everything is fine.
and… you didn’t expect this. you definitely didn’t expect him to be running at you like that, with flowers for you.
you think… god, you think he’s brutally cute. and brutally fuckable.
he was cute yesterday already, but c’mon. now this is a man who found you again. who remembered you. who came back with fucking flowers and zero game and just tried for you.
and you’ve dealt with men who try, men who say the right things. who angle themselves just right. who know how to look at you, how to talk to you, how to make it feel like something.
but this is just… a try, a pure, boy’s try.
means a lot.
you’d climb him.
and you hate that a little, because he’s also… so fucking dumb. like. visibly. you could probably tell him the sky is green and he’d accept it. and yet. he came back. he remembered you. he wanted to see you again.
and in jisung’s little head, things are happening. not in the way they happen for most people, but they’re happening.
he doesn’t think in layers. his mind is… simple. when he looks at people, usually, there’s nothing there. no attachment. no curiosity.
sometimes, rarely, something else flickers. more instinctive. the part of him that hunts.
the part that reduces people even further, turns them into objects that he can rip apart to his entertainment.
and it’s still there, it hasn’t gone anywhere. it never does. it’s just… not active right now.
because you are standing in front of him, and you have overridden it completely.
he doesn’t think of you like he thinks of other people. can he find a word for it? absolutely not. but he knows it feels good.
suddenly there was a connection where there usually isn’t one. something linking you to him in a way his brain decided was important.
there’s a kind of fixation forming.
and… jisung doesn’t have a personality he can switch the way other people do. the part of him that can hurt someone and the part of him that is standing here holding flowers? they’re not opposites. they’re the same system. just pointed in different directions.
right now, all of that focus is pointed at you.
and it makes him look harmless. makes him look like this big, slightly stupid guy who just wants to stand near you and hear you talk again.
“come on.” you say, and before he can even process the words fully(it would take him minutes anyway), you reach out and take his hand.
oh, okay!
his fingers close around yours immediately.
you start walking, tugging him along. “i was actually on my way to shop. i ran out of literally everything. like—milk, eggs, bread, all the basic shit. i don’t know why i waited this long to go but i’m happy that i came now because… you’re here. obvi.” you adjust your bag on your shoulder with a small huff. “and this thing is already annoying me, i haven’t even bought anything yet and it’s—”
“i can take it.”
you glance at him. “…what?”
“your bag.” he says, already reaching for the strap. “i can carry it.”
you can feel the way it’s not performative and that he’s not trying to impress you. it just… makes sense to him. you’re holding something. he can hold it instead. problem solved.
you think about it for like half a second, then shrug. whatevs. sure. “okay.”
he, oh your god so fucking cute, carefully slides the bag off your shoulder, replacing your hand with his for a brief second in the process, then settles it onto his own. a woman’s bag sitting on his big guy shoulder.
he adjusts the strap time to time. perfectly content.
what a babe.
“so i’ll need to buy things for dinner too. i don’t know what yet. i can always make pasta i guess, but i dunno. salmon sounds good too.” you continue.
he nods. “what do you usually eat?”
oh. wow. a full sentence we see there?
you huff a laugh. “whatever’s fast. which is why i always feel like shit.”
“you should eat better.” he says. so sincere. what an angel. (kills people)
“if you say so.” god, you feel good with him. “okay, so, milk, eggs, bread, coffee, something for dinner… maybe something sweet. do you cook?”
when he thinks, his mouth goes to the side a little. and puckering out. looks adorable. “…sometimes. i help minho.”
you smile. he smiles, a little wider this time, because you smile and that makes him feel good.
you watch him, watch the way he’s just… happy to be walking next to you. with your bag on his shoulder and your hand in his. what a cutie. you’re lucky that he followed you yesterday(even though you still don’t know what was that for)
you walk into the shop, you grab a basket and just… put it in his hands. “hold this.” you say.
jisung takes it immediately, accepts it like this is now his purpose in life. this is where it becomes very clear that jisung is…
how do you put this kindly,
fucking useless.
but now he has a little role and he’s fine with his little role and oh you’re walking let’s go!! this is fun, following you, basket in one hand, your bag still slung over his shoulder.
you grab milk because that’s such a basic thing people remember first. turn, and drop it straight into the basket.
jisung looks down at it, then back at you.
you keep going, keep putting things into the little basket in his hand, and he just… holds it. which is honestly impressive considering this man probably forgets how doors work sometimes.
“you’re doing great.” you mutter.
he’s happy. he smiles at you. anything more complex and his brain would probably start smoking.
“ugh. they don’t have my kind.” you mutter at some point, talking about rice. you have this very specific kind you like getting and they don’t have it now.
jisung watches you. very seriously. “it’s okay.” he says. completely genuine.
you snort. “yeah, thanks.”
he nods.
you keep moving, finding your little way to the sweets. you grab one thing, then another, then another. all of it goes into the basket.
he looks down again. takes inventory.
many things.
“is this too much?” you ask, half to yourself.
he shakes his head immediately. “no.”
you stop suddenly to grab something from a lower shelf. he almost walks into you. again. spatial awareness is not his strong suit. or any suit.
“careful.” you mutter.
“sorry.” he says.
you glance back at him and he’s already looking at you. he’s checking if you’re okay.
you keep going, filling the basket until it’s actually getting heavy. jisung just adjusts his grip. plus, he’s so much stronger than you are. he probably doesn’t even process this as something heavy.
exactly where he wants to be.
when you two are at the checkout, you glance at him, then at the bag, then back at him.
“can you pack it for me?” you ask.
he nods immediately, even gives a little “nhm” sound with it, then when the things are scanned, he puts them into your bag one by one like a good boy.
he’s actually… good at it.
like, he doesn’t just shove things in. he thinks. not in a big, philosophical way, god no, but like, heavy stuff on the bottom. eggs carefully placed. bread not crushed. he adjusts things. shifts them slightly. makes space.
what an angel.
you pay, grab the bag, well, you try to grab the bag. he already has it. again.
you don’t argue. fuck it tbh. walk out with him too, and just like before, he’s next to you, bag on his shoulder and behaving for you.
you stop in front of your place after a while of walking with him, turn to him, and reach for your bag.
he lets you take it. no resistance there.
“okay.” you say, adjusting the strap on your shoulder. “i’ll go now.”
his pretty face drops. “no.” and he doesn’t mean it in the aggressive way, of course. jisung just really wants to spend more time with you. so much that he shakes his head and steps a little closer, even. “don’t go.”
“hey, i have to.” you say.
he frowns. “come tomorrow.”
you huff a quiet laugh. “it doesn’t work like that.”
he stares at you. so sad. so pathetic. you want to pet him and maybe kick him.
you sigh. “okay, give me your number.”
oh. okay. he pats his pockets. finds it. pulls it out. the fuck did this little bitch get an iphone this new from? (minho. obviously.)
“unlock it.” you say, holding your hand out.
he does, then hands it over to you.
you type your number in, save it, call yourself so you have his, and hand it back.
“there.” you say. “now you can bother me properly.”
jisung looks at you with big eyes, nods slowly. “okay.”
you step back. “i’ll see you, sungie.”
“…yeah.” you have never seen eyes bigger than this. a mouth shaped this cute, this… starstruck.
and just like that, the best part of his day ends. you’re gone, into the builing, away from him.
and like… imagine you’re minho. this morning, you made your friend give flowers to a girl, then you were out all day. you finally got home, finally taking a fucking piss, head tilted slightly back even, probab—
“MINHO—”
jisung slams the bathroom door open. he’s holding one of the cats, let’s say soonie, scooped up and pressed against his chest.
“she was there and i saw her again and she took the flowers and looked really happy and we walked and i carried her bag for her and i did it and we went to the shop and i packed everything and it fit and she was happy about it—”
jisung follows the gesture. “no. then she said she would go but i said no and then she gave me her number—”
“oh? her number?”
“yes!” he shifts his weight from foot to foot, rocking slightly, the cat squished against him as he does. “and she put it in my phone and now it’s there and i can call her and she said i can bother her properly!”
minho snorts. like actually laughs a little. still mid stream. “that’s… that’s good, yeah.”
“and she held my hand again and i had so much fun and she smelled so good an—”
minho finishes. shakes off, pulls his boxers back into place with one hand while the other reaches to flush. goes to wash his hands and asks: “you didn’t say anything stupid, right?” while drying his hands.
“no! i didn’t talk about murder!”
“great.”
then jisung steps forward and just puts the cat into minho’s hands. “hold.” and then he’s stepping back. “i’m going out.”
“where?”
“outside.” jisung shouts from the hall.
front door opens. closes.
silence.
minho looks down at soonie. “you see this shit?”
soonie meows.
“i know.” minho says, scratching the cat’s little head. “i know.”
so. let’s talk about how jisung’s little killing system works. his “killer side” is almost like a separate personality, but not quite. it’s not a switch he flips on purpose. it’s more like… a baseline function that sometimes rises to the surface when nothing else is holding his attention.
like hunger. like needing to move. like an itch. that’s what he gets.
when he was with you, that part of him was quiet. not gone(never gone) but overridden. your presence gave his brain something else to lock onto. something stronger than the usual emptiness. something that filled the space where that urge usually builds.
you basically distracted a predator. only minho has the same effect on him, nothing else, probably. well, he doesn’t rip random people apart on family functions of course, just minho(and you now, whatever) are able to actually push it down, as we said, override it.
but now, he was back home, he told minho everything, he replayed it. he felt something, which is rare for him, and also exhausting in a way he doesn’t understand.
and then there’s nothing.
no you. no conversation. no hand in his.
and that space, that silence, that’s where the other thing starts creeping back in.
it’s not emotional if you’re thinking that. it’s not set off by any emotion, he’s actually neutral.
and inside that neutrality, his brain starts looking for stimulation. something to engage with. something to focus on the way he focused on you, the way he focuses on minho, the way he focuses on the cats when he plays with them.
and when there’s nothing soft available, it defaults to what it knows.
it’s almost like how werewolves work, that’s how the two personalities switch. just that there’s nothing or nothing cycle like(full moons for the werewolves) that sets it off. it’s more like he’s always both things, but one side needs input to stay active.
you activated something human in him. connection. attention. interest. but that part of him is fragile, new. easily replaced when it’s not being fed.
so. now he’s on the dark streets with his hands in his pockets and that same empty happy look on his face.
he’s thinking about you the whole time. soft little thoughts. your hand on his big arm. he giggles under his breath, all dopey, kicking a pebble.
then he walks past this guy. just some random fucker, hunched over his phone, muttering into it.
now comes in handy what we said about jisung’s personalities switching. because now that this lower layer of his brain saw someone, it clicks into working again.
his hand shoots out, grabs the guy by the throat, and slams him into the brick wall of the nearest building so hard the guy’s skull bounces off the stone with a wet crack. the phone clatters to the ground. the guy makes this choked gurgle, eyes wide, but jisung is already on him like a fucking animal.
just again, like a werewolf. beastlike now.
he drives his fist into the dude’s ribs over and over, each punch landing with a sick wet crunch. bones snap. blood sprays across the bricks in thick dark arcs.
and jisung’s face is slack, almost bored looking. he headbutts the guy so hard the guy’s nose explodes, red everywhere, then he rips him away from the wall and throws him face first into the concrete.
the guy tries to crawl, wheezing, but jisung stomps down on his back with all his weight. spine gives way with a loud pop.
he drops to his knees, straddling the body, and just starts tearing into him with his bare hands. claws aren’t real but the way he rips and gouges might as well be. fingers digging into flesh, yanking out chunks, slamming the guy’s head against the pavement again and again until it stops looking like a head and starts looking like raw meat. blood everywhere. on jisung’s hoodie, on his face, dripping from his chin in thick strings.
he bites down on the guy’s shoulder at one point because why the fuck not, teeth sinking in deep and tearing a chunk free like it’s nothing. spits it out. keeps pounding. the guy stopped moving minutes ago but jisung doesn’t care.
finally he sits back on his heels, chest heaving a little, face and hands dripping blood.
the killer fog lifts as easy as it dropped.
he looks down at the mess, then the pretty smile creeps back in. switched, just like that.
he wipes his face with his sleeve, smears it worse, and stands up. stretches. the brutal werewolf like side is tucked back behind that empty happy brain. that’s how it works, tucking away, or more like, next to it. but one is always bigger, always spills out more.
anyways, all that’s left is jisung again, dumb, and now thinking about how nice it would be if you were here to hold his arm.
he starts walking home like nothing happened. hopes you’re having a good night.
when he’s back home, he kicks the door shut with one bloody sneaker and immediately spots soonie on the back of the couch.
“kitty kitty.” jisung mumbles. he drops to his knees right there in the entryway, blood dripping onto the hardwood in fat plops, and reaches out with those massive red stained hands.
the cat hops down and headbutts straight into his bloody palm. jisung giggles and scoops the little guy up, pressing his face into the orange and white fur even though he’s leaving red streaks all over it.
“i just mopped.” minho whines.
jisung looks up from nuzzling the cat, big dumb eyes blinking slow. “hi minho. soonie likes me even when i’m red. look.” he holds the cat up. the cat just purrs louder, one tiny paw patting jisung’s bloody nose.
minho pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing through his mouth because the metallic smell is already making his stomach turn. he hates blood. hates the way it gets in everything, hates the way it never fully washes out of clothes no matter how many times he runs the machine on hot, hates the way jisung tracks it in. but mostly he hates that it means jisung is pursuing his little hobby.
okay, not a hobby. this is a fucking disorder and minho knows it.
minho’s pretty sure it’s some deep dissociative shit, the kind where jisung’s brain basically has two modes that don’t talk to each other. but still process what the other one did, is there while the other one did his work.
you can’t even say that one mode is the real jisung because both of them is the real jisung, just split into two. minho’s read enough late night reddit threads to know this isn’t normal serial killer stuff. normal ones plan. normal ones enjoy the power. jisung doesn’t enjoy shit. he just switches and suddenly there’s a corpse and he’s petting a cat five minutes later like nothing happened.
minho loves him too much to fix it. jisung is his best friend, kid’s been glued to his side since they were teenagers. sometimes even talks jisung down when the switch almost happens in public. but like… taking him to a therapist? fuck no. what if they lock jisung up? what if they drug him until the sweet part disappears too? what if jisung gets scared and the beast mode decides minho’s the problem?(that would never happen) minho’s too chickenshit to risk it. so he just… lives with it.
and the crush jisung has on you is the first real feeling jisung’s ever had that wasn’t just murder autopilot, and minho clings to that. maybe if jisung stays obsessed with you the beast side will chill the fuck out. maybe.
“put the cat down and go straight to the shower.” minho says, voice tired. he grabs a towel from the hall closet and starts laying it over the bloody footprints like he’s done a hundred times. “i’ll handle the floor. and throw that hoodie in the trash, not the laundry this time.”
jisung stands up slow, still cradling the cat, blood flaking off his arms onto the poor thing’s fur. “okay. shower. got it.” he leans in and presses a bloody kiss to the top of minho’s head on his way past.
minho sighs so deep it rattles his ribs, watching his murderer disappear down the hall still cooing “kitty kitty who’s my good boy” to the blood covered cat.
he loves the idiot more than he hates the disorder.
and just like that, the next day you text jisung. mostly out of curiosity, partially because you’re still thinking about the way he looked at you and wanted you. and he responds immediately. of course he does. he doesn’t believe in waiting. he doesn’t believe in timing. he sees your name light up his phone and everything else can be fucked. (everything else was him playing league with felix, working, or sitting next to minho on the couch and watch whatever minho’s watching on the tv)
and if you’re in jisung’s space, you’re going to feel minho eventually.
like after that, the next time you see jisung, it’s the three of you going out. minho comes too.
god, he’s so intelligent. you like the guy.
jisung, meanwhile, is just… there. he listens. nods. smiles. laughs. his attention moves between you and minho. every once in a while, he’ll say something. not often. but when he does, it’s direct. blunt. sometimes weirdly insightful, sometimes completely fucking useless. you learn quickly that there’s no predicting which one you’re going to get.
and you meet again. and again. and suddenly, it’s not a question of if minho is there. it’s assumed.
you like minho. minho likes you. it’s simple.
so you go out with them. minho always pays for shit, jisung always watches you.
and you can feel this… weird thing about jisung. not in a way you can name, just something missing. or maybe something extra, tucked underneath everything else.
he doesn’t react the way people usually do. doesn’t pick up on certain cues. doesn’t mirror emotions the way you expect. but then he’ll do something small, carry your bag without being asked, remember something you said three days ago, hold your pretty hand, and that part feels completely in place, completely right.
minho sees all of it. he sees the way jisung goes toward you, the way his (really short) attention sharpens when you speak, the way he relaxes when you’re near. and he sees the way you look back.
minho is thriving.
for the first time, jisung is engaging with something that isn’t empty or destructive.
you’re a fucking miracle, honestly.
when you go to their place first time, jisung spends a good half an hour introducing the cats to you.
you do hang out with them at their place sometimes. you go out with them too. you just hang out with these fuckers and you feel so good with them. you enjoy their company and know you’re wanted there. that means a lot.
you and jisung are clearly something. well, absolutely not labeled yet, but it’s obvious that there’s tension there. interest.
he doesn’t know how to flirt though, not really. it comes out in his own way. “you’re pretty.” “you smell nice.” “stay.”
minho likes seeing this and likes you, genuinely. not just because of what you are to jisung, but as a person too. you can keep up with him. you don’t get overwhelmed by jisung. you’re great company and you’re pretty and you’re intelligent.
and minho still checks the clock late at night, waiting for the door to open again, not knowing if jisung will come back to him drenched in blood or not. but nowadays, he’s mostly clean.
he’s obviously head over heels obsessed with you. he gets all blushy and dopey whenever you’re around, stealing touches (your hand on his arm becomes his favorite thing in the world), giggling, and straight up whining to minho the second you leave about how “she smiled at me again minho did you see?? she likes me right???”
you like him back, in a curious way. there’s something weirdly magnetic about how simple and genuine he is.
plus you and minho click.
and you three… go on together. take the movie nights where jisung takes up half the couch and you end up squished between him and minho, both of their arms draped behind you. sweet shit like this, human.
minho never says it out loud but he’s grateful as fuck. you’re good for jisung. you keep the sweet dumb side dominant. and you’re good for minho too.
good for entertaining both of them, too. once jisung tries to open a bottle the wrong way, twisting the cap the opposite direction, face serious.
you watch for a second. minho watches too. neither of you say anything. just let him struggle.
“…ji.” you finally say.
“hm?”
“other way.”
he pauses. considers this. then turns it the other way. it opens immediately. he blinks at it. then at you. “…oh.”
you laugh. minho laughs. jisung smiles.
another night, it’s raining. you didn’t plan to stay late, but minho cooked, and then there was talking, and then somehow it’s dark and loud outside and you’re still there.
“stay.” jisung says when you start to complain about going home in this fuckass weather.
minho doesn’t even look up from his phone. “yeah, just stay.”
oh. sure. minho totally offered his room for you to sleep in but one of the cats was already sleeping on you so you didn’t want to move from the couch. so you slept there. and when you wake up, you’re half aware of something warm and heavy near your legs.
you shift slightly. something shifts back.
jisung. curled at the other end of the couch.
an angel.
(what you see, at least)
another time, you’re all out somewhere. crowded, loud, lots of people. jisung is also slightly closer to you than usual, holding into you.
someone bumps into you, nothing major, and jisung immediately places himself a little more solidly at your side.
“careful.” he says.
“i’m fine, thank you.”
and he stays just as close after that.
means a lot, coming from him.
it means just as much to minho, seeing it.
you and minho love making dirty jokes that jisung doesn’t quite understand. once when you came over jisung dumbly mumbled “you came” and when you answered “yeah i do that” with a wink, you and minho lost your shits laughing. slapping on each other’s backs and all. jisung had no clue what was going on but he knows people laughing means good so he was happy.
and like… this is sweet, there’s a late night where it’s just you and minho for a bit. you’re sitting at the table, half finished drink in front of you. minho across from you.
“you know he likes you.” minho says.
“…yeah. i figured.”
“no, like—” he pauses, choosing his words carefully. “he really likes you.”
you lean back slightly. “and?”
“and you should be careful with that. i mean… handle it… well.” he’s still trying to find the words.
you hold his gaze. “i am. or… you don’t think i do?”
“no, no. i do. i absolutely do. really, y/n, you’re… great.”
all this development means a lot to all three parties. the development also contains getting to know each other more, and the more you get to know jisung, the more you and minho know that this little bitch needs more exposure to society.
jisung functions. technically. he can walk, talk, hold a bag, not die in public. but socialize? no. absolutely the fuck not, and you two get that perfectly.
so you and minho decide to fix that.
the first “outing” is a bar. not even a crazy one. just normal. lights, people, music.
he walks in with you two with big, confused eyes. but interested.
you get drinks. minho handles it, obviously.
you hand jisung his drink and he looks at it.
“what is it?”
“alcohol.” you say. “drink it.”
he nods. takes a sip. grimaces, but takes another sip anyways. and keeps sipping, even though he doesn’t exactly like the taste. but never ever did in his life. who cares, you put it in his hands so it’s fine.
you and minho are watching him.
“this is going well.” you mutter.
“give it time.” minho says.
minho has developed a whole ass sense to jinx shit like this by now, because some random friendly guy comes up to jisung.
“hey man, you good?” he asks, because jisung is standing there holding his drink and the guy starts to worry that someone drugged him.
jisung looks at him. long. “…yeah.”
silence.
the guy waits.
there’s supposed to be more. there isn’t.
“…cool.” the guy says, slowly backing away.
both you and minho pat jisung’s back.
next time you two take him somewhere calmer, a cafe. in the daytime and allat. this is where you discover that jisung can, in fact, talk. he just… doesn’t stop once he starts.
you’re sitting at a table, minho’s across from you, jisung is next to you. someone at the next table mentions cats and jisung immediately turns to them.
“i have three.” he says.
the stranger blinks. “…oh. nice.”
“one is orange. very stupid. one bites. one sleeps all day but at night it runs.”
you bury your face in your hand. minho leans back in his chair, smiling and biting on his lip.
“they like me.” jisung adds.
the stranger nods slowly. “…that’s great, man.”
jisung nods back, conversation complete, then turns back to you.
“you did so good.” you whisper.
he smiles.
did good.
another time, it’s with friends of minho’s, sitting in a circle, people talking, laughing, normal human interaction happening. oh yeah, you’re close enough with the boys now that they invite you to shit like this. god, it feels nice.
jisung is quiet at first, watching. processing.
then someone asks him a question. “so, what do you do?”
you and minho both freeze. just slightly. minho because jisung might be about to tell people he kills, you because you know this is going to be a weird interaction.
jisung thinks. “…i go out.” he says.
you choke. minho coughs into his drink.
“…yeah?” the person says, confused.
jisung nods. “yeah.”
and that’s it.
you lean over to him. “you’re doing amazing.” you whisper.
he smiles at you.
or walking through a busy street market because you wanted to go and they came with you.
he gets distracted every five seconds.
“what’s that?”
“food.”
“what’s that?”
“also food.”
“what’s that?”
minho grabs his sleeve at one point because he starts drifting toward a stall. “stay with us.”
“i am.” he is not.
you end up grabbing his hand just to keep him from wandering off. and suddenly, he’s perfectly behaved.
hand holding = functional jisung.
no hand holding = he might follow a stranger into traffic.
so, bigger exposure, minho gets invited to some party and he takes you two along with him. some random friend’s crowded apartment. the place is already loud and sticky with cheap beer and too many bodies, music thumping, y’know the usual. minho’s is guiding you through the door with a hand lightly on your back while jisung trails right behind you all happy because you’re here and you let him hold the edge of your hoodie the whole way over.
“yo—MINHO—”
minho introduces you quick and casual to two friends. “this is y/n. be nice. y/n, this is chan and—“
the one he pointed at when he said chan immediately leans in, smiling ear to ear. “heey, hi.”
and the other guy snatches your hand, bows a little dramatically, and presses a wet kiss right to the back of it. “well fuck me, darling. name’s jeongin. hi.” he doesn’t let go right away. instead he tugs you a tiny bit closer with a half hug. he smells manly. “c’mere, don’t be shy.”
chan laughs loud and boyish, shoving jeongin’s shoulder but not hard enough to actually move him off you. “dude, chill.” then he looks back at you. “ignore him. he’s been horny since birth. but seriously, hi. what’s up?”
“yeah, really—“
“ji, my man!” chan yells when he notices jisung’s dumb ass smiling behind you, pulling him into one of those aggressive bro hugs that looks like it could crack ribs. “look at this big stupid bastard, he actually combed his hair tonight what the fuck.”
jeongin shakes you. “there’s our favorite meathead. still breathing through your mouth or did minho finally teach you how to use your brain cells?”
jisung just stands there all smiley, blinking slow with that empty happy smile, letting them manhandle him. he doesn’t mind. these are his people. they always do this, rough him up, call him names, treat him like this. they mean good and he can tell.
jeongin mmediately starts fake punching jisung’s stomach while laughing “c’mon big guy show us those abs you’ve been hiding under all that dumb.”
jisung lets out a low “hehe” and flexes half heartedly because that’s what they expect.
the five of you end up in the corner by the shitty kitchen counter. people are yelling and spilling drinks, but the boys make sure to pay attention to you.
chan keeps leaning in close when he talks and his eyes keep dipping down to your mouth when you laugh, and every time you say something even mildly funny he throws his head back and laughs way too loud, slapping his thigh. he be doin too much.
jeongin never keeps his hands to himself for long. he keeps giving you these half hugs, pulling you against his side every time he wants to make a point, his hand lingering way too long on your waist. he likes your waist. at one point he straight up takes your hand again, kissing the knuckles while looking up at you through his lashes with that pretty little grin. “see? perfect hand. made for kissing. bet it feels even better other places.”
chan snorts beer out his nose laughing, then punches jeongin in the arm hard enough to make him yelp but they’re both just giggling the fuck around.
“you’re disgusting.” chan tells him, still laughing, but then turns right back to you. “but he’s not wrong. you smell good too. what is that? vanilla? fuck, it’s making me hungry.”
they’re loud. they’re gross. they talk over each other constantly, shoving and play fighting, chan even gets to the point of offering you his jacket when someone opens the window and it gets cold, flexing a little too obviously when he reaches for a drink on a high shelf.
and through it all they keep bringing jisung into it because god they love that dumb fuck.
every few minutes one of them will glance over at jisung (who’s just standing there with his smile, occasionally petting the air like he wishes a cat was there) and grin. that much.
they’re disgusting. handsy. loud. jeongin keeps kissing your head now every time you say something he likes, then pretending to bite your fingers. chan keeps offering you sips from his beer, then flexing his arm “accidentally” when he laughs.
minho’s off to the side most of the time, sipping his drink. watching. he catches your eye every now and then and gives you this little shrug like because yeah they’re always like this.
and some point chan grabs jisung’s hand and makes him high five everyone in the room, yelling “who’s a good boy? who’s minho and minho’s hot girlfriend’s good boy?”
the fuck are these guys now. honestly.
jeongin keeps flirting with you the whole time even though he also thinks you’re minho’s girl, throwing in shit like “if minho ever fucks up just know i’ve got a spot right here on my lap” while chan tries to play the nice guy but still can’t stop himself from staring at your chest. boys.
they’re loud, handsy, constantly touching each other and you in that casual bro way that’s half polite half horny. chan offers you a beer by holding it against your side “accidentally” while laughing too loud and watching you squirm away from the cold.
not from him though, you like the guys. you like the fact that they think you’re together with minho and still flirt. that they think they have a chance.
but when jeongin gets a little too cheeky and tries to pull you into a dance jisung makes this tiny unhappy noise in his throat and steps half in front of you without even thinking.
“awww look at sungie getting protective! big man’s got a crush on minho’s girl!”
“jisung you jealous fuck? wanna fight me for her? c’mon throw hands big guy i’ll let you win.”
jisung just blinks slowly, cheeks a little pink, and mumbles “she’s nice…” which makes chan laugh and slap his back, jeongin actually spin away laughing, minho shake his head.
you end up ditching the loud kitchen shit after a while. chan suggests grabbing the big ugly couch in the corner of the living room that’s somehow still free, and minho nods, his hand brushing your back because daddy’s protective. you follow them over, leaving jisung happily parked with jeongin somewhere near the drinks table. last you saw, jeongin had an arm slung around jisung’s massive shoulders and was laughing way too loud at whatever dumb shit jisung just said.
the three of you sink into the couch. it’s worn and kinda sticky, but it’s quieter back here. the music’s still loud, but at least you can hear each other without yelling.
chan stretches his legs out, one arm draped along the back of the couch behind you. minho sits on your other side, legs crossed, so adorable.
“i could use a cig right now.” chan starts when he gets comfortable, then turns to you. “you smoke?”
“oh? oh, no.” you mumble. “it stinks.”
he chuckles. “yes it does. yeah.”
you lean back, letting yourself relax a little. “i mean, i dunno. work’s been kicking my ass lately. but still, i wouldn’t… hurt myself like that, y’know.”
chan nods. “yeah. yeah.”
“i worry enough already. expectations and all that.”
minho nods. “yeah i get that. jisung’s the opposite. he can sit in silence for hours and be perfectly happy, just staring at the wall or petting a cat. sometimes i’m jealous.”
chan chuckles, his eyes never leaving your face. “construction’s the same shit for me. loud, dirty, guys yelling all day. by friday night i’m wiped. but then i go home and cook. it’s my reset. sounds lame but it keeps me sane.”
you tilt your head, genuinely interested. “what’s your go to? like comfort food or fancy shit?”
“both.” chan says, grinning boyishly. “last weekend i did this slow cooked pork thing with garlic and herbs. whole apartment smelled amazing. brought leftovers to the guys and they acted like i cured cancer.” the way he’s so happy to talk about his little man hobby. “after a long week of noise i need that quiet too. calm. good food. maybe someone to share it with who doesn’t talk my ear off.” his eyes flick down to your mouth for a second, then back up.
“chan.” minho warns.
“hey, calm down, dude. i’m just in a good mood.”
“seems like a really good mood.”
“be grateful for that, man. my hair is already fucked today, you’re lucky i’m not throwing shit around.”
you look at him. his hair is… fine. like, objectively fine.
“what are you talking about?” you ask. “it looks normal.”
“no, it doesn’t.” chan insists immediately, already tilting his head, trying to see himself in the reflection of something shiny nearby. “it’s too… puffy.”
minho snorts into his glass. “puffy.”
“yeah.” chan says, defensive now. “it’s not sitting right.”
you narrow your eyes at him. “do you style it or something?”
“yeah, i straighten it. it just sits better when i do.”
“like—like with an actual straightener?”
“yes, with an actual straightener.” he says, playfully annoyed now. “what else would i use, a fucking iron?”
“no, i just… it’s sweet to imagine you with a straightener.”
“oh, shut up.” but he’s smiling. “it’s not hard. i shower, which already takes too long, and then…” he grabs an imaginary straightener out of thin air, mimes plugging it in. taps his foot impatiently. “and you gotta wait. forever.”
you laugh.
he points at you. “no, seriously. and then,” he grabs a section of his hair, pulling it forward. “you take this, right?” he starts miming straightening it. slow. face scrunched in concentration. “and you go like this…” drag “and if you mess it up, you gotta do it again, and if you do it too much, you fry it, and then you look horrible—“
“you already look like an idiot.” minho says.
“—and then you gotta angle it right so it actually sits the way you want.” he flips the imaginary strand. shakes his head slightly so his real hair moves. “and then you check it.” he says, leaning closer to you, lowering his voice. “because if it’s not right, what’s the point of all that effort, you know?”
you bite your lip. can’t help it. “you put a lot of thought into this.”
“i put a lot of effort into things that matter.” he says, eyes still on you.
“your hair?”
“even that.”
you laugh again.
he straightens up, runs a hand through his hair. “all i’m saying is if i’m gonna put in that much effort, someone better appreciate it.” his eyes flick to you again.
“i appreciate effort.” you say lightly.
“good.” he replies, just as easily. “i’d hate for it to go to waste.”
minho shakes his head.
“you could come to more things like this. with us.” chan murmurs confidently.
you sigh. “honestly, parties aren’t really my usual habitat. this is fun for a bit but i can already feel my social battery draining hard.”
minho turns his head. “say less. let’s go search a place for you to calm down a bit. there’s gotta be a quieter room in this shithole somewhere.”
you look up. you can see jeongin holding a bottle of something strong high above jisung’s head. jisung’s tilted all the way back, mouth open while jeongin pours a stream of alcohol straight down his throat. he’s swallowing it like it’s water, some of it spilling down his chin and onto his shirt. just happy to be there. my boy jisung going to parties, fuck it up jisung!!
jeongin’s laughing his ass off, one hand on jisung’s shoulder to steady the big idiot, yelling “that’s my boy! chug chug you fucking tank!”
you nod. “hm. okay. thanks. let’s go.”
chan looks a little disappointed but nods, still watching you with those eyes like he could stare all night. “yeah, go recharge. i’ll hold the couch for when you come back. or… y’know… if you want company later.”
you and minho stand up together. as you squeeze past chan to get out of the seating area, chan’s hand actually raises to touch your ass, but minho slaps chan’s hand away hard.
fucker.
you and minho slip into some bedroom and the door clicks shut behind. it’s quieter in here, just the thump of bass through the walls. ooh, there are fairy lights. a vibe.
minho drops onto the beanbag with a groan, patting the spot next to him. “c’mere. tell me more about what you said earlier.”
you sink down beside him, touching each other because the beanbag is tiny and you’re both kinda crammed in. it feels comfortable.
“about not liking parties after a while?”
“mhm.”
“oh. i dunno. i just start to feel… really in my skin after a while. touchy, everyone.”
minho chuckles, tilting his head back against the wall, eyes half lidded in that pretty way. “yeah well, i’ve had years of practice herding jisung. chan and jeongin are harmless but aren’t that good for him. he’s different with you. won’t shut up about you, actually. ‘minho she smiled again. minho she called me big guy. minho do you think she likes cats too?’ it’s fucking adorable.”
you grin, nudging his knee with yours. “he’s kinda cute. it’s refreshing as fuck after dealing with normal guys who overthink everything.”
minho nods, turning his head to look at you properly. the fairy lights catch on his face, making him look softer than usual, less like the exhausted bestie who mops up blood and more like someone who actually feels the weight of keeping jisung stable. “he’s never had this before, y’know? feeling like this.” he can’t say that jisung never felt before, but he wants to tell you the truth. just can’t.
you shift closer, the beanbag sinking, supporting your chin in your palm to turn to him properly.
“you’re good for him.” minho says quietly, eyes on your face now. his voice dropped a little. sounds good. “and you’re good for me too. having another adult around who doesn’t treat the whole thing like a joke. i’ve been carrying this alone for years. you show up and suddenly it’s… easier. lighter. i like having you here. a lot.”
“wow, thank you. means a lot.” you whisper.
the fairy lights make his eyes dark. soft. your breath catches for a second because some kind of chemistry just woke up.
it’s not attraction, not really, but it’s want.
minho leans in first, slow enough that you could pull away, actually keeping it in mind that you could, but you don’t. his hand comes up to cup the side of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw,
and then,
his mouth is on yours.
the kiss is pretty fucking sensual right from the start. nasty in a desperate, beer tinged way.
his lips are soft, pressing into yours deeply. you part your mouth and his tongue slides in, wet, disturbing in the way tongues always are a little, slow at first then filthier, curling against yours. he tastes like the whiskey he was sipping earlier, a little bitter, a little sweet. his other hand lands on your waist to pull you closer on the beanbag so your chest presses against his.
the kiss turns messy quick. tongues sliding sloppily, teeth nipping at your bottom lip, a little groan coming from his throat into your mouth.
he sucks on your tongue gently, then harder, and you kiss back just as nasty, one hand fisting the front of his shirt, the other sliding up to thread through his hair and tug.
it’s hot, his thigh slipping between yours so you’re half straddling it without meaning to, the friction making you both breathe heavier. you feeling him between your legs, him knowing you’re on him finally. his fingers press harder into your waist, it feels good to have that squeeze there.
physical. human.
it lasts longer than it should, maybe a full minute of pure nasty making out, tongues fucking each other, bodies shifting closer until you’re basically in his lap on the stupid beanbag. he nips your lip again, harder this time, then soothes it with his tongue, groaning low when you rock against his thigh once.
you pull back first, lips wet and swollen, eyes wide. minho’s face is flushed, mouth still parted because he can’t believe what just happened, pretty features all twisted in instant regret.
“fuck.” he breathes, voice hoarse. “shit shit shit—i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to—fuck, that was… i’m so sorry.”
you scramble back a little on the beanbag, heart hammering, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand even though you can still taste him. “no no, i’m sorry too. i kissed you back, that was on me. i didn’t—i don’t know what the fuck that was. it just… happened. the talking, the closeness, the stupid lights and the party noise and—god i’m sorry.”
minho runs a hand through his hair, looking genuinely fucked. “no, it was me. i started it. i mean, i liked it, but i can’t do this to jisung. he’s obsessed with you, like full on empty skull in love, and i’m his best friend. i can’t just—fuck, i can’t kiss his girl.“
you shake your head fast, cheeks burning. “yeah, it—it wasn’t attraction. i don’t feel that way about you, minho. like, at all. i like jisung, i do, that’s where my head’s at. this was just… the moment. alcohol. exhaustion. i’m so sorry. i never wanted to make it weird between us.”
“me neither.” he says, voice cracking a little with how earnest he is. “i don’t feel anything like that for you either.” lie, there is something for you there sexually, even if there’s nothing romantically. “fuck, i’m so sorry. we’re good, right? tell me we’re good.”
“we’re good.” you say quickly, reaching out to squeeze his arm the same way you do to jisung’s.
minho exhales, hard, adorable. he gives you that small relieved smile. “okay. god i feel like such an asshole.“
“you’re not, minho. body shit just… happens.”
“…yeah. it does.”
if you offered now, he’d still dick you down though.
well, there would be a huge ethical dilemma in him first, but it’d end tangled in you anyway.
but you won’t offer, of course. and he knows that.
“c’mon.” he says, standing up and offering you a hand. “let’s go rescue jisung.”
you take his hand, squeeze it once, and let yourself get pulled up.
and when you two step back into the party, jesus fucking christ, the state jisung is in is absolutely batshit insane.
the big dumb fuck is slumped against the kitchen counter, eyes half lidded, mouth hanging open with a string of drool shining down his chin.
jeongin has one arm hooked around jisung’s thick neck while chan is on the other side laughing his ass off and pouring alcohol straight into jisung’s open mouth.
jisung is just swallowing on autopilot, throat bobbing, making these wet gulping noises that sound way too much like he’s deepthroating the bottle. liquor spills down his shirt, soaking the front so it clings to his massive chest, nipples hard from the cold alcohol.
“that’s it, you giant cumdump of a man.” jeongin cackles, cheeky, so boyish, tilting the bottle higher so more alcohol floods jisung’s mouth. “chug it like you chug my dick in your dreams, boy. look at him go, fuckin’ wild. swallow, swallow, good boy.”
chan is doubled over laughing, slapping jisung’s broad back hard enough to make the boy rock forward.
jisung makes a low, dopey gurgle, fingers twitching and eyes crossing for a second before he mumbles out a “y/n…”
jeongin grabs jisung’s face with both hands and squishes his cheeks so his lips puff out like a fish. “awww.”
“alright, hi.” you say, stepping right up and shoving jeongin’s hands off jisung’s face. “give me my boy back before you kill him.”
minho just sighs. “both of you shut the fuck up and back off. ji, come on. we’re going.”
jisung’s head lolls toward your voice. “y/n.”
you grab his big arm, the same one you touched that first day, and tug. “yeah, yeah, hi. come on, baby.”
jisung stumbles forward immediately. his arm wraps around your shoulders, heavy as fuck, and he nuzzles his face into your hair like a dog sniffing crotch.
chan laughs even louder, slapping jisung’s ass as you start dragging him away. “go get ‘em, tiger.“
minho shoots them both a middle finger while helping you guide jisung toward the door. he wants to leave before jisung switches and rips someone’s throat out while drunk. just again, he can never tell when is it going to happen.
jisung is barely walking straight. every few steps he giggles and tries to pet your hair, smearing a little vodka on your shoulder. “soft… you’re so soft… i like when you’re nice to me… the kitties are soft too but you’re nicer.”
and you and minho have to take him home like that. one of you on each side of him. by the time you get there, jisung is barely conscious.
you and minho barely get him through the apartment door before he starts making these wet, gurgly heaving sounds.
“fuck fuck fuck.” minho hisses, kicking the door shut with his foot.
jisung’s face is flushed red, mouth slack with spit shining on his chin. he’s giggling between the gags though.
“bathroom. now.” you say, grabbing one massive arm while minho takes the other.
you basically drag his heavy ass down the short hallway, jisung’s feet stumbling. the second you shove him into the tiny bathroom he drops to his knees in front of the toilet like a good little drunk slut. his big hands brace on the seat, head hanging low, drool already dripping from his open mouth into the bowl.
“okay big guy, listen to me.” you say. you kneel beside him, one hand rubbing slow circles on his broad back while the other brushes his messy hair out of his face. “you drank way too much because those assholes thought it was funny. but you’re gonna be okay. i’m right here. i’ve got you.”
jisung makes a pathetic little whine, leaning into your touch. “y/n… my head hurts, stomach’s all twisty, don’t like it.”
“i know, baby. you’re doing so good.” you keep stroking his hair, thumb brushing his cheek. “i’m gonna help you feel better, okay? just trust y/n.”
he nods.
minho is scooping up dori, who’s trying to run to jisung. he tucks the cat under one arm, the poor thing purring anyway.
you slide your hand from his back to his shoulder, squeezing gently. “alright, sungie. open your mouth for me. wide. y/n’s gonna help get all that nasty shit out so you stop feeling sick.”
he obeys instantly, tongue lolling out a bit.
you’re fucking brutal, god, you slide two fingers past his lips, pressing down on his tongue, then deeper until you’re nudging the back of his throat.
“that’s it… good boy.” you coo. “relax your throat. let it happen. you can do it. you’re so good at listening when i tell you what to do.”
he makes this low, surprised moan around your fingers, actually moans, the perverted fucker, and his whole body shudders like someone just stroked his dick instead of trying to make him vomit. big dumb eyes watering as he looks up at you with pure trust and zero thoughts. his throat convulses around your fingers, wet and tight and gross, making these obscene choking sounds that echo off the bathroom tiles.
“there you go, poor thing. get it all out. y/n’s right here, i’ve got you.” you push a little deeper, curling your fingers, rubbing that soft spot that makes him heave again. “you’re doing amazing. such a strong boy for me. i’m so proud of you, sungie. even when you’re drunk and sloppy.”
little whore moans around your fingers again. the fucker likes it.
you feel his throat flutter again, hotter and wetter.
“come on, give it to me. let it all come up.” you coo.
he nods eagerly even while gagging, big dumb eyes watering more, now sliding down his pretty cheeks. spit drips down your wrist in thick strings.
“jesus christ, man.” minho says from the doorway, still cradling the cat who still likes his little position.
you twist your fingers a little deeper, pressing down on his tongue, and jisung gags hard, whole body jerking, but instead of pulling away he leans into it, moaning louder. his breathing is all ragged and horny, chest heaving, and you swear you can see the front of his jeans twitching.
“come on baby, puke.” you growl, pumping your fingers in and out a couple times just to trigger the reflex.
his throat spasms violently around your fingers and finally, finally, he retches loud and wet, whole body convulsing as the first wave of vodka and bile comes rushing up.
god you’re lucky you pulled your hand away in time.
each time he gags he lets out these pathetic little whimpers that sound way too sexual for someone emptying their stomach.
“shhh, i know baby, i know.” you murmur. “you’re doing so good for me. my big strong sungie taking it so well. let’s do it again so we get all that poison out, okay?
he nods, lips shaking, and god, the way he stares. it’s fucking criminal. his big eyes are shining, actual fat tears rolling down his flushed cheeks.
“okay.” you murmur to him. “you can get the next round out, ju—“
“nooo, y/n, put them back… i need them, please, i can’t do it by myself. please.”
you grimace because his mouth is now a fucking acid bath and you’re not about to shove your fingers back into that nightmare. “jisung, baby, your mouth is gross right now. we gotta clean it first, okay? minho, grab a glass of water. quick.”
minho soon hands you the glass while still juggling the cat that’s trying to escape and climb jisung’s back.
you tilt jisung’s head back gently and make him spit out the worst of the bile, then help him rinse and swallow a few careful sips. he coughs and whimpers the whole time, poor baby.
“better?” you ask softly, wiping his chin with your sleeve.
he nods pathetically, lips trembling. “y/n, still feels bad, please, your fingers again.”
“alright, you needy little bitch. open wide for me again.”
you dip your fingers in the clean water first, then slide them back into his mouth, pressing deep until you hit the back of his throat again.
and you keep it going like this. make him throw more up, pull away, rinse his mouth, fingers down his throat again. it’s fucking disgusting but whatever.
this is the most fucked up thing minho has ever witnessed and he’s cleaned literal brains off the walls.
you keep going for round after round, sweet talking, fingering his throat, pulling back when it gets too nasty, letting him chase and beg and cry for it.
by the time his stomach is finally empty he’s a complete wreck, face red, lips swollen, tears everywhere.
you and minho finally drag his massive drunk ass out of the bathroom after what feels like forty rounds of finger down the throat hell. he’s actually in a horrible state, face flushed and tear streaked, lips swollen and shiny with spit, shirt soaked in vodka, jeans sporting a very obvious dark wet spot at the front because the dumb fuck apparently came untouched somewhere between round three and four while crying for your fingers. his legs barely work.
“thank you y/n.” he whines.
“shut the fuck up and walk.” minho grunts, shouldering most of the weight on the other side.
you finally wrestle him into his room, which is basically a nest of blankets, cat hair, and one sad lamp. jisung collapses face first onto the bed, groaning happily when you roll him onto his back. he blinks up at you with those huge glassy boba eyes, still completely thoughtless.
“y/n…” he mumbles, voice all raspy and fucked from all the gagging.
poor pathetic thing. you lean down and press a gentle kiss to his sweaty forehead, brushing damp hair out of his face. “sleep, okay? you did well.”
he makes this low content sound, eyes already fluttering shut as you tuck the blanket around his broad chest. dori immediately jumps up and curls right on top of him, purring and kneading his pecs. his hand comes up weakly to pet the cat’s back.
you and minho back out of the room quietly, closing the door most of the way.
the second you’re in the hallway the energy shifts. it’s just you and minho again. you look at each other.
the air gets thick real fucking fast.
minho’s pretty face is still a little flushed from hauling jisung around, eyes dark in the low light. you feel that same stupid pull from the beanbag earlier, the closeness. your gaze drops to his mouth for half a second and he notices. he leans in a tiny bit, almost on instinct, breath warm against your cheek.
you both freeze.
“no.” you say at the exact same time.
you pull back first, hands up. “fuck, sorry. that was… we’re not doing that again.. we’re good.“
minho exhales hard, running a hand through his hair and stepping back too, looking equal parts relieved and disappointed in himself. “yeah. sorry.“
“yeah.”
“yeah.”
you hum softly and head for the door. minho follows to lock up behind you. right as you step outside soonie tries to dart between your legs. minho lunges and scoops him up just in time, holding the wriggling little fucker against his chest while it meows in protest.
he gives you one last fond look, cat squirming in his arms. “night. thanks for helping with… all of that. you’re good with him. better than i am sometimes.”
“night, minho.“
he closes the door behind you.
inside, he stands there for a second holding the cat(which is about to rip minho’s face off)
the apartment feels strangely empty with you gone.
after that night, jisung’s empty fucking skull doesn’t just have a crush anymore. it has a full blown, brain melting, cock throbbing obsession with you.
o b s e s s i o n
he wakes up the next morning with the worst hangover of his life, throat raw, head pounding, stomach still doing flips. but the second his dumb eyes open, he remembers your fingers sliding down his throat, your soft voice while he puked and cried and came in his pants like a pathetic virgin.
he doesn’t even think about killing or the cats or minho.
just you.
y/n.
your fingers. your smell. the way you kissed his sweaty forehead. the way you stayed even when he was a disgusting, vomiting, hard mess.
from that day on, jisung is a new man.
he follows you around whenever you hang out, in the pathetic “please look at me please touch me please say my name” way. every time you so much as brush his arm he freezes, eyes going all big, mouth slightly open like he’s waiting for you to shove your fingers down his throat again.
he thinks about your fingers constantly. during meals he’ll zone out staring at your hands, imagining them stretching his throat open again. at night he humps his pillow thinking about you.
and that beast side of him is… quieter now?
that’s because every time the switch threatens to flip, his empty brain just defaults to you instead. some random guy bumps into him on the street? instead of slamming the dude into a wall and ripping his spine out, jisung just thinks “y/n wouldn’t like that… y/n would say ‘poor thing’ and touch my arm…” and the rage fizzles into pathetic longing.
he becomes even more dependent on minho, but now it’s mostly to whine about you.
“minho, y/n hasn’t touched my arm today. do you think she hates me now? what if she never puts her fingers in my throat again? i’ll die. i’ll actually die.”
minho, poor exhausted pretty minho, just sighs and pats his head.
jisung just knows he needs more of y/n.
more touches.
more sweet talk.
more fingers down his throat.
more of that warm feeling that only happens when he sees you.
and you affect him so much that minho almost lets himself believe the beast is gone.
for weeks it’s been suspiciously quiet on the murder front. no random blood puddles in the entryway, no mysterious missing hoodies that smell like iron, no jisung coming home at 3am.
instead jisung spends his days whining about you, jerking off to you, almost fucking crawling after you on the floor like a giant dog begging for head pats, and generally being so soft that minho starts to think maybe, just maybe, the brutal switch got short circuited by all that sweet y/n brainrot.
he lets himself relax a little. stops triple checking the trash. stops sleeping with one eye open. through the day, watches jisung beam with those big boba eyes and try to nuzzle into your lap again.
yeah as if.
one night it’s late. minho is half asleep on the couch with one of the cats on his chest when the front door slams open.
jisung stumbles in, and holy fuck, he’s absolutely drenched in blood. not the usual oops i got a little messy amount. this is a new level. minho hasn’t seen one like this yet. it’s soaked through his hoodie, dripping from his hair in thick ropes, smeared across his face, running down his arms and pooling on the floor in shiny red puddles. there are chunks of something that used to be human caught under his nails. his pretty face is all twisted up, his eyes are wild, not the blank killer stare, but wet and desperate.
he doesn’t even make it two steps before he collapses to his knees right in front of minho, big body shaking. his hands, still covered in gore, claw at minho’s shirt, leaving bloody handprints all over the clean fabric as he yanks him closer.
“minho—minho please—” his voice cracks, thick with tears and snot and whatever the fuck is stuck in his throat. “i need y/n, i need her right now, please call her—tell her to come—i’ll be good i swear!”
minho’s stomach drops. the cat on his chest yowls and bolts.
for one delusional second he actually thought the beast shit might be gone. minho had started hoping maybe you fixed him. maybe the switch was broken for good.
clearly fucking not.
“what the fuck did you do?” minho asks, voice tight even though he already knows the answer.
jisung shakes his head hard, tears spilling faster, blood flaking off his lashes. “i don’t know.” he knows, but we humans say i don’t know when we actually just don’t want to talk that much. “it’s over and i need her, minho. i need y/n so bad it hurts.”
minho’s stomach twists. he hates this. hates the blood, hates the crying, hates how jisung can rip someone apart and then come home and act like this.
“if i can’t see y/n tonight i’m gonna kill myself. i swear, please—please minho, i’ll die without her, i’ll really die.”
the words hit minho. suicide threats from jisung are new. the beast side never cared about dying. the puppy side never even thought about it.
okay, wow.
minho reaches down, grabs jisung under the arms, and hauls the bloody man up onto the couch with him.
it’s disgusting. blood immediately soaking into the cushions, smearing across minho’s clean clothes, but he pulls jisung into a tight hug anyway, wrapping his arms around the broad, shaking back. jisung buries his face in minho’s neck like a scared kid, still crying ugly and loud, big hands clutching at minho’s shirt.
“shhh.” minho comforts, his pretty voice soft despite the ew factor of having gore all over him. one hand rubs slow circles on jisung’s back, the other stroking his bloody hair. “you’re not killing yourself, you asshole. breathe. just breathe.”
jisung sobs harder into his neck, body shaking. “but i need her…”
minho keeps holding him, rocking him a little. “i know, i know.”
jisung whimpers pathetically, nuzzling closer. “but minho… my chest hurts, right here, only y/n fixes it. please. tell her i’m crying.”
minho closes his eyes.
fucking hell.
minho sighs again, long and suffering, and reaches for his phone with the hand that isn’t petting jisung’s gore covered head. “fine. i’ll text her. but you’re taking a shower first, you disgusting slut.”
jisung just nods against his chest, still crying softly, big body trembling with pure, thoughtless need.
minho holds him tighter, ignoring how gross it is, because that’s what best friends do.
he sends the message to you and then immediately starts damage control.
first, he gets jisung into the shower. the idiot is still crying softly, mumbling “y/n… y/n…” under the spray while minho aggressively scrubs blood off him. jisung just stands there with his head hanging, letting minho manhandle him.
“you’re gonna be good when she gets here, right?” minho says while he rinses human remains out of jisung’s hair. “no talking about blood. no asking her to shove fingers down your throat the second she walks in. you tell her you had a nightmare or some shit. you act normal. got it?”
jisung nods slowly, water running pink down his chest. “yeah.”
by the time you show up, the apartment is mostly cleaned. minho has changed clothes, hid the bloody ones, and jisung is sitting on the couch in fresh sweats looking like a sad wet puppy. his eyes are still red and puffy, but the blood is gone. he looks mostly harmless again. mostly.
you walk in worried, hair messy from rushing over. “what happened? your text sounded serious.”
minho rubs the back of his neck, playing the exhausted best friend card perfectly. “he had a really bad panic attack. started saying he was gonna hurt himself. i’ve never seen him like this. and you’re basically the only thing that calms him down anymore.”
jisung looks up at you the second you step closer, those big eyes filling with fresh tears.
you slide your fingers into his damp hair and stroke gently. “hey. it’s okay. i’m here now. i’m not going anywhere tonight, alright?“
he whines and pushes his head into your hand.
minho watches from the side, arms crossed, calculating.
this is going to work. you calm the beast. if that means you need to be here more often, then minho will make it happen. he’ll lie. he’ll manipulate the situation. he’ll guilt you with “he’ll hurt himself” stories.
because the alternative is jisung switching again, or worse, actually trying to end it.
and minho loves his dumb fuck of a best friend too much to let that happen.
so over the next few days minho starts working everything.
he texts you every time jisung gets “bad.” sometimes it’s real, jisung crying and whining and begging for you. sometimes it’s exaggerated, minho just says “he’s freaking out again” even when jisung is only mildly mopey. he makes sure you see the pathetic side. jisung kneeling, nuzzling, whispering “y/n i need you” with those big wet boba eyes.
you start coming over almost every night.
you sit on the couch with jisung’s head in your lap while he pets your arm. you let him fall asleep with his face pressed to your stomach. you stroke his hair.
minho watches it all. satisfied.
then one night jisung refuses to let you leave. he wraps his big arms around your waist and buries his face in your shirt, mumbling “if you go the bad comes back, please stay. i’ll sleep on the floor if you want, just don’t leave.”
minho chimes in softly from the kitchen. “he means it, y/n. last time you left early he had a breakdown. maybe just crash here tonight? the couch is yours. or… his bed is big enough. he’s better when you’re around.”
you hesitate, but jisung looks up at you with those shiny eyes full of pure need and you cave. “okay… just tonight.”
another night jisung starts crying again when you mention going home.
minho pulls you aside later, voice low and serious. “look… i know this is a lot. but you’re literally the only thing keeping him stable right now. the doctors won’t help, he won’t go, and i’m scared what he’ll do if you pull away. just… keep coming over. stay longer. it’s innocent. he just needs you close.”
it’s not innocent.
minho enables it.
he buys you a toothbrush for the apartment. “just in case.” he clears out a drawer in jisung’s room. “for when you stay over.” he tells you little stories about how jisung “almost did something bad” the one night you weren’t there, even though it’s mostly bullshit.
deep down he knows that the obsession is only getting worse.
one day jisung might switch again.
but until then, minho will keep feeding you into the machine.
he’ll keep making sure you’re there every time jisung starts to crack.
because he loves both of you. different levels, sure, but he really does.
even if it means slowly, quietly, turning you into the thing jisung can’t live without.
even if it gets creepy.
for now, minho just smiles tiredly when you agree to stay another night.
“thanks, y/n. you have no idea how much this means. to both of us.”
and jisung, curled up against your side on the couch, nuzzles into your neck with a soft, dopey little “okay y/n” completely thoughtless, completely addicted.
the cure is you.
and minho is going to make damn sure the cure never leaves.
author’s note: somewhere in the fic it’s mentioned that you’ve dealt with men who have tried and it’s also mentioned that minho knows hyunjin. fun fact, in my head this is connected, hyunjin was one of the guys you’ve dealt with who tried for you but this won’t be known. point is that there’s a pretty fire version of this universe in my head where you end up with han, minho and hyunjin at the same time. hyunjin is a fuckass dumb playboy in it and ends up tots in love with you after seeing that this dumb fuck pulled you. (think of the picture of idk you take jisung’s baby ass somewhere and end up walking past where minho and hyunjin just happen to be hanging out and hyunjin goes “wait i think i fucked that chick before”) if sum bigger writer is reading this, or just anyone in general, feel free to write this version of my fic but please tag me. i mean not even for credit(though it would be nice and fair, let’s not be assholes guys) but because i want to see it sm but have sm shi to work on. anyways, i’m cooking a part two up. love y’all.
summary: Felix texts the wrong number about bubble tea, but instead of ignoring him, she sticks around.
lee felix x reader
・❥・✎ intro → masterlist → taglist ✎ ・❥・
A/N: i’m so sorry for the delay on part two 😭 Tumblr wasn’t allowing me to upload any photos or screen shots and it finally worked today!!!
—————————————————————————————
The bell above the café door chimed as you and Felix stepped outside.
The evening air was cooler now, the kind that made the street feel quieter than it really was. Cars passed occasionally, headlights sliding across the pavement, but for a moment it felt like the world had slowed down.
Felix shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, rocking slightly on his heels.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, softer than before.
You blinked. “You’re thanking me? You’re the one who convinced me to trust a random number.”
He laughed, that bright, warm laugh that made his eyes crinkle. “Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”
You both looked down at the empty cups in your hands.
Brown sugar milk tea. Light ice. Exactly like he liked it.
Exactly like you remembered.
For a second neither of you spoke.
Then Felix rubbed the back of his neck, a little shy. “Text me when you get home?”
You tilted your head. “Only if you text first.”
His grin widened. “Deal.”
The walk home felt shorter than usual.
Maybe it was the lingering sweetness of the drink, or maybe it was the way your phone felt heavier in your pocket now like you were expecting it to buzz.
And right as you turned onto your street…
buzz
You smiled before even unlocking it.
You put your phone down, smiling at the ceiling.
Somewhere across the city, Felix was probably doing the exact same thing
—————————————————————————————
The next afternoon felt strangely slow.
You kept checking your phone, rereading the messages from Felix even though you already knew exactly what they said.
Eventually the time came.
You walked toward the station, the street busy with people heading home from work, cars passing, and music drifting from a nearby shop. The air was cool, but the sky was still bright.
When you reached the entrance, you slowed down a little, scanning the crowd.
Then you saw him.
Felix was standing near the railing, leaning against it while scrolling through his phone. His hoodie sleeves were pulled over his hands, and every few seconds he glanced up like he was checking if someone had arrived.
Right as you started walking toward him, his phone buzzed.
At the same moment, your phone buzzed too.
You looked down.
Felix:
if you’re late i’m drinking your boba
You laughed under your breath.
When you looked up again, Felix had finally spotted you.
His face instantly brightened and he pushed himself off the railing.
“Hey!” he said as you walked closer.
“Hey,” you replied.
He tilted his head slightly. “You’re actually on time. I’m impressed.”
You held up your phone. “You literally just threatened to drink my boba.”
Felix grinned. “Motivation works.”
For a second, neither of you moved, just smiling a little awkwardly like you were both remembering that the last time you saw each other had started with a random mistake.
Then Felix gestured down the street.
“The new place is like five minutes away,” he said. “Apparently their brown sugar milk tea is really good.”
“Apparently,” you repeated skeptically.
He gasped dramatically. “You doubt the reviews?”
“I doubt you,” you said.
Felix laughed and started walking, glancing back to make sure you were following.
The two of you walked side by side through the busy street, talking about random things music, favourite snacks, the worst drinks you’d ever tried.
It felt easy. Like you’d known each other longer than just a few days.
Soon the café came into view, warm lights glowing through the windows.
Felix stopped outside the door and turned to you.
“Okay,” he said seriously. “Moment of truth.”
You crossed your arms playfully. “You’re being dramatic again.”
“I take boba very seriously,” he replied.
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.
Felix opened the door and held it for you.
“After you.”
As you both stepped inside the café, you realised something. What started as a wrong number was slowly turning into something you looked forward too
summary: Felix texts the wrong number about bubble tea, but instead of ignoring him, she sticks around.
lee felix x reader
・❥・✎ intro → masterlist → taglist ✎ ・❥・
A/N IM BACK!! this is a draft cause i still have no motivation to come up with ideas but i realised i had this in drafts lol!!
[the next day]
[2 days later]
[a week later]
[Saturday]
The shop he picked was small, warm-lit, and smelled like caramelized sugar. You arrived first, heart thudding like you’d downed caffeine instead of tea.
The door chimed.
Felix walked in, taller than you expected, blond hair slightly messy, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands like he didn’t know what to do with them. He spotted you and froze for half a second,then his whole face lit up.
“Oh,” he said, voice even deeper in person. “You’re… real.”
You laughed. “You sound exactly like your voice notes.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Very good.”
He relaxed instantly, smiling wide, eyes crinkling. When you ordered, he leaned in way too close to read the menu over your shoulder, smelling faintly like laundry detergent and something sweet.
“You remembered,” he said when you ordered his usual. “Brown sugar, light ice.”
“Of course I did,” you replied. “I’m invested. Emotionally.”
You sat by the window, cups sweating onto the table. He took a sip, eyes widening.
“Oh. Oh this is it.”
You tried yours and gasped. “Felix.”
“I know.”
You clinked cups like it was a celebration.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just sipping. Smiling. Like the universe had accidentally done something right.
“So,” he said finally, softer now. “Funny how a wrong number turned into… this.”
You shrugged. “Maybe it was meant to be .”
He laughed at you then smiled.Slow, fond and a little shy.
“Can we make this a regular thing?” he asked. “The boba. And… you.”
Your heart did that thing again.
“Yeah,” you said. “I’d like that
A/N this is a draft but my tumblr is acting up and not letting me insert any new photos so bear with me!!
Also let me know if u want a part 2 or if this is any good cause i kept it in drafts cause i thought it was shit
You’re halfway through scrolling a doom spiral of cat videos when your phone buzzes with a new notification from the pet-sitting app.
New message from: LMH.
You almost ignore it. Half the usernames on this app are just initials anyway. But then you see the profile picture: a blurry shot of three cats piled in a sunbeam on a couch you’ve definitely seen before. One fluffy, one sleek, one tiny tabby pressed against his arm.
Your heart trips. No way.
You tap the profile and it opens.
Lee Minho
Location: Seoul
Pets: 3 cats – Soonie, Doongie, Dori 🐾
Description: “Looking for a trustworthy sitter while I’m away for work. They’re spoiled. I’m not sorry.”
You blink.
You blink again.
Then you whisper, “You’ve got to be kidding me,” at your phone like it personally offended you.
You click on the pictures. There’s Soonie, orange and white, kneading a blanket. Doongie, also orange and white, staring at the camera with those big, owlish eyes. Dori, the only tabby, sprawled across a laptop keyboard like he pays rent there.
Your brain tries to logically process the information and fails.
Lee Minho has three cats.
Lee Minho needs a sitter.
Lee Minho somehow found your profile.
No way it’s really him, floats through your head, but the verification checkmark on the app next to his username is pretty clear. Celebrity account. Verified by staff. Legit.
Your thumb hovers over the message notification like it might explode.
You tap it.
Hi, I saw your profile and your reviews were really good.
I’m going on tour with work for a while and need someone to come by my place twice a day to feed my cats / clean litter / play with them.
Would you be available for 6 weeks?
He signed it with a little paw print emoji and your soul leaves your body.
You reread it three times before your thumbs finally move.
Hi! Yes, I’m available. Thank you so much for reaching out. I’d love to help take care of Soonie, Doongie, and Dori.
You stare at their names for a second, then add:
I’ve done long-term sits before, so the schedule is no problem. I can also send daily photos / videos if that helps you feel better about being away.
You hit send and immediately want to throw your phone across the room. Too formal? Too eager? Too..
Another ping.
That sounds good. Thanks.
Can we meet first? Just somewhere public, to talk through details.
There’s a small cafe near my place that’s usually quiet. Tomorrow at 3?
Your stomach drops and somersaults at the same time.
He wants to meet you.
In person.
You type back before you can overthink it.
Sure, tomorrow at 3 works for me. Just send me the address.
He replies with the name of the cafe and a simple:
See you then.
You put your phone down very gently on the table and then immediately bury your face in your hands.
“Oh my God,” you groan into your palms. “I’m going to die.”
━
You spend the next twenty-four hours in a war with your own reflection.
Too casual? Too formal? Too much like you’re going on a date? You’re not going on a date, you remind yourself for the twentieth time as you change your shirt again. You’re going to discuss cat litter and feeding schedules and toys, not your taste in soulmates.
Still, it’s hard to ignore the way your heart thumps every time you picture him sitting across from you.
You finally settle on something simple: jeans, a soft sweater, your least scuffed sneakers. Clean, comfortable, not trying too hard. You tie your hair up, then take it down, then tie it back up again, then finally just pin your bangs out of your eyes and call it a win.
On the subway ride over, your brain is useless.
What if he thinks you’re weird?
What if you trip walking in?
What if you say something stupid like “I love your cats more than you”
You step off the train and force yourself to breathe. The cafe he mentioned is tucked on a side street, a small place with big windows and plants in the corners. It looks cozy and calm, exactly the kind of place you’d normally like.
Today it feels like a stage.
You’re five minutes early. You stand outside for a second, staring at your reflection in the glass. It’s just a meeting, you tell yourself. You’re good with animals. You know what you’re doing. This is a job.
You push the door open.
Warm air brushes your face, carrying the smell of coffee and something sweet in the oven. Indie music hums softly from the speakers. There are only a few people inside, scattered at tables with laptops and books.
You do a quick scan.
No one incredibly famous. No one in a mask. No..
He’s in the back corner, half-hidden by a tall plant. Black cap pulled low, mask on, simple hoodie and jeans. He’s looking down at his phone, one leg bouncing, fingers loosely wrapped around a mug.
For a second, you just stand there. He’s smaller than he looks on stage, somehow, and bigger at the same time. Real. Solid. A person.
Then he looks up, and even from across the room you can tell he recognizes you from the tiny app profile photo.
He raises his hand in a small wave.
Your feet move before your brain catches up. You make your way toward him, trying not to overanalyze your walk. When you reach the table, you bow slightly.
“Hi,” you say, trying to keep your voice from squeaking. “I’m… uh. I’m Soo-ah. From the app.”
He nods, eyes crinkling at the corners above his mask. Up close, he’s all sharp lines and soft details: delicate lashes, that carefully unreadable expression you’ve seen on a hundred fancams but somehow warmer in person.
“Yeah,” he says. “Thanks for coming.”
His voice is a little lower in real life, a little softer. He gestures to the chair across from him.
“Did you want to order something first?” he adds. “I can get it.”
“Oh..no, it’s okay, I..” You catch yourself. “Actually, a latte would be nice. I can pay, though.”
He shakes his head, already standing. “I asked you to come. I’ll get it.”
You watch him walk to the counter, easy and unhurried. He moves like someone who’s used to being watched and has decided not to care. The barista doesn’t react much, maybe she’s used to him too. He orders quietly, then returns and sits, sliding your mug toward you once it’s ready.
Your hands wrap around the warm ceramic like an anchor.
“So,” he says, folding his arms loosely. “I read your reviews already, but I wanted to meet you in person.”
You nod. “Yeah, of course. That makes sense. I’d be more worried if you didn’t want to meet the person you were giving your keys to.”
He huffs out a small laugh, eyes dropping to his hands for a second, then back to you.
“True,” he says.
There’s a brief pause, not uncomfortable, just careful.
“So,” you say, mirroring him because your brain is scrambling for something normal to hold onto. “Um, you mentioned six weeks?”
He nods. “The tour’s a little longer, but my parents will take them for the last week. It’s just… the first part is really tight, timing-wise. I didn’t want to move them right away. They get stressed.”
There’s a little flicker in his gaze when he says it, a quiet, protective warmth that settles your nerves. You know that look. People who love their animals all look like that.
“Of course,” you say. “Cats hate change as it is. Splitting it up makes sense. What kind of schedule were you imagining?”
He pulls his phone out and taps a note open, sliding it across the table like evidence.
“I wrote some things down,” he says, sounding almost shy about it. “Sorry if it’s too much.”
You glance at the list.
Morning visit between 8–10
Refill food bowls (specific portions listed)
Fresh water
Scoop litter for all 3
Check windows / balcony door
Evening visit between 6–9
Wet food
Litter again
Playtime (laser pointer, wand toy, anything… just… don’t let them chew the string)
Dori likes climbing – watch him near shelves
Send pictures / short video once a day if possible
At the bottom, he’s written:
Also if they look weird or act different at all, call me. Even if you think I’ll be busy. I’d rather know.
Your chest softens.
“This is great,” you say, genuinely. “Not too much at all. It’s really helpful. I’d rather have too much information than not enough.”
He relaxes by a degree, shoulders settling. “Okay. Good. They’re… they’re my kids, basically.”
“I can tell,” you say, smiling. “So, Soonie, Doongie, and Dori… anything specific about their personalities I should know?”
His eyes light up a little at that, like you just asked his favorite question.
“Soonie’s the laziest,” he says immediately. “He’ll pretend he doesn’t care about you, but he does. He likes head scratches and sleeping on the couch. Doongie’s shy. He might hide at first. If you sit on the floor and don’t look at him, he’ll get curious eventually.”
You picture it easily, him sitting on his living room floor waiting for a tiny cat to make the first move.
“And Dori?” you ask.
He sighs. “Chaos.”
You laugh, covering your mouth with your hand.
“He’s small but he thinks he’s the main character. Climbs everything, tries to eat plastic, knocks things off tables just to see what happens. He’s sweet, though. Just… if he starts staring at something with that look..” He mimics a wide-eyed, plotting expression. “..you should probably move it.”
“He sounds fun,” you say.
“He is. Until it’s 4 a.m. and he’s doing parkour off my face.”
You can’t help it; the image makes you giggle, and his eyes crinkle again, something easing between you.
He studies you for a moment, thoughtful.
“You’re not… weirded out by the whole idol thing?” he asks finally. It’s a casual question, but you hear the thread underneath. “With me being… you know.”
“You?” you say. “A person with a job and three cats?”
His mouth twitches.
“I mean the other part,” he says. “The… public part.”
You take a breath.
“I mean, I know who you are,” you admit. “It’d be kind of impossible not to. But this is your home and your family. I’m not going to take pictures of your apartment or sell your pillowcase or something.”
He stares at you, then laughs, sudden and soft.
“That’s good,” he says. “I like my pillowcases.”
You smile back. “I like my job. And I like cats. I’m here for them, not for… anything else.”
You let that sit. It’s the truth, and you want him to believe it. His hand taps his mug a few times, considering. Then he nods.
“Okay,” he says. “I think I’d like to go ahead with it, then. If you’re still interested.”
Your heart jumps.
“Yes,” you say, maybe too quickly. “Absolutely.”
He pulls a small envelope out of his hoodie pocket and sets it on the table. It looks like it has a key inside.
“This is a spare,” he says. “I wrote the address on a sticky note inside. Don’t lose it.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “Please.”
“I won’t,” you promise, fingers closing around the envelope like treasure.
“I’ll text you the exact dates and the schedule,” he says. “And if you have time before I leave, you can come by once while I’m there, so they can meet you with me around. It’s easier that way.”
“That’d be great,” you say. “Just tell me when, and I’ll make it work.”
He checks his phone again, then stands, tugging his mask up properly.
“I have to head to practice,” he says. “But… thanks. For saying yes.”
“Thank you,” you reply. “For trusting me with them.”
He looks like he’s about to say something else, then just gives you a small, sincere nod.
“I’ll message you later,” he says. “Oh, and… one more thing.”
You tilt your head. “Yeah?”
“If Dori tries to follow you out the door,” he says, eyes dancing a little above his mask, “don’t fall for it. He’s a liar.”
You laugh, surprised and warm. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He gives you one last glance, soft and assessing, then turns and slips out of the cafe, hood up, shoulders hunched just enough to blend in.
You sit there for a long moment after he’s gone, fingers pressed around the envelope with his key, latte cooling forgotten by your elbow.
You’ve just been hired by Lee Know.
You’re about to take care of Soonie, Doongie, and Dori for six weeks.
You exhale slowly, heart racing in that fizzy, disbelieving way.
This is really happening.
You get home still buzzing.
The key’s in your bag, nestled in the side pocket like it’s made of gold. You hang your coat up, put your shoes away, and then just… stand in the entryway for a second, staring into space.
Your phone vibrates.
You jump like someone caught you thinking too loudly.
You fish it out of your bag, half-expecting it to be a friend asking how the meeting went, ready to word-vomit every detail.
Instead, your notifications show:
New message – LMH 🐾
Your heart does a weird, swoopy thing.
You tap it open.
Hannie I finally got someone to watch my babies and she’s cute
You blink.
Once.
Twice.
You stare at the screen for a full five seconds while your brain catches up.
Hannie?
Babies??
She’s cute???
You check the top of the chat again, just in case you hallucinated the name.
LMH 🐾.
The same thread as earlier.
The same one where he sent the cafe address and cat bullet points.
You look around your empty apartment like there’s an audience you can share this with.
“Uh,” you say out loud to no one. “What?”
Your thumbs hover over the keyboard for a second as you debate the three main options:
-Pretend you never saw it and throw your phone into the ocean.
-Change your name, leave the country, become a goat farmer.
-Answer like a normal human.
Unfortunately, the ocean is far away and you don’t own any goats.
You take a breath and type.
Um
Hi?
You hit send before you can overthink it and immediately feel like lying on the floor.
It doesn’t take long.
Three little dots appear.
Disappear.
Reappear.
Oh
You bite your lip, watching the typing bubble blink in and out like a heartbeat.
Another message pops up.
I meant to send that to someone else
You exhale, something between a laugh and a groan bubbling up. That makes sense. Hannie. Han. That explains it.
It doesn’t explain the warm fizz in your chest at the other part.
You flop onto your couch and curl one leg under you, phone balanced on your knee.
It’s okay! 😂 happens all the time
Don’t worry about it
You pause, then add with your heart hammering:
And uh
thank you for saying I’m cute, I guess
You stare at that last line for a second, consider deleting it, then send it.
If you’re already dying of embarrassment, you might as well go out in style.
The typing bubble appears again almost immediately.
Disappears.
Appears.
You can feel the fluster through the screen.
I…
It was just
I meant
Another bubble. He’s clearly fighting his autocorrect or his own brain.
I meant it in a professional way
You snort.
There is no professional way to tell someone you think they’re cute, Minho
You hesitate a split second before using his name, then decide you’re already in too deep to be shy about that now.
There’s a longer pause this time. Long enough that you sit there, chewing the inside of your cheek, wondering if you pushed it too far.
You’re right
I’m just bad at texting sometimes
You soften a little at that. You can practically imagine him, hood up somewhere, face going pink under the mask, thumbs hovering, retyping.
You’re fine lol
I’m not offended or anything
I promise I won’t sue you for workplace flirting or whatever 😂
It’s not workplace flirting
You blink.
Your stomach does that swoopy thing again.
The typing bubble pops back in before you can answer.
I mean
This is a job
You’re doing me a favor
I should be respectful
I just noticed you were cute
That’s all
You stare at the words.
Somehow, that feels different from the accidental text. This is deliberate. Carefully typed. No Hannie, no wrong chat. Just him telling you, directly.
Your face warms. You pull a throw pillow into your lap, squeezing it.
Well
For the record
You’re… pretty nice-looking yourself
You add a cat emoji after, because it feels less like a confession and more like you’re just… lightly nudging the door open.
There’s a longer silence this time. You start to wonder if you’ve gone too far into flirting territory when the bubble finally comes back.
Thanks
Simple, but you can picture the way his mouth probably twitches when he sends it.
Anyway
Before I embarrass myself more
I wanted to ask if you’re free tomorrow evening to come by
Soonie, Doongie, and Dori can meet you
I’ll be home
The shift back into logistics makes it easier to breathe.
Yeah, I’m free!
Just send me the time and I’ll be there
7 okay?
I’ll text you the building code too
Perfect 🐾
There’s a tiny pause.
And
Just ignore the first message
Please
You grin.
Sorry
Can’t
It’s already in my screenshot folder
You’re obviously joking, but you can’t resist.
???
You giggle and rush to clarify.
Kidding!!
I didn’t screenshot it lol
Your secret’s safe with me
Good
Or I’d have to fire you before you even start
There’s a little cat emoji after that, like he didn’t want that to sound too serious.
You smile at the screen.
Then who would spoil your kids while you’re gone?
I’m irreplaceable
The dots appear one more time.
We’ll see tomorrow
You can almost hear the playful edge under it.
Good night
Good night, Minho
You lock your phone and fall back against the couch, staring at the ceiling, the conversation replaying in your head.
He called you cute.
He was flustered about it.
You’re going to his apartment tomorrow.
You press the heels of your hands to your burning face and groan.
“How am I supposed to act normal in front of him,” you whisper into the quiet room, “when I know he calls them his babies and thinks I’m cute?”
No one answers, obviously.
Your phone buzzes one last time on the cushion beside you. You grab it, expecting maybe a “one more thing” text.
It’s a picture.
You tap it open.
It’s slightly blurry, clearly taken quick: Soonie loafed on the couch, Doongie peeking from behind a pillow, Dori mid-pounce on a toy, eyes wide and wild.
They said hi in advance
You melt.
Your reply is almost instant.
Tell them I said hi back
And that I’ll bring treats
Don’t tell Dori that
He’ll never leave you alone
You grin, warmth buzzing low and bright in your chest.
—
The building is nicer than you expected.
Not in a cold, expensive way. It’s just… clean. Quiet. There are plants in the lobby and soft lighting and that faint hotel-soap smell that always makes you feel like you should lower your voice.
You check the address again, then the message thread.
3rd floor, end of the hall on the left
Door code: ****
I’ll leave it unlocked once you’re here
Your palms are a little sweaty as you step into the elevator. You watch the floor numbers blink up, up, up. Your reflection in the mirrored wall looks mostly normal, minus the slightly too-wide eyes.
“It’s fine,” you mutter under your breath. “It’s work. It’s cats. You know how to do cats.”
The doors slide open with a soft chime.
The hallway is empty. You follow it all the way down, counting door numbers until you reach his. Your heart does that swoopy thing again.
You raise your hand to knock..
The door pulls open first.
Minho stands there in the doorway, one hand on the knob, the other braced casually against the frame like he’s been waiting.
No hat. No mask.
Just him.
His hair is soft and a little rumpled, like he’s been running his fingers through it. He’s in an oversized t-shirt and gray sweatpants, barefoot, looking about ten times more domestic than any stage video has prepared you for.
For a second, your brain flatlines.
“Hey,” he says, and his voice sounds different without the echo of a cafe, warmer, closer. The corner of his mouth lifts. “You’re right on time.”
“I, uh..yeah. Hi.” You want to die immediately at how breathless that sounds. You clear your throat. “Hi.”
He steps back, opening the door wider.
“Come in,” he says. “Take your shoes off, please. The kids are already judging you.”
You huff out a laugh, grateful for something to latch onto.
You step inside.
His place looks exactly like you imagined and nothing like it at the same time. It’s not huge, but it’s cozy. Neutral walls, wooden floors, soft lighting. A big couch, a low coffee table. Cat trees and scratching posts in strategic corners. Toys scattered like landmines. A couple of framed photos, nothing flashy, just simple prints.
It smells faintly of laundry detergent and something warm, like he just made dinner.
You still have your shoes half-on when you feel eyes on you.
You glance up.
Three pairs of them.
On the back of the couch, loafed like a majestic potato, there’s Soonie, orange and white, fur fluffed out, tail tip twitching. On the floor near the hallway, half-hidden behind a paper bag, you spot Doongie, also orange and white, round eyes peeking out like he’s deciding whether you’re a threat.
And up on one of the shelves, stretched along a stack of books like he owns the concept of gravity, is Dori, the little tabby, stripes neat and perfect, chin resting on his paws as he stares you down.
Your chest loosens.
“Hi,” you whisper, like you’ve walked into a sacred space.
They, predictably, do not reply.
“They’ll come around,” Minho says. “Eventually.”
You toe off your shoes and line them up neatly by the door. When you look back up, he’s watching you, expression unreadable but soft around the edges.
“You want some water or something?” he asks. “Tea?”
“I’m okay,” you say. “If I drink anything right now I’ll probably just spill it in sheer panic.”
He snorts, shoulders shaking once in a quiet laugh.
“Don’t panic,” he says. “You’re already hired. You’d have to really mess up now.”
“That’s comforting,” you deadpan, and he smiles properly this time, small but real.
You force your attention down, toward the true bosses of the apartment.
You move slowly, lowering yourself to a crouch near the couch but not too close. You keep your body angled slightly sideways, trying to look as non-threatening as humanly possible.
“Hi, Soonie,” you say softly. “We met over text already, but, you know. It’s different in person.”
Soonie blinks at you. His ears flick forward. He sniffs the air, then leans down, stretching his neck just enough to smell your outstretched fingers.
You stay still, letting him decide.
After a second, he bumps his head lightly into your knuckles.
Your heart does a full somersault.
Minho makes a low noise behind you.
You glance back over your shoulder.
“He likes me,” you say, trying not to sound smug and failing miserably.
“He likes everybody who might feed him,” Minho says, but there’s no real bite in it. If anything, he looks… pleased. A little surprised, even.
You gently scratch under Soonie’s chin, and he responds by leaning all his weight into your hand, purring so loudly it buzzes through your fingers.
“Yup,” you murmur. “We’re going to be friends.”
Movement at the edge of your vision catches your eye. You shift your gaze without turning your head.
Doongie has inched a little closer, still half behind the paper bag, watching. His tail curls around his paws, body low and cautious.
“Hi, Doongie,” you say, just as softly. You don’t reach for him yet. “No pressure. You can take your time.”
You shift your weight and sit fully on the floor, cross-legged, creating a smaller silhouette. Soonie immediately takes advantage by stepping carefully into your lap, circling once, and then plopping down like you’ve been his personal furniture for years.
You feel Minho’s stare.
“Wow,” you say calmly, despite the internal screaming. “He’s really shy, huh?”
Minho huffs. “Yeah. Painfully shy.”
You stroke Soonie’s back, his fur silky under your fingers. His purr gets even louder.
You want to look at Minho. Desperately. But you also don’t want to startle the delicate trust in the room. You focus on breathing slow, on keeping your energy relaxed.
After a minute, your plan rewards you.
Something light taps your ankle.
You glance down to see a paw retreating quickly.
Dori.
He’s hopped down from the shelf at some point, so silently you didn’t even catch it. Now he’s a few steps away, crouched low, ears perked, eyes huge. He looks like a tiny tiger debating whether to attack a large, friendly tree.
“Oh,” you whisper. “Hello, chaos.”
He blinks. Minho snorts quietly from behind you.
“He’ll act brave until you look at him too much,” he says. “Then he pretends he didn’t want attention anyway.”
You turn your head a little too fast.
Big mistake.
Dori freezes, then zips back under the coffee table in a flash of stripes and offended dignity.
“Ah, sorry,” you murmur. “Too much eye contact. I get it. Me too.”
“Don’t apologize,” Minho says. “He lives for drama. He’ll be back.”
You finally look up at him properly.
He’s leaning against the wall near the kitchen, arms folded loosely, one ankle crossed over the other. The soft t-shirt hangs off his shoulders, the neckline stretching just enough to show a bit of collarbone. His hair flops into his eyes, and he keeps absently pushing it back with slender fingers.
It should be illegal for someone to look that good while casually supervising cat introductions.
You drag your gaze away before you start staring like a weirdo.
“So,” you say, returning your attention to the floor, “this is usually where I bribe them.”
You dig into your bag and pull out a small pouch, shaking it gently so the treats inside rattle.
All three heads snap toward you at once.
Minho laughs, low and genuinely amused. “Wow. No loyalty.”
“You say that like you didn’t train this response,” you say, grinning. “Can I give them some?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “They’ve had dinner already, but a few is fine.”
You empty a couple into your palm and hold your hand out. Soonie doesn’t even hesitate; he leans in and crunches them happily, crumbs dusting your skin. You give him a fond scratch between his ears.
“There you go,” you murmur.
You toss one gently a little distance away, near the edge of the coffee table.
There’s a cautious shuffle.
Doongie creeps out, belly low, and sniffs the treat. He glances at you once, quick, assessing, then eats it. You pretend not to see, looking at a point on the floor instead.
Another treat goes out, this time closer to you.
He follows.
Soon, he’s only a foot away, blinking up at you like he’s shocked by his own bravery.
“Hi, handsome,” you whisper. “You’re doing so well.”
You extend your fingers slightly, not fully reaching, just letting him choose. After a long moment, he leans in and gives the gentlest little forehead press against your knuckles.
Your heart actually hurts.
Behind you, you hear Minho exhale.
“He likes you,” he says, voice soft in that way people get when they’re trying not to scare off the moment.
“I’m honored,” you say honestly.
You toss another treat, this one under the coffee table.
Dori shoots out like a rocket, grabs it, and zooms halfway back before stopping to eat it, glancing at you like he’s challenging you to do something about it.
“Okay,” you say, fighting a smile. “I see how it is.”
You put the bag back in your lap, closing it.
Immediately, Dori trots closer, curiosity winning over caution. He sniffs the air, tail flicking. You keep your hand still, letting him scent the pouch and your fingers.
After a minute, he makes up his mind. He hops boldly onto your thigh, tiny claws digging through your jeans for balance.
“Oh,” you breathe, steadying him with a careful hand. “You are brave.”
“He’ll act like he owns you in three days,” Minho says. There’s fondness threaded through every word. “Don’t let that innocent face fool you.”
You look up at him again, and this time you can’t help but meet his eyes.
He’s watching you with a strange expression, something in between focused and soft. His gaze flicks from your face to the cats sprawled in your lap and around you: Soonie loafed on your legs, Doongie hovering nearby, Dori standing like a pirate captain on your thigh.
“What?” you ask quietly.
He blinks, then shakes his head once, lips twitching.
“Nothing,” he says. “It’s just… they don’t usually warm up that fast. Especially not all of them.”
You glance down, taking in the scene, and yeah. If you walked into someone else’s house and saw this on day one, you’d assume you’d been hired by magic.
“I’m very charming,” you say lightly. “They can sense it.”
“Mm,” he hums, like he’s not totally disagreeing.
Dori, apparently satisfied that you’re now part of his territory, flops down along your leg and starts licking his paw like he didn’t just do a whole dramatic approach sequence.
“See?” you murmur to him. “We’re going to get along fine.”
You look back up at Minho. “So… walk me through their usual day? Beyond the list, I mean. Any weird little habits?”
He pushes off the wall and comes closer, dropping down to sit on the floor across from you. His knees bump the coffee table lightly. From here, you can see the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his features relax a bit when he’s home.
He angled himself so he’s not too close, just enough that you’re talking on equal level, not him towering over you or vice versa.
“Soonie likes the balcony window,” he says. “He sits there around eleven most days. Don’t worry, it’s secure. But if you open it, make sure the latch is locked when you close it again.”
You nod, mentally noting it.
“Doongie sometimes hides in the closet if there’s a loud noise,” he continues. “If you don’t see him, check there first. He’s usually pretending to be invisible.”
You glance at Doongie, who is now very obviously pretending not to listen.
“Got it,” you say. “Closet gremlin.”
“And Dori…” Minho sighs, looking at the tabby currently attempting to chew on your shoelace. “He likes to jump on counters. He’s not allowed, but he does it anyway. If you catch him, just put him back on the floor and tell him no. He’ll ignore you, but it makes me feel better if at least someone tells him no.”
You laugh softly. “I can do that.”
You shift slightly, adjusting the cats so no one slides off your lap. Soonie droops like a boneless creature, trusting your hands completely. Doongie edges a little closer until he can rest one paw against your knee like he’s just checking you’re solid.
When you look back up, Minho’s watching them again, his expression open and quietly proud, like a parent seeing their kids perform a trick.
“This makes me feel better,” he admits under his breath.
“What does?” you ask gently.
“Leaving them,” he says. “Knowing they’re… okay with you. That you’re… good with them.”
You smile, something soft unfurling in your chest.
“They’re going to be spoiled,” you say. “I’ll send you daily evidence.”
His mouth curves. “Good. I fully expect a photo album when I get back.”
You shrug one shoulder. “I charge extra for artfully composed cat portraits, just so you know.”
“I can afford it,” he says, a teasing glint in his eyes now. “But only if they cooperate with the photographer.”
You look down at the trio draped around you.
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” you say.
For a while, you just… talk.
He tells you which toys are safe unsupervised and which ones he prefers you put away when you leave. He points out where he keeps the food in the kitchen cupboards, the extra litter bags, the carrier in case of emergency. He shows you a little note stuck to the fridge with his vet’s number.
You listen, ask questions, repeat things back to make sure you’ve got them right. Every so often, one of the cats does something ridiculous, Dori trying to fit into a box that’s clearly too small, Doongie startling at his own reflection in the TV screen, Soonie rolling over for a belly rub, and the two of you share a look, the kind that feels like an inside joke even though you just met.
Eventually, Minho glances at the clock on the wall and sighs quietly.
“I have to head out soon,” he says. “Practice.”
You nod, smoothing a hand down Soonie’s back one more time before gently shifting him off your lap. He slides onto the couch cushion and immediately melts into it like someone unplugged him.
You stand slowly, pins and needles tingling in your legs. Dori watches you rise with great suspicion, then trots off to his cat tree like he’s pretending he didn’t care about you anyway. Doongie retreats a safe distance but doesn’t fully hide, which feels like another victory.
“Thank you for coming by,” Minho says, getting to his feet as well. “I know it’s a lot at once.”
“It’s really not,” you say honestly. “They’re… they’re great. And it helps to see everything before you go. I’ll start the full schedule on your departure day.”
He nods. “I’ll message you the flight info and exact day tomorrow. And the payment details.”
You wave a hand. “No rush. You’ve got a tour to think about. I’ll just be here flirting with your children.”
He snorts.
“Don’t let Dori hear that,” he says. “He’ll get possessive.”
You glance toward the cat tree. Dori is perched on the top platform, staring at you like he already is.
“Uh-oh,” you murmur. “Too late.”
You slip your shoes back on and grab your bag. Minho walks you to the door, hand resting lightly on the knob.
“Text me if you think of any questions,” he says. “About anything. Even if it seems small.”
“I will,” you nod. Then, before you can talk yourself out of it, “And… thanks for trusting me with them. I know that’s not easy.”
He’s quiet for a beat.
Then he says, simply, “You’re good with them. That’s all I need.”
Your stomach does that swoopy, fizzy thing again.
“See you soon, Minho,” you say softly.
“See you,” he replies.
You step out into the hallway, and the door clicks gently shut behind you.
As you walk toward the elevator, you can feel the ghost of Soonie’s weight in your lap, Doongie’s tentative head-bump against your fingers, Dori’s tiny claws on your thigh.
You pull your phone out of your pocket and open a blank note.
At the top, you type:
Soonie – window, belly rub king
Doongie – closet monster, soft voice
Dori – chaos, counter jumps, easily bribed
You add one more line before you lock your phone.
Minho – dangerous in sweatpants, focus on the cats.
You smile to yourself as the elevator doors close, already counting down the days until your first official visit.
His message comes on Tuesday afternoon, right when you’re in the middle of scooping clumps out of someone else’s litter box.
Very glamorous.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You finish what you’re doing, wash your hands, and only then check it.
LMH 🐾: Hey
I finally have my schedule
You straighten up a little, heart doing that small jump it always does when you see his name.
You: Oh nice
Did they confirm everything?
LMH 🐾: Yeah
I leave next Friday morning
7am flight
So last night with them is Thursday
You open your calendar and start typing notes, lips pursed.
You: Got it
You want me to start Friday afternoon then?
I can come by in the evening after their breakfast with you
It takes him a second.
LMH 🐾: Yeah that works
I’ll feed them in the morning before I leave
If you can come around 6-7pm that would be perfect
You tap it in. Friday, 6pm. First official shift.
It suddenly feels very real.
You: Done
I’m all yours (well. all theirs) for the next six weeks
You hit send, then immediately cringe at your wording. Too flirty. Too much.
Three dots pop up.
Disappear.
Pop up again.
LMH 🐾: Good
They’ll like the extra attention
There is a pause. You figure that’s it, so you slip your phone back in your pocket and start cleaning up your stuff to leave.
Buzz.
You blink and grab the phone again.
LMH 🐾: Random question
Are you a Stray Kids fan?
You stare at the screen.
Well. That came out of nowhere.
You chew your lip, debating how honest to be. Lie and say “kinda”? Tell the truth and admit that you have playlists and saved fancams and an alarming amount of knowledge about his cats already?
You sigh at yourself.
You: I mean
Yeah
I like you guys a lot
Dots.
LMH 🐾: A lot?
You snort.
You: Is this an interrogation
LMH 🐾: I’m just curious
You: Yes. I’m a fan 😅
You send it and lean back against the wall, phone warm in your hand.
He replies faster this time.
LMH 🐾: So who’s your bias?
You freeze.
Oh.
Oh no.
You glance around the empty apartment like someone might appear and tell you what to do.
You: Uhh
Your thumbs hover.
You: This
Might make cat sitting weird
Three dots.
LMH 🐾: Why?
Is it Han?
You bark out a laugh so sudden it surprises you.
You: Why would that make it weird lol
LMH 🐾: Because I texted him about you by accident
So I thought maybe the universe was doing something
You choke on nothing.
You knew he messaged the wrong person, obviously, but seeing him admit it again so plainly makes your cheeks warm.
You: The universe is chaotic
But no
It’s not Han
You stare at your own message, then swallow hard.
If you lie now and say “Changbin” or “Felix” or anyone else, you’ll probably get away with it. It would make your life easier. Less awkward. Less… exposed.
You think about him at the cafe with his mask pulled down, telling you he just noticed you were cute. Him on the floor in sweatpants, watching his cats climb all over you and saying you being good with them was all he needed.
You exhale.
You: It’s you
You stare at it before you send it. Your finger hovers, then taps.
Delivered.
There is a long, long pause.
Long enough that you start pacing the room.
LMH 🐾: That’s why you thought it would be weird?
You: I mean
Yeah
“Hi yes I’m a fan and also my favorite member is the guy whose house I’m in while he’s on the other side of the world”
It sounds like the start of a bad documentary
You: I swear I’m normal tho
Or like. As normal as a person who scoops cat poop for money can be
There is silence for a few seconds.
You can almost see him, wherever he is, staring at the screen with that blank face he uses on variety shows when he’s hiding a laugh.
The dots come back.
LMH 🐾: That’s not weird
Your heart stutters.
You: It’s not?
LMH 🐾: No
Another message follows right after, like he does not want to give you time to spiral.
LMH 🐾: It’s nice
You stop pacing.
You: Nice?
LMH 🐾: I mean
It’s better than you saying you hate us and you’re only doing this for the cats
You press a hand over your mouth, a giggle slipping out.
You: I mean I would still do it just for the cats
But the music is a bonus
LMH 🐾: Good to know my life’s work is a “bonus”
You grin.
You: To be fair
your cats are very strong competition
Little dots. Pause.
LMH 🐾: True
Another bubble appears.
LMH 🐾: But really
It’s not weird
I’m glad you like the group
And
It’s kind of flattering that your bias is me
You stare at that last line, your face heating.
You: Yeah well
Don’t let it go to your head
LMH 🐾: Too late
You lean against the wall and slide down until you’re sitting on the floor, the conversation looping in your head.
He knows you are a fan.
He knows you bias him.
He doesnt mind.
He thinks it’s nice.
Your phone buzzes again.
LMH 🐾: Now that I know that
I expect even better photos
My kids need to represent their dad properly
You snort.
You: I’ll do my best
Can’t promise Dori will listen though
LMH 🐾: He never does
LMH 🐾: I have to go into the studio
I’ll text you again before I leave next week
Thanks again
You: Anytime
Go make more “bonus” music for me to listen to while I hang out with your children
You add a little heart. Not red, just the soft yellow one. 💛
LMH 🐾: See you Friday
You: See you, Minho
You lock your phone, still smiling, and sit there on the floor for a moment, letting it sink in.
You are a Stray Kids fan.
Your bias is your client.
Your client knows.
And instead of freaking out, he called it flattering.
You tip your head back and look at the ceiling.
“This is fine,” you tell yourself. “Totally fine. I will be normal. I will focus on the cats.”
Your phone buzzes again.
One last message.
LMH 🐾: Also
Don’t tell the others I asked who your bias is
They’ll never shut up
You grin.
You: Your secret’s safe with me
I’m very professional remember
LMH 🐾: Cute and professional
Lucky me
You just stare at that for a solid thirty seconds, brain white noise.
Then you drop your phone on your chest and cover your warm face with your hands.
It's a normal thing for someone to ask, especially at an airport gate. But something about this stranger seems familiar, and you're not sure why.
Word Count: 4.0k
A/N: woo! welcome to my first skz fic. The idea for this just, grabbed me by the throat and now here we are. May fuck around and write a part 2 someday if enough people are interested <3 enjoy!
Anytime you had to fly, you always preferred the early ones. Early meant shorter TSA lines, less crowded airport overall, AND you got more time at your destination more often than not.
Despite the fact that they were your choice, and the start of an adventure always got you a little excited, you were still trying to stifle a yawn as you settled in at your gate.
You tucked your bags between your feet, slipping an earbud in as you stared at the time on the TV above the gate. One hour til boarding, no biggie.
Maybe you could take a quick nap.
You debated on the idea for a moment before sighing and getting out your Switch. Napping before a flight was dangerous, what if you didn't hear them call for you?
Besides, you could probably nap on the flight.
Probably.
You hummed quietly as you opened up Stardew, farming would keep you busy enough.
The gate slowly filled up as you chipped away at the mines. You were always curious about the other passengers on the flights you took. Were they also going to a place, or were they headed home? Was this their first flight of the day or had they been flying since the day before? Were they traveling for work or pleasure?
Sometimes you got answers. You never minded striking up a conversation with at least one person at the gate. It was especially helpful if you needed to go to the bathroom but didn't want to lug your stuff around. You normally looked for a girl your age or a mom, and the two of you would bond and protect each other's bags.
It was beneficial!
This time around you hadn't had the urge to leave, yet. The seat beside you was still empty, but the other seats were slowly filling. You'd made sure to grab one by an outlet so you could top your phone up before the flight.
You made it to another day of farming, now only 30 minutes to go before boarding. The seats were nearly full when a man in a hoodie, wearing a lower face mask, walked over to you.
“Is this seat taken?” He asked you, voice soft and lower than you were expecting.
“It's not, go ahead,” you said, scooting over slightly to make sure he had room.
He plopped down with a sigh. “Thank you.”
Why did his voice sound familiar?
“No worries, I figured I'd have a seat buddy sooner or later,” you replied with a smile. “Might as well be someone who asks nicely at least.”
He chuckled. “Well I always do my best to be polite.”
“I'm sure your mom would be proud,” you said.
“Ah I always hope she is,” he replied.
As he said that, he brought a hand up to slip off his mask so he could take a drink of the coffee in his hand.
Holy shit that's why he sounded familiar.
Felix must've seen something in your face change, because he stiffened up slightly.
“You're fine,” you told him. “I thought your voice sounded familiar, so I'm just glad I wasn't making things up.”
He seemed a bit wary, but he didn't make a move to leave.
“Look, you're traveling, too, and travel is already stressful. I'm not here to add to that,” you said, looking at your Switch as you spoke, trying to get to a save point. “Plus, not to sound important cause I'm certainly not, but I've met some celebs before. You're all people, too.”
He let out a soft sigh. “Sorry, I'm just very used to being… hounded sometimes when I travel like this. It's different when I'm not alone, because we have private jets usually.”
You snorted. “Yeah no that makes sense. I can't imagine traveling as a pack would be exactly subtle. Might cause a riot even.”
He chuckled. “I don't even want to imagine that.”
You gently set your Switch aside. “So you don't have to share if you don't want, but I was gonna ask anyway before I knew who you were. Where are you traveling to?”
“I mean, that's a perfectly normal question to ask most people,” he said playfully. “Ah, I'm just making my way back to Korea after a trip in Europe.”
You nodded, that made sense. “That's cool, I've never been to Europe. I've always wanted to go.”
He glanced your way. “What about you?”
“I'm going to Cali to see some friends for a week,” you said with a smile. “I'm excited. We haven't seen each other in like a year, so it'll be fun.”
He smiled back. “That does sound fun.” He took another drink of his coffee, glancing at you. “So… do you consider yourself a stay?”
You laughed. “You couldn't help but ask, could you?”
He shrugged, still grinning. “Call me curious.”
“I mean, I recognized your voice if that's any indication,” you replied playfully. “But, honestly, yeah I probably would.” You laughed. “It's actually your fault I know you all exist.”
“Oh yeah?” He asked, smirking. “How so?”
“Well, maybe it's Vogue's fault. Your interview with them when you were in, I think Paris, got recommended to me on YouTube,” you said, “and I'm a sucker for a pretty face so I watched it.”
He leaned onto his hand, looking at you gleefully. “Pretty face, ey?”
“As if you don't know,” you chided. “But after that interview I may or may not have watched all the most popular music videos on your YouTube channel and then binged your albums. And now here I am.”
“Any particular song your favorite?”
You looked at him. “Don't ask me how many times I looped Chk Chk Boom because I'm not sure it's a sane number.”
He laughed at that. “I mean, that's a good one so I don't blame you.”
The hostess began to speak over the microphone then, welcoming everyone and explaining that the boarding process would begin in 10 minutes.
You slid your Switch back into its case and stowed it away in your carry on. “Well, I know we have a little time still, but I'm sure you have much higher priority boarding than I do.” You looked at him pointedly but jokingly. “I certainly don't have money for anything beyond economy.”
Felix looked hesitant. “Well, if you’d like, you could join me in first class?”
You tilted your head, confused. “This is a full flight and I really don’t have the money for that.”
“No, I know,” he said hastily, “but first class seats are usually in pairs, so I tend to just buy the seat next to me.” He shrugged. “Then I don’t have to worry about sitting next to someone for several hours who just wants to record my face and post it online.” He licked his lips, glancing over at you. “But you’ve been fun to talk to, and honestly traveling alone is boring so…. If you’d like, the seat is yours.”
“Oh,” you said softly, heart warming at his words. “I- yeah, that’d be fun. I agree, traveling alone is boring, so- thanks.”
He just nodded, slipping his mask back on, but you could still catch the hint of a blush on the top of his cheeks. “You can just board with me, then, no need to wait for your group whenever that is.”
Shortly after he said that, the attendant at the desk announced they would start boarding shortly. Felix stood up with his bag, and you moved to do the same, but he grabbed your suitcase before you could.
“I can carry that you know,” you said lightly.
Felix just shrugged. “I only have my backpack, my other bags are checked, so I don’t mind.”
The first group was called and you followed Felix up to the front. It felt weird, seeing as so few others moved to do the same. Some part of you thought the flight attendant was going to somehow know they weren’t your tickets, but Felix just scanned both of his passes and she smiled and waved you through.
“This is so weird I never get to board this early,” you whispered as the two of you walked down the long tunnel to the airplane.
Felix smiled at you over his shoulder. “Benefits of first class.”
“What, sitting on the plane longer?” You joked. “Yeah, such a benefit.”
He laughed. “I guess that’s one way to look at it.”
There were about 16 total seats in the first class area, four sets of two on each side of the aisle. You didn't know which seats Felix had, so you waited as he stored your suitcase before slipping into the window seat. You sat down beside him, then, sliding your carry-on under the seat in front of you.
As you actually sat in the seat now, you couldn't help but wiggle a bit. “My god these are so comfy? This was a bad idea. How am I supposed to fly economy on the way back after this?”
Felix chuckled. “May just have to fork over for the upgrade.”
“I never even fork over for the expanded leg room,” you told him. “And that's only like $15 more. I don't think I want to even know how much this seat cost.”
“If I'm being honest, I don't remember the price either,” Felix said.
“Fair enough.”
As more passengers boarded, you noticed Felix kept his hood up and mask on. You didn't blame him, he likely just wanted to be inconspicuous and make sure passengers didn't clock who he was.
“So, how long is your layover in Cali?” You asked, checking your phone to also seem casual.
“Ah, not too long. A couple hours at most,” he replied quietly.
“Well that's not too bad at least,” you said. “What's the longest layover you've had?”
“Oh gosh,” he laughed softly. “18 hours I think?”
“Oh ew that sounds horrible,” you said, wrinkling your nose.
“It certainly wasn't pleasant,” he agreed. “I do everything I can to avoid long layovers, but sometimes it just can't be helped.”
You nodded. “I definitely haven't travelled as much as you, but I had a 7 hour layover once and that sucked.”
“That's certainly no fun either,” he agreed. He paused for a moment before glancing at you. “I realize I never actually asked your name.”
You laughed. “I mean, honestly I forgot, too.” You held out your hand. “I'm Y/N, it's nice to meet you.”
He shook your hand, eyes crinkling with a smile. “It's nice to meet you, too.”
The flow of passengers began to slow to a trickle as the last few people boarded.
“So how long were you in Europe?” You asked.
“Not too long, only about two weeks,” he answered. “I don't take personal projects too often, due to our usual schedule, but I was able to take a bit of time this month.”
“Does it feel weird to travel on your own?”
“Honestly, sometimes,” he admitted. “Not having them around to chat with, hang out, I mean…” he shrugged. “It's hard to explain but it's family and my closest friends wrapped in one. We're work partners and collaborators but also they're the people I spend the most time with.”
“I mean, I think that sounds nice,” you replied softly. “Even beyond ‘coworkers’ like making art together is personal, so it's really cool you guys get along so well.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I'm very grateful for that, too.”
You both buckled in as the flight attendants announced that boarding had completed. The two of you stayed quiet as they went through their normal safety talk as the plane slowly taxied down the runway.
“So,” Felix said, breaking the silence as the plane finally started to ascend, “who's your bias?”
You laughed. “Who says I have one?”
“Oh come on,” he replied teasingly, slipping his hood and mask off finally now that the flight was underway, “every stay has a bias.”
“Well,” you said, glancing at him, “you were my first bias, but Chan has quickly climbed to the top, too, so I don't know if you're still winning.”
He put a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “Bested by my own hyung?”
“Han and Changbin are creeping up too,” you continued with a grin.
“What would I have to do to win you back to my side?” He asked, tilting his head with a smirk on his face.
You tapped your finger to your chin, acting like you were deep in thought. “Hmm… put out a song like Red Lights or Railway and we'll talk.”
“The deep voice and ab flashes aren't enough?” He joked.
You smirked at him. “They certainly don't hurt.”
“I'm gonna steal you from Chan, just you wait,” he promised. “In fact…” he pulled out his cellphone, opening the camera app and flipping it around. “Say cheese.”
You laughed, leaning in next to him and smiling as he snapped a few pictures.
Instantly Felix's fingers were flying. After a second, he flipped around the screen to show you.
He'd sent the picture to Chan with the message, “Her bias is *apparently* you, but I'm stealing her as we speak.”
You snorted. “I'm sure he won't care that much. Thousands of people have him as a bias, same with you.”
He shrugged with a grin still on his face. “Every fan counts, plus, any member would be lucky to have you picking them as your bias.”
“Flatterer,” you said.
“Just speaking the truth.”
Having Felix as a seat neighbor made the flight fly by. The two of you kept chatting before eventually deciding to watch a movie together. When he passed you one of his earbuds, you did your best to keep your heart under control. It wasn't that big of a deal.
What you didn’t expect, however, was to fall asleep half way through Howl's Moving Castle.
You woke up as Howl and Sophie were flying through the war-torn sky, blinking slowly before jolting up as you realized what had happened.
And you’d even been resting your head practically on Felix.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you instantly apologized.
“Hey, no, it’s fine,” Felix instantly reassured, voice calm and soft. “I didn’t mind.”
You felt your face flush. “I- well, still, I didn’t mean to do that.”
Felix chuckled. “I figured you didn’t.” He shrugged. “It’s an early flight. I’m sure if I hadn’t kidnapped you, you probably would’ve slept for at least some of the flight, am I right?”
“I mean probably,” you agreed quietly.
“Don’t worry about then, alright?” He said, voice still soft. “I promise I would’ve woken you if I was uncomfortable.”
“Clearly you were very comfortable, or at least your shoulder was,” you managed to joke.
He snorted, smiling fondly. “That’s what I aim for. Han has told me the same thing.”
You laughed. “Glad I’m not alone then.” You glanced at the movie, realizing Felix had paused it. “We can keep watching.”
“Only if you want to,” he replied. “We have about an hour until we land.”
You nodded. “We can finish it. There’s, what, 20 minutes left?”
You snuggled back into your seat, leaning towards Felix once more as you both shared his screen. This time, though, you were distinctly aware of how close you were to him. His body was angled towards yours as well, his shoulder nearly brushing yours.
You didn’t want him to think you were doing anything because of who he was. Surely you were just imagining things, right? Blowing them out of proportion?
You tried to just ignore it, but then Felix leaned in closer to you.
You glanced at him, but he was just watching the movie.
Right, imagining things.
Finally, after what felt like 40 minutes instead of 20, the credits rolled on the screen. You sat up and took out the earbud he gave you, offering it back to him. “Thank you for the movie time.”
He looked at you but made no move to grab the earbud. “If you want, we could listen to music for a bit?” He smiled. “I promise it’s not all Stray Kids in my library.”
“Do you think I’d complain if it was all Stray Kids?” You laughed, slipping the ear bud back in.
He chuckled. “I suppose not. Any requests then?”
You smirked. “God’s Menu.”
He laughed. “Alright, alright, coming right up.”
You both took turns picking a song, Felix showing you some of his other favorite bands, and you showing him that you did indeed know people beyond Stray Kids.
Finally, the pilot announced your descent. You sighed softly, shifting in your seat. “So how long is your next flight?” You asked as the last notes of ‘Truman’ played.
“Like 13 hours,” he said, running a hand through his hair as he also adjusted in his seat. “It’s certainly not my first time taking the trip, but again, doing it alone isn’t that fun.” He glanced at you, gaze lingering. “Perhaps I was spoiling myself with this trip, too. How am I supposed to go on to my next flight knowing the seat next to me will be empty?”
You gave a small smile, heart fluttering. “Well, I don’t think I can help with that one. Not only would my friends kill me, but I don’t have my passport on me right now, either.”
He sighed, but you could tell it was more playful than exasperated. “It was worth a shot.”
“At least you’ll be able to get some sleep without someone on your shoulder,” you said.
“Mm, now sure if that’s necessarily the better way to sleep,” he replied, eyes still locked on yours. “I get my best sleep when someone else is with me.” He smirked. “You should see the way we all end up sleeping on the plane sometimes. Chan has a whole folder of pictures, I swear. I’ll have to send some to you.”
“How can you do that if you don’t even have my number?” You teased.
Instantly, Felix held out his hand, raising an eyebrow at you.
You blinked, not expecting that response. You felt a slight blush crawl up your face again as you placed your phone in his hand without hesitation.
He smirked at you, quickly typing in a few things and even holding up the phone to take a selfie, before giving it back to you.
“There, problem solved,” he said smoothly.
You held your phone for a second, glancing at the text thread he started. You looked back up at him. “You know we might literally never see each other again, right?” You said, voice coming out soft and a bit strangled.
He looked thoughtful as he shrugged. “I’m willing to take that chance. We certainly never will if we don’t keep in touch, but… I’d like to keep in touch if you’d like to.”
You nodded. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
He smiled and it lit up his whole face.
Your stupid heart fluttered again. You put on a smile, trying to act chill still. “I’ll be able to kind of keep your company during your layover at least. What time is it going to be when you end up back home finally?”
He laughed. “Oh man, way too early. The jetlag is going to be insane.”
“I bet. Does sleeping on the flight there help or make it worse?”
“I try to sleep at whatever time would be normal for where I’m going,” he says, “or I just try to stay awake an ungodly amount of time.” He smiles. “Chan tells me that’s the worse of the two options. I get wacky when I’m that sleep deprived.”
You laughed, too. “I think we all get wacky when we’re sleep deprived.”
He shook his head, face serious. “Not Seungmin. He gets scary.”
You giggled and he joined in after a second, his facade dropping.
The flight attendants came around, making sure everyone was good as the plane neared the ground. You double checked your bag and finally handed the ear bud back to Felix as the tires touched down on the runway.
Felix flipped his hood back up and slid his mask back into place. “First class gets to depart first, you know.”
You snorted. “Yeah I figured. I guess that is a perk.”
He glanced at you. You could tell he was smiling by the way his eyes crinkled. “It probably evens out then. Sure you board sooner but you get off sooner too.”
“You’re probably right,” you agreed.
Felix stood up as the pilot announced your arrival at your gate, stating the local weather and time. You slowly stood up too, waiting a moment for others to move before stepping out into the aisle.
You went to reach for your bag, but Felix gently nudged you out of the way. “I got it,” he told you. You just shook your head but let him do it.
“You know I’m going to have to roll it out of the airport myself, right?” You teased as you followed along behind him.
He shrugged. “And until then, I’ll take care of it.”
You assumed he’d part ways with you shortly after you left your gate. You had no idea where he needed to be for his next flight. With it being a couple hours away, there could be another flight there currently, but surely he’d want to head that way at least.
“So, what gate do they have you at next?” You asked as you followed him along through the airport.
He shrugged. “I’ll check in a minute.” He glanced over at you. “I figured I could walk you close to the exit at least.”
You licked your lower lip. “I mean, I don’t want you to end up getting spotted or something.”
“If they’re going to spot me, it doesn’t matter where I am,” he replied. “I just… wanted to hold on to your company before I’m alone again.”
You couldn’t hold in your smile at that. “You’re very sweet Felix.”
He gently bumped your shoulder with his, looking at you fondly. “I try my best. Make my mom proud and all.”
You made it to the line of no return, where he wouldn’t be able to follow without having to go back through TSA. The two of you stood slightly off to the side, so as to not block the flow of traffic.
“Well, thanks again for walking with me,” you said, “and for giving me one of your seats… and generally being nice.”
He chuckled. “I was about to thank you for half of that as well.” He paused, looking at you for a moment, before he brought a hand up to slip his mask off of his face. He moved closer, so you were nearly chest to chest, one hand coming up to cup your face. “Tell me if I read this wrong. I won’t be upset,” he said softly.
You gave a small shake of your head. “You didn’t but- you live in another country.”
“I can fly you out to see me.”
“We literally just met a few hours ago.”
He shrugged. “We don’t have to start super serious, but, I haven’t felt drawn to someone like this in a while, and I don’t want it to slip by because of a few obstacles that we could overcome.”
You looked at him for a moment before finally leaning in, pressing your lips against his.
His kiss was just as soft as you expected it to be. You wanted to melt into his touch, but the two of you were in public, so you both reluctantly parted a moment later.
“We’ll figure it out,” you agreed softly.
He smiled at you before putting his mask back on. “I’m glad you let me sit next to you Y/N.”
You smiled back. “I’m glad I did, too.” You gently grabbed your suitcase from him, giving Felix the chance to hold your hand for a moment. You squeezed it before stepping back. “Enjoy your layover. I hope your flight goes well.” You took one more step back. “I’ll text you, okay?”
He nodded, giving a small wave. “Have fun with your friends.”
You nodded. “I will. Bye Felix.”
“Bye, Y/N.”
As you stepped away and started walking towards the pickup area of LAX, your heart finally caught up with what just happened.
Hey i hear u were doing weak hero fics and uh I wanted to make a request for a baku ( park humin ) fic
So how about a reader that like plays intensive sports in endurance like tennis mainly and she studies in a nearby school and , that she gets jumped by the Union one day and baku was around, but since reader is physically capable she beats them up good enough and when he gets there he's like "oh"
Then the reader like becomes friends with baku and like she gets known to the group like si eun, jun tae, and gotak and basically the friendship is like he attends reader's matches and she attends baku basketball matches and practices, and slowly they realise they have feelings for each other and uh yk it gets known but then baekjin threatens his friends and reader so when baku is in the Union temporary the reader searches for him and they get back together after that
So in conclusion it's an angsty friends to lovers, slight nsfw if possible, just like kissing yk
Ps- your works are really nice keep up the good work 🤌
Here you !! I hope you'll like it girl <3 And btw, posting that on a rather special day, happy birthday to our precious Ryeoun <3
Hold the Line
✮ Summary : Request above ↑
✮ Contains : Angst with happy ending, fluff/comfort
✮ Pairing : Park Humin x reader
✮ Word Count : 3.2K
The rain had been relentless all day, and you were glad to be out of it. You lugged your tennis bag over your shoulder, the straps digging into your skin as you walked the last block toward your apartment. It had been a long practice, and you were exhausted. All you wanted was a warm shower and a good meal.
Suddenly, you were surrounded. The Union. You'd heard the rumors about them, the way they preyed on students from nearby schools. You'd never thought you'd be a target.
"Look at this," one of them sneered, "a little bird all alone in the rain."
You squared your shoulders, your grip tightening on the strap of your bag. "Leave me alone."
They laughed. "We don't think so."
Just as they moved in, you dropped your bag, your body instinctively moving into a ready stance. The years of intensive tennis training, the hours of conditioning and footwork, had prepared you for this in a way you hadn't expected. The first guy came at you with a wild swing, and you dodged, your body fluid and quick. You used his momentum against him, a simple push sending him stumbling back into his friends. Another guy lunged, and you met him with a precise strike to his stomach, the force behind it sending him to his knees.
They were surprised, their confident grins replaced with confused grimaces. You weren't a fighter, not really, but you had stamina and you had strength. You moved with the grace of a seasoned athlete, dodging, weaving, and using their own sloppy attacks against them.
As the last one fell, you stood panting, your knuckles scraped and your clothes splattered with mud. That's when you saw him. A guy with sharp eyes and dark hair, standing a few feet away, watching the whole thing unfold.
He took in the scene: the defeated Union members groaning on the ground and you, standing victorious and breathless among them. He had been on his way over, ready to step in, but you had handled it yourself.
A slow smile spread across his face, and he simply said, "Oh."
You stared at him, your heart still pounding. "What?"
He just shook his head, the smile still on his face. "Nothing. You're just... not what I expected."
He walked closer, his eyes scanning your tennis clothes, your scraped knuckles, and your defiant stance. He reached down and picked up your bag, holding it out to you. "You're a tennis player?" he asked.
You nodded, taking the bag from him. "Yeah."
"Impressive," he said, and you couldn't tell if he was talking about the fight or the sport. "I'm Humin."
"Y/N," you replied, your guard still up.
"Well, Y/N," he said, turning to walk in the same direction you were heading, "you handled yourself pretty well. You should be careful, though. The Union won't forget this."
You fell into step beside him, the rain starting to let up. You knew he was right. They wouldn't forget. But as you glanced at the guy walking next to you, a small, knowing smile on his face, you felt a little less alone.
A strange kind of rhythm fell into place after that rainy afternoon. You and Humin didn’t just become friends; you became each other's unwavering corner. You’d pass by each other's schools, a quick nod or a shared laugh as you swapped stories about your day. Your world, once dominated by the relentless demands of the tennis court, began to make room for his.
You found yourself on the sidelines of the basketball court, your eyes tracing Humin’s movements as he dribbled and shot. You saw a different side of him there—focused, strategic, a quiet leader. You started to learn the unspoken rules of basketball, the subtle feints and the precise passes. When he was on the bench, you’d hand him a water bottle, a silent gesture of support that spoke volumes. The first time he scored a game-winning point, you were the first one on your feet, your cheer cutting through the roaring crowd.
He, in turn, began to show up at your matches. At first, it was a quiet observation from the bleachers, but soon he started bringing the others: Si-eun, a quiet but perceptive presence; Juntae, who cheered louder than anyone else and always made you laugh; and Gotak, with his calm, steady demeanor. They’d watch you with an intensity that you recognized from their own group dynamic. Humin, however, was different. His gaze was sharp, dissecting your every move, understanding the subtle shifts in your footwork and the exhaustion in your form. After a particularly grueling three-set match, he’d simply be there, holding out a towel, a silent acknowledgement of your endurance.
The lines between friendship and something more began to blur. It was in the casual touch of his hand on your back after a tough loss, a simple "good game" that felt like a lifeline. It was the way his eyes would linger on your face for a beat too long, a question you were too afraid to answer. It was in the late-night texts that went on for hours, dissecting everything from your form on a serve to a missed shot in his game.
One evening, after a particularly intense practice, you found him waiting for you outside the tennis club. The streetlights cast a soft glow on his face, and for a moment, the usual easy banter between you evaporated.
"You played well today," he said, his voice softer than usual.
"Thanks," you replied, your heart thrumming. "You know, you don't have to wait for me all the time."
He just shrugged, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "I know."
And in that shared silence, it was as if an invisible thread connected you. You both understood without a word that this was no longer just about friendship. The feelings were there, simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to boil over.
The days folded into weeks, and the weeks into months, the friendship between you and Humin deepening with every passing practice, every shared meal. The dynamic with his group, and by extension, you, settled into a comfortable rhythm. It wasn't just about watching each other's games anymore; it was about being a part of each other’s lives.
They'd all show up to your matches now, a small, fiercely loyal cheer squad in the stands. You’d find them waiting for you outside the courts, a shared look of understanding and camaraderie passing between all of you before you'd head off for a celebratory meal, win or lose.
You became a regular fixture at their hangouts, too. The atmosphere was always relaxed and easy. You’d find yourself nestled between Si-eun and Gotak, listening to Humin and Juntae debate the merits of different basketball plays or the latest games. The conversation was never forced; you could sit in comfortable silence or jump into the conversation whenever you felt like it. Humin always made sure you felt included, a quiet glance in your direction, a subtle gesture that invited you into their world.
For Humin, your presence was a constant. He started to unconsciously adjust his schedule to meet yours. He'd walk you home from practice, not just out of politeness but because he genuinely wanted to know about your day. He'd listen intently as you talked about the intricacies of your sport—the mental game of a tie-breaker, the burning exhaustion after a long rally. In turn, you learned to read the subtle shifts in his mood, the way his shoulders would slump just a little after a tough loss, or the quiet triumph in his eyes after a perfect shot.
The moments that weren't about sports were the ones that truly solidified your bond. The late nights spent in a study cafe, where you'd share a pair of headphones and study side-by-side, the air thick with the unspoken but very real connection between you. The group would sometimes split off, leaving just the two of you to talk. It was in these quieter moments that you could truly see the depth of his character—the sharp intelligence, the quiet determination, and a surprising vulnerability he only showed to you.
The feelings were no longer just simmering; they were a quiet, steady heat. You’d catch him looking at you when he thought you weren't looking, a soft expression on his face you couldn't quite decipher. And you knew you were doing the same. It was a silent acknowledgment, a shared secret between the two of you and the unspoken understanding that what you had was evolving into something more profound than simple friendship.
The call came through with a name Humin hadn't seen on his screen in years, a name that made his stomach knot with a familiar dread: Baekjin. It had been a long time since they’d spoken, but their history was a ghost that never quite left him. Humin stepped away from his friends, from the easy chatter and the sound of the ball on the court, and answered the call.
"Humin." Baekjin's voice was different now—deeper, colder, and filled with a dangerous confidence that hadn’t been there when they were kids. "It's been a while."
"What do you want, Baekjin?" Humin's voice was flat. He didn’t have time for a trip down memory lane. He knew what this was about. Baekjin had always wanted him in the Union. He had made his stance clear countless times, but Baekjin never seemed to give up.
"I’m just checking in on an old friend. I saw you the other day. You’ve got a good crew around you now. A quiet one, a loud one, and a big one. You guys are tight. It's… almost sweet." The words were laced with poison, and Humin's heart hammered against his ribs. Baekjin wasn’t just watching him; he was watching all of them. "And there's that girl, the tennis player. You two seem to be getting pretty close."
Humin’s hand tightened on his phone. A cold fury seeped into his veins. "Leave them out of this."
"I can't. They’re your weakness, Humin. All that strength and control, and you let a bunch of kids and a girl on a tennis court hold all the cards. I could break them so easily."
Humin closed his eyes, picturing them. Juntae’s infectious laugh, Si-eun’s calm presence, Gotak’s quiet loyalty. And you. Your determined expression as you hit a forehand, the way you smiled when you were happy, the way you looked at him. He couldn’t let Baekjin touch any of it.
“What do you want from me?” Humin asked, the defeat in his voice a bitter pill.
“You’re coming with me. Join the Union. You know I’ve always wanted you. You have a choice, Humin. You join me, and they stay safe. You refuse… and I can't promise their safety. Or hers. You know what I’m capable of.”
Humin didn't have to think about it. He would do anything to protect them. He would walk through hell, sacrifice his friendships, and break your heart if it meant keeping you all safe.
"Fine," Humin said, the word a razor against his tongue. "I'll do it. But you leave them alone."
“Smart choice,” Baekjin replied, a triumphant note in his voice. “I knew you’d see it my way eventually.”
The line went dead, leaving Humin standing alone in the cold. He had just made a deal with the devil. He would push everyone away. He would become the person he never wanted to be. All to keep them safe.
The shift was so subtle at first that you barely noticed it. Humin started to pull away, his texts becoming shorter, his presence at your matches less frequent. The easy laughter you shared with his friends felt strained, and an unspoken tension hung in the air. You knew something was wrong, but every time you tried to ask, he would just shake his head, a steely look in his eyes that you'd never seen before.
Then came the rumors. Park Humin, the quiet basketball star, was seen with the Union. He was joining them, they said. It was impossible. You knew him better than that. You knew the way he carried himself, the quiet strength that was nothing like the Union's brutal display of power. But the whispers grew louder, and soon, you saw him for yourself, standing with them. It felt like a betrayal. The friendship, the easy camaraderie, the unspoken feelings—it all seemed like a lie.
The truth hit you like a punch to the gut when Juntae showed up at your school's gate one afternoon. He was bruised and shaken, a look of grim determination on his face. He told you everything: Baekjin had threatened them. He'd gone after Juntae, Gotak, and Si-eun, and the threats were escalating. Humin had made a deal. He had joined the Union to protect them, to shield his friends from the violence that was hunting them down. He had pushed you away to protect you, too.
A cold certainty settled in your stomach. It wasn't a betrayal; it was a sacrifice. He had put himself in the line of fire for the people he cared about. You knew then that you had to find him.
You found him in the empty schoolyard after classes had let out, the setting sun casting long shadows. He was alone, staring at the basketball court, his hands shoved in his pockets. He looked tired, older than he should.
"Humin," you said, your voice cutting through the silence.
He flinched, turning to face you. His eyes were guarded, his expression unreadable. "Y/N. You shouldn't be here."
"Don't you dare tell me what I should or shouldn't do," you retorted, stepping closer. "I know. I know why you did it."
His jaw tightened. "It doesn't matter. I'm with them now. You need to stay away."
"I don't care," you said, your voice cracking with emotion. "I don't care if you're with them. I care about you."
He looked away, unable to meet your gaze. "I can't. They'll go after you if you're close to me."
"Then let them," you said, your voice clear and steady. "I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to carry all of this on your own." You reached out, your hand hovering for a moment before you gently took his. His hand was cold, but he didn't pull away. "We're in this together. No matter what."
He finally looked at you, and the guarded expression in his eyes finally broke. All the worry, the fear, and the quiet desperation he had been hiding spilled out. He squeezed your hand, his grip tight, as if you were his only anchor.Your touch was the first warmth Humin had felt in weeks. He squeezed your hand, his grip tight, as if you were his only anchor. The emotional dam he had built to protect you all finally broke, and all the worry, the fear, and the quiet desperation he had been hiding spilled out.
"Y/N," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm so sorry."
"You have nothing to be sorry for," you said, your thumb stroking the back of his hand. "We'll figure this out. All of us. Together."
You stood there, hand in hand, the silence no longer strained but comforting. The setting sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues, but you barely noticed. All that mattered was the connection between you, a silent promise to face whatever came next.
From that moment on, things were different, but not broken. Humin was still with the Union, a shadow in his old life, but he was no longer alone. You and his friends became his lifeline, a beacon in the darkness. You still went to your tennis practices, but you would often find a quiet figure watching from a distance—Humin, making sure you were safe. He couldn’t be close, but he could be there.
The two of you found new ways to communicate, a hidden language of glances and brief, stolen moments. A nod from him across the schoolyard, a subtle text message asking if you were okay after a late practice, a quick squeeze of your hand in a crowded hallway. It was a clandestine dance, a testament to the strength of your bond.
One evening, after a particularly close call with some of Baekjin's goons, Humin found you in the park, your hands shaking slightly. He didn't say a word. He just sat beside you on the bench, his presence a quiet comfort. He knew that the danger was real, and that he couldn’t protect you from everything. You knew he was trying, and that was enough.
In the quiet of the night, as you both stared up at the stars, he finally spoke. "When this is over," he said, his voice a low rumble, "when we get out of this… I want to take you somewhere. Just us."
You looked at him, and for the first time in a long time, the familiar spark was back in his eyes. It was a promise of a future you both desperately wanted. "I'd like that," you said, your voice barely a whisper.
You knew the road ahead would be hard. You knew the threats from the Union were far from over. But as you sat there, with Humin by your side, you felt a sense of peace you hadn’t felt in a long time. It wasn't about winning or losing anymore. It was about surviving, together.
Your hand in his, you sat on the park bench, the streetlights casting a soft, yellow glow around you. The world felt quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos that had consumed your lives. Humin's presence was a steady weight beside you, and for the first time in weeks, you felt like you could breathe.
He turned to you, his eyes searching your face. The guarded look was gone, replaced by a raw vulnerability that made your heart ache. "Y/N," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. You knew what he was trying to say. He was sorry for the distance, for the fear, for all the unspoken emotions that had hung between you. You reached up, your fingers gently touching the side of his face. His skin was warm beneath your touch.
He leaned into your hand, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment before he looked at you again, his gaze intense. The unspoken tension, the quiet longing that had been building between you for months, finally broke. He leaned in, and so did you.
His lips were soft against yours, a gentle, hesitant touch that felt like coming home. It wasn't a rushed or passionate kiss, but a quiet, earnest promise. A promise that even in the face of danger, even when everything else felt uncertain, you had each other.
When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath a warm puff against your cheek. "I won't let anything happen to you," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.
"I know," you whispered back, your heart full. You no longer felt afraid. Because even in the darkest of times, you had found a light to guide you. And it was right here, in the quiet park, with your hand in his, and his lips still warm from your first kiss.
summary:A random text from an unknown number turns into weeks of late-night talks, dumb jokes, and way-too-honest confessions. What starts as a mistake slowly becomes routine — until meeting up in real life makes it obvious this was never “just” a wrong number.
changbin x reader
・❥・✎ intro → masterlist → taglist ✎ ・❥・
a/n:HIII i’m so sorry for not posting for a few days i’ve been busy with exam stuff 😔 PLZ request something for me to write and also comment if u wanna be the first people on my taglist!
[Day 1]
Unknown:
Hyung, I’m outside. You better hurry before I freeze.
You:
Wrong number.
I don’t think I left you waiting anywhere.
Unknown:
…oh crap. My bad. Sorry.
You were about to put your phone down, when another buzz came.
Unknown:
Okay but in my defense… you replied. Which means you’re not too mad, right?
You:
Or I’m just polite.
Unknown:
Polite stranger. Nice.
That’s better than my actual friends.
You chuckled to yourself, already shaking your head at his audacity.
⸻
[Day 2]
Changbin:
So, stranger…
what’s your name?
You:
…you first.
Changbin:
Fair.
I’m Changbin. Not a creep.
Just someone with poor texting aim.
You:
Convincing introduction. I’m y/n
Changbin:
y/n…
okay, nice to meet you, accidental friend.
You:
I didn’t agree to friendship yet.
Changbin:
Too late.
You replied twice. That’s a binding contract.
You laughed out loud. Why was this actually fun?
⸻
[Day 3]
It was close to midnight when he messaged again.
Changbin:
You ever stay up even though you know you’ll regret it?
You:
Every single night.
Changbin:
Same. It’s like my brain refuses to shut up.
You:
What’s on your mind?
Changbin:
…honestly? That I’m texting a stranger at midnight like it’s normal
You:
you started it
Don’t blame me.
Changbin:
Okay, but you’re still here. So maybe you’re just as weird as me.
You:
Maybe
There was a pause. Then he sent a voice note—low and teasing.
“Just so you know, you’re not imagining me. I’m real.”
You replayed it twice before replying.
You:
…you sound more normal than I expected.
Changbin:
I’ll take that as a compliment.
⸻
[Day 5]
Your phone buzzed before your alarm.
Changbin:
Morning. Do you hit snooze a lot?
You:
…why are you like this at 7 AM?
Changbin:
Gotta make sure you don’t oversleep.
It’s my civic duty as your wrong-number buddy.
You:
I didn’t ask for a wake-up service.
Changbin:
“Too bad. It’s non-refundable.”
You:
Refund what? I didn’t pay for this.
Changbin:
Your attention. Priceless.
You groaned, but you were grinning into your pillow.
⸻
[Day 8]
Changbin:
Tell me something random about you
You:
Like what?
Changbin:
Anything.
Like… I bite straws without realizing it. That’s my random fact.
You:
…I read the last page of books first. Just to know how it ends.
Changbin:
WHAT. That’s chaos. That’s villain behavior.
You:
don’t judge me.
At least I don’t destroy straws.
Changbin:
…okay, fair. We’re both villains then.
Later, he added:
Changbin:
“Not gonna lie, talking to you is starting to feel less like a wrong number and more like…
I don’t know.
Something I needed.
You stared at the message longer than usual before replying.
You:
“Careful. That sounds like encouragement.
Changbin:
…good.
Because I want to keep talking to you.
⸻
[Day 10]
Changbin:
You ever wonder what someone’s voice sounds like before you hear it?
You:
…are you fishing for a compliment?
Changbin:
No, I’m saying you should call me. Just once. Curiosity sake.
You:
What if you sound disappointing?
Changbin:
Impossible. I sound like a Disney villain but hotter.
You laughed, covering your mouth even though no one was around.
You:
Fine.
One minute
You hit accept. His voice filled the line—deeper than expected, playful, warm.
“See? Not disappointing, right?” he teased.
You rolled your eyes, smiling into the darkness of your room. “We’ll see.”
That “one minute” turned into an hour.
⸻
[Day 16]
Changbin:
You ever suddenly remember something embarrassing you did years ago and want to vanish?
You:
Literally all the time. What triggered you tonight?
Changbin:
…I once rapped at my middle school talent show. Forgot half the words and improvised something about cafeteria pizza. My mom recorded it.
You:
Please tell me you still have the video.
Changbin:
No way. It’s buried. Destroyed. Don’t ask.
You:
That means yes.
Changbin:
…maybe. But you’ll have to earn it.
You:
Oh? So you plan on sticking around long enough for me to earn it?
Changbin:
Yeah. I do.
⸻
[Day 18]
Changbin:
Be honest.
Are you the kind of person who leaves 27 tabs open on their browser?
You:
62, actually.
Changbin:
62?! What’s wrong with you??
You:
organization is for cowards.
Chaos makes life interesting
Changbin:
…I can’t believe I’m texting a criminal.
You:
And yet, you haven’t blocked me.
Changbin:
Because you’re entertaining. And… kind of addictive to talk to.
Your fingers hovered before you typed back:
You:
…addictive?
Changbin:
Yeah. Like if you stop replying, my day feels… emptier.
You swallowed hard, staring at the screen.
⸻
[Day 20]
Changbin:
Wake up. Don’t make me call and sing to you.
You:
…I’m awake.
Barely.
Changbin:
Lies. You sound half-dead.
You:
How do you know what I sound like right now?
Changbin:
Because I already know your patterns. You text slower when you’re still in bed.
You blinked, realizing he wasn’t wrong.
You:
Stalker
Changbin:
not stalker.
Observant.
You:
Sounds like the same thing.
Changbin:
fine. Observant stalker.
But only for you.
⸻
[Day 23]
It was past 1 a.m. when your phone buzzed.
Changbin:
You awake?
You:
Yeah. Can’t sleep.
Changbin:
same.
Mind if I…
vent a little?
You:
Go ahead
What followed was longer than any of his usual texts. He told you about pressure. Expectations. The fear of not being enough, even when he was working harder than anyone around him. He admitted he didn’t usually tell people these things—didn’t want to sound weak.
You read every word twice before replying.
You:
You don’t sound weak. You sound human. And for what it’s worth… you don’t have to carry it alone. Even if I’m just a stranger behind a screen, I’ll listen.
There was a long pause before his reply came.
Changbin:
…you’re not ‘just a stranger’ anymore.
⸻
[Day 26]
Changbin:
Okay, question.
If you had to describe yourself in three emojis, what would they be?
You:
🫠📚☕
Changbin:
…melting book coffee.
Makes sense.
You:
Your turn
Changbin:
💪🎶😏
You:
Muscles, music, and cockiness.
Checks out.
Changbin:
Cockiness?? No, that’s confidence.
You:
Sure
Changbin:
…you’re lucky I like your sarcasm.
You:
And you’re lucky I tolerate your ego
Changbin:
So we’re… lucky together, then?
⸻
[Day 30]
Changbin:
Not gonna lie… I think about meeting you more than I probably should.
You:
…what do you imagine?
Changbin:
You’ll laugh, but—just us sitting somewhere, talking like we already do. Except I get to see your face when you’re sarcastic. And maybe hear you laugh for real instead of just picturing it.
You stared at the message, heart thudding.
You:
…what if we don’t click in person?
Changbin:
Then we go back to texting. No pressure. But… I think we will. I feel like I already know you.
Silence stretched before you finally answered:
You:
…okay. Let’s meet.
Changbin:
Seriously?
You:
Yeah
Seriously.
Changbin:
…don’t blame me if I can’t stop smiling when I see you.
⸻
It had been almost a month of nonstop texting. Morning check-ins. Midnight confessions. Ridiculous debates about straws, browser tabs, and villain behavior.
And now, somehow, you were standing outside the café you’d both picked for your first meeting.
Your hands were clammy. Your brain kept whispering what if it’s awkward? What if it doesn’t feel the same?
Then a voice broke through your thoughts.
“y/n?”
You turned.
Changbin was there. Real. Not just a name lighting up your phone, not just a deep laugh in your ear at midnight. A little shorter than you’d imagined, broad-shouldered under a black hoodie, cap pulled low. But the grin—wide, slightly nervous—was exactly him.
“Hi,” you said, softer than you expected.
“Hi,” he echoed, shifting his weight before adding with a chuckle, “So… you’re the one who’s been terrorizing me with 62 browser tabs.”
That broke the tension instantly. You laughed, covering your face. “You remembered that?”
“Of course,” he said. “It’s one of your crimes. I keep a list.”
Inside the café, the air smelled of roasted beans and vanilla. You found a table in the corner, both of you pretending not to be overly aware of how surreal this felt.
“So…” you started, stirring your drink. “Am I what you imagined?”
He tilted his head, eyes flicking over your face, warm and direct. “You’re better. Which is kind of annoying.”
You snorted. “Why annoying?”
“Because now I have to try harder to impress you,” he said without missing a beat.
The boldness startled you—but it was softened by the way he fiddled with his sleeve right after, like he wasn’t sure if he’d gone too far.
You leaned your chin on your hand. “You don’t need to try. You already did.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—if anything, it felt like that pause between texts when you both knew what you wanted to say but weren’t sure if you should.
Finally, he leaned back, exhaling. “This is so weird. Not in a bad way. Just… I spent weeks imagining this exact moment, and now it’s real. And it’s better.”
You smiled. “I was nervous too. Thought maybe we’d lose what we had over text.”
“Are you kidding?” His laugh was low, genuine. “This feels the same. Just… now I get to hear you laugh for real. And see your face when you’re sarcastic.”
You laughed again, shaking your head. “You sound way too sentimental for someone who calls themselves cocky.”
He grinned, leaning forward. “Don’t tell anyone. You’ll ruin my reputation.”
Time slipped away. You talked the way you always did—bantering, teasing, slipping into deeper things without meaning to. Only now, there were glances that lingered a beat too long, smiles that curved softer at the edges.
When you finally stepped outside, the evening had deepened into cool twilight. You walked side by side, close enough for your sleeves to brush.
At the corner, where you’d have to part, Changbin hesitated. “Hey… can I admit something?”
You turned to him. “Sure.”
“I almost didn’t send that first text,” he said. “Thought you’d ignore me. Or block me. But now… I can’t imagine not knowing you.”
Your chest tightened. “Good thing you hit send then.”
His grin returned, shy but radiant. “Yeah. Best wrong number I ever dialed.”
For a moment, you thought he might hug you—but instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Text me when you get home?”
You smiled, stepping back toward your bus stop. “You’d text me first anyway.”
“True,” he admitted, and the sound of his laugh followed you down the street.
⸻
That night, your phone buzzed.
Changbin:
Made it home.
You:
told you you’d text first.
Changbin:
Yeah, but you didn’t see me grinning like an idiot on the way back.
You:
…same.
Changbin:
So… round two sometime?
⸻
[Day 33]
Changbin:
What’s your opinion on walks at night? Dangerous or magical?
You:
Both. Depends on the company.
Changbin:
…what if the company is a charming stranger who raps about cafeteria pizza?
You:
Then magical. Barely.
Changbin:
Cool. Because I’m picking you up tomorrow.
⸻
It was cold but not unbearable. The streets glowed with soft orange lamps as you and Changbin strolled side by side, hands stuffed in pockets.
He kicked a pebble along the pavement, glancing at you. “You know, I used to do this with friends all the time. Just… wander. No plan. Feels nice.”
You smiled. “Feels familiar. Comfortable.”
He nodded, lips quirking. “Yeah. That’s the word. Comfortable.”
At one point, you passed a small bakery, its windows fogged up. Changbin stopped to peek in. “Next time, we’re getting pastries here. No argument.”
You laughed. “Who says there’ll be a next time?”
He shot you a look, playful but soft. “I do.”
⸻
[Day 36]
Changbin:
I think my dog misses you.
You:
Your dog has never met me.
Changbin:
Exactly. He told me he feels left out.
You:
…you’re insane.
Changbin:
But admit it—you kinda want to meet him now.
You:
…maybe.
Changbin:
Perfect. He approves of you already.
⸻
A few days later, he suggested the park you’d once mentioned.
When you arrived, Changbin was already there, sitting on a bench with a bag of snacks. He waved you over, grinning
“You came prepared,” you said, sitting beside him.
“I did my research,” he replied. “You’re a snacker. I can’t show up empty-handed.”
The conversation started silly—debating which snack was superior—but somewhere between laughter and quiet pauses, it shifted.
“Sometimes,” he said suddenly, eyes on the trees, “I wonder if I would’ve met you anyway. Like… if the wrong number hadn’t happened, would the universe have found another way?”
You turned, caught off guard by the softness in his voice.
“That’s oddly deep for someone eating chips,” you teased gently.
He laughed, then grew serious again. “I’m glad it happened. Whatever it was. Because now I get to sit here with you.”
You didn’t know what to say, so you just smiled, and that seemed enough for him.
⸻
[Day 40]
Changbin:
Confession: I wrote something about you today.
You:
…like what?
Changbin:
Lyrics. Don’t freak out. Just—sometimes you inspire stuff.
You:
…now I’m curious.
Changbin:
Curiosity granted. Next meetup, I’ll show you.
⸻
When he invited you to his music space, you weren’t sure what to expect. The room was cluttered, full of cables, notebooks, and half-empty coffee cups.
“Don’t judge,” he said sheepishly. “Creative chaos.”
He played you a track—heavy beats layered under words that were sharp but also strangely vulnerable. Some of the lines were about feeling lost, about finding someone who steadied him.
When the song ended, silence filled the room.
“That’s… beautiful,” you said softly. “And you’re telling me I inspired that?”
He shrugged, but his ears were pink. “Yeah. You did.”
For once, Changbin didn’t hide behind jokes or cockiness. His voice was low, certain:
“I like you. More than just a wrong number. More than just texting.”
Your chest ached, in the best way. “Good. Because I like you too.”
His grin split wide, disbelief and joy mixed in one. “Guess it wasn’t such a wrong number after all.”
✮ Summary : After being shattered by a cruel love, you became a living statue. But with a single touch, a gentle hand in the dark, you will begin to find your way back to the world.
✮ Contains : Mention of toxic relationship, bullying, reader enter a state of catatonia, angst
✮ Pairing : Ahn Suho x catatonic!reader
✮ Word Count : 10.4K
A/N : Okay guys I've working on this one for who knows which reason it just popped in my head and it's LONG... BUT DAMN I'm so SO proud of it
Catatonia : a psychomotor syndrome where the mind, overwhelmed by trauma, forces the body into a profound state of stillness. It is a terrifying, waking absence, where the soul becomes a silent observer trapped within a body that has chosen to shut down.
The hospital room was stark, sterile, and silent. The only sound was the soft hum of the fluorescent lights above and the faint, rhythmic beeping of the IV pump beside her bed. She stared at the ceiling, seeing nothing, feeling nothing. A profound emptiness had taken root inside her, a void where her laughter, her joy, her very self used to be.
It had all started so simply, so innocently. A glance across a crowded hallway, a nervous conversation, the giddy excitement of becoming Seongje's girlfriend. Being with him felt like a title, a status symbol that brought both attention and a quiet, unsettling ownership.
People knew her as "Seongje's girl," and for a while, she was proud of it. She ignored the way his gaze often slid past her to linger on others, the way he laughed off the cruel jokes the Union made at her expense. He was a thrill, a force of nature, and she was so caught up in his orbit that she didn't realize she was being torn apart.
Sieun saw it from a distance. He'd catch glimpses of her, a ghost of her former self, walking through the halls with her shoulders hunched. Her once-bright eyes were now shadowed and dull.
He'd seen her once, sitting alone in the cafeteria, tracing patterns on her food tray while Seongje was across the room, openly flirting with some girl, his friends egging him on. The image stuck with him—the sight of her, so utterly alone in a room full of people, with the person she loved most treating her like an inconvenience.
The torment wasn't just emotional. The Union members, egged on by Seongje’s passive indifference, had found her an easy target. Small, cruel pranks escalated into constant harassment. Her locker was vandalized. Her books went missing.
Every day was a new form of psychological torture, and she had nowhere to turn. Seongje would just shrug it off, a smirk on his face. "Lighten up," he'd say. "It's just a joke."
The spark she once had, that vivacious, joyful light, was slowly extinguished. She became a shell. The girl who used to smile so easily now just stared. The girl who once filled a room with her energy was now a silent, withdrawn figure, retreating further and further into herself until she completely disappeared.
One day, she just didn't show up. Not at school, not at their usual meeting spot. She just... vanished. Seongje barely noticed at first, too preoccupied with his own fun. When he finally did, he was more annoyed than concerned. "Where did she go?" he'd grumble to his friends. "She's so dramatic."
He didn't know that she had finally reached her breaking point. She walked for hours, her mind a blur of hurt and betrayal, until her legs gave out and she collapsed on a quiet side street. She was found by a passing couple, their horrified faces a distant blur as they called for help.
When she woke up, she was in a hospital. But the trauma had been too much. The doctors tried to talk to her, to understand what had happened, but she was gone. Her mind, in a desperate act of self-preservation, had completely shut down. She wouldn't speak. She wouldn't eat. She wouldn't even meet their gaze.
The hospital was ill-equipped to handle the depths of her psychological state. After a few days, a transfer was arranged. She was moved from the clinical silence of the general hospital to the more specialized, guarded silence of a psychiatric ward nearby.
The doctors there called it a catatonic state, a complete break from reality. Her body was present, but her mind was lost, hiding somewhere deep within itself, far from the pain and betrayal that had broken her.
The empty hallways and barred windows of the psychiatric hospital became her new reality, a self-imposed prison where she could finally be at peace, away from the boy who never saw her, and the world that let her fall.
A thick silence hung over the group, heavier than the summer humidity. They were at their usual hangout spot, but the easy banter was gone, replaced by a tense, somber mood.
"Did you hear?" Juntae's voice was a low rumble. "She's... still in there."
Humin sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. I saw her dad the other day. He said she hasn't said a word. The doctors don't know what to do."
Sieun stared at his hands, his knuckles white. He hadn't seen her in a while, but the image of her gaunt face and hollow eyes was burned into his memory. He felt a sharp pang of guilt. He had seen what was happening, but he hadn't done anything. He had just watched from the sidelines as she crumbled.
Gotak, ever the stoic one, just shook his head. "Seongje's a piece of work. How could he just... do that to someone?"
A cold knot twisted in Seongje's gut. He had heard the whispers, the accusations, the pitying glances. He felt their judgment, sharp and unforgiving.
He had tried to forget about her, to move on as if she had never existed, but her absence was a gaping hole in his world. He told himself he was just annoyed, that she was just being dramatic. But deep down, a dark, unsettling feeling gnawed at him. He couldn't quite name it, but he knew it wasn't anger. It was something else, something much more frightening.
He had visited her once. He told himself it was just to prove to the others that he wasn't a monster, that he cared. He had walked into the sterile, white room and found her sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall. Her face was blank, her eyes vacant.
He tried to talk to her, to explain that he was sorry, that he didn't mean to hurt her, but the words felt hollow and fake. He had looked at her, at the broken shell of the girl he had once called his, and felt a rush of something he couldn't comprehend.
He had turned and walked away, a bitter taste in his mouth, telling himself that she was just a lost cause.
Sieun, however, couldn't stay away. He visited her every week, a silent vigil of remorse and compassion. He would sit in a chair by her bed and talk, even though he knew she wasn't really listening.
He would talk about Suho, his coma, about their fights and their triumphs, about the everyday things that filled their lives. He hoped that maybe, just maybe, a small part of her could hear him.
One day, he was sitting there, talking about a particularly frustrating day at school, when he saw it. A single tear, a tiny drop of moisture, rolled down her cheek. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared, but it was enough.
It was a sign that she was still there, somewhere, trapped inside her own mind. It was a glimmer of hope, a fragile promise that one day, she might find her way back.
Sieun kept visiting, a silent, steady presence in her life. He was there for her not because he had to be, but because he felt a responsibility to her, a deep and abiding need to help her find her way back to the world.
He was her only connection to a life she had lost, a single thread holding her to a world that had so cruelly abandoned her. He would not let go.
The sterile air of the hospital room was broken only by the soft beeping of machines and the low murmur of conversation. After what felt like an eternity, Suho was finally awake. He had been through so much, and now, here he was, sitting up in bed, a ghost of his former self but with his sharp mind fully intact.
Sieun spent hours with him, catching him up on the years he’d lost. He talked about the Union, about Humin, Hyuntak, and Juntae, and about the brutal, everyday reality of their school.
One day, a quiet moment fell between them. Suho, his voice a little hoarse from disuse, said, “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?”
Sieun nodded, a heavy feeling settling in his chest. “Yeah. We all have.”
He hesitated for a long moment, then decided to bring up something he hadn't yet mentioned. "There's something else, though," he began, his voice barely a whisper. "Something... or someone."
Suho turned his head, a question in his eyes.
"Seongje’s ex-girlfriend," Sieun said. "She was with him, but he just... broke her. He let the Union mess with her, and he never did anything about it."
Suho’s face hardened. "The same Seongje you told me about? The one who runs with the Union?"
"Yeah," Sieun confirmed. "She was so full of life, but she just... faded. She went crazy from it all, and she's in a psychiatric hospital now. She won't talk to anyone. She just stares into space."
Suho was silent for a while, processing the story. "That's terrible. How could he do that to someone?"
"He's a monster," Sieun said, his voice laced with venom. "I've been visiting her. She's completely shut down. It's like no one's home."
"What's her name?" Suho asked.
"Y/n," Sieun replied, the name feeling heavy on his tongue.
A thoughtful expression crossed Suho's face. "And you said she won't talk to anyone, right? Not even you?"
"No. Not a word," Sieun confirmed. "I just sit there and talk to her, hoping something gets through. I even talked about you and our crew, about everything that happened."
Suddenly, an idea sparked in Sieun's mind. He had been visiting her, trying to reach her with words, but what if words weren't the answer?
"I have an idea," Sieun said, a hint of desperation in his voice. "Maybe you could visit her. She’s not listening to me, maybe because I’m a part of all this... this world that broke her. But you're different. You’re from before all of this. You're a clean slate."
Suho looked at him, his brow furrowed in thought. "You think that will make a difference?"
"I don't know," Sieun admitted, his hope fragile. "But she needs help. We can’t just let her stay like this. You’re the only one who can talk to her without all the baggage. Please, Suho. It's the only thing I can think of."
Suho closed his eyes, considering. The story of this broken girl resonated with a deep, personal empathy. He knew what it was like to be trapped, to feel like a prisoner in his own body. He had spent years in a silent, dreamless state, and now, finally awake, he felt a strange kinship with this girl.
"Okay," Suho finally said, opening his eyes. "Let's do it.”
The hospital grounds were more of a park than a garden, a vast expanse of manicured lawn bisected by winding asphalt paths. Sieun navigated Suho's wheelchair with an easy familiarity, the rhythmic squeak of the wheels a steady counterpoint to their silence. Suho, still thin and pale, watched the world go by with an intensity that belied his physical weakness.
Everything was new to him, every tree and every blade of grass a detail he had missed. It was a strange, silent reunion, a fresh start in a place of confinement.
"We're here," Sieun said, stopping in front of a small, discreet building nestled among the trees. The windows were different here—a little too high, a little too thick.
He left Suho for a moment, disappearing inside to talk to the nurses. He’d made this walk countless times, but today was different. Today, he wasn’t just here to talk; he was here to retrieve her, to introduce a new variable into a seemingly unsolvable equation.
He waited patiently as the nurses, their faces etched with a familiar mixture of pity and resignation, went to get her. They had tried everything, every therapy and every conversation, and she remained a ghost in her own body. They’d given up on her, and he could see it in their weary eyes.
When they returned, she was in a wheelchair, too. Her posture was the same as it had been on the hospital bed—shoulders hunched, head slightly bowed. She was present, but not here. She looked like a doll, perfectly still and unresponsive.
The nurses wheeled her out, her chair moving in a slow, unnatural rhythm, as if it were a different kind of machine from the one that had beeped beside her bed.
Sieun took her wheelchair and positioned it beside Suho’s. For a moment, the only sounds were the soft hum of the breeze and the gentle creak of the chairs. He looked from one to the other, the stark contrast between them a painful sight. Suho, with his sharp, observant eyes, and Y/n, with hers vacant and distant.
"This is Suho," Sieun said, his voice soft. "He's the guy I was telling you about. He just woke up." He paused, looking at Suho. "And this is Y/n."
Suho’s gaze was kind but direct. He looked at her not with pity, but with a quiet understanding. "Hey, Y/n," he said, his voice a little hoarse, but warm. "It's good to meet you. Sieun told me a lot about you. He said you're a good person."
Suho nodded slowly, his mind piecing together the fragments Sieun was offering. "What happened to Seongje, by the way ?”
The question hung in the air, heavier than the silence that followed. Sieun’s expression soured. "He just… disappeared. One day he was there, and the next he was gone. No one’s seen him. Not the Union, not his friends. He just vanished, like a bad dream."
Suho looked over at Y/n, a new kind of intensity in his eyes. He knew what it was like to be torn apart, to have a part of yourself taken from you. Seongje’s disappearance didn’t feel like a relief; it felt like a coward's escape. He had broken someone and then just walked away from the pieces, leaving others to deal with the aftermath.
"That’s how they are," Suho said to Sieun, his voice low and sharp. "They do their damage, and then they leave. They don't stick around to see what they've done."
He reached out and gently took one of Y/n’s still, cold hands. Her skin felt like marble. "We’re not going to do that, Y/n. We’re going to stay. We're going to be here."
Sieun watched, his heart a raw, open wound. He had been visiting her for weeks, but in a single moment, Suho had found a way to connect, to speak a language she might be able to understand. They were both prisoners—one by his body, the other by her mind—and in that shared experience, there was a fragile promise of hope.
"He's a menace, really," Suho continued, his tone shifting to a more conversational one, as if he were talking to a fully present person. "You have no idea how much trouble he gets into. You should’ve seen him when we were at Byeoksan. The way he took out those guys with just a few books and a pen. It was unreal. He’s a total genius, you know? He just uses it for fighting instead of studying sometimes."
He looked at Sieun with a wry smile, and Sieun, to his own surprise, found himself smiling back. They weren't just talking to Y/n. They were talking to each other, a broken circle of friends that was slowly, painstakingly, beginning to mend.
Days bled into a routine of silent visits and hushed conversations in the hospital garden. Suho’s wheelchair became a fixture beside Y/n’s, a quiet, unmoving testament to Sieun’s fragile hope. They talked about anything and everything: the school, the fights, the small victories.
Suho, with his sharp observations and dry wit, and Sieun, with his calm, steady presence, formed a small, protective bubble around her. Y/n remained a silent spectator, her eyes vacant, her hands still.
One sunny afternoon, Sieun decided to change the script. He walked into the psychiatric ward with a different energy. It was time to bring in the rest of the crew. When he got back to the hospital garden, they were all there, a mismatched group of boys looking awkward and out of place among the meticulously maintained flowerbeds.
Humin stood with his hands in his pockets, his usual restless energy contained. Juntae, ever the loyal friend, stood beside him, looking more serious than usual. And Hyuntak… he looked at Suho with a mixture of respect and a kind of mischievous anticipation.
Suho’s face broke into a rare smile when he saw them. It was a genuine, unguarded expression that made him look years younger. "Look who finally decided to show up," he said to Sieun, his voice full of warmth.
The introductions were a little stiff at first. Suho, used to being the leader, took charge, his sharp mind already assessing each of them. He had heard about them from Sieun, but now he was seeing them for himself. "So, this is the infamous Humin," he said, holding out a hand. "Sieun said you're a brawler."
Humin grunted a response, a flicker of his usual cockiness returning. "You're the legend Sieun won't shut up about."
Juntae, more reserved, simply nodded in greeting. "It's an honor, Suho. We've been wanting to meet you."
Hyuntak, however, was quiet at first, just sizing Suho up. When Humin started talking, Hyuntak’s smirk grew. He would often tease Humin and Suho, pointing out the ridiculousness of their obsession with fighting.
Sieun wheeled Y/n’s chair closer, positioning her so she was a part of the circle, not just an observer. "And this is Y/n," he said, his voice soft. "She's... one of us now."
The boys looked at her, their usual brashness replaced by a somber quiet. She was a physical reminder of the darkness they had all faced, the kind of psychological warfare they had all been subjected to. They saw her and they saw a part of themselves, a silent testament to the cruelty they had once been a part of.
Humin, surprisingly, was the first to break the silence. He started talking about a recent fight, recounting it with his characteristic bravado, exaggerating every punch and every maneuver.
He and Suho, despite their differences, fell into a comfortable rhythm, their shared love for strategy and combat evident in their conversation. Suho, with his sharp, analytical mind, would interject with a clever observation, and Humin would respond with a boisterous laugh.
"This one guy, he thought he was a big shot just 'cause he was bigger than me," Humin said, gesturing wildly. "So I just went for his leg, you know? Knocked him right off balance. Didn't even have to throw a punch."
Suho smirked. "Amateurs always go for the head. It's too predictable."
They went back and forth like that, two different kinds of fighters finding common ground. Juntae and Hyuntak, initially quiet, started to get comfortable too. Juntae started talking about his plans for the future, about a new path he was considering. Hyuntak, ever the follower, chimed in with a few comments, his anxiety slowly giving way to a more relaxed posture.
The group dynamic, so broken for so long, began to mend, creating a safe space in the sterile environment of the hospital garden. They were a motley crew of misfits, but in that moment, they were a family. They laughed, they argued, and they talked about their hopes and fears, all while a silent figure sat in the center of their circle.
And then, it happened. It was so small, so subtle, that Sieun almost missed it. Humin was making a particularly ridiculous face while recounting a story, and Suho was laughing, a sound that was still a little rusty but full of genuine mirth. For a brief, fleeting moment, Y/n's head tilted.
Then, her eyes, which had been so dull and vacant for so long, shifted. A single, almost imperceptible sparkle—a tiny glimmer of light—danced in their depths before fading away. It was gone in an instant, but it was there. It was enough.
For weeks, the routine held. The hospital garden became their unofficial meeting place, a sanctuary where the outside world and its cruel realities faded. Days blurred into a month, then two, marked by the slow but steady progress of Suho's recovery. The wheelchair, once a symbol of his confinement, was now a thing of the past. He could walk on his own, still a little unsteady, but strong enough.
This newfound freedom sparked an idea in him. The group visits were good, but he felt a growing need to see her alone. He had grown fond of Y/n's silent company, of the quiet understanding that had blossomed between them. It was a connection born from a shared experience of being trapped, a bond forged in the crucible of their respective traumas.
One afternoon, he walked to the psychiatric ward alone. The sterile halls felt different without Sieun and the others. This was a place of quiet suffering, and for the first time, he felt the full weight of it. When he entered her room, the silence was absolute. She was sitting in her wheelchair, staring at the wall, her hands resting limply in her lap.
He didn't bother with small talk. He just pulled up a chair and sat beside her, his presence a steady, solid anchor in the emptiness of the room. He watched her, and for the first time, he noticed the small details. The way her eyelashes cast tiny shadows on her cheeks, the faint scar on her hand that he hadn't seen before. He wondered how much of her had been lost, and how much was still there, hiding beneath the surface.
He began to talk, not about school or fights, but about himself. He talked about his years in a coma, the strange, silent world he had been trapped in. He spoke of the frustration, the feeling of screaming without a voice, of being a prisoner in his own mind. He felt a deep, profound empathy for her, a kinship that transcended words.
"It's like being in a box, isn't it?" he said, his voice a low, gentle rumble. "You can see the outside, but you can't touch it. You can hear them, but they can't hear you. It's the loneliest thing in the world."
He reached out and gently took her hand. It was still cold, but he held it anyway, his thumb stroking her knuckles in a soft, rhythmic motion. "But I got out," he whispered, more to himself than to her. "And you will, too. I'll be here until you do."
For the first time since he'd started visiting her alone, he felt a flicker of hope. He had felt it before, that brief sparkle in her eyes when the others were there, but now, the feeling was different. It was a quiet certainty, a promise that he would not break. He would wait for her, and he would not let her fall.
The solo visits became a new ritual, a quiet counterpoint to the boisterous group sessions. Suho would arrive alone, no longer a prisoner of his wheelchair but a steadfast presence in her silent world. He would talk about his day, about the mundane realities of his new life, and sometimes, he would just sit in silence, a hand gently on her arm. He wasn't waiting for a grand gesture, just a sign—any sign—that she was still in there.
His patience was rewarded with small, almost imperceptible shifts. The first was a simple head tilt, a gesture that began when he was recounting a particularly funny story about Sieun and Humin getting into a ridiculous argument over a lost wallet. It was a slight, almost bird-like movement, but it was enough to make Suho's heart seize in his chest.
He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes fixed on her. She returned to her motionless state just as quickly, but the moment had been a monumental victory.
From then on, he found himself watching her more closely than ever. He noticed that she would follow his movements with her eyes, a subtle shifting of her gaze from his face to his hands as he gestured.
She wasn’t just staring into space anymore; she was observing. The world wasn't a blur to her; it was a series of small, intriguing details.
One day, he walked over to her bed and began to talk about a song he'd been listening to, a melancholy melody he had loved even before he fell into his coma. He hummed the tune, a low, melodic sound that filled the sterile room. As he did, he saw it.
Her eyes, those vacant, dull eyes he had come to know so well, looked at him directly. They held a fleeting moment of recognition, a soft, almost painful flicker of light.
Then, as he continued to hum, she shifted. Her fingers, which had been curled into her palms for weeks, slowly uncurled. She didn't move them, but the simple act of their straightening was a testament to her conscious mind.
He kept humming, his voice unwavering, and he reached out, gently taking her hand and placing it in his own. Her touch was still cold, but now it felt different. It was the hand of a person, not a statue.
Suho didn't know what it meant, but he knew this: he was reaching her. He was pulling her back, one small, impossible moment at a time. The world was beginning to fill with color again, and he was the one holding the brush.
The change, when it came, was so subtle that anyone else might have missed it. But Sieun and the others had become accustomed to reading the silent language of the hospital room, a dialect of small gestures and subtle shifts.
It was a quiet afternoon, and the whole group was gathered in the garden. Suho sat on the bench beside Y/n's wheelchair, talking about an old comic book he used to read. The others were in a loose circle around them, their conversation a low murmur. Hyuntak was teasing Humin about a bad haircut, and Juntae was listening with a rare smile on his face.
As Suho spoke, his voice low and steady, Y/n's eyes, once vacant, now followed his every movement. When he paused to flip a page in the comic book, her gaze went from his face to his hands, tracking the motion. It was a fluid, natural movement, so unlike her former stillness.
Sieun saw it first. He was mid-sentence, talking to Humin, when his eyes snagged on Y/n's gaze. He stopped talking, his expression one of shocked, quiet awe. Humin, catching his friend's stunned silence, followed his gaze. He watched as Y/n's head, which had been perfectly still, tilted slightly, as if she were contemplating something Suho had said.
Hyuntak and Juntae noticed the shift in the atmosphere. The easy banter died down, replaced by a tense, focused silence. They watched Y/n, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hope.
Suho, oblivious to the scrutiny, kept talking. He reached out and gently took her hand, just as he did during his solo visits. This time, however, Y/n's fingers didn't just uncurl—they twitched. It was a tiny, involuntary spasm, a small sign of life. Then, as Suho continued to speak, she slowly, painfully, tightened her grip on his hand. It wasn't a firm grip, just a slight pressure, but to everyone in the group, it felt like an earthquake.
Humin let out a shaky breath, his usual cockiness completely gone. Juntae's eyes welled up with tears. Hyuntak, for once, was speechless. They had watched her crumble, and they had come to accept the possibility that she might never return. But now, here she was, her grip a silent testament to her presence, a faint light in the darkness.
Suho looked down at their joined hands, a small, triumphant smile on his face. He looked up and met Sieun’s gaze. It was a look that said, "I told you so."
And in that moment, in the quiet of the hospital garden, they all understood. Their collective guilt, their silent regret, had been transformed into something else: a fragile, powerful hope. They weren't just a group of boys anymore. They were a lifeline, and they had just felt a tug from the other side.
The group visits continued to be a mix of low-key banter and silent observation. Sieun and the others watched with bated breath, their eyes constantly on Y/n, looking for the next sign of life. They saw the head tilts and the way her eyes followed their movements, but the progress seemed to stall. What they didn't know was that the real breakthroughs were happening in the quiet intimacy of Suho's solo visits.
When he was alone with her, Suho felt a new kind of freedom. He could talk about things he couldn't with the others, about his own nightmares and the quiet terror of waking up to a world that had moved on without him. He shared his deepest fears with her, knowing that she was the one person who would understand the feeling of being trapped in a silent, solitary existence.
One afternoon, he brought her a small sketchbook and a set of colored pencils. He sat down beside her, his chair close enough that their knees brushed. He opened the sketchbook to a blank page. "I'm not much of an artist," he said, "but my grandma and I used to love drawing with me. She'd draw a line, and I'd draw the next one. Maybe we can try that."
He took a red pencil and drew a simple, crooked line on the page. He then placed the pencil in her still hand, his own hand guiding hers. He waited. For a long moment, nothing happened. He was about to take the pencil away when he felt a small, almost imperceptible pressure from her hand. Slowly, painstakingly, she drew a single, shaky blue line that connected to his. It was a small, childlike scribble, but it was there. She had responded. She had drawn a line to meet his.
He didn't make a sound. He just looked at the paper, his heart hammering against his ribs. The silence in the room was now different. It was no longer empty, but filled with a new, quiet life. He knew this was the first step, a fragile bridge built between her mind and the world she had left behind. He continued the game, drawing lines and letting her connect them, a silent conversation in color.
The next time the group visited, they saw her holding the sketchbook, her fingers curled around the pencils. They exchanged stunned glances, a mixture of awe and confusion on their faces. They couldn't understand how she had gotten to this point.
How did this happen? But Suho just smiled. He knew. It had happened in the silence, in the small, beautiful moments when she was finally able to connect with someone who truly understood.
The sketchbook became a symbol of their fragile hope. When the group visited and saw Y/n holding it, her fingers curled around the pencils, a stunned silence fell over them. Juntae’s mouth fell open. Humin’s usual bravado vanished, replaced by a quiet awe. Even Hyuntak, ever the stoic observer, looked at Suho with a mixture of disbelief and grudging respect.
When Y/n was back in her room and the boys were gathered in Suho's chamber, the questions came pouring out. Sieun was the first to speak.
"What did you do?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "How did you do that?"
Suho was lying on his hospital bed, propped up by pillows. He looked at them, a small, knowing smile on his face. "I just gave her a pencil," he said simply. "She did the rest."
Humin scoffed, but there was no real malice in his tone. "Yeah, right. She just picked it up and started drawing? It's been months, man. The nurses said she was a lost cause."
"They've tried everything," Juntae added, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Therapy, medication... nothing worked."
Suho sat up, leaning forward slightly. He spoke to them not as a patient, but as a leader, the calm authority he'd always possessed beginning to re-emerge. "They treated her like a patient. I just treated her like a person." He looked at each of them, his gaze sharp and direct. "She wasn't gone. She was just hiding. I gave her a way to come back out."
They fell silent, absorbing his words. The unspoken guilt that had hung over them for months began to lift, replaced by a new, collective purpose. They realized that their visits, their seemingly pointless conversations, had been a part of it too. They had been building a world for her to return to, and Suho had simply found the first key.
Meanwhile, in the psychiatric ward, the nurses were buzzing. They had seen Y/n for weeks, a silent statue in her wheelchair, a ghost in the hospital halls. They had lost hope, resigned to her catatonic state.
But now, she was holding a sketchbook. A small, shaky drawing of a flower was on the page. They looked at each other, their faces a mix of wonder and disbelief.
"She hasn't done anything like this since she came here," one nurse whispered, her eyes wide. "Not a single gesture, not a sound."
They didn't understand it. They couldn't explain it with their medical knowledge or their years of experience. All they knew was that the boy in the other building, the one who had just woken up from a coma, had done what they couldn't. He had reached through the silence and found a way to her.
The next time they all gathered in the hospital garden, the atmosphere was different. The forced cheerfulness was gone, replaced by a deep-seated hope.
They all brought something for her. Humin, surprisingly, had a small, worn soccer ball. Juntae brought a collection of his favorite manga. Hyuntak, in his own way, had brought a bag of chips.
Suho wheeled her chair into their circle, and as he settled into his spot on the bench, he placed the sketchbook on her lap. She didn't draw, but her fingers occasionally brushed the cover, a small, subtle acknowledgment.
The boys talked, their voices a little softer, their movements a little less frantic. They knew now that she was listening, and they spoke with a new kind of purpose, weaving a tapestry of their lives for her to return to.
Suho, who had taken to observing the nurses' shifts and routines, noticed that they, too, had changed. The weary resignation on their faces was gone. They would pass by her room and give her a small, hopeful smile.
They would bring her a glass of water and wait a little longer to see if she would take it. They had been given a new reason to believe, and they treated her not as a lost cause, but as a person on the cusp of a breakthrough.
One afternoon, Suho was alone with her in her room. He was talking about his grandma, the one who had been so devastated by his accident. He spoke of the small details, the way her grandma would hum a specific tune when she was happy, and the way she would chew on his lip when she was nervous.
As he spoke, he felt a small pressure on his hand. He looked down and saw that Y/n had taken his hand and was holding it, her grip surprisingly firm.
He continued to talk, and for the first time, she turned her head and looked at him directly. Her eyes were still clouded with a heavy sorrow, but they weren't vacant. They held a raw, painful light, and for the first time, Suho knew she was truly there.
He squeezed her hand gently, his thumb tracing the faint scar on her knuckle. "It's okay," he said, his voice a low, reassuring murmur. "You're safe. We're here."
A single tear, a tiny drop of pure emotion, rolled down her cheek. It was a silent testament to the pain she had endured and the hope she was finally allowing herself to feel. The dam was breaking, one tear at a time. It was a long way from a smile, or a word, but it was a beginning. A slow, painful, and beautiful return.
The tear was a turning point. It was a wordless confession of pain, a release of the agony she had held inside for so long. Suho didn't push her. He just sat with her, his presence a silent shield against the world that had broken her.
The next day, he brought a small, worn music player and a pair of headphones. He placed them on her lap and pressed play. It was a familiar melody, a quiet, soothing tune he had loved for years.
The next few days were a blur of small miracles. Her head would tilt in the direction of the music. Her hands would fidget with the worn edges of the sketchbook. She would even meet the gaze of the nurses, a small, tentative flicker of recognition in her eyes.
The nurses began to talk to her in a softer, gentler tone. The air in the ward, which had been heavy with despair, was now filled with a fragile, burgeoning hope.
Then, one afternoon, when the group was visiting, it happened. They were all talking, their voices a familiar, comforting chorus. Humin was bragging about a fight he'd won, exaggerating his prowess to a ridiculous degree. Hyuntak was, of course, giving him a hard time about it, and Suho was just listening, a slight smirk on his face.
"So I was like," Humin said, puffing out his chest, "I was like, 'You wanna go? Let's go!'"
Hyuntak rolled his eyes. "You probably just tripped and fell on him, Humin."
A laugh, a sharp, surprised sound, erupted from the group. It was a sound they hadn't heard in what felt like a lifetime. They all looked at Y/n, stunned into silence. Her face was still, but her shoulders were shaking with silent laughter. A single, choked-off giggle escaped her lips, a tiny, almost inaudible sound.
Then, from her, came a whisper. A single, breathy word that was both a question and a statement.
"S-Suho...?"
It was the first word she had spoken in months. It was a sound that broke the stillness, a fragile, beautiful note in a symphony of silence. Suho's eyes widened. He had expected her to talk, but he hadn't expected to be the first one she called out to. He looked at her, and for the first time, he saw not a patient, not a broken girl, but a person, a friend who had found her way back.
"I'm here," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm right here."
And in that moment, in the quiet of the hospital garden, they all knew. The ghost was gone. She was finally, truly, back.
The first word was a dam breaking. After that, the progress was slow, but constant. Y/n began to speak in hushed, hesitant whispers, her voice a little rusty from disuse. She’d ask simple questions, her gaze still a bit clouded, but her curiosity was returning.
She'd ask about a song on the radio, or a character in a book, and each question felt like a small, triumphant victory. The boys, overjoyed, would answer her with a patience they never knew they had. They’d explain the plot of a manga, or the rules of a game, their voices gentle and reassuring.
Her physical recovery was just as slow, and just as miraculous. It started with her hands. She began to use the colored pencils with a purpose, her lines no longer shaky and tentative, but firm and deliberate.
She drew pictures of things she had lost—a tree with brilliant green leaves, a dog with a happy, wagging tail. The nurses would watch, their faces a mix of professional astonishment and personal wonder. They had documented every small change, every flicker of life.
One afternoon, during a solo visit with Suho, she tried to stand. Her legs, which had been dormant for months, trembled beneath her. Suho didn't try to help her. He just knelt in front of her, his hands hovering, ready to catch her if she fell. He looked at her not with pity, but with a quiet challenge in his eyes.
He had been through the same process, the painful, frustrating journey of rebuilding a body from scratch. He knew that she had to do it on her own.
"You can do it," he said, his voice a low, steady murmur. "I know you can."
She took a shaky step, then another. The world swayed around her. She was scared, but she didn’t stop. She took a step, and then another, until she was standing, a little unsteady, but on her own.
Suho reached out and took her hands, his touch grounding her. She looked at him, and for the first time, a small, genuine smile touched her lips. She had taken herself in her hands again.
Meanwhile, the group had a new kind of conversation. They talked about Y/n, but also about the boy who had put her there. The subject of Seongje came up one day when they were talking about the school union. Humin was bragging about how they had all but disbanded since Seongje's disappearance.
"It's like they lost their leader, their king," Humin said, a proud smirk on his face.
Suho’s face hardened. He had never liked the idea of a king, a person who ruled through fear and intimidation. He looked at Sieun, then at the others, his gaze sharp and direct.
"He wasn't a king," Suho said, his voice cold. "He was just a bully. A coward."
The silence was thick with the weight of his words. They all knew what he was talking about. Seongje had been a force of nature, a terrifying kind of power. But what kind of power breaks a person and then disappears? He had run away from the consequences of his actions. He was a ghost, a bad memory that had vanished.
"He's a piece of work," Humin said, a somber note in his voice. "We haven't seen him since. It's like he just fell off the face of the earth."
They all knew he was gone, but his absence was a constant presence, a reminder of the darkness they had escaped and the fragile light they were trying to build. He had broken Y/n, but in doing so, he had created an unbreakable bond between a group of misfits who had found a new kind of family.
The next time the group gathered in the hospital garden, they were a little early, sitting on a bench and talking amongst themselves. They were waiting for Sieun, who was bringing Y/n down from her room.
The usual low hum of their conversation was replaced by a more tense silence. They were all on edge, a collective bundle of nerves, waiting to see what new sign of progress she would show.
Then, they saw them. At the top of the path, where the double doors of the psychiatric ward opened, Suho emerged. But he wasn't alone. He was walking, his gait steady and confident, and beside him was Y/n.
She was on her own two feet, her shoulders no longer hunched, but straight. She walked with a slow, deliberate pace, but she was walking. She wasn't holding his hand, but she was close enough that their arms brushed.
Juntae's mouth dropped open. Humin, ever the dramatic one, let out a low whistle. Hyuntak just stared, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and admiration. They all looked at Sieun, their faces a mix of confusion and awe. Sieun just smiled, a quiet, knowing expression on his face.
The sight of them walking side-by-side, two people who had been broken by the world and were now mending each other, was a powerful one. They walked toward the group, and as they got closer, the boys saw something in Suho's eyes.
It was a fierce, protective light, a look that said he would do anything to keep her safe. His whole demeanor had changed. He wasn't just a friend anymore; he was a guardian.
When they reached the bench, Y/n didn't sit down. She just stood there, her hands clasped in front of her, and looked at each of them. A small, shy smile touched her lips.
"Hi," she whispered, her voice still soft, but clear.
They all scrambled to their feet, their usual boisterous energy replaced by an awkward silence. They didn't know what to say. Y/n had always been a ghost to them, a silent figure in a wheelchair. Now, she was standing, talking, and looking at them. She was a person, with a past full of pain, but a future full of possibility.
Sieun watched his friends, his heart swelling with a quiet, powerful sense of accomplishment. He saw the way Humin looked at her, no longer with pity, but with a new kind of respect. He saw the way Juntae’s shoulders relaxed, the guilt he had carried for so long finally beginning to lift. And he saw the way Hyuntak, ever the stoic, gave a small, genuine nod of approval.
His plan had worked. His idea, so fragile and so desperate, had not just saved a life, but had also changed the lives of his friends. He had brought them all together, a group of misfits who had found a new kind of family, a new kind of purpose. They had all been broken in their own ways, but they had come together to help her mend. And in doing so, they had begun to heal themselves.
The nurses stood in a small group near the hospital entrance, their usual professional calm replaced by hushed whispers and astonished gazes. They had seen countless patients come and go, had witnessed every type of psychological trauma, but this… this was unprecedented.
They had given up on Y/n, labeling her condition as a severe catatonic state with no hope for recovery. Now, she was not only walking but smiling, a shy, almost painful ghost of the girl she once was.
They saw Suho at her side, his presence a steady anchor. He wasn't just a friend; he was a lifeline. They remembered him, the quiet, formidable young man who had spent years in a silent coma. And they saw the way he looked at her—not with pity, but with a fierce protectiveness that spoke volumes. He had done what years of therapy and medication could not. He had simply given her a reason to return.
Sieun watched Suho and Y/n, his heart filled with a mixture of pride and a quiet understanding. He had seen the subtle shifts in Suho’s demeanor, the way his gaze softened when he spoke of her, the way he seemed to carry a new kind of purpose.
He knew, long before the others did, that Suho had found a kindred spirit in her. Suho had been a prisoner in his own mind, and Y/n a prisoner in hers. They had a shared history of isolation and silent suffering, a bond forged in the crucible of their respective traumas.
Sieun had brought them together, hoping to give her a chance, but he never could have anticipated the profound connection that would form. He saw the way Suho looked at her, and in his eyes, he saw not just hope, but a deep, unspoken affection. He saw his friend, so long a solitary figure, finally finding a place for his heart to land.
The contrast was stark, a painful testament to the boy she had left behind and the boys who had brought her back. They looked at her now and saw not the gaunt, hollow-eyed girl who had walked the halls beside Seongje, but a survivor.
They remembered the way she had been a mere shadow in Seongje's orbit, her shoulders hunched as she retreated further and further into herself. She was a title, "Seongje's girl," and it was a title that had been a slow, methodical erasure of her very self. She had been an object, something to be possessed and then discarded.
The cruel pranks, the passive indifference of her so-called boyfriend, had worn her down until she was a ghost, a shell of the person she once was.
But now, she stood before them, a living, breathing testament to her own resilience. She was no longer a ghost but a person. She wasn't just "Suho's girl" or "Sieun's friend"; she was Y/n. The light in her eyes, so long extinguished, was back. It was a fragile light, but it was there, and it was hers alone.
The hospital garden was a place of quiet solitude, the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze the only sound between them. Suho and the others had left for the day, leaving Sieun and Y/n alone. It was a comfortable silence, a truce between two people who had a profound, unspoken understanding.
Sieun was happy to just be there, watching the sunlight filter through the leaves, a feeling of quiet contentment settling in his chest. He had taken a chance on her, on an idea that seemed impossible to everyone else, and the results were a testament to his own strength and compassion.
He felt no need to speak, content with the easy stillness. He had seen the way his friends had changed, the way their apathetic silence had been replaced by a fierce protectiveness. He saw the new light in their eyes, a glimmer of purpose that had been missing for so long. He knew, with a deep certainty, that he had done the right thing.
Then, she broke the silence. Her voice was soft, a little rusty from disuse, but clear.
"Sieun," she said, her voice a gentle murmur. "Thank you. For everything."
He turned to look at her, a little surprised. She wasn't looking at him, but at the sky, a peaceful, far-off look in her eyes. It was a simple statement, but it carried the weight of everything they had been through. It was a thank you for his compassion, for his unwavering belief, for his quiet refusal to let her disappear.
He didn't know what to say. He didn't feel like a hero, just a boy who had reached out his hand to another person who was drowning. He looked at her, at the small, genuine smile on her face, and felt a rush of emotion so powerful it took his breath away.
"You're welcome," he finally managed to say, his voice a little hoarse. "I'd do it again in a heartbeat."
The silence returned, but it was different now. It was a silence filled with gratitude and understanding, a peaceful moment between two people who had found each other in the wreckage of their past.
Suho would sit beside her on the bench in the hospital garden, the warmth of the sun on his face, and a quiet sense of ownership in his heart. The others would be there too, their laughter and conversations a comforting backdrop, but in his mind, he was alone with her. He'd watch her, her movements now fluid, her face expressive, and remember.
He was the one who had seen the first head tilt, a small, hopeful gesture that no one else had caught. He had been the only one to witness the first, shaky line she had drawn in the sketchbook, a quiet, almost secret conversation between them. He had been the one to feel the pressure of her hand, her first, tentative grip a silent promise of her return.
And he was the one who had heard her first word. It had been his name. A simple, two-syllable word, but it had held the weight of a thousand silent prayers. He would replay it in his mind, the memory of her whispered voice a constant reminder of the profound bond they shared.
He had been the one to experience her journey of recovery in a way no one else could. He had been a ghost in his own life for years, and he had found her, a lost soul, and together, they had found their way back. He had not just been a friend; he had been a mirror. In her, he saw his own suffering, his own isolation, and in her recovery, he saw his own.
She was not just a person he had helped; she was a testament to his own resilience, a living, breathing symbol of his own triumph over his past. He would remember, always, that he was the one to experience her first steps, her first words, her first moments of genuine life. He had been her first connection back to the world, and in doing so, he had found his own way back, too.
The hospital garden, once a place of quiet desperation, had become a sanctuary. The passage of a year had softened the sharp edges of their memories, replacing them with a gentle rhythm of shared lives. Y/n was no longer a ghost but a person.
She could now walk, her stride a little unsteady at first, but with a growing confidence that matched her inner strength. She no longer had to use the wheelchair. Her physical recovery mirrored her mental one, a slow, painstaking process of rebuilding a life from the ground up.
Her days were filled with quiet purpose. She would spend her mornings in the garden, a book in her hands, her mind finally free to wander. The simple act of reading, a luxury she had lost for so long, was a quiet joy.
Her afternoons were spent with Suho, just the two of them. They didn't need words. They had a language of their own, a quiet understanding forged in the crucible of their shared trauma. They would sit on a bench, side by side, his presence a steady anchor in her life.
The group visits were a different kind of joy. When the boys came, the garden would fill with their laughter and their endless banter. Y/n was no longer a silent spectator; she was a participant. Her quick wit and dry humor were a new, delightful addition to their conversations.
She was a puzzle piece that had been lost for a long time, and now, she was finally fitting back into the picture.
As for Seongje, the name was now nothing more than a ghost, a bad memory that faded a little more each day. No one had seen him. The Union had disbanded, their power base crumbling in his absence.
He had simply disappeared, a silent vanishing act that was a final testament to his cowardice. He had broken a person and then run away from the pieces, leaving others to clean up his mess. He was gone, but the love and loyalty that had formed in the wake of his cruelty was a far more powerful legacy than he could have ever imagined.
The easy rhythm of their lives had settled into a comfortable routine. One afternoon, they decided to change their usual meeting place from the hospital garden to a park near Suho's apartment. The air was filled with the sounds of children laughing and the distant thud of a soccer ball.
Humin and Hyuntak, in a rare moment of cooperation, were trying to teach Y/n how to play street soccer. Suho and Sieun sat on a park bench, watching them. Y/n, in a pair of comfortable sweatpants, was a little clumsy at first, her movements a bit hesitant. But she was laughing, a sound that made a quiet, triumphant kind of music in Sieun's ears.
Humin, in a rare moment of gentleness, was showing her how to trap the ball with the inside of her foot. "You gotta be one with the ball," he said, his voice a little too serious.
"Oh, like a soul connection?" Hyuntak said, a teasing smirk on his face.
Y/n just shook her head, a playful smile on her lips. She tried again, and this time, the ball rolled neatly to her foot. She looked up, her eyes wide with surprise, and a triumphant grin spread across her face.
Sieun watched them from the bench, a feeling of quiet contentment settling in his chest. He looked at Suho, who was watching Y/n with an intensity that made his feelings for her obvious. He saw the fierce protectiveness in his eyes, the way his shoulders relaxed every time she laughed. It was a look of pure adoration.
"She's doing great," Sieun said, a soft smile on his face.
Suho nodded, his gaze never leaving her. "She's amazing."
Their conversation was simple, but it was filled with an unspoken depth. They were both witnesses to a miracle, and they both knew it. Y/n's recovery wasn't just a physical one; it was a testament to her spirit, and to the fact that they had all, finally, found a home in each other.
Suho, who had spent the last year watching her bloom, felt a swell of emotion in his chest. He remembered that first day in the hospital garden, the sterile silence, and her vacant eyes. He had only spoken a few words to her then, a simple, "Hey, Y/n," but even in that brief moment, he had felt a strange connection. He saw not a patient, but a person, someone trapped in a silence he knew all too well.
Now, a year later, she was so different. She was vibrant, full of life, and his heart ached with a quiet kind of love. He looked at her, his gaze filled with an unspoken tenderness.
"You know," he said, his voice a low, gentle murmur, "I remember the first time I met you. Sieun wheeled you out to the garden. You were just... still. I told you it was good to meet you, but you didn't even look at me."
Y/n's gaze softened. She had no memory of that day, only the stories the boys had told her. She knew that he had been the first one to truly see her, to look past her catatonic state and see the person inside.
"I didn't know what to do," Suho continued, his voice thick with emotion. "I just... I felt like I had to do something. You were in a box, and I knew what that was like."
Y/n's hand found his, her fingers intertwining with his. She didn't say a word, but her touch was a silent language, a profound thank you for his presence, for his unwavering belief. He had seen her in her darkest moment, and he had been the one to guide her back to the light. It was a silent promise of a future together, a future built on a foundation of shared understanding and quiet love.
The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery shades of orange and pink. Suho and Y/n were still on the park bench, the low hum of the city a distant sound. The easy silence between them, once a source of comfort, now felt charged with an unspoken energy. He had been so close to confessing before, and the words now felt heavy on his tongue, a truth he could no longer keep to himself.
He turned to face her, taking her hands in his. Her gaze was soft and open, a silent invitation to speak. He took a deep breath, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"Y/n," he began, his voice a little shaky, "I... I remember that first day in the garden. I told you it was good to meet you, and you didn't even look at me. And I was scared. I was scared that you were trapped in a place I knew all too well, and I didn't know how to get you out."
He squeezed her hands gently, his gaze unwavering. "And then... then you started to come back. And I felt like I was the only one who saw it at first. The head tilts, the little lines in the sketchbook. Every single small thing, every single step you took back to the world, I felt it. And I knew... I knew I was falling in love with you."
The words hung in the air, a beautiful, vulnerable truth. He saw the surprise in her eyes, followed by a soft, profound understanding.
"I know you had a really shitty relationship," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, earnest murmur. "And I'm not him. I would never hurt you. I would never lie to you. And I would never... I would never let you be alone again. I love you, Y/n. I love you so much."
Tears welled in Y/n's eyes, a release of so much pent-up emotion. She had been through a relationship where her love had been a weapon used against her, where she had been nothing more than an object to be possessed. Her life had been filled with a cold, calculated cruelty. But with Suho, it was different. He had seen her at her lowest, had loved her when she was a ghost. He had given her back her voice, her spirit, her life.
She looked at him, her heart full of a love so powerful it took her breath away. "I love you, too, Suho," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I... I think I've loved you since the moment you came back. Since you chose to stay."
He smiled, a genuine, joyful expression that made him look years younger. He leaned in and gently kissed her, a tender, heartfelt kiss that sealed their love, a quiet promise that she would never have to be a ghost again.
summary:Bang Chan has always been the strong one—the leader, the producer, the one who carries everyone else. But when the silence drags on for too long, you find him drowning alone in his studio. It’s only when you remind him he doesn’t have to be perfect, that he finally lets himself fall apart… and back into you.
bangchan x reader
・❥・✎ intro → masterlist → taglist ✎ ・❥・
The silence stretched into the night, heavy and suffocating.
At first, you told yourself not to worry. Chan often disappeared into his work — hours lost in his studio, headphones clamped over his ears, producing until sunrise. You were used to it. Normally, he’d still find little ways to reassure you: a sleepy “I’ll be late,” a blurry selfie, a short voice note of some melody he was proud of. But today… nothing.
Not a single word since morning. Not a single “I miss you.”
By 11 p.m., you sat staring at your phone like it had betrayed you, the screen cold and blank. He hadn’t read your last message. He hadn’t answered your call. The unease building in your chest refused to be soothed by excuses like “he’s just busy” or “he probably fell asleep.
Because you knew him. And when Chan went quiet, it wasn’t rest. It was a storm.
⸻
The company building was eerily still at this hour. Your footsteps echoed too loudly in the hall, your heart racing faster with each door you passed. You didn’t even need to check the nameplate. You already knew where he’d be.
Chan’s studio light glowed faintly through the crack.
You pushed the door open slowly, and the sight made your heart clench.
He was hunched over the desk, eyes glued to the monitor even though nothing was playing. His leg bounced restlessly, papers and notebooks scattered across the floor like they’d been thrown in frustration. Empty coffee cups littered the corners of the room, a testament to just how long he’d been sitting there.
“Chan…” you whispered carefully.
He flinched but didn’t turn. “Why are you here?” His voice was rough, like he hadn’t spoken to anyone in hours.
“Because you didn’t answer me all day,” you said softly, stepping closer.
“I was busy,” he muttered, bitterness creeping in. “You don’t have to come running every time I disappear. I’m fine.”
But the sharpness in his tone wasn’t convincing — it was cracked at the edges, brittle, like glass about to shatter.
You frowned, moving closer. “You don’t sound fine.”
“Maybe that’s because I’m not!” His voice rose suddenly, startling you. He ran both hands through his messy hair, tugging hard at the roots. “I’ve been sitting here all day, and everything I touch turns to trash. Every melody sounds wrong, every lyric feels shallow, and no matter how many hours I put in, it’s never enough. I’m never enough!”
The words echoed in the small room, jagged and heavy. His chest rose and fell unevenly, his eyes wild with frustration and exhaustion.
“Chan…”
“I’m supposed to be the leader,” he continued, his voice cracking. “I’m supposed to inspire, to keep the team together, to create music that means something. But look at me.” He gestured at the chaos around him, the mess of papers and failed drafts. “I can’t even write one decent song. I’m dragging them down. I’m dragging you down.”
Your throat tightened. Seeing him like this — shoulders caved in, the weight of the world crushing him — made your heart ache in a way words couldn’t explain.
“You don’t drag me down,” you whispered firmly, stepping closer until you were right in front of him.
He finally looked up, eyes bloodshot, tears barely held back. “Then why do I feel like I’m failing you?”
You knelt down so you were level with him, reaching for his trembling hands. He hesitated, but you held them anyway, grounding him.
“Because you’ve been carrying everything alone,” you said softly. “And no one — not even you — can do that forever. You don’t have to be perfect, Chan. You don’t have to hide this from me.”
His throat bobbed, breath shaky. “What if I’m not enough?”
“You are enough,” you insisted, squeezing his hands tighter. “Even when you can’t see it. Especially when you can’t see it. You don’t have to earn love, Chan. You already have mine.”
That was all it took. The dam broke.
A sob tore from his chest as he pulled you into his arms, clutching you so tightly it was as if he was afraid you’d vanish. His whole body trembled against yours, hot tears soaking into your shoulder.
You held him just as tightly, stroking his back in slow circles, whispering, “I’ve got you. I’m here. Always.”
He buried his face in your neck, breathing you in like you were the only air he could manage. Minutes stretched into silence, his sobs slowly softening into uneven breaths, until the storm inside him finally began to settle.
When he pulled back at last, his eyes were red and swollen, but softer — vulnerable in a way he rarely let anyone see. He cupped your face gently with a trembling hand, thumb brushing your cheek.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, voice raw.
You leaned into his touch, giving him the smallest smile. “Guess you’re stuck with me anyway.”
For the first time that night, his lips curved into something real — faint, but warm. He pressed his forehead to yours, exhaling a shaky laugh that sounded like relief.
⸻
“Come on,” you murmured after a while, tugging at his hand.
He blinked, still dazed, still fragile. “Where?”
“To bed,” you said simply. “You need rest, Chan. You can fight with the music tomorrow.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but the exhaustion in his eyes betrayed him. With a weak nod, he let you pull him up. His grip on your hand never loosened, as though if he let go you’d disappear like smoke.
You guided him to the small couch tucked against the wall. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was enough. You coaxed him to lie down, and when he immediately tried to protest — “You should go home, it’s late—” — you silenced him with a firm shake of your head.
“I’m not leaving you like this,” you whispered, sitting down beside him.
Reluctantly, he shifted until his head rested in your lap. His body remained tense for a long time, as though his mind was still spinning with all the things he hadn’t finished, all the responsibilities waiting for him. But your fingers threading gently through his hair, your steady presence, slowly worked to unravel the knots inside him.
His breaths grew heavier, steadier. At one point, his hand found yours, clutching it loosely like a lifeline even in sleep.
You smiled softly, brushing stray strands of hair from his forehead. “Sweet dreams, Channie,” you whispered, even though he was already gone.
⸻
[the next morning]
When you woke, sunlight streamed faintly through the blinds. Your back ached from the awkward position, but the warmth curled against you made it worth it.
Chan was still asleep, head buried against your chest now, his arms wrapped securely around your waist. His features, usually so drawn with stress, were relaxed in a way you rarely got to see.
You stayed still, not daring to wake him. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was resting — truly resting. And you weren’t going to be the one to break that peace.
Eventually, though, his eyes fluttered open. Blinking against the light, he looked up at you, confusion flickering before soft realization took over.
“…You stayed,” he murmured, voice husky with sleep.
“Of course I did,” you said, brushing your fingers lightly along his cheek. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
He gave a small, sheepish smile, tightening his hold on you as if testing whether you were real. “Thank you. For… for last night.”
You leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple. “Always.”
And for once, Bang Chan didn’t feel like he had to be the strong leader, the flawless producer, the unshakable rock. For once, he let himself just be Chan — tired, vulnerable, loved — in your arms.
