okay so remember this one? yeah i made another one. HAHAHAHAHA i love it, i'm sorry. the mouth inspection kink was so him so i had too.
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! includes themes such as degrading, mouth finger fucking, choking, inspections, orgasm control. 18+!!!
Your owner’s voice was low and teasing as he stared down at you on your knees. “Open your mouth.”
You obeyed instantly, parting your lips wide, tongue already slipping out like the eager little puppy you were. A soft whimper escaped you.
“Good job,” Chan praised, his thumb gently hooking your jaw open even wider. “Puppies need mouth inspections too, right baby?”
He leaned in closer, eyes dark with hunger as he studied your open, wet mouth. His fingers slid inside, pressing down on your warm tongue. Thick strings of drool immediately spilled over your bottom lip, dripping down your chin in shiny trails.
“Look at all that drool,” he murmured, voice rough with lust. “Such a messy little thing.”
Chan's fingers rubbed slow, firm circles over your tongue, spreading your spit everywhere. The wet, squelching sounds filled the room as he played with you. Your eyes fluttered, thighs squeezing together as heat rushed between your legs.
“Does it feel good when I rub your tongue? Yeah?” he cooed, watching your face twist with need. You could only moan around his fingers, nodding desperately. Your head felt fuzzy, body growing hotter with every stroke.
He pushed his fingers a little deeper, pressing toward the back of your throat. “What about a bit further, hmm?”
A choked, wet gag slipped out of you, more drool pouring down your chin and onto your chest. Your eyes watered, but you kept your mouth open like a good puppy, tongue trembling under his touch.
He smirked, clearly loving how dizzy and desperate you looked. “Someone is getting all dizzy… Does my puppy need something else filling their throat? Is that it?”
You whimpered loudly, nodding again, mouth still stretched wide and dripping. Your pussy throbbed hard between your legs, aching to be used just as much as your throat. You looked up at him with glassy, needy eyes, silently begging for his thick cock to replace his fingers and stretch your sloppy little mouth full.
Chan chuckled darkly, pulling his wet fingers free with a slick pop, strings of your spit connecting them to your lips. “Greedy puppy,” he growled, already reaching for his belt. “Let’s fill that throat properly then.”
After a brief encounter where HYUNJIN clearly wasn’t interested, you keep pursuing him. Until one raw, explosive night he snapped, pushing you away for good. Only then did he realize how desperately he craved your presence, how empty the silence felt without you.
❛ ━━━━━━･❪🦙❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜
The first time you met Hwang Hyunjin, it felt like the universe had personally handed you a spark and then immediately doused it with ice water.
It was at Chan’s birthday party—loud music, too many people crammed into a too-small rooftop, fairy lights strung like afterthoughts. You’d spotted him leaning against the railing, long hair tucked behind one ear, black silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to look careless on purpose. He was laughing at something Felix said, head thrown back, and the sound hit you somewhere behind your ribs.
You walked over with the confidence only two soju shots and a mutual friend’s encouragement could give.
“Hi,” you said, offering your brightest smile. “I’m—”
“I know who you are,” he cut in gently, but not kindly. His eyes flicked over you once—assessing, uninterested—then returned to Felix. “Chan’s friend, right?”
The dismissal was so smooth you almost didn’t register it as rejection. Almost.
“Yeah,” you answered anyway, smile faltering only a little. “I just wanted to say your last painting—the one with the burning chandelier? I saw it in your recent post. It… stayed with me.”
He gave a small, polite nod. “Thanks.”
And that was it.
He turned back to Felix, conversation closed like a door you hadn’t even been allowed to knock on.
You stood there for three more awkward seconds before Minho appeared out of nowhere, slinging an arm around your shoulders and steering you away with an exaggerated “Come on, let’s not traumatize the pretty boy tonight.”
You laughed it off. You always laughed it off.
But something about the way Hyunjin hadn’t even pretended to be curious lodged itself under your skin like a splinter.
So you kept showing up.
Not in a creepy way—just… persistently.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
A week later you “happened” to be at the same café he always went to after morning dance practice (thanks, Seungmin, for the accidental intel). You slid into the seat across from him before he could protest.
“You’re stalking me now?” he asked, not looking up from his sketchbook.
“Coincidence,” you said brightly, stealing a sip of his iced Americano. “Great taste, by the way.”
He finally lifted his gaze. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
A tiny muscle in his jaw ticked. “Look… you’re nice. Really. But I’m not looking for anything right now.”
You leaned your chin on your hand. “I’m not asking you to look. I’m just sitting here. Breathing the same air. Very platonic.”
He exhaled through his nose, the sound almost a laugh—but not quite. Then he went back to drawing.
You stayed for twenty minutes anyway. He didn’t ask you to leave.
The next time was a mutual friend’s karaoke night.
You picked “Leave” by Stray Kids (of course) and sang it directly at him.
Halfway through the second chorus he finally looked up—really looked—and for one stupid, heart-stopping second you thought maybe the lyrics had reached him.
Then he stood up, muttered something about needing air, and walked out.
Chan found you later in the hallway, arms crossed. “You okay?”
You forced a grin. “Never better.”
“You’re bleeding,” he said, nodding at your palm.
You hadn’t even noticed you’d dug your nails in hard enough to break skin.
Still, you didn’t stop.
There was the time you “lost” a bet to Jisung and had to deliver homemade cookies to every dorm room. Hyunjin’s was last.
He opened the door in nothing but sweatpants and a towel around his neck, hair damp from the shower. For a second neither of you spoke.
Then he sighed. “You’re relentless.”
“They’re still warm,” you said, holding out the tin like a peace offering.
He stared at it for a long moment before taking it. His fingers brushed yours—barely—and you felt it like static.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” he said quietly.
You swallowed. “I don’t want anything you’re not willing to give.”
He looked at you then—really looked—and something flickered behind his eyes. Not warmth. Not yet. But… curiosity, maybe. Or pity.
“Then why do you keep doing this?” he asked.
You gave him the only honest answer you had left.
“Because every time I walk away, it feels worse than staying.”
He didn’t reply.
He just closed the door.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Then came the night everything finally broke open.
It was late—after a long practice and an even longer after-party at the dorm. Most people had gone home. You were helping clean up empty bottles when you found him on the balcony, alone, staring at the city lights like they owed him something.
You should’ve left him there.
Instead you stepped outside.
He didn’t turn around. “You’re still here.”
“Someone has to make sure you don’t fall off,” you said lightly.
Silence stretched so long you thought he wouldn’t answer.
Then he spoke, voice low and razor-sharp. “Just stop. Please. For once in your life, stop.”
You froze. “Hyunjin—”
“No.” He whipped around, eyes blazing, chest heaving. “You think this is cute? You think you can just keep showing up, keep smiling, keep acting like my walls are something you can charm your way through? I’ve told you. I’ve pushed you away. And you still come back. Why? What the hell do you actually want from me?”
Your throat closed. “I just—”
“You just what?” he snapped, stepping closer. “You just like the chase? The idea of me? Because that’s all anyone ever wants. The face. The name. The access. The photos they can post to prove they got close to Hwang Hyunjin. Every time I let someone in, they take something and leave. So stop pretending you’re different. Stop making me feel like maybe you could be. Because I can’t do it again. I can’t.”
The words hit like glass.
You finally understood.
It wasn’t that he didn’t see you.
It was that he was terrified of what would happen if he did.
Your eyes stung, but you didn’t let the tears fall. Not in front of him. Not like this.
“Okay,” you whispered.
He blinked. “What?”
“Okay.” You took a step back. “I’ll stop.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Something flickered across his face—confusion, maybe regret—but he didn’t say anything else.
You turned and walked back inside.
You didn’t look back.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
For the next week, you disappeared from his orbit completely.
No texts. No group hangouts. No “accidental” run-ins. You even told Chan and Minho you needed space, that you were tired, that you’d be back when you were ready.
The boys noticed.
Hyunjin noticed more.
At first he told himself it was relief. Finally. Peace.
But the dorm felt quieter. Group chats were missing your memes. Practice breaks were missing your laugh echoing down the hall. He caught himself glancing at the door during movie nights, waiting for you to walk in with snacks and that stupid, stubborn smile.
He hated it.
One day, Felix cornered him in the kitchen.
“You’re sulking,” Felix said flatly.
“I’m not.”
“You are. And it’s pathetic.”
Hyunjin glared. “She’s the one who—”
“She’s the one who finally listened when you told her to leave you alone,” Felix cut in. “Congrats. You won. Why do you look like you lost?”
Hyunjin didn’t answer.
Changbin found him later, sprawled on the couch staring at nothing.
“You miss her,” Changbin said. Not a question.
Hyunjin rubbed his face. “I don’t know what I feel.”
“You’re scared,” Changbin said gently. “That’s fine. But you’re also being an idiot. She wasn’t after your fame. She was after you. The grumpy, closed-off, paints-at-3-a.m. version of you. And you basically screamed at her to fuck off because you’re too afraid to try.”
Hyunjin’s throat worked. “What if she’s gone for good?”
“Then you’ll deserve it,” Changbin said. “But I don’t think she is. Not yet.”
Minho was blunter the next night.
“You look like shit,” he said, tossing Hyunjin a water bottle. “Go fix it before she actually moves on. Because someone else will chase her. And they won’t be as patient.”
Hyunjin stared at the bottle for a long time.
Exactly a week since he last saw you, he showed up at your apartment.
It was raining. His hoodie was soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead. He looked smaller than you’d ever seen him.
You opened the door and just… stared.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, breathing hard, like he’d run the whole way.
Then, quietly, brokenly:
“I lied.”
You frowned. “About what?”
“When I said I wanted you to stop.” His voice cracked. “I didn’t. I don’t. I hated every second of this week without you. I hated how quiet it was. How empty. I kept waiting for you to text something stupid, or show up with cookies, or just… exist near me. And when you didn’t, I realized—” He swallowed hard. “I realized I’ve been running from the wrong thing.”
Your heart hammered. “What thing?”
“The chance that maybe you actually see me. Not the idol. Just… me. The mess. The scared part. And you still stayed. Until I made you leave.”
Tears slipped down your cheeks this time. You didn’t wipe them away.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For pushing you. For assuming you were like the others. For being too afraid to let you prove you weren’t.”
You stepped aside, opening the door wider.
He hesitated.
Then he walked in.
And when the door closed behind him, he stayed close.
He just stood there, dripping rainwater onto your floor, looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him upright.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said softly.
You gave him the smallest, saddest smile.
“Then we’ll figure it out. Slowly.”
He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years.
And when he finally reached for your hand—tentative, trembling—you let him take it.
authors note: oh i had way too much fun writing this 🥹 i just keep imagining chan as a dad in the future and him getting cuteness aggression DAILY. ugh adorable 😭💕 happy reading!
summary: Bang Chan completely loses his composure to overwhelming cuteness aggression when he sees his daughter dressed as a little wolf, melting into a soft, protective dad as he cherishes their little family moment.
fluff, domestic, chan getting cuteness aggression
Masterlist.
Bang Chan liked to think he was a composed man.
As a leader, as a producer, as a father—he prided himself on being dependable, steady, in control.
But that image shattered instantly the moment he walked into the living room that evening.
Because standing there—no, wobbling there—was his daughter.
Dressed as a little wolf.
Specifically his own beloved character, Wolf Chan.
“…What.”
His voice came out quieter than he intended, like the air had been punched out of him.
You stood beside her, phone already in hand, clearly waiting for this exact reaction. “Surprise?”
Chan blinked once.
Twice.
He looked at his daughter again.
She had on a soft gray onesie with little paw mittens, a fluffy tail sewn onto the back, and—God help him—a hood with small wolf ears that kept slipping slightly over her eyes.
“…What,” he repeated, this time with more emotion.
“Baby Wolf Chan,” you said proudly, crouching down to adjust the hood. “Do you like it?”
Your daughter let out a tiny, proud “Awooo!” that sounded more like a confused squeak.
Chan physically staggered back a step.
“No,” he said immediately.
You frowned. “No?”
He pressed a hand to his chest like he was in pain. “I don’t like it.”
Your heart dropped for half a second—
—and then he lunged forward, scooping your daughter into his arms so fast she squealed.
“I love it,” he groaned, nuzzling his face into her cheek. “I love it too much. This is dangerous. This is actually dangerous.”
You snorted. “Cuteness aggression?”
“I’m going to explode,” he said seriously, hugging her tighter—but still gentle, always gentle. “I’m actually going to explode. Why is she like this?”
Your daughter giggled, grabbing onto his hoodie strings with her mitten paws.
“Because she’s your daughter,” you said.
“That’s exactly the problem,” Chan replied, staring at her like she’d personally ruined his life.
-
Chan sat down on the couch with her still in his arms, staring at her like he was trying to memorize every single detail.
“She has a tail,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“She has paws.”
“Yes, Chan.”
“She just barked at me.”
“That was an awooo.”
He looked at you, eyes wide. “She awooo’d at me.”
Your daughter, as if understanding she was the center of attention, lifted her arms and made another tiny “Awoo!”
Chan made a strangled noise.
“Oh my God.”
He buried his face into her shoulder, mumbling something incoherent.
You laughed. “You’re not handling this well.”
“I’m handling this too well,” he shot back, lifting his head. “That’s the issue. I have too much love in my body right now.”
He poked her little mitten paw.
“Look at this. Look at her. Why is she so small?”
“She’s literally a toddler.”
“She’s smaller today.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“It is,” he insisted. “She got smaller. And fluffier. And—” he squeezed his eyes shut—“I can’t do this.”
Your daughter leaned forward and bonked her forehead against his chin.
Chan froze.
“…She just headbutted me.”
You grinned. “Wolf behavior.”
“I raised her wrong,” he said immediately, but his voice was full of fondness.
-
“Okay, okay,” you said, clapping your hands. “Stand up. We’re doing a photoshoot.”
Chan didn’t even argue. That’s how you knew he was completely gone.
“Do I get props?” he asked, already adjusting her hood again.
“Yes,” you said, tossing him a small Wolf Chan. “Hold this.”
He took it carefully, placing it in your daughter’s lap.
She immediately tried to eat its ear.
“Accurate,” Chan nodded.
You started snapping pictures.
“Chan, look here—”
He turned, but not before kissing her cheek.
Click.
“Chan, serious face—”
He tried. He really did. But your daughter grabbed his nose with both mitten paws.
Click.
You burst out laughing. “That’s the one.”
“I can’t be serious,” he complained. “She’s holding my nose hostage.”
Your daughter squealed triumphantly.
“Say awooo!” you encouraged.
“Awoo!” she chirped.
Chan lost it again.
“I’m done. I’m actually done. I’m not surviving this.”
He hugged her tightly, rocking slightly side to side.
“You’re too cute,” he mumbled. “You’re illegally cute. I’m calling the authorities.”
-
At some point, Chan just… stopped functioning normally.
He sat on the floor with her between his legs, hands hovering around her like she might suddenly vanish.
“Don’t let anyone see her,” he said.
You raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“They’ll steal her.”
“Chan.”
“I’m serious,” he insisted. “If anyone sees this—this tiny wolf situation—they’re going to try to take her. I would.”
You laughed. “You already have her.”
“I would take her again.”
“That’s kidnapping.”
“It’s worth it.”
You shook your head, amused. “You’re ridiculous.”
He looked down at her again.
She was busy trying to chase her own tail.
“…She doesn’t even know she’s cute,” he whispered.
“That’s the cutest part.”
“I can’t handle that,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s too much.”
-
“Okay,” Chan suddenly said, sitting up straighter. “We need to train her properly.”
You blinked. “Train her?”
“Yes,” he said seriously. “She’s a wolf. She needs to awooo correctly.”
Your daughter looked up at him like she understood.
“Awoo,” he demonstrated, softly.
She blinked.
“Awoo,” he repeated.
“Awoo!” she replied, louder this time.
Chan gasped.
“Did you hear that?!”
“I heard it,” you said, laughing.
“She’s learning so fast,” he said, voice full of pride. “She’s a genius.”
“She said one word.”
“It’s an important word.”
Your daughter clapped for herself.
Chan clapped too.
“Good job, baby,” he said, kissing her head. “Best awooo ever.”
-
It happened when she got sleepy.
One moment she was running around in her little Wolf Chan outfit, the next she was waddling back toward Chan, rubbing her eyes with her mitten paws.
“Up,” she mumbled.
Chan froze.
“You want me?” he asked softly.
She nodded, reaching for him.
That was it.
That was the moment.
He picked her up gently, cradling her against his chest.
She immediately tucked her face into his shoulder, her little tail resting against his arm.
Chan didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t speak.
You watched quietly.
“…She’s falling asleep,” he whispered.
“Yeah.”
“In the Wolf Chan costume.”
“Yeah.”
He swallowed.
“This is the cutest thing that’s ever happened in human history.”
You smiled.
“She trusts me,” he said, voice softer now.
“She does.”
He looked down at her, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.
“I don’t deserve this.”
“Hey,” you said gently.
He shook his head. “No, I mean it. Look at her. She’s so small. And she’s mine.”
“And mine,” you added.
“And yours,” he corrected quickly.
There was a pause.
“She’s our little wolf.”
You nodded.
“Our little wolf.”
-
Later, after you changed her out of the costume and put her to bed, Chan stayed in her room longer than usual.
He stood by the crib, just watching her sleep.
You leaned against the doorframe.
“You okay?” you asked quietly.
He nodded, but didn’t look away.
“She was so happy today,” he said.
“She was.”
“She loves you,” he added.
“And you.”
He smiled slightly.
“I think I love her more every day.”
“That’s how it works.”
He finally turned to you.
“…What if I run out of space?”
You blinked. “What?”
“For loving her,” he said, completely serious. “What if there’s too much?”
You walked over, taking his hand.
“That’s not how love works.”
He squeezed your hand.
“Good,” he said softly.
-
As you both turned to leave, a tiny voice stopped you.
“…Awoo.”
You both froze.
Slowly, you turned back.
Your daughter was still asleep.
But somehow—half-dreaming—she had made the softest little awooo sound.
Chan covered his mouth.
“No,” he whispered. “No, she didn’t just do that.”
You laughed quietly. “She did.”
He looked like he might cry.
“I’m not strong enough for this,” he said.
“Yes, you are.”
He shook his head, smiling helplessly.
“…Our little wolf.”
You leaned against him.
“Our little wolf.”
And from that day on, Chan never fully recovered from the cuteness aggression.
summ: jisung agreed to tutor you, yet you keep ending up in his office long after everyone else is gone. long enough for things to get out of hand.
⋆ pairing: tutor!jisung x f!reader
⋆ genre: smut (minors dni)
⋆ tags/cw: college au, dom!reader, pet names (sweetheart), jisung is hella needy, reader is a tease, kissing, lots of whimpering, begging, and whining, dry humping, thigh grinding, allusion to fingering, tit play (+ marking), hair pulling, semi-public s*x, unprotected s*x, edging?, backshots, piv, cumming, afab reader
⋆ words: 3.8k
a/n: i probably will go to horny jail after this. this came to me as a divine thought one afternoon and i knew i NEEDED to write it. i really enjoyed writing the dynamic between these two. i can guarantee you i cooked here, so i’d let you start reading this and enjoy it (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)
the offices in the science faculty wing were completely deserted.
well. almost completely deserted.
the hallway lights hummed softly as you walked toward the tutoring office, your calculus notebook pressed against your chest. outside, it was already fully dark, and the campus had been empty for hours.
a smile slowly spread across your face when you noticed the door at the end of the hall sitting slightly ajar.
you tightened your grip on the notebook, fixed your hair with a quick motion, and walked toward it with a confidence that was hard to hide.
you were looking forward to seeing him.
han jisung. right-hand man to the calculus professor who made your life miserable, and ridiculously recommended by half the department thanks to his charisma and his almost magical ability to make anyone understand math.
somehow, you had managed to become the most behind student in your entire class. so much so that professor kang had personally asked him to schedule a tutoring session with you a couple weeks ago.
and maybe you weren’t actually that bad at calculus. maybe you just needed a little push. but that wasn’t the only reason you kept booking sessions with him.
the first time you showed up, you had academic desperation written all over your face. the second time was curiosity. by the third time, you had started noticing things.
like the way he talked too fast whenever he got excited explaining something. or how he avoided looking at you whenever you leaned too far over the desk to look at a problem.
sometimes he would even go completely quiet, like he’d forgotten what he was saying.
and you couldn’t lie: you were fucking enjoying it.
sometimes you even caught yourself sighing when you watched him write equations on the board, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his back tightening beneath his shirt as he solved problems with hypnotic concentration.
you pushed the door open quietly and stepped inside.
you found him leaning over his desk, surrounded by scattered papers full of equations, brow furrowed in deep concentration. his tie was slightly loose and his hair looked a little messy.
it only took him a second to look up when he recognized the scent of your perfume and your shamelessly short skirt.
his eyes flicked over the scene quickly before settling on your face. one eyebrow lifted, he checked his watch, then looked back at you.
“again?”
his voice didn’t sound annoyed. if anything, it carried the amused resignation of someone who had finally accepted his fate: tutoring the most stubborn second-year student alive.
you dropped your backpack on one of the chairs in front of his desk and shrugged casually. far too casually for someone technically speaking to their superior.
or something like that. after all, jisung was still a student himself. just a senior.
“you said i could come back if i still didn’t get it.”
he sighed, leaning back in his chair. he studied you with a strange mix of exhaustion and fascination.
the small crooked smile that appeared on his lips as his eyes traveled over you sent a spark straight down your spine.
“i just didn’t expect to see you here this late,” he admitted, barely hiding his amusement. “especially three times in the same week.”
you opened your notebook to a blank page and sat down like nothing about this situation was remotely suspicious.
jisung immediately realized he wasn’t getting any further explanation, so he sighed again and leaned forward, elbows on the desk.
“alright,” he muttered. “show me what’s killing you this time.”
you explained the topic from class.
or at least you tried.
the truth was you hadn’t been paying much attention. you’d spent most of the lecture talking with your friends while silently watching the newest episode of your favorite show on your laptop.
when he finally thought he understood the issue, he grabbed a marker and walked over to the rolling whiteboard. he dragged it across the room until it was positioned directly in front of the door.
“so you don’t get distracted,” he said vaguely.
you didn’t believe that for a second.
he wrote the equation on the board with quick movements, completely focused.
it was… unfairly attractive.
“look,” he said, pointing at the work. “this is the problem. you skipped this step again.”
you crossed your arms and stared at the equation like it had personally offended you. shaking your head, you crossed one leg over the other.
jisung made a visible effort to keep his eyes on the board when they briefly dropped to your bare thighs.
“i just don’t see it,” you said, frustration obvious in your voice.
math, calculus, and professor kang could all go straight to hell.
“that’s because you’re looking at it wrong,” he said, erasing part of the process. “come here.”
you walked over to stand beside him. your perfume made him freeze for a second. you rewarded that reaction with a wide smile.
“everything okay, teacher?”
he immediately snapped out of it. nodding vaguely, he turned back to the board, trying very hard to ignore the growing problem in his pants.
“i want you to solve this one.”
his tone had gone serious again. professional.
which only made you want to break that composure even more.
you took the marker and started writing while he attempted to follow the numbers. though his eyes kept drifting to your lips every time you bit them while thinking.
when you finished, a small sound of frustration escaped him. you turned to him, confused. he sighed, took the marker, and solved the equation again beside your attempt.
“see?” he said, pointing between the two answers. “you’re skipping a step. and that throws everything off.”
“i still don’t get it,” you said with a small pout.
“that’s because you’re not listening.”
“then explain it better… smart boy.”
jisung swallowed hard. you really didn’t need to call him that. not with that tone. not with that look.
he clicked his tongue and walked back to his chair.
“i see…” he murmured, twirling his pen between his fingers. “you’re challenging your tutor now.”
you placed both hands on the desk and leaned toward him. the smile you gave him was openly provocative.
“only when the tutor seems a little distracted by other things…”
jisung’s gaze lingered on your face far longer than necessary. your eyes, your glossy lips, the small glimpse of your chest just barely visible.
he shook his head, grabbed your notebook, and wrote a few exercises with slight tension in his hand.
“solve these.”
then he returned to his own papers, trying to focus.
the silence that settled between you was familiar, dangerous.
that kind of quiet where it always felt like something was about to happen. usually that was the exact moment someone walked in. another student, a professor.
some interruption that broke the tension.
but tonight the building was completely empty.
and there was absolutely no one who could stop whatever was about to happen.
when you showed him the exercises you’d finished, you could’ve sworn jisung was about to have some kind of heart attack right there.
his eyes scanned the page once. then again. like he was searching for a logical explanation hidden somewhere between the numbers. his brow slowly furrowed and his lips parted slightly in confusion.
you frowned, a little offended by his clearly shocked expression.
“it can’t be that bad…” you started, your voice dropping into a quiet, embarrassed mumble as you pressed the notebook against the desk.
jisung let out a soft, disbelieving huff of laughter and grabbed the notebook with one hand, quickly scribbling corrections across the page. his pen moved fast, but his eyes kept flicking back to your face like something about you kept distracting him.
“i still don’t understand how you manage to do everything right…” he muttered. “…and still end up with the wrong answer.”
you made a small face at the comment and quietly walked around the desk. your fingers trailed along the wooden edge as you approached his side, the light brush of your hip against the desk very much intentional.
leaning against it, you bent just enough to see what he was writing. your fingers followed the fresh ink on the page, moving painfully slow, almost brushing his hand.
jisung’s gaze caught on that movement. then slowly lifted until it met yours.
he leaned back in his chair like he suddenly needed the distance, tugging at his tie in an automatic motion like someone who had just realized the room had gotten far too warm.
“redo this one,” he said eventually, tapping the page with his pen. “you were closest to the right answer on this one.”
his voice sounded lower now. less steady.
and his expression changed completely when, instead of doing what he asked, you hopped up and sat on the edge of his desk.
“what-”
jisung immediately glanced toward the door, panic flashing across his face for a second. his eyes darted to the small glass window, only to find the rolling whiteboard blocking it entirely.
the relieved breath he let out was almost inaudible. and when he looked back at you, you were watching him with open amusement. from up there, your eyes sat slightly above his.
he dragged a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. he cleared his throat loudly.
“you can’t sit there.”
you tilted your head with feigned innocence, like the sentence made absolutely no sense. you set the notebook aside and slowly crossed your legs.
the movement was deliberate. it wasn’t hard to notice how his eyes followed it before he seemed to realize what he was doing.
your smile widened just slightly.
“why not, sunggie?”
the nickname caught him completely off guard. he blinked rapidly. straightening in his chair, he leaned a little closer, like he was trying to reclaim at least a shred of authority.
“you just… can’t.”
“does it bother you?”
the small pout you made was a blatant provocation. because this wasn’t just about this moment.
you’d been testing his patience for weeks. leaning too close, sending him ambiguous late-night messages, slowly pushing him toward the edge.
“get off the desk…” he finally murmured. his voice came out rougher than he intended. “please.”
the plea hung between you.
you smiled… and there was nothing innocent about it.
instead of moving, your hand slowly reached for his tie. the gesture was so calm he didn’t react until your fingers were already curled around the fabric.
you pulled. not hard, just enough. the space between you disappeared until only a few inches remained. his shaky breath brushed your lips, warm and uneven.
the heat in your stomach immediately intensified.
“i think i finally figured out the problem,” you whispered.
your voice came out soft. velvet-smooth. your gaze dropped to his mouth. jisung had gone completely still.
his eyes moved between your lips and your eyes like he was trying to decide whether this was actually happening or if his brain had simply stopped working.
a strand of hair had fallen across his forehead, his shirt was slightly rumpled, and his tie was still caught in your fingers.
it was a very tempting sight.
“what problem…?” he whispered.
there was no trace left of the confident tutor from a few minutes ago.
you smiled softly, delighted to have him exactly where you wanted him. your lips brushed his, barely a touch, but it was enough to feel his entire body tense.
“the one distracting you,” you murmured.
you tugged his tie again. jisung swallowed audibly. his tongue darted out to wet his lips as he looked at you with a dangerous mix of nerves and need.
he needed you to do something.
anything.
“you can’t do this in my office…”
even he didn’t sound convinced. you looked him straight in the eye.
“watch me.”
and you pulled his tie harder.
your lips crashed together in a messy kiss, like both of you had been holding back for far too long.
jisung’s hands landed on your waist almost instantly. hesitant at first, like he was still unsure, but the second you kissed him back, parting your lips slightly against his, all that hesitation vanished.
he kissed you like he was starving, like weeks of tension had finally snapped.
your fingers kept gripping his tie as you deepened the kiss, leaning into him until his grip tightened, pulling you closer. a small gasp escaped him when your teeth caught his bottom lip.
you slid off the desk between clumsy kisses that barely gave either of you time to breathe. the movement was rushed, impatient, like neither of you wanted to break contact for even a second.
jisung tugged you onto his lap. the impact pulled a sharp breath from both of you, but neither of you pulled away. if anything, the distance between you disappeared completely.
his hands tightened around your waist, fingers bunching the fabric of your skirt as he dragged you closer against him with an urgency he wasn’t even trying to hide anymore.
and the kiss only deepened. slow at first, like he was testing how far he could go. then desperate when you responded with the same hunger. you could feel his breathing growing uneven against your mouth.
the heat radiating from his body seeped through both your clothes, and every small shift of your hips against him pulled another involuntary reaction from his throat.
jisung let out a quiet groan when your fingers tugged his tie again.
“god…” he muttered against your lips, like he was reminding himself he should stop.
but he didn’t.
his hands started moving more freely over your body, sliding from your waist to your back before pulling you even closer. you could feel the growing pressure beneath you.
and the realization made you smile against his mouth.
“still planning on teaching me calculus?” you whispered, teeth grazing his lower lip.
jisung let out a choked laugh that immediately turned into a breathy groan when you shifted slightly on his lap.
“right now…” he rasped. “i can’t think about anything except fucking you.”
your fingers slid into his messy hair, tugging just enough to tilt his head back for a moment.
your hips began moving against him almost instinctively. the slow friction pulled a low moan from his mouth. his hands tightened around your waist immediately.
“no…” he breathed between kisses. “if you keep doing that-”
he didn’t finish his sentence because your fingers had already started undoing the first buttons of his shirt. jisung sucked in a shaky breath when your lips trailed down his jaw, leaving a warm path along his neck.
“you’re really not making this easy for me,” he finally gasped.
it didn’t take long after that.
between messy kisses and impatient touches, jisung ended up fumbling your blouse open, his fingers moving faster than they were precise like the fabric itself was unbearable.
when the garment finally gave way and your skin was exposed, his breathing stopped for a second. the way his hips moved beneath you gave him away immediately.
your body responded almost instinctively, grinding slowly against his thigh. the friction dragged a muffled groan from his throat. a moment later, jisung dropped his head against your chest like he needed somewhere to hide while his lips found your skin.
his kisses were wet, consistent, leaving marks that probably wouldn’t fade anytime soon.
you gripped his shoulders as the pleasure began building in your stomach, every slow roll of your hips against his leg sending heat through your body.
your hand slid down until it found the obvious hardness beneath his pants. his breathing went uneven instantly.
jisung let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a protest when the friction intensified. one of his hands dropped to your hip, trying to slow you down.
“wait-” he panted desperately. “sweetheart… if you keep doing that I’m gonna-”
his voice broke off. his flushed face, swollen lips, and the sweat starting to cling strands of hair to his forehead made him look completely undone.
a work of art.
you stood up then. his protest was immediate. but you didn’t give him time to recover. you grabbed his tie again and pulled him to his feet. his lips found yours almost instantly.
the air in the room felt heavy now.
jisung’s hips moved against yours with growing urgency while his hands roamed your body, inevitably stopping at your chest whenever they could.
when you finally slipped your blouse and bra off completely, his reaction was immediate. he just stared at you like his brain had completely stopped functioning.
“you’re going to get me in serious trouble…” he murmured against your ear a moment later.
the warmth of his breath against your neck sent a shiver straight down your spine.
his fingers slid under your skirt, finding the damp fabric between your legs. the discovery fascinated him for a second. his fingers rubbed clumsily through the fabric, pulling soft gasps from your throat you couldn’t quite suppress.
“god…” he whispered. “you’re so wet…”
he rested his forehead against your shoulder as he spoke, like he was trying to hold onto some kind of control. it wasn’t working.
“i need to be inside you…” he breathed, voice shaking. “pleasepleaseplease… just for a second… please.”
you pulled away. the frustrated sound he made was almost pitiful, pathetic.
you turned around and leaned over the desk, pressing your stomach against it before glancing back over your shoulder. your hips swayed slowly under his gaze.
the invitation was impossible to miss.
“then do it,” your voice came out firm, like an order.
jisung didn’t hesitate. his hands landed on your waist as he stepped closer, rubbing his still-covered erection against your ass. you both gasped.
the friction was unbearable even through the fabric.
he finally freed himself with slightly trembling hands. cool air brushed your skin when he pushed your underwear aside and let it fall without ceremony. you hissed softly at the contrast.
he wrapped his hand around himself, guiding the tip along your wet folds. the contact pulled another groan from his throat.
the moment stretched for a few seconds.
then he pushed forward. the moan that escaped both of you filled the office. his hands tightened on your hips as he paused, trying to steady his breathing.
he could probably finish right there.
“fuck…” he breathed against your back. “you’re so-”
when he started moving, the rhythm began slow, careful. but it didn’t stay that way for long. your nails dug into the desk as each thrust sent fresh waves of pleasure through your body.
his movements grew more desperate. the desk knocking softly against the wall set the rhythm between broken breaths.
jisung groaned when your hips started pushing back to meet him.
“yeah…” you gasped. “much better.”
the reaction on his face was immediate. his hands tangled in your hair, tugging lightly to arch your back even more. the change in angle pulled a louder moan from your throat.
“don’t say that…” he breathed. “because i really won’t be able to stop.”
his movements became rougher, more frantic.
“i’m close…” he gasped finally against your back. “i’m gonna-”
the end came quickly. his body tensing behind yours as he gripped your hips.
when it was over, his breathing stayed uneven. he collapsed into the chair behind you, completely wrecked. running a hand down his face, his fingers covered his eyes for a moment as he tried to catch his breath.
meanwhile, you bent down to pick up your underwear from the floor. you pulled them back on, slightly uncomfortable and very aware of the lingering warmth between your thighs.
when you looked up, he was still there with his head tilted back against the chair. he looked utterly destroyed. you couldn’t help smiling a little.
after all, not everyone could say they’d let their tutor fuck them in his university office.
you watched him quietly, wondering if the moment had crossed some invisible line.
when jisung finally opened his eyes and caught you looking at him like that, the small embarrassed laugh he let out told you everything you needed to know.
you walked back over and sat in his lap again like it was the most natural thing in the world. he reacted purely on instinct, wrapping his arms around you while your fingers slid gently through his messy hair.
“shit…” he muttered. “professor kang is gonna kill me.”
his tone held far more amusement than concern. you laughed softly.
taking his tie in your hands, you carefully straightened it, smoothing the fabric like you hadn’t been yanking on it with far less care just minutes earlier.
“don’t worry about that,” you said calmly. “he doesn’t have to know.”
jisung watched you while you spoke. there was something almost dangerous in the way he looked at you when you were this close.
like he still couldn’t believe you were sitting in his lap fixing his tie after what had just happened.
he nodded slowly. his hands slid idly along your thighs. then suddenly his brow furrowed like he remembered something important.
he cleared his throat and straightened.
“still,” he said, trying to regain some authority. “we can’t do this again. not here. not in my office.”
his voice sounded far too firm. you hummed thoughtfully. like you were seriously considering his words.
you stood up and began gathering your things calmly. jisung watched every movement. you carried yourself with far too much confidence for someone who had just broken every possible rule inside a university office.
he stood up too, attempting to organize the papers on his desk out of sheer instinct. that effort lasted about three seconds before he gave up. there was no way he was getting back to solving equations after having you bent over that desk.
when you walked back toward him, his hands found your waist automatically. you leaned in and placed a soft kiss on his cheek before winking.
“don’t worry,” you said as you started toward the door. “next time we can meet at my place.”
jisung literally choked. the sound made you laugh as you opened the door. a few seconds later he was already walking beside you down the hallway, trying to regain his composure.
when you reached the parking lot, you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. he ran a hand along the back of his neck, biting his lower lip before speaking.
“then let me drive you,” he said, lifting his car keys slightly. “we could… continue there,” he paused. “if you want to, i mean…”
the uncertainty in his voice was almost adorable. it was hard to reconcile this version of him with the man who gave lectures in front of packed auditoriums without the slightest hesitation.
you felt a small flutter in your stomach realizing just how much you liked seeing him like this.
you smiled as the two of you started walking toward his car.
“careful, ji,” you said lightly. “save that energy for when we get there.”
As a girl with strict parents, you never had the space to move freely. You had a very clean image, given the circumstances. Oh, how you wish to taste some freedom, but you're too afraid it might destroy you....
You were walking from school to the library, wanting a little study moment. The way from point A to B was through a park where most parents would come with their children, but today the air was weary as you walked your way through. The wind was blowing through your hair as you held on tight to your books, your uniform neatly done. From a distance, you heard some rumbling and fumbling.
Your eyes were searching for the sound, suddenly seeing a man fighting with another. It was brutal, and the moment the man fell to the ground, you immediately ran up to them without thinking about what might come your way. The man, who was still standing, turned around once he saw you, making a run for it. Your eyes followed him into the distance, where he vanished. You went on your knees to face the other man. He was fairly young, with black hair, pale skin, and his eyes facing the ground.
"You are bleeding, let me h-" Your hand reaching out for the scar on his face, but his body trembled as soon as your fingertips touched his cheek.
"Sorry....I-....." You kept looking at the man, his eyes not crossing yours. He suddenly looked up, his eyes glinting while feeling empty. He rolled on his back, trying to sit up a bit, his arms supporting his weight. His movements were swift, a painful groan escaping from his lips.
"Can I help....?" Your voice soothing his ears, never has he heard someone talking so sweetly to him or even asking to help him. His eyes crossed yours again, nodding your way faintly. Your eyes inspected him; he had a light bruise and some blood on his knuckles. Luckily, you always carried a little AID-kit with you, for emergencies, of course.
"Tell me if it hurts....okay?" your hands are moving to his knuckles. The moment you touched it with the little wipe tissue, he hissed. His hand was slightly dragged back before letting you reach out again. You took gentle care of him, your gaze concentrating on his knuckles.
"Thank you," he breathed out, his muscles slightly relaxing under your touch. He didn't know what had gotten into him; he would never let someone get so close to him while feeling so vulnerable. His eyes landed on your uniform and how you still looked so neat.
"Hmmm...." he hummed, "I recognise that uniform."
You looked up momentarily, "You do?"
"Yeah....it is that school .... I forgot the name....uh....that big school with the dark blue ties."
You chuckled which made him relax even more in your presence, "What's so funny?"
"Nothing nothing....just the way you are describing it."
You put a bandage around his hand and a Band-Aid on his cheek. Your fingers accidentally lightly stroked his skin, which, you had to admit, felt very soft.
"There you go." You smiled softly at him, which he only answered with a light smile.
"Thank you...."
You were waiting patiently for him to finish his sentence.
"This is the moment where you would tell me your name."
"Right sorry, my name is Y/N"
"Y/N...." he let the name roll off his tongue.
"What is your name?"
"Lee Know."
The air was silent, both of you being comfortable in it. You were feeling excited for a reason, being here with a boy around your age, probably. It felt almost too exciting that you suddenly snapped back into reality again. Your eyes widened immediately, looking at your clock.
"I got to go." You stood up, rushed, taking your books under your arm.
"Are you late for something....?"
"Yeah....kinda....I don't know....bye"
Your words were thrown into his ears, collecting them piece by piece. His eyes followed your silhouette until you were out of sight, your legs almost falling off. You were running towards the library, entering from behind, and then walking outside as if nothing had happened. Your father was sitting in his car, waiting for you to enter.
The next day, you were taking the same route to go to the library, having thought about the mysterious boy you had met yesterday. You didn't get your hopes up too high, already prepared to never see him again. To your surprise, you saw him leaning against the wall with a cigarette between his fingers. He was blowing little hoop rings in the air, looking at the movements of his mouth. Even tho you don't smoke and generally don't like the idea of it, he made it look so attractive.
The moment his eyes caught you, he smiled your way. He pushed himself off the wall and stood still right in front of you.
"Hey," he smiled.
"Hey....how are you? Do you feel better already?"
He nodded, "Mhm mhm....thanks to you, my nurse."
"Oh, it's nothing, not a big deal."
"Are you busy by any chance?"
"Uh....I was planning to go to the library."
"Ah, sorry, right. Have fun at the library....Y/N."
"Thank you....Lee Know."
You walked past him slowly, your legs not cooperating with you. He was walking in the direction you had just come from, taking a little smoke from his cigarette. Suddenly your legs didn't go further anymore, turning around,
"I mean....I have time," you spoke to him.
He looked at you over his shoulder, slightly smirking, "Alright."
He walked again at your side, one hand in his pocket. The moment you two passed a bench in silence, he seated himself. A spot next to him was left empty for you.
"You wanna sit down?"
"Yeah...." You sat down, leaving a respectful distance between the two of you. There was a light breeze, and the air was gray, but it didn't feel gloomy. The weather was pretty nice with him by your side. The turmoil you were feeling inside of you as you looked at his features, his jawline, his lips, was unexplainable.
"Is there something on my face?" He raised an eyebrow, his face turning to you.
"Oh no....no nothing."
He nodded, a secret smirk slipping out. He let his head fall back while closing his eyes, enjoying the wind cooling him down. You placed your books between the two of you. As he felt movement next to him, his eyes fell on them.
"Hmmm....what are you reading?"
"Oh no, just schoolbooks. "
"They are very thick, don't you think?"
"Yeah....they are thick and heavy."
"You know...." he started, "I could always help you carry them."
"Carrying them...." you were thinking. You wouldn't mind him helping you, touching your books, and walking with you through this park. He was a nice company, something different. This type of man wasn't like the boys you saw at school. They were full of money and emptiness. He, on the other hand, had a different air moving around him.
"....I wouldn't mind if you carried them." you slipped out a little smile.
"Well....I could wait for you at your school, perhaps?"
Oh no
You would love to see him after school, but the consequences would be deadly if you were to be seen with a boy. Even worse in the eyes of your parents: a boy who wasn't one of their people. Minho saw your face go pale.
"Did I do something wrong?" he leaned slightly closer to you, which made you look up.
"No no...." you didn't move away, "Just.... never mind."
"No no, tell me. Is there something I should know?"
You sighed, your head falling back on the bench, "My parents are the problem."
"Hmmm? Tell me more." He slightly tilted his head.
"They just...." you moved your body to him, your leg going up on the bench, "They would freak if they knew I am even near a boy."
Your leg was in his lap, his arm draping around it. You could feel every little muscle in his arm relax. Your eyes were dragged away from the moment, again relaxing.
"I understand....I could wait for you at the park entrance? Don't want something to happen to you, hmm?"
"Yeah, that would be nice."
You looked at the clock, realising it was time to go again. You hated leaving him already so soon, already standing up.
"I got to go.....you know m-"
"Your crazy parents, I understand." He smiled, taking another smoke from his cigarette.
"Yeah....well....goodbye."
"Goodbye, Y/N. I'll see you tomorrow," he winked, which made something flutter without wings.
You weren't ready to separate, but you were forced to, because if you were one second too late, your fate would go downhill.
As the leaves fell from the trees, you felt like James Bond as you were always sneaking around, lying and keeping everything and anything what happend in that park a secret. You wouldn't want to lose your first friend, who happens to be a boy. It became an usual ritual to meet with him in the park. The first couple of months, you two always sat on the bench, growing closer. Then you two moved to a new spot, a bench not so far from the bleachers.
You weren't studying anymore in the library, but with him on the bench. Your book was placed open, your eyes gliding through the pages, and your fingers turning them one by one. Minho is just observing your concentration from afar, but also up close.
"What are you looking at," you playfully snapped at him.
"You have a good concentration," his body moving closer, his fingers touching the same page your hand was at.
"You wouldn't even notice a bomb explode."
"Hmmm, sure sure. Well, now you have to be silent."
He chuckled a bit and leaned his chin in the palm of his hand. Even tho there was no talking for several minutes, he didn't mind, but just being here with you. You looked up from your pages to the sun, which was already starting to sink slowly. The clock was ticking with every second, which made your heart beat even faster.
"It is almost time for me to go, it is getting dark."
"Dark? You call this late?" He stared at you, his lips twitching into a sly smile.
"Yeah, it is almost 6 p.m."
He leaned closer, "Have you ever lived past those hours?"
You tilted your head, not quite understanding what he was implying.
"I mean....have you ever just stayed up....watch the stars in the sky? I don't know, watch the sun set?"
"Hmmm, I mean....I do have a strict sleeping schedule."
He nodded and went silent, open his mouth a bit to say something but letting it slip away.
"What now?" You smiled.
"It just surprises me. I think you would like stargazing."
"I mean....I never tried it. I cannot really judge it or anything."
"I see...."
You could see him progress his own thoughts, forming an idea in his head, but not speaking about. As you stood up, he grabbed your hand. His fingers are not yet interwining with yours. The moment he saw your eyes slip to the contact, he withdrew his hand. He scratched the back of his neck.
"Never mind, just go. Don't want your parents to flip."
"Yeah...." his soft touch still burning on your skin, you retreated away. Your breath was hampered in your chest, feeling the same emotion again and again. Everything felt mischievous and exciting.
As you returned home, of course, 30 minutes earlier, you followed your normal routine. First, you had dinner with your parents, answering the same questions with the same answers, never wondering how every day seemed to be identical. Then you did your homework for at least an hour with the curtains closed. The end always finished with going to bed, putting on your pyjamas.
Your room was on the ground floor, with a window that they forgot had access to the outside world.
At exactly 10 p.m you heard a knock on your window, a fairly soft one. You were scared and sneakily looked under the curtains to see which monster might be standing there.
"Minho? What are you doing here? If my parents see you here they'll freak!"
He was leaning with his forearms against the open window, "I know, I know, but It bothers me that you have never stargazed."
"What? You want to stargaze at...." You looked over to your clock. "10 p.m., are you insane?"
"Well....there aren't any stars at daylight, hmm?"
You looked at your bedroom door, your heart racing. The fear of getting caught was creeping slowly into your head, but the idea of stargazing with Minho was easily seducing you. He held his hand out to you, waiting for you to accept it.
"You want me to go outside in my nightdress?"
"I'll keep you warm."
Your hand settled in his, softly landing with your bare feet on the grass. The cold breeze wrapping around you made you shiver. Your teeth clenched together while your arms tried to warm you up. Minho chuckled before getting rid of his jacket, placing it around your shoulders.
"There you go."
"Thanks. So what now?"
"I know a perfect spot to stargaze."
"Whoa, wait...." you let go off his hand, "First of all....I don't have any shoes on, second of all....what if my parents catch us?"
His arm went under your legs, grabbing you up in bridal style. It all went so fast, not having any time to react to the feeling of his heart thumping so close to yours. You wrapped your hands around his neck automatically, too scared to fall.
"We'll be back in no time, okay?" He looked at you, searching for your eyes.
"Do you trust me?"
There was a silence, night crickets being heard in the background,
There was a small store with an accessible roof. It was located near the beautiful woods. He let you go first to climb up the ladder, keeping close behind. The roof was divided into two parts; the right side had a massive neon light sign, and the left side was covered by it. The spot is hidden from lurking eyes. As he lay down, you followed his movement. His eyes were sparkling under the moonlight.
"What now?" You whispered, not wanting to disturb the air hanging in the sky.
"Now....you look up and count them all....waiting for a falling star."
You wanted to focus on the stars, but the way he looked tonight was catching you off guard. His profile was star-shaped, and you hoped you weren't star-crossed lovers. You tore your eyes off him, looking up and enjoying the peacefulness. Some were small, some were big, and some were standing out. The one who was the brightest was just lying next to you.
This time, you couldn't help but tilt your head his way, to look at him better. The moment your eyes bumped into each other, you could see in his reflection a fallen star. You immediately looked up to the sky,
"Did you see that?"
"Yeah....yeah, I did. It is time to make a wish."
"Hmm? A wish?"
"Yeah, if you catch a fallen star, you may make a wish."
"Okay....I wish-"
He placed his index finger on your lips, "No, no, if you say it out loud, it will not come true."
"Right...." You closed your eyes, thinking about something you have desired for a long time. Minho's head was entirely turned to you, not ashamed to be captured by your beauty and softness. Even as you opened your eyes, he didn't turn his head away.
"I....I did it."
"Good...." he smiled as you heard his body shove a bit closer to yours. The seconds were ticking slowly, and time seemed to freeze as both of you were getting lost in each other's eyes. His hand came up to your cheek, softly stroking it. You leaned closer to him, placing your hand on his. The clock kept ticking, which made your heart beat faster, the stress rising again.
"I think it is time to go back." The moment being shattered into pieces, it was as if you could hear it fall.
"Yeah, you're right."
As he stood up, he also helped you get up. The way back home was filled with unspoken tension. You were still clutching your hands around his jacket. His cologne was filling your nose, the scent being strong, but likeable. You could only imagine how he was touching his neck while rubbing it deeper into his skin.
The moment you reached your window again, it was still slightly open. Minho helped you get seated on the bottom frame. In that position, you could swing your legs silently inside. Your feet were welcomed with the soft carpet. His hands were relaxing on the same frame, his eyes looking up.
"Thank you, Minho....," you whispered, "It was....beautiful."
"Yeah....it was beautiful." He whispered a bit breathless, his eyes still on yours. You placed your hand on his, leaning a bit closer. What you were doing was the pure instincts of the heart, not having planned this. As his hands found their place on your rosy cheeks, he slightly angled your face.
Swiftly, his lips were moving on yours. In the past, you never understood how this activity could mess with someone's head, but now you were experiencing a newer perspective. The excitement mixed with your racing heart, the physical closeness, his warmth, and his breath was creating a steam. You could catch some loose words into the kiss, a little hum, or a little groan. It was shorter than expected since you were a bit forced to break the kiss.
The two of you were a bit panting, a chuckle escaping his lips.
"Goodnight, Minho."
His eyes were pleading for you to stay, but he knew the position you were in.
"Goodnight, Y/N."
He let you close the window in front of him, the curtains gliding back in place. He kept standing there for a couple of seconds before leaving for the night. His legs were moving slowly, already glancing over his shoulder, before disappearing from sight.
That moment made you even bolder. You wanted to be with Minho 24/7 because he was the only one who really understood you.
One day, you told your father you wanted to work and make money yourself. He was surprised since you just had to ask him for some and you would get it. Of course, he didn't stop you, thinking it would be a great opportunity to work and be just a tiny bit independent. Since your parents were choosing the job, you found yourself standing in the biggest library in the city. One of the greatest and most famous were many students would learn.
Your job was taking the books from the cart and placing them again in the right shelf. It was also the perfect opportunity to see Minho more.
Now you had been working there for almost a week. The routine started the same; your father dropped you off at the entrance and left in a hurry to go back to work. You walked in, gave up your name to the administrator to let them know you are in check. There was always a nearby cart already filled with books ready to be taken. You strolled through the big hallways, the bookshelves looking like a never-ending story.
Minho had already entered the library earlier, reading a book in the meantime while waiting for your arrival. You hadn't noticed him sitting as you were busy doing your work. As soon as you wandered further away, to places nobody ever comes, he decided to follow you. There were certain areas here that were excluded from the people here, very private.
As soon as you made a turn to the right, entering a hallway with very big bookshelves, he followed closely behind, whispering in your ear,
"Hello there."
You made a little scream but it was muffled by his hand being placed over your mouth.
"It's me," he laughed.
"You scared me, weirdo." You looked him up and down. " I am working."
"I can see that."
His arms were sliding around your waist, pressing himself close to your back while you were placing books on the shelf. He was slowly swaying your hips, making little movements to a rhythm. You felt his face buried in your shoulder, rubbing his head. Even tho he looked intimidating, he was a real softie on the inside. His lips were being felt on your neck, a shiver running down your spine.
"I am working Min...."
"I know...." His lips are still making a path of kisses down your neck. You let your head fall back on his shoulder, your hand stroking his on your stomach. His teeth were nibbling on the sensitive skin, and little marks were appearing. He turned you around, with your back against the shelf. You made a little surprised squeak, but immediately relaxed under the feeling of his tongue on your shoulder. Every thought left your head, you wanted to enjoy this moment instead. All he did was turn you on even more.
"Minho...." you said out of breath.
"Hmmm....?" His body was still pressed against yours as he continued marking you.
"I have to continue...."
He looked at you, his eyes pleading, " Just a little bit more...." his lips giving yours a brush.
"Please...." he whispered against them.
He was wrapped around your finger, not wanting to detach from you already. As you nodded your head, you already felt your mouth being filled with his tongue. The kiss was desperate, pushing you tighter against the bookshelf as little noises slipped out and echoed through the space. You wrapped your fingers through his hair, massaging his head. It made the noises louder; his moans could no longer be contained.
"Fuck...." his mouth searching for yours again, his hand gripping your chin to deepen it all. Your eyes became half-lidded, looking at the nearby clock. The hour of your father's return to pick you up was nearing. You didn't want Minho to stop tasting you, to stop feeling you, but you pushed him a bit away.
"I'll have to leave...."
He looked at you, his lips being plumper than before, more seductive than before. You gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before leaving the aisle. From a distance, you could see your father already waiting at the entrance, his face already turning to you. He gave you a sign to hurry a bit, running up to him a little. Luckily, the marks on your neck weren't that visible yet.
Your father held the library door open for you, suddenly having the urge to glance over his shoulder. He narrowed his eyes, looking at the same aisle you came from. A boy left it maybe two minutes before you did. He scanned him, seeing the piercing at his ear, his leather jacket, the black hair, the kind of man he wouldn't want his daughter to come home with. He pushed the thought away, but as their eyes crossed, there was a flash of recognition in Minho's eyes.
Your father's gaze was like ice, but Minho didn't become frozen under his stare.
As you drove home, something changed in the behavior of your father. He didn't ask anything about "what, where, and when". His gaze was focused on the road, his grip on the steering wheel tight. You shook the overthought scenarios of you. The moment you arrived home, you fastened your pace to go to your room. The door was closed a bit too loudly, not like usual.
You sat in front of your vanity mirror, looking at the love bites on your neck. When you touched them, you couldn't help but smile, knowing that his lips were there. Downstairs was quieter than normal, making the silence too loud for your ears.
"Dinner is ready." You heard your mother barely yell from downstairs, your gut feeling already weary. Your movements were slow as you walked to the big dining room. Your parents were already sitting down, eating little pieces of the fish. The teeth were clenched around the table, nobody speaking a word.
You felt under a magnifying glass, every little thing being seen. The utensils of your father were placed on either side of his plate, his gaze intimidating. His eyes became even more narrowed, his direction to your neck.
"Move your hair."
You felt yourself almost choking on your food, clearing out your throat, "What did you say, father?"
"You heard me; move your hair."
You looked at your mother, who was avoiding your gaze. The nerves of your father were seconds away from exploding. His jaw clenched as you started to move your hair. You couldn't even look at him, as you already know what he saw. You heard a plate shatter on the ground, and nobody was moving an inch. A chair was thrown over, and a door slammed closed.
Your legs were trembling underneath the table, your stress level rising. There was noise in the hallway, as if someone was walking in circles while not trying to punch a wall in. The door of the dining room was again opened, your father having no clear emotions on his face.
"It was him, wasn't it?"
You didn't answer him, too scared to look up. All the words were left dry in your mouth.
He slammed his fists on the table, "Answer me."
"Yes...." tears already prickling with fear.
He clenched his jaw again, his hands bawling into fists.
"You will not see that drug dealer again."
"He isn't a drug dealer...." you whispered.
He stood still. "What did you say?"
"I said....he....he isn't a drug dealer." Again, something could be heard shattering into pieces. Your mother was still calmly eating, as if nothing was happening in front of her eyes. You felt yourself suddenly getting grabbed by the arm, already knowing the feeling of getting dragged. The eyes of your mother looked up, nothing but emptiness looking your way. The warmth of your mother was like snow on a summer's day.
You were thrown into your room, the door being locked. Your desperate cried were heard through the entire house, slamming your fists against the door you broke,
"You cannot look me in here forever....you just cannot....I am an adult....I am....I am in charge.....charge of my own life," you said, your lips trembling with every word being said.
"Under this roof," your father yelled, "you are under MY commands, MY rules and MY punishments."
"You cannot lock me up here forever...." Your fist again slammed against the door, bruises appearing.
Minho was waiting at the park entrance, his eyes glued to the watch and his surroundings for any glimpse of you. His worries grew with every tick of the clock. You were nowhere to be seen. His eyebrows furrowed, but maybe you were working in the library, even if it would be unusual at this hour. He took the bus to the central area of the city, making his way up the grand stairs.
He pushed the door open and started to look around. In every aisle, every corner, every table, every little space, he had been searching, but nothing. His last hope was at the administration itself. There was a woman with big glasses standing behind the counter, scanning books and putting them in the system.
"Excuse me, madam."
The woman looked up, her eyes observing the young man. She groaned and placed the book she was about to scan down.
"How may I help you?"
"Right....I am searching for a worker of yours."
She sighed in frustration, "I have about twenty workers here. Specify who you are exactly looking for."
His jaw clenched, "I am looking for Y/N."
"Y/N who?"
"Y/N L/N."
She was typing something on her computer, clicking about ten times before giving him a proper answer, "It says in the system that...." her eyes were searching through the page, "....hmm, that is strange...."
"What is so strange?"
"She should have been here four hours ago...."
"Did she leave a message or something? I don't know, call or anything?"
The woman fixed her glasses, looking at the phone book with the recent calls. Her hands were turning the pages very slowly, which only built up Minho's frustration even more.
"Dammit, could you go any slower?"
Her eyes looked up, her face shining with no care in the world.
"If you want answers, you need to be patient, sir."
"Ju-" "No no," she cut him off, "Behave, young man, and sit down. This is going to take a couple of minutes."
He fake-smiled at the woman, "No, I am going to stand right here."
The other woman kept typing, clicking, switching, and looking. Minho was leaning against the counter, trying to see the computer screen more clearly.
"No....I have found nothing."
"Nothing? Really nothing?"
"Young man," she let her glasses slip down her nose, "I could check again, but it won't just magically appear."
He left the library building, finding this entire situation very strange. You weren't the type of person to vanish without a word or not show up to work. He sat down on the grand stairs, his face leaning against his hand. His heart was aching with worry, having no idea what he could do further. His eyes wandered around the streets. Suddenly, in the close distance, he saw a phone booth.
He could call by your house, pretending you were a classmate or maybe someone else, for instance. His legs moved by themselves, and before he knew it, he was already dialing your landline. The phone rang once, twice, and....
"The L/N residence, who may I be speaking to?"
He heard your fathers voice through the phone,
"I....Is Y/N home?"
Your father held the phone tight as he already had an idea who he was talking to.
"What is your name, son?"
The other line went silent.
"Lee Know."
"Well, Lee Know, I can assure you that my daughter's location is none of your business."
"Sir you-"
"Do not bother to call, goodbye."
The phone was slammed off, a buzzing sound only answering Minho's ears.
Since the phone didn't give him any answers, he was going to find it out in his own way. At night, he was walking to your house and going up to your window. You were rolling around in your bed, not being able to sleep. The tears that had been streaming down were still visible under the moonlight. This felt like a prison you could maybe never escape. As you heard the same little knocks on your window, it felt like a sign from heaven.
You wiped away the many tears and silently went up to your window. Minho could see the curtains getting opened. He was happy to see you again, but as he looked closer, he could see an old trail of tears. He made hand gestures to open the window, but you shook your head.
"What Y/N? Please open the window."
The worst part was that you saw his pleading eyes, his mouth moving restlessly, but no sound coming through the glass. You gripped the window and pulled it up, but nothing was moving an inch. His eyes widened as he realised your parents locked your window shut. Tears started to appear again behind your eyes, dripping slowly down. His heart broke, and the only thing he could do was place his hand on your window, longing for your touch.
"I promise, I'll get you out of here, I'll do anything for you."
All those words, but none being heard, but in your heart, you already knew he would rescue you out of this prison. As your tears couldn't be stopped anymore, you closed your curtains, leaving Minho hopeless behind.
The entire day, Minho was coming up with a plan to get you out of your room. And as the night fell again, you only waited patiently for his return. You were already prepared, having packed your stuff in a baggage and a suitcase. The reason why your parents didn't notice is that they were still locking you up in your room, not entering once these past days. If food was brought to your room, it was by the maid.
Minho was driving up to your house, parking a bit further away to make it non-suspicious. Again, just like yesterday, you heard the usual knocks. When you opened the curtains, you could see him standing there with a metal slim jim. He was going to open the window with force.
You were afraid that he would make a lot of noise, but he was trying his best to be quiet. The thin metal was used to create a small gap between the window and frame. He slowly levered it open, making it open with almost no sound, only a sliding one. As soon as it opened, you could breathe normally again. The fresh air was filling your nose.
Minho wrapped, or at least tried to wrap, his arms around your body. You tried to contain your sadness and hapiness all together, not wanting to get too excited yet.
"Minho....I want to leave....please...."
He looked up, "Okay, yes....sorry, got carried away."
He held out his hand for you but you stood still, "I packed some stuff...."
"Right, sorry....hand them over to me fast."
You left the window and brought back a suitcase and a bag, it being rather large. You had all your belongings in there, and important documents and cards you stole from your father's office a month ago. Minho placed them softly on the ground before opening his arms for you.
"Come here.... let's get out of here."
You made a small jump through the window, landing safely in his arms. The sobs were still contained, but you were to break down at any moment. He kept holding you tight against him, your feet hanging a bit off the floor. He placed a soft kiss in your hair, "You are never going to go through this ever again. Never never never never...." he kept repeating in your hair.
He placed you back on your two feet. Your suitcase was grabbed by him, and your bag was thrown over your shoulder. You were still progressing, the fact that you left the jail of your life, the controlling parents, all was left behind in that house. The moment you really felt it was when you seated yourself in his car.
He turned to you, his emotions overwhelming him as he saw you like this. His body leaned in and gave you a desperate kiss. He thought he would never be able to kiss you ever again; his worst fear almost came true. Your sobs were captured in the kiss, the tears being the cherry on top of the cake. His hand trembled as it came to stroke your hair, the soft strands slipping through his fingers.
"I missed you so much...." He whimpered into your mouth, his heart thumping in his chest. Your glossy eyes stared at him as your lips detached from each other.
"Let's go home."
And with that, a new chapter of your life started.
Well, your parents tried to call the police, but you were legally an adult. They didn't have any power over you anymore.
You settled into Minho's apartment, making the place even more welcoming to come home to.
Now the two of you were endlessly running through the park, tasting the delicious taste of freedom. Minho standing a bit further on the grass, his arms being wide open.
"Come here."
You ran up to him, his smile encouraging you to go faster and jump into his arms. The two of you fell down, rolling around together. It was maybe the start of freedom, but this already felt like a gift. There were still so many things you could do.
As you lay on your back, he hovered your body, giving you endless kisses on your neck. You wrapped your arms around his neck while watching the sun start to set. The reflex to push him a bit away,
"Hmmm?" He tilted his head.
"I've got to go home before my parents...."
He watched you connect the dots again while smiling, "....do absolutely nothing, sweetie." He kissed your cheek, letting his lips stay there for you to feel how real it all was.
Frustrated Stray Kids trying and struggling to take your bra off during a heavy make out session.
❛ ━━━━━━･❪skz❫･━━━━━━ ❜
: ̗̀➛ chan
You’re straddling Chan on the couch, the kiss deep and messy. His hands slide under your shirt, tugging it off in one smooth motion.
Then his fingers reach your bra clasp.
He tries once…
twice…
a third time while still kissing you like he can’t bear to pull away.
“Stupid fucking thing—” he mutters against your lips, clearly annoyed.
You can’t help but giggle into the kiss.
Your giggles make him narrow his eyes playfully. Instead of forcing it, he grabs the front of your bra with both hands and simply yanks the cups apart, stretching the fabric until the clasp gives up with a loud snap.
He immediately lowers his head and sucks one nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking teasingly.
You moan and reach back anyway, letting the broken bra fall completely.
He pulls off your nipple with a wet pop, lips shiny, and smirks up at you.
“Finally,” he breathes, voice low and cocky. “Cute that you were laughing at me… but look who’s moaning now, baby.”
: ̗̀➛ minho
Minho’s hands are impatient the second your shirt hits the floor.
He keeps kissing you, slow and teasing, while his fingers fumble with the clasp like it personally offended him.
After the fourth failed attempt, he growls softly against your mouth.
“Why won’t you just open, you annoying piece of shit—”
You giggle.
Minho lets out a frustrated little whine, then just pushes the cups of your bra down instead of fighting the clasp anymore. His mouth immediately latches onto one of your tits, sucking hard, tongue swirling.
The smugness is instant when he feels you moan and arch into him.
You reach back, easily unclasping the bra and letting it fall.
Minho lifts his head just enough to look at you, lips glistening, expression dripping with smug satisfaction.
“Finally,” he drawls, voice husky. “Took you long enough, kitten. Thought I was gonna have to rip it off.”
: ̗̀➛ changbin
Changbin is already breathing hard when he tugs your shirt off. The kiss is hungry.
His fingers attack the bra clasp with pure determination… and fail miserably.
He whines into your mouth, frustrated. “Come on, just— why is this so damn hard—”
Your giggle makes him pause.
Frustrated, he sits up straighter, lifts you slightly, and flips you onto your back on the couch in one smooth motion. He hovers over you, finally getting the right angle to unhook the bra with both hands.
The moment it’s loose, he tugs it off completely and dives down to your breasts.
Changbin pulls back just enough to smirk, eyes dark.
“Finally,” he says, voice rough. “Moan for me again, baby. Louder.”
: ̗̀➛ hyunjin
Hyunjin’s kisses are always dramatic and passionate.
When he can’t get your bra off after several tries, he lets out the most dramatic frustrated whine against your lips.
“Ugh— this stupid bra hates me tonight—”
You burst into giggles.
Instead of fighting it more, he leans back, grabs the straps, and slowly slides them down your arms while still kissing you, then reaches behind with both hands and finally unhooks it with exaggerated care. He pulls the bra away like it’s a dramatic reveal.
His mouth finds your chest instantly, sucking softly.
Hyunjin looks up at you, lips swollen and shiny, a smug little smile playing on his face.
“Finally,” he murmurs, voice velvet-soft but teasing. “My pretty girl laughing at me… how rude. But I like the sounds you make when I do this much better.”
: ̗̀➛ jisung
Jisung is kissing you like he’s trying to win a competition, hands eager. The bra clasp defeats him completely.
He keeps trying while refusing to stop kissing you, getting more and more whiny.
“Argh— why won’t you cooperate, you evil little—!”
When you start giggling, he whines louder.
“Babyyy—”
Jisung lets out a low frustrated sound, pulls back just enough to look at what he’s doing, then spins you around so your back is against his chest. He finally manages to unhook it from behind with better leverage.
The bra falls away.
You moan as his hands cup your bare breasts from behind. He kisses your neck, voice smug and deep.
“Finally,” he says, voice breathy and cocky. “It’s cute how you were laughing at me earlier. But now you’re making my most favorite sound.”
: ̗̀➛ felix
Felix’s kisses are sweet and deep until the bra becomes a problem.
He struggles adorably, still kissing you, little frustrated noises escaping him.
“Why is it being so stubborn tonight— c’mon—”
Your giggles make him whine cutely.
“It’s not funnyyy—”
Then he just pushes the straps down until your bra reaches to your waist, mouth immediately finding your nipple, sucking gently at first, then harder when you moan. His deep voice vibrates against your skin.
You reach back and unclasp it easily.
Felix looks up at you, freckles flushed, lips glossy, a smug little smirk on his face.
“Finally,” he says, voice low and husky. “You laughed at me… but I still win. Listen to those pretty moans.”
: ̗̀➛ seungmin
Seungmin tries to play it cool, but after the third failed attempt at the clasp he lets out an annoyed little huff against your lips.
“This stupid bra is testing my patience—”
When you giggle, he narrows his eyes.
He doesn’t push or yank.
Instead, he calmly reaches for the front, slides his fingers under the band, and simply pulls the entire bra up and over your head like a shirt, bypassing the clasp completely.
The second your tits are free, his mouth is on you, sucking with precise, teasing pressure.
You moan and shiver.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, one eyebrow raised, voice low and smug.
“Problem solved. You can stop laughing now, puppy.”
: ̗̀➛ jeongin
Jeongin is kissing you shyly at first, but it turns eager fast. When he can’t get the bra off, his cheeks flush with frustration. He whines softly into the kiss.
“Come on… why won’t you just— ugh—”
Your soft giggles make him even more determined (and a little embarrassed).
He takes a breath, lifts you higher on his lap for better access, then reaches around with both arms and finally manages to unhook it after concentrating hard.
The bra falls away.
He wastes no time burying his face in your chest, sucking gently but hungrily.
You moan, holding onto his shoulders
Jeongin looks up at you, lips wet, a smug little smile breaking through his flushed face.
“Finally,” he says, voice deeper than usual. “Laughing at me earlier… but now you’re the one making all those sounds. Cute.”
⤷ part of the weight of love: eight ways to STAY series
you spend years loving them both in the quiet ways that matter most, never asking for more than the small place you’ve been given in their lives. but when the lines between caretaker, family, and something far more tender begin to blur, chan is forced to face the love growing where he thought only grief could live. caught between loyalty to the woman he lost and the future waiting softly at his door, he has to decide whether letting you in means letting her go.
pairing single dad!chan x babysitter!reader
genre employer/employee to lovers, slow burn, angst
rating mature, 18+
word count 14k
warnings character death (past) ; themes of grieving ; slight age gap ; brief scene of child in distress ; graphic & detailed smut ; oral (m receiving) ; p in v sex
𓄲 get your tissues hunnies, it's gonna be a very bump ride. started this fic and another one on the list a while ago. and then that freaking skz code came out that made me and @joyracha go crazy in the dms and decided to build a series around them. and now here we are! as always, i went rogue and wrote way more than i planned, but hopefully you enjoy! please, if you do like this fic and want to see more, show your love by not only liking, but reblogging and commenting! us creators really do get encouragement by seeing your engagement <3
m a s t e r l i s t .ᐟ i n b o x .ᐟ
There are some people who enter your life like weather, all at once and impossible to ignore, and then there are people who become part of its structure so gradually that, one day, you look around and realize years have gone by.
Chan and Haneul are the second kind.
By the time you are twenty-three, halfway through a degree in childhood development and balancing lectures, readings, and practicum hours with more care than sleep, three years of your life have already been folded quietly into theirs. Not in a way that announces itself. Not in a way that invites questions. More in the way a favorite blanket grows softer with use.
You meet Haneul when she is two years old and too young to understand why the world around her has changed, only that it has. A terrible car accident takes her mother in a single, brutal instant, leaving behind a silence too large for a small child to name and too cruel for a man like Chan to fight with anything but endurance.
In the months that follow, his grief becomes something private and disciplined, tucked neatly beneath pressed shirts, beneath tired eyes, beneath the careful steadiness of a father who no longer has the luxury of falling apart.
He does not stop moving because Haneul still needs breakfast in the morning. She still needs her hair brushed, her shoes found, her tiny hands washed after snacks. She still needs lullabies and cartoons and someone to explain why the moon keeps following the car home. The world does not pause to honor sorrow when there is a toddler asking to be carried because her legs are tired.
That is where you come in.
At first, you are only meant to be help. A recommendation passed between neighbors and family friends and someone’s older sister who swears you are responsible, sweet, good with children, the kind of girl who actually gets down to eye level when a child talks instead of nodding absentmindedly while looking at her phone.
You arrive for the first time with your tote bag slung over one shoulder, your hair hurriedly fixed after class, and a nervousness you try to hide beneath a gentle smile. You expect a child made wary by loss, maybe even difficult in the way grieving children are often allowed to become by adults too afraid to say no to them.
Instead, you find a little girl with enormous eyes and a quietness that doesn’t belong on someone so young, sitting on the living room rug with a plush rabbit in her lap.
And you find Chan.
He opens the door looking older than twenty-five should allow, dressed in a black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, one hand braced against the frame as if he has not sat down all day. His face is handsome in a way that catches you off guard even then, but it is not beauty that lingers with you afterward. It is the exhaustion. The terrible, polished kind. The sort worn by people who have convinced everyone around them that they are managing because the alternative would frighten them.
You remember how carefully he speaks to you that first day, like he is afraid of coming across rude when really he is simply stretched too thin to decorate his words.
“Thank you for coming,” he says, voice rough from disuse or fatigue. “I know this is last minute.”
You tell him it is no problem, and you mean it.
In the beginning, Haneul watches you more than she talks. She is slow to trust in the quiet, wounded way of children who have learned that permanence is not guaranteed, and so you do not rush her. You sit on the floor. You let her bring you toys instead of asking for them. You read books in different voices until she starts to smile at the funny parts. You memorize the exact way she likes her apple slices cut, the songs that make her sleepy, the order of the bedtime routine that keeps tears from gathering in her lashes. Bath, pajamas, two stories, one song, the rabbit tucked beneath her arm, the hallway light left on just enough for the room not to feel endless.
You are studying childhood development, yes, but some things cannot be taught in lecture halls. Some things live in instinct. In patience. In the willingness to hold steady when a child tests whether you really mean it when you say you’ll still be there after they wake up from their nap.
Haneul tests you in all the ways that matter. You pass without ever making it seem like a test at all. And Chan notices.
Not all at once. He is too tired in those first months to do much beyond survive them, but even survival has its moments of clarity. He notices that Haneul cries less on the days you come over. He notices that she starts sleeping through the night more often after you begin watching her regularly. He notices that when she falls and scrapes her knee, she lets you clean it without fuss because your hands are gentle and certain and never tremble, even when hers do.
Most of all, he notices that you never treat his daughter like a fragile thing to be pitied. You speak to her like someone whole. And that alone feels like a miracle.
So what begins as occasional babysitting becomes something far more rooted. Your schedule bends around theirs. Tuesdays and Thursdays after class. Friday evenings when Chan works late or simply needs an hour to breathe without feeling guilty for it. Entire Saturdays sometimes, when errands pile up or Haneul grows clingy and insists on asking every hour when you’re coming.
You become a fixture of the apartment so gradually it almost escapes notice. Your sneakers by the door. Your cardigan draped over the dining chair. Your handwriting on sticky notes by the fridge reminding Chan that Haneul ate all her strawberries already and will definitely ask for more.
The apartment changes too. Not because grief leaves it, but because your presence teaches it how to hold something besides grief.
It is never a large place, but it is warm. The kind of warmth earned through living rather than design. Soft cream walls. Toys tucked into woven baskets that never fully contain them. Crayon drawings held up by magnets on the refrigerator. Storybooks stacked sideways on the coffee table. A faint scent of detergent, baby shampoo long outgrown but not quite forgotten, and whatever Chan has managed to cook between work and fatherhood.
There is always evidence of him everywhere, though none of it showy. A jacket thrown over the couch. A half-finished mug of coffee gone cold on the counter. His laptop open beside a pile of Haneul’s coloring pages because his life is a constant negotiation between responsibility and interruption.
He is the sort of father who carries everything without announcing the weight of it. The sort who wakes at the slightest sound from down the hall, who knows the difference between Haneul’s sleepy whine and her truly upset cry, who kneels beside her bed in the middle of the night with one hand smoothing over her hair while the other checks the temperature on her forehead. He remembers pediatrician appointments without reminders. Keeps extra wipes in the car, crackers in the pantry, Band-Aids in three different drawers. He moves through fatherhood with a quiet competence that would look effortless if you did not know better.
But you do know better.
You see the tiredness under his eyes when he lingers in the kitchen after you arrive, finishing the coffee he forgot to drink hot. You notice the way he thanks you every single time, never once acting entitled to your care even after years of it. You know how often he apologizes for being late, for the toys on the floor, for Haneul being fussy, as if you haven’t already seen him manage work calls while tying the laces on sparkly shoes and cutting sandwiches into stars because she once decided squares were too boring to eat.
There is a devotion in him that feels almost sacred. It lives in the smallest things. In the way he crouches to zip Haneul’s jacket all the way to her chin before stepping outside. In the way he always, always looks back if she calls for him, no matter how busy he is. In the way his voice changes around her, softening at the edges until it becomes something rich and tender enough to wrap around a child like a blanket.
You fall in love with him slowly enough to pretend for a while that you are not falling at all.
Maybe it starts with admiration. Maybe with the first time you see him asleep on the couch after a long day, Haneul sprawled across his chest, one of his arms curved around her even unconscious, as if his body itself knows to protect what he loves. Maybe it starts the night Haneul has a fever and Chan comes home early, tie pulled loose, panic tucked beneath composure, and the relief in his face at finding you there with her makes your chest ache in a way that follows you for days.
Maybe it starts a hundred different times, in a hundred small, impossible moments, until one day you realize your affection has become something far deeper and infinitely more dangerous. You never say a word because know your place.
You are the babysitter. The trusted one, yes. The beloved one, maybe. The one Haneul runs to with drawings clutched in her hand and secrets already spilling from her mouth. The one Chan relies on more than he probably means to. But still, the babysitter. Younger than him by five years, still in college, still building a life of your own. Whatever tenderness threatens to gather in the quiet between you is neatly folded away before it can become visible.
You are not careless with his grief. That, more than anything, keeps you still.
Because even three years later, his wife is not a shadow in this home. She is a presence. A photograph in Haneul’s room. A framed wedding picture tucked onto a bookshelf in the living room. A name spoken gently when Haneul asks questions in that childlike way that manages to be both innocent and piercing. Sometimes, when Haneul is already asleep and the apartment has settled into evening, Chan will look at that photograph for half a second too long before thanking you for staying late.
You never mention it. You never need to.
Loyalty clings to him with the same quiet persistence as grief. Not performative, not self-pitying—simply true. He loved her. He loves her still, in the strange enduring way people love the dead, where memory becomes both comfort and punishment. There are parts of him that remain turned toward that loss even while the rest of him keeps moving forward for Haneul’s sake.
You understand this. You respect it. You build your distance around it brick by careful brick.
And yet time has a way of softening edges no one meant to touch.
Haneul is five now, all bright chatter and quick feet and opinions about everything from cereal shapes to which stuffed animals deserve spots on her bed. She has grown out of her toddler roundness into the delicate, lovely little girl she was always going to become, and somehow, without anyone formally deciding it, you have become woven into the rhythm of her life. You know the names of her classmates, the songs from her favorite cartoons, the exact color she calls “princess pink,” though it looks suspiciously like regular pink to everybody else. She asks for you with the unquestioning certainty children reserve for the people they believe belong to them.
And that is where things begin to shift.
Not because you change.
You are still kind in all the same ways, still patient, still thoughtful, still loving with a steadiness that makes Haneul bloom toward you like something reaching for sunlight. You still arrive with little snacks tucked into your bag and kneel to fasten tiny sandals and sit through tea parties where the tea is invisible and apparently scalding. You still love Chan from a distance so disciplined it sometimes feels like another form of prayer.
No, what changes is harder to control because it is not yours alone.
Haneul starts to look at you with something deeper than affection.
Children do not always have the language for the shapes their hearts make, but they feel those shapes with startling clarity. The comfort of you. The safety. The constancy. The way your hands smooth back her hair when she is upset, the way your voice lowers instinctively when she needs soothing, the way you remember every small thing that matters to her.
The resemblance is not in your face or your voice or your mannerisms. It is in the role your love begins to occupy.
Chan notices it before he lets himself name it.
He notices Haneul reaching for you first after scraping her palm on the playground, even with him standing right there. Notices the easy way she leans into your side during movie nights. Notices the childish, unquestioning possessiveness with which she says your name, as though you have always belonged inside the borders of her world. At first, he tells himself it means only that she trusts you, that your presence has become important to her in the natural way caretakers become important to children.
Then one evening, standing in the kitchen while you help Haneul wash paint from her fingers, he looks up and sees the scene in the darkened reflection of the window above the sink.
You with your sleeves rolled to your elbows, smiling softly as Haneul chatters about the family of lopsided paper butterflies she made that afternoon. Haneul looking up at you with that unguarded little face, all trust and attachment and love. The domestic intimacy of it striking the room so cleanly that it takes the air with it.
Something in his expression changes before he can stop it. Because for the first time, the thought does not arrive as a blur. It arrives whole.
Haneul does not just adore you. She is beginning, in the tender unconscious way of children, to love you in a place shaped suspiciously close to where a mother belongs.
And Chan, who has spent three years carrying grief in one hand and fatherhood in the other, finds himself standing at the edge of a truth he does not know how to survive.
Not only because of what Haneul feels. But because when he looks at you now, his gaze lingers.
On your smile. On your patience. On the quiet grace with which you move through his home as if care is your native language. On the life you have breathed into corners of this apartment he thought would stay dim forever.
And worse than that, more frightening than that, is the part he cannot confess to anyone.
His thoughts linger too.
Not in a reckless way. Never that. Chan is not careless, least of all with you. But desire is not always something dramatic or easily shamed. Sometimes it comes dressed as tenderness that lasts a second too long. As awareness. As the dangerous warmth of noticing your beauty when you tuck loose strands of hair behind your ear while listening to Haneul explain a dream in serious detail. As the temptation to stay in the doorway just to hear you laugh again. As the ache of imagining, only for a moment, what it would mean to let himself want something more.
And every single time, loyalty drags him back. Loyalty to the woman he lost. To the life he thought he would still have. To the version of himself who believes moving on must feel like betrayal if it is ever going to count as real.
So he says nothing. You say nothing. And the three of you continue like that, poised on the fragile edge of something unnamed, each day carrying you a little closer to the point where silence will no longer be enough.
That is how you get here.
Three years after a tragedy that rearranged everything. Three years after you first stepped into Chan’s apartment expecting to offer temporary help and somehow became part of the architecture of his life. Three years of bedtime stories and shared routines and feelings tucked away so carefully they have started to sharpen with the pressure of being held.
Now Haneul is five years old, clever and affectionate and much too perceptive for her own good. You are older too, steadier in yourself, though no less cautious. Chan is twenty-eight and still trying to carry everything alone, still devoted, still gentle, still breaking in places no one sees.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, love has begun to gather.
Not the easy kind. The kind that arrives with history. With grief. With guilt and longing and the unbearable hope of being chosen anyway.
The front door unlocks with the familiar click that always seems to travel through the apartment a beat before Chan does, and the moment it does, Haneul’s entire body lights up.
She has been coloring on the living room floor for the last twenty minutes, tongue peeking out in concentration as she presses a purple crayon too hard against the paper, but at the sound of the door, she gasps like something wonderful and long-awaited has finally arrived. Her crayon rolls away forgotten as she scrambles to her feet.
“Daddy!”
Her voice rings through the apartment bright as bells, and then she is gone in a blur of little socks and wild hair, racing across the hardwood with all the unrestrained devotion of a child who has been waiting to see her favorite person all day.
You do not have to look to know what comes next.
Chan barely gets the door shut behind him before Haneul crashes into his legs, her arms wrapping around him with enough force to make him laugh softly under his breath. It is the kind of laugh you have learned to listen for over the years, quieter when he is tired, roughened around the edges after a long day, but always there for her. Always immediate.
“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, his voice worn down by hours of work and city traffic and whatever else the day has managed to drag over him, but turning warm the second he bends down to scoop her up. “Miss me that much?”
“Yes,” Haneul says with the seriousness of someone stating a fact beyond debate, her arms looping around his neck as he lifts her against his chest. “A lot.”
You can picture it without stepping away from the stove. The way his shoulders finally loosen once he has her in his arms. The way his cheek brushes the side of her head. The way exhaustion never disappears from him all at once, but shifts, settles, becomes something gentler the moment she is close enough to hold.
From the kitchen, you stir the sauce one last time and lower the heat, letting the apartment fill with the warm, savory scent of garlic and soy and browned onions. The pan gives a soft, steady hiss under your hand, steam fogging briefly against your wrist before curling away. Rice waits fluffed in the pot beside it, and the vegetables you chopped earlier are soft now, glossy under the kitchen light. It is not anything extravagant, just dinner, just something simple and comforting after a day that has clearly asked too much of him already, but you know by now that sometimes the smallest things land with the most force.
Chan rounds the corner into the kitchen with Haneul still perched on his hip, and the second he sees you standing there in front of the stove, the look on his face shifts.
It is subtle, the kind of thing someone else might miss if they do not know him the way you do. His tie is gone, probably shoved into his work bag the moment he got into the car. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled to his forearms, slightly uneven, and there is a tiredness clinging to him that looks almost physical, something draped over his shoulders heavier than the leather strap of his briefcase.
His hair is a little mussed, his eyes faintly shadowed, and for a second he simply stands there taking in the sight of you in his kitchen, dinner nearly finished, his daughter tucked close against him, home smelling like something warm and lived-in instead of the sterile leftovers of takeout containers or the rushed effort of a meal made too late.
Then his mouth softens.
You know that look too.
It is never dramatic with Chan. Nothing with him ever is. But gratitude moves through him like low light across water, quiet and immediate and deeper than he usually lets anyone see.
“You’re cooking?” he asks, though the answer is obvious.
You smile over your shoulder at him, lifting the wooden spoon a little. “I am. Haneul told me she was starving and then listed six different things she wanted, so we compromised.”
Haneul, entirely unbothered by being exposed, presses her cheek into Chan’s shoulder and says, “I wanted spaghetti and dumplings and fish sticks and mac and cheese and strawberries.”
“And instead,” you say, amusement warming your voice, “she is getting chicken stir-fry, rice, and strawberries after dinner if she eats enough actual food first.”
Chan lets out a breath that almost passes for a laugh, though it still carries the roughness of exhaustion in it. “You’re a miracle, you know that?”
The words come out easy, automatic perhaps, but the way his eyes linger on you as he says them makes something inside you pull a little tighter.
You busy yourself with the pan, even though it does not need much attention anymore. “It’s not a miracle. It’s just dinner.”
“Still.” His voice lowers, quieter now, more sincere. “Thank you.”
When you glance back at him, really look at him, the gratitude sits plain on his face. It does something dangerous to your chest every time, the way he thanks you as though your care is never expected, never owed, always something precious enough to acknowledge. Even now, after years of stepping so naturally into the space his home seems to make for you, he never treats your presence like entitlement. He treats it like grace.
Haneul wriggles, suddenly impatient. “Can I set the table?”
“You can help,” you say.
That is enough to make her squirm out of Chan’s arms at once, her little feet landing hard against the floor before she darts toward the cabinet where the plates are stacked. Chan watches her go, the same way he always does, with that quiet attentiveness that never fully leaves him, and then he exhales slowly, one hand settling on the back of a dining chair as if he needs the pause.
Up close, the weariness on him is even clearer. Not just tired. Pulled thin.
“Long day?” you ask softly.
His mouth tips in something that is not quite a smile. “You could say that.”
He does not elaborate right away. He rarely does, at least not until the apartment has softened around him and Haneul is distracted enough that he can let a little more of the day show on his face. Instead, he loosens the top button of his shirt and steps closer to the stove, drawn in by the smell.
“That smells incredible,” he says. “Seriously.”
“It should be decent,” you reply. “We’ve been taste-testing.”
“We?” he echoes, glancing toward Haneul, who is now carrying forks to the table with great concentration, as though transporting priceless artifacts.
“We meaning me,” you say dryly, “while your daughter declared herself head chef and supervised.”
That earns you a fuller smile this time, brief but real. It changes him every time it happens, makes him look younger than grief and responsibility usually allow. Then his gaze drops to the skillet again, curiosity touching the edges of his expression.
“What is it exactly?”
“Soy-garlic chicken,” you tell him. “With vegetables. The sauce is a little sweet, so Haneul approved.”
“Of course she did.” He studies the pan a second longer, then looks at you. “Where did you learn how to make that?”
The question is casual. So are you when you answer.
“Oh.” You set the spoon down against the rest by the stove and reach for the bowls. “I went to a cooking class once for a first date, and they taught us a version of it.”
The silence that follows is not loud, but it is immediate.
It moves through the kitchen like something invisible suddenly slipping between the cabinets and counters, small but unmistakable. You only really register it when you turn, two bowls in your hands, and find Chan standing exactly where he was a second ago, except now there is something different in his face.
Not anger. Not even disapproval. Just a kind of stillness.
It takes you a moment to understand why.
His eyes rest on you with an unreadable weight, his expression gone carefully neutral in the way it does when he is keeping something behind his teeth. For the briefest second, he almost looks startled, as though the words first date have landed somewhere in him he was not prepared to expose.
You blink, suddenly aware of how oddly intimate the conversation has become for something so harmless.
“It wasn’t recent,” you add lightly, setting the bowls on the table. “It was a while ago.”
Chan nods once, but it is delayed enough that you notice.
“Right,” he says.
That single word is perfectly even. Too even.
You glance at him again, trying not to let your confusion show. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m not,” he says, which would be more convincing if he did not still look a little thrown.
A tiny smile starts tugging at your mouth despite yourself. “Chan.”
He drags a hand over the back of his neck, his gaze flicking briefly toward Haneul before returning to you. “You went to a cooking class for a first date?”
There it is. Not accusation, exactly. Just disbelief tinged with something you cannot quite place at first, something quieter and sharper than surprise.
You lean one hip against the counter, suddenly more aware of him than you should be, of the loosened collar of his shirt and the tired line of his shoulders and the way his attention has narrowed entirely onto you.
“Yes,” you say, a little amused now. “That is what I said.”
He lets out a soft breath through his nose, almost scoffing, though there is no edge to it. “That feels…” He pauses, like he is choosing a word he will not regret. “Specific.”
You laugh then, unable not to. “It was specific. The whole thing was supposed to be charming.”
“Was it?”
You tilt your head. “The class or the date?”
His eyes hold yours for a fraction too long. “The date.”
The answer should be easy. It should be nothing. A passing anecdote attached to a recipe and no more important than that. But Chan is looking at you in a way that makes the air feel thinner, and for a second you can feel the shape of something unspoken pressing against the edges of the room.
You look away first, reaching for the strawberries just to have something to do with your hands.
“It was fine,” you say. “Not especially memorable, apparently, since the chicken is what lasted.”
Chan hums quietly, though it does not sound like amusement. Something in his expression shifts again, gentling and darkening at once, a flicker so fast you almost miss it.
Jealousy is not a look you have ever thought to assign him. Not toward you. Not in relation to you. The very idea feels too impossible to touch directly, and yet there is something faintly unsettled in the way he stands there, in the careful blankness he is trying to hold over whatever instinctive reaction your answer has stirred.
He has no right to it. You know that. He knows that too. But apparently knowing does not stop it from existing.
The realization arrives slowly enough to be dangerous.
Chan’s gaze drops for a moment to your hands as you rinse the strawberries, then lifts again to your face, quieter now.
“I guess,” he says, voice low, “I never really think about you dating.”
There is no flirtation in the words. That would almost be easier to survive.
What there is instead is honesty, reluctant and unvarnished, as if the sentence slipped out before he could decide whether to keep it.
Your fingers still beneath the running water. You turn the faucet off carefully. “I date,” you say, aiming for casual and not entirely trusting yourself to hit it.
His jaw shifts almost imperceptibly. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”
But he does not sound like he knew. He sounds like someone who has just remembered that you exist outside the borders of this apartment, outside bedtime stories and dinner prep and afternoons spent kneeling beside his daughter to help with tiny shoes and crayons. Like the image of you with someone else has caught him off guard in a way he does not understand well enough to conceal.
At the table, Haneul starts humming to herself while lining up napkins with painstaking precision, blissfully unaware of the strange, fragile thing gathering in the kitchen behind her.
You dry your hands on a dish towel and keep your tone deliberately light, though your pulse has begun doing something inconvenient under your skin.
“It was one date, Chan,” you say. “You look like I told you I ran away to join the circus.”
That gets the smallest laugh out of him, but it is brief, and when it fades, his gaze stays on you.
“Sorry,” he murmurs.
The word lands heavier than it should.
You shake your head. “You don’t have to apologize.”
Maybe he does not. Maybe he does.
He glances down, fingers curling against the back of the chair beside him, his expression tightening in a way that tells you he is aware, at least in part, that he has stepped somewhere he should not have. That whatever flicker passed through him a moment ago does not belong to him. Not with you. Not like this.
When he looks back up, he has smoothed himself out again, though not completely.
“Just surprised me, I guess.”
You could leave it there. You should leave it there. Instead, because some reckless little thread in you wants to tug at the seam and see what gives, you ask softly, “Why?”
Chan’s eyes meet yours, and something in the room stills all over again.
For one suspended second, he looks like he might answer. Really answer. Not with something easy or polite, but with the truth or some dangerous piece of it.
Then Haneul spins around in her chair and announces, “I did the forks all by myself.”
The moment breaks cleanly, almost cruelly.
Chan looks away first, that gentle father-softness returning to his face as he turns toward her. “You did?” he says, moving to inspect the table. “That’s impressive.”
You stand there for a beat longer, dish towel still clutched in your hands, the ghost of that almost-confession hovering between your ribs like heat that has nowhere to go.
Then you follow, setting the bowl of strawberries aside for later and bringing dinner to the table.
Conversation slips back into safer things. Haneul chatters about a girl in her class who insists pink crayons work better than red ones. Chan listens, asks questions, and eats like someone who did not realize until the first bite just how hungry he was. More than once, you catch him looking at you when he thinks your attention is elsewhere, and each time he looks away a second too late, the awareness of it settling over you both like a secret too new to name.
Haneul’s bath time has long since developed its own little rituals, the kind children attach themselves to with fierce sincerity once they decide a routine belongs to them.
One of them is the singing.
It starts nearly a year ago, after a phase where she becomes convinced that closing the bathroom door means vanishing, and though she has long since outgrown the fear itself, the habit remains. Whenever she is in the tub and you are not standing directly beside it, she has to sing the entire time. Loudly, continuously, and with enough enthusiasm that neither you nor Chan ever have to wonder where she is or whether she has decided, in some burst of five-year-old ambition, to attempt something reckless with a wet foot and too much confidence.
Tonight, her voice floats down the short hallway in cheerful, slightly off-key waves, rising and falling over the splash of bathwater.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little starrrr,” she belts from the bathroom, only to abandon it halfway through and pivot into a cartoon song about a rabbit who loves carrots and friendship. The words are mostly wrong. The volume is not.
You smile to yourself as you pull her comforter smooth over the mattress, tucking the corners just the way she likes so she can burrow under them dramatically later and declare herself a sleepy princess. Her rabbit is placed at the top of the bed, facing outward. Her nightlight is plugged in. On the small dresser beside the lamp, the framed photo of her mother catches the soft yellow light and gives it back in a muted gleam.
The room is warm with familiar things. Lavender lotion. Clean pajamas laid out in a neat little pile. A picture book already waiting on the pillow. Haneul’s world always feels especially tender at night, as though the room itself settles into a gentler shape once the day begins to dim.
From the bathroom, her voice rises again.
“I’m a bunny, bunny, bunny in the baaath!”
You laugh under your breath. “Keep singing, baby.”
“I am!” she shouts back, indignant and sincere.
You are fluffing the second pillow when you feel, more than hear, someone stop in the doorway.
Chan does not announce himself right away. He only stands there for a second, one shoulder resting lightly against the frame, watching you move around Haneul’s room with easy familiarity. By now, you know the weight of his silence well enough to recognize when it means thought rather than exhaustion, and tonight there is something deliberate in it.
When you glance over, he has changed out of his work clothes into a soft black T-shirt and gray lounge pants, the lines of the day gentled but not erased. His hair is slightly damp at the temples from a shower, and there is a stillness about him that tells you he has been carrying something since dinner and has finally decided to bring it back out into the light.
Haneul’s singing bounces down the hall again, louder this time.
Chan’s mouth tilts faintly. “She’s really committing to it tonight.”
You smooth your palm over the blanket one last time. “She knows the rule.”
“She also knows how to turn it into a full concert.”
“That too.”
He steps into the room then, slow and unhurried, his gaze brushing over the bed, the pajamas, your hands lingering near the pillow. There is always something dangerous in moments like this, in the domestic ease of them. In how naturally you fit here. In how much less space there seems to be between you when the apartment is quiet and Haneul’s little voice is the only thing filling the air.
For a second, he says nothing. Then, as casually as if he were asking about the weather, he says, “So…that cooking class date.”
You turn your head toward him fully, already suspicious of the neutrality in his tone. “What about it?”
He lifts one shoulder, feigning lightness badly enough that it almost makes you smile. “Nothing. I was just thinking about it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” His eyes flick to the stuffed rabbit on the bed, then back to you. “Guess I’m still surprised.”
There is that word again. Surprised. It shouldn’t needle at you the way it does, but something about it has been sitting under your skin since dinner, unresolved and quietly aggravating.
“Surprised that I can cook?” you ask.
A breath of amusement touches his face. “That’s not what I meant.”
You fold your arms loosely, leaning one hip against Haneul’s dresser. “Then what did you mean?”
From down the hall comes a splash, then an enthusiastic, “Bunny bunny bath time queen!”
Chan exhales softly through his nose, but his attention never leaves you. “I told you,” he says. “I just don’t really think about you dating.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
The words leave your mouth lighter than they feel, sharpened by something you had not intended to show. Chan notices it immediately. You can tell by the way his expression changes, something in it tightening just enough to make the room feel smaller.
“It’s not a problem,” he says quietly.
“No?” You tip your head. “Because you’ve seemed pretty bothered by it for someone who claims it isn’t.”
His jaw shifts. “I’m not bothered.”
You give him a look.
From the bathroom, Haneul transitions into a drawn-out version of the alphabet song, half of the letters swallowed by the echo of tile.
Chan drags a hand over the back of his neck. “I said I was surprised. That’s all.”
“And I said I date.”
The silence that follows is thin and fragile, stretched tight between you.
Maybe if he had left it at dinner, if he had let the moment break and disappear under the noise of plates and Haneul’s chatter, this would still be manageable. But he is here now, bringing it up again in the quiet of her bedroom, after bathwater has started sloshing against enamel and the night has settled enough that every glance feels heavier than it should.
Your heart is beating too hard for something so small.
Chan’s voice lowers. “You know what I mean.”
“No,” you say, and now the frustration is there, unmistakable. “Actually, I don’t.”
His brow furrows, not in anger but in a kind of guarded discomfort, as if this has moved beyond the shape he hoped it would keep. “You’re upset.”
You laugh once, though there is no humor in it. “You’re the one asking follow-up questions about a date I went on forever ago.”
“I asked one question.”
“You brought it back up.”
His eyes flash with something that is not quite irritation and not quite embarrassment, but close enough to both that it catches heat against your own. “Because I was trying to understand why it got under my skin.”
The honesty of that startles you, but only for a second.
“Then maybe you should understand it on your own,” you say, your voice softening in volume and sharpening everywhere else. “Because you don’t get to act weird every time you remember I have a life outside this apartment.”
Chan straightens a little, his face going still in that careful way it does when he feels something too much and is trying not to let it show. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then what are you doing?”
He looks at you. And there it is again, that unbearable sense of something pressing at the edges of the room, something too big and too dangerous to stay unnamed much longer.
You are suddenly aware of everything. The soft lamp glow. Haneul’s distant singing, now wandering into nonsense lyrics about stars and strawberries and glitter. The framed photograph on the dresser beside your elbow. The fact that Chan is standing only a few feet away and somehow feels both impossibly close and nowhere you can safely reach.
When he speaks, his voice is quiet enough that it almost disappears into the room. “You know I can’t…”
He does not finish. But it’s enough.
All the restraint you have wrapped around yourself for years pulls tight at once, then frays.
“Can’t what?” you ask, and your own voice has changed now too, gone unsteady around the edges. “Be upset that I date? Want to know about my life? Feel anything?”
Chan’s expression flickers, pain and caution moving through it so quickly that you almost miss the distinction between them. “Don’t,” he says. It is not a warning. It is closer to a plea.
“No,” you say, because suddenly you cannot bear this version of him, this version of the two of you, where everything is measured and bitten back and left to rot in silence. “You don’t get to do that.”
His gaze fixes on you, unreadable except for the tension in it. “Do what?”
“This.” You gesture helplessly between you, frustration spilling out now that it has found a crack. “Acting like it bothers you when I date, acting like it means something, and then pretending it doesn’t. Pretending you don’t feel what I feel too.”
The words hang there.
For one terrible second, the room becomes perfectly still.
Even from the bathroom, Haneul’s singing seems farther away, thinner, as though the world itself has pulled back to listen.
Chan does not move. His face changes, but only slightly. A tiny falter. A break in the careful control he wears like armor.
You hear your own pulse in your ears.
The moment after a confession is always stranger than the confession itself. You expect release, maybe ruin, maybe relief. Instead there is only exposure, raw and immediate and impossible to take back.
Chan’s throat works once before he speaks. “You think I don’t know that?” he asks, and his voice is so low it nearly fractures under the weight of it. “You think I haven’t been fighting that every day?”
Your breath catches.
He takes half a step forward, not enough to close the distance, only enough to make it feel deliberate.
“You think I don’t see the way she looks at you? The way you take care of her, take care of us, like it’s the most natural thing in the world?” His eyes search your face, torn open now in a way that almost hurts to witness. “You think I haven’t noticed what this has become?”
Something hot stings behind your eyes before you can stop it. “Then why are you standing there acting like I’m the only one who has to live with it?”
Chan opens his mouth.
And then the apartment splits open with Haneul’s scream.
It is so sudden, so sharp and terrified, that both of you are moving before the sound has even finished leaving her throat.
“Haneul!”
Chan is out the door first, your feet nearly tripping over each other as you rush down the hall after him. The bathroom light is too bright when you burst inside. Haneul is half-sitting, half-sliding in the tub, water sloshed over the edge and onto the tile, her face crumpled in fear as she coughs and cries at once, tiny hands grasping blindly for something steady.
“I slipped,” she sobs. “I slipped, Daddy.”
Chan is on his knees beside the tub in an instant, all the tension from a moment ago gone, replaced by pure parental instinct. “I know, baby, I know. I’ve got you.” His voice is calm despite the fear flashing across his face as he reaches in and lifts her out, dripping and shaking, against his chest.
She is not hurt. You can see that almost immediately. Startled, frightened, maybe swallowed some water when she went under for a second, but not injured. Still, the panic in her is real, and that matters just as much.
Chan cradles her close, one large hand spread protectively over the back of her head while the other rubs slow circles between her shoulders. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, over and over, his voice warm and anchoring even while his own breathing is unsteady. “You’re okay. Daddy’s got you.”
Haneul coughs again, crying harder now, her wet hair plastered to her forehead and cheeks flushed pink from heat and fright. Chan adjusts her against him, trying to soothe her, trying to calm the trembling little body in his arms.
Then she lifts her face, tears clinging to her lashes, and reaches for you. “Mommy,” she cries.
Everything stops. Something inside the three of you, sudden and absolute.
Chan freezes. So do you.
Haneul’s small hand opens and closes toward you, her face crumpling harder as she reaches again through tears and panic, too scared to understand what she has just done, only knowing that she wants comfort and that your name, your shape, your love have tangled themselves in her frightened little heart until this is what comes out.
“Mommy,” she sobs again, desperate this time.
The word lands like a stone dropped into still water, the impact rippling outward too fast to outrun.
Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out at first.
Chan looks at you. It lasts barely a second, maybe less, but the weight of it is enough to make the room tilt. Shock, grief, tenderness, something rawer than both, all flickering through his face before he lowers his eyes.
You move then because Haneul needs you. Whatever this moment is, whatever it will become later, cannot matter more than the little girl crying in front of you now.
“It’s okay, baby,” you whisper, stepping closer. Your hands shake only slightly as you take the towel from the rack and wrap it around her small body. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
Chan hesitates for the briefest second before letting you take her. Not because he is unwilling, but because the transfer itself feels loaded now in a way neither of you can bear to examine. Then Haneul is in your arms, warm and damp and trembling, clutching at your shoulders with frantic little fingers as you gather her close.
You hold her carefully, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other rubbing up and down her spine beneath the towel. “You’re all right,” you murmur into her wet hair. “You just got scared. That’s all. I’m here. Daddy’s here. You’re safe.”
Her sobs do not stop right away, but they begin to soften, breaking into smaller hitching breaths against your neck.
Chan stands. For a moment, he stays where he is, one hand braced against the edge of the sink, his head turned slightly away as though he cannot quite bear the sight in front of him and cannot stop looking at it either.
When he finally speaks, his voice is rough. “I need a minute.”
It is not directed at Haneul. Not really. It belongs somewhere between you and the tiled floor and the word still echoing in the steam-thick air.
He does not wait for an answer. He only drags a hand over his face and steps out, walking past the open door with the kind of rigid control that tells you he is holding himself together by force alone.
The bathroom feels too small after he leaves. Too warm. Too bright. Too full of things that can no longer be mistaken for simple. But Haneul is still in your arms, still trembling, still burying her face against your shoulder as if she can hide there from the fright of what just happened. So you hold her tighter.
You sway on instinct, gentle and slow, your own throat aching with everything you are not allowing yourself to feel yet.
“It’s okay,” you whisper again, pressing your cheek to the top of her damp head. “You’re okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
Outside the bathroom, you can hear nothing from Chan at all.
And somehow, that silence is louder than anything.
You dry her carefully, gently, like she is something easily startled back into fear.
Chan does not come back.
You feel that absence like a second pulse under your skin, but you do not go looking for him. Not yet. Not when Haneul still needs your hands steady, your voice soft, your attention anchored fully in her.
“Let’s get you warm, okay?” you murmur, wrapping the towel tighter around her small body.
She nods against your shoulder, still sniffling, her lashes clumped together with tears.
You help her into her pajamas slowly, guiding her arms through the sleeves, smoothing the fabric down over her back, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head when she leans into you without thinking. By the time you carry her down the hall, her breathing has steadied, but her fingers remain curled into the front of your shirt.
You sit with her on the bed first instead of laying her down immediately, letting her settle in your lap while you rub slow circles between her shoulders. The nightlight casts a faint glow along the wall, catching the edges of her mother’s photograph and turning the glass into something almost luminous.
Haneul’s voice, when she finally speaks, is small. “I didn’t mean to slip.”
“I know you didn’t,” you say gently. “Sometimes that just happens.”
She sniffles again, then presses her cheek into your collarbone. “I was singing.”
“I heard you. You were doing a very good job.”
That gets the faintest hint of a smile, though it fades quickly, her thoughts clearly drifting somewhere heavier.
You can feel it before she says anything. The shift. The way children carry fear into questions without meaning to.
After a moment, she lifts her head just enough to look at you. “Why did I say that?”
Your heart stumbles. You know what she means. Of course you do.
You smooth a damp strand of hair away from her forehead, buying yourself a second to breathe through the sudden tightness in your chest.
“You were scared,” you say softly. “And sometimes when we’re scared, we just…reach for the people who make us feel safe.”
She watches you carefully, her eyes still glassy with leftover tears. “But I said mommy.”
The word lands differently now. Not sharp like before. Just quiet. Confused.
You swallow gently. “Haneul,” you begin, your voice as steady as you can make it, “your mommy is…she’s in heaven, remember?”
She nods a little, though her expression remains uncertain.
“She’s always looking down at you,” you continue, brushing your thumb lightly across her cheek. “And she loves you so, so much. That doesn’t go away just because she can’t be here the way we wish she could.”
Haneul listens, her brows knitting slightly as she tries to hold onto something too big for her to fully understand.
“And I love you too,” you add, quieter now. “Even if I’m not your mommy.”
Her fingers tighten briefly in your shirt again. “I know,” she says.
The words are simple. Certain. But then her mouth wobbles, and the question that follows breaks something open in a different way. “It’s not fair.”
You blink.
“My friends all have a mom and a dad,” she continues, her voice trembling just enough to make your chest ache. “Why do I only have my dad?”
There is no easy answer for that. There never has been.
You draw her a little closer, pressing your lips to her hair for a moment before pulling back just enough to look at her again. “Sometimes life doesn’t give everyone the same things,” you say gently. “And that can feel really unfair. You’re allowed to feel that way.”
Her lower lip trembles. “I want my mommy.”
The honesty of it is unbearable in its simplicity.
“I know you do,” you whisper, your own throat tightening. “That makes sense. She was yours.”
Haneul leans into you again, quieter now, her small body softening with the weight of her feelings.
“But you know what you do have?” you continue softly, your hand smoothing down her back. “You have a dad who loves you more than anything in the world. You have someone who shows up for you every single day. And that matters so much, even if it doesn’t make everything feel better right away.”
She is quiet for a long moment. Then, very softly, she asks, “Why does Daddy look at you like he looks at Mommy’s picture then?”
The question lands without warning. For a second, you think you might have misheard her. Your breath catches in your throat, your hands going still against her back.
Haneul tilts her head slightly, studying your face with the same quiet curiosity she applies to everything she does not understand yet. “He does,” she says, as if clarifying something obvious. “Sometimes.”
There is no answer ready for that. No careful, gentle explanation you can give that will not unravel something you have spent years keeping neatly contained.
Your mouth opens, then closes. “I…” you start, and stop again.
Because what can you say? That she's wrong? She’s not. That she’s right? You cannot. That her father is a man carrying grief and love in the same breath and does not know how to separate them anymore? That is not something a five-year-old should have to hold.
So you do the only thing you can. You pull her a little closer and press your cheek against her hair. “Sometimes grown-ups look at people in ways that are hard to explain,” you say quietly. “It doesn’t mean anything bad. It just means…feelings can be hard.”
She considers that, her small face thoughtful in a way that makes her seem older than she should be.
Then, eventually, she nods. “Okay.”
It is not full understanding, but it’s enough for now.
You help her lie down, tucking the comforter around her the way she likes, making sure the rabbit is secured in her arms. Her breathing evens out more quickly this time, exhaustion finally catching up with her after the scare, her lashes fluttering as sleep begins to pull at her.
You brush your fingers lightly through her hair. “I’ll be right here,” you murmur.
She hums softly in response, already drifting.
The apartment feels different once you step out of her room.
The hallway stretches a little longer than usual, the light dimmer somehow, as if the walls themselves have absorbed everything that just happened and are holding it close.
You hesitate outside Chan’s door because you can hear him.
Not loudly. Chan does not fall apart in ways that draw attention. Even now, the sound is muffled, contained, like he is trying to keep it from escaping into the rest of the apartment.
But it’s there. A quiet, uneven breath. A stifled sob he does not quite manage to swallow in time.
Your chest tightens painfully and push the door open slowly.
The room is dim, lit only by the low glow of the bedside lamp. Chan is sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows braced against his knees, one hand covering his mouth as he tries to keep himself quiet. His shoulders are hunched forward, the line of his back rigid in a way that tells you he has been holding this in for too long.
He doesn’t notice you right away. Or maybe he does, and he just cannot bring himself to react yet.
“Chan,” you say softly.
He flinches. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Then he drags his hand down over his face, scrubbing hard as if he can wipe away the evidence of what you have just walked in on.
“I’m fine,” he says, voice rough and unsteady in a way that makes the words ring hollow immediately.
You close the door behind you. “No, you’re not.”
For a second, he does not respond. Then his shoulders sag, the fight draining out of him all at once like something finally giving way.
You cross the room slowly, giving him time to pull himself back together if he needs it, though you already know he will not. Not this time.
When you reach him, you don’t ask permission. You simply sit beside him and wrap your arms around him.
And Chan breaks. He leans into you like he has been waiting for something solid to hold onto, his forehead pressing against your shoulder as his breath stutters out of him, quiet and uneven. One of his hands grips at the fabric of your shirt, not hard, just enough to anchor himself, and you can feel the tremor running through him like something too big to contain anymore.
You hold him tighter. Your hand moves up to cradle the back of his head, fingers slipping into his hair the way you have done a hundred times for Haneul, the motion instinctive and soft and steady. “It’s okay,” you whisper, even though you know it is not.
He shakes his head against you. “No,” he breathes, voice breaking on the word. “It’s not.”
You don’t argue. You just let him have it.
The quiet sobs come and go, each one sounding like it has been dragged up from somewhere deep and long-guarded. You stay with him through all of it, your grip firm but gentle, your presence the only thing in the room that feels stable.
After a while, his breathing begins to slow. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” he admits, voice raw.
You close your eyes briefly, pressing your cheek against his hair. “You’re doing your best.”
“That’s not enough.”
The immediate certainty in his tone makes your chest ache.
“It’s for her,” you say softly.
He lets out a shaky breath. “That’s not what I mean.”
You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands still resting on his shoulders. “Then what do you mean?”
Chan hesitates. For a moment, it looks like he might retreat again, pull the walls back up, tuck everything away where it cannot be touched. But tonight has broken that pattern. Something in the way Haneul said that word. In the way you said what you did in her room. In the way he can no longer pretend this is something small and manageable.
He looks at you. And for the first time in a long time, he says her name out loud. “I still love Ki.”
The words land heavy between you. They don’t surprise you, but they do make your heart twist. “I know,” you say gently.
His eyes search your face, almost desperately. “I never stopped. I don’t think I ever will.”
“I know,” you repeat.
That part has never been the problem.
Chan swallows, his throat working around something painful. “But then there’s you.”
Your breath catches.
He lets out a quiet, broken laugh that holds no humor at all. “And I don’t know what to do with that,” he admits. “Because it feels like…” He trails off, shaking his head. “Like I’m betraying her. Like I’m betraying everything we had.”
“You’re not,” you say softly.
“How can you say that?” His voice cracks again, frustration and grief tangling together. “How can I look at you the way I do and not feel like I’m replacing her?”
“You’re not replacing her,” you say, a little firmer now, even as your heart aches for him. “She’s not something that can be replaced, Chan. What you had with her is yours. It always will be.”
He stares at you, torn. “Then what is this?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
The question hangs there, fragile and impossible. You feel it too. All of it. The years. The restraint. The love you have buried so carefully it has started to hurt just to breathe around it.
“This is something new,” you say quietly. “Something different.”
He shakes his head again, eyes closing briefly. “It doesn’t feel different. It feels like I’m…” He exhales sharply. “Like I’m letting go of her.”
“You’re not letting go,” you say, your voice soft but steady. “You’re just…making room.”
His eyes open. There is something in them now that you have never seen so clearly before: Hope. Fear. And something dangerously close to the same thing you have been carrying alone for far too long.
He does not move away from you. And you do not let go. Not when the room is still thick with everything he’s just said, not when his breath is still uneven, not when the weight of his grief and his confession and your own carefully hidden feelings have all finally been pulled into the same fragile space.
You just hold him. Your hand stays at the back of his head, fingers threading gently through his hair, the other resting warm and steady against his shoulder. You can feel the slow, gradual shift in him as the storm eases—not gone, not resolved, but quieter.
Chan exhales, long and shaky. Then, after a moment, he leans back just enough that he can look at you.
Your hands slide down to rest lightly on his arms as he pulls away, but neither of you fully breaks contact. There’s still a thread there, invisible but unmistakable, stretched between your bodies and your breathing and the way neither of you seems ready to let the other go just yet.
He looks at you for a long time. Not like before, not like the fleeting glances or the careful, restrained attention you’ve grown used to. This is different. Open. Unhidden. Like he’s finally allowing himself to see you without pulling back at the last second.
His eyes trace your face slowly, as if committing it to memory in a way he hasn’t let himself do until now. Your eyes, your mouth, the soft curve of your cheek where your hair falls loose from behind your ear. There’s something almost disbelieving in it, like he’s trying to reconcile the person he’s known for years with the person he’s just admitted he wants.
You feel it everywhere—in your chest. In your throat. In the way your hands tighten just slightly against his arms without you meaning them to.
“Chan…” you start, quiet, uncertain what you’re even trying to say.
He doesn’t let you finish. “I love you.”
The words are simple. No buildup. No hesitation once they leave him. And yet they land like something enormous.
Your breath catches, your entire body going still as they settle into the space between you. You knew—some part of you must have known, because nothing else could explain the way he’s looked at you, the way tonight unfolded, the way everything has been quietly building for years—but hearing it is different. Hearing it makes it real in a way that can’t be folded away again.
Chan swallows, his gaze never leaving yours. “I didn’t want to,” he admits, voice rough and unguarded. “I tried not to. For a long time.”
You don’t interrupt.. Because he’s still speaking like something is finally spilling out after being held back too long.
“I told myself it was just gratitude,” he continues, a faint, broken smile touching his mouth before it fades again. “That you were good with her, good for her, and I was just relieved. That’s all it was supposed to be.”
Your heart aches at the quiet self-denial in his words.
“But it wasn’t,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “It kept getting harder to ignore. The way you take care of her. The way you just fit here.” His eyes flick briefly around the room before coming back to you. “The way you make everything feel easier without even trying.”
Your fingers curl slightly against his sleeves.
“And I hated it,” he adds, more quietly. “Because every time I realized how much I…” He stops, exhales, tries again. “How much I needed you, it felt like I was losing something I wasn’t supposed to let go of.”
You can see it now, clearer than ever. The war he’s been fighting alone.
“I kept thinking,” he goes on, his voice dipping lower, “if I let myself have this—have you—then what does that say about her? About what we had? About the promises I made?”
You soften, your hand lifting instinctively to his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly along the line of his jaw. “It doesn’t say anything bad,” you whisper.
He leans into your touch without thinking. “I’m supposed to be enough,” he says, and there’s something almost desperate in it now. “For Haneul. For everything. I’m her dad, I’m all she has left, and I feel like if I don’t hold everything together perfectly, then I’m failing both of them.”
Your chest tightens painfully. “Chan…”
“I have to do it all,” he continues, his voice cracking slightly. “Because Ki can’t. Because she’s gone. And if I start needing someone else—if I start wanting someone else—then what does that make me?”
The question isn’t rhetorical. It’s raw. Real. Terrifying in its honesty.
You don’t answer right away. Instead, you let your hand slide fully to his face, cradling it gently, guiding his attention back to you when his gaze starts to drift somewhere far away again.
“It makes you human,” you say softly.
His eyes flicker.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” you continue, your voice steady even as your heart beats harder. “You were never meant to. Loving someone again doesn’t erase what you had with her. It doesn’t mean you’re failing her or Haneul.” You swallow, your thumb brushing once more against his skin. “It just means your heart didn’t stop when she left.”
For a second, neither of you moves. Then, slowly, you lean forward.
The kiss is soft. Tentative in a way, like you’re both stepping into something fragile and sacred all at once. Your lips brush his gently, testing, asking without words if this is real, if this is allowed, if this is something he can accept.
Chan stills completely. Then he exhales into you, something in him giving way all over again.
When you pull back just slightly, your forehead hovering close to his, your voice is barely more than a breath. “You don’t have to do it alone.”
For a heartbeat, he just looks at you. Then his hand comes up, sliding to the back of your neck, fingers warm and sure despite the tremor still lingering in them. And this time, when he kisses you, there is nothing tentative about it.
He pulls you closer, closing the space between you in a way that feels like a decision, like a line being crossed that neither of you can step back from now. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of urgency that has been building for far too long, not rushed but deep, grounding, as if he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you, the reality of this moment.
You respond without thinking, your hands finding his shoulders, then his chest, holding onto him just as tightly as he holds onto you.
Everything else fades. The room. The hallway. The years of restraint. There is only this—the quiet sound of your breathing, the warmth of his hands, the way his grip tightens.
You both pull back to breathe, and before he can say anything, you speak. “Can I make you feel good? Can I show you how much I love you? ”
Your words hang in the quiet air of Chan’s bedroom, a soft demand that stops the slow sway of your bodies against each other. The light from the hallway casts a long, warm stripe across the floor, painting the edge of the bed in gold. His hands, which had been cradling your hips as you kissed, freeze on your skin.
“All of you,” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw.
Chan looks down at you, his eyes—a deep, tired brown that has finally started to shine again—searching yours. His breath, warm and steady, flows over your cheek. He doesn’t speak. He just nods, a slow, deliberate dip of his chin that feels like the dropping of a final, heavy weight he’s carried for years.
He lets go of you, his fingers sliding from the curve of your waist with a lingering drag. You stand and reach for his sweats before kneeling before him.
The floor is soft through the thin fabric of your summer dress. You look up at him as you peel his sweats and boxers down his legs, your hands working slowly, taking the time to feel the heat of his thighs, the strength in his calves. He pulls his shirt over his head, the fabric falling to the floor beside you. And there he sits before you, completely exposed.
Chan is perfect. His chest is broad, arms defined, shoulders solid, but they carry a permanent slope, a bearing of quiet burden. And between his legs, his cock stands half-hard, a promise waiting to be fully realized.
It’s beautiful to you. Not in a sculpted, idealized way, but in a real way. The shaft is thick, a solid, warm column of flesh with a slight curve upward. The head is a darker shade, a flushed plum color, already glistening with a single, clear bead of moisture at its tip. The skin is smooth, but you can see the faint tracery of veins underneath, a network of life pulsing just beneath the surface.
You lean forward, bringing your face close. The scent of him fills your nose—the faint, musky aroma of a man, and something deeper, something uniquely his. You don’t speak. You just open your mouth and press your lips to the side of his shaft.
The skin is hot. Silken. You kiss it, a soft, closed-mouth press that makes his whole body shiver. You hear a shaky intake of air above you. Your tongue comes out then, flat and wet, and you lick a long, slow stripe from the base all the way up to the crown. The taste is clean, salty, male. That bead of precum meets your tongue and you take it, a tiny, sweet-bitter pearl that you savor.
You look up at him again. His head is tilted back, his eyes closed. His hands are clenched at his sides, fists balled tight. He’s holding on, you think. Holding on to control, to the memory of how to receive pleasure without guilt.
You want to give him that permission. To shatter that control.
Your lips open wider. You take the head of his cock into your mouth, circling it, sucking lightly. It’s not fully hard yet, but it responds instantly to the heat and wetness of your mouth, thickening, lengthening, the curve becoming more pronounced. You suck harder, pulling more of him inside. Your lips stretch around his girth. You feel the ridge of his crown press against the roof of your mouth, a firm, smooth bulge. Your tongue dances underneath, flicking against the sensitive seam where the head meets the shaft—his frenulum. You trace it with the tip of your tongue, a gentle, teasing stroke that makes his hips jerk forward.
A groan escapes him, low and ragged. It’s the first sound he’s made, and it cracks the quiet like thunder.
You pull back, letting his cock slip from your lips with a wet pop. It’s fully erect now, standing proud and rigid, pointing up toward his stomach. The shaft is thick, a deep, flushed pink. The head is swollen, dark and gleaming with your saliva and his own fluids.
“Chan,” you murmur, your voice husky. “Look at me.”
He forces his eyes open. They’re hazy, unfocused with need. He looks down at you, kneeling before him like an offering, your face level with his sex.
“I want you to feel this,” you say. “I want you to let yourself feel it.”
You don’t wait for another answer. You dive forward again, taking him deep.
This time, you don’t tease. You engulf him. Your lips seal around his shaft, and you push your head forward, taking him as far into your mouth as you can. The head presses deep, nudging at the entrance to your throat. You relax, letting your jaw go slack, and he slides deeper, a hot, solid invasion that fills your mouth completely. Your cheeks hollow as you suck, drawing hard on him.
The feeling is intense for you, too. The weight of him on your tongue. The smooth, insistent pressure against your tongue. The salty, living taste that floods your senses. You move your head back, then forward again, establishing a rhythm.
Your hands come up to cradle what your mouth cannot take. One hand wraps around the base of his shaft, your fingers squeezing the firm root. The other hand cups his balls, weighing them in your palm, feeling their fullness, their heat. You roll them gently, a soft, kneading massage that makes his thighs tremble.
Your head bobs. Your lips slide along his skin, a slick, wet glide. Each time you pull back, his cock emerges shiny and dripping, coated in a mix of your saliva and his own essence. Each time you plunge forward, your mouth accepts him greedily, swallowing him down.
Chan’s hands come to your head. They don’t push or guide. They simply rest there, his palms on your cheeks, his fingers threading into your hair. It’s a touch of connection, of gratitude. His thumbs stroke your temples.
You increase the pace. Not frantic. Not desperate. But purposeful. Your suction becomes stronger, your tongue more active. You swirl it around his head each time you reach the top, licking across that sensitive ridge, teasing the tiny slit at the tip. You feel him pulse in your mouth, a hard, rhythmic throb that signals his building climax.
His breathing changes. It becomes ragged, shallow pants. His hips begin to move in tiny, involuntary thrusts, matching your rhythm. His cock slides in and out of your mouth with a wet, rhythmic sound—shhhlick, shhhlick, shhhlick.
“God…” he gasps, the word torn from him. “I’m…I’m gonna…”
You know. You feel it. The tension in his shaft, the way his balls draw up tighter against his body, the frantic pulse beating under your tongue. You want it. You want all of it.
You pull back until just the head is in your lips, suckling fiercely, your tongue fluttering against his frenulum in rapid, tiny strokes. Your hand on his shaft pumps in time with your sucking, a tight, milking motion.
His climax erupts. It’s not a single burst. It’s a series of them, a rolling, hot flood that pours into your mouth. The first spurt hits your tongue, thick and warm, a distinct, slightly bitter taste that is purely him. The second follows instantly, another gush that coats your mouth and fills your cheeks. You swallow, taking it down, but more comes. The third, the fourth—a continuous, generous release that you work to accept, sucking hard to pull every drop from him.
Chan cries out, a raw, unfiltered sound of release that echoes in the quiet room. His body locks and he falls onto the bed, his back arching, hands clutching your head. His hips push forward, driving his cock deeper into your mouth as he empties himself completely.
You stay there, sucking gently through the last few pulses, until his shaft softens slightly in your mouth, until the flow subsides. Then you slowly let him slip out.
His cock lays against his stomach, spent, glistening with a mix of your saliva and his own spend. You lean forward and kiss it once more, a soft, affectionate press against the damp head.
You rise then, your knees aching slightly from the floor. You stand before him, wiping your lips with the back of your hand. Chan’s eyes are open, staring at you with a dazed, awed expression. His face is flushed, his chest heaving.
“You…” he starts, but his voice fails.
You smile, a slow, tender curve of your lips before climbing onto the bed with him, straddling his hips. You reach for the hem of your cotton dress, pulling it up over your head and discarding it onto the floor. You’re naked now, save for your panties. You hook your thumbs into the sides of those and peel them down your legs, kicking them away.
You look down at him, at his body spread out before you, at his softened cock resting on his belly. You see the love in his eyes, the trust, the raw openness. It fills you with a warmth that spreads from your heart to every extremity.
You lean down and kiss his mouth. His lips are soft, pliant. He kisses you back, a slow, deep melding of mouths that tastes of shared intimacy. Your hands roam over his chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath your palm, the rise and fall of his breathing.
“Do you have a condom?,” you whisper against his lips.
He nods. You reach over to the bedside table, to the small drawer and take one out, the foil packet cool in your hand. You open it, and you roll the latex down his length with careful, tender hands. He’s already beginning to stir again, his cock responding to your touch, filling out once more beneath the sheath.
When he’s protected, you position yourself over him. You kneel on either side of his hips, looking down at the junction of your bodies. Your own sex is ready, aching for him. You’ve been wet for a long time now. You can feel the heat pooling between your legs, the slippery evidence of your desire coating your inner thighs.
You guide his cock, holding it steady and lower yourself, slowly, letting the crowned head press against your entrance.
Your vulva is swollen with anticipation. The outer lips are plump, a deeper pink than usual, parted slightly by your own moisture. The inner lips are slick, glistening, framing the opening that now welcomes him. You feel the pressure of his tip against your flesh, a firm, promising nudge.
You sink down. The head of his cock enters you, pushing past your outer lips, penetrating your opening. The feeling is exquisite—a slow, stretching fullness that makes you gasp. Your walls are snug, gripping him immediately as he slides deeper. You feel every inch of his progress, the smooth drag of his shaft along your sensitive, soaked inner flesh.
You go down until you’re seated fully on him, his entire length buried inside you. Your body accepts him completely. Your walls stretch to accommodate his girth, hugging him tightly. The head of his cock presses deep, reaching a place that makes your eyes flutter.
You stay there for a moment, just feeling him. Feeling the connection. The heat. The perfect fit.
Then you begin to move. You rise up, a slow, deliberate lift that drags his cock almost entirely out of you, until just the head remains nestled inside. Then you sink back down, taking him in again, a smooth, gliding descent. Your hips roll as you do it, a gentle, circular motion that grinds his shaft against your walls.
The pace is slow. Sensual. There’s no frantic pounding, no desperate race. This is a joining, a communion. Each upward lift is a tease, a near-separation that makes you both ache. Each downward plunge is a reunion, a filling that makes you both sigh.
Your breasts move with your rhythm. As you rise and fall, they bounce in a soft, circular dance, their weight shifting with each motion. Chan’s eyes are fixed on them, watching the movement, the way your nipples harden and peak in the cool air of the room.
Your hands find his chest. You splay your fingers over his pectorals, feeling the firm muscle underneath. You lean forward, changing your angle, and this shifts the sensation inside you dramatically. Now, as you sink down, his cock rubs directly along the front wall of your pussy, stroking over your most sensitive spot—the swollen, hungry bundle of nerves just inside your entrance.
A sharp, sweet pleasure bolts through you. Your breath catches. You moan, a low, continuous sound that spills from your lips without thought.
“Chan…oh, that’s…right there…”
He understands. His hands come to your hips, not to control, but to feel. His palms cup your bottom, feeling the flesh there jiggle and tighten with each of your movements. Your ass is firm, and as you ride him, it claps softly against his thighs, a gentle, rhythmic percussion of flesh.
You speed up slightly. Your rises are higher now, pulling him almost completely out before you take him back in with a smooth, wet slide. The sound of your joining fills the room—a soft, slick, repeating noise of flesh meeting flesh, of moisture spreading.
Inside you, the feelings multiply. Each time his cock enters, it stretches your opening wide, a brief, glorious pressure that gives way to a smooth glide. Your walls clasp around him, squeezing, then relaxing as he pulls back. The condom makes a slight difference—a faint, latex texture over his skin—but the heat, the size, the shape of him are all there, transmitted through the thin barrier.
His own pleasure is rebuilding. You can see it on his face. His eyes are half-closed, his mouth open in a silent, sustained groan. His hips begin to meet yours, pushing upward as you come down, adding his own force to your movements. The union becomes a collaboration, a shared rhythm.
Your clit, swollen and exposed, rubs against the base of his shaft with each of your downward strokes. The friction is indirect, but constant, a building stimulation that starts to coil a tight spring of tension low in your belly.
You lean forward further, bracing your hands on his shoulders. This changes your angle again, and now his cock is driving even deeper, pressing firmly against that front wall, stroking over your G-spot with every inward motion. The sensation is overwhelming, a deep, internal massage that makes your whole body shudder.
“I love you,” you whisper, the words coming out between gasps. “I love this…I love being with you like this…”
Chan’s eyes open fully, locking with yours. His hands slide from your hips to your back, pulling you closer against him. “I love you,” he rasps, his voice thick with emotion and arousal. “I feel…I feel alive again. With you.”
The words, the connection, the physical joining—it all combines, pushing you toward your own peak. The coil inside you tightens, winding tighter with every stroke, every deep fill, every grind of your clit against him.
Your movements become more urgent, though still controlled. Your rises are quicker, your descents more forceful. Your breath comes in sharp pants. Your breasts bounce more vigorously now, a faster, more pronounced dance. Your ass cheeks slap against his thighs with a firmer sound, a rhythmic beat that matches the pounding of your hearts.
Inside, your pussy is drenched, flooded with your own fluids. The condom is slick with them, making each stroke smoother, easier. Your walls grip him tightly, then release, a pulsing clasp that seems to pull him deeper each time.
You’re close. So close. The spring is wound to its limit.
Chan feels it too. His thrusts become more insistent, his upward drives meeting your downward rides with perfect timing. His cock is a hard, relentless piston inside you, stroking, filling, claiming.
You cry out, a sharp, broken sound as the spring finally snaps.
Your orgasm isn’t a single burst. It’s a rolling, wave-like series of contractions that grip your entire lower body. Your cunt clenches around his shaft in rapid, intense pulses, a squeezing rhythm that milks him through the condom. Your clit flares with a sharp, electric pleasure that radiates out through your pelvis. Your thighs shake. Your back arches.
You see stars behind your closed eyelids. A hot, blinding release floods through you, leaving you gasping, trembling, clinging to his shoulders.
Chan follows you, pushed over the edge by your internal convulsions. His hips buck upward, driving deep as he holds you tight. His own climax, muted by the condom, is still a powerful, physical event. You feel his body stiffen beneath you, feel the hard, throbbing pulse of his cock inside you as he finds his release. His groan is long, drawn-out, a sound of complete surrender. “Oh my God,” he pants out, throat raw.
You collapse forward onto his chest, your body spent, your muscles loose. You lay there, his cock still inside you, both of you joined, both of you breathing in ragged, synchronized gasps. The room is quiet again, save for the sound of your panting, the faint rustle of the sheets.
Slowly, carefully, you lift yourself off him. His softened cock slips out of you, the condom slick and full. You dispose of it quietly, then crawl back onto the bed beside him, curling into his side.
He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. His skin is hot, damp with sweat. His heart beats a strong, steady rhythm against your ear.
“Stay,” he murmurs, his voice sleepy, thick with contentment. “Please don’t leave.”
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🛸── .✦ fluff. slightly suggestive? HYUNJIN WITH SUHO DESTROYED ME I CANT !!
During an episode of SKZ code, Hyunjin develops an intense baby fever. Later, he clings to you at home, whispering yearning confessions about wanting a baby together.
❛ ━━━━━━･❪🦙❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜
The set of SKZ code buzzed with controlled chaos—cameras rolling, staff whispering cues, and Stray Kids scattered across colorful mats trying (and mostly failing) to look natural around a swarm of toddlers.
After a while, everyone had settled into a long table with food and the babies scattered around the room. Hyunjin ended up stationed near the cameras with bowls of jajangmyeon sat cooling just enough for tiny hands.
Suho who had chubby cheeks, wide curious eyes, and zero concept of personal space—especially when it came to the tall hyung with long hair who smelled faintly like vanilla and paint.
The moment Hyunjin crouched down with a small plastic spoon and a gentle “Open wide, Suho-yah~”, the baby latched onto him like he'd found his new favorite person.
Hyunjin fed him tiny, careful bites, wiping black bean sauce from the corner of Suho’s mouth with the pad of his thumb. “Yummy?” he asked softly, voice pitched high the way people do without thinking around babies.
Suho nodded solemnly, then—without warning—tipped forward and gently bumped his forehead against Hyunjin’s.
Bonk.
Hyunjin blinked, startled, then laughed, the sound bright and surprised. “Omo, what was that?”
Suho pulled back, studied him for a second like he was deciding something very important, then toddled a few wobbly steps away.
He paused, turned, and toddled right back.
Bonk.
Softer this time. A tiny forehead meeting Hyunjin’s with perfect trust.
The cameras caught every second, but Hyunjin barely noticed. His world had narrowed to the little boy in front of him. Suho giggled—quiet, bubbly—and did it again. And again. Each time walking away just far enough to build dramatic tension, then returning for another gentle collision.
Bonk. Giggle. Repeat.
By the fifth one Hyunjin’s cheeks were flushed pink, eyes sparkling with something dangerously close to tears-of-happiness. He cupped Suho’s round face in both hands, careful not to squish. “You’re gonna make my heart explode, you know that?”
Suho answered by bumping once more, this time lingering so their foreheads stayed pressed together for a long heartbeat. Hyunjin closed his eyes, breathing in the sweet baby-shampoo scent, feeling the tiny warmth against his skin.
Around them, the other members were losing it—Chan, Jeongin, and Changbin cooing dramatically, Jisung fake-sniffling out of jealousy and fond—but Hyunjin didn’t hear any of it.
Something warm and unfamiliar bloomed deep in his chest. Not just fondness. Not just “aww cute.”
It was bigger.
Aching.
The kind of ache that made him picture lazy Sunday mornings years from now, a little hand tugging at his sleeve, asking for “appaaaaa~” while he pretended to be too cool to melt instantly.
Baby fever.
Full-blown, no vaccine in sight.
When Suho finally wandered off toward a pile of colorful blocks (after one last, extra-gentle bonk), Hyunjin stayed crouched there, staring after him with the softest, dopiest smile anyone on set had ever seen from the usually poised dancer.
Later, the director teased him. “Hyunjin-ah, you looked ready to adopt Suho on the spot.”
Hyunjin ducked his head, ears red, fingers twisting in his lap. “He kept… bumping foreheads with me. Like a little cat. How am I supposed to survive that?” He laughed, but it came out shaky. “I think I caught something serious today.”
The camera zoomed in on his face—eyes still glassy, smile helpless and huge.
“Yeah,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I definitely want one someday.”
Hyunjin didn’t deny it. He just smiled wider.
Suho’s little forehead bumps kept replaying in his mind like a looped video. Soft. Trusting. Perfect. Every time the toddler had toddled away and come right back, Hyunjin’s brain had whispered the same thing:
One day… with her.
He could picture it so clearly it hurt.
You, carrying a baby with his eyes and your smile. Him feeding tiny spoonfuls of whatever mush was on the menu that day, wiping sauce from chubby cheeks just like today. A little one running—toddling—straight to him after playtime, bumping their forehead against his in greeting because that’s what appa’s forehead is for: gentle love attacks.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The apartment was quiet when Hyunjin finally walked through the door, hours later than either of you expected. The variety show shoot had run long—too many retakes, too many adorable toddler meltdowns.
You barely had time to set your phone down before he was collapsing against you, long limbs folding around your smaller frame like he’d been waiting all day just to do exactly this.
“Hi,” he mumbled into your collarbone, voice wrecked from hours of high-pitched baby-talk and laughing.
“Hi, appa-of-the-year,” you teased, carding fingers through his hair. It was still a little sweaty at the roots from running around the set. “You survived?”
“Barely.” He shifted, tucking his face into the crook of your neck the way he always did when he needed to recharge. Warm breath fanned over your skin in slow, even puffs. “Missed you.”
You hummed, wrapping both arms around his shoulders, letting him melt against you. For a few minutes it was just that—quiet breathing, the soft rustle of his hoodie against your shirt, the faint city hum filtering through the closed windows.
Then he nuzzled closer.
Deeper.
The tip of his nose brushed the sensitive spot just below your ear and you felt the tiniest exhale against your throat, almost a sigh. His lips grazed your skin—not quite a kiss, more like he was trying to breathe you in.
“You okay?” you whispered, smiling even though he couldn’t see it.
He didn’t answer right away. Just pressed himself tighter, like he could disappear into you if he tried hard enough. Then, so soft you almost missed it:
“...want a baby.”
Your brain short-circuited for half a second.
He kept going, voice barely above a murmur, words vibrating right against your pulse. “Like… a tiny one. With your eyes. And maybe my hair. Who bumps foreheads with me when I come home.”
You couldn’t help it—you giggled.
He lifted his head immediately, eyes wide and a little panicked like he thought he’d said something wrong. Hair falling messily into his face, cheeks still flushed from the cold outside and maybe something else. He looked so devastatingly soft like this—vulnerable in a way he rarely let anyone see.
You cupped his face with both hands, thumbs brushing over the faint blush on his cheekbones.
He swallowed once, then said it again—clearer this time, though still quiet, like he was afraid the words might break if he said them too loud.
“I want a baby.”
His gaze flickered between your eyes, searching, nervous, hopeful. The same look he’d had on set earlier when Suho toddled back for one more forehead bump—like something inside him had cracked open and refused to close again.
You felt your own chest tighten in the best way.
“...Yeah?” you whispered, voice suddenly small too.
He nodded, quick and earnest, hair flopping into his eyes again. “Yeah. Like… soon. Or whenever you’re ready. But—” He laughed under his breath, embarrassed. “Today really did something to me. That kid wrecked me. In a good way.”
You leaned in and kissed the tip of his nose, then his forehead, then let your own rest against his—just like Suho had done to him earlier.
Hyunjin exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering closed.
“I kept picturing it,” he whispers, voice cracking just a little. “You pregnant. Round and glowing. Me on my knees, kissing your belly every morning before I leave for practice.” He presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your neck. “I want that so bad it hurts.”
His fingers trace lazy circles over your skin, right where a baby would grow.
“Do you feel it too?” he murmurs, lips grazing your earlobe. “Tell me… please. That you want it. That you want me to make you a mama. That you want our baby bumping foreheads with me, giggling like Suho did today.”
You turn in his arms so you're facing him. His eyes are dark, glassy, lashes clumped like he's been fighting happy tears since the set.
“Yes,” you whisper back, cupping his face. “I want it all with you.”
Another kiss—soft, lingering—then he buries his face in your neck again, words muffled but fervent.
His hand slides lower, palm warm against your lower belly.
“I can’t wait to put a baby in you,” he breathes, voice dropping to something huskier, more desperate. “Want to feel you around me while I whisper how much I love you. Want to hold you after, hand on your stomach, dreaming about the life we just started. Want to watch your body change and tell you every single day how fucking gorgeous you are carrying our child.”
You shiver, fingers tightening in his hair. He groans softly at the pull.
“Hyunjin…”
“Say it,” he pleads against your throat, lips trailing fire. “Tell me you want me to. Right now. Tell me you’re ready for me to love you until there’s no question anymore. Until we’re both wrecked and full of promises.”
You arch into him, breath hitching. “I want it. I want you to. Make me yours like that… make us a family.”
He smiles against your skin—soft, blinding, a little wrecked—and shifts his weight, rolling you beneath him. His kisses turn slower, deeper, hands roaming with quiet worship.
“Then let me start tonight,” he whispers one last time, voice thick with emotion and heat. “Let me show you how much I mean every word. Let me love you until all we can think about is tiny forehead bumps… and the sound of little feet running to us.”
The room quiets to nothing but shared breaths, murmured I-love-yous, and the rustle of fabric giving way as the night melts into something heated, hopeful, and entirely yours.
When both of you finished, he buried his face in your neck again—gentler this time, no more frantic nuzzling—just warm and safe and home.
You could feel his smile against your throat when he whispered, “Gonna be the coolest appa. Just watch.”
pairing: toxic!boyfriend!lee know x fem!reader(x bang chan x han)
genre: toxic romance, comedy
summary: your boyfriend, minho, is an asshole. like out of this world asshole. but there are times when he loves you so much, and isn’t that just addictive? and you know what else is addictive? blowing the steam off(that he caused) with his best friends.
warnings: toxic relationship, emotional manipulation and gaslighting, verbal and psychological abuse, cheating(reader cheats), sexual content (protected p in v and mentions of it unprotected, threesome, spit, praise) possessive behavior, love bombing, neglect, asshole behavior presented as hot and addictive rather than a red flag, codependency so thick you could spread it on toast, no healthy communication or growth, ooc on purpose, i don’t support cheating in real life, this is all strictly fiction, also was requested, i wouldn’t write minho like this usually and i also don’t think that the boys would do this to him!!
word count: 8k
you met minho because you’re a damn good massage therapist.
your hands are basically magic wands that unfuck years of dance practice torture.
and unfuck his years of dance practice torture you do.
one day his manager books him a “discreet” session at your little private studio. he walks in looking beautiful but also like he might murder someone if his traps don’t loosen up in the next 30 seconds.
you start working on his back and bro is TENSE. you dig in, elbows deep, and he lets out this low groan that’s half pain, half holy shit finally. you sweet talk him, professionally, you’re not flirting obviously, but then he lets out a chuckle at your words with the frequency that makes your knees do the cha cha slide and you start to wonder if maybe you should have flirted instead.
by the end of the hour he’s basically melted.
next week he’s back. then twice a week. then he’s texting you at 2am after practice like “need u now. back killing me.” you start doing house calls to his dorm when the jisung’s out(or there, he likes begging for massages too), or to fancy hotel suites.
that’s how it turns into more. one night after a brutal three hour session (his thighs were legit concrete), he grabs your wrist before you can pack up. pulls you back. “stay.”
and you do. and he made it clear that he wants you and damn is he hot, so… of course you’re gonna start dating.
he’s manly in the relationship. after he ignores you for 12 hours straight, he shows up at your place at midnight with takeout, hoodie up, looking exhausted. doesn’t say much, just kicks off his shoes, sits with you on the couch, then flops on top of you. pulls the throw over both of you, tucks your head under his chin, hands everywhere. “missed you.” he mutters even though he was the one ghosting. you wanna be mad but his heartbeat against your ear is comforting and he smells like his cologne mixed with post practice sweat and it’s unfairly comforting.
he sings to you sometimes. i don’t mean in the cringe way, please don’t take it like that. just him humming into your hair while you’re half asleep on his chest. plays with your fingers, kisses them. tells you you’re his escape from the circus of idol life. makes you feel like the center of his universe.
sex? whew. he’s dominant, learned your body by now. you two have chemistry with it, that matters a lot. sex is physical with him. way more intimate than going at it doggystyle and calling it a day. mouths on necks, breaths, the pure feeling both of you put into it.
it’s absurd how easy it is to fall. one minute he’s this untouchable idol god, next he’s whining because you stopped scratching his scalp for two seconds. and who can say no to that face?
the good side is so good it blinds you to the rest. he’s your big strong manbaby who makes you feel safe and wanted and a little bit worshipped… until he doesn’t.
he snaps at you over nothing, “babe move your leg, it’s touching mine wrong” but he’s giggling right after, that deep stupid laugh. you can’t even be mad.
or you see him scratching behind one of his cars’ ears, gentle, while you’re standing there trying to remember why you were pissed about him barking orders like you’re his personal maid. the cat starts kneading his stomach, he fake whines “ow baby claws” and suddenly you just want to kiss him.
when he “forgets” to text back for hours? well, he was probably practicing. when he snaps at you over something small like “why’d you wear that hoodie, it’s mine” he says it with that bratty smirk and then immediately pulls you into his lap to “apologize” with kisses. when he makes you wait outside his place in the cold for 40 minutes bc “manager needed me last second”? he shows up looking guilty, wraps his scarf around your neck, mumbles “sorry jagi, you’re too good to me” and cuddles you stupid later.
because the giggles. because the cat. because his friends like you. because when he’s good, he’s so fucking good it blinds you to the slow drip of “wait, this isn’t okay” that’s starting underneath.
oh y/n. sweet summer child y/n. you’re already cooked and you don’t even know the oven’s on yet.
worst is when the other members are over. him and jisung’s dorm turns into this disgusting boy zoo, controllers flying, bowls everywhere, someone always yelling at the tv.
minho has an arm slung around your shoulders. looks sweet, manly, so boyfriend, but then he starts with the tone. “y/n, get me water.” not a please, not even a babe. just command.
you get it for him anyway.
later when everyone’s gone he turns sweet again. pulls you onto his lap on the couch, arms locking around you. “sorry if i was mean.” he mumbles into your hair. it means he recognized himself. shouldn’t that be a good sign? “you know i don’t mean it like that. you’re my favorite.”
you do. or you tell yourself you do. because when he’s like this, it’s impossible to stay mad.
one night the boys are over again. you slip out to the balcony for air. the night air’s cool, hits your flushed cheeks. you lean on the railing, staring ahead. you felt wrong today too. he’s been an asshole again.
door slides open behind you. han steps out, closes the door.
“hey.” he says. leans next to you on the railing, hands in pockets.
you mumble a hi back.
silence for a bit. then he sighs. “you good?”
“yeah. just needed fresh air.”
he nods slow. then, quieter: “you know… he doesn’t have to talk to you like that. like you’re his dog or whatever.” he winces a little saying it, like the word tastes bad. “you just… take it. don’t you feel bad? like, ever?”
your stomach drops. minho is inside probably laughing it up while you’re out here getting pitied by his friend.
han’s looking at you now, concern creasing his brows, genuine. not mocking. not teasing. just… asking.
you open your mouth. close it. what do you even say? you feel exposed. wrong.
you shrug. “it’s… his way. stress. idol shit. he doesn’t mean it. or at least i think so. you… know him better than i do.”
“he means it enough to keep doing it. and you keep letting him.” he pauses. “just… you deserve better than being his verbal punching bag, y/n. even if he buys you flowers after.”
the sliding door opens again before you can respond. minho’s silhouette fills the frame, backlit by the warm indoor lights. “there you are.” he says. eyes flick between you and han. narrows just a fraction. “what’s this?”
han straightens, casual. “just talking. she needed air.”
minho steps out fully, slides the door shut behind him. walks up slow, wraps both arms around you. chin on your shoulder. “she’s fine. aren’t you, babe?” his breath warm on your neck. hands splay over your stomach, possessive squeeze.
you nod because what else? “yeah.”
han looks at you one more second, something like sorry in his eyes, then heads back inside without another word.
minho turns you around to face him once the door clicks. cups your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “come back in. i missed you.”
and just like that you’re following him inside again.
he likes you. but liking you is easy. caring enough to actually show up for you when it’s inconvenient? that costs effort he’s not willing to spend.
some nights you spend together, doesn’t matter if it’s his place or yours, and he just obviously doesn’t bother to give a fuck about you.
for an example, you’re curled on the couch scrolling your phone, he’s across the room.
you wait. an hour. two.
eventually you get up, pad over, look at him. “hey… you okay? rough day or something?”
“nothing.”
“you’ve been quiet. thought maybe—”
“i said nothing. stop hovering.”
you blink. stand there a second longer like maybe he’ll look up and apologize. he doesn’t.
you go back to the couch feeling stupid for asking.
you make dinner. he eats half, pushes the plate away. “not hungry.” you try to talk about your day? he cuts you off mid sentence with “babe i’m tired can we not?” you ask if he wants to watch something together? “i’m good. play your own thing.”
one night you’re both in the living room in his dorm, you reading, him scrolling on his phone. silence.
“minho… did i do something?”
he sighs. “no. why do you always think that?”
“because you’re ignoring me.”
he finally looks up. eyes flat. “i don’t need to be on 24/7. sometimes i just wanna exist without babysitting your feelings.”
ouch. straight to the throat. “okay. sorry.”
he shrugs. goes back to his phone. conversation over.
that’s when han walks in. kicks off his shoes, grabs a water from the fridge, then drops onto the couch right between you two. legs spread, arms over the backrest, one behind you, one behind minho.
“what’s good?” he says, voice light. looks at minho first. “you eat yet?”
minho actually responds. “nah. not hungry.”
han turns to you “you want anything, y/n? i can order something.”
you blink, surprised that someone around here cares about you. “uh… sure. yeah.”
han pulls out his phone, starts to put some order together. meanwhile mr. ‘i don’t need to talk’ suddenly has shit to say. because they talk. lots. of course they do. they’re such friends and you’re just a waste of space, aren’t you?
but han pulls you into the conversation too.
“y/n killed it at work today.” han says casually, not looking up from his phone. “client left her a fat tip. told me earlier.”
you hadn’t told minho that. he glances over. “yeah?”
you nod, small. “it was nice.”
minho hums. “great job.”
han keeps it rolling. talks about his day, minho’s upcoming schedule, some this and that. the room is alive again. not because minho suddenly becomes boyfriend of the year, but because han is forcing him to participate instead of shutting down. forcing you to feel seen instead of invisible.
when the food arrives han pays, sets everything on the coffee table, hands you napkins first. he knows you need it. minho grabs his food and offers you the part he knows you like without a word. you take it. he bumps his knee against yours under the table.
later, when han excuses himself to shower, minho keeps an arm slung lazy over your shoulders. doesn’t say sorry. doesn’t explain the ignoring. but he pulls you in, tucks your head under his chin, lets out a long breath.
han saved the night.
but you know it’s temporary.
minho still doesn’t care enough.
he just likes having you around when it suits him.
he dangled it, those early days where he was all in, chasing you with texts at 3am, showing up at your little studio unannounced just to steal kisses between clients, making you feel like the only person in his overcrowded world. then he pulled back. hard. you get the high, then drought, then high again. brain wires itself to crave the drought just for the rush when the water finally flows.
because after all, you kind of like being hurt.
so you start leaning into it. you can’t help it anymore. the ignoring phases leave you hollow, so when the warmth flickers back on even a little, you chase it. you slide closer on the couch. rest your head on his shoulder. he lets you, sometimes he even shifts so your cheek fits better against his collarbone, arm draping over your back. you melt into it every time.
he comes home late(just again, his or your place, doesn’t matter), kicks off shoes, drops onto the couch with a groan. you hover for a second, then he pats the spot next to him. you go. curl into his side. he pulls you tighter, chin resting on top of your head. breathes you in deep. “missed this.” he mumbles once.
the kisses? fuuuck yes. he’ll be scrolling, you’ll lean in for one, soft, testing, and he turns his head, catches your lips mid motion. tongue teasing. pulls back with a smirk when you’re breathless. “needy much?” but his thumb keeps stroking your cheek.
addictive.
han’s always there witnessing the switch. poor guy. he’s trying to mind his business, gaming or raiding the fridge, but the living room’s small and the vibes are loud.
one night your legs are thrown over minho’s lap, back against the armrest, his hand under your shirt. minho leans down, kisses you lazy and long. you sigh into it, fingers in his hair.
han, who’s been pretending to focus on his switch, finally cracks. throws his head back dramatically. “bro eeeeww. get a room. or at least wait till i’m in mine.”
he gets a wave of minho’s hand.
it’s this loop you’re in. craving him becomes this horrible addiction. you start doing it everywhere, kitchen counter while he’s making smth instant at 2am, you slip behind him, arms around his waist, cheek to his back. he keeps stirring, even reaches back once to squeeze your hip.
or on the balcony, he leans on the railing, you tuck under his arm, head on his shoulder. he wraps both arms around you from behind, sways a little. kisses the top of your head. no words. addictive as fuck.
when he withholds, it’s withdrawal. when he gives, it’s euphoria.
when he’s letting you chase, when his lips find yours, when his arms lock around you… fuuuuck. it’s impossible not to chase more.
one day you’re at his place. he invited you over, told you to wait there until he gets home. you’re zoning out hard.
chan’s over. him and han are ready to head out. they spot you. exchange a quick look, then instead of just waving and dipping, they both drop onto the couch. one on each side of you. sandwich situation. chan on your left, legs spread wide so his knee bumps yours. han on your right, more contained but close enough his shoulder brushes yours when he leans back.
“yo, y/n. you good?” chan scratches his chin.
you blink out of your haze. “huh? yeah. just… waiting.”
han tilts his head, trying to read you. “you’ve been zoning for like ten minutes straight. we walked past twice.”
“oh. sorry. i’m fine. really.”
chan snorts. leans forward, elbows on knees, looks at you sideways. “what’s up? spill.”
you shake your head fast. “it’s nothing. minho’s just… late. whatever.”
han makes a small noise, half sigh, half come on. “he always runs long when he wants to. you know that.”
“yeah, sometimes he’s an asshole.” chan nods.
your face burns. “he’s not— he’s not an asshole. he’s just stressed. you guys get it.”
chan raises an eyebrow, smirking but soft. “stressed doesn’t mean treat your girl like a doormat, y/n.”
han nods slow. “we’ve seen it. the snapping. the ignoring. the ‘get me this’ in front of everyone like you’re staff. it’s not cool.”
you frown. god, you’re adorable. “he doesn’t mean it like that. when he’s good, he’s… really good.”
chan bumps your shoulder gently with his. doesn’t say anything more, just being friendly. there for you.
just bite your lip. they’re both so close, both so manly. gentlemen. actual gentlemen. listening. not laughing at you. not dismissing.
god why are they hot.
han leans in a little closer. “listen. we’re heading to the studio. come with.”
chan nods quick. “yeah. you’d be doing us a favor. place gets boring with just us idiots. plus you can tell us what you think. we need the feedback.”
“i’m not exactly dressed for—”
“you’re fine.” han cuts in gently.
chan nods. “and if minho shows up pissed you’re out, we’ll just say we kidnapped you. blame us.”
the offer hangs there. warm. tempting. a night without waiting. without wondering if tonight’s the night he decides to care.
but you shake your head. soft. “thanks. really. but… i’ll wait. he said he’d be back soon.”
they both go quiet for a second. han exhales through his nose. chan just nods, he expected it but still hates it.
“alright.” han says finally. stands up slow. “offer stands. text if you change your mind. we’re not far.”
chan ruffles your hair lightly before he gets up. “don’t let him dim your light, y/n. you’re too bright for that shit.”
they head for the door, grabbing keys, jackets. just as they’re stepping out, the front door opens again.
minho. looks tired. looks cold. “sup.”
chan daps him up quick, fist bump to shoulder. “yo. we’re out.”
han does the same, dap, quick shoulder pat. men are ridiculous. so cute. “catch you later.”
minho hums. “yeah. have fun.”
they leave. door clicks shut.
minho doesn’t look at you right away. drops his bag by the shoe rack. kicks off sneakers. walks past the couch like you’re not even there. heads straight for the kitchen.
you sit there. heart thumping. cheeks still flushed from the conversation. from the way chan and han made you feel seen. from the way minho makes you feel… nothing.
he finally looks at you. “you good?”
“yeah.”
he hums. drops onto the couch next to you. not close close, but not on the other end either. middle ground. legs spread, one arm slung over the backrest, staring down at his phone.
you slide over a little. chase the drug again. run your arm across his chest slow, tentative. he lets you.
silence stretches.
“hey.” you say quietly.
“hey.”
you swallow. fingers trace small circles on his hoodie. “long day?”
“yeah.”
that’s it.
you wait for more. nothing comes.
the warmth from earlier, chan and han sandwiching you, actually asking, actually listening makes this feel colder by comparison.
you can’t read him. face blank. could be tired. could be pissed. could just not give a fuck. the not knowing is killing you.
you take a breath. “why are you being cold tonight?”
he finally looks at you. quick. eyes meet yours. “cold? i’m sitting right here.”
“you walked in, barely said hi. ignored me. i’m right here too. but it feels like i’m not.”
he exhales through his nose. short. sharp. leans his head back against the couch. stares at the ceiling now. “not everything’s about you, y/n.”
“i know that. but you treat me like i’m invisible half the time. like tonight. chan and jisung were here, being nice, actually talking to me, and you come in and it’s like i disappeared the second they left.”
“oh so now you’re comparing me to them? y/n—”
“that’s not—” you start, but he cuts you off.
“what do you want me to do? come in, scoop you up, kiss your forehead, tell you how pretty you look waiting around?” his tone’s mocking. light. “i’m tired. i had practice till my legs were shaking. i don’t have energy to play perfect boyfriend every second.”
your throat tightens. “i’m not asking for perfect. i’m asking for… something. anything. you don’t even look at me sometimes.”
he finally turns fully toward you. shifts so he’s facing you more. arm that was on the backrest drops to your shoulder.
“you want attention? fine. here.” he leans in close. breath warm on your face. eyes locked on yours. “you’re cute when you’re needy. makes me wanna pin you down and shut you up.” his voice drops lower. “but right now? i just wanna sit. eat. sleep. without having to manage your feelings on top of everything else.”
you frown. pout.
“see? that’s what i mean. you get all hurt over nothing. i’m not being cold. i’m just… being me.” he shrugs. casual. “if that’s not enough, maybe you’re the one who needs to figure out what you want.”
you feel small. stupid for asking. stupid for caring. your arm’s still draped over him but now it feels heavy. awkward.
he watches your face. sees the shine in your eyes you’re trying to blink away. sighs. long. dramatic.
he pulls you in. rough at first, hand on the back of your neck, tugging you against his chest. wraps both arms around you. crushes you close. chin on top of your head.
“stop crying about it.” he mutters. but his voice is softer now. hand rubbing slow up and down your back. “i’m here, aren’t i? isn’t that enough?”
you just bury your face in his hoodie. smell him. addictive. even now.
he kisses the top of your head. once. twice. murmurs into your hair “you’re mine. you know that. stop making it hard.”
and fuck. it works. you cling tighter. tell yourself he’s just tired. tell yourself the mean parts don’t count when the soft ones feel this good.
he lets you stay like that. rocking you a little. humming low. like nothing happened.
but something did.
you poked the bear. he bit back.
and you’re still here.
way to go, y/n.
the next morning you wake up tangled in his sheets. he’s still asleep, not cuddling you but not being away from you on purpose. he shifted away in his sleep, that’s it.
you slip out quiet. make coffee. sit at the kitchen island scrolling nothing. when he finally stumbles out, he wraps around you from behind. chin on your shoulder. “morning.”
“hey.” you say soft. “i’m gonna leave you alone today. give you space. i know you work a lot. i’m sorry if i’ve been… too much.”
he freezes behind you. turns you around slow. hands on your hips. looks down at you with those eyes that always win. “no. come with me today. the boys like you. it’ll be chill. just hang.”
you hesitate. “minho… you were pretty clear last night you didn’t want—”
“i was tired.” he cuts in. thumb brushes your cheek. voice drops sweet. “don’t make me beg, y/n. come. please.”
and fuck. the please hits different. rare. soft. you cave. nod. “okay.”
he grins. kisses you quick. “good girl.”
and when you get there, han spots you first. lights up. “y/n! hi!”
chan gives you a half hug. you get a fist bump from changbin. god, you’re lucky he didn’t try to dap you up this time. you can just never learn how to do it right. and you’re not that close with the others that they give you a physical greeting, but at least they say hi too.
at some point, you’re laughing at some dumb story jeongin’s telling and minho slides his hand onto your shoulder. just his palm, gives a loving squeeze.
“you’re real chatty today.”
you freeze. smile falters.
later you’re sitting between hyunjin and some staff, listening to chan show you a part of a new song.
“i think it’s cute.” you nod. god, do they beam when you say that.
well, minho, across the room fiddling with his phone, looks up. “yeah? you’re the expert now?”
the room quiets a beat. hyunjin shares a look with han. some of them glance over.
chan raises his eyebrows but keeps it light. “she’s got ears, man. chill.”
you feel the heat rush to your face. shrink a little. han changes the subject quick. chan shoots you an “ignore him” look.
the rest of the afternoon? minho’s a bitch. interrupts when you talk. corrects you. when you get up to grab water he tells you to “sit down, i’ll get it.” but not with the sweet, dream boyfriend tone. bitch. and when the boys joke around, he pulls you onto his lap. literally hot and cold.
by the time you leave you’re exhausted. quiet in the car. he doesn’t notice. or doesn’t care.
back home. just you two. door shuts. silence.
you drop your bag. turn to him. heart pounding. “we need to talk.”
he’s already kicking off shoes. doesn’t look up. “about?”
“today. the way you acted. in front of everyone. you were mean. again.”
“mean? i brought you. i wanted you there. you’re complaining?”
“you humiliated me. little comments. the grip. the—”
he cuts you off. steps closer. “you’re dramatic. always twisting shit. i was tired. busy. focused. you want me to hold your hand the whole time like a kid?”
“no. i want respect. basic—”
“respect?” he echoes. mean. “you get to hang in my world. with my friends. my studio. that’s not respect?”
your eyes burn. voice shakes. you grab your bag. turn for the door. “yeah, no. i’m leaving.”
“go ahead. you’ll be back in an hour crying about how much you miss me.”
you walk out. door slams.
outside, you realize. shit. keys. you left them on the studio counter when you were searching for chapstick because jeongin was whining around about his lips being dry.
you stop. curse under your breath. no way you’re going back to minho tonight. not after that.
so back to the studio it is.
when you get there, it’s late but the lights are still on. door’s unlocked. you slip in quiet.
han and chan are still there. both look up when you walk in.
han stands fast. “y/n? you okay?”
chan sits up. “thought you left with him.”
you swallow. voice small. “i… we got into an argument. but i forgot my keys.”
they exchange a look. quick. knowing.
han grabs your keys for you, puts them in your little palm. “what happened?”
you shake your head. “same shit. worse. he… he basically said i’m just there for show.”
han rubs your back slow. gentle. “he’s dumb. you don’t have to go back tonight, you know that, right?”
chan nods. “crash at my place. jeongin’s not home now anyway. whatever. we’ll hang. talk.“
han looks at chan then back at you. “i’m not going home either. not tonight. not if he’s like that.”
you blink up at them. both so manly. so kind. no games. no hot-cold.
and soon, you’re sandwiched between them on chan’s couch. jeongin is… wherever, who cares. chan’s on your left, legs stretched out, arm casually draped along the back of the couch behind you. han’s on your right, turned a little toward you, elbow on the cushion, chin in his hand, watching you.
you three talk. about staff. how changbin almost spilled coffee on the soundboard earlier. how han’s been thinking about solo stuff.
but they can notice that you’re still affected by what happened earlier.
“what’s up?” chan asks. “you cold?”
you shake your head. “just… everything.”
han reaches over. tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “you don’t have to talk if you don’t want.”
but you do want. you spill a little more, how minho’s words keep echoing. how you feel stupid for staying so long. how you still won’t break up with him.
chan shakes his head. “he doesn’t deserve you. never did.”
then he leans in and plants one soft, slow kiss on your cheek.
you freeze.
han watches for half a second then mirrors it, kisses the other cheek, lingering longer, breath hot against your skin.
“uh… guys?”
chan grins. sly. “what? you looked sad.”
han nods, lips still on your skin. “he’s right. you deserve better than getting ignored and then yelled at for existing.”
you open your mouth to protest (morals? boundaries? something?) but chan’s already tilting your chin toward him. kisses you proper this time. deep, filthy, tongue sliding in.
god, he’s been waiting months to taste you.
han goes for your neck. open mouthed, sucking slow, teeth grazing. you whimper into chan’s mouth.
next thing you know shirts are coming off. your hoodie gets yanked up and off in one messy tug (chan does the honors, han helps pull your arms free). your bra unhooked with chan’s teeth (show off). han’s shirt gets stuck on his head for a solid ten seconds, boy literally flails like a turtle on its back.
“bro you’re embarrassing us.” chan whispers.
han finally frees himself, hair a disaster, blushing down to his chest. “shut up i’m nervous okay she’s hot.”
you’re drowning in abs and collarbones and that ridiculous v-line situation chan going on. holy fuck.
this is actual heaven compared to the “love” minho gave you.
chan’s hands slide onto your body, thumbs circling your nipples until they pebble hard. han’s fingers are already undoing your jeans, tugging them down desperately.
chan kisses down your collarbone, sucks a nipple into his mouth while his hand palms the other one, thumb flicking. han watches, eyes wide, breathing hard, watching your hips roll into nothing, your mouth half open in a little sigh. they find you so beautiful.
chan pulls off with a wet pop, grins up at you. “you’re so fucking pretty when you’re needy, baby. been wanting this for months.”
then he’s kissing you again, all while han keeps working your neck with his pretty little mouth, hand sliding down to put his fingers under your panties.
you’re soaked already. embarrassingly so.
han actually moans when he feels it. he’s just about to spit something out about hyung come take a look at it, but chan’s already pulling your panties down himself.
you look at han in shock. he looks back at you, just as shocked as you are, which is absolutely fucking hilarious if you think about it.
but we’re not here to laugh. we’re here to see how chan dips down, licks a fat stripe up your pussy, slow, obscene, tongue flat and pressing hard on your clit.
you buck. he laughs against you. “so wet already. minho ever make you this sloppy?”
han answers for you, fingers sliding in, two at once, curling sweetly. “he didn’t, right?”
you throw your pretty head back, shaking it in a no. okay, he might have actually, but that’s obviously not the point of the conversation. there’s just wet sounds and heavy breathing and the way chan’s tongue flicks fast while han’s fingers fuck you open, scissoring, stretching. spit everywhere, chan drooling on your clit on purpose, letting it drip down to where han’s working you.
chan pulls away, gives your little cunt a biiiiig smooooch one last time before he slaps the side of your thighs twice, playful, cheeky, and stands up. adjusts himself in his jeans, pulling and twisting and whatnot so he can comfortably walk to his room to get condoms.
god, chan just pulled away and han is already jumping at your pussy(accompanied by little “eeeeh—uhh—“ sounds to signal that he really wants to go next), diving in immediately now that he has space.
you let him, run your pretty hands into his hair even, scratching his scalp with the nails minho paid for.
chan doesn’t give much attention to the fact that han took his place, just comes back to you with a weird little walk that would be embarrassing but it’s hot because you can tell it’s because that boner hurts, and you’re the reason for that boner.
he kneels next to you, pushes han’s head a little just to be an asshole, but doesn’t push han’s head away from you. you really do deserve all the pleasure they can give you after that asshole of a man. all the pleasure chan’s dick can give you, hard when he finally frees it, slapping against his abs when he shifts. veiny. angry looking in the best way.
chan opens one of the condoms he brought(he thought about ripping it open with his teeth but that’s risky, he’s not gonna knock up minho’s girlfriend no matter how big his crush is on you) rolls it on himself. “gonna take care of you first, yeah? been dying to feel you squeeze me.”
he maneuvers you onto your back. legs spread over his lap.
han’s kneeling beside you, hand stroking your hair, whispering “you’re so pretty like this.” in that shaky pathetic voice, hand stroking himself slow over his boxers, jaw slack. “holy shit.”
chan lines up. teases the head against you, slow drags, coating himself, bumping your clit on purpose until you’re whining and trying to push your hips up. “easy, pretty girl.” he murmurs. “let me in slow.”
he pushes in inch by inch. stretching. he bottoms out, groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “fuck. so tight. so perfect.”
he picks up a pace with deep, rolling thrusts that hit every spot that makes your toes curl. one hand braced by your head, the other thumbing your clit in tight circles. “that’s it, baby. take it so good for me. look at you, fucking glowing. you deserve this. deserve to feel good. minho never gave you this, did he? nah. he doesn’t know how. but channie’s gonna make it sooooo good.”
spit drips from his mouth onto your chest, he smears it around your nipple with his palm. filthy.
whining, han pulls his boxers off too. he’s no slouch either, curves up a little, leaking like he’s been edged for hours just from kissing your neck. he’s watching in straight up awe. mouth open. eyes wide. hand on his own dick, stroking slow.
he leans in and licks where you’re joined, tongue flicking over your clit, chan’s fingers and the base of chan’s cock at the same time.
chan shakes his head. “bro you’re nasty.”
han just lets out a sigh-laugh-whateveritsoundedboyishsoitwashot, pulling away(he just wanted a little taste again) and his fingers join chan’s on your clit instead. trembling. awkward at first but eager. to fill this horrible emptiness in his mouth now, he comes back up again to suck a nipple into his mouth. tongue sloppily, almost disgustingly sliding around. moaning around it like he’s the one getting fucked.
chan leans down to kiss you messy, muffling your quiet little whines. tongue everywhere. spit stringing between your mouths when he pulls back. han moans a little at the sight.
“god i need this so bad.” han whines. “been jerking off thinking about you for months. sorry— fuck— that’s creepy isn’t it?”
you laugh. smile. shake your head. god, he’s cute.
chan speeds up. hips stuttering. “shit—gonna cum already. you feel too good.” he slams in a few more times, hard, then freezes. groans long and low. fills the condom while grinding against you. kisses your forehead. “sorry baby, too perfect. had to.”
he pulls out slow. dick still twitching. peels the condom off, ties it, tosses it toward the trash can, misses. it lands on the floor with a wet slap. nobody cares. jeongin’s gonna cry when he comes home though.
“your turn.” chan says to han. pats your thigh. “she needs to cum. make her cum, yeah?”
han scrambles for a fresh condom of chan’s. mind you, there are different sizes and types of condoms, so this fucker can only hope that it’ll work out with the type chan uses. his hands are shaking so bad chan has to help him roll it on. “relax, dude. she wants it.”
han settles between your legs. whines a little as he holds his cock to line himself up to you. pushes in careful. inch by inch. eyes rolling back the second he’s halfway. “oh my gooood… oh fuck she’s warm.”
he starts moving, shallow at first, then deeper, hypnotized by the way your tits bounce. “you feel so good… better than i imagined… fuck i’ve thought about this so much… sorry i’m talking a lot i just—ngh—your pussy’s sucking me in… please don’t hate me if i cum too fast…”
chan’s beside you now. kissing your neck again. fingers playing with your clit while han fucks you. “look at him.” he murmurs in your ear. “losing his mind. tell him how good he feels, baby.”
you moan. “s-so good h… harder…”
han whines. “fuck—okay—okay—” thrusts get erratic. desperate. hips and his balls slapping wet. spit everywhere, his, chan’s, yours. couch is gonna need a deep clean. “minho never deserved this view. never deserved you. gonna make you cum… please cum on me… been so good for—fuck i love you—wait shit i mean—ngh—”
he pulls you back onto him with every thrust. wet sounds obscene. skin slapping. your moans loud. his moans louder.
that does it. the pathetic i love you slip. his pathetic little noises. the way he’s trying so hard. chan’s fingers. chan’s fingers that just sped up. you arch. clench. cum hard, shaking, crying out, nails digging into han’s shoulders. he follows two thrusts later. buries deep. sobs into your neck while he fills the condom. whining and moaning and crying into your skin.
silence after.
han’s still inside you. panting. forehead pressed to your neck. doesn’t move.
chan slaps han’s back, hard. “yo. off. give her space.”
han whines but pulls out slow. condom full. he ties it, drops it. it gets stuck to the coffee table somehow. your panties are hanging off a lamp shade.
you’re boneless. blissed. giggling delirious bc holy shit you just got railed into next week by two guys who actually give a fuck.
minho who? lee (you don’t)know. lee minwho.
oh y/n.
you’re so fucked. (literally)
both of them just stare at you for a second, sweaty, flushed.
chen chan click his tongue. pulls you into his lap, cradles you against his chest. “channie’s got you, baby. gonna take care of everything. you did so good. so brave. i’m so proud.” he kisses your forehead. your nose. your cheeks. wipes sweat off your brow with his thumb.
han’s just sitting there cross legged, dazed, dick softening against his thigh, looking like a new man.
chan reaches over, ruffles han’s hair. “good job, man. proud of you.” then to you: “shower time, pretty. it’s down the hall. hot water. take your time. we will clean up.”
they both watch you stand. legs wobbly. chan pats your ass once, playful. han does the same, gentler.
“go on.” chan says, pressing a kiss to the side of your thigh. “we’ll be right here when you’re done.”
you hum. stumble off. hear them behind you.
han, quiet: “did that really happen?”
chan, laughing: “yeah, man.“
door clicks shut behind you.
hot water hits your skin. you smile to yourself bc what the actual fuck. morally wrong, sure. but fuck, they loved you better in one night than minho did in months.
when you’re done and get out in a towel that you can’t even dare to guess if it’s chan’s or jeongin’s, the bathroom door creaks open and chan’s already there, shirtless, sweatpants that he changed into, hair still messy. leaning in the doorway. he’s been waiting for you.
“c’mere, baby.” he says. grabs your wrist gently, tugs you down the hall to his bedroom.
han is already sitting on chan’s unmade bed, unfortunately having clothes on again, on his phone, looking up when you come in.
chan sits on the edge of the mattress first, pulls you between his spread thighs. dries you off himself, slow drags of the towel over your shoulders, your tits, your stomach, down your legs. then he’s rummaging in his dresser, pulls out one of his oversized black tees and a pair of his boxers.
“arms up.”
you obey. he slips the tee over your head. fabric smells like him. hangs loose on you, hits mid thigh. then the boxers. he leans down to help you step in, slides them up your legs slow, hands sliding over the backs of your knees, your inner thighs. when they’re settled he gives the waistband a playful snap against your hip.
he sits back on the bed, pats his lap. “up.”
you straddle him facing him. his hands immediately find your ass, big palms cupping both cheeks, squeezing, kneading. he groans low when you shift and grind down just a little.
han doesn’t even pretend that he’s not looking. he’s absolutely looking. no shame. any shame he could’ve had disappeared the second chan had to help him roll the condom on. the condom was a good fit, by the way. lucky.
silence for a beat.
“i feel… kinda bad.” you murmur.
they both watch your face.
“like… guilty. for cheating on minho. even if he’s an asshole. even if he treats me like trash. i still… i was his. and now i’m not. and i let you two—”
chan cuts in soft. “hey. breathe.” his hands slide up to your waist, hold you. “listen. minho had months. to treat you right. he didn’t. he chose to ignore you, snap at you, make you feel small. you didn’t cheat on a boyfriend. you escaped it.”
chan, you evil asshole.
you see, both of these boys are being evil in this situation. they want you to hate minho so they can have you all to themselves. they’re proud that they made you cheat. couldn’t be prouder.
han puts a hand on your thigh that’s closest to him. “listen. you’re not a bad person for wanting to be loved right. minho never did that. we will.“
see? evil.
you look between them. “still feels wrong. like… bro code or whatever. you’re his friends.”
han rolls his eyes. “bro code’s for bros who act like bros. minho stopped qualifying the second he started talking to you like a dog. we’re not gonna lose sleep over dipping in where he clearly forgot to lock the door.”
chan nods. leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth. “exactly.” another kiss. “nobody has to know, baby.”
well, they’d make the whole world know if they could. but beefing with minho right now would ruin a lot of shit. now’s not the time.
these aren’t the sweet comforting boys from the couch anymore. they’re still sweet. still comforting. but underneath? selfish. willing to lie, cover, twist, whatever keeps you with them.
you swallow. weird mix of turned on and unnerved. “you guys are kinda evil.”
chan looks up at you, hums in that mocking but also sweet way. “mhm.”
han leans in closer. “and if he ever finds out? which he won’t. but if? we’ll handle it for you. don’t worry. worst case? we beat his ass.” he said that way too casually.
there we go.
han yawns then, big, boyish. stretches. “anyways. i’m crashing on the couch. you two… do whatever. i’m tired.”
chan laughs. “pussy. go.”
han leans over, kisses your cheek soft. “night, hyung. night, baby.”
pads out quiet. door clicks shut.
chan watches him go, then turns back to you. pulls his phone from the nightstand. opens messages. types right in front of you. to minho.
chan: y/n’s crashing here tonight. she forgot her keys at the studio and i didn’t want her to go home alone rn. she’s good. sleeping in jeongin’s room. talk tomorrow.
he hits send right in front of you. no hesitation. leaves out the part where “jeongin’s room” is code for “between me and han getting our dicks wet in every hole she let us near.”
minho: k. thx. tell her i’ll pick her up tmrw.
chan tosses the phone aside. “see? he doesn’t even fight it. lazy fuck.”
you hum. climb out of his lap to lay down next to him, and he immediately wraps both arms around you. pulls you against his chest. one hand back on your ass, the other stroking your back under the shirt.
“sleep now, baby. channie’s got you. tomorrow we figure out how to keep you.“
“you’re both kinda fucked up.” you mumble against his pec.
chan chuckles. kisses the top of your head. “m’yeah.”
and that’s fucking it.
when you wake up, his arm is over your waist, face buried in your neck, soft snores rumbling against your skin. the black tee’s twisted around your hips, boxers riding up. han’s probably still passed out on the couch judging by the faint snoring echoing down the hall. sun’s sneaking through the blinds in thin stripes, painting everything gold and guilty.
your phone buzzes on the nightstand. once. twice. insistent.
minho: where r u
minho: still at chan’s?
minho: come out. i’m outside.
your stomach drops. heart does that stupid flip it always does for him. even now.
you slip out from under chan’s arm careful. he grumbles, rolls over, mutters “five more min” into the pillow.
you: coming.
you tiptoe past han on the couch, he’s starfished, one arm dangling, looking peaceful. you grab your clothes from last night, crumpled on the floor, change quick in the bathroom. splash water on your face. stare at your reflection. lips still a little swollen. neck has faint marks from han’s desperate mouth. you pull the collar of your hoodie higher. good enough.
you kiss han’s face before you leave. he hums something and reaches for you, but you have to go. bye, love.
out the door. elevator down. then the parking lot.
you get into his car. passenger side. door shuts heavy.
engine starts. he pulls out slow. no music. just the hum of the car and city traffic waking up outside.
awkward doesn’t cover it. silence so thick you could choke.
you stare out the window. “can we talk?”
he doesn’t look over. just flicks the blinker. “about what? you ghosting me all night?”
“i didn’t ghost. i didn’t have my keys. chan told you.”
“yeah. he did.”
you swallow. “i was upset. after yesterday. after… everything.”
“so you run to my boys? sleep over at chan’s?”
“it wasn’t like that.” (lie. it was exactly like that.)
he grips the wheel tighter. “sure.”
more silence. red light. he finally glances over. tired. hurt? anger? desperation? hard to tell.
you try again. softer. “i don’t wanna fight. i just… i love you. that’s why it hurts when you treat me like i’m disposable.”
“disposable? i picked you up. i’m here. what more do you want?”
“i want you to act like you care. not just when it’s convenient. not just when you’re horny or lonely.”
“i do care.” voice cracks a little. first real emotion all morning. “that’s why i’m fucking here begging you to come home.”
“you’re not begging. you’re being an asshole.”
he merges lanes aggressively. “what do you want me to say? sorry i’m not perfect? sorry the industry chews me up and spits me out and sometimes i take it out on you? sorry i’m not chan or hyunjin?”
“don’t drag them into this.”
your heart hammers. he has no idea. no clue about the condoms scattered. about han’s pathetic whimpers. about chan sweet talking you through an orgasm.
but he keeps going. toxic as ever. but underneath? pleading. “come back, y/n. please. i’ll… i’ll try. i’ll be better. just don’t— don’t leave me for them. i can’t… i can’t do this without you.” his hand reaches over. finds your thigh. squeezes. “i know i fuck up. i know i’m mean. but you’re mine. you’ve always been mine. don’t throw us away over one bad week.”
you love him. god you love him. even now. even after everything. the highs were so high. the way he’d sing to you half asleep. the way he’d hold you.
“i’m not throwing us away. but you have to stop hurting me. on purpose.”
he nods. quick. jerky. “i will. promise. just… come home. stay. we’ll figure it out.”
the car pulls into your building’s underground parking. he kills the engine. doesn’t move.
he leans over. cups your face. kisses you slow. deep. you kiss back. because you’re weak. because you love him too much. because even after chan and han loved you better for one night, minho is the addiction you can’t quit.
he pulls back. “you’re not leaving me. right?”
you nod once. small.
he smiles. relieved. “good girl.”
you follow him up. into the apartment. door shuts. door barely shut behind you and he’s already got you pinned against the wall. kisses you. fucks you hard enough the pictures on the wall rattle. it’s angry. desperate. makeup sex. he finishes inside. no condom. raw. claims you.
and just like that, you’re back in it.
nothing changes.
the next week he’s snapping at you for breathing too loud while he’s gaming. ignores your texts during practice. comes home at 3am smelling like alcohol and the other boys, flops on the bed without a word, then rolls over at dawn and fucks you slow and sweet like the ignoring never happened.
cycle repeats. he still calls you “needy” when you ask for attention. still makes “jokes” in front of the boys that sting. still disappears emotionally when the schedule gets heavy.
but god.
he loves you so much.
leaves messages when he’s on a flight. buys you anything and everything you mentioned once in passing. holds you after bad days. clings like a drowning man even when he’s the one pushing you under.
you love him so much.
too much to walk away. too much to tell him about the nights you sneak out “for a massage client” and end up at chan’s place. too much to stop answering when he calls crying after a fight with management. too much to hate the way he owns you.
because once a week, sometimes twice, you’re right back on chan’s couch.
or his bed.
or han’s bed when minho’s out.
or once on the studio floor after everyone else left, han locking the door with shaking hands while chan already has your leggings yanked down.
they keep on fucking you.
chan still knows how to keep you hooked. loved. “look at you, baby. taking us so good. minho doesn’t know what he’s missing, huh? we got you. always got you.”
han’s exactly what you need after chan’s and minho’s confidence. “please—fuck—can i cum inside again? just the tip—shit—your pussy’s so warm—i’m gonna—please—”
they’re evil too. don’t pretend otherwise.
chan smirks when you mention minho’s latest blowup. “tell him you’re sore from ‘yoga.’ he’ll buy it.” then fucks you harder.
han is basically on your dick every time you two are in the same place, minho around or not.
they don’t gaf about morals. they laugh about it sometimes.
“he would kill us.” han says once, post nut clarity hitting.
chan just shrugs. “let him try.”
you’re just as toxic.
you lie to minho’s face with a straight smile. text chan “coming over” while minho’s in the shower. let han eat you out in the company building’s bathroom while minho’s in the booth recording vocals ten feet away. come home smelling like their cologne mixed with yours and minho never notices.
you crave the thrill. the highs. the way minho’s love hurts. the way chan and han fuck the hurt away.
It was quiet in the bedroom, save for the distant splash of water coming from the joint bathroom where Chris was washing up for the night. Nestled back against a long, tubular pillow, cushioning her frame, Y/N smiled to herself at the familiar sound of him brushing his teeth. Her eyes were fixed on her stomach, and her fingers gently traced over the growing curve of it, her thoughts pleasant yet tinged with a heaviness that was making her eyes prickle at the corners. The cool silk of her nightie rose and fell gently with each breath she took, and her smile grew when the side of her stomach suddenly pulsed softly, her hand going to rest against the movement.
“What are you doing awake, silly boy?” Y/N hummed out loud, her voice laced with amusement. “Why do I get the feeling you're going to be a complete night owl like your father … ?”
Another soft kick made her laugh under her breath. “Yeah, I guess you're right. We're all night owls in this family.”
She brought her fingers to her lips and gently brushed them with a loving kiss before placing her hand against her bump again. She continued to caress her stomach, her mind drifting once more as she shifted amongst the cushions, her baby continuing to kick energetically against her touch.
Y/N was so caught up in her thoughts, her faraway gaze still fixed on her bump, that she barely even noticed when Chris padded into the room. He was shirtless as always, his lightly tanned skin shimmering gold under the lamplight, little droplets running down his neck and settling at the divots of each clavicle; he had continued to fill out over the years she had known him, something he hadn't thought was possible despite his strenuous efforts. But his chest was full and his arms were strong, and they warped with thick shadows now as he kneeled up onto the bed, his dark eyes surveying his wife with a tender affection.
“What are you thinking about?” He asked in a low voice, the sound rumbling through Y/N when his arm came into contact with hers.
Blinking in vague surprise to see him there, Y/N looked up at her husband; he was staring right back at her, his rosy lips curving up at the corners before he pressed a kiss to her temple. His hand had automatically reached for her stomach as he settled down beside her in their bed, and Y/N watched with a fluttering heart when he leaned down and nuzzled his nose against her bump, his hand rubbing the top of it.
“He kicked!” Chris laughed a moment later, turning to look at his wife in awe. “Right against my cheek. Cheeky bugger.”
“Yeah he's been doing it a lot,” Y/N giggled and reached out to caress his cheek as he rested against her stomach. “Think he's gonna be a night owl.”
“Hm. Like his mother.”
“No, like his father!”
Chuckling at that, Chris peppered her with more gentle kisses. “C'mon then. Whatcha thinking about, hmm? You were in such a daze when I came in.”
Y/N sighed softly. Her fingers kept stroking his cheek as he looked up at her, waiting for her answer, his arms wrapping around her thighs as he hugged her to himself.
“Just … that I'm grateful?” Y/N said slowly, cocking up a shoulder in a half-shrug. “And a little surprised, I guess.”
Chris raised an eyebrow in question, willing her to go on.
Laughing a little with embarrassment, Y/N slid further down the bed, her pillow wrapping around her like a big hug. “I don't know. I guess I'm still really shocked that I'm pregnant? I mean … I've always wanted to be a mum. Really badly. But … my body has been through so much. Chronic autoimmune disorders, being stuck in a fight or flight response for most of my life, depression, undereating, all of that stuff … a part of me was scared that I'd ruined any chance of being fertile, I suppose.”
Eyes softening at her hesitant words, Chris pressed a last kiss to her stomach before moving up the bed again and curling his arms around her. His hand cupped the side of her head as he brought it down to rest against her shoulder, and she exhaled through her nose at the feeling of him so close, his lips brushing the crown of her head.
“I still can't wrap my head around the fact that there's a whole baby inside me,” Y/N whispered, reaching for her stomach. “After everything … my body still somehow bounced back. I sound so silly but … I kinda wish I could hug all my organs and tell them that I'm proud of them. For getting through it all and for being so strong and … and … for making a whole new set of organs for our baby. Like … isn't that insane?”
She looked up at him then to see Chris suddenly wiping at his eyes with his fingers. His face broke into a sheepish grin.
“I'm not crying,” he was quick to say with a sniffle. “There's just … something … in my eye.”
“Are you crying?” Y/N's mouth dropped open in surprise and she sat up a little so she could face him fully. “Baby?”
“I'm not,” Chris laughed, his nose scrunching up in the process. “You're just making me emotional.”
At that, Y/N's own eyes filled with tears. She spluttered with laughter at the same time as her husband did, and she went willingly when he pulled her back into his arms again.
“Do you think it's weird that I want to cuddle my organs?” Y/N whispered then, voice muffled against his arm.
Chris shook with silent laughter. “Yeah. Very weird. But I wanna cuddle your organs too right about now … so I guess we're both weird.”
“You wanna cuddle them?”
“Yeah. For the same reasons you do. For keeping my girl healthy and safe despite everything.”
The look in Chris's eyes when he cupped Y/N's face with the both of his hands then was nothing short of soul shattering.
“You're the strongest woman I know,” he whispered, his thumbs brushing over the curves of his wife's cheekbones. “Fuck that … probably the strongest person I know. You have no idea how much I look up to you.”
Y/N's eyes widened in surprise. “You … look up to me?”
“Of course I do,” Chris nodded. “You've been through so much, but you still became the kindest, most caring, loving person when you could have gone the opposite way instead.”
Vision blurring, Y/N blinked up at him. “But you've been through just as much as I have.”
Chris smiled ruefully. “But I always had people around me to help me when I needed it. Even when I felt lonely, I wasn't ever really alone. You had to do everything all by yourself. Completely alone. That makes you so much stronger than me. I honestly don't think I could have survived if I was in your shoes.”
“Nah … “ Y/N batted her hand at him, her cheeks flushing as his words sank in through her skin. “That's not true.”
“It definitely is,” Chris laughed and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I just mean … you’re going to be the best mum in the whole world, you know? Our little kicker is gonna be the luckiest boy getting to be loved by you.”
“Stop making me cry,” Y/N huffed through a watery smile, the back of her hand coming up to brush over her damp cheek. “You're going to be an amazing dad too.”
“I hope so,” Chris suddenly groaned and flopped back into the pillows, making his wife laugh. He groaned loudly and slapped his hands over his face, his fingers dramatically dragging down his cheeks until his face sported a gormless expression. “What if I'm not?”
“You will be,” Y/N said confidently. “You've had years of experience with the kids anyway.”
At that, Chris grinned. “Yeah. Still kids in my eyes.”
“They're always going to be.”
“Hey … you know how you wanna cuddle your organs?” Chris suddenly said. His eyes lit up with mirth and Y/N tilted her head to the side with curiosity, unsure as to where the conversation was going.
“Yes … “
“Well … what if he's cuddling your organs for you?” The man placed a hand on her stomach again, his touch warm as it seeped through the thin fabric covering it. “Tiny cuddles.”
The image that formed in Y/N's mind made her eyes prickle all over again. “Chris … “
“What? I'm just saying,” Chris laughed. “He's cuddling them for us. I mean, they're literally his home right now, so … “
Lips curving up into a slow smile, Y/N extended her arm and placed her hand atop her husband's, the cool metal of their rings clinking softly in the shadows. Chris grinned at his wife at the sound, and as if on cue, the area of Y/N's stomach beneath their entwined hands suddenly thumped with life; they both burst out laughing at the feeling, which only prompted more joyful kicks from their baby.
maria’s note: all the fanfics listed below contain explicit scenes, so MDNI! these authors are all incredibly talented writers whom I’ve always admired, so don’t forget to show them plenty of love!! 🤍
listen to it by @skzfflovers
under the table by @skzfflovers
indecent by @cattolino
like me better by @cattolino
aisle be damned (5 parts) by @emmiesoverthemoon
hips by @fenya-scribbles
quiet by @fenya-scribbles
loud by @fenya-scribbles
business partners by @chvnnie
different by @chvnnie
eternally by @chvnnie
take it off by @ybklix
hidden lovers by @ybklix
more than recommended by @stryscribbles
confession ride by @stryscribbles
zero eight zero one (ongoing series) by @kloversung
blazing heat by @hanjinology
winter rose by @joyracha
jealousy jealousy by @skzophreniic
bartender by @skzophreniic
choke on it by @skzophreniic
the crowd (4 parts) by @seospicybin
distracted by @seospicybin
double feature (4 parts) by @seospicybin
deskjob (6 parts) by @seospicybin
bite me if you dare by @starlostjisung
in the dark by @starlostjisung
thunderstruck hearts by @starlostjisung
blue temptation by @starlostjisung
the real celebration by @starlostjisung
built for ruin by @leriexoxo
call it karma by @leriexoxo
the line we keep crossing by @tiannabananna
kitten by @chxrryangel
stolen warmth by @ghostlyscripture
body heat by @ghostlyscripture
haunt me by @1nthedarknessofthenight
love shot by @strrykais
on all fours by @hyunniesamericano
knees by @binniebb
truth or dare (3 parts) by @bugeater101
pretty’n pink by @jektaev
I’M IN LOVE WITH THOSE AUTHORS SO PLS SHOW THEM SUPPORT AND LOVE, THEY’RE AMAZING 🤍🫶🏻
authors note: the teaser poster for the new skz code that’s coming up is absolutely adorable 😭 my heart melted after seeing hyunjin and that baby so i just had to make the header that exact photo and it definitely inspired me to make this fic 🥹🥹 so enjoyyy 💓
summary: Hyunjin’s life as a dad is twice as dramatic after discovering his daughter inherited his flair for theatrics.
warnings: none just pure fluff and hyunjin and his child both being dramatic.
Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
Morning in the Hwang household did not begin quietly.
It began with a gasp.
Not a normal gasp either. A dramatic one. The kind that belonged in a historical drama when the main character discovered a terrible betrayal.
“Appa!”
Hyunjin’s eyes flew open instantly.
The sunlight filtering through the curtains hadn’t even fully warmed the room yet, but his daughter was already standing on the bed like a tiny warrior queen, hair messy, cheeks flushed, and eyes wide with urgency.
Hyunjin blinked slowly.
Once.
Twice.
Then he sat up just as dramatically.
“What happened?” he demanded, voice deep and grave like he was about to hear the worst news imaginable.
His daughter pointed toward the window.
“The sun is too bright.”
Hyunjin froze.
Silence filled the room.
Then he slowly turned his head toward the window where the harmless morning sun streamed peacefully across the floor.
He turned back to her.
“…That’s the emergency?”
She crossed her arms.
“Yes.”
Hyunjin placed a hand over his chest as if steadying himself.
“I thought something terrible happened.”
“It did.”
“The sun rose.”
She nodded firmly.
“It’s aggressive.”
Hyunjin sighed deeply, dramatically leaning back into the pillows like life had just delivered him a devastating blow.
“Life is truly cruel.”
The bedroom door creaked open.
You stood there with a cup of coffee in your hand, watching the two most dramatic people you had ever met share the same bed and the same brain cell.
“Good morning,” you said carefully.
Hyunjin and his daughter both turned their heads at the exact same time.
Same expression.
Same sleepy eyes.
Same messy hair.
You were looking at two identical people twenty-something years apart.
Your daughter pointed again.
“Eomma, the sun attacked.”
You took a slow sip of your coffee.
“I see.”
Hyunjin nodded solemnly.
“It’s a serious situation.”
“Very serious.”
You stared at them both for a long moment before calmly walking over and closing the curtains.
The room dimmed.
Instant peace.
Your daughter sighed in relief and flopped dramatically onto the bed.
“Thank you.”
Hyunjin also sighed like the weight of the world had lifted.
“You saved us.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Both of you survived the sun.”
“Barely.”
“Tragic,” you muttered.
But despite your words, you leaned over and kissed Hyunjin’s messy hair before pressing a quick kiss to your daughter’s forehead.
Your mornings were always like this.
Always chaotic.
Always dramatic.
Always strangely adorable.
-
If someone had asked Hyunjin before he became a father what parenting would be like, he probably would have said something poetic.
Something about teaching, guiding, protecting.
Something meaningful.
Something beautiful.
What he had not expected was raising a tiny version of himself.
Which meant your household was now twice as dramatic.
Hyunjin had always been expressive.
The members of Stray Kids knew that better than anyone.
But when his daughter was born and slowly started developing a personality identical to his, the universe decided to test everyone’s patience.
Especially yours.
And poor Chan whenever he visited.
-
“APPAAAA!”
Hyunjin almost dropped the bowl he was holding.
He spun around so fast his hair whipped across his face.
“What happened?!” he asked urgently.
Your daughter stood in the middle of the kitchen.
Holding a cookie.
But she looked devastated.
Hyunjin hurried toward her immediately, crouching down.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
She held up the cookie.
“It broke.”
The cookie had snapped cleanly in half.
Hyunjin stared at it.
Then at her trembling lip.
He inhaled slowly.
“This… is heartbreaking.”
You, sitting at the kitchen table, watched the entire scene unfold with complete calm.
“She still has two cookies,” you pointed out.
Hyunjin ignored you.
He gently took both halves and studied them like they were priceless artifacts.
“It was whole,” your daughter whispered sadly.
Hyunjin nodded gravely.
“It once was.”
You rubbed your forehead. “I am raising two children.”
Hyunjin turned toward you with betrayal in his eyes.
“This is a moment of grief.”
Your daughter nodded.
“A tragedy.”
You stood up and grabbed another cookie from the container.
You handed it to her.
“Here.”
She brightened instantly.
Hyunjin gasped softly.
“A miracle.”
“Please eat your breakfast,” you said.
-
Later that afternoon, Hyunjin was in his studio painting.
His daughter sat cross-legged beside him with a sheet of paper and a box of crayons.
She watched him carefully, studying every brush stroke like it was a sacred ritual.
Hyunjin tilted his head thoughtfully as he added a splash of color to the canvas.
“What are you drawing?” he asked.
“A masterpiece.”
He hummed approvingly.
“Of course.”
A few minutes passed in peaceful silence.
Then she suddenly gasped.
Hyunjin looked over immediately.
“What happened?”
“My crayon broke.”
Hyunjin stared at the tiny broken crayon.
Then he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“We will get through this together.”
You, walking past the open door, stopped and sighed.
“Not again.”
-
Despite all the chaos, Hyunjin loved being a dad more than anything.
Even more than painting late at night.
Even more than performing.
Even more than those quiet moments when he sat alone with music in his headphones.
His daughter had somehow taken his entire heart and walked around the house with it.
And she knew it.
She absolutely knew it.
Which meant she used it.
-
“Appa.”
Hyunjin looked up from his sketchbook.
“Yes?”
She stood in front of him with suspicious energy.
“Can we do something fun?”
Hyunjin narrowed his eyes.
“What kind of fun?”
She smiled sweetly.
“The dramatic kind.”
Hyunjin’s eyes sparkled.
You, from the couch, immediately sensed danger.
“Hyunjin—”
Too late.
He had already stood up.
“What’s the plan?”
Your daughter grabbed his hand.
“Costumes.”
You sighed.
“Oh no.”
-
Forty minutes later, you walked into the living room and froze.
The scene before you looked like a low-budget historical drama.
Your daughter stood on the coffee table wearing a blanket cape.
Hyunjin knelt dramatically on the floor in front of her wearing one of your scarves tied around his head like some kind of tragic hero.
Both of them looked deeply emotional.
You blinked.
“What is happening?”
Your daughter pointed at Hyunjin.
“He betrayed the kingdom.”
Hyunjin clutched his chest.
“I did it for love!”
You slowly backed away.
“I’m not involved.”
“YOU MUST CHOOSE A SIDE,” your daughter declared.
You grabbed your phone.
“I’m calling Chan.”
-
Twenty minutes later, Chan arrived.
He walked into the living room.
He saw Hyunjin laying across the floor dramatically while your daughter pretended to cry over him.
Chan blinked.
“…Why is he dying?”
Your daughter sniffled.
“He made the ultimate sacrifice.”
Chan nodded slowly.
“Of course he did.”
Hyunjin suddenly opened one eye.
“Hyung, you’re supposed to be the enemy king.”
Chan sighed deeply. “I regret coming here.”
But despite his complaints, Chan eventually joined the game.
Ten minutes later he was standing near the couch holding a pillow like a royal shield while your daughter dramatically declared war.
You watched the three of them from the kitchen doorway.
Your husband.
Your child.
And the exhausted leader of Stray Kids who somehow got dragged into a pretend kingdom war.
It was ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
But the sound of their laughter filled the house so warmly that you couldn’t stop smiling.
-
But despite all the chaos and theatrics, there were quiet moments too.
Moments that made Hyunjin’s heart feel impossibly full.
Like when he sat with his daughter at the kitchen counter while she colored pictures with intense concentration.
Or when she crawled into his lap during movie nights.
Or when she tugged on his sleeve just to show him something tiny and unimportant that meant the world to her.
Those moments reminded him that this tiny dramatic human was still just a kid.
His kid.
And he would do absolutely anything for her.
-
One afternoon, the house was unusually quiet.
Too quiet.
You looked around suspiciously.
“Hyunjin?”
No answer.
You walked into the living room.
Empty.
Kitchen.
Empty.
You narrowed your eyes.
“Hyunjin?”
From somewhere upstairs came a whisper.
“Hide!”
You sighed.
“Seriously?”
You walked up the stairs slowly.
The hallway was silent.
Then a door creaked.
You opened the door to Hyunjin’s studio.
And found them.
Your daughter crouched behind an easel.
Hyunjin laying flat on the floor behind a chair.
They both froze when they saw you.
“What are you doing?”
Your daughter whispered dramatically.
“We’re spies.”
Hyunjin nodded.
“Top secret mission.”
You leaned against the doorway.
“What’s the mission?”
Your daughter pointed at you.
“We were watching you.”
“…Why?”
Hyunjin answered this time.
“To see if you were suspicious.”
You blinked.
“And?”
He smiled sheepishly.
“You found us.”
Mission failed.
-
By the time evening arrived, the house had descended into its usual playful chaos.
There had been dancing in the kitchen.
A dramatic reenactment of a cartoon.
A full argument between Hyunjin and his daughter about whether cats were secretly royalty.
Apparently Hyunjin firmly believed they were.
“They sit on thrones,” he argued.
“That’s the couch,” you said.
“Same thing.”
-
Eventually, exhaustion caught up with both of them.
Dinner had barely finished before your daughter started yawning dramatically.
“Appa…”
Hyunjin looked at her.
“Yes?”
“I’m tired.”
He nodded sympathetically.
“Life is exhausting.”
You pointed toward the hallway.
“Bedtime.”
Your daughter groaned like you had just delivered the worst news possible.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Five more minutes.”
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
Hyunjin leaned toward you and whispered.
“Maybe six minutes.”
You glared at him.
“Don’t encourage her.”
He looked innocent. “I’m supporting her dreams.”
“Her dream is staying awake forever.”
“A noble goal.”
-
Eventually, after much dramatic protesting, you sent them both to the living room while you cleaned the kitchen.
It was quiet again.
Suspiciously quiet.
Ten minutes passed.
Fifteen.
You frowned.
That was unusual.
Very unusual.
You wiped your hands on a towel and walked toward the living room.
The lights were dim.
The television was still playing softly.
And on the couch…
You stopped in the doorway.
Hyunjin was slouched against the cushions, long legs stretched out, head tilted slightly to the side.
Fast asleep.
Your daughter was curled up against him.
Her tiny arms wrapped around his waist.
Her face pressed into his hoodie.
Hyunjin’s arm rested protectively around her shoulders even in his sleep.
Both of them breathing slowly.
Peacefully.
After an entire day of being the most dramatic duo imaginable, they had finally run out of energy.
You leaned against the wall quietly.
Your chest felt warm.
Soft.
Because despite everything—the chaos, the dramatics, the cookie tragedies and spy missions—this was the heart of it all.
This small, quiet moment.
Hyunjin shifted slightly in his sleep, pulling his daughter a little closer.
She sighed softly but didn’t wake.
You walked over carefully and grabbed the blanket draped over the chair.
Gently, you covered them both.
Hyunjin stirred just enough to mumble something sleepily.
“…protect the kingdom…”
You smiled softly.
“Of course.”
Your daughter snuggled deeper into his chest.
And for once, the house was completely calm.
No dramatic speeches.
No emergency cookie tragedies.
Just the quiet sound of two people who loved each other more than anything.
You turned off the television and dimmed the lights.
Then you sat in the armchair nearby, watching them sleep.
authors note: the teaser poster for the new skz code that’s coming up is absolutely adorable 😭 my heart melted after seeing hyunjin and that baby so i just had to make the header that exact photo and it definitely inspired me to make this fic 🥹🥹 so enjoyyy 💓
summary: Hyunjin’s life as a dad is twice as dramatic after discovering his daughter inherited his flair for theatrics.
warnings: none just pure fluff and hyunjin and his child both being dramatic.
Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
Morning in the Hwang household did not begin quietly.
It began with a gasp.
Not a normal gasp either. A dramatic one. The kind that belonged in a historical drama when the main character discovered a terrible betrayal.
“Appa!”
Hyunjin’s eyes flew open instantly.
The sunlight filtering through the curtains hadn’t even fully warmed the room yet, but his daughter was already standing on the bed like a tiny warrior queen, hair messy, cheeks flushed, and eyes wide with urgency.
Hyunjin blinked slowly.
Once.
Twice.
Then he sat up just as dramatically.
“What happened?” he demanded, voice deep and grave like he was about to hear the worst news imaginable.
His daughter pointed toward the window.
“The sun is too bright.”
Hyunjin froze.
Silence filled the room.
Then he slowly turned his head toward the window where the harmless morning sun streamed peacefully across the floor.
He turned back to her.
“…That’s the emergency?”
She crossed her arms.
“Yes.”
Hyunjin placed a hand over his chest as if steadying himself.
“I thought something terrible happened.”
“It did.”
“The sun rose.”
She nodded firmly.
“It’s aggressive.”
Hyunjin sighed deeply, dramatically leaning back into the pillows like life had just delivered him a devastating blow.
“Life is truly cruel.”
The bedroom door creaked open.
You stood there with a cup of coffee in your hand, watching the two most dramatic people you had ever met share the same bed and the same brain cell.
“Good morning,” you said carefully.
Hyunjin and his daughter both turned their heads at the exact same time.
Same expression.
Same sleepy eyes.
Same messy hair.
You were looking at two identical people twenty-something years apart.
Your daughter pointed again.
“Eomma, the sun attacked.”
You took a slow sip of your coffee.
“I see.”
Hyunjin nodded solemnly.
“It’s a serious situation.”
“Very serious.”
You stared at them both for a long moment before calmly walking over and closing the curtains.
The room dimmed.
Instant peace.
Your daughter sighed in relief and flopped dramatically onto the bed.
“Thank you.”
Hyunjin also sighed like the weight of the world had lifted.
“You saved us.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Both of you survived the sun.”
“Barely.”
“Tragic,” you muttered.
But despite your words, you leaned over and kissed Hyunjin’s messy hair before pressing a quick kiss to your daughter’s forehead.
Your mornings were always like this.
Always chaotic.
Always dramatic.
Always strangely adorable.
-
If someone had asked Hyunjin before he became a father what parenting would be like, he probably would have said something poetic.
Something about teaching, guiding, protecting.
Something meaningful.
Something beautiful.
What he had not expected was raising a tiny version of himself.
Which meant your household was now twice as dramatic.
Hyunjin had always been expressive.
The members of Stray Kids knew that better than anyone.
But when his daughter was born and slowly started developing a personality identical to his, the universe decided to test everyone’s patience.
Especially yours.
And poor Chan whenever he visited.
-
“APPAAAA!”
Hyunjin almost dropped the bowl he was holding.
He spun around so fast his hair whipped across his face.
“What happened?!” he asked urgently.
Your daughter stood in the middle of the kitchen.
Holding a cookie.
But she looked devastated.
Hyunjin hurried toward her immediately, crouching down.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
She held up the cookie.
“It broke.”
The cookie had snapped cleanly in half.
Hyunjin stared at it.
Then at her trembling lip.
He inhaled slowly.
“This… is heartbreaking.”
You, sitting at the kitchen table, watched the entire scene unfold with complete calm.
“She still has two cookies,” you pointed out.
Hyunjin ignored you.
He gently took both halves and studied them like they were priceless artifacts.
“It was whole,” your daughter whispered sadly.
Hyunjin nodded gravely.
“It once was.”
You rubbed your forehead. “I am raising two children.”
Hyunjin turned toward you with betrayal in his eyes.
“This is a moment of grief.”
Your daughter nodded.
“A tragedy.”
You stood up and grabbed another cookie from the container.
You handed it to her.
“Here.”
She brightened instantly.
Hyunjin gasped softly.
“A miracle.”
“Please eat your breakfast,” you said.
-
Later that afternoon, Hyunjin was in his studio painting.
His daughter sat cross-legged beside him with a sheet of paper and a box of crayons.
She watched him carefully, studying every brush stroke like it was a sacred ritual.
Hyunjin tilted his head thoughtfully as he added a splash of color to the canvas.
“What are you drawing?” he asked.
“A masterpiece.”
He hummed approvingly.
“Of course.”
A few minutes passed in peaceful silence.
Then she suddenly gasped.
Hyunjin looked over immediately.
“What happened?”
“My crayon broke.”
Hyunjin stared at the tiny broken crayon.
Then he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“We will get through this together.”
You, walking past the open door, stopped and sighed.
“Not again.”
-
Despite all the chaos, Hyunjin loved being a dad more than anything.
Even more than painting late at night.
Even more than performing.
Even more than those quiet moments when he sat alone with music in his headphones.
His daughter had somehow taken his entire heart and walked around the house with it.
And she knew it.
She absolutely knew it.
Which meant she used it.
-
“Appa.”
Hyunjin looked up from his sketchbook.
“Yes?”
She stood in front of him with suspicious energy.
“Can we do something fun?”
Hyunjin narrowed his eyes.
“What kind of fun?”
She smiled sweetly.
“The dramatic kind.”
Hyunjin’s eyes sparkled.
You, from the couch, immediately sensed danger.
“Hyunjin—”
Too late.
He had already stood up.
“What’s the plan?”
Your daughter grabbed his hand.
“Costumes.”
You sighed.
“Oh no.”
-
Forty minutes later, you walked into the living room and froze.
The scene before you looked like a low-budget historical drama.
Your daughter stood on the coffee table wearing a blanket cape.
Hyunjin knelt dramatically on the floor in front of her wearing one of your scarves tied around his head like some kind of tragic hero.
Both of them looked deeply emotional.
You blinked.
“What is happening?”
Your daughter pointed at Hyunjin.
“He betrayed the kingdom.”
Hyunjin clutched his chest.
“I did it for love!”
You slowly backed away.
“I’m not involved.”
“YOU MUST CHOOSE A SIDE,” your daughter declared.
You grabbed your phone.
“I’m calling Chan.”
-
Twenty minutes later, Chan arrived.
He walked into the living room.
He saw Hyunjin laying across the floor dramatically while your daughter pretended to cry over him.
Chan blinked.
“…Why is he dying?”
Your daughter sniffled.
“He made the ultimate sacrifice.”
Chan nodded slowly.
“Of course he did.”
Hyunjin suddenly opened one eye.
“Hyung, you’re supposed to be the enemy king.”
Chan sighed deeply. “I regret coming here.”
But despite his complaints, Chan eventually joined the game.
Ten minutes later he was standing near the couch holding a pillow like a royal shield while your daughter dramatically declared war.
You watched the three of them from the kitchen doorway.
Your husband.
Your child.
And the exhausted leader of Stray Kids who somehow got dragged into a pretend kingdom war.
It was ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
But the sound of their laughter filled the house so warmly that you couldn’t stop smiling.
-
But despite all the chaos and theatrics, there were quiet moments too.
Moments that made Hyunjin’s heart feel impossibly full.
Like when he sat with his daughter at the kitchen counter while she colored pictures with intense concentration.
Or when she crawled into his lap during movie nights.
Or when she tugged on his sleeve just to show him something tiny and unimportant that meant the world to her.
Those moments reminded him that this tiny dramatic human was still just a kid.
His kid.
And he would do absolutely anything for her.
-
One afternoon, the house was unusually quiet.
Too quiet.
You looked around suspiciously.
“Hyunjin?”
No answer.
You walked into the living room.
Empty.
Kitchen.
Empty.
You narrowed your eyes.
“Hyunjin?”
From somewhere upstairs came a whisper.
“Hide!”
You sighed.
“Seriously?”
You walked up the stairs slowly.
The hallway was silent.
Then a door creaked.
You opened the door to Hyunjin’s studio.
And found them.
Your daughter crouched behind an easel.
Hyunjin laying flat on the floor behind a chair.
They both froze when they saw you.
“What are you doing?”
Your daughter whispered dramatically.
“We’re spies.”
Hyunjin nodded.
“Top secret mission.”
You leaned against the doorway.
“What’s the mission?”
Your daughter pointed at you.
“We were watching you.”
“…Why?”
Hyunjin answered this time.
“To see if you were suspicious.”
You blinked.
“And?”
He smiled sheepishly.
“You found us.”
Mission failed.
-
By the time evening arrived, the house had descended into its usual playful chaos.
There had been dancing in the kitchen.
A dramatic reenactment of a cartoon.
A full argument between Hyunjin and his daughter about whether cats were secretly royalty.
Apparently Hyunjin firmly believed they were.
“They sit on thrones,” he argued.
“That’s the couch,” you said.
“Same thing.”
-
Eventually, exhaustion caught up with both of them.
Dinner had barely finished before your daughter started yawning dramatically.
“Appa…”
Hyunjin looked at her.
“Yes?”
“I’m tired.”
He nodded sympathetically.
“Life is exhausting.”
You pointed toward the hallway.
“Bedtime.”
Your daughter groaned like you had just delivered the worst news possible.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Five more minutes.”
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
Hyunjin leaned toward you and whispered.
“Maybe six minutes.”
You glared at him.
“Don’t encourage her.”
He looked innocent. “I’m supporting her dreams.”
“Her dream is staying awake forever.”
“A noble goal.”
-
Eventually, after much dramatic protesting, you sent them both to the living room while you cleaned the kitchen.
It was quiet again.
Suspiciously quiet.
Ten minutes passed.
Fifteen.
You frowned.
That was unusual.
Very unusual.
You wiped your hands on a towel and walked toward the living room.
The lights were dim.
The television was still playing softly.
And on the couch…
You stopped in the doorway.
Hyunjin was slouched against the cushions, long legs stretched out, head tilted slightly to the side.
Fast asleep.
Your daughter was curled up against him.
Her tiny arms wrapped around his waist.
Her face pressed into his hoodie.
Hyunjin’s arm rested protectively around her shoulders even in his sleep.
Both of them breathing slowly.
Peacefully.
After an entire day of being the most dramatic duo imaginable, they had finally run out of energy.
You leaned against the wall quietly.
Your chest felt warm.
Soft.
Because despite everything—the chaos, the dramatics, the cookie tragedies and spy missions—this was the heart of it all.
This small, quiet moment.
Hyunjin shifted slightly in his sleep, pulling his daughter a little closer.
She sighed softly but didn’t wake.
You walked over carefully and grabbed the blanket draped over the chair.
Gently, you covered them both.
Hyunjin stirred just enough to mumble something sleepily.
“…protect the kingdom…”
You smiled softly.
“Of course.”
Your daughter snuggled deeper into his chest.
And for once, the house was completely calm.
No dramatic speeches.
No emergency cookie tragedies.
Just the quiet sound of two people who loved each other more than anything.
You turned off the television and dimmed the lights.
Then you sat in the armchair nearby, watching them sleep.
genre: crackfic, dark comedy, dark romance, horror
summary: well, you survived them last time. now you have to live your life with them constantly on you. they keep killing people. they keep fighting each other. they keep getting blood everywhere. and you keep letting them fall in love with you, but doesn’t that get hard when one of them becomes your boyfriend, even accidentally?
warnings: non idol au, violence, blood, little mentions of gore(like holding a kidney up once?) and vomiting, cannibalism(felix, it’s not in detail but still gross), obsessive behavior, cursing, homicidal behavior/psychopathy, felix and han are still dumb, sexual content(no smut written but there’s talk about sex, mentions of humping, riding and virginity loss), jealousy, physical fights(not serious, just boys being boys), slight mention of alcoholism(hyunjin), reader is not that right morally and let’s not even talk about the boys, plz read the author’s note on the bottom it’s important
word count: 16k
you’re not like… dating these serial killers, are you?
no.
not yet, at least.
where did we leave off last time? something about you getting used to them. so yeah, you have your boys now. your eight brutally capable and deeply evil boys who cannot leave you alone for a minute now.
you sit down and three of them sit closer on instinct, it can escalate to the point that they’re sitting in your lap. like you stand up and at least one goes “where are you going.” you laugh and the room looks at you like you just invented happiness. because for them, you might have. the only thing that brought them happiness so far was human guts in their hands, and now a sweet, pretty, normal girl is willing to spend time with them?? they’re living their best lives.
there’s always at least one of them touching you at any given time. shoulder, knee, ur hoodie sleeve, the back of your neck, whatnot.
they are NOT slick.
and a tension started developing for a while now. like, between you and them. you could cut it with one of the suspiciously well maintained knives in the house.
this is hyunjin’s fault, let’s start there. he started this with the “is this yours” bullshit and now look at him. he acts the calmest but is actually the most cooked. always standing just slightly too close behind you. hand on your lower back when he passes. casually brushing hair out of your face like that’s a normal friend activity??? but he’ll say shit like “you have something on your face.” and just stare at your lips. sir. be serious.
almost heartless psycho who feels the hottest with human blood smeared all over his face, but for you, he refills your water before you realize it’s empty, turns the heat up if you’re cold, swaps seats if he thinks you’re exposed to any type of danger in your current one. (unc what danger you’re in a cat cafe)
chan acts like he’s above all this. he is not, clearly. he pretends he’s just “looking out for you” but he’s the worst for staring. you’ll look up and he’s already looking. no shame. zero.
but he’s also the one who pulls you behind him automatically in public, adjusts your jacket collar, wipes something off your cheek with his thumb. pffft he’s adorable. and so blank. mostly his eyes are, they look dead. he’s clearly short on feelings, but he has the most for you.
changbin is the safest, probably. for you. he’s also the most openly affectionate, arms around your shoulders, leaning against you on the couch, or just… sitting in your lap in public. y’all lost count of how many times you pushed him to the floor for that.
he doesn’t even realize how couple coded he is. the others notice. they hate it.
and jeongin is not subtle. jeongin has never been subtle in his life.
“you look really good today.” “you smell nice.” “you know you could just sit on my lap, right?”
goooood he’d give anything to hit. okay not just hit, this man has a deep crush on you, it just comes off as him basically humping your leg 24/7.
minho flicks your forehead for attention. steals your phone. complains when you don’t sit near him. grown ass serial killer but he really really needs your attention. if someone else is getting too much of it he’s like “okay damn, are we done with that or—” sir you kill people for fun. okay i take that back, he’s really attached and you’re really special to him, he doesn’t think anyone else will accept him, accept them like you do. so he has all the rights to be so hung up on you.
seungmin is just a bitch. most of the time he’ll just silently appear next to you, no footsteps, no warning, just suddenly: “move over.” and now your thighs are pressed together and he’s acting like that’s not doing anything to him. he watches how the others touch you. memorizes it. then does the same thing later but gentler, hoping you’ll like his version more. he’s not good with emotions, all he can do is copy others and hope for the best outcome.
felix, the walking head injury, is physically incapable of subtlety. he’ll just drop his whole body weight onto you on the couch. hug you from behind with zero warning. rest is chin on your shoulder and breathe really really loud.
you have to physically turn his face toward you when he gets distracted by a ceiling fan. or hold him back when he wants to run after the mailman. but he’s so head over heels for you it’s ridiculous. if you look even mildly sad, he’s panicking.
han, the other walking head injury but in the form of him actually having one most times because he cannot make a difference between clean breathing air and glass, is just as fond of you if not more. he holds your hand a lot, plays with your fingers. he also loves your cheeks. i mean the ones on your face, but damn can he be hypnotized by your ass too.
he will absolutely walk into a table while looking at you. frequently. it’s brutal how the others don’t even react anymore.
you are genuinely the this is fine dog. y’know that meme. because you really do like them, even though they’re evil. off. they don’t feel bad about hurting strangers but will absolutely be on your dick all day because you sounded slightly tired when you said good morning.
you’re not “a person” to them in the general sense.
you’re their person.
big difference.
like, you wake up, and at least one of them is already in your space. not even in a creepy way anymore. ANYMORE!!! hyunjin could be sitting at the edge of the bed scrolling on his phone, or changbin could be asleep on the floor with a blanket because he knows you’d push him off the bed. han is halfway off the mattress, in a starfish position. felix could be hugging you from behind, so he’s the one who gets pushed off the bed.
or you wake up to jeongin on the floor next to your bed, scrolling on his phone. the second he notices you’re awake, he leans over and presses a kiss to the side of your head.
“morning, pretty. i brought breakfast.” he says, holding up a crumpled bag. “also i couldn’t sleep. also i missed you. also i think you should fix your front door, i broke in.”
you take the bag. there’s one croissant. bitten. you still eat it.
seungmin usually shows up not long after, pretending he was just in the area, the area being your entire life. he drops onto your couch, legs spread, acting like he’s the fucking boss, but the second you walk past him he grabs your wrist and tugs you between his knees, murmuring a “come here.”
felix is worse. sometimes he’s asleep on your couch(he would’ve climbed into the bed next to you, it just didn’t come to mind because he… doesn’t think a lot) and he wakes up because he rolled into a table leg.
“did we win.”
no one knows what he means.
sometimes, if they’re not in your bed in the morning, they’re somewhere else in the house while you clearly don’t remember going to sleep with any of them over. sometimes minho is leaning against the counter, pretending not to look at you, but the second you sit down he nudges your knee with his, like a cat headbutting your hand.
jeongin always finds a way to tell you you look hot before noon. every day.
they don’t just like you. they’ve imprinted, if that’s the right word. and people like them don’t attach easily. they mimic, they perform, they understand emotions cognitively, not instinctively. but with you, it’s not performance. it’s fixation. protective. possession mixed up with genuine care in a way that would make any therapist quit on the spot.
you get cold, and six hoodies appear. you get quiet, and the whole house lowers its volume. you get hurt, and they’re ready to throw hands.
and you don’t get scared of their intensity anymore. you let them be them. you let han play with your fingers. you let felix use your shoulder as a chin rest. you fall asleep with someone’s hand fisted in your hoodie.
you also started meeting their eye contact instead of dodging it. started touching back, sometimes, but only with actual intention. like, comforting one of them or smth.
stockholm syndrome? trauma? maybe. or maybe humans just get used to the weather they live in.
what still takes effort though, is when they come home bloody. yeah, we’ve never really got over that. you’ll be sitting at home like “hey, how was—” when they come over and then you clock the red and your brain has to run over all possible things that could’ve happened before you finish with a “—your night.”
hyunjin washes his hands like he just changed a tire. chan tells minho to stop tracking mud in (it is not mud). changbin asks if you ate dinner yet. jeongin tries to hug you and you have to go: “shower. now. immediately.”
later, when they’re clean, they come back to you again. felix will curl around you, han will hold your hand with both of his, hyunjin’s hand always ends up at your back, and whatnot.
you’re not scared of them anymore. you’re scared of how much you’d miss them if they were gone.
because, for an example, you can’t even imagine going shopping alone now.
han always wants to push the cart. dead serious, both hands, focused. crashes into a display of cereal within two minutes.
“i was avoiding a child.” he says.
there was no child.
felix is grabbing everything in sight. you end up buying three types of cookies a watermelon none of you know how to cut so chan ends up doing that, and a brutal amount of fruits. all this while he’s holding your hand.
han turns around to talk to you while still pushing. the cart goes sideways. you grab the handle before he takes out an elderly woman.
they look so fucking pleased just existing near you that you don’t even mind their bullshit anymore. if only the people around you knew you hang out with brutal murderers.
for clothes shopping, when not your friends, you take chan and hyunjin now.
like, you come out of the fitting room.
chan leans back in the chair, squints. “turn around.”
you do.
he nods. “yeah. that’s good.”
and hyunjin’s staring like you just stepped out in a wedding dress, not a shirt with a little more cleavage than usual.
“do you like it?” you ask.
he clears his throat. “yeah. i mean. yeah. you look— yeah.”
and after you pay(which they try to do instead of you multiple times), chan immediately grabs the bag for you. you end up walking between them while they hold all your bags, and it’s not even because they saw it in movies or whatnot. it’s because their horribly made up little brain told them this is the right thing to do for their y/n.
a woman passing by smiles at you three like this is wholesome. only if she knew.
changbin is attached to you. physically. and he loves being attached to you. you’re on the couch? he’s pressed against your side. you’re cooking? his chin is on your shoulder. you’re brushing your teeth? he’s in the doorway just running his fuckass mouth or just watching.
you’ll just be existing and suddenly he’s wrapped around you from behind, chin on your shoulder, talking bout sum “you smell nice.” you are literally wearing a shirt you haven’t washed in two days.
but then there are also the nights when minho comes home with blood on his sleeve, his jaw, and you’re already in the bathroom, dry heaving.
you’ve thrown up more in the last few months than your entire life.
minho comforts you after those, rubbing your arm while you’re still dying around, but only after he cleaned himself up.
you’re their soft thing. they don’t shove reality in your face. not on purpose.
also, you leave the house? you will see at least one of them.
jeongin leaning against a wall: “wow, what are the odds?” you followed me, you freak. seungmin will “coincidentally” be at the café you go to. han once tried to follow you subtly and walked directly into a street sign. when you heard the clang, you turned around and he waved from the ground.
or when you’re at home, in the kitchen, and your door opens(you don’t remember unlocking it), an you just hear:
“BABY— oh shit sorry— YOU— HI—”
changbin and felix come in, felix trips over nothing. nothing. just air. slams into the wall. han follows and hits the same wall. same spot.
changbin is already hugging you from behind while you’re holding a boiling pot, saying “missed youuuu.”
same people who don’t feel things the way normal people do btw. same people who find brutal fun in absolutely ripping people apart btw. guilt? meh. fear? rare. empathy? not much. y/n? OMG HI Y/NNNN!!!!
they absolutely let you in on their lives though, no matter how much you want to keep them from yours. like, they would let you check their phones all times. they don’t have anything to keep from you, even if you were to see pornhub open, they wouldn’t mind. (well, some of them wouldn’t, and the others just wouldn’t have it open obvi) once while jeongin helped you make food and his hands were dirty, he asked you to read their group chat out loud for him. what you saw was changbin sending memes, seungmin the only one actually enjoying them, the others talking about where will they murder who the next time, and felix saying “wait what are we doing again”
they are brutally serious about what will they bring and for what, they’re GOOD at what they do, but then felix will send a voice message like: “GUYS I FORGOT MY WALLET DO WE NEED THAT” and the entire operation derails for ten minutes.
they are terrifying when murdering. they are absolute clowns before and after. there was one time they were gone longer than usual. you were pacing, trying not to think of the worst, when you finally got a text from changbin.
“delayed. han locked the keys in the car.”
you stared at the message.
they are serial killers. and your boys, unfortunately. because their emotional range used to be: irritation, boredom, thrill.
now it’s: you, and everything else.
changbin gets visibly anxious if you don’t text back. minho gets quiet and restless if you’ve had a bad day. seungmin picks fights with strangers online if you’re sad, which actually has nothing to do with you being sad so why did i even say it.
their killer selves bleed into weird places. chan likes to have a hand on your back in public so he can protect you if anything happens. hyunjin the same, just with his hand lower. it sometimes goes into a sneaky ass touch that you don’t really realize. seungmin clocks every person who looks at you too long.
you once teased them about it. “what, you think someone’s gonna kidnap me?”
eight immediate, overlapping answers:
“yes.”
“obviously.”
“people are awful.”
“we would kill them.”
you were speechless.
and what really tells most about these boys, is how they’re the happiest after sliming someone out. not just because of what they did, but also because they’re back. with you.
they sprawl all over your living room, loud and dumb and arguing like they didn’t just end someone’s entire existence. the disconnect is horrifying if you stare at it too long. so you don’t. you focus on han trying to open a soda and spraying himself. felix laughing so hard he falls off the couch. jeongin sliding over to press a kiss to your temple.
when they leave you alone though, when it’s just them, could be just hanging out or killing people, they… god, they’re just boys.
felix forgot why they’re there halfway through the plan explanation. han brought snacks. “thought we’d get hungry.” they are parked behind an abandoned building at midnight and this man has string cheese.
those two are brutal. like, cutting people up, they can do that, no, they’re good at that, but when they open their mouths… imagine hyunjin closing his eyes, chan pinching the bridge of his nose, and seungmin grinning at the bullshit they said. he’d also nudge minho or chan during serious moments just to see them get irritated. minho does not laugh. minho is all business.
jeongin, meanwhile, is talking. he should not be talking. he’s supposed to be intimidating, and changbin is the only one actually paying attention to the shit he’s saying.
half their operations would go smoother if felix and han had supervision.
once, han tripped over absolutely nothing during a very serious moment and just laid there for a second.
“okay but what the fuck was that.” seungmin whispered.
han, from the floor: “i don’t know.“
felix once got distracted by a cat mid cutting some random woman to pieces.
“aww. little guy.”
the woman is not alive anymore. he is trying to pspspsps a stray.
hyunjin threatens to leave them both behind at least twice a week.
chan’s always in on their bullshit though when there isn’t something more important going on. c’mon, he loves them so much. he supports their dumb little worlds.
they love hurting each other. i mean play fights and also playful little mean words. “felix, you have the situational awareness of a decorative pillow.” “thanks, man.”
han once walked into a door frame so hard everyone stopped what they were doing.
beat of silence.
seungmin: “natural selection is trying.”
but the second anything actually goes wrong? they close in. one of them gets hurt, even minor? yeah fucking around is over. priority shift.
sometimes they sit on the hood of some van after, passing a drink around, shoes dusty, clothes changed, the night like nothing happened.
felix kicks his feet. han leans back too far and almost eats shit. jeongin’s talking about a song stuck in his head, or you, who’s also stuck in his head. seungmin is arguing, just arguing. changbin is laughing too loud. minho smiles a lot more than he does in public. chan is actually joking with them, so is hyunjin if they give him enough to drink.
they’re not evil every second. they’re not always killers. they’re boys. dudes. friends. a tight ride or die circle.
who just happen to believe the solution to their lack of feelings is getting it by disgustingly murdering people.
uuuh wait lemme tell one time when they killed some guy. just so you know how that looks like.
they kill on different locations, actually. the one where they chased you wasn’t hyunjin’s actual place, of course, and now that’s not where they are. it’s a warehouse, typical killing place.
there’s a guy tied to a metal chair in the middle of the room, wrists bound, ankles strapped, breathing fast in that shallow, panicked way. y’know like in movies. he looks rough. sweaty. eyes darting between eight grown men who are, unfortunately for him, not behaving like the cinematic, silent assassins he probably expected.
chan is standing a few feet away, sleeves rolled up(woof woof bark bark grgrgr fuck yes), calm, focused energy coming off him. he looks strict but deep down he’s jumping around from joy, because, like, life’s good right now. he has a pretty girl at home waiting for them. and he also has a guy to torture to death! could it be better?
hyunjin is further back, arms crossed, eyes locked on the guy. god, he’s so pretty, how can he be so terrifying? at least he fucks good. which you don’t know yet, but you eventually will. if it’s up to me, you will.
and jeongin is sitting on a folding table, legs swinging, on his phone.
“okay.” he says, not looking up. “y/n says we have chicken, pasta, or that soup we like. we need to vote.”
the tied up guy blinks.
felix, who is crouched nearby rummaging through a duffel bag that absolutely does not contain sports equipment, gasps. “SOUP.”
han nods seriously. “soup.”
chan doesn’t look away from the guy, gaze dead serious. “soup’s fine with me.”
The man in the chair twists, ropes creaking. “what the fuck??”
seungmin, who is leaning against a wall, phone to his ear, raises one finger at him without looking. “yeah, grandma, i ate. no, vegetables too. … because i’m an adult, that’s why.”
han and felix crouch down in front of the guy like they’re examining a weird bug. they like examining weird bugs.
han tilts his head. “he looks different from the picture.”
“that’s because he’s scared.” felix says wisely.
“ohhhh.” a beat. then han leans closer. “do you feel scared?”
the guy tries to spit at him. misses.
felix recoils. “dude! that’s so gross! we’re indoors!”
han wipes his cheek with his sleeve. “that was uncalled for, man. we haven’t even started.”
“no, grandma, i ate. no, not junk—” seungmin kicks the tied guy’s chair casually when the dude tries to speak, sending it rocking. “—i said i ATE.”
the guy yelps as the chair thuds back down.
“sorry, grandma. some dude is being rude.”
pause.
“no, not you. love you.”
“dinner vote update.” jeongin continues, squinting at the screen. “y/n says if we don’t pick in two minutes, we’re getting whatever’s easiest.”
“chicken.” minho says immediately, pulling on gloves.
“soup.” felix repeats stubbornly.
han looks at the tied guy. “you a soup guy?”
“what the fuck.” the guy mumbles.
seungmin, still on the phone: “grandma, hold on.” he covers the mic. “say one more thing and i’m pushing you into a wall.”
the guy shuts up.
seungmin goes back to the phone. “yeah, sorry. no, nothing is wrong with your phone. yes, i’ll show you again how to send me pictures.”
chan finally steps forward to the guy. “okay. we’re aligned on who he is, what he did, evidence confirmed, timeline clear.” yeah, they like knowing who they kill. why they found you so fast after you escaped is also because they knew way more about you than you would’ve ever thought. so what’s the evidence and what he did part about, you will ask. well, this guy isn’t a good guy. (any crime you want, put it on him) and when they have a criminal, they love rubbing all his past crimes in his face.
chan looks at the others. “any objections?”
felix raises his hand. “i don’t want garlic bread with the soup now.”
“that’s not—” chan stops himself. breathes. “noted. irrelevant. sit down.”
seungmin pushes off the wall and circles behind the chair, knife in the hand that doesn’t have the phone.
“yeah, grandma, i took my vitamins.” he says sweetly. sweetly. while nudging the chair with his foot so it screeches across the concrete and the guy nearly tips over. “no, i’m wearing a jacket.”
the guy gasps as the chair jerks.
seungmin covers the phone speaker. “shut up.” then he turns slightly away, uncovering it. “sorry, grandma. yeah, love you too. okay. okay. bye.”
he hangs up and pockets the phone, then immediately kicks one of the chair legs.
“every time you talk i lose a year off my life.” he says.
hyunjin is standing off to the side, quiet, watching. he hasn’t said much, but every time the captive’s eyes dart toward the door, hyunjin’s head tilts just slightly.
don’t.
okay. cool. message received.
while minho is still fucking around with laying things out on the table, felix wanders over, and picks something up. “is this the sharp one?”
“yes.” minho says flatly.
felix immediately puts it back down. “okay! just checking!”
jeongin looks up from his phone. “oh, she said we’re not allowed chicken and soup.”
a collective groan fills the room.
minho, without looking up, says: “say both anyway.”
“THANK you.” jeongin says, typing furiously.
the guy in the chair tips his head back, groaning. “fuckers.”
changbin tilts his head. “you don’t eat?”
jeongin hops off the table. “okay focus, chicken or soup, final vote, because i’m starving.”
“SOUP.” felix and han shout together.
“chicken.” minho and chan say at the same time.
changbin looks torn. “soup… with chicken?”
seungmin shrugs. “i eat anything.”
all eyes slowly turn to hyunjin. he doesn’t look at them, just at the man in the chair. “whatever y/n makes.” he says.
minho steps forward, calm, prepared. unc has so much aura that changbin instinctively moves aside.
jeongin types one last message. “soup it is.” he announces. “y/n said you all are banned from voting next time.”
the guy takes a breath, sensing that he’s getting closer to death. “please, i— i’ll leave. i’ll disappear. you don’t have to—”
seungmin tips the chair back just a little. not enough to drop him. just enough to make his stomach fall.
“careful.” changbin says gently. “we don’t want him passing out yet.”
“YET?!” the guy yells.
jeongin snorts.
changbin stretches. “okay. let’s wrap this up. i’m hungry.”
minho nods once, taking one from all those weapons. hyunjin pushes off the wall, stepping forward too, presence swallowing the room. god, he’s too beautiful to be this heartless. seungmin flips his knife in his hand, bored again now that grandma’s off the line.
jeongin looks up again. “WAIT.”
everyone pauses.
“y/n says we are NOT allowed to come back bloody again.”
hyunjin takes his jacket off. “we won’t.”
and the last thing the tied guy hears before the boys close in, weapons in hand, is jeongin saying “okay but if we’re late, we’re dead.”
okay. they finished killing the guy. they took brutal pleasure in it of course, but let’s not discuss that now. now, they’re in the bathroom. not yours, luckily, it could be at one of their places, doesn’t matter really. what matters now is that the bathroom is not built for eight men.
the mirror is fogged, the counter is soaked, the floor has that damp humidity, and the air smells like soap desperately trying to fight for its life.
the shower is already running. hyunjin is in there, back to the curtain, water running pink. behind the curtain, they just hear him exhale once, long. otherwise he’s quiet, like he’s scrubbing paint off instead of… y’know.
chan is at the sink, sleeves pushed up, scrubbing his hands like he’s about to perform surgery instead of having just brutally murdered a guy. he’s got that focused, mildly annoyed look. it looks adorable tbh.
felix is also at the sink. with a toothbrush, brushing his teeth. you already know. brushing human remains out of his teeth. he’s the only one in the group who enjoys cannibalism. even the others are disgusted by that, and felix is brushing his teeth like he just had garlic bread, not… oh my god.
“bro.” seungmin says, watching him in the mirror. “every time. every time you have to do this.” he’s talking about the cannibalism. as i said, the others don’t tolerate it that much. they draw the line at some point too. BUT at least they make the effort to check on the victim’s health before they let felix eat from them. they don’t want him to die, obvi.
felix talks around the toothbrush. “mmmff need ff be thorough.”
chan sighs so deeply it could power a wind turbine.
han leans against the counter beside felix, watching with genuine curiosity. “do you use different toothpaste after, or—”
“STOP.” jeongin says, holding up a hand. “i’m fine with anything, but… this.”
felix spits into the sink, offended. “you guys are so judgmental.”
oh felix. sweetie. you are disgusting.
he grins at his reflection anyway, already thinking about what will he say to you when he gets back.
changbin is half undressed already, shirt gone, jeans unbuttoned, carefully dabbing at a spot on his collarbone with a washcloth. “she’d yell if she saw this.” he says.
“yeah.” jeongin replies. “but like, in a cute way.”
“she’d make that face.” felix adds before putting the toothbrush back into his mouth.
they all know the face. that scrunched, horrified expression.
there’s a weird collective quiet for half a second, which is brutally hilarious if you think about it with the right mindset.
then han elbows felix. “you got some in your hair.”
felix freezes. “ffwfhere.”
han just slowly gestures at his entire head.
minho is wiping down his arms, already in fresh pants, hair damp from the sink. “you’re disgusting.” he tells felix, not even looking at him.
felix gives a thumbs up with toothpaste foam on his chin.
jeongin grabs his phone again, hands wet, shirtless. smiles a little. “she said drive safe.”
changbin presses a hand over his heart then makes a dying noise.
the bathroom is fogging up fast. everyone’s talking over each other. towels are being stolen mid use. for an example, changbin reaches for one and jeongin snatches it first.
“bro.”
“finders keepers.”
“that was mine!”
they both raise their fists. slowly lower it, sensing that they don’t really have enough space to fight for it right now.
felix, still brushing his teeth, suddenly starts undressing. kicks off his shoes, yanks his shirt over his head one handed, toothbrush still jammed in his mouth, then holds the toothbrush between his teeth to undo his pants and pull down his underwear.
then he just… grabs the shower curtain. slides it open.
hyunjin is mid hair rinse.
they make eye contact.
felix, toothbrush still in, goes: “hey bwo.”
“hi.”
felix steps in under the spray. “bwaher’s nwife.” (water’s nice, if anyone can’t read it)
“because it’s hot. i made it hot.”
“hwanks fow thinhing of me.” (thanks for thinking of me)
hyunjin exhales slowly through his nose, but shifts slightly so felix can fit under the spray “you’re dripping toothpaste.”
felix spits expertly into the drain.
meanwhile outside the curtain, when chan says “okay. towels go on the rack, not the floor.”, a towel immediately hits the floor. he closes his eyes.
han is staring at himself in the mirror, turning his head side to side. “do i have something on my ear?”
minho walks past, towel over his shoulder, glances once. “yeah.”
han squints harder at his reflection. “where?”
minho grabs a wet cloth, wipes it off in one fucking swipe, keeps moving.
han smiles. “thanks, man.”
seungmin is perched on the edge of the counter, cleaning under his nails with concerning focus. he wouldn’t want to put bloody fingers in you anyway WHO SAID THAT
“she’s gonna be awake?” he asks.
jeongin shrugs, scribbling his shoulder with a cloth. “probably. she always waits up if we’re late.”
in the shower, felix is talking over the water. “I THINK SHE LIKES IT WHEN WE ALL COME OVER AT ONCE.”
hyunjin rinses his hair. “you don’t need to yell. also she doesn’t.”
felix tilts his head back into the spray. “YOU THINK SHE KNOWS—”
“dude, my ear. yes, she does.” hyunjin says.
“oh.”
changbin is now sitting on the closed toilet lid, hugging a towel around his shoulders, listening to the sounds coming from inside the shower.
“stop moving, you’re splashing.”
“you’re splashing!”
felix’s toothbrush flies out of the shower.
han is trying to wash something off his sleeve in the sink and somehow splashes water directly into his own face. he sputters.
then felix slips inside the shower, just a little skid, but he yelps like he’s been shot.
han screams in sympathy. changbin nearly tackles the sink. seungmin is laughing at him. minho makes eye contact with chan in the mirror and they both shake their heads. jeongin doesn’t even look up from his phone.
hyunjin grabs the back of felix’s arm automatically, steadying him without looking.
“feet.” hyunjin says calmly.
“right.” felix replies.
seungmin looks back down at his phone. “she said… wait i cannot read this. she said we better not track anything into the apartment later.”
collective nod. that is a rule.
chagbin is wiping down his arms. “we won’t. last time was an accident.”
“you shook your jacket like a dog.” minho mumbles.
“i forgot!”
jeongin wipes the mirror with his palm and looks at himself again.
felix peeks out from the curtain. “do we have mouthwash?”
“use the blue one.” chan says.
“there’s a green one.”
“that’s not mouthwash, that’s floor cleaner.”
felix nods. “so that’s why it tasted weird.”
OH MY GOD.
jeongin snorts into his hand, then hits seungmin’s shoulder, who’s shaking holding back laughter.
water shuts off. hyunjin steps out, towel around his shoulders, already mentally somewhere else. with you, by the way. felix stays in, humming, absolutely unbothered.
changbin tosses hyunjin a clean shirt, who catches it without looking.
the boys bump into each other, argue over towels, steal each other’s deodorant, shove each other away from the sink, seungmin is flicking water at jeongin just to be annoying, changbin trying to braid han’s damp hair, complain about water temperature like they didn’t just end a life two hours ago. boy shit. just… with a higher body count and significantly worse hobbies. gross assholes.
and late at night, you can hear your front door opening, the distinct sound of too many male voices talking over each other, shoes, someone laughing way too hard at something that absolutely wasn’t that funny.
you’re already walking down the hallway, ready to say something responsible like take your shoes off or don’t touch anything. god, you can never get used to it when all eight come over.
you open your mouth, and you don’t get a word out, because felix is the first one in your space, big grin, hands landing on your shoulders, and before you can even process it he leans down and presses a loud kiss to your cheek.
“hi!”
you squint. “you—”
hyunjin is right behind him, two fingers coming up to pinch your cheek lightly. god, he loves you.
chan gives your shoulder a firm pat. “good to see you.”
the second felix pulls away, changbin collides with you. full body hug, arms around you, chin nearly knocking your temple. “we missed you.”
“you were gone for like four hours—”
jeongin’s arm slides around your shoulders from the other side, pulling you into the side of him. “hey, pretty.”
CAN THEY LEAVE YOU ALONE FOR ONE FUCKING SECOND. yea clearly no, seungmin reaches as he passes and tugs your hair, then starts talking bout some “miss us or what?” asshole.
minho just gives you a one armed half hug as he passes, brief squeeze at your side. seems less than the others, but actually means a lot more.
when they come off you and walk past you, you stand there, in the hallway, having just been affection assaulted by eight grown men who absolutely have their own homes. but are currently in yours, more specifically in your kitchen. said hi to you and went there IMMEDIATELY.
“OOOH you made stuff.” comes from felix.
“yeah i do that.” you say, following them, seeing seungmin with a spoon already, reaching into the pot. “use a plate!”
changbin is leaning against the counter, looking at you. “you cooked a lot.”
then felix drops a lid on the floor.
“PICK IT UP.”
“ON IT.” he says, already crouching, bumping into han who is trying to open a cabinet that is very clearly not where the plates are. they both fall.
cabinets opening. fridge door wide. someone clanking a plate. someone else already chewing.
“long day?” chan asks you, like he didn’t just invade your home with a small army.
“you tell me. you’re the ones who—”
jeongin cuts in, mouth full from a spoonful of food one of them recently showed into his mouth. “okay but listen, tonight? we were so good. i’d easily give it a nine out of ten.” then he swings an arm around you.
you hold up a hand. “i don’t want to hear whatever the fuck you did.”
changbin is at the fridge now, pulling out drinks, handing them to hyunjin. “she doesn’t wanna hear the details.” he says gently.
“fine.” seungmin says. “but just know it was impressive.”
“UNCLEAR HOW THAT HELPS ME.” you try to step away from jeongin, who steps with you. “personal space.” you say.
“denied.”
seungmin walks past, plate in hand, and bumps your hip with his on purpose. “move, shorty.”
you are not that short. he just enjoys provoking you.
chan pulls plates from your cabinet like he knows where everything is. because he does. why does he know where everything is. he gives a plate to jeongin, who finally comes off of you, deciding that food is more important.
han is opening drawers. “where do the big spoons live again?”
“THE SAME PLACE THEY’VE LIVED FOR MONTHS.”
“right, right, the stabby drawer.”
“that is not what it’s called!”
then he walks past holding three spoons for no reason.
“why do you have those?” you ask.
“in case.”
“in case of WHAT.”
you’re standing there, hands on your hips, fully prepared to be done with all of them, when suddenly there’s an arm around your middle. it’s hyunjin. he pulls you slightly back against him. someone, you don’t even see who, hands him a plate without a word. he takes it. still doesn’t move his arm. multitasking king.
you look up at him. “you could go sit.”
he shrugs. “i’m fine.”
meanwhile the others crowd your kitchen island, plates in hand, talking over each other. felix is mid story, acting something out.
“and then he goes—” he makes a dramatic face “—and hyunjin just looks at him like THIS—” he tries to copy hyunjin’s expression. he can’t. he looks horrible now.
seungmin dies laughing.
hyunjin’s arm tightens just slightly, thumb brushing once against your side.
chan finishes first, sets his plate down, and looks at you. “thank you, y/n.”
you’re about to answer him, but then you look past him, and felix is licking sauce off his thumb. you point to him instead. “don’t.”
he freezes. slowly wipes his hand on a napkin.
hyunjin finally speaks near your ear, low. “we didn’t bring anything in. did you see?”
“yeah.” you nod. “good job.”
his chin brushes the top of your head briefly. almost a little kiss.
animals. they have their own apartments. their own lives. but every time, they end up here. eating your food. touching you. arguing. playing.
and oh, if they weren’t violently, irreparably, cosmically fucked in the head, it would actually be unfair.
because they are stupidly beautiful.
maybe felix is the worst, because he doesn’t even know. i mean, he’s confident with himself, but is not smart enough to actually think about if he’s good looking or not. he can decide if other people are hot, he thinks he’s hot, but he’s not aware of how striking his looks actually are.
and when you go out, he always insists on coming with you. god, he doesn’t even realize that everyone has to double take when he passes. he doesn’t know, he just lives his thoughtless little life in public. like, you say you’re heading out and he’s already grabbing his jacket.
“i’ll come.”
“you don’t even know where i’m going.”
“i like outside.”
that’s his entire reasoning. and somehow it works, you let him come with you. and he’s… a pretty good accessory, we can admit that. he walks beside you, hands in the pockets of a jacket that costs more than your monthly rent. he’s so effortlessly beautiful, and he dresses good. maybe that’s where all his intelligence went, fashion. that’s proven by how strangers glance. twice. thrice.
he doesn’t notice. he’s too busy smiling at you, watching you, that resulting him in walking into things repeatedly. unless he’s carrying your bags, then he’s careful with them so your things don’t get hurt. and he always carries them. not in the try hard way, he doesn’t even process the movies he watches so he can’t take it from those. he just genuinely wants to do it for you.
perfect man behavior. disqualified only by the… you know. you forget, sometimes. you really do.
after doing the whatever you went out for, you decide to sit at a café. you sit across from each other, late afternoon. it’s nice. he looks insane sitting there, expensive clothes, gentle little face like he’s not a fucking murderer. and a cannibal. but you don’t know that yet. yet. you’re about to, though.
he orders first. doesn’t even look at the price. then orders for you, but checks first.
“you still like the caramel one, right?”
you blink. “yeah.”
“cool.”
he pays before you can even reach for your wallet. it would be romantic if you didn’t know what he does on weekends.
you watch him across the table, sunlight through the window catching in his hair, sleeves pushed up, fingers long and clean and pretty, stirring his drink slowly. it’s actually stupid. stupider than him, which is a big word.
“what?” he asks sweetly, curiously, realizing you’ve been squinting at him for a while now.
“you’re annoyingly pretty.”
he blinks. then smiles, shy and pleased in a way that does something violent to your heart. “thanks.”
but also, you’ve been sitting on a question for days. weeks, maybe. it’s been rattling in your head ever since… flashback timeeeee!!
you were in your kitchen, grabbing water. you didn’t mean to eavesdrop, you swear on hyunjin’s life, but you overheard changbin and chan anyway.
changbin sighed. “dude, it’s okay that he eats people, but talking with his mouth full? i swear last time some of it got on me.”
chan’s voice was next. “felix… lacks the feeling of ‘too much’. he doesn’t really sense that we don’t want to see it. that’s different.”
changbin snorted. “yeah, well, try telling him that.”
you froze, glass in hand.
chan sighed. “it’s not like he hunts for that. it’s just… sometimes. let him have it. look away if you have to.”
“still weird.” changbin said, but not judgmental.
flashback ends. in front of you, felix is happily eating cake. sometimes drinking his little coffee. staring at nothing for a second, then at you, then away. god. he’d be perfect. perfect. and then your brain connects dots you’ve been aggressively ignoring. the teeth brushing. the comments. the way the others react.
you narrow your eyes. “…felix.”
“yeah?”
you lower your voice. “there’s something i’ve been meaning to ask.”
he leans forward immediately, attentive. “it’s okay if it’s weird.”
okay. you hesitate. then “you don’t… eat people, right?”
“oh. yeah, i do.” he says it immediately. effortlessly. fork goes to his mouth right after.
you stare. “i’m sorry— what?”
he swallows. wipes his mouth. “i eat people sometimes.” said with brutal confidence. he looks at you, eyes big and no brain behind them, concerned now. “you didn’t know?”
“i— uh—“
“are you mad?”
“i don’t know what i am!”
he puts his elbows on the table like this is a serious talk. “i don’t do it all the time.” wow. praise for you. “i just like the taste. and crave it when i see a dead body. and i’m like huh. okay.”
“…that’s your internal thought process?”
he shrugs. “i don’t think a lot before stuff.”
you know.
he looks genuinely worried now. “i brush my teeth after.”
“i have seen.”
“and i don’t, like, keep any remains after. that’d be weird.”
“THAT’S where you draw the line???”
he nods seriously. “yeah. i also wanted to eat from the mailman but you said no hurting him so i didn’t.”
you drop your face into your hands.
across from you sits the physical blueprint of a perfect boyfriend. gentle. beautiful. has money. pays for your coffee. carries your bag.
cannibal.
he reaches across the table and pokes your wrist gently. “you okay?”
“no, felix, i am not okay, you just casually confirmed the most insane thing i’ve ever heard.”
he tilts his head. “but you asked.”
“…but i asked.”
he shrugs a little, sheepish, smiling.
you lean back. “i heard changbin and chan talking about it, that’s where i know it from. i didn’t mean to, it just… it clicked. figured i’d ask about it.”
“oh.” he nods. “yeah, they worry about it.”
“…i can see why.”
he shrugs. “i don’t know. i just like the texture.”
you make a noise “felix. baby, please. i’m still drinking.”
“oh. sorry.” he sits back, watching you like you’re the confusing one. “i didn’t think it was a huge deal.” he admits. “the others think it’s gross but they think lots of stuff i do is gross.”
“they are correct for once.”
he smiles, sheepish, not offended at all. “okay.”
you shake your head. “you would be the perfect man.”
he perks up. “yeah?”
“yeah. you’re an angel.”
he beams. “thank you.”
“and then this.”
he thinks about it. “…yeah.”
NO DEFENSE. NO SHAME.
you both sit there. then he gently nudges the cake toward you.
“you want the rest?”
you stare at it. then at him. then at the cake. then back at him. then you wordlessly slide the cake over to yourself, leaning back in your chair, staring at him.
god, he’s beautiful. he has that himbo blankness behind his gaze like the lights are on but the thoughts are optional. something is deeply, fundamentally wrong with this man. if you haven’t realized that yet.
he smiles at you, warm, oblivious. “you still wanna hang out after this?”
you exhale slowly. “unfortunately, yes.”
his smile widens, pure sunshine, no idea that sentence should have hurt. “cool.”
and you sit there, across from the most confusingly perfect, brutally defective man alive, wondering how the universe had the audacity to make him look like that and think like… that. tragic. honestly.
and once one of them casually drops “oh yeah btw i’m a cannibal sometimes” over coffee, apparently the rest of them take that as a green light. you don’t notice it at first. then one day you wake up and realize you are, somehow, in the “we can be honest about our worst habits” stage of a relationship with eight serial killers.
you’re at home, sitting on the couch, half watching a show while changbin is basically folded into your side, head in your lap, arm around your waist, fully comfortable. you’re playing with his hair absentmindedly.
then he says, casually: “i like following people.”
you pause. “you mean like… online?”
“no.” he says, smiling up at you. “in real life.”
you blink. “changbin.”
“yeah?”
“that is called stalking.”
he considers this. “i don’t do it in a scary way.”
“THERE IS NO NON SCARY WAY.”
he props himself up on his elbows, earnest. “i just get curious where they go. like, what their routine is. it’s interesting.”
you stare at him. he’s smiling ear to ear.
he kisses your wrist. “but i don’t follow you. anymore. that’d be weird.”
OH GOOD. THANK YOU FOR DRAWING THAT LINE.
next, you and jeongin are walking together, his arm loosely around your shoulders, and he’s in a good mood, talking lots.
“…so yeah, i have three fake identities.”
“you have what.” you whisper.
“three. well. two and a half. one’s kind of retired.”
“for WHAT PURPOSE.”
he shrugs. “so i’m not caught. like, one of me is really into fitness. one’s into crypto. one’s just some guy with a boat.”
“…you have a boat?”
“oh, no, not at all.”
you stare at him.
he smiles and kisses your temple. “you know the real me though.”
you don’t know whether to feel special or deeply unsettled.
one evening han is in your lap(who tf cares anymore), arms around your neck, chin on your shoulder. he is heavy.
“i like going alone sometimes.” he says quietly.
you blink. “alone where.”
“murder stuff.”
you tilt your head to see his face. he looks almost shy.
“it’s easier. less noise. i can think.”
YOU. CAN. THINK???
“i thought you liked being with the others.” you say carefully, keeping your earlier thought to yourself.
“i do.” he nods. “but sometimes i wanna see if i can do it myself.”
this man once got stuck in a revolving door.
you stare at him, arms still around your neck, holding you.
you pat his back slowly.
hyunjin has a habit of having his face way too close to yours. smiling, eyes shining, he can’t keep that distance. then manages to say something so brutally creepy that it ruins the whole vibe. shit like “when you sleep, you breathe calmer. that calms me down too.”
you always look at him for a while before answering to them. “that’s not romantic, hyunjin, that’s serial killer autism.”
he smiles a little.
seungmin is worse because he knows he’s bad and still says shit like he’s proud. you’re sitting on the floor, back against the couch. he’s next to you, shoulder to shoulder.
“i like pushing people’s buttons.” he says.
“i’ve noticed.”
“no, like… strategically. i can tell exactly what makes someone insecure in, like, two minutes.”
“and you do what with this information?”
“depends if i like them.”
you narrow your eyes. “and me?”
he bumps his shoulder into yours, gentle. “i don’t use it on you.”
then once, you’re in the kitchen late with minho. he’s drying dishes.
“i don’t sleep much.” he says when the conversation goes to that.
“i know.”
“no, like. ever.”
you look at him. “that’s not healthy.”
“i know.” he shrugs. “but it’s fine.”
that one’s not gross, that’s sad.
when you’re out shopping again, chan is carrying bags. you pass a hardware store. he doesn’t slow down, but you see his eyes flick to the window.
“i hate cheap materials.” he says.
you look at him. “you say that way too casually.”
he looks back, calm.
you both just keep walking.
by the end of the week, you’re sitting there thinking: wow. gross. one kills alone, kills in general. the other uses top quality shit to do the same. then light stalking hobby. identity fraud for fun. psychological torture as a pasttime. staring problem. doesn’t sleep. cannibalism.
but it means a lot when they tell you those. this is trust for them. this is vulnerability. this is, in their language, intimacy.
you’re horrified. concerned. touched, too.
they are, objectively, terrifying men. such yearners tho. it’s humiliating for them, honestly.
and it’s not just the sweeter ones anymore. chan started slipping too, and that one surprised everyone. because… c’mon we all know how he is.
now? you sit on the couch and suddenly his hand is on the backrest behind your shoulders. then it slides down, rests lightly against your arm. casual. but not.
he adjust your hair out of your face mid conversation. thumb brushing your temple for half a second too long. he pretends he doesn’t notice when he does it. everyone else does, though. seungmin once went “brooooo” under his breath and chan told him to shut the fuck up without looking away from you.
hyunjin is manlier with it. his hand at your waist feels protective, not needy. when he pulls you away from the street, from a corner, from anything, it’s firm. this fucker knows what he’s doing.
the others are just outright pathetic bro i won’t even make anything up. they’re hopeless. changbin melts if you lean into him even slightly. jeongin gets flustered if you hold his gaze too long. han and felix cannot stop smiling when you talk to them. minho looks fucking terrifying when he’s behind you, but he does the death stare at everyone with a good intention. well, good intention towards you. seungmin keeps tripping you, because to him even that is physical touch.
and… they started to slowly realize that they might like you. that this isn’t normal friendship. that the way their stomach flips when you smile isn’t platonic. that the possessiveness, the softness, the constant pull toward you, it’s not just finding a new person who loves them the way they are. it’s want. well, some of them realized it. we all know how far han’s and felix’s brain capacity goes.
one night they’re at some dim, empty place, killing done, air heavy. they’re quiet, breathing. the victim made them run.
felix is crouched next to the body, doing his gross little side quest. which is eating another human. the others really try to close the sound out but they don’t want to leave him alone, that’s why they don’t just leave.
suddenly he looks up mid… whatever the fuck, holding… some part of a human. like insides, you can’t even tell, god there’s so much blood. it’s in his HAIR, covering his pretty little face. “do you think she’d like this?”
all heads snap toward him.
seungmin: “felix.”
chan: “no.”
jeongin, horrified: “put it DOWN.”
han squints. “that’s not a gift.”
changbin actually gags. “dude.”
hyunjin actually covers his face with his hands. “no.”
minho shakes his head, grabbing his water already. “absolutely not.”
felix frowns, confused. “it’s, like… thoughtful?”
“it is not.” jeongin says, horrified. “that is the LEAST thoughtful thing i’ve ever seen. remember when han brought her the hand bouquet? think about that, man.”
hyunjin closes his eyes. “put it down.”
felix looks confused, lowering his hand slightly. “what? i just thought… she likes when we bring stuff back sometimes.”
“that means food.” seungmin says. “normal food. not… that. what— what is that, even?”
felix frowns, glancing between them. “kidney. but i just wanna make her proud.”
changbin rubs his face. “she’s proud when we don’t traumatize her, man.”
“oh.” felix processes that. nods. “okay. that’s good too.”
now they can all sense that this was never friendship shaped. it was always hunger. just not the kind felix has. the kind that makes them check their phones mid kill to see if you texted. the kind that makes them memorize your coffee order but forget their own birthdays. the kind that makes men who don’t feel things… feel.
now. it’s late. like really late, and you’re FINALLY home alone.
then, what you hear from your front door, is BANG BANG BANG BANG. knocking like a fucking police raid, man.
“IT’S ME. OPEN BEFORE I FORGET WHY I’M HERE.” han’s voice comes through the door. who else.
“coming— jesus—” you open the door just in time to watch him almost eat shit on your doorstep. his foot catches on literally nothing. you grab his arm. he crashes into you anyway.
“hi.” he says, way too cheerful for a serial killer, arms immediately wrapping around you. it’s a full, crushing, both arms, face in your shoulder hug.
you laugh, stumbling back a step, closing the door behind him. “jesus, hi, what happened to hello?”
“this is hello.”
alright.
you hug him back automatically. but when you would expect, he doesn’t loosen his grip. he tightens it. his body is going tense, then warm, then… jittery. a weird little breathy giggle escapes him, muffled against your shoulder. he’s vibrating.
“han?” you say carefully.
he squeezes again. you can feel his heart. it’s pounding. fast. not scared-fast. just fast, because you’re here. his breath keeps hitching like he just ran up stairs.
he feels adrenaline, warmth, that dizzy, floaty rush. something is happening inside that empty, sunshine filled skull. he doesn’t have words for it, so he just clings and giggles. kinda giggle that comes when someone’s overwhelmed and doesn’t know why.
“baby?” you murmur.
“i feel weird.” he says into your shoulder, words muffled, plus your little nickname just added to it. “like— like when we run but i didn’t run. and my chest is weird.”
he pulls back. and there’s no dramatic pause that you would normally expect for a scene like this. no eye contact build up and no cinematic slow lean.
he just kisses you.
direct hit.
just goes for it. soft. a little off angle. entirely unplanned. but really, really real.
you freeze for half a second purely out of shock.
he pulls back immediately, but only a little, then he giggles again. then, he kisses you again, a little messy.
okay. okay, you have to admit. it’s cute.
he pulls back again, grinning, cheeks pink.
you stare at him. “…han.”
“yeah?”
“…why did you do that?”
“i dunno.” he thinks. you can see the effort. gears turning through peanut butter. “i just felt like i really really wanted to.”
you stare. “that was a kiss.”
“yeah.” he nods, still holding you by the waist. “i liked it.”
“i did too, but— that’s, like… romantic.”
oh. you can see that he didn’t plan that. he didn’t flirt his way there. he didn’t know what he was doing. his brain just saw “feeling big” and hit the kiss button.
instinct.
he tilts his head. processing. “oh.”
you soften. “did you maybe just… act on feelings without realizing what they were?”
he considers this. “…maybe. i just felt weird. here.” he thumps his chest lightly. “fast. and when i saw you i wanted to do that. wanted it for a while now.”
“…do you think you could have a crush on me?” you keep your voice gentle. easy. “and that’s okay if you do.”
you can see it. the gears turning in his head. slow. sticky with the earlier mentioned peanut butter. fighting for their lives.
“crush means…” he starts.
“you like someone in a not just friends way. you wanna be close. touch them. kiss them. be around them more than usual.”
he looks at you. then at your mouth. then back at you. then his eyes light up, both with realization and relief. “ohhh. that makes sense.” first thing about this guy that makes sense.
you blink. “that makes sense?”
“yeah. i like you the most. and i want to be near you all the time. and when other people stand too close i feel stabby but not in a murder way.”
romantic. somehow.
“yeah.” he says, nodding. “yeah. i think that.”
you smile at him. “okay.”
beat.
“can i kiss you again?”
god.
“yes.”
he doesn’t hesitate, just leans in again, more confident now that he knows this is allowed. now his arms fully slide around you, holding you. this is his way of expressing the pure, overwhelming need for contact his brain doesn’t know how to label.
his arms tighten. one hand slips under the hem of your shirt, on your back, warm, wanting maximum contact. you can feel how innocent the intent is. he just presses closer, forehead bumping yours clumsily before he finds your mouth again. he hums, pleased.
at some point your shirt gets tugged upward in his effort to get closer, fabric bunching as he tries to eliminate the barrier. there’s zero dirty intention behind it, just instinct screaming closer closer closer.
you gently catch his wrists before things go further, laughing softly against his mouth. “okay, hey— slow down.”
he immediately stops, looking at you with big, confused eyes. “did i mess up?”
“no.” you smile. “you’re just… enthusiastic.”
“oh.” he looks relieved. then thoughtful. “i just wanted to be as close as possible.”
you cup his face, thumb brushing his cheek. “i know.”
he leans into your hand immediately. serial killer. currently purring, basically.
“that’s nice.” he says quietly.
you brush your thumb over his cheek. “yeah?”
“yeah. you feel nice.”
“thanks.”
god, he’s cute. it’s actually unfair. pretty face, dark eyes, zero brain activity behind them, just feelings bouncing around.
he’s still wrapped around you when he mumbles a “m’hungry.”
you lean back a little to look at him. “okay, i’ll make you something.”
he nods automatically, then immediately shakes his head. “wait.”
you blink. “wait?”
he looks down between your bodies, then back up at you with the most unbothered expression in human history. “gimme a minute.”
oh. he has a hard on. pffft.
and then he just… stands there. very close. very warm. very aware of himself.
you tilt your head. “…han.”
“don’t rush me.” he says. “and don’t look down.”
you look down.
ooooh okay.
“y/nnn.” he whines. pathetic motherfucker. was swimming in blood just days ago.
you bury your face in his shoulder, laughing. he huffs but his arms tighten, chin resting on top of your head. he rocks you slightly side to side without realizing he’s doing it.
“stop laughing.” he mumbles.
“i’m not laughing at you.”
“you areeeee.”
“okay, a little.”
there’s something stupidly tender about this, just standing there in the quiet, bodies close, waiting.
he peeks down again. “…almost.”
it’s weirdly intimate, just… waiting. no rushing. no awkwardness from him.
“you smell nice.” he says randomly.
“thanks.” you smile.
five seconds of silence.
“…your lips are nice.”
you shove his shoulder lightly. “han.”
he giggles again, the sound muffled as he presses his face into your neck for a second, not even kissing, just existing there. his heart’s still going a little fast. you can feel it through his chest. he has absolutely no map for this. no past experience. no emotional vocabulary beyond “good” “bad” and “hungry.” but his instincts are locked the fuck in.
he pulls back slightly, studies your face again. “you’re not mad?” he asks.
“no.” wrong answer. well, it’s true, but you should be. HE. KILLED. PEOPLE.
“you didn’t hate the kissing?”
“no, han.” you’re hopeless, y/n. utterly in the wrong, and so is he.
“okay good. i’d be sad if you hated it. because i wanna do it more.” direct. honest. zero game.
you run your hands up his arms, slow.
“so…” he says after a moment, thoughtful. “i have a crush.”
“seems like it.”
“and kissing is part of that.”
“yep.”
he nods, satisfied he understands the rules now. “okay. good.” beat. “…can i keep doing it sometimes?”
“…yes.”
“nice.”
yeah. nice.
“…okay.” he announces after a while, nodding to himself. “we’re good.”
you raise a brow. “crisis averted?”
“yep.”
you start to step away, but he doesn’t let go right away. his hands linger at your waist, just for a second longer, because he doesn’t want to disconnect. then he lets go and follows you to the kitchen anyway, holding into your hand.
halfway there he stops again.
you groan. “han—”
“not that!” he says. “i just—” he looks at you, serious, but still so empty in the head. “i like this.”
“standing in my hallway waiting out your boner going down?”
“no.” he squeezes your hand. “you.”
your chest tightens a little. aw. “you just figured out what a crush is ten minutes ago.”
“yeah.” he says, completely unbothered. and off he goes, dragging you toward the kitchen, happy, hungry, brutal serial killer, and still somehow the most clueless creature to ever cross your path,
absolute evil.
absolute baby.
(an: guys it’s important that outside my aus i don’t baby idols!! i’m not that weird i promise, even when i say baby here i’m not completely serious about it. like i don’t mean it in the cringey way where ppl just don’t take idols seriously.)
it sits with you after. the hallway. the kisses. how honest he was, how… himself. and also, a serial killer, zero empathy, passion for hurting people, and he feels like this towards you. that means a lot to you.
meanwhile, the boys are gathered at their new little “let’s kill here” place, scattered around like usual. jeongin’s eating cereal out of a mug because they’re men and god forbid they touch the dishes unless it’s you telling them. but you’re not there, so all the plates stay dirty until one day hyunjin will brutally crash out over it and make them do it like a fucking drill sergeant.
but right now, he’s just talking to chan and minho. changbin is on the floor. jeongin is upside down on the couch, his cereal mug on his slutty little stomach, and his chest is soaked in milk because he’s lifting the spoon from there to his mouth. felix is poking at a bruise on his arm. seungmin is leaning back in a chair that absolutely cannot support that angle.
the door slams open. han bursts in, late, breathless, hoodie half on. “I DID A THING.”
seungmin doesn’t look up. “you found a new way to fall down?”
“no. better.”
“impressive.”
felix perks up immediately. “did you find a big rock.”
han points at him. “close, but no.”
the room goes quiet in that wary, here we go way.
han looks like he’s about to announce he learned how to whistle. which he still can’t do btw. “i totally kissed y/n.”
silence.
chan looks at him. “hm?”
jeongin slowly lowers himself upright. “you what.”
han nods enthusiastically. “mouth.”
seungmin blinks once. twice. “…explain.”
han, proud beyond belief, points at himself. “me. did that.”
changbin sits up straight. “like— on purpose?”
“yeah.”
minho and hyunjin look at each other.
jeongin blinks at him, face blank. “define ‘kissed.’”
“like this.” han says, grabbing felix’s face and loudly smacking a kiss on his cheek as demonstration.
felix lights up. “AWWW.”
han wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “mouth, though. not cheek.”
the room goes deadly still.
“i went over and felt weird and then i hugged her and then i kissed her and then i did it again so we kissed twice and then we talked about crushes and i have one.”
“TWICE.” jeongin repeats.
changbin clutches his chest. “he learned a word.”
minho just stares at the floor. that, that spot he’s looking at? that’s where he want to lay dead. hyunjin looks away, thinking. thinking a lot. chan runs a hand through his hair, listening to the sound of jeongin’s cereal mug hitting the floor.
felix tackles han in a hug. “YOU DID IT!!” he yells, lifting him slightly. they start jumping in place, clinging to each other.
across the room, seungmin stands up very slowly. picks up an empty glass from the table. throws it directly at the wall. it shatters.
“that’s fine.” chan says calmly. “i didn’t like that glass anyway.”
jeongin runs a hand through his hair. “before me, bro.”
“LET’S GOOOO—” felix screams.
jeongin collapses back onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. “i flirted for MONTHS.”
chan pats his shoulder.
felix is still holding han’s face. “i’m so proud of you.”
“thanks.” han says, glowing. “i also learned about crushes.”
“yeah you did, buddy.”
they are absolutely not helping.
han looks around at the tension. he notices hyunjin chewing on his own lip, and it gets the poor little gears in his brain running again. “…are you guys mad.”
“no.”
“yes.”
“shut up.”
“i need air.”
“happy for you.”
“not happy.”
felix squeezes him again. “i’m happy.”
han smiles, relieved. “okay good.” he pauses. “…can i tell her you guys reacted like this?”
“NO.” they all shout.
god, you can feel that deep, ugly jealousy that comes from wanting the same thing and being too fucked in the head to reach for it. and this FUCKASS got it before them.
seungmin sighs, and goes outside. from inside, you can hear “FUUUUUUUCK—” a car alarm goes off somewhere in the distance. “FUCKING—” a metal clang. probably kicked a dumpster.
inside, felix has both hands on han’s shoulders. “i can’t believe you did that without tripping first.”
“i did trip first.”
hyunjin, the only one who doesn’t look like he’s about to chew through drywall, takes a step towards han and puts a hand on his shoulder. “good.” he says. “i’m glad.”
and he means it. which is absolute bullshit because you can see it in his eyes that he’s fucking heartbroken and he doesn’t have that many emotions, but now, he does.
he was first. he knows it.
he feels like someone ripped some of his ribs out. and not even the ribs he could suck himself off without. life is cruel. and let’s face it, feeling this much for a man like him is a big word already.
“you did something i didn’t. that’s on me.” he says.
seungmin’s distant voice from outside: “IT’S BULLSHIT IS WHAT IT IS—”
han beams at him. “thanks, man.”
hyunjin squeezes his shoulder once more, then steps back before his face betrays anything.
jeongin slides off the couch and onto the floor. he curls into himself, arm thrown over his face. “don’t talk to me.” he announces.
baby, nobody was.
chan pinches the bridge of his nose. “you’re gonna get dirty.”
“GOOD.”
all while minho is leaning against the counter, arms crossed, looking at the ceiling. it looks brutally hilarious if you think about it.
changbin plops down beside jeongin on the floor. “i mean… i’m glad she’s happy…”
“but?” minho asks.
“but my chest feels like someone stepped on it.”
“same.” jeongin mumbles into the floor.
the door SLAMS open. seungmin comes back in, hair messy, and… his shirt is ripped down the front like he fought a bear.
“YOU KNOW WHAT.” he shouts. “GOOD FOR YOU.”
“what happened to your shirt?” changbin asks.
“i needed to feel something.”
“great.”
han looks around at all of them, finally sensing the emotional bomb he set off. “…did i do bad?”
changbin is immediately up, hugging him from the side. “no! no, baby, you did great.”
chan looked at han, serious. “do you like her?”
“yes.” no hesitation.
seungmin gestures wildly. “okay cool yeah so DO WE.”
han blinks. “you do?”
“yes, you absolute goldfish.” seungmin throws his hands around. “for months now.”
jeongin lifts his head just enough to point weakly at himself. “i literally changed my cologne.”
they all nod along. hyunjin even mumbles a “yeah.”
han looks between them. processes. “oh! that’s nice.” he’s genuinely so happy.
seungmin crouches down, hands in his hair.
“you’re not threatened??” jeongin cries into the floor.
han shrugs. “no.”
“…why?” minho genuinely looks so fed up. genuinely. he’s ready to flip a table.
han looks confused. “she’s great. of course you guys like her.”
they stare at him. this man has no concept of rivalry. no jealousy. no possessive wiring in that big empty head. okay, this is reasonable though, they don’t really have emotions in general. it’s no surprise that this asshole only feels pure, open affection, now that there are feelings in the picture.
felix crouches next to jeongin. “you wanna be little spoon later?”
“shut up.” jeongin whispers.
seungmin goes into the kitchen. everyone tracks him with their eyes. cabinets slam. something clatters. he comes back thirty seconds later. shirtless.
one hand: bottle. other hand: gun.
he sits down in a chair backwards and just starts drinking straight from the bottle.
felix wanders over to hyunjin and just hugs him from the side. hyunjin stands there, arms at his sides, staring straight ahead.
felix squeezes tighter. “big feelings day.”
“i can tell.”
seungmin snorts into the bottle.
jeongin peeks up from the floor at seungmin. “you good?”
“no.” seungmin says.
“thoughts and prayers.” chan says flatly.
“i’m just really proud of you.” felix says to han meanwhile, still half hugging hyunjin.
seungmin hurls a spoon across the room. it hits the wall. “HE EATS PEOPLE.” he yells.
nobody reacts.
changbin keeps talking to han. “what happened after?”
“we ate.” han tells him. “then we talked. then i slept there.”
seungmin throws the bottle cap this time. “CANNIBAL.”
felix shrugs. “sometimes.”
seungmin looks around like HELLO??? nobody is paying attention to him. this is killing him. minho checks something on his phone. hyunjin checks himself out in his own phone’s camera.
chan gestures toward seungmin. “pass that.”
seungmin turns his head slowly. eyes narrow.
chan continues, hand out. “just a sip, i—”
seungmin leans forward and spits the mouthful of alcohol directly into chan’s open mouth.
dead silence.
chan freezes. processes. swallows.
“…okay.” he says calmly, wiping his mouth. “that’s one way to share.” he says flatly.
“you’re welcome.” seungmin replies, equally calm, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
changbin looks at han again. “so like… was it soft?”
han nods. “yeah. warm.”
jeongin makes a noise.
another object flies from seungmin’s hands. nobody checks what it was.
changbin daps han up. “that’s my guy.”
seungmin points the gun toward the wall and fires. BANG.
jeongin rolls onto his back on the floor, staring at the ceiling. “he kissed her, man.” he says weakly. “with his mouth.”
“yeah.” han says helpfully.
seungmin throws a glass at his head. han dodges purely by accident because he leaned down to scratch his ankle. the glass shatters on the floor.
felix claps. “nice reflexes!”
seungmin fires another shot into the wall.
chan closes his eyes, sighing.
it’s brutally fucking hilarious that seungmin keeps throwing shit and they just don’t gaf. he throws a spoon. nobody reacts. he throws a book. minho catches it and puts it back on the table.
he points at felix again. “YOU EAT HUMANS.”
felix, to hyunjn: “do you like my pink shirt better or the white one?”
“white. obviously.” hyunjin nods.
seungmin throws one last object weakly in their direction. it doesn’t even reach them.
aaaand that’s how he got himself drunk enough to show up at your place the same night. well, at your door. you’re currently in your kitchen when you hear his knocking. no, not knocking. there’s a slow, uneven thud… scrape… thud against your door.
you walk over and open it. and you get a drunk, shirtless seungmin at your door.
“…hi.”
you blink. “you are hammered.”
he nods slowly. “uhum.”
no denying it. respect.
he tries to step forward and immediately trips on absolutely nothing. you grab his arm out of reflex.
“whoa, okay— easy—”
he latches onto you, arms around your shoulders, face buried near your neck. “you smell good.”
there’s a long pause where he just stands there breathing. all that until you push him up, letting him stand there while you close the door after him.
“i heard…” he says, spinning around to face you. “that you and han are MARRIED now.”
you blink. “what??”
“don’t lie to me.” he slurs, pointing in your direction but also slightly at the ceiling. “you and han are… doing stuff. you know. mouth activity.”
you stare at him.
“…you got together.” he whispers.
you shake your head. “no. we kissed yesterday. he was confused.“
“…so you’re not married.”
“no.”
“engaged?”
“NO.”
seungmin stares. processing. “…but you kissed.”
“yes.”
“okay.” he says weakly. “cool. cool cool cool.”
that is not a cool tone.
“…but… not together.” he repeats.
“no.”
“okay. good. because i would’ve had to fight him and he’s weirdly strong.”
“he’d win.”
“yeah.”
beat.
he looks at you again. different now.
“i don’t like it.” he mutters.
“what.”
“this.” he gestures between you and the air. “the chest feeling. it’s dumb.”
“feelings usually are.”
yeah, feelings usually are. he just learned that too. well, he actually learned it when he got to know you, now it just… escalated. got dumber.
he looks around. “so there’s still… a slot.”
you grab the pepper spray off the entry table and hold it up.
he SCREAMS.
yeah. ptsd from you spraying him so many times already.
“OKAY OKAY JESUS CHRIST—” he stumbles backward, hands up like you pulled a gun. “i am peaceful. i am gentle. i am a houseplant.”
you stare. “…you have a gun.”
he looks down at his waistband like he forgot. “…okay.” then he takes the gun out and throws it on the floor.
you lower it, laughing. “you’re such a baby.”
his shoulders drop, seeing that you mean no actual harm, and he looks around. walks to your couch and slumps down on it.
he turns his head toward you, hair falling into his eyes. “come here.”
you cross your arms. “what.”
“cuddle me.”
“magic word?”
“please cuddle me.” he corrects, squinting with effort.
you sigh and sit beside him. he instantly rolls toward you and drops his head into your lap. he’s warm. heavy. ridiculously affectionate for a man who threw a glass at a wall six hours ago.
you look down at him.
he looks up at you.
“hi.” he says again.
you sigh. “hi.”
there’s a bit of silence where he just looks at you. then he pokes your thigh lightly. “so. hypothetically.”
“mm.”
“if a person. a very cool, very attractive person.”
“debatable.”
“shut up. if that person maybe had feelings but was, like, bad at… normal.”
“normal?”
“all of it.”
you hum. “go on.”
“and that person maybe wanted to, i don’t know, kiss you at some point.”
you look down at him, expression calm. “not tonight.” you say gently. “you’re really drunk. but i’m not against it, if that counts.”
his entire, brutal serial killer body relaxes. “okay. that’s fine. i can work with future.” he murmurs. for a while he just breathes there. heavy. slow. drunk but not sloppy now. then he shifts, face turning into your side more, voice muffled. “you’re not mad i came over?”
“you almost got pepper sprayed.”
“yeah but like. be honest.”
you think for a second. “…no. just don’t make it a habit to show up blackout.”
“copy.” he says immediately.
beat.
“…can i live here.”
“no.”
“okay.” a bit of comfortable silence, then: “do you like him?”
you tilt your head. “i like all of you.”
“cop out answer.”
“it’s the truth.”
he sighs.
every day with these assholes is surreal. but right now, you’re happy that they happened to you. his warm weight, his slow breathing, this is fine.
you sit there in the quiet, him draped over you, and you’re weirdly calm. you glance down at him. he’s half asleep already.
“…you’re cute when you’re not breaking furniture.” you mutter.
his mouth curves slightly without opening his eyes.
you let him sleep there. you didn’t move him. didn’t have the heart. also didn’t have the circulation in your leg by morning, but that’s not the point.
and after these, you and han get… all lovely dovely. that’s exactly the best way to say it. imagine it’s valentine’s day, the love of your life just broke up with you, and you see some fuckasses making out right in front of your face. in this scenario, you and han are the making out ones, and the other boys are the fresh singles.
he was already clingy before, but now? bro. he’ll come up behind you, wrap his arms around your middle, and just exist there. just humming a little like a human space heater. or whining. or he’s just pathetic in general, but you let him do it. you caress his head, his little face, whatnot. you two basically act like a couple.
he’s big on face kisses. this brutal serial killer likes giving you little kisses on the face. but the second he leans toward your mouth when the others are around, you put a hand on his face and push him back. “mm. not here.” he accepts this immediately every time. no embarrassment. he’s too dumb to feel it anyway. when it’s just the two of you though? whole different story. he loves kissing you now that he knows it’s allowed.
seungmin changes too, of course. i mean, still an asshole, actually, bigger asshole. but all meanness that used to just exist everywhere is aimed almost entirely at the others.
with you, he’s cuddlier now. but with the boys? mean fuck. like, meaner than before. especially to han. not cruel, not actually hurting him, just constant sabotage. brutally. he keeps using this poor guy’s lack of brains.
you once watched seungmin move han’s shoes to the other side of the room so he’d trip.
han did trip. got up. put the shoes on. “thanks, i was looking for those.”
seungmin looked like he wanted to die.
“why does seungmin keep bumping into me?” han asks once, genuinely confused.
you just pat his arm. “he’s going through something.”
the others are fed. the. fuck. up.
hyunjin especially. i mean what did we expect.
seungmin walks by? suddenly “accidentally” tripped. han gets too sappy with you? back of his head lightly smacked.
“watch your balance.” hyunjin says calmly as seungmin eats floor for the third time that day.
“this is harassment.” seungmin grumbles from the ground.
“get better footing.”
physical fights are more common now, but not in the actual fight way. it’s… boy logic. shoving. headlocks. someone getting dragged off a couch by the ankle. someone crashing into a table.
jeongin has brutal fun with it, always talking while the others are going for blood.
“and seungmin goes DOWN— phenomenal leg sweep from hyunjin, really—”
“shut up.” seungmin snaps, trying to bite hyunjin’s arm.
“using teeth… ow.” jeongin continues.
by the way, he has not stopped flirting. not even slightly. leaning in too close when he talks. fixing your hair that doesn’t need fixing. smiling like he’s got a secret.
“just keeping options open.” he says when chan tells him to knock it off.
“you’re making it difficult for everyone.” chan replies.
“attitude like that is why you’re single.”
changbin is still clingy but in a sad, gentle way. hovers a lot. if you’d ever give him a chance, he’d be so down. without hesitation. tf is bro code. so all he can do now is wait for his chance.
minho just decides to look away and hope it’ll get better. it doesn’t.
felix is just happy love exists in the room at all. he has this… weird feeling when he sees han all over you, but he can’t identify it, so he just lives with it.
and while killing, the only thing supposed to bring them happiness in theory, they’re distracted. arguing. slipping up. fuck. seungmin nearly forgets gloves once. jeongin checks his phone in the middle of something serious because you texted. hyunjin has to physically redirect han who zoned out mid task because he was smiling to himself. sloppy.
a whole group of dangerous, dysfunctional men who can dismantle a situation in minutes… doing this. embarrassing. truly.
if han is near you, he’s touching you now. hand on your arm. chin on your shoulder. fingers hooked in your clothes. his feelings are simple but huge. first time really feeling btw.
and god, those biiig, big eyes? shining when on you.
yeah you let him hit because of those. so what? he’s cute. he was cute the whole time. total virgin btw, so the whole thing was more sweet than hot. he fumbled around with the condom. he was excited. he was a little shy too, but really sincere about everything. obviously all over the moon that he was going to have his first time and he was going to have it with you.
he wasn’t bad. he just needs a few more times to get the hang of it.
hyunjin feels responsibility. loving you automatically means he wants to protect you from the world, including, in some fuuuucked up corner of his mind, from them.
that conflict eats at him.
he wants you close.
he also knows what they are.
when you touch jeongin’s arm absentmindedly while talking? he rides that high for hours. he’ll never say it straight, but he wants you to choose him one day.
felix is just pathetic. he thinks you’re amazing. no complications in his head about it. you’re pretty, you’re nice to him, you laugh at his dumb jokes.
you disturb chan in many ways. you’re always in his mind. always in front of his eyes. always in the conversation. he can’t get rid of you, and he doesn’t want to. he really, really wants a chance too.
minho is almost the only one who didn’t start acting out. changbin, for an example, started showing off more, getting you things, whatnot. so did the others. minho doesn’t do that. he wants to. he just can’t, for some reason. maybe he’s not strong enough for it.
they are still capable of doing horrific, irreversible shit with the emotional range of a brick wall when it comes to literally everyone else on the planet. but with you? they’re a mess.
the peacocking is unbearable. truly. they are grown men with criminal records. and yet, put you in the room and suddenly it’s: “did you see how fast i did that.” “hey, i fixed that thing you didn’t ask about.” “do you like this shirt.” “watch this.”
it’s a zoo.
jeongin is unbearable about trying to look good for you. new shirts. better cologne. hair always done. he rehearses talking to you in mirrors.
seungmin rolls his eyes so hard. then five minutes later he’s doing push ups on the living room floor mid conversation.
“are you okay?” chagbin asks.
“strength is important.” seungmin says, not breaking rhythm.
“for what?” minho mutters.
seungmin doesn’t answer. just does push ups angrier.
hyunjin solves problems for you so fast that you didn’t even know there was a problem.
felix tries too, bless him. he brings you things. not good things. just… things. a cool rock. a hoodie he thought you’d like. maybe food. han backs him up always.
chaangbin just hovers closer and laughs at your jokes a little too fast.
minho pretends he’s above all of it but starts dressing nicer.
but like… chan starts getting closer too. he’s always within arm’s reach now, and he’s doing it on purpose. sits beside you instead of across the room. stands behind you when you’re at the counter. it’s subtle, but chan does nothing by accident.
these assholes are detached. violent. they step over lines most people can’t even look at. they don’t feel things the way other people do. but something still locked onto you. it’s not healthy, it’s fixation, attachment, the thing that’s not dull in them.
hyunjin chose to drink more. i mean, not falling over and blackout drunk, but he was always lowkey an alcoholic, and this situation doesn’t help that.
and i mean by situation, remember what i said about han needing a few more times to get the hang of having sex? yeah you made sure he got those few times.
so the bottle appears more often. glass refills quicker, and hyunjin’s eyes linger longer than they used to when he looks at you and han in the same space.
he sees everything. han already at your place when hyunjin comes over, hair messy, shirt half buttoned wrong, looking dazed. he can’t hide the post sex glow to save his life. but he doesn’t have to, why would he?
“why does he look like that?” seungmin mutters once, watching han stumble into the living room looking suspiciously content.
it fucks han’s little empty mind up that something else can bring him happiness too, not just killing and blood. it’s weird. it’s nice. he can compare this feeling to… how he thinks felix felt when he almost caught the mailman. the “almost” brings this sentence down, but it did feel pretty good for felix, he couldn’t shut up about it. han feels the same about you. (and about finally getting pussy)
the others see it, and it’s driving them insane. because now they want it too. not in the same way, not with the same softness, but they want you. your attention. your acceptance. your willingness to not recoil when they get close.
but… you see, these are not men who see a closed door and go “ah, okay, i’ll respect that.” they see a closed door and think: interesting obstacle. not in a creepy way, okay, maybe in a lil creepy way because they’re creepy in general, but in a deeply dysfunctional, emotionally illiterate, “i don’t know how to stop wanting this” way. because for maybe the first time in their lives, they want something that isn’t about control, thrill, or distraction. they want you.
the peacocking escalates. seungmin suddenly learning how to cook one (1) dish and acting like he earned a michelin star. jeongin doubles down with the flirting. felix saw the others do push ups(he was the only one who found it cool) so he tries too and immediately loses count. minho tries to be quicker than the others. changbin is always feeding you. would spit the food into your mouth babybird style if you asked, like seungmin did into chan’s mouth. pfft. chan makes sure to look manly. he succeeds too. hyunjin shows off his handyman skills. they are not subtle. at all.
the tension between them ramps up too, not hatred, not really being angry at each other, just pressure with nowhere to go. hyunjin trips seungmin more often, who shoulder checks jeongin “accidentally.” and jeongin flops dramatically onto whoever is nearest when he’s “emotionally overwhelmed” but in reality he’s blocking them from talking to you. felix and han are still the only ones not fully drowning in it, mostly because they share one collective brain cell and it’s busy playing elevator music.
sooo yeah, they keep trying, because the feeling exists, and they don’t know how to kill it. which, ironically, is the one thing they’re usually very good at.
and while you want to get your alone time with your boyfriend who is not even really your boyfriend, just han, and also a serial killer, but you kiss and fuck sometimes and not even because you’re horny but because it’s intimate, but not your boyfriend, the others have absolutely started “accidentally” showing up at your place more.
just again, not subtle. knocking once and walking in. texting “you home” while already on the stairs. suddenly all needing something from you specifically.
the first time they came over unannounced(well, not first time and we know that damn well, just first time since this you letting han hit thing), and han was shirtless, hair messy, looking dazed and soft in a way that screamed yeah they fucked, the room was silent.
han just waved. “hi guys.” no shame. no awareness.
you were the one flustered. han genuinely does not understand why his friends seeing him half dressed near you would be weird.
“put a shirt on, romeo.” seungmin snaps at han once.
han looks down at himself. “why?”
“because i said so.”
“okay!” han says, and goes to put a shirt on. which is in your room. seungmin looks like he might start shooting the wall again. or try out felix’s going after the mailman thing.
you’ll be talking and jeongin will just lean in, grinning in that evil way of his, saying something like “still my favorite person in the room, by the way.”
the others keep telling him to shut up. chan mostly does that by touching you in some way while jeongin is hitting on you, stealing you.
they try to interrupt on purpose after that one time they came over and realized you and han were up to some shi. not to be cruel, but because they think they can stop shit from happening that way. and also, maybe a little bit, because they hope they’ll get to see you naked too.
“oh we just needed to talk.” “didn’t know you were busy.” “we thought you’d be up.” their acting is good, they do that to function between humans after all, but you simply just see through them by now.
changbin once barges in meanwhile han’s mouth is so obviously going down on your body. you’re still clothed, luckily, but you weren’t far away from being.. not clothed. that’s also explained by han’s hands currently in your pants, pulling them down.
and changbin just stands there. looks at han. looks at you.
“…what are you guys doing.”
you stare at him.
han, still with his mouth on your stomach where your shirt is pushed up. “kissing.”
changbin nods slowly. “…okay.”
doesn’t leave.
you point at the door.
he leaves. kicks the hallway wall on the way out.
the other time, when you’re on top of this absolute baby of a man(ruthless serial killer) you hear the door open and assume it’s just one of them dropping by. you ignore it, continuing to dryhump han, thinking about maybe taking your shirt off too, but you don’t get to that because your bedroom door swings open.
jeongin, seungmin and felix stand there. mid conversation. mid argument. mid dap up. and mid you and han very clearly being busy.
you freeze. han does not. he turns his head, still shirtless, hair a mess, expression calm. sweet. empty behind the eyes. “oh hey.”
“OUT.” you shout.
jeongin blinks a few times before he physically grabs seungmin’s collar and drags him back out. “yep. yep. that’s on us. sorry y/n. love you.”
felix just waves. “hi.”
“felix.”
“going!”
door shuts.
you bury your face in your hands.
han kisses your shoulder. “they’re bad at doors.”
“that is not the problem.”
since those, you’re alert. careful. door locked. allat. and it’s mostly peaceful, just you and han in your room, it’s steamy, you’re about to go at it too—
the knob rattles. then stops. then knock knock knock knock knock.
“WHAT.” you yell.
“it’s chan.”
you pull the blanket tighter around yourself. “give us a minute!”
pause.
“…why.”
han calls out, helpful as always: “we’re naked.”
silence.
you hear chan inhale through his nose. “…understood.”
footsteps retreat.
you drop your head back against the pillow. han smiles at you.
god, they’re insufferable. you’ll hear footsteps outside the bedroom door. you open it to find jeongin leaning against the frame, smiling ear to ear.
“wow.” he says, eyes flicking between you and han who’s sitting in your bed, waiting for you to go back to him already. “didn’t knock. my bad.”
han waves from behind you. “hi.”
jeongin steps inside. “you know, i was just thinking—”
“out.” you say.
he laughs. “relax. just saying hi.”
he sits in your bed.
han shifts closer to him, delighted. “oh!” he says. “sleepover?”
pfft. let’s not even talk about when he invites them to stay for dinner. the first time he did it was when some of them, let’s say seungmin and changbin(i’m using them so much bc they’re the more social ones in these situations, dw the others will get their little turns too later on in the story) walked in on you two again, and instead of leaving, they laid down into bed next to you two. han is always so delighted that two of his favorite things(third is killing) are getting combined that he keeps asking them to stay. brutal.
but when they’re not currenly walking in on you two? when they make their little psychopathic moves on you at any other given moment? you don’t… shut them down. no, you don’t say no to them at all.
so in their heads? that means there’s a chance.
hyunjin starts lingering longer when he drops you off. seungmin gets cuddly when you’re all together, leg pressed against yours. jeongin dials the flirting up to ridiculous levels. chan offers you rides, help, time. changbin buys you things. minho pretends he’s not participating while absolutely participating, walking with you everywhere. felix brags about how he attacked the mailman.
they want you so badly it’s almost painful. and now they’ve seen it’s possible.
and… you don’t shut them down. sure, when they walk in on you about to ride their friend into the afterlife, that can be frustrating, but otherwise you’re obviously not against their tries.
you hug chan a lot. god, he always liked hugging you. always pretended it was casual. friendly, nothing else. it never was to him. wasn’t really to you either. and the fact that you still do it, when you could choose someone else, already at your feet, over him? chan’s empty little heart beats a lot more these days.
if you ever gave him the chance, even a small one, he’d fold immediately. he’d be your dream man, behind han’s back, or right in front of his dumb little eyes. either way.
you don’t slap hyunjin’s hand away when he’s drunk and reckless and his touch gets heavy, careless, wandering. you let him.
god, you let all of them.
one evening, you’re standing at the counter, distracted, and minho comes up behind you to grab a glass. his hand brushes your lower back.
he leans in, whispering to you. “you’re doing this on purpose.”
you glance at him. “doing what?”
“you know what.”
he doesn’t elaborate. no need to.
he steps closer, crowding your space just enough to make a point, looking down at your mouth, then back up at your eyes. then he scoffs quietly, steps away, grabs his glass too hard.
“fuck this.” he mutters, and leaves the room.
but later, when you sit down, he sits beside you without comment, thigh pressed to yours. wanting your touch.
you are doing this on purpose. and you know you shouldn’t let this happen. these are not men built for healthy attachment. their affection is obsessive, so fucking wrong and violent and fucked up.
but you do let it happen. you let them sit close. you let them touch. another cleans his weapon obsessively while watching you from the corner of his eye.
pick me.
choose me.
let it be me too.
they will try. they will try to get you, no matter what.
if han got there by accident… maybe they still can on purpose.
author’s note: THERE WILL BE A PART 3!!! in the next part, the others will get their own little romance too. maybe not all of them, in that case a part 4 will come. tumblr has a writing limit sadly. anyways, everyone who didn’t get their spotlight eventually will. love y’all!!
pairing: serial killer!cannibal!felix x fem!reader
genre: crackfic, dark comedy, dark romance, horror
summary: at a funeral, you meet the sweetest, dumbest boy ever. you two become friends, then you find out he’s a cannibal, and kid you not, he kills his victims himself too. against better judgment, you stay friends with him, then slowly become more.
warnings: non idol au, felix is SO dumb and a psychopath, violence, murder, blood, gore, dismemberment and cannibalism(none really in detail tho!!), blood sucking, felix w a pain and degradation kink, emotional support jeongin and him being a boy(burping and putting his feet everywhere and being stinky), both main characters are problematic, smut(protected sex, riding, oral sex(f receiving), oral sex on period(f receiving)), there’s very little sex so it’s obviously not the point of the fic, lots and lots of biting and drool, felix is a total himbo
word count: 13k
you’re at a funeral.
it’s not someone you were close to, so it shouldn’t interest you that much, but…
who’s that pretty guy crying aggressively?
it’s an open funeral. you’re in a graveyard, people standing around, whatnot. people murmur. someone sniffles. someone else coughs like they’re dying right now.
and then there’s him. felix. well, you don’t know his name yet, i just cleared it up. and he is absolutely losing his shit.
like, full body sobbing. ugly crying. the kind where his face is red, his nose is running, and he’s making those little huuh— huh— sounds. he’s not even trying to be quiet. he’s rocking slightly, whispering things like “you didn’t deserve it… you really didn’t… fuck…”
people keep glancing at him like wow, he must have been close.
he’s too hot to be acting like this.
he grabs a fistful of tissues from a table nearby. misses his face. blow his nose directly into his hand. stares at it.
you glance around. everyone else is quietly mourning. soft crying. respectful silence. this man is wailing.
you walk over, whispering to him. “hey, hey, it’s okay.”
he gasps. looks at you. “i just…” he chokes, voice breaking “he had so much life left. so much potential.”
you nod, because what the fuck else do you do. “i know.” you say gently. “it’s awful.”
“i just—” hic. “—he was so full of life, y’know? and now he’s just—just—” he gestures at the casket. “—in there. like a box. a wood box.”
“…yeah.” you say. you rub his back a little. he leans into it immediately.
he presses the heel of his hand into his eye so hard you think he might pop it out. “he didn’t deserve that. not like that.”
“…yeeeeah.” you say slowly.
for context you do not have:
felix is supposed to be at a funeral today. just not this one.
an other funeral. the one for the person he killed a while ago.
he got the time right. the suit right. the vibe right. the place? absolutely not.
felix lacks feelings. no guilt, no sadness, no remorse. he senses that funerals are supposed to be sad, so he leans into the role. hard.
he sniffles again, absolutely wrecked. you put a hand on his arm because jesus christ someone needs to.
he turns to you, eyes red, lashes wet, face stupidly beautiful even mid breakdown. breakdown, he’s not really that sad. just dumb.
“sorry.” he says.
“it’s okay.” you say. “uh… i’m sorry, what was your name again?”
he blinks. “felix.”
“felix.” you repeat. “i’m y/n. and i promise you, he—“
before you can finish, a woman a few meters ahead speaks through her tears. “we are gathered here today to remember daniel ha—”
felix freezes. his eyebrows knit together. he looks at the woman. then at the casket. then at you, because he immediately sensed that you’re safe.
he leans toward you, voice hushed. “hey.”
“yes?”
“…who’s daniel?”
“what do you mean who’s daniel?”
“she said daniel.”
“yes.” you whisper. “that’s… the person who died.”
“…oh.”
a beat.
“…i thought this was for mark.”
you don’t know who mark is. you do not ask who mark is.
“you’re… at the wrong funeral?” you whisper.
he tilts his head. considers this. not upset, gently shaking the thought around in that empty head of his. he’s confused.
“huh.” he says. “so that explains the photos.”
you choke. “the what?”
“the slideshow.” he says. “i didn’t recognize any of them.”
you stare at him. he stares back. his eyes are still watery. he’s still holding tissues.
“…so.” you say carefully. “you didn’t know daniel.”
“no.” felix says. “but i was still really sad.”
“i can tell.”
“i didn’t mean to disrespect anyone.” he continues, whispering. “i just… addresses confuse me.”
“clearly.” you whisper back.
he nods, solemn. “numbers too.”
you don’t know what to do with that. “…are you okay?”
he considers this. shrugs. “i mean. yeah. but i’m kinda hungry.”
you stare at him.
“i heard there’s a sandwich table.” he adds, hopeful. “do you think it’s still open?”
twenty minutes later, you’re standing beside him near a folding table filled with sad little triangle sandwiches and wine.
he loads a plate like he hasn’t eaten since the great depression. takes a glass of wine. takes another one. hands one to you.
“funeral food always slaps.” he says.
“…you’re not even a little upset?” you ask.
he frowns. “should i be?”
“you just cried for forty minutes.”
“yeah.” he says. “that was nice.”
you laugh. you can’t help it.
“thanks for… y’know. earlier.” he murmurs.
“sure.” you say.
he smiles, then immediately bites into a sandwich too big for his mouth. he chews. swallows. pauses. “soooo…” he says. “do you wanna maybe get coffee sometime? you’re really good at funerals.”
and standing there, wine in hand, you think:
wow.
this man is stupid.
and very, very hot.
and a murderer, but you don’t know that yet. but he is one, unfortunately. and only because… he likes doing it. only thing that lights his brain up. that’s it. his childhood was fine. his life is fine. his face card never declines. he just… came out wrong.
most things don’t register. people cry? nothing. someone gets angry? meh. sex? whatever. food? mildly enjoyable, depending.
but killing? oh. ohhh. that does something.
it’s curiosity mixed with thrill, like touching a stove knowing it’ll burn you. the moment where someone realizes what’s happening, fear, confusion, bargaining, that’s the spark. that’s the only time felix feels present.
which is deeply unfortunate, because again, this man is so fucking stupid.
people underestimate him constantly.
and he’s a cannibal.
which, sorry, what the fuck, felix.
he doesn’t see it as taboo. or weird. or symbolic. it’s just… an extension of curiosity. texture. taste. experience. he is a food critic about it, too, which makes it worse.
anyway. back to you. after the funeral, daniel’s funeral, not mark’s, jesus, you actually take him up on the coffee. you don’t know why. maybe because he was pretty enough. maybe this, maybe that, what matters is that you meet him again.
coffee shop. two days later.
he’s early. waving too enthusiastically. knocks over his own drink before you even sit down.
“oh.” he says, staring at the spill. “i literally just got that.”
you blink. “…hi, felix”
“hi!”
you talk a lot. he’s sweet. like genuinely, stupidly sweet.
there are moments where he almost fucks it up though. like when you mention true crime and he goes “oh yeah, i love that stuff” a little too fast. or when you say, “i can’t believe people can hurt others like that.” and he nods and says “yeah. wild.” while smiling faintly.
he’s dumb, but he knows this is a thing you don’t share. not yet. maybe not ever. he likes you. he doesn’t want to fuck that up.
so he behaves.
mostly.
dates follow. little ones. walk. movies. going over to his place feels normal at this point, not new now. his apartment is nice.
there’s also jeongin.
jeongin is his friend. sleeps over sometimes. always there at the worst possible moments. annoying, charming, hot, flirts with you nonstop, calls you “gorgeous.” he absolutely knows what he’s doing.
felix does not. felix just squints at him and says “can you stop doing that with your face.”
jeongin laughs every time. “jealous?”
“no.” felix says. “it’s just… unsettling.”
you like jeongin, unfortunately. not like that, but he’s funny. sometimes he sleeps over. sometimes it’s just you and felix.
tonight, it’s just you and felix.
you fall asleep in his bed, limbs tangled, his arm heavy over your waist. he snores softly. mouth open. pretty idiot.
you wake up in the middle of the night, hungry. so quietly, you slip out of bed.
the apartment is dark, lit only by the glow from the city outside. you pad into the kitchen, open the fridge.
nothing appealing.
you sigh.
freezer. maybe ice cream.
you open it, and…
that is not ice cream.
that is a human hand.
you stare.
behind you, a soft voice: “…hey?”
you nearly jump out of your fucking skin.
felix stands next to the kitchen island, hair messy, eyes half lidded, rubbing one eye like a toddler who woke up from a nap. he’s wearing boxers and a shirt. no, it is not sexual for him sleeping like that with you. he feels comfy with you. no, you two are not anything yet.
“what are you doing up?” he asks, sleepy. “did you want water or—”
he follows your gaze. sees the freezer. sees the hand.
“oh.” he says.
there’s a pause. a long one.
“what.” you say, voice shaking. “the fuck is that.”
he blinks. once. twice.
“…okay.” he says carefully. “so. before you freak out—”
“you have a person in your freezer.”
“parts.” he corrects automatically.
your hands are shaking. “felix.”
“yeah?”
“why is there a human hand next to the frozen peas.”
he steps closer, palms up. “okay, okay, listen. i can explain.”
“i would love to hear this explanation.”
“well...” he starts, then stops. scratches the back of his neck. “this is gonna sound bad, but like… you weren’t supposed to find that.”
“WOW. REALLY?”
“i usually lock it.” he says. “jeongin must’ve forgotten.”
“JEONGIN?? JEONGIN KNOWS??”
“he’s chill about it.”
you stare at him.
“…i’m going to throw up.”
he winces. “please don’t. i just mopped.”
god, he’s so pretty. soft. angelic, really.
and a cannibal.
“you… kill people?” you ask.
“yes.”
“and you eat them.”
“sometimes.”
you press your fingers into your temples.
he watches you, eyes wide. “are you mad?”
“AM I—FELIX. you’re—what—what are you?”
he tilts his head. thinks.
“…i mean. a guy?”
you watch him. this fucker.
“please don’t look at me like that.” he whispers. “i didn’t want you to find out like this.”
“oh really? how did you want me to find out? over dinner?”
“that could’ve been nice.”
you groan. “what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“i don’t know!” he snaps, then immediately softens. “…i mean. a lot, probably.”
there’s silence. thick. heavy.
then he says, very quietly: “i don’t want to kill you.”
you blood runs cold.
“but i might have to.” he finishes.
“do you hear yourself?”
“i’m stressed!” he says. “this is a big deal!”
“you have a corpse freezer.”
“it’s not a freezer for corpses.” he argues. “it’s a freezer that has corpses.”
you make a sound between a sob and a scream.
he steps toward you.
you immediately sprint for the hallway, actually pretty proud of yourself that you reacted this fast.
you’re halfway down the hall already, heart trying to exit your throat, when you hear him behind you, clatter, followed by a very sincere. “ow.”
you glance back.
felix has tripped over absolutely nothing.
he really, genuinely, truly does not want to chase you.
“i’m really bad at this.” he admits.
“AT WHAT.” you shout. “MURDER??”
he scrambles up, panic all over his face. “bo—well—yes—but not you—fuck.”
he grabs a knife from the kitchen counter. he fumbles it. almost drops it. has to readjust his grip.
“oh my god.” you say. “you’re actually doing this.”
“i don’t want to!” he whines. “but you’re running and that’s usually the part where—”
he steps forward and immediately trips over the rug. fully falls down.
there’s a long, awkward, unreal pause.
“…how.” you say shakily. “how the FUCK did you kill anyone.”
he groans, rolling onto his back. “rude.”
“serious question.”
he sits up, rubbing his elbow. “i mean. i was more focused then.”
“was it even you?” you ask. “like. are you sure you didn’t just find people like that.”
“yes! it was me!”
“how???”
“well, usually they don’t run.” he says, slowly getting up.
you back into the living room, eyes darting for an exit. he follows, slower, hesitant, knife held out.
you grab a lamp and point it at him. “don’t.”
“oh.” he says softly. “okay.”
you blink. “…that worked?”
“yeah.” he says. “i don’t like when people sound disappointed in me.”
you stare at him.
he stares back.
“i didn’t mean to hurt you.” he says.
“you literally have a knife.”
he looks down at it. “oh. right.”
he gently sets it on the coffee table. pushes it away.
“there.” he says. “i won’t chase you.”
you watch his pretty face. “you’re just… giving up?”
“i don’t want to scare you.” he says. “and i really don’t want to kill you.“
“explain.” you say. “explain everything. right now. because none of this makes sense.”
he exhales, shoulders slumping. “i don’t just kill anyone. i’m selective. and i always check their health first.”
“what.”
“like. i don’t want to catch anything. that’d be gross. i always check their medical records. and their teeth.”
“their—felix—”
“i’m very careful.” he insists. “i get tested regularly.”
this is hell.
this is actually hell.
“and you didn’t plan to hurt me?” you ask.
“no—“
“fuck you. you were so sweet! you took me out! you held doors open! you make good coffee! you’re rich, that’s a good point, by the way, and you’re hot, and you’re STUPID, and I LIKED YOU!”
“you liked me?” he asks sweetly.
“yes!”
he frowns. “but if you liked me, why are you yelling.”
“BECAUSE YOU EAT PEOPLE.”
“i don’t eat everyone.” he says. “just… sometimes.”
you drag a hand down your face. “you’re telling me you kill people, carefully inspect their health, and somehow you’re this bad at holding a knife?”
“i practice.”
“with what.”
“pillows.”
silence.
you’re watching this gorgeous, lethal, brainless man stand in front of you. a cannibal.
“i don’t want to hurt you.” he says again, earnest, almost pleading. “i didn’t plan for this. i just wanted you to like me.”
you sigh. it’s a brutal sigh btw. you look at him, pretty, shaken, holding nothing now, eyes wide like a kid who dropped a plate and is waiting to be yelled at, and something in you just… deflates.
“okay.” you say, rubbing your face. “okay. stop moving. stop touching things. stop existing for one second.”
he freezes instantly. straight backed. hands at his sides. he looks adorable. “…am i in trouble.”
“yes.” you say. “but not like… prison trouble. just sit-the-fuck-down trouble.”
he nods fast. “okay. yeah. i can do that.”
he immediately sits on the floor instead of the couch.
you stare. “…the couch.”
“oh.” he scoots backward on his ass and then climbs onto the couch, knees tucked to his chest. he looks… small.
you sit across from him. there’s a coffee table between you like that’s gonna do anything if he snaps.
you don’t know why you’re doing this. you should be screaming. running. calling someone. instead you say: “we’re gonna talk. and you’re gonna be honest. like, painfully honest.”
felix nods. “okay.”
“and if you lie—”
“i won’t.” he blurts. “i promise.“
you exhale. “why do you kill people.”
“because it makes me feel… something.”
“explain something.”
he frowns, searching for words. “it’s like… when you stretch after sitting too long? that feeling. but in my brain.”
you stare.
“i don’t wake up wanting to hurt people.” he says. “it’s not like that. i just… when the opportunity happens, my brain goes ‘oh!’ and then everything feels very clear.”
you lean back. “how many.”
he hesitates. counts on his fingers. loses track. starts over.
fucking hell.
“and the…” you gesture toward the kitchen. “the eating.”
“i knew you were gonna hate that part.”
“jesus fucking christ.” you mutter. “sit tight. don’t move. don’t touch anything. i need a minute to process this shit.”
he straightens. “okay… can i breathe.”
“yes.”
“oh good.”
yeah, this is bullshit. it’s actually unreal to process this. what the fuck is happening.
then felix whispers. “can we still be friends?”
“what?”
he’s staring at his fingers, picking at it.
“i know it’s a lot.” he says. “and i get if you hate me. or scream. or stab me. i mean, don’t do that, but like. i don’t want to lose you.”
oh.
fuck.
you sit back, staring at the opposite wall, thinking.
you are so wrong for this.
so wrong.
“i don’t know.” you say finally. “i don’t fucking know, felix.”
he watches you. tries to process your feelings, but since he’s so bad at them, he really can’t.
“but.” you add quickly. “it’s… not off the table.”
“it’s not?”
“no.” you say. “which is insane. and stupid. and probably going to get me murdered.”
“i won’t murder you.” he says instantly.
you shake your head, smiling.
“thank you.” he says, horribly cute. “i’ll be better.”
“at what?”
he thinks. “…everything?”
you snort. “good luck with that, pretty boy.”
he smiles ear to ear.
you just talked it out with a cannibal serial killer who just asked to be your friend. you really, really need to rethink your life choices. but not yet.
because the friendship… works.
you start coming over again. the first few times are tense. but he tries.
god, why is he an angel when he’s so evil.
you learn a lot about his lifestyle. unfortunately.
he doesn’t kill often, he says that proudly. he’s picky. he has standards. he complains a lot. he checks vitals first because, and this is a direct quote, “i don’t want to eat junk food.”
you almost vomit the first time he says that.
you also, tragically, see things. not full on horror movie shit like guts all over the place, but enough. a wrapped package here. a weirdly shaped cooler there. a toe. a whole FUCKING arm once, and it was pointing at you.
you scream so loud your throat hurts.
he’s clueless about boundaries. it’s infuriating. he will absolutely walk into a room holding something that, reasonably, upsets a normal human’s stomach. you’ll be mid sentence and suddenly there’s a foot in your peripheral vision.
“FELIX.”
“oh. yeah. sorry. i forgot you were here.”
“FORGOT I WAS—PUT IT DOWN.”
sometimes he tries to hide it behind his back. other times he’ll just… offer it.
“do you wanna see?”
“no!”
you scream at him weekly. minimum. so loud jeongin drops a glass in the other room.
but felix is an angel. a fucked up, bloodstained, morally dead angel, but an angel all the same. he gives warnings now. he knocks before entering rooms. he says things like “i was going to show you something but then i remembered you hate surprises and corpses.”
progress!
you’ll be sitting on his couch, yelling at him because he accidentally set a rib on the coffee table, and he’ll look at you with that soft, earnest expression.
like he genuinely values you.
like you matter.
that feels good, but still, you never screamed at anyone more in your life.
“FELIX, GET THAT AWAY FROM ME.”
“FELIX, WHY IS THAT ON THE COUNTER.”
“FELIX, I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU PUT ANOTHER BODY PART ON MY PILLOW—”
“i thought it’d be funny.”
“YOU ARE WRONG.”
he takes it well. he always does. apologizes. looks sheepish. tries again the next time and fails in a new way.
he starts coming over to your place more, just to talk bout some “so yeah, i stabbed him—”
you stand up. walk to the balcony. open the door. “go outside.”
“what?”
“balcony. now.”
“but it’s cold.”
“GO.”
he obeys, stepping out barefoot, hugging himself.
you shut the door.
ten minutes later you let him back in because he looks like a kicked puppy and you hate yourself.
he brags, you lose your shit, he gets time out. this is normal now. sometimes you lock him out with something to eat. sometimes without. depends on your mood.
why do you trust him then?
he’s evil. a cannibal with the brain of a concussed toddler.
but he’s also gentle with you. protective in the dumbest ways. loyal. honest. but he doesn’t feel that much. okay, that much is not even the right way to express it, he never really had feelings. nothing happens in that little head of his. people came and went. sex happened. death happened. life happened. it all slid right off him like water off a very pretty, very stupid duck.
until you.
now there’s something new in him. that you brought.
he’s at the grocery store, staring at apples, and suddenly he’s thinking y/n likes the red ones. i think. or maybe green. fuck.
he buys both.
he walking down the street behind someone he’s planning to sedate, and then, out of nowhere: would y/n hate this?
he pauses. tilts his head. shrugs. continues walking. you’re still in his head.
or he’s at home. sawing somebody up. y/n would tell me to wipe that up immediately. he smiles.
felix, you dumb fuck. you have a crush.
it takes him weeks to realize it. actual weeks. he just knows he likes being around you. he likes when you yell at him. he likes when you call him disgusting. he likes when you lock him on the balcony. he likes when you’re mad but still let him back in.
one night, lying in bed, he thinks about it. so, he opens his little laptop and searches shit up on google.
what does a crush feel like
how do you know if you’re in love
is it normal to think about someone while dismembering another person
he closes the laptop very quickly.
felix, sweetie. baby. it’s a crush. his first one. ever. at his big age. with his extensive resume of crimes and zero emotional experience.
he opens up to jeongin about it one night. they’re in the living room. jeongin is sprawled on the couch, scrolling on his phone. felix is sitting next to him.
“i think i’m in love.” felix mutters randomly.
jeongin looks up. “with who.”
“…y/n.”
jeongin’s eyebrows shoot up. then he grins. “bro.”
felix nods. “bro.”
“broo.”
“bro.”
“bro!”
felix smiles. “i know, right?”
“congrats, dude.” jeongin slaps his arm.
“thanks.” felix giggles. there’s a beat. then he adds, very politely: “also… i wanted to ask you something.”
“shoot.”
“can you stop flirting with her?”
jeongin doesn’t even hesitate. he puts his phone down. nods. “yeah. of course.”
“really?”
“yeah, man.” jeongin says. “you asked nicely.”
felix smiles, big and soft. “thank you.”
jeongin smirks. “i mean. also you’d probably kill me if i didn’t.”
“…yeah.” felix murmurs. “but i wouldn’t enjoy it.” he adds quickly. “it’d be a chore.”
jeongin sighs. “bro.”
so felix decides, very confidently, that if he’s in love, then he should try.
this is immediately a problem.
because felix’s idea of “trying” is built on the same brain that once walked into a pole twice.
he starts doing thoughtful things. genuinely thoughtful. sweet. like showing up at your place unannounced with a grocery bag, smiling ear to ear.
“i got you something.”
you squint. “is it… alive?”
“no.” he says proudly. “not anymore.”
you scream into your hands.
“WHY.” you shout. “DO YOU KEEP BRINGING ME BODY PARTS.”
“i thought you might want to see what i do.” he says softly. “i want to include you.”
next week, he brings flowers. they’re beautiful. fresh. thoughtful.
they’re also sitting on top of a cooler.
you stare at the setup. he watches you hopefully.
“…is there a body part under the flowers.”
“…yeah.”
you kick him out for the night.
but despite everything, you grow fond of him. you don’t know when it happens. why it happens. it just sneaks up on you. somewhere between screaming at him for leaving a severed ear on your kitchen counter and him quietly fixing your sink because “it was dripping and that seemed wrong.”
you still freak out. constantly. you yell. you panic. but when he texts you can i come over? your heart still jumps. when he smiles at you, soft, hopeful, stupid, it makes your chest feel so so so funny.
and fuck, he’s pretty.
but like… one night, you’re busy. you tell him you can’t come over. he tells you to simply come over later. when you do, and you step inside, there’s… a puddle of blood on the floor.
“…felix.”
from the hallway: “yeah?”
“why is there BLOOD.”
“oh.” he says. “i forgot to clean that spot.”
your voice cracks. “you forgot.”
“i was excited to see you.” he says gently, appearing in the doorway in a pretty little apron. “i’ll get the mop.”
you look at him. at the stupid, sincere hope in his eyes. at the way he stands there in that fuckass apron.
you clean up together. you tell him he’s disgusting. he agrees cheerfully.
you can’t deal with his ass.
but you love his ass anyway.
well, until… until you come over to his place one night.
“there’s this guy at work.” you say, pacing. “he’s a fucking asshole. like, actively mean. a dick.”
felix is on the couch, listening, chin in his hands, eyes on you, nodding.
“he keeps talking over me.” you continue. “corrects me when i’m right. called me emotional. like, dude.”
“rude.” felix says.
“i know it’s rude.”
he frowns. “did you tell him to stop?”
“yes.”
“and he didn’t?”
“no.”
felix hums, thinking. not thinking that much, he’s not capable of that.
you sigh. “whatever. i just needed to talk about it. thanks.”
a few days pass. and the guy doesn’t show up to work.
cool. whatever. sick day.
then another day. then another.
you already know.
soon you find out he’s dead.
that same day, you go straight to felix’s place. you don’t even knock now bro. you slam the door shut behind you.
he looks up from the kitchen, startled. “oh, hey. you’re early. i’m still making dinner, but—“
your voice is shaking. “did you do something.”
he blinks. “what?”
“did. you. do. something.”
there’s a pause, then his shoulders relax. “…oh.” he says. “that.”
“that WHAT.”
he steps closer, hands open. calm. “i took care of it.”
“are you fucking serious?”
“he was mean to you.” felix says, confused. “i thought that was bad.”
“but— fuck, felix. i did not ask you to do that!”
“you didn’t have to.” he says. “i wanted to.”
“he was a person, felix.”
“he was hurting you.”
“he had a FAMILY. friends. A LIFE. do you know what you just did?”
felix looks genuinely startled now. he did not think of this outcome. he did not think that his actions would have consequences.
“i was helping.” he says softly. “i’m sorry you’re upset.”
“no.” you mumble. “no. don’t do that.“
your chest hurts. your head is spinning. rage, guilt, horror, all of it colliding at once.
“i trusted you.” you say. “i told you about him because i trusted you.”
“i didn’t think—”
“I KNOW YOU DIDN’T THINK.” you snap. “THAT’S THE PROBLEM.”
he stands there, silent now, eyes wide, he’s finally realizing he crossed a line he didn’t even see.
you’re crying. god, even now he thinks you’re beautiful. he doesn’t feel bad, btw. he feels completely content, right now he’s just trying to understand why you react this way. but even now he could just eat you up.
“don’t ever,” you choke. “ever do something like that for me again. i don’t want that. i don’t want THIS.”
silence crashes down between you. you’re breathing hard. he’s standing there, lost, bloodless, stupidly beautiful and devastatingly wrong.
and the moment it really sinks in to him, not just that you’re mad, but that you’re mad at him, something in felix… comes alive. not rage. not violence. not even the horniness he gets when you usually scold him.
panic.
his brain, normally empty, starts firing every fucking alarm at once.
“i didn’t mean—” he starts. “i was helping. i thought—”
“you didn’t think.” you snap. “that’s the problem. you never fucking think. and i can’t, felix, i can’t keep doing this if you’re going to…” you stop. swallow. “if you’re going to keep doing things like this, maybe we shouldn’t—maybe we shouldn’t be friends anymore.”
maybe we shouldn’t be friends anymore.
and then, felix’s little brain collapses.
he has a new emotion now.
fear.
“no.” he says immediately, too loud, and too confused by the new feeling inside of him. “no, no, no—”
he steps towards you, then almost immediately, he’s on his knees in front of you, hands grabbing at your wrists, clumsy, desperate.
“please.” he blurts, his deep voice shaky. “please don’t say that.”
“felix—“
“i didn’t know.” he says, pathetic. “i didn’t know it was wrong like that. i didn’t know it would hurt you. i thought i was doing good. i wanted to be good for you.”
his psychopathic little brain, normally so detached, so clean about violence, has no map for this.
killing? easy.
hiding bodies? fine.
loss? he’s never processed loss.
“i don’t want to lose you.” he sobs, so ugly and wet and real. “i don’t understand people but i understand you. you’re the only one. i’m sorry. i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry, please don’t go, please don’t hate me, i didn’t think, i didn’t know.”
he presses forward, forehead knocking into your hip, then his face buries between your legs, forehead against your crotch. not sexual. not even close. just pathetic. just terrified.
his arms wrap around you, clinging, fingers digging into your clothes.
“i love you.” he says, muffled, desperate. “i didn’t mean to say it like this but i love you. i didn’t know what it was before but this is it. this hurts and i hate it and i don’t want it to stop.”
“felix.” you whisper, shaken. “you’re scaring me.”
“i’m scared.” he sobs back. “i’m so fucking scared.”
this is wrong.
this is so wrong.
but he’s shaking. actually shaking.
“i didn’t want praise.” he muffles. “i didn’t want you to thank me. i just wanted you safe. i wanted to be the one who takes care of you.”
you feel his breath shaking against you as he clings to you. felix, the man who can dismember someone without blinking, is coming apart in your hands because the one thing his brain can’t categorize is you leaving.
“i’ll do better.” he rambles. “i’ll stop. i’ll ask first. i won’t protect you unless you tell me to. i’ll—fuck—i don’t know how to do this but I’ll learn. please. please don’t go. y/n, please.”
his mind is a mess right now. he never felt more upset in his entire life.
and slowly, against every good instinct, you lift your hands. they hover for a second, then sink into his hair.
he freezes the moment you touch him. then melts. a sound leaves his chest as he presses closer, clutching you.
you stroke his hair once. twice. comforting a killer.
he stays there for a long time. then, his voice is very small, brutal contest to his usual deep tone, barely a sound: “…do you forgive me?” his fingers tighten in your clothes. “please.” he adds immediately. “please, please, please. i didn’t mean it bad. i swear i didn’t. i thought i was doing something good for you. i won’t do that again. i won’t. i promise. i’ll try harder. i’ll think more. i’ll—”
“felix.” you whisper.
he goes silent instantly. looks up at you. eyes red. face blotchy. devastatingly beautiful.
you hate that this hurts you. you hate that you understand him. you hate that you know he didn’t do it out of cruelty toward you. he did it because his fucked up little brain latched onto protect and ran full speed into the worst possible conclusion.
you sigh again. deep. exhausted. “i forgive you.”
“oh my god.” he breathes, collapsing forward again, forehead pressed to your thighs again. “thank you. i was so scared. i thought i lost you. i thought i ruined everything. i’ll make it up to you. i don’t know how yet but i will. i can cook. i’ll ask about everything. i’ll ask if i can breathe if you want. do you want me to breathe?”
you huff a laugh. “yes. please breathe.”
“okay. good. i like breathing. i like you. i really like you. a lot. i think about you all the time. like constantly, it’s annoying actually. i always miss you. i think i love you, i don’t know if i’m saying it right but it feels big and scary and but i like you. do you like me? you can think about it. i thought about it for a long time. like, weeks.”
oh.
so he’s in love with you.
you really could’ve figured that out sooner.
you rest your hand on his head, thumb brushing gently through his hair.
and felix, serial killer, cannibal, idiot, angel, asshole, leans into your touch.
“alright.” you say quietly. “get up. you’re killing my legs.”
he scrambles to his feet too fast, bumps his knee on the coffee table, mutters “fuck” then just stands there awkwardly, waiting for instructions.
the rest of the night is… weirdly gentle. that might be the best word for it.
he makes tea. you sit on opposite ends of the couch at first. he keeps glancing at you every thirty seconds. he apologizes again. and again. and again. you tell him to stop apologizing or you’ll scream.
you stay until it’s late. until the adrenaline disappears and all that’s left is exhaustion and something heavy and complicated sitting in your chest.
from then on, you let him make it up to you. on your terms. he cooks for you once, then again, being very careful not to put human in it. he asks if he can sleep with you like he used to do before you found out about his secret. you said yes. he tries.
you still get mad sometimes, you still yell, and he still fucks up. but he listens. he’s just too dumb to be that much better.
he’s brainless and emotionless. well, mostly. he knows he feels love, for you at least. he also knows he felt fear once, when he thought he lost you.
he wants to bring you things. show you things. include you in his world. he wants to be chosen. he wants to be kept.
he wants to be good for you.
you know what he is, you know what he’s done, and you know what he could do. you are not naive. you are not romanticizing the horror. you’ve yelled at it. you’ve cried over it. you’ve confronted it and still wake up some nights feeling sick.
and yet, somewhere between screaming at him for shoving a body part into your face and watching him panic when you almost walked away, something in you softened.
he’s so sincere.
you’re at his place now. the tv is on, and jeongin is there too(unfortunately) lying on the floor with a bag of chips, chewing with his mouth open.
he coughs mid chew and spits chip dust directly into your ear.
“JESUS FUCK.” you scream, getting the chips off your face. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU.”
jeongin giggles. “sorry.”
felix glares at him. “you’re disgusting.”
“says the cannibal.” jeongin murmurs.
“get out.” you say.
jeongin laughs, grabs his jacket, and on his way out claps felix on the shoulder. then the door closes. silence.
you shift. “so.”
“so.” felix echoes, stiffening.
“you remember…” you start slowly. “the night you… you know. confessed.”
he nods so fast you’re afraid his neck might snap. “yeah. i think about it a lot.“
“i want to talk about it.” you say.
“oh.” he says softly. “okay. i can do that.”
he cannot. but he’s trying.
you take a breath. “you said you love me.”
“yes.”
“and i didn’t… really say anything back.”
“that’s okay.” he says quickly. “you don’t have to. i mean, i’d like it, but i don’t need it.’
“i’ve been thinking.” you continue. “about us. about what this is. about whether this is… something.”
his foot starts bouncing.
“i don’t want to pretend nothing’s happening.” you say. “and i don’t want to lie to you.”
his voice comes out small. “do you not like me?”
you sigh. “i really shouldn’t.”
his face falls.
“but i do.” you say.
his head snaps up.
“i like you.” you say. “i like you enough that i’m willing to give this a chance.”
he stares at you. “a chance.”
you nod, watching him. “but this doesn’t mean i excuse what you’ve done.”
“okay.” he says.
“and if you ever, ever, do something like that again because of me—”
“i won’t.” he says immediately.
you exhale. “okay.”
“okay.” he smiles.
god, he’s cute. and a fucking serial killer let’s not forget that!! but you scoot closer to him anyway.
he looks at you with big eyes. you can practically hear his thoughts.
KISS?
KISS NOW?
DON’T MOVE.
MOVE??
he’s staring at your mouth.
you raise an eyebrow. “you good?”
he nods too hard. “yeah. totally. i’m normal.”
“you’re not. what’s up?”
he swallows. “i really want to kiss you.”
honest as always.
“…okay.” you say, heart beating faster. then you pause, squinting at him. “did you brush your teeth. like, if you did some cannibal shit recently—“
“i didn’t. i didn’t do anything today.”
you exhale. “good.“ so you reach up and cup his pretty face. “i’m not kissing some cannibal mouth bacteria bullshit.”
he nods, eyes about to pop out of his head.
you smile before leaning in. your lips meet his. zero pressure, genuinely just soft mouth touching at first. so you deepen it just a little.
that’s when felix’s little animal side gets activated. he makes this low sound in his throat and kisses you back with everything, too much pressure, too much need.
and then, he bites.
not playful. not gentle. he bites hard on your bottom lip, breaking the skin. you gasp against his mouth.
“fuck—” he starts to pull back, but you don’t let him. your hands tighten on his face. you press your lips back to his.
he shudders, so you pull back just enough to look at him.
“i’m sorry.” he breathes. “i—sometimes i—”
“i know.” you say quietly.
you kiss him again, gentle, and he follows your lead, clumsy and eager and still a total psycho, but trying so hard it almost hurts to watch.
his mouth drifts back to the place he broke your skin, and when his lips press there again, he acts on instinct.
he seals his mouth over it and draws in.
he sucks your blood out of your mouth.
intimate. more intimate that kissing or having sex would ever be.
his hands come up without you noticing, holding onto your waist, letting quiet little moans out as he feeds on you. his shoulders relax.
you run your fingers through his hair, slightly uncomfy at the pain in your mouth, but even more turned on.
you really might be into this cannibal shit after all.
god. you can hear him swallow. suck. slurp and breathe and moan and it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt.
eventually, he stills. he doesn’t pull away right away, just keeps his mouth sealed over your bottom lip. when he finally lifts his head, there’s a faint smear of red at his mouth and a look in his eyes that’s almost shy.
you smile at him and lift your thumb to wipe the blood from his mouth, gentle. he’s still while you do it, watching you. he’s going to remember this forever.
“there.” you say. “all clean.”
god. this dumbass.
eventually, the intensity drains out of the room. your breathing evens, and you both lean back into the couch, close, touching.
“…so.” he says carefully after a while. “was that… good?”
you glance at him, this beautiful, brainless, dangerous man. “yeah. it was.”
he laughs, a little giddy sound. “that’s good. i feel… kind of floaty.”
“yeah?” you say. “that’s feeling. congrats.”
“oh.”
“you’ll survive.”
you never thought you’d ever get here. kissing a cannibal. being with him, touching him, loving him. “never thought i’d be here.” you decide to say it out loud even.
“me neither.” he agrees. “i thought i’d die alone or something.”
“jesus, felix.”
“what?” he asks, genuinely confused. “statistically, it seemed likely.”
oh, felix.
so somehow, some fucking how, felix gets a girlfriend. felix gets you. you’re his girlfriend.
this is insane on multiple points. one: he’s a red flag with the emotional range of a toaster. two: he eats people. three: he once tried to put the milk in the cabinet and the cereal in the fridge.
but you like him anyway. you know he’s wrong, he’s a bad person, but you accepted that you like him. no point denying it now, knowing that he’s still a psychopath. still fundamentally wrong. still missing entire emotional operating systems most people are born with.
but now there’s you, and you’re a new feeling. not happiness. not guilt. not empathy. those are still mostly… abstract concepts. he understands them academically, not actually. what he feels for you is closer to attachment with chemistry. you are the thing his brain checks for first in any situation.
hungry? where’s y/n.
confused? ask y/n.
covered in blood? don’t touch y/n.
you hang out at his place a lot because it’s nicer than yours and he keeps accidentally buying expensive furniture because he doesn’t understand money.
he also follows you around. not in a creepy way, he just can’t get off your dick. if you leave the room, he gets confused and has to locate you again.
you be brushing your teeth and suddenly hear “hey” from the doorway.
“what.”
“i just wanted to see what you were doing.”
“felix, i’m brushing my teeth.”
“oh.” he pauses. “can i stay?”
“sure.”
he just… stands there. watching. smiling. brain completely empty.
dates are… one of a kind. one of a kinds? ones of a kind? oh i’ll stfu you know what i mean. he’ll take you out to eat and then stare at the menu, brutally offended.
“they don’t have what i like.”
“felix.” you hiss. “this is an italian restaurant.”
“yeah but—”
“no.”
he ends up ordering pasta and eating three bites before pushing the plate away and letting you eat it. you kick him under the table.
at home, he offers you food constantly. but… not normal food.
he’ll open the fridge, look inside, and go “do you want some?”
you already know it’s not chicken. “no.”
“it’s very fresh.”
“absolutely the fuck not.”
he looks genuinely puzzled. “i don’t get why you don’t like sharing.”
“i like sharing. i don’t like felonies.”
over time, he learns. slowly. painfully. he starts keeping normal food stocked for you like he did before for jeongin.
oh yeah, jeongin. he is always there.he sprawls across furniture and puts his feet on everything. one time he straight up shoves his bare foot into your face while you’re sitting on the floor.
“DUDE.” you yell.
he scratches his stomach. “relax.”
despite this, you like him. against your will. he’s annoying but loyal. the kind of guy who would help you move a body without questions and then complain about his back the whole time.
the most boyish boy to ever boy.
he calls you “boss” and he respects you, in his own disgusting way.
felix is still brainless tho. this is important. he walks into poles. trips over rugs. forgets where he put his phone while holding it. he survives entirely on luck and good looks.
but you like his laugh. his dumb smile. the way he lights up when you choose him. the way he looks at you. you accept him, not blindly, not stupidly, but consciously.
cannibal. psychopath. himbo. boyfriend.
god. what a sentence.
oh, i forgot, he’s also hot. stupidly, offensively hot.
like for an example, in the morning. he sleeps like he’s never committed a single crime in his life. sprawled, mouth slightly open, hair a mess. sometimes he snores a little and then jolts awake. sometimes he curls into you without waking up, face tucked into your neck.
you wake up first a lot just to stare at him. and it’s infuriating. because how does someone who eats people look like that. how does a man with blood on his hands look so soft when he sleeps. how is this fair to you.
he wakes up eventually, blinking, confused, immediately smiling when he sees you.
“hi.” he says, voice deep, omfg that’s hot, stupidly pretty.
“hi.” you mumble.
he kisses you in the mornings. gentle. warm. not trying to take, just happy you’re there. then he immediately asks if you’re hungry and offers to make breakfast like he didn’t once try to serve you organs.
flowers show up randomly. just because. he’ll show up at your door holding them awkwardly, crushing half the petals because he doesn’t know how to hold things delicately.
and when you let him hit, when you let him cross that line, when you decide, consciously, with eyes wide open, okay, i trust you, he’s… surprisingly good. i mean, you lead mostly, but he’s not an awkward fuck like you expected him to be.
okay, you just brought him home after a day out. it’s not even that late, and that’s good, because he’s still energetic. so are you. which is even better. better, because after you two take your shoes off and you’re walking in the hall, stopping to lean in and kiss him, his kiss back is energetic.
he’s obviously so down for anything now.
and god, you’ve been thinking about taking it further with him for a while now. you feel like you’re ready. so is he. and you really, really, want him.
you pull away from the kiss, smiling up at felix. god, he’s pretty. so pretty. you push your bedroom’s door open, already throwing your sweater over your head as you walk in. when you’re done with that, felix gives you a little kiss again.
and again. and again. and again. all until it’s tongue, biting, and his teeth around your tongue.
“y/n.” he growls, quiet.
your stomach flips at the pure emotion in his voice, which is rare from him, and you lightly push him onto the bed. he falls down easily, mostly because he wants to, not because you used any force. you stand between his legs, leaning down to kiss him again.
his hands slide under your shirt. it’s not sexual, yet, he does lots. he always likes max contact.
his fingers are warm against your skin, and he groans softly as you bite at his lower lip softly. he likes it when you do that.
he pulls back just enough to smirk up at you, his hair a wild mess, his lips swollen. "you’re bossing me around." he giggles, sheepish.
let’s consider that this is his first time being in a relationship btw.
“damn right i am." you say, climbing onto his lap, straddling. “gonna complain?"
"no." his hands slide down to your thighs, squeezing, so so so eager, looking at you with a dazed, hungry expression. not the cannibal hungry though. the horny hungry.
it’s not like it’s you two’s first time being this close, he’s always been big on being close to you, even back when you two were friends and you didn’t know what he was yet. remember when i talked about him sleeping next to you, shirt and underwear only? yeah that tells what we need to know.
his lips come to yours again, his hands gripping you tighter.
god, he can’t get enough, he never can.
neither can you tbh.
his hands slide under your shirt, pushing it up slowly, his fingertips brushing against your bare skin. he’s so hungry, his breathing rough, shaky. your shirt is off in a second, tossed somewhere behind you. his hands smooth up your sides, warm, sweet, taken aback, his eyes flicking over your bra pushing your tits up.
you lean down again, kissing him hard, fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt. he sits up just enough to help you pull it over his head, leaving his chest bare beneath you.
your lips find his little neck, so biteable, trailing down to his collarbone, kissing and biting sweetly as your hands roam over his chest. his breath hitches when you nip at his skin, and his hands grip your hips tighter, new to this. excited.
“mm.” he moans. “can— can i—“
“you can do anything, felix.”
oh. okay. that’s nice to hear.
his hands slide to the waistband of your cute little pants. you giggle softly as he pushes it down.
your hands are already at his belt, fumbling with the buckle. he lets out a shaky laugh against your mouth, but his words interrupt you real soon. well, more like pathetic little sounds trying to get your attention.
“i—eeuuee— y/n—“
you stop. look at him. “spit it out.”
“condom.”
“oh. yeah.” you sit back. “i should’ve thought about that—“
“no! i mean i have one. more, actually. but it’s in my bag.”
in his bag, which is in the living room.
you sigh. “…hurry.”
okay. okay so now this is happening. this is happening to him. omfg he’s so happy. that comes to the surface in him giggling as you slip down from his lap, onto the sheets. he stands up, pulling his pants down real quick to adjust his boner, and he quickly walks out of the room, smiling to himself and what the fuck not.
you sit there, thinking.
hm.
you’re going to fuck a serial killer. hot take, morally wrong one too, but you kinda feel like this is an achievement.
when he comes back, his condoms in his hand now, he barely makes it to the bed, your hands are already at his belt, undoing it.
felix just manages to sit down and you’re already sitting on his legs again. he leans back on his elbows, breath hitching as you go for the button of his jeans next.
"shit." he mutters, his head falling back against the mattress for a second, pretty little jaw clenched, then he looks back at you again.
he can’t take his eyes off you. he watches you reach behind yourself, unclasping your bra, letting it slide down your arms and tossing it somewhere off the bed.
he freezes. not because oh my god boobs. he’s dumb as a rock but not at the brain level where he appreciates boobs because he saw it in porn. he appreciates your boobs because one: they’re pretty. two: they’re on you. three: you just showed them to him which equals trust. four: it is natural to appreciate them btw, it’s instinctive to like breasts. everyone likes breasts.
"wow." he mutters, fucking dork(ruthless killer), his voice thick, his lips parting slightly. his hands reach for you, sliding his hands up, cupping both of your breasts. oh. this is fun.
you lean down to kiss him again, your hips shifting against his, grinding, taking the lead because jeongin’s right and you’re the fucking boss, making him groan into your mouth. i mean felix. felix groans, not jeongin. and it’s felix’s hands that stay on you, squeezing, kneading, unable to get enough.
you laugh softly, feeling how hard he is, savoring the taste of his mouth. only hoping that there are no human remains in his teeth.
anyways.
he pulls back slightly, moaning a little with it, looking down his body to see your hands on his jeans better. he watches you tug them down his hips, and he shifts to help you, his pretty little breath letting another pretty little moan pass as you tug on his underwear too.
ooh. okay. you can work with that. he’s not like, big or anything, you could say an average maybe? cute balls tho. you don’t mind the lil bush of pubes he has, he most likely didn’t expect to get some tonight. but let’s be fr you’d like him even if he had a vag.
felix has tried sex before, as an attempt to feel something. well, he never really wanted to feel something, but worth a try, right? it didn’t work. sure, it felt good, but so does his hand. he also thought about having sex then killing the person he’s having sex with, but that was just wasting his time.
he simply didn’t need it in his life, that’s it. but someone random seeing him naked and you watching his cock spring free? two different things. because for you, he feels.
he’s not nervous though, if that’s what you’re thinking about. bodies are bodies. felix is fine with that, but he knows it means a lot more to people who aren’t as fucked up as he is. so it might mean something to you to have this first time with him. and from the moment it means something to you, it also means something to him.
you mean something to him.
you don’t touch him yet, just lean down to kiss him again, your fingers wrapping around his wrist to guide the condom out of his hand. his little chest heaves beneath you as you tear the wrapper open.
his hands slide over your waist, holding you as you roll the condom on for him. his lips are everywhere, your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone, like he can’t get enough of your skin under his mouth. crazy, considering he’s a cannibal.
but there’s no awkwardness, no pause to think about what comes next. he knows bodies. you’re confident with bodies. it goes natural, if that’s the right word.
he’s touching you. your hips. thighs. grips on your ass, then his hand goes up to your tits.
wow. it is a lot more different when you’re having sex with someone that you’re in love with. felix thought that was bullshit until now. but now he gets it, watching you shift on your knees so you’re aligned with his by now aching cock, sliding your pretty little fingers into your underwear to push it down.
you shaved. which means you expected something to happen.
and it sure does, the moment after you manage to fight your underwear down(having to lift you legs to do allat ofc, annoying), listening to his needy little “uuhh— hhhh”s, basically begging to be fucked by you already, you grab his cock and line it up to yourself.
god. this is really happening. that’s his thought chain though, you’re pretty chill about this. felix is just excited. you can feel that too.
you sit down on him softly, patient, registering the stretch, settling into place, and ohohohooo finally.
yeah, he feels good. hands gripping your hips, his fingers digging into your skin as the pleasure shoots up his slutty little spine.
"mmm." his voice is low. his head tilts back against the headboard, his eyes half lidded, dark and focused only on you as you pick a gentle pace up. "you feel so good.”
you can barely focus on his words. it’s overwhelming, is what it is. the pure emotion and wrongness you feel in this that hits so good. his warmth, his hands guiding your movements, the way his body desperately tries to come closer to yours, and you can’t even help the breathless laugh that escapes you.
it’s silly. the way he keeps muttering things, half curses, half praise under his breath. the way your rhythm falters because you’re trying not to laugh at the wild look on his face. the way he grabs at the sheets, holding on for dear fucking life.
“holy shit.” he whines. “keep going, don't stop."
you couldn't stop even if you wanted to. the feeling is too addictive, the way you move together too perfect, his length in and out of you as you move. every movement, every whispered word, every shared breath.
just you and this pathetic slut under you against the world.
it’s not graceful, not in the slightest, but it is everything you didn't realize you'd been craving. not pornographic but real and so so so erotic.
all because you decided to give the lil cannibal man a chance. look at what that lead to. passionate sex with him. and it’s gooood.
you look at him, his flushed face, his messy hair, the way his lips part, the way he moans and moans and moans then groans when you grip his shoulders, nails biting into them.
his head falls back again, exposing the line of his jaw, his throat bobbing as he swallows and gives his little “huuuh— eugh—“ sounds, the pale skin of his neck as hypnotizing as the curve of a woman’s breast.
"fuuuck, y/n." he whines, so so so pathetic, eyes locked on you. that gaze, the pure animal in his gaze, the one that eats humans, sends shivers down your spine. "y/n, you— uuuhh." his words cut off with a sharp inhale, his fingers gripping tighter as his body jerks slightly beneath you as you ride him.
he’s totally arching.
you’re not much better. that sooo familiar and sooooo good warmth is building in you, your muscles, and it spreads through your body with every roll of your hips that he’s so hypnotized by. your boobs have the same effect on him, bouncing and all in his face.
god, he’s so happy. you can feel his heartbeat through your thighs.
the sounds he makes, the desperate grunts, moans, the way he hisses through his teeth when you shift just right, are sending you spiraling. your head falls back, eyes closing for a moment as you let yourself accept the fact that you’re fucking your serial killer boyfriend and he’s flawless, soft moans starting to spill from your lips when his hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck.
you meet his eyes again at that, and the sheer intensity in them steals what little breath you had left.
he looks fucked, his pupils blown wide, sweat gathering at his temple, hair falling messily across his forehead.
you lean in slightly, your hands sliding up to cup his face. “you feel so good." you whisper, barely audible over the sounds of his moans, where you two meet getting sloppy, the creak of the bed, the breaths filling the room.
"yeah?" his lips form into the sweetest smile ever before his hands slide on your hips again, forcing you to move just a little harder, a little faster. it’s instinctive.
you gasp, your body arching into his as the friction hits just right, the growing tension in your core pressing more and more. "oh my god." you moan, your voice trembling.
"fuck, y/n, keep going." felix groans, his voice breaking on the last word. his body taut beneath you, his muscles flexing as he moves with you, every part of him focused only on you. only on the beautiful girlfriend of his that loves him the way he is.
it’s so erotic. he gets louder, moans pornographic, now you don’t hold back yours either. the rhythm grows erratic, frantic, neither of you able to hold back as it builds. as it builds together.
every touch, every sound, every shared breath pushes you closer until finally, with a loud squeak, your hips twitch. god, been a while since a man gave you an orgasm. well, technically you just gave yourself one on your man, but let’s not get specific now. we have better shit to focus on.
your head falls forward against his shoulder, your body trembling, hips still twitching to keep going, but he takes over for himself now, leaving you lightheaded and boneless.
few more thrusts, loud moans into your ear, it doesn’t take long for his body to jerk beneath you, his body going still. his head falls forward, his forehead pressing against your shoulder as he tries to catch his breath while he cums inside the condom.
you two stay like that for a while until you decide to move. it’s always you. if it was up to felix, you two would never fucking get anywhere.
so yeah. that’s about how your first time went with him. it was nice. god, not just nice, it was brutally good, though i got lazy w the writing.
but then there are days that remind you exactly who the fuck you’re dating.
you come over unannounced once, key in hand, because you’re excited and you miss him and you just wanted to see his stupid face.
you open the door, and he’s standing there. drenched. head to toe in blood. his hair is dark with it, face smeared, shirt soaked, sleeves rolled up. he turns toward you, eyes lighting up instantly.
“hey!” he says, smiling. “you’re early!”
you freeze.
the smell hits you second.
“…felix.” you say slowly.
he steps toward you and you instinctively step back.
“what?” he asks, genuinely confused. “what’s wrong?”
you look past him. there is absolutely, undeniably, a dead body behind him. stomach absolutely ripped open.
“what the fuck.” you whisper.
he glances over his shoulder. “oh. yeah.” he looks back at you and steps closer again, eyes searching your face. “are you mad?”
“i’m—” you sigh and stare at him, voice cracking with sheer disbelief. “ugh.”
you care. that’s the problem. you care even when you shouldn’t. even when there’s a corpse ten feet away and your boyfriend looks like he just got stabbed a hundred times but he’s so happy to see you.
he nods immediately. “okay.” then he hesitates. “can i kiss you first?”
“NO.”
“okay.” he says again, obedient, and goes toward the bathroom, leaving bloody footprints behind.
you stand there, staring at the scene, feeling gross and overwhelmed and stupidly still in love.
he also bites. i mean what did we expect, honestly. cannibal boyfriend, teeth fixation, predator brain with zero impulse control and one(1) person he’s obsessed with.
but still. the first time he bites you outside of sex, it catches you off guard.
not hard. not breaking skin. a quick press of teeth against your shoulder when you’re half asleep, or your wrist when you’re laughing at something stupid he said.
“felix.” you warn once.
he freezes immediately. eyes wide. “sorry. was that bad?”
“…no.” you sigh. “just… warn me, jesus.”
his face softens, relieved, and he nods. “okay. i can do warnings.”
he does not do warnings.
but god, like everything with him, there’s not much intention nor thought behind it. no predator lens sliding into place. he just… gets comfortable. that’s it. that’s the whole psychology. like a cat kneading a blanket or a toddler chewing on plastic toys and whatever else you can think of i ran out of ideas. he’ll be lying next to you, head on your stomach, scrolling on his phone with that blank, elevator music expression, and then suddenly chomp.
he gets sleepy? bite. he gets bored? bite. he gets affectionate and doesn’t know where to put it? bite. he’s slamming into you watching your eyes roll back and listening to you cry and scream in pleasure? bite. he doesn’t even think about it. there’s no visible decision making process. (like there ever is) his brain is empty. wind whistling through. one lonely marble rolling around.
and then he’s chewing on you. sometimes it’s your shoulder. sometimes your arm. sometimes your thigh.
he drools. constantly. his mouth forgets how to seal properly when he’s content. you’ll be sitting there, minding your own business, and suddenly your sleeve is wet. your neck is wet. your fingers are soaked.
you look down and he’s chewing on you. eyes half lidded. breathing slow. he chews on your fingers. he likes those. thumb in his mouth, sucking on it, or rolling the other ones around his teeth carefully. he likes the texture. the way you’re warm. the way you move slightly and he has to adjust his bite.
you will look down and your skin is just… soaked. glistening.
there’s something so absurdly innocent about it that you can’t even be properly mad. he’s not weird about it, he just rests his teeth there and gently gnaws. sometimes he hums. sometimes he sighs. once he straight up fell asleep mid bite and you had to pry his jaw off your shoulder because he locked up.
as i said, he loves your fingers the most. you’ll be sitting on the couch, hand resting absentmindedly near his face, and he’ll just… take one. gently.
you’ll glare down at him and he’ll blink up at you, cheeks slightly puffed because your finger is still between his teeth, looking confused about why you’re staring.
you’re constantly damp because of this. your sleeves? drool. your collarbones? drool. your fucking knuckles? drool.
he chews on your fingers while you talk. while you watch tv. while you complain about your day. sometimes you’ll be mid sentence and have to pause because he’s fully gnawing on you like a teething toddler.
“felix.”
muffled, around your finger: “mm?”
“i need that hand.”
he releases it instantly. “sorry.”
two minutes later, he’s chewing on the other one.
the worst (best) is when he goes for your throat. not the side. not the sensual soft little kisses. he goes for the center. like a predator biting it’s prey’s neck, mouth opened wide, his teeth on you.
and from a cannibal, it’s fucking insane. it sends a weird shiver down your spine every single time.
you should be more concerned. this man has eaten people. and he’s gently chewing on the most vulnerable part of your body. it’s brutally intimate.
he does it because he’s comfortable. because he trusts you. you’ve noticed he does it more when he’s tired. when he’s overwhelmed. he’ll crawl into your lap, bury his face in your neck, and just… clamp down lightly. he also bites the side of your neck of course, not only the center. the center is in more intimate moments, not just a simple cuddle.
he sometimes makes little satisfied noises while doing it. quiet. content.
once he forgot what he was doing entirely and just stood there, mouth latched onto your collarbone, eyes unfocused. he survives life purely because the universe finds him funny.
he could hurt you. easily. but he doesn’t. he bites and stops. chews and never breaks. presses his teeth into your throat and chooses restraint every single time. not like it even ever came up in his head to hurt you.
you smell like him constantly. saliva. skin. that faint, clean scent of his soap and cologne and blood. you go home sticky. damp. occasionally with faint tooth marks that look suspicious and are impossible to explain.
you stop trying.
this man does not know how to hold hands normally. he does not know how to cuddle without somehow tangling himself into knots. he does not know how to sit still.
but his mouth knows you.
his teeth know exactly how much pressure is okay. his jaw knows when to stop. his body knows where you are even when his brain is doing absolutely fuck all.
so naturally, you began to love his mouth. lots. you love it when it’s on you, biting, sucking, kissing(and biting into the kiss), eating you out, chewing on your hair, whatnot.
also because outside of the cannibalism, he’s an angel. genuinely.
he also knows your body. not sexually, though yeah, that too but that’s not what we’re talking bout now, but physically. biologically. instinctively. he’ll touch your jaw sometimes, thumb tracing along it, fingers following the line of your teeth through your skin. it’s weird, yeah, but that’s his little way of showing affection.
he notices when you’re sick before you do. the way you’re warmer than usual. the way your breathing changes. he presses his mouth to your temple or neck and frowns. “you don’t feel right.”
“i’m fine.”
“no.” he says, serious. “you’re wrong.”
two hours later you’re miserable.
it’s all instinct. animal. unfiltered. because he’s still dumb as fuck. like, aggressively dumb. he will forget appointments. lose his keys while holding them. try to microwave something with the foil still on. you once caught him staring at the washing machine like it was doing witchcraft.
but when it comes to you? laser focused. it’s not intelligence. it’s not emotional maturity. it’s just his body choosing you. and yeah, sometimes that bleeds through in unsettling ways. the way his hand lingers at your throat when he’s thinking. the way his nose brushes your skin like he’s smelling you. the way he bites just a little too eagerly when he’s overwhelmed.
and you still feel safe. you feel so safe. even if you do sometimes have to smack his forehead and say “use your fucking brain, felix.”
“you know,” you tell him once, watching him mouth absently at your hand. “most people express affection with words.”
he pauses, releases you. “oh.” then he thinks about it for a long second. “…do you want me to say something?”
“no.” you say. “i just wanted you to know.”
he nods, satisfied, and goes right back to chewing on your knuckle.
he’s also way more open about sex than you expected. you expected to be the one who initiates sex in this relationship all the time, but no, he initiates too. lots of times, actually. felix really, really wants you.
he also likes period sex. i mean what did we expect. sex and blood and you combined? sign him in!!
he needed to get the hang of eating you out at first, but after he learned how, he grew quite eager to do it again and again and again and i won’t keep going on with the agains but you get my point. but when he found out it can be done while you’re having your period? ohohoho.
now at least once a month he has his arms hooked beneath your legs to keep you open. face buried in you, letting himself get messy, nose pressed into you and bumping your clit sometimes, mouth and nose and chin red with you, slick, tongue working so hard the wet sound of it echoes through the walls. now combine that with the image of your hand tangled in his hair, shoving him closer, his tongue dragging deeper, harder. he’s swallowing, lapping, slurping and what the fuck not. he’s moaning into it.
when you two tried it first time, you thought you’d recoil eventually. you ended up moaning louder than you ever had before.
so felix is really, really open with you now. and unfortunately he’s also open with jeongin. i mean he doesn’t eat jeongin out, jesus, he’s open with the guy in a friendly way.
one time you’re sitting at felix’s kitchen island with jeongin, mid argument about whether cereal is technically soup (jeontin says yes confidently), and felix suddenly pauses. just stops talking. his eyes unfocus. his tongue moves around in his mouth.
you narrow your eyes. “what.”
he doesn’t answer. he reaches in with two fingers.
jeongin recoils immediately. “bro. bro don’t.”
and then, felix pulls something out. a hair. a long one. he holds it up between his fingers, examining it.
you and jeongin both lean back in horror.
“EW.” you scream.
“EEEW.” jeongin repeats louder, gagging. “that was in your TEETH?”
felix squints at it. “yeah.”
“FROM WHEN?!” you scream.
he shrugs. “i don’t know. earlier?”
“earlier WHEN?” jeongin yells.
felix thinks about it. you can see the gears turning. slowly. painfully. like someone pushing a rock uphill. “…yesterday?”
you slap a hand over your mouth.
felix looks confused. “it’s just hair.”
“from you eating someone, man.” jeongin covers his little eyes.
felix glances at you. “it might be yours.”
“i… don’t think that’s mine.” you whisper.
he drops it in the trash like this is completely normal behavior and goes back to the cereal debate.
you stare at him.
this is your boyfriend.
cannibal habits bleed through in the weirdest ways. sometimes he chews too thoughtfully when he’s thinking. sometimes he’ll sniff something before eating it and you’ll have to physically lower his hand. once, at the grocery store, he stared at the butcher section too long and the butcher stared back and you had to drag him away by the sleeve while he went “i was just curious.” curious about WHAT sweetheart.
and yet somehow he is also deeply, embarrassingly into it when you’re mean to him.
you’re not abusive, jeez, just calling him out. flicking his forehead. lightly smacking his arm when he says something stupid.
he eats it up.
one night he’s chewing gently on your hand and you mutter “you’re actually insufferable.”
he closes his eyes, already basically humping your leg. yeah btw he also likes humping you.
one night you’re cooking at his place. he’s hovering, as usual, because he refuses to be in a different room than you for longer than thirty seconds.
you tell him to back up. he doesn’t. you elbow him lightly in the ribs.
then you slip, and cut your finger a little. a thin red line opening against your skin. you hiss under your breath.
his eyes drop to your hand.
your blood whispers his name.
he steps in close. too close. his hand wraps gently around your wrist, leaning down.
and he latches onto your finger. tongue warm against the cut, and he closes his eyes.
you inhale sharply.
he doesn’t suck hard, doesn’t bite now, his breathing slows as he tastes you, and there’s that calm again, the same one from when he bites your throat gently, when he chews on your fingers absentmindedly. but deeper. darker.
when he finally pulls back, there’s a faint smear of red on his lip. he just looks at you. big, big eyes.
later, in bed, he’s extra affectionate. arms wrapped around you tight. face buried against your chest, sucking on the skin.
and apparently, if you let him drink enough of your blood, he gets blood drunk.
you nick your finger while cooking. again. not bad. barely anything. normally you’d sigh, grab a bandage, move on. but this time you look at felix. he’s already looking at your finger. locked in. pupils blown.
and instead of doing the responsible thing, you sigh and go “c’mere.”, shoving your finger toward his face.
he takes your finger into his mouth gently at first. careful. respectful. then he starts drinking. lips around your finger, tongue warm and slow, pulling gently.
and you’re standing there thinking, okay, this is fine, this is manageable… until you realize he’s not stopping.
he makes this low, stupid sound in his throat, half hum, half sigh, and his eyes flutter shut.
“felix— sweetie— don’t… nevermind.” you mutter, feeling him start licking now.
soon there’s saliva everywhere, chin wet, completely unbothered. blissed the fuck out. you’re just standing there, his saliva dripping down your hand.
after a minute, which is already too long, you pull your finger back.
he follows it. like. physically. leans forward, still trying to keep his mouth on you, eyes half lidded and unfocused.
“okay.” you say. “that’s enough. you’re done.”
he blinks up at you slowly. smiles. soft. stupid. drunk on blood and affection.
then he’s licking your hand. your wrist. slow, sloppy, unfocused licks.
you try to pull your hand back and he follows it, forehead bumping into your arm.
pffft.
now he’s glued to you.
you sit down on the couch to deal with your finger, bandage, finally, jesus christ, and he immediately collapses into you. head in your lap. arms wrapped around your waist. face pressed into your stomach. drool resumes.
he nuzzles closer, nose brushing your skin, and then starts licking again. slow. lazy.
you sit there, one hand absently in his hair.
later that night, he goes down on you. lazy, adoring, worshipful. grateful, every lick a thank you. and when you look down at him, he looks so stupidly happy you almost laugh. absolutely glowing.
so yeah.
you have a cannibal boyfriend who gets turned on when you hurt him. you have jeongin too, sometimes, the most boyish fuck alive, who treats every room like a locker room and every surface like a footrest.
felix comes home drenched in blood sometimes. head to toe. he’ll stand in the doorway, blinking, clearly exhausted.
you don’t scream anymore. you sigh. “bathroom.”
he nods, immediately compliant, leaving bloody footprints on the floor that you’ll complain about later while cleaning them up together. he apologizes the whole time. trips once. almost faceplants into the tub. survives on luck alone.
he is still so dumb.
but he tries. he tries in ways that matter.
jeongin is still there, unfortunately. he shows up unannounced. eats your food. sweats. but he’s loyal. he’s protective in his own dumb way. he’d die for you tbh. and he also can’t believe how felix pulled you.
sincerely is the answer.
that’s how felix got you wrapped around his blood soaked little finger.
he could take. he doesn’t. that’s all needed to say.
you love him even when he’s a mess. especially when he’s a mess. you love him when he’s stupid, when he’s sticky with drool, when he’s smiling like a fool because you told him he’s gross. you love him when he curls into you at night.
you love him even when you shouldn’t.
especially when you shouldn’t.
you’ve got your cannibal boyfriend. your himbo with blood under his nails and affection in his bones. your annoying third wheel friend who insults felix to his face but stands up for him when he’s not around.
and god.
you love it so so so much.
even when he comes home covered in blood and actual human parts on him.
even when you’re soaked in drool.
even when you wake up some days with a cannibal chewing on your finger. some nights with blood in the shower drain and jeongin passed out on the couch, snoring with one shoe on. sometimes you’re yelling. sometimes you’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe. sometimes both at once.
and in a world that makes zero sense anyway, you somehow ended up loved by someone who doesn’t even understand feelings but chose you as his favorite one.
or... three times in which chan tried to win you over, failing miserably, and the one time he did.
pairing. bangchan x reader, non idol au
author's notes. hi babess, just a short oneshot while i get finished on my other fics. love u xx
warnings. none (maybe chan acting a bit like a stalker but he's just madly in love). also, totally self inserted myself as han's girlfriend. a girl can only dream.
I - TULIPS AND VYNILS
chan rarely doubted his mental capacities: in fact, he considered himself to be pretty smart at times, especially when it came to helping his friends out. overall, he wasn't stupid at all. maybe sometimes he had a bed tendency to neglect his own needs in favors of others', but that could hardly be considered being stupid.
'you're an idiot'
'shut. up.'
han rolled his eyes so hard that he'd surely made a new record in the discipline.
'who told you this was a good idea?' he asked, one brow raised and a skeptical expression on his face.
'felix' answered chan, eyes glued to the car window. he surely looked like a stalker, on the outside.
'oh, so now you're trusting felix about girl matters? you could've asked me!' han was shocked.
'what's wrong with felix?' chan muttered, resisting the urge to mess his hair up some more.
'are you fucking with me?' said han.
'last time he went out with a girl, he gave her the exact kind of flowers she was allergic to' he explained, checking his hair in the camera app.
'he didn't do it on purpose' chan excused his poor friend. they all remembered the story: felix misentrepreted a conversation he had with this girl he had a crush on, and brought her tulips. which she was tragically allergic to.
she dumped him.
he felt like shit for a week.
'hey, he's got a girl now, right? so it's clear that he knows what to do' chan was still looking out the window, checking the passersby that were walking by your office building.
'yeah, and guess what? i have a girlfriend too!' replied han. 'and i didn't need to poison charlotte or give her lethal flowers to win her over' he scoffed, crossing his arms.
'shhh! there she is!' chan shrieked.
he spotted you walking out of the office, and his heart suddenly skipped a few beats.
'do i look okay?' he asked, frantically checking his reflection.
'mhmh, you look like the next prince charming of our generation. careful not to blind her' han joked.
'you're a terrible friend. i should have brought minho' chan grumbled under his breath, and then stepped out of the car. as he crossed the street, steps quick and sure, he tried to collect his best-looking appearance while holding in his hands some lilacs he personally hand-picked earlier. he also brought with him a vynil he went crazy looking for: he knew you liked the artis a lot, and wanted to surprise you.
'y/n!'
you turned around in the street, one hand flying up to remove your airpod. your expression was confused, for a second: when you spotted chan, it quickly turned into annoyance.
'chan' you stated. no inflexion in your voice, nothing at all.
'i- uhm- you-' chan's brain didn't want to cooperate that day, making him look a total idiot. he took a deep breath in, and tried once more.
'you look beautiful today' he said.
you narrowed your eyes.
'what do you want, chan?' you asked, untouched by his compliment.
'i brought you this' he said, handling you the lilacs and the vynil. 'you look really beautiful' he repeated again.
you tilted your head, taking in his gifts.
then, a faint smile appeared on your lips.
'these are wonderful' you said.
he smiled, hope raising in his chest.
'but i'm not going on a date with you'.
the hope vanished.
he groaned.
'please?' he asked.
you shook your head no. then, you took the gifts he was handing you, and disappeared into the crowd.
han, still in the car, was closely following the scene. he sank further into the seat upon registering the refusal, half sad for his friend, half laughing.
chan got in the car, and, unsurprisingly enough, his expression was anything but resignated. in fact, he looked even more motivated.
'this is not over yet' he said, starting the car and driving away.
'god help us' muttered han.
II - MY MAN ON MY WILLPOWER
'okay, so. let's see if i got this right' changbin said, dropping onto the couch and laying back.
'you're going to substitute yourself with her uber driver for tonight and then ask her on a date' he concluded, eyes narrowing.
chan nodded, eagerly.
'you know this is like, a stalker's mentality?' i.n asked from his corner. he was perched up on a stool in chan's kitchen, mindlessly scrolling on his phone, but keeping his ears on the conversation.
'uh, i'm sorry, does anyone have any better ideas?' chan asked, getting up from the armchair and starting to walk towards the front door.
changbin raised his hand.
'yes?'
'i do. how about you start acting like a normal man and ask her on a date without appearing randomly in places you shouldn't be?' he asked, voice sincere enough.
chan groaned, and flew out of his flat without another word.
i.n looked up from his phone.
'start preparing the emergency ramen' he said.
'on it'
'what the fuck?!' your shriek almost gave chan a heart attack.
'hey!' he said.
'ever since when are you a uber driver?' you asked.
'fasten your seatbelt, honey' he said, motioning to it.
'shut it. you're crazy'
'crazy for you, yes'
despite the situation, you smiled.
'i'm getting out of the car now' you said, turning your back and stepping out onto the night's fresh air.
chan groaned and threw his head on the steering wheel.
'nice try' he heard you say before you shut the car's door shut and walked away.
'this ramen is spectacular'
'thanks, man. how did it go?'
'don't, please'.
III - LAUNDRY DAY
'chan, i can see you'
'oh, hello! do you perhaps need help with your laundry?'
you turned to face him, brows raised. the laundromat next to your building was as crowded as it could get, which was weird enough, considering it was only thursday. still, it wasn't too hard to spot chan trying to look casual, in between middle-aged women and a few confused-looking husbands.
'i can do it on my own, thanks' you retorted.
'i mean, this washing machine look perilous enough' he said, leaning into it.
he missed the machine by a good measure, unfortunately, and almost ended up on the floor.
you snorted a laugh.
'you're funny' you said, loading a pair of jeans into the washer.
'and you're mesmerizing'
you scoffed.
'leave me alone'
'are you free tonight?' he asked, smiling like an idiot.
your expression was answering enough.
'got it'.
OKAY
chan's never been a desperate man. in fact, he was pretty good at accepting failures. he learned his lesson, and moved on to the next thing. he believed that every mistake in life could be taken as a lesson, indeed.
it took him so much time with you, though. at some point, between the failed tries and terrible impressions, he resigned. you didn't want him, and that was that.
on that saturday night, he decided to stay in and watch some mindless sitcom. he wasn't going to stalk you around, or bore you with his stupid gifts.
han and charlotte asked if he wanted them to come over and keep him company, but he gently refused their offer. they deserved to have a date night in peace, without his sulking ruining the fun.
when the doorbell rang, he was halfway through the show, and at some point, he became pretty invested.
he groaned, getting up from the couch. who dared to disturb his peaceful descend into total despair?
'oh, uhm. did i come at a bad time?'
'y/n. hi. you- hi'
you were standing outside of his door, casually dressed but still looking like you just stepped out of a fashion magazine.
he was wearing his pajamas. which probably, no, definitely, had a hole in the butt. he walked backwards, inviting you and simultaneously trying to avoid any showing of his b-side.
'i'm sorry if i came unannounced. i'll be quick, tho' you said, turning to face him.
'i'm sorry for how i treated you it's just that i've always just dated shitty guys and i didn't know how to act and is your offer for a date still up perchance?' you blurted out.
your cheeks were almost as a red as a mature tomato. chan thought you looked adorable.
then, the words registered.
'what?'
'please don't make me repeat myself'
'you want to go with me on a date?'
'i want you to ask me out'
'isn't that what i've been doing for weeks, now?'
'shush'
he nodded.
'would you like to go on a date with me?'
you nodded, smiling fully.
'next friday. i'll pick you up at eight sharp' he said, leaning into the wall.
as you walked past him to get out, you did something that looked crazy in his eyes.
you reached up on your toes and pecked him on the cheek.
then, you were gone.
chan thought that he never experienced true bliss before.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ ♡⸝⸝ chan is just so proud to call you his wife.
husband!bang chan x fem!reader
wc: 0.8k
warnings: (obviously) mentions of marriage, kissing, and weddings. also a brief reference to idol relationship stress and one singular suggestive line. pretty much just a fluffy drabble bc i was thinking abt breaking dawn wedding scene (turning page WILL be played at my own wedding) and my desire to be a wife LMAO.
after your wedding day, “my wife” becomes chan’s favorite words.
even before your actual marriage, there’d be times he’d call you his wife. offhanded, casual, for convenience, whatever. but it means so much more now that your vows have cemented the one thing he always knew: you are it for him.
he is utterly obsessed with referring to you as his wife and finds any way to mention you. the words roll off his tongue so easily and with so much pride. because how could he not be proud to call you his life partner? how could he not show you off to everyone?
of course, he loved calling you his girlfriend, then his fiancé—he’s always loved calling you his anything. but “wife”? that’s his favorite.
it’s not in a possessive way. it’s never to erase your own identity. it’s just in a “oh my god, i can’t believe i’m married to the love of my life” way.
it really hit him on your wedding night, after all the festivities were over and it was just the two of you. no drinks clinking, no claps and cheers, no camera flashes. he looked at you in all your post-wedding glow, and realization struck all at once.
“you’re my wife,” he mumbled, awestruck. almost in disbelief. he’d cried during his vows, kissed you hard, signed the marriage certificate. but it only became real in bed that night.
“i’m your wife,” you repeated, smile wide and bright. a reflection of the pure happiness you felt to wear that title. “and you’re my husband.
husband. he decided then that he doesn’t even care about his own name anymore. your husband is so much better.
“damn right i am,” he beamed.
out of all his accomplishments, that one has to be his favorite. and he certainly made sure to prove that to you that night. no inch of your body was left untouched or unkissed; he was the perfect blend of gentle and rough, of love and desire.
he falls asleep the happiest and most in love he’s ever been, still wondering if it might all just be a perfect dream. the next morning, when he wakes up to a flood of congratulations messages and pictures friends and family took at the wedding, he’s so relieved.
you’re a dream, but he’s not dreaming.
one of the first times he gets to say his new favorite phrase publicly comes during an interview a few weeks later.
the interviewer directs her question to him specifically. “who was your last text from?”
almost immediately, the rest of the boys break into knowing smiles and quiet chuckles. they already know the answer.
“my wife, actually,” chan says with no hesitation. and god how good it feels to say those words on camera, in front of the millions of eyes that will inevitably watch the video.
he’s all dimpled smiles and blushed cheeks when everyone in the room lets out a collective “aww.”
“ah, right, a newlywed! congratulations!”
needless to say, he’s giddy as hell for the rest of the interview. he didn’t even get a chance to show his phone background—which is, of course, a photo from your wedding day.
after that, he finds a way to make conversations about you. “my wife loves that movie!” “my wife picked it out,” “it’s my wife’s favorite song.” he really can’t help himself, it’s like some husband instinct he has. you’ve always occupied the most space in his mind.
and if people get annoyed by it, he quite frankly doesn’t care one bit. there was once a time when he wasn’t sure if he’d ever get to speak about his relationship so openly. he spoke of marriage as a dream, something he longed for but wasn’t sure it was attainable. not for someone like him, in his career.
so yes, he’s basking in his marriage glee loudly. every second of it is incredible, so much more than he could have expected.
when your wedding video and professional pictures come back? oh, it’s wraps.
he keeps a picture in his wallet and a framed one on his bedside dresser. the rest of them sit in an album on his phone that he finds himself in often.
on tour, when the timezones are too different and the distance too great, he scrolls through them. it’s a reminder of what he has to come home to. he counts down the days until he can hold you in his arms again.
and the video becomes his greatest comfort. you watch it together first. as expected, you cry, wipe your tears, then cry some more. such special memories captured so beautifully, the happiest day of your lives.
then, you hear the sniffles beside you and look over to find him tearing up as well. if he could relive that day a thousand times, he would, but this is as close as it gets.
“you just look so beautiful,” he whispers, the droplets glistening in his eyes. “i’m so lucky.”
your heart swells and the tears roll harder. “i’m the lucky one.”
truthfully, you’re both lucky. not everyone gets to experience a love like this in their lifetime. it radiates even through pictures and videos. you can feel it.
“no, you don’t understand. you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says louder, firmer.
