summary: In a world of fantasy, not everything is as easy as in those fairy tales. Especially not when the weight of the entire world is on a single person's shoulder.
a/n: This is a thank you post for me reaching 200+ followers here. Truly, I am forever grateful. I'm aware that in the long past this wasn't the genre that had been voted, but you might find some comfort in there if you squint hard enough? Or in a part 2, if enough people are interested in that, as I have ideas on how to continue this. But, either way, I am grateful for everyone who is still here and supporting me. I lock each comment, ask and reblog I get into my heart, don't ever doubt that.
Back to the masterlist
Please let me know if I left a warning or anything out, I will add it in! Reblogs, likes and feedback are greatly appreciated!
!I don't condone anyone stealing my work and posting it anywhere without my permission, or feeding it to AI!
!This is just fiction, my interpretation of Stray Kids. By no means is this how they are and how they behave in real life!
Even as the Sun shone down on Dal's small form, fair skin almost glistening under the warm rays, he could feel the hold that eternal chill had on him. The way it sunk its claws deeper and deeper with each passing minute, forever there, forever aching. Like a wound that refused to fully heal, festering in silence and leaving him alienated.
Because nobody else felt like this, now did they?
No.
None.
Not a single other child within the entire city felt the same aching way as he did, much less the ones roaming the endless halls of this castle they called their home. He'd learnt that early on, sealing his lips and forcing him to suffer in silence. This frost was his to bear, and only his.
âWhat got you to think so hard?â â came a familiar voice, their warm hand breaking him out of his stupor â âYour brows are furrowed in that same way you get whenever something's on your mind. So, what happened?â
The sight of cerulean roses, endless and precious as they glinted like gems under the unreachable Sun, disappeared as he gazed at his friend. His only friend. The only person who could make him feel warm in this cruel world, no matter how his blood chilled or his fingers ached.
âI was wondering if you'd get caught by your teacher today as well.â
At his reply, the prince immediately started to pout, even though the boy was older than him. He never pouted, but alas. Chan only had so many years to act so childish before the burden of the crown would befall his tiny shoulders, and who was he to get in the way of that? Besides, the prince looked charmingly adorable like thisânot that he would ever admit that.
âHey, I told you that was an accident! Had Hannah not snitched on me, I would have gotten away with it too!â â when he simply smiled, silent, Chan only fumed harder â âI'm telling the truth! See for yourself if you don't believe me.â
With that, off they were, his hand cold and slightly numb in the prince's. He relished in it, the way he was clung to, tiny legs doing their best to keep up with Chan's high energy levels.
Despite the chill he could feel in his very bones, he smiled, the sound of their laughter echoing within the palace walls.
-.-.-.-.-.-
As years passed and their bodies matured, so did their responsibilities. Their time spent together dwindled with each week, their duties binding them to different paths. Dal wasn't royalty, unlike his friend, and he wasn't a fool to envy it either. He saw the way it killed the child he'd played with not so long ago, how Chan's childhood was gone, how each smile was used as a political weapon instead of a sign of joy.
His own duties bound him as the next leader of the healing wing, a position his father upheld as of now. It wasn't as ungrateful of a duty as Chan's, but it sapped away at all the little strength he had left. Each day he returned to his quarters, dead tired, only to collapse into bed and repeat the cycle all over again.
Had his body been different, he would have enjoyed learning about the intricacies healing brought with itself; he would have gone above and beyond to become the best healer there ever was, to ensure Chan wouldn't suffer.
He couldn't, however.
Not when he sat under the biting shade of a willow tree, having snuck away for a brief moment, all because his joints ached and refused to move properly.
It was peaceful out here. Nature thrived under the touch of the Sun, always shining, always there, kind and warm to everyone but him. He watched the rays dance across his skin between the leaves, yet he felt nothing, no matter how he moved his fingersâno warmth, no gentleness, not anything.
They felt just as stiff as ever.
Before he could have marvelled at the intricate lines of frost on the back of his hand, a figure approached. It was familiar, achingly so, tiny shoulders now broader yet still so frail. The moment the prince sat down, he leaned closer to his friend despite himself, the action invisible to anyone but them.
Chan smiled and knocked their shoulders together before silence enveloped their lounging forms.
He'd missed this. Too much so, but he wasn't about to say that. That wasn't who he was, and Chan knew that very well. His friend instead stayed close, drinking in the silence, allowing them to bask in each other's silence for just a few minutes.
Just until they would be forced back within the constricting walls of the palace.
âHas nothing changed?â â came the question, so vague nobody but him could have ever understood it.
Yet, he had, and so came his reply.
âNone.â
A worried pair of eyes landed on him at that, and before he could have done anything, before a single word of reassurance could have left him, it was too late. Hands enveloped his own, lukewarm compared to his freezing skin. Surprise flashed across Chan's face before the pressure increased, locking his fingers into place.
It seemed that he wouldn't be able to hide the severity of his state from Chan further.
âDal, this, this is so much worse than before. Since when has it been like this? Tell me.â â when he turned his head away, unwilling to answer, more words followed and desperate enough to break him â âIt's as if I'm touching ice, Dal. And it's not melting. Please, answer me. Don't you trust me?â
That was a stupid question. Of course he did. Chan was the only person he'd told besides his family about this condition of his, and only his friend had taken him seriously. His family, as loving as they were and as much as he adored them, had only looked at him in disbelief. As if he'd sprouted a second head. All because a simple checkup failed to show there was something wrong with him.
âIt's been getting worse ever since I came into this world, Chan hyung. I don't know how much longer I can keep acting as if nothing's wrong when in reality, I feel as if my marrow itself is freezing over in agony.â
He paused for a moment, then he looked back at his friend and smiled.
âBut it's okay, I'll do my best, just like you do. Then when you're the king, you can help me, just like how I will help you.â
But that promise wouldn't be fulfilled. Not for long, long years, each one more painful than the last.
There was a day, a morning, when the mere chill he'd lived with turned into something bone-deep and unavoidable, freezing Dal in a way he hadn't felt before. Joints locked into place and air turned into icy mist right before his very eyes, as if he'd become the icy tundras of the wilderness itself. Every inhale hurt, lodging minuscule shards of ice into his lungs, cutting him up from the inside, like the minced meat he was.
The air itself was stolen from him, leaving him with nothing but a darkened vision and ringing ears.
It was amidst this moment of torture where his own body had trapped him as its prisoner, that everything clicked into place. He could only catch bits and pieces, on the verge of passing out and freezing his environment itself, but those words, uttered by the King, cut into him deeper than any shard of ice ever could.
âHe's been blessed by Solâ⌠is the Oracle.â
Him? Blessed? To become the Oracle of the legends, fated to live for eternity and serve the kingdom tirelessly?
What a cruel joke.
-.-.-.-
Years must have passed since his true duty's revelation, yet Dal could not tell. Not in the room they'd locked him into, sealed away to ensure everyone's safety. His powers, as sought-after and vital as they were, their strength exceeded everything else. No matter how hard he tried, to this day he couldn't wrangle them under his control.
Thus, everywhere he went, everything he touched, turned into a land of ice. Crystals of frost covered each inch of their surface, tiny flowers made of ice sprouting, as if mocking him. He couldn't go outside anymore, to gaze at the garden. He couldn't sit there and wait for his friend, just so they could watch the ocean of gem roses and firefly lanterns glisten under the sky.
Sometimes he wondered what it meant that he was forever tortured by this frostâah, no, that was false. Wondering was all he could do, in this prison of his, deprived of everything except for his most basic needs. Yet, even the food was given to him without human touch, unable to connect to anyone as if he was nothing but an outcast. So, he wondered day and night, letting his imagination take him away. Why was ice and the future connected? Why was he the chosen one, and why now of all times? Why not a different century, far from when he was alive?
In the end, he never got anywhere closer to an answer. His powers tormented him day and night, shredding him up from the inside, only to heal it slowly. Immortality was endless, yes, but not painless.
No matter how he wished for it to be.
It was on an aching day like that, where he laid on the floor, joints frozen stiff and eyes much too dry to shed more tears, when the door opened. At first, he'd chalked it up to hallucinations. Surely nobody would allow anyone to visit him, when he couldn't control his powers any better than when he'd been locked in here. If anything, they'd gotten worse, seemingly having gained strength with the revelation of their existenceâit was how no matter how the frost hurt him, it healed it all the same.
âHey.â
It was a simple greeting, a single word, yet it had shaken him to his very core. Like a tiny wisp of flame it appeared in his world, melting the ice that had sunken so deep into his flesh. His head whipped to the side and when his eyes finally focused on the figure, his breath got stolen all over again.
There his friend was, all dimple-smiled and bright, yet so different his eyes watered. Time had slipped from his grasp more than he'd imagined, leaving behind that young boy and giving someone different in return. Someone familiar, yes, but⌠not the same. Broader shoulders. Taller posture. A stance that told of experience, not of childish playfulness. A voice so much deeper and refined he felt himself shrivel up and die.
Yet, he was revived by that gentle touch, as lukewarm as it felt to his frozen skin.
âHey, long time no see.â
But he couldn't answer, he couldn't look into those warm eyes. All he was capable of was to lean into that careful touchâcareful for him. Not of him. Never that.
âIt hurts, Hyung. It hurts.â â the words left him in a quiet whisper, barely louder than the gentle breeze outside.
âI know, dear. I know.â
That was all Chan said, and he didn't need to hear more. It was enough. More than enough. This warm presence he was given, briefly no doubt, could soothe his aching soul for now. Just for a few minutes.
Just enough for him to feel his blood flow again and the air return to his lungs.
-.-.-
The relief Dal had been granted never lasted long, if at all. Chan was always called away after a few minutes, forced out of the room by guards equipped by rune-bound weapons.
The exact same ones that protected everyone else from him, right in this prison of his.
It only hurt him so because of that damn bittersweet smile his hyung always sported, as if it hurt Chan more than it hurt him to be separated. To see him like this, locked away for everyone's sake.
Here, time existed not, he'd realised. Not when his mind was eaten by agony, by unbelievable visions he refused to share or believe. They'd arrived as mere glances into the future, at first, only to come back as elaborate nightmares that left his head pounding and his heart screaming out in pain. Each one was worse than the last, telling of wars against the heavens themselves. Of bloodshed enough to drown the entire world and him along with it.
Sometimes he wondered if the pain, the ice and wounds he endlessly harboured, were there to train him for the visions of the future. To ensure he could endure them, or if they had a different purpose.
He wouldn't know.
Not now, and perhaps not ever.
Between Chan's brief visits he ached for more with each passing day, he roamed the ancient books he'd been left with whenever his body allowed. Each movement of the page hurt, frozen veins splintering, only to be mended within that same agonising breath. The same breath that was nothing but mist before him, clouding his sight for a mere second.
Spells of forgotten eras hid behind the chilled puffs of air, written in a language nobody knewâall except for him.
No doubt the work of the god had cursed him into this duty, who this kingdom worshiped while his hatred festered in silence. Whose symbol was everywhere, within and outside these accursed walls. Who Chan was supposed to devote his life to, who he was meant to serve, exceptâŚ
No, he didn't want to remember those terrifying visions right now.
Book after book covered his desk as he read through them, only for them to start piling on the floor once he had no room left. Whenever Chan visited, the male always brought more with himself, yet their brief conversations were never about what they hid. His friend, the princeâor rather, the king, made sure to never talk about such matters.
It still felt as if they'd never been separated, and for that, he was eternally grateful. It was what kept him going, what gave him strength to get out of bed when his bones froze stiff and his skin broke open in icy ravines.
When he finally found something, a ray of hope amidst this endless suffering, of ice and a future too disturbing to even imagine, he didn't hesitate. There was nothing that could stop him from finally breaking free, albeit for a moment, he stopped.
What would happen to Chan?
It was a question foolish to ask: he knew already. He'd seen it countless times, this particular vision haunting him, as if a warning.
So, he waited. Just for a bit longer, just to enjoy Chan's undisturbed presence that much longer. Just so he could etch their chats into the folds of his brain. Just so he could see those dimpled smiles once more, accompanied by a laughter he'd long to hear for eternity.
He had to.
Just for a little while longer.
He was selfish like that.
-.-.-
It was hard to exist like this. To provide what the future was bound to be to the person he was fated doom. To the person who led an entire kingdom into its death. Just for him. Just because of his selfish actions.
All because he was too weak to bear the pain, the mental strain, the cruelty of it all.
Why had their god chosen him? Was it all to show him the consequences of his actions sooner? To torment him? Or was it His revenge for what was to come?
He didn't know, and he wouldn't find out either. Not in this lifetime, and not in the next.
All he knew was that soon, after his lips fell closed and the glowing of the spellbook stopped, a familiar figure would burst through the door. Worried. Shocked. Crestfallen.
Broken.
The future he'd seen so many times slowly became reality as he finished the spell, the enormous amount of chilled mana he housed settling around him like a vice. Something had been cut inside him as it settled, permanently disconnected from him at last.
He couldn't even feel relieved anymore, the spell's effect now binding him forever.
Just like he'd predicted, the door fell open and in stormed Chan, rushing up to him in worry. Books were pushed aside to make way, as his room had been consumed by them. Perhaps he'd been too desperate to search for his answer, but he'd gotten it, and that was all that mattered.
âDal! What happened? Are you okay? We felt the entire castle shake. What did you do?â â the questions fell from Chan's lips, warm hands leading his shoulders so their eyes could meet.
The smile that stretched his lips was genuine, yet the emotion that should have created it was missing from his chest.
âIt doesn't hurt anymore.â
Shock painted Chan's features at his answer, the same one he'd seen so many times. It was soon washed away by confusion, desperation, warm fingers cradling his frost-kissed face now.
He wanted to lean into them, but even their warmth felt different now.
Hollow.
âIt, it doesn't hurt? But how? What happened?â â there was hope in Chan's voice, he could hear it, the male clinging to it.
He would soon shatter it into tiny pieces.
âI found a spell. It took away the pain.â
âThe pain? Dal, Dal no, no no nonono. Don't tell me youâOh Sol. Tell me you didn't. You know those are ancient spells, asking for more than they give.â â Chan's voice wavered, yet the chest he was hugged to held strong â âWhat else did it take? Tell me.â
Should he say it? Try to fight against the fate he'd seen so many times, dooming not just this kingdom but his precious hyung along with it? Was there even a point in trying to prevent it?
No.
There was none, and so his lips opened, skin crackling as it splintered open.
âEverything.â
It was strange, to remain there, hugged and cradled close, unable to cry or feel sad while the dearest person in his life fell apart. There was nothing left for him to feel, all emotions taken by the spell he'd performed willingly. Gone were his days filled with misery, being a misformed tool of the gods thrown aside all because they could.
In return, he'd doom them, cursing this entire world.
The cold touch of the Moon swapped the warm rays of the Sun as they remained there, the ruler of a doomed kingdom losing hope with each tear he shed. Dal took each and every single one, letting them soak into him, branding his frozen skin with crystalline droplets that looked nothing more than minuscule gems. They glistened under the soon-godless sky, determining their hopeless fate with each one that joined the others.
And as Chan's sobs withered away, vengeful determination bursting forth instead of hopelessness, the last nail was hammered into their coffin.
âLook down upon us, Sol, from your throne of gold. Look at your poor subjects who you'd betrayed, who you'd abandoned. Look down upon us for as long as you can, until the day my hatred dims the Sun itself.â
No matter how tightly he was grasped, there was nothing but hollowness within his chest. A bittersweet nothingness as he watched Chan wage war against the very foundation of their world, bathed in tears and hatred deep enough to curse them both.
All just to avenge the fate he'd been dealt in this life.
Hello, hi! Nice works, btw. Been lurking around your account for a while to read those.
Anyway, can I request skz's reaction to bae grabbing literally the most random thing from his bag? Like idk maybe a pain killer ointment or something. In a drabble format, please!
Thank you so much.
Why do you have that?
word count: ~1.8k
warnings: none
summary: Dal tries to be the silent caretaker of the group, but when is anything silent and normal when it comes to Stray Kids?
a/n: I live in shame. It's been so long since I got this ask and it took me so long to get to it. I can only hope anon dear is still here and will see and enjoy reading this.
Back to the masterlist
Please let me know if I left a warning or anything out, I will add it in! Reblogs, likes and feedback are greatly appreciated!
!I don't condone anyone stealing my work and posting it anywhere without my permission, or feeding it to AI!
!This is just fiction, my interpretation of Stray Kids. By no means is this how they are and how they behave in real life!
The group was in a chaotic room near the set pieces, as always, make-up artists and outfit coordinators rushing around as if theyâd lost their heads and were endlessly looking for it. They all rotated around, not one member allowed to stay in one place for too long. Some lounged on the sofa, waiting for their turn somewhere, while some were either dressed or dolled up.
Dal belonged to the latter category, brushes gently gliding across his skin as he relaxed as much as he could. With so many years of practice, he knew to take any chance to simply rest, even if only his mind. He couldnât afford to catch even a few more minutes of much needed sleep, the kind noona who worked her magic on him deserving of his attention. There was no hesitation or disobedience as he followed her instructions, each one uttered softly.
They were a blessing for his sensitive ears, delaying the headache he was bound to have by the end of such a busy day.
A soft sigh slipped through his nose, one that was accompanied by a satisfied hum from the artist. Her hand retreated from where it had gently guided his chin, lips allowed to close with a new coat of sparkly lip balm. He tested it carefully, more than thankful when he couldnât feel it sit too heavy or sticky on his lips.
His smile was genuine, even if small, when he thanked her for her hard work and for having listened to his request about using certain products. Not all their staff members listened to their whims, and while he wouldnât throw a fuss over something as small as the feeling of lipstick, he felt endlessly lighter when working with people like Harin.
Heâd been the first to remember her name, even before Chan. There were few he appreciated more than gentleness and being reasonable.
Harin was both, and so much more.
The chair lifted as he stood from it, letting someone else take his place. Before he could have stepped over to the rows of clothes near the back of the cramped room, he was met with a few fond expressions that made him stop.
Some looked at him dreamily, as if heâd walked down from Heaven itself to grace them with his presence, while others stared at him with what he could only call contained cuteness aggression. Barely contained, but contained nonetheless.
Then there was Chan, looking so proud and fulfilled, that he had to look away. The emotion that warmed his heart was too much for his poor ribcage, unable to contain if lest he let it grow.
Instead he focused on the way his ears flushed, willing the sting in his eyes away. How it had wormed its way there when he was rarely one to weep, he did not know, but heâd only gotten his make-up done. He wasnât about to let it go to waste.
The moment was broken just when he was sure Jisung was about to move and tackle him, Hyunjin quick to rush over. There was mild panic visible on the youngerâs face, and it immediately snapped him into focus.
âBae, do you have that perfume I use? Yâknow, the one that smells like roses and soft pepper and amber. I forgot to bring it and Iâll need it between the shoots and meetings because I cannot smell like the whole gym andââ
Before Hyunjin could have spiralled further, he already retrieved said perfume bottle from his bag, having calmly walked over to it while his dongsaeng descended into panic. The others watched in varying degrees of confusion and shock, but he didnât pay them much attention.
First was Hyunjin, hating if any of them were in distress.
With a headpat he handed the bottle over, the younger manâs face lighting up like a Christmas tree in December. He didnât have the chance to step away as he was hugged close, Hyunjinâs arms holding him tight enough to nearly fuse them together.
âOhmygod, Bae, youâre the best. Thereâs a reason youâre the love of my life. Iâll be off now, thank you!â
He was left blinking in place, the feeling of Hyunjinâs plush lips on his temple much too fresh to not paint his skin soft reds and pinks.
And of course, the cameras were rolling, Jeongin zeroing on his face before he shooed the little menace away. Their maknae skipped away with a laugh, the sound light and animated enough to ease his frustrations.
âHow did you know what he was talking about? He has like, six different bottles of perfume, and those are just the ones he actively uses.â â Felix asked, very well aware that the notes Hyunjin had described were common in most of his perfumes.
âYeah, and why did you even have it? Thatâs expensive.â â Jisung added in, making him finally turn to them.
He supposed he was lucky Changbin was still not done getting his make-up done, otherwise his ears would have already started ringing, while his skin would continue heating up.
So was life with Changbin.
âHe tends to forget to pack it, so I got one as a backup. Thatâs all.â â he answered, his reply as curt as always.
âWhat else do you have in there? Letâs investigate, stay~â â Jeongin said before he could have zipped his bag back up, hopping to it like the menace he was.
Dal was already feeling that headache, but Jeongin was their maknae, and he was but a weak man. One look with those dimpled cheeks and foxy eyes, and he was done for.
Jeongin hummed as he rummaged through his stuff, respectfully not pointing his phone inside his bag. He wasnât really nervous, since he didnât have anything incrementing on him, but he was readying himself for the reactions he knew heâd get.
âHyung, why do you have a plushie?â â the boy asked as he pulled out a cat, surprised by its weight and size.
âOh! Is that the one that can be heated?â â Felix supplied, lighting up at the sight of the orange cat plush â âWhat? He gives that to me after practice and stuff when we move around a lot. It helps my back. Donât tell me you havenât seen it before?â
In the silence, he chose to remain quiet, letting the others talk things out.
Maybe he could sneak out? Ah, no, the staff by the endless rows of clothes were already looking at him pointedly, no doubt trying to stay on time despite their groupâs shenanigans.
He relented with a silent sigh, walking over to let them work their magic, while the others continued with their chaos.
From the corner of his eye he saw Jeongin keep pulling things out, weirded out the further the boy dug. It made his lips twitch in amusement, the others answering in his stead.
âThatâs for me. I have my own candy I like to soothe my throat, but Hyungâs just tastes better.â â it was Seungmin this time, smirking like evil incarnate, and he let it.
âOh.. those, uh, those are my fuzzy socks. I like to wear them when everythingâs a bit too much.â â Jisung admitted with heated cheeks, confused as to why he would have them and in the wrong size.
Wrong size if he were to wear it, perhaps, but not if it was to be Jisung.
When Jeongin pulled out a notebook and a pen, only for it to be filled with words instead of art, he saw Changbin raise his arm in the chair very excitedly. It earned a low hiss and a small slap from the make-up artist, making the others snicker at how the male looked like a kicked puppy.
Then, their maknae saw something but didnât pull it out, and he couldnât help but smile.
Jeongin must have found the item heâd put away, in case their youngest member needed it.
âWait, why the fuck does he carry around these? He doesnât even have any cats!â
âBecause I raised him well, thatâs why.â â Minho answered with the sharpest of smirks heâd seen on the man in a while.
Somehow, he was glad that he was being fitted right now, because otherwise he feared Minho would have come to aggressively grab a part of him. Or to press a kiss onto his neck, just to fluster him further.
One of the two.
The leather sofa creaked as Chan stood, gently taking his bag and closing it back up. The smile on their leaderâs face was kind, amused, and so utterly fond he felt his throat close off.
âDal carries around something for each of us every single day. It varies in nature, depending on what we need most and tend to forget most that week. Or day, sometimes. Isnât he just the best Luna I could ever ask for?â
The atmosphere broke.
His throat opened up.
Laughter soon broke out, half the members in hysterics, the other half watching him as the words slowly dawned on him. Had he not been in this group, he wouldnât understand a damn thing, but he was.
What a mistake it felt like now.
âHang on, what kind of fanfiction are you reading now?!â
But his yelling only made the others fall further into laughter, Jisung already on the floor in tears. They were lucky Jisung hadnât been dolled up yet, albeit that was the least of his worries right now.
âFanâOh God, I canât breatheââ
âWait, wait, wait, Chris, shouldnât that be Minho? I thought Bae was more your son than wife.â â Felix forced the words out, barely in a better state than Jisung.
He could only glare at the boy, something Minho joined him in; all the while Chan hummed, head tilting in thought.
âWell, I see why youâd ask that. Stay is quite divided when it comes to mine and Dalâs relationship.â
âHuh?â â he intelligently commented, sending Changbin to join the trio of idiots on the floor.
But what was he supposed to do?! They were talking about him as if, as ifâ
He couldnât even think it.
âLetâs just say thereâs more to it than theyâd ever see.â â Chan said, tone final yet that smile was so far from fond and so close to hungry he shuddered.
He shuddered.
âIâm never giving any of you shit again.â
A loud chorus of gasps tore through the room, even the staff joining in.
âHe cursed! Oh shit, he cursed!â
âChannie hyung, quick, go apologise!â
But before their eldest hyung could have said anything, he turned away, arms crossing in front of his chest and the workers let it happen. They too, stared at him in shock, although he saw some pity and amusement circling in their eyes as well.
Summary: In a world where everyone has a soulmate mark, yours never appeared. Until one day a strange compass forms on your wrist. Now the compass is pointing somewhere in the world. Somewhere your soulmate exists. And whether youâre ready or not⌠itâs leading you straight to them
Word count: 1444
A/N: Thank u for all the support! Yâall r too sweet <3 have fun reading (Iâve got my finals soon so I might not be able to post on time)
Masterlist - previous - next
Chapter 3 - Where It Leads
The day had been long in the most ordinary way. Not exhausting. Not particularly memorable. Just⌠full.
Your morning lecture dragged on longer than it should have, the professorâs voice blending into the background as you half-listened, half-focused on the notes in front of you. Around you, people shifted in their seats, whispered to each other, or stared blankly at their screens.
At some point, you caught yourself doing the same. Zoning out. Staring at nothing in particular. The hours passed slowly after that.
Between classes, you sat with your friends like usual, nodding along to conversations about assignments, weekend plans, and things that felt so normal they almost seemed distant. You laughed when you were supposed to, added a comment here and there, but your attention drifted more often than you liked to admit.
Not completely. Just enough to notice. Every now and then, your fingers brushed absentmindedly against your wrist before you even realized what you were doing. You would pull your hand back just as quickly, pretending nothing had happened. No one pointed it out. No one noticed. Which somehow made it easier.
By the time your last class ended, you felt strangely restless. Not anxious. Not even nervous. Just⌠unsettled.
Like you had forgotten something important, even though you knew you hadnât. You told yourself it was nothing. Just one of those days. Still, the feeling followed you. Through the bus ride. Through the walk back. Through the quiet moments in between everything else.
By the time you arrived at work, you had pushed it to the back of your mind.
Or at leastâ You tried to.
The next time it happened, you didnât question itâyou recognized it.
Your shift had been quiet in a way that almost felt deceptive. Not slowâthere were still customers, still movement, still the familiar rhythm of the restaurant carrying on like it always did. Orders came in, plates went out, and conversations filled the air in soft overlapping waves. Everything was normal. Almost too normal. You had just finished clearing a table when the feeling returned. It started as a warmthâsoft, familiar.
Your hand stilled against the surface of the table, and for a moment, you didnât move. You didnât breathe, because you already knew.
âYouâve got to be kidding me,â you muttered under your breath.
Your fingers brushed your sleeve back, revealing the compass, unchangedâexcept for the needle. It trembled. Your heart skipped. Not wildly, not urgently, but enough to remind you that this wasnât something you could ignore anymore. You straightened slowly, your gaze lifting as you scanned the restaurant. Everything looked the same. Nothing stood out. Nothing explained the way your pulse had begun to pick up. Still, the feeling stayed.
You tried to continue workingâyou really did. You moved between tables, carried plates, refilled drinksâbut your focus wasnât where it should have been. It kept drifting. Back to your wrist. Back to the quiet pull beneath your skin. Back to the feeling that somethingâsomeoneâwas closer than before. It didnât spike or demand your attention. It just lingered. Steady. Patient.
By the time your shift ended, you were more aware of it than anything else.
The air outside felt cooler than you expected. You stepped out into the night, letting the door fall shut quietly behind you as the sounds of the restaurant faded almost immediately, replaced by the distant hum of the city. Streetlights cast long shadows across the pavement, and the world felt still. You exhaled slowly, your fingers brushing against your wristâbut you didnât look. Not yet. Instead, you started walking.
At first, nothing changed. Your steps were steady, your thoughts quiet, the warmth still there but distant enough to ignore if you tried hard enough.
Then it shifted.
Your breath caught.
It wasnât just warmth anymoreâit moved. Subtle, but undeniable. Your steps slowed, then stopped.
For a moment, you stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, your heart beating just a little faster than before. Slowly, carefully, you pulled your sleeve back.
The compass. The needle had changed direction. Your stomach dropped.
It wasnât pointing forward anymore. It pointed behind you. Your breath hitched.
You didnât turn immediatelyâyou couldnât. Because suddenly, everything felt too real. The silence stretched, the world around you fading into something distant and unfocused.
And then you felt it.
Not the compass. Not the warmth. Something else. A presence. Close.
âWait.â
The voice was steady, low, and close enough to send a sharp rush of awareness through you.
Your breath caught. Slowly, you turned. And saw him. For a moment, nothing made sense.
It wasnât dramaticâthere was no sudden rush of understanding, no instant clarity that explained what you were feeling. He was just there, standing a few steps away from you, real and solid, looking at you like he had been searching for you.
Your heart stumbled. His gaze didnât waverânot for a second. And then something shifted in his expression.
Not confusion. Not curiosity. Recognition. Your breath hitched again.
You didnât understand it, not fullyâbut you felt it. The weight of it. The certainty. His eyes flickered briefly down to your wrist. Your stomach dropped. You hadnât even realized your sleeve had slipped. The compass was visible. When his gaze returned to yours, something had changed.
âSo itâs you,â he said quietly.
The words sent a strange chill through youânot questioning, not unsure but certain.
Your heart started racing.
âWhat?â you asked, your voice softer than you intended.
He didnât answer immediately. For a moment, he just looked at you, like he was trying to take something in, like he was confirming something he already knew.
âI didnât think it would feel like this,â he said, almost to himself.
Your chest tightened.
âWhat are you talking about?â you asked, more urgently this time, because none of this made senseânot the way he was looking at you, not the way he was speaking, not the way your pulse refused to slow down.
His gaze softened slightly, but the certainty didnât disappear.
âYou donât know,â he said.
It wasnât a question.
Your fingers curled slightly at your sides. âKnow what?â
For a moment, it looked like he was debating something, like he wasnât sure how much to say. Then his eyes flickered again to your wrist.
The compass pulsedâsharp and sudden. Your breath caught.
âThat,â he said quietly. âYouâve never seen it before, have you?â
Something in your chest tightened.
âNo,â you admitted.
The word felt heavier than it should have. His expression shifted again, something softer now, something almost careful.
âItâs not just a mark,â he said.
The warmth flared. Your wrist burned. Your breath caught sharply in your throat as your fingers instinctively moved to pull your sleeve back.
The compass was glowingâfaint, but undeniable. Right at the center, something flickered. Your eyes widened.
âWhat is that?â you whispered.
The light sharpened slightly, your pulse spiking as you stared at it. You didnât understandâyou didnât know what was happeningâbut you could feel it. Something was changing. His gaze didnât leave your wrist.
âItâs starting,â he said.
Your head snapped up.
âWhat isââ
The compass pulsed again, brighter this time. Your vision blurred, just for a second. And thenâ Something appeared. A faint shape. A smallâ Dot.
Glowing softly at the center of the compass. Your heart stopped.
âWhatââ your voice broke slightly.
You looked up at himâ And found him already looking at you. Not surprised. Not confused. Like he had been expecting this.
âYeah,â he said quietly.
Your pulse raced, your thoughts spiraling as nothing made sense and everything felt too fast, too sudden.
âWhat does that mean?â you asked, your voice barely steady. He held your gaze, and for the first time, something uncertain flickered in his expression.
âIt means,â he said slowlyâ âThat you found me.â
Silence fell between you. Your heart pounded as your mind struggled to catch up.
Found him?
That didnâtâ
But the compass pulsed again, the dot glowing brighter. Suddenly the needle shifted again. You paused mid-breath, looked down, then back up at him.
âWait,â you whispered, though you didnât know what you were asking forâmore time, an explanation, something to make sense of all of this. His expression softened again, like he understood.
âI know,â he said quietly. But he didnât move. Didnât step back. And neither did you. Because something held you thereâsomething stronger than confusion, stronger than fear. Something that refused to let you walk away. The compass pulsed again. And the gray dot glowed brighter.
summary: part iv. if only gentle parenting worked. but it doesnât. changbin is gentle tho. spending some almost alone time with him could help a bit, right? what do you two do in that alone time exactly, though?
warnings: non idol au, violence, blood, mentions of gore, cannibalism, obsessive behavior, jealousy, cursing, homicidal behavior/psychopathy, sexual content(p in v, condom or no condom not mentioned so itâs pretty much up to preference, threesomes and foursomes, light voyeurism in the form of the others can lowk hear whatâs going on), lowk alcoholic hyunjin
word count: 15k
âput the fucking chair down, minho.â
âi swear iâll launch itââ
âDO IT.â seungmin shouts, crouching on your kitchen island, one hand braced on the ceiling light like heâs about to swing from it. âthrow it. see what happens.â
âhan.â hyunjin groans from his seat at the island, fingers digging into his temples. âshut up. please. for once in your miserable, empty headed existence, shut up.â
felix is standing in the corner holding a cereal box. upside down. just watching it pour onto the floor. âare we mad? is this mad?â
changbin is in the middle of the room, palms up in a sign of peace. he is also holding a knife.
âokay.â he says calmly, gesturing with the blade. like a motivational speaker with a laser pointer. âwe can talk about this without furniture flying.â
minho adjusts his grip on the chair. âiâm going to cave his skull in.â seungminâs skull, by the way.
chan is calmly walking around the kitchen punching people in the shoulder. in that boyish way, just boxing around. he hits jeongin in the back of the thigh while jeonginâs mid shout. jeongin yelps and almost falls. hyunjinâs back, but not hard so poor hungover boy doesnât throw up on your kitchen island. hanâs shoulder.
âwhy am i being yelled at?â han asks, genuinely confused.
âbecause youâre stupid.â seungmin says instantly from the island.
âi didnât even do anything.â
the door unlocks.
all of them freeze.
you step in.
you stand there for a full three seconds.
minho holding a chair. seungmin crouched on your kitchen island. changbin waving a knife around. chan mid punch. jeongin mid yell. han with his mouth open. felix ankle deep in cereal. hyunjin looking like he died but got reheated in your microwave.
you close the door slowly. ââŚwhat the fuck.â
âhe started it.â jeongin says immediately, pointing at seungmin.
âoh fuck off, manââ
âyou dissed my hair.â
âbecause it looks like shit.â
âIT DOES NOTââ
minho throws the chair.
chan catches it. sets it down carefully.
you rub your face. âwhy are you all in my house.â
felix waves. âhi.â
chan smacks the back of seungminâs head. âdonât stand on her island.â
âdonât hit me in front of her.â
âthen act right.â
minho laughs darkly. ânone of us act right.â god, heâs⌠unsettling.
hyunjin groans. âiâm going to vomit.â
changbin steps forward, still holding the knife. âokay, so the issue started because jeongin found out aboutââ
felix looks up from the cereal puddle. âiâm hungry!â
âeat the cereal.â
âitâs on the floor.â
âthen pick it up.â
seungmin finally hops down from the island. âthere you are.â he says to you, walks through the room, wraps himself around you from behind, arms around your waist. âmissed you.â he murmurs, loud enough for everyone to hear. evil. EVIL.
minhoâs eye twitches. jeongin kicks once, just a petty little kick with no target. changbin has to put a hand on hyunjinâs so hyunjin doesnât pull a knife out of your knife block and starts cutting himself up. felix watches, tilting his pretty head, wanting to see it.
han perks up immediately and scurries over too. âhi hi hi!â he says, pressing into your side, smiling like he wasnât just seconds away from being executed for something he didnât understand.
chan exhales in relief but doesnât join the clinging on you bullshit next to the other two. heâs more mature than that. (seungmin is immature by doing it to make the others seethe, han is immature by⌠god, just look at him.)
seungmin rests his chin on your shoulder. kisses your cheek. exaggerated. slow. âthey were being pissy.â he says softly.
âYOU STARTED ITââ
âi FUCKING hate you dudeââ
âshut UPââ
âIâM HUNGRYYYYââ
seungmin just tightens his hold on you.
changbin points the knife at no one in particular. âokay, letâs all justââ
âput the knife down.â you say.
immediately puts it down. âsorry.â
you look around your destroyed kitchen. one chair overturned. something broken on the floor. that being broken next to the ocean of cereal. changbinâs jacket is also there. a crack in the wall that definitely wasnât there this morning. seungmin bleeding a little from his knuckles. jeongin clutching his thigh even though no one stabbed him this time. hyunjin one inconvenience away from murder. minho vibrating with homicidal energy. changbin trying to soothe felix by running a hand over his arm. chan ready to physically destroy all of them. han smiling because youâre home now.
âout.â you say flatly.
they stare.
âout.â
jeongin sputters. âyou canât justââ
âout.â
minho opens his mouth. chan steps forward slightly. minho closes it.
hyunjin mutters something about fresh air and walks toward the door.
changbin follows, apologizing to you as he goes.
felix looks at you with big eyes. âam i in trouble?â
âout, love.â
âokay.â
jeongin lingers, glaring at seungmin like he wants to bite him.
seungmin smiles sweetly.
âOUT.â you stomp.
jeongin storms past you.
minho shoulders through the doorway last.
the door slams.
silence.
inside, you and the three boyfriends. outside, five grown psychopaths pressed against your door. you can already hear the faint shuffle of shoes repositioning for optimal eavesdropping.
you sigh. âexplain.â
han starts immediately. âokay so jeongin said that chan looked at you weird yesterday but chan always looks like that so then minho said that seungmin was being territorial but seungmin is always like that and then changbin said we should communicate but he had the knife so that felt mixed message and thenââ
âhan.â you interrupt gently.
he stops mid breath.
chan rubs the back of his neck. âtheyâre just being jealous.â
seungmin shrugs. âtheyâre insecure.â
outside the door, something thumps.
âWE CAN HEAR YOU.â jeongin hisses through the wood.
âgood.â seungmin says, brutally calm.
you glare at him. he kisses your temple.
han tilts his head. âare they sad?â
âyes.â chan says.
âoh.â
outside, muffled voices.
âmove your head.â
âyouâre breathing on my neck.â
âshut up.â
you cross your arms. âthis canât keep happening in my house.â
chan looks back at you softly. âweâll figure it out.â
outside, jeongin yelps. âSTOP PINCHING ME.â
minho mutters âmove.â
hyunjin groans.
felix asks âare we still killing someone later?â
you stare at the door.
doesnât help that seungminâs got his hands everywhere. waist. hips.
han, not to be outdone, comes even closer. âoh, weâre touching? great, i love touching.â he presses his face into your shoulder. âyou smell good.â
you look at chan.
he looks at you.
you motion him over with your finger.
outside your door, jeongin has his ear flat against the wood. so does minho. and changbin. hyunjin is sitting on the floor, back against the wall, eyes closed. and felix⌠felix looks wrong. not physically. physically he looks like he always does, like an angel, but his face is⌠droopy. thereâs a little flower or gardening or whatever it is pot next to your front door, a life in that, grass, little flowers, whatnot, and heâs picking at the grass blade by blade and eating them one at a time.
jeongin turns slightly, still listening at the door. âif youâre going to vomit, do it away from me.â
minho rolls his eyes. âyou ate something weird again, didnât you.â
felix shakes his head. âno. not that kind of sick.â
jeongin hisses. âshh, theyâre moving in there.â
changbin gently pulls felix a few steps away from the door. âwhat kind of sick?â
felix frowns, pressing a hand to his chest. âthis part feels bad.â
changbin softens. âyour chest.â
âyeah. it feels⌠tight. and pressed down. and i donât like when they touch y/n.â
changbin pauses. hyunjin opens one eye. minho looks over. jeongin slowly peels his ear off the door.
âi feel like i swallowed a rock.â felix whispers. god, heâs so cute.
minho snorts. âthatâs called being pissed off.â
âor, youâre jealous.â changbin says quietly, saying it slow. âwhy do you think itâs medical?â
felix shrugs. âbecause it feels bad. and bad feelings are diseases.â
hyunjin actually sits up a little.
changbin rubs his hands together gently. âfelix. buddy. jealousy isnât a disease.â
felix pouts. âare you sure?â
âyes.â
âbecause it feels like my organs are being rearranged.â
âthatâs called emotions.â
felix recoils slightly. âew.â
jeongin pinches the bridge of his nose. âyou cannot be this stupid.â
changbin takes a breath. âokay. imagine you have something you like.â
âlike ribs.â
âsure. and someone else has those ribs.â
âthen i take them.â
âno, in this scenario you canât.â
âwhy?â
âbecause they arenât yours. right. now imagine someone else gets to eat it first. and theyâre moaning about how good it is. and youâre just standing there with an empty plate. that feeling in your chest? thatâs jealousy.â
felix stares at him. ââŚthatâs unfair.â
âsometimes it feels that way.â changbin says gently. âit means you want something.â
âi want a lot of things.â
âspecifically, you want y/n.â
âi donât want to eat y/n.â felix says quickly.
âgood.â hyunjin mutters.
three hours. it takes three whole fucking hours to make felix understand jealousy. they sit in that hallway and it takes three hours to explain jealousy. changbin tries metaphors. simple explanations. the others donât help a lot.
inside, meanwhile, seungmin has you bent over the arm of the couch, face down ass up, fucking you slow and deep from behind while you brace on the cushions. yeah this was a rough point to start from. anyways, heâs not being violent tonight. every thrust is deep, really going into you, slamming quite literally would be the best word, both hands on your hips to keep you in place.
chan is sitting on the couch right in front of your face, legs spread, jeans open, cock out. youâve got your mouth on him, sloppy, spit everywhere, taking him as deep as you can while seungmin rocks into you from behind. chanâs hand is gentle in your hair, thumb stroking your cheek.
han is on his knees beside the couch, one hand between his legs to hold himself up, humping his own lower arm. watching how your mouth looks so full, seungmin so deep. he can see it.
chan groans when you hollow your cheeks, hips twitching up. âgood girl⌠just like that⌠fuuuuuckââ
felix presses a hand to his chest again. âoh. itâs back.â
changbin sighs. âlet them have their fun, buddy. weâll get our turn.â
hyunjin mutters a âspeak for yourself. i just want silence and a bloody mary.â
minho stays quiet, but his eyes are fixed on the door, already planning how many ways he can make them regret locking him out. not you though. you didnât do wrong.
this was in the three hour period where they had to explain jealousy. now, later, you finally peel yourself off the couch while seungmin is sprawled on one end of the couch, jeans still unzipped, smiling to himself. chanâs on the other end, shirt pushed up, breathing slow and even almost like he just finished killing someone(in his defense that calms him down) instead of shooting cum down your throat. hanâs flat on his back on the floor, arms next to him, staring at the ceiling with the most blissed out dumb grin.
you stand up, getting yourself together. clothes, hair, etc. âiâm letting the others back in.â
seungmin rolls to his side. âlet âem suffer five more minutes.â
chan just nods once, already tucking himself back into his jeans like nothing happened.
han sits up so fast he almost headbutts the coffee table. âdo i get to say hi? i wanna say hi! i love them!â
you ignore all three of them, walk to the front door now all fixed up, and yank it open.
the second the lock clicks, five grown ass serial killers FALL inside.
jeongin falls in first, face first because he was leaning hardest. he hits the floor and immediately starts flailing. minho falls right after him, trying to catch himself but only managing to land half on jeonginâs back with a low, annoyed grunt. hyunjin rolls in next, knees first, cursing the entire way down. changbin tries to stay upright but gets dragged by felixâs massive shoulder check, so he ends up sprawled sideways across hyunjinâs legs. felix belly flops on top of the pile. all jammed in the doorway, heads, groaning, swearing right at your bare feet.
you just stand there. arms crossed. looking down at them.
jeonginâs face is smooshed against your ankle. he mumbles into your skin âhi queen we missed you so much.â
minhoâs voice from somewhere under felix: âget your elbow out of my ribs.â
hyunjin wheezes âair⌠need airâŚâ
changbin, ever the gentleman even upside down: âsorry!â
felix pops up, eyes bright, nose already twitching. before anyone can blink heâs on his knees in front of you, shoving his face straight into your crotch. deep inhale. long, loud sniff. another one. practically motorboating your shorts just because he can smell the earlier sex on you.
you shriek, grab him by the hair and yank his head back. âfelix! no! personal space! boundaries! weâve talked about this!â
he blinks up at you, big innocent eyes. âsorry.â so not sorry.
jeongin sits up. âdonât worry, he does that to all of us. last week he sniffed minhoâs neck for a solid minute. he almost stabbed him.â
minho stands, brushes dust off himself. âhe still has the scar on his tongue from when i made him bite the knife.â
hyunjin drags himself upright using the doorframe, looking green. âhe sniffed my armpit once. i threw up in my mouth.â
changbin, finally vertical, rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. âhe means it as a compliment. itâs⌠his love language.â
felix tilts his head at you, still on his knees, chin resting on your thigh now. âare you mad? i can stop. but itâs really nice.â
you exhale through your nose so hard it whistles. shove his forehead gently until he scoots back a foot. âgreat. no more crotch sniffing. ever. or iâm putting a cone on you.â
felix pouts.
the others finally get to their feet, brushing off clothes, cracking necks, looking at you.
you step back, gesture at the living room where they can see chan, seungmin and han sitting around. âokay. if you all calm the fuck down, stop sniffing people, stop throwing furniture, and stop screamingâŚâ
jeongin inhales.
ââŚi will order food.â
âYES.â âfuck yes.â âoh my god.â âfinally.â âbro.â âyes!â
minho straightens his shirt. psycho. âwhat do you mean by calm?â
âno fighting.â
âverbal?â
âno.â
âphysical?â
âespecially no.â
seungmin from the couch: âyouâre taking all the joy out of it.â
you donât even look at him. âone more comment and youâre outside next.â
he shuts up.
han scrambles to sit properly. âi can be calm.â
chan nods. âwe can manage that.â
jeongin stands SO straight. âi am the picture of composure.â
minho snorts.
changbin steps closer to you, softer. âweâll behave.â
hyunjin rubs his temples. âjust order something greasy.â
chan just stands up slow, walks over, slides an arm around your waist from behind and murmurs against your ear âyou good?â
you lean back into him. âmhm.â
he kisses your temple. soft. âgood.â
the five newcomers immediately start arguing over whoâs paying, what toppings are allowed, and if they can get extra this and that and no hyunjin you wonât eat all of that pick one only.
summer comes, slowly.
the boys start wearing less clothes.
which is a problem. a massive, unfair, constant problem. seungmin is suddenly shirtless 80% of the time. just walking around your apartment with shorts that you end up yanking off. chan switches to tank tops. thick arms on display. veins in his forearms when he carries your groceries. he wipes sweat off his neck with the hem of his shirt and doesnât even realize what that does to you. han and felix also go shirtless, and goood theyâre hot. when hyunjin was shirtless and washing blood off his stomach at your kitchen sink? kinda disgusting but way more attractive. changbin and his tanktops? hot. minho and his t shirts because his body physically doesnât overheat so he sees no need to go shirtless? kinda sad because you do want to see him shirtless, but maybe him being this creepy and unique hits just as hard as some chest. now that weâre at chests, the way jeongin pushes his into your face? pure bliss.
you absolutely love your situation.
and sure, sometimes you still throw up when someone tracks in blood. but câmon, you love these boys.
chan gets more confident. stands a little taller next to you. doesnât look over his shoulder when he kisses you. doesnât hesitate to put a hand on your waist in front of everyone. fixes things. fills your gas tank. replaces lightbulbs. calls you his girlfriend. the first time he says it casually, âmy girlfriend likes that placeâ the world freezes.
only han goes âyeah she does.â
and thatâs that.
heâs finally accepted that heâs allowed to have this. allowed to have you. he waited his whole life to feel something. now he has it.
summer seungmin is insufferable. i mean he was always insufferable, but heâs just a bitch now.
someone bumps into you at the beach? seungmin is already staring them down. he takes you out at night. hands in your back pockets, enjoying the city now that he has a pretty girlfriend to show off. he buys you drinks(lots, that office jobs pays disgustingly good) and watches you over the straw of his. certified straw drinker.
han brings you random things he thinks youâll like. flowers that are slightly wilted because he forgot water exists. candy he half ate but saved the good pieces. you eat it anyway, yâknow the way parents eat things that were already in their toddlerâs mouth.
he kisses you constantly. cheek, head, anywhere. forgets where your mouth is sometimes and just presses his lips to your jaw instead. he lays on top of you when itâs too hot and then doesnât understand why youâre complaining. baby youâre heavy.
he forgets sunscreen. forgets shoes. forgets that you cannot just wander off mid conversation to look at a seagull. he also burns immediately. like instantly. you watch him turn pink in real time.
âiâm fine.â he insists, peeling slightly.
you physically tackle him into shade.
felix once brought you a steak. raw.
âi thought of you.â he said.
âthank you, sweetie⌠why?â
âbecause i like you and i like this.â
hyunjin redesigns your entire living room. again. like actually gets minho and changbin to paint your walls. chan to install better lighting. rearranged furniture. art that he made just for this.
you hug him for it. he loves it so much.
changbin loves taking you out. loves paying for you, loves being a man. loves proving that not only the three musketeers can spoil you.
minho buys you weapons. thatâs real romantic of him btw. âfor protection.â he says.
you stare at the crossbow. ââŚfrom you?â
he actually smiles at that. brutal emotional development.
and jeongin insists on going with you everywhere. i donât mean like you have to take him shopping with you(and han and felix because they still love it) but like. stands in front of the bathroom door listening to you pee level of everywhere. things like that are not really taboo to him, well, not when itâs about you.
and god, itâs hard to deal with them. han once tried to put sunscreen on his biceps and forgot the rest of his body. or another time he got sunburned in a perfect tank top outline and couldnât understand why.
there goes your hot girl summer. because theyâre just so⌠boys. itâs weird to put into words. youâll get some examples instead.
for starters, they collectively refused to reapply sunscreen one day. all eight of them. grown ass men btw. two days later they were RED. that just got hyunjin ten times more overstimulated. seungmin kept poking his own sunburn just to see if it still hurt. it did. felix tried to peel his skin off. you had to physically slap his hands away while he insisted he was shedding and he saw on tiktok that women do it also when do you shed y/n. the others surprisingly didnât do weird shit with their sunburns(except like maybe jeongin jerking off on himself to see if his cum soothes the burn but you werenât there so this doesnât even matter), they just suffered.
there was the incident where they decided to see who could hold their breath underwater the longest. seungmin tried to pull minho down by the ankle. minho responded by attempting to drown seungmin. chan had to physically separate them while han, who had absolutely no idea what was happening, resurfaced and proudly announced he counted to thirty seven. felix said he counted to purple.
they tried to build a bonfire once. just started breaking apart a wooden bench nearby. in public. but thatâs nothing compared to how han once lost track of a body. lost. track. of. it. he set it down âfor a secondâ and then couldnât remember where he put it. you watched eight grown murderers retrace their steps in a forest whisper shouting âwhere did you last see it.â they found it eventually. felix was sitting on it.
hyunjin spent an entire week terrorizing everyone with a water gun. not a small one. a massive one. like heâd sit and just calmly shoot at any of the boys, never at you though. or he would wait silently around corners and then absolutely soak whoever walked by. he got seungmin three times in one day. seungmin got back at him by filling the water gun with ice water and waiting until hyunjin was asleep on the couch. youâve never heard a grown man scream like that.
they once found an old tire and rolled it down the sidewalk for an hour. just⌠rolled it. taking turns. cheering when it didnât fall over.
minho spent most of the summer being deeply unsettling. he took up birdwatching but only because he liked knowing which trees would hide a body best. he stood motionless in the lake once for so long that a child asked if he was a statue. he did not blink. he absolutely heard that. he once followed a couple for six blocks because they were holding hands and he wanted to imagine them as you and him. also he doesnât sweat like a normal person???? he just gets shinier????
they tried fishing once. none of them had patience. chan yanked the thing(i donât know fishing) every thirty seconds. seungmin stabbed at the water instead of waiting. minho stared at the horizon. jeongin kept being loud even though everyone told him that it scares the fish away.
they absolutely terrorized ice cream shop employees without technically doing anything illegal. just standing too still. smiling too long. asking oddly specific questions about freezer storage temperatures. hyunjin said nothing but looked exhausted. you made them sit outside after that.
changbin tried to teach the others how to do backflips and only two of them landed it and neither of those two were the ones youâd expect. didnât help that hyunjin kept sabotaging the whole thing.
hyunjin was a bitch. if chan was building something, hyunjin would casually loosen a screw and walk away. if jeongin was flirting with someone for information, hyunjin would walk past and say âhe cries after sex.â he pushed minho into a pool fully clothed and then acted offended when minho dragged him in too. he once locked all of them out of your apartment.
chan also decided one afternoon that he was going to build you a better coffee table. this wouldâve been sweet if it didnât turn into a shirtless, sweat covered, borderline primal competition between him and minho about who could hammer nails harder. at some point they were just aggressively hitting wood while making eye contact. it was erotic.
the mailman has started carrying pepper spray specifically for felix, who got stuck in a tree once. felix, who starts drooling when you wear shorter bottoms through summer.
not only him tho. you bent over to grab a bottle of water from the cooler and every single one of them just froze. men. purely. han always dropped what he was holding, seungminâs muscles actually flexed, chanâs hand tightened so hard on his beer glass the glass cracked, changbin fell, jeonginâs sunglasses slid straight down his nose while he stared open mouthed, minhoâs knife stopped twirling in his fingers and just hung there useless and hyunjin let out this long sigh that ended in a whimper.
yeah but like⌠only the three boyfriends have the privilege to grab a handful whenever they want to. the other five were straight up pathetic because damn they want that cookie bad.
jeongin tried begging on his knees once, literally clasping his hands going âplease just one cheek squeeze iâll be good i swear on my collection of stolen earrings.â hyunjin wrote you an entire serenade about your ass on a napkin and tried to read it aloud until seungmin crumpled it and stuffed it in his mouth. changbin kept flexing his pecs whenever you looked his way like maybe if he got strong enough youâd let him motorboat you. baby, thatâs not why we love you. minho would stare so hard and so long you could feel it like a physical touch. felix just cried real tears one afternoon while hugging your leg until you had to pry him off and tell him to go eat a sandcastle or something.
they kept trying increasingly stupid ways to get your attention without crossing the only han seungmin and chan get to hit that line. jeongin started doing cartwheels in the sand every time you looked his way. changbin carried you around, which was fun tbh. felix kept bringing you gifts from the beach, half a crab shell, a tampon applicator he found, a live jellyfish in his hands until it stung him and he screamed. hyunjinâs tall ass couldnât get off you. minho sharpened every stick he found into a spear.
they once found a really big stick. that was it. that was the event. a massive branch had fallen after a storm and all eight of them were mesmerized by it. because theyâre men. they lost their fucking minds.
they took turns carrying it home. all eight were so excited to get their turns. they brought it home to you.
âlook.â han said breathlessly.
âitâs a stick.â you said.
âitâs a very good stick, y/n.â jeongin bitched around.
you said it was a nice stick. you might have never seen them happier. that stick lived on your balcony for three weeks before someone used it to break a car window.
but wait. what do you think of all this, y/n? god, we never even asked you. like seriously, how do you feel about being the boss of this weird lil murder harem? you absolutely love it. you feel chosen as a person. they listen to you. even when they donât understand. even when it takes three hours and a whiteboard to explain that jealousy is not a bacterial infection. they adjust for you because they want to, because the murder attempt went wrong and now for the first time in their life they feel romantic love. so you make space for them in your heart too.
uuuh what did i start this summer section with? summer comes? yeah, han, seungmin, and chan also do. they âcomeâ lots. get it? come. cum. hahhahaha okay iâll go kill myself iâm sorry.
han will be be balls deep in you on the living room floor, windows open because âfresh air makes it better babe!â and mid thrust heâll stop, look around confused, and go âwait⌠is the ac on? or is that just my balls sweating?â dumb fuck. you have to physically guide his hips back into you sometimes because heâll get lost in his own head thinking about seagulls.
chanâs finally okay with group sex. well, not that heâs the life of the party but not that tense about it. heâll watch seungmin fuck you from behind while heâs got your mouth full, one hand gentle on your cheek, the other fisted in seungminâs hair pulling him closer just to hear you choke. heâll fuck you slow and deep right after han pulls out, sliding into the mess left behind. he doesnât touch the other two directly ever, but heâs fine with them touching you at the same time. progress. his little progress, good job baby girl!! (ruthless psychopath who kills people on a daily basis)
you have one of those bathtubs that are like big, in the corner of the bathroom and have jets. now they love that. han loves underwater handjobs so much heâll beg for them daily. youâll be sitting between his legs in the steaming water, jets blasting against your back, and heâll be whimpering âbabe faster faster the bubbles feel funny!â and moaning like a porn star while you stroke him under the surface.
seungmin still gets the ick hardcore if one of them get too close to him while naked. so heâll sit on the edge of the bathtub fully clothed, watching you three(because han BEGGED chan to come into the water and chan doesnât even care anymore, you could set his garage on fire with him in it and he would be calm as ever but if han was in there heâd save the guy) while han begs âcâmon man just get in! the jets feel like tiny angels massaging my dick! no touching! swear!â no. seungmin stays dry. being in the bath with you? he loves that. itâs not even sexual most of the time. being in the bath with one of those two assholes? ew ew ew.
beach days with them only are worse. or better. depending. han once tried to finger you under the water but he forgot he canât actually see what heâs doing so he ended up rubbing your knee for like five minutes going âwhy isnât this working? is your pussy shy today?â seungmin laughed so hard he almost drowned. chan actually giggled.
okay sex talk over. the beach becomes their natural habitat. i mean all eightâs, seriously, sex talk over. and that is unfortunate for everyone else at the beach.
letâs start with the umbrella. oh my god, the umbrella. you have never seen eight killers so excited about shade in your life. chan reads the instructions. seriously. seungmin ignores the instructions and tries to force it into the sand. minho insists it needs to go deeper. jeongin keeps holding it wrong and getting smacked in the face by the fabric. felix spins it once and almost takes out a child. changbin keeps stabbing the boysâ backs with the pole. han digs a hole for no reason. hyunjin is already lying down in the sand. forty five minutes later, the umbrella stands. they all step back and admire it.
so you sit down on the towels, under the umbrella now that they just built for you.
they stand there. all eight of them. looking at you. waiting. (guys letâs note that they wear no makeup and arenât whitewashed)
âwhat?â you say.
seungmin tosses a bottle of sunscreen into your lap. âapply.â
âyouâre all grown.â
âbut you do it better.â han stomps.
fucking hell. sure.
chan first. stands in front of you like a good boy while you squeeze sunscreen into your palm and press your hands to his neck. you start there, fingers sliding over the muscles there, down to his traps. he hums, eyes half lidded.
âfeels good.â he mutters.
you work down his shoulders, kneading the lotion in circles. pecs firm, nipples hardening in the breeze (or from your fingers, letâs be real), he stands still, trying not to react to the fact that your hands are sliding over him in public.
âturn.â you say.
he does.
you cover his back carefully, fingers dragging down his spine. you kneel slightly to get his legs. god, men and their hairy ass legs. you rub sunscreen down his thighs, over his knees, along his calves. thorough.
when you finish, he leans down and presses a lil kiss to your cheek. âthanks.â
the others are staring. drooling, practically.
seungmin next. he really wanted to go next, so much that he pushed jeongin out of the way. âdonât rush.â he tells you lazily.
you roll your eyes and squeeze more sunscreen out.
his skin is hot. you press your palms to his shoulders and he actually exhales. low. satisfied. he tilts his head slightly when you drag your hands over his collarbones. you move down his chest, spreading the lotion over every inch of muscle. he doesnât look at the others. he looks at you.
always at you.
when you reach his stomach, he makes a quiet, pleased sound.
âshut up.â minho mutters from behind him.
when you reach his cute little v-line, he mutters a âdonât stop thereâ but you do.
you kneel to do his legs and he spreads his legs slightly just to be a whore. you rub sunscreen over his thighs, down his calves, reaching around to get everything.
âspin.â you order, standing up.
he obeys instantly. when your hands move across his back, he leans into it.
you smack his shoulder lightly when he moans. âbehave.â
he just smiles.
okay. you smack seungminâs shoulder when heâs done, using your other hand to motion closer whoeverâs next. itâs hyunjin.
âbe gentle, muse.â he sighs, closing his eyes. you start at his face, cheekbones jawline, lips gently. he moans softly. shoulders next, slim, muscles rolling under your fingers.
as you work the sunscreen down his back, spine straight, ribs visible when he breathes in deep, he leans forward a bit.
âdonât fall asleep.â you warn.
âmight.â he mutters.
you turn him around. his chest is a little little hairy, just the really center of it at the top of his sternum, nipples pink and sensitive, he shivers when you circle them accidentally(or not). cute little tummy lean.
âwrite your name on me.â he whispers. you do, sort of, spelling it out in sunscreen.
arms long and elegant, forearms with veins popping. you kneel to get his legs and he holds onto you, hand resting lightly on your shoulder. you rub the sunscreen in, feeling the light hair under your palms, knees knobby, feet sandy already.
he opens his eyes when youâre done, kisses your forehead. âeternal gratitude.â (WHO does blud think he isđ)
changbinâs up next, been eyeing you the whole time. you start high, lotion on his traps that feel brutal under your hands, moving down to his arms. biceps bulging when you squeeze, forearms thick with veins and hair. he grins down at you, sweet as pie. âthanks. feels nice.â pecs next, huge, firm, holy shit. you spread the lotion over his nipples, and he flexes playfully, making them bounce. âoops.â
âyou got magic hands.â he says when youâre doing his tummy. stomach done, you drop to his legs, thighs brutal, hairy, popping under your touch. he helps by lifting each foot so you can get everything, ticklish apparently because he chuckles a little.
you flick his knee. âstop being cute.â
he giggles. same man that kills for fun btw.
minho stands rigid. arms slightly out. you rub sunscreen over his shoulders and he doesnât react. but when your hands move down his chest, you feel the tension. you cover him thoroughly, efficient.
back next. he doesnât relax, just stands there while you work down to his lower back. arms about average but looks cute on him, forearms smooth, like smooth in no veins, he has hair there of course. same hands that snap bones.
when you kneel for his legs, he swallows. otherwise that he doesnât react much, just a slight nod when youâre done. high praise from him.
jeongin winks as he steps up. âbe gentle.â
you shove his shoulder lightly and start at his face, then shoulders, rubbing in circles while he hums approval.
he arches slightly when you move down his chest. heâs sensitive. chest waxed or something, nipples perky. cute little happy trail faint but there. forearms veiny. legs hairy, thighs strong, so boyish.
âyou missed a spot.â he lies when youâre done, pointing at his crotch.
you smack his arm. itâs so easy to fall into his charm though.
âme next!â felix smiles.
you start with his face first. then skinny little whore neck. you work down his chest, light hair there thatâs so human and so adorable and so damn, and he watches your hands, squirming when your palm runs over his nipples.
freckles scattered all over his slutty little body. so cute. even cuter happy trail, dark leading down. you bite your lip, keep it to yourself, but god itâs adorable on his dumb ass. especially his chest hair, darker compared to his hair(which minho bleaches for him, by the way.)
âthis is nice.â he says when youâre doing his legs.
âmhm. sunscreen.â
âand youâre doing it.â
aw.
âi wonât burn now.â he says when youâre done.
âyou wonât.â
âi like when you take care of us.â
so genuine. so sweet.
âdo my ears.â han says immediately.
âi will.â
your hands are gentler with him. not because you have to be, because you want to be. you start at his neck, he giggles because ticklish, down to muscles that flex under your hands. back wide, nipples sensitive, he whines âbabe that feels weird good.â abs soft, almost not visible but there, stomach warm. arms strong, forearms hairy.
since heâs yours, you slide your hands under his trunks from the back, coating his ass cheeks, just to protect from burns. really, nothing dirty about it, you just know that heâll burn there. plus theyâre round and soft and heheheh.
he squeaks âcold!â but pushes back into your touch.
the others are⌠drooling. seungmin licks his lips. chan bites his. jeongin whistles. minho stares unblinking. hyunjin sighs, changbin audibly swallows. felix tilts his head confused but horny.
when youâre done with his legs, you pull your hand back, patting it on his body a few times so the sunscreen comes off them. âdone.â
han turns around, smiling ear to ear. âthank you.â
when youâre done, eight men stand in front of you. glistening. protected. completely devoted. SO cute.
chan, like the man he is, takes the sunscreen bottle away from you, squirts a generous palmful into his hand, rubs them together once, and then heâs looking at you. âstay still.â
you do. bikini top doing its best to contain the girls, but itâs summer and the fabric is fighting for its life and chan doesnât even blink??? he starts at your shoulders. big hands, strong from fixing engines and snapping necks, spreading sunscreen over your skin. no fumbling. no lingering. down your arms. across your collarbones. your cleavage, the part of your tits that spill out and between them. he rubs it in. slow circles. thumbs brushing the inner curves. knuckles grazing the undersides. the jiggle is obscene. your boobs are bouncing softly with every pass.
and chan is CALM. now thatâs a psycho. zero thirst on his face. zero. heâs so fucking cool. like a responsible adult who happens to be a psychopath with a body count higher than most peopleâs follower count. and heâs not even hard. not visibly. no obvious bulge. no lip bite. no âfuck baby youâre so hotâ growled under his breath.
and not because heâs not attracted. god, heâs SO attracted. but because heâs a man. heâs a man and heâs setting a mature example for the seven other assholes and because he respects you. oh thatâs dada.
oh and about the others. hanâs mouth is wide open. seungmin has his arms crossed so tight his biceps are about to pop. jeongin is biting his fist so hard thereâs actual blood. changbin is just straight up staring, breathing hard. minhoâs eyes are locked on chanâs hands as chan reaches the small of your back, palms running over the curve of your ass for exactly the amount of time it takes to cover skin, then up again. felix has forgotten how to blink and is just staring at your tits. hyunjin, already half dead from hangover, lets out the smallest, most pathetic whimper.
the only sound is the wet schlick of chanâs hands working sunscreen into your body. theyâre intimidated and aroused and they hate him and they look up at him. heâs doing it on purpose. showing them how itâs done. respect tbh.
chan finishes. wipes his hands on his thighs. gives your shoulders one last gentle squeeze. âall covered. donât burn.â
you smile, sweet. nod at him.
then he turns to the boys. the man EVER.
felix looks chan dead in the eyes. âi wanna be you when i grow up.â
the beach itself is horrible because they canât behave for the lives of them. you sit under the umbrella, towel beneath you, sunscreen within reach if they need it again. you watch them. because someone has to.
seungmin and minho are in the water shoving each other within seconds. han runs in without testing the temperature. screams because itâs cold. felix follows but gets distracted halfway by a crab. squats down to talk to it. you hear him say âyou look edible.â hyunjin dies around on the towel next to you. changbin has jeongin on his shoulders in seconds. abusing chan.
and when chan comes back out later? the CURLS on this manâs head. omfg. the water brings them out. oh heâs getting it tonight.
minho nearly drowns jeongin âaccidentally.â when you shout at them(just a loud âBOYS?â god, you hate being loud in public but if it keeps your boys alive then who cares) minho shouts back a âheâs fine.â
jeongin emerges sputtering, hair plastered to his face. âyou tried to kill me.â
felix chases seagulls. youâre ninety percent sure heâs considering eating one. you make eye contact from under the umbrella. he gives you a thumbs up. concerning.
changbin brings a football, which is a mistake, because now theyâre tackling each other in the sand. chan lifts seungmin clean off the ground. han gets hit in the face with the ball. jeongin falls every time someone breathes near him. minho kicks the ball back when it goes in his direction but heâs watching felix try to catch a seagull with breadcrumbs.
at some point han presses a seashell into your palm. âfor you.â you smile at him. kiss his cheek. proudest boyfriend ever. behind him minho is floating on his back like a corpse, eyes open, staring at the sky.
they can dismember someone without a single emotional reaction but give them a beach ball and they lose their minds.
right now youâre watching felix whoâs on all fours, enthusiastically shoveling wet sand into his mouth with both hands.
hyunjin is dying next to you.
heâs flat on his back on the towel, one arm flung over his eyes, the other clutching a half empty water bottle. heâs pale, sweaty, miserable. the hangover is biblical.
you lean over him, hair falling forward, voice soft. âare you okay, honey?â
he uncovers one eye. looks up at you in the bikini top, sunlight haloing you. his breath catches. âyeah⌠iâm okay.â
you trail your fingers down, lightly over his collarbone, across his chest, just soothing. his chest is skinny compared to the others. maybe the same size as felix. lean. tense under your touch. you do slow, soothing circles around his ribs, down the faint line of hair under his navel. he shivers hard. goosebumps everywhere despite the heat.
âyouâre burning up.â you murmur.
his breathing gets uneven. you can see the exact moment his cock starts to thicken under the loose swim trunks. he tenses, glances down, then quickly rolls onto his stomach with a groan thatâs half pain, half pleasure.
âsorry.â he mumbles into the towel. âfuck. embarrassing.â
you donât stop touching him. just slide your hand up his back now, nails dragging lightly over his spine. âitâs natural, hyunjin.â
he hums. youâre right. god, you just always understand them. you never judge, you know whatâs natural and whatâs not. that means a lot to him.
âyou need more water?â you ask.
âi need to be put down.â
you laugh, nails resuming their slow path up and down his spine. he shivers violently. hips shift once, tiny grind into the sand, then freeze.
out in the water, felix is now trying to eat a jellyfish. han is yelling âno! bad!â while jeongin is recording it. god, heâs gonna drop his phone in the water. changbin is rescuing a kidâs beach ball that drifted too far. minho is still floating like a corpse. chan is walking next to the water, about to help han take the jellyfish out of felixâs mouth, curls dripping, eyes locked on you from fifty yards away. tonight is gonna be brutal.
and seungmin is coming back towards you and hyunjin. he drops to one knee beside the umbrella, water still running off him, reaches down, gives your ass a firm, cheeky smack that echoes, then drops onto the towel beside hyunjin with a grunt.
âhe looks like death.â seungmin says, nodding at hyunjin. âyou finally drink yourself into the grave?â
hyunjin doesnât lift his head. voice muffled. âif only.â
seungmin huffs, leans back on his elbows, legs stretched out but making sure one of them is touching you. âyouâre missing the show out there. earlier the lifeguard thought han drowned. felix is⌠shit, i think heâs eating sand again.â
âhm. iâm fine.â you say, running your nails over the back of hyunjinâs neck now. heâs seeing heaven. he sighs under your hand.
hours later, youâre still at the beach. the sun is lower now. youâre still on the towels, and so are they now. the day absolutely exhausted them. which is impressive, considering half of them have the stamina of apex predators.
han is asleep on you. fully asleep. face smushed into your stomach, hugging your body, drooling onto your bikini bottoms in a little spot. his curls are crunchy with dried water and sand, sticking up in every direction. youâre absently running your fingers through them, untangling little knots, and he sighs in his sleep.
felix is curled into hyunjinâs side a few feet away, knees pulled up, face buried in hyunjinâs skinny chest. heâs whining, soft, pathetic little âow ow owâ sounds every time he shifts. itâs because of his earlier sand eating before chan calmly walked him away from people, stuck two fingers down his throat, and made him puke it all up. felix came back crying, sand still in his teeth, but now heâs just clingy and miserable.
âmy tummy feels crunchy.â
âthatâs because you ate the beach.â hyunjin mutters, exhausted, but his hand is moving gently up and down felixâs back. slow. soothing.
meanwhile on your other side, chan is absolutely demolishing hotdogs. just stacking them. one after the other. youâre pretty sure this is his seventh.
âare you even chewing?â changbin asks.
âyes.â
he is not chewing.
seungmin is next to him, trying to stack empty hotdog trays into a tower.
thatâs the peaceful side of it. but behind the row of food stalls some dipshit made the fatal mistake of staring at you for too long. not just a glance. full on, mouth open, sunglasses sliding down his nose, licking his lips like he was about to approach. jeongin noticed first. nudged minho. minho grabbed the guy by the throat, slammed him against the back of some stand so hard the metal rattled just so that jeongin could stab the guy. stomach, then went back in, again, again, stabbing the guy to shreds. they dropped the body in a dumpster.
now theyâre walking up the sand toward the umbrella, casual as fuck. jeonginâs licking salt off his fingers. minhoâs wiping his knife on his swim trunks.
you see the blood speck on jeonginâs cheek. your stomach drops. âreally?â you say.
they freeze.
jeongin tries the grin. âbabeââ
âthis is a beach.â you hiss.
âtechnically behind the stalls.â jeongin corrects.
han stirs slightly against you.
you lower your voice. âwe talked about this.â
minho crosses his arms. âit was quick.â
âi donât care if it was quick.â
âno one saw.â jeongin insists.
âthatâs not the point.â
they blink at you. it absolutely is the point to them.
you sit up slightly, adjusting han so he doesnât fall off you. âpack up.â
silence. chan stops mid bite. seungmin looks over slowly. changbin freezes with a hotdog tray in hand. felix peeks up weakly from hyunjinâs side.
âwhat?â jeongin says.
âpack up.â you repeat.
minhoâs stomps. itâs brutally cute for the creepiest guy on the beach. âseriously?â
âyes. if you canât not kill people while weâre at the beach, weâre leaving.â
collective groan. eight grown men.
ây/n nooooo.â felix whines, clutching his stomach.
chan looks between you and the remaining hotdogs. calculating risk. is he gonna say no to his angelic girlfriend? does he want to die?
âweâre not leaving because of that.â jeongin argues.
âwe are.â you stand up carefully, shifting han into chanâs arms, who catches him. âweâre done for today.â
more whining. actual whining. minho drags a hand down his face. âyouâre being dramatic.â
âam i?â
âyes.â
you stare at him.
he holds your gaze.
you donât blink.
seungmin snorts quietly.
minho sighs first. ââŚfine.â
âthank you.â
jeongin throws his hands up.
âstart packing.â
changbin immediately begins folding towels because heâs the only one with functional conflict resolution skills. chan sets han down gently and starts gathering bags, one hand still putting the leftover hotdogs in his mouth. itâs unbearably hilarious because that is such a man thing to do but youâre mad now. heâll get sucked off later. anyways. hyunjin helps felix sit up. seungmin kicks over the hotdog tray tower.
you point at him. âdonât.â
he raises his hands innocently.
jeongin stomps while shoving things into a cooler.
han wakes up halfway through packing and tries to help by holding one flip flop for five straight minutes.
âwhat are you doing, baby?â you ask.
âhelping.â
chan gently takes the flip flop from him.
you herd them toward the parking lot. youâre so done. ânext time, no killing near me. weâve talked about this hundreds of times, and if you canât follow it, this is what you get.â
ânear?â jeongin mutters.
you stop walking.
he immediately shuts up.
felix tugs lightly on your sleeve. âiâm sorry i ate the beach.â
you sigh. âitâs okay.â
and like⌠han technically has his own place. no one really knows how. he has an apartment. keys. furniture. a fridge that sometimes contains food and sometimes contains nothing but a single lemon and three energy drinks. how he maintains it? mystery. how he remembers to pay rent? conspiracy. how it hasnât burned down? fuck knows. he still sleeps at your place almost every night.
seungmin sleeps over a lot too. less clingy about it, but consistent. he wonât say he prefers your place, but he absolutely does.
chan sleeps over less, not because he doesnât want to, because he works early. because heâs responsible. but he does stay sometimes.
this was just a quick clear up to help you understand better whatâs coming next. right now, youâre in changbinâs car. still the same day after the beach when you made them pack tf up. backseat. because felix begged for you to go in the same car he does. so here you are. felix on one side of you, han on the other because he didnât want to go without you. hyunjin is in the passenger seat looking like death reheated. changbin is driving.
âplease please please let felix sleep over.â han is saying to you for the fifth time.
hyunjin makes a noise.
âwindow.â changbin says gently to him. âlook out the window. breathe.â
hyunjin presses his forehead to the glass.
âbreathe.â changbin repeats softly. âin through your nose.â
all while han clings to your arm. âplease. please let him sleep over. he wonât eat anything weird.â
felix leans closer. âi will not consume household items.â
âyou consumed terrain today.â
hyunjin gags quietly.
changbin rubs his back one handed at a stoplight. âyouâre fine. itâll pass.â
âi saw god.â hyunjin whispers.
âfocus on the trees.â
âplease let him sleep over.â
you pinch the bridge of your nose.
âplease.â han whispers into your ear.
you look at felix. felix looks back with the most hopeful, empty brained expression youâve ever seen.
you cave. âfine.â
han gasps. grabs your face and kisses you hard, sand and all. âthank you thank you thank you.â
felix claps softly. âi will behave.â
hyunjin turns slowly in his seat. âhelp.â
changbin pats his arm gently. âalmost home.â
you look at the other two. âyou guys want to sleep over too?â han is wrapped around you as you ask by the way.
changbin smiles softly. âwe have to be up early.â
hyunjin nods weakly. âmhm.â
âokay. next time.â you say.
changbin nods. ânext time.â
hyunjin closes his eyes. âiâm going to throw up.â
âwindow.â changbin says gently.
when you get home, the others are already there because seungmin drives like a fucking maniac. minho, chan and jeongin get out of the car after seungmin slammed the door so hard the car almost tipped over. seungmin immediately walks over to you.
âhow many are we keeping?â he asks casually.
âfelix is sleeping over.â
âminho can stay too, right?â
âsure.â
and thatâs it.
minho gives you an unsettling little smile. the effort is adorable. (serial killer)
jeongin looks at the sky. âfinally someone who appreciates me.â
âi do not.â chan says calmly.
they leave. chan is not getting pussy tonight then like you planned, but anyways. changbin and hyunjin head off with tired waves.
so. now itâs the two og boyfriends, the cannibal and the creepy one at your place. and you, of course.
minho gently gets his shoes off. god, he can remember clearly when they first came in all unwanted. good old times.
âwhereâs the bathroom?â felix asks. heâs been here at least fifty times.
âleft.â you say.
he turns right. walks into a closet. comes back out.
you stare at him.
han is watching the other two do shit, so shirtless and so still in his swim trunks. he probably wonât change at all unless you tell him to.
minho and seungmin go into your kitchen. you hear drawers opening.
âif you break somethingââ you start.
âwe wonât.â
you immediately hear a knife block clatter.
ââŚthat wasnât me.â
felix comes back. âi found it.â
âfound what?â
âthe bathroom.â
âgreat.â
he stands there. waiting.
ââŚare you going to use it.â
âoh.â
he disappears again.
so. eventually you start to make food.
âiâm hungry.â han says from the floor. heâs sitting there, leaning against your legs.
âfood is happening.â
âi love when you cook.â
âthank you.â
seungmin is leaning against the counter, flipping a knife between his fingers in a way that absolutely should not be attractive but unfortunately is. âwhat are you making?â
âthat shrimp pasta you guys like.â
all while minho stands too close. âyou smell like sunscreen.â
âthank you.â
ânot a compliment.â
âiâm choosing to take it as one.â
he watches you flip the shrimp around in the pan.
felix comes back in. âi washed my hands.â
âwith soap?â
âyes.â
âboth hands?â
âyes.â
âleft and right too?â
he freezes. stares at both hands. you watch the gears turn. slowly. painfully.
minho from behind you: âhe doesnât know left and right but somehow he knows the exact date i lost my virginity.â
felix points immediately at minho. â2021 august 14th.â
âcan i have some?â han asks you before you can even process the conversation that just went down behind you.
âitâs not done.â
âbut when itâs done.â
âyes.â
âpromise?â
you look down at him. heâs looking up at you with the prettiest eyes youâve ever seen on a serial killer. âyes, love.â
âokay. i love you.â
âi know.â
âhow do you tell left and right?â felix asks.
seungmin just⌠looks at him. âyouâre fucking with us.â
âno.â felix says seriously. âhow do you tell.â
and this bullshit goes on until youâre finished with the food.
âplates.â you say, putting the wooden spoon aside.
they stare.
âplates.â you repeat.
han grabs two. seungmin grabs forks. minho grabs three more plates because han is a dumb little bitch. felix tries to grab a knife and you smack his hand lightly.
they eat fast. aggressive. hungry. whatever you can see into brutal psychos who spent their entire days on the beach. you lean against the counter watching them. theyâre loud. dangerous. thereâs dried salt still in their hair. sand on their ankles. small scratches from whatever stupid shit they did earlier. and they look comfortable. so adorable.
by the time theyâre finished, felix is sprawled halfway off his chair.
âi feel better.â he announces.
âbecause you stopped eating sand.â minho mutters.
theyâre fullđĽşđĽşđĽştheir little tummies full of shrimp and pastađĽşđĽşđĽşbecause you fed themđĽşđĽşđĽşand they justđĽşđĽşđĽşateđĽşđĽşđĽşthey were swimming in human guts just a few days agođĽşđĽşđĽş
you lean down and kiss the top of felixâs head. âgoodnight.â
he smiles sleepily. âyouâre nice.â
minho stiffens when you approach. then you kiss the top of his head too. he freezes. completely.
âgoodnight.â you say softly.
he doesnât answer, but his ears turn slightly red. or face. or fucks knows how menâs blushing system works.
you have a hand on seungminâs shoulder to press a quick kiss to his temple. his face stays neutral but his hand slides around your waist when you pass.
han looks up at you with sleepy eyes the moment you touch his bare shoulder. his skin feels nice. âbed?â
âbed.â
you kiss his head.
he grabs your wrist instantly. âiâm coming.â
âokay.â
letâs note that he begged you to let felix sleep over today. even with his friend here, he chooses to sleep with you. and sure enough the moment you turn toward your bedroom, he scrambles up and follows. looks like the other two are up to seungmin for tonight.
felix mumbles to them: âwhich oneâs left again?â
minho pinches the bridge of his nose. âhow are you alive.â
and what do you wake up to the next day? your phone ringing. you groan and blindly slap at your nightstand, knocking over something glass in the process. you donât care. the phone keeps ringing. unfortunately, han is currently on top of you. on you. full body weight. his face smashed into your neck. drooling. you feel a warm line of it sliding down your collarbone.
âhan. baby.â you croak.
he makes a sleepy noise. your phone keeps vibrating against the wood. you squint at it through half open eyes, finally grabbing it and dragging it toward your face.
changbin. immediately concerning. he doesnât usually call this early, he knows youâre asleep.
you pick up. âwhat.â
âhey.â he says. âsorry to wake you.â
âno problem.â you mumble. âwhatâs up?â
you glance down at the human crushing your lungs. han snores louder. also in the background of the call, you hear movement. something clattering. then: ây/n.â itâs faint. whiny. pained.
ââŚwas that hyunjin?â you ask slowly.
âyeah.â changbin says.
ây/nnnâŚâ god. he sounds miserable.
you sit up slightly. han slides with you and immediately tightens his dumb little grip.
âdonât move.â he mumbles into your neck.
âi have to move.â
âno.â
âhan.â
âno.â
on the phone, changbin sighs. âhyunjin got hurt.â
your brain wakes the fuck up. âwhat?â
ây/nnnâŚâ
jesus christ.
âwhat happened?â you ask.
âwell, he got a knife to the armââ
âa knife?â you shove the blankets off and try to stand, which would be easier if han wasnât clinging to you. because now heâs awake enough to realize youâre leaving. which he hates.
âwhere go?â he mumbles, grabbing your waist. his hair is sticking up everywhere. his cheek is imprinted with your shirt.
you attempt to untangle him while still holding the phone.
changbin keeps talking to you. âyou see, he would be fine and i really didnât want to wake you, butââ something clatters. âjeez, man. calm down.â he whispers to hyunjin, then back to the phone: âhe really wants you here, y/n.â
âiâm coming. obviously.â you drag yourself upright. han ends up half hanging off your side, face smushed into your shoulder. âsend me the address.â you tell changbin, kicking han off already stumbling toward your dresser.
âsure.â he says. âitâs not bad, heâs justââ in the background, hyunjin whines again. ââbeing dramatic.â
youâre already yanking open drawers. shirt. pants.
han starts hitting the bed with his cute little fists. âstay.â
âi canât stay. hyunjin got stabbed.â
âbut stay.â all while heâs hard, by the way. morning wood. lightly grabbing at himself too to relieve some of it, though itâs unconscious, heâs still too tired to realize heâs doing it. âwhere you going?â
âto help hyunjin.â
âi help.â
âno you donât.â
ây/n help.â
you ignore him. talk into the phone again. âiâll call you back, alright?â
changbin hums. you can hear a faint ây/n.â from the phone before you hang up, now listening to han talk bout some âtell him i said hi.â
your phone buzzes. the address. and a text too.
changbin: please hurry.
great!
âtake me.â han whines.
âiâll call you.â you promise, which works because han believes promises. plus you donât usually lie to him.
you step into the hallway, and immediately hear: âhold still.â
âi am holding still.â
âno youâre not.â
you round the corner into the kitchen and stop dead. minho is lying shirtless on your kitchen counter. arms folded behind his head and allat while felix is standing next to him, holding a brutally large knife.
âwanna play doctor?â felix asks.
minho shrugs. âsure.â
felix looks up at you as he notices that you came in. smiles ear to ear. âgood morning.â
minho doesnât move. âmorning.â
seungmin is there too, leaning back in a chair, one leg stretched out, scrolling on his phone. ts is completely normal to them.
you point at the knife. âwhy does he have that.â
seungmin glances up briefly. âhe found it.â
felix looks back at minho thoughtfully. or thoughtlessly. âi could remove something.â
minho smirks. âtry.â
you move fast. like fast fast. because the exact moment you step forward, felix raises the knife slightly and angles it toward minhoâs stomach. the knife stops an inch above skin.
felix blinks down at your hand as you hold his wrist. ââŚhi.â
minho sighs. âcoward.â
you yank the knife out of felixâs hand. itâs heavy. absurdly heavy. âwhere did you even get this?â
felix shrugs. âdrawer.â
you stare at the knife.
you do not own this knife.
you are absolutely sure you do not own this knife.
âno more doctor.â you say, shoving the knife into seungminâs hand. i mean, the handle. you donât stab him. he catches it without looking, still scrolling. âhold this.â
âwhy.â
âbecause felix was about to perform surgery on minho.â youâre telling me he wasnât paying attention to that at all?
seungmin finally looks up. looks at the knife in his hand. looks at felix. looks at minho, who is still shirtless on the counter. ââŚtempting.â
felix smiles. âsee?â
âNO.â
you lean down and press a quick kiss to seungminâs cheek. you usually do that before you leave. itâs automatic now.
âwhere are you going?â he asks.
âhyunjin got stabbed.â
âbad?â
âknife to the arm apparently.â
âcall if itâs serious.â
âi will.â
he nods once. you try to step away but he tugs you closer and kisses you properly this time, slow, manly. âdrive safe.â he murmurs.
behind you, felix is still looking at the empty space where the knife used to be. ââŚwe were gonna do doctor stuff.â
minho sighs from the counter. âruined my morning.â
seungmin lazily spins the knife in his hand while you pull away. âyou two are fucking idiots.â
âyouâre just jealous you didnât think of it first.â minho says.
âif i wanted to stab you i wouldnât call it a game.â
normally youâd worry about where youâre parking, whether youâll have to come back later, whether youâll be stuck without a ride. normal adult shi. that version of you died the day you started caring about eight violent lunatics. theyâre somehow your responsibility now tbh. so you just leave the four assholes back at your place and you drive.
knife to the arm. which technically isnât life threatening, but with these idiots that could mean anything from âtiny scratchâ to âhe removed half his bicep and forgot.â and hyunjin was whining for you. he really was.
you pull up to the address changbin texted and spot his car immediately. the one everyoneâs so jealous of. that huge expensive ass black car. heated cupholders type shi and anything else you can think of.
you donât even bother parking properly. you just slide your car halfway into a spot and hop out. if it gets towed, it gets towed. priorities.
changbin is leaning against the passenger door when you approach, arms crossed. he straightens immediately when he sees you. âhey.â he says.
âhi, sweetie. how bad?â you ask, already moving toward the back seat because hyunjin is currently banging on the window of it.
he shrugs. ânot terrible. he just⌠wanted you.â
you open the back door. hyunjin is dying around. sprawled across the backseat, head is lolling against the seat. hair a mess. shirt half open. one arm wrapped in a quickly tied bandage thatâs already spotted with blood.
ây/n.â he whines the second he sees you.
oh my god. you climb in beside him immediately. âiâm here.â you say, reaching for his injured arm to look at it.
he immediately leans toward you. his head tips. straight between your tits. (guys your chest size doesnât really matter here. if itâs small then his forehead knocks your sternum, if the girls are big then his face is on them, what matters here is that heâs all in there) nice try, man.
you pause. he just groans softly and shifts closer. âit hurts.â he murmurs into you.
changbin closes the door and moves around to the driverâs seat, already starting the car again. âheâs been like that for hours.â he says over the seat.
you gently push hyunjinâs head back just enough to actually see his face. his eyes are glassy. tired. definitely milking this situation at least a little.
âlet me see the arm.â you say.
he sighs. lifts it. the bandage is messy but functional. the cut underneath is probably deep but not catastrophic. poor baby. (bitch he took lives he deserves it)
hyunjin slowly lets his head fall sideways again. directly back into your chest.
you sigh. âbabe.â
no response from him. just another faint, miserable ây/nâŚâ as he rolls his face slightly, getting comfortable. unbelievable. somehow manages to bury his face deeper into your chest.
you stare at the roof of the car.
changbin finally loses the battle and laughs under his breath. mind you there is BLOOD EVERYWHERE. youâre swimming in it. and heâs laughing at you.
âhow the fuck did this happen?â you ask, trying to peel back enough cloth to see the cut.
âknife slipped.â changbin says.
âslipped.â
âyeah.â the car goes through traffic smoothly. itâs hot that changbin can drive this good. âweâre going to our place.â
ây/nnnâŚâ
âiâm here, hyunjin.â
âit hurts.â
âi know.â
âi might die.â
âyou are not dying.â
âi might.â his breath is warm against your skin. his voice softer now, the drama fading just a little because youâre actually there holding him together. itâs⌠weirdly intimate.
blood smears onto your wrist. somehow a drop ends up near your ear when he shifts again. then your phone buzzes in your pocket. you juggle the bandage with one hand and fish it out with the other. a message.
han: i want baby
you stare at the screen.
han: wher you
you: in changbinâs car. iâll be back soon
han: ok
âthanks for coming.â hyunjin murmurs into your chest.
you sigh. âanytime.â
the engine shuts off. for a second everything goes quiet except for hyunjinâs weak little dying noises.
âweâre here.â changbin says.
âfinally.â hyunjin mutters. you look down at him. blood is still slowly soaking the bandage. your hands are sticky. your sleeve is ruined. thereâs probably still a drop somewhere near your ass crack. great.
âokay.â you say, trying to shift him upright. âletâs get you inside.â
âdonât move me.â
changbin opens the back door. âalright. i got him.â
you scoot aside to give him room. and changbin just⌠picks hyunjin up. not like awkwardly hauling him. not struggling. not even grunting.
holy shit. oh. okay. hello. you didnât realize he was like this. hyunjin is a full grown man. not tiny. not light. and changbin is just standing there holding him. literally no effort. damn. like damn.
your lip almost catches between your teeth before you finally look back at hyunjin and realize heâs still bleeding. right. yes. medical emergency. blood. dying man. you slam the door and hurry around the car.
the lobby of the building alone makes you pause. shiny ass floors. clean modern lighting. plants that are definitely real and definitely expensive. fuck yeah. of course they fucking live here. and the elevator ride is quiet except for hyunjin occasionally making little miserable noises.
changbin doesnât even look tired. you keep staring at his arms every few seconds and then aggressively reminding yourself this is not the time to admire muscles.
elevator dings. the doors open. changbin walks straight down the hall, looks like heâs done this exact route a hundred times. he unlocks the apartment door with one hand.
holy shit. their place is gorgeous. brutally well designed. you are SO jealous. SO. even with hyunjin redesigning your apartment hundreds of times, turning out better each time, this is still just so⌠them. and oh my god the windows are huge. thereâs art on the walls. actual art. plants that look healthy in this economy?? a couch thatâs not cut into two by jeongin??? wow that lamp is gorgeous. is that marble. holy shit that kitchen islandâ
Y/N FOCUS HYUNJIN IS BLEEDING.
right. yes. you watch changbin carry him straight to the living room and gently lower him onto the couch.
ââŚhome.â hyunjin murmurs.
you sigh. this bitch. âdo yâall have anything we can take care of him with?â
hyunjin weakly gestures toward the hallway. âbathroom cabinet.â he says. then his head tips back dramatically. âif i pass awayââ
âshut up.â you and changbin say at the same time.
you hurry toward the bathroom while muttering under your breath. the bathroom is just as brutal. fancy tile. you look hot af in the lighting. you throw open a few cabinets until you find a kit youâre sure yâall can work with. you grab it and hurry back.
hyunjin is still lying on the couch. one arm draped over his eyes now. changbin is sitting on the edge of the coffee table watching him.
you drop the supplies on the table and point at hyunjin. âsit up.â
he groans. âiâm weak.â but he slowly pushes himself upright anyway with a long sigh. he looks at you with tired eyes. âbe gentle.â
âbe quiet.â you murmur, but caress his hair a little anyway. because you love him. you find⌠ooh, some scissors in the kit. so you snip the bandage open.
itâs not pretty. thereâs a long slice across his upper arm, deep enough to really bleed but not deep enough to actually destroy anything important. messy, though.
ââŚam i dying.â hyunjin asks weakly, watching your face.
âno.â you say.
âare you sure?â
âvery sure.â
changbin leans over beside you, already rolling up his sleeves. WOOOOF WOOF WOOF. âwe need to clean it.â he says calmly. and he just⌠takes over.
you glance at him. and immediately have to look away again. because wow. changbin taking care of a wound? changbin leaning over someone with his sleeves rolled up, hands so sure? girl are you ovulating or something.
changbin pours antiseptic over the wound. hyunjin hisses out a soft little âfuck.â while changbinâs hand presses firmly against hyunjinâs arm, keeping it still while he cleans the cut.
you help by holding the gauze and dabbing away the blood while he works. wipe. press. clean. bandage. the whole time hyunjin keeps glancing between you.
âyou two make a good team.â he says weakly.
you just smile at hyunjin.
âyes we do. hold this.â changbin says to you, handing you a pad of clean gauze.
you press it against the wound while he prepares shi for the stitching.
hyunjin looks down at you. his eyes are a little hazy from blood loss and exhaustion, but thereâs something soft there too. something that is always there for you and wasnât before he met you. love. his little brain actually activating chemistry and a feeling. âyou came fast.â he says.
âof course i did, babe. i would always for you.â
âthis might hurt.â changbin says meanwhile.
âeverything hurts.â hyunjin replies tragically. âmore than usual.â
âgreat.â
the first stitch goes in.
hyunjin sucks in a sharp breath and grabs the couch cushion with his good hand. âfuck.â
âalmost done.â changbin says calmly. he just started. this is actually fucking hilarious.
the whole thing is⌠weirdly intimate. like between the three of you now. blood on your hands. changbin carefully stitching. hyunjin leaning against you.
changbin finishes the last stitch and ties it off neatly. âthere.â he says.
you both step back slightly to look at the result.
âsee?â you say. ânot dying.â
hyunjin looks down at his arm. then up at you. âdisappointing.â
changbin laughs quietly. âyouâll live.â
hyunjin sighs dramatically and sinks back into the couch cushions. ââŚit still hurts.â
âyeah, love.â you say. âthatâs how injuries work.â
changbin gathers the bloody gauze and cleans up. goes away to put this and that into the trash. washes his hands. whatnot. being a responsible guy. âyou should sleep.â he says when he comes back.
âdonât want to move.â hyunjin mutters.
âtoo bad.â
hyunjin looks at you.
you point. âup.â
he sighs dramatically but eventually pushes himself upright. he sways slightly.
âhyunjin, youâre not actually that dizzy.â you mutter.
you and changbin walk him down the hallway anyway. heâs just being dramatic.
halfway down, changbin nudges your shoulder lightly and points at a door. âmine.â he says.
âsweet.â you say.
hyunjin mutters something before pushing his door open. and holy shit. now thatâs a bedroom. this man has taste. the lighting is soft and warm. the bed is huge, low, dark wood frame. white sheets n all. thereâs art on the walls again. he must have made it. the windows are also massive, curtains half drawn so city light spills across the floor in that dramatic way thatâs so fucking cool man. wow. what wouldnât you like to do in here.
Y/N. NO. BAD. STOP.
focus.
hyunjin collapses onto the bed with a relieved groan. âfuck.â
changbin helps him shift back against the pillows so his injured arm stays safe.
âthis bed is good.â hyunjin murmurs.
âyou designed the whole apartment.â changbin says.
âmhm.â
you sit on the edge of the bed. hyunjin immediately relaxes further just from you being there.
âdonât go yet.â he mutters.
âiâm not going.â
âpromise.â
âi promise.â
you and changbin talk, both of you sitting next to the currently falling asleep hyunjin. just random shit. quiet conversation. stories. you talk about the cut and that you had a similar one once. changbin talks about how hyunjin insisted on finishing the job before anyone looked at his arm. you mention how your morning started with surgery. hyunjin is listening to all of this. heâs not talking much anymore. just lying there, eyes drifting shut, breathing slow. eventually his head shifts toward you. heâs asleep now.
the quiet is⌠nice.
ââŚhe doesnât drool. han does.â you whisper.
changbin glances down. sure enough, hyunjin looks like a fucking angel even asleep. âhm. he drooled on me back when we didnât know each other that well yet. slept on my shoulder.â
âstill.â
âstill.â
you both fall quiet again.
âhe scared me.â you admit. voice barely above a whisper. âwhen the blood just kept coming. i thought something was really wrong. but you were calm. then i knew there was nothing to worry about.â
he smiles. gentle for a psycho. âthanks.â
you smile.
he turns toward you a little more. elbow on his knee. studying your face in the lamplight. âyou okay?â
âi am.â
he reaches out. slow. careful. cups the side of your face with one massive hand. thumb brushes your skin. âiâm glad.â
and then, slowly, he leans in.
closes the distance.
finally.
itâs a real kiss too. not some shy little peck. his mouth is warm. the skin itself is soft but he moves the muscle firmly. his other hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wants it. you make a small, surprised sound against his lips. he swallows it. deepens the kiss.
you shift. climb onto his lap without really thinking about it. knees bracketing his hips. his hands immediately slide to your waist, big, steady. he shifts back against the headboard as you lean into him.
the kiss deepens. messy, physical, hot.
your knee presses into the mattress near his hip, your body halfway on top of him while he tilts his head to kiss you again. somewhere beside you, hyunjin hums softly in his sleep and rolls slightly. neither of you stops.
teeth catch your bottom lip. tug. release. then his tongue is in your mouth, deep. stroking. fucking your mouth slow and filthy while his hand slides under your shirt. his other hand slides down to grip your ass hard. fingers sinking into soft flesh.
pulls you down onto him again and again, dry humping you right there on top of him like hyunjin isnât right there. like he wants to crawl inside your skin. like he wants to eat you alive.
âbro i heard what happenedââ chanâs voice cuts off mid sentence. the doors hyunjin made changbin install are so good that you two didnât even hear it opening. âare youââ
silence.
you and changbin both freeze. slowly, very slowly, you turn your heads.
chan is standing in the doorway. one hand still on the door. looking directly at the two of you. you half lying on top of changbin. changbinâs hand still on your ass. your mouths about two inches apart.
the room goes very quiet.
nobody moves.
chan just stares at you both for a second.
hyunjin turns in his sleep.
chanâs expression is⌠not shocked exactly. more like ah. okay.
ââŚam i interrupting?â he asks calmly.
no one answers.
hyunjin takes a weird little breath in his sleep. the three of you all glance at him automatically. still asleep. still not drooling.
chan exhales slowly through his nose. âgood. heâs alive.â then he looks back at you and changbin again. ââŚso. should i come back later?â
changbin finally clears his throat. âprobably.â
another pause.
chan gestures toward the bed. âokay. you gonna keep doing that next to him orâŚ?â
you finally sit up a little. ââŚmaybe.â
chan considers that. ârespect.â
little more silence.
ââŚokay.â chan says finally. starts digging in his work pantsâ pockets and casually tosses a small box onto the bed. it lands near hyunjinâs leg. âbrought him chocolates.â
you slowly sit up. changbin clears his throat once but otherwise doesnât react much either.
chan walks further into the room, completely chill about the entire thing. âhow bad is it?â he asks, nodding toward hyunjinâs bandaged arm.
âheâll live.â you say.
âhm.â he stops beside the bed and leans down slightly to press a quick kiss to your cheek. his hand slides briefly along your lower back when he does it before pulling away again. âtell him i came by.â
you nod. âi will.â
he glances once more between you and changbin. âcarry on.â he adds dryly.
then he turns and walks out of the room. the door closes behind him.
silence.
hyunjin hums again.
ââŚhe took that well.â changbin murmurs.
âhe always does.â you say.
âiâm starting to notice.â
his hand slides up your side again. silence.
âso.â he says quietly.
âso.â you reply.
so what? so you lean down and kiss him again. this one is slower. now both of you know the rhythm of each otherâs mouths. his other hand comes up to your neck again, thumb brushing lightly under your jaw while he tilts his head to deepen the kiss.
you shift further onto the bed without thinking, one knee pressing into the mattress beside his hip. also besides hyunjinâs cut arm but whatevs.
changbin exhales softly against your mouth, one hand sliding along your back slowly. feeling you up, but not sexually. though you two could easily go down with that too if neither of you had anywhere to be. which is exactly why he pulls back slightly.
ââŚi have to go to work.â he says.
you groan immediately. âseriously?â
âseriously.â
âafter that?â
âafter that.â
you sit back on the bed with a sigh.
he laughs quietly and pushes himself up from the pillows. âi have a client in an hour.â
you swing your legs off the side of the bed. âi told han iâd come home anyway.â
you pull your phone out of your pocket to check the time, though you also meet with multiple messages from seungmin.
a photo. itâs clearly taken from the passenger seat of your car, in the driverâs seat, jeongin. one hand on the wheel.
seungmin: we got your car dw
seungmin: itâs at chanâs garage now
seungmin: we had to break in
ââŚwhat the fuck is wrong with them.â
changbin looks over your shoulder at the photo and immediately starts giggling. âthey broke into your car?â
âapparently.â
âwhy?â
âi donât fucking know.â
you: WHY WERE YOU IN MY CAR
seungmin: keys werenât there
you: BECAUSE I WAS USING THEM
seungmin: problem solved now
ââŚwalk home it is.â you murmur.
he chuckles and stands. âiâll drive you halfway if you want.â
âno, itâs fine.â
âyou sure?â
âyeah. i need it anyway. you guys been driving me everywhere, canât let myself go spoiled.â
you make it almost all the way to the front door. almost. changbin grabs his keys from the little table near the entrance. you lean against the wall for a second while he slips his jacket on, both of you clearly doing that thing where you should leave but neither of you is actually committing to the motion yet.
âyouâll text me when you get home?â he asks.
âyeah.â
âgood.â
you kiss him goodbye. simple. quick. soft.
and then you pull back. âokay.â you say. âi shouldââ
he nods. âyeah.â
you both stand there for half a second.
then you kiss again.
this one lasts longer. his hand slides up your arm, thumb brushing your shoulder while your fingers catch lightly in the front of his shirt.
when you pull away again you both laugh under your breath.
âseriously.â you say.
âseriously.â
you reach for the door.
and then somehow youâre kissing again. neither of you even remembers who started that one.
your back bumps lightly against the wall near the door, his hand coming up to your jaw as he leans in, the kiss slower this time. warmer. just a little too long. head moving with it and all.
when you finally break it, you both exhale.
âokay.â he says, slightly breathless.
âokay.â
you take two steps toward the door.
and then he touches your arm again. you turn. aaaand yeah, another kiss.
when you finally stop, you both kind of just⌠stand there for a second. smiling slightly. breathing.
and changbin feels weird. really weird. not bad weird. just new. his heart is beating faster than it should be for something as simple as standing in his own apartment hallway. thereâs this weird energy under his skin, like adrenaline but not the kind he gets from violence. this is different. heâs very aware of you. the warmth where you were leaning against him, the scent of you, the way your laugh sounded just now.
it hits him in small waves. this rush. his body reacting but fucked up little brain unable to label the feeling.
heâs spent most of his life operating in a pretty controlled emotional range. calm, practical, detached when necessary. violence never really rattled him, and affection was always⌠simple. casual. this? this feels like stepping into cold water and realizing itâs deeper than expected. or like when you miss a step on the stairs and your heart just drops. and thereâs adrenaline in it. genuine adrenaline. his pulse still hasnât settled.
and he kind of likes it. which is new too.
ââŚokay now iâm actually going.â you say.
âgood plan.â
you open the door. step halfway out. then lean back in and kiss him one last time.
then this time you actually leave.
changbin stands there for a second after the door closes. then he exhales, running a hand through his hair.
first time feeling love is apparently a lot.
by the time you finally get home, youâre tired. maybe from⌠spending your morning elbow deep in someone elseâs blood, emotionally comforting a serial killer, accidentally making out with his very attractive roommate, and then discovering one of your boyfriends and a friend broke into your car and relocated it. what was the thought process behind that even??
you unlock the door. you donât even get the chance to step fully inside.
ây/n!â
han wraps both arms around you immediately and drags you into the apartment before you even get your shoes off, burying his face in your shoulder.
âyouâre back.â he says into your neck, voice muffled because his face is already buried there. âi missed you.â
âi was gone for like five hours.â
âlongest five hours of my life.â this man is enormous. you forget sometimes. well, not height wise, but heâs wide. real strong too. âi counted the seconds. then i lost count. then i cried a little. then i ate cereal. then i cried again. then i waited by the door.â heâs clinging so tight you can feel his heartbeat hammering against your ribs.
you rub slow circles between his shoulder blades, trying to coax him into loosening up just enough so you can actually breathe and kick your shoes off. âmissed you too, baby.â
he makes this tiny, wounded noise as you try to close the door behind yourself. you succeed.
he pulls away. âwill you let me have a baby with you?â
you stare at him. ââŚwhat.â
âa baby.â he repeats helpfully.
âi know what a baby is.â
âokay good.â
âhan where the fuck did that come from.â
he shrugs. âi was thinking about it earlier.â
you rub your face with one hand. this man murders people on a weekly basis. âsweetheart, youâre a serial killer.â
âbabies are cute.â
âyou cannot even keep track of your own shoes.â
âi could learn.â
âyou lost your phone in the fridge last week.â
âplease, y/n. iâd be the best dad. please? just think about it? iâll be so good. i swear.â no, heâll never get a fucking baby out of you. like absolutely wonât, ever.
and⌠and oh, heâs humping your hip already. great. itâs not even sexual. not trying to start anything. just pure, overwhelming excitement leaking out through his body. like a fucking dog.
âletâs revisit that topic in about five years.â you say.
âokay.â he accepts that immediately. âi was bored without you. seungmin kept throwing things. felix tried to microwave a fork. minho told him to do it again. then they left because minho had somewhere to go and he took felix and then seungmin left too and i was all alone.â
âmust have been horrible.â you say, brushing his hair back from his face with your hand.
âit was.â
and just like that, your door opens again.
ââiâm telling you, they literally let me hold the baby.â jeongin is saying as he walks in, gesturing around.
you look up from hanâs pretty face. âwhat baby?â
jeongin drops onto the arm of the couch. âa baby i delivered once.â
you stare at him.
whatâs with babies today?
seungmin walks straight over to you. han is still attached to your side, but that doesnât stop seungmin from grabbing your face and kissing you hello. not quick either. not polite. just a little too long. all because jeongin is right there.
when he pulls back his hand stays on your waist for a second.
jeongin squints at him. âyouâre doing that on purpose.â
âdoing what?â
âthat.â
âsaying hello to my girlfriend?â
âyou held it for like five seconds.â
âsix actually. also you didnât actually deliver a baby.â
âi did.â
âwhere.â
âhospital.â
âwhy were you in a hospital.â
âi had a knife wound. anyway the doctors were busy and the woman was screaming and i said âdonât worry, i got this.ââ
you stare harder. âhow did they let you in?â
âi was very confident.â
the worst part is that this is true. he genuinely gets into situations like this, his 20+ personalities just make it easier.
you rub your temples. han is still wrapped around you. âdid a medical professional actually allow you to assist with childbirth?â
jeongin shrugs. âthey were panicking.â
seungmin looks between the two of you. âdid the baby survive?
âyes.â
han looks deeply impressed. âyou made a baby?â
âi didnât make it.â jeongin says. âi delivered it.â
âand did you name the baby?â
âno but i suggested jeongin.â
âyouâre so cool, man.â han mutters, slightly tugging on your clothes to make sure you see it too, how cool jeongin is. pffft.
seungmin opens the fridge. âso what happened with hyunjin?â
you open your mouth. âso basically he got stabbed in the armââ han kisses you. ââand changbin drove himââ kiss ââto their place and we had toââ kiss ââclean the woundââ kiss ââwe stitched his arm and thenââ kiss ââŚand thenâŚâ kiss ââŚand thenâŚâ kiss ââi swear to godââ
âkeep going.â seungmin says.
âiâm trying. so after that changbin and i sat there for a bit and talked, and hyunjin fell asleep pretty fast becauseââ kiss.
you pinch his side lightly. he giggles.
okay. deep breath. new approach. you clap your hands lightly. âokay.â you put on your sweetest voice. âboys.â
immediate attention. theyâre so predictable.
âi need a favor.â
han straightens, still doesnât let go of you. seungmin raises an eyebrow. jeongin tilts his head suspiciously but is already smiling because youâre being nice to them.
âwhat kind of favor?â seungmin asks.
âi need someone to go check something outside for me.â
han immediately perks up. âcheck what.â
you tap your chin like youâre thinking very hard. âwell⌠i heard a weird noise earlier.â
three pairs of eyes narrow.
âwhat kind of noise?â seungmin asks.
âmaybe someone messing with the dumpsters.â
jeongin stands straighter. âlike a suspicious noise?â
âvery suspicious.â
han looks thrilled.
you keep your tone gentle, encouraging, like youâre explaining a fun mission to a group of overly enthusiastic toddlers. âi was thinking maybe the three of you could go check it out for me.â
seungmin is the only one that senses that youâre doing something. he folds his arms. âyouâre sending us outside.â
âjust for a little bit.â
âwhy?â
you smile sweetly. âbecause youâre the bravest.â
han gets off you and grabs jeonginâs arm. âletâs go check the noise.â
âthere might be a criminal.â jeongin says excitedly.
âor a raccoon.â han adds.
âeither way we investigate.â jeongin agrees.
seungmin pinches the bridge of his nose but follows them toward the door anyway.
before they leave you reach over and pat his shoulder. âthank you.â
âweâre not gone long.â
âtake your time.â
han waves enthusiastically as they head out. âweâll protect you!â
âi believe in you.â you say warmly.
the door shuts.
silence.
you wait ten seconds. twenty. then you pull your phone out. mission accomplished. you promised changbin youâll text, and the other three would totally be all over your phone, so you sent them out. there we go.
you: home safe
changbin: good
changbin: you made it walking?
you: unfortunately yes
you lean against the counter smiling faintly at the screen.
changbin: are they bothering you now
you glance toward the door.
you: i sent them on a heroic mission
changbin: poor city
you laugh quietly. outside, somewhere down the street, you hear distant shouting. probably your boys. probably already causing problems.
you: text me when your clientâs done
changbin: i will
aaaand someoneâs already dead outside by the hands of the three you sent out.
authorâs note: the baby talk doesnât actually mean anything, clearing this up in case someone is afraid that iâll ruin the series with a baby. i wonât.
pairing: Bang Chan x f!reader
wc: 30 ss
tags/warnings: enemies-to-lovers, cursing, angst/fluff, inaccurate depictions of the inner workings of kpop companies, brief implied sexual harassment
part one // part two // part three // part four
masterlist
Summary: Chan grants you access. You brace for further manipulations. Someone causes trouble in the studio. Hyunjin and Felix oversee game night. Chan gets a voicemail.
a/n: This is getting posted early because I wouldn't have time on Monday to do it properly until the afternoon and I'd rather do it earlier than later. Also, my grand achievement for the week is finagling this to get it down to 30 screenshots so I didn't have to make it two separate posts. Part 4, the final part, coming Thursday!
perm. taglist: @virgopotterhead @sue-reads @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @1giss4swft3 @emmalabo @snoop136 @diekleinesuesse @velvetmoonlght @ch3rry15pin @danielle143 @thisisnotjacinta @geni-627 @barbie-girl84 @clairementsolo @stvr-l0stt @bangchansbig-nose @chandlxa @flippedccc @astrayapple @ylstacy @cchapssaltteok @NiKu_0704 @writtenbypeachy @emeraldgem22 @bahngarang @cb9711 @parkairis18 @persassyismysecrettwin @hey-i-really-miss-you @mikachux3 @haunted1nk @sugarcoathan @udontknowmeppl @estella-novella @angrygardendeer @candyquokka @darbyjaneeee @lyuuu88 @iheartkentonanami @mintchip17 @valpalmaka @missvanjii @my-neurodivergent-world @girlblogger-04 @book-mark @mladyluna @simpqueen2025 @kimberlydynamite @hunter-or-the-hunted @chuahuahua @ncityswrld @wobblewobble822 @aiyanotfound (to join the permanent taglist fill out this form; if your username is in red I can't tag you for some reason; to join the series taglist, let me know in a comment)
Summary: In a world where everyone has a soulmate mark, yours never appeared. Until one day a strange compass forms on your wrist. Now the compass is pointing somewhere in the world. Somewhere your soulmate exists. And whether youâre ready or not⌠itâs leading you straight to them.
Word count: 1371
A/N: I hope youâll enjoy this one my loves :)
Masterlist - next
Chapter 1 â The Mark
You had always been drawn to the idea of soulmates.
Maybe it was the way people whispered about them in stories, their voices lowering like they were talking about something sacred. Or maybe it was the way your father would sigh softly and look at your mother with a quiet tenderness that made his eyes glimmer.
The way they still looked at each other after all those yearsâlike two people who had found something rare and irreplaceable.
Like two people who had found their home in each other.
You had noticed it even when you were younger. The small, absentminded gestures. The way your father would reach for your motherâs hand while they walked, even when they werenât paying attention. The way she would smile at him without saying a word.
It was simple.
Natural.
Effortless.
That was what people said soulmates were like. Or maybe your fascination came from somewhere else entirely. Maybe it was because, in a world where soulmates existed, you were one of the few people who still hadnât found yours.
Soulmate bonds werenât unusual. In fact, they were completely normal. Almost everyone had some kind of sign.
Some people had red strings invisibly tied around their pinkies, threads of fate, that tightened whenever their soulmate was near. Others shared pain, wincing at injuries they themselves had never received. There were people with countdowns on their wrists, glowing numbers slowly ticking toward the moment they would finally meet the person destined for them.
A girl in one of your classes had words written across her collarboneâthe first sentence her soulmate would ever say to her. Another student had a small constellation of freckles across his shoulder that matched his soulmateâs exactly.
Everyone had something.
Everyone had a sign.
Except you.
For years, your skin had stayed stubbornly blank while the people around you discovered their marks one after another. You still remembered the excitement the first time it happened in your class back in school. One morning a boy had come in with glowing numbers on his wrist, and by lunchtime half the school was gathered around him, asking questions and making jokes about how heâd probably meet his soulmate before graduation.
After that, it seemed to happen more and more often. Marks appearing during class. During lunch. During completely ordinary moments that suddenly became unforgettable.
At first, you had waited patiently for your own sign to appear. You checked your wrists every morning out of habit, half expecting something to be there. But year after year, there was nothing. You learned to pretend it didnât bother you. You laughed along with your friends when they talked about their soulmate marks. You shrugged whenever someone asked about yours.
âMaybe itâs just late,â people would say reassuringly.
âItâll show up eventually.â
You always nodded and smiled. But deep down, a quiet doubt had begun to grow. What if the universe had simply⌠forgotten you?
The thought had crossed your mind more than once, usually late at night when everything was quiet and your thoughts had too much room to wander. You tried not to dwell on it.
Still, the feeling lingered.
And then, one ordinary afternoon, everything changed.
You were sitting in your last lecture of the day, half-listening to the professor as he spoke about something you had already forgotten.
Your notebook lay open in front of you, though your pen had long since stopped moving.
The sun was beginning to set outside the tall windows of the lecture hall, filling the sky with deep shades of red and purple. The colors bled into each other like watercolor across the clouds, soft and beautiful.
It was the kind of sunset that made it hard to focus on anything else.
Your gaze drifted outside more than once, watching the light slowly shift across the horizon.
That was when you felt it.
A strange tingling sensation prickled across your wrist.
At first, you barely reacted. You assumed it was just irritation from your bracelet, which had already been rubbing against your skin while you were taking notes earlier. Without thinking, you rubbed the spot absentmindedly. The professorâs voice continued droning on somewhere in the background.
But the feeling didnât fade. If anything, it grew stronger.
The tingling spread slowly beneath your skin, warm and buzzing, like tiny sparks dancing along your nerves. It made you shift slightly in your seat, a small frown forming on your face.
That definitely wasnât normal.
You rubbed your wrist again, expecting the feeling to disappear.
It didnât.
Instead, a strange warmth settled beneath your skin, pulsing softly.
Your attention finally snapped away from the window.
Carefully, you pulled your sleeve up.
And froze.
A faint mark had appeared on the inside of your wrist.
For a moment, you simply stared at it, your brain struggling to catch up with what your eyes were seeing.
The mark was circular, formed from thin, delicate lines that curved into a precise shape. It looked almost like an old compass carved directly into your skin. Tiny symbols and markings lined the outer edges, perfectly symmetrical. And at the very center rested a thin needle.
Your breath caught.
Your soulmate mark had finally appeared.
After all these years.
But it wasnât anything you had ever seen before.
You glanced around the lecture hall instinctively, half expecting someone else to notice. But everyone seemed focused on their own notes or staring at the board. No one was looking at you.
Your eyes drifted back to the mark.
The needle didnât move. It simply rested there, quiet and still.
Pointing nowhere.
For the first few days after the compass appeared, you checked it constantly.
After waking up.
During lectures.
On the bus ride home.
While brushing your teeth.
Before going to sleep.
Sometimes you caught yourself staring at it without even realizing it, tracing the delicate lines with your fingertips. Anyone would be curious if a soulmate mark suddenly appeared after years of nothing. Still, the excitement slowly faded into something quieter.
Something closer to nervous anticipation.
The compass didnât disappear. If anything, it became clearer.
The thin lines sharpened as the days passed, darkening slightly against your skin. Sometimes it pulsed faintly beneath your fingers, warm and alive, as if it were gently reminding you that it existed. As if it were waiting for something.
Waiting for someone.
You searched the internet more than once, trying to find someone else with a similar mark. But you never found anything quite like it. Compasses werenât common soulmate signs.
At least, not that you could find.
Eventually you stopped looking.
But the question stayed in the back of your mind. A compass always pointed somewhere.
The real question wasâ
Where?
Late one night, you lay in bed, your room illuminated only by the pale glow of moonlight slipping through the curtains. The world outside was quiet. The kind of quiet that made every small sound seem louderâthe soft rustle of sheets, the distant hum of traffic somewhere far away, the steady ticking of the clock on your wall. You turned onto your side, staring absently at the ceiling.
Without thinking, you lifted your wrist and studied the mark again. The compass looked almost silver in the moonlight.
Then the needle quivered.
You blinked. For a moment, you wondered if your eyes were just playing tricks on you.
Then the needle moved again.
You sat up immediately, your heart skipping as you leaned closer to the faint light spilling across your arm. The tiny needle slowly shifted.
Just slightly. It turned to the left.
And then it stopped.
Pointing firmly in one direction.
Your heart began to race. A compass always pointed somewhere.
Which meantâ somewhere out there⌠the person the universe had chosen for you existed.
Your soulmate.
For a long moment you simply sat there, staring at the tiny needle on your wrist. The realization settled slowly in your chest, warm and unfamiliar.
After years of wondering⌠after years of waitingâŚ
You werenât alone anymore.
Somewhere in the world, someone existed who was connected to you by something bigger than coincidence.
Something bigger than chance.
And somehowâyour mark had just begun to lead you toward them.
Minho stood in the entryway for a long moment, just staring at the wall. His shoulders were up somewhere near his ears, his bag still slung across his chest like he'd forgotten it was there. The kind of day that didn't have a name. Not a bad day in the dramatic sense, no disasters, no fights, nothing he could point to and say that's what broke me. Just a thousand tiny cuts. A schedule that ran overtime. A producer who talked over him. A dancer who kept missing the same count, and Minho had to smile and say "again, you've got this" when what he wanted to do was scream.
He heard you before he saw you. The soft pad of bare feet on hardwood. Then you were there, in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing his hoodie and absolutely nothing else of consequence.
You looked at him. Just looked.
No questions. No "how was your day?" No "what's wrong?" Just your eyes, scanning his face, reading the lines he hadn't learned how to hide yet.
Then you turned and walked back into the kitchen.
Minho blinked. He should probably move. He should probably take off his bag. He should probably,Â
The sound of your voice, slightly muffled because you were already on the phone. "Yeah, the usual. Double the dumplings. And the spicy rice cakes. Yes, to this address. Thanks."
Minho's bag hit the floor.
By the time he made it to the kitchen, you were leaning against the counter, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, scrolling through something on yours. You caught his eye and, there it was. That small, crooked smile. The one that said I see you. I've got you. You don't have to say anything.
You hung up. "Forty minutes."
"How did you-"
You shrugged, like it was nothing. Like you hadn't just reached into his chest and massaged the knots out of his heart without him saying a single word. "You get this little line. Right here." You stepped forward and pressed your fingertip gently between his eyebrows. "Between the eyes. Means you need dumplings."
He caught your wrist. Held it. Pressed his lips to your palm.
"I love you," he said, and it came out wrecked, because it was true in a way that terrified him sometimes.
"I know," you said softly. Then you tugged him toward the couch. "Come on. There's a variety show marathon. You're not allowed to think until the food gets here."
You pulled him down beside you, and he went willingly, gratefully, his head finding its natural resting place on your shoulder. Your fingers found his hair.
He still hadn't told you about his day. He didn't need to.
Not literally. But there was something in his mouth, something soft and vaguely offensive, and he was already mid-cough when he opened his eyes to find Soonie's tail draped directly across his face like a mustache from hell.
He sputtered. Swatted blindly. Soonie, offended by this betrayal, leapt off the bed with a yowl of protest.
Beside him, you were shaking.
Not with cold. Not with fear. With laughter. Silent, shoulder-shaking, hand-over-your-mouth laughter that you were desperately trying to contain and failing spectacularly.
Minho turned his head. Blinked at you with cat hair clinging to his eyelashes. "You saw that."
"I saw nothing," you gasped. "I was asleep. Completely asleep."
"You let him suffocate me."
"You're so dramatic. He was just-" You lost it, a snort escaping despite your best efforts, and that set you both off. Minho tried to stay dignified, he really did, but your laugh was infectious, that full-body thing you did, and soon he was laughing too, cat hair be damned.
You reached for him. He leaned into it instinctively, the way he always did, the way he'd been doing for years without thinking. Your thumb found the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, brushing away the evidence with a tenderness that made his chest ache.
"There," you murmured, still smiling. "All better. Very handsome."
He caught your thumb with his lips before you could pull away. Pressed a kiss to the pad of it. Watched your eyes go soft and warm.
"You have cat hair on your face too," he whispered.
"Liar."
"Absolutely. Right there." He leaned in, touched his nose to yours. "Let me get it."
And he kissed you, slow and sweet, tasting morning and you and the life he still couldn't quite believe was his.
When he pulled back, you were looking at him with that expression. The one that undid him every single time. Like he was something precious. Something miraculous.
"What?" he asked, suddenly shy.
You just shook your head, still smiling. "Nothing. Just-" You reached up, tucked a piece of hair behind his ear. "You're here."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of wonder. Like you couldn't quite believe it either.
"Where else would I be?" he asked.
You didn't answer. You just pulled him back down, cat hair and all, and held on.
Minho knew this because the clock on his nightstand glowed green and accusatory, and he'd been staring at it for the better part of an hour. Sleep wouldn't come. It happened sometimes, his brain refusing to shut off, replaying the day's choreography, worrying about tomorrow's schedule, spiraling about things that hadn't even happened yet.
He turned over, intending to stare at the ceiling instead, and froze.
You were facing him. Asleep, clearly asleep, your mouth slightly open, your breathing deep and even, one hand tucked under your pillow. The moonlight from the window painted half your face silver.
And Minho couldn't look away.
He'd seen you asleep a thousand times. A thousand nights of this. You stole the blankets. You talked in your sleep sometimes, nonsense words that made him smile. You reached for him in the dark, your hand finding his chest or his arm or his hair, pulling him closer even in unconsciousness.
But tonight, for some reason, it hit him differently.
How?
How did someone like you, you, with your laugh and your kindness and the way you remembered that he liked his coffee with just a splash of milk, the way you defended him to people who didn't matter, the way you looked at him like he hung the moon, how did someone like you choose someone like him?
He wasn't being self-deprecating. He genuinely didn't understand it. He was loud, sometimes too much. He was competitive, sometimes too much. He was insecure in ways he'd never learned to hide, and you'd seen all of it, the ugly parts, the tired parts, the parts he tried to keep from the world, and you'd stayed.
Not just stayed. You'd chosen him. Every day. For years.
Your hand twitched in your sleep, searching. Finding his arm. Curling around his bicep like it belonged there.
Minho's breath caught.
He lifted his free hand, slowly, carefully, and hovered it just above your cheek. Not touching. Just feeling the warmth radiating from your skin. Just tracing the shape of you with his eyes.
I don't deserve you, he thought. I don't know what I did to deserve you.
But he was too selfish to give you up. Too in love to question it too hard.
"I'll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of you," he whispered, so quiet it was barely air. "I hope that's okay."
You stirred, just slightly. Your lips curved, just slightly. A sleepy, unconscious smile.
"Love you," you mumbled, the words slurred and soft.
Minho's eyes burned.
He closed the distance, pressed the gentlest kiss to your forehead, and finally, finally felt sleep tugging at him too.
"Love you more," he whispered against your skin. "Always."
Outside, the world kept spinning. Inside, in the dark, with you in his arms, Minho had everything he'd ever need.
Minho was standing at the stove, stirring the kimchi jjigae he'd been perfecting for months, your favorite, the one you always asked for when you'd had a hard day, when you appeared in the kitchen doorway. Same hoodie. Same bare feet. Same soft look on your face.
But something was different.
"Hey," you said. Casual. Easy.
"Hey yourself," he replied, not turning. "Dinner's almost ready. I added extra tofu, like you-"
"Minho?"
Something in your voice made him turn. Made the spoon pause mid-stir.
You were holding the rice cooker insert. Empty. Looking at it with an expression he couldn't quite read. Confusion? Frustration? Something in between.
"Did we..." You trailed off, shook your head slightly. "Sorry, this is dumb. Did we already eat? I was about to make rice and I can't remember if-"
"You asked me to make dinner," Minho said slowly. "An hour ago. You said you were craving the jjigae."
You blinked. Looked at the rice cooker. Looked at the pot on the stove. Looked at him.
"Right," you said, but it came out wrong. Too quick. Too automatic. "Right, of course. Sorry, I just-" A small, self-deprecating laugh. "Brain fog. Long week."
Minho smiled. He made himself smile, because that's what you do when someone makes a joke, when someone explains away a tiny, insignificant thing.
"Yeah," he said. "Long week."
You set the rice cooker down. Came up behind him, wrapped your arms around his waist, pressed your face between his shoulder blades. He felt you breathe in, slow and deep.
"It smells amazing," you mumbled against his back.
He covered your hands with his. Held them tight.
"Anything for you," he said.
â
Three days later, you forgot Dori's name.
You were on the couch, scrolling through your phone, when the ginger menace jumped into your lap and started kneading your stomach with intense, focused determination.
You laughed, scratching behind his ears. "Hey there, buddy. Where'd you come from?"
Minho looked up from the photo album he was organizing, a project, he'd told you, just for fun, just to have all the pictures in one place.
"His full government name is Dori," he said lightly. "But he also answers to 'the menace' and 'get off the counter.'"
You smiled. Nodded. Kept scratching.
And Minho watched you.
Watched you look at the cat you'd had for four years. The cat you'd found as a kitten, soaking wet in the rain, and carried home in your hoodie pocket. The cat you'd named after your favorite character from your favorite movie, the one you made Minho watch at least twice a year.
You didn't say his name. You just called him "buddy."
Minho told himself it was nothing. You were distracted. You were tired. You called people the wrong names all the time, you'd called him Jisung once, early in the relationship, and they'd never let either of them live it down.
Minho was in the bedroom, folding laundry, your sweater, his shirt, the socks that never seemed to match no matter how carefully he paired them, when you appeared in the doorway.
You looked... small. That was the only word for it. Small in a way that made his chest tighten.
"Hey," he said, setting down the sweater. "What's up?"
You didn't come in. You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest, and stared at a spot on the floor.
"I need to tell you something."
The words landed like stones in still water. Minho felt the ripples before he understood why.
"Okay," he said carefully. "I'm listening."
You took a breath. Held it. Let it out.
"It's happening more often. The-" You gestured vaguely at your head. "The forgetfulness. Little things. What I went into the kitchen for. A word I was looking for. Whether I already told you something." A pause. "I forgot Chan's name yesterday. When we were texting. I had to scroll up to see who I was talking to."
Minho's hands had gone still on the laundry.
You looked up. Met his eyes. And he saw it, the fear. The real, raw fear you'd been hiding behind smiles and self-deprecating jokes for weeks.
"I'm going to call my doctor tomorrow," you said quietly. "Talk about it. It's probably nothing. Stress, or sleep, or-" You stopped. Swallowed. "But I wanted you to know. Before I... before I didn't."
Minho crossed the room in three steps. Took your face in his hands. Pressed his forehead to yours.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for telling me."
You let out a shaky breath. Leaned into him. Let him hold you up.
"It's probably nothing," you said again, like a prayer.
"Probably," he agreed, because he needed to believe it.
But his heart was already pounding. Already knowing. Already starting to break.
That night, you fell asleep in his arms, your breath warm against his neck, your hand curled loosely over his heart.
Minho didn't sleep.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of you against him. Listening to the sound of your breathing. Committing it to memory. Every inhale. Every exhale. The way your eyelashes fanned against your skin. The tiny mole behind your ear that you hated and he loved.
It's probably nothing.
He wanted to believe it. He wanted to wake up tomorrow and have you be fine, have this be a blip, a scare, a story you'd tell later with a laugh and an eye roll.
But somewhere, deep in his gut, he knew.
Something was wrong.
And for the first time in his life, Minho had no idea how to dance his way out of it.
He tightened his arms around you. Pressed his lips to your hair.
"I've got you," he whispered into the dark. "No matter what. I've got you."
You stirred, mumbled something unintelligible, and settled deeper against him.
Outside, the world kept spinning.
Inside, Minho held on tight and prayed to every god he didn't believe in that tomorrow would be different.
Minho was in the middle of practice when his phone buzzed.
He ignored it. Choreography was already behind schedule, and Jisung kept messing up the transition, and Chan had that look on his face that meant they weren't leaving until they got it right. One more run. Then another. Then another.
His phone buzzed again.
And again.
He glanced at it between takes. Your name on the screen. Three missed calls.
His blood went cold.
"Give me a second," he muttered, already reaching for his phone, already stepping away from the mirrors and the music and the bodies around him.
"Hyung, we're in the middle-"
"Give me a SECOND."
The studio went quiet. Minho didn't notice. He had the phone to his ear, your contact photo staring back at him, you at the beach last summer, squinting into the sun, laughing at something he'd said.
You picked up on the first ring.
"Minho?"
Your voice. But wrong. Thin and stretched and scared in a way he'd never heard before.
"I'm here," he said quickly. "What's wrong? What happened?"
A breath on the other end. Shaky. Too shaky.
"I'm at the doctor's office. The, the neurologist. I came in for those tests, the memory ones, and they-" You stopped. He heard you swallow. "They want me to call someone. To come in. They said I shouldn't be alone for the results and I didn't know who else to-"
"I'm coming."
"The traffic is bad this time of day, you don't have to-"
"I'm coming. Send me the address. I'm coming right now."
He was already grabbing his bag. Already heading for the door. Chan called after him, worried, confused, and Minho just shook his head, couldn't form words, couldn't do anything but move toward you.
"Minho?" Your voice, small through the phone.
"I'm coming," he said again. "I'm almost there. Just, just stay on the phone. Okay? Stay on the phone with me."
The neurologist's office smelled like antiseptic and old magazines.
Minho burst through the door like a man being chased, hair disheveled, chest heaving, still in his sweat-soaked practice clothes. The receptionist looked up, startled, but he was already scanning the room, already searching,Â
You stood up from a chair in the corner. You looked so small. That was the only word for it. Small and pale and young in a way that made his heart crack right down the middle. You were wearing his hoodie again, the gray one, the one you'd stolen months ago and never given back, and your hands were shaking.
He crossed the room in four steps and pulled you into his arms. You crumpled against him. Let him hold you up. Let him be the thing that kept you from falling apart right there in front of everyone.
"I didn't know who else to call," you whispered into his chest. "They said to bring someone and I just, I just wanted you. I just wanted you here."
"I'm here," he said fiercely. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
A door opened. A nurse with a kind face and sympathetic eyes looked at them both.
The doctor's office was small. Cluttered with diplomas and anatomical diagrams and a box of tissues placed strategically on the corner of the desk. Minho hated it immediately. Hated the tissues most of all.
You sat in the chair across from the doctor. Minho stood behind you, one hand on your shoulder, because he couldn't sit. Couldn't be still. Needed to be touching you or he might shatter.
The doctor was a woman. Middle-aged. Gentle eyes. The kind of face that delivered bad news for a living and hadn't quite learned how to hide the toll it took.
"Thank you for coming in," she said to Minho. Then she turned to you, and her expression shifted into something carefully neutral. "I have the results of your cognitive assessments and the MRI."
Your hand found Minho's. Squeezed.
"Okay," you said. "Just, just tell us."
The doctor nodded. Opened a file. Looked at it for a moment, then set it aside and met your eyes directly.
"The MRI shows significant hippocampal atrophy. That's the area of the brain responsible for memory formation and retrieval." A pause. "Combined with your cognitive test results and the symptom pattern you've been reporting, we've arrived at a diagnosis."
The room was very quiet.
"It's a form of early-onset neurodegenerative disease. Specifically, a variant of accelerated retrograde amnesia." The doctor's voice was gentle but unflinching. "It's rare, especially in someone your age. But the pattern is clear. Your brain is struggling to consolidate new memories and is beginning to degrade existing ones, starting with the most recent and moving backward."
Minho's hand tightened on your shoulder. You reached up and held it there.
"What does that mean?" you asked. Your voice was steady. Too steady. "What does that mean for, for us? For our life?"
The doctor hesitated. Just for a moment. But Minho saw it. Saw the way she braced herself before continuing.
"The progression rate varies, but based on the scans, we're looking at an accelerated timeline. The memories you've formed in the last few years are the most vulnerable. As the disease progresses, you'll lose them. First recent events, then older ones. Eventually-" Another pause. "Eventually, you may lose most of your autobiographical memory. The people in your life. The experiences you've had."
"You're saying," Minho heard himself speak, his voice rough and strange, "you're saying she'll forget. She'll forget everything."
The doctor looked at him with those gentle, terrible eyes.
"I'm saying we need to prepare for that possibility. There are treatments that may slow the progression. Therapies that can help with coping strategies. But yes. The trajectory suggests significant memory loss over the coming months."
Months.
The word hung in the air like smoke.
You turned in your chair. Looked up at Minho. And he saw it, the moment you realized what this meant. What this would do to him. To the life you'd built together.
"Minho-"
"No." He shook his head. Dropped to his knees in front of you so you were eye to eye. Grabbed both your hands in his. "No. Don't. Don't you dare start worrying about me right now."
"But if I forget-"
"Then I'll remember." His voice cracked. He didn't care. "I'll remember for both of us. Every single day. I'll be here every morning and I'll tell you who I am and I'll make you fall in love with me again and again and again if that's what it takes."
Tears were streaming down your face. You didn't seem to notice.
"That's not fair to you," you whispered. "That's not, you can't spend your life-"
"Watch me."
He said it like a vow. Like a challenge to the universe itself.
The doctor was saying something about treatment plans, about support groups, about clinical trials. Minho heard none of it. He was too busy looking at you. Committing this moment to memory. The way your nose crinkled when you cried. The way your bottom lip trembled. The way your hands shook in his.
"I love you," he said. "I love you and I'm not going anywhere. Do you understand me? I'm not going anywhere."
You nodded. Swallowed. Nodded again.
"I love you too," you whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Don't be sorry." He pressed his forehead to yours. "Just, just don't forget this. Don't forget this right now. Me telling you. Me promising you. Hold onto this as long as you can."
Neither of you spoke in the car. Minho drove. You stared out the window. The city passed by in a blur of lights and shapes and people going about their ordinary lives, completely unaware that the world had ended.
At a red light, you reached over and took his hand.
He looked at you. You were still staring out the window, but your fingers were laced through his, holding on like he was the only solid thing left.
"Can we get ice cream?" you asked quietly. "The place with the weird flavors? The one we went to on our first date?"
Minho's throat closed.
"Of course," he managed. "Yeah. Of course we can."
Later, after the ice cream, after the crying, after the phone calls to family that neither of you had the strength to make yet, you fell asleep in his arms.
Same as always. Same position. Same warmth. Same soft breathing against his neck.
But everything was different now.
Minho lay awake, staring at the ceiling, and for the first time in his life, he was afraid of the morning.
Because tomorrow, you might wake up and know him.
Or tomorrow might be the first day you didn't.
He held you tighter. Pressed his lips to your hair. Closed his eyes against the dark and made himself a promise.
I'll be here. Every single day. I'll be here.
Outside, the world kept spinning.
Inside, Minho began to say goodbye to someone who was still, impossibly, right there in his arms.
He watched the clock change. 2:13 AM. 3:47. 4:02. 5:19. The numbers glowed green and indifferent, and he watched them all, your body warm against his, your breath steady, your hand curled over his heart like it had always belonged there.
At 6:34, the alarm went off.
Not his. Yours. The one you set every morning because you liked to wake up slowly, to stretch and groan and burrow deeper into the pillows before finally surfacing.
The sound cut through the quiet like a blade.
You stirred. Mumbled something. Shifted away from him, reaching for the phone on your nightstand to silence it.
Minho held his breath.
You turned back over. Faced him. Your eyes were half-lidded, sleepy, soft in the pale morning light filtering through the curtains.
And then you blinked.
Focused.
Looked at him.
Your body went still.
Minho felt it happen. Felt the exact moment the warmth in your eyes flickered and died, replaced by something else. Something cold and unfamiliar.
Stranger danger. That's what they called it in animals. That instinctive freeze when confronted with the unknown.
You were looking at him like he was the unknown.
"Hi," he whispered. His voice was wrecked. He hadn't used it in hours. Hadn't cried either, not yet, but his voice was wrecked anyway.
You pulled back. Just slightly. Just enough to create space between your bodies. Your hand slipped away from his chest.
"Who-" You stopped. Swallowed. Your eyes darted around the room, the familiar walls, the unfamiliar man, the cats sleeping at the foot of the bed. "Who are you?"
The words hit him like a physical blow.
He'd known this was coming. He'd prepared for this. He'd promised himself he'd be strong, be gentle, be whatever you needed him to be.
But knowing and feeling were two different things.
"I'm Minho," he said. His voice cracked on his own name. "I'm your, I'm your boyfriend."
You stared at him.
He watched your brain working, searching for something, anything, that would make this make sense. Your brow furrowed. Your lips parted. Nothing came.
"I'm sorry," you said, and it was polite. So painfully, horribly polite. The voice you used with strangers who stopped you on the street. "I don't, I don't remember."
Minho nodded. Swallowed. Nodded again.
"That's okay," he lied. "That's, that's okay. The doctor said this might happen. You have a condition. It affects your memory. But I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
You were still looking at him like he was a puzzle you couldn't solve.
"How long?" you asked quietly. "How long have we been together?"
Four years. One thousand four hundred sixty-one days. Thirty-five thousand sixty-four hours. I stopped counting the minutes because it hurt too much to realize I'd never get them back.
"A while," he said instead. "A few years."
You looked down at yourself. At his hoodie you were wearing. At the bed you were in. At the cats who were still sleeping, oblivious, at the foot of it.
"I should-" You started to move, to get up, to escape. "I should go. I shouldn't be here. This isn't, I don't know you, I shouldn't be in your bed, I'm sorry-"
Minho's heart shattered.
"No, no, wait-" He reached for your hand, then stopped himself, hand hovering in the air between you. "Please. Just, can I show you something? Before you go? Please?"
You hesitated. Looked at his hand. Looked at his face.
Something in his expression must have reached you, because slowly, carefully, you nodded.
Minho reached for his phone on the nightstand. Hands shaking. Opened his photos. Scrolled past a thousand memories you no longer carried.
He turned the screen toward you.
It was a photo from two summers ago. You at the beach. Sand in your hair. Ice cream on your nose. Laughing at him for taking yet another picture, for documenting everything, for being ridiculous and sweet and so in love with you it was embarrassing.
You took the phone. Studied the image.
"That's me," you said quietly.
"Yeah."
"And that's..." You looked up at him. Back at the photo. At the way his arm was wrapped around your waist, the way he was looking at you in the picture like you were the sun. "That's you."
"Yeah."
You stared at the photo for a long time.
Minho watched you. Committed this to memory too. The way the morning light caught your eyelashes. The way your lips moved slightly as you tried to find words. The way your hand trembled holding his phone.
"I don't remember," you whispered finally. "I'm sorry. I don't remember any of it."
The tears came before he could stop them.
He turned his face away, wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, tried to get himself under control. But they kept coming, silent and hot, because you were right here and you didn't know him and you were sorry and God, it hurt, it hurt so much worse than he'd ever imagined.
"I'm sorry," you said again, and now you sounded scared. "Please don't cry. I didn't mean to, I don't know why I'm here, I don't know you, I'm sorry-"
"It's not your fault." He forced the words out through the wreckage of his throat. "It's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. I'm just, I'm just sad. That's all. I'm just sad."
You reached out.
Hesitated.
Then, gently, so gently it broke him all over again, you touched his cheek. Wiped a tear away with your thumb.
The gesture was so familiar. So you. Even when you didn't know him, your body remembered. Your body knew how to comfort him.
He looked up. Met your eyes.
You were looking at him with confusion, yes. With fear, yes. But underneath it, something else. Something soft. Something curious.
"You really love me," you said quietly. It wasn't a question.
"Yeah." His voice broke on the word. "Yeah. I really do."
You held his gaze for a long moment. Then you looked down at his hand, still lying on the bed between you. Slowly, carefully, you reached out and took it.
"I don't remember you," you said. "But I think, I think I'd like to. If that's okay."
Minho squeezed your hand. Held on like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
"That's more than okay," he whispered. "That's everything."
You sat at the kitchen table in his hoodie, your hoodie, the gray one, but you didn't know that, and watched him make coffee.
He could feel your eyes on him. Studying him. Trying to piece together who this stranger was who claimed to love you.
"What's my favorite food?" you asked suddenly.
He turned, surprised by the question. "Tteokbokki. The spicy kind. You say it's the only food that's allowed to make you cry."
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. "That's specific."
"You're specific. You have opinions about everything. You once spent twenty minutes explaining why the rice at that one restaurant was wrong. I didn't understand half of it, but I loved watching you talk about it."
You ducked your head. Almost shy.
"What else?"
He leaned against the counter. Let himself look at you. Really look.
"You hum when you're happy. Not songs, exactly. Just, melodies. Made-up ones. You don't realize you're doing it." He paused. "You steal the blankets. Every single night. I wake up freezing and you're wrapped up like a burrito and I wouldn't change it for anything."
Your cheeks pinked.
"You snore," he continued, smiling now despite everything. "Just a little. Only when you're really tired. You deny it every time I mention it. You say I'm lying and then you fall asleep on my chest and snore again."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do. It's adorable."
You laughed. Just a small one. Just a breath. But it was real.
And Minho realized, with a ache so deep it almost doubled him over, that this was his life now. Collecting your laughs like precious coins. Hoarding every smile. Falling in love with you over and over again, knowing you'd forget by tomorrow.
He brought you coffee. Made it exactly how you liked it, light roast, a splash of milk, no sugar. Handed it to you.
You took a sip. Your eyes widened.
"This is perfect," you said. "How did you know?"
"I know everything about you," he said simply. "Every single thing."
You looked at him over the rim of your cup. Something shifted in your eyes. Something warmer.
"Tell me more," you said softly. "Tell me everything."
And so he did.
He told you about the first time he saw you, at a friend's party, laughing at something, your whole body committed to it. He told you about your first date, the ice cream place with the weird flavors, how you'd ordered something called "sweet potato and honey" and made him try it. He told you about the cats, how you'd found Dori in the rain and carried him home in your hoodie pocket. He told you about the way you danced when you thought no one was watching, all wrong and beautiful and so perfectly you.
You listened. Asked questions. Laughed in the right places. Cried a little when he told you about the night you first said "I love you."
And when he finished, when his voice was hoarse and his coffee was cold and the morning had somehow slipped away into afternoon, you reached across the table and took his hand.
"I don't remember any of it," you said quietly. "But I believe you."
"That's enough," he said. "That's more than enough."
You squeezed his hand.
"Will you be here tomorrow?" you asked. "When I wake up and don't remember again?"
The question hit him like a blade between the ribs.
"Yes," he said fiercely. "Every tomorrow. Every single one. I'll be here."
You smiled. That small, kind smile. But underneath it, something else. Something that looked almost like hope.
That night, you fell asleep on the couch watching a movie.
Minho carried you to bed. The same bed you'd woken up in this morning, terrified of the stranger beside you. The same bed you'd share tonight, trusting him because he'd spent the whole day earning it.
He tucked you in. Pulled the blankets up to your chin. Brushed the hair from your face.
You stirred. Mumbled something. Your hand found his and held on.
"Minho," you whispered. Just his name. But you said it like you knew him. Like you remembered.
"Yeah," he breathed. "I'm here."
"I'm glad." Your eyes were still closed, your voice thick with sleep. "I'm glad you're here."
Tears slid down his cheeks. Silent. Endless.
"Me too," he whispered. "Me too."
He stayed there until your hand went slack, until your breathing evened out, until he was sure you were asleep. Then he pressed the gentlest kiss to your forehead and whispered the words he'd say every night for the rest of his life:
"I love you. I'll see you tomorrow. I'll make you fall in love with me all over again."
He turned off the light.
Walked to the living room.
Sat on the couch in the dark and finally, finally let himself break.
Not in any way a stranger would notice. The furniture was the same. The photos on the walls were the same. The cats still slept on the same pillow, chased the same sunbeams, meowed at the same time every morning for food.
But the apartment had changed.
There were sticky notes now. Dozens of them. On the bathroom mirror: Your name is ____. You are safe. Minho is your person. On the refrigerator: Food inside. Eat something. Minho made it. On the nightstand: This is Minho. He loves you. You love him too.
Minho had gotten good at writing them. Short. Clear. Kind. Nothing that would scare you, nothing that would make you feel broken.
He wrote new ones every night before bed, because you'd been known to wake up in the middle of the night disoriented, and he needed you to see his words before you saw your own panic.
Tonight, he sat at the kitchen table with a stack of sticky notes and a pen that was running out of ink.
The photo album sat in front of him.
He'd finished it last week. Three months of work, distilled into fifty pages. Your life together. Your love story. Page after page of proof that you had existed, that you had been happy, that you had chosen each other.
He'd shown it to you this morning.
You'd flipped through it slowly. Studied each photo like a detective examining evidence. Asked questions he'd answered a hundred times before.
Who's this? That's us at the beach. You buried me in the sand and then left me there to get ice cream.
When was this? Two years ago. Your birthday. You said you wanted to go somewhere warm, so I booked flights that night.
Why are we making that face? Because you dared me to eat a whole lemon and I actually did it. You laughed so hard you cried. That's you crying in the photo. Right there.
You'd laughed at that. Genuinely laughed. And Minho had felt his heart crack open and heal itself in the same breath.
But then you'd gotten to the last page. A photo of the two of you at home, ordinary Tuesday night, you in his lap and both of you smiling at the camera like idiots in love.
You'd stared at it for a long time.
Then you'd looked up at him, and your eyes were wet, and you'd said the words that would haunt him forever:
"I wish I could remember loving you. It must have been amazing."
He'd held it together until you went to take a shower. Then he'd sat on the bathroom floor and cried into a towel so you wouldn't hear.
You came out of the bedroom wrapped in his hoodie, the gray one, always the gray one, even though you didn't know why you loved it so much, and sat across from him at the kitchen table.
He slid a cup of coffee toward you. Perfectly made.
You smiled your thanks. Took a sip. Made that small satisfied sound that made his chest ache.
"I have a question," you said.
"Anything."
You set down the cup. Looked at him with those eyes that held no memory of him but held everything else, your kindness, your curiosity, your stubborn beautiful soul.
"Why do you stay?"
Minho blinked. "What?"
"I've been here a month. I know because of the notes. I write the date on them now, so I can keep track." You tapped the edge of the table. "Every morning I wake up and I don't know you. Every morning you're here, with coffee and kind eyes and a photo album full of a life I don't remember. And I just-" You shook your head. "Why? Why do you stay? This has to be destroying you."
Minho was quiet for a long moment.
Then he reached across the table and took your hand.
"You want the truth?"
"Always."
He took a breath. Held it. Let it go.
"The first week, I thought I couldn't do it. I thought it would kill me. Waking up every day to the person I love most looking at me like a stranger. Having to introduce myself over and over. Watching you search your own mind for something that isn't there anymore." His voice wavered. He steadied it. "I cried every night. I cried in the shower. I cried in the stairwell so you wouldn't hear. I thought about leaving. Not because I didn't love you, but because I thought maybe you'd be better off without some stranger in your apartment every morning, claiming to be yours."
Your hand tightened on his.
"But then-" He smiled. Small and sad and real. "Then I'd make you coffee. And you'd take that first sip and make that little sound. The one you've made every morning for four years. And you'd look at me over the cup, and you'd smile, and you'd ask me a question about myself. Because that's who you are. You're curious. You're kind. Even when you don't know me, you want to know me."
Tears were forming in your eyes. You didn't blink them away.
"Every day, I get to fall in love with you all over again," he continued. "Every day, I get to see you for the first time. Your laugh. Your smile. The way you scrunch your nose when you're thinking. The way you talk to the cats like they understand every word. Every single day, I get to discover you again."
He squeezed your hand.
"And every night, when you fall asleep in my arms, you hold onto me. Even when you don't know who I am, your body remembers. You reach for me in the dark. You say my name in your sleep. And I think, I think maybe some part of you knows. Some part of you remembers loving me. Even if your mind can't."
A tear slipped down your cheek. You didn't wipe it away.
"So that's why I stay," he whispered. "Because loving you, even like this, especially like this, is the best thing I've ever done. And I'm not going to stop. Not ever."
You were crying now. Quietly. Beautifully.
"You deserve so much better than this," you said.
"I have you," he replied. "That's the only thing I deserve. That's the only thing I want."
You stood up. Walked around the table. Climbed into his lap and wrapped your arms around his neck and buried your face in his shoulder.
He held you. Rocked you gently. Pressed kisses to your hair.
"I don't know why I love you," you whispered against his neck. "I don't remember why. But I do. I feel it. Right here." You pressed your hand to your chest. "It's like, like my heart knows you even when my head doesn't."
Minho closed his eyes. Let the tears fall.
"That's enough," he breathed. "That's everything."
Later, you fell asleep in his arms. Same as always. Same position. Same warmth. Same soft breathing against his neck.
But tonight, something was different.
Just before sleep took you, you stirred. Lifted your head. Looked at him in the dim light from the window.
"Minho?" you whispered.
"Yeah?"
"I'm scared."
His heart clenched. "I know, baby. I know."
"What if one day I wake up and I don't just forget you? What if I forget how to love? What if I forget how to feel?"
He pulled you closer. Held you tighter.
"Then I'll love you enough for both of us," he said. "I'll feel enough for both of us. I'll remember enough for both of us. You don't have to be scared. I've got you. I'll always have you."
You looked at him for a long moment. Searching his face. Finding whatever it was you needed to find.
Then you smiled. Soft and sleepy and so beautiful it hurt.
"I believe you," you whispered. "I don't know why, but I believe you."
"That's all I need."
You kissed him. Just a gentle brush of lips. Just a promise.
Then you settled back against his chest, your hand over his heart, and within minutes you were asleep.
Minho lay awake, staring at the ceiling, holding you close.
And he thought about all the tomorrows ahead. All the mornings he'd wake up a stranger. All the coffees he'd make. All the introductions. All the photo albums. All the moments of recognition that would fade by nightfall.
It would be hard. It would be devastating. It would break him over and over again.
But right now, with you in his arms, breathing softly, trusting him even though you didn't know why,Â
At 3 AM, Minho carefully extracted himself from your arms. You stirred, mumbled, but didn't wake.
He went to the kitchen. Sat at the table. Pulled out a fresh sticky note and the pen that was almost out of ink.
He wrote:
Good morning. I'm Minho. I'm the luckiest person in the world because I get to love you. Today, I'll make you coffee. I'll show you photos. I'll tell you stories. And by the end of the day, you'll smile at me like I'm someone special. You'll hold my hand. You'll fall asleep in my arms.
You won't remember tomorrow. But I will. I'll remember every single second.
And I'll be here. Waiting. Ready to fall in love with you all over again.
Always yours,
Minho
He placed it on the nightstand, right where you'd see it when you woke.
Then he climbed back into bed, pulled you gently against his chest, and closed his eyes.
That's what the doctor had called it, anyway. A last-ditch effort. An experimental treatment that had shown promise in early stages. Not a cure, never a cure, but maybe a slowdown. Maybe a few more months of memories. Maybe a little more time.
You'd agreed before the memory loss fully hit. Sat in that same office with the gentle-eyed doctor and the box of tissues and signed your name on page after page of consent forms. Minho had held your hand the whole time. Had watched you scribble your signature with a determination that made his chest ache.
"I want to fight," you'd told him afterward, in the car, with the rain streaming down the windows. "I want to try. For us. For more time."
He'd kissed you. Right there in the parking lot. Long and slow and desperate.
You'd go to the hospital, sit in a room with pale blue walls and a television that only played cooking shows, and they'd hook you up to an IV. The medication was clear. Unremarkable. It dripped into your veins for three hours while you watched chefs compete and Minho held your hand and you both pretended this was normal.
For the first three months, it seemed to work.
You still forgot. Every morning was still a reintroduction. But the forgetting seemed... slower. Smaller. You remembered the cats' names more often. You remembered the gray hoodie was yours. Sometimes, just sometimes, you'd look at him and something would flicker in your eyes, recognition, maybe, or something close to it.
You were burning up. Literally burning. Your skin was hot to the touch, damp with sweat, and you were shaking, violent, uncontrollable shaking that rattled the bed frame.
Minho was awake instantly.
"Hey. Hey, baby. Can you hear me?"
Your eyes were open but unfocused. Glassy. Your lips moved but no sound came out.
He grabbed his phone. Dialed. Pressed the phone to his ear with one hand while the other held your face, tried to ground you, tried to bring you back.
"The clinical trial hotline," he said when someone answered. "My girlfriend. She's in the trial. She has a fever and she's shaking and she's not responding-"
The ambulance came.
Minho rode in the back, holding your hand, watching your chest rise and fall, praying to every god he'd never believed in.
The hospital was too bright. Too loud. Too full of people going about their ordinary lives while yours hung in the balance.
Minho sat in a plastic chair that was bolted to the floor and stared at a wall that was painted a color designed to be calming. It wasn't calming. Nothing was calming.
A doctor came out after what felt like hours. Young. Tired. Sympathetic in that practiced way that meant bad news.
"Mr. Lee?"
Minho stood. His legs almost gave out.
"She's stable," the doctor said quickly. "The fever is responding to treatment. But we need to talk about the clinical trial."
Minho just looked at him. Waiting.
"The reaction she had, it's a known risk. Severe neuroinflammation. Her body is rejecting the treatment." The doctor paused. "We can continue the infusions, but the likelihood of another reaction is high. Each one could be worse than the last. Seizures. Organ stress. Potentially-" Another pause. "Potentially fatal."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
"What happens if we stop?" Minho heard himself ask.
"The memory loss will accelerate. The timeline we discussed initially, it will move faster. Weeks instead of months." The doctor's eyes were gentle. Cruelly gentle. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't what you wanted to hear."
So pale. So small. Tubes and wires connecting you to machines that beeped and hummed and kept you alive.
But your eyes were open. And when you saw him, you smiled.
"Minho."
It was your voice. Your smile. Your eyes looking at him with recognition, real recognition, not the polite confusion of a stranger.
He crossed the room in three steps and was at your side, holding your hand, pressing kisses to your knuckles, crying without making a sound.
"Hey," you whispered. Your voice was rough. "Why are you crying?"
"Because I love you," he said. "Because I was scared. Because you're here and you know my name and I don't know how to handle any of this."
Your fingers tightened on his. Weak, but there.
"I remember," you said softly. "Today. I remember today. The ambulance. The lights. You holding my hand." A pause. "I was so scared. But you were there. You're always there."
"I'll always be there," he promised. "Always."
You looked at him for a long moment. Then your eyes drifted to the window, to the gray sky beyond, to the ordinary world going about its ordinary day.
"What did the doctor say?" you asked quietly.
Minho's heart stopped.
"About what?"
"Don't." You looked back at him. "Don't protect me. I can tell by your face. It's bad. Just tell me."
He wanted to lie. Wanted to tell you everything was fine, that you'd go home tomorrow, that you'd have more time.
But you'd asked him never to lie. Back when you still remembered everything. Back when you'd made him promise.
"The treatment is hurting you," he said. "The fevers, they'll keep happening. Each one could be worse. They said we can stop, but if we stop-"
"The memory loss gets faster." You finished his sentence. Nodded slowly. "How much faster?"
"Weeks. Maybe."
You were quiet for a moment. Processing. Accepting.
Then you squeezed his hand and smiled that small, brave smile that destroyed him every time.
"Then we stop."
"Baby-"
"Minho." You reached up with your free hand, touched his face. So gently. "I don't want to spend what time I have in a hospital. I don't want you to watch me seize and burn and maybe die in a room with pale blue walls. I want to go home. I want to sleep in our bed. I want the cats to sit on my lap. I want to drink your coffee and watch you dance and-" Your voice broke. "And I want to make as many memories as I can before I can't anymore."
He was crying. Both of you were crying.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
You pulled him down. Pressed your forehead to his.
"How long do I have?" you asked. "Before I forget everything? Before I forget you?"
He didn't answer. Couldn't answer.
"I need to know," you said. "I need to know so I can, so I can say goodbye properly. So I can tell you everything I need to tell you."
Minho closed his eyes. Let himself feel the weight of it.
"A month," he breathed. "Maybe two. The doctor said, the doctor said at this stage, with the accelerated timeline-"
"A month." You said it like you were testing the weight of it. "Okay. Okay. One month."
You pulled back. Looked at him with those eyes that held so much. Love. Fear. Grief. Gratitude.
"Then we have one month to live a lifetime," you said. "Can we do that?"
He kissed you. Soft and desperate and full of everything he couldn't say.
"We can do anything," he whispered against your lips. "As long as I'm with you."
The apartment felt different. Sacred, almost. Every corner held a memory you might not have tomorrow. Every object carried weight.
You stood in the living room, looking at the photo album on the coffee table. At the sticky notes on the walls. At the cats weaving between your ankles.
"It's strange," you said quietly. "Knowing I won't remember this. Knowing that right now, this moment, will be gone tomorrow."
Minho came up behind you. Wrapped his arms around your waist. Pressed his cheek to your hair.
"Then let's make it count," he said. "Let's make every second count."
You turned in his arms. Faced him.
"Teach me something," you said.
"What?"
"Teach me something I've never learned. Something new. Something I won't forget because I never knew it before." You smiled. "Give me a memory that's just for today."
So he did.
He taught you a dance move. The one from the music video, the one you'd tried to teach him a lifetime ago. You laughed at your own clumsiness, at his patient corrections, at the way you kept stepping on his feet.
And when you finally got it, finally nailed the sequence, you threw your arms around his neck and kissed him, full of joy and triumph and the fierce beauty of being alive.
"Did you see that?" you laughed. "I did it!"
"I saw," he said, smiling through the ache in his chest. "You were amazing."
You beamed at him. So proud. So present.
And Minho made himself a promise.
He would give you this. Every single day. A new memory. Something just for today. Something the thief couldn't steal because it had never been stolen before.
You sat at the kitchen table, the same table where he'd written a hundred sticky notes, and you wrote. For hours. Page after page.
When you finally came to bed, your eyes were red and swollen.
"What did you write?" he asked gently.
"Letters." You crawled into bed beside him, settled against his chest. "Letters to myself. For when I forget. Reminders of who I am. Who you are. What we had." A pause. "What we have."
He held you tighter.
"There's one for every day," you continued. "For as long as I can. When I wake up, I'll read one. And for a few minutes, I'll remember. I'll know."
Minho's throat was too tight to speak.
You lifted your head. Looked at him in the dim light.
"You're in all of them," you whispered. "Every single one. You're the reason I wrote them. You're the reason any of this matters."
He kissed you. Long and slow and full of everything.
"I love you," he said. "I love you so much it's destroying me."
"I know," you whispered back. "I love you too. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry you have to go through this."
"Don't be sorry." He pressed his forehead to yours. "Just, just stay with me. As long as you can. Just stay."
"I will," you promised. "I'll stay until I can't."
Panic seized him. He threw off the covers, ran to the living room,Â
You were there. Sitting on the couch. Staring at the photo album in your lap.
"You okay?" he asked, voice rough with sleep and fear.
You looked up. Your eyes were wet.
"I wanted to remember," you said quietly. "I wanted to look at these and really see them. While I still can."
He sat beside you. Pulled you against his side.
Together, in the dark, you looked at photos of a life you were losing.
The beach. The ice cream. The cats as kittens. Your first anniversary. The time he surprised you with tickets to your favorite band. The time you surprised him with a cake that looked nothing like the picture but tasted perfect anyway.
Page after page of proof that you had existed. That you had been happy.
"This one's my favorite," you whispered, pointing to a photo of the two of you in the kitchen, flour on both your faces, laughing at something the camera didn't capture.
"Why that one?"
"Because we're not posing. We're not trying to look good. We're just, happy. Real happy." You traced the image with your fingertip. "I want to remember this. Even if I forget everything else, I want to remember this."
You made a list. Things you wanted to do. Places you wanted to see. Foods you wanted to eat one last time.
Minho made it happen.
The beach where you'd had your first real conversation. The ice cream place with the weird flavors. The park where you'd first said "I love you." The rooftop where you'd watched the stars and talked about the future you thought you'd have.
Every day, a new adventure. Every night, you fell into bed exhausted but smiling.
And every morning, you woke up and read your letter and knew, for a little while, who you were and who he was and what you meant to each other.
Not just from the letter. Not just from the photos. You knew him. You looked at him and your eyes lit up with recognition, with love, with everything.
"Minho," you breathed, and it was his name, his name, the way you'd always said it, full of warmth and belonging.
"Yeah," he whispered, tears already forming. "Yeah, it's me."
You pulled him down. Kissed him like you'd never stop.
"I remember," you said against his lips. "I remember everything. Today. Right now. I remember."
You spent the day like you used to. Before the forgetting. You made breakfast together, pancakes, messy and imperfect and perfect. You danced in the living room, wrong and beautiful and so full of joy it hurt. You talked about nothing and everything. You held hands on the couch. You kissed in the kitchen. You laughed until you cried.
And at the end of the day, as the sun set through the window, you looked at him with eyes that held four years of love.
"Thank you," you whispered.
"For what?"
"For staying. For fighting. For loving me even when I couldn't love you back." A tear slipped down your cheek. "For giving me a lifetime in a month."
He cupped your face in his hands. Brushed the tear away with his thumb.
"Thank you for letting me," he said. "Thank you for being the best thing that ever happened to me. Thank you for every single day, even the ones you forgot."
You smiled. That smile. The one that had made him fall in love with you in the first place.
"I'll try to remember tomorrow," you said. "I'll try so hard."
"I know you will." He kissed your forehead. "And if you can't, I'll be here. I'll always be here."
That night, you fell asleep in his arms.
And Minho held you close and prayed to a god he still didn't believe in that tomorrow, just once more, you'd know his name.
He'd gotten into the habit. Those final minutes of darkness, with you still asleep in his arms, were the only time he wasn't bracing for impact. The only time he could just be with you, without the weight of your empty eyes.
He watched the sunrise paint your face gold.
Committed it to memory. The soft part of your lips. The way your eyelashes fluttered during dreams he'd never know. The small sound you made when you were surfacing from sleep.
Please, he thought. Please. Just one more day. Just let her know me one more time.
You stirred.
Your eyes opened.
And Minho knew immediately.
There was nothing there. Not confusion, not fear, not the polite curiosity of a stranger. Just, nothing. Empty. Like a house where someone had turned off all the lights.
You blinked. Looked at him. Looked at the room. Looked at your own hands like you'd never seen them before.
It was a scream of not knowing. Of existing without context, without memory, without any thread connecting you to the world.
You scrambled backward, away from him, falling off the bed, hitting the floor with a thud that should have hurt but you didn't seem to notice. Your back hit the wall and you pressed yourself against it, arms wrapped around your knees, rocking.
"No no no no no-"
Minho was on his knees in front of you, hands up, palms out, trying to be small, trying to be unthreatening.
"Hey," he said, voice shaking. "Hey, it's okay. You're safe. You're in your home. My name is Minho, I'm your-"
You looked at him.
And the look in your eyes stopped his heart.
Not fear. Not confusion. Nothing. Absolute vacancy. Like looking at a person through a window made of ice.
"Who am I?" you whispered.
"You're-"
"WHO AM I?" Louder now. More desperate. Your hands flew to your head, gripping your hair, pulling. "I don't know who I am. I don't know anything. There's nothing. There's nothing in my head. Why is there nothing in my head?"
Minho reached for you.
You flinched like he'd hit you.
"DON'T TOUCH ME."
He froze. Hands still in the air. Tears streaming down his face.
"Okay," he said. "Okay. I won't touch you. But please, please let me help you. You're sick. You have a condition. It affects your memory. But you're safe. You're in your home. I'm here to help you."
You stared at him.
And then you started hitting yourself.
Not hard at first. Just slapping your own temples, your own forehead, like you could shake something loose, like you could force your brain to work.
"Come back," you muttered. "Come back come back come back. There has to be something. There has to be something."
Minho lunged forward. Caught your wrists. Held them tight.
You fought him. Actually fought, kicking, thrashing, screaming. Not at him. At the universe. At the emptiness inside your own skull.
"LET ME GO. LET ME GO I NEED TO FIND IT I NEED TO FIND MYSELF-"
"You're right here," he sobbed, holding on, taking the hits because he couldn't let you hurt yourself. "You're right here. You're safe. Please. Please, baby, please-"
You went still.
Looked at him with those empty eyes.
"Baby," you repeated. Like the word meant nothing. Like it was sounds without sense.
One arm around your torso, pinning you gently but firmly to his chest, the other fumbling for his phone on the nightstand. You were still fighting, still thrashing, still making sounds that weren't words anymore, just raw, animal noises of distress.
"911," he gasped when someone answered. "Please. My girlfriend. She has memory loss. She woke up and she doesn't know anything. She's, she's hurting herself. She's terrified. Please. Please hurry."
He gave the address. Dropped the phone. Wrapped both arms around you and held on.
"Shh," he whispered against your hair. "Shh. I've got you. I've got you. You're safe. You're safe."
You didn't stop fighting until the paramedics arrived.
Minho watched them do it. Watched the medication flood your system, watched your eyes go from wild and empty to slowly, heavily closed. Watched them strap you to a gurney and wheel you out of the apartment you'd never remember living in.
He rode in the ambulance again.
Held your hand again.
Watched your chest rise and fall again.
But this time, when you opened your eyes, there was nothing there. And he knew, somewhere deep in his bones, that there never would be again.
The same doctor. The same gentle eyes. The same box of tissues on the corner of the desk.
Minho hated her. Hated this room. Hated the universe for putting them here again.
"She's in a state of complete autobiographical memory loss," the doctor said quietly. "Not just recent memories. Everything. Her name. Her age. The concept of self. It's all gone."
Minho stared at a spot on the wall.
"The terror she's experiencing, it's not something she can control. Imagine waking up in a world you don't recognize, in a body you don't recognize, with no context for anything. No language, even, beyond the instinctive. She doesn't know what a hospital is. She doesn't know what help is. She only knows fear."
"Fix it," Minho said. His voice was flat. Dead. "You're doctors. Fix it."
The doctor was quiet for a moment.
"There is one option."
Minho looked at her.
"The clinical trial. The one we stopped. If we restart it, at a higher dosage, there's a chance, a small chance, that some memories could return. Fragments. Impressions. Enough to give her back a sense of self."
"But?"
The doctor met his eyes.
"But the side effects will be worse. The fevers will be worse. The inflammation will be worse. She'll need round-the-clock monitoring. She'll need to stay here, in the hospital, indefinitely. And even then, there's no guarantee. She might never know who she is again. She might never know you."
Minho's hands were shaking.
"And if we don't?"
"Then she'll remain in this state. Permanently. She'll need full-time care. She won't recognize anyone or anything. She'll live in a world of strangers, including herself."
The room was very quiet.
"There's one more thing," the doctor said. "If we restart the trial, she can't go home. The risk of seizures is too high. She'll need to be here, in the neurology wing, for the foreseeable future. You can visit, but-"
"She can't come home."
"No. I'm sorry."
Minho closed his eyes.
And somewhere deep inside him, something broke for good.
They let him see you before they moved you to the neurology wing.
You were awake. Sedated, but awake. Your eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, and there was nothing in them. No recognition when he entered. No fear, either, thanks to the drugs. Just... absence.
He sat in the chair beside your bed. Took your hand.
You didn't react.
"I have to make a choice," he whispered. "And I don't know what you'd want. I don't know if you'd want to fight, or if you'd want to let go. I don't know anything anymore."
You blinked slowly. Your eyes drifted to his face. No spark. No flicker.
"You're in there somewhere," he said, his voice cracking. "You have to be. You're too bright to just, to just go out. You're too you."
Nothing.
He lifted your hand to his lips. Kissed your knuckles. One by one.
"I'm going to say yes," he whispered. "To the trial. Because if there's even a chance, even a tiny chance, that you could come back, even for a moment, even just to know your own name... I have to take it. I have to."
You looked at him. Empty. Peaceful. Gone.
"I'm sorry," he breathed. "I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you from this."
Page after page. Consent forms. Waivers. Acknowledgement of risks. Acknowledgement that you might die. Acknowledgement that you might never come back. Acknowledgement that even if you did, you might not know him.
He signed them all.
Then he went back to your room, your room, in the neurology wing, with the pale blue walls and the television that only played cooking shows, and sat beside you until visiting hours ended.
A nurse came. Gentle. Kind. "You should go home. Get some rest. She'll be here tomorrow."
Minho looked at you. Still staring at the ceiling. Still empty.
"Will she know me?" he asked. "When she wakes up?"
The nurse's silence was answer enough.
He stood. Leaned down. Pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"I'll be back tomorrow," he whispered. "I'll always come back. I promised you that, remember? Even if you don't."
You didn't respond.
He walked out of the room.
Walked down the hallway.
Walked out of the hospital and into the night and drove home to an apartment that would never feel like home again.
Dori. Soonie. Doongie. Winding around his ankles, meowing for food, for attention, for the person who wasn't there.
Minho stood in the entryway and looked at the life they'd built.
Your shoes by the door. Your hoodie on the back of the chair. The photo album on the coffee table. The sticky notes on the walls. The half-empty cup of coffee you'd never finish.
He walked to the bedroom.
Your side of the bed was still rumpled. The sheets still held your shape. The pillow still smelled like you.
He lay down on your side. Buried his face in your pillow. Breathed in the last traces of you.
And for the first time since this started, really started, Minho let himself break completely.
He sobbed until he couldn't breathe. Sobbed until his throat was raw. Sobbed until there was nothing left, just empty heaves and the sound of his own heart shattering into pieces too small to ever put back together.
The cats jumped on the bed. Curled up around him. Dori licked the tears from his face.
And Minho realized, with a clarity that cut like glass:
You were gone.
Not dead. But gone.
The person he loved, the one with the laugh that filled rooms, the one who stole blankets and snored and made him coffee and looked at him like he was something precious, that person was somewhere inside a body that didn't know her own name.
You were awake. Sitting up in bed. Your eyes were clearer today, less sedated, but still empty. Still vacant.
A nurse was helping you eat breakfast. You opened your mouth mechanically when the spoon approached. Chewed. Swallowed. No expression.
Minho stood in the doorway.
The nurse noticed him. Smiled gently. "She's had her first infusion. No reaction yet. That's good."
He nodded. Walked to your bedside.
"Hi," he said softly.
You looked at him. Nothing.
"I'm Minho," he said. His voice only cracked a little. "I'm the person who loves you most in the world. I know you don't know me. That's okay. I'm going to keep coming anyway. Every day. I'm going to keep telling you who I am. I'm going to keep hoping."
You stared at him.
Then, slowly, your hand moved.
Reached out.
Touched his face.
Minho's breath caught.
Your fingers traced his cheek. His jaw. His lips. Like you were trying to read him through touch. Like your body was searching for something your mind had lost.
"No," you whispered.
His heart stopped.
"No what?"
You frowned. Concentration. Effort. Like you were trying to climb out of a deep, dark hole.
"No... don't..." You shook your head slightly. "Don't... cry."
Minho realized there were tears on his face. He hadn't noticed them falling.
"You don't know me," he whispered. "How do you know I was crying?"
You looked at him. Still empty. Still lost.
But your hand stayed on his face.
And for one moment, one tiny, impossible moment, he thought he saw something flicker in your eyes.
Then it was gone.
You pulled your hand back. Looked away. Stared at the wall.
Minho sat beside you for the rest of visiting hours. Holding your hand. Talking to you. Telling you stories about a life you'd never remember.
Sometimes you were awake. Sometimes you were asleep. Sometimes you were in the middle of a fever, shaking and burning and surrounded by machines that beeped and hummed.
He was there for all of it.
He read you letters, the ones you'd written, the ones you'd never read yourself. He showed you photos from the album, even though your eyes slid off them like water. He told you about the cats, about Dori's latest mischief, about Soonie's favorite sleeping spot.
And every day, before he left, he kissed your forehead and said the same thing:
"I'll be back tomorrow. I'll always come back. I love you."
You never responded.
But sometimes, when he said it, your fingers would twitch. Just slightly. Just enough.
And Minho held onto that like a drowning man holds onto air.
Three weeks into your hospitalization, Minho found a letter he hadn't seen before.
It was tucked into the back of the photo album. Your handwriting on the envelope. His name. He opened it with shaking hands.
Minho,
If you're reading this, I'm probably gone. Not dead, I made the nurse promise she'd give you this if I ever got to the point where I couldn't communicate anymore. So if you're reading this, I'm in that place. The empty place. And you're still here, being you, being the most stubbornly loving person I've ever known.
I need you to know something.
I'm not scared.
I know that sounds crazy. I should be terrified. But I'm not, because I know you're with me. Even if I don't know it in the moment, even if my eyes are empty and my hands don't hold yours back, some part of me knows. Some part of me feels you. And that part is peaceful.
You gave me that. You gave me a love so big it exists even when I don't.
I need you to promise me something. You're going to want to stay in that apartment forever, surrounded by my things, trapped in a life that's half-empty. Don't. Promise me you'll live. Promise me you'll laugh again. Promise me you'll let yourself be happy, even if it's without me.
I know that seems impossible right now. But I need you to try. For me. For the person who loved you more than anything.
I don't know if there's an afterlife. I don't know if I'll be watching. But if I am, I'll be cheering for you. I'll be so proud of you. I'll be so grateful for every single second you gave me.
Thank you for staying. Thank you for fighting. Thank you for loving me even when I couldn't love you back.
You were my whole heart. You will always be my whole heart.
Forever yours,
(Your name)
P.S. , Take care of the cats. They miss me. Tell them I love them.
Minho read the letter three times.
Then he folded it carefully, placed it in his wallet, and went to the hospital.
You were having a good day. No fever. Eyes open. You even looked at him when he walked in.
"Hi," he said, sitting beside you. "I brought a letter. From you. From before. Do you want to hear it?"
You stared at him. Empty.
He read it anyway.
And when he finished, when his voice was hoarse and his eyes were wet, you reached out and touched his face again.
He sold the apartment. Packed up your things carefully, reverently. Kept the gray hoodie for himself. Donated the rest to a women's shelter, because you would have wanted that.
He found a smaller place. Closer to the hospital. Easier for visiting.
He took the cats.
And every single day, he went to see you.
You never knew him again. Not really. There were moments, flickers, glimpses, tiny windows where your eyes would focus and your hand would reach for his. But they never lasted. By the next visit, you were empty again.
But Minho kept coming.
He kept talking. Kept reading. Kept holding your hand.
Because somewhere, deep inside the empty, he knew you were there. The real you. The one who laughed with her whole body and stole blankets and made him coffee and looked at him like he was the sun.
Minho sat beside your bed, holding your hand, telling you about Dori's latest adventure. The cat had gotten stuck in a paper bag and stumbled around the apartment for an hour before Minho rescued him. It had been hilarious. You would have laughed.
He was mid-sentence when your fingers tightened on his.
He stopped. Looked at you.
Your eyes were open. Clear. Focused.
"Minho," you whispered.
Not a question. Not a stranger's polite confusion. His name. His name.
"Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, it's me."
You smiled. That smile. The one that had made him fall in love with you in the first place.
"I remember," you said softly. "I remember everything."
Minho's world stopped.
"You-"
"For a minute. Maybe less. But I remember." You lifted your free hand, touched his face. "I remember loving you. I remember being loved by you. I remember everything that matters."
Tears were streaming down his face. He didn't care.
"I've been waiting," he choked out. "I've been waiting so long."
"I know." Your thumb traced his cheek. "I know. I felt you. Every day. Even when I couldn't respond. I felt you here." You pressed your hand to your chest. "Right here."
He leaned down. Pressed his forehead to yours.
"I love you," he whispered. "I love you so much."
"I love you too." Your voice was getting weaker. Your eyes were fluttering. "I'll try to come back. I'll try to remember again."
"Okay," he said. "Okay. I'll be here. I'll always be here."
You smiled one more time.
Then your eyes closed, and you were gone again.
Minho sat beside you, holding your hand, crying without making a sound.
Minho knew this because the clock on his nightstand glowed green and accusatory, and he'd been staring at it for the better part of an hour. Sleep wouldn't come. It happened sometimes, his brain refusing to shut off, replaying the day's visit, replaying your empty eyes, replaying the one moment of clarity you'd given him a week ago.
I remember loving you.
He held onto those words like a lifeline.
His phone buzzed.
He grabbed it before the sound could fully register, heart already pounding, because phones don't ring at 3:47 AM for good news.
The screen said: HOSPITAL.
He answered. Didn't speak. Couldn't.
"Mr. Lee?"
"Yes."
"It's Dr. Park. From the neurology wing." A pause. The kind of pause that stretches into eternity. "I'm so sorry to call at this hour. There's been an incident."
Minho was already standing. Already pulling on clothes. Already moving toward the door.
"What happened?"
"She had a seizure. A severe one. The team responded immediately, but-" Another pause. Longer this time. "It was too aggressive. We couldn't stop it. Her heart-"
The words stopped.
Minho stopped too. Frozen in the middle of his living room, one shoe on, one shoe off, the cats watching him with wide eyes.
"Mr. Lee? Are you there?"
"She's gone." His own voice. He barely recognized it.
"I'm so sorry. We did everything we could. She wasn't in pain. I need you to know that. She wasn't in pain."
Minho's legs gave out.
He sank to the floor, phone still pressed to his ear, staring at nothing.
"She was alone," he whispered. "She was alone and she didn't know who she was and she died alone."
"There was a nurse with her. She wasn't alone. And Mr. Lee-" The doctor's voice cracked, just slightly. Professionalism giving way to something human. "In her final moments, she said a name. Just once. Before the seizure took her."
Minho's heart stopped.
"What name?"
"Yours. She said 'Minho.' Clear as anything. And then she was gone."
The sob that tore out of him was animal. Primal. It came from somewhere so deep he didn't know it existed.
She remembered. At the end. She remembered.
"Thank you," he gasped. "Thank you for telling me."
"Someone will be in touch about, about arrangements. Take your time. There's no rush. And Mr. Lee?"
"Yes?"
"She was lucky to have you. I've never seen anyone fight as hard for someone as you fought for her."
The line went dead.
Minho sat on his living room floor at 3:47 AM, one shoe on, one shoe off, and held the phone in his hands.
The cats came to him. Dori first, then Soonie, then Doongie. They curled around him, pressed their warmth into his shaking body.
And Minho realized, with a clarity that cut like glass:
You were really gone.
Not empty. Not waiting. Not somewhere inside a body that didn't know itself.
Gone.
The word didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense. You were too bright, too alive, too much to just be gone.
But the phone call was real. The silence was real. The empty apartment was real.
One moment he was on the floor with the cats. The next, he was in the parking lot, engine off, hands still gripping the wheel like he'd been holding it for hours.
The sun was rising. Pale pink and orange over the buildings. Beautiful. The kind of sunrise you would have dragged him outside to see.
He sat in the car and watched it and thought about how the world kept spinning even when his had stopped.
A nurse met him at the entrance. The kind one. The one who always smiled at him when he came for visits.
Her eyes were red.
"I'm so sorry," she said. "She's still in her room. They haven't, they haven't moved her yet. I thought you might want-"
"Thank you."
His voice was automatic. His legs were automatic. Everything was automatic except the gaping hole where his heart used to be.
He stood outside it for a long time. Staring at the crack of light. Listening to the machines that weren't beeping anymore.
She's not in there, he told himself. She's not in that room. She's somewhere else. She's free.
But his hand still shook when he pushed the door open.
You were in the bed.
Still. So still. Your eyes were closed, your face peaceful, your hands folded over your chest like you were sleeping.
But you weren't sleeping.
He knew because your chest wasn't moving. Because the machines were dark. Because the room had the terrible quiet of finality.
He walked to your bedside.
Sat in the chair he'd sat in a thousand times.
Took your hand.
It was cold.
Minho lifted it to his lips. Kissed your knuckles. One by one. Just like he'd done a million times before.
"Hey," he whispered. "I'm here. I'm always here. Remember?"
Nothing.
Of course nothing.
But he kept talking anyway.
"The cats miss you. Dori tried to steal my food this morning. Soonie slept on your pillow again. They know something's wrong. They keep looking at the door like you're going to walk through it."
He laughed. A broken, wrecked sound.
"I keep doing that too. Looking at doors. Expecting you."
He pressed your hand to his cheek. Held it there.
"The nurse said you said my name. At the end. Thank you for that. Thank you for remembering. Even for a second."
Tears dripped onto your cold fingers.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "I don't know how to be in a world without you. I don't know how to wake up tomorrow and not come here. I don't know how to exist when half of me is gone."
He leaned forward. Pressed his forehead to your still shoulder.
"You were supposed to forget me. Not leave me. You were supposed to be here, even if you didn't know me. I could handle that. I could handle anything as long as you were breathing."
A sob wracked his body.
"But you're not breathing. And I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to say goodbye."
He stayed like that for a long time. Holding your hand. Crying into your shoulder. Saying everything and nothing.
Eventually, a gentle hand touched his back.
The kind nurse. Tears streaming down her face.
"It's time," she whispered. "They need to, they need to take her now."
Minho nodded. Sat up. Looked at your face one last time.
He leaned down. Kissed your forehead. The same spot he'd kissed a thousand mornings.
"I love you," he said. "I loved you from the moment I met you. I'll love you until the moment I die. And after that, if there's anything after that, I'll find you. I'll always find you."
He stood.
Let go of your hand.
Walked to the door.
Turned back one last time.
"Wait for me," he whispered. "Wherever you are. Wait for me."
Then he walked out of the room, and you were gone.
Your family. His family. A few close friends who had watched this whole tragedy unfold from the sidelines, helpless.
Minho stood at the front and didn't cry.
He'd done all his crying in that hospital room. Now there was just emptiness. Just the mechanical motions of existing.
They played your favorite song. The one you used to dance to in the living room. Minho stood perfectly still and listened and thought about the way you'd grab his hands and pull him into your ridiculous choreography, laughing, always laughing.
Afterward, people touched his arm. Said words he didn't hear. Cried tears he couldn't join.
He nodded. Thanked them. Waited for it to be over.
When everyone was gone, he stood alone by the grave. Looked at the headstone with your name on it. Your real name. The one he'd whispered a million times.
"I brought something," he said quietly.
He pulled the gray hoodie from his bag. Your hoodie. The one you'd stolen years ago and never given back.
He knelt. Folded it carefully. Laid it on the fresh earth.
"So you're not cold," he whispered. "Wherever you are."
The wind picked up. Rustled the leaves. Carried something that might have been a whisper or might have been his imagination.
He stood. Looked at the sky. Thought about all the mornings he'd wake up without you.
"I'll be okay," he said. "Eventually. I'll be okay because you'd want me to be. I'll laugh again. I'll dance again. I'll live again."
A pause.
"But I'll never stop loving you. Not for one second. Not ever."
That night, Minho sat on his couch with three cats on his lap.
Dori. Soonie. Doongie.
They purred. They kneaded. They looked at him with eyes that held their own kind of grief.
"She loved you," he told them. "So much. She found you in the rain, Dori. She carried you home in her hoodie pocket. You were so small you fit in one hand."
Dori blinked slowly.
"She used to talk to you guys like you understood every word. Maybe you did. She seemed to think so."
Soonie meowed. Soft. Questioning.
"Yeah," Minho whispered. "She's not coming back. I'm sorry. She's not coming back."
The cats curled closer. Pressed their warmth into him.
And for the first time since the phone call, Minho cried.
Not the violent sobs of that first morning. Not the wrecked grief of the hospital room. Just tears. Silent, endless tears, falling onto the fur of the creatures you'd loved.
He cried for you. For him. For the life you should have had.
And when the tears finally stopped, he sat in the quiet and felt something he hadn't felt in months.
Peace.
Not happiness. Not okay-ness. But peace. The knowledge that you weren't suffering anymore. That you weren't scared or empty or lost.
You were free.
And someday, a long time from now, he would be too.
He sat at the kitchen table, the same table where you'd written your letters to yourself, and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen that was almost out of ink.
Dear y/n,
I don't know where you are. I don't know if you can hear this. But I need to talk to you anyway.
It's been a year. A whole year without you. I don't know how that's possible. It feels like yesterday and it feels like forever.
The cats are good. Dori still steals food. Soonie still sleeps on your pillow. Doongie still follows me from room to room like he's making sure I'm okay. I think they remember you. I think they're waiting too.
I moved. Just last month. A new place. Smaller. Closer to the park where we used to walk. I brought your hoodie. The gray one. It's in a drawer next to my bed. I don't wear it, I'm scared of wearing it out, but sometimes I take it out and hold it and pretend you're still here.
I laughed yesterday. Really laughed. Jisung told a stupid joke and I laughed before I could stop myself. It felt strange. Like betraying you. But then I remembered what you wrote in your letter-"Promise me you'll laugh again", and I think maybe you were cheering somewhere.
I'm not okay. I don't know if I'll ever be okay. But I'm here. I'm living. I'm trying.
Because that's what you asked me to do.
I love you. I'll always love you. Every single day for the rest of my life, I'll love you.
Wait for me.
Yours always,
Minho
He folded the letter. Put it in an envelope. Wrote your name on the front.
Then he went to the cemetery and buried it in the earth beside you.
On a quiet Tuesday, many years later, an old man sat in a chair by a window.
His hair was gray now. His body was tired. But his eyes were still sharp, still bright, still full of a love that had never faded.
Three cats, descendants of the originals, slept at his feet.
In his lap was a photo album. Worn. Pages yellowed. Held together by love and tape.
He turned the pages slowly. Smiling at each one.
The beach. The ice cream. The kitchen covered in flour. The cats as kittens. A thousand small moments that added up to a lifetime.
He stopped at the last page.
A photo of you. In the gray hoodie. Laughing at something off-camera. Beautiful. Alive. His.
"Hey," he whispered. "I'm getting close now. I can feel it."
The cats slept on.
"I hope you're still waiting. I hope there's something after this. I hope I get to see you again."
He traced your face with a trembling finger.
"If there is-" His voice cracked, old and soft. "If there is, I'm going to run to you. I'm going to hold you and never let go. And if there isn't, if this is all there is, then thank you. Thank you for this. Thank you for everything."
He closed the album. Set it gently on the table beside him.
Closed his eyes.
And smiled.
Because somewhere, in the space between heartbeats, he heard it.
Idk if u saw the new chan pic but PLEASE write something with the reader being the one taking the pic and then riding chan after!! pleasee
Railwayđ¤
Pairing: Chan x femReader
Word Count: 2688
Summary: Chan finishes his workout in his quiet home gym and comes up with a playful idea for a mirror-style photograph. He calls you in, positions you between his legs, and has you take a cleverly angled picture that makes it look like he snapped it himself. Things soon escalate from there on...
Warnings/Tags: fluff, teasing, smut, p in v, unprotected sex, riding Chan, mirror sex (sort of), Chan's a simp
A/N: I hope I did your wish justice, hehe enjoyđ¤
do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any way here or on other platforms. Šď¸writingforstraykids 2024 -
The house was quiet except for the faint hum of the treadmill cooling down and the soft clink of metal plates settling back into place. Chan lay flat on his bench beneath the rack, arms folded loosely over his stomach, chest rising steadily after his last set. The overhead lights cast a warm glow across the ceiling mirrors heâd installed months ago, âfor form checks,â though you two used them for far more than that.
His phone hovered above his face as he scrolled, lips twitching as an idea popped into his head. A soft, breathy giggle escaped him. âOh,â he murmured to himself, eyes narrowing playfully. âStay will love that.â He tapped your contact without hesitation.Â
A few minutes later, you pushed open the door to his home gym, leaning against the frame. âYou called?â
Chan didnât move from the bench, just tilted his head enough to look at you upside down. His blond hair was slightly damp, strands falling messily over his forehead. He was wearing a black tank that clung to him in all the unfair ways, silver bracelets catching the light as he adjusted his grip on the bar above him. âCome here, baby,â he said, grinning.
You stepped closer, squinting your eyes at him suspiciously. âWhy do you look like that?â
âLike what?â he asked innocently.
You snorted softly. âLike youâre about to commit a crime.â
He laughed, shoulders shaking faintly. âOkay, listen. I have an idea.â That alone made you snort even louder. Chan lifted his phone and held it out toward you. âStand here,â he shifted slightly, spreading his legs just enough to indicate the space between them, âAnd take the picture from up there.â
You blinked at him. âSo it looks like you took it in the mirror?â you asked.
His eyes lit up. âExactly.â
You covered your mouth, already laughing. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âBut am I wrong?â he countered, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
You shook your head, but you stepped between his legs anyway, carefully positioning yourself so you didnât bump the bar. From this angle, the mirror above would perfectly frame him: his broad shoulders against the bench, his arms flexed subtly just from holding his phone steady, the tank hugging his torso in a way that felt almost unfair. âOkay,â you muttered, trying to sound professional. âHold still.â
Chan relaxed his head back against the bench, jawline sharp under the light. He adjusted his grip on his phone, bracelets sliding down his wrist, then gave you a faint, teasing look. âDo I look strong?â he asked softly.
You scoffed. âYou are strong.â
âI meant aesthetically,â he smirked.
You rolled your eyes, but your gaze lingered. From up here, he looked unreal. Pretty in that effortless way he always was. His soft lips curved in a half-smile, his eyes warm and playful, hair tousled from sweat. The ceiling lights caught the gold tones in his hair, and the angle made him look both powerful and boyishly proud of himself at the same timeâŚYou forgot to press the button.
âAre you taking it?â he teased.
âShut up,â you mumbled, finally snapping the photo as he winked up at you. The click echoed softly in the room.
Chan immediately sat up just enough to peer at the screen, crowding closer to you. His shoulder brushed yours, warm and solid. âLet me see.â You handed him the phone, trying very hard not to think about how close you were standing between his legs. His eyes widened. âOh, thatâs good.â
âTold you,â you said, crossing your arms.
He looked up at you, a grin spreading slowly. âYouâre a genius.â
âYouâre welcome.â
He held the phone up again, glancing at the picture one more time, then back at you. His smile softened, just a little. âYou were staring,â he added quietly.
You blinked. âI was not.â
âYou were.â
You huffed, stepping back. âYou just look nice, okay?â
Chanâs expression shifted into something less teasing, somehow more fond. âNice?â
You rolled your eyes again, but you couldnât help the smile tugging at your lips. âVery nice.â
He leaned back on his hands, still sitting on the bench, gaze following you. There was something warm in his eyes now, something that had nothing to do with gym lighting or clever camera angles. âWell,â he said softly, voice lower now. âGuess Iâll have to keep you around for future photoshoots.â
âOh, you'll keep me around for much more than that,â you smirked knowingly as he sat up fully. His strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you in close and burying his face in your stomach for a moment. Your hand gently sank into his hair, fingers massaging his scalp automatically.Â
Chan's head tilted back, glancing up at you. His ridiculously soft brown eyes met yours, and a lazy smile spread on his lips. âI missed you.â
âYou always miss me,â you grinned. âYouâve only been gone for the weekend, Channie love.â
A soft pout settled on his lips. âWhat kind of dumb reason is that? Of course, I'll always miss you,â he told you, hands gently finding the back of your thighs, fingers spreading as he gently fondled your legs. His eyes grew heavy as he studied your face, something darker creeping in. âMissed you so fucking much, baby.â
âYou mean you missed fucking me?â you asked knowingly, pulling a boyish grin from him so easily.
âWhat if I said yes?â Chan asked softly. âWhat if I told you I miss the feeling of being buried inside you, feeling you clench around me, and hearing those pretty little moans?âÂ
You lowered yourself into his lap, smiling at him. âThen I'd tell you I'm feeling quite empty still, even though your dick is even less tucked away in those cursed grey sweatpants than usually.âÂ
Chan's lips met yours with haste, clashing against them. His arm settled around your waist, his other hand fondling up your side, slipping beneath your shirt. You gasped into the kiss at the feeling of his hands against your skin. His finger barely traced the hem of your bra, a soft groan rising from his chest. âRide me?â
You chuckled, humming softly against his lips. âIs that a good time to put on Railway, Mr. Brace yourself, take a seat?â
Chan's ears turned red, a giddy giggle leaving him. âYeah? You think of that when you listen to it?â
âOh, please, Channie, this song is based on our time in Milan,â you laughed, earning another giggle from him.Â
Chan hummed softly, hands running up and down your thighs again. His lips traveled down your neck, fingers gently tugging at the hem of your sweatpants. âLet me help you?â You grinned and stood back up, letting him tug off your sweatpants, stepping out of them with ease. His hands roamed your skin almost immediately again, eyes taking in every detail. Back in his lap, his fingers ghost against your clothed core, drawing a soft sound from you. âMay I?â he asked softly, and you nodded, gasping as his fingers gently tugged your panties aside and slipped between your folds.
All these years, and he still asked like it was the first time. He still looked at you in wonder, his fingers still mapped out every inch of your body like they hadn't done so before countless times. And god, this man always took his time, no matter how much he needed you.Â
Chan gave you a gentle warning before his finger pushed inside you, stretching you ever so gently. He smiled at the soft gasp that left you, his hand soothingly caressing your hip. It didn't take long until he deemed you ready, fingers stretching you perfectly.Â
You tugged off your panties, dropping them to the floor next to your sweatpants. Chan shuffled down his own and his boxers, lying back down. His hands found your hips as you scooted forward and braced yourself on his chest. Chan reached down between your bodies, carefully dragging the tip through your folds, bumping against your clit, which made you bite back a moan. âRelax for me, beautiful,â Chan told you before carefully pushing inside.
A low moan fell from your lips as you sank down on him, fingers curling against his chest. âGod, Channie,â you moaned as you were fully seated on him.Â
Chan's grip on your hip grew tight, but that was the only sign of his own impatience. âYou feel so good around me, baby,â he told you with a sweet smile.Â
You leaned down, brushing your lips against his slowly. Your foreheads touched, breath mingling, the earlier teasing melting into something softer. He always did this. No matter how worked up he was, he would slow down the moment he saw that look in your eyes. âYouâre so unfair,â you murmured, fingers sliding up into his hair. âLooking at me like that.â
He huffed a quiet laugh against your mouth. âLike what?â
âLike youâre in love with me or something,â you teased.
He looked comically offended. âI am.â
Your hips moved experimentally, drawing a breathy sound from him. His head tipped back against the bench for a second, biting his lower lip to hold back the groan leaving him.
âDonât hide from me, love,â you whispered.
âIâm not,â he answered softly. âI justâŚI really missed you.â You rolled your hips again, gentler this time, and his hands tightened reflexively before relaxing, thumbs tracing slow circles into your skin. His jaw clenched briefly, but his eyes stayed warm. âThe weekend felt longer without you,â he admitted.Â
You smiled down at him, brushing your nose against his. âDramatic.â
âJust honest,â he corrected. You began moving properly now, slowly and unhurried, setting a rhythm that deepened his breathing. His hands guided you without forcing, as if he were learning you all over again. The teasing faded again as the pace deepened slightly, your movements growing more instinctive. His voice dropped, rougher now, but still gentle. âYouâre okay?â
âYeah,â you breathed. One of his hands left your hip to cradle your face instead, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. The intimacy of it made your chest tighten. Even like this, especially like this, he treated you like something precious. Your rhythm faltered slightly as you leaned into his touch, kissing him again, slower this time.Â
Chan moaned softly, fingers digging deeper into your skin. âFuck, baby, you feel so good,â he breathed out hoarsely. âCan I take off your shirt?â he asked sweetly, and you let him do as he pleased. The way his eyes met yours right after you knew exactly what he wanted and gave him an encouraging smile. Still steadying you with one hand, Chan's other moved behind you, unclasping your bra with a swift movement.Â
His head dipped, plush lips traveling over your skin. The teasing edge from earlier had melted completely; what remained was slow affection. His mouth pressed gentle kisses along your collarbone and down the curve of your chest. You inhaled sharply when his breath fanned across sensitive skin, fingers tightening in his hair. âChannieâŚâ
He hummed against you, the vibration sending a shiver down your spine. One hand stayed firm on your hip, grounding you, while the other traced lazy patterns along your back. He wasnât trying to overwhelm you; he was savoring every piece of you. âYouâre beautiful,â he murmured quietly, lips brushing your skin between words.
You laughed breathlessly. Your hips moved again, slow and rolling, drawing a strained exhale from him. Chan's hands guided you a little more firmly now, helping you set a steady rhythm. His breathing deepened, chest rising beneath your palms. You leaned down to kiss him, your tongues brushing, lips parting lazily, both of you smiling into it.
âMissed this,â he confessed against your mouth.
âMissed you,â you answered gently.
His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer so there was barely any space left between your bodies. He pressed his forehead to yours again, eyes soft despite the heat building between you. âLove you so much, baby,â he whispered against your lips.
âLove you too, Channie dear,â you whispered back, kissing him lovingly. âNow let me take care of you,â you told him. You pulled back then, bracing yourself on his chest and picking up the pace.Â
Chan moaned below you, hands gripping your skin firmly. âFuck, you're so pretty,â he moaned, his eyes darting as if he were unsure where to look first.Â
âWant me to go faster?â you asked breathlessly, and Chan nodded with a low whine. You picked up the pace once again, your skin meeting his forcefully.Â
Chan's head dropped back against the bench, eyes pressing closed for a mere second before he forced them back open to not miss a single second. âShit, baby, you feel so good,â Chan moaned out shamelessly. âTaking me so well.â
You circled your hips, drawing out a low groan from him. His hand fondled up your thigh before his thumb found your clit, rubbing soft circles against it. Your hips stuttered with a whine, lashes fluttering with pleasure. âShit, Channie, donât stop,â you begged him softly.Â
Chan smiled, sitting up fully again and making you moan softly at the change of the angle. His arm wrapped around you to keep you in place, lips finding yours. Your arms wrapped around his neck, fingers slipping into his hair with ease. âWouldnât even think of it,â he promised with a soft giggle, his thumb working your clit perfectly.Â
Chanâs head dips down, lips wrapping around your nipple with a soft groan. You moaned out at the extra stimulation, your cheek pressing against his hair. Chanâs hips twitched as you started clenching around him, your stomach tightening at your nearing release. Your hips stuttered, as if your body didnât know which sensation to chase first. The grip in his hair tightens, drawing soft grunts from Chan. âChannie,â you whined in need.
Chan pulled back almost immediately and lowered you onto the bench instead. His lips found yours in a heated kiss as he started thrusting into you steadily, one hand braced against the bench, the other still circling your clit. You tugged at his tanktop and he quickly pulled it off, throwing it onto the ground. âFuck, Y/nnie,â he panted softly against your lips, and thatâs when you got an idea.
You guided his face down to your neck, his lips immediately worshipping your skin there, kissing and nibbling at it softly. Your hand fumbled for your phone on the floor, opening your camera, the other lovingly tugging at Chanâs hair. You start a video and direct the camera at the mirror above you, groaning softly at the sight of you.Â
His hips met yours steadily, his strong back perfectly displayed in the mirror. You moaned softly as he hit the perfect spot, wrapping your legs around his waist and meeting his thrusts eagerly. You soon ended the video, knowing heâd love seeing it, and dropped the phone back on the floor, your fingers digging into his back. âChannie, Iâm close,â you moaned needily, your walls fluttering around him.Â
Chan groaned against your skin, nibbling at your neck. âItâs okay, baby, let go,â he told you softly, his own thrusts stuttering. âIâve got you, baby, you did so well, come on, my sweet girl,â he rambled on breathlessly, moaning shamelessly as you clenched around him.
A loud moan of his name left your lips, thighs shaking as your orgasm washed over you full force. You tugged on his hair, whimpering in relief when he stilled inside you, painting your walls with a sinful groan. He pulled you back up and fell down against the bench himself, pulling you on top of him, as if heâd been afraid to put all his weight onto you. You sighed happily and collapsed against his chest, panting softly.Â
A happy giggle left Chan, wrapping his arms around you tightly. âYouâll always be my favorite workout routine,â he teased you.
âDummy,â you smirked happily, thinking of the video you took earlier. Youâd keep that for the perfect occasion to send to him, then.Â
MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES
Taglist (Please let me know if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist):
đFuture Husbands Pt.2đ - Christmas Special Day 22
Pairing: non!idol MinChan
Word Count: 5018
Summary: Even though they're both caught up in their day-to-day lives, they can't help but fall for each other. Chan's birthday seems like a good opportunity to clear some things up, Minho receives an extra present on his birthday.
Warnings/Tags: domestic bullshit, chef!Chan, dance instructor!Min, friends to lovers, loads of playful banter, hurt!comfort, first kiss, first time, smut, fluff, bottom!min, top!chan
A/N: It took me a while to finish that one, but at least you saw parts of it already. I hope you like your part two @moridiaređ¤
do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any way here or on other platforms. Šď¸writingforstraykids 2024 -
I put a divider like this where the smut starts - after that the rest of the fic is not safe anymore for everyone who doesn't enjoy smutđ¤
Morning light slips in through the half-open curtains, catching on the dust motes floating lazily above the kitchen counter. The place smells faintly like coffee beans and fabric softener; Chanâs fault, both of them. Minho is up first. He moves through the apartment quietly, not wanting to wake Chan, who often forgets to close his bedroom door. He's barefoot, his hair is still mussed, and a black hoodie is tugged on over sleep-soft clothes. He pours water into a glass, downs it in practiced gulps, then rolls his shoulders once, already stretching muscle into readiness.
From Chan's bedroom comes a groan. âMin,â Chan mutters from under the blankets. âItâs illegal to move before eight.â
Minho smirks, opening the fridge. âYouâre the one who catered a six-course tasting menu until two a.m.â
Chan peers out just enough for one eye to glare at him. âThat doesnât mean the sun gets rights.â
Minho grabs a banana and taps it lightly against Chanâs forehead as he passes. âYouâll survive.â Then he gets ready for his day, taking a cold shower and dressing up.
He heads for the door with his dance bag slung over his shoulder. It contains shoes, a towel, a water bottle, and that ridiculous little first-aid kit he insists on carrying for his students. Before he leaves, he pauses to look back. Chanâs already half asleep again, but Minho turns off the bedroom light anyway.
-
Minho stands at the front, arms crossed, eyes sharp as his students run the combination again. He counts softly under his breath, correcting their posture with a tap to the shoulder. âAgain,â he says, voice even. âFrom the top.â
During the break, he checks his phone. One new message.
Channieđ¨đťâđłđŽ: Do you want something warm when you get back? Iâm testing sauces later.
MinđđťđââŹ: Yes. Also donât burn the apartment down.
Channieđ¨đťâđłđŽ:  I have never burned anything down.
Chanâs day is quieter, but no less intense. By noon, heâs in someone elseâs kitchen with marble counters, gold fixtures, and a view that costs more than their entire apartment. He works with his sleeves rolled up, his movements efficient, controlled, and careful. The clients float around him, sipping wine, murmuring praise, barely noticing the way he grounds the entire evening.
He plates with intention. Every dish feels personal, even when it isnât. By the time heâs home again, groceries in one arm and exhaustion settling into his bones, the apartment smells like soy, garlic, and something sweet he hasnât named yet.
Minho comes in not long after, hair damp from a shower at the studio, cheeks flushed, shoulders loose with spent energy. âYou smell good,â Minho says, toeing off his shoes.
âThatâs the food,â Chan replies automatically, stirring. âYou too,â he adds much quieter.
Minho pauses to look at him. Something warm flickers in his eyes as he does. They move around each other without thinking; Minhoâs washing his hands at the sink while Chan reaches past him for oil, Chanâs leaning back just enough for Minho to open a drawer. Itâs a choreography they never rehearsed.
Dinner is simple and shared on the couch with their knees touching. Minho steals bites off Chanâs plate like he always does. Later, Minho stretches on the floor, legs up against the wall, while Chan cleans. When Chan joins him, Minho wordlessly tugs him down too, draping one arm over his chest. âLong day?â Chan murmurs.
âMhm.â
âGood classes?â
Minho nods. âThey worked hard.â
Chan smiles at the ceiling. âYouâre good with them.â
Minho hums, fingers idly tracing the seam of Chanâs shirt. âYouâre good at feeding people,â he says, which makes Chan giggle so stupidly his dimples show.
A few weeks laterÂ
Chan knows something is off the moment he unlocks the door. The apartment is dimmer than usual, the lights warm rather than bright. Thereâs music playing softly from the speaker in the living room; instrumental, something Minho always claims helps him focus. The air smells like garlic, butter, and something richer beneath it. âMin?â Chan calls out, toeing off his shoes.
âIn the kitchen,â Minho answers calmly.
Chan rounds the corner and stops short. Minho stands at the stove in an apron Chan has literally never seen him wear. His sleeves are rolled up, and his hair is pushed out of his face. Heâs stirring something with careful attention, tasting, adjusting, moving with the same precise confidence he brings to the studio. Chan just stares. âWhyâŚWhy are you cooking?â he asks, dumbly.
Minho glances over his shoulder, one brow lifting. âItâs your birthday?â
Chan blinks. âI cook on my birthday.â
âThatâs depressing,â Minho replies flatly. He turns the heat down. âSit.â
Chan obeys without argument, dropping into a chair at the counter like heâs been told what to do his entire life. He watches Minho plate the food with care. âYou didnât have to,â Chan says quietly.
Minho sets the plate down in front of him. âI wanted to.â That shuts him up.
Dinner is really good. Chan hates how unsurprised he is. Of course, Minho is decent in the kitchen. Of course, heâs quietly competent at things no one expects him to be. âThis is unfair,â Chan mutters after a bite. âYouâre not allowed to be good at everything.â
Minho smirks, finally sitting across from him. âIâm not. I canât bake.â
Chan brightens. âYou canât?â
âNope,â Minho says firmly. âAnd donât try to fix that. That'll be your area of expertise.â
They eat slowly and talk about nothing important. About Minhoâs students, about a client Chan cooked for last week, who complained about salt and then asked for seconds. Afterward, Minho clears the plates before Chan can protest. When he comes back, heâs holding a small stack of neatly wrapped gifts. âOkay,â Minho says, setting them down. âYour turn.â
Chan frowns. âWhat do you mean?â
âYou donât get to dodge this,â Minho says lightly. âOpen them.â
The first is a new, comfortable black hoodie, heavenly soft on the inside. A silver bracelet follows right after; Chan has plenty of both of these already, but he lights up like it's the first he's ever gotten. And Minho can't help but smile, as he knew he would. Chan unwraps the next one and blinks at the large glass in his hand, carefully taking off the lid. âWhatâs that for?â
Minho smiles knowingly. âRemember how we made a deal to go see some of the world together? We can save some money for it here. I will drop my last bit of the month into it, and you'll just casually stuff it with your fancy money.â
Chan snorts softly. âYeah, sounds about right.â
Minho grins and shoves the next gift into his lap. Chan unwraps it and blinks in surprise. âYou got me a heating blanket?â
Minho nods gently. âYou mentioned your back and neck hurt after some of these long days, and I thought some warmth would be good then.â
Chan doesnât look up right away. âYou truly remember everything,â he says finally.
Minho shrugs, but his ears grow pink just a little. âYou think too loud, Chan.â
âThatâs not what I-â Chan exhales, then laughs softly. âThank you.â
Minho nods. âYeah.â They sit there for a while after, the apartment quiet around them. Chan is testing his new blanket and seems happy, glancing at Minho every now and then. Eventually, Minho shifts closer, just enough that their knees touch. âHey Channie,â he says. Chan looks at him questioningly, and Minho hesitates for a short moment. Then he leans in. Itâs slow and careful, like heâs checking whether Chan will pull away. But Chan doesn't. The kiss is soft and warm. A press of lips that feels less like a beginning and more like an acknowledgment of everything theyâve already been doing for years. When Minho pulls back, he stays close, their foreheads touching. âHappy birthday,â he murmurs.
Chan exhales a shaky laugh, his heart pounding. âYouâre never cooking on my birthday again.â
Minho smiles. âWeâll see.â Chan can't help but lean in again, finding Minho's lips for another sweet, slow kiss.
-
Sunlight filters between buildings, warming the pavement, bouncing off shop windows and street signs. Chanâs hand is warm around Minhoâs, fingers laced like theyâve done this forever instead of only recently allowing themselves to. Minho swings their joined hands slightly as they walk, gaze drifting from storefront to storefront. Vintage clothes, plants spilling out of a floristâs doorway, and a bookstore with a display that makes him slow just enough for Chan to bump into him.
âYouâre gonna make me trip,â Chan murmurs.
Minho smiles without looking at him. âYouâre holding my hand. Youâre responsible now.â
Chan doesnât argue against that. They stop at a small stand selling pastries; something fried, sugar-dusted, absolutely unnecessary. Minho eyes them openly. âYouâre thinking about it, right?â Chan says.
âIâm thinking about how many calories I'll have to dance off and-â
Chan already has his wallet out. âTwo of those. And whatever that one is.â
Minho opens his mouth and closes it just as fast, accepting the paper bag when Chan presses it into his free hand. âYou keep doing that,â Minho says, breaking one open and handing half back automatically.
âDoing what?â Chan asks, taking the bag.
Minho gives him a glance. âPaying.â
Chan shrugs, chewing happily on the pastry. âYou picked the place.â
âThatâs not-,â Minho sighs, but thereâs no heat in it. âYou didn't have to.â
They eat as they walk, sugar on their fingers, their shoulders brushing every now and then. At one point, Minho wipes powdered sugar from Chanâs lip with his thumb without thinking. Chan freezes for half a second, then relaxes again.
Later, they wander into a shoe store. Minho hadnât planned on it, but his feet carried him there anyway. He tries them on quietly, pacing the little mirror space, bouncing once on his heels twice. His eyes light up in a way he clearly doesnât intend to show. Chan sees it immediately, and he can't let that opportunity go to waste. âTheyâre good,â Chan says.
âTheyâre really good,â Minho admits, then checks the price tag again. His expression dims. âTheyâre also kind of stupidly expensive.â
Chan steps closer, crouching slightly to press the sole down with his thumb. âThey support your arch better.â
Minho huffs a laugh, then straightens back up again. âI donât need them right now, it's fine.â
Chan stands, already reaching for the box. âYou dance every day.â
Minhoâs brows knit together. âChan.â
âYou wear through shoes faster than anyone I know,â Chan continues gently. âAnd these feel right. I can tell.â He turns toward the counter.
Minho follows him, panic creeping in. âHey, hey, you donât have to do that.â Chan pays without hesitation, not even sparing him a glance.
Outside, Minho finally stops him, hands still in the bag with the box. âYou didnât have to,â he says again, much quieter now.
Chan meets his gaze, thumb brushing over Minhoâs knuckles. âI know.â
âThen why did you do it? I told you it was fine,â Minho sighed softly.
âBecause I want you to be comfortable,â Chan says simply. He doesn't mention the money, who earns more, or why it wouldnât hurt him to do this.
Minho swallows thickly. âThank you, love.â
Chan squeezes his hand. âAnytime, baby.â
-
Chanâs car is already parked in front of the building when Minho pushes through the studio doors, his dance bag heavy on his shoulder and exhaustion clinging to him in that deep, bone-worn way. He spots the familiar silhouette immediately and relaxes before he even reaches the passenger side. âHi, baby,â Chan says gently as Minho climbs in, leaning over to press a quick kiss to his temple. âIs everything okay? You're a bit late today.â
âYeah, everythingâs alright,â Minho replies, toeing off his shoes and folding one leg under himself. âThank you for waiting.â
Chan hums, starting the car. âAlways.â
It only takes a few minutes for Minho to notice. Chan grips the steering wheel a little too tightly, and a faint crease has settled between his brows. The silence seems heavier than usual. âTired?â Minho asks softly.
Chan exhales. âYeah. It was a lot today, and my designated sous chef cancelled at the last minute. I think my body has given up on me entirely.â
Minho reaches over without looking, threading their fingers together. âYou didnât tell me.â
âI didnât want to complain.â
Minho scoffs quietly. âYou cook for rich strangers all day and still worry about bothering me?â Chan smiles faintly but doesnât argue.
At home, Chan insists on unloading the groceries despite Minhoâs protests. Heâs halfway through stacking vegetables when Minho disappears down the hall without a word. By the time Chan finishes and turns around, he hears water running. âMin?â he calls.
âIn here,â comes the reply, calm and steady. Chan finds him in the bathroom, sleeves rolled up, testing the water temperature with his wrist. Steam curls into the air, scented faintly with lavender oil, which Minho only ever uses when Chanâs had a rough day. Minho glances at him. âYouâre taking a bath now.â
Chan blinks. âYouâre bossy tonight.â
âYouâre exhausted tonight,â Minho corrects, stepping closer and tugging at Chanâs sleeves. âCome on now.â
Chan doesnât resist. He lets Minho guide him, hands careful and sure as he helps him settle into the tub. The moment Chan sinks into the warm water, his shoulders drop like heâs been carrying the world there all day. âOh,â he breathes. âThatâsâŚwow.â
Minho smiles softly. âIâll order some food. Donât drown.â
âYes, sir,â Chan murmurs, already closing his eyes.
Dinner arrives not long after, and they eat it slowly on the couch with Chan leaning heavily into Minhoâs side, fingers curled into his hoodie like an anchor. Afterward, Minho nudges him toward the bedroom. âLetâs get you to bed.â
Chan barely has the energy to tease this time. He does as heâs told, collapsing onto the mattress with a groan the moment heâs settled. Minho gets seated beside him, hands warm as they settle on Chanâs shoulders. He doesnât say anything, just starts to work slowly, thumbs pressing into tight muscle, fingers tracing down his neck and across his upper back. Chan melts on the spot.âOh, Min,â he groans, voice already wrecked. âYou have no idea how bad that hurts.â
âI can imagine,â Minho murmurs, leaning in. âYou carry it all here.â
He presses a little firmer, and Chan lets out a sound thatâs halfway between a whine and a laugh, head dropping onto the pillow. âThatâs unfair,â he breathes. âYouâreâŚthat spot-â Minho smirks to himself, continuing without mercy. Chanâs reactions come freely now: soft gasps, murmured complaints that sound suspiciously grateful, the occasional broken, âMinho, please,â that doesnât mean stop at all.
âYouâre loud,â Minho says fondly.
âYouâre evil,â Chan replies, voice hoarse and utterly content.
Minho eases up eventually, hands smoothing over warm skin, grounding him again. He leans down, pressing a kiss to Chanâs shoulder. âSleep,â he murmurs. âIâve got you, love.â
Chan exhales, boneless and safe. âYeah,â he whispers. âI know.â And for once, he falls asleep before Minho does.
-
Chan doesnât warn him. Thatâs the first thing Minho notices. Heâs barely finished toweling off his hair when Chan appears in the doorway, dressed in dark slacks and a pressed shirt that fits him a little too well, sleeves buttoned neatly at the wrist, tie sitting perfectly at his throat. âGet dressed,â Chan says calmly. âWeâre going out.â
Minho blinks. âOut where?â
Chan smiles knowingly. âItâs your birthday. Trust me.â
The restaurant is everything Minho would never pick for just himself. Low lighting, soft music, and too many forks. The kind of place where Chan belongs effortlessly, greeting staff by name, pulling Minhoâs chair out for him like itâs second nature. âYouâre ridiculous,â Minho mutters, cheeks warm as Chan orders wine without even looking at the menu.
The food is unreal. So is the way Chan watches him across the table; fond, attentive, eyes soft every time Minho laughs or talks with his hands. By the time they get home, the air between them feels charged, humming like a wire pulled too tight.
Chan barely gets the door shut before Minho turns on him. He grabs Chan by the tie, fingers curling into the fabric and tugging him forward without hesitation. Chan makes a soft, surprised sound, not a protest, though, and Minho kisses him hard.
Itâs nothing like their usual kisses. This one is messy. All teeth and breath and need, with Minho rising up onto his toes just to stay close. Chan responds instantly, hands coming up to Minhoâs waist, then higher, then everywhere, pulling him in until thereâs nowhere to go.
Minho backs up without realizing it, the solid wood of the front door pressing cold against his spine. Chan follows and pins him there without meaning to. Their mouths donât slow. If anything, they get worse; deeper, more desperate, breaths breaking between kisses. Minho arches into him instinctively, his fingers still tight in Chanâs tie, tugging like heâs afraid Chan might disappear if he lets go. âChan,â he breathes into the kiss, voice wrecked.Â
Chan groans softly at the sound of his name, forehead dropping to Minhoâs for half a second, their noses brushing against each other. âMinho,â he murmurs back, as if it costs him something. Minhoâs chest is heaving. His hands roam now, to Chanâs shoulders, his chest, the line of his jaw. He tilts his head, chasing Chanâs mouth again, kissing him like heâs been waiting all night. When Chan finally pulls back, itâs only just enough to breathe. His hands stay firm at Minhoâs hips, thumbs pressing into familiar places. âHappy birthday,â he says quietly, voice low and full.
Minho laughs softly, still breathless. âYou spoil me.â
Chan doesnât answer right away. Instead, he tightens his grip. âIâm not done spoiling you tonight,â he murmurs, voice low and steady.
Before Minho can tease him for it, Chan lifts him clean off the floor. Minho gasps, hands instinctively sliding up to clutch at Chanâs shoulders, laughter dissolving into breathless surprise as Chan carries him down the hallway. âYouâre ridiculous,â Minho manages between kisses.
âAnd you love it,â Chan replies, mouth already finding his again. Chanâs bedroom door barely slows them down. Chan nudges the door shut with his foot and lowers Minho onto the mattress with careful strength, like heâs placing something precious down rather than pinning him there.
Chan follows him immediately, bracing himself over Minho, hands warm and solid against his sides. Minhoâs legs wrap around Chanâs hips without thinking, pulling him closer, anchoring him there. His breath catches when Chan exhales against his mouth, the kiss deepening again.
Chan breaks the kiss just long enough to trail his mouth down Minhoâs jaw, then to his neck. Minho arches instinctively, a soft, needy sound slipping out of him the moment Chanâs lips press there. Chan smiles against his skin, clearly pleased, and does it again, slower this time. âChan,â Minho breathes, fingers threading into his hair.
Chan hums quietly in response, mouth still at his neck, hands steady at Minhoâs waist like heâs grounding them both. âYeah,â he murmurs roughly. âIâve got you.â
Minhoâs chest rises and falls quickly now, every nerve lit up, every touch feeling like it matters. He tilts his head just enough to give Chan better access. Chan doesnât slow down. If anything, he presses closer, his body fitting against Minhoâs like it always has, like it was made to. His mouth keeps moving, unhurried and intent, kissing along Minhoâs neck and back up again, learning him anew with every soft press of his lips.
Minhoâs breath fractures. A quiet sound slips from him before he can stop it, then another. His fingers tighten reflexively, one hand buried in Chanâs hair, the other gripping the fabric of his suit jacket like itâs the only thing keeping him grounded. âChannie,â Minho exhales, voice already wrecked.
Chan hums against his skin, the vibration sending a shiver straight through him. His hands settle more firmly at Minhoâs sides, holding him there, close enough that Minho can feel every breath he takes.
When Minho shifts, just a small, instinctive movement, his hips brush against Chan without intent, a reflex more than a choice. The reaction is immediate. Chan stills just a fraction, breath stuttering, forehead dropping to Minhoâs shoulder as if he needs the second to steady himself. Minho realizes what heâs done a heartbeat later, cheeks warm, body buzzing. âI-sorry,â he murmurs, even though he doesnât sound sorry at all.
Chan lifts his head slowly, eyes dark, focused entirely on him. His grip tightens just enough to make Minhoâs breath catch again. âDonât,â he says quietly. âYou didnât do anything wrong.â He leans in, resting his forehead against Minhoâs, noses brushing as their breaths mingle. Minho swallows, hips twitching again despite himself. Chan exhales a low, shaky breath and presses a gentle kiss to Minhoâs mouth this time. âEasy,â Chan murmurs, thumb brushing comfortingly along Minhoâs side. âIâve got you.âÂ
Minho doesnât mean to move like that. Itâs instinct more than intent. His body is chasing the closeness, the pressure, the heat where Chan is already everywhere. His hips roll up again, subtle but unmistakable, breath hitching sharply as he does. âChan,â he whispers, his voice rough, desperate in a way he doesnât bother hiding. His fingers tighten in Chanâs hair, tugging just enough to get his attention. âPlease.â
Chan freezes for a second. Then he exhales, forehead dropping to Minhoâs collarbone like heâs grounding himself there. His hands stay firm at Minhoâs waist, thumbs pressing in warning and reassurance all at once. âMinho,â he says quietly, but strained. âHey.â
Minho swallows, his eyes glassy and his chest rising fast. He doesnât let go. Instead, he pulls Chan closer again, legs tightening around his hips, lips brushing his ear as he murmurs, almost pleading, âDo something.â
Chanâs breath breaks. He lifts his head, eyes locking onto Minhoâs with an intensity that makes Minhoâs stomach flip. Thereâs hunger there, unmistakably so, but thereâs also care, restraint, and something protective beneath it all. Chan leans in, kissing him again. One hand slides up Minhoâs spine, holding him flush, anchoring him there. The kiss steals Minhoâs breath completely, pulls another soft sound from his throat before he can stop it.
When Chan finally pulls back, itâs only an inch. âI am,â Chan murmurs against his lips. Minho nods shakily, still clinging, still aching, but trusting him completely. Chan presses a soft kiss to his forehead, then his cheek, then his mouth again, full of unspoken promises. âIâve got you,â Chan whispers. âAll night.â
Minhoâs hands come up shakily as they kiss again, fingers fumbling open Chanâs tie first, the buttons of his shirt following. His hands hesitantly roam the newly exposed skin, fingers tracing down Chanâs stomach as he searches his eyes. Chan nods with a soft smile, encouraging him that itâs okay, before reaching down and carefully unbuttoning Minhoâs shirt as well. Their pants follow, and clothes hit the floor until theyâre dressed in nothing but their boxers. Minho tugs Chan into another kiss, soft gasps leaving him as Chanâs hand travels down his side, squeezing his thigh and groaning at the feeling. âFuck, Chan, use your fingers, please, before I do it myself.â
Chan giggles in delight before carefully tugging off Minhoâs boxers and fumbling for the lube in his bedside table after. He coats his fingers, warming them before gently fondling against Minhoâs rim. The moan that leaves his love when he finally, gently, pushes the first finger inside sends butterflies right down to his core. Minhoâs legs fall open, his grip on Chanâs hair tightening as Chan stretches him out patiently. Minho canât help but moan when Chanâs three fingers in deep. Chan watches him carefully when he curls his fingers against Minhoâs prostate.
Minho arches off the bed with a surprised little moan, his hand twisting the sheets below him. His eyes flutter shut as Chan does it again, his eyes rolling back deliciously, his lips parting with a weak whine. Chan can only marvel at the sight, pressing down against the mattress in an attempt to soothe the growing pressure between his legs. âFuck, baby, youâre gorgeous.â
Minho smiles lazily. âYeah? Bet Iâll look even better on your dick, pretty,â he groans, and Chan swallows thickly. âDonât make me beg.â
Chan giggles fondly, rolling his eyes, before pulling down his stained boxers and throwing them towards the rest of their clothes. âNot tonight, baby, Iâm too impatient for it.â
Minho snorts and pulls him into a heated kiss, groaning as he pulls out his fingers. He tenses softly when Chanâs dick finally pushes past his rim, a satisfied moan leaving him right after. âOh-oh fuck, Channie,â he moans out deliciously. âGet moving.â
âAlways so bossy,â Chan smirks against his lips, but he canât deny him that wish. He truly canât. He starts rolling his hips, thrusting into him at a steady pace that has Minho gasping and writhing against the sheets.Â
Minho arches into Chanâs thrusts, hips eagerly meeting his every move. His hands are everywhere, gripping onto Chanâs hair, the sheets, his shoulders as if he doesnât know how to stay sane otherwise. Chanâs lips travel down his neck, his hot breath ghosting over his skin and sending shivers down Minhoâs spine. âIâm gonna say something controversial,â Minho broke off with a gasp.
Chan snorts, pushing in deep and marvelling at the soft flutter of Minhoâs eyes it gets him. âThatâs a new one.â
âF-Fuck you,â he moans softly, tugging at Chanâs hair roughly.Â
âIâm kind of busy fucking you right now, baby,â Chan laughs, a soft moan leaving him as Minho only tugs on his hair harder in response.Â
âCan we skip the romance part?â he asks, heavylidded eyes meeting Chanâs. âWe can do that another time, right now - fuck - I need you to ruin me.â
Chan stares at him, amazed. âIf I knew what a simple dinner could do to you, I wouldâve done so much earlier.â
âCan you stop being such a dumb-ahh, yeah, just like that,â Minho moans out loudly as Chan slams his hips against him. His head falls back against the pillow, back arching as Chan starts pounding into him. He can barely keep his eyes open, too overwhelmed by the feeling. Chanâs hands guide his legs up, settling them onto his shoulders, and Minho grips his arm at the new angle.Â
Chan keeps the fast pace and harsh thrusts up, his lips travelling over whatever bit of skin he can reach. Minhoâs hand presses up against the headboard, thrusting back and keeping himself from bumping his head. Chan gently grazes Minhoâs nipple with his teeth, and the unholy whine it pulls out of Minho makes his hips jerk. âYou like that, baby?â he teases him, and Minhoâs too far gone to scold him for it.
âY-Yes, fuck, Chan, donât stop,â he moans out loudly, his voice breaking when Chan gently sucks on his nipple.Â
Chan canât stop staring at him in wonder. He knew Minho was beautiful; he always has. But this, all fucked out for him, lips parting, lashes fluttering, sweat coating his forehead, this is even better. The sound of their skin clapping mixes with Minhoâs beautiful moans and the sound of the headboard hitting the wall. A loud knocking from above makes him freeze, his eyes widening.
âDonât you dare stop,â Minho groans softly. âFuck them, Chan, seriously,â he tells him, not caring about any annoyed neighbours right now.Â
Chan laughs before continuing to move, drawing another set of filthy moans and curses from Minhoâs lips. âDonât worry, baby, I couldnât leave you hanging like that.â
âY-Yeah, you better,â Minho groans, pulling him into an open-mouthed kiss. His thighs are shaking by now, and he can feel his stomach flipping. âI think Iâm close,â he muttered against his lips.
âThatâs okay, baby, let go,â Chan encourages him softly, changing the angle slightly to hit Minhoâs prostate. Minho moans so loudly in response Chanâs sure their neighbours have heard, but truly, he doesnât care. Not with the sight he has right now. Not with those sweet, punched-out sounds leaving his love. Not when heâs clinging to him so firmly heâs sure heâll bruise.Â
âMâfuck, Channie,â Minho whines, squeezing his eyes shut adorably with a groan. His stomach flips again, violently, and his nails bury themselves in Chanâs back as the older hits his prostate again. Before he can fully comprehend it, a broken moan of Chanâs name leaves him as heâs spilling all over himself and Chan. His body spasms as pleasure courses through his veins, toes curling at the release.
Chan buries his face in Minhoâs neck with a loud groan, the sight of him and the feeling of him clenching around him wrecking him. Chan gasps Minhoâs name as his hips jerk forward and he coats his walls. He pulls out of him with a soft grunt, and Minho tugs him into a hug, kissing his hair. âGod, I love you, Min.â
Minho giggles happily. âMhm, I love you too,â he grins before glancing down at himself. âThe first thing we save for with that jar I gifted you is a house. I wonât be getting scolded by some uptight neighbours for enjoying my time with my boyfriend.â
Chan canât help but laugh at that. âDeal,â he smiles, kissing him happily. âActually, why donât I go clean up the mess I made, hm?â he grins, scooting down further and getting comfortable between Minhoâs legs. He shoves a pillow beneath Minhoâs hips and gently grabs his thighs, parting them to get access.Â
Minhoâs hand buries in his hair the moment his tongue meets his skin, caressing his rim ever so softly. This time, heâs loud on purpose.
MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES
Taglist (Please let me know if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist):
Seungmin is known for being stoic, nonchalant, a little devil sometimes, but not heartless. His love language is teasing and sometimes straight up bullying, but that's reserved for only his close friends, like the members for example. He does have a lot of people he lovesâand his fans are part of that group of peopleâbut there's limits to what he would do for them.
Or at least that's what people thought.
It started with a random Instagram live in his hotel room. He was answering questions, talking about his day, what he ate, a Hyunjin embarrassing story, very normal stuff. But then his door clicked open. He looked behind where his phone was set up, his brows frowning in confusion for a moment but then his eyes lit up and he smiled. It was one of those smiles that people saw on very rare occasions.
"Who came in???"
"Is it one of the members?"
"Must be Felix, look how happy he looks."
"Ayen??"
âHi darling,â
That immediately made the chat stop speculating which member it was. The way he said it, the way he was looking at this person, it definitely wasn't any of the boys, unless they were roleplaying something. Was it Lee Know? Were they acting as husband and wife like in their family series? Weren't they getting a divorce?
âAre you live ?â
Fans immediately knew who that voice belonged to. They spent way too long analysing the only two existing clips of this person. Everyone was freaking out. The messages were passing by so fast they became unreadable. Not like Seungmin was paying them any attention, he was too focused on the girl in front of him.
âI am, are you okay with saying hi ?â
She hesitated, not wanting to disturb him while he was doing his job, but with a little encouraging words from the smiling boy in front of her she popped her head in and waved shyly. Seungmin's hands naturally settled on her waist as he saw the comments flying by like crazy.
âThere's a lot of people.â she mumbled as she turned to face him, her cheeks heating up from the attention she was getting from all those people watching.
âI know, and the number has been getting higher since you walked in.â Seungmin chuckled as he pulled her closer to him, his head tilting up to look at her from his sitting position, âYou needed something, darling?â
âYes um, Lixie, Innie and I are gonna order pizza and watch a movie and I was wondering if you wanted to join us?â
Seungmin immediately nodded yes. How could he not? She was being so sweet, inviting him for dinner and a movie where she'd give all of them cuddles and attention. God, he would bring the moon to her if he could.
âI'd love to join you,â his hands moved so he was holding hers, his touch gentle as he ran his thumb over her knuckles. âlet me say goodbye to stay and I'll be right there with you.â
He let her go but not before planting a sweet little kiss on the back of her hand. His attention shifted back to the live, the same lovesick smile on his face. He was about to say his goodbyes when the comments caught his attention.
â"bro's leaving us for a girl" well she's not just any girl,â his voice was low but carried a curtain weight of protectiveness, and his expression was back to neutral yet the sparkle in his eyes that appeared the moment he saw her face was still there, âI'd burn the world down if she asks.â
Later that night, Jeongin sent a photo on Bubble of Seungmin and the mysterious girl under the covers, talking to each other and clearly giggling at something. A little bit of Felix was visible on the side, his hand tightly clasped with hers. The message that followed read: "I hate when people talk during the movie," accompanied by an eye-roll emoji.
And what do you know, the internet went crazy again. Questioning who she is, why they were suddenly showing her off, if the company was allowing this or they were breaking the rules, and what she did exactly that made Kim Seungmin all soft and mushy for her.
They would get their answers eventually, just not as soon as they want.
É . abstract. to them, you'll never be too much, and they'll never hesitate to remind you of that.
É . warnings / tags. feelings of inadequacy/low self-esteem. anxiety and overthinking. social isolation. emotional breakdowns. self-deprecation. established relationship. boyf!hyunlix. hurt/comfort, angst.
for the most part, it starts relatively small.
youâre sitting on the edge of the bed, the glow of your phone screen the only light in the room, watching the little grey bubbles in the group chat. youâd sent a long, rambling message about the book you just finishedâthe way the ending felt like a physical ache, the way the prose shifted in the final act. you were excited. your thumbs couldn't move fast enough.
ten minutes pass. then twenty.
finally, a notification. âlol nice.â
thatâs it. just two words.
you feel a cold sink in your stomach. you scroll up, looking at the wall of text youâve provided versus the scattered, one-sentence replies from everyone else over the last few days. itâs a pattern you hadn't let yourself see until now. youâre the one who starts the conversations. youâre the one who sends the 'did you see this?' links. youâre the one who fills the silence.
am i annoying? the thought takes root, dark and intrusive. iâm definitely annoying. i sound so desperate, don't i?
you close the app, your face hot with a sudden, sharp shame. you think back to dinner last night with your friends, how youâd talked for ten minutes straight about a new hobby, and you remember the way one of them had checked their watch.
they didn't say anything, but they didn't have to. you were being too much again. a whirlwind of noise that nobody asked for.
the door to the apartment clicks open. the muffled sounds of hyunjin and felix coming homeâthe familiar rustle of jackets, the low murmur of their voicesâusually makes you run to the hallway to greet them. tonight, you stay still.
you don't want to be the first thing they hear when they walk in. theyâve had a fourteen-hour day. theyâre exhausted, drained of every ounce of social energy, and the last thing they need is you hovering over them, vibrating with words theyâre too tired to process.
"baby? you home?" felixâs voice calls out, soft and searching.
"in here," you call back, consciously keeping your voice level. quiet.
they appear in the doorway a moment later. hyunjin looks pale, his hair pulled back in a messy tie, eyes heavy. felix is already halfway out of his hoodie, his movements slow and lethargic.
usually, this is where youâd tell them about your day, about the funny video you saw, about the dinner youâre planning. instead, you just smile. a small, tight thing.
"hey," you say softly. "you guys look exhausted. do you want to just lie down? i can get you some water."
hyunjin blinks, a bit surprised by the lack of a welcome home hug. he moves toward you, sinking onto the bed and pulling you into his side. "water sounds good. but stay for a second. i missed you."
you let him pull you down, resting your head on his shoulder. you wait for him to speak. you wait for felix to join the tangle of limbs. you keep your mouth shut, swallowed by a sudden, terrifying fear that if you start talking, you won't be able to stop, and youâll see that look in their eyesâthe one that says please, just be quiet for a minute.
the silence becomes your new skin.
over the next week, you practice the art of being 'less.' you stop sending the paragraph-long texts. when you see something interesting, you save it to a private folder instead of sharing it. at dinner, you focus on your food, nodding when they talk, asking short, polite questions to keep the focus on them.
how was practice? was the choreography hard? are you hungry?
itâs easier this way, you tell yourself. if you don't give them anything to be overwhelmed by, they can't get tired of you. youâre protecting them. youâre being a good partner.
but your chest feels like itâs being crushed by an invisible weight. every story you hold back, every joke you swallow, every observation you stifleâit all piles up inside you like stones in a backpack.
your heart aches for the version of you that wasn't afraid to be loud, but youâre terrified that if that girl comes back, theyâll realize how much easier life is without her.
one evening, the three of you are piled on the couch. hyunjin is sketching in a notebook, his long fingers moving gracefully over the paper, and felix is leaning against your legs, eyes closed as he listens to a demo on his headphones.
the room is quiet. itâs the kind of quiet you used to fill with "jinnie, look at this" or "lix, listen to what happened."
now, you just stare at the tv, which is muted. you feel like a ghost in your own home. your heart aches so sharply that you have to take a shallow breath to keep from gasping. you miss them. youâre sitting right next to them, and you miss them so much it feels like youâre grieving.
"angel?"
you jump slightly. felix has pulled his headphones down around his neck. heâs looking up at you, his brow furrowed.
"yeah?" you ask, your voice a little raspy from disuse.
"you okay? you've been... really mellow lately," he says. itâs a gentle observation, but it feels like a spotlight.
hyunjin stops drawing. he tilts his head, looking at you with those piercing, dark eyes that always seem to see too much. "i was gonna say the same thing. youâre not even humming. you always hum when youâre bored."
you force a smile, your heart hammering against your ribs. "oh. iâm just tired, i think. itâs been a long week."
"it's thursday," hyunjin points out softly. "youâve been tired since sunday. did something happen? did someone say something to you?"
"no! no, nothing like that," you say, a little too quickly. you reach for the remote, desperate to change the subject. "should we watch that documentary? the one about the deep sea? you guys wanted to see that, right?"
felix reaches out, his hand wrapping around your wrist before you can grab the remote. his touch is warm, steady, and utterly grounding. "the fish can wait. talk to us."
"there's nothing to talk about, 'lix. really. i'm just trying to be... better. more considerate."
"considerate of what?" hyunjin asks, moving closer, his sketchbook forgotten on the coffee table.
you feel the first sting of tears in your eyes and you hate it. you try to blink them back, staring hard at a stray thread on the rug. "i just... i know how busy you guys are. i know you're stressed. and i know i can be... a lot. i don't want to pile my stuff on top of yours. i don't want to be another thing you have to deal with at the end of the day."
thereâs a heavy silence. you can feel them looking at each other over your head.
"is that what you think you are?" felixâs voice is so low, so pained, that it makes you look up. "another thing to 'deal with'?"
you shrug, a tear finally escaping and trekking down your cheek. you wipe it away quickly. "i just talk too much. i know i do. i see it in the group chats, i see it with my family. i'm always the one pushing, always the one with the most to say. and i realized... everyone would probably just be better off if i was a bit quieter. you guys included."
"oh, baby," hyunjin murmurs. he moves, sliding off the couch to kneel on the floor in front of you so heâs lower than you, looking up into your face. he takes your other hand. "who told you that? who made you feel like your voice was a burden?"
"no one had to tell me," you whisper, your voice breaking for real now. "itâs just... obvious. i suffocate people. i'm overwhelming. i feel like i have to hold everything together, have to keep the conversation going so thereâs no awkward silence, but all i'm doing is making people want to leave. and i... i can't lose you guys. i'd rather be silent for the rest of my life than have you look at me and feel tired."
the sob finally breaks through, and you cover your face with your hands, shoulders shaking.
immediately, theyâre there. felix is pulling you into his chest, his arms a solid, protective cage around you, while hyunjin leans his weight against your knees, his hands stroking your hair, your arms, anything he can reach.
"listen to me," felix whispers against your temple, his voice vibrating with a fierce, quiet intensity. "you could talk for a hundred years without stopping, and i would never, ever be tired of listening. do you hear me? never."
hyunjin reaches up, gently prying one of your hands away from your face to kiss your palm. "you think you're 'too much'? baby, you're exactly enough. you're the life in this house. when you're quiet... the whole world feels grey. weâve been coming home all week wondering what we did wrong, why you didn't want to talk to us anymore."
"i thought you were pulling away," felix admits, his grip tightening. "i thought you were bored of us."
"no!" you cry into his shirt. "never. i just... i don't want to be the person who exhausts you."
hyunjin moves, shifting until heâs sitting on the cushion next to you, pulling your head onto his shoulder. he brushes the damp hair back from your forehead, his gaze soft and unwavering.
"give us all your words," he murmurs, his voice a velvet caress in the quiet room.
felix leans in, pressing his forehead against yours, his eyes locking onto yours with an honesty that makes your breath hitch. "weâll keep them all," he finishes. "every single one. the rants about books, the stupid jokes, the way you narrate what the cat is doingâall of it."
"itâs not a burden," hyunjin adds, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "itâs a gift. do you have any idea how much we need your voice after a day of people telling us what to do and where to stand? your voice is the only one that doesn't feel like work. it feels like home, jagi."
you sniffle, looking between them. the crushing weight in your chest is starting to crack, letting in air for the first time in days. "you really don't mind the rambling? even when i talk about things you don't care about?"
"i care because you care," felix says firmly. "i don't give a damn about period dramas, but i love the way your eyes light up when you explain the costume design. i love that youâre passionate. don't you dare dim that for anyone. especially not for us."
you let out a long, shaky breath, burying your face in the space between their shoulders. the tears are still coming, but theyâre different nowâa release rather than a drowning.
"i'm sorry," you mumble. "i got so far into my own head."
"don't be sorry," hyunjin whispers, kissing the top of your head. "just promise youâll tell us next time the silence starts feeling heavy. weâll help you carry it."
you stay like that for a long time, held between them, the quiet of the apartment no longer feeling empty, but full. eventually, you pull back just enough to look at felix.
"âlix?"
"yeah, angel?"
"there was this video i saw yesterday," you start, your voice small and hesitant. "about this guy who built a tiny house for a frog in his garden..."
felixâs face breaks into the widest, most genuine grin youâve seen all week. he settles back into the cushions, pulling you closer. "tell me everything. did the frog have furniture?"
and so, you talk. you talk about the frog, and the book ending, and the dream you had three nights ago, and the way the light hit the trees this afternoon. you talk until your throat is dry and your heart is light, and not onceânot for a single secondâdo they look away.
they just listen. and they keep every single word.
idk which member this would be buuuuttttt i saw someone talk abt how her bf fucked a fleshlight while the fleshlight was in her pussy, and he also played with the clit on the fleshlight instead of playing with her clit đĽ´đĽ´
minho minho minhoâŚ.. ohhh my goodness⌠i think he would like this in general but also it would be one hell of a punishment for when he thinks youâve been bad. sure youâre full, more full than usual even, but the fact that you canât feel him the way you typically do is just so terrible and life-ruining. and the fact that he wonât even touch your clit!!! so mean đ heâll act like he is though. âiâm already playing with your needy clit, jagi, stop fussingâ or if heâs really feeling mean and he knows it works you up more⌠âahh, you donât like it when i play with her clit and not yours?â minho will lick the tips of his fingers or spit down onto that silicone toy and rub it in just to make you squirm.
đThanks for rememberingđ-Christmas Special Day 20
Pairing: Hyunjin x Jisung
Word Count: 836
Summary: Hyunjin remembers the day Jisung told him about a core memory of his childhood - building a gingerbread house with his grandmother. So when Christmas time arrives Hyunjin ignites a competition with him.
Warnings/Tags: teasing, friendly banter, childhood memories, brief mention of loss, gingerbread house competition.
A/N: I hope you like it, my loveđ¤ @skzoologist
do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any way here or on other platforms. Šď¸writingforstraykids 2024 -
The competition starts as a terrible idea. At least, thatâs what Jisung decides the moment he opens the box and immediately drops one of the gingerbread walls onto the table, snapping it clean in half.
Hyunjin, seated across from him, blinks at him stunned. ââŚYou didnât even start yet.â
âIt was defective,â Jisung says instantly, pointing at the broken piece like it personally betrayed him. âThis is on the manufacturer.â
Hyunjin hums, amused, already arranging his pieces with meticulous care. His sleeves are rolled up, hair tied back, expression calm and focused in a way that makes Jisung feel irrationally competitive. The rules are simple: one hour, one house each, and the rest of the group will judge. The winner gets bragging rights and the last hot chocolate packet.
Jisung squints at Hyunjinâs perfectly aligned walls. âYouâre taking this way too seriously.â
âI just donât want it to collapse,â Hyunjin replies mildly, piping icing with steady hands. âLike yours is about to.â
âMine is expressive,â Jisung mutters, shoving candy into random places. âIt has personality.â Jisung eyes Hyunjinâs perfectly aligned walls with suspicion. âWhy do you look like youâre defusing a bomb?â
âBecause I respect the craft,â Hyunjin replies mildly, piping icing with steady hands. âYou should try it.â
âOh, I will,â Jisung says, aggressively squeezing icing onto a wall. âIâm just not boring about it.â
Hyunjin glances over. âThat wall is sobbing.â
Jisung gasps. âDonât project your anxiety onto my house.â
Hyunjin hums, clearly entertained, and presses two walls together with flawless accuracy. âAt least mine wonât collapse from emotional instability.â
âWow,â Jisung scoffs. âSo now youâre attacking my houseâs mental health?â
âYou started it.â
They work faster after that. Jisung shoves candies into place with chaotic confidence, and Hyunjin does so methodically and infuriatingly neat. Every time Hyunjin finishes a step, Jisung rushes to match it. Every time Jisung adds something flashy, Hyunjin raises an eyebrow and quietly does something better.
âYou know,â Jisung says, squinting across the table, âthe boys like creativity.â
âThey like houses that still exist,â Hyunjin replies.
Jisung sticks his tongue out at him and immediately knocks over a gumdrop roof. âI meant to do that.â
Hyunjin smiles, but his eyes flick up for just a second longer than necessary. Because while Jisung is busy waging war against structural integrity, Hyunjinâs mind is somewhere else entirely. He thinks of a conversation from a few nights ago.
Theyâd been sitting on the couch, lights low, snow tapping gently against the windows. Jisung had been rambling, as he does, words tumbling out without much thought. âI used to build gingerbread houses with my grandma,â heâd said, smiling faintly. âThey were never fancy. They were small; one story only, gumdrops for the roof. Sheâd always let me put too much icing on because I liked it sweet.â
Hyunjin remembers the way his voice had softened. The way his hands had stilled in his lap. âShe passed away when I was young,â Jisung had added quietly. âBut every Christmas after, I tried to make one the same way. Just once a year. Felt like⌠keeping something alive. Hyunjin hadnât said much then. He hadnât needed to.
Now, he tries to recreate it. A small, single-story house with slightly uneven walls. A roof covered in gumdrops. Thick lines of icing that are intentionally messy, intentionally sweet.
Across the table, Jisung finally looks up and freezes. âHyunjin.â
Hyunjin glances up, pretending not to know exactly what heâs done. âYeah?â
âThatâsââ Jisung stands abruptly, chair scraping back. He walks around the table slowly, eyes locked on the gingerbread house in front of Hyunjin. âThatâs my grandmaâs house.â
Hyunjinâs hands pause. âI wasnât sure if youâd notice.â
Jisung laughs once, breathless, and then presses his lips together like heâs holding something fragile inside his chest. âHow could I not notice?â He crouches slightly to get a better look, fingers hovering but not touching. âYou even made it a little crooked.â
âI remember you said it always leaned to the left,â Hyunjin says softly. âBecause one wall never quite set right.â
Jisung swallows hard. âYou remembered all that?â
Hyunjin shrugs, cheeks faintly pink. âYou sounded happy when you talked about it. I wanted to see that again.â
Jisung straightens and throws his arms around Hyunjin without warning, nearly knocking him off his chair. âI donât care if I lose,â he mumbles into Hyunjinâs shoulder. âThis is better.â
Hyunjin laughs quietly, arms coming up to hold him. âGood,â he murmurs. âBecause I think yours is about to collapse.â
From across the room, Felix yells, âTimeâs up!â
The judging is quick. Jisungâs house caves in dramatically halfway through the inspection, so Hyunjin wins unanimously. When the hot chocolate packet is handed over, Hyunjin doesnât even hesitate before splitting it in half. They sit side by side afterward, sipping quietly, Jisung leaning into Hyunjinâs shoulder, eyes still lingering on that small, sweet, crooked gingerbread house.
âHey,â Jisung says softly. âThanks for remembering.â
Hyunjin tilts his head, resting it gently against Jisungâs. âAlways.â
MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES
Taglist (Please let me know if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist):
Admins note: hey everyone! You STAYS were so passionate we ended up filling all the categories early!! Which means we can also start voting early too. Stay tuned for that!! Also, as there was overlap in eligibility for categories, some fics might be in a different category than what they were originally nominated for in order to prevent overflow in one category and emptiness in another. Despite this we still had a LOT of nominations which was wholesome to see! This is the first time I've done an event like this so forgive me if I messed anything up âĄ
I hope the links work đ I'll link them in polls too. If your link isn't it's because I can't find them so please comment them!
Consider these a reflection of STAYblr and STAYblr's tastes. Things nominated by me will have this đ
Winners will get a cute banner made by me they can stick on their blog, but its obviously not required. And ofc, they get tumblr glory and the knowledge that their readers appreciate them.
Best Fic Concept
Authors Note by @pnutbutter-n-j-elyy
To be a savior is to also be a thief by @emmiesoverthemoon
Daybreak by @kangaracha
Phone Calls while Seungmin is on Tour by @leeknowlore
Best 0T8 FIC
Collision by @staylovesmiley
Wrong Person by @keeperofasecretsecret
Bare by @pineapple-burgah
Ready or Not by @insociometry (insomuch on ao3)
Keep me Safe, Keep me Close by @chancloud8
All Bark and No Bite by @doitforbangchan
Best SMAU
Sweet like Candy by @staysuki
Brother's best friend texts by @pineapple-burgah
LâĄve In FâĄcus by @feelbokkie
Best Friend Protocol by @staybabblingbaby
Text Series by @keeperofasecretsecret
Needy smau by @leislibrary
Sleep is for the weak by @chancloud8
Text Me Like You Love Me @itsseohannbin
Best Series
Southpaw by @skzophreniic
Teach Me by @chancloud8
Love_Coded.exe by @hyuneflix
Exchange Rate of Heart by @snow-flake-writes
Crystal Bird by @imfoive
Best Headcanon
They catch you reading nsfw about them by @sunnybunnybabygirl
- Touching your đ by @yunhotteoks
- Chan dealing w your by anxiety by @chimivx (đ admin's choice!)
Best Shortfic
You're not mine by @keeperofasecretsecret
Inside by @jeonginsleftcheek
Drive me Crazy by @atetheluck (đ I couldn't find the link sorry-)
Best Fluff Fic
The No-Kiss Prank by @linoxpudding
The L Word (Chan ver.) By @itsseohannbin
My Guilty Pleasure by @emmiesoverthemoon
Confession by @baby-yongbok
Best Angst Fic
Just a staff member by @pvppymin
Ocean Eyes by @atetheluck
Forget me Gently pt. 1 & 2 by @hyunjinsmuze
Absolution by @keepswingin
Best Genre Fic
The Art of Obsession by @thebibleophile
Let me Watch by @hyunjinsmuze
That boy is a monster by @chimivx
Best 9th Member AU Fic
Lyrically Aligned by @cheribloss
9th Member au by @elylyyy
Queenmaker by @kangaracha
All is lost, hope remains, and this war is not over by @lieslab
