Nothing I hate more then reading a kpop fanfic and the fem reader is one of the members…oh I hate it with a passion. It’s cringe and gives me the ick, like… sure I want to be passed around them like a charcuterie board, but…not like that.
It’s giving pick me, it’s giving im not like other girls. Like it’s giving my parents sold me to 1D now im their omega slave-eeeEEEEYUCKKKK.
Like just put her in another group be it girls or actually be diverse, not just 15 males and 1 female.
♡ Pursuit of Jade
♡ Love Game in Eastern Fantasy
♡ The Untamed
♡ Falling Into Your Smile
♡ The Story of Pearl Girl
♡ Love in the Clouds
♡ Perfect Match
♡ Love Between Fairy and Devil
k-dramas
♡ Vincenzo
♡ Cinderella and the Four Knights
♡ Chastity High
♡ King the Land
♡ Love O2O
♡ Mr. Queen
♡ Bon Appétit, Your Majesty
j-dramas
♡ Cinderella Closet
♡ I Cannot Reach You
♡ Glass Heart
Only I get to see you like this || Jeongin x Reader
Jeongin comes home to find you practicing pole dancing and can’t take his eyes off you, but admiration quickly turns into insecurity as he spirals over who else might have seen you like that.
reader is plus-size coded
The first thing Jeongin notices is the music.
It’s not loud, just loud enough to drift down the hallway like a slow, pulsing invitation. Low, heavy bass that sinks into the ribs and settles deep in the chest. The kind of sound that feels more like a heartbeat than a song.
The second thing he notices is you.
Barefoot in the living room, bathed in the soft glow of the evening light. One of his oversized black shirts slipping off one shoulder, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. The shorts underneath are barely visible, and for a long moment, his brain refuses to register the sleek metal pole standing in the center of the room.
Then you spin.
And everything in him stops.
It’s not clumsy or experimental. There’s no hesitation, no awkward fumbling. This is practiced. Controlled. Fluid. Your hands glide with quiet confidence, your body lifting effortlessly as your legs hook around the cool metal. The way your thighs tighten, the arch of your back, the smooth roll of your hips, every movement is deliberate, graceful, and so undeniably sensual that it knocks the air straight out of his lungs.
You look… powerful.
Confident.
Like the pole isn’t something you’re trying to conquer, it’s something that already belongs to you.
Jeongin doesn’t move.
He can’t.
He just stands there in the doorway, shoes half off, bag still dangling from his fingers, watching you with parted lips and a racing heart.
You haven’t noticed him yet. You’re too lost in the rhythm, hair falling across your face as you dip low and pull yourself back up with effortless strength. The way your muscles flex and release, the subtle sheen of sweat on your skin, the complete focus in your expression, it does something dangerous to him.
His throat goes dry.
Because he likes it.
He likes it so much it almost scares him.
But right on the heels of that heat comes something darker, something ugly and possessive that curls tight in his chest.
Where the hell did you learn to move like that?
His jaw clenches before he can stop it.
You finish the combination with a soft, controlled landing, breath coming a little quicker, chest rising and falling. That’s when you finally glance toward the doorway and freeze.
“Oh,” you say. You straighten quickly, pushing damp strands of hair back from your face. A small, surprised smile curves your lips. “You’re home early.”
Jeongin doesn’t answer right away.
He’s still staring. Still trying to untangle the storm in his head.
“That was…” His voice comes out lower, rougher than he intended. “You’ve been practicing?”
You nod, suddenly a little shy under the intensity of his gaze. “Yeah. I didn’t want to tell you until I was better. I started classes a few weeks ago.”
Classes.
The word lands wrong.
His expression shifts, just slightly. “Classes?”
“Mhm,” you say, stepping away from the pole and suddenly feeling exposed. “It’s just for fun. It’s actually really hard, I’m still kinda bad at it, but”
“With who?”
You blink. “What?”
His hands slip into his pockets, shoulders visibly tense. “Where? Who teaches it?”
You tell him the name of the studio, casual and unaware of the way his mind is already spiraling into dark corners.
“Is it… co ed?” he asks, trying and failing to sound casual.
You tilt your head, brows furrowing slightly. “Yeah? Why?”
Jeongin exhales sharply through his nose.
Because now all he can picture is a room full of eyes on you. Watching you move exactly like that. Watching the way your body flows, the way your thighs grip the pole, the way you look when you’re confident and lost in the music.
His chest tightens painfully.
“Nothing,” he mutters, looking away.
You pause, really looking at him now.
“…Innie.”
He doesn’t respond.
You take a cautious step closer. “What’s wrong?”
He shrugs, but it’s stiff. Defensive. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’re acting weird.”
“I’m not” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. “I just didn’t know you were doing… that.”
You cross your arms loosely, grounding yourself. “And?”
“And you’re…” He gestures vaguely at the pole, frustration bleeding into his voice. “Good at it. Really good.”
You blink slowly.
This is not how you thought this moment would go.
“I’ve been practicing,” you say carefully.
“Yeah,” he breathes, a sharp edge slipping into his tone. “I can tell.”
The silence that follows feels heavier.
“…Jeongin,” you say quietly. “What are you actually trying to say?”
He hesitates, shame flickering across his face because he knows how this sounds. He knows it’s not fair.
But the question claws its way out anyway.
“…Did you learn stuff like that before?” His voice drops, almost too soft. “Like… before me. Have you done that for other people? In front of other guys?”
The silence stretches.
You don’t look angry. You just look… disappointed. Disappointed and a little sad.
“So that’s what this is about,” you murmur.
“I didn’t mean it like that” he starts, already backpedaling.
“You kind of did.”
He shuts his mouth.
You sigh, uncrossing your arms. “I started pole because I wanted to feel strong. Because it makes me feel good in my own body. Not for anyone else. And no” you add gently before he can interrupt, “I didn’t learn it for some guy. I never performed it for my exes. I’ve never done this for anybody.”
Your voice softens further.
“I barely felt confident enough to even try it until recently.”
That lands like a punch to the gut.
Jeongin’s shoulders drop, the fight draining out of him in an instant.
“…Oh.”
You step closer, reaching for his hand. He lets you take it.
“You’re the first person who’s ever seen me like this,” you say, squeezing his fingers. “Actually seen me. I fall all the time when I’m alone. I just… didn’t fall today.”
A tiny, embarrassed smile tugs at his lips.
“You didn’t look like someone who falls,” he mumbles.
You grin softly. “Good. Means I’m getting better.”
He squeezes your hand back, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I wasn’t trying to make it about me.”
“I know,” you repeat, a hint of amusement in your tone. “You were just being jealous.”
He groans, covering his face with his free hand. “Don’t say it like that.”
You laugh quietly and step fully into his space, letting him pull you in by the waist.
“It’s okay,” you murmur, resting your hands on his chest. “It’s kinda cute.”
“It’s not cute,” he mutters, but his arms are already wrapping around you tighter, thumbs brushing slow circles against your sides.
You tilt your head, eyes sparkling. “So… you didn’t like it?”
He gives you a long, heated look, ears turning pink.
“Don’t play with me.”
You smile, a little smug. “Then say it.”
He leans in until his forehead rests against yours, voice low and honest.
“…I liked it. A lot.”
“Mhmm.”
His grip tightens possessively.
“You’re gonna show me again,” he says, almost pleading. “Just me. Okay?”
You pretend to think about it for a second, then nod, melting into him.
“Just you.”
His grin finally breaks through, soft, relieved, and entirely yours.
chubby female x reader fic where she practices pole dancing in the living room little bit of angst HAPPY ENDING MANDATORY , with anyone from any group 🥸
IDOLS DONT OWE YOU ANYTHING!!! JUST BECAUSE YOURE A FAN DOESNT MEAN YOU OWN THEM!!! THEYRE HUMAN BEINGS!!! JUST BECAUSE YOU SUPPORT THEM FINANCIALLY DOESNT MEAN THEY OWE YOU ANYTHING!!! NO ONE ASKED YOU TO DO THAT!!
Drabbles where each seventeen member finally lets go..
REQUEST from my 200 follower celebration
S.Coups (Choi Seungcheol)
Seungcheol didn’t even glance your way when you stepped inside the apartment. The only light came from the TV flickering across the living room, volume turned down low, but the tension in the air was thick enough to choke on.
“You remembered you live here?” he said, voice flat and edged with something colder. “Or did something finally get canceled so I made the list tonight?”
Your bag slid off your shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud. Exhaustion and defensiveness surged through you at once.
“I told you I had to stay late for the project—” you started.
“Yeah, I heard you the first five times,” he cut in, eyes still fixed on the screen. “Funny how your ‘important’ things always seem to outrank me.”
Something in your chest tightened too fast, a sharp twist of hurt and frustration.
“You want to talk about priorities?” you shot back, your voice rising despite how tired you were. “You keep score like this is some kind of competition. I’m not another responsibility you get to manage, Seungcheol. If being with me feels like a burden, just say that. Stop twisting everything I do into a problem.”
He finally looked up from the TV, eyes meeting yours. For a split second, he looked caught off guard, like your words had actually pierced through the wall he’d built tonight. The usual confident mask cracked just enough for you to see the flicker of something raw underneath—hurt, maybe, or exhaustion that matched your own.
The silence stretched between you, heavy and electric, neither of you quite ready to back down yet.
Jeonghan (Yoon Jeonghan)
Jeonghan let the silence stretch after your comment, the easy smile he usually wore completely gone. His fingers tapped idly against the edge of the table, a rare tell that he was more unsettled than he wanted to show.
“You always do that,” he murmured, voice low and even. “Say something small, then act surprised when it lands wrong.”
“It was not that serious,” you said carefully, trying to keep your tone neutral.
“It never is to you,” he replied, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You get to laugh it off, and I’m the one left dealing with it.”
You exhaled sharply, frustration bubbling up.
“Then stop pretending it doesn’t bother you until it explodes,” you said. “You act like you’re above everything, like nothing ever touches you, but you’re the one holding onto every little thing and turning it into something bigger. If you have an issue, just say it. Don’t try to make me feel stupid first.”
His fingers stilled on the table. The quiet tap-tap-tap vanished, leaving only the low hum of the refrigerator in the background. For a moment, Jeonghan just looked at you—really looked—his usual playful mask slipping further away. Something sharper flickered in his gaze: a mix of defensiveness and genuine hurt that he rarely let surface.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, arms crossing over his chest as if to put some distance between you.
“You think that’s what I’m doing?” he asked, voice quieter now, but carrying a new edge. “Making you feel stupid? Funny. I thought I was just trying to keep things light so we wouldn’t end up exactly where we are right now.”
The air between you felt heavier, the playful Jeonghan you knew nowhere in sight, replaced by someone who was tired of biting his tongue.
Joshua (Hong Jisoo)
Joshua sat across from you at the small dining table, hands folded neatly in front of him like he had been waiting there for a while. The apartment was quiet except for the faint tick of the clock on the wall.
“I called you,” he said softly, his voice gentle but carrying an unmistakable weight. “You didn’t answer.”
“I told you why,” you replied, already feeling defensive. “My family needed me—”
“And I needed you too,” he cut in, still calm, though his eyes betrayed a deeper ache. “But I guess that comes second.”
The guilt hit you first, heavy and familiar, but it quickly twisted into something sharper—frustration, exhaustion, the need to defend yourself.
“You don’t get to make this a competition,” you said, your voice rising slightly. “I was dealing with something serious, not ignoring you for fun. You act all understanding and patient until it’s inconvenient for you, and then suddenly I’m the problem. That’s not fair, Joshua.”
His expression shifted, growing quieter. The soft, reassuring warmth that usually lived in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a stillness that felt heavier than anger. He didn’t raise his voice or lean forward. Instead, he just looked at you for a long moment, as if carefully choosing his next words, or perhaps deciding whether to let the mask of composure slip any further.
A faint sigh escaped him, barely audible.
“I’m not trying to compete with your family,” he said eventually, tone measured but laced with quiet hurt. “I just… I keep showing up for you, even when it’s hard. All I wanted tonight was to know I wasn’t alone in that.”
The calm in his voice made the tension feel even thicker, like the storm was still gathering beneath the surface.
Jun (Wen Junhui)
Jun didn’t look up right away. The broken pieces of the ceramic mug lay scattered across the kitchen floor like evidence, sharp edges catching the overhead light. The quiet sound of shards scraping against tile filled the space as he crouched down to gather them.
“You could have just left it alone,” he muttered, voice low and tight, carefully picking up the larger fragments with his fingertips.
“I said I would fix it,” you replied, already kneeling beside him and reaching for a piece.
“You always say that,” he said, still not meeting your eyes. His movements were deliberate, almost mechanical. “Then I’m the one left dealing with the mess after.”
Your hands stilled mid-reach, the shard suddenly feeling heavier.
“It was an accident,” you said, more firmly this time, the defensiveness rising in your throat. “You’re acting like I did it on purpose. I get that you’re frustrated, but you don’t get to turn every little mistake into proof that I ruin things. That’s not fair to me.”
Jun paused. His fingers loosened slightly around the broken handle he was holding, and for the first time, he lifted his gaze to meet yours. There was frustration there, yes, but also something deeper—weariness, maybe even a flicker of regret that he quickly tried to bury.
He let out a slow breath, jaw tight.
“I know it was an accident,” he said quietly, though the edge in his voice didn’t fully disappear. “But it’s not just the mug. It’s… everything piling up. The promises, the ‘I’ll handle it later,’ and then I end up cleaning up alone again.”
He dropped the pieces into his palm with a soft clink, eyes lingering on you a second longer before he looked away, shoulders tense. The kitchen felt smaller, the silence between you sharper than the shards on the floor.
Hoshi (Kwon Soonyoung)
Hoshi replayed the choreography again on his phone, the music cutting off abruptly midway through the second verse. He didn’t turn around, shoulders still squared toward the mirrored wall of the practice room.
“You laughed,” he said, voice quieter than usual, but edged with something raw.
“I was tired, it just slipped out—” you started, the words tasting like an excuse even as they left your mouth.
“It felt like you weren’t taking it seriously,” he cut in, finally glancing over his shoulder. His usual bright energy was dimmed, replaced by a vulnerability he rarely showed. “Like my effort was… funny to you.”
You rubbed your face with both hands, exhaustion weighing heavy on your shoulders after the long day.
“I’m running on nothing and I still showed up for you,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. “One single reaction doesn’t mean I don’t care. You expect constant energy from me like I’m not human, Hoshi. I support you, I really do, but I’m allowed to be tired without it automatically meaning something negative about you or your work.”
He stood there, quiet.
The music had stopped completely now, leaving only the faint hum of the air conditioning and the sound of your breathing. Hoshi’s reflection in the mirror showed his jaw clenched, fingers still gripping the phone tightly. For a few long seconds he didn’t move, processing your words. The usual playful spark in his eyes was missing, replaced by a mix of hurt and uncertainty.
Slowly, he lowered the phone and turned to face you fully, sweat-dampened hair falling slightly into his eyes.
“I know you’re tired,” he said at last, voice softer but still carrying that sting. “I’m tired too. But when you laugh at the one thing I’ve been pouring everything into… it just hits different. Like maybe I’m the only one who still believes it matters.”
He took a small step closer, the distance between you feeling both too close and too far at the same time. The practice room suddenly felt larger, emptier, the weight of unspoken expectations hanging thick in the air.
Wonwoo (Jeon Wonwoo)
Wonwoo’s game paused with a soft click, the bright screen freezing mid-battle, but he didn’t look away from it right away. His posture stayed relaxed in the couch, almost too casual, like he was trying to keep the moment light even as the air grew heavier.
“You’ve been hovering all night,” he said, voice low and even, almost monotone.
“I just wanted to spend time together,” you answered, trying not to let the irritation seep through too obviously.
“You’re here,” he said simply, eyes still locked on the paused screen. “Isn’t that enough?”
You let out a short, bitter laugh, the sound sharper than you intended.
“No, it’s not,” you said, crossing your arms. “Sitting next to you while you completely ignore me is not spending time together, Wonwoo. I’m not asking for your full attention every second, but I want something. A conversation, a glance, anything that shows I’m actually here with you. If that feels like too much for you, then just say it instead of acting like I’m being unreasonable for wanting basic attention from my own boyfriend.”
The controller lowered slowly in his hands. His thumbs eased off the buttons, and for the first time since you’d walked in, he turned his head to look at you. Behind his glasses, his dark eyes were calm on the surface, but you could see the subtle shift— a flicker of surprise mixed with quiet defensiveness, like your words had actually reached past the game and hit something real.
He set the controller down on the cushion beside him, the movement deliberate and unhurried. The silence stretched for a beat longer than comfortable, the only sound the faint whir of the console fan.
“I didn’t realize it felt that bad,” he said finally, voice quieter now, almost gentle. “I thought… just being in the same room was enough. Guess I was wrong.”
His gaze held yours steadily, the usual composed mask cracking just enough to show a hint of uncertainty underneath.
Woozi (Lee Jihoon)
The studio door clicked shut behind you with a soft, final sound. Jihoon didn’t even look up from his monitors at first, but the irritation rolling off him was impossible to miss. The room was dim, lit mostly by the glow of multiple screens and the small desk lamp, the air thick with the familiar scent of coffee and hours of focused work.
“I told you not to come in while I’m working until comeback seasons over,” he said, voice clipped and low, fingers still hovering over the keyboard.
“I brought you food. You haven’t eaten all day—” you started, holding up the bag.
“I didn’t ask you to,” he snapped, finally glancing over with sharp eyes.
You set the bag down on the small table beside his desk anyway, the plastic rustling in the quiet room.
“You didn’t have to ask,” you said, keeping your voice steady even as frustration built. “I did it because I care about you, Jihoon. But you don’t get to treat me like I’m just in the way every time I try to show it. I respect your work more than you know. I’ve always given you space when you need it. But I’m not something you can just push aside whenever it’s convenient for you.”
He went quiet.
The tension in his shoulders didn’t disappear, but it shifted—less sharp anger, more something heavier and conflicted. Jihoon leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face as the silence stretched between you. His usual intense focus fractured, replaced by a rare moment of visible uncertainty. The cursor on his screen blinked steadily, the only movement in the room for several long seconds.
Finally, he exhaled slowly, eyes flicking from the food bag back to you.
“I know you care,” he said, voice quieter now, though still edged with exhaustion. “But when I’m in the zone like this… everything else feels like noise. Even good things.”
He paused, jaw tight, fingers drumming once against the arm of his chair before stilling.
“I’m not trying to push you away. It’s just… hard to switch it off sometimes.”
DK (Lee Seokmin)
Seokmin’s bright laughter faded the moment you pressed your fingers to your temple, the sound cutting off mid-note like someone had flipped a switch.
“Can you lower it a little?” you asked, voice quieter than you intended, exhaustion bleeding through.
His smile dropped instantly, the usual sunshine in his expression dimming into something hurt and guarded. “So now I’m too much?”
“That is not what I said—” you tried, lifting your head.
“It sounds like it,” he replied, the lightness in his voice completely gone, replaced by a sharp edge of insecurity. “One second I’m making you laugh, the next you’re telling me to tone it down. Feels pretty clear.”
You shook your head slowly, trying to push through the pounding in your skull.
“I’m overwhelmed, Seokmin, not annoyed at you as a person,” you said, more firmly this time. “There’s a difference. You take everything so personally instead of listening to what I actually mean. I’m allowed to need quiet for a minute without it turning into me rejecting you.”
He blinked, processing your words. The usual buoyant energy that filled every room he entered seemed to shrink, his shoulders losing some of their bounce as he stared at you. For a few seconds, the only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioner and the distant traffic outside.
His mouth opened, then closed again. The hurt was still there, raw and visible in the way his brows pulled together, but something else flickered across his face too — realization, maybe, or the first crack in his defensive reflex.
“I… didn’t mean to make it worse,” he said eventually, voice softer, though still carrying a trace of that wounded tone. “It’s just… when you say stuff like that, my brain goes straight to ‘she’s tired of me.’ I know it’s not fair. I just…i'm sorry”
Seokmin rubbed the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the floor for a moment before lifting back to yours, searching. The bright, loud Seokmin you knew felt miles away in that quiet pause, leaving behind someone who looked genuinely unsure how to navigate the space between his feelings and yours.
Mingyu (Kim Mingyu)
ingyu set the plate down harder than necessary, the ceramic clinking sharply against the wooden table. The sound echoed in the otherwise quiet kitchen, louder than it should have been.
“You could have just said you didn’t like it,” he said, voice tight, avoiding your eyes as he wiped his hands on a dish towel.
“I said it was a little salty, not bad—” you started, trying to keep your tone even.
“It is never just one thing,” he muttered under his breath, shoulders tense. “It’s always ‘a little salty’ or ‘a little dry’ or ‘needs more seasoning.’ Like nothing I do is ever good enough.”
You crossed your arms, the familiar sting of defensiveness rising in your chest.
“I answered honestly because you asked,” you said firmly. “If you only want praise and compliments, then just say that. But don’t punish me for being real with you, Mingyu. I appreciate what you do for me — the effort, the time, all of it. That doesn’t mean I have to pretend everything is perfect every single time. That’s not fair to either of us.”
He hesitated, the frustration on his face slowly softening around the edges. His hand stilled on the towel, and for the first time since you’d spoken, he looked at you properly.
There was still a flicker of hurt in his eyes, the kind that came from putting so much of himself into something and feeling it fall short, but underneath it, something gentler was starting to surface, maybe understanding, or at least the willingness to listen.
Mingyu let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair and messing it up further.
“I know,” he admitted quietly, though the words seemed to cost him. “I just… I put a lot into this. When you say even one small thing, it feels like the whole effort got rejected.”
He glanced down at the plate again, jaw working for a second before he continued, voice lower. “I’m not asking for fake praise. I just… don’t want to feel like I’m failing every time I try to take care of you.”
The kitchen felt warmer, the earlier sharpness in the air easing into something more vulnerable, the tension shifting from anger to the quiet weight of insecurities laid bare.
The8 (Xu Minghao)
Minghao adjusted the cuff of his sleeve with slow, precise fingers, his expression carefully unreadable — the same calm mask he wore when something had already gotten under his skin.
“You do not understand what I am going for,” he said, voice even but cool, the words carrying more weight than the volume suggested.
“I was teasing, not criticizing—” you tried.
“It did not feel that way,” he replied, eyes flicking up to meet yours for only a brief second before sliding away again.
You sighed, the sound heavier than you intended, frustration and fatigue mixing together.
“Then tell me that instead of acting like I am beneath you,” you said, keeping your tone steady. “You shut people out the second they don’t match your perspective exactly. I respect your vision, Minghao — I really do. But I am not going to walk on eggshells just to avoid offending you every single time I open my mouth.”
His gaze shifted.
The quiet that followed felt deliberate. Minghao didn’t snap back or retreat further into silence like he sometimes did. Instead, his eyes lingered on you longer this time, thoughtful, almost appraising. The cool distance in them softened at the edges, replaced by something more introspective — like your words had forced him to actually look at the pattern instead of just defending against the moment.
He let his hand fall from his sleeve, shoulders lowering just slightly as he leaned back against the edge of the counter.
“I don’t mean to make you feel beneath me,” he said after a pause, his voice quieter now, less armored. “It’s just… when I’m deep in something that matters to me, any comment feels like it’s pulling the thread loose. I know that’s not fair.”
He tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching in a small, almost self-deprecating way. “Walking on eggshells isn’t what I want either. I just… need a second sometimes before I can hear it as teasing instead of judgment.”
The tension in the room didn’t vanish, but it changed — no longer sharp and defensive, but quieter, more open. Minghao’s usual elegant composure remained, yet there was a new crack in it, letting just enough vulnerability show that the air between you felt a little less heavy.
Seungkwan (Boo Seungkwan)
Seungkwan paced back and forth across the living room, words spilling out fast and sharp, his hands gesturing wildly as if the motion could make his point land harder.
“And you just sat there like none of it mattered—” he continued, voice rising with every step.
“I asked you to calm down because you were overwhelmed,” you cut in, trying to keep your own voice level.
“Or because you did not want to hear it,” he shot back immediately, eyes flashing with hurt and accusation as he spun to face you.
You took a slow breath, forcing yourself to stay grounded even as the tension coiled tighter in your chest.
“I was trying to help, not dismiss you,” you said firmly. “But you turn everything into something bigger than it needs to be, and then expect me to match that energy every single time. I care about what’s bothering you, Seungkwan — I really do. But I cannot carry all of that constantly. It’s exhausting for me too.”
He stopped pacing.
The sudden halt left the room feeling strangely still. Seungkwan stood frozen in the middle of the floor, chest heaving slightly from the outburst, his usual dramatic flair giving way to something more raw. His hands dropped to his sides, fingers twitching once before going still. For a moment, he just stared at you, the fire in his eyes dimming into a mix of surprise and reluctant understanding.
His lips parted, then pressed together again as he processed your words. The silence stretched, heavy with everything he wasn’t saying yet.
Finally, his shoulders sagged just a little, the high-strung energy draining out of him like air from a balloon.
“I… didn’t realize it felt like that for you,” he admitted, voice quieter now, though still carrying a slight tremble. “I get so caught up in the moment and I just… I need you to be there with me. All the way. When you tell me to calm down, it feels like you’re pulling away right when I need you most.”
He took one small step closer, eyes searching yours with that familiar intensity, but softer now — more vulnerable than defensive.
“I don’t want to exhaust you,”
Vernon (Choi Hansol)
Vernon leaned against the wall, arms loosely crossed, his usual quiet demeanor making the space between you feel even wider. The low light from the living room lamp cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the thoughtful furrow in his brow.
“You ask a lot of questions,” he said, voice calm and even, almost too neutral.
“I am trying to understand you,” you replied, keeping your tone gentle but honest.
“Sometimes it feels like too much,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the floor for a second before lifting back to yours. There was no anger in his voice, just a quiet honesty that carried its own weight.
You nodded slowly, acknowledging the truth in his words without brushing them aside.
“Then meet me halfway,” you said, inching a little closer. “I can't guess what you are feeling if you give me nothing. I am not asking for everything all at once, Vernon. Just enough to feel like I am not talking to a wall. That is not unreasonable.”
He looked at you, considering.
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy with thought. Vernon’s dark eyes studied your face carefully, like he was weighing your request against the walls he’d built so naturally over time. He didn’t fidget or look away. Instead, he stayed perfectly still, processing every word with that slow, deliberate way of his.
After a long moment, he pushed off the wall slightly, uncrossing his arms.
“I get it,” he said softly, voice low and sincere. “It’s not that I don’t want to let you in. It’s just… easier for me to stay quiet sometimes.”
He tilted his head a little, the corner of his mouth lifting in the faintest, almost self-aware half-smile. “But you’re right. Giving you nothing doesn’t help either of us. I can try… to give you more. Not all at once, but more.”
Dino (Lee Chan)
Chan dropped his bag with a sharp thud, the sound cutting through the quiet of the entryway like a punctuation mark on his frustration.
“You keep joking about it like it does not bother me,” he said, voice tight, eyes narrowed as he finally looked at you.
“I did not think it hit that deep—” you started, caught off guard by the intensity.
“It does,” he replied, cutting you off, the words clipped and heavier than usual for him.
You stepped closer, your expression turning more serious as you searched his face.
“Then tell me that without snapping at me,” you said, keeping your voice calm but firm. “I am not trying to belittle you, Channie. But you cannot expect people to read your mind.
He exhaled slowly, the sharp tension in his shoulders easing just a little. His jaw unclenched as he ran a hand through his hair, messing it up further. For a moment, he looked younger than usual — caught between defensiveness and the realization that you weren’t attacking him, just asking for better.
“I know,” he muttered, voice lower now, almost reluctant. “It’s just… when you joke about it, it feels like you’re not hearing how much it actually affects me. Like it’s small to you.”
He shifted his weight, bag still forgotten at his feet, and met your eyes again with a quieter intensity. “I’ll try to say it straight next time instead of letting it sit and then blowing up. But… you have to believe me when I do tell you it bothers me. Deal?”
The air between you felt a little lighter, the edge of the argument softening into something more honest and workable, though the vulnerability in his stance showed he was still waiting for your response
Hello!! How are you ? I hope youre doing well<3, Ive read the minghao fic and I'm so INLOVE it's insane how you wrote something so beautiful🩷I hope you continue on writing these beautiful fics and stay healthy 🩷💚
Can I request OT13 and their s/o having an argument but they act so harsh with reader?
you can ignore this if you don't want to, it's not a big deal just know that I will keep supporting you💓^^
He never calls it anything. That’s the first problem. And somehow, you still let it slide every single time.
Juhoon sits across from you in the diner like the world is weightless. Elbows on the table, coffee cooling in front of him, thumb scrolling through his phone like your entire relationship is just background noise.
You watch him a second too long.
He notices, of course. He always does.
“What?” he asks, eyes still on the screen.
You tap your finger against your mug. “What are we?”
That finally pulls his attention. Not fully—just enough for his gaze to lift. He blinks once, slow, then shrugs.
“Us?” he repeats, like the word is optional.
You wait.
He goes back to his phone.
You let out a small laugh, but it comes out flat. Brittle.
“That’s not an answer, Juhoon.”
He leans back in the booth, too relaxed, like this conversation is optional too.
“Why does it need to be one?” he says.
There it is. The quiet truth you’ve been stepping over for months because facing it felt heavier than pretending.
You stare at him. He doesn’t look guilty. He doesn’t look uncomfortable. He just looks… calm. Like you’re the one turning something simple into something complicated.
“Juhoon,” you say, voice low and steady, “I’m not asking for a contract. I’m asking what I am to you.”
He finally sets his phone down. That small victory feels hollow.
He tilts his head. “You’re here.”
You blink.
“That’s it?”
He shrugs again. “What do you want me to say?”
Something honest. Something that makes me feel like I matter in a way that isn’t temporary.
But he’s looking at you like this is a discussion he can walk away from whenever he feels like it. Like you’re not already something he’s been inside of for months.
You lean forward slightly. “Do you tell other people about me?”
He hesitates. Just for a second. But you catch it.
“Sometimes,” he says carefully.
“How?”
Another pause. He scratches the back of his neck. “Depends.”
Depends. Like you’re the weather. Like you’re convenient. Like you’re not someone he actually chose.
Your stomach twists, but your face stays neutral. You’ve gotten scarily good at that.
“So I’m not your girlfriend,” you say. It’s not really a question.
He doesn’t answer right away. Not because he’s thinking. because he doesn’t want to.
“I didn’t say that,” he mutters.
“You didn’t say anything,” you reply.
For the first time, he looks a little less bored. A little more aware that something is slipping through his fingers.
“Why are you making it weird?” he asks.
You almost laugh again.
“I’m not,” you say softly. “I’m just finally listening to everything you’ve been saying without words.”
Silence stretches between you.
The diner keeps moving around you, plates clinking, laughter from the next table, life going on like it always does when something important is quietly ending in the corner booth.
Juhoon sighs, like you’re exhausting him.
“I like you,” he says at last. Simple. Flat. Like those three words should be enough to patch everything.
You nod slowly.
“Yeah,” you say.
Then you slide your phone into your pocket and stand up.
His eyes follow you, confused now. Slightly annoyed.
“Where are you going?”
You pick up your bag and look at him one last time. Really look.
And it finally clicks, sharp and painfully clear:
He’ll never call it anything because calling it something would give it weight. And he doesn’t want weight. He wants access without responsibility.
“Home,” you say.
He scoffs. “Over this?”
You pause before giving him a small, tired smile. Not warm. Not angry. Just… done.
“Yeah,” you say. “Over this.”
You walk out without looking back.
He doesn’t change for you, so you didn’t stay for him.
Not a dramatic confrontation. Not a tearful confession. Just a single notification lighting up your phone while you’re halfway through typing a reply to him.
A photo.
Yeosang.
Not alone.
He’s leaning in far too close to someone you don’t recognize, her hand resting possessively on his chest like she belongs there. His face is turned toward her, soft smile in place, eyes half-lidded in that gentle way he usually saves for you.
It looks natural. Easy. Intimate. Like it’s not something that should make your stomach twist into knots and drop straight through the floor.
Your thumb freezes mid-swipe. The rest of your body follows.
You stare at the image so long the screen dims, then brightens again, then dims once more. like your phone is giving you polite chances to look away before the truth settles in.
You don’t notice your breathing turning shallow until the air starts to feel wrong in your lungs, too thin, too sharp.
Yeosang has always been soft.
Quiet voice, careful hands, the kind of man who apologizes when someone else bumps into him on the street. The kind of man strangers call a “sweetheart” like it’s an immutable personality trait instead of a carefully maintained mask. Everyone says it. Fans say it. His members say it. You used to say it too, like a prayer.
You believed it. God, you really believed it.
Your phone buzzes again.
A message from him, timestamped just minutes after the photo must have been taken:
Yeosang: “we need to talk. it’s not what it looks like.”
You let out a short, bitter laugh before you can stop yourself.
Of course he says that. Of course he’s already preparing the gentle, rehearsed excuses.
You don’t reply. You just sit there with the photo still open, zooming in uselessly like a sharper angle might rewrite reality. Like if you stare long enough, the hand on his chest will disappear and the softness in his eyes will suddenly belong only to you again.
It doesn’t work.
It never does.
When he shows up at your door later that evening, he looks exactly like he always does when he knows he’s in trouble: sleeves pulled over his hands, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes wide and deceptively innocent. Like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible in the life he’s been quietly ruining.
Like he already knows he doesn’t deserve to be here.
And the worst part? It still tugs at something in you. You almost hate how well it still works.
“Hey,” he says softly, voice barely above a whisper, like volume alone could make this hurt less.
You don’t answer right away. You just look at him, really look. Letting the silence stretch until he starts shifting uncomfortably under the weight of it.
“You saw it,” he says. Not a question.
You nod once. That’s all you can manage without your voice cracking.
He exhales shakily, like he’s been holding his breath since the moment that photo was snapped. “It wasn’t—”
“Don’t,” you cut him off, sharp and flat.
His mouth closes instantly. He looks down at his shoes, the picture of remorse. Sweet. Apologetic. Everything everyone always swore he was.
It changes nothing.
“How long?” you ask. Your voice comes out steadier than you feel.
He hesitates.
That hesitation is louder than any answer.
Still, voice small, trembling just enough to sound sincere. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I was going to tell you, I just… I didn’t know how.”
You blink slowly, forcing yourself to stay calm. “How long, Yeosang.”
He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “…A few weeks.”
A few weeks.
The words echo in your head like they might transform into something less ugly if you repeat them enough times.
They don’t.
A sharper laugh escapes you this time. “A few weeks.”
He flinches like you’re the one being cruel. Like you’re the one making this moment ugly instead of him.
“I was going to tell you,” he repeats quickly, stepping closer, eyes glassy with that practiced vulnerability. “I swear. I just needed time to figure out how to say it without hurting you.”
You finally look away from him, toward the window, anywhere that isn’t his soft, sorry face while he dismantles everything you gave him so carefully.
“You were going to tell me after you’d fucked her a few more times?” you ask quietly.
The silence that follows is heavy enough to choke on.
You nod slowly, almost to yourself. It’s strange how calm you feel on the surface. Not because it doesn’t hurt — it does, viciously — but because the pain somehow doesn’t feel new. Like some part of you had been waiting for this exact moment.
“Everyone thinks you’re so sweet,” you murmur, almost gently. “So kind. So innocent.”
He lifts his head at that, eyes wide and shining with unshed tears that look far too perfect.
You meet his gaze head-on, your expression eerily steady. That’s what seems to scare him most — that you’re not screaming, not crying, not giving him the reaction he can soothe away with soft apologies.
“They’d never believe this,” you add. “They’d never believe you could do something like this.”
His voice cracks beautifully. “I didn’t mean for you to find out like this. I never wanted to hurt you.”
You almost laugh again, but it dies in your throat.
“There’s no good way to find out you’ve been cheating,” you say. Then, softer, like you’re talking more to yourself than to the man in front of you, “There’s just this way.”
He takes a small step forward, hands twitching like he wants to reach for you.
You step back on instinct.
He stops immediately, freezing in place like a well-trained dog that knows better than to push boundaries.
That hurts worse than the photo ever could.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, eyes pleading. “Please. Can we just talk about this? I love you. I do.”
You nod once. Twice. Like you’re confirming a terrible truth to yourself.
Then you reach for your keys on the couch.
He panics visibly — shoulders tensing, that soft voice turning desperate. “Wait— please. Don’t go like this. We can fix it. I’ll do anything.”
You pause at the door but don’t turn around fully. Just enough for your voice to drift back to him, cold and final.
“You already did,” you say quietly.
And then you leave him standing there in the middle of your living room.
Still soft. Still sorry. Still looking exactly like the sweetheart everyone would never believe could quietly tear your heart out while whispering how much he cares.
This Work is a part of the Angsty April Open Kpop Collab
The worst part is how gentle you are about it.
Like its kindness. Like it’s love. Like your hands on his body weren't trespassing long before he ever offered his name.
Mingyu stands in your kitchen with his sleeves rolled up, broad shoulders tense under the soft lighting, laughing at something you said like he isn’t constantly aware of the way you’re looking at him. Not just looking,cataloging. Measuring. Like he’s an object placed in your life for aesthetic value, something pretty to own and display.
You always do that thing with your eyes. Slow. Appreciative. Possessive. Like you’re allowed. Like every inch of him already belongs to the way you take in a room.
“You’re staring again,” he says lightly, forcing a playful lilt into his voice, trying to turn it into a joke before it can become something heavier.
You hum, not even pretending to be embarrassed. “Can you blame me?”
He smiles automatically. It’s the same polished, camera-ready smile he’s perfected over the years — the one that says he’s easy, he’s fine, he’s okay with this. The one that keeps people from digging deeper.
But he’s not okay.
He hasn’t been for a long time.
You step closer without hesitation, reaching up to fix his collar like it’s yours to adjust. Your fingers linger a second too long. They always do. Brushing against his skin with that deliberate tenderness that feels more like a claim than affection.
He flinches, barely, but you notice. You always notice.
And you never stop.
“You’re tense,” you murmur softly, like you’re diagnosing a flaw in something you own.
He exhales through his nose, jaw tight. “I’m fine.”
You tilt your head, eyes narrowing with that familiar mix of sweetness and condescension. “You always say that.”
There’s something in your tone that makes “fine” sound like a personal failure. Like his composure is the real problem here.
He looks away.
It’s worse when you’re proud of him. When you talk about him like he’s a project you’ve successfully shaped.
“You look good like this,” you say, stepping back to admire him again, gaze dragging over his frame like he’s on display. “My handsome boy.”
He swallows hard.
There it is again — that sick, crawling feeling in his chest.
Not admiration. Not even love.
Possession wrapped in pretty, suffocating words.
“You ever think I’m… not a person to you?” The question slips out before he can swallow it back down.
The room goes unnaturally quiet. Too clean. Too still.
You blink at him, then smile — soft, indulgent, like he’s being adorably dramatic.
“What are you talking about, baby?”
He laughs once, but it fractures halfway through, brittle and wrong.
“I mean it,” he says, quieter now, voice cracking at the edges. “Do you ever look at me and actually see me? Or am I just… something nice you like having around? Something to show off?”
Your expression softens even more. That’s the part that scares him the most, when you look at him like you’re about to comfort him instead of actually hearing him.
You step closer again. Always closer.
“Mingyu,” you say gently, his name shaped like a leash, “I care about you. So much.”
It should sound reassuring.
It doesn’t.
Because your thumb is still stroking his jaw like you’re checking whether he’ll stay exactly where you put him.
He pulls back , still trying so desperately to be easy to love.
“I think you like the idea of me,” he whispers.
Your smile flickers for half a second. Then it’s back, perfect and patient, like you’re dealing with a child throwing a tantrum.
“That’s not true. You know I love you.”
He nods slowly, like he expected that exact answer. Like he’s heard every version of it before.
There’s a long, heavy pause.
He looks at you properly this time, not through the soft filter you’ve forced over him, not through the version of himself you love to parade around. Just him. Raw. Tired. Real.
And nothing in your expression changes.
That’s what confirms it.
You don’t see the difference.
Or worse — you do see it, and you simply don’t care.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he says finally, voice low and exhausted.
Your brow furrows slightly. More confused than hurt. Like his boundaries are an inconvenience.
“Do what?”
He almost smiles at that. Almost.
“This,” he gestures vaguely between you, the space that’s never really been his. “Being looked at like I’m yours. Like I exist for your approval. Like I’m something you get to keep.”
You take a step forward instinctively.
He steps back.
For the first time, you don’t immediately follow.
The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable.
Then you sigh — soft, disappointed, like he’s the one tiring you out.
“You’re overthinking it again, Gyu. You always do this.”
And something inside him goes very, very quiet.
Because that’s it.
That’s always it.
His feelings reduced. Flattened. Explained away. Dismissed as drama, as insecurity, as something wrong with him.
He nods once. Slow. Defeated.
“Yeah,” he says, hollow. “Maybe I am.”
You relax visibly, shoulders dropping, that satisfied little smile returning. Like it’s settled. Like he’s staying. Like your good boy has come back to heel.
He looks at you one last time, and this time he doesn’t soften.
“I hope you find someone who likes this shit,” he says quietly.
You laugh, light and unbothered. “What shit?”
He doesn’t answer.
He just grabs his jacket from the back of the chair, the movement heavy with finality.
And he leaves while you’re still smiling. Calm, certain, already convinced your little puppy will come running back with his tail between his legs the moment he realizes how cold it is out there without you.
