Bias: Namjoon, Yeonjun, Yuta, Jun/Jeonghan, Shownu, Yeji, Choi In, Keeho, Kun
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Hey y’all!! I’m Jo! i’ve been writing on tumblr for years but I started this account a while ago for kpop stuff. Y’all also may know me from tiktok and trading insta @outro_jo
requests: open!
things to request:
imagines
reactions/scenarios
blurbs
headcannons (*idol* as a partner, etc)
song inspired one shots
I try to write gender neutral or in a way that gender isn’t specified, and I try not to include body type or hair/skin/eye color so that everyone can read and feel included. I’m not really writing smuts as of right now so please do not request anything nsfw. while i occasionally touch on mental health, please be mindful of your requests. i’ve struggled with a lot of things in my past and some topics are upsetting to me. i generally like to keep my fics positive and lighthearted rather then get too emotionally triggering with what i write. i make sure to tw as much as possible but if i miss anything, please reach out to me! i also ask that if you request something of a sensitive nature to please tw as well so i can determine if i want to continue reading the message.
also when requesting, please be clear. let me know which group if you want all members included or the member(s) you want it written about. i’ve had many requests without a group attached and i usually take that as skz but sometimes i will pick any group bc i can 😌
You can request any group but I stan:
Ateez
Stray Kids
Nct (all units)
Seventeen
P1Harmony
Monsta X
BTS
Blackpink
Txt
Itzy
E’last (will need to do more research to write)
more!
I look forward to getting to know y’all and writing some requests!! please request in my ask box and dm if you wanna chat!! 🤍
the persistence of "he or she" makes me slightly insane. youre willing to adapt and learn nearly every other linguistic change in modern times but yet you stlll refuse the singular they, which has been around longer than you've been alive. annoying.
synopsis : in modern Seoul, you slowly realize that your sweet, always-late classmate Yunho is secretly the city’s masked hero, Spider-Man. Between university life and nightly patrols, Yunho struggles to balance saving strangers with staying close to you. As you quietly patch up his wounds, tease him about his terrible excuses, and keep his secret safe, the two of you fall for each other in small, gentle moments. Yunho learns that being a hero isn’t just about saving lives it’s about having someone to come home to.
｡𖦹°‧ ateez masterlist !
Seoul’s sunset looked like it had been painted by someone who couldn’t pick a single favorite color. Hazy orange poured into violet skies, the glow bouncing off glass towers. You leaned on the balcony rail of your university dorm, sipping a canned coffee that had long gone cold.
A text blinked on your phone.
yuyu🕷️: Running late again TT wish me luck with traffic!
You laughed under your breath. “Traffic,” huh?
At this point, you knew that meant something completely different. Ever since you caught a red-and-blue blur swinging between buildings one night and heard his unmistakable laugh through the mask, you’d put the pieces together.
Yunho, your gentle, always-smiling classmate, the one who lent you pens and carried your books when your bag was too heavy — was Spider-Man.
And he was terrible at keeping secrets.
He’d show up with small cuts, sometimes a bandaged hand, or a bruise under his sleeve. Every time you asked, he’d grin and say, “You should’ve seen the other guy!” or “Ah, walked into a pole.”
He was always late, always vanishing. But he always came back.
So you waited — for him, for the sound of sneakers on the hallway floor, for his laughter echoing down the dorm corridor.
Tonight was no different.
A gentle knock. Then his voice.
“Hey. Did you miss me?”
You turned to see him leaning against the doorframe, hair messy, eyes bright, a little breathless. His jacket was slightly torn, and his hand clutched a takeout bag.
“Didn’t I tell you not to fight traffic?” you teased.
“Couldn’t help it,” he said, stepping in. “Traffic hit first.”
You rolled your eyes. “You mean a villain.”
He froze, then smiled sheepishly. “Ah… what makes you say that?”
You just raised an eyebrow. “Your sleeve’s ripped, and there’s web residue on your shoes.”
He looked down, then sighed. “I’m… not very good at this secret identity thing, huh?”
“No,” you said, laughing softly. “But you’re good at saving people.”
Something softened in his eyes — the kind of look that made your heart feel like it was glowing.
“Yeah,” he murmured, “you’re one of them.”
Days in Seoul always felt busy, but nights… nights belonged to Spider-Man.
You often saw him on the news — blurry clips of him leaping across rooftops near Hongdae, helping lost kids or catching purse thieves. The reporters called him Seoul’s Red Guardian.
You knew he’d never pick that name himself.
When you asked what he’d call himself, he thought for a long moment, then said, “Just Yunho is fine.”
That was him: humble, soft-spoken, the kind of hero who didn’t realize he already was one.
It wasn’t always easy, though. You’d see the exhaustion in his eyes sometimes, hidden behind his grin. One night, he climbed through your window — literally — and flopped onto your couch like a cat.
“You have a front door, you know,” you said, amused.
“Front doors are for civilians,” he mumbled into a pillow.
You smiled, setting a mug of hot chocolate on the table. “Rough night?”
He didn’t answer, just stared at the ceiling. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing enough.”
You sat beside him, quiet for a moment. “Yunho, you can’t fix everything. But you’re trying. And that’s what makes you… you.”
He turned his head toward you. “You always say the right thing.”
“That’s because you always need to hear it,” you replied softly.
He chuckled — that low, comforting sound that always felt like home.
It became your secret routine: he’d come over after patrol, sometimes with street food from Myeongdong, sometimes just for quiet. You’d patch him up with the small first-aid kit he’d bought “for your art projects,” as if anyone believed that.
“Hold still,” you said one night, dabbing antiseptic on a scrape along his arm.
“Ow,” he hissed, even though you barely touched him.
“You face armed robbers but flinch at a cotton ball?” you teased.
He grinned sheepishly. “Different kind of danger.”
You rolled your eyes, then smiled. “Big baby.”
“I like it better when you call me hero.”
You laughed. “Keep dreaming, Spider-Man.”
He pretended to pout, but when you looked up, his gaze was so tender it made your breath catch.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
“For… making me feel normal.”
You didn’t answer — just reached for his hand. His fingers curled around yours, warm and steady.
For a moment, there were no villains, no web-slinging, no danger — just the two of you and the hum of the city outside.
You didn’t mean to fall for him.
You told yourself it was just friendship, that you were just looking out for him, but your heart didn’t listen.
It wasn’t the mask, or the heroics — it was the way he treated everyone with kindness. The way he smiled even when he was tired. The way he looked at you like you were the only steady thing in his world.
And you suspected he felt the same, but neither of you said it — not yet.
Then came the night it all almost fell apart.
You were walking home from your part-time café job when the sirens blared. Somewhere nearby, glass shattered, and the ground trembled.
“Stay back!” someone shouted. You ducked behind a car, heart pounding.
A plume of smoke rose down the street — and through it, you saw a flash of red and blue.
Yunho.
He swung between buildings, webbing up a runaway truck, muscles straining. The masked figure attacking him moved fast — some sort of tech thief with an electric staff. Sparks flew as the weapons clashed.
You couldn’t move. All you could do was watch.
Then, as the thief swung again, Yunho dodged — but not fast enough. The blow sent him crashing into a parked car.
“Yunho!” you screamed before you could stop yourself.
His masked head turned toward you, and in that split second, the villain saw you too.
“Oh no,” Yunho muttered.
The thief lunged your way. You froze — but before he reached you, a web shot out, yanking him backward. Yunho slammed into him with a fierce kick, then webbed him to a lamppost.
(uwu so dramatic😛)
He stumbled toward you, panting. “What are you doing here?”
“Going home! You’re the one fighting near my bus stop!”
He laughed, breathless. “Fair point.”
Then his knees buckled. You caught him just in time.
“Yunho,” you whispered, trembling, “you can’t keep doing this alone.”
He looked up at you — eyes soft behind the cracked mask. “I’m not alone.”
You stayed up all night tending to his bruises.
When dawn came, pale light spilling through the window, Yunho was half-asleep on your couch, wearing one of your oversized hoodies. His mask lay folded neatly beside him.
You sat on the floor nearby, watching the city wake up outside.
He stirred, blinking slowly. “You didn’t sleep?”
You shook your head. “Didn’t want to miss your snoring.”
He chuckled, voice still raspy. “You’re too good to me.”
“Someone has to be.”
He reached out, brushing your fingers lightly. “You’re the reason I keep going, you know.”
Your heart ached at the sincerity in his tone. “Yunho…”
“I mean it,” he said, sitting up. “When everything feels too heavy, I think of you. Of how you always look at me like I’m not just Spider-Man — like I’m still Yunho.”
You met his gaze. “That’s because you are.”
And then, finally, you leaned in — a hesitant, gentle kiss that felt like the first morning sun after a long storm.
When you pulled back, he was smiling that bright, dizzying smile again.
“So,” you said, cheeks warm, “was that your version of saying thank you?”
He laughed softly. “Maybe. Want me to say it again?”
You giggled. “Maybe later.”
Weeks passed, and things slowly returned to normal — or as normal as they could be when your boyfriend was the city’s masked hero.
Sometimes, after his patrols, he’d take you swinging through the skyline. The first time, you screamed so loudly he almost dropped his web line.
“Yunho, if I die—!”
“You won’t!” he called, laughing as the wind whipped past. “I’ve got you!”
And he did — his arm firm around your waist, the city glowing beneath your feet, stars above like scattered diamonds.
For the first time, you saw the world from his view — rooftops, neon lights, endless skies. It was terrifying and beautiful all at once.
When he landed on a tall rooftop overlooking the Han River, you couldn’t stop smiling.
“That,” you gasped, “was insane.”
He beamed. “Told you it’s better than any roller coaster.”
You swatted his chest lightly. “Still… next time, warn me before you jump off a building.”
“Deal.” He leaned closer. “But you have to admit — best view in the city, right?”
You nodded, eyes on the horizon. “Definitely.”
Then you looked at him. “Actually… second best.”
He blinked. “Huh?”
You grinned. “First’s you.”
He went red instantly, covering his face. “You can’t just say that!”
“Why not? You’re cute when you blush.”
He groaned dramatically. “You’re gonna be the end of me.”
You laughed, tugging his hand. “You fight criminals for a living, you can survive one compliment.”
Life moved on — exams, café shifts, rooftop dinners, web fluid stains on your laundry.
Yunho kept saving people. You kept saving him in smaller ways — late-night snacks, quiet hugs, the simple act of being there.
You never told anyone his secret. Some things were sacred.
One evening, you found him on the rooftop again, watching the sun dip behind the skyline.
“Hey,” you said softly, joining him. “Big day?”
He nodded. “Saved a cat. Stopped a runaway bike. Got chased by a kid who wanted an autograph.”
You laughed. “Busy hero.”
He turned toward you. “But now it’s my favorite part.”
“What’s that?”
“Coming home to you.”
You blinked, warmth blooming in your chest. “You’re so cheesy.”
He grinned. “You love it.”
“Maybe,” you said, smiling back.
He stepped closer, taking your hands in his. “You know, sometimes I wonder if the web pulled me toward all of this — not the powers, not the mask… but you.”
You looked up at him, heart full. “Maybe it did.”
He brushed his thumb over your cheek, gentle as ever. “Whatever happens, I’ll always find my way back.”
“I know,” you whispered. “You always do.”
And then he kissed you again — slow, sure, full of promise.
Down below, the city buzzed and shimmered, unaware that its Spider-Man was just a boy in love, tangled in the simplest, strongest web of all.
Weeks later, you spotted a new graffiti tag near Hongdae station.
Maybe if people updated more we wouldn't turn to ai
You’re a pathetic, impatient loser. Fanfic writers owe you nothing, and their writing is their own, not yours to do with as you choose, you entitled brat.
pairing: boxer!bang chan × med student!reader
genre: sports drama · angst · smut · hurt/comfort
status: Complete :)
Christopher Bahng lives for the ring—the pain, the pressure, the promise of glory. You’re on the brink of losing someone you love to a fight they can't win. When your worlds collide, obsession meets resistance, and every round brings you closer to a choice: protect him, or watch him destroy himself. Because in boxing, no one leaves the ring untouched—and not every fight is fair.
taglist: closed
notes: enjoy :)
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The morning’s the soft sort—gray light, a city yawn, the street still shaking last night out of its shoulders. You swipe out of the hospital and the door releases you into air that smells like wet concrete and bakery exhaust, the kind that lifts your hair and reminds you you’re a person. Your scrubs are clean but your bones feel wrung out; night shift has a way of taking the vowels out of you. Thirty looks a lot like the rest of your twenties did—coffee, elevators, names you learn fast and hold gently—only now the badge says Oncology Fellow and your pockets are full of pens that remember worse nights than this.
You don’t go home. You turn two corners and duck into the gym. It smells like rubber and chalk and cut oranges. Bells. Ropes. The hum of a big fan making lazy weather overhead. It’s still too early for the morning class, and anyway it’s Sunday so the gym is closed. But it isn’t empty.
He’s there in the middle, in a black hoodie with the sleeves shoved up, hair pushed off his forehead. He’s got focus mitts on and your daughter in front of him in glitter sneakers and a pink mouthguard she insists on even though they’re just “playing boxing.” She’s five going on fighter: stance slightly ridiculous, heart perfect.
“Where’s your center?” Chan asks, crouching to her height, tapping two fingers over the small patch of chest her dinosaur tee declares “RAWR means I Love You.”
“Here,” she says, serious, tapping back.
“And where’s mine?”
She stretches on tiptoe and taps his sternum with a little thunk. He makes an exaggerated “oof,” staggers, then grins and kisses the tips of her gloves. “Deadly.”
You stand there for a second with your hand on the door like a person standing at the edge of a lake they already love. He sees you, and the smile starts before the recognition finishes—like his face kept the setting from earlier models. He lifts a mitt in hello.
“Hey, birthday girl,” he calls, like it’s a secret only the two of you share. The words hit you soft and right; you feel them bloom in your chest before your brain catches up.
“Hey, coach,” you answer.
Your daughter whips around, curls flying out of her ponytail. “Mommy!” she squeaks, all hands and feet, and then she’s sprinting—gloves up, mouthguard out, glitter sneakers scuffing the mat. She slams into your legs with the gusto of someone who has never once considered a gentle greeting. You fold around her, laughing into the top of her head, breathing in oranges and kid-shampoo and sevena.m. gym.
“Look what I learned,” she says, already bouncing back to her square of tape on the floor. “Watch me.”
“In one second,” Chan says, voice that soft-captain he uses when he’s running a room. He peels off the mitts and crosses to you in three easy strides, fitting his palm around the curve of your neck the way he always has—like it’s a compass and he likes the direction. Up close you can see the sleep you didn’t get reflected back in his eyes; you can see how much he’s been up with the baby and how little he minds.
“Hi,” he says, quieter now, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. “How’s thirty treating you so far?”
“And I’m running on fumes.” You admit.
“Lucky for you,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your brow, then one to your mouth that tastes like orange slices and the very good kind of ordinary, “this is a full-service facility. Coffee on deck.”
“Mo-om,” your daughter huffs, bouncing. “Watch!”
You reach for the stroller without looking away from your daughter, muscle memory finding the buckle, the warm heft of him. Your 10-month year old son comes up into your arms with a soft, surprised “oh,” rubbery cheeks yielding against your shoulder. He smells like baby powder and cereal dust. Two fists pat your collarbone, testing the shape of you as if you might have rearranged since he last saw you last night.
“Dada,” he announces.
“Mama,” you compromise.
“Daa-da,” he tries again, louder this time, delighted by his own accuracy.
Across the room, Chan looks up from the espresso machine, grinning. “What can I say,” he shrugs, steaming milk. “The boy has taste.”
“Biased sample,” you counter. Your son thumps your cheek with an approving palm. “Empirically flawed.”
“Dada,” the baby sings, absolutely ruining your argument.
Your daughter plants her sneakers on the taped X, shakes out her arms like she’s about to headline Madison Square Garden, then darts a look at you to make sure you’re really watching. You tip your chin, hitch the baby higher, and brace your hip on the ring apron.
She taps her dinosaur. Then—jab, jab, cross—tiny shoulders engaged, hips trying to remember what Chan told her about turning. The last punch sails a mile wide and she corrects it mid-air, tongue between her teeth, ferocity bleeding into a giggle.
“Better,” you say. “So much better.”
“We’ve been practicing,” Chan says, pouring the coffee into the mug, eyes flicking between the cup and the mat the way he learned to split his focus in a dozen different fights and life with two kids.
The baby pats your cheek, then points—wildly inaccurate—toward the counter. “Daa-da!”
“I’m right here, buddy,” Chan answers, voice softening on instinct.
He squeals at the fan, then remembers his favorite word. “Dada.”
“Okay, now you’re just showing off,” you tell him, pouting slightly as Chan laughs and takes the boy from you, handing you the mug instead.
He props your son on his hip, the baby’s palm immediately finding his father’s hair, tugging hard. Chan winces, prying the little fingers away, then gives you a cheeky glance.
“Just like his mother,” He says and grins when you sputter into the mug.
“Again?” your daughter asks, already bouncing back to her tape square. “Mommy, watch again.”
“I’m watching,” you promise, shooting Chan a glare. He only snickers.
She executes her combo with the solemn intensity of a small storm cloud. Jab. Jab. Cross. She adds a theatrical slip that turns into a twirl because she’s five and the world still deserves flourishes.
Then her eyes snag on the framed photo over the front desk, the ribbon in its corner stirring in the slow fan-breeze. The smile in that picture never quite dims, no matter the light.
“Can we go see Uncle Min now?” she blurts, pivoting to you so fast her ponytail swishes behind her. “Please? Please, please, pleeeease?”
Chan’s eyes find yours over the steam of your mug; a quiet, practiced tenderness passes between you. He shifts the baby to his shoulder, pats a slow rhythm, then crouches to your daughter’s height.
“We are going,” Chan says. “But first, Mommy needs her birthday nap.”
She folds in half with a despairing groan, gloves dangling like wilted flowers. “But I’m not tiiiiired. I have energy.” She pogo-tests the hypothesis: one, two, three hops that squeak the mat and your heart in equal measures. “See? So much energy.”
“I can see your energy from space,” Chan agrees gravely. “NASA just called.”
“What’s a NASA?” she asks, suspicious and intrigued.
“People who monitor enormous power surges,” he says, composure cracking into a grin. “Also they like when five-year-olds listen to their parents.”
She huffs and throws a pleading glance at you. You take a long, ostentatious sip of coffee. “Hmm. I am indeed scheduled for one nap,” you say.
“Un-fair,” she mutters, then rallies. “What if I do ten perfect crosses and then we go?”
“Ten perfect crosses,” Chan counters, “and we go… after Mommy’s nap.”
She opens her mouth—surely to renegotiate the definition of “after”—but the bell over the door does its chiming miracle.
“Special delivery for the strongest five-year-old alive,” singsongs a voice, and in wafts Felix like a sunrise in human form, tote bag bumping his hip. Behind him, Jeongin wrestles the door with one elbow, the other hand cradling a plastic cup the color of a cartoon bruise.
Your daughter forgets all treaties. “UNCLE FIFI! UNCLE INNIE!” She gallops gloves outstretched.
Felix drops the tote and makes a meal of being tackled. “Oof—down goes the heavyweight champion!” He scoops her, spins once, sets her down facing Jeongin with a ta-da.
Jeongin presents the cup with both hands, solemn as a knight offering up a grail. “Behold.”
Her eyes go lunar. “The purple slushie!”
Chan’s smile is immediate, then freezes. He consults the clock. “Jeongin,” he says, voice very calm for a man staring down a slosh of liquefied sugar, “it’s seven. In the morning.”
Jeongin winces, already guilty. “In my defense, she asked every day last month and I kept promising ‘’next time,’ and then I just so happened to pass by the convenience store this morning.”
Your daughter is vibrating at a frequency only dogs can hear. “Can I? Can I can I can I? Pleeeease?”
Chan shifts the baby, who is busy trying to eat the drawstring of his hoodie, and levels the room with his coach’s stare. “You can drink a quarter of it now,” he says. “On account of it being a special occasion. Then it goes in the freezer for after lunch. Deal?”
She considers, tiny brows knitting, then thrusts out a glove. “Deal.”
Chan pretends to confer with the baby, who pats his cheek and declares, “Da-da,” like a vote.
“My associate agrees,” he says.
A cheer explodes out of her; Jeongin visibly relaxes, relieved he has not single-handedly detonated your household.
She sprints for the counter, skids to a halt at exactly six inches, and looks to you for the last permission. You bow your head in faux ceremony. “Proceed.”
Chan passes the baby to Felix, who immediately starts a low, goofy hum and a sway. The little fist opens, relaxes. The baby gurgles, content. Then grabs a fistful of Felix’s hair and yanks.
Your husband puts his hands on your shoulders, steering you towards the door. “Before they change their mind,” He whispers.
“I won’t,” Chan calls back, pushing the door with his shoulder while keeping a palm warm at the small of your back. The bell rings you out into the cool.
The ride home is a soft blur—your forehead tipped to the window, Chan’s hand a steady weight on your knee at every red light. When he parks and helps you out, the hallway already smells faintly like vanilla and tape.
He unlocks the door and nudges it open with his shoulder. Streamers fall. Paper chains snake across the ceiling in colors that don’t speak the same language. Construction-paper hearts are scotch-taped to the wall in a constellation only a five-year-old could map, and there are exactly three balloons, one of which is doing its best impression of a raisin. A banner hangs slightly crooked above the couch in crayon-thick letters: HAPPEE BIRTHDEY MOMMY ❤️
You laugh, the kind that takes your weight with it. On the coffee table sits a crown cut from glitter foam, two stickers shy of legal blindness. Next to it, a card: stick figures labeled with arrows—YOU, DADA, ME, BABEE—everyone sporting heroic biceps.
Chan watches your face. “She did it last night after bath,” he says, almost shy with pride. “I was merely… logistics.”
“You’re the best logistics,” you murmur, touching a paper heart that insists on listing to one side and fixing it gently so it doesn’t.
He slips the foam crown onto your head with ridiculous ceremony. “Her Majesty will now be escorted to the royal kitchen for a snack and a debrief.”
“The royal kitchen,” you repeat, grinning. “Do they serve anything besides dino nuggets?”
“Today we have orange slices, toast, and one,” he says, stepping close, voice dropping. “Extremely handsome husband. Who misses sleeping next to you when you have a night shift.”
“Mm,” you say, leaning into him. “I’ll have that last one to go.”
He kisses you—slow, unrushed. His palm finds the back of your neck; yours hooks in the hem of his hoodie. The banner flutters with the air you share.
“I’m going to take a quick shower,” You murmur, pulling back from him. He makes a low whiny sound.
“Do you have to?” He punctuates each word with a kiss, fingers tightening around your waist.
“Yes,” You laugh. “I feel gross.”
He groans. “Fine. But I’m filing a complaint with—” kiss to your cheek, “—management—” kiss to your jaw, “—immediately.”
You snort, already backing toward the hall. He follows two steps anyway, hooking a finger in the hem of your scrub top to steal one last kiss, then relents.
By the time you’ve turned the shower on, he’s in motion the way only home makes him: towel tossed into the dryer for a minute so it’ll come out warm, your softest tee laid over the radiator. In the kitchen, the kettle starts its soft rumble; he slices an orange into moons and slots them along a plate beside a stack of buttered toast he knows you’ll eat half-asleep.
Steam blooms under the bathroom door. He knocks once with his knuckles. “Temperature okay?”
“Perfect,” you call back, voice thinned by water and tile. “Stop hovering.”
“Can’t,” he says, amused. You hear the dryer thunk; a moment later the door eases open a sliver and a ribbon of warm air pours in with him. He reaches an arm around, hanging the heated towel on the hook and leaving a kiss on your damp shoulder before he’s gone again. “Two minutes,” he murmurs. “Then I’m carting you to bed.”
Steam still clings to your skin when you pad back down the hall, you find him stretched sideways across the bed like he’s been keeping your half warm, phone facedown, that loose, private smile that only happens at home softening his mouth.
“C’mere,” he says, already opening his arms.
You go, knee to mattress, then all at once—into the place he’s held open. He gathers you like you weigh less than you do, forearm banded low at your back, palm hooking behind your knee to pull it over his hip. He’s unbearably warm; your sigh comes out like a curtain being drawn.
“My baby,” he murmurs into your temple, kissing there, then again an inch lower, slow little commas of affection. His other hand finds your wrist and slides up, tracing the inside of your forearm like he’s reading a favorite passage by touch. He pauses at your pulse, presses, keeps his thumb there like he’s syncing up. “You look stupid good for thirty.”
“You’re biased,” you say, but it comes out sleep-soft, and you still can’t help the blush that dusts your cheeks—married for six years and he still manages to fluster you.
“Completely,” he agrees, and kisses the corner of your mouth.
You tip his chin with your knuckles until he’s looking at you properly. You kiss him once, just press and breathe, then again, longer, until the thought of the fluorescent night gives up its last claim on your shoulders.
His hands can’t help themselves: one spreads warm over your lower back; the other curves under your thigh, thumb stroking the inside of your knee in a rhythm that could put planets into orbit. Each touch is a sentence he’s finished a thousand times—here, here, here—until your bones remember they live under skin and not under alarms.
“Birthday rules,” he says, voice gone velvet. “You’re not allowed to lift a finger.”
“That’ll be hard,” you say against his mouth, “because I want to keep touching you.”
He grins into the kiss, then rolls just enough to set you higher on the pillows, tucking the comforter around your hips. He kisses the line of your throat, the hinge of your jaw, the place just below your ear that makes your breath stutter, then settles, nose in your hair
“Happy birthday,” he says again, petting your hair, fingers weaving through the still damp strands. “Say you’re only mine for a few hours.”
“Mm,” you hum, smiling into his hair. “For a few hours, I’m yours. Until Felix and Jeongin get tired of the kids.”
His shoulders loosen like you’ve untied something in him. “Good,” he says, relief threaded through the word. “Gonna be greedy, then.”
He coaxes you onto your back and folds himself into your side, half covering you like a weighted blanket. Your knee is still hooked over his hip; his hand is splayed wide over your ribs, counting those even rises he worked so hard to keep steady years ago. The house hums: a distant radiator tick; a streamer sighing in the hallway vent; somewhere, a neighbor’s laugh floating up the stairwell. He kisses your wrist again and lays it over his chest so your palm rides the rhythm there.
After a while he says your name like a soft knock. “Hey.”
“Mmm?”
He swallows; you feel it under your palm. “Thank you.”
You crack an eye. “For what, exactly? Be specific so I can take full credit.”
He huffs a laugh into your hair, then steadies. “For marrying me,” he says, simple as a fact he’s reciting to keep the world true. “For… the mornings like this. For the gym that smells like oranges this morning. For the way you still look at me like I’m someone worth coming home to.” His hand splays a little wider over your ribs, as if he can hold the words in place. “For our monsters. For letting me be their dad.”
Your throat pulls tight, even as your lashes flutter, sleep pulling you into it’s embrace. “You’re easy to love, Christopher.”
He kisses your palm, then presses it back to his chest like he’s tucking a note into a pocket. “I’ll spend the rest of forever trying to deserve it,” he says, and the sincerity in it lands heavy and gentle, a blanket fresh from the dryer.
You mean to answer, but the room has gone drowsy around the edges, and the weight of his body over yours is the kind of ballast that invites sleep. He feels the moment you tip—how your breath lengthens, how your shoulder lets go. He tightens his arm the smallest bit, just enough to promise he’s here.
The afternoon loosens around the edges on the drive—sun slipping between buildings, the back seat full of chatter and the occasional slurp from a contraband purple straw. Your daughter narrates every passing dog, truck, and cloud formation like they’re plot points. Your son contributes on theme: “Da-da. Da-da-da.” Chan squeezes your knee at a light; you squeeze back.
“Are we almost there?” your daughter asks for the fifth time.
“Almost,” Chan says. “Remember—we use our quiet voices when we get out.”
“I can do quiet,” she declares at full volume, then clamps her mouth shut and mimes zipping it, eyes sparkling.
You pull off the road and park beneath a maple doing its best impression of a golden chandelier. The air is cooler here, a green hush. When the doors open and little sneakers hit pavement, the truth of the place arrives with them: rows of stones, clipped grass, flowers in different states of remembering.
Your daughter’s hand finds yours automatically, small and hot, and then she’s towing you, towing all of you, to a familiar spot beneath the maple’s shade. You spread the picnic sheet and sit. The ground is dimpled with old roots; the headstone is simple and sure. Seungmin’s name looks calm in the afternoon light.
“Hi, Uncle Min,” your daughter blurts, forgetting any practice of quiet. “We came! I did my practicing and Daddy says my cross is getting super much better-er and I have a slushie but I only had a quarter, that’s a fraction, I learned about fractions, and Mommy turned thirty which is SO OLD but tha’s okay because I still love her and—”
“Gentle, baby.” You smooth her hair back when she squints at the pieces flying all over her face. “So Uncle Min can understand you.”
She nods vigorously, then kneels and sets both palms on the grass like she’s bracing to be taken seriously.
“Okay,” she whispers, and she somehow manages to make even that loud. “I’m going to show you.” She pops up, plants her feet on the edge of the blanket, taps Seungmin’s name on the stone. “Watch, please.” Jab, jab, cross—tongue out, hips torquing with outsized conviction. “I also can read now.” She fishes a thin, hardback from the tote—your book, bright-painted and polite about its own existence. “It’s Mommy’s book. I’ll read you the one with the raccoon who steals the moon, ‘kay?”
She settles cross-legged against the stone, book in her lap, and begins to sound out the title page with priestly gravity. She can’t read much, not really, but you’ve read it to her so many times, she’s memorized the entire thing. Your son, having given the grass a suspicious pinch, decides he’d much rather yank out a fistful and chuck it into his mouth.
You catch him mid–fist-to-mouth, scoop him up under the arms, and pivot him onto your hip in one smooth, traitorous motion.
His face crumples like paper left out in the rain. A beat of outraged silence—and then the wail, full-bodied and operatic, a protest aria about civil liberties and the tyranny of mothers who do not allow salad à la lawn.
“I know,” you murmur, kissing the hot apple of his cheek. “Mommy is very mean.”
He arches like a tiny bow, fists windmilling, lower lip quivering with the righteous grief. Tears glass his lashes. He inhales for a second verse.
Your daughter has paused her reading to glance at her baby brother, wrinkling her nose. She takes his clenched fist and gets very close to his face. “You can’t eat grass,” She tells him very seriously. “That’s gisgusting. Right, Mommy?”
“Right,” you say, smoothing her curls. You don’t have the heart to correct her. “Very gisgusting.”
A shadow falls across the blanket; Chan is already lowering beside you, palm out in truce. “C’mere, loud man.” He gathers your son to his hand and starts that slow figure-eight sway that’s soothed a hundred storms. “No eating the grass,” he murmurs into soft hair. “We need the grass. It keeps Uncle Min warm.”
The wail stutters, collapses into hiccups. Chan produces the emergency snack tin like a magician with a coin. “Behold: puffs.” A tiny fist accepts one with great dignity; tragedy downgraded to grievance, grievance to crunch.
Satisfied order has been restored, your daughter taps the stone twice—attention, please—and props your book on her knees. “The ra-coooon,” she pronounces, saintly serious, “was hungry for shine.” She tips the page toward the headstone so Seungmin can see the illustration. “Mommy says that’s a meda-for.”
“Metaphor,” you correct, fond.
“That. A dress-up word.” She beams at the name carved in granite. “I can read so much now, Uncle Min.”
Chan eases the baby back onto his back beside his sister, presses a kiss to your hair, and sets the tin on the blanket. “Read to him,” he says to your daughter. “He likes your voice.”
She does—earnest, loud-whispering through the raccoon’s apology and the moon’s forgiveness, pausing only to mime the raccoon’s tiny hands. The maple shakes a little gold over all of you.
When she’s deep in chapter two, Chan touches your wrist. “Walk with me for a sec?” he asks, eyes flicking toward the gentle edge of shade a few steps away.
Your eyebrows raise. “Right now? I don't know if I want to leave the kids alone.”
He tips his head toward the maple’s trunk—no more than the distance between the blanket and the edge of its shade. “Two steps,” he promises. “You’ll still see them. I just… want to put something in your hands.”
Your daughter is busy showing the raccoon’s “tiny grabby fingers” to the engraving; your son, pacified by puffs, is conducting a solemn experiment with his toes. You nod.
You and Chan drift to the tree’s skirt, the grass cooler there. He doesn’t let go of your hand; his thumb keeps that quiet circle going, like he’s smoothing the crease out of a thought.
“I’ve been keeping a secret,” he says.
"Should I be scared?" You say, still smiling and squeeze his finger slightly when he doesn't answer right away.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “No.”
From the inside pocket of his jacket, he pulls an envelope the color of old bone—your name written in blocky, stubborn letters in a handwriting you could spot across a room. Behind it, a flat parcel, twine-tied, the edges gone a little yellow with time.
Your eyes go from what's in his hands, back up to his eyes, and then down to the envelop again. "Chan. What is this?"
“It’s from Seungmin,” he says simply. “We talked. A lot. More than I told you.”
Your fingers tighten around his. “When?”
“Late,” he says. “Hospital nights. On the good days he’d FaceTime to roast my hand wraps. On the bad ones he’d text me one word and I’d go sit in the car outside his house and we’d just… talk.” He rubs his thumb over the paper like it’s something that can be soothed.
“What did you talk about?” you ask, though you already know the answer sits everywhere in your life.
“You,” Chan says simply. “Mostly you. How you keep score with yourself and never with anyone else. How you will carry the whole house if no one stops you. He made me promise to be the person who stops you.”
Your chest pulls tight in that precise, specific way grief and love share. “He… said all that?”
“And more.” Chan’s voice goes softer. “He said you’d never ask for help, so I should learn the art of helping without asking. Bring you coffee before you know you want it. Turn down lights. Remind you it’s okay to have a birthday and not be a hero for a day.” He breathes out. “He made me promise to tell the kids—if we ever had them— about him like he was here, not like a sad lesson.”
Your eyes blur. He sees it and steps closer into the shade with you, his knuckles tipping under your chin the way he does when he wants you to look at him and not the ache.
“I love you,” he says, like a pledge that’s learned every season of your life. “More than I know how to say. And I’m gonna go sit with our chaos gremlins so you can have this… just you and him.”
Your mouth wobbles; he catches the tremor with his thumb and kisses the corner of it anyway. “Okay,” you whisper.
He tucks the envelope and the parcel back into your hands, steadying them there with his palm for a beat like he’s transferring something warmer than paper. “Take your time,” he adds. “We’re right there.”
A last press of his mouth to your forehead—home base. Then he eases away, steps back into the sunlight, and returns to the blanket like he’s re-entering orbit: a kiss to your daughter’s crown mid–raccoon voice, a raspberried belly nibble that wins a kicky laugh from your son, a quiet, “Scoot over, team,” as he folds his legs into the gingham and becomes the hinge that keeps all of it swinging easy.
You’re left in the cool hem of the maple, your name in his handwriting on the bone-colored envelope, the afternoon held in a patient hush. Behind you, the baby narrates the wind to itself; your daughter declares with great authority that raccoons have “teeny tiny hands” and therefore cannot steal the moon. Chan answers her with a soft “you’re not wrong,” and the sound of it settles something low in your ribs.
You break the seal.
Y/N,
If you’re reading this, I missed some good stuff. Figures. You’ve made it to thirty. Nice work. I did not, which is inconvenient scheduling on my part. Sorry.
No I’m not. I’ve never been anything but terminal, and you’ve always known that.
I’ve been thinking about writing this letter for a long time. Honestly, I thought I’d have a lot more to say. You have your entire life ahead of you after all, and I’m doomed to die at 23. But the longer I sit here, the more I realize I don’t have much to say after all. Does that make me a bad friend? I don’t know. I don’t know a lot of things lately.
I guess I don’t have anything to say because I don’t have any regrets.
Not one.
That surprises you, maybe. It surprises me. I don’t regret the shape my life took. I got you. I got us. I got to love people who were worth the effort. I got to be loved back.
Do I wish we’d had stupid, ordinary years? Sure. I wanted a hundred more breakfasts, a thousand more movie nights, one quiet afternoon where you fall asleep on my couch halfway through explaining some metaphor and I let you. But wishing isn’t the same as regretting. Wishing is a window. Regret is a lock. I’m not interested in locks.
Please hear me carefully: there was never a world where you saved me. There was only the world where you stayed. You did that. You stayed in every way that matters—on the days I could make jokes and on the days my body felt like a badly wired house. You kept time for me when time acted like I didn’t exist. That’s more than most people get. It’s more than I expected. Thank you.
I don’t regret the fights I didn’t get to finish. I don’t regret the days I lost. I don’t regret the way it will end, because the middle was so stupidly good with you in it. You gave me a front-row seat to a life that stayed bright even when the lights flickered. That was enough. It was more than enough.
Come visit when you can. Talk to me. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to hear you or not, but I like the idea that your voice keeps finding me anyway.
Wipe the plaque when it gets smudgy; I was picky about fingerprints while breathing and death hasn’t improved my temperament.
Happy Birthday. I love you.
Always and always,
—Min
When you look up, Chan is watching from the blanket, not intruding on your radius, eyes blown wide with love and the ache of recognizing something he can’t fix even if he desperately wants to. He reads your face like he once read fighters—what the shoulders give away, where the jaw holds grief—which is to say he stays where he is and he guards the space around you like an usher at a quiet door. You look back down at the package in your hands.
The twine gives, the lid lifts, and there it is—a printed copy of The Chronicles of Kim Seungmin—and your vision goes salt-bright before your mind can catch up. Your fingers land on the cover like it might still be warm with his touch, and then your throat closes, hard and merciless, the way it used to in stairwells outside bad news. He has written down every story you’ve ever told him.
You don’t make it to your feet. The air just folds, and you fold with it.
Chan is already there, crossing the grass in two sure strides. He gathers you in without a word—one arm banded under your shoulders, the other at the back of your head so you can break against him and not the open air. You press the book to your chest between you like a small, stubborn heartbeat and let the sob happen, full and graceless and real.
“I miss him,” you choke into his hoodie.
“I know,” he says, forehead to your temple, rocking you once, slow. “I know. Me too.”
The maple breathes. The kids murmur at the stone. You stay there in the green hush, wet-faced and held, the book safe between you, the absence suddenly, fiercely present—and survivable only because his arms don’t move.
You tip your forehead to his collarbone. He kisses the crown of your head. You press your palm to his chest; he covers it with his, fitting his fingers between yours. In the grass beside you, a puff crunches; the maple shakes a little gold. He sways you without moving from the spot, that old, gentle rhythm he learned for colic and kept for grief.
When you finally breathe out he answers it with a kiss to your temple, then another, smaller one to the corner of your eye, catching the salt before it falls.
“Mommy?” your daughter’s voice lifts from the blanket, all puzzled tenderness. “Are you crying?”
You pull back enough to see her—chin tucked, eyes big, the book sagging in her lap. That look makes a clean ache in you.
“Hey, brave girl,” you say softly. You ease out of Chan’s arms and cross the few feet of grass. “C’mere.”
She hesitates—two tiny, uncertain steps—then launches, and you lift her, all knees and elbows and warm, worried breath. She clings like a koala, fingers bunching your shirt.
“I don’t like when you cry,” she whispers into your neck.
“I know, baby,” you say. “Me too.”
You sway her a little—an old dance your body knows—until the knot in her shoulders loosens beneath your hands. She pulls back just enough to search your face, thumb swiping clumsy at the damp on your cheek.
“Is it because of Uncle Min?”
You nod. “A little. I miss him. And I’m happy to be here with you. Sometimes both feelings happen at once and my eyes don’t know what to do.”
She thinks about that very hard, lips pursed, then presses a soft kiss to your cheek. “I can hold your hand,” she decides, like she’s placing a sandbag on a levee. “So the feelings don’t spill out.”
“That would help a lot,” you whisper.
Your daughter’s gaze snags on the twine-tied parcel resting in your hand. “What’s that?” she asks, pointing with the concentration of a scientist. “The big fat book.”
You ease down with her on your hip and touch the cover. “It’s called The Chronicles of Kim Seungmin,” you say softly. “It’s… stories I used to tell Uncle Min.”
She looks from the stone to the book and back, as if triangulating the right thing to do. “Can you read it to us?” she asks, suddenly shy. She’s a lot like her father in that regard. “All of us together? So Uncle Min can hear too?”
Your throat warms in that tender, ache-bright way. “Yeah,” you say. “Let’s do it together.”
You all drift back to the gingham—Chan already spreading the corners flat, the baby flopping onto his belly with a satisfied “da-da,” fist full of puff. Your daughter wedges herself under your arm with proprietary precision; Chan sits close on your other side, knee touching yours, his palm landing at the small of your back in a quiet, steadying press. The maple gives a soft shiver, shedding a coin of light onto the title page.
You open the cover. For a second you just breathe—the paper, the afternoon, the people you love touching you on three sides. Then you tip the book so the headstone can see and begin, voice low and even.
“There once was a boy," you read, the words finding their old road through your mouth. “Named Kim Seungmin.”
Your daughter’s hand sneaks into yours on the downstroke of a sentence; Chan’s thumb makes its patient circle between your shoulders. The baby punctuates your pauses with pleased little grunts. You keep reading, not rushing, letting each line sit long enough to feel like company.
You blink the world into two and then back into one. You look over your shoulder to where your daughter is now lying on her stomach, watching you with relentless focus while the baby conducts the breeze with his plastic ring. This, you think. This, this, this.
hii can i request frat boy!mingi making up with reader after a small fight??
oooh i like this one! i'll make this one a smut fic if that's ok (because frat boy, duh)
warnings: frat boy!mingi x reader, smut, consensual sex, make up sex, oral, rough-ish sex?, possessive language, mild angst resolving to smut, unprotected sex (WRAP BEFORE YOU TAP Y'ALL)
small note: speaking of frat boys i live in off-campus apartments and bro THEY'RE SO LOUD FOR NO REASON LIKE HOW DO THESE PEOPLE PARTY EVERY NIGHT FOR FOUR YEARS STRAIGHT IT'S UNBELIEVABLE (one of them had the audacity to flirt with me when i was writing in the coffee shop like bruh headphones = leave me alone)
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The slammed door still vibrated in your bones an hour later. Stupid fight. Stupid stress over midterms. Stupid Mingi being frustratingly closed off when you needed him to talk. You’d thrown harsh words about his priorities – frat parties over your anniversary dinner plans – and he’d snapped back about pressure you didn’t understand, his voice uncharacteristically cold before the door shook in its frame.
Now, pacing your tiny dorm room felt like torture. Pride warred with a desperate ache for him. The image of his face – usually bright with that goofy grin or warm with affection, now shuttered and hard – made your chest constrict.
A sharp knock shattered your brooding. Not the tentative tap of your roommate. This was firm, insistent. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You knew that knock.
You opened the door.
Mingi stood there, breathing slightly heavily as if he’d run up the stairs. The easy confidence he usually wore like his letterman jacket was gone. His dark hair was messy, pushed back from his forehead as if he’d been raking his hands through it. His eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, were stormy, intense, holding yours with a raw vulnerability that stole your breath. He wasn't wearing his usual crisp polo; just a slightly rumpled white t-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders and worn jeans.
“Hey,” he rasped, the single syllable thick with emotion.
“Hey,” you managed, your voice small. The air crackled with unsaid apologies and lingering hurt.
He didn't wait for an invitation. He stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him with his foot. The confined space of your dorm suddenly felt electrified, charged with the tension of the fight and the sheer, overwhelming presence of him.
“I fucked up,” he stated, no preamble, no frat-boy charm. Just stark honesty. “Big time.” He took another step closer, forcing you to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. The scent of his familiar cologne – clean cotton and something faintly spicy – mixed with the lingering tension. “The dinner… it wasn’t about the party. It was… pressure. Stupid shit I shouldn’t have dumped on you. I panicked.” His hand lifted, hovering near your cheek but not quite touching. “I’m sorry. So fucking sorry.”
His apology, direct and unvarnished, hit you harder than any charming excuse could have. The wall of anger you’d built crumbled. Tears pricked your eyes, not just from the fight, but from the relief of seeing him again, the real him beneath the frustration.
“I shouldn’t have said you didn’t care,” you whispered, a tear escaping and tracing a path down your cheek. “I know you do. I was just…”
“Hurt,” he finished for you, his voice softening. That single tear seemed to undo him completely. His thumb finally brushed it away, the touch impossibly gentle against your skin. “God, seeing you cry…” His jaw clenched. “Makes me feel like the biggest asshole on campus.”
He moved then, closing the final distance. His arms slid around you, pulling you flush against his chest. It wasn't the tentative hug of reconciliation; it was anchoring. You melted into him, burying your face in the soft cotton of his t-shirt, breathing him in. His embrace was tight, almost desperate, one hand splayed possessively across your lower back, the other cradling the back of your head.
“Missed you,” he mumbled into your hair, his lips brushing your temple. “Like fucking crazy.”
You tilted your head up, seeking his lips. The kiss started soft, tentative – a question, an apology meeting another apology. But the spark that always existed between you ignited instantly, fueled by the raw emotion of the fight and the intense relief of being together again. His mouth slanted over yours, deepening the kiss with a sudden urgency that stole your breath. It wasn't gentle anymore; it was hungry, demanding, a physical manifestation of everything left unsaid.
His tongue swept against yours, hot and insistent. A moan escaped you, vibrating against his lips. His hand on your back slid lower, gripping your hip firmly, pulling you even tighter against him. You could feel the hard ridge of his arousal pressing against your stomach, a potent reminder of the desire simmering just beneath the surface of your argument.
“Mingi…” you gasped when he broke the kiss to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw to the sensitive spot below your ear.
“Need you,” he growled against your skin, his voice rough with want. “Right now. Can’t wait.”
He didn’t give you time to answer. In one smooth motion, he lifted you up. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist as he carried you the few steps to your desk, sweeping textbooks and notebooks onto the floor with a clatter neither of you cared about. He set you down on the cleared surface, stepping between your thighs.
His eyes burned into yours, dark and intense, stripped bare of any pretense. “Tell me you want this,” he commanded, though his voice held a thread of vulnerability beneath the need. “Tell me you still want me.”
“Yes,” you breathed, reaching for him, pulling him back to you by the collar of his t-shirt. “Always yes. Mingi…”
That was all he needed. His mouth crashed back onto yours as his hands slid under the hem of your top, pushing it up impatiently. Cool air hit your skin for a second before his large, warm hands covered your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples through the thin fabric of your bra. You arched into his touch, a gasp breaking the kiss.
He wasted no time. With deft fingers, he unhooked your bra, pushing it aside. His lips left yours to trail lower, sucking one taut nipple into the hot cavern of his mouth while his thumb continued its relentless assault on the other. Pleasure jolted through you, sharp and bright, making you cry out and tangle your hands in his hair.
He switched breasts, lavishing the same attention on the other peak. His free hand slid down your stomach, popping the button on your jeans and dragging the zipper down. He slipped his hand inside your panties, finding you already slick and swollen with desire.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groaned against your breast, his voice muffled but thick with approval. “All for me?”
“Yes,” you whimpered, grinding against his hand as his fingers circled your clit with maddening precision. “Only you… always…”
He added a finger, sliding deep inside you, curling just right. Your hips bucked off the desk involuntarily. He added another finger, stretching you gently but relentlessly, his thumb still working tight circles on your clit. The dual sensation was overwhelming – the deep fullness and the focused friction sending sparks up your spine.
“Mingi… I’m close…” you gasped, your vision blurring.
He didn’t slow down. He watched you unravel, his eyes dark pools of desire fixed on your face as he drove you higher with his fingers and thumb.
“Come for me,” he commanded softly, his breath hot against your skin. “Let me see it.”
The command, coupled with the relentless pressure, shattered you. Pleasure exploded through you in a white-hot wave, stealing your breath and making your body arch sharply off the desk. You cried out his name, the sound echoing slightly in the small room as the tremors racked you.
He held you through it, his fingers continuing their gentle movements inside you until the last aftershock faded. Slowly, carefully, he withdrew his hand. Before you could fully catch your breath, he was unbuckling his belt and pushing his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock – thick and hard and already leaking at the tip.
He positioned himself at your entrance, his eyes locked on yours. There was still a fierce intensity there, but also a raw tenderness now.
“Need to be inside you,” he murmured, his voice thick with need. “Need to feel you.”
He pushed in slowly at first, stretching you deliciously after your climax, letting you adjust to his girth. Then, with a low groan that seemed torn from his chest, he sheathed himself fully inside you with one deep thrust.
“Oh god… yes…” you moaned, wrapping your legs tighter around his hips, pulling him impossibly deeper.
He braced one hand on the desk beside your hip and gripped your thigh with the other, holding it high against his side as he began to move. His thrusts were deep and powerful at first, claiming, a physical declaration of possession after the separation of the fight. Each stroke dragged along your sensitive inner walls, reigniting the embers of pleasure so soon after your climax.
“So fucking perfect,” he gritted out, his gaze never leaving yours. “Tight… hot… mine.”
The possessive words sent another jolt of heat through you. You met his thrusts eagerly, lifting your hips to take him deeper each time he drove home. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, mingling with your ragged breaths and his low grunts.
He shifted slightly, changing the angle. The head of his cock brushed against that spot deep inside you on every forward stroke, sending fresh waves of pleasure crashing through you. You cried out, nails digging into the muscles of his shoulders through his t-shirt.
“There?” he demanded hoarsely, watching your reaction intently. “Right there?” He focused his thrusts, hitting that spot with unerring accuracy.
“Yes! Oh god, Mingi… don’t stop!” You were climbing again, faster this time, the intensity amplified by the emotional release of making up and the sheer physical power of him.
His thrusts became faster, harder, more erratic. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he fought for control. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in another searing kiss as he drove into you relentlessly.
“Gonna come,” he gasped against your lips, his voice strained. “Where? Tell me where…”
“Inside,” you pleaded, breaking the kiss to look into his eyes. “Please… need to feel you…”
A low growl rumbled in his chest. His eyes flared with primal heat. “Mine,” he breathed again, a final claim as his rhythm stuttered and broke. He buried himself to the hilt and held there as he came, pulsing deep inside you with a moan muffled against your neck. The sensation of him filling you, hot and claiming, pushed you over the edge again. Your inner walls clenched rhythmically around him as another orgasm washed over you, less explosive than the first but deeper, more consuming in its warmth.
He stayed buried inside you for long moments, both of you trembling with aftershocks and struggling for breath. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed as he slowly came down from the peak.
Slowly, gently, he pulled out. He immediately gathered you into his arms as you slid off the desk, your legs shaky. He held you close against his chest as he sank onto your narrow dorm bed, pulling you onto his lap. He pressed soft kisses to your hairline, your temple, your forehead – a stark contrast to the fierce passion of moments before.
“Okay?” he murmured softly, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.
You nodded against his chest, boneless and sated. “Okay.”
He shifted slightly, pulling the discarded comforter over both of you with one hand while keeping you tucked securely against him with the other.
“The dinner…” he started quietly after a few minutes of comfortable silence filled only by your breathing and his heartbeat under your ear.
“We can reschedule,” you interrupted softly, tracing idle patterns on his chest through his t-shirt. “After midterms.”
He tilted your chin up so he could look into your eyes. The storm was gone, replaced by warm sincerity and a hint of regret. “I want it to be perfect.”
You smiled faintly. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be us.”
He searched your face for a moment before leaning down and kissing you softly, lingeringly. It was a promise – not just for a dinner date, but for better communication, for less letting stress tear them apart.
“Us,” he echoed against your lips. And wrapped securely in his arms in the dim dorm room light, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours, the stupid fight felt like a million miles away. He held you close until your breathing evened out into sleep, his earlier possessiveness now a warm shield against the world outside your door.
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i hoped you liked this anon! frat boy Mingi is quite the concept i hope this didn't disappoint!
i read a fic one time that was older yh taking in a younger omega reader to help her with school and teach her how to be a better omega. i can't find it but this is that yh
paring: seonghwa x wooyoung x reader (gender neutral)
au: non-idol? it's not rly specified
category: angst?
warnings: hurt/eventual comfort, hospitals, mentions but non descript about an accident, amnesia, your mom sucks in this (sorry), sad wooyoung, sad seonghwa... i don't think anything else
summary: An accident left Seonghwa and Wooyoung with out their partner. Will they come back to them?
REQUESTS ARE OPEN
masterlist | info
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Your mind went dark after that day. You couldn't remember how it happened or why. All you knew was that your mind didn't go back that far.
You awoke to a hospital room. The harsh smell of disinfectant laced the deep inhale you took, eyes still closed as you tried to get your bearings. A steady beeping next to you, a hand gripping yours.
"Seonghwa."
You heard a voice softly next to you and an inhale similar to the one you just took, indicating that this "Seonghwa" had just woken up as well.
Fear suddenly swirled deep in your stomach, turning your veins to ice. You didn't know that name. You didn't know that voice. Where were you? At a guess you'd say the hospital but the thought seemed to terrify you even more.
That's when the ache began to settle in. Deep down to the bone and expanding over every inch of your body. Fuck, it hurt.
Why were you here? Think! Think!
"Y/n?" A different voice, softer and lower toned asked, who you assumed to be Seonghwa but it was so unfamiliar. "Are you awake, Honey?"
Honey? Why was he calling you 'Honey'?
An awkward, discomforting ache burrowed into your chest.
Suddenly you felt like a toddler again wanting your mom. Tears forming at the back of your eyelids, threatening to spill.
"Y/n? Baby, can you open your eyes for us?" The other voice, higher pitched and raspy.
Your jaw clenched and you swallowed the lump in your throat before slowly complying. The tears, no longer with a barrier, fell high on your cheeks. Blinking to clear the blurriness, you finally saw them. Beautiful but hopelessly unfamiliar.
They both sighed in relief, clutching each other.
Are they together? Maybe they were just nice people who saw whatever accident you were in.
Accident.
You could see it now. An IV attached to the back of your hand. Cuts. Bruises. A cast on your leg hanging in the air.
"What happened?" You cried out. "Who are you?"
The damn broke. Sobs wracked your chest, tears flowing down your cheeks.
Wordlessly, the two men exchanged a pained look, not letting the other go.
"Y/nie, it's us. Do you not remember us?" One asked.
The taller one, deeper voice continues, "We're your boyfriends, honey."
"Boyfriends!" You shouted. "Two? How? I--"
That sentence died in your throat as your panic attack fully washed over you. Alarm bells rang as your heart rate got higher and higher. Medical professionals rushed in the room, shoving the two men out.
After a while, your mom finally came to the hospital, doting over you, cooing something about taking you home. When the two came back, you didn't miss the way she shot looks at them. Maybe they were bad for you.
When they offered, no, fought with your mom to take you back to their apartment, "your home" they called it, you couldn't help but panic again.
Living in an apartment with two men you didn't know all alone, claiming to be your boyfriends. What if they asked you to-- no, that wasn't happening.
You cried again that day. Begging to stay with your mom. You wanted to go home.
If they had meant anything to you, the hurt in their eyes would have torn you up. The smaller one looked like a kicked puppy as the taller ushered him out with a steeled, teary expression.
"Let's go, Young-ah."
"Hyung, no! We can't leave them! I love them, Hyung!"
"I know, Youngie. I know, baby."
The way the smaller one cried played on a loop in your head for a while.
When you were finally tucked into the twin bed in your childhood bedroom, tears flowed. Hearing their cries echoing like a broken record.
The months that followed were safe. Weird and wrong but safe.
Your mother fell into her old routine of caring for you. She adored it, chattering on about how good it was to have you back home, away from those awful boys. It never sat right but you had to take her word for it.
Each day that passed had your stomach twisting in knots and a dull ache in your chest that you struggled to describe. You missed them, someone but you were unsure who. It was such an odd feeling to miss someone you couldn't remember.
Then as time passed things pricked in your brain like you recognized them but couldn't quite form the memory.
Strawberries.
Black cats.
The strong smell of coffee.
Stars.
Cross necklaces.
Roses.
Legos.
Bunnies.
Then it was the phantom touches. The feeling of kisses on your neck or hands in yours. Missing the way... someone, would rub your back. It all felt like it was there and then vanished.
In the back of your mind, faint laughter echoed. A loud, boisterous cackle that sent electricity through you. Then a deep, warm laugh that made you feel like everything was alright.
These weren't the laughs of your family. You couldn't place them but you couldn't forget them either.
What did it all mean? Why was it so important?
It was when two different names came to mind that you began to ask your family. They were supposed to help you, right?
"Mom..." She hummed and looked up at you from her seat next to you at the dinner table, "Who is Seonghwa?"
Your mother couldn't school her distasteful expression in time, "Oh, that's an old friend, Honey." She waved it off and returned to her dinner, hoping you wouldn't ask anymore questions.
But you did, "What about Wooyoung?"
Now it was unmistakable. The quick eye roll. Her hard and set jaw, but she still gave a dismissive smile, "You must be remembering your old school friends, dear."
You dropped it after that. She clearly didn't want to talk about it and had no intentions of helping you remember. Even when your doctor suggested therapy, she made no attempts to help you find a therapist, even going as far to throw the paper of recommendations the doctor had given you in the trash.
Still that knawing feeling never left you that you were forgetting someone.
It was almost a year later.
That evening, you went to bed like normal. Your routine completed and you snuggled under the old, worn covers.
Once your eyes closed, your mind finally went back.
Seonghwa. Wooyoung.
It was a dream, or an old memory. That feeling in your gut finally releasing its hold as you could see their faces so clearly, smiling and laughing.
They were play fighting like the do so often on the couch. Wooyoung had been poking at the older until he finally snapped, and threw him over the couch. Those screams of laughter finally being recognized as the came from Wooyoung's lips. Seonghwa's hearty laugh joining in.
It was so warm, finally familiar.
Wooyoung was once again in the seated position when their gazes fell on you.
There was a fondness in their eyes that you felt deep within you. You'd found them. it took so long but you found them again.
"You wanna join us, Baby?" Seonghwa asked as their hands stretched towards you.
The voice and image echoed in your mind as you slowly came back to consciousness.
Heavy rain was beating on your bedroom window outside.
The room you were in, once welcoming was now stifling. You weren't supposed to be here. This place no longer felt like home, it hadn't in a while, not so long as your mother hated you.
God, your mother!
That bitch took advantage of your injury.
Not anymore.
You had to get to them. You had to find them. Your safe place. Your home. The one place you found you could be yourself for the first time in your life. It was with them.
Throwing off the bed sheets, you rush to get ready, grabbing your phone and wallet, you rush out of the house into the rain, ignoring the calls from your mother.
She couldn't keep you anymore.
After a bit of running, you managed to flag down a taxi in town, asking to take you into the city. Settled into the back seat, you tapped on to the old contact:
"Hwa✨"
Oh, how you missed him.
Instead of his warm voice greeting you on the other end of the call it was the robotic voice letting you know that the number had been disconnected.
"No..." You breathed out as your stomach dropped, quickly going to the other contact.
"Youngie 🦊"
The same message came through.
Dread started to spread throughout your chest but you couldn't give up, not yet.
The mid morning traffic picked up as you got into the city and your anxiety got the better of you. Once you were close enough, you paid the driver and took off running. With your memory newly intact, you didn't think twice about where you were going, letting those dormant muscles guide you to that old apartment door.
You knocked frantically on the wood, "SEONGHWA! WOOYOUNG! Babies, it's me! Please!" You knocked again.
You kept knocking for a while, desperately trying to keep the hope from dying.
Finally the door opened.
Oh, not the door you were in front of but the one next door.
"Aish! Who the hell--" The older lady stopped and looked up at you.
"Mrs. Lee!" You exclaimed.
Memories of passing her in the halls, helping with her groceries, passing along mail that delivered to you all flooded back.
"Oh, Honey..." She gave you a sad look. "They're gone."
"Gone?"
She nodded, "They moved out six months ago. The loud one--" she affectionately referred to Wooyoung as, "He was never the same without you. So, Your Star moved them."
"Do you know where?" You asked quickly, taking a step towards her.
Her head shook somberly, "I don't, Honey."
Your gaze fell to the floor. This couldn't be it. It couldn't end here. Where would you even find them?
"Oh! The tall one, handsome boy, you might be able to find him."
"Yunho?"
Of course, Yunho!
He never changed his number. He bragged that he'd had is since he first got his phone in middle school.
"Yes! He and the others helped them move.."
The boys. Your heart ached warmly as you remembered them.
"Thank you, Ajumeoni!"
With that, you rushed back to the elevator, scrolling through your contacts to find the right one. It only took two rings until you heard the voice on the other end:
"Yeoboseyo?"
"Yunho!"
"Y/nie?" Though Yunho wasn't looking, he could feel a pair of wide eyes on him.
"Where's Seonghwa? Where's Wooyoung?" You asked, walking into the apartment complex lobby.
"Oh, He's right here. Wooyoung is meeting us in a minute." He says casually though the figure beside him was much less casual, gripping his hand frantically.
"Y/nie? Are they ok?"
Yunho nodded his friend off.
"We're outside..." He pauses and looks up, "That coffee shop Seonghwa used to work at. Do you remember?"
Remember? Like you didn't meet him in that fucking shop.
"I'm not far! Stay there!" You took off running and disconnected the call.
Thankfully, the rain had slacked off, you noticed, as you race through the streets, offering quick apologies when you bumped into people.
"Yunho... what--"
"They're on their way." Yunho grinned.
Seonghwa hadn't wanted to go. He was perfectly content to stay at the house, finishing up some work from home and crawling into bed with Wooyoung. It was the same routine nearly everyday except for the days when one of the boys managed to drag him out of the house.
"Well--what did they say? Did they remember me?" Panic was starting to take over Seonghwa.
Yunho poked out his lips thoughtfully and nodded, "Sounded like it. They said your and Wooyoungie's names."
Seonghwa could collapse where he stood, his knees bucking as a hair ran through his longer hair.
Yunho looked up, sticking his head outside the umbrella the two boys were sharing and hummed, "Looks like the sun is coming out." He closed the umbrella.
"SEONGHWA!"
Indeed the sun had come out.
Seonghwa's spun around to the voice calling him. Your voice. At last.
He stepped aside from Yunho and held his arms out just in time for you to run into them, pulling you into his chest.
"Y/n?" His voice cracked in disbelief.
It felt like a dream, it would be far too cruel to be one but he couldn't help himself from wondering, carefully pulling back to inspect you. Soaking wet, wide eyed and panting for air.
"I've missed you, Hwa." You breathed out, looking over him.
Seonghwa was every bit as beautiful as the day you left him. His hair was longer, still dark like it was when you last saw him in the hospital. You could tell he had originally slicked it back but the few strands that fell on his forehead let you know that he still had a habit of running his hand through it when he was stressed.
A few seconds passed as he looked you over before it all snapped.
Seonghwa had to be strong. He was the one that was holding it together over the last several months since you left them. He never wanted to pressure you after the accident. The logical part of his brain knew it had to have been scary when you woke up and he wanted to take everything slow for your sake. That was until your mother showed up. The sight of her made his insides turn as he had known how she treated you. It took everything in him not to fight for you with everything he had, but he knew he couldn't. Not when it wasn't really you.
But it all came to a head once he had you in his arms again. His hands gripping at your upper arms, squeezing and releasing as he was trying to figure out if you were real or not. You had only seen the tears in his eyes for a second before he snapped, a broken cry falling from his lips before he started fully sobbing and pulled you into his arms again.
"I'm here now, Star. I'm here." You whispered into his chest. "I'm sorry. I won't leave you again."
Ever proper and composed, Seonghwa couldn't bring himself to care that he was openly weeping on the street, holding you tightly in his grasp. Onlookers be damned as they passed the two of you. He had you again. You were home... well almost.
"Y/n?" A voice cracked behind you, breaking you and Seonghwa apart as you turned to look.
He looked so different. He was smaller, his cheeks more hollow and eyes darker than the last time you saw him. Like Seonghwa, his hair was longer and...
"Blonde!" You cried out. "Youngie! You're blonde!"
His energy didn't quite match yours. His eyes held a painful expression as he glanced back and forth between you and Seonghwa, slowly approaching like he was trying not to scare off a deer. More like a ghost.
This wasn't the first time Wooyoung had seen this, you reuninting with Seonghwa, with him. Every time he closed his eyes when his head hit the pillow at night, he would undoubtedly see you in some form, his sleeping mind taunting him. He would see a memory, or a story play out of something he'd always wanted to do with you; a date or a trip he wanted to take. He would dream of you, warm and cuddled into his arms or pressed soft kisses into your neck or lips again. The ache in his chest never dulling like everyone said it would but only growing more and more.
As he was now standing next to you and Seonghwa, he shut his eyes hard and opened them again. Seonghwa gave a wet, affectionate chuckle and wrapped an arm around him.
"It's real, Youngie. They're here." He said softly to reassure him.
Wooyoung tested cautiously, reaching out his hands to grasp your arms the way Seonghwa did. His brows furrowed, hardly trusting his sense as he kept clutching you over and over.
"Hi, Youngie."
Your voice was soft and melodic. Wooyoung had missed it desperately.
"My Y/n..." He exhaled and pulled you in as he now also began to cry.
"Yeah," Your voice caught with fresh emotion. "I'm here, baby. I'm here..."
Seonghwa wrapped his arms around the two of you and pressed kisses into each of your cheeks.
You leaned back, hands reaching up to hold Wooyoung's face, you were now able to see just how hard it was on him. Mrs. Lee's words now painfully in front of you.
He was never the same without you.
It turned like a knife in your chest. His cries from when he left the hospital crashed over you like a tidal wave.
"Oh, Youngie, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, baby. I won't leave you again."
"No," He frantically shook his head before bringing his forehead to rest on yours. " Don't apologize. You didn't know, love."
You let out a bitter laugh, "Yeah, I just remembered everything today and I had to find you." You leaned back, giving them both a playful smack on the arm. "You idiots changed your numbers."
"Thank god I've never changed mine!" Yunho, who had been quietly watching the scene unfold, popped his head in.
"Aw, Yuyu!" You realized just how much you'd missed him too, pulling him into the hug.
"Yeah, thank god, hyung," Wooyoung agreed with a laugh.
Seonghwa watched the younger in awe. This was the first time since your accident that he had given him a genuine smile. It was always a sad smile in some feeble attempt to reassure him that he was ok. He knew every time that he was never as genuine or as beautiful as the one he was seeing now.
Like a soft spring day, it was slowly beginning to dawn on Seonghwa that he had not only lost one partner that day almost a year ago but two. Today, he got them both back.
Yunho's voice brought him out of his daze, "Yeah, yeah, ok, I missed you, too, Y/n but I think I need to give you three some time. We'll catch up later," He promised with one final hug before he waved a goodbye.
Without him there, you could continue to reunite with your boyfriends but you three suddenly became embarrassingly aware of your surroundings.
Seonghwa, as he always does, took the lead, "Come on, loves, let's go home." Each of his hands sliding down to take one of yours and one of Wooyoung's.
"But... I already am home."
Seonghwa gave you a soft expression while Wooyoung rolled his eyes and tugged you along.
"Oh, don't get sappy on me! I'll cry again and none of us want that!" He sassed as the three of you walked hand in hand.
Hey there! Love your writing and was brainstorming *but also self projecting lol* what if the guys girlfriend had a chronic illness (like PCOS or Endo or even a severe food allergy or whatever insert) and is struggling really bad and just needs help to get through their day? I’m having a pretty bad flare up from all of the above and just need some comfort if you’re comfortable writing. If you’d like to do SKZ or Ateez I’d appreciate it!
I really hope this makes you feel better :( Sending you lots of hugs and Love
Hongjoong
The low hum of the speakers filled the studio, soft and steady beneath Hongjoong’s quiet focus. You sat curled up on the small couch in the corner, watching him work — the way his brows furrowed when he adjusted a sound, the faint rhythm of his fingers tapping on the desk. You loved seeing him like this — completely in his element — but the exhaustion weighing on your body was impossible to ignore.
You tried to keep your eyes open, resting your chin on your knees as he replayed the same few seconds of a song, lost in concentration. Your body ached, the familiar heaviness from your symptoms dragging at your energy. You blinked a few times, willing yourself to stay awake, but your eyelids grew heavier with each passing minute.
When he finally turned around to ask for your opinion, he froze mid-sentence. His voice softened instantly. “Hey…still with me?"
You smiled weakly. “I’m fine. Just tired. Keep working, I like watching you.”
He crossed the room, crouching in front of you with a small, knowing grin. “You’ve been tired all day. We should go home.”
You shook your head gently. “No, Joong. You’re in the middle of something. Don’t stop for me.”
He chuckled under his breath, brushing his thumb against your cheek. “You really think I’d pick a song over you?” His voice was teasing but warm, his eyes soft. “I could never”
You wanted to argue, but the sincerity in his tone made your chest tighten. “But I like seeing you work...or just staying here with you” you murmured.
He smiled at that — the kind of smile that made everything feel a little lighter. “Okay then,” he said softly. He grabbed a spare blanket from the corner and shook it out, making a small bed on the studio couch. “But at least lie down. Doctor Kims orders.”
You laughed quietly, too tired to protest. When you settled under the blanket, he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face before returning to his desk. The last thing you heard before drifting off was the faint sound of his humming — a gentle melody that somehow made you smile softly.
Seonghwa
The gentle clatter of dishes echoed through the kitchen as Seonghwa set two plates on the table. He’d been cooking for nearly an hour, humming under his breath, tasting sauces, adjusting seasonings until he was satisfied. You smiled at the effort — it smelled wonderful — but your stomach twisted uncomfortably, a dull ache spreading through your middle.
You sat down anyway, picking up your chopsticks out of habit. You wanted to eat, to show him how much you appreciated what he’d made, but after one small bite, your throat tightened. Swallowing felt impossible. You set your chopsticks down quietly, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
But Seonghwa always noticed.
He looked up from his plate, his expression soft. “What is wrong? Too much salt?” he asked gently.
You hesitated, eyes fixed on your untouched food. “No, it’s fine. I just—” You sighed, guilt creeping up your chest. “I just kind of lost my appetite. But you cooked for us and put so much effort into it and I didn't want to dissapoint you."
For a moment, there was silence. Then, instead of disappointment, his lips curved into a kind smile. “Y/N,” he said softly, reaching across the table to touch your hand. “Idon't want you to force yourself to do anything. Especially not for me okay? You should have just told me."
You met his gaze, eyes glassy with relief. “I just didn’t want to ruin dinner.”
He squeezed your hand gently. “You could never ruin anything.”
Without another word, he stood up and began clearing the plates. You tried to stop him, but he only shook his head with a reassuring smile. “Sit. I’ll make you something light.”
Within minutes, the kitchen filled with the comforting aroma of broth simmering on the stove. He moved calmly, focused, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. When he set the bowl in front of you, steam curling in the air, you felt your heart swell.
“Try this,” he said softly. “It’s gentle on your stomach.”
You took a careful sip — warm, mild, and soothing — and felt some of the tension in your body ease. “Thank you, Hwa,” you whispered.
He brushed your hair behind your ear and smiled. “Always. But promise me something, okay?”
You looked up.
“Please don't hide things from me.” he said quietly. “I'm always here for you, no matter what."
Yunho
Yunho had been talking for nearly fifteen minutes straight — about a new choreography, a funny thing Wooyoung did in practice, and some idea he had for a video. His energy filled the room, warm and bright, and you listened with a small smile, nodding along as he spoke. You loved how bubbly he got when he was excited — his eyes sparkling, his hands moving as he explained every detail.
But somewhere in the middle of his story, your stomach started to churn. A heavy wave of nausea rolled through you, sharp and sudden. You tried to steady your breathing, hoping it would pass, but the longer you sat there, the worse it became.
Yunho noticed almost instantly. His voice trailed off as his gaze dropped to your tense expression. “Y/n, are you okay?”
You opened your mouth to answer, but the words barely came out. “I—”
Then you bolted up, pressing a hand over your mouth as you rushed toward the bathroom. He was on his feet in seconds, concern replacing the brightness in his eyes.
By the time you reached the sink, you were already heaving, your body trembling with exhaustion and embarrassment. Yunho was right behind you, gently pulling your hair back and rubbing soothing circles on your back.
“It’s okay, baby,” he murmured, his voice calm and steady. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”
When it was finally over, you leaned weakly against the counter, trying to catch your breath. You didn’t want to look at him — you felt awful, both physically and emotionally. “I’m so sorry,” you whispered hoarsely. “I'm so disgusting.”
He shook his head immediately, wiping your mouth gently with a damp towel. “Would you please stop saying things like that?” he said softly. “You are not disgusting.”
He guided you out of the bathroom, helping you sit on the edge of the bed. “Let's get you in bed” he said, tucking a blanket around your shoulders.
You felt tears prick your eyes, partly from exhaustion, partly from how gentle he was.
Yunho smiled, brushing a hand through your hair. “Please don't cry. I still love you when you puke...really, it's sexy."
Despite your discomfort, you started laughing and nudged him gently with your knee. "Freak"
He grinned and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.
Yeosang
The soft blue light from Yeosang’s laptop screen illuminated the room, reflecting in his eyes as he scrolled through yet another article. You sat on the couch nearby, wrapped in a blanket, watching him with a mix of affection and mild exasperation.
He had been like this for over an hour — eyes darting over paragraphs about treatments, symptoms, and studies. Every few minutes, he’d stop to ask a question.
“So… you get pain even when it’s not that time of the month?” he asked, his tone serious.
You nodded gently. “Yeah, sometimes.”
He frowned, turning back to the screen. “This one says it can spread to other organs—”
“Yeosang,” you interrupted softly, but he didn’t hear you. He was already opening another tab, copying medical terms you couldn’t even pronounce. His concern was genuine — maybe too genuine. You could see the crease between his brows deepen as he read on, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“Wait, what about this? Have you had—”
You sighed, stood up, and walked over to him. Before he could finish his sentence, you reached out and gently closed the laptop. The sudden quiet made him look up, startled.
“Okay,” you said softly, resting your hand on his shoulder. “That's enough internet for today."
“But—”
“You’re going to make yourself paranoid,” you interrupted with a small smile. “I know you want to help, and I love that about you, but reading too much will just stress you out.”
His shoulders slumped a little, guilt flashing in his eyes. “I just want to understand everything so I can take care of you properly.”
You leaned down and kissed him softly, your fingers brushing his cheek. “And you already do. You’re amazing, Yeosang. You help me more than you think — just by being here, by caring.”
He blinked, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “I just… don’t want to miss something important.”
You chuckled quietly. “You won’t. You’re the most caring person I know.”
He exhaled, finally closing the laptop and pulling you into a gentle hug. “Okay,” he murmured against your hair. “No more reading tonight."
San
You had been cold all day — the kind of deep, stubborn cold that refused to leave no matter how many layers you wore. It had started in the morning and followed you relentlessly, turning your fingers pale and your patience thin. By the time San came home, you were a grumpy bundle of blankets on the couch, wearing his favorite oversized hoodie, his thick socks, and even a pair of his sweatpants.
He walked into the living room, brows furrowing as he scanned the area. “Wait… where are my clothes?”
You froze, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself, only your eyes peeking out.
Then he spotted you. “Ah,” he said, crossing his arms with a teasing grin. “So that’s where they went.”
You sighed dramatically. “I’m freezing, San. Yours are the warmest, and nothing else was working.”
He chuckled, walking over to you. “You could’ve just said you wanted to wear my clothes. I would’ve given you my whole closet.”
You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Then you would't have anything left and had to walk arround naked...not that I would mind."
He crouched down beside you, touching your hands. They were still cold. Concern flickered briefly in his expression before he got that familiar glint in his eyes — the one that meant he had an idea.
“Okay,” he said, standing up suddenly. “Stay here.”
Before you could ask what he was planning, he disappeared into the bathroom. You heard the sound of running water, the soft clink of bottles, and the faint smell of lavender beginning to fill the air. A few minutes later, he reappeared with a mug in his hand.
“I made you tea,” he said, handing it to you with a proud smile. “And there’s a bath waiting for you — hot water, bubbles, the whole thing.”
Your heart softened instantly. “You prepared a home Sauna? For me?”
“Of course,” he said simply. “Now go warm up before you turn into a popsicle."
You got up slowly, smiling as you walked toward the bathroom. When he started to leave, you turned to him with a grin. “You’re not coming?”
He blinked, amused. “You want me to?”
You shrugged innocently. “Maybe. You know, just in case I faint from the heat.”
He laughed, shaking his head as he followed you inside. “Right. For safety reasons only.”
Mingi
The smell of toast and eggs filled the kitchen when you shuffled in, still wrapped in your blanket. Mingi stood at the counter, humming to himself as he tried to multitask — frying, pouring juice, and reading the tiny labels on your medication bottles all at once. His brows were furrowed in deep concentration, lips moving silently as he compared the names.
You leaned against the doorway, watching him with a fond smile.
“Morning,” you said softly.
He looked up with a grin. “Morning! Sit down, breakfast’s almost ready. I already got your medicine too.”
You raised an eyebrow — that was new. Mingi wasn’t usually the one to handle the pill bottles; he always worried about mixing them up. But he looked determined this time, moving between the counter and the table with a confidence that was… slightly suspicious.
As you sat down, he turned to you with a bright smile, holding out a few pills in his hand. “Here you go. These are, uh…” He trailed off, squinting at the bottles again. “The ones you take after food, right?”
You tilted your head. “Depends which ones you grabbed.”
He quickly set the pills down, pretending to double-check the labels, though you could see the faint panic behind his calm act. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Just… confirming. So, the round white ones are for pain, right? And the small pink ones are the… uh…”
“Mingi,” you interrupted gently, trying not to laugh. “Do you need help?”
He immediately shook his head. “No! I’ve got it. I want to do this for you.”
Your heart melted a little at that. He looked so serious — shoulders tense, lips pressed together as he tried to look confident. When he finally handed you the pills, his voice softened. “You take these in the morning, right?”
You smiled knowingly. “You mean the ones you weren’t sure about five seconds ago?”
He froze, sheepish, and you couldn’t help but laugh. Standing up, you joined him at the counter and gently turned the bottles toward him. “Here — these are for the morning. These ones are for pain. And these are for emergencies only.”
He listened intently, nodding like a student in class. “Got it,” he said proudly. “Next time, I’ll get it right.”
You leaned up and kissed his cheek, smiling. “Even if you don’t, you’re still the sweetest nurse I could ask for.”
Wooyoung
The afternoon was calm — sunlight spilling over the café’s terrace, a soft breeze rustling through the trees. You and Wooyoung sat at a small table outside, laughing over something silly he’d said. For a while, everything felt normal — peaceful, easy.
Then, out of nowhere, a sharp cramp tore through your abdomen. You froze mid-laugh, pressing a hand to your stomach as the pain tightened. It was the kind that made your breath catch and your pulse quicken.
Wooyoung noticed instantly. His smile faded, replaced by worry. “Hey… what’s wrong?” he asked, leaning forward.
You forced a shaky smile. “It’s fine. Just some pain — nothing new.”
His eyes widened slightly, and you could almost see the panic rising. “Nothing new? Babe, you look like you’re dying.”
“Well not dying but it really hurts,” you admitted, exhaling slowly, “but please don’t make a big deal out of it. It’ll pass.”
He frowned, clearly torn between respecting your words and wanting to fix everything. But Wooyoung was never good at sitting still when you were hurting. Within seconds, he stood up and went inside, leaving you blinking after him.
When he returned, he was holding a steaming cup. “Ginger tea,” he said breathlessly. “They said it might help.” He set it down carefully in front of you, then shrugged off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders.
You tried to protest, but he was already crouching beside you, searching your face. “Are you dizzy? Do you need water? Should I call someone? Do we need an ambulance or—”
“Wooyoung,” you said softly, cutting him off. He stopped immediately, eyes wide and anxious.
You reached out, brushing your fingers over his cheek. “It’s okay. You’re doing everything you can.”
He swallowed hard, still looking unconvinced. “You’re sure? You’re really okay?”
You managed a small smile. “Not really. But I will be. Just… take me home, yeah? You can take care of me there.”
His expression softened instantly, the panic melting into tenderness. “Okay,” he whispered, already helping you stand. “Home. I’ve got you.”
He held your hand all the way to the car, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as if to reassure both of you.
Jongho
You’d spent most of the evening curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that felt more like a cocoon than anything else. The dull ache in your stomach hadn’t eased for hours, and the exhaustion that came with it made every movement feel impossible. Jongho sat beside you quietly, one arm draped over the back of the couch, his fingers gently caressing your stomach through the blanket.
Every now and then, he asked if you needed anything — more tea, another pillow, another heating pad. He’d already prepared one for you earlier, resting it against your abdomen, checking every few minutes to make sure it wasn’t too hot. You could tell he was worried, even if he tried to act calm.
“You should probably go to bed,” he said softly after a while, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’ll be more comfortable there.”
You groaned, turning your head toward him. “The couch is comfy. I don’t think I can move.”
He chuckled quietly. “You can’t move, huh?”
You nodded weakly, closing your eyes again. “Nope. Couch wins tonight.”
There was a brief pause — then the sound of him standing up. You peeked one eye open, suspicious. “Jongho?”
He just smiled, leaning down and sliding his arms beneath you before you could protest.
“Wait—” you started, but it was too late. He lifted you easily, holding you against his chest like you weighed nothing. His warmth and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat made you melt into him instantly.
“See?” he said, voice low and gentle. “Now you don’t have to move.”
You let out a soft laugh, too tired to argue, resting your head on his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” he murmured, “but you’re going to bed.”
He carried you carefully into the bedroom, setting you down on the bed with a tenderness that made your chest ache. After tucking the blanket around you, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.
“Better?” he whispered.
You nodded, eyes already half-closed. “Much.”
He smiled, climbing in beside you and wrapping an arm around your waist. “Good. Now sleep. I’ve got you.”
And as he pulled you closer, the ache in your body faded just a little — replaced by the steady comfort of his heartbeat and the quiet strength of his presence.
Pairing: skz members x reader (gender neutral: no pronouns or body parts discussed in a way to describe an assigned sex. all terms of endearment used are neutral)
Summary: this is what happens when skz partner spends a little too much time online and likes messing with their boyfriend
warnings: literally none this is just stupid fluff; well, Jisung looks as your chest
REQUESTS ARE OPEN
masterlist | info
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Chan- The evening unfolded just like every other night. the two of you on opposite ends of the couch, legs up and meeting at each others hips. Chan with furrowed brows staring at his laptop in concentration, headphones half on/off his head. A tv show you were now growing less interested in playing on the screen in front of you. You loved being like this each night. Something so sweet and domestic about how you spent your evenings. Usually, you'd be telling Chan about your day and he'd listen, hand subconsciously stroking your leg to let you know he was listening but his attention was still on the small screen and other hand on the mousepad. Rather than your usual topic of conversation, you decided to try something that you had been seeing on tiktok. "Baby," You tried and earned a hum. "I saw a bird today." Another hum. He was locked in. He wasn't even reaching to rub your leg like he usually does, just tapping away on his keyboard. Just when you were about to get defeated, it's like it finally registered. "You saw a bird?" He looked up, confusion etched in his scrunched up features. "Like the ones we see outside all the time?" That familiar hand finally doing what it was supposed to. "Yeah! But it was different today." Chan adjusted in his seat, now more interested than before, "How so, my love?" The floor suddenly seemed like a good place to melt into. Unfortunately for you, you didn't think you were gonna get this far so your mind quickly came up with a story. "Um... Well, it was a normal bird. A pretty brown one but it landed on my shoulder on my way to work." His eyes shot open, "On your shoulder? What on earth?" God, he was so adorable. You couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah!" "Are you some sort of Disney character?" He let out a bright, melodic laugh of his own, now fully engaged in the topic, showing you exactly what you wanted to know. Chan shook his head and clucked his tongue before returning to his work and you to your phone. After a stretch of silence, you couldn't hold back anymore. "Channie." "Yeah, baby." His eyes still on the screen. "I lied." He looked up, once again astonished, sending you into a fit of laughter. "Now why...?" "It's a tiktok thing," You explained. "Ah." His head tilted, playfully disappointed that he had been had. He continued his work but still asked, "How is it a tiktok thing?" Then you showed him some other videos. "All of that just to figure out if I'm interested you." He mumbled to himself in Korean before tacking on, "What am I gonna do with you?" What indeed.
Minho- It was a rare night when Minho was actually home for dinner. You had gotten the text earlier that he would be home after their dance practice and took the opportunity to make dinner to have ready when he got home. A few hours after you got the text, he came home exhausted and sweaty. "Yah, I'm home~" He singsonged as he toed off his shoes and set his bag by the door. "In here!" You called and he followed both the sound of your voice and the smell. "Woaahhh, that smells good, Baby" His arms wrapped around you, and he pressed a kiss into your cheek. Your nose scrunched, "It may but you don't. Go shower, stink." You teased. "Yeah, yeah," He walked off, "How was your day?" Suddenly you remembered the videos you scrolled through on tiktok during your lunch break. "It was ok. I saw a bird!" You said the last part with a surge of excitement but didn't turn from your stirring at the stove. "A bird?" He asked and you heard the shower start. "Yeah!" "I-- ok?" You chuckled at his confused tone of voice. "Did the cats bring it in or something?" Minho shouted from the bathroom. "No! It was just pretty!" "Like different colors?" "Uh-huh!" "Well, what colors?" It was all so unbearably cute. Minho was now fully in the shower down the hall but he had left the bathroom door open to hear you talk about your bird encounter. Maybe some part of him had missed you today more than he cared to admit. Minho wasn't normally clingy. He was affectionate of course, but he wasn't the type of boyfriend to whine about missing you throughout the day or anything. He was content in knowing that the two of you would see each other at the end of the day. However, today, as he stood in the shower, washing off the day, he was now acutely aware of the ache he'd harbored in his chest all day. Hearing you mindlessly chattering about some bird was dulling that ache. As you finished up making dinner, pulling the pots and pans off the stove, you couldn't help but be amused. It wasn't until the two of you finally sat down together that you told him. "So... the bird thing was a bit of a prank." Minho froze, utensil hovering over his food as he blinked a few times, "네?" He finally asked and you explained. Minho shook his head after but you couldn't miss the fond smile that spread across his face.
Changbin- Playing with Binnie was always just a little cruel when he was so ridiculously in love with you, but it was always just a little fun. So there you were, sat on the kitchen counter, his fingers tracing the bare skin of your thighs that peeked out from your shorts. "Binnie," You said sweetly. Immediately his eyes, round and soft for you, found yours. "What is it, Baby?" His tone was incredibly soft. "I saw a bird today!" You smiled at him. "A bird? My pretty baby saw a bird? What kind of bird?" You shrugged, "I dunno." "Well, what color was it?" He pouted like he was wracking his brain to figure out how many types of birds there were. Admittedly, he didn't know any but if you wanted to know, he'd find out for you. "It was a red one." Changbin hummed and pulled out his phone searching up red birds. "A cardinal?" He asked, reading off the screen. "Did it look like this?" Your heart gave out. You couldn't keep it up anymore and you let out a laugh--his self proclaimed favorite sound in the world. "Bin, I'm kidding, Babe. It's a tiktok thing." You pressed a kiss to the side of his head. "Yah-ah!" He protested lightly as a pout forms on his lips, "Why you that?" Your hands find either side of his face, cooing at him before you kissed his poked out lips. "I was just checking make sure you were interested in what I have to say, no matter how stupid it is." You explained. Changbin rolled his eyes, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, "You don't have to make up something about a bird to know I hang on your every word." "I know, but it's nice to see." You gave him a cheesy grin before he captured your lips once more.
Hyunjin- The trend had made its way across your fyp a few times and planted the idea in the back of your mind. It wasn't something you acted on right away until, as fate would have it, you did see a bird. You were at a cafe, sipping coffee and doing some work on your laptop when it perched itself on the window you were sitting by. "Don't move... Don't move," You whispered to yourself as you pulled out your phone to snap a picture. Thankfully, it stayed right there until you had the shot and flew away. Later that evening, you couldn't wait to get home to see how your boyfriend would react. "Jinnie!" You called out no sooner than you reached the threshold of your apartment. The tall brunette appeared seconds later, pulling you in by your waist for a greeting kiss, "Someone's excited," He teased you. "I saw a bird!" You told him excitedly. His face scrunched, unable to hide his cuteness aggression, "Ah, cute," He mumbled and pulled you in for another kiss. "What kind of bird was it, jagiya?" The unmistakable look of adoration held in his gaze before he reluctantly let you go to take off your shoes. He then plopped himself on the couch, his elbow propped on the back rest and hand tucking under his chin to listen to you, still enamored by your excitement. "It was just a normal bird, but I was at the cafe earlier," "That one we like? You were working?" He added. "Yeah! And I was sat by the window and it just came up to the window!" You told him, pulling up the picture on your phone and showing it to him. His head shot back, eyes wide, "Oh! That's a good shot! Send it to me, I think I could paint that." "Watercolors or something?" You asked as your thumbs went to work at texting him the picture. "Yeah, or pastels. I've been a little uninspired," He explained as he pulled you in to sit half on his lap, "Of course, my muse would inspire me." He cooed, pushing into you face, nuzzling your cheek with his nose before kissing your cheek. "You know, I half expected this to be that tiktok thing." He hummed, looking you over. Your jaw dropped. Of course, he knew about it. "Well, I did want to see how you'd respond but I just got lucky and actually saw a bird." You giggled. His head shook as his eyes rolled to the ceiling, "Yah, do you not know by now how invested I am in everything you say," He said, leaning into you again, pressing more kisses your cheek. "You could talk about anything and I'd wanna know." You knew that. You always knew that, but it still made your heart swell to see.
Han- Oh, it was so fun messing with Jisung. When you saw the trend, at first you thought you wouldn't need to do that because your boyfriend had proved time and time again that it didn't matter what weird or odd topics you brought up or off the wall questions you posed, Jisung was always going to turn into you and keep the conversation going. If it was important to you, it was important to him. But once the third video of the day had popped up, an evil thought manifested in your brain: Would he still be as interested in what you had to say while distracted? So, you decided to test it out later that evening. Nothing crazy though. He was just a man, after all. The perfect time presented itself when you came home from work, immediately going into your back bedroom to change when you found your boyfriend already there, sprawled out on the bed scrolling through his phone. "Oh, you're home!" You said warmly, half surprised to see him. "Yeah! The schedule ended early," Jisung sat up, his hand instinctively finding your hip to pull you in for a kiss. "How was your day?" He asked, all to sad to let his hand fall to let you change. He knew you couldn't be home long before changing into a pair of his sweatpants and an old tshirt. "Oh, it was fine," You pulled your top off, leaving your chest exposed and came back out of the closet, "Oh! I saw a bird today!" Jisung's head snapped in your direction, eyes wide in curiosity but they fell to your chest in a second, "Um, uh uh- a bird?" He finally managed to get out. You stepped forward in efforts to tease him a bit more. "Yeah, it was so pretty!" Sitting on the bed, his phone was forgotten on the mattress as he was now eye level with his two favorite developments. You watched with a mischievous glint in your eye as the poor boy stammered, adam's apple bobbing as he made poor attempts to form sentences, "Uh-duh-uh what--what color was it?" He quickly glanced to meet your eyes to not seem like he was staring. To his defense, he looked in your eyes longer than you thought he would but his gaze still faltered. "It was blue, Sungie." He was still so flustered. Nodding frantically, eyes flitting back and forth. You chuckled fondly and returned to the closet, hearing a heavy exhale behind you. "Ah, so a blue bird. You don't see a lot of those around here." His tone evened out. Hearing him whine in embarrassment after when you showed him the trend and explained your twist was almost just as satisfying as him passing the test.
Felix- You should have known better really. The voice in your head ever persistent in telling you that he probably knew about the trend as the chronically online tiktok King, but you couldn't help yourself from at least trying. You decided to do it when he was gaming... just to see. "Baby..." "Yes, my love?" He asked in his deep voice, thumbs frantically clicking into the controller, "Ah, fuck!! That's on me. That was mine, guys." He spoke into the mic around his head. "Lixie, I saw a bird today!" You told him, pitching your voice up to convey excitement. "Just a sec, guys." Felix paused his game, ripping off the headset, "Baby, is this the bird theory?" You had been caught but you still got everything you needed to know. "Aw, Sunshine!" You exclaimed and crawled to straddle his lap in the gaming chair, stroking his blonde hair back, "You knew what it was and you still paused your game for me?" "Well, of course, Angel. I got worried for a second you did it because you were feeling ignored," A small pout formed on his lips. You took the opportunity to kiss it in reassurance. "No, Baby. I was just messing. You can go back to your game now, if you want." Lifting off the seat to go, you were held in place by his arms. "Nah," He put his headset back on, "I'm gonna go, guys. Not feeling it tonight." He pulled you into him and stood up, letting your legs wrap around him. Felix held you as he leaned down to turn off the console and walked you back into the living room. "So, I passed then?" He asked in a low tone as the two of you settled into the couch. "With flying colors." "Good," He hummed happily and pecked your lips, "I'll always be interested in what you have to say." The look in his eyes told you he meant it.
Seungmin- Everything was quiet and calm. A show playing in front of the two of you while Seungmin had your legs pulled in his lap, his thumb grazing over them softly. It was the perfect time for the chaos monster to awake within you. "Min," He hummed in response. "I saw a bird today." You watch as his head rolled back, eyes squinting in confusion as his gaze was no longer on the tv but on the ceiling, like he was trying to find understanding in the paint. "What?" He turned his head to look at you. Technically he had completed the challenge. Seungmin had turned to you and asked at least one follow up question, but he continued, "Don't you see birds everyday? Pabo." He muttered the last word to himself but loud enough for you to hear and you couldn't help but laugh. That's what you loved about him. Your sweet boyfriend was no nonsense and you were nothing but, happily taking your role as the thorn in is side. "No, I know but I saw one today. It was really cute." "All birds are the same." He shook his head, still baffled he was having this conversation with you at all. The two of you fell silent again, you trying your best to keep from laughing. The tv droned on in front of you for a bit until Seungmin suddenly moved, adjusting to face you more. "What was so special about this damn bird?" He asked thoughtfully. You got him. You'd reached into the beautiful mind of his and hooked your way into it and you couldn't help be let out the laugh that had been bubbling under the surface. "Aiissshh!" Seungmin hissed, finally realizing you were messing with him, he lightly smacked your leg under his hand. "What is this?!" He asked with an incredulous smile spreading across his face. "It's a tiktok thing." You said in between laughs. "Between you and Felix, I can't get away from this shit. Leave me alone." He muttered. To anyone else, his words would seem harsh but you knew him and the tone of fondness his words held. You both knew you couldn't leave him alone even if he wanted you to... he didn't really.
I.N- The fun thing about having an aquarius boyfriend is that he's extremely open to talking about any and everything. How did we get here? How is cheese made? You think aliens exist? The two of you could lay in bed and just talk about anything. So when you saw the trend come across your feed, you decided to try it out to see how he'd react. Jeongin was sprawled across the bed on top of you, his cheek was pressed into your stomach as your hands weaved in and out of the black strands of hair on his head. The words came out with little thought, "I saw a bird today." His head popped up, immediately interested in the new topic. He was smiling brightly as his chin perched on top of you, "What kind of bird?" He was so infinitely cute. Your heart raced at the adorable sight. "I dunno. It was one of those grey ones we see a lot." "Ah! A pigeon?" You nodded, "I think so." "Did it do anything?" He asked, letting his head loll to the side, still watching you intently. "No. Just that usual bird thing." You bobbed your head to imitate what you've seen birds do, earning a hearty laugh from your boyfriend as he moved to copy the movements. Just as expected; your boyfriend was just as weird as you are.
Pairing: Pirate OT8, Captain Kim Hongjoong x freader
Synopsis: In the lawless waters of the Crimson Expanse, fearsome pirate Captain Kim Hongjoong commands The Halcyon, a ship whispered about cautiously in taverns and cursed in rival ports. With his sharp mind and even sharper sword, he has built an infamous reputation, leading his crew through storm and slaughter, in search of the mythical Isle of Gold.
During a ruthless raid on a rival clan’s galleon, Hongjoong captures more than just treasure—he takes a young female pirate trainee, who refuses to bow even in chains. She is fierce, stubborn, and born of the enemy, but there is something about her that stirs the captain’s curiosity…and his caution.
The girl, raised among cutthroats and secrets, has her own reasons for wanting to stay aboard The Halcyon. As she navigates life under Hongjoong’s rule, her loyalty begins to waver—not out of fear, but fascination. With every passing tide, she uncovers fragments of a buried truth: about her past, her clan, and the real reason Hongjoong seeks the Isle of Gold.
But the sea is never still. Betrayal brews among the crew, ancient magic stirs in the depths, and she must choose where her allegiance lies: with the man who should be her enemy, or the destiny she never asked for.
Will love and vengeance survive the storm, or will both be swallowed by the tide?
🏴☠️
Warnings: violence, graphic descriptions, eventual sexual content/references, abuse, alcohol use, eventual use of Y/N - list is not exhaustive, read at own risk
18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI
This is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent any similarities to real events/people
CREW ROLES & VISUALS
TAGLIST
CHAPTER ONE - THE CAPTURE
CHAPTER TWO - THE UNDOING
CHAPTER THREE - THE GIRL BORN FROM FIRE
CHAPTER FOUR - TO THOSE WHO DARE
CHAPTER FIVE - BREAK THE WALL
CHAPTER SIX - THE BLURRED LINE
CHAPTER SEVEN - ALL THINGS END IN FIRE
CHAPTER EIGHT - THE RETURN
CHAPTER NINE - DUTY OR DESTINY
CHAPTER TEN - A NEW FOUND PURPOSE
CHAPTER ELEVEN - NOTHING LEFT BUT ASH
CHAPTER TWELVE - DIVIDED WE FALL
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - REBORN FROM LIGHT
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - DEVIL IN DISGUISE
This fic is now completed - stay tuned for part two coming towards the end of the year! 🫶🏻
