Summary: They've been looking for the final member of their pack for years, a ache that never fades and always exists. Only, when they finally find you, they find a version of you that has been broken. Will they be able to make you whole again?
Pairing: Stray Kids OT8 x F!Reader
Pack Sub-Genders:
Bang Chan - Pack Alpha
Lee Know - Head Alpha
Changbin - Alpha
Hyunjin - Head Beta
Han - Omega
Felix - Omega
Seungmin - Beta
I.N - Alpha
Reader - Omega
Series TW. A/B/O dynamics, the entire pack is together (polyamorous), mentions of sexual assault, mentions of abuse, soulmate au, mating bites, suggestive content
Warnings will be added*
➥ Childhood Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Sentimental Sexy
➥ Written for A Very Merry KPOPmas❄️ ⁞ Unresolved Resolutions
⚠ — Heavy pining, angst frosting, smut with feelings.
➥ On December 31, 2024, you and Chris made New Year’s resolutions, and he’s been in hell ever since. Well, that’s actually a bald-faced lie.
He’s been in hell ever since the first time you watched the stars together.
*a/n: This, my children, is what happens when you mix this cursed footage with this banger a.k.a. the mentos and coke of feelings. Happy belated Christmas to everyone who celebrates it, and a Happy New Year to all in advance. May your sky be full of stars in 2026~
Do you sometimes miss seeing the stars? Because he does.
He can remember the very first time like it was yesterday. Clear as day. On the rooftop of your aunt’s house when the entire family was having a sleepover on a warm summer night. You were 15 when you told him it wasn’t a few stars in the vast sky but just a tiny island of sky among an ocean of stars. You were 18 when you made a wish upon a shooting star for the first time, holding his hand so tightly like you were terrified to fall.
To this day, he thinks of you every time a star falls. He thinks of you a lot.
He’s been thinking of you longer than he’s known himself.
He can’t stand people. Never has. Not even his own mother sometimes. It comes easy to him to curse a mouthful, slam doors, then walk out without a denouement, but he’s never managed to do it once to you. Not even when he was furious with you. Not even when he really really wanted to. Not even when you were in the arms of another man.
He knows you don’t love him like that.
That’s the sole reason he doesn’t believe in love. Never has. Because he knows it’s futile. He knows it’s in vain. It’s just an endless spring of suffering because there is no such thing as a happy ending. He’s so despicable that he knows no one will stand by his side. He’s so unlovable that he knows no one would attend his funeral if he died. He just can’t admit it out loud because he still has some pride.
But when you look at him like that…
In his wildest dreams, he imagines one day you might just love him like that.
You think he’s all intimidating because his voice is deeper now, don’t you? He might have a harder shell now, but how come you can’t see that deep inside he’s still the same boy you knew? The one you walked to school with hand in hand. The one you watched stars with on rooftops.
He needs a lifetime’s worth of courage just to stand next to you sometimes. How come you can’t see that?
He absolutely loathes dancing, but he still took you to your senior prom. He still took you to a club on your birthday when he would have preferred some calm. He still let you wrap your arms around him when it was raining hell outside because he will dance with you whenever you want. Even though he doesn’t know how to move much. He will do anything to feel your touch.
Anything.
You were a lot older when you were babbling to him about some guy. He had no idea what the hell you saw in this motherfucker so much. Someone that cold, that stoic, that indifferent didn’t fucking deserve to know what it was like to feel your touch. You told him you didn’t want to risk getting rejected because it would be awkward afterwards. He told you if worst came to worst, he would be there to hold your hands.
Because he always has.
He was bleeding through every orifice of his body on the day of your alleged confession, but he promised you he would wait for you at the park. He had resolved to be there for you whether you were beaming or completely in the dark. Hours passed, but you were a no-show. He thought he could survive it, but maybe he wasn’t ready for this blow after all. He was already halfway home when you called him to ask him if he was still there. He told you he was, booking it back but still clinging to a prayer. He wanted you to be happy, but not if you were going to slip through his hands.
He couldn’t have been any more relieved when you didn’t follow through with your plans.
He tried his utmost best to look like he was listening, but he wasn’t able to focus at all. Most of your words went in one ear and out the other. It was the hardest fucking thing not to look into your eyes with the stupidest, fondest smile, and he was the lightest breeze away from screaming his undying love for you at your face.
How come you couldn’t see that?
He told you his hopes. He told you his fears. There is only one thing he never told you, and he is going to take it to the grave. He just doesn’t want to risk getting rejected because it will be awkward afterwards. He hasn’t known a life without you, and he doesn’t want to find out if his hypotheses are true. He already knows it isn’t worth much.
Would it kill you to at least try to see him like that?
He knows you have him wrapped around your finger. He knows he can never escape it. If he moves ten thousand miles away from you, your ghost will come with him, too, he knows. But he doesn’t care because he needs you.
He needs you because you’re everything he’s not.
He needs you because you’re all that he’s got.
He has never once said he loves you because he always thought that you knew.
He has never said it once because that would be a lot more than he could chew.
He only finds the courage when he drinks, but time after time he has to strike that.
He just can’t tell you because you don’t seem to love him like that.
Not when you’re in love with another man.
A simple question you ask him. Out of everywhere in the world right now, where would you want to be?
He asks you where you are so he knows where to flee.
He loves it when you laugh. It always works like a charm. Even if he’s in the foulest mood, life suddenly becomes worth living again. The sun shines, the birds chirp, the colors become warmer, and he feels faint because of how overwhelmed he is with his undying love for you.
Do you sometimes miss seeing the stars? Because he does.
He yearns for the times he could have you all to himself sometimes, but he is aware neither of you is 18 anymore. You have a life of your own. A lot has happened since that night on the rooftop, and now you’re all grown. He will settle for being alone, but not without you etched somewhere in the fabric of his life.
He would much rather have you be his wife, but he knows you don’t love him like that.
Everything you want to do, he hopes that you do. Every dream you have, he hopes it comes true. He has indulged you when you wanted to make a New Year’s resolution, too. It was supposed to be a challenge where you stood by each other’s side to keep the other accountable. For one year. To do that one thing neither of you has ever managed to do. You begged him to tell you what his resolution was, but he just wouldn’t. Something about how the brain thinks the goal is achieved if you say it out loud. Whereas he just didn’t want to risk getting rejected because he knew what he wanted was not allowed.
Days have passed. Weeks. Months.
Before he knows it, it’s December again.
He will never forget how happy you are when you show him the four digits in your savings account. You are so so proud, talking about how you made the impossible possible, and now you are demanding proof of his promise from him. In all honesty, he is ashamed of his end result.
Because continuously failing for 365 days, 5 hours, and 59 seconds feels like a horrendous insult.
No matter how hard he tries, he just can’t stop loving you. No matter how much he resolves to.
He will die knowing you will never love him like that.
He’s been trying. God knows he’s been trying so damn hard to get over you, but he just can’t replace you with someone new. It will take a lot more years than just a few. As long as the sky you are both under is blue, he knows he’s never going to be able to.
When he tells you he couldn’t live up to his promise, he wishes you didn’t look at him like that.
He wants to curse a mouthful, slam doors, then walk out, but he’s never managed to do it once to you. Not even when he was furious with you. And he isn’t about to.
He loathes himself so much for disappointing you, but there is no way he can offer a believable excuse. He would much rather pretend to be obtuse because he told you all his hopes, all his fears, but there is no way he can let his biggest secret loose. He swore to take it to the grave.
For years, you watched him. You watched his insufferably obstinate ways. You watched him turn into the biggest recluse. You watched him make all the wrong moves, terrified he was slowly drifting away from you. You haven’t known a life without him, and you don’t want to find out if it would really be that grim. You already know it’s not worth much. How come he can’t see that?
How come he can’t see you love him like that?
You have been yearning to feel him on your skin longer than you’ve known yourself. You knew he absolutely loathed dancing, but you still asked him to take you to your senior prom. You still asked him to take you to a club on your birthday when you fucking knew he would have preferred some calm. You dragged him out into the pouring rain because you would do anything to feel his touch. But the more time passed by, the more your excuses didn’t amount to much.
You were wishing he could see through them so that he’d fucking realize you loved him like that.
You already failed to open your heart to him at the park, making up yet another story about some guy that didn’t even exist. Your latest and lamest excuse was making New Year’s resolutions together because you really believed one year was enough time to put these devastating feelings you’ve been carrying around for years into words. This time, you would do it. You just had to tell him the 143; there was nothing to it.
But you spectacularly blew it.
December 31. 23:41. His apartment. His living room. His couch. Too much wine as courage juice. When it’s time to show your work, you choke and watch yourself show him your bank account instead. You make up yet another story about making the impossible possible whereas you’ve already been saving that money for over two years on the off chance that he would say yes to going to Japan with you. No matter how hard you try, you just can’t stop loving him.
And it seems like nothing is going to happen unless you go out on a limb because he doesn’t seem to love you like that.
You wonder if he ever misses seeing the stars because at this point, they are nothing more than a reminder of your scars. All the sendoffs you could kiss him but didn’t. All the sleepovers you could love him but couldn’t. Something at the back of your head kept telling you you shouldn’t, but you are going to die the most torturous death if you can’t hold him in your arms, chest to chest, palm to palm, cry-whispering into his ear that you have always loved him like that. That ever since that one night on a rooftop somewhere, all your wishes on shooting stars have been a plea to kiss him just once.
In a momentary lapse of sanity, you renounce everything that’s not him and empty an entire clip on the unbearable agony of his absence.
He doesn’t know what to do with himself when you suddenly kiss him like that.
He is in disbelief that you are touching him like that. That you are loving him like that. He has dreamed of this for so long that if he dies right now, he will be the happiest man. He wouldn’t even care about the zero attendance at his funeral. He certainly doesn’t give a fuck about the wine glasses that crash on his hardwood floors, staining them in the exact shade of his soul-crushing longing for you.
It’s not as slow and romantic as he always pictured it to be—he is all but ripping your clothes off of you, his lips never leaving yours, your hands latched to his face, breathlessly devouring each other as if you would die otherwise, but he wouldn’t trade this moment for the world. How imperfect it is is perfection itself.
He forces himself to slow down. Really slow down and just take you in for a while. How you look at him with the biggest anticipation in your eyes. How your body is already covered in goosebumps. How he can physically see your pulse just from the vein on your neck, getting faster if he so much as leans in to kiss you.
He won’t survive the night, that much is true.
Your scent on his nose is narcotic. He feels high just from mere kisses down your chest, and he loves how it makes you flinch as he makes his way even lower. He has to pull through. He has to be strong enough not to pass out when he finally meets the subject of his wildest wet dreams in the flesh.
He groans like he is in pain when he witnesses the glory of your nakedness for the first time. He feels like he’s about to cry.
He has never seen anything as beautiful as your pussy.
Self-restraint is the worst form of torture, but he has to endure it. He has to take it slow. He has to savor you to avenge the years you spent away from each other, fully clothed, in different rooms, different apartments, even different cities at one point, but you’re just so beautiful, and he is one pathetic man. It’s just one taste of your slick, just one drag of his tongue on your clit…
…and he doesn’t know what takes over him.
He buries his head between your legs, licking you like you have the antidote to his years’ worth of self-deprecation there. If this is a dream, he doesn’t want to wake up. If he’s hallucinating, he never wants to return to the ugly reality of not knowing what your skin feels like. He licks, he licks, and he licks, melting into a puddle with each moan you let out, growing louder in his ears. He wants to hear it. He wants to hear you moan his name. He wants to hear you moan you love him, and promise to never let him go, and convince him that this is indeed real. He wants to make you happy. He wants to make you cum. He wants to build a life together with you even if it means he has to give up everything.
Fingertips sinking deeper into your thighs, head buried deeper into your cunt, he falls deeper in love with you when you fall apart on his tongue.
He will burn this world down for you if you ask him.
You don’t want to come down. You never want to come down when you’re with him. You don’t allow yourself a moment’s respite and pull him up, tasting yourself on his lips like you indulge in the most decadent delicacy. He trembles under your touch even though his fireplace provides more than enough warmth, even though your body is in flames, even though he has hell itself in his beautiful soft browns. You don’t peel your eyes off of them as you strip him bare, your heart breaking into a million pieces at how scared he looked. You want to embrace him. You want to shelter him. You want to shield him from everything ugly in this world so that he only knows happiness. So that he only knows love.
He has hated himself enough to last five nations for three lifetimes.
The firmness of his skin is such a delightful contrast to the softness of his gaze. The hardness of his cock is maddening on your soaked folds. You nod at him, encouraging him to let loose, set himself free, unleash his insanity on you so he can finally finally get a moment’s peace. You are more than willing to carry half his burden for him. All of it, if he ever lets you. You want to make him happy. You want to make him cum. You want to leave it all behind and run away with him even if it means you have to forsake everything you’ve ever known to be true.
You will move heaven and earth for him even if he doesn’t ask you.
He pants as he sinks into you, and you gently hold his face, gazing deep into his eyes. To ground him. To remind him that you’re here and always will be. To convince him that it’s just you two against the world now. You pull him closer and melt into his kiss, and that’s the moment he decides to let it…
…go.
His tensed body relaxes, and he starts to pave his way into you. Languid thrusts first. Very close to that ‘slow and romantic’ he always pictured it to be. But the deeper he sinks into you, the more your sounds of pleasure turn from bashful moans to deep growls, the more he loses it. He picks up his pace, caving to his pleasure with zero willpower at play, eventually turning erratic. How is he supposed to control himself when you look at him like that? How is he supposed to be all ‘slow and romantic’ when you’re scratching all over his shoulders like that, urging him to drill you into that couch with all kinds of obscenities spilling from your lips?
How is he supposed to love you when all you’re ordering him to do is to fuck you like his life depends on it? Don’t you know your wish is his fucking command?
He throws your legs over his shoulders and takes off, dying a little inside with every push. Oh, he can definitely get used to this. He can do this first thing in the morning and last thing at night, even if you ask for it or not, because he has a lifetime’s worth of cravings to satisfy, and it was a horrendous move on your part to repeatedly tell him to, quote, “have his way with you”.
Of course he will. He will fuck you like a whore, then love you like the goddess he will dedicate his entire life to. Every day.
You hold onto his shoulders for dear life, eyes so wide with how deep he reaches inside you, relishing each drop of sweat that drips on your chest. He pants quicker and quicker, bolting towards the finish line at full speed, and even then, all he thinks about is just how much you own his heart. He has never known love like this. He has never known pleasure like this, experiencing the highest of highs just by looking into the eyes of the woman he has spent his entire life loving. Then he hears it.
Oh, he hears it loud and clear.
He hears you moan his name, over and over and over again, eyes squeezed shut, hands groping him hard, legs locked around him just to make sure he doesn’t even attempt to pull out. On the ledge of his free fall, staring at the first day of the rest of his life, he moans the loudest 143 he has ever spoken, the very first one he ever truly means, and empties himself inside you, thoroughly, fully, until there isn’t a single drop left in him. Until he becomes one with you.
Just to make sure you don’t even attempt to be apart from him anymore.
“Chris, do you sometimes miss seeing the stars?”
You know what? He no longer does. Not when he can witness entire galaxies in your eyes.
Not when he knows that you love him like that.
✉ Enjoyed this? Your feedback & reblogs free my chapters from the draft prison.
My heart... :') My vision for this was indeed in the neighborhood of spoken word, and you couldn't have made me any happier. I'd like to consensually smooch your forehead if I can pls 💛 Thank you very very much for enjoying it ^^
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