genre: angst, hurt w/comfort (i'm not a monster cmon), established relationship, nonidol!au
word count: 10.7k
warnings: no use of y/n, mentions of alcohol, miscommunication (again!), possessive!wooyo, soft dom!wooyo, also whiny wooyo, pronebone!!!!!, praise kink, make up sex, unprotected sex (wrap before you tap!), p in v, mating press (kinda), multiple o's, fingering, oral, felching, breath play, spit play/spit as a means for lube, creampie, cockwarming, slight choking (?), mutual masturbation, body worship, breeding kink (mentioned like once tbh), a little bit of edging, emotional sex (he cries, her kitty did too), overstimulation / lmk if i missed any!
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
author's note: based on this request! i lowkey went overboard and got carried away with the makeup sex but who's going to complaing if their steak is too juicy and the lobster too buttery, yk? :p i hope you enjoy this my love @moilele <333
permanent taglist: @norixseaweed @f3mboienjoyer @liightlizard @minguxxs @mourninglizzy + if you want to be added to my taglist, let me know :))
The key turns in the lock at 1:47 AM. You’ve been staring at the clock for so long the numbers have burned into your vision, following you even when you close your eyes. The candlelight dinner you prepared hours ago has congealed on the table, the wax from the candles having melted into sad, misshapen puddles.
When Wooyoung stumbles through the door, the smell hits you first—sharp, medicinal, unmistakably alcohol—before you even see his face. He’s loosening his tie with one hand, the other gripping the doorframe for balance. He tries to toe off his shoes and only manages to get one halfway off before giving up. He lets the other one fall with a thud, then drops his battered work bag into the hallway, not caring if it blocks the door or if either of you end up tripping over it later.
“Hey,” he mumbles, not quite meeting your eyes. “What are you doing still awake?”
You don’t answer immediately. You just watch him, this man who hasn’t texted you in nine hours, who left you sitting here with a heart that sank deeper into your chest with each passing minute. The silence stretches between you, taut as a wire.
“You didn’t answer your phone,” you finally say. Your voice comes out steadier than you expected, a calm that doesn’t match the storm inside.
Wooyoung blinks, processing your words through the alcohol fog. “Sorry, we were out at the bar. The project…” He waves his hand vaguely. “It went really well. Everyone was—”
“Celebrating,” you finish for him. Your eyes drift to the table behind you, the two plates still set with the meal you spent three hours preparing. The anniversary cake you ordered sits untouched in its box, the words “One Year” now barely visible through the condensation that’s gathered on the lid.
It hits you then, with a clarity that makes your stomach drop. He doesn’t remember.
“Look, I know I’m sorry that I’m late again,” Wooyoung says, finally noticing your expression. “Things got crazy at the office. You know babe, the promotion, it’s—”
“Do you know what day it is?” you ask quietly.
He frowns, clearly trying to think through his drunken haze. “Uhh Tuesday?”
The silence that follows is deafening. You watch the realization slowly dawn on his face, the way his eyes widen slightly, the way his mouth opens then closes without sound.
“Shit,” he whispers. “Oh fuck…”
“You forgot our anniversary.” It’s not a question.
“I didn’t—”Wooyoung runs a hand through his hair, his movements still uncoordinated. “The project deadline was today. We’ve been working toward this for weeks, you know that. And then everyone wanted to go out, and I couldn’t just—”
“Couldn’t just text me? Couldn’t just call to say you’d be late?” Your voice rises slightly, despite your efforts to keep it steady. “I sat here for hours, Wooyoung. I thought something happened to you. I called your friends, hell I even called your office phone.”
“I’m fine,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice now, defensive. “I’m right here. Everything’s fine.”
“Everything is not fine.” You stand up, needing the distance between you. “You’ve been working non-stop for weeks. You come home exhausted, barely speaking to me, and now you can’t even remember our anniversary?”
Wooyoung sighs, the sound heavy with exhaustion and frustration. “I’m doing this for us, you know that—”
“Stop,” you cut him off. “Stop saying that. I’m not asking you to quit your job, Wooyoung. I’m asking you to be present. To remember that I exist when you’re not at work.”
He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment you see the man you fell in love with—the one who used to notice when you changed your hair, who used to call just to hear your voice. But then his expression hardens again.
“You don’t understand the pressure I’m under,” he says, his voice tight. “This isn’t just about me. It’s about our future.”
“Our future?” You let out a humourless laugh. “What fucking future? I barely see you anymore. When was the last time we had an actual conversation that wasn’t about how tired you are?”
“I’m trying to build something for us.”
“No, you’re building something for yourself and calling it ‘us’ to make yourself feel better.” The words spill out before you can stop them, raw and honest in a way that makes your chest ache. “I feel like you only love me when it’s convenient for you. When you have the time and energy.”
Wooyoung’s face darkens. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” You step closer, needing him to see, to understand. “When was the last time you asked how I was doing? When was the last time you noticed anything about my life that wasn’t directly related to yours?”
“I’m under a lot of stress right now, baby.”
“We’re all under stress, Wooyoung. That’s not an excuse to disappear on your girlfriend.”
The room falls silent. Wooyoung’s shoulders are tense, his jaw clenched. You can see the exhaustion etched into every line of his face, the dark circles under his eyes that have been there for weeks. Part of you wants to reach out, to comfort him, but the hurt is too fresh, too deep.
“I’m doing my best,” he says finally, his voice quieter now. “I’m trying to balance everything.”
“Your best isn’t good enough.” The words hang in the air between you, sharp and painful. “Not when your best means I spend our anniversary wondering if you’re lying dead in a ditch somewhere because you couldn’t be bothered to send a text.”
Wooyoung flinches. “That’s not—”
“Do you have any idea what it’s like?” Your voice breaks. “To sit here, watching the clock, imagining all the worst possible scenarios because the man I love can’t remember I exist?”
“I do remember you exist,” he says, and there’s frustration in his voice now. “I think about you all the time. I’m doing all of this for you.”
“For me?” You laugh, the sound hollow. “This isn’t for me, Wooyoung. I never asked for any of this. I asked for you. Not this stressed-out stranger who comes home at midnight and falls asleep on the couch.”
He’s silent for a long moment, and you can see him struggling, the alcohol and exhaustion making it hard for him to find the right words. When he finally speaks, his voice is strained.
“Maybe this is the real me,” he says. “Maybe this is who I am now and you just don’t like what you see.”
The words hit you like a physical blow. You take a step back, your breath catching in your throat. You shake your head, denying the words that came out of his mouth.
“That’s not true,” you whisper.
“Isn’t it?” Wooyoung’s voice rises, matching your earlier statement, fuelled by frustration and alcohol. “Because it seems like nothing I do is ever good enough for you. I’m either working too much or not making enough money or not paying enough attention—”
“I’ve never said that.”
“You don’t have to say it. I can see it in your face every time I come home late. Every time I’m too tired to talk.” He runs his hand through his hair again, the gesture agitated. “Maybe you should just find someone who can give you what you want, since apparently I can’t.”
The silence that follows is absolute. You stare at him, unable to believe the words that just came out of his mouth. Wooyoung looks just as shocked as you feel, his eyes widening as he realizes what he’s said.
“Wait… shit no that’s not what I meant…” he starts, but you cut him off.
“You want me to leave?” Your voice is barely audible.
“No, I didn’t mean…“ Wooyoung takes a step toward you, but you back away. “I’m sorry, I’m drunk and exhausted and I didn’t—”
“You meant it,” you say. There’s no anger in your voice now, just a deep, bone-weary sadness. “Maybe not all of it, but part of it.”
He doesn’t deny it. The silence stretches between you, filled with everything that’s been left unsaid for weeks.
“I need to be alone,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. The words hang between you, a barrier neither of you has the strength to cross. “I can’t do this right now.”
Wooyoung opens his mouth to respond, but you’re already moving, already turning away from the wreckage of your anniversary night. You don’t look back as you walk down the hallway to your bedroom—the bedroom that was supposed to be shared, not a place of retreat. The door clicks shut behind you with a finality that makes your chest ache.
In the darkness of your room, you press your back against the door and slide down until you’re sitting on the floor. Your shoulders shake with silent sobs you refuse to let him hear. The anniversary card you’d written him earlier sits on your nightstand, the words inside now feeling hollow and foolish.
Time passes. You don’t know how long you sit there, but eventually, you stand on trembling legs and change into your sleep clothes. The bed feels too big, too empty. You lie on your side, staring at the empty space where Wooyoung should be, and wait for sleep that doesn’t come. An hour passes. Maybe two. Your anger has cooled to a dull ache in your chest, but sleep still eludes you. Finally, you slip out of bed, needing water, needing to move.
The living room is dark except for the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds. And there he is—Wooyoung, slumped on the couch, still in his work clothes, one arm thrown over his eyes. Even in the dim light, you can see the tear tracks on his face, the dark stain on the cushion beneath his cheek.
Your heart constricts. Despite everything—despite the anger, despite the hurt—you still love him. You still care.
You move silently to the kitchen, filling a glass with water and grabbing the bottle of aspirin from the cabinet. Your movements are careful, deliberate, as you place them on the coffee table beside him. You don’t wake him. You don’t say a word.
Instead, you stand there for a moment, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Even in sleep, his face is troubled, his brow furrowed. You want to smooth the lines away, to tell him everything will be okay. But you can’t. Not yet.
So you do the only thing you can. You take care of him, silently, the way you’ve always done. Because even when he forgets, even when he’s lost in his own world of stress and ambition, you remember. You remember the man you fell in love with, the one who’s still in there somewhere, buried under exhaustion and pressure.
You pull the throw blanket from the back of the couch and drape it carefully over him. Your fingers brush against his hair, just once, so lightly he doesn’t stir.
Then you turn and walk away, back to the bedroom that feels emptier than it should. You climb into bed alone, the space beside you cold and untouched. You wonder if this is how relationships begin to break—not through lack of love, but through all the ways people fail to hold onto each other when life becomes too heavy. Sleep comes eventually, but it’s fitful, troubled by dreams of a future that feels increasingly uncertain.
══════════════════
Wooyoung wakes slowly to the dull throb of a splitting headache and a sharp ache running down his neck. The couch digs painfully into his back, one arm numb from the awkward angle he’d fallen asleep in. For a few disoriented seconds, he just stares at the ceiling, blinking against the pale morning light filtering through the apartment. Then last night hits him all at once. The argument. Your tears. The look on your face when he realized what day it was.
With a quiet groan, he pushes himself upright, rubbing a hand over his face. That’s when he notices the blanket draped carefully over him. The glass of water sitting on the coffee table beside two aspirin. His chest tightens. You took care of him anyway. Even after everything.
Wooyoung stares at the medicine for a long moment before letting out a weak, humourless laugh under his breath. “Fuck,” he mutters hoarsely, guilt crawling up his throat.
He swallows the aspirin dry before forcing himself to stand, exhaustion still heavy in his limbs. The apartment is quiet as he makes his way toward the bedroom, each step slower than the last, like he’s afraid of what he’ll find on the other side of the door. He eases it open carefully. You’re asleep, curled toward his side of the bed even though it stayed empty all night. In the soft morning light, he notices the tear tracks dried against your cheeks immediately, and something inside him caves in at the sight. His own eyes still burn from last night, raw and swollen in a way he knows mirrors yours. For a moment, he just stands there in silence, looking at you. At the woman who still tucked a blanket around him after he forgot about your anniversary. After he hurt you. Wooyoung closes his eyes briefly, jaw tightening.
He closes the door to your shared bedroom and makes his way to the kitchen. He quietly reaches for his phone and silences the alarm for work before typing out a lengthy message to his boss with determined fingers. Nothing at work feels more important than this anymore.
He had to fix this.
══════════════════
Your eyes open to the empty space beside you, the pillow still perfectly fluffed, untouched. Of course he’s already gone. The realization settles in your chest like a stone. You lie there for a moment, the events of last night crashing back with brutal clarity. The forgotten anniversary. The heartbreak that ensued. The fight. The words that can’t be unsaid. You press the heels of your hands against your eyes, forcing the tears to remain at bay.
Then you hear it—the soft clink of dishes from the kitchen.
Your heart stutters. You freeze, listening. There it is again—the unmistakable sound of someone moving around in the kitchen. The one that should be empty right now. Panic rises in your throat. He’s still here. Wooyoung is still here, and you have no idea what to say to him after everything that happened. After everything you both said.
You sit up slowly, your body heavy with emotional exhaustion. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you pad toward the bedroom door. Your hand hesitates on the doorknob. What will you see when you open it? Will he be packing his things? Will he be waiting to tell you it’s over?
The door creaks as you pull it open. The hallway seems longer than usual as you make your way toward the kitchen. With each step, your anxiety grows, a tight knot in your chest that makes it hard to breathe.
And then you see him.
Wooyoung stands at the counter, his back to you. He’s still wearing the same clothes from last night, rumpled and wrinkled. His hair is a mess, sticking up at odd angles. He moves slowly, methodically, as if each action requires immense concentration.
“Aren’t you going to work?” The words slip out before you can stop them, your voice hoarse from crying.
Wooyoung turns, and the sight of him makes your breath catch. His eyes are bloodshot, his face pale. He looks like he hasn’t slept at all, like he’s been carrying the weight of your argument with him through the long night.
“I told them I wasn’t coming in today or for the rest of the week,” he says simply.
The words hang in the air between you. You stare at him, trying to process what this means. Wooyoung never calls in. He’s the type who goes to work with a fever of 102, who works through weekends and holidays without complaint.
“What? Why?” you ask, the question barely audible.
Wooyoung sets down the cup he’s been holding. His knuckles turned white as he gripped onto the glass tighter. “I already lost enough time with you yesterday. I’m not about to just leave you here alone, again.”
The simplicity of his words hits you like a physical blow. You lean against the doorframe, suddenly weak. The kitchen table is set—two plates, two mugs, the breakfast you used to make together on weekend mornings. The silence that follows is thick with everything left unsaid. You watch as he turns back to the counter, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. There’s a vulnerability in his posture you haven’t seen in months—the confident, ambitious man you’ve been watching slip away replaced by someone unsure, someone hurting.
“I’m sorry,” he says finally, still facing away from you. “For everything I said last night. For making you feel like you don’t matter to me.” He turns to face you, and the raw emotion in his eyes makes your chest ache. “You matter more than anything, and I’ve been acting like you don’t.”
You want to go to him, to bridge the distance between you, but your feet feel rooted to the spot. “And the rest?” you ask. “What you said about me finding someone else?”
Wooyoung’s face crumples. “I didn’t mean any of that stupid shit. I was an idiot and said the most hurtful thing I could think of because I was angry at myself, not at you. What I said to you was inexcusable.” He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture agitated. “I was so terrified of failing you that I ended up failing you anyway.”
The truth of his words settles over you. You step into the kitchen, moving toward him slowly, giving him the chance to retreat if he wants to. He doesn’t.
“I don’t want someone else,” you say quietly. “I want you. Not the version of you that’s so caught up in work he forgets we exist. That I exist.”
Wooyoung’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ve been so focused on building a future for us that I forgot to be present in our now.” He takes a step toward you. “I’m so sorry. I don’t expect you to forgive me right away or ever but—God, I fucked up so bad.”
You look at the breakfast he’s prepared—eggs perfectly set, toast golden, the smell of coffee already doing something to the tension in your shoulders. He’s always been a better cook than you. You’d forgotten that, somehow, in the wreckage of last night.
“Come here,” you say softly.
He crosses the kitchen in three quick strides, and then his arms are around you, holding you so tightly it’s almost painful. You can feel him trembling, feel the way his heart hammers against your cheek. Your face tucks just under his chin, and you feel the warm wetness of tears landing soft in your hair.
“I love you,” he whispers, the words muffled against your hair. “I love you so much, and I’m so sorry I made you doubt that.”
You hold him just as tightly, your own tears spilling over. “I love you too,” you mumble against his chest. “Don’t shut me out like that again, You know I’m always here for you.”
Wooyoung pulls back, his hands coming up to cradle your face. His thumbs brush away your tears with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. “I know,” he says. “I’ll do better for you. For us. Today, tomorrow, and however long as it takes.”
He leans forward and presses his forehead against yours. “Can I show you something?” You nod.
“I got you something,” he says. “I remembered that I had a whole elaborate plan to give this to you.” He exhales, something between a laugh and a sob. “Then I got the promotion news and I just—I let that take over everything. Your gift has been sitting in my bag for two weeks while I was out celebrating myself.” He shakes his head. “I made our anniversary about me. I’m such an idiot.”
“Yeah, the biggest idiot of all time.”
He lets out a small chuckle, a hint of guilt and sadness follow the hollow laugh. A flicker of something hopeful crosses his exhausted face. “Can I still give it to you?”
You look up at him. “Of course.”
Wooyoung’s face lights up with a small, tentative smile. He takes your hand and leads you to the living room. You both sink into the couch where he spent the night, your shoulders touching. His work bag sits on the floor beside it. He reaches down and pulls out a small velvet box.
Your breath catches.
“It’s not what you think,” he says quickly, seeing your expression. “Not yet, anyway.” He opens the box to reveal a delicate silver bracelet, with a small charm hanging from it—a tiny compass.
“It’s so you always find your way back to me,” he explains, his voice soft. “Even when I’m being a complete dumbass.”
You look from the bracelet to his face, seeing the hope and fear mingled in his eyes. This is what you fell in love with—not the ambitious, driven man who works too much, but this man who’s vulnerable enough to admit when he’s wrong, who’s brave enough to try to fix what he’s broken.
“It’s beautiful,” you say, holding out your wrist.
As Wooyoung fastens the bracelet with trembling fingers, you realize that healing won’t happen overnight. There will be more conversations, more difficult moments as you both learn to balance his career with your relationship. But as his hand finds yours, the bracelet cool against your skin, you know you’re willing to try.
Because some things are worth fighting for. Some people are worth the struggle. And this man—flawed and imperfect but trying, always trying—is one of them.
“I should have called,” he says finally, his voice quiet in the morning stillness. “I should have texted. I kept thinking about it, but then someone would pull me into another conversation, and I’d get distracted, and then...” He trails off, shaking his head. “That’s no excuse.”
“No, it’s not,” you agree, but there’s no anger in your voice now. Just bone-deep weariness.
Wooyoung’s shoulders slump. He looks smaller somehow, diminished by his own guilt. “I’ve been so focused on proving myself at work that I forgot to be present here. With you.” His eyes find yours, red-rimmed and sincere. “I’m drowning, and instead of asking for help, I’ve been pulling you under with me.”
Your chest tightens at his words. You’ve been so wrapped up in your own hurt that you haven’t fully considered his perspective. “Why didn’t you tell me you were struggling?” you ask softly.
He lets out a shaky breath. “Because I was supposed to be the strong one. The one who had it all figured out.” His voice cracks. “I didn’t want you to see how overwhelmed I was. How scared I am that I won’t be enough.”
The admission hangs in the air between you. You reach for his hand, your fingers hesitantly brushing against his. He turns his palm up, letting you take it.
“I’m sorry too,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “For being so accusatory last night. For making you doubt that your best wasn’t enough. And for dismissing the fact that you work so immensely hard to provide for us.”
Wooyoung looks up, surprise evident in his eyes.
“I was angry,” you continue, “but I was also terrified. Every time you came home late without calling, I imagined the worst. And then I’d feel so stupid when you finally texted, like I was being dramatic or clingy.”
“You’re not,” he says firmly. “You were right to be worried. I’ve been a completely inconsiderate asshole.”
You squeeze his hand. “And I said things I didn’t mean. About you not loving me.” The words are hard to say, hard to admit. “I know that’s not true. I just... I missed you. I missed us.”
A tear slips down Wooyoung’s cheek. “I’ve missed us too,” he admits. “I’ve been so caught up in work that I forgot how to be a person. How to be your person.”
You shift closer to him on the couch, the gap between you narrowing. Your free hand reaches up to brush away his tear, your touch tentative, questioning. He leans into it, his eyes closing briefly.
“I’m going to do better,” he promises. “I’ve already talked to my boss about setting better boundaries. About leaving work at a reasonable hour, about not checking emails at home.” He opens his eyes, looking at you with such intensity it makes your breath catch. “You deserve more than the scraps of time and attention I’ve been giving you.”
“What if you can’t?” you ask, voicing the fear that’s been haunting you. “What if work pulls you back in?”
Wooyoung’s expression turns determined. “Then I’ll walk away. Find something else. Because nothing is worth losing you over.” He brings your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Nothing.”
Your vision blurs with fresh tears. “I don’t want you to give up your career for me.”
“I’m not,” he assures you. “I’m choosing our relationship. Choosing you. The career is just a job. I can be replaced at any given moment but you? You’re my whole life. You’re irreplaceable.”
The words wash over you, healing some of the hurt that’s been festering. You move closer still, until your knees are touching, until you can feel the warmth of him beside you.
“I love you,” you say simply. “Even when you’re being an idiot and forgetting our anniversary.”
A watery laugh escapes him. “I love you too. I’m your idiot, though.”
Your hand finds its way to his face, cupping his cheek. His stubble is rough against your palm, grounding you in this moment. He turns his head slightly, pressing a kiss to your palm, his eyes never leaving yours.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, his voice raw with emotion.
You nod, unable to form words around the lump in your throat.
Wooyoung leans forward slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. You don’t. When his lips meet yours, it’s like coming home after a long journey. There’s relief in the touch, and longing, and a deep, abiding affection that transcends the hurt of the past weeks.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your lips. “I’m so sorry.”
His kisses move to your cheek, to the corner of your eye where tears still linger. “I’ll do better,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin.
You tilt your head, giving him access to your neck, where he presses soft, apologetic kisses. “I know you will,” you whisper, your fingers tangling in his hair.
Wooyoung pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. “I don’t deserve you,” he says. “But I’m going to spend every day trying to be worthy of you.”
You shake your head. “You already are. You just got lost for a while.”
He pulls you into his arms, holding you against his chest. You can hear his heartbeat, steady and strong beneath your ear. His hand strokes your hair, gentle and soothing.
“I was so scared,” you admit, the words muffled against his shirt. “That we were falling apart, and I didn’t know how to stop it.”
His arms tighten around you. “We’re not falling apart,” he promises. “We’re just... learning how to be together in a new way. With new challenges.”
You look up at him, seeing the determination in his eyes. “Together,” you repeat. “That’s the important part.”
Wooyoung nods, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Together. Always.”
The breakfast he made sits forgotten on the table, growing cold. But you don’t mind. There will be other breakfasts, other mornings. Right now, all that matters is this—the two of you, holding onto each other, finding your way back to what matters most.
“I think,” Wooyoung says after a while, his voice soft with sleepiness and emotion, “that since i took a few days off we could spend more time together. Just us. No work, no distractions.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You? Taking time off? Who are you and what have you done with my workaholic boyfriend?”
He laughs, the sound warming you from the inside out. “I’ve been replaced by someone with better priorities.” His expression turns serious. “I mean it, though. We need this. I need this. To remember that I have a lot of making up to do.”
The idea is tempting. “And how would you do that, hm?”
“I could think of one way right now,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, intimate timbre that sends a shiver down your spine.
Before you can respond, Wooyoung stands and scoops you into his arms, his movements surprisingly fluid despite his exhaustion. You gasp, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck as he carries you toward your bedroom—your shared bedroom that’s been missing his presence for far too long.
“Wooyoung,” you breathe, your heart racing as he pushes the door open with his foot. “Put me down! I could’ve walked to the bedroom too, idiot.”
“Sorry princess. I couldn't help myself,” he says, his eyes dark with desire as he lays you gently on the bed.
He climbs onto the bed beside you, his weight making the mattress dip. For a moment, he just looks at you, his expression a mixture of reverence and hunger that makes your breath catch.
“Missed you,” he whispers, his hand coming up to trace the line of your jaw. “So much.”
You reach for him, pulling him down into a kiss that’s deeper than before, more urgent. His lips move against yours with a desperation that speaks volumes about the distance that’s grown between you. You can taste the salt of dried tears on his skin, feel the slight tremble in his hands as they slide down to your waist.
You fist your hands in the crisp fabric of his shirt. The buttons press sharp and insistent against your chest, and you tug at them, desperate, fumbling until the first one gives. He groans, shifting so he can help, pulling away just enough to make quick work of the rest. The shirt falls open, exposing him to the morning light, the edges of his collarbone flushed and vulnerable.
Your breath hitches—you’d forgotten, somehow, how beautiful he is like this. His body is lean but not slight, muscle hugging bone and sinew in all the right places. You drag your hand along the inside of his forearm, tracing the thick black lines of the rose inked from his wrist to the curve before his elbow. You glide over the leaves and thorns, half-expecting the tattoo to prickle beneath your touch. He shudders, eyes hooded, drinking in the sight of you devouring him.
You slide your palm up, across his biceps, his shoulder—mapping every inch, reacquainting yourself with the geography of him. His chest heaves, the faint dusting of hair there rising as you scrape your nails down to his abs. You can’t help but smile a little at how his stomach tenses, how he jerks when you reach the sensitive dip above his hips. He grabs your hand, bringing it to his mouth, kissing each knuckle in apology and in thanks. He’s trembling with wanting, with relief, and you want to swallow it whole.
You pull him closer, reaching up to slide the shirt off his shoulders. It pools at his elbows, then falls away, leaving him naked from the waist up. He presses you into the mattress, his lips everywhere at once—your jaw, your neck, the hollow at your collarbone. His hands are greedy, slipping under your shirt, seeking skin, worshipping you as if you’re the only thing in the world that makes sense.
Wooyoung’s fingers curl into the soft cotton of your sleep shirt as though he’s gathering every ounce of courage in his body to peel away not only the fabric but the distance he’s put between you. The morning light filters through gauzy curtains, illuminating the swirl of dust motes in the air and casting a gentle glow over your skin. He pauses, breath catching as he drinks you in—every freckle on your shoulder, every rise and fall of your chest—before tugging the shirt up and over your head in one smooth, practiced motion. The cool air of the room grazes your bare skin, sending a shiver through you as the light catches the gentle pebbling of your nipples and the subtle flex of your stomach muscles.
He chases away the chill, warm palms gliding up your sides, fingertips tracing the lines of your ribs, thumbs circling the soft shadows beneath your breasts as if to reassure himself that you are real—solid and here.
“W-Wooyoung,” you breathe out, barely more than a tremor in the air, but it hits him like a bullet: his gaze snaps up, blown wide and hungry, jaw tensing so hard you can see the cords in his neck stand out.
“Hmm?”
He sounds dazed, already gone for you. He searches your face for a clue, a hint of what you want, even as his hands keep moving—roaming your waist, palming the flare of your hips, stroking reverent up and down your spine. You shudder, skin prickling everywhere he touches. Then, with a slow, deliberate shift, you arch your back and hook your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear—your last layer—and drag them down, inch by inch, teasing yourself as much as him. You kick them off, letting them flutter to the floor, and stretch out on your stomach, arms reaching above your head, pressing your cheek into the pillow. You tilt your hips up, highlighting the bare swell of your ass, lush and expectant, every inch of you primed for him. The effect is instantaneous. He groans, low and feral in the back of his throat, his cock straining visibly against the thin grey of his sweats.
“What are you doing, baby?” he chokes, voice ragged, eyes glued to the sight of you so shamelessly presenting for him.
You glance back lazily over your shoulder, lips parted, smile hazy and filthy. “Lay on top of me.” Your voice drips with need, teasing, coaxing, as your ass shifts again, the jiggle intentional, sinful.
His adam's apple bobs, eyes glued to the way you’re presenting yourself to him, pussy glistening and waiting. He sits frozen for a second, maybe trying to get his breath back, maybe just marvelling at how good you look, spread out and waiting.
“Bet."
Then he’s on you, crawling up the bed with a focused intent that sends another thrill through you. “Up,” he murmurs, tapping your hip. You lift obediently and he slides a pillow beneath you, angling your hips up off the mattress before he kneels behind you, pushes your thighs apart with strong hands, trapping your legs beneath his as he blankets your body. His heat, heavy and suffocating in the best way, seeps into your skin. Your cheek sinks into the sheets; you can smell your own slick in the air, feel the pulse of anticipation between your thighs. He leans in, lips skimming up your spine, worshipping every vertebrae, every goosebump and dimple, before he settles his weight against your back, pinning you down and making you feel tiny beneath him.
You can’t help it: you reach back, grab at the waistband of his slacks, desperate to feel more of him. Your fingers brush the rigid outline of his cock and he shudders, hips jerking, the tip already wetting a dark stain into the fabric. He lets you tug down his pants, lifting his hips just enough to help you get them over his ass, down his thighs, clumsy and urgent. As soon as they’re off, he kicks them away, a brief chill racing up your legs before he covers you again, hotter and needier than before. You’re both trembling—maybe from nerves, maybe from how badly you need each other.
“Please,” he moans, the word nearly a whimper, as you wrap your hand around the bulge beneath his boxers, feeling him throb in your grip. He’s so hard it almost hurts, and when you pull the waistband down and finally set him free, he gasps, forehead dropping onto your shoulder. His cock springs out, thick and flushed, the head angry red and already leaking.
“Jesus,” you hear yourself say, voice thick with awe. “Someone’s a little eager.” He laughs, shaky, like he’ll fall apart if he doesn’t.
“You have no fucking idea.”
His hand traces your thigh, kneading your flesh, fingers digging in with just enough pressure to bruise. You feel how much he needs you in every trembling touch. He cups your ass, squeezing and spreading, and then lets his hand drift lower, fingers ghosting along your slit. You’re soaked—embarrassingly so—and he groans when he feels it, slicking his fingers through you, teasing your entrance with featherlight touches. Your hips buck back, desperate for more, but he holds you firmly in place, taking his time, savoring the way you writhe under him.
“Are you gonna make me beg?” you pant, rutting against his hand.
He presses a kiss to your shoulder blade, voice thick and broken. “I want to hear you say you need me.”
“You already know I do.”
“Say it anyway.” His tongue flicks your earlobe, his words vibrating in your chest.
“I need you, Wooyoung. Please.”
The words tumble out, more desperate than you mean them to, but you don’t care. You want him—need him—so bad it’s physically painful. He lines himself up at your entrance, the heat of his cock a brand against your skin. But he doesn’t push in—not yet. He grinds the tip against your folds, smearing his precum through your wetness, teasing you with shallow thrusts that never quite give you what you want. You sob into the pillow, body arching, entirely at his mercy.
“God, look at you,” he whispers. “You’re so perfect. Fuck, I don’t deserve you.”
“Yes you do.” The words are a gasp, but you mean them. Even after everything, you want to give him this.
You want to give him everything.
He’s shaking, whole body vibrating with the effort of holding back, not just rutting into you like an animal. “Is this okay?” he asks, voice so weighted with emotion it almost makes you cry. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.”
“I want you,” you say, “I always want you. I want you right now, more than anything.”
He lets out a choked breath, as if you’ve released him from a terrible spell. “Fuck, yes.” He buries his face in the curve of your neck, breath hot and ragged. You feel the tip of his cock press against your entrance, stretching you slowly, inch by inch as he slides in.
The stretch is sweet, burning, perfect. You moan, the sound loud and raw, echoing off the walls of your shared bedroom. He fills you up, deeper than you remember, and it feels like coming home after a long, cold exile. You clench around him, savouring the drag, the friction, the pulse of his heartbeat through the thickness of his cock. He starts to move, slow at first, drawing out each withdrawal and thrust so you feel every centimetre, every ridge and vein. His hands on your waist are trembling, sometimes gripping too hard and then letting go, as if he’s afraid to hurt you, afraid to let go of this moment. You arch your back, pushing yourself up into him, greedy for more.
“Harder,” you urge. “Fuck me harder."
He whimpers, hips stuttering, and then sets a punishing pace, hips snapping forward to drive into you with every ounce of pent up longing he’s been carrying. The mattress creaks, the headboard smacks the wall. He’s so big, so deep, so desperate, and you love it.
“Don’t… fuck– say that shit,” he whines, his voice cracking. “Y’feel so good, so fucking tight.”
You arch back, meeting his thrusts, loving the way he loses control. His need for you is unfiltered, all-consuming, and you drink it like oxygen. He sets a rhythm, fast and merciless, hips slamming into you so hard it feels like a punishment, but you crave it, need it, want him to fuck you so hard you forget the argument and only memorise the feeling of him inside you. The slapping sound of skin on skin is obscene, even over the creaking of the bed and your shared moans, but you don’t care, don’t care if the whole apartment building hears you. Wooyoung is not gentle, not now; he’s desperate, driven by weeks of withheld affection, of loneliness and longing. He covers you, bites your shoulder, fucks you like it’s the last time, every thrust a plea for forgiveness and a pledge of eternity.
He leans more of his weight into you, his hand snaking around to your front, fingers seeking your clit. The first touch is electric—you jerk, stars bursting behind your eyes. He circles your clit with the pad of his finger, fast and hard, no finesse, just pure need to make you cum.
In a cruel twist of fate, his hips slow suddenly—the rhythm of his hips bullying yours breaking. You whimper at the loss, your body clenching around him, so desperate for more. But he pulls out completely, leaving you empty, aching.
“Look at me,” he demands, voice rough with need.
You crane your neck back over your shoulder, cheek still pressed into the sheets, and find him watching you with that dark intensity that makes your breath catch. His cock glistens with your combined wetness, the head swollen and flushed as he drags it slowly up and down your entrance, the angle making you feel every torturous inch of the tease—just enough pressure to feel but not enough to satisfy.
“Please,” you gasp, hips tipping higher.
His lips curl into a wicked smile from somewhere above and behind you. “Not yet.” He circles your clit with his slick tip before sliding back down. Your thighs tremble against the pillow he placed under your hips.
“Spit,” he commands, reaching his palm around to your mouth.
You obey without hesitation, gathering saliva that he uses to coat himself again, the wet sound obscene in the quiet room. He returns to his maddening teasing, the new slickness making his cock glide effortlessly against your swollen flesh.
“Good fucking girl,” he groans, the words punched out between ragged breaths. “Look at you—taking everything I give you.”
You’re beyond words now, reduced to desperate sounds as he continues his exquisite torture. When you can’t stand it anymore, you reach behind your body, guiding him back to where you need him most. He lets you, but only for a moment. With a growl that vibrates through your chest, he pushes your hand away and positions himself again, his eyes locked on to the way your body is so responsive to his. Then he leans down, lips pressing soft and slow into your shoulder, and you feel his breath warm against the curve of your neck
“Princess” he whispers, voice cracking open at the edges, his cock still dragging slowly and torturous against your entrance. “You can forgive me right? Shit…You can forgive your Wooyo right?”
“Yes,” you gasp, hips rolling back into him helplessly. “Yes, yess—fuck, I f-forgive you… Wooyoung, I need you so bad, please!"
Something breaks in his expression—all restraint shattering. He thrusts forward in one powerful motion, burying himself to the hilt with a sound that borders on a sob, hands clutching your hips—his grip bruising but full of desperate love. “God, you feel so good,” he croaks. “I missed this. I missed you. I missed you so fucking much.”
The force of it knocks the wind out of you, the fullness so shocking you can only moan, the sound muffled by the pillow but loud enough for him to hear—maybe for the neighbours to hear too. He doesn’t care. Neither do you.
The words degenerate into a string of curses and pleas, all dignity and composure long abandoned. You’re reduced to this: the shudder of your hips, the filthy slickness on your thighs, the way you beg for him with every inch of your body.
He’s lost to it now, rutting into you with a violence born of weeks—months—of wanting, of regret, of all the shit he’s made you both suffer through in his absence. Every motion is a contradiction, a punishment and an apology, as he fucks you harder than he ever has, hips snapping so fast you barely have time to catch your breath between thrusts. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, yanking you back onto him, fisting in your hair, ghosting along your ribs and then down to your clit. His fingers rub you with the same desperate rhythm as his cock, no finesse, just pure, animal drive to make you cum first, to make you remember what you are together.
He doesn’t say a word at first, just grunts and breathes your name into your hair like a prayer. But when you look back at him, head turned over your shoulder, you see his face twisted in something rawer than lust. Love. His eyes are wet. He thrusts in, deeper, grinding the head of his cock against the spot inside you that makes your vision white out at the edges.
“God, I missed you,” he whines, the words hitching on the upstroke. “I missed you, princess, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry—” He laces his apology into every movement, every thrust, trying to convince you with the force of his body how much he means it. “No one else can have you, fuck, never anyone else, not ever, you hear me?” His hips stutter, losing rhythm, and you know he’s close, so close, but he won’t let himself finish until you do.
He snakes his hand around your throat, the gentlest squeeze, just enough to remind you who’s in control. The pressure is perfect; you arch into it, into him, hips rocking back greedily to milk every inch of his cock. He bends over you, mouth against your ear, breath hot and frantic:
“Cum for me, princess. Wanna feel you cum all over me.”
And you do, splintering apart around him, pleasure ripping through you so hard it borders on pain. You scream, you swear, you claw at the sheets, and he fucks you through it, pace relentless, never slowing, never breaking.
He’s shaking above you, groaning your name, his hand still tangled in your hair as he thrusts a few more desperate times and then comes, deep inside you, with a guttural wail. The heat of his release is almost shocking, the way he fills you leaving no doubt that he’s yours, utterly and absolutely. He stays pressed to you, sweat-slicked and trembling, for long, silent seconds, his cock twitching with aftershocks, his breath turning softer, steadier. You can feel his heart thumping against your back, the wild rhythm slowly synchronizing with yours.
He never lets you go, not even as he softens inside you. He just wraps his arms around your waist, burying his face in your neck. You can’t move, can barely breathe, but the only thing you want is to stay like this forever—his weight, his warmth, his love, every bit of him pressed into you until you forget where you end and he begins. He’s the apology and the forgiveness, the punishment and the reward, and you take every last bit of him, all over again, until neither of you has anything left to give.
You’re both gasping, boneless, ruined, but it’s the best kind of ruined—like you’ve been put back together again, better than you were before. He kisses your neck, soft now, lazy, like he can’t help himself, and when he finally pulls out, both of you whimper at the loss.
You shift, rolling onto your side, facing him. His face is damp—sweat, tears, who even knows—but his eyes are clear and bright as he looks at you. He traces your jaw with a shaking finger.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he breathes, voice hoarse, “and I’m never letting you go, you got that?”
You laugh, delirious, and pull him close, your lips finding his in a kiss that’s slow and deep, the kind that says I forgive you, I want you, I’ll never be done with you. He sighs into it, like he’s waited a lifetime for this, like he’s never tasted anything sweeter.
And then his hand is between your legs again, gentle now, and you realize he’s not done with you yet. Not even close.
But you weren’t done with him either.
“Wait,” you mumble against his lips, pulling back just enough to see his eyes. “Let me watch you.”
Wooyoung’s brow furrows, a question forming in his gaze. You slide your hand down his chest, over the damp skin, until your fingers wrap around his still-sensitive cock. He hisses, body tensing at your touch.
“Wanna see you touch yourself,” you clarify, your voice dropping to a husky whisper.
Understanding dawns across his face, followed by a slow, wicked smile that makes your stomach flip. “Yeah?” he asks, already shifting position. “You want to watch me jerk off, baby? Naughty girl.”
You nod, your own hand moving between your legs as you settle back against the pillows. Wooyoung sits up, kneeling between your spread thighs, his eyes never leaving yours as he wraps his hand around his length. He’s already hardening again, his cock responding eagerly to your gaze. You watch, transfixed, as his fingers begin to move, a slow, deliberate stroke from base to tip that makes his breath catch.
“Fuck,” he groans, his head falling back slightly. “Play with yourself too, princess.”
You’re touching yourself now, circling your clit with teasing pressure, your other hand squeezing your breast. The sight of him pleasuring himself while watching you is intoxicating—his muscles flexing, his lips parted, his eyes dark with desire.
“Show me…shit," you urge, your voice barely audible. “Show me what you think about when I’m not around to suck you dry.”
He moans, his pace quickening. “I’m always thinking about you, ” he admits, his voice rough. “About your pretty mouth, your perfect tits, the way you feel when I’m inside you.” His hand moves faster now, his breathing growing ragged. “I think about making you cum—fuck, l-love thinking about watching you fall apart because of me.”
Your fingers move faster, matching his rhythm, the sight of him pleasuring himself pushing you closer to the edge. The room fills with the wet sounds of your mutual pleasure, your soft gasps mingling with his deeper groans.
“I’m c–close,” you pant, your hips rising off the bed. “Baby, I’m so fucking close.”
“Me too,” he gasps, his hand moving furiously over his cock. “God, the way you’re touching yourself—fuck, I can’t—"
“So fucking good… haah—” you whimper. “Cum with me.”
His eyes lock with yours, and you see the same desperation, the same need reflected back at you. Your fingers move faster, your thumb circling your clit with just the right pressure as you watch his hand fly over his length, his body tense with impending release.
“Wooyoung,” you cry out as the first wave hits you, your body arching off the bed.
“Oh god, yes you’re so hot fuuuck,” he groans, his release spurting hot across your stomach as he watches you come undone.
You’re both panting, chests heaving as sweat trickles down your bodies and Wooyoung’s cum glistens wet and hot across your stomach—but even as you come down, the air between you only grows thicker. His eyes linger on your face, hungry and soft all at once, and you know before he says a word that he isn’t finished with you yet. He swipes his thumb through his mess, smearing it across your skin, and then lifts his hand to your lips.
“Open,” he murmurs, voice already roughening around the edges, and you open obediently, tongue laving over his skin, savouring the salt and the faint sweetness of him.
He watches you, transfixed, and then the hunger snaps back into focus. With a sudden, fluid motion, he grabs you by the hips and guides you onto your back, landing you with a gasp and a bounce that sends aftershocks through your spent body. For a second you just lie there, limp and loose-limbed, but Wooyoung is on you before you have time to recover—his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and desperate, greedy possession. He devours you, biting your lower lip so hard you nearly yelp, but then he’s soothing the sting with a velvet-soft lick, fingers already roaming, cupping your jaw, winding into your hair, squeezing the back of your neck until you’re gasping into his mouth.
“Last one baby,” he rasps, voice vibrating right against your teeth. “Need to breed your pretty pussy one last time.”
He’s already sliding down your body, trailing open-mouthed kisses over every inch of skin—your throat, your collarbones, the peak of your tits. He bites down gently on your nipple, then flicks it with his tongue, the sensation sharp and electric and so fucking precise. He lavishes both breasts with attention, sucking bruises in places only he will see, then lets his tongue trace a hot, wet path down your torso.
He stops at your belly, swiping a finger through the sticky mess on your skin. “Look at you,” he says, voice thick with pride and awe, and you feel your cheeks flame even as you spread your legs wider for him.
He dips his head, lapping at where his cum has pooled in your navel, and you shiver at the lewdness of it, the way he worships every part of you. When his mouth finally moves lower, you’re already shaking with anticipation, your core clenching tight, desperate for more even though you should be wrung out.
He dives between your thighs, licks a stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit, and you nearly come off the bed from the shock of it. He laughs, low and dark, and buries his face in your cunt, eating you like a man starved. His tongue is everywhere. Circling your clit, plunging inside you, mixing slick and spit and the faint metallic taste of his own release. You fist your hands in his hair, grinding your hips against his mouth, shameless in the way you beg, “More, more... please, fuck, don’t stop—” and he doesn’t.
He works you with ruthless precision, two fingers thrusting deep while his tongue flicks rapid-fire at your clit. You feel the pressure build, so much faster than before, your legs trembling, your thighs clamping tight around his head. He holds you open, arms braced under your knees, keeping you spread and helpless as he brings you right to the brink and then eases off, just enough to drive you insane. He does it again, and again, pulling you apart, making you plead for it.
“Woo—” you whimper, your voice thin and shaky. “Please, please—”
He lifts his head, lips glistening, and you see the wild satisfaction in his eyes. “You’re so fucking pretty when you beg,” he says, and the praise sends another rush of heat through your veins.
“Please,” you say again, and this time he relents, sucking your clit into his mouth and moaning around it. The vibration hits you like a lightning strike and you come hard, arching your back, crying out his name so loud you know it will echo in your ears for days. He keeps going, licking you through it, not stopping until you’re sobbing with oversensitivity and shoving at his head to make it end.
He crawls up your body, cock already hard again as he rubs it against your thigh, your stomach, the sticky aftermath on your skin. He lines himself up at your entrance, and you’re so wet, so open for him, that he slides in with barely any resistance. The stretch still hurts—just a little—and he winces with you, kissing your cheek, your ear, whispering, “Shh, you can take it. You’re so good for me.”
You rake your nails down his back, desperate to pull him deeper, and he obliges, ramming into you with a force that makes the whole bed frame rattle. This time, he doesn’t pace himself—he fucks you with abandon, every thrust a fierce apology, a vow, a plea for forgiveness. “Pretty cunt was made for me, wasn't it baby?" he growls, the words muffled against your skin, and you believe him, every time.
He shifts your legs, bends you almost in half putting you into a mean mating press, and the new angle has him thrusting right against your g-spot. You claw helplessly at his arms, nails digging crescent moons into his biceps, and he just grins, sweat beading at his hairline, loving every second of your unravelling.
"'M not going to last... I'm g'na cum holy fuck Wooyoung," you moan out, feeling yourself edging closer to your own climax.
You feel him getting close—his rhythm falters, his hips jerk, his breath comes in ragged gasps. He slides a hand between your bodies, thumb circling your clit, determined to take you with him.
“Oh fuck—Cum f’me princess, make me proud.”
And you do, the orgasm ripping through you so violently that black spots dance at the edge of your vision. You scream, you sob, you babble his name like a prayer, and he follows, spilling inside you with a strangled cry. He shoves in deep, holds you there, and then collapses, pinning you to the mattress with the full weight of his body.
You lie like that for a long, breathless moment, your bodies trembling and tangled, sweat sticking you together, his cock still throbbing inside you as he pants in your ear. For a second you think he’s fallen asleep, but then he props himself up on one elbow and looks down at you, eyes shining, lips parted as if he might start crying all over again.
He rolls you onto your side, still joined, and wraps an arm around your waist, spooning you so tight you can barely move. You reach back and stroke his hair, feeling the way his whole body melts into your touch—the tension draining from his muscles, the way his breath evens out. The world feels impossibly far away, like it’s just the two of you floating in a bed-shaped universe, nothing but heartbeats and skin and the mess you’ve made of each other.
The room falls quiet, your breathing gradually slowing in tandem. Wooyoung’s arm tightens around you, his lips pressing a soft kiss to the nape of your neck. “Don’t move,” he whispers, his voice hoarse from use. “I’ll be right back.”
He pulls out gently, and you whimper at the loss, feeling suddenly empty. But he’s already sliding from the bed, his naked body glistening with sweat as he pads to the bathroom. You hear water running, and then he returns with a warm washcloth in his hand.
“Let's get you cleaned up yeah?” he says, his eyes soft as he kneels beside you.
His touch is reverent as he cleans between your thighs, wiping away the evidence of your passion with gentle, circular motions. The warm cloth feels heavenly against your sensitive skin, and you sigh, your body relaxing into his care.
“Better?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
You nod, too blissed-out to form words. He disappears again, returning with a glass of water that he holds to your lips. You drink greedily, not realizing how parched you were until the cool liquid slides down your throat.
“More?” he asks, and you shake your head.
Wooyoung sets the glass aside and moves to his dresser, pulling open the bottom drawer. He rummages through it for a moment before pulling out a faded blue t-shirt that you recognize immediately. It’s one of his oldest, the fabric soft from countless washes, the university logo barely visible anymore.
“Arms up,” he murmurs, and you comply, letting him slip the oversized shirt over your head. It falls to mid-thigh, enveloping you in his scent—that familiar mix of his cologne and something uniquely him that makes your chest ache with tenderness. He adjusts the collar, his fingers lingering at your neck, before pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“Perfect,” he whispers, his eyes warm as they take you in.
You watch as he pulls on a pair of boxers and a simple white t-shirt, his movements languid, unhurried. There’s something intimate about watching him dress—the way his muscles flex beneath his skin, the casual grace of his movements. He catches you looking and says nothing, just gives you a small, tired smile before he climbs back into bed, pulling you against him. His fingers begin to trace lazy patterns on your arm, up and down, the touch so light it makes you shiver.
“I love you,” he murmurs into your hair. “I hope you know that I adore you so much.”
You turn in his arms to face him, finding his eyes in the dim light of the bedroom. There’s something raw and vulnerable in his gaze that makes your heart ache.
“I know,” you say, reaching up to brush his hair from his forehead. “I love you too.”
He catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. “I’m going to do better. I promise.”
“I believe you, I know you will,” you whisper, and you do.
He pulls you closer, your bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces. His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining. The bracelet he gave you catches the light, the tiny compass charm glinting. He brings your wrist up to his lips and places a kiss on the charm, a silent reminder for you that’ll he’ll always be your north. No matter where you are, he’ll always be there for you.
“I’ve got you,” he coos, his voice dropping to that impossibly soft register he only uses in these moments. “I’m here, I'm not going anywhere.”
You hum in acknowledgment, too far gone for words. He softly chuckles at your sleepiness. His hand resumes its journey down your spine, each vertebra a landmark he maps with infinite patience. Another yawn overtakes you, your eyes watering at the corners. Wooyoung brushes away the tears with his thumb, his touch reverent.
“My beautiful girl,” he whispers. “My whole heart.”
A melody begins to form beneath his breath—something soft and wordless that you recognize from nights when sleep wouldn’t come, when anxiety gripped your throat. His chest vibrates with the sound, a lullaby composed of nothing but his love for you. Your consciousness begins to drift, the edges of your thoughts blurring like watercolours on wet paper. The scent of him—clean sweat and that cologne he’s worn since the day you met—wraps around you like a second blanket.
“I love you,” he whispers, his lips brushing your temple. “Happy anniversary, my love. I promise to make every one from now on better than the last.”
The words follow you down into darkness, a tether to the world you’re leaving behind. The future for the both of you still holds challenges—his career won’t become less demanding overnight, and you’ll both need to work to maintain the balance you’re rebuilding. But as Wooyoung’s arms tighten around you, as you feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, you know you’ll face those challenges together.
Because love isn’t about never making mistakes. It’s about having the courage to admit when you’re wrong, and the strength to keep trying, even when it’s hard. And as the morning light spills across the tangled sheets and your intertwined bodies, you know that’s exactly what you have—not a perfect love, but a real one.
baratheonpilled
dailybridgerton
titsay
theartofmadeline
yousharknotpass
