cw: sexual content, accidental nude, mutual pining, dirty texting
not proofread
──────────────────────
KUN
you didn’t even have time to process the horror.
a full nude. sent. to kun.
you: KUN I’M SO SORRY OH MY GOD PLEASE DELETE THAT
he was typing.
kun: you want me to pretend I didn’t see it?
you: YES. PLEASE. IT WAS AN ACCIDENT. I SWEAR.
kun: accident or not, it’s in my head now
kun: and now I can’t stop imagining your legs over my shoulders
you blinked. stomach dropping.
kun: next time, just call me over. I’d rather feel than see
TEN
you saw the notification and your soul left your body, you’d just sent your nude to ten.
you: OH MY GOD TEN PLS DELETE IT PLS IT WASN’T FOR YOU
ten: wow
ten: didn’t know you kept that kind of thing in your gallery
you: IT WAS AN ACCIDENT I SWEAR
ten: I liked the accident very much
ten: next time, let me help pose you, Ihave ideas and a camera
you were dead. fully, completely dead.
WINWIN
you realized the mistake before it even finished uploading. a full nude sent to winwin. fuck
he was online. and his reply came faster than you expected
winwin: wow
you: I swear it was an accident, I didn’t mean to send that to you, omg I’m so embarrassed
winwin: stop
winwin: you think I’m mad?
you didn’t know what to say.
winwin: I’m hard
you nearly dropped your phone.
winwin: now imagine what’ll happen if you show up at my place looking like that.
winwin: fyi, the door is unlocked
XIAOJUN
you saw his name and your stomach turned.
“photo sent to xiaojun.”
and before you could send him a message saying to not open the photo, your phone lit up.
Xiaojun. FaceTime
you froze. he saw it.
you answered with shaking hands.
“did you mean to send that?” he asked, voice low.
you opened your mouth, but no sound came.
he smirked.
“because if you did, you just ruined me. I’ve been hard since I saw it and I can’t stop imagining you laying here, naked, looking like you belong to me”
he tilted the camera slightly, just his boxers, and he was hard
“next time you want to tease me like that, be ready to finish what you start”
HENDERY
“photo sent to hendery”
great. hendery, from all people you sent accidentally to him
you didn’t even bother to say anything else, at this point, you were only expecting his exaggerated reaction
and the answer came quickly
hendery: oh
hendery: oh my fucking GOD.
hendery: why would you do that to me
you: OF COURSE I DIDN’T MEAN TO SEND TO YOU
hendery: I was literally drinking water and choked
hendery: this photo needs to be in a museum
hendery: or in my mouth idk
you: HENDERY
hendery: I’m not even joking, I’m painfully hard rn
hendery: wanna see it???
you: DO NOT DARE
too late. he sent you a photo. his hand holding his very hard dick
and you liked it
YANGYANG
you just sent your nastiest dirtiest nude to yangyang.
by accident.
perfect.
you: YANG PLEASE DON’T LOOK AT IT
you: DELETE IT
you: IT WASN’T FOR YOU OH MY GOD
yangyang is typing…
then he stops
yangyang is typing…
yangyang: ok but like
yangyang: why do you look so fuckable in it
you: IT WAS AN ACCIDENT
yangyang: my dick doesn’t think so
you: STOPPPP
yangyang: no because now I’m picturing you riding me with that exact look
just pro gamer!yangyang eating you (afab reader) out after winning an important game. no biggie.
being friends with benefits with pro gamer!yangyang was something you least expected to happen this year. you were just a mere supporter of your friend, kunhang, who happened to be on the same team with yangyang and then, this happened.
you shouldn’t be here, laying on his bed, underwear nowhere to be seen and yangyang deep into your womanhood, sucking the life out of you. they just won an extremely important game tonight and instead of attending the after party prepared by their staff, he chose to be with you.
excitement and lust flooded over his entire body, two slender fingers plunging deep inside your pussy as his tongue flickered your pussy, making you whimper in pleasure. “i-i should be the one serving you, y-yang… you’re the one that won,” you struggled forming a coherent sentence when he was so into eating you out but he didn’t care. “mmm… don’t care about it, doll. this is my prize. you are my prize,” was all he replied, still playing with your pussy the way he wanted to.
the sound of your womanhood squelching filled his entire room, the neon lights not helping with your current position–making him more aroused. “fuck, y/n. what would kunhang think if he saw us like this?” you can feel his annoying smirk over your mound. the thought of getting caught by your friend doing things with his teammate behind his back made you clench tightly on yangyang’s fingers, earning a small groan of approval from him.
“of course, you’d love that. maybe you’d like it if he joined, huh?” you could only nod, his fingers now curling deep into your g-spot, abusing it and roughly thrusting in and out. every enter of his fingers made you see stars. your eyes rolling behind your head, mouth agape, the knot in your stomach begging to be released. you were relentlessly grinding your hips to his whole face, your hands shoving his head even more close to your pussy. he can sense that you’re about to cum making his movements swift and direct, adding another finger to the sensation, earning another delicious moan from your lips. “hmm, that’s it. cum for me.”
# author's note … inspired by that one cute pic of a white cat covered in kisses and the fact that i did the same to my cat accidentally 😭
# warnings … mention of drinking n being drunk (as the title suggests lmfao), not proofread (are we surprised atp)
# word count ... 587
yangyang woke up, stretching slowly. he had a blurry memory of you coming back home in the middle of the night after hanging out with your friends. he only remembered, as if through fog, you stumbled in the corridor and then how you plopped onto the mattress, falling asleep right away.
he looked to his left and smiled upon seeing your still sleeping form. you had your makeup on, which imprinted on the pillow.
“ah, y/n” he shook his head and stood up, deciding to grab some makeup remover. yangyang didn’t even glance in the mirror - just straight up took the necessities.
on his way out coco swirled around his feet.
“one second baby, let me just clean up this big baby” he snickered and leaned to scratch the feline’s ear. his brows furrowed upon seeing a burgundy stain on its head.
yangyang’s heart dropped, thinking coco got hurt. he almost dropped the bottle he was holding but upon warranting a second look he realized it’s… a lipstick stain.
the shape of your lips. on coco’s white-furred forehead.
“morning, baby” your groan caused him to look up. he only smiled when he saw you rub your eye, smearing the mascara even more.
“hi, sleepyhead” yangyang hummed and joined you in the bed again, sitting at the edge next to you. he handed you the makeup remover and pointed at the pillow “did you have fun?”
“oh yeah. i think i broke a rib from all the laughing… it was good to hang out all together again. and, welp, drink… i drank so much… my head is about to explode, actually” you murmured, sending him a soft smile “i hope i didn’t wake you up when i came back home? i think i tried to be quiet”
he shook his head and scanned your features. you could see the amusement painted all over his face, ready to tease you about something.
“what? is it the makeup?” you asked, scoffing.
“no, no. it’s just that… i think you were a little too excited to see coco” he grinned and quickly grabbed the cat when it was strolling next to the bed. the feline meowed but snuggled against his chest.
only then you noticed the vermillion lipstick stain on coco’s head.
you started laughing and touched your lips, bare remains of yesterday’s makeup still on.
“i’m so sorry… i think, yeah. i don’t know, i forgot i had my lipstick on” you laughed and scratched coco’s head “how do we even get it off?”
“no idea… i guess i’ll have to look it up” yanyang laughed and put coco on the bed. the cat purred and sat, observing you two. especially it’s dad. he noticed the feline’s stare and started playing with it “whatcha looking at, hm?”
“well, she has a reason” you giggled and stood up, walking to the bathroom to take care of your face.
“i know i’m handsome–” he started nonchalantly.
“that’s not that” you interrupted him with a laugh.
yangyang furrowed his brows, confused. he stood up, joining you in the bathroom.
only then he saw his face. entirely covered in maroon colored lipstick stains. his nose, cheeks, forehead, chin. even one in the corner of his lips and under his left brow.
he felt blood rushing to his face, something quite… heartwarming about this sight. about the idea of coming home and just pepper-kissing his face with no control.
“you’re crazy” he whispered and traced one of the drunken souvenirs with a whipped smile.
Warning(s) - supernatural events, death, short scene in a hospital, some religious themes (demons and angels), smut, unprotected sex, p in v, fingering, oral (m receiving), multiple orgasms
Summary - A dare goes wrong, and now a smug, infuriatingly pretty demon is haunting your apartment and your dreams. Yangyang claims he’s your guardian, though nothing about him feels safe. You try to get rid of him, but he always knows exactly where to find you, each and every version of you.
Word Count - 9.0k
Author’s Note - This is the first installment of my WayV: Awaken The World Collection! I originally wanted to save this for October, but I got a little too impatient and wrote Yangyang’s piece so quickly I felt that I might as well post it now haha
Written for the Devil's Spawn Collab originally hosted by @/nctream. Part of my WayV: Awaken The World Collection.
Now playing: Turn Back Time - WayV, Monster - Red Velvet: Irene & Seulgi, Naughty - Red Velvet: Irene & Seulgi, Shadow - Taemin, Black Rose - Taemin
The neighborhood antique store was a tomb of forgotten things. Light filtered through warped glass in dusty stripes, catching on the yellowing edges of old book pages, dulled bronze picture frames, and porcelain figurines that stared with cracked eyes. It smelled of time, dust, beeswax, and something sweeter, almost spoiled, like pressed flowers long since dead.
You weren’t supposed to be here. You left your apartment late and spotted the shop on your way to class. You swear the shop wasn’t there last week, yet it looked like it had been there for decades. Regardless, you stepped in, almost as if the store had invited you in, a certain pull urging you inside.
Among the rows of tables and shelves, a single candle caught your eye. It was tucked behind a row of chipped salt shakers shaped like Victorian ghosts. The candle was a deep red, like dried blood. It stood tall, its wax smooth and untouched, yet the wick looked burnt. When you lifted it, the scent hit you all at once. Pomegranate and ash, honey and something metallically sharp. It made your head swim.
You bought it without thinking. The old lady at the counter didn’t ask questions. “Just happy to see an item get a new home,” she had said.
Your apartment was already too warm, heavy with the breath of late summer heat. Fans buzzed uselessly in corners, wine bottles clinked together on the kitchen counter, and half-melted candles leaned drunkenly in mismatched holders. Your friends sat scattered around the living room, slouched in various stages of buzzed and barefoot, legs thrown over each other, necks craned toward glowing phone screens.
The mood had turned rowdy an hour ago, drinks flowing faster than the conversation could keep up. Xiaojun, ever the instigator when tipsy, nudged Ten with a sly grin. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
“Which mythical creature would you let raw you?”
Everyone howled. Ten didn’t miss a beat. “A werewolf. Tall, repressed, dramatic. Just my type.”
Kun groaned and covered his face. “You guys are the reason I can’t take horror movies seriously anymore.”
“So?” Ten grinned. “Truth or dare, Winwin.”
“Dare.”
“I dare you to draw a summoning circle on the floor.”
You all hooted as Winwin grabbed a paper and pen from someone’s bag and started scribbling. The lines weren’t symmetrical. He even added a warped little smiley face in the center for good measure.
The red candle sat inconspicuously on your bookshelf, nestled between an old tarot deck and a plastic skull from last Halloween. You eyed it and brought it down onto the paper, lighting it without thinking, without ceremony. “For the ambiance,” you said. The flame bloomed tall, then steadied.
“Okay,” your friend Xiaojun grinned, cheeks flushed. “Truth or dare.”
You were three drinks in, tongue loose, body humming from a mix someone had made. “Dare,” you said.
Xiaojun leaned forward, elbow knocking over a half-full glass of wine across the coffee table. “Summon a demon.”
You snorted while leaning forward to clean up the spill. “Is that all?”
Ten pulled up a Reddit thread on his phone titled ‘Demon Summoning Spells That Totally Work (don’t try this at 3AM)’.
You laughed and read it out loud. It wasn’t even Latin, just a string of syllables that sounded like someone choking on poetry. You said it anyway, because why not? That’s what the night was for. To tempt fate, mock ghosts, drink too much, and feel invincible. You spoke the words with theatrical flourish.
Then the lights flickered. The candle flared. A chill dragged its fingers down your spine. One of the wine glasses cracked sharply, a fault line webbing through the glass like it had been struck from within.
You all screamed. Laughed. Clapped.
“Damn, that was good timing!” Hendery said, and you all cackled until it hurt.
But then you saw him.
He was already there, already part of the scene, like you had forgotten to notice him until now. He sat on one end of the couch, a spot that you were sure was previously empty, his legs spread wide as if it was his throne. He wore a smug half-smile on his face, teeth catching in the glow of the flickering candlelight.
He looked boyish and bored. The kind of handsome that made your stomach twist, not in attraction, but warning. He had an aura that suggested that he belonged in another time. That he knew things you didn’t.
“You really shouldn’t have done that,” he chided, his voice low and amused.
No one reacted. No one else even looked.
He raised an eyebrow at you. You blinked, thinking maybe it was just your eyes playing tricks. He was still there.
You didn’t scream. You didn’t run. Instead, you laughed, awkward and breathless, brushing it off as an illusion, a trick of the alcohol.
You turned to Kun. “Truth or dare?”
He blinked like you’d pulled him from another thought. “Truth.”
You thought fast. “If you had to be haunted by one supernatural being for the rest of your life, what would you pick?”
He tilted his head, considering. “A ghost. Preferably a quiet one that does minimal damage to my belongings.”
You laughed, the sound a little too high. “That’s fair.”
You watched as Ten reached for the nearly empty wine bottle, pouring the last of it into his cup. “Guys, we’re out of wine.”
Groans filled the room. Hendery was nearly asleep, half-curled on the carpet. The rest of them rallied together to clean up, lifting bottles and collecting stray corks. You hugged everyone goodbye at the door with a tired smile, laughing off the cracked glass incident and bad Latin with a theatrical bow.
But he was still there. Leaning against the kitchen island now, watching the scene like it was one he’s seen a thousand times before. On Winwin’s dilapidated summoning circle, the red candle burned tall, its wax unmelted.
When the door finally shut, the lock turned, and it was just the two of you. “I’m not drunk enough for this,” you muttered.
“You summoned me,” he said, voice smooth as satin, smugness laced behind every word. “Whether you meant to or not.”
“I didn’t summon anything,” you shot back. “It was a joke.”
His smile didn’t fade. “Not such a joke when I’m right in front of you.”
You crossed your arms across your chest. “Okay. What the hell are you?”
He stepped toward you—slow, like he had nowhere else to be, like time bent differently around him. “A demon,” he stated. “Sort of.”
“That doesn’t sound comforting.”
“It’s not supposed to. You summoned me, so now I’m here.”
“I was dared to read a spell on Reddit.”
He grinned. “And it worked.”
You scoffed. “You’re not real.”
He walked past you—solid, warm, real enough that the air stirred in his wake—and sat back on the couch. The candlelight reflected in his eyes.
“I’m Yangyang,” he said lightly. “And whether you believe in me or not doesn’t really change the fact that I’m here now.”
You stared. He stared back. “I’m not scared of you,” you said flatly.
He smiled wider. “That’s your first mistake.”
You shook your head, not saying a word to him. You went back into the kitchen and stacked the last of the glasses in the sink, and wiped the sticky rings off the coffee table with a dish towel.
The summoning circle was smeared now, warped under wine stains. You picked up the red candle, still burning, still perfect, not a drop of wax spilled, and pinched the flame out between your fingers. It should’ve hurt. It didn’t. The flame didn’t go out either.
Yangyang lingered in your periphery, half-shadow and half-smirk, leaning on the arm of the couch. You didn’t look at him.
“You’re really committing to this bit, huh?” you grumbled.
“Bit?” He responded with mock sarcasm. “You said the words. You brought me here.”
You ignored him. Turned off the lights. You climbed into bed without brushing your teeth and closed your eyes.
You didn’t see Yangyang follow you into your bedroom, but you felt him there anyway. It was like static in your sheets, like pressure behind your eyes, like the space beside you was more than just empty.
You buried yourself further under the blanket and told yourself it was just residual alcohol or perhaps a lucid dream. You would sleep it off.
The next morning, you woke up to the sound of your own shower running. For a moment, you thought one of your friends had stayed the night. Then you remembered ushering them out, the cracked glass, the candlelight, the boy on your couch. Yangyang.
You rose slowly, moving toward the bathroom door. It was open. Steam curled out in soft spirals.
And there he was, leaning lazily against the tiled wall, fully clothed, hair dry, arms crossed, watching you like you were the intrusion.
“What the fuck,” you breathed, stepping back.
Yangyang gave you a slow once-over. “Good morning to you, too.”
“Do demons have boundaries?”
He scoffed while walking past you out of the bathroom. “Do humans have any sense of gratitude anymore?”
You slipped in and slammed the door shut.
When you came out five minutes later, he was in the kitchen, legs swinging off the counter, eating a bowl of your cereal. Milk dripped from the corner of his mouth only the laminated marble.
You pointed at him. “You don’t live here.”
He held up the spoon, waving it around. “Could’ve fooled me.”
It didn’t stop at that.
He was in the corner of your room when you got dressed, face buried in a book he didn’t even seem to be reading. He hovered behind your shoulder while you typed on your laptop, occasionally commenting on your essay draft as though he were your professor.
“Your thesis is soft,” he quipped, lips brushing the rim of your coffee mug before taking a sip. “Your transitions are sloppy.”
You deleted a paragraph out of spite.
When you checked your Zoom screen for class, he didn’t appear. But at the end of class, when you turned off your laptop, you saw his reflection on the black surface of the screen—upside down, hanging from your ceiling like a bat.
“You’re not even trying to be subtle.”
“I could be worse,” he teased, suddenly blinking up at you from under your desk.
You nearly fell out of your chair.
After that, you started searching for banishment rituals between classes. You didn’t find much, just blogs from the early 2010s and a YouTube video titled ‘15 Ways To Know You’re Being Followed By A Demon (And How To Make It Leave)’ with a thumbnail of a shadowy figure and a memed terrified face.
You tried salt circles. You tried holy water that was really just tap water prayed over by your neighbor’s Catholic aunt. You even messaged a psychic on Yelp who specialized in ‘astral pests.’ She stepped into your apartment, took one look at Yangyang lounging on your couch in a plain t-shirt and joggers, and vomited in your sink.
“I don’t do infernals,” she whispered, wiping her mouth. “You’re on your own.”
Aside from that, the red candle never went out. You tried blowing it, snuffing it, even pouring water on it. The flame hissed and bent, but it always snapped upright again, stubborn and steady.
Yangyang watched you from the kitchen island, head tilted. “You’re really trying, aren’t you?”
“I’d like my personal space back.”
He smiled like he didn’t understand the concept of it.
“Why are you always so close?” you snapped one afternoon, voice sharper than you meant it. “You hover. You watch. It’s like you’re in my skin.”
Yangyang took a long breath, then stepped closer, slowly enough that you had time to stop him, but you didn’t. You felt his presence like pressure—behind your eyes, in your chest, beneath your ribs. It wasn’t quite touching, just proximity and awareness.
He leaned in, mouth near your ear. “You ask too many questions,” he whispered, his voice like smoke, soft and poisonous. “Curiosity is dangerous.”
You shivered. He laughed.
Not long after that, he started showing up outside the apartment. At first, you thought it was your imagination playing a sick joke on you. But then you saw him across campus, sitting beneath a tree near the library, sunglasses on, arms folded, expression bored.
He appeared again, in your class, sitting in a seat near the back of the lecture hall with an all-too-familiar smirk. The next time you looked over, he was gone.
When you left the building, feeling as if you might have finally been rid of his presence, there he was, leaning against the wall just outside the door.
“You’re so annoying,” you growled, speeding past him.
“That’s nice of you to say,” he replied, falling into step behind you.
That night, you lay on your bed staring at the ceiling, the candle flickering quietly on your windowsill. Then you felt the mattress shift.
“I can’t sleep if you’re watching me,” you said flatly, still staring at the ceiling.
“I’m not watching you.”
“You’re literally in my bed.”
“Correction. I’m on your bed.”
You rolled over to glare at him. He lay sprawled across the edge, face turned toward you, his head propped up on one arm, completely at ease.
There was a glitter of amusement in his eyes, but his voice had gone soft. “You summon me. I’m yours now.”
You stared at him. And for the first time, you let the words sink in.
Yours.
You sat cross-legged on the floor of your living room, remnants of party laughter and salt granules scattered on the carpet. The wax of a different candle had dripped down into a dish below in thick rivulets, pooling into shapes that almost resembled wings.
Yangyang lounged in the armchair, one leg thrown over the side, twirling your lighter between his fingers like it was a toy. His eyes never left you while you cleaned up tarot cards, picked up glasses, or even when you yawned, loud and obvious.
“I’m going to bed,” you muttered, brushing past him.
“I’ll be here,” he said simply.
You didn’t say goodnight or anything else, for that matter. You just climbed into bed, pulled the blanket over your body like armor, and pretended not to feel the weight of his presence behind the closed door.
Sleep came in jagged waves that night.
First, you dreamed of running barefoot down a marble hall that stretched too long, endless. Then Yangyang was there. He was dressed in something strange. White robes cinched at the waist with a golden thread that shimmered like sunlight underwater. There was a sword strapped to his back, and his eyes were filled with something darker than night.
When he reached for you, you slipped through the floor and woke up gasping, fingers curled in your sheets. After your breathing evened and your heartbeat steadied, you found that the apartment was quiet. Too quiet.
You stepped out of bed, and your foot brushed something brittle and blackened at the edge of the rug. You looked down.
Burn marks. A perfect half-moon of them, like something had been burned right at the foot of your bed. You knelt slowly and felt them. The edges of the fibers were still warm.
You didn’t scream. But your heart tried to.
At the windowsill, something pale fluttered, drawing your attention.
Feathers. Singed, charred around the tips, yet soft at the center. No bird in your neighborhood left feathers like that.
Later that day, when you stepped out of the shower and looked at the fogged mirror, there were streaks. You moved closer to look at them.
There, beneath the fog, were fingerprints. They dragged across the mirror like someone had leaned both palms against the mirror and sighed.
Your spine crawled. You turned around in the bathroom, looking for anything else unusual but found nothing.
When you brought everything up with Yangyang, he didn’t even look up from the book he was flipping through…upside down. “Could’ve been a cigarette ember,” he mused. “You know Winwin smokes sometimes.”
“That doesn’t explain the—”
“The mirror? You probably did it yourself before the water got hot enough.”
“And the feathers?”
He paused, then shrugged. “Maybe from your pillows. You’ve had that one for years, right?”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s just your mind playing tricks. Happens when you don’t sleep well.”
You stared at him, but he smiled like he had won something. But you let it go. For now.
Throughout that week, your dreams deepened. Each time you closed your eyes, Yangyang was there. Never the same but always him.
One night, he wore a suit—black, sharp, blood on the cuff. He stood in the middle of a ballroom floor, alone. The lights above spun in slow motion, but no one else was there. Just him, holding out his hand, the other hidden behind his back.
Another time, he was barefoot in the rain. His hair was soaked, his eyes red while he cried without sound. You ran into the rain and reached for him then, but your fingers passed through like water.
The worst was the one where he fell from the sky. He had wings, and they were burning. You screamed his name in your dream, but it didn’t sound like ‘Yangyang.’ It felt older, something full of salt and flame, but your throat gave shape to it anyway.
You woke up sweating. Above you, the ceiling bore new marks. Scorch marks in the shape of wings stretched outward above your bed. It was like the imprint of something massive and divine. Standing on your bed, you ran your fingers over the pattern, and they came back blackened with ash.
This time, you snapped.
“Okay. Seriously. What the fuck is going on?” You spat as you stood in the kitchen with your arms crossed, glaring at Yangyang.
He was stirring instant noodles like this was the most casual day of his life. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know what I mean. The dreams. The feathers. The scorch marks. The handprints. The ceiling. The thing you do when you show up in places and keep following me.”
He looked at you, unreadable. Then he smiled, just barely. “Weird things happen all the time. Doesn’t mean they have a reason for them.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m protecting you.”
That stopped you. “From what?”
Yangyang didn’t answer. He simply blew on the noodles and took a bite like it wasn’t your reality unravelling thread by thread.
You groaned and turned away, frustrated. “Fine. Whatever.”
And maybe that would’ve been the end of it, just another failed confrontation with the demon in your apartment, until you mentioned something else. “Oh, by the way, I ran into an ex on campus. It was odd seeing him again after so long. I didn’t know he still went to this school. He even texted me. Can you believe that?”
You didn’t even look at Yangyang at first. You were busy pouring yourself a cup of water. But Yangyang’s head had snapped up. His jaw was clenched.
“You didn’t block him?”
You turned to him, your head tilted in confusion. “Why would I?”
He didn’t answer right away. He stood there, tension simmering like smoke off a matchstick. “He made you cry. I remember that.”
“You weren’t even—”
“Doesn’t matter,” he interrupted. “You don’t even know what you are to me.”
You froze. “What?”
Yangyang’s eyes glowed. Not like fire, but like something older. Like something that remembers creation and loss. But by the next breath, it was gone. He blinked and smiled crookedly. “Forget I said anything.”
You didn’t. You couldn’t.
A few days later, you mention something else to him. “You know the old couple in the unit down the hallway?” you asked idly, eyes still on your phone.
“Yeah?”
“I haven’t seen them in weeks. But suddenly their lights are on. I didn’t get a notice about anyone moving out or in or anything like that.”
Yangyang stiffened. “They probably left. Happens all the time. You just didn’t notice,” he said too quickly, too easily.
You narrowed your eyes. “But I always notice. They were here before I even moved in.”
“Don’t make this a thing,” he muttered. “It’s nothing.”
“Don’t tell me to—”
“It’s nothing,” he repeated louder, already walking away.
You didn’t follow him. You just stood there, pulse quickening, wondering what you were missing.
You were starting to get used to him.
Yangyang, with his ridiculous habit of leaving your refrigerator open like the concept of condensation didn’t apply to him. Yangyang, with his lazy sprawl on your couch, flipping through your books, commenting on everything with that bored lilt that somehow made you want to throw something at him and kiss him all at once.
He was always around. Not quite human, not quite gone. Like static, like the buzz behind your thoughts, like the shiver that settled into your bones whenever he got too close.
You didn’t talk about what happened. The mirror, the burn marks, the way the air sometimes went still when he walked into the room, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
You almost convinced yourself you were imagining it all. Almost.
And yet, when sleep took you without warning, it felt like being pulled beneath velvet waters.
When your eyes opened, you were still in your apartment. But not really. The room was the same shape, but the walls were deeper somehow, lined in dark wood instead of paint. The floor was polished, gleaming faintly beneath your bare feet. Candlelight flickered on every surface, spilling honey-colored light across heavy drapes, gilded picture frames, and furniture that looked too ornate to exist in your real life.
It was warm and familiar. But not yours.
You turned—-because you felt him before you saw him.
Yangyang stood behind you, close enough that his breath stirred the wisps of hair at the nape of your neck. His hands ghosted up your sides, calloused fingers dragging slow paths just beneath your ribs.
“You don’t remember,” his voice trembling. “But I do.”
You tried to pivot and look around, but his hands held you in place, firmly. Like if he let go, everything would come undone.
“This place,” he murmured, nose brushing the curve of your shoulder, “was ours once.” There was something ruined in the way he said it.
You opened your mouth to ask what he meant, but he was already kissing you, soft and slow. His touch wasn’t hungry at first. His hands slid down your hips, then back up, fingers memorizing the shape of you like he had done it a thousand times and never got it quite right.
“I found you,” he breathed into your skin. “Every time. Even when I wasn’t supposed to.”
Your breath hitched. His mouth moved lower, and you reached for him instinctively, nails digging into his arms when he pressed you against the nearest wall. He wasn’t rough, nor was he gentle. It felt like his soul was tearing at the seam, and the only way to hold it together was this, the two of you tangled in something neither time nor death could erase.
The fabric between you added a strange kind of tension. You hadn’t noticed what you were wearing until his hands slid over it. Cotton, pleated, heavy with time. Something from another decade. The kind of thing you’d only seen in old photographs, oil paintings, or museum glass.
You gasped when Yangyang’s palm slid over your stomach, then lower. The fabric of your dress was old, threadbare, and thin, but it might as well have been soaked in water with the way his fingers glided across it. It clung to your body like it knew what was coming.
Yangyang’s suit jacket had been discarded somewhere between one breath and the next, his shirt half-unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled up his forearms like he had been preparing for this, for you. His hair was a little tousled, his gaze so dark it threatened to swallow you whole.
His hands worked their way up your sides again, slower this time, mapping the seam where cotton gave way to skin. He cupped your breasts over the fabric, thumbs brushing lazily over your nipples until the cotton grew warm under his touch. When he dipped his head, mouthing at your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, he did it like he had worshipped you in another life and was only now allowed to remember.
“That feels so good,” you whispered, breath catching as his teeth grazed a spot just above your heart.
“I know,” he said simply, dragging his palm between your thighs, pressing through the soft folds of your dress, heat finding heat. “I know everything you like. Even the things you’re afraid to ask for.”
The way his fingers found you under your dress felt like he had done it a thousand times before. Your body jerked when his thumb pressed against your clit firmly and his fingers ground slow, torturous circles on your folds through the barrier of your underwear. Your hips bucked forward, instinctively, wanting more.
“That’s it,” he exhaled, his tongue slipping into your mouth when you moaned. “Don’t hold back.”
You clung to him now, mouth open and panting into his throat. Yangyang didn’t stop. He reached under your dress, pushing it up past your hips with reverence and fever. When his fingers slipped under your panties and slid against your bare skin this time, it wasn’t just good. It was devastating. He circled your entrance with maddening patience, dragging his fingers through your slick folds like he was testing the depth of your want.
And then he sank two fingers into you. You cried out, breath catching in your chest. He groaned against your ear, the sound low and broken, like it hurt him to be inside you but hurt more not to be.
“You always feel like this,” he whispered. “Tight. Hot. Like you were made for me.”
Your knees trembled, and he pressed his body closer to keep you upright, one hand braced against your lower back as his other moved between your legs, fingers working in slow, merciless strokes. He curled them just right, dragging over a spot that made your vision blur.
You gasped again, shocked by how good it felt, how precisely he knew where to touch, how you were already tipping forward into ecstasy.
Yangyang shifted slightly, angling his fingers inside you while applying pressure to your clit with his thumb. It made your whole body jolt.
“There,” he murmured. “There it is.”
Your nails dug into his shoulders, desperate, grounding yourself in the flex of his muscle, the damp heat of his breath at your throat, the glide of his palm as it pressed flat against your pelvis, holding you there while he fucked you with his hand.
“I didn’t even know—” you tried, the words catching in your throat as pleasure began to build, your hips bucking into his forearm.
“I do,” he said. “I always know.”
Your breath stuttered, hips rolling in time with the slow, deliberate curl of his fingers. Each thrust grazed something inside you that made your pulse flicker like lightning behind your ribs, like your body had been waiting for this exact touch to remember what it meant to burn.
Yangyang knew just how to move. When to press deeper, when to draw back, when to drag his fingers in a languid arc that made your thighs shake. His thumb moved in tight, patient circles, not rushed, not careless, but focused like he had all the time in the world and none of it went to waste.
You whined softly, the sound catching on your tongue as your head fell against his shoulder. Everything else fell away, and there was only the slick drag of his fingers, the weight of his body grounding yours, and the heat coiling tighter in your gut.
“Just like that,” he murmured, voice rough and close, like thunder caught in a storm cloud. “Let go for me.”
You tipped over the edge in a slow, cresting wave, one that broke again and again as your walls pulsed around Yangyang’s fingers, drawing them deeper, clenching like your body never wanted to let him go. You moaned against the exposed skin of his neck, desperate and unrestrained, the sound swallowed by the curve of his neck and the press of his lips against your hairline.
Your legs gave out first, but Yangyang caught you and held you through the aftershocks, his hand firm at your back while his fingers stayed nestled deep inside you, steady and unyielding as your body shook.
“There you are,” Yangyang whispered, as if he’d been waiting lifetimes for this moment. His thumb slowed, drawing the last threads of pleasure out of you like silk from a spool.
Your pulse thrummed against his chest, heart still climbing down from its peak. Sweat pooled at the base of your spine, your muscles slack, every nerve lit up and undone.
Yangyang didn’t pull away. He cradled you through it, still moving soothingly between your legs like a vow, as if to remind you he'd been there and that he was still there. That he always would be.
Then something in you shifted. A current ran beneath your skin as desire kindled again in the quiet space between ecstasy and hunger. His mouth brushed your cheekbone, then your jaw. You turned toward it instinctively, catching the soft tremor in his breath before his lips claimed yours.
This kiss wasn’t careful. It unleashed something from inside of you.
You found yourself dragging him with you, one hand fisting in the collar of his shirt, the other tracing blindly along the hallway. There were no words for the ache building again between you, only the thud of your heart and the shuffle of desperate limbs as he backed you toward the bedroom.
Somewhere along the way, your dress slipped off your shoulders. Yangyang’s shirt hit the floor. Your panties were tugged down with shaky hands, and his pants followed, kicked off without grace. It didn’t matter. You fell into the bed fully bare, limbs tangled, skin pressed against skin like you were trying to remember a body you had forgotten in a past life.
The sheets bunched beneath you, and his thighs slid between yours. Your palms roamed his torso, memorizing the lines and heat of him with greedy fingertips. You felt him shudder as you pressed your lips to the center of his chest, just over his heart, then lower.
Yangyang let you guide him to his back, his breath catching as you slipped down his body and between his legs. You looked up at him once, and what you saw there in his eyes wasn’t lust. It was longing. Fierce. Ancient. Unhidden.
You let your gaze linger on him for a moment longer—on the rise and fall of his chest, the tremble in his abdomen, the way his lips parted like he was already halfway gone. Your fingers trailed down his torso, light at first, teasing, until they wrapped around the base of his hardened length with a grip that felt familiarly confident.
You stroked him slowly, savoring each movement, intentional and precise. Yangyang let out a sound that was low and broken, like it had been punched from the center of his chest. Your hand glided from base to tip, twisting just slightly at the top, thumb brushing the sensitive underside where he throbbed hardest. The heat of him pulsed against your palm, heavy and alive, and each roll of your wrist seemed to unravel him further.
He threw an arm over his eyes, exhaling sharply. “Fuck—”
You wanted to hear more. Needed to.
You dipped your head, letting your tongue trace a single line up the length of him. A flick, then a swirl, then a kiss to the flushed tip. He jolted, his hips bucking up like his body couldn’t help but chase the warmth of your mouth. You wrapped your lips around him, slow and sure, and took him inch by inch until your mouth was full, jaw stretched wide.
Yangyang’s hips tensed beneath you. His hand flew to his sides, clutching the sheets.
You moved with grace, but not gentleness. There was desire behind it, a rhythm that felt instinctive, practice in another life. Your lips slid up and down in steady bobs, hollowing your cheeks just enough to make him groan. One hand steadied the base of cock, twisting with each descent of your mouth, while the other pressed against his thigh to keep him grounded as he writhed beneath you.
“That…fuck, that feels—” he gasped, voice cracking, wrecked. He couldn’t finish his sentence. His head fell back, neck arched, throat bared. He looked divine like this, unraveling under your touch, lost in you.
You moaned softly around him, just to feel the way he twitched in response, how his hips jerked upward despite himself. Your pace quickened, slick and controlled, your lips dragging down to where your hand met your mouth, and up again with a soft pop that made him curse like he was praying.
Yangyang’s hand found your hair, weaving through and trembling as you continued. You watched the way his body arched, the way his abdomen tightened, and his thighs tensed. You knew that edge. He was close. Too close.
Suddenly, his fingers tightened in your hair, and he pulled you off, breathless. “Wait, wait—”
You let him go with a soft drag of your lips, glancing up just in time to see the flicker of panic in his eyes, drowned quickly by something else, something raw. He surged upward and flipped you both in one smooth, fluid motion. Now he was above you, flushed and panting, absolutely wrecked. His hair was a mess of gold shadows, sweat pearling along his temple, his pupils blown so wide that the brown was almost gone.
He didn’t speak. He just stared down at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Then he lowered himself slowly, deliberately, until the weight of him pressed against your center, hot and heavy, his cock sliding between your folds. He didn’t slip inside, not yet, only gliding through the mess you’d both made of each other, wet and silken.
You felt the smear of your arousal over him, mixed with the dampness that clung to your thighs and his abdomen. The friction made you cry out softly, your hips arching up to meet his.
Yangyang’s breath hitched. His body trembled like restraint cost him something. “You’re so wet,” he groaned. “You always were.”
He rocked forward, dragging the head of his cock along your clit in a slow, deliberate grind. You gasped, your thighs instinctively trying to close around him, but he pressed them open with a gentle firmness, keeping you spread open for him.
“Feels like you missed me,” he murmured, amused and awed all at once. “Tell me how much you want this.”
You whined, rolling your hips to match his pace. “Please.”
He grinned faintly, but it was tight with control. “Tell me what you want, baby.”
You almost sobbed. “I want your cock. I need it.”
“You need it?” He echoed, grinding harder. “Say it again.”
“Please, Yangyang—fuck—please, I need your cock, I need you inside me—”
That did it. He aligned himself, sliding just the tip in. The stretch made your back arch as your body opened for him easily, like it had always been his. Like you’d been waiting for this, for him.
“You take me so well,” he moaned, pushing deeper, inch by inch. “You always do.”
It felt impossibly good, familiar in a way that made your chest ache. The stretch, the weight, the slow push forward until he was buried to the hilt inside of you. Your body clenched around him like you didn’t want to let him go. It felt as if you had done this before. Many times.
You whined his name, barely audible. Yangyang stilled for a heartbeat, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged. “Fuck, I’ve missed this. You have no idea.” Then he started to move.
His hips rolled into you with a rhythm that felt almost ritualistic, like he was savoring every stroke, every clench of your walls around him. His mouth was everywhere. Your neck, your collarbone, your breasts, your shoulder, your jaw. Kissing, tasting, worshipping.
“You’re perfect,” he murmured against your skin. “You’ve always been perfect for me.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. Each thrust stoked a fire in your core, but it wasn’t enough. “I want more,” you whispered, breath hot against his ear. “Harder.”
His breath caught, and then he gave you exactly what you asked for. His hips snapped forward, deeper and rougher now. But even like this, there was an intimacy about it.
Yangyang knew your body like a second language, like he’d written poetry in the curve of your spine and memorized the sound of your moans. His rhythm grew frantic but never careless, hitting the spot inside you that made you see stars.
You cried out, fingers digging into his shoulders, holding on as he fucked you like he was trying to remind you of something, as if this was a reunion and not the first time.
He swallowed every sound you made with his mouth, kisses messy and open and hungry. “I know you,” he growled into your ear. “I know this body. I know how you fall apart.”
You felt your pleasure building again, fast, sharp, inevitable. Every snap of his hips, every praise spilling from his lips, every heated drag of skin against skin, it pulled you closer to the edge.
Yangyang’s pace turned relentless. He buried his face in your neck, panting, groaning your name like it was a vow. “I’m right here,” he murmured. “Let go for me.”
And just as your body began to shatter again, just as pleasure surged up through your spine like a storm, you saw it. The flicker of gold light. The blur of candle shadows.
Your eyes flew open.
The air felt different. The scent of your own sheets filled your lungs, and the familiar warmth of your apartment surrounded you like a second skin. Your heart pounded in your ears as the last waves of your orgasm rippled through you, the aftershocks thrusting you fully back into reality.
But Yangyang was still here, hovering over you. Solid. Hot. Panting. His pupils were blown wide, his lips parted, his chest heaving like he’d just run miles to get to you. The dream might have shattered, but he hadn’t vanished.
And here, in your own bed, in your own space—something inside you shifted.
You pushed at his chest, and his brows furrowed, confused, until he was lying on his back as you straddled his hips, planting your knees on either side of him. His cock, still slick from you, pressed against your folds. You rolled your hips slowly, dragging your wetness along his length, coating him in your juices.
Yangyang’s breath hitched, his hands curling into the sheets beside him like he didn’t dare touch you. His voice cracked when he spoke. “Fuck, don’t tease me.”
You smiled, lazy and wicked. “You made me beg for this earlier.” You rocked against him again, slower this time, letting your clit catch on the head of his cock. “Your turn.”
His head tipped back with a groan that sounded like surrender. “Please…” His eyes met yours, glassy and desperate. “Please, I need your pussy. I need to be inside you.”
You didn’t make him wait long. Lifting just enough to line him up with your heat, you sank down in one smooth motion until he was buried to the hilt. The stretch made your breath stutter, but the sound that tore from Yangyang’s throat nearly undid you.
His hands shot to your hips like he was afraid you’d disappear. He sat up suddenly, chest pressed to yours, arms banding tight around your waist. His face was buried in your neck, and that made you realize—he was shaking.
When you pulled back to look at him, you saw the tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. “Yangyang…” you started, but he shook his head quickly.
“Don’t—” His voice broke, rough and urgent. “Just…please. Keep going.”
You could have pressed, but something in his tone, fragile but commanding, made you move instead. You found a rhythm easily, your hips rolling in a way that felt less like improvisation and more like memory.
The way you moved on him was slow filth, deliberate and precise, dragging him out nearly to the tip before sliding back down, clenching around him until his jaw locked. Every rise and fall made his breath stutter, his grip on your hips tightening as he lay back.
Whatever restraint he had been holding onto snapped. His hips began thrusting up into you, meeting each grind with enough force to make the headboard tap against the wall. One of his hands slid to the small of your back, holding you down so he could drive into you harder, like he was chasing something just out of reach.
“Fuck—” His voice was hoarse now, the words coming in fragments. “I’m gonna—”
You clenched around him just as he came, his hips rocking up desperately as if he could reach impossibly deeper, burying himself in you with each pulse. His forehead pressed to your shoulder, his moans muffled against your skin, his whole body trembling as the last of it shuddered through him.
When his breathing finally slowed, he didn’t let go. If anything, his arms only tightened, keeping you locked against him as if letting you go might break him entirely.
And yet there was still that glint in his eyes. That thing he wasn’t telling you.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The silence felt thick. The only sounds were the fading echoes of your ragged breathing and the faint hum of adrenaline in your ears.
Yangyang finally loosened his grip enough to let you shift, though his hands lingered like he was reluctant to let you go. His gaze swept over you—messy hair, glowing skin, the faint tremble in your thighs—and his expression softened.
Without a word, he reached over to your nightstand, pulling a tissue from the box. His touch was careful as he cleaned you, swiping gently at the warmth spilling from between your legs. You shivered, not from the chill, but from the way he was looking at you, like you were something precious he didn’t want to lose.
When he finished, he tossed the tissue aside and sat back, searching your face. “Do you…want me to go?”
The question was quiet, but it made something twist in your chest. “No.”
He eased, just a fraction, but it was enough for you to see. He lay down beside you without another word.
You turned toward him, reaching out until your fingers found his shoulder. You tugged lightly, and he came willingly, tangling his body with yours. His warmth bled into you, steady and grounding.
Your eyes grew heavy almost immediately. The last thing you felt before sleep pulled you under was the slow rise and fall of his chest, his breath ghosting over the curve of your neck.
It must have been moments, or centuries, until you opened your eyes. The room was still yours, but not. The walls looked softer, shadowed in a different century’s dust.
You blinked, and the ceiling curved into an unfamiliar arch. Candlelight spilled across the floorboards, the faint scent of incense threaded through the air.
A single chair sat by the bed, and in it, Yangyang, dressed in white so pale it seemed to ward away the dark. His hair fell loose, catching the light. There was something unearthly in the way he looked at you, as if he had been watching for days, afraid to leave.
Your chest ached—not from illness, though your breath came shallow—but from the weight in his eyes. You saw it then, the knowledge that this was the end of this version of you.
When he spoke, his voice was both a prayer and a rebellion. “I’ll find you again.”
Your vision flickered. Candlelight fractured into shards, as though the room were made of glass and someone had tapped it.
In one shard, you saw yourself lying in a hospital bed, plastic tubes whispering in and out of your skin. His hair was shorter there, his hands trembling as he smoothed a blanket over you. In another, you were beneath an oak tree, your blood blooming into the dirt while he knelt beside you, feathered wings curled tight to hide you from the sky.
In every vision, the ending was the same. His hand on yours. His eyes lit with something stubborn and breaking. And then—
The punishment.
Wings torn away. A body cast down. A life stripped to begin again in a different shape.
The shards kept turning, each one another life, another loss. The pattern was so clear it hurt. Love, separation, the slow, relentless finding of each other. Always too late. Always in pieces.
Somewhere between the shifting visions, you felt his real hand—the one in this life—tighten over yours. A tether. A vow that even if the glass broke a thousand more times, he’d step through every shard to reach you.
The images in the shards shifted. No longer ancient lives, but your own streets. Your own nights.
You saw yourself walking home last winter, hands buried in your coat pockets, snow grinding under your boots. A shadow trailed a few steps behind, a stranger whose pace matched yours. But then Yangyang was there, slipping between you and them, his head tipped just enough for the stranger to falter. You couldn’t hear the words, but you saw the fear in their movements before they turned and left.
In another shard, it was the night you left the school library well after the sun had set, your phone buzzing with messages from an ex who had never taken ‘no’ very well. You were convinced you were alone on the walk home, until the faint rustle of leaves behind you. You remember dismissing it as the wind. But here, in the vision, you saw Yangyang emerge from the shadows, his hands balled into fists. And behind him, white feathered figures, too bright to be human.
The visions came faster. Yangyang’s palms slamming into your bathroom mirror so hard the glass cracked into spiderwebbed pieces, leaving two burned handprints searing into the surface as a winged figure dragged him back. White feathers drifted from them onto the floor of your bathroom, your bedroom, and out onto the windowsill.
Yangyang’s eyes had always been on you. Not in the way of someone watching from afar, but in the way of someone holding a line that no one else could see. Fighting things you didn’t know existed. Bleeding for a life you didn’t know was in danger.
Your throat tightened, the truth crystallizing in you like ice spreading through glass. You weren’t just meeting Yangyang now. You had always known him. In every version. Every city. Every life. And every time, the end had found you.
And it was finding you now.
The last shard shivered, edges glowing like embers. You leaned closer without meaning to, pulled toward the vision as if it could burn its way into you. The image swelled, filling your sight until there was no edge, no glass, only your bedroom. The present.
You were there, lying tangled in the sheets, your skin bare against Yangyang’s. His breath moved over your shoulder, his hand still clasping yours. Outside the window, the sky boiled with light, a golden storm swallowing the horizon filled with silhouettes of wings—dozens, maybe hundreds—-closing in.
Then you blinked, and the vision was gone.
The heat of Yangyang’s hand on yours was real. The smell of candle smoke was real. Yet as you looked around, the ceiling above you pulsed, breathing like a living thing. Your apartment was folding in on itself, the walls bending as if trying to push toward him.
Yangyang’s skin caught the shifting light, and for the first time, you saw the mark below his collarbone, faint but unmistakable. A brand, shaped like the summoning circle from that night with your friends, glowing through his skin as though it had been carved into his soul.
The truth settled over you heavy and undeniable. You weren’t drunk that night. The candle hadn’t been an accident. You were always going to call him.
You understood now what he was, and what he had done. He was a guardian angel. Yours. Who had broken rules to save you, not once, but over and over, until heaven itself had torn him from its ranks.
“I told you I wasn’t scared,” you whispered, the memory tasting different now, less naïve, and more like a dare you hadn’t known you were making.
His gaze met yours, something in it sharp and unbearably tender. “That,” he began, “was your first mistake.”
The walls trembled. A feather drifted through the window, not white, but blackened at the edges.
He drew you in closer, the mark on his chest burning brighter between you. “I didn’t fall for power. I fell so I could stay.”
Your lips parted to answer, but fate beat you to it. A crack split the room, not in the floor or the walls, but in the very air between you. The sound was sharp, like ice breaking on a frozen lake.
The red candle on the nightstand stretched upward, its flame elongating into a twisting column of gold and shadow. The scent of lightning threaded through the smoke, stinging the back of your throat. Shadows moved along the walls, whispering in a language you didn’t know, yet the syllables felt like they belonged to your bones.
“You feel it,” Yangyang murmured, his voice tight. He wasn’t looking at the candle, or the walls, or the crackling light flooding in through the window. He was watching you. As though if he kept his gaze steady enough, it could hold you in this moment, in this room, in this life.
He closed his eyes briefly, like the words he would say next hurt him to do so. “You’re breaking us apart.”
“Me?”
“You’ve always been my constant,” he began, almost a confession, almost an apology, “but it’s not supposed to be like this. You’re torn between timelines. Your lives are stacking, bleeding into each other. The more you remember me, the faster it unravels. And if I don’t go back—”
His voice faltered, and for the first time, you saw fear in his eyes.
“If you don’t go back, what?” you demanded.
“Then I’ll finish what I started, but we won’t survive it.”
Another crack tore through the walls. This time, you saw a fissure of light, widening, pulling at the room like a tide. The ceiling sagged toward it, then the walls, the floorboards, even the bed frame groaning as though gravity itself was changing direction.
You clutched his arm, nails digging into his skin. “Don’t you dare—”
“I have to,” he cut in, his voice breaking around the edges. “I have to go back to the celestial plane. I have to fix what I broke when I fell for you.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles, almost tender. “They’ll assign you a new guardian. One who won’t…” His jaw clenched. “On who won’t fall in love with you.”
The words hit you like a physical blow. “No.” You shook your head, as if the sheer motion could stop him. “No, I don’t want anyone else. I don’t want—”
He smiled then, and it was the most devastating thing you had ever seen. Gentle. Resigned. “You were worth it,” he assured. “Every time.”
The fissure above you cracked wide open like lightning. The room convulsed, shadows on the walls screaming now, the candle flaring high enough to lick the ceiling. The mark on his chest blazed like a star about to collapse.
You barely had time to breathe before they came—white-winged silhouettes pouring through the rift in a flurry of blinding light and rushing wind. Their faces were hidden behind veils, but their presence pressed against you like the weight of an ocean.
Yangyang’s arms encircled you, holding you tight for a second, then two until they were pulling him away. Not cruelly, but with the inevitability of the tide reclaiming what had strayed too far from shore.
You fought to hold on, nails scraping on him, your voice breaking. “Yangyang—”
His forehead pressed to yours, shaking with something more than fear. “Maybe in another version, I get to stay.”
The light claimed him, peeling him away from your grip, from your bed, from this life. You watched as he unraveled into golden dust, scattering into the rift as it closed until there was nothing left but the echo of his warmth on your skin.
And then—
Silence.
Your ceiling was still, your apartment whole again. No wings, no rift, no trace of him. For a moment, you almost believed you had dreamt it all. That it had been nothing more than exhaustion, too many nights away studying, too much loneliness bleeding into your imagination.
Almost.
Because on the floor was a faint patch of burned carpet in the shape of the mark on his chest. Because the scent of smoke lingered, warm and metallic. And because, on your nightstand, the red candle finally went out, wax finally melting down, wick finally charring.
Autoplay: If you liked this, you may also like Regular - H.Hendery
synopsis: yangyang wins you a plushie at an arcade and names it after himself. at first, it’s just a joke but he lowkey gets jealous when you cuddle it too much. turns out, he was using it as an excuse to get closer to you, and he finally confesses.
wc: 829
genre: fluffyyy
You never expected the day to go like this.
Yangyang was the one who suggested going out. Nothing big just walking around, getting snacks, doing nothing together. Those were the kind of days he liked most. No plans, no loud places. Just you and him, wandering around until the sky turned orange.
It was your idea to stop by the little arcade near the corner. You liked the lights. He liked the silly games. The place wasn’t busy, just a few kids and someone eating soft noodles near the back. You both drifted from machine to machine, laughing, losing, laughing more.
Then you saw the claw machine. You paused in front of it, pointing through the glass. There was a little bear inside, tucked in the corner light brown with a floppy head and a tiny smile.
Yangyang leaned down beside you.
“You want it?”
You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at it. It reminded you of something small and sleepy. It was cute. You liked cute.
Before you could say yes, he was already pulling coins from his pocket.
“I’ll win it for you,” he said.
You smiled, but your voice was teasing.
“You really think you can?”
He glanced at you with that grin half cocky, half playful. “I’m lucky when you’re watching.”
The claw dropped.
Missed.
Twice.
Then three times.
You were trying not to laugh, but he was talking to the machine like it could hear him.
“Don’t embarrass me,” he whispered to it. “She’s watching.”
On the fourth try, the claw actually caught the bear. Wobbly and slow, it pulled it up and over and barely dropped it into the prize chute.
“HA!” he shouted, way too loud for how small the bear was. “See? Told you.”
He grabbed it and turned toward you, holding it out like a gift. But then paused.
“Actually,” he said, “I’m naming it after me.”
You blinked. “What?”
“It’s me now. A mini version. So technically I’m giving you me.”
You stared at him. He kept going, clearly nervous now. “Like, now you can cuddle me whenever. Or yell at me if I’m not there. He’s me. So be nice to him, okay?”
He pushed the bear into your arms and walked away before you could say anything, muttering, “Just don’t forget he’s me.”
That night, the plushie slept beside you. You didn’t plan it, really. You were just lying there, and it was already in your hands. You looked at it for a while, then turned your head and tucked it under your arm.
The next morning, Yangyang texted you.
“Did he behave?”
“No talking back?”
“He snores, I’m warning you.”
You sent him a picture of the plushie sitting on your pillow.
“He took your spot.”
“Too late to take him back.”
Yangyang didn’t answer for a while.
But when he did, it was just:
“Don’t let him fall in love with you too.”
Weeks passed.
The plushie started showing up in your photos. You didn’t mean to include it, but it was always there—in your bed, on your desk, beside your juice box, hiding in your hoodie sleeve. You started calling it “Yang.”
Yangyang didn’t say anything at first.
Then one day, he came over. Late afternoon, golden sunlight peeking through the blinds. You were curled up on your couch, half asleep, the plushie tucked under your chin.
He sat beside you quietly. Didn’t say anything right away. Then, softly, he lifted the plushie out of your arms and looked at it.
“He’s getting a little too comfy,” he said.
You smiled, eyes barely open. “He’s warm.”
“I can do better than warm.”
Yangyang set the bear down gently, then pulled the blanket back and slid beside you. He didn’t ask.
He just settled in slowly, his arm brushing yours, his hand close but not touching.
“Hey,” he whispered after a moment.
You hummed in response.
“That plushie thing,” he said. “It wasn’t just a joke.”
You turned your head, eyes meeting his.
“I think I gave it to you because I wanted to give you something of me. But then I started getting jealous of it. ‘Cause you hug it like you’d hug me. And you smile at it. And sometimes I think… maybe you like him more than me.”
You stared at him, heart softening.
“Do you?” he asked, voice a little smaller.
You shook your head. “No.”
He let out a breath like he’d been holding it for hours.
You turned your body toward him. “You can stay tonight.”
He blinked. “You sure?” You reached out and pulled his arm around you.
“Yeah,” you said. “But only if I get the real thing. Not the plushie version.”
Yangyang smiled so gently it made your chest ache.
“Deal.”
That night, you didn’t need the bear.
The real one held you tighter than any stuffed animal ever could. And this time, when you fell asleep, he was still there in the morning.
genre fluff , established long term relationship , yangyang x fem!reader cw they're so in love , kissing , not proofread wc 918 request yes note guys im so single im so sorry for how disgustingly fluffy this is but me and my boyfriend when net @kstrucknet @neocity-net
You’d been dating Liu Yangyang for years, more than you could truly keep track of until your anniversary rolled around each year. You were always together, and easily had one of the most stable relationships of your entire combined friend group. While you nursed your friends through breakups, drama, or shitty treatment, you always had Yangyang to fall back to. Yangyang, who you never had any problems with.
Sure you had your occasional fight and disagreements, but they never lasted. Even if you were annoyed at Yangyang, whenever you looked at him, you could only feel love overflowing. Perhaps it helped that there was rarely a serious moment between you two. Even in the most romantic and sentimental moments, there would always be something to crack you up.
Laughing until your stomach hurt— that was the feeling you most associated with your boyfriend. More than his soft kisses, or his teasing ones. More than his warm hugs and spontaneous tickle attacks. More than his big grin and endless compliments. When you were with Yangyang, you always found yourself laughing. And that was what made you believe he was meant for you, and you for him more than anything. Soulmates, if one believed in such things.
You would always be the first one to jump to defend your boyfriend and gush about how amazing he was. But even so, you weren’t clingy. Yangyang was always the one to latch onto you and refuse to let you go or smother you with kisses after a long day hours apart. You were just there to reciprocate the affection you initiated. You never felt like you weren’t close enough to Yangyang because he was always with you.
But when it came to tours when your boyfriend was in an entirely different country for weeks, sometimes months; that was when you started to struggle. You weren’t used to experiencing the feeling so intensely. Like the second he was back you needed to crawl into his skin and make a new home there. It felt as if you would explode if you saw another photo or video from one of the concerts.
He was always styled to perfection; charisma and flirty looks on for everyone to see during the 3 hour show. But there was always the goofy side of him that came out as well— clips of him giggling on stage, excited to see fans or having fun doing a segment with the other members. Those were worse than the sexy moments, because it reminded you of how much you missed his laugh. You missed laughing with him.
Of course, you could call him. But you never laughed as much on video call with him. And it certainly never felt the same as laughing in his arms. Feeling his body shake with his giggles, or your laughter being cut off with his lips. Even if he didn’t say he missed you when he called you (which was rare— he was always complaining about it), you could hear it in his held back laughter. Something always felt missing when you weren’t together.
That was why you impatiently counted down the days until he would be back from tour and back in your arms. Then you truly wouldn’t hold back. You needed to hug him so tight that your arms would feel sore, and kiss him until you forgot what it felt like to not have his lips entangled with yours. You needed to feel his warm skin under your fingertips and hear the melodious laughter that only you could summon from him so easily. You had never missed your boyfriend so damn much, and you were almost positive the feeling was going to drive you insane.
Naturally, you decided to wait by the door the entire morning, biding the time until your boyfriend walked through it, as if staring at it would make him come back any faster. You could track his location on your phone. You saw it clearly state thirty minutes more before he was back. But you stared nonetheless, counting down the seconds to curb your longing.
You held your breath when you heard the car pull up, time going unbearably slow until the door opened. Then everything was a blur— moving too fast for you to process as your heart soared. His scent enveloped your senses. His arms around your body squeezed you perfectly.
And then he laughed. It brought your own laughter to bubble up immediately and soon you were lost in the feeling you had missed more than anything else.
“Fuck, I missed you so much. I missed this so much,” he said, nose scrunching along with his big grin as he took a moment to soak you in again. His eyes, deep and full of love, could not be moved from your face. You watched them drift down to your lips, and you leaned up naturally, meeting him halfway.
His lips were as soft as ever, desperate to memorize the kiss like he had never experienced it before in his life. Weeks deprived of the feeling made it even sweeter now. You knew you both wouldn’t be content until your lips were swollen and the taste of his lip balm stayed on your tongue for the rest of the day.
Now that Yangyang was finally back home, you wanted to stay in his arms for hours. And after the hours flew by and drowsiness crept onto you both, you would fall asleep still cuddled close to him.
wayv taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @kangtaehyunzzz,, @eternalgyu,, @lexeees,, @nyukyusnz,, @planetkiimchi,, @sobun1est,, @bananabubble,, @talkingsaxy,, @thesunsfullmoon,, @chenleszone,, @cupidslovearrows,, @hursheys,, @raevyng,, @loserlvrss,, @lexeees,, @voikiraz,, @xikskrrrs,, @cupidslovearrows,, @nicholasluvbot,, @hhaechansmoless,, @i03jae,, @somerandomf1fan,, @tmrwsuns
[9.18] Yangyang had this way of making everything feel like a dance, a perfect rhythm only the two of you could hear, something none of your exes were able to do. Tonight was no different. The dim glow of the living room lamp bathed the space in warmth as the two of you sat on the couch, your legs tucked beneath you while his arm rested casually along the backrest.
“Admit it,” he teased, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “You thought I was annoying when we first met.”
“I didn’t say that,” you replied, your voice light but your cheeks warming.
“You didn’t have to.” He shifted slightly, leaning closer, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief. “It was written all over your face. You looked like you wanted to smack me.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Fine. Maybe I thought you were a little annoying. But now…”
His eyebrow arched, waiting. “Now?”
“Now you’re just tolerable,” you teased, though your heart fluttered when his grin widened.
“Two months of dating and just tolerable, huh?” he murmured, his voice dropping just enough to make you aware of how close he’d gotten. His fingers brushed lightly against yours, his touch deliberate but teasing, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.
The air shifted. The playfulness that had always defined your relationship was still there, but it was mingled with something deeper, something unspoken but undeniable, something different from the usual softness, it felt more intimate.
“Can I test that theory?” he asked softly, his voice laced with something that sent shivers down your spine. Your breath caught. “Test what?”
“If I’m really just tolerable… or if maybe you like me a little more than that.”
Before you could answer, he leaned in. His lips brushed yours so lightly that it was barely a kiss, a question lingering in the touch. You responded instinctively, closing the small distance between you and pressing your lips more firmly against his.
Yangyang didn’t hesitate after that. His hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face slightly as he deepened the kiss. He tasted of the peppermint tea you’d shared earlier, and his lips moved against yours with a mix of softness and urgency that left your head spinning.
Your hands found their way to his shoulders, gripping lightly as he shifted closer, his body angled toward yours. His fingers tangled in your hair, sending sparks along your scalp as the kiss grew more heated, more desperate.
Desperate wasn't enough to describe what he felt at the moment; he needed you, he craved you. The way his tongue licked across your bottom lip or the way he groaned and pushed you more against him when he finally felt the warmth of your tongue on his... he wasn't stopping anytime soon.
It was intoxicating—the way he kissed, the way he seemed to lose himself in you as if nothing else in the world mattered.
When you finally broke apart, your breaths mingling as you tried to catch them, Yangyang rested his forehead against yours, a lazy smile playing on his lips.
“Well?” he asked, his voice slightly raspy. “Still just tolerable?”
You rolled your eyes, though the blush on your cheeks gave you away. “Fine. Maybe you’re a little better than tolerable.”
“A little?” He chuckled, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek. “Guess I’ll have to keep trying.”
He kissed you again, softer this time, his lips lingering against yours as if he couldn’t quite get enough. And maybe he couldn’t.
author's note: guess who's back from the dead! long story short i've been booked and busy, and since i started this blog purely to post if and when i have an idea and/or inspiration, i didn't want to push myself to put out just anything. i'll continue to write as motivation comes though, so please stick around 🫶
#kun
not really huge on pda. he prefers to keep intimacy for, well, intimate spaces, but still enjoys showing his affection for you to the level that says "this is my partner and i love them" without making any of the parties involved uncomfortable. that said, he prefers to do it with actions over touching, like opening the doors for you, walking on the side of the sidewalk that's closer to the street, or helping you out of your outerwear, but linking your arms or wrapping his hand around your waist is also very welcome. he's extremely observant too, so he'll move your necklace if the clasp has shifted to the front, fix your hair or head accessories, or take care of an eyelash that fell on your cheek. bonus: not exactly pda unless someone else is in the car, but he will put a hand over your thigh when he's driving.
#ten
honestly couldn't care less. not that he doesn't show pda, he does, a lot, but he never does it on purpose. he'd just casually put a hand around your shoulders when you're walking, on your thigh when you're sitting down, or place his chin on your shoulder when you're waiting in line out of habit. he'd touch your arm or shoulder when he's talking and lightly slap your arm while laughing because it feels natural to him. he's mindlessly reaching for your hand and intertwining your fingers when he's absorbed into telling a story, and give it a little squeeze when he's done and realizes it. most of those he would also do to his members or other close friends, but none of them would give him that familiar feeling in the stomach when reciprocating his affection like you do.
#winwin
not a fan, at all. not in front of strangers, not family, not the members. you'd have to take things slowly and look out for his reactions to get an idea of what he's okay with, or simply just sit him down and get it out of him. he will get shy and embarrassed, and that's the main reason for why he's not big on pda, but unless you plainly don't respect his boundaries he won't be uncomfortable to the point of getting annoyed either. he can handle a few teasing comments from his members and probably will gradually accommodate, but he still prefers when there's only one pair of eyes watching him. when it comes to holding hands, please link your pinky with his, for the sake of his heart (he also thinks it's cute).
#xiaojun
gets shy about pda but does it nevertheless. what can he say? he's whipped for you and he couldn't go an hour without a peck on your head, at the very least, and if someone happens to be in the same room at the time, then that's what the universe must have wanted. he's really just slightly less clingy in public than he is in private, and maybe will limit the amount of kisses according to who's there with you, but won't really complain about anything you initiate. will he blush all the way to the tips of his ears if anyone comments on his display of affection? yes. is he going to do it again in the span of the next thirty minutes? also yes. is he going to get over the shyness anytime soon? probably not.
#hendery
no amount of eyes can stop hendery from showering you with all the kisses and touches you deserve. he loves you and he's not afraid to show it - more than that, he might even get a slight ego boost from a stare or a teasing comment (to which he will respond with something along the lines of him being able to pull someone like you and make you embarrassed instead). he lives by the rule that if he can see you, he should be able to touch you and will sulk if you sit too far away for his liking. got past the stage where the members would tease him for pecking your lips by throwing shade back at them and now wouldn't even flinch if they walked into the room right into your make out session (which may or may not have happened).
#yangyang
he doesn't mind pda, but most of the time won't initiate it either. he's fine with more casual things like holding hands, hugging, or an occasional kiss on the cheek if that's something you're into, but he will get embarrassed and slightly uncomfortable if you do anything more without a warning, espacially in front of a bigger group of people. he has pretty strict boundaries in this matter but he's more than happy to communicate them to you and make sure he's aware of your own, as well as make sure that you don't feel pushed away. yangyang's also not a fan of showing affection in front of his members. he'll throw an arm around your shoulders when you're all watching a movie together if you've already been together for a while, but that's about it. you'll get all the cuddles and kisses in the world when you head to bed for the night though.
