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#ateez angst #ateez fanfic #ateez imagines #ateez x reader #ateez #ateez fic #ateez rpf

belongjoong

faking it --౨ৎ-- j.wy

「pairing」: fuckboy!wooyoung x fem!reader

「word count」: 16.4k

「genre」: fake dating, friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, smut

「summary」: after a cruel breakup with your boyfriend seonghwa, your friend wooyoung comes up with a perfect plan for you to get over him. fake dating. you need a date to prove to your ex you’ve moved on; wooyoung needs to convince people he’s capable of a real relationship. months of pretending turn into a feeling that you are no longer wanting to fake

「warnings」: implied drinking, ex bf seonghwa (he cheated), emotional manipulation, crying, mutual pining, jealousy, fboy tendencies, avoidant attachment, kissing, self-sabotage (woo), arguing, breakup, true love making :) , hickies, body worship, crying during foreplay (NOT dacryphilia), nipple play, licking, nipple sucking, clit stimulation, fingering, woo is literally so caring it needs its own warning, oral (f receiving), edging(?), bigdick!woo agenda, unprotected sex, possessiveness, missionary, cowgirl, pull-out method, aftercare, pet names including baby, darling, and others. ENJOY

「author's note」: guys this has been months in the making, and i hope it was worth the wait. it was all inspired by this request, so thank you.

SUPPORT BY REBLOGGING

You attempt to let the music of Mingi’s apartment drown out your thoughts. You shouldn't have come, you knew that, but San insisted, and Hongjoong promised your ex wouldn't be here. You foolishly believed both of them.

Except he was there.

likesan-deactivated20260224

𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 — 𝐽𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑌𝑢𝑛ℎ𝑜.

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 ; Hard headcanons for yuyu.

𝑃𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 ; Boyfriend!Yunho x Fem!Reader.

♡ ── 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 161. ♡ ── 𝐺𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒 : Smut. ♡ ── 𝐖𝑎𝐫𝑛𝐢𝑛𝐠𝑠 : Dom/sub dynamic, hair pulling, oral (m!rec), restraints, dacryphilia intent, whips/floggers mentioned, biting/teeth marks, possessive!yunho, aftercare.

☆ — Taglist : @kissmatz send a ask to be added!

BOOKSHELF !

breakmeonce

Cherry Wine

keeho x reader

wc: 5.4 k

⚠︎: emotional distance, miscommunication, insecurity, fear of vulnerability, crying, relationship anxiety, angst, hurt/comfort, reconciliation

sypnosis: You love Keeho in silence, afraid of asking for too much. But one night, over cherry wine and quiet confessions, you both learn that love was never meant to be endured alone—it was meant to be shared.

The first thing you notice is the color.

Not consciously. Not at first. It slips into your awareness the way dusk does—gradual, inevitable—until it’s all you can see.

His hair.

Under the weak glow of your desk lamp, it isn’t just red. It isn’t just purple. It lives somewhere in between, shifting depending on how he moves, how he breathes. Plum in some places. Wine-dark in others. But right now, with his head tipped forward and his phone casting a pale rectangle of light across his face, it looks like the center of a crushed cherry.

Rich. Stained. Almost soft-looking.

You stare at it longer than you mean to.

Your cursor blinks on the screen in front of you. Waiting. Expectant. Patient in a way you aren’t.

You blink back at it.

The essay is still half-finished. Your notes are scattered—digital tabs open across the top of your laptop, a notebook half-filled beside you, pen resting uselessly in the crease of its spine. You’ve reread the same paragraph three times and absorbed none of it.

Behind you, he shifts slightly.

Not enough to break the quiet. Just enough to remind you he’s there.

Keeho sits on the floor with his back against the side of your bed, legs crossed loosely, shoulders relaxed in that effortless way he seems to exist in. His phone rests in one hand, thumb scrolling slowly, lazily. He isn’t smiling. He isn’t frowning. Just… existing.

Comfortable.

You’ve always liked that about him.

He never demands space. Never fills silence just to fill it. He lets things be quiet without making it feel empty.

Outside, a car passes. Its headlights sweep briefly across your wall, across him, catching in his hair again—cherry-dark, wine-soft—before disappearing.

He doesn’t look up.

You don’t say anything.

You tell yourself you like this. The quiet. The ease of it. The way you can work while he sits nearby, the simple gravity of his presence anchoring you without effort.

It’s enough. It should be enough.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You type a sentence. Delete it. Type another. Delete that too.

Behind you, his thumb pauses.

You hear the faint shift of fabric as he adjusts his posture, his shoulder brushing the side of your mattress.

He’s close. Close enough that if you leaned back just slightly, your arm would touch his shoulder.

You don’t. Not because you don’t want to. Just because… you don’t.

You glance at him over your shoulder, quick and subtle, the way you’ve taught yourself to do.

His head is bowed, eyes focused on whatever’s on his screen. His lashes cast faint shadows against his cheeks. His mouth is relaxed, lips parted just slightly, like he’s breathing through them without realizing.

He looks calm. Untouchable in his calm. You wonder, briefly, what he’s looking at.

Schedules, maybe, messages, the group chat, fans, work. Always work.

Your chest tightens before you can stop it.

You turn back to your screen quickly, before the feeling can take shape. Before it can become something with edges and weight.

You click into another tab. Reread a sentence. Pretend you’re concentrating.

Behind you, his phone makes a soft sound. A notification.

He shifts again. His shoulder presses more firmly against the mattress now, his head tipping back just enough that you can see him in your peripheral vision.

He exhales slowly. Not tired. Just there. Existing beside you, but not with you.

You hate yourself for thinking it.

Because he came over, didn’t he? Because he’s here. Because that should mean something.

It does mean something. It means everything.

Your fingers curl slightly against the edge of your desk.

You remember when being near him felt louder. When every small touch felt like it echoed for hours afterward. When sitting this close would’ve made your heart race instead of settle into something quieter. Something heavier.

Now it feels like holding your breath without realizing it.

Not painful. Just… suspended.

You wonder if he notices. If he notices how often you glance at him without speaking. If he notices how you keep waiting for him to look up first. If he notices anything at all.

He laughs softly under his breath.

You freeze.

Not because it’s loud. It isn’t. It’s barely there, just a quiet exhale of amusement at whatever he’s seeing on his screen.

But it wasn’t because of you.

You stare at your laptop harder, eyes burning slightly.

This is stupid. You’re being stupid.

He’s allowed to exist without orbiting you.

You know that. You’ve always known that.

You’ve built yourself around that knowing—around independence, around self-sufficiency, around never needing more than what’s freely given.

You don’t need attention. You don’t need reassurance. You don’t need—

“Hey.”

His voice breaks gently through your thoughts.

You turn slightly, startled.

He’s looking at you now. Really looking at you. His phone rests loosely in his lap, forgotten.

“What’re you working on?” he asks.

His voice is soft. Curious. Careful, in the way he always is with you. Your throat tightens unexpectedly.

“Just… an essay,” you say.

He nods, like that makes perfect sense.

“What’s it about?”

You explain it briefly. He listens. Really listens. His eyes stay on your face, steady and warm and present in a way that makes your chest ache.

He asks a small follow-up question. You answer. The conversation lasts less than a minute, and then it fades. Not awkwardly. Not sharply. Just… naturally.

He smiles faintly and nods again, satisfied, before glancing back down at his phone. And just like that, he’s gone again.

Still here. Still beside you. But somewhere else. The quiet returns.

He leans his head back against the bed, eyes flickering across his screen. The light shifts across his hair again, catching that crushed-cherry color, dark and sweet and almost painful to look at.

You wonder if he knows how beautiful he is like this. You wonder if he knows how much space he takes up without trying. You wonder if he knows you’re still waiting.

Your cursor keeps blinking.

Waiting, too.

You don’t move. Neither does he. And the space between you stays exactly where it is. You tell yourself to focus. You really do.

Your fingers return to the keyboard, hovering, waiting for your brain to catch up with them. The words are there somewhere. They have to be. You’ve done the research. You’ve outlined everything. There’s no reason this should feel so hard.

You type a sentence. Read it. Delete it.

Behind you, he shifts again, and this time the mattress dips slightly as he leans his head back more fully against it. You can feel the faint pressure of him through the frame of the bed, a physical reminder of his presence that makes it harder—not easier—to concentrate.

You wonder if he knows how distracting he is.

Probably not.

He’s always been like this. Effortless without trying. Existing in a way that doesn’t demand attention, but earns it anyway.

You reach for your pen, tapping it lightly against the edge of your notebook.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You stop when you realize you’re doing it.

Silence fills the space again, thick but not uncomfortable. Not exactly. It’s familiar. It’s what most of your time together looks like lately—shared quiet, shared space, separate worlds.

You glance at the clock in the corner of your screen. He’s been here for almost an hour. Neither of you have touched each other once. Not even accidentally.

Your chest tightens, just slightly. You push the feeling down. He’s tired. He’s busy. He came here anyway.

That should be enough. It is enough. It has to be.

Behind you, his phone goes dark. You notice because the faint glow disappears from your peripheral vision. The room shifts subtly without it, the only real light now coming from your desk lamp.

He doesn’t pick it back up immediately. Instead, he just sits there. Quiet.

You feel his eyes on you before you see them. Not heavy. Not intense. Just… there. You don’t turn around. You don’t trust yourself to. After a few seconds, he speaks.

“You’ve been working on that all night.”

His voice is gentle. Observing, not accusing. You swallow.

“Not all night.”

A pause.

“Most of it.”

You can hear the faint smile in his voice when he exhales.

“You’re gonna burn yourself out.”

You almost laugh at that. Almost.

“I’m fine.”

You say it automatically. Reflexively. The same way you always do.

I’m fine.

It’s easier that way.

He hums softly behind you. Not agreement. Not disagreement. Just acknowledgment. You wait for him to say something else. He doesn’t. The silence stretches again. You hate how much you want him to push. To insist. To tell you to stop and come sit with him. To reach for you first.

Instead, he just says, “Did you eat?”

Your throat tightens.

“Yeah.”

Another automatic answer. He accepts it just as easily.

“Okay.”

Okay.

That’s it.

You stare at your screen, vision blurring slightly around the edges. You don’t know what you were expecting.

He’s not doing anything wrong. He’s here. He’s talking to you. He cares. You know he cares.

You do.

So why does it feel like something is missing? Why does it feel like you’re standing just outside of something you used to be inside?

Behind you, he stretches his legs out slowly, his foot brushing lightly against the back of your chair.

It’s accidental. Probably.

He doesn’t pull away immediately. Neither do you. The contact is barely there. Just the faintest pressure through the thin material of your clothes.

But it’s something. It’s more than nothing. Your heart stutters in your chest.

You wait. For him to notice. For him to move closer. For him to do anything. After a second, he shifts again. His foot slides away. The contact disappears. You stare at your screen harder, blinking rapidly.

This is stupid. You’re being stupid.

You could turn around right now. You could stand up, walk the two steps it would take to close the distance between you, sit beside him, lean into him like you’ve done a hundred times before.

He wouldn’t stop you. He’d welcome it. You know he would.

So why don’t you? Why are you waiting for him?

Your fingers curl into the fabric of your sleeve.

Because you want him to. Because you don’t want to ask. Because asking makes it real. Because asking means admitting you need something.

And you’ve never been good at needing things.

Behind you, he speaks again.

“Hey.”

Softer this time. Closer.

You turn before you can stop yourself.

He’s looking at you already.

His head tilted slightly, eyes steady on your face, searching in that quiet way he has. His hair falls into his eyes a little, that dark cherry color catching the low light, making his features look softer. Younger.

Concern flickers there. Barely visible.

“You okay?”

The question lands gently between you.

Not heavy. Not demanding. Just open.

You freeze. Because this is it. This is your chance.

You could tell him. You could say, I miss you. You could say, I feel like I’m the only one reaching for us. You could say, I need you to choose me first sometimes.

The words rise in your throat. And stop.

You smile instead. Small. Easy. Safe.

“Yeah,” you say.

“I’m okay.”

He studies you for another second. Like he’s not entirely convinced. Like he wants to believe you anyway.

“…Okay,” he says softly.

And that’s the end of it. He looks away first this time and something in your chest sinks quietly out of reach.

Sometime after midnight, your eyes start to burn.

Not sharply. Not enough to force you to stop. Just enough to make everything feel slightly out of focus, like your brain is lagging a second behind the world in front of you.

The clock in the corner of your laptop reads 12:47 AM.

You don’t remember when it got that late.

The essay is closer to finished now. Not done, but shaped. Tangible. Paragraphs that once felt impossible now exist, lined neatly beneath each other, proof that you’re still capable of moving forward—even if it never feels fast enough.

You reread your last sentence; It makes sense. You leave it alone.

Behind you, the room is quieter than before.

Too quiet.

You realize, slowly, that you haven’t heard him move in a while. Your fingers pause on the keyboard. You listen.

Nothing.

Not scrolling. Not shifting. Not even the faint rustle of fabric.

You turn carefully in your chair.

Keeho is still on the floor, back resting against the side of your bed exactly where he was hours ago—but his head has fallen slightly to the side now, chin tipped toward his shoulder.

His phone rests facedown beside his thigh. His eyes are closed.

He fell asleep waiting for you.

The realization settles somewhere deep in your chest, heavy and fragile at the same time.

His hair has shifted, strands falling across his forehead, the color darker now in the absence of stronger light. Less vibrant. More muted. Like cherry juice dried into fabric.

You stare at him longer than you mean to.

He looks younger like this. Unarmed.

You wonder how long he stayed awake before giving in.

If he fought it. If he kept glancing at you, hoping you’d turn around first. If he wanted your attention and didn’t ask for it, the same way you didn’t ask for his.

The thought makes your throat tighten.

You push your chair back slowly, careful not to make too much noise.

He doesn’t stir.

You stand, stretching the stiffness from your legs, and step around him quietly. Up close, you can see the faint crease between his brows, even in sleep. The kind that never fully leaves, like his mind doesn’t know how to rest completely.

Your hand hovers near his shoulder.

You hesitate. You could wake him.

Tell him to come to bed. Tell him he doesn’t have to sleep on the floor. Tell him you didn’t mean to make him wait so long.

You don’t.

Instead, you reach for the blanket folded at the foot of your bed.

You shake it out gently and drape it over him, careful not to jostle him too much. The fabric settles around his shoulders, soft and familiar.

He shifts slightly, brow smoothing, but he doesn’t wake.

You linger there, standing over him, unsure what to do with yourself.

He came here to be with you.

And you spent the night with your back turned.

Guilt curls quietly in your stomach.

You crouch down before you can overthink it, lowering yourself onto the floor beside him.

Close enough to touch. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him through the blanket.

You study his face the way you allow yourself to only when he isn’t looking.

The slope of his nose. The softness of his mouth. The way his lashes rest against his cheeks.

He looks peaceful.

You wonder if he feels distant from you too, or if this is enough for him.

Your hand moves before you fully decide to let it, fingers reaching out slowly, hesitantly, until they brush lightly against his sleeve.

Just barely. He doesn’t react.

Your chest aches. You leave your hand there anyway.

Just to know you still can.

Two weeks pass in silence.

Not cleanly. Not all at once. Just fragments of days that blur into each other until you can’t remember which moment started the quiet and which one made it worse.

Nothing changes in any obvious way.

He still texts you. Still calls you when he can. Still comes over when schedules allow, slipping into your space like he belongs there—because he does.

Because he always has.

But something underneath it all has shifted. Not broken. Not gone. Just… stretched thin enough that you can feel it now. The distance that neither of you acknowledges. The careful way you both orbit each other without ever colliding.

You stop turning around as much when he’s in the room.

He stops asking if you’re okay, not because he doesn’t care, because you’ve taught him the answer already.

The first time it really cracks, it isn’t in front of him. It’s in front of Theo.

You hadn’t planned on telling him. You hadn’t planned on telling anyone.

But he notices. Theo always notices.

You’re sitting beside him, knees drawn up slightly, hands curled into the sleeves of your sweater. He’s talking about something—something normal, something easy—but his voice fades into background noise as the pressure in your chest builds and builds and builds until you can’t hear anything else.

He stops mid-sentence.

“…What’s wrong?”

The question is gentle. You shake your head immediately.

“Nothing.”

It comes out too fast. Too thin.

Theo doesn’t argue. He just waits. And that’s what breaks you. Because he doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand. Doesn’t fill the silence.

He makes space for it.

Your throat tightens. Your vision blurs. You blink hard, trying to force it back, but it spills over anyway.

“I don’t think he needs me,” you whisper.

The words feel wrong the moment they leave your mouth.

Not true. But not untrue, either.

Theo’s expression softens immediately, his body turning toward you fully now, attention unwavering.

“What do you mean?”

And that’s it. That’s all it takes. Everything spills out.

Not gracefully. Not calmly. Messy. You cry harder than you meant to.

Your hands shake as you press them to your face, breath stuttering between broken pieces of sentences.

“I’m always the one asking if he wants to hang out,” you manage. “I’m always the one reaching first. And I know he’s busy, I know he is, I know he doesn’t mean it, but—”

Your voice cracks completely.

“It feels like if I stopped trying, he’d be fine.”

Theo doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t correct you. He just listens.

You wipe at your nose uselessly, your lips trembling.

“I don’t tell him,” you admit quietly. “Because I don’t want to make it worse. I don’t want him to feel bad. I don’t want him to think I’m… needy.”

The word tastes sour. You hate it. You hate needing anything at all.

Theo exhales slowly beside you, and when he speaks, his voice is steady.

“He can’t meet you halfway if he doesn’t know you’re walking alone.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“I thought it would fix itself,” you whisper.

“It won’t.”

Theo’s words aren’t harsh, not cruel. Just honest.

You look at him, eyes red, face aching from crying.

“I don’t want to upset him.”

Theo’s expression softens even more.

“You’re not upsetting him,” he says quietly. “You’re trusting him.”

The words settle somewhere deep inside you.

Heavy. Terrifying.

Necessary.

“If you keep holding it in,” he adds gently, “you’ll start resenting him for something he never knew he was doing.”

Your chest aches at that. Because you already feel it starting.

Small. Quiet. Growing in the spaces you leave untouched.

Theo reaches over, squeezing your shoulder once.

“You love him,” he says.

It isn’t a question.

You nod weakly.

“Then let him love you properly.”

It takes you another week. Seven more days of almost saying it. Seven more days of swallowing the words at the last second. Seven more days of convincing yourself it isn’t that bad.

Until the day he shows up at your door with a bottle in his hand.

You notice the bottle first. Dark glass. Cherry wine.

Your favorite.

Your stomach twists immediately.

He lifts it slightly when you open the door, a small, almost shy smile on his face.

“I had today free,” he says. “I thought… we could hang out.”

Hang out.

Such simple words.

Your chest tightens anyway.

You let him in.

Everything feels normal at first.

Too normal.

He takes off his shoes. Sets the bottle carefully on your counter like it matters. Like it was chosen with intention. He moves around your space easily, comfortably, like he belongs there.

Because he does. Because he always has.

You sit beside each other later, the bottle open between you, two glasses resting on the table.

The wine is darker than you remember.

Almost the exact color of his hair.

Cherry-dark. Plum-soft. Familiar.

He talks first.

About work. Schedules. Practices. Small frustrations he usually keeps to himself.

His voice is quieter than usual.

“I feel like I’m always behind,” he admits, staring down into his glass. “Like no matter how much I do, it’s never enough.”

Your chest aches at the confession.

Because you understand that feeling too well. He exhales slowly, shoulders rising and falling.

“I don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

Your hands tighten in your lap.

Because you never wanted to disappoint him either.

The silence stretches. Your palms start to ache.

It comes on slowly at first. A dull pressure beneath your skin, your fingers curling slightly as if bracing for something that hasn’t happened yet. Your hands tremble faintly, and you press them together to hide it.

Your heart won’t stop pounding.Your chest feels tight. Too tight. You can feel it in your throat. In your ribs. In your lungs. Your nose burns. Your lips feel raw.

You don’t realize you’re crying until your vision blurs.

He notices immediately. His head snaps up.

“Hey—”

His voice is soft. Alarmed.

You shake your head quickly, breath stuttering.

“I feel like you don’t choose me,” you whisper.

The words leave you before you can stop them. The room goes completely still.

Keeho freezes.

His eyes widen slightly, confusion flashing across his face, followed immediately by something worse.

Hurt. Not defensive.

Just hurt.

Your hands shake harder now.

“I know you’re busy,” you say quickly, voice breaking. “I know you are, and I don’t blame you for that, I don’t, but I feel like I’m always the one asking. I’m always the one reaching for you first, and I kept telling myself it would get better and that I was being stupid, but it doesn’t feel stupid. It feels real.”

Your chest aches so badly it feels like it might cave in on itself.

“I didn’t want to upset you,” you admit weakly. “I didn’t want to make you feel like you weren’t enough.”

Your nose is red now. Your lips trembling uncontrollably.

“So I just… didn’t say anything.”

His expression crumples.

Because he didn’t know. He didn’t know you were hurting right in front of him.

He doesn’t interrupt you.

Not once.

He just sits there, completely still, his glass forgotten in his hand, eyes locked on your face like he’s afraid if he looks away, he’ll miss something important.

Your palms ache harder now, trembling where they rest in your lap. You curl your fingers inward, trying to stop it, but it only makes the feeling worse—sharp and electric beneath your skin.

“I tried to fix it myself,” you whisper.

Your voice sounds smaller than you meant it to.

“I thought… if I just stopped feeling like that, it would go away.”

He swallows.

You can see it.

The way his throat moves. The way his chest rises and falls a little faster now.

You force yourself to keep going, even though every word feels like pulling something fragile out into open air.

“I don’t tell you when I want attention,” you admit. “I don’t tell you when I miss you. I don’t tell you when I want you to come closer.”

Your lips tremble. You press them together, but it doesn’t stop.

“Because I thought I was supposed to handle it on my own.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“I’m independent. I’ve always been independent. And I thought… that’s what you liked about me.”

His brows pull together immediately.

You shake your head, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“But sometimes you get so focused,” you continue. “On games. On writing. On work. And I sit there waiting for you to look at me first, and you don’t.”

The words feel cruel.

You hate how they sound.

“I know you’re not doing it on purpose,” you say quickly. “I know you’re not. But it still hurts.”

His fingers tighten slightly around his glass.

You notice everything right now. Every small movement. Every breath.

“I didn’t want to upset you,” you whisper again. “I didn’t want you to think I was too much.”

Your chest aches so badly it makes your voice unsteady.

“I didn’t want to be clingy.”

The word hangs there. Ugly; heavy.

Your fingers twist together.

“I’ve been called that before,” you say quietly. “Clingy. Too affectionate. Too emotional.”

You hesitate.

“…You called me that once.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, his face changes. Not defensive, not angry. Just immediate regret. You rush to explain.

“I know you didn’t mean it in a bad way,” you say quickly. “I know you were joking. But it stuck with me.”

Your nose burns. Your lips feel raw from trying to hold everything together.

“It made me feel like I needed to be less.”

He sets his glass down slowly, carefully, like he doesn’t trust his hands right now.

“I tried to be perfect,” you admit.

Your voice breaks completely on the last word.

“I tried to be the perfect girlfriend. Someone who doesn’t need too much. Someone who doesn’t interrupt your work. Someone who doesn’t make things harder for you.”

Your shoulders shake slightly.

“But I don’t know how to do this.”

The confession leaves you hollow.

“This is my first real relationship,” you whisper. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Your chest rises and falls unevenly.

“I have these expectations for myself,” you continue. “Like I’m supposed to do everything right. Like I’m supposed to know exactly how to love you properly.”

Your fingers curl tighter into your sleeves.

“And when I don’t, it feels like I’m failing.”

Your voice drops even softer.

“I take one step forward and three steps back.”

Silence fills the space between you. It’s thick, fragile.

“I didn’t tell you,” you say. “Because I thought… if I just tried harder, it would fix itself.”

Your vision blurs again.

“But it didn’t.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

“And I started feeling like I was the only one trying.”

There it is. The truth in its ugliest form.

You hate yourself for saying it, you hate yourself for thinking it.

But it’s real.

You wipe at your face uselessly, hands trembling worse now.

“I just wanted you to choose me,” you whisper.

Your voice is barely there.

“I wanted you to ask first. To reach for me first. To make me feel like you needed me too.”

The room is impossibly quiet. For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t breathe.

And then—

“I thought you didn’t need me.”

His voice is soft, broken in a way you’ve never heard before.

You look up.

His eyes are glassy now, shining under the low light. Not crying. Not quite. But close enough that your chest aches all over again.

“You’re so capable,” he says quietly. “You handle everything on your own. You never ask for help. You never ask for anything.”

His fingers flex against his knee.

“I thought… giving you space was the right thing.”

He lets out a shaky breath.

“I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

The confession sits between you.

Tender. Painful. Honest.

“I didn’t realize,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “that staying back was hurting you.”

His gaze drops to your trembling hands, and something in his expression shifts.

Guilt.

“I never wanted you to feel alone,” he says.

He hesitates.

Slowly, carefully, he reaches toward you Not suddenly. Not assuming; offering.

His fingers hover near yours. Waiting.

You stare at his hand. Hovering there. Not touching you. Not yet.

He’s always careful with you. You don’t know when that started, or if he’s always been like this and you’re only noticing now. The way he never assumes. Never takes without asking, even in silence.

It makes your chest ache for an entirely different reason. You let your fingers uncurl slowly. Just enough. He notices immediately.

His hand closes around yours gently, warm and steady despite the tension you can still feel in him. His thumb brushes once over your knuckles, tentative, like he’s relearning something he should’ve never forgotten.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

The words are quiet.

Not defensive. Not rushed. Just real.

“I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head instinctively. “It’s not just you.”

“It is,” he says softly. “Part of it is.”

He doesn’t squeeze your hand tighter. Doesn’t trap you there. He just holds it.

“I should’ve asked more. I should’ve reached for you first. I should’ve made it obvious that I wanted to be close to you.”

His voice falters slightly.

“I thought I was respecting you.”

You swallow.

“I thought I was protecting you from feeling suffocated.”

The word makes your stomach twist.

You’ve both been trying to protect each other from things that were never there.

“I didn’t realize,” he continues, “that I was creating distance instead.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“I didn’t realize I was creating it too.”

He looks up at you.

You force yourself not to look away.

“I don’t tell you what I need,” you admit. “I expect you to just… know.”

Your fingers tighten slightly in his.

“That’s not fair to you.”

His brows pull together immediately. “You needing things isn’t unfair.”

“But not telling you is,” you whisper.

Silence settles again. Not empty. Just full.

Full of things finally being seen.

He shifts closer to you slightly, not pulling you, just reducing the space.

“I want to do better,” he says.

Simple. Certain.

“I want to be someone you don’t have to question.”

Your throat tightens.

“I want that too,” you whisper.

You hesitate before adding, “I just… need you to meet me halfway.”

“I will.”

No hesitation. No doubt.

“And you have to let me,” he adds gently.

The words don’t hurt. They heal. You nod slowly.

“I’ll try.”

It’s the only promise you can make. Not perfection. Just effort.

He lifts your joined hands slightly, pressing his forehead briefly against your knuckles. The gesture is small. Quiet. But it feels heavier than anything else tonight.

“I do choose you,” he whispers.

Your chest breaks open. Not painfully, just enough to let something new in.

Later, the room feels different.

Lighter.

Not fixed. Not magically perfect. But softer. Easier to breathe in.

The empty wine glasses sit abandoned on the table. The bowl of cherries rests beside them, a few stems scattered like evidence of something shared.

You stand from the couch slowly, your fingers slipping from his.

He watches you immediately. Not confused. Just attentive.

You move toward your shelf, toward the one thing you’ve kept untouched since he gave it to you.

The vinyl. Cherry red. Custom.

Your birthday gift from him.

You slide it carefully from its place, fingers tracing the outer sleeve. The photo printed there catches the low light—both of you on your first date, smiling in that unguarded, unfamiliar way people do when they don’t know yet how deeply they’ll come to love each other.

Inside, the protective inner sleeve crinkles softly as you pull the record free.

The small note is still there. You remember every word of it.

‘For all the versions of you I’ll get to love.’

Your chest tightens gently. You set the record onto the player with careful hands.

Behind you, you hear him stand. You don’t turn around. Not yet.

The needle lowers. A soft crackle fills the room.

And then—

Cherry Wine begins to play.

You close your eyes briefly. When you turn back around, he’s already watching you.

Not distant. Not somewhere else. Here. With you.

He doesn’t say anything. He just steps closer.

Slow. Careful.

Like the moment might break if he moves too fast. His hands find yours again, more certain this time. Still gentle. Still asking. You let him pull you closer.

Your bodies fit together in that familiar way, his arms settling around you, yours resting against him, your cheek brushing the soft fabric of his shirt.

You sway together. Not really dancing. Just moving. Breathing.

Existing in the same space again. Properly.

His hand rests at your back, warm and steady.

“I’ll try harder,” he murmurs quietly.

You nod against him.

“So will I.”

The music plays on. The cherry-red vinyl spins beneath the needle.

And for the first time in a long time, neither of you are waiting for the other to reach first.

You already have.

A/N: Hey lovelies, I was going to post this on Valentine’s Day, but… things happened. This started as a little Valentine’s idea, but I couldn’t resist exploring the quiet, messy, soft-heart side of first love instead. If any of this hits close to home, you’re never alone. Thank you for reading, and your likes, comments, and reblogs mean more than you know.

@ breakmeonce

hongjoongdaily

happy wednesday ♡

thatateezgirl

NO1

What happens when the lines blur?

---------

idol - Hongjoong x fem!reader

genre: smut

content warnings: MDNI, smut, power imbalance (idol x fan), dubious consent/coercive dynamics, slight alcohol consumption, breath play/choking, rough sex, overstimulation, breast play, oral (m and f receive), slight degradation if you squint, possessive behavior, public interaction leading to private sexual encounter, emotional distress/panic spirals/anxiety, slight dacryphilia, explicit language, physical restraint/pinning, unprotected sex, pull out.

words: 9.9k

AN: based on this ask. Keep in mind that it’s my first time doing an ask (which I was so grateful for btw!) so I hope it lives up to everyone’s expectations! Yes, I absolutely did get carried away, but somehow the story just wrote itself, what could I do…

*everything is fictional, just for some distracting fun*

Reposts are super appreciated 🤍

---------

maho6any

I’m gonna hold your hand when I say this, I felt so pulled into this piece it was insane. Jesus fuck this was so good.

breakmeonce

To Be Loved Is To Be Seen

jiung x reader

wc: 2.27 k

⚠︎: past unhealthy relationship, emotional hurt (off-page), mentions of infidelity, healing & growth, reassurance, gentle love, domestic fluff, happy ending

summary: A story about healing, quiet love, and learning that with the right person, you never have to make yourself smaller to be loved.

You never expected this.

Cuddled into the corner of the couch with Jiung, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly like laundry detergent and something warm you’d started to associate with him, the room sat in a comfortable silence. Afternoon sunlight slipped through the curtains, painting soft stripes across the floor, across his arm where it rested around your shoulders.

Jiung didn’t move much. He never did when you were like this. One hand rested loosely against your upper arm, thumb tracing slow, absent circles through the fabric of your sleeve. It wasn’t possessive. It wasn’t searching. It was just… there.

You waited for the familiar tightness in your chest—the urge to speak, to ask if he was bored, to apologize for being quiet. Your mind reached for old habits, for the voice that used to whisper that silence meant distance, that stillness meant disinterest.

Nothing happened.

Jiung shifted slightly, tilting his head so his cheek rested against the top of yours. You felt the weight of it—gentle, grounding.

“Comfortable?” he asked, voice low, like he didn’t want to scare the moment away.

You nodded before realizing you didn’t need to lie. “Yeah,” you said softly. And for once, the word felt solid.

He hummed in response, the sound vibrating faintly against you, and his thumb stilled like he’d taken the answer seriously. Like it mattered.

You’d spent so long thinking love was something you had to earn—measured in how accommodating you were, how little space you took up, how well you anticipated someone else’s needs.

With Jiung, you were learning something different.

You were being held without being asked to prove you deserved it.

You let your eyes drift shut, breathing in time with him. The quiet stretched, unbroken, and for the first time you noticed how different it felt from the silences you used to know.

Those had been sharp. Heavy. Always waiting for you to fix them.

A memory flickered—your phone lighting up on the coffee table, unanswered messages stacked one over the other because you’d typed them too fast, said too much, needed too much. You remembered how you’d learned to fill every pause with something useful: affection, apologies, your body. How silence had always meant you were failing.

Your shoulders tensed without you realizing it.

Jiung noticed.

He always did.

His thumb resumed its slow movement, gentler this time, grounding you back into the couch, into the warmth of him. “Hey,” he murmured, barely above a breath. “You’re drifting.”

You swallowed. “Sorry.”

The word left you before you could stop it.

Jiung shifted again, just enough to look at you, brows knitting together—not in frustration, but concern. “You don’t have to be,” he said immediately. No hesitation. No weighing his words. “You didn’t do anything.”

Something in your chest cracked open at that. You nodded, even though your throat felt tight, and he seemed to accept that as enough for now. He always did—never pushing, never pulling answers out of you like they were owed.

After a while, your gaze wandered to the low table across the room. Your modded 3DS sat there, half-open from earlier, a sticker peeling slightly at one corner.

Jiung followed your line of sight. “Did you finish that dungeon?” he asked casually.

You blinked. “You remembered.”

He smiled, small and a little shy. “You were really excited about it. The sound effects changed after the update, right?”

Your heart did something stupid in your chest. “Yeah,” you said, unable to stop yourself from smiling now. “And the color palette’s better. I mean—sorry, that’s probably boring.”

“It’s not,” he said, immediately again. “I like hearing you talk about stuff you love.”

You felt it then—that familiar spark, the one that used to get dimmed halfway through explanations because someone had stopped listening. This time, it stayed bright. You found yourself talking, hands moving as you explained, energy seeping back into your voice.

Jiung watched you like this was the most important thing in the room.

Later, when you put on Howl’s Moving Castle, he didn’t tease you for choosing it again. He didn’t check his phone halfway through. He noticed how you leaned forward during certain scenes, how you mouthed familiar lines under your breath.

“This is your favorite part,” he whispered as Sophie stepped through the door.

You laughed softly. “How do you—”

“You always smile there,” he said simply.

That night, when you cooked together, he wordlessly slid the cutting board toward himself and took the onions without asking. You noticed the way he sliced them thin, sautéed them slowly until they softened and sweetened. The tomatoes went straight into the sauce, simmered down until there was nothing raw left.

“You didn’t have to,” you said.

“I know,” he replied. “I wanted to.”

The memory of another kitchen flashed—being told you were picky, difficult, dramatic. You shook it away as Jiung handed you a spoon to taste, watching your reaction like it mattered.

It did.

Later still, curled up again, your fingers absentmindedly traced faint clay dust still lodged under your nails from ceramics class earlier that week. Jiung noticed that too.

“How was class?” he asked.

You hesitated. Then, “Good. Messy. I made a bowl that leans a little, but… I kind of like it.”

He smiled. “Sounds like you.”

You laughed, startled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Not perfect,” he said gently. “But honest.”

Your chest warmed at the word.

You thought of the day your ex left. Of finding out about the cheating after the fact. Of signing up for classes because staying still hurt too much. Of learning how to shape something with your hands when your heart felt unsteady.

Jiung didn’t know every detail. He didn’t need to.

What mattered was this: he didn’t make you feel like love was something fragile you could lose by breathing wrong. He didn’t make you smaller. He didn’t make you afraid.

He saw you.

And somehow, quietly, without fanfare, he made you feel seen.

And maybe that was why the memory crept in—not loud, not sudden, just a quiet ache that brushed against the moment.

Your ex had never liked silence. Not really. With him, quiet meant tension, meant you were supposed to say something—anything—to keep him interested. You remembered how you used to sit beside him on the couch, back straight, hands folded in your lap like you were waiting to be evaluated. How you’d chosen your words carefully, laughed at the right moments, watched his mood like it was a weather forecast you had to survive.

Walking on eggshells had become second nature.

If he pulled away, you leaned in. If he went quiet, you apologized. If he wanted intimacy, you gave it—even when something in your chest told you it wasn’t safe—because afterward, he’d leave, scrolling through his phone, distant again. You’d lie there staring at the ceiling, wondering what you’d done wrong this time.

You’d tried so hard to be enough for him.

And still, he cheated.

The memory used to burn. Now it just felt… tired.

Jiung shifted beside you, and the present came rushing back in—the warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his arm tightened slightly when he felt you move. Not trapping. Just reassuring.

“You okay?” he asked, soft and immediate.

You nodded, then paused. Shook your head. “I was just… thinking.”

He didn’t ask you to explain. He didn’t look disappointed. He only pressed a kiss to your temple, light and brief, like punctuation rather than expectation. “I’m here,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And he was.

A few days later, he waited for you outside the ceramics studio.

You spotted him through the glass doors, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, head bent as he read the little sign about open lab hours like he’d been there a hundred times. Clay dust still clung to your fingers when you stepped out, the scent of wet earth and heat following you.

Jiung looked up immediately.

“There you are,” he said, smiling.

Your chest warmed. “You didn’t have to wait.”

“I wanted to,” he replied, like it was obvious.

You walked together, your bag bumping against your hip, the bowl you’d made nestled carefully inside. When you finally showed it to him, you braced yourself without meaning to—old reflexes rising up.

“It’s a little uneven,” you said quickly. “I messed up the rim.”

Jiung turned it slowly in his hands, thoughtful. “I like it,” he said. “It looks… intentional. Like it has character.”

You laughed under your breath. “That’s a nice way of saying it’s crooked.”

“It’s a nice way of saying it’s yours,” he corrected gently.

You looked at him then—really looked at him—and something settled deep in your chest.

That night, back on the couch, legs tangled, movie credits rolling quietly in the background, you realized something that made your throat tighten.

Love wasn’t supposed to feel like fear.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like performing, or guessing, or shrinking yourself to stay. Love didn’t ask you to walk on eggshells. It didn’t punish you with silence or reward you with attention only when you gave enough of yourself away.

With Jiung, love was steady. Attentive. Kind.

He noticed. He remembered. He respected the pieces of you that used to be ignored or criticized or used.

And finally, the words clicked into place, soft and certain in your mind:

To be loved is to be seen.

To be seen as you are.

To be respected.

To be safe.

To be held without having to earn it.

You curled closer into him, and Jiung tightened his arm around you without a word—like he’d felt the shift before you even moved.

For the first time, you didn’t wonder if this would last.

You just let yourself be loved.

— A Few Years Later

Spring had a way of lingering longer than expected.

By the time the ceramics studio closed for the night, the sun was already dipping low, the sky stretched thin with gold and pale blue. You washed your hands at the sink for the third time, but clay still clung stubbornly beneath your nails, dried glaze dusting your sleeves and jeans. The vase you’d been working on—tall, heavy, imperfect in a way you’d learned to trust—sat on the shelf behind you, waiting.

Art major problems, you thought fondly.

The walk across campus was familiar now. Twenty minutes to the transition center, the air cool against your skin, then another stretch of waiting for the bus—sometimes five minutes, sometimes fifteen, depending on luck. You didn’t mind as much as you used to. Spring semester had softened everything, even the long commute home.

By the time you stepped off the bus and started the final walk, your legs ached and the sun hovered just above the horizon. It had taken nearly two hours, like it always did.

The apartment lights were on when you reached the door.

You unlocked it quietly, toeing off your shoes as the familiar warmth wrapped around you. Before you could even call out, the scent hit you—rich, savory, unmistakable.

“Katsu?” you asked, voice lifting despite your exhaustion.

Jiung appeared from the kitchen, apron tied a little crooked, hair pushed back like he’d run his hands through it too many times. He smiled the second he saw you, eyes softening.

“Happy anniversary,” he said.

Your chest tightened. “You remembered.”

He blinked. “Of course I did.”

On the counter sat two plates, steam still curling upward. Perfectly crisp breaded cutlets, curry simmered just right—not too thick, not too thin. He’d even set aside yours without raw onions, tomatoes cooked down into the sauce the way you liked. Rice fluffed carefully, like he knew presentation mattered to you.

“You worked late,” he added gently, gaze flicking to the dust on your clothes, your tired posture. “Big project?”

You nodded. “A vase. It fought me the whole time.”

He stepped closer, careful not to smudge you more, and brushed his thumb across your wrist where a streak of glaze had dried. “You always win in the end.”

A small weight brushed against your ankle then, a soft mrrp announcing itself. You laughed as your cat wove between your legs, tail high, clearly offended you’d taken so long.

“I know, I know,” you said, crouching despite your tired knees. “I missed you too.”

Jiung watched the scene with a fond smile, leaning against the doorway. “You should shower,” he said. “Food’ll still be warm.”

Later, clean and changed, you curled up at the table together, legs brushing. The window was open just enough to let in the evening air, the last of the sunlight fading outside.

“This is really good,” you said, mouth full. “You didn’t have to go all out.”

“I wanted to,” he replied, echoing words he’d said years ago, like they’d never lost their meaning.

You looked at him then—older, yes, but familiar in all the ways that mattered. The same quiet steadiness. The same careful attention. The same love that didn’t ask you to be smaller.

A few years ago, you’d thought love was fragile. Conditional. Something that disappeared if you weren’t careful.

Now you knew better.

To be loved was to be seen—in your exhaustion, your passions, your quirks, your favorite meals and long commutes and dusty clothes.

To be loved was to be respected.

To be safe.

To come home late and still be welcomed like you were expected.

Jiung reached for your hand across the table, squeezing it gently.

And you smiled, knowing—without doubt—that this was the kind of love that stayed.

A/N: The reader’s past relationship is inspired by real experiences from my own life. This fic means a lot to me—if you relate in any way, you’re not alone. I’m always here if anyone needs someone to talk to. Likes and comments are appreciated, and reblogs/shares mean the world

@ breakmeonce

kissmatz

I’m actually foaming at the mouth.

hongjoongdaily

happy friday ♡

kissyuyu-deactivated20260216

You’re Mine — Park Seonghwa

Pairings; Stalker!Seonghwa x Fem!Reader

Warnings; Smut, definitely a harder theme, mention of non consensual videotaping(?), mention of panty stealing, mention of non consensual picture taking, mention of jealousy fits, mention of keeping tabs on likes and dislikes, if I missed anything at all let me know!

Word count: 309

🌿Taglist — @kissmatz (send a ask to be added)

Lexi Update — Uhh so this isn’t like a fic, but it could be if y’all want it to be….so lmk your thoughts on it! I’m still new to the dark smut scenes so this isn’t that good. I hope you still like it!

belongjoong

★ TEASER ★ TEASER ★ TEASER ★

「pairing」 : fuckboy!wooyoung x fem!reader

「genre」 : fake dating, friends to lovers, angst, eventual smut

「summary」 : after a cruel breakup with your boyfriend hwa, your friend wooyoung comes up with a perfect plan for you to get over him. fake dating. you need a date to prove to your ex you’ve moved on; wooyoung needs to convince people he’s capable of a real relationship. months of pretending turn into a feeling that you are no longer wanting to fake

「author's note」 : guys i love this concept! this is just a teaser but if you like it i can add you to the taglist, just let me know! i would also move some feedback <3 i am expecting it to be around 12k-15k words. teaser wc: 1.1k

SUPPORT BY REBLOGGING

The table conversation turned more casual, talking about class and free time.

"You're teaching her to dance?" Hongjoong looked delighted. "I need to see this."

"Absolutely not," you said quickly. "I do not have any rhythm."

"She's better than she thinks," Wooyoung said, and there was genuine affection in his voice that made your heart skip. "She just needs confidence."

Seonghwa finally spoke up, his voice tight. "Since when do you dance, Wooyoung? I thought you said it was 'too much commitment' to take on dancing."

wooyos

breakmeonce

Navigation

now playing: bouquet – ichiko aoba

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message me or send an ask to be added to my taglist

@ breakmeonce

guzhufuren

ATEEZ Yunho

jiuchip

ꪆৎ lessons for a good boy || keeho & jiung

⋆.˚˖࿔ pairing | keeho x reader x jiung ༉‧₊˚. synopsis | keeho teaches his best friend how to finger a girl, and what better subject than you, his girlfriend?

⋆.˚˖࿔ details | nsfw (MINORS DNI), smut, fingering, teasing ⟢ length | 1.5k ⟡

requested by anon! 𓆩⟡𓆪 note || this was supposed to be a mini drabble… whoops

MASTERLIST

wumuteez

∧,,,∧ ( ̳• · • ̳) / づ♡ woosang kisses [1/∞]

kissyuyu-deactivated20260216

Joong as a boyfriend — Fluff!

Pairings; Boyfriend!Hongjoong x Fem!Reader

Warnings; Absolutely zero. It’s fluff.

Synposis: Soft and lovey headcanons on how I think Hongjoong would be as a boyfriend.

Word count: 205

🪴Taglist — @kissmatz (send a ask to be added)

Lexi Update — SOOO how do we feel about the theme change??? Do we like it?? I will have a fic coming out some time this week ☺️ so if you are tired of the constant headcanons, don’t worry!

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