(⁠θjullyθ⁠)

Tri // 21 // INFP

[whatdoyouwanttocallmefor]

It's me ♡ My time ♡

🎀 𝑴𝒚 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝑱𝒖𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒈𝒐 𝒕𝒐 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝑻𝒓𝒊

🎀 𝑰𝑵𝑭𝑷 // 𝒇𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒆 // 21

🎀 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒚 // 𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒖𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆

✨️ 𝒀𝒆𝒂𝒉 𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 ✨️

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[whatdoyouwanttocallmefor]

Them taking care of their own (Stray) Kids

Summary: A daily things of what they do with their children. Safe to say they are chaotic just like their father

(Pictures from pinterest)

"𝘋𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵. 𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯, 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦." — 𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘺 𝘒𝘪𝘥𝘴, "𝘏𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯"

Bang Chan

The plan was simple: surprise you with homemade pancakes. Chan had the recipe pulled up on his tablet, his glasses sliding down his nose as he carefully measured the milk. But Rosie had other ideas. "More snow, Daddy!" she squealed, grabbing the open bag of flour.

Before Chan could react, she gave it a prehistoric squeeze. A white cloud erupted, coating the granite counters, the floor, and Chan’s eyelashes. He stood frozen, looking like a Victorian ghost. He let out a single, muffled sneeze that sent a fresh puff of flour into the air.

"Rosie, honey," he wheezed, wiping his lenses only to smear them into a milky paste. "That was... a lot of snow." You walked in to find him trying to vacuum the floor while Rosie was attempting to make flour-angels on the linoleum. He looked at you, his white-powdered hair sticking up in every direction, and just started laughing that breathless, shoulder-shaking laugh. "Breakfast is cancelled. We’re getting bagels. And a professional cleaning crew."

Minho

"Min-jun, stay low. Don't let him see the bubbles," Minho whispered, crouching behind the hallway corner with your five-year-old. They were on a mission: bathe Soonie. Minho had goggles on his head for no apparent reason other than "tactical vibes."

The second the water touched the cat's paw, the "mission" went south. Soonie transformed into a blur of ginger fur and vengeance. He leaped over Minho’s head, using his shoulder as a springboard, and bolted for the living room.

"Target is on the move! Intercept!" Minho yelled. He tried to pivot on the wet tile, his socks lost all traction, and he slid majestically into the laundry basket. You walked into the living room to find Minho draped in damp towels, staring at the cat who was now perched safely on top of the refrigerator. "He’s smart," Minho muttered, narrowing his eyes at the cat. "But tell the boy to get the treats. We move to Plan B."

Changbin

Changbin was determined to prove he hadn't lost his "Titan" status just because he was a dad. "Watch this, jagi!" he shouted, hoisting a twin on each bicep while balancing a laundry basket on his head. "I am the strongest—"

Crr-ack. His knee hit the play-mat. One twin decided this was the perfect time to pull his hair, and the other started drumming on his chest. The laundry basket tilted, burying Changbin in a mountain of your freshly folded leggings and his gym shirts.

He went down with a dramatic "Oof!", disappearing under a pile of floral prints and toddlers. When you pulled a pair of socks off his face, he was grinning ear-to-ear despite the chaos. "I'm fine! My core strength saved us!" He then proceeded to let the boys use his stomach as a literal trampoline. "Go ahead," he gasped between bounces, "Daddy’s abs... are made... of steel!"

Hyunjin

Hyunjin was in the "zone," delicately painting a watercolor of the garden. He was so focused on the shading of a rose that he didn't realize your daughter, Yujin, had abandoned her own paper. She had discovered the face-painting kit you bought for her birthday.

"Daddy, you look pretty," she whispered. Hyunjin, caught in his artistic trance, just hummed. "Thanks, sweetie. Art is all about beauty."

When he finally stood up to stretch and caught his reflection in the hallway mirror, he let out a dramatic, high-pitched gasp. Yujin had painted a bright blue unibrow and neon orange whiskers across his face. "My aesthetic!" he cried, mock-fainting onto the rug. He spent the next twenty minutes chasing her around the house with a wet washcloth, yelling, "You can't catch the Blue-Browed Monster!" while laughing so hard he couldn't actually run.

Jisung

Jisung had spent three hours building the "Super-Mega-Ultra-Fort." It involved every pillow from the sofa, three broomsticks, and your expensive silk duvet. He and your son were inside, eating crackers and "scanning the perimeter" with flashlights.

"Requesting permission to enter the base?" you asked, knocking on a sofa cushion.

"Password is 'Jisung is the best rapper'," he whispered from the dark. But as he leaned forward to let you in, his foot caught the "load-bearing" broomstick. The entire structure collapsed in slow motion. The duvet muffled their yelps as the living room became a sea of beige fabric. A small hand poked out, followed by Jisung’s messy head. He had a cracker stuck to his forehead. "Well," he sighed, looking at the wreckage. "The aliens got us. But on the bright side... we found that remote you lost last week!"

Felix

Felix was the "Yes-Dad." When the kids asked if they could put "a few" sprinkles on the cupcakes, he handed them the jumbo jar. "Go wild, little sunshines!"

He realized his mistake when the lid fell off entirely. Thousands—literally thousands—of tiny rainbow beads hit the floor like rain on a tin roof. It was a sugary slip-and-slide. Felix tried to grab the toddler, but his feet went out from under him. He slid across the kitchen floor, arms flailing, and landed right at your feet as you walked in.

He looked up at you, sheepishly holding a single, lonely cupcake. "Hey, look on the bright side," he said, his deep voice vibrating with sheepish laughter. "The floor is very colorful now? And I think I found a quarter under the fridge." He then spent the rest of the afternoon "skating" around with the kids on microfiber cloths to clean it up.

Seungmin

It was supposed to be a quiet night. Seungmin was singing a soft rendition of Waiting For Us to get the kids to sleep. But then, your eldest asked for "the loud version."

Seungmin, being a sucker for an audience, couldn't resist. He grabbed a plastic ukulele and started belting out a pop-rock version of Baby Shark with 10/10 vocal technique. Within minutes, the bed was a mosh pit. The kids were jumping, throwing pillows, and screaming the lyrics while Seungmin did a "kneeslide" across the carpet.

You opened the door to find him mid-high note, a pillow hitting him square in the face. He froze, the ukulele still poised. "I... lost the plot, didn't I?" he asked, his ears turning bright red. He immediately switched back to a whisper-tone. "Okay, everyone! If you don't lie down in three seconds, the concert is cancelled!"

Jeongin

Jeongin wanted to prove he was still a baby bread at heart. At the indoor play place, he crawled into the colorful plastic tunnel system to chase after your daughter. "I'm gonna get you! The bread monster is coming!"

Ten seconds later: "Babe? Um... Jagi?"

You followed his voice to a yellow plastic tube. Jeongin was stuck. His broad shoulders were wedged at a 45-degree angle. He couldn't go forward, and he couldn't go back. Your daughter was sitting at the exit, laughing her head off. "I think I’ve outgrown the tunnel stage," he yelled, his voice echoing. You had to practically grease him out with a bit of tugging while he pouted. "This is embarrassing," he muttered once he was free, ruffling his hair. "I’m sticking to the swings from now on. The swings don't judge me."

Dividers from : @diviniyae

My Taglist: @m-325 @bbokarismeow @maddy24207 @kpop-trash-03 @brbwritingfanfic @staytinyluv

[whatdoyouwanttocallmefor]

Could you do a part 2 of ‘when the music paused’? Where it’s her grandma’s or yn’s birthday comes around? And it’s the first without her there and everything just feels wrong/off, because she’s not there, and there’s no happy birthday call/message sent.

Continue The Music - Fem!Reader x Stray Kids

Genre: Angst with a happy ending!

Warning: Death side character, partial depression(?)

ps; I planned to put the tittle "Continue the music with the person you loved." but then, I realize this story is not suitable with those isekai title so I only write half of it :((

The house was too quiet. That was the thing about grief it didn't just take the person; it took the background noise of your entire life.

Y/N sat at the kitchen table, staring at a single unlit candle stuck into a grocery-store muffin. It was her birthday, but the air felt thin. Every few minutes, she’d instinctively look toward the hallway, expecting to hear the shuffle of her grandmother’s slippers or the high-pitched "Happy Birthday, my star!" that usually started the day.

But there was nothing. No call. No message. Just the hum of the refrigerator.

She felt a strange sense of guilt for even being alive to see another year when her grandmother couldn't. Her phone sat facedown on the wood. She knew the members had gone home to their families, she had insisted on it. “Go, please,” she had told Chan. “I just need to sit with the quiet for a while.”

But the quiet was eating her alive.

She pulled her grandmother’s favorite shawl tighter around her shoulders, burying her face in the fabric. It was starting to lose her scent, and that realization brought a fresh wave of tears. "I don't know how to do this," she whispered to the empty room. "I don't know how to be a person without you."

---

The sound of a key turning in the lock startled her. She hadn't even heard a car pull up.

The door swung open, and the cold night air rushed in, followed by the scent of rain and expensive cologne. Bang Chan was the first through the door, his eyes immediately finding hers. Behind him, the others filed in not with their usual loud cheers, but with a somber, protective stillness.

"What are you guys doing here?" Y/N’s voice was raspy from hours of silence. "You were supposed to be with your parents. You all had plans."

"The plans didn't matter," Hyunjin said softly, dropping his bag by the door and walking straight to her. He didn't ask; he just pulled her into a hug, letting her head rest against his chest. "I was sitting at dinner with my family, and every time I laughed, I feel bad because I knew you here and not enjoying your day."

"We all felt it," Felix added, coming to stand on her other side. He reached out, his thumb catching a tear on her cheek. "We got about halfway to our own front doors before we started calling each other. No one wanted to be the first to say it, but we all knew. We couldn't celebrate a 'home' when our ninth member was feeling homeless in her own heart."

Chan sat down across from her, reaching over to take her hand. He didn't try to cheer her up. He just looked at her with an aching honesty.

"Y/N," he said, his voice low. "It’s okay that today feels wrong. It is wrong. You’re allowed to hate this birthday. You’re allowed to be angry that she isn't here to call you."

Y/N let out a jagged breath. "I keep waiting for the phone to ring. I feel like if I just sit here long enough, the universe will realize it made a mistake and let her send one more text." She looked at the group, her lip trembling. "I feel so empty. Like I’m a song that’s lost its melody."

Han leaned against the table, his usual chaotic energy replaced by a gentle gravity. "Then let us be the harmony for a bit. You don't have to sing today, Y/N. You don't even have to talk. But we aren't leaving you to sit in the silence."

"We called our families," Seungmin explained quietly. "They understood. They told us to get back to you. They know that you’re our family, too."

---

For the next few hours, there was no forced party. They didn't put on music or demand she smile. Instead, they moved through the house like shadows of comfort. Minho made a pot of tea. Changbin and I.N sat on the floor by her feet, just leaning their weight against her so she knew they were there.

"Do you think she’d be mad?" Y/N asked after a long silence, her voice small. "That I’m ruining my birthday by crying?"

Chan squeezed her hand, his eyes steady and warm. "I think she’d be proud that you loved her enough for it to hurt this much. And I think she’d be happy that you have eight brothers who would drive across the country just to cry with you."

The grief was still there, it wouldn't leave for a long time, but as Y/N looked around the room, the crushing silence of the house began to fade. The music hadn't fully returned yet, but for the first time since the funeral, she felt like she could breathe.

---

The house was no longer silent, but it wasn't loud either. It was filled with the soft sounds of tea being poured and the rustle of blankets as the members settled into the living room around Y/N. The air, which had felt thin and cold all day, began to warm with their presence.

"I found this in the kitchen," Minho said quietly, walking in with a tin of old, mismatched tea bags. "It’s the jasmine one she used to make for us when we stayed late after the last tour, right?"

Y/N nodded, her fingers tracing the edge of the shawl. "She always said it ‘calmed the restless spirits’ of eight noisy boys."

A small, genuine smile flickered on Chan’s face. He settled onto the floor near Y/N’s chair. "She wasn't wrong. Remember the time we came over after the comeback was delayed? I was so stressed I couldn't even speak, and she didn't even ask what was wrong. She just handed me a plate of sliced pears and told me that a storm can’t last forever because the clouds get tired of crying."

"She had a way of making everything feel small," Changbin added, leaning his head back against the sofa. "Not in a bad way, but like... no matter how big our problems felt at the agency, they weren't bigger than her kitchen table. I remember she once scolded me for not eating enough, and when I told her I had to stay in shape for the choreography, she just patted my cheek and said, 'Muscles are fine, but a soul needs soup.'"

The group let out a soft collective chuckle. The heaviness in Y/N’s chest loosened, just a fraction. It was the first time she’d heard her grandmother’s name mentioned without it being followed by a "sorry for your loss."

"I think about the way she looked at you on stage," Felix whispered, looking at Y/N. "Remember at the Seoul show? She was in the front row, and she wasn't even looking at the light sticks or the screens. She was just staring at you with this look of absolute wonder, like she was watching the moon she had personally tucked into the sky."

Y/N’s eyes welled up, but this time, the tears didn't feel like they were drowning her. "She told me that night that she didn't hear the music at all. She said she only heard my heart beating through the speakers."

"She really loved being the 'Grandmother of Stray Kids,'" Han said, pulling a stray thread on the rug. "I remember I was nervous about my lyrics once, and she told me that as long as I told the truth, the words would find their own way home. I still think about that when I’m stuck in the studio."

They spent the next hour passing around memories like precious heirlooms. They talked about the way she smelled like flour and lavender, the way she used to mispronounce the English lyrics of their songs just to make them laugh, and the way she had a specific, stern look reserved only for when the members were being too loud for their own good.

"We didn't just come back today because we were worried about you, Y/N," Seungmin said, his voice steady and sincere. "We came back because we missed her, too. And we realized that the only way to keep her here on your birthday, of all days was to talk about her. To remind the house that she hasn't been forgotten."

Chan reached out and squeezed Y/N’s hand. "She didn't send a message today, but she’s in every story we just told. She’s in the way we look out for you. That was her last request to me, you know. To make sure you never felt like the music stopped for good."

Y/N looked around at the eight faces illuminated by the dim living room lamps. They had left their own families, their own celebrations, and their own rest just to sit in a quiet house and talk about a woman who had loved them like her own.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice finally finding its strength. "For bringing her back to me for a little while."

The birthday wasn't perfect, and the grief wasn't gone, but as the members began to settle in for the night refusing to leave her side, Y/N realized that love didn't end with a final breath. It lived on in the people who showed up when the silence became too much to bear.

---

After the tears had dried and the tea had gone cold, the atmosphere shifted. It was Chan who decided they couldn't end the night on a somber note.

"Okay," Chan said, clapping his hands together with a sudden spark of energy. "Y/N, your grandma always complained that this porch was too dark. She said it needed ‘spirit.’ Since we’re all here and technically ruining our holiday break anyway, we’re doing a memorial lighting. Stray Kids style."

What started as a sweet idea to light a few candles quickly devolved into absolute, classic SKZ chaos.

"Where are the lanterns?" Felix asked, digging through a bag he’d brought. "I bought the ones you launch into the sky, but I think I accidentally bought the ones that look like giant glowing squids."

"Why are they squids, Felix?" Hyunjin groaned, already struggling to untangle a massive string of fairy lights. "This is supposed to be aesthetic! I wanted a 'vibe,' not a seafood buffet in the sky!"

"I have a lighter!" Han shouted, appearing from the kitchen, only to be immediately intercepted by Minho.

"No, you don't. Give that to me before you singe your eyebrows off again," Minho deadpanned, snatching the lighter and pointing toward the porch. "Go help Changbin. He’s currently trying to hang lights using nothing but Scotch tape and sheer willpower."

Y/N watched from the doorway, a small, genuine laugh bubbling up in her throat for the first time in weeks. The members were running back and forth, bickering over the "artistic direction" of the porch.

"No, no, no!" Seungmin yelled at I.N, who was trying to climb a stool. "If you fall and break a leg on Y/N’s birthday, she’ll never forgive us. Get down, I’ll do it, I’m the only one here with a sense of gravity."

"I’m literally taller than you!" I.N fired back, though he obediently stepped down, sticking his tongue out.

After twenty minutes of shouting, three dropped rolls of tape, and Han accidentally getting tangled in the fairy lights like a glowing cocoon, they finally finished.

They stood out on the porch, surrounding a small, sturdy table. In the center, they had placed a framed photo of Y/N’s grandmother, looking vibrant and mischievous. Around her, they had arranged a "shrine" that was uniquely them: a few of Felix’s brownies, a drawing Hyunjin had scribbled on a napkin, a stray guitar pick from Han, and the glowing, slightly ridiculous squid lanterns.

"It’s... a bit much, isn't it?" Y/N asked, smiling through a fresh (but happy) tear.

"It’s perfect," Chan said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "She would have called us idiots and then asked for a brownie."

"Okay, on three," Changbin commanded, holding up his phone. "We send her a message. Not a sad one. Just... letting her know the kids are alright."

They all leaned into the frame, crowding around Y/N.

"One, two, three—"

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY Y/N! WE HAVE HER NOW, HALMEONI!" they yelled in a messy, uncoordinated chorus.

The "squid" lanterns wobbled into the night sky, glowing warmly against the dark. For a moment, they all stood in silence, watching the lights drift upward.

"She’s definitely laughing at us," Y/N whispered, leaning her head on Chan’s shoulder.

"Good," Minho replied, bumping his shoulder against hers. "Laughter is louder than silence anyway. Now, who’s going to help me clean up the three miles of tape Changbin stuck to the floor?"

"Not it!" the members shouted in unison, scattering back into the house and dragging Y/N with them.

The house wasn't just a house anymore. With the smell of brownies in the air, the ridiculous lights on the porch, and the sound of her brothers arguing over who got the couch, it finally felt like a home again. The music hadn't just restarted, it was a full-blown anthem.

---

I honestly don't know how to male the continuation since I thought I want to end the story with something sad. But then when I think back, everyone need their own time to move on, including loss of the loved one. So, here it is and enjoy!

Taglist: @m-325 @bbokarismeow @maddy24207 @kpop-trash-03 @brbwritingfanfic @staytinyluv

[miscellaneousdae]

JUST A GIRL !

a.k.a christopher & his anxious gf

dae’s note: chat the pms is taking me out 😻😝 anyways pls enjoy a very soft chris and a chaotically anxious reader!! (me when the fic will always be self indulgent)

[whatdoyouwanttocallmefor]

Sobs cuties

[ihaveamassivegun]

MEET THE BOYFRIEND: PLEASE IGNORE THE SHOVEL

pairing: serial killer!bang chan x fem!reader

genre: dark comedy, dark romance, horror

summary: chan accidentally airdrops you something, and that ends up with the two of you starting to go on dates. that makes you a perfect new addition to his body count(not the sexual one) but you escape when he tries to kill you, and he ends up missing you. then falling for you. then not being able to let go of you.

warnings: violence, serial murder, blood references, problematic main characters, codependency, implied stalking, chan breaking into your fucking home, obsessive love, mentions of sex but no smut written, not as funny as my first fic

word count: 10k

your phone pings. it’s an airdrop.

chris’s iphone would like to share a note

you frown. you don’t know a chris. but you accept it anyway.

you’re sitting in a public place. we don’t even have to name it because it’s not significant for the story whatsoever(i’m lazy to think of anything) the world is going on around you. a baby crying. someone aggressively typing on a laptop. you? pink sweater. minding your business. then the airdrop notification comes. a note.

the pink sweater girl looks cute

you freeze.

pink. sweater.

you look down at yourself. confirmed. you are, in fact, the pink sweater girl. congratulations.

your head lifts slowly, like an animal sensing danger, except instead of a predator it’s… men. two of them. mid twenties. baseball caps. both holding their phones, one obviously because he sent the note, the other because he received it. they’re grinning at each other, doing that handshake dap half hug thing men invented instead of therapy. (like in my other fic i’ll just clarify instead of describing looks, it’s felix and chan)

then they both glance up, because it’s natural that you’re gonna look at someone you’re talking about.

they make eye contact with you.

and immediately look away.

pink sweater girl (you) glances back down at the phone. maybe coincidence. but no, one of them looks at his screen again. you physically watch the realization crawl across his face. eyebrows lift. smile drops. eyes flick to you. back to phone. back to you.

oh no.

oh no, he sent it to you.

he smacks his friend’s arm.

friend looks at the phone. friend’s mouth forms a silent “OHHHHH”

the other one, who airdropped you, runs a hand over his face like when he remembered he left a body somewhere.

soon, he mans himself up and you watch him approach. up close, he’s annoyingly good looking, great body, a smile with a huge body count. (socially and not socially)

“hey.” he says, easy. smooth.

you blink at him. “you airdropped me, right?”

he laughs. it’s warm. disarming. suspicious. “okay, in my defense, that was meant for him.” he points to his friend, who gives a useless little wave.

“in your defense, that’s worse.”

“yeah, no, that’s fair. i was just trying to tell my friend you looked cute.” he continues. “privately. sorry.”

you stare at him.

“can i sit?” he asks, already halfway sitting.

you do not say no. he’s cute.

“chris. chan. whatever you like.” he says, offering his hand.

“…y/n.” you say, accepting it and smiling now. because he deserves it, he came over with a good intention after all. (absolutely not.)

“sooo…” he says, nodding at your phone. “scale of one to calling the police, how bad was that first impression?”

you look at him. this disaster of a man. then sigh. “i’ll let it slide. for now.”

he laughs, and it’s bright and easy and absolutely beautiful.

you don’t know it yet, but this is the worst luck of your life. because chan is very good at what he does. just not at this.

you start seeing him. not dates, just casual hangouts, or accidental meets. first it’s “oh you’re here again?” at the same coffee spot. then it’s “i was in the area” which is a lie because no one is ever in the area of that place on purpose. then it’s full blown planned-but-we-pretend-it’s-not meetups.

he asks about you. remembers things. little things. you go on walks, sit in parks, get food. he does that thing where he walks on the outside of the sidewalk like a gentleman, which is unnecessary and honestly feels like he’s preparing for a car to jump the curb at all times.

he never overshares. but not in a shady way. in a “healthy boundaries king” way. which is honestly more alarming. who taught him that.

you like him.

you like how he listens. how he teases you without being mean. how he never pushes. how being around him feels weirdly calm. and yeah, sure, how good he looks. so when he invites you over one evening, you say:

“yeah. okay.”

and chan smiles, and it’s warm and bright and absolutely not the face of a man with a secret life.

“cool.” he says. “cool, cool.”

and yeah, his place is… annoyingly nice. because you’re there now.

you step inside. “shoes off?” you ask.

“yeah, i mean, only if you want. no pressure. i’m not like, a shoe cop.”

he is absolutely a shoe cop. you take them off.

you hang out on the couch while he cooks. it’s unsettling how good he is at being gentle. at some point he hands you a spoon to taste the sauce. your fingers brush. he pretends that didn’t affect him, but it did. you can tell. this idiot is gone for you.

you eat. you talk. he remembers that story you told three weeks ago about your third grade enemy. who remembers that? psychos. and… boyfriends.

you laugh a lot. he looks at you like that’s the best sound he’s ever heard, which would be cute if it wasn’t a lie. and if the best sound he’s ever heard wouldn’t actually be his victims screaming.

while other kids learned empathy, chan learned curiosity. in like… the worst direction. he didn’t feel things the way he was supposed to. he studied them instead. it started with things that made adults say “boys will be boys” when they really should’ve said “we need several professionals immediately.”

he grew up. got smarter. learned the rules. learned how to smile at the right times. how to mirror. how to be what people needed. he built a version of himself that could pass.

and he’s very, very good at it.

later, you’re still talking, closer now. the air shifts. quieter. charged.

“you trust me?” he asks.

you shrug. “i mean. you haven’t murdered me yet.”

he smiles. but it doesn’t reach his eyes this time. something moves behind them.

he stands. slow, calm. too calm.

and there it is. the vibe shift. the sudden, bone deep understanding that prey animals probably get right before they bolt.

your body knows before your brain does. “chan?”

“i didn’t want it to be you.” his voice is gentle, almost sad.

EXCUSE ME?

“okay.” you say, standing up too. “we’re gonna rewind, actually—”

you move back a step. he moves forward.

he reaches for you.

you react on pure, untrained survival instinct and shove him, harder than you knew you could.

he stumbles back into the coffee table. something crashes. a lamp.

you look at him, realizing your situation. realizing that this is not a game anymore and not cute. so you step backwards, then start running to the door.

footsteps. coming after you.

the situation has escalated in a way that feels, frankly, rude.

you’re trying to open the front door, which is locked, when you hear the kitchen drawer. The specific metal on wood sound every human being recognizes. you don’t need to look to know he got a knife out.

when he starts coming your way from the kitchen, you run into the living room again.

you turn.

he’s there, knife in hand.

you both just stand there for a second, breathing.

you point at the knife. “so that’s new.”

“yeah.” he says, like he also just noticed it. “that escalated.”

“you think?”

silence stretches. he’s watching you carefully.

you swallow. “are you, like… a psycho? or what’s the deal here?”

he exhales through his nose. “yeah.” he says after a second. “i mean. that’s the short version.”

you shift a step sideways. he mirrors you, slow.

“like… diagnosed?” you ask.

“no.”

“self aware?”

“mm.” a shrug. “i know i’m not like other people.”

“i can tell.”

you keep circling the coffee table. it’s almost calm, if you ignore the knife. don’t ignore the knife.

“you do this a lot?” you ask.

“yeah.”

“how many?”

he thinks, not counting, recalling. “uh. i don’t know. i stopped keeping track.”

“right.”

a beat.

“that’s not great.” you say.

“mm.”

you both pause as you accidentally end up at the same side of the table. you both adjust. social awareness king even now.

“you were normal.” you say. “that’s annoying.”

“i am normal.” he says.

you just stare at him.

he gestures at himself. “i have a job. i pay rent. i recycle.”

“you also kill people.”

“yeah.”

“you ever try therapy?” you ask.

he gives you a look. “you think i’d say this out loud in a room with a stranger?”

“fair.”

a weird silence settles. your heart is slamming.

“so what, you’re just gonna… do it?” you ask.

“yeah.”

you grab the nearest object without looking, a hardcover book, and whip it at his head.

it hits his shoulder. he barely reacts.

you grab a pillow. throw it. it lands on the floor.

he actually looks offended by that one. “you could at least try.” he says.

“oh, shut up, dude. i am trying.”

“are you?”

“i am.”

“you’re clearly not.”

“i am so trying.”

you make a quick step. so does he. you stop. so does he.

you keep on circling. “so what, this is like… a hobby? what are we talking? you’re, what, secretly evil? since when?”

“always, kinda.”

“cool.”

he shrugs one shoulder.

“i don’t feel things that much, not like other people do.” he says. “didn’t. ever. i learned how to act like i do. most of the time it’s fine. i can do the right responses, it’s just… not attached to anything.”

“that sucks.”

“it’s not like a choice-choice.” he adds. “it’s just how it is.”

“yeah, i gathered you didn’t wake up and decided to kill someone today.’”

a beat.

“…i mean.” he says.

“oh.”

“yeeeaah.”

he lifts the knife slightly. the circling slows. you’re both just standing now, a few feet apart. the room feels too small.

“so what, you just decided people were the move?” you ask.

“animals first.” he says. “when i was a kid.”

you close your eyes briefly. “of course.”

“i wanted to see how things worked.”

“yeah. most kids use youtube or pornhub.”

you keep moving. backward. he mirrors you, forward.

you reach behind you, grab a little plant off a shelf, and throw it at him. you miss and it hits the wall. doesn’t break, but falls loud.

“please stop throwing my stuff.” chan whispers.

“stop trying to stab me.

“but that’s… different.”

silence.

he speaks again. seems like he enjoys talking about himself. “it’s not, like, a trauma thing. before you ask.”

“i wasn’t going to ask.”

“alright.”

you stop circling. he stops too. you resume. so does he.

“you ever try, like, not killing people?” you ask.

“yeah. it builds up.”

you stare at him. “that’s insane. no offense.”

“none taken.”

a bit of silence. tension.

your voice is softer when you speak next. “so what, i was just… next?”

he keeps eye contact when he nods. he’s not shy about wanting to kill you.

“sorry.” he says, not sincere. you know that too, and he knows you know.

your eyes flick to the hallway. distance. objects.

he notices.

the vibe shifts again. decision time.

his grip tightens slightly on the knife.

you bolt to the kitchen. you don’t know why.

he’s right behind you now. closer. you can hear his breathing, still steady. that’s the worst part bro, this is cardio for you and a light walk for him.

you grab a chair, shove it behind you, it slows him maybe half a second. you throw a dish towel. useless.

“stop throwing soft things.” he calls, mildly.

“shut up.”

you reach the counter, hands scrambling blindly. you fling a fruit bowl. apples everywhere, and only one nails him in the chest.

he looks down at it like it was a little bird flying into him.

you run again.

hallway, bedroom. wrong choice. always a wrong choice.

you spin back out before he can corner you, nearly colliding with him. you both jolt back on instinct, like two strangers doing the awkward sidewalk dance.

“sorry.” you both say at the same time.

your foot hurts. you look down, then look back up at him.

“you stepped on my foot.” you say.

chan blinks, then looks down. “oh.”

you slap his arm. not hard, just as correction. “watch it.”

“my bad.” he says automatically.

your heart is beating so hard it’s starting to make you feel dizzy.

you look at him again. “you’re not even out of breath.” you say.

“i run.” he replies.

“of course you do.”

you start moving again, slower now, both of you drifting sideways in the narrow hallway.

he studies you. he feels the usual things, the focus, the clarity, the hum in his chest that’s been with him since he was a kid standing in a backyard with some small and warm animal in his hands, wondering what would happen if he would cut it up. and he did, later.

but it’s tangled now. weird. something else joined it. irritation, interest, a tight, unfamiliar pressure behind his ribs.

“you’re not scared?” he asks.

“i’m terrified.” you say, plain, honest.

he searches your face. he adjusts his grip on the knife.

you both shift at the same time again, hallway too small, lives too big for this space. you shoulder brushes his chest and your body flinches.

he notices that. there it is. the fear. not in your face, but the recoil. in the space your body tries to create.

you move first, sudden, slipping past him again.

behind you, he turns smoothly. and now he knows you’re scared.

you round the corner into the living room again, lungs burning, legs starting to feel unreliable. behind you, his footsteps.

“your layout sucks.” you say, breathless.

“yeah, I’ve been meaning to open it up.” he replies, right there behind you. not rushing, enjoying the chase.

you grab the back of a chair and drag it behind you like that’s going to stop a man who jogs daily and murders as a hobby.

“do you stretch before this?” you ask.

“usually.”

“good for you.”

you both slow again, circling opposite sides of the couch now. it’s absurdly normal looking.

“you could just sit down.” he says.

“so could you.”

“when we’re done, maybe.”

you both adjust direction at the same time again. that awkward almost collision energy thing.

“does anyone know?” you ask, breath tight. “about… this. about you.”

“no.”

“no one at all?”

“no.”

“friends?”

he gives you a look.

“right.” you say. “i suppose we don’t count felix either.”

a pause.

“it must be lonely.” you add, before you can stop yourself.

he doesn’t react right away. just watches you. then says “ow.” but like in that sassy way.

you clock the sign in his eyes that your words hit.

you also clock the plate rack by the sink.

you get a plate, then turn back toward him. “this is such a stupid way to spend a night, by the way.”

“i was having a good time earlier.” he says.

“yeah. same.”

he shifts his weight, just a second. adjusting his grip.

seeing that as your window, you move, fast. you adjust your grip on the plate and swing.

it connects with the side of his head with a horrible, solid sound. the porcelain shatters. chan drops the knife, and his knees buckle.

then he drops to the floor hard.

you stand there, plate shard in hand, chest heaving.

you wait.

one second, two. chan doesn’t move.

“oh my god.” you breathe. “oh my god.”

your hands start shaking now. bad. delayed reaction finally cashing in or whatever they call this shi.

you kick the knife away far, under the table.

he’s out. actually out.

you don’t check his pulse, you don’t lean closer, and you most definitely don’t do anything brave or smart or cinematic. you just search his pockets for keys with shaking hands, and when you have them, you run.

you don’t even put your shoes on, you just unlock the door and yank it open, stumble into the hallway, slam it behind you like that helps. and you don’t look back. you go down the stairs, out the building. you don’t stop until the building is small behind you. then smaller, then gone.

your phone is in your pocket, you know that. police exist. you know that too.

and you don’t call them.

maybe you’re in shock. maybe you don’t want to explain any of this out loud. maybe some part of your brain hasn’t caught up and still thinks this was just a very bad date. or maybe it’s the look on his face earlier. when you said lonely. that half second of something almost human, buried under everything else. or maybe…

you don’t know.

you just go home. and you don’t call.

now, it’s been a few days since that. which is insane, by the way. you haven’t slept right since that night. every noise is a thing, and every man with dark hair gets a double take. but you’re here. functioning.

you’re at work now. you’re halfway through lunch, sitting with two coworkers, when the office door opens. no one looks at first, then omeone does a little “…oh?”

you glance over.

a delivery guy stands there holding the largest fucking bouquet you’ve ever seen. it’s fucking brutal. genuinely.

he looks around. “uh, i have a delivery for y/n.”

your stomach drops so fast it feels like you missed a step on the stairs.

your friends light up. “OOOHHH.” one of them says. “okayyyy, secret admirer!”

you take the flowers. they’re heavy, man.

“who’s it from?” one of them asks.

“there’s a card.” you say.

you slide the little envelope out with fingers that only shake a little if you don’t look directly at them.

you open it.

you left without your shoes.

rude.

i had a good time, though. you’re hard to plan for. i like that.

dinner again soon? i’ll be more careful.

-chan

your vision tunnels. sound goes weird. like you’re underwater and that fuckass coworker of yours is speaking from the surface.

you never told him where you work, not once, not accidentally. you are extremely careful with that, always have been. your brain starts flipping through memories. coffee shop, park, walks, his place. that’s it.

“that’s so romantic.” one of your coworkers says, peeking over your shoulder. “wait, what does that mean, ‘more careful’? that’s kind of dark haha.”

you fold the card slowly. “yeah.” you say. your mouth is dry. “he’s… weird.”

understatement of the fucking century.

you look at the flowers again. big, expensive, smelling good.

he knows where you work.

he sent this during business hours.

he wanted you to open it here. in public. surrounded.

your heart is trying to punch its way out of your chest now. your skin feels too tight, too hot. you’re going to fucking collapse right here right now.

he’s not done, not embarrassed, not scared. he’s enjoying this.

“are you okay?” your friend asks, finally noticing your face.

you nod automatically. “yeah. yeah, i just, uh. need some air.” you stand up too fast. the chair screeches, too loud. everything’s too loud. you carry the bouquet with you because leaving it feels worse.

out in the hallway, the smile drops off your face.

“fuck.” you whisper, hands shaking so hard the flowers rattle.

he found you.

he waited.

he sent a gift.

somewhere, deep under the terror, under the nausea, under the oh my god he could be outside right now, you understand something. you didn’t call the police. and now he thinks this is still between just you and him. which, in his fucked up brain, means you’re still playing.

you throw the flowers into the trash.

to get home, you get a taxi, check the mirrors every thirty seconds, heart banging against your ribs the whole ride. when you get to your building, you scan the street. nothing.

you go inside, up the stairs, keys between your fingers like claws even though you know damn well that doesn’t do much.

you hands are shaking when you unlock your door.

you step in, and flip the light switch.

“i’ll get that.”

the door shuts behind you with a soft, final click.

your brain doesn’t process it, not at first. the voice hits before the meaning does.

then it lands. it wasn’t you saying that. it was a man’s voice telling you he’ll get that.

you turn, and chan is right there. inside your apartment. he’s been waiting. relaxed posture, jacket off, weapon nowhere visible, which somehow feels worse.

you suck in air to scream, but his hand covers your mouth instantly. other hand reaches past you, calmly turning the lock.

“mm-mm.” he murmurs, correcting you.

your whole body goes rigid, panic blowing up in your body so fast it almost whites you out. you claw at his wrist, trying to twist away, breath coming sharp through your nose.

he looks at you, softly, then he puts a finger to his lips.

shh.

you want to bite him. you want to claw his eyes out. you want to wake up.

after a second, he slowly takes his hand off your mouth.

you stumble back from him like he’s physically burning you.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?!” you snap, voice loud and shaking and furious. “What the FUCK is WRONG with you?!”

you shove his chest. hard. he rocks back half a step, not surprised nor affected.

“are you actually insane? you broke into my apartment?! you followed me to work?! what the fuck is this?! are you out of your fucking mind??”

you shove him again. he lets you.

“how did you even survive?” you ask.

“I have a hard head.” he says.

“yeah, no shit!”

he glances around your apartment. takes it in. the photos. the couch. your dumb little lamp. then, calm as ever: “where are the flowers?”

you stare at him. “are you— i threw them out!”

he frowns. “they were expensive.”

“i don’t give a fuck, chris!”

you shove him again, and this time it’s messy, more emotion than force. he lets you.

“this is not a thing. this is a crime. multiple crimes. a fucking bundle pack of crimes. are you aware of what you’re doing?” you ask.

he watches you. “you didn’t call the police.”

your jaw tightens. “that does not mean i want you around.”

“it means something.” he says.

“it means i was in shock, you psycho!”

a beat.

“what do you want from me?!”

silence.

“i want to take you out.”

you blink. “what.”

“on a date.”

you just stare at him. “you broke into my house.”

“yeah.”

“you tried to kill me.”

“yeah.”

“you stalked me.”

“mhm.”

you stare at him. you actually can’t fucking believe this is happening. “are you concussed? is the plate thing delayed?”

“i mean it.”

“you TRIED TO KILL ME.”

he nods once. “that part didn’t go how i thought.”

you make a sound. “no. are you hearing yourself?”

“i don’t want to kill you.” he says.

“you already tried!”

“that was before.”

“before WHAT?!”

he runs a hand through his hair. “before i knew.”

“knew what, that i have a job?!”

“that i like you.”

you just look at him. flat. done. “that is not my problem.”

he steps closer, not fast this time and not grabbing you. “please.”

you freeze. that word does not belong in his mouth.

“don’t do that, you fucker.” you warn.

“i can’t stop thinking about you.” he says, voice tighter now. “you’re in my head all the time. that doesn’t happen. ever.”

“that is not romantic, chan.” you say. “that is a medical issue.”

“i don’t care.” he says. “just one. one date. in public. you pick the place, and i won’t bring anything. i won’t—” he gestures. “i just want to sit across from you again.”

“you are insane.”

“i know.”

“you need help.”

“probably.”

you shake your head, backing away. “no. you don’t get to beg your way into my life after THIS.”

“i don’t know how else to do it.” he says, honest, but still not emotional.

“go to therapy.” you snap.

“y/n.”

“chan, i would rather fight a bear.”

he looks genuinely stressed now. like this is the hardest thing he’s ever done, and that includes murder.

“please.” he says. “i don’t want to stop seeing you.”

your heart is still racing, and your fear is still there, but now there’s something else in the room too. your brain is actually debating it.

his shoulders drop, his voice lowers half a notch, like he’s stepping into a different character.

“i’m not right.” he says. “you know that. i’ve never been right.”

ohhh here we fucking go.

you fold your arms. “don’t.”

“i didn’t choose this.” he continues, staring at the floor now. “i’ve always been like this. since i was a kid. something’s missing.“

yea sure bro throw the tragic backstory card in. fucking asshole.

“i try.” he says. “i watch how people act. i copy it. i learned how to be normal. that’s work, all the time. you have no idea how hard that is.”

you just look at him.

yeah, maybe that’s true. and also not your fucking problem.

“i don’t connect to people.” he goes on. “not really. they’re just… shapes. but you’re not. and i don’t know what to do with that.”

he runs a hand over his face like he’s exhausted by being a horrible person.

you feel it, the pull. the very human reflex to soften when someone sounds sad. to help, to be there.

THIS IS MANIPULATION.

self pity. poor me, i’m wired wrong, look how hard my life is, please ignore the crimes.

he’s not confessing for you. he’s building a case for himself. every sentence is don’t hold me accountable wrapped in a vulnerability act.

you point at him. “cut it the fuck off.”

he looks up.

“that.” you say. “that thing you’re doing? the sad little ‘i’m fucked up, life is hard’ speech? shut the fuck up.”

he blinks.

“i don’t care if you’re sad about you being the way you are. you are still choosing to do shit. repeatedly.” you continue.

he watches you.

“that wasn’t an apology.” you say. “that was acting, chan.”

a beat.

“…yeah.” he admits.

silence stretches.

“okay.” he says finally.

“okay what.”

“i won’t do that.”

“good.”

another pause.

“can i have a glass of water?” he asks.

you stare at him.

“you broke into my home.” you say slowly.

“yeah. i’m still thirsty.”

unbelievable.

you walk to the kitchen, grab a glass, fill it. your hands are steadier now, weirdly. you hand it to him.

“thanks.” he says, and drinks it. it looks adorable.

you sit on the arm of the couch, watching him.

“you don’t show up unannounced anymore.” you say.

“okay.”

“you don’t follow me to work.”

“okay.”

“you don’t get to send me anything. ever. no gifts. no notes. no bullshit.”

“…okay.”

“you don’t come here again.”

he hesitates.

you glare.

“…okay.”

“say it like you mean it.”

“i won’t come here again.”

you study him. he means it the way he means things, not emotionally, but as a rule.

he hands the empty glass back to you. “bathroom?”

you point down the hall automatically, then freeze. “why did i just—”

“thanks.” he says, already walking.

you rub your face. “this is insane. fucking asshole.”

from the hallway: “i can hear you.”

“good.”

he comes back a minute later, drying his hands on his jeans. “you can pick where we go.” he says.

“somewhere loud, with people. cameras. witnesses. preferably a location with multiple exits.”

“okay.”

you rub your temples. “jesus.”

“there’s that that place on—”

“no.” you cut in immediately.

“why.”

“too dim.”

“okay.”

“no place with booths.”

“…okay.”

“no parks. no walking after.”

“i get it.”

“i don’t think you do.”

he actually pulls his phone out. “tomorrow?” he asks.

“no, i need time.”

“for what.”

“to process this shit.”

he nods slowly. “two days.”

you shrug. “fine. two days. six p.m. that diner about half an hour away, the ugly one.”

he smiles faintly. “i know it.”

he knows every location within a mile radius of your existence. fantastic.

“you arrive alone.” you say. “you sit the whole time and you don’t follow me if i leave.”

a pause. then “okay.”

you narrow your eyes. “that one took too long.”

“i’m adjusting.” chan says.

you just shake your head. this is brutal. you actually can’t believe this is happening to you, bro.

you point to the door. “leave.”

he walks to the door, unlocks it, opens it. normal movements. ordinary. then he leaves without a word. which is weirder than the whole thing that just happened between the two of you, because… who the fuck leaves without saying bye? what is this guy’s fucking problem???

“fucking psycho.” you whisper to the empty apartment.

and the date ends up going… fine. yeah, it’s fine, no use denying what’s true. women look at him, one at the counter full on stares, another smiles when he walks past to sit down. heads turn. it pisses you off more than it flatters you, because this shouldn’t feel like anything, but it does.

chan does not notice a single one. he’s only looking at you. and he doesn’t say anything weird. you talk about surface things, work, movies, people, how the diner looks.

it feels like sitting across from a guy. just a guy. which is deeply, deeply fucked.

and just like that, you two become a thing. not a relationship, you don’t call it that, or at least don’t want to. you don’t label it, and you don’t tell people.

you meet in public places, always your choice, always crowded. he follows the rules with unsettling precision, bc he’s terrified of breaking the system you built. coffee shops. sometimes you take him with you for late night grocery shoppings.

weeks pass. then months. you discover chan listens more than he talks, now that he knows he can show you the real him. asks questions that are too observant. remembers everything. your schedule shifts? he notices. you’re tired? he notices. you cut your hair half an inch? he notices.

he never brings up what he is, and you never pretend you forgot. but sometimes you forget for ten minutes. fifteen, if you’re laughing. then he’ll say something slightly off, not creepy, just… detached, and you remember you are building something… something like this.

you also start recognizing the difference between how he looks at strangers and how he looks at you.

strangers: flat, measuring.

you: focused, curious.

you two fight a lot.

“you were ghosting me.” you snap once outside a café, acting like you weren’t begging him to leave you alone months before. yes, you caring about him not answering says a lot already.

“i wasn’t ghosting. i was busy.”

“with what, burying a body?”

he just blinks at you. “you don’t want the real answer.”

“correct.”

and sometimes he says things that remind you what he is. being too calm about violence in movies, too accurate about how long it takes for people to notice someone missing.

creep.

then to top it off, you’re coming home once. it’s not even that late, but you didn’t have a good day. ready to go to bed, you open your apartment door and… chan is sitting on your couch. you just stare at him.

“hi.” he says.

you close the door very slowly. “we had a rule.”

“mhm.”

“then why are you here.”

“i wanted to see you.”

you’re so tired for this right now. “you can’t just show up when you feel like it.” you say, dropping your bag. “i thought i’ve made that clear.”

he stands when you step closer, and now you’re in his space, pushing his chest with your palm.

“you don’t listen.” you say. “you just decide things.”

“i do listen.” he says calmly.

“no, you don’t.” you shove him again. he lets you, because you’re not trying to hurt him, you’re trying to move the frustration out of your body.

you push him once more, and he catches your wrists. not tight at all, he would never, just stopping the motion.

you freeze. he’s close. closer than he’s ever been without space or witnesses or rules between the two of you.

“let go.” you say.

“you’re shaking.” he says.

“because you broke into my home again, you psycho!”

your breathing is uneven, anger, fear, an endless swirl of emotions inside of you.

a beat hangs there.

then he leans in and kisses you. soft, careful. especially soft.

you just… stop. you can’t really process it, but your body knows it likes it. so much.

after a second, you pull back. “what the fuck.” you breathe.

“i wanted to do that.” he says.

“that’s not— you don’t just— you ASK—”

“i didn’t know how else to let you know.” he says, frustrated for real now. “i don’t know how to make you feel what i feel.”

you just stand there, heart racing, furious and rattled and very, very aware of how close he is.

but what says the most, is that you don’t tell him to leave.

after that, things change to be closer. he sits next to you sometimes, shoulder to shoulder. he doesn’t reach unless you do first. you two also argue a lot, you call him out constantly. he doesn’t get offended though.

the rule about your apartment is the only one he can’t keep. you catch him multiple times sitting on the steps outside your building when you get home, leaning against the wall down the hall like he “was just in the area” which is bullshit and you both know it.

“you said you wouldn’t come here.” you tell him every time.

“i know.” he says every time.

he means the apology, he just doesn’t stop.

tonight, you’re both on the couch. your show is playing, but neither of you are watching it. he’s on the other end at first.

you can feel him looking at you, though.

“what.” you say without looking at him.

“nothing.”

you glance over. he’s already closer than he was a minute ago. you didn’t see him move.

“chan.”

“yeah.”

“you’re doing the weird staring thing.”

he doesn’t deny it, instead, he shifts slowly. he puts one knee on the couch, then the other. then he’s pathetically moving toward you on all fours, careful.

he stops right in front of you, close enough that you can feel his breath on your face. his hands press into the couch on either side of you, but he’s not trapping you. there’s room to move.

“can i kiss you?” he asks, quiet.

he’s dangerous, he’s wrong, he’s done unforgivable things.

you nod anyway.

relief crosses his pretty face, then he leans in and kisses you, slow. and now, you let yourself feel it.

you know it’s wrong, you know it’s fucked, and you know every rule you built bent tonight. but you’re tired of fighting every second. so you don’t pretend, you don’t justify it. you just accept the truth sitting heavy in your chest.

you forgave him.

which is, objectively? morally? spiritually? a terrible decision. absolute clown behavior. girl what the fuck.

and yet, you like him after all.

so yeah. you’ve accepted that he’s kinda your boyfriend now. and he feels that. he feels that you let go now, and how does he show that he gets you? he’s always touching you.

not grabby, just wants contact. his hand on your knee. fingers hooked in your sleeve. his forehead against your shoulder.

“you’re on me.” you mutter.

“yeah.”

“why.”

a pause. you can feel him thinking. “…i like it.”

you sigh but don’t move him. because you like it too.

you never ask where he’s been when he disappears for a night, and he never tells you. well, he would, but he knows you don’t want to hear it.

you’re in the kitchen one night and he’s literally following you step for step. you turn around suddenly and he almost walks into you.

“stop haunting me.” you murmur.

“i live here now, kinda.” he shrugs and reaches out, thumb brushing your jaw.

you end up laughing at him. god, he’s cute. (serial killer btw)

you know what he is, you know what you’re doing, and you most definitely know this ends badly in every possible timeline. but you’re the first person he’s ever wanted near him without an end goal. without wanting to chop you up. well, we know it started as that, but he doesn’t want to do that anymore.

and that’s why he keeps breaking the rule about your home. your place smells like you. sounds like you. is you. and god, he can’t fucking stay away from you.

you, on the other hand, are not missing pieces like he does. yours are just… bent. you feel everything. too much, if anything. fear, guilt, affection, anger, all of it overlapping, constant. you don’t lack a moral compass, you actively ignore it.

that’s the difference.

you know he’s wrong. you know staying is wrong. you know your own bad decisions. still do them.

part of it is control. you survived him once, you set rules, and he follows most of them. being with him tricks your brain into thinking you have power over something you absolutely do not.

and part of it, is that you know you’re his only one. being the only picture of love for a powerful asshole like this feels fucking amazing.

most days, you exist in this strange middle smth. you’re on the couch, and he’s half draped over you, heavy, warm, his arms around you. he wants you all over him so much.

then one night, you’re in your apartment, barefoot, in the kitchen. when the door unlocks, your shoulders tense automatically, but then you relax, it’s chan. you gave him a key weeks ago after arguing with yourself for three straight days.

“hey.” you call.

when he doesn’t answer, you turn. and your stomach drops so hard you feel it in your knees.

there’s blood on his shirt. not a little, not a cut. it’s smeared across the front. dark and drying.

“chris.” you say.

he looks at you, calm, eyes clear and… too clear.

“what happened?” you ask, voice already shaking.

he glances down at himself like he forgot. “oh.”

OH?

“you’re bleeding?” you ask.

“no.”

“then whose is that?”

a pause. he doesn’t answer.

now, you get a taste of reality.

“chan.” you say, backing up. “no. no, no, no. not in my kitchen. not… don’t bring that here.”

he goes still. “i didn’t mean to—”

“i don’t care what you meant!”

he steps toward you. you step back.

“you said— you said you’d keep it away from me.” you say. “away from my life.”

he looks… off balance. his smart but fucked up little brain obviously doesn’t know what to do with this. “i don’t want you to look at me like that.” he says quietly.

“like what?!”

“like i’m—”

“what you are?”

that hits, you can tell. he exhales, shaky now. “i don’t know how to split it.” he says. “i don’t know how to be with you and not be… me.”

“that’s not my job to fix!”

“i know.” his voice cracks on the last word.

he closes the distance fast, not aggressive, just desperate, and grabs you, not hard, just holding on.

“i don’t want you to leave.” chan says, pathetic suddenly. “i don’t—“

“you’re not the victim.” you’re rigid in his arms. heart racing, hands hovering, not sure about what to do.

“i know.” he says again. “i know. i just… i don’t know how to stop being this.” his grip tightens, clinging to you.

despite everything, the blood, the horror, the reality crashing through your denial, you let him hold you. not because he deserves it, but because somewhere along the way, you stopped knowing how to let go.

“i messed up.” he says.

“no shit, chan.” you whisper, your tone affectionate despite how rude the words are.

“i didn’t think—”

“that’s the problem, baby. you don’t think about what happens after. you just do it and then show up here.”

he runs a hand through his hair, leaving a smear across his forehead. oh your fucking god bro.

“i don’t have anywhere else.” he says.

“that is not my responsibility!” you raise your voice again. he deserves it.

his breathing changes, faster now. uneven. “i don’t want you scared of me.” he says.

“i am scared of you.” you reply.

he pulls you into him then, desperate. that’s how he deals with all these feelings, it seems like. this is what he needs when it’s too much. your touch.

you stiffen, then shove at him weakly. “you’re covered in blood—”

“i know.” he says into your shoulder. his voice shakes, actually shakes. “i know. i know. i know.”

he’s freaking out now too. not about what he did, but about you pulling away.

then his hands drop from you. the air changes. “y/n, don’t do this to me.”

you shake your head. “i’m not doing anything, chris. i’m reacting to the fact that you walked in here drenched in someone else—”

“you think you’re better than me.” he cuts in. he looks… scary. terrifying, actually. that’s because he’s panicking.

“…i never said that.”

“you don’t have to.”

he steps back, running both hands through his hair, smearing red across his temples. he looks fucking crazy.

“you knew what i was.” he says. “you don’t get to act shocked now.”

“i’m not acting!” you shout. “i am shocked! there’s a difference between knowing and seeing it in my fucking living room!”

he kicks the leg of the coffee table hard enough that it scrapes across the floor. the sound makes you jump.

“i try.” he says, voice rising. “i follow your rules, your places, your times, your conditions, and the one time i can’t clean it up perfectly, suddenly i’m too much.”

“you ARE too much right now!”

that shuts him up for a second. his chest is rising fast, hands flexing, and you can see the restless, we can even say dangerous energy crawling under his skin. not directed at you exactly, but not not either.

but you know he’s not losing control because of what he did. he’s losing control because he thinks he’s losing you. that fear, for him, doesn’t look like retreat. it looks like attack.

“chan. baby.” you say, voice lower now, and you slowly step closer. “you’re not losing me.” you say.

his eyes are sharp, searching, suspicious. “you just said you were scared.”

“i am.” you say. “and it is what it is. but do you see me going anywhere?” you brush your hand over his pretty cheeks. “no. i just need you not to bring that here. i need separation. i need a line. not from you, but from other people’s guts in my living room. most people don’t like that, and i’m one of them. and that’s okay. it doesn’t mean i like you any less, and you know that.”

his eyes flick to the blood on his hands like he’s seeing it clearly for the first time. “i didn’t think.” he mutters.

“i know. and that’s okay. i know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

his breath shudders out of him.

“i don’t want to fight you.” you add softly. not entirely true. you are furious. you are shaken. but you want him calm more than you want to win this moment. because calm means safe.

“…i can try.” he says. he means keeping allat human remains away from you, and you know that. no need for clarification. it’s not a promise, though. it’s the most he has.

you nod, because right now de-escalation matters more than truth.

“thank you. go clean up.” you say quietly.

he doesn’t move.

“bathroom.” you add. “now.”

a beat, then he nods. obedient isn’t the right word, it’s not submission. it’s… trust in your direction.

you lean up and press the smallest kiss against his cheek before he pulls away from you and goes to the bathroom.

when you can hear the water running from there, you stand, staring at nothing.

your boyfriend is in your bathroom washing blood off his hands.

your boyfriend.

you love him.

you shouldn’t, but you so do.

when he comes back, he’s shirtless, hair damp, skin scrubbed red in places as if he tried to sand himself down to something cleaner underneath. he stands there awkwardly.

you open your arms. “c’mere, baby.” you insane fucking bitch.

chan comes to you immediately, no hesitation. he folds into you, arms wrapping around your waist, face pressing into your shoulder, into your neck. you hand goes to the back of his head automatically, fingers in his hair, the other hand spreads across his back.

he’s warm, solid, a man who has done unforgivable things. a man who melts the second you touch him like this.

“you’re okay.” you murmur.

he exhales hard against your skin.

“i didn’t mean to bring it here.” he murmurs.

“i know.”

is that fully true? does he mean it in the way you mean things? you don’t know, but you know he didn’t mean to hurt you. and that’s the line you have chosen as enough.

you smooth your hand down his back slowly, repetitive. “you’re okay.” you repeat. “you didn’t mean it.”

that part isn’t true. he meant what he did out there. somewhere. to someone. but he didn’t mean to crack open your safe space. he didn’t mean to make you look at it.

“i don’t want you scared.” he says into your shoulder, tightening his adorable grip on you.

“i’m not.” you lie softly. you are. you always are, a little. but you also know him, the way his system works, how he came here knowing this was a safe place.

you rest your cheek against his head.

you evil boyfriend. your terrifying, capable, deeply fucked up boyfriend. held in your arms like he’s the one who needs protection.

so yeah, that… went like that. he learned from it, you learned from it. you have calmed down about it since then.

and he’s still very, very gentle with you. for an example, you’re in the kitchen with him standing somewhere behind you. it’s morning. you’re pouring yourself tea, when you feel something nudge your elbow.

you look down. his mug has silently, slowly slid across the counter toward you.

you stare at him. “use words.”

he blinks once. “tea.”

“you are capable of full sentences.”

he considers that. “more tea would be… good.” brutally charismatic dream man to the world btw.

you pour it.

“thanks.” he says quietly, hands wrapping around the mug.

it’s adorable, if you ignore literally everything else.

he’s on your dick constantly. shoulder touches. fingers hooking in your belt loop when you walk past. forehead pressing into your shoulder while you’re brushing your teeth. physical contact is how his little feelings come to the surface.

once, like in the MIDDLE of the fucking night, you’re asleep. actually calm in your sleep too, when the mattress dips.

you wake up just enough to process the arm that slides around your waist and a face pressing into the back of your neck.

you mumble, half conscious. “cold.”

“sorry.” chan whispers.

you reach back blindly, grabbing his wrist, pulling his arm tighter around you. you smell soap. strong. recently used. you’re awake enough to translate that into “he recently killed somebody and just washed up then immediately came to you” but too tired to think much of it. and too in comfort now that he’s here, so you fall back asleep.

in the morning, you will see his shirt in the sink, confirming your theory from last night. and you will not ask.

then one day you realize you stopped thinking of the worst when he comes home late. stopped asking where he was. and it’s not because of you wanting to ignore it anymore. it’s from acceptance now.

“you’re late.” you say one night to the man who you once told to stay the fuck away from your place, and now wait for before going to bed.

“yeah.” chan answers.

you glance back. he’s standing there, a little too still. shirt in his hand this time.

you sigh, tired more than shocked. “shoes off. bathroom. now.”

he nods. “sorry.” he adds, already walking.

you turn back to the stove, jaw tight. “jesus.” you mutter, stirring harder. “i made pasta.”

from the hallway: “i like your pasta.”

“i know.”

he doesn’t understand guilt the way people describe it. he understands consequences, and he understands loss. you are the only loss that terrifies him, because he loves you with his whole, damaged system. it should scare you more, and sometimes it does, but mostly, when he’s got his face buried in your neck, breathing slow, hands warm against your back, he’s just your boyfriend. your awful, terrifying, weird, quiet boyfriend who pushes his mug toward you instead of speaking and crawls across furniture to ask permission to kiss you.

and you love him so much.

sometimes, in very quiet moments, when he’s asleep beside you, face relaxed into something almost boyish, you study him.

this man could end lives.

this man panics if you don’t text back.

and what’s even more brutal is how he performs to the world. because he performs perfectly.

you watch it sometimes, and it’s fascinating. it’s horrifying. it’s the same face that rests in your lap at night, blank and quiet and real.

you remember the first time he walked up to you, casual, charming, disarming.

you didn’t stand a chance.

nobody does.

because he holds doors, makes eye contact like the person talking is the only one in the room. waiters like him, strangers tell him things, women glance twice. he laughs at the right volume, tips well, knows just enough about everything to keep conversations moving. he’s the guy moms hope their daughters bring home. he’s not shy to show you off, always behind you in public, arms loosely around your waist, chin on your shoulder.

you fell for that guy. then, you fell for the actual guy under the costume.

and the guy under the costume would do anything for you. you’re in a parking garage once after you asked him to take you shopping. you’re mid-sentence, telling him about something, keys in hand, when chan goes still. not even that dramatic fucking bullshit that movies do, just… still.

you notice because he was touching you a second ago, hand at your lower back, and now he’s not.

“what?” you ask.

his eyes are over your shoulder, and you turn. a guy is walking past too close, hoodie up, moving weird, fast, then slow. his gaze flicks between you, your bag, the car. your brain also starts doing that thing, the math, but chan’s obviously faster with it because he steps slightly in front of you.

“hey.” the random ass guy says(an: insert that “who’s this” meme from tiktok comments omfg guys), already too near. “you got the time?”

“no.” chan replies, calm.

the guy’s hand moves, too fast. you, inexperienced little you, don’t even process it fully, just that the motion is wrong. but chan is not inexperienced, and soon, there are bodies colliding with the side of the car. a grunt. a hard, final sound you’ll pretend later you didn’t recognize.

chan is standing.

the other guy isn’t.

you stare.

“are you hurt?” you ask chan. that’s your first question. not what just happened. not oh my god. chan is the first thing you care about, not even the violence anymore. that says a lot about your relationship’s improvement.

“yeah.” he says.

you step closer immediately, checking him over, hands on his arms, his sides, his chest. your fingers come away shaking, but not from what’s on them. from adrenaline.

“you okay?” you ask again.

“i’m fine.”

your gaze flicks past him, to the body on the concrete. meanwhile chan looks at you like he’s waiting. for fear. for disgust. for the moment you finally see him clearly and step away.

you don’t, well, you do see him clearly, but you also don’t step away. at all. you grab his jacket instead.

“let’s go.” you say.

when he’s driving you home, you’re scared, but not of him. you’re scared of what just rearranged inside you. because you replay it, the moment, the motion, the outcome, and your mind keeps landing on one thing.

chan moved without hesitation. between you and danger. and the only emotion that cuts through the shock is relief. relief that he was there.

and while driving, he just reaches over slowly and puts his hand on your knee.

at home, you can obviously see that he feels guilty that you saw that. but you step into him, and press your face into his chest. he immediately wraps around you.

“i only care that you’re okay.” you say into his shirt.

it’s true.

something settles after that night in the garage. the constant internal argument quiets. the this is wrong/but i love him/but this is wrong loop loses volume. you stopped trying to solve it. acceptance is ugly, but it’s peaceful.

and chan feels it immediately. he is a fucking expert in you, so when you stop freaking out when he brings blood home, when your body language loses that last thread of tension around him, he softens too.

he kisses you more, for an example. passing by you in the kitchen, kiss to your temple. sitting beside you, absentminded press of his mouth to your shoulder. lips on your forehead when you’re half asleep. you shoulder when you’re brushing your teeth. the top of your head when you’re sitting and he’s standing behind the couch.

you’re on your laptop once, deep in something, and he just leans down and presses a kiss to your temple.

you don’t even look up. “hi.”

“hi.”

he walks away.

that’s it. that’s the interaction.

he’s still not verbally expressive, still not a “talk about feelings” person. but physically, he’s all there. touch is this asshole’s way of expressing his love for you.

the sex is better too. this new honesty makes everything between you more direct, makes the communication easier, and boy does it make you cum harder. he’s fucking amazing in bed, you couldn’t even deny that when you were still scared of him. but now? oh your fucking god.

and after sex, when you’re asleep, he watches you longer and differently. his little eyes are literally shining when he looks at you, especially when you’re naked and guard down and asleep next to him. he feels so lucky.

you still argue. you’re both stubborn, both wired wrong in ways that clash. but neither of you want to argue really.

“you’re not listening.” you say one evening, arms crossed.

“i am.” he replies, calm.

“then don’t just nod. actually respond.”

a pause. “…i don’t know what the correct response is.”

you sigh, some of the heat draining. “try anything.”

“…i don’t like when you shut down.” he says finally. it’s clumsy, so blunt, but so so so real.

you blink. “okay. that’s something.”

progress, yes, though he still disappears sometimes and still comes back late. but! he tells you more now.

“i’ll be gone tonight.” he says some days.

“okay.”

“don’t wait up.”

“i won’t.”

a beat.

“be careful.” you add.

he nods.

one night, you’re both on the couch, your legs over his lap, his fingers absently tracing patterns on your ankle.

“you’re calmer.” he says.

“so are you.”

“that’s because you’re calmer.”

you glance at him. “don’t make me responsible.” then you nudge his side with your foot gently.

he catches it, and presses a brief kiss to your ankle bone. the same man that removed ankle bones before btw.

you know exactly what kind of man you love now. you’re not pretending he’s good, you just… chose him anyway.

he talks more, too. you’ll be lying in bed and he’ll say: “i don’t like when they panic early. it’s loud.”

you stare at the ceiling. “cool. hate that sentence.”

he nods into your shoulder. “yeah.”

another night: “i prefer planning. impulse is messy.”

“please stop workshopping murder in my bed.” you mutter.

he kisses your collarbone lightly. “okay.”

he keeps talking, in pieces, over weeks. just… information. and you realize this is his version of intimacy. letting you see the internal logic, the preferences, the way his brain categorizes things most people couldn’t even think about without unraveling. he’s not confessing, he’s including you. and you just listen, sometimes telling him to shut up, sometimes asking questions, like that “letting my horse take me places to let him know i care about his interests too” tiktok trend or idk how it goes.

once you’re in a bookstore. some guy is talking to you about a novel you’re holding, being overly friendly in that way men do when they think they’re charming. you’re polite, nodding, listening, when an arm slides around your waist from behind.

chan’s chin rests briefly on your shoulder.

“hey.” he says, voice so so so charismatic, smiling at the guy like they’re old friends. “did you find what you were looking for, baby girl?”

you close your eyes for half a second. oh my god. you can feel chan turn the public personality on. relaxed posture, perfect smile, protective but casual. like he just wandered over from being handsome somewhere else.

“yeah.” you say dryly. “book.”

“nice.” he says, kissing the side of your head.

the stranger mumbles something about having to go. chan watches him leave, expression pleasant. then, quietly in your ear: “he was standing too close.”

“i had it handled.”

“oh, i know.” he doesn’t remove his arm, and you don’t make him.

it’s insane how easily he switches. but you can catch it now perfectly. when his face goes blank between expressions, when he talks about things he knows only you can be told about, when his hand tightens slightly in his sleep. and now you just brush your thumb over his knuckles until he settles.

what changes, in the end, isn’t that he becomes better. it’s that he becomes unguarded. with the world, he still has that mask. but with you, that starts crumbling, because somewhere along the way, his brain filed you under safe.

like you’re in your room, drawer open, looking for a charger. chan appears behind you like he always does, silent, looming, curious.

“what are you looking for?” he asks.

“nothing you need to help with.” you reply.

too late, his hand has already reached into the drawer. you turn just in time to see him pull out your vibrator, and examining it.

you snatch it out of his hand so fast you almost dislocate your own shoulder.

he blinks. “i thought—“

“that is a private object, chan. it’s okay if we use it during sex, you do not need to pull it out now.”

“i wasn’t using it.”

“THAT IS NOT THE POINT.”

he nods slowly, processing. “privacy.” he repeats.

“yes. privacy. personal. mine. it’s okay for you to touch it when it’s in context, otherwise it’s not pleasant to have you throw it around.”

“okay.”

five minutes later he opens your bathroom cabinet while brushing his teeth.

you smack the door shut.

he looks at you, toothbrush in mouth.

“…privacy?” he tries.

“privacy.”

“right.”

he’s not being creepy on purpose. he just genuinely does not have the instinct most people have that says this is someone else’s space inside their space. his brain works like this: your house = your shared environment = accessible. drawers? shelves? phone screens? all just… objects in the environment.

you’re folding laundry. he walks past, casually picks up one of your panties and starts examining it.

you slap his hand away. “what are you DOING.”

“i was looking.”

“AT WHAT.”

“you.”

you sigh.

he looks at you. “…context matters?”

“yes, good job.”

he still forgets sometimes, he just feels so comfortable around you, and he really wouldn’t mind if you were the one snooping around in his things, because he doesn’t have any secrets from you. you start realizing that because he doesn’t attach taboo to things the way most people do, he also doesn’t instinctively categorize them as off limits. to him, objects are objects. curiosity is neutral.

another time, you come out of the shower and nearly die on the spot. he’s sitting on the bed, reading your journal. not snooping in a sneaky way, not hiding it, just sitting there, legs crossed, flipping a page.

you freeze. “what are you doing.”

he looks up. “you think in lists.”

you snatch it from him.

“i wasn’t judging.” he says calmly. “i wanted to understand you better.”

“i appreciate that, baby, but this is a no.”

“…so journals are private.”

“YES.”

a pause.

“what about notes apps.”

you point at the door. “OUT.”

this man can plan crimes down to the minute. he can read people in seconds. he can charm strangers, disappear in crowds, control his expressions like a trained actor. but understanding why he cannot open your nightstand without warning? that takes fifteen separate lectures. you’ve scolded him in every room of your house at this point. kitchen: “stop opening containers that aren’t yours.” living room: “that’s my journal, don’t touch it.” bedroom: “knock. yes, even here. no, i don’t have a problem with you seeing my body, i just need my privacy.” bathroom: “if the door is closed, you WAIT.”

“you’re very complicated.” he tells you once, but he still tries, because you are the only person whose discomfort registers that high.

but he opens drawers, he reorganizes things “more efficiently.” he once moved your entire bathroom counter layout and then looked confused when you stood there staring at it.

“it’s better.” he said.

“it’s WRONG.”

“functionally—”

“emotionally wrong, babe!”

then something shifts again. not in him. in you. because one night he’s sitting beside you, close but not touching, clearly trying very hard to stay in his lane, hands in his lap, wanting to go through stuff. it’s in his little instincts. and you feel it. the restraint. the way he’s holding himself back because you said no before. and instead of relief, you feel… something else. tenderness.

so you tell him to go the fuck on and snoop around.

you let him do it now. whatever.

he starts wearing your hoodie sometimes. you start not caring. he uses your shampoo. you just buy more. he sits on your side of the couch. you sit on him instead. somewhere along the way, your space stops being mine and becomes ours, and you don’t remember signing that lease, but here you are.

you catch him one afternoon in your room while you’re working at the table, fiddling absently with something on your dresser, bored, waiting for you to finish.

you look up. your fucking vibrator is in his hands again.

and you just sigh. “don’t break anything.”

he doesn’t. you let him play around.

what he doesn’t understand though, is when you baby his ass. that absolutely fries his system. you’re on the couch, he’s half lying on you, and you grab his face suddenly.

“who’s a menace?” you coo.

he blinks.

“you are. yes you are. big scary menace.” you pinch his cheek.

“why are you talking like that?” he asks.

“because you’re cute. look at your face. stupid.”

“…okay.”

you kiss his nose.

affection he understands. playful nonsense affection? no. but he lets you do it, every time.

from the outside, he’s still perfect. charming. polite. magnetic. then he comes home, drops the mask, and stands in your kitchen in your socks, drinking juice straight from the carton while you smack his arm.

“glass!”

he gets one immediately.

you shake your head. “unbelievable.”

he kisses your temple on the way past.

and you don’t even care anymore that he comes home drenched in other people sometimes.

you and your evil boyfriend.

forever apparently.

god help literally everyone.

tags: @yeonii08 @fics-lovebot @nougatjade @itsraininghyunebuckets @simpqueen2025 @alondra6011 @jaykaavfxcq @soldantae @11racha @angelbbygrl @lovelyzghostss @lisastay1

author’s note: i only tagged people who asked to be on my general taglist. if you asked to be tagged for sorry we tried to kill you part 2 but didn’t mention my general taglist and you’d like to be tagged for my other works too, let me know :) this just means i didn’t tag those people this time because i wasn’t sure if you meant only part 2 or my other upcoming works as well. let me know. love y’all<3 (also the fact that you’re reading this rn, which tells me you’re THAT interested in my work, deserves a reward, which is me telling you that the part 2 of sorry we tried to kill you is coming out next, theeeen a separate serial killer felix like this)

[whatdoyouwanttocallmefor]

Why am I liking this? TELL ME WHY

[ihaveamassivegun]

DEAR Y/N: SORRY WE TRIED TO KILL YOU

pairing: serial killers!ot8!skz x fem!reader

genre: crackfic, dark comedy, dark romance, thriller

summary: hyunjin invites you over to hang out with him and his friends. they try to kill you. you survive! aaaand now they’re obsessed with you.

warnings: attempted murder of protagonist(reader), violence, blood, stalking, obsessive behavior, mentions of death/murder/dismemberment/(implied)rape(it’s just in a conversation, it didn’t happen to anyone in the fic!!), cursing, homicidal behavior/psychopathy, dumb han and felix, people die, the love interests(skz) are the problem, nobody here is okay, english is obvi not my first language

word count: 13k

you almost got murdered.

by eight gorgeous men.

yea, y/n. you got yourself into that situation. but how?

you were walking home once, minding your own business, chewing on some thought. could have been anything. from dinner to what you need to do tomorrow, let’s not act like it matters. none of these little details matter, what does, is that a man was walking towards you. (an: guys i’ll clarify it now that it’s hyunjin. i just hate when fanfics try to describe looks when we don’t know names yet)

the man passed you. smelled great. nothing more.

“is this yours?”

that was him. his voice. he talked to you.

you stopped then and turned around. he was also standing still, looking at you. holding a single airpod.

no. it was not yours. at all. not your airpod.

“shit. yes, it is.” you smiled. a hundred percent aware that the single airpod was not yours.

hyunjin smiled, relieved in a way that suggested he had not planned beyond step one: talk to pretty girl. he asked your name. you asked his. he pretended he wasn’t internally rehearsing how to introduce you to the worst decision of your life.

and that’s exactly how you got yourself into the situation before your getting murdered one, where you kept seeing hyunjin, never really revealing that the airpod was not yours. you didn’t want to, he was just so cute.

and also a serial killer, not like you knew that though.

hyunjin was always the best with the women. or with the people in general. the other seven guys were… doing alright with them, sure, some better and some worse, but hyunjin always got what he wanted. he was the one collecting the people, another person to kill.

which did not happen to you, duh it’s in the first line, but how? how, when the eight of them, eight little nobodies who only got through school and universities because of each other, are so good at killing? how, when it’s the main thing that bonds them together and gives them their sick little dosage of joy? how, when that’s the thing they can do best? how, when they’re fit? lucky? hot?

yea i’ll just stop with all the questions. i’m boutta explain, obvi.

so. you two started meeting up. you not telling him that the airpod wasn’t yours, him not telling you he was planning on sliming you out.

once, he invited you out. you two have been out hundreds and thousands of times(like five times), so it didn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary to you. not a date, he said hang out. his place. “a few friends might be there” he added. you went. fucking idiot.

the place was so fucking cool. big. looked good. kinda place where you immediately lost cell service and your sense of direction.

“that’s just the guys.” hyunjin had also said when you two got there, gesturing inside.

you met them all in under three minutes, which was about two minutes too many. chan was a gentleman. he smiled. he shook your hand. he had huge arms and was gorgeous.

minho and seungmin both looked like they hated you. looked you up and down. acted like bitches. acted like they didn’t understand what you wanted when you said hi and introduced yourself. acted like you were beneath them. hm.

changbin saved the moment by immediately knocking over a chair and laughing at himself. he was sweet. he asked you if you wanted a drink. that was nice, because he meant that. he wanted to get you something to drink, even if he wanted to kill you after. wanting to absolutely murder you wasn’t personal, so he wasn’t going to make it personal.

felix and unfortunately han, two sunshine or whatever you heard the guys say about them(why were there two?) were sweet, but dumb. han tried to shake your hand and missed. felix complimented your shoes and then apologized to the floor.

jeongin bowed. he asked if you were real. he told chan you were out of his league. chan was about to smash his head into a wall. he seemed intelligent though, a little playful, a little flirty. sweet guy. (also a fucking psychopath y/n run run RUN)

through all of it, hyunjin, the liar, the asshole, stayed near you. calm. watching. soooo fucking hot, man. everyone else was loud or mean or deeply stupid, but hyunjin looked at you like he didn’t quite know what to do with you.

which was funny, because the rest of them clearly knew exactly what they wanted to do with you.

they were bad at hiding it. terrible, actually. chan kept whispering. minho and seungmin stared too long. felix dropped something sharp and went “oops”. jeongin asked, loudly, if you were good at running, then immediately said he meant marathons.

you thought they were weird. intense. hot, unfortunately. you had no idea you were being sized up.

so. like two hours into the hang out. you didn’t have your phone with you, it was in the living room somewhere. you were in the kitchen with hyunjin, leaning against a counter, listening to him explain, calmly, something about the cabinets.

“uhuh.” you said, opening three drawers and finding nothing but knives. so many knives. “oouukay.”

from the living room, something heavy scraped across the floor.

“alright.” chan’s voice came. “enough foreplay.”

you frowned, no idea what he was referring to. yet. “that’s a weird thing to say out loud.”

hyunjin hummed. then seungmin appeared in the doorway, posture lazy, swaying a lil, with a fire poker in his hand. i repeat, fire poker.

you had just enough time to think oh that’s new, before he swung. clean. aimed at your head.

you ducked on instinct. the poker smashed into the cabinet behind you, splintering wood, sending a drawer of knives exploding onto the floor.

everyone froze for half a second.

“jesus.” changbin said from somewhere nearby. “we just fixed that.”

you stared at seungmin. he stared back. you two stared at each other for a while.

“…huh.” you said. “okay.”

then you ran.

the boys just… got into it immediately. switched. getting up. listening to your footsteps. laughing. jeongin whooped. they all obviously had done this before. they were so boyish, all of them. and so fucking evil.

you ran down a hallway, heart slamming in your ribs. a door on your left? locked. on your right, open.

you ran into a study and immediately regretted it. felix was there, sitting on a desk, holding a crossbow. WHERE. DID. HE. GET. THAT. FROM.

“oh!” he said, genuinely delighted. “hey.”

“move.” you snapped.

he winced sympathetically. “can’t.”

the shit that he shot out of the bow that i don’t know the name of thunked into the wall beside your head. close enough that you felt the vibration.

“fuck you.” you said, accepting it surprisingly quick that you were getting hunted down.

you burst back into the hall and nearly collided with changbin. he caught you by the shoulders automatically, steadying you.

“okay.” he said, quick and quiet. “left stair’s blocked. right one buys you maybe twenty seconds.”

“why are you telling me?” you panted.

he shrugged. “i like you.”

then he leaned down, pressed a quick kiss into your hair, warm, apologetic, and shoved you forward by the middle of your back.

“go.” he said. “before i change my mind.”

you went.

behind you, he called out cheerfully: “she went right!”

“YOU FUCKING LIAR.” minho yelled immediately.

you ran up the stairs two at a time. at the top when you turned, han was waiting, holding a bat.

“oh shit.” he said. “hi.”

you grabbed the bat mid-swing, yanked it free, and cracked him across the shin. you fucking rock y/n.

he screamed, fell over, and immediately yelled: “timeout! timeout!”

you ditched the bat(DUMB bitch) and ran into what looked like a… whatever room. it was big, too big, too open, too much of a bad choice.

chan stepped into your path. was this bitch there the whole time? no, he couldn’t be. could he?

“easy.” he said, hands up. calm. annoyingly handsome. “you’re safe for—”

you threw a chair at his head.

he caught it.

you spun, only to find minho closing in. you kicked him in the knee. hard. he lunged. you ducked, grabbed a chair again and swung blindly. the thing is, you were extremely weak tho. the chair could have been a fucking pillow at this point, because he just stepped away from it. and you… kinda went with the chair. but you stood up! luckily.

they loved this. they loved the way you fought. the way you adapted. the way you didn’t scream, just swore and moved and made it harder than it was supposed to be. it made them better. sharper. meaner. more playful.

you ran out the door you came in thru and shut it behind you, jamming a heavy table against it. the boys could have prevented that, they just didn’t. you were way too fun, and they knew that you were getting tired. they knew they were going to win this. again.

you waited a bit.

the door shuddered. once. twice.

then stopped.

silence.

your stomach dropped. that was never good.

“okay.” hyunjin’s calm voice came, suddenly close, from behind you. “i’m gonna need you to turn around.”

you spun.

for a moment, you just stared at each other.

“yeah.” you said breathlessly. “so. the airpod?”

he winced. “yeah.”

“figures. sorry for lying about it.”

“it’s fine. i lied too.” he stepped aside, gesturing toward a side door. gentlemanly. insane. “run.” he said. “i’ll count to five.”

“why?”

he smiled, small. “because it’s more fun when you almost make it.”

you didn’t wait for five. you ran again, heart in your throat.

“YOU’RE DOING GREAT!” felix shouted when he saw you run past him. “I MEAN—STOP!”

yeah. pfftt.

the house stopped making sense after a while. corridors doubled back on themselves, which was fucking brutal. there were rooms you swore you’d already crossed. you ducked into a side room and slammed the door, immediately realizing, too late, that it didn’t lock.

“fuck.” you whispered, hands on your knees, trying to quiet your breathing. and you listened. footsteps walked past. someone laughed, a really… loud laugh. jeongin’s voice echoed from somewhere far off. you could hear how unserious his voice was, talking bout sum “she’s still upright, folks, which is honestly impressive” genuinely just making fun of the situation.

“keys.” you muttered. “i need keys.” because you clearly remembered hyunjin closing the front door after you.

from behind the curtain came a soft, confused, very close: “…huh.”

you froze.

the curtain moved. it was han, holding a knife and a flashlight upside down, blinking at you.

“oh” he said. “hi.”

third hi he said tonight. hi to you too, han.

you stared at each other.

“uh.” he said.

“yeah.” you replied.

a beat passed.

another.

he frowned at the flashlight, turned it the right way up, immediately blinded himself, and yelped.

“sorry.” he said, rubbing his eyes. “didn’t mean to corner you.” serial killer btw.

“you did.” you said. “that’s literally what you did.”

“right.” he nodded. “yeah. so. i’m supposed to, uh—” he made a weak stabbing motion with his hand that held the knife. missed entirely. “—do the thing.”

you glanced at the knife in his hand. them at him. then back at the knife. “you don’t look super confident about that.” you said.

he shrugged. “i get nervous.” he hesitated. then leaned in and whispered: “hyunjin gave his keys to chan, i saw it.”

your eyes widened. “…thanks.”

he smiled, shy. “okay.” he said, stepping aside. “i’m gonna count to… uh… what’s fair?”

“ten.” you said immediately.

he nodded seriously. “ten.”

you bolted.

“ONE—” he shouted, already losing count. “THREE—WAIT—”

you ran out. didn’t get far though, you heard too many noises, so you did what made sense at the moment. hide again. and you did hide again, at least tried, you were soon interrupted by seeing felix, who was crouched behind a couch, chewing on a cereal bar.

he looked up mid-bite. “oh. hello again.”

“move. again.” you said.

he scooted instantly. “yep.”

you walked past. paused. looked back. “why are you hiding?”

he swallowed. “i forgot what the plan was.”

“oh. i’m sorry.”

“it’s alright.”

from the hallway, heavy footsteps approached. chan, probably. he walks confident. you can just… hear his walk. felix heard it too. he grimaced.

“he’s gonna be mad.” felix whispered. “he hates when i lose track.”

you looked at felix. then at the hallway. then back at felix. “you’re fine. it’s not your fault. i think so, at least.” you looked around. “he just feels like the fucking star of the show, having the keys and all that”

felix’s eyes lit up. “oh! yeah, he’s got those.”

boom. that was your plan. sneak the keys into the conversation. get to know about it. you’ll be out of there in no time, y/n.

you looked back at him. “can you distract him?”

felix thought for a second, then shook his pretty head enthusiastically. “absolutely not.”

“…fair.”

he stood anyway, squared his shoulders, and marched into the hallway yelling “HEY BRO I THINK SHE WENT—”

you didn’t hear the rest. you ran. you climbed stairs, ducked under a railing, slipped through a door that led into a laundry room, and locked it. the blessed, beautiful click of a lock nearly made you cry. then you crouched between machines, shaking, trying not to laugh or scream or do both.

minutes passed. nothing. then, a knock. polite. gentle.

you stared at the door.

hyunjin’s voice followed, calm as ever. “i’m not coming in.”

“yeah?” you called. “promise?”

“cross my heart.”

“don’t have one.” jeongin added from somewhere farther back.

hyunjin sighed.

the fact that jeongin heard you talk and didn’t go to the laundry room says a lot about them though. tells you that they’re doing this for fun. that they’re not in a hurry at all.

you edged closer to the door, careful. “i need the keys.”

“i know.”

“give them to me.”

a pause. you imagined him leaning against the wall, hands in pockets, watching the floor. “you almost deserve them.” he said. “that’s the problem.” from down the hall came a crash, followed by changbin yelling. hyunjin continued anyway, softer now. “if you get them, though… you’re really leaving.”

“yes.”

“shame.”

fucking manipulator. that’s what he is. “you’re really leaving” oh boo fucking hoo. sappy asshole.

the doorknob jiggled once.

“five minutes.” he said. “that’s what I can give you.”

then footsteps retreated. you sagged against the dryer, adrenaline buzzing. five minutes. okay. you had to get out for sure, otherwise you would be so dead. so, next, run. you were going to run. open the door and… go… some… way. anyways, that’s what you did after about one minute of sitting on the floor and thinking about how will you do that. you got out, and didn’t stop running so much as you failed forward into the next hallway.

somewhere behind you, han shouted your name wrong, twice, then tripped over absolutely nothing and went down with a sound like a dropped bookshelf.

“FUCK.” he yelled. “i’m okay! I’M OKAY.”

you risked a glance back just in time to see him scramble up, only to immediately collide with minho, who had come around the corner too fast. they hit the wall together, tangled, swearing.

you burst through a door and nearly slammed straight into seungmin. both of you froze. like actually froze. inches apart. his breath was loud. yours was worse. he stared at you. you stared at him. his grip tightened on whatever sharp thing he had in his hand.

“…hi.” you said.

“sup.” he said. “you’re shorter up close.”

“fuck you.”

“later.” he agreed easily.

you looked at him, furrowing your pretty brows.

he glanced down at the knife in his hand, then back up at you. “this is awkward.”

“yeah.”

he tilted his head. “you okay?”

“no.” you said.

“hm.”

there was a beat where neither of you moved. somewhere far away, something crashed, probably han.

seungmin tilted his head. “you gonna run, or are we doing this weird staring thing?”

you lunged left.

he lunged right.

you both smacked into the same doorframe and recoiled in pain.

“fuck.” you mumbled, rubbing your pretty head.

“shit, okay, that one’s on me.” he admitted, rubbing his shoulder. his pretty shoulder. that sweater looked good on him, by the way. yeah. hm. really good. but that didn’t fucking matter when he lunged again.

you screamed, slipped on a rug, and went down hard, only for minho to come in from the side and tackle seungmin directly into a glass table. the table shattered.

you stared.

they stared back.

“…go.” seungmin shook his head, waving you off.

you did not need to be told twice. behind you, minho yelled smth like “WHY ARE YOU LETTING HER GO?”

a crash. a thud.

then seungmin, very calmly: “because you’re pissing me off.”

you ran straight into han and felix arguing at the end of the hall.

“i said left.” han insisted, holding a crowbar upside down.

“you always say left.” felix argued, holding a taser and clearly forgetting how it worked.

you skidded to a stop.

all three of you froze.

you were panting. “can you both—”

felix lunged. han lunged. they lunged into each other. they crashed, arms everywhere, legs everywhere, clothes everywhere, the smell of men everywhere, tangled up, the taser going off uselessly into the air.

“STOP STABBING MY JACKET.” felix yelled.

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE HER.” han yelled back.

you stepped over them. “thank you.” you said sincerely, and ran.

you rounded a corner and slammed straight into chan, full chest-to-chest. you both stumbled back a step. he held you automatically, hands on your arms. you stared up at him. he stared down at you.

he almost smiled.

then han came sprinting in, tripped over absolutely nothing, and took chan out at the knees.

“OH MY GOD I’M SO SORRY.” han yelled, tangled in chan’s limbs. “I DIDN’T SEE YOU.”

seungmin and minho found you again. jeongin leaned against a wall, wiping dust off his knees. han just got up and felix came in late, and they tripped over each other again. chan just sighed at this point.

you backed toward the door, hands up.

then while getting up, felix slipped. took han down with him. again. they crashed into minho, who slammed into seungmin.

jeongin smiled. “DOMINOES!”

that was your chance to do something. something to even just slow these guys down, anything, bro. so, you did. when chan stood up finally, you lunged for him.

but like… that asshole just laughed in your face and twisted away easily, shoving you past him. “go.” he said. “you’re warmer when you keep moving.”

weirdo. but you ran again anyway, down a side corridor, thru a door and immediately ate shit. your foot caught on absolutely nothing, and you slid, palms burning, your pretty little skin they want to cut so bad just gone like that.

behind you, there was a collective “OOHHHH.”

you rolled your eyes. sighed. thought about just lying there because they would probably still miss even if you were completely still. you decided maybe not. so you scrambled up and ran again, swearing, adrenaline making everything feel fucking crazy. unreal. is this really happening?

you didn’t know how long you ran. time stopped somewhere around the third near death experience.

you went downstairs and upstairs and downstairs again, back and forth, hoping to find something that could save your life. when you were back at the stairs for the seventh time that night, you took the stairs three at a time, only to find han at the top, again, wheezing, holding a knife backwards.

“WAIT.” he said. “hold on—timeout—my lung—”

you ran past him.

he immediately tripped over his own foot and tumbled down the stairs alone, screaming “I’M FINE—I’M NOT FINE—TELL MY MOM—”

you didn’t look back. you burst into a bedroom and slammed the door, locking it just as something heavy hit the other side.

silence.

your chest heaved. sweat slicked your now skinless palms. you pressed your back to the door and slid down until you were sitting on the floor, brain finally catching up enough to think.

okay. door. big house. front door has keys. keys are on someone. they told you it’s at chan but he could have gave it to anyone since that.

that was bad.

you stood, looking through the room. window. too high. bathroom. connected. closet. tiny but usable. fuck yes. you hid in the closet just as the door opened.

footsteps. slow. unhurried. manly.

“you know, i really thought we had something.” jeongin. sweet. acting, obviously.

you clapped a hand over your mouth.

he paced the room, dragging something metal lightly along furniture. an axe, maybe.

“like, don’t get me wrong.” he continued conversationally, “i love the chase. big fan. but the eye contact earlier? intimate.”

you heard him stop in front of the closet.

“…you in there?”

you didn’t move.

he sighed. then, dropped to his knees. you could see him through the slats now, sprawled on the floor.

“y/n.”

you could hear your breathing. you could also hear his. which meant…

“come out.”

…he could hear yours too.

okay. fuck. your only option was to make a run for it. so, after taking a biiiiig big breath, you burst out of the closet and kicked him in the shoulder. was it successful? was it a good kick? who knows. it knocked him down, that’s what matters, but it was a pretty lame kick after all. he only went down because he wanted to, not because you actually kicked him good.

anyways, you ran again. out the room. then immediately skidded to a stop when seungmin opened a door in front of you.

he stepped aside immediately. “after you.” he said, gesturing inside.

you stared at him.

he stared back.

you could hear hyunjin make a noise, talking with changbin.

seungmin raised his brows. “i insist.”

he knew that you needed an escape route and this was your only option. you knew he knew.

you sighed. ran through it, and it slammed shut behind you. you could hear a snicker(his voice), then silence. maybe he left. maybe not.

the room you were in was darker. storage. boxes. is this place even owned by these guys? or do they just come here to… play?

you hid behind a shelf, crouching, heart in your ears.

okay. think.

front door. locked. too obvious. you needed keys. you needed a person.

but they were playing. this wasn’t about killing you quickly. it was about the fun. about testing themselves. about proving, again, that they were smarter, faster, better. the teamwork thrilled them. having prey thrilled them.

footsteps approached. you tensed.

door opened. han stepped into the room, tripped over absolutely nothing, and face-planted into a stack of boxes. why always this guy?

“oh COME ON.” he groaned. “i wasn’t even chasing her!”

neither of you moved.

“…you okay?” you asked.

“yeah.” he said, looking up, nose bleeding. “yeah. you?”

“living the dream.”

he nodded. then, very gently, he pointed back towards the door. “they’re coming.” he whispered.

in the doorway, felix appeared, pointing at han. “dude. again?”

you took the chance and got out of your hiding place, quick, and bolted past them both.

felix gasped. “oh shit—sorry—sorry—”

han tried to follow, slipped again, and yelled: “WAIT FOR ME!”

a crash. a curse. someone else falling over him.

you ran down the hall toward what you hoped was the front of the house. behind you, shouting, laughter, whooping, bodies colliding, someone yelling “WHO LEFT THIS CHAIR HERE?” you rounded a corner and skidded to a stop in front of the front door. you tried the door. locked. you didn’t know where the keys are. your chest tightened. behind you, footsteps slowed. confident. chan, seungmin, minho, jeongin, closing in.

you turned around. the wall met your back hard enough to knock the air out of you.

“okay.” you said, breathless, palms flat against cold wood. “okay. this is—yeah. alright.”

the other four found you too. felix, panting. han, limping. hyunjin and changbin obviously not affected because they didn’t really take part of the chase. blocking off every possible exit.

chan didn’t take his eyes off you. “everyone good?” he asked, calm. so fucking calm. knowing he won.

“peachy.” jeongin said.

“bit winded.” felix added. “but spiritually fulfilled.”

changbin gave you an apologetic little wave. “sorry.”

two seconds later, seungmin lunged.

you fought, harder than they expected, apparently, elbowing, kicking, swearing. but they were coordinated now, hands grabbing wrists, legs hooking yours, pressure applied. you went down. not slammed, though. controlled. that fucking pissed you off more.

seungmin had your arms pinned. minho had a knee near your thigh, firm. chan crouched in front of you, looking down at your pretty face.

the second you were fully restrained, jeongin shrieked. “oh my GOD we got her!”

he leapt into felix’s arms. felix caught him, squealing back.

“we did it!” felix yelled.

they spun once. almost fell. han clapped wildly and then tripped into changbin, taking them both down.

you lay there, chest heaving, heart pounding, not knowing what the fuck was happening. because they didn’t seem dangerous, but you knew they were.

chan tilted his head. “you ran well.”

“thanks.” you said.

jeongin crouched low, level with your face. “so. how you feeling?”

“fuck off.”

hyunjin tilted his pretty head, hands in his pockets. “you did really well.” he told you quietly.

you forced yourself to breathe slower. think. keys. chan’s jacket pocket. right side. you’d seen the outline earlier when he caught one of the boys mid fall.

jeongin tilted his head at you. “are you afraid? like, i’m actually asking, because i need to know what to do differently next time. are you afraid of death? did we make you feel like you’re going to die? how would you rate it out of ten?”

you sighed, looking down at the floor. “getting killed is, like, the last thing on my list right now.”

they paused.

seungmin grimaced. “yeah, no.”

“oh, no.” felix said, shaking his head

“dude.” minho murmured.

“we would never.” changbin whispered.

“ew.” han blurted, horrified.

you narrowed your eyes. “ew?”

“no—no—not ew you.” he babbled. “i mean—fuck—you’re hot—shit—sorry—what I meant was—”

jeongin smacked the back of his head. “stop talking.”

seungmin grimaced. “we’re not… that evil.”

minho crossed his arms. “jesus.”

chen straightened slightly. “that’s not our thing.”

you watched it all carefully. the discomfort. the immediate correction. the way the tone shifted. interesting.

“relax.” you said, rolling your neck as much as the hold allowed. “i know.”

“thank you.” han said, sweating. “sorry. respectfully.”

“you’re fine.” you murmured.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

but something had shifted. you saw it. that weird line you’d dropped, half joke, half truth because it’s horrible that we have to live in a world like this, hit somewhere they didn’t like. their version of evil had rules. sooo fucking weird ones, but still.

“okay.” you said suddenly. “wait. wait.”

they paused.

“what.”

“i think i’m gonna throw up.”

“fuck—” changbin recoiled.

“not on me.” minho said, backing up.

“turn her head!” felix yelped.

jeongin scrambled backward on his hands and feet.

chan watched seungmin loosen his grip just a fraction, instinct overriding everything. “are you actually nauseous?”

“yeah.” you croaked, gagging for effect. “stress. adrenaline. it hit now that i’m still.”

hyunjin crouched beside you, studying your face. “you might want to give her space.”

“THANK you.” you gasped.

they got off you. you rolled to your side, clutching your stomach dramatically. and in that shuffle, arms moving, balance adjusting, you shoved your hand straight into chan’s jacket pocket. your fingers hit metal.

keys.

you grabbed them and curled them into your palm just as jeongin leaned back in. “you good?”

you gagged louder.

“jesus.” minho said, disgusted.

“okay, okay.” changbin said. “bathroom, bathroom—”

“down the hall.” hyunjin said calmly.

you scrambled to your knees, pushing past them, one hand over your mouth, the other clenched tight around the keys.

“don’t run.” chan warned.

you made eye contact with him.

and ran.

“FUCK.” seungmin yelled.

“GO GO GO.” han screamed, even though he was on the wrong side.

you sprinted down the hallway, heart about to explode, keys biting into your palm. behind you, footsteps. but now… less playful. more oh shit.

han tripped immediately. felix ran into a wall. changbin yelled: “STAIRS—CUT HER OFF—” and jeongin was just shouting around for fun. just hootin n hollerin.

you ran down the hall.

behind you, hyunjin’s calm voice said: “don’t panic.” which was funny. because they finally were.

you ran away from them. deep into the house again. you heard the footsteps disappear from behind you. good. good.

you slowed just enough to think. you couldn’t outrun eight of them forever.

chan and hyunjin were walking together on the halls. hyunjin had a small, neat folding knife now resting loose between his fingers. chan had taken a syringe with him. already prepped. yes, he can do a lot with only one syringe. his other hand kept brushing the empty space where the keys used to be.

he didn’t like that.

“she took them clean.” chan said.

“yeah.” hyunjin replied quietly. “good hands.”

chan glanced at him. “you sound impressed.”

“i am.”

“you like her?”

hyunjin didn’t answer.

“if we lose her, we change locations.” chan said, ignoring that his earlier question didn’t get an answer. he already knew it.

hyunjin nodded. but there was something under it. for the first time, the outcome wasn’t certain. that was unusual for them, because they usually did really, really good at this. once someone was caught by them, there was no escape. you were the first one who lived to a second round. he found that interesting. and yeah, he might have started developing a tiny little crush on you, back when you two were just meeting up normally. so what? he’s allowed to!

jeongin moved alone. still with his axe that he’d twirled into familiarity. he swung it lightly as he walked. he checked corners, smiling. as if he was dancing.

“y/n.” he called, sing-song. “be honest, was it the flirting? too much? i can dial it back. slightly.”

he stepped over a fallen chair.

“i just feel like we had chemistry.”

he grinned to himself. he loved this part, the story, the tension, the almost. he knew you were thinking now. they got a thinker. he loves that. he hates that.

he paused, listening. then grinned. “oh, you sneaky girl.”

seungmin had the fire poker again. reliable. brutal.

he liked the chase because it stripped people down to instinct. no masks. no pretending. no lying. just raw survival. that’s what he respected.

“c’mon.” he murmured. “don’t go quiet on me.”

you were irritating him. he barely got irritated. ever.

changbin and minho moved together. changbin carried an injection case now, plus a heavy flashlight he could swing if needed. minho had a hunting knife.

they turned a corner. empty.

“she’s doing something.” minho realized.

changbin’s smile(that came upon his face while he was thinking about you, hehehe) faded. “oh.”

they heard a noise and both spun, only to slam into each other again.

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE.” minho snapped.

“shit.” changbin said, steadying the other guy by his shoulders. “let’s just go.”

you moved through hallways. your lungs burned, but your head was clear now. you slipped into a side room and crouched low, listening.

footsteps passed. voices echoed elsewhere. they’d spread too wide.

you waited. counted to twenty. then moved.

back at the hyunjin chan duo, hyunjin stopped in the hallway. “she’s heading back.” he said quietly.

chan. followed his gaze toward the front of the house. “you sure?”

“yes.”

“how?”

“it’s what i’d do.”

meanwhile, at the front door han sat on the floor, back against the wall, holding a shovel. felix sat beside him on the other side of the door with a frying pan he absolutely did not need to be trusted with.

“…we guarding?” han asked.

felix looked at the door. looked at the hallway. looked back at the door.

“…yeah.” he decided.

they both nodded, serious.

“you think she thinks i’m cute?” han asked, adjusting his grip on the shovel.

“bro.” felix said immediately. “absolutely.”

“really?”

“yea, mate.”

they dapped each other up.

“if she makes it back here, i call saying something smooth.” felix said thoughtfully.

“what’s smooth?”

“i don’t know yet.”

while they talked, you grabbed a metal… something from a side table. and started walking back toward the front door.

“she definitely liked when i said she was hot.” han said.

“respectfully.” felix said.

“respectfully.” han looked away, then back at felix. “she’s gonna be so impressed when we catch her.”

“dude. literally.”

they fist bumped.

then, a loud sound came from down the hallway, and a metal object rolling fast across the floor toward them.

they screamed, then scrambled to their feet, immediately abandoning the door.

“dude. we’re gonna fucking die.” han cried.

felix grabbed his arm. “if y/n was here right now, she’d hold my hand.”

“yeah.” han said, terrified. “she’d be so brave.”

“should we check?”

“absolutely not.”

“…we should get the others.”

“yes.”

they ran away from the door, deeper back into the house, yelling for backup.

the front door stood unguarded.

you waited three full seconds after their footsteps faded. then you moved. silent. you didn’t run, that was important. you didn’t want to make noise.

behind you, distant voices.

“FRONT DOOR!”

“THEY LEFT IT—”

you walked to the door quickly. put the key in. wrong key. tried another. wrong key. another. unlocked it. opened it.

now, you ran. you ran, and didn’t stop. you didn’t look back. already past the gate. past the trees. gone.

for the first time ever, they’d lost.

the boys regrouped at the front door. empty. door slightly open.

silence.

chan looked at the door. then at hyunjin, who stared at the gap, face blank. he felt respect. and relief.

seungmin looked at the lock. then at chan’s empty pocket. then back at the lock.

for a second, nobody spoke.

“you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” minho said, sneering.

behind them, han and felix jogged in, out of breath and pale.

“okay.” felix panted. “so—update—there’s a hallway demon—”

they stopped when they saw everyone standing still, all backs turned to them.

felix looked around. “anyone else feel a breeze?”

chan walked to the door in three steps and shoved it open the rest of the way. empty driveway. dark trees. no you.

jeongin blinked. “…no.”

seungmin made a sound like someone had just run over his foot. “noooo.”

minho rubbed both hands down his face. “no no no no—”

jeongin looked at the ceiling. “oh that’s embarrassing. that’s so embarrassing for us.”

han gasped “shit, she did it!”

felix nodded. “i always believed in her.”

they high-fived.

every head turned.

“are you two serious right now?” seungmin snapped.

han immediately jumped into felix arms.

chan stepped back inside slowly and shut the door, quiet. too quiet. “no one moves.” he said.

seungmin was already halfway to the threshold, fire poker still in hand. “we can still see the road—”

chan grabbed his arm. hard. “i said no.”

seungmin yanked free. “she’s on foot.”

“she has a head start.”

jeongin crossed his arms, shifting his weight. “so we just—what—clap?”

“use your brain for once.” chan, voice low. “you’ll make mistakes.”

“oh, i’m sorry.” seungmin snapped. “did your pocket make a mistake?”

OHHHHH.

minho swore and kicked a chair across the room. it smashed into the wall. “THIS is why we don’t get cute.” he said. “this is why we don’t play with our food.”

chanbin winced. “okay, that phrase—”

“not the time.” seungmin cut in.

hyunjin leaned against a table, arms crossed, watching the boys.

seungmin looked at him, suspicious. the level of angry where he gets suspicious at anything. “you’re quiet.”

“thinking.”

“about?”

hyunjin didn’t answer.

“you liked her.” minho accused.

hyunjin’s eyes flicked to him, calm and flat. “irrelevant.”

“bullshit.”

chan stepped between them before it turned physical. “enough.”

“no, not enough.” jeongin shot back. “she got past eight of us. eight.”

“seven.” seungmin muttered. “i was close.”

“YOU HIT A CABINET.” changbin screeched.

felix, still holding han bridal style, raised a hand. “i think we should acknowledge that she was very good.”

everyone stared at him.

han nodded seriously. “and brave.”

minho looked like he might actually kill them. “put him down.”

felix gently set han on his feet.

han immediately pointed at minho. “your energy is aggressive.”

minho grabbed a glass off a table and hurled it into the fireplace. it shattered. “THIS is aggressive.”

“billy badass over there.” changbin murmured, crossing his huge arms.

minho didn’t hesitate to turn towards changbin and shove him. changbin shoved back automatically.

“don’t start.” chan warned.

too late. seungmin grabbed minho’s shoulder and pulled him back. minho shook him off. jeongin stepped between them, not to help, just to watch. “god, you’re all so emotional.” he muttered.

seungmin started toward the door again, fury radiating off him. “i’m going after her.”

now, chan didn’t just stop him but actually pushed him away by the chest. a confident, violent push. manly. frustrated. “no.”

seungmin rounded on him. “she’s RIGHT THERE.”

han raised his hand again. “i still think she likes me.”

everyone yelled at once: “SHUT UP.” “READ THE ROOM.” “YOU WERE AFRAID OF THE DARK.” “SHE HIT YOU WITH A BAT.” “YOU LEFT THE DOOR.”

“we were investigating a threat!” felix said defensively to the last one.

“you are the threat, you idiot!” seungmin barked, then grabbed the front of his own shirt and screamed into it.

minho kicked the wall.

chan exhaled through his nose, centering himself. “no chasing into the dark.” he said. “not like this.”

“she’s getting farther.” jeongin argued.

seungmin made a noise like something dying. chan folded his arms. thinking. hyunjin stared into the night air like he could still see the path you took.

behind them, han whispered to felix: “when we catch her, i’m gonna ask if she thinks my eyes are pretty.”

felix nodded seriously. “they are.”

eight dangerous men. outplayed. and every single one of them wanted you back.

so yeah. that’s what happened, like… two weeks ago now? yeah. about two weeks. now you’re living your life. you hadn’t told anyone. what would you even say? you decided to just leave it. process it. give yourself time to get over it.

now you are standing in line for coffee. life’s been fine since that after all, you deserve it. you slept. eventually. not well, but enough. you changed routines. new routes, new locks, pepper spray, therapy waitlist, the works. you tell yourself you’re fine.

your name gets called.

“hey.”

your stomach drops before your brain catches up. you don’t turn around. because you know that voice. so you grab your coffee and walk. behind you, footsteps.

“okay, so don’t freak out.” jeongin says.

you keep walking.

“that’s actually a terrible opener, sorry, ignore that.”

you cross the street. he crosses too. you don’t look at him. you don’t run. at least you try.

“you look good.” he adds.

“go away.” you say calmly.

“working on it.” he says, which is not how that phrase works.

you turn a corner toward a busier street. people. noise. couples. kids.

“no.” you say.

“i just want to talk.”

“no.”

“did you get a haircut?” he tries.

you stop dead and turn. “how long have you been following me?”

“today? or—”

“jeongin.”

he winces. “okay. today today? like twenty minutes. but not in a creepy way. i was building courage.”

you resume walking faster.

he matches it, breath puffing a little. “listen, i know we didn’t end on a great note.”

“you chased me with an axe.” you cross the street without looking. a car honks. jeongin grabs your sleeve and yanks you back just enough to keep you from getting hit.

you stare at him.

“i didn’t come to hurt you.” he says. “if that helps.”

you keep walking. he groans softly and follows. people passing by just see two hot twenty somethings having what looks like a mildly tense situationship talk. it’s kinda crazy that they have no idea what happened two weeks ago.

you walk faster. he matches it.

“you dropped something.” he blurts. when you give no reaction, he tugs at your sleeve. “really.” he says, pointing behind you.

“that only worked once.” you say, yanking your hand out his grip.

“yeah.” he sighs. “worth a shot.”

a florist stand is set up on the corner. without stopping, jeongin leans sideways, grabs a small bouquet, tosses a crumpled bill onto the table, and keeps moving. he shoves the flowers toward you.

you stare at them. then at him. you don’t take them. but you stop walking and finally look at him.

he looks… normal. hoodie. messy hair. no axe. no grin that clearly tells he’s in animal mode. just this pretty guy.

people move around you, annoyed at the sidewalk blockage.

“you have five seconds.” you say.

he nods, serious now. “okay. we’re not going to hurt you.”

you stare. you start walking again.

he follows. “the boys haven’t shut up about you.”

“that’s not flattering.”

“it kind of is.”

“i don’t know what you want. i’m not coming back.” you say.

“i know.”

“you can’t follow me.”

“already am.”

you reached your apartment building. this is bad. this is very bad. you stop again, turning to face him fully now. his eyes shine.

“we don’t want to kill you.” he says quietly.

you search for anything that could say he’s lying. you can’t find it.

“that doesn’t make you better.” you say.

“i know.”

“you’re still—”

“yeah.”

“…if you come near my place again, i call the cops.”

he nods immediately.

“if i see any of you, i run.”

“mhm.” he holds the flowers out again, then seems to think better of it and just sets them on the sidewalk between you. “i just needed you to see that i’m not… only that.”

“…you are that.” you say. you’re not even being mean, just honest. brutally honest.

“yeah.” he says.

you go inside without looking back. not caring about where will he go, when will he go, why will he go.

the next day, you change your route. different coffee shop. different street. hoodie up, headphones on, just really fucking trying to stay away from them in general. you’re in that coffee shop now. then you step out of the café with your drink, and nearly walk straight into a guy. you flinch back hard.

“whoa—sorry—sorry.” a voice says quickly.

you look up. it takes your brain a second. glasses. plain black frames. simple gray t-shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that this man is fucking fit.

changbin.

he gives you a small, awkward wave like you ran into each other and not like he… he found you. “hi.”

you just stare.

“i come in peace.” he adds, lifting both hands.

you close your eyes. “you’ve got to be kidding me.”

“okay. before you walk away—i deserve that—but just—hi.”

you glance around. public. morning rush. safe enough. “why are you here.”

he adjusts his glasses. “i just wanted to talk. like, normal talk. not chase talk.”

you sigh, and start walking. “you have two minutes before i start screaming.” that’s more time you’ve given jeongin, though.

he falls into step beside you immediately. “you could’ve called the cops.” he says after a moment. genuinely confused. “you still could.”

you look at him. “you don’t think i’ve thought about that?”

“i figured. but you didn’t.”

you sip your coffee, buying time. “you’d disappear before anyone got there.”

“…yeah.” he admits.

“and then what? i spend the rest of my life wondering if you’re gonna show up mad?”

he nods slowly. he can’t argue that.

“also, i don’t want to tell that story out loud. figured it would be the best for me if i just lived through it and got over it. eventually.” you add, quieter.

changbin nods “okay. yeah. that makes sense.”

you study him. he looks the same as in the house, almost friendly. that makes a question pop up in your head. “have you done that before?” you ask. “like. killing people.”

“yeah.”

“how many?”

he blows out a breath through his teeth. “i don’t keep a number.”

“and why?”

he takes a breath, thinking. actually thinking. “it’s not the killing part.” he says slowly. “not for me. that’s just… the end of it. it’s the before. i dunno. i like the teamwork. but that’s just me, ask the others if you want their version.”

you’re confused. “…did something happen in your past?”

he shrugs. “no. grew up rich. had friends. i have a great job. my mom calls me on sundays.”

you stare at him.

“i’m serious.” he says. “i’m just… like this.”

you hate how calmly he says it. “when did you start?”

“early twenties.”

“why didn’t you stop?”

he gives you a small, almost embarrassed smile. “i’m good at it.”

you don’t answer. a car horn blares down the street. someone laughs nearby. the world keeps going, oblivious. “you scared me.” you say.

“i know.”

“you still are.”

“i know.”

you swallow. you check the time on your phone. “i told jeongin i’d scream if any of you came close to me ever again.”

“i heard.”

“you got lucky.”

“i’m glad.”

a bit of silence.

you meet his eyes. “i don’t trust you.”

“you shouldn’t.”

“but you still came now. why? why can’t you leave me alone?”

he shrugs, small and helpless. “i liked talking to you in the kitchen. before we… started.”

ow. sounds bad. so bad that you take a step back. away from him. you’re scared.

“i don’t feel things the way other people do.” he says finally. he wanted to spit that out for a while now, he just couldn’t scrape the courage together. “it’s like everything’s gray unless it’s intense.”

you sigh. “…at least you’re honest.”

he nods. “i just… i wanted one interaction with you that wasn’t you running.”

you watch him. he’s still scary. “you got it.” you say. “now what.”

he shrugs. “now i go away.”

you study him. glasses slightly crooked. trying very hard not to look threatening. failing, because he looks like he could lift a car.

you almost smile. almost. “don’t follow me.” you say.

“i won’t.”

“tell the others.”

“i will.”

you start to walk off.

“hey.” he calls.

you turn, tired.

“you were really impressive.” he says. sincere. really.

you hold his gaze. “i know.”

then you leave him standing on the sidewalk, alone. alone with his horrible, evil soul. alone with this weird dumb crush he recently developed on you. alone with his biceps, flexing because he feels a lot and it just… happens when he feels a lot.

it’s the next day. normal day. sun’s out. people walking dogs. a delivery truck is parked. blablabla anything that says world goes on. you were paranoid this day, sure, but you survived so far. you’re currently locking your apartment building door after yourself so you could go grocery shopping when a voice behind you says:

“okay, don’t be mad.”

you close your eyes. slow inhale. you turn.

it’s felix. and this guy literally tried to shoot you once, you remember clearly, but he looks… perfect. perfect hair. expensive jacket. shoes that cost more than your phone. holding… a container?

you stare.

he smiles, so sweet. “i made you muffins.”

“…you what.”

“blueberry.” he says proudly.

you look at the container, suspicious. “i’m not eating that.”

he frowns a little. “that hurt my feelings.”

“you tried to kill me.”

“sorry.”

you rub your face. “why are you here.”

he shifts his weight. he’s nervous. it’s cute tho. “we voted.” he says.

“you VOTED.”

“yeah.”

“ON WHAT.”

“on not killing you.”

you just stare at him.

he brightens. “it was almost unanimous.”

“WHO voted no?”

“…minho.”

yoy try to step around him toward the street. he mirrors you accidentally.

“felix.”

he freezes. “yeah?”

“move.”

“oh. right. sorry.” he sidesteps so fast he almost falls off the curb.

“you cannot come here.” you say. calm. really hoping he’ll understand. “you cannot follow me. you cannot bake for me. do you understand how insane this is?”

he nods immediately. “yes.”

“then why are you here.”

he looks at the muffins. then at you. “okay. so. we— i— baked.” yes baby, we know. you told us already.

“i see that.”

“for you.”

“i gathered.”

he nods, satisfied that the point has been made.

you start walking. he starts walking. directly into a street sign. it’s loud.

he recoils. “ow.”

you pinch the bridge of your nose.

“is it bleeding?” he asks, pointing at his face, but he immediately goes cross eyed as you push his face away instead. his skin is warm. feels nice tbh. he blinks at you, unbothered. “you have strong hands.”

“go away.”

“okay.” he says.

he does not go away.

you reach the crosswalk and the light changes. felix steps forward without looking. a car honks.

you grab his hand and yank him back.

he stumbles into you.

“jesus.” you mutter, still holding his hand as you cross. “you’d be roadkill in five minutes.”

he looks down at your joined hands, his big eyes shining, absolutely taken aback by the fact that you would do this for him. well, all that until you drop his hand on the other side of the street.

“thanks.” he says cheerfully.

a man wearing a watch worth a month’s rent, carrying something he made for you that you won’t eat, who could absolutely overpower you, and instead just almost died to a car.

“don’t follow me.” you say.

“okay.” he says, still following.

you glance at him. “you’re unbelievably stupid.”

“thank you.” he says.

“that wasn’t—”

“i’ve been working on self-acceptance.”

pffft.

you stop. “felix, listen. i don’t want you guys here.”

he looks at you, tilting his pretty head in confusion.

“you scare me.” you clarify.

“oh.” he says quietly. that, he understood.

you point at the muffins. “those could be drugged.”

“they’re not!”

“i don’t know that.”

silence hangs between you. street noise fills it. someone laughs across the road. life just keeps going.

“i liked talking to you.” he says finally.

“you didn’t talk to me.” you reply. “you hunted me.”

“yeah. i’m sorry.”

you watch him. disappointed that something this beautiful can be this cruel. “you need to leave.”

he nods. but he doesn’t move yet. “do you…” he starts, then stops. tries again. “do you hate us?”

you don’t hesitate. “yes?” of fucking course bro???

his little brain absorbs that. shoulders drop a little. “okay.”

he holds out the muffins one last time, hopeful in the dumbest way possible.

you just look at him.

he lowers them.

“just go, felix. bye.”

“yeah. bye.”

he turns the wrong direction.

you grab his hood and spin him around. “that way.”

“right.” he says, walking off.

he makes it three steps. turns back. holds up the muffin container. “do you want—”

“no.”

“okay.”

he walks into a bike rack.

you watch him go. he looks beautiful.

you hate him.

you check to make sure he crosses the next street safely before you turn away.

that passed too. a few days later you are leaving a pharmacy in the afternoon, receipt crumpled in your fist, focusing on your surroundings now.

and across the street, leaning against a lamppost, is chan. he raised a hand, giving you a little wave, mouthing: you good?

you mouth back go away.

he nods once, then pushes off the pole and walks in the opposite direction. not chasing now. actually walking away.

then you’re in a grocery store, looking at pastas, deciding which one you want to eat tonight. a hand reaches past you and places the more expensive one in your cart.

you turn. it’s seungmin. black hoodie. baseball cap.

you immediately pull it back out. “no.”

he takes it. puts it back into the cart.

“no.”

back in.

“stop.”

it went on for a good five minutes.

at checkout, you unload your stuff, and when you’re about to pay, seungmin comes up behind you and wordlessly uses his card. do you process that in the head? no, only when he is already at the exit, hands in his pockets, not looking back.

he walks straight into the automatic door before it finishes opening. you hear the thud.

you rub your temples.

then you’re walking through the park because that’s the shorter way home. peaceful. sunlight. children playing. then the bush next to the sidewalk starts shaking.

you stop. you kick the bush. han tumbles out directly at your feet. face in dirt.

“…hi.” he says into the grass.

you look down at him. “were you hiding?”

he looks up at you, leaves in his hair, expression hopeful. “no.”

you start walking again. he scrambles up and follows, then trips on the sidewalk edge.

you catch his sleeve before he eats pavement. “use your brain.”

he nods seriously. “i keep meaning to.”

next time about days later, you see felix before he sees you. he’s staring into a store window, clearly confused by mannequins.

you walk past.

noticing that, he turns and his pretty little face lights up. “hi!”

“hi. don’t.”

“okay.”

he walks into a mailbox.

you only see hyunjin once, at a distance. not close enough to speak. just standing outside a train station, hands in his coat pockets, watching the crowd, not just you.

when your eyes meet, he doesn’t smile, just gives a small nod. then he leaves.

days after that it’s seungmin again. at night. parking lot. you only came with car because it was too far. you’re unlocking your car and a shadow leans against the hood.

“you’ve been avoiding me.” seungmin says, casual as hell, like he didn’t once swing a fire poker at your skull. “man.” he continues “small world, right?”

you turn, pepper spray in hand, and spray it directly into his eyes.

he screams, drops to his knees, clawing at his face. “OH MY GOD IT’S LIKE SATAN PISSED IN MY EYES—”

“stop finding me!” you yell.

he’s laughing through the pain. laughing. “you look good today.”

you drive off while he’s still swearing.

the next time minho follows you through a bookstore. keeps pretending to browse. picks up a book upside down. so you turn a corner and wait. he walks right into it. he also gets a taste of your pepper spray.

“SON OF A BITCH.” he chokes, doubling over between romance and self help. “you fucking—”

“YOU’RE STALKING ME.”

they find you in different places. weeks apart. or days apart. but they always come back.

something is clearly wrong with them. like, all eight are sick in the head. but it doesn’t seem like they’re following you around to kill you. they talk too long. they get distracted. they bring you things. they absolutely eat shit every time you fight back. and you do fight back. diva.

minho and seungmin have been pepper sprayed so many times they flinch when you reach into your bag. jeongin tries every possible pickup line on you. han once tried to sneak up on you and got hit in the face with your tote bag and apologized.

it’s ike they’re still in hunting mode. after you. into you. but now they’re… unsure. they don’t seem to want you dead anymore. they just… want you around now. or to just be around you, at least.

it’s the middle of the night right now. you’re in old sweatpants, hair a mess, waiting for the food you ordered. and soon enough, the doorbell rings. you shuffle over and look through the peephole for a second. delivery uniform. cap. bag. seems normal. so you open the door.

it’s felix. smiling ear to ear, holding your takeout, wearing the uniform jacket and cap. “hi!”

“absolutely not.” you say, already closing the door.

he sticks his foot in. “wait, wait—don’t slam it, the soup’ll spill—”

that’s when you see it, behind him, in the hallway. a man on the floor. the delivery uniform pants still on him, only his jacket gone, the one on felix right now. there’s blood under the man.

your stomach drops. your organs drop. after staring for about a minute, you slowly look back at felix. “…is that—”

“okay.” he says quickly. “before you freak out—”

“BEFORE I FREAK OUT?? YOU KILLED THE DELIVERY GUY?!”

jeongin leans into view, coming next to felix, hands in pockets. “it wasn’t him who killed the guy.”

you point wildly, not even concerned about the fact that there’s two of them now. “THAT IS A PERSON ON THE FLOOR.”

“yeah but like…” minho says, stepping into the doorframe, arm around felix’s shoulders now. “he’s not using the uniform anymore.”

your mouth opens. nothing comes out.

and then, without a word, chan walks past you. into your home. into your fucking home. felix shrugs and follows him. the other six too, actually taking their shoes off.

YOU ARE STILL HOLDING THE DOOR. THEY JUST WALK AROUND YOU.

“what—no—no—no—” you manage, backing up as they enter.

han closes the door gently behind them. “heat’s nice in here.” he says.

hyunjin looks at you and mutters a quiet but confident “hi” before going further into your living room.

changbin walks past you and spins slowly, taking in the room. “oh this is cute. this is very you.”

“YOU BROUGHT A CORPSE TO MY DOOR.” you choke.

felix is still holding the food bag. “your noodles are getting cold.” he says softly.

you make a noise that doesn’t exist in human language. (imagine something close to a windows crash sound)

seungmin tosses his jacket over a chair. there’s a smear of blood on his sleeve.

you gag.

he notices. “oh, relax. it’s mostly the delivery guy’s.”

“OH MY GOD.”

“hey, where’s the hand soap?” han asks, already at your kitchen sink, washing blood off his fingers.

you stare at the red swirling down your drain.

jeongin flops onto your couch. “i like what you did with the lighting in here. mood.”

“GET OUT.” you say, voice coming back in bursts. “GET—OUT—OF—MY—APARTMENT.”

they all look at you. it’s obvious that they don’t really understand what’s your problem.

chan gestures toward the takeout bag. “eat first.”

“I DON’T WANT THE FOOD.”

felix looks devastated. “you picked the combo meal…”

changbin is by your bookshelf now. “you alphabetized? that’s hot.”

“a— i— eugh— what is HAPPENING.”

minho leans against the wall. “okay, in our defense—”

“there is NO DEFENSE.”

“—we didn’t come to kill you.”

“YOU’RE TRACKING BLOOD ON MY FLOOR.”

they all look down.

han lifts his foot. “…shit.”

jeongin points at him. “mop boy.”

han salutes and grabs paper towels.

“listen.” chan says, turning to be in front of you. “we just wanted to see you.”

you stare at him. then at the door. “…you couldn’t text?” you ask hoarsely.

eight grown ass serial killer men exchange glances.

jeongin shrugs. “didn’t have your number.” that’s alright sweetie, not like you can’t find a phone number when you can find an address perfectly. not like you can’t ask for it from HYUNJIN.

you make another sound.

changbin steps closer, hands up, gentle. “okay, hey. we know this looks bad.”

“LOOKS—”

“bad phrasing.” he admits.

seungmin rubs the back of his neck. “we didn’t plan the delivery guy part.”

“that’s WORSE.” you sag against the wall. “you have got to be shitting me.” you whisper to yourself. then you look at them. all of them. in your apartment. on your couch. at your sink. in your life. “out.”

they don’t move.

jeongin tilts his head. “we just got here—”

“OUT.”

changbin actually flinches.

seungmin raises his hands. “okay, volume—”

“you killed someone. again, i assume. and brought it to my DOOR. do you understand how fucking insane that is?”

silence.

“i can’t sleep normally. i check reflections everywhere. i don’t walk with headphones anymore. do you get that? do you get what you did to my brain? i couldn’t function for weeks. every sound was footsteps. every guy walking behind me was one of you. i have three different hiding spots in my own apartment.”

han raises a hand slightly. “this one’s not great.”

“NO IT IS NOT GREAT.”

felix looks genuinely confused. “we didn’t think about… after.”

“YEAH. THAT’S THE PROBLEM. you don’t think about after. you don’t think about people being PEOPLE. you think about adrenaline and teamwork and your little murder club hangouts.”

changbin crosses his arms. “okay when you say it like that—”

“how else is there to say it??” you gesture wildly at the room.

they don’t look guilty. they look… attentive. they’re paying attention. trying to understand you.

you swallow. “no, seriously. i want to know. when you followed me for weeks? when you showed up at my job? when i thought every man walking behind me was about to grab me? that was fun for you?”

seungmin shrugs. “engaging.”

you grab the nearest thing, a throw pillow, and launch it at his face. then relax your shoulders and sigh. “i am a person. with a nervous system. i had a normal life before you guys.”

there’s a long pause.

felix raises a hand slightly. “your food is still warm.”

“READ THE ROOM.”

he lowers it.

han whispers to him: “she’s upset-upset.”

“no shit.” you snap.

chan has his hands on his hips. “you’re saying we made you paranoid and ruined your life.”

you stare. “…are you fucking for real right now.”

“trying to understand the damage.”

“DAMAGE???”

jeongin leans forward on the couch, elbows on knees. “we don’t feel fear like that, or guilt the way you do.”

“yeah, i noticed.”

“but we’re not dumb.” hyunjin says quietly.

your eyes flick to him.

he meets them. calm. honest in a deeply unsettling way. “we know we changed your life. we can see the behavioral shifts. we know what we did. we just don’t care.“

you blink. does this fucking asshole hear himself.

he continues. “and what you’re saying is that our continued presence equals harm.”

you blink “yes.”

“even without immediate violence.”

“YES.”

he nods once. processing. filing it somewhere in his terrifyingly organized brain.

chan takes over. “we’re saying, we understand the outcome. even if we don’t experience the emotion attached.”

changbin rubs his neck. “we didn’t think about the after. usually there isn’t one.”

you let that sit. “yeah.” you say. “because people die.”

quiet.

han finally says, softly: “you didn’t.”

you look at him. “no. i didn’t. and now i have to live with what you did.”

there’s a long silence.

then jeongin claps his hands once. “so. solution. anyone? ideas?”

you point at him without looking. “you are on thin fucking ice.”

he mimes zipping his mouth.

seungmin rubs his face. “okay, but question.”

you glare.

“when we stopped trying to actually kill you… that didn’t help?”

you just stare at him. “…you hear yourself, right?”

he thinks about it. “…yeah.”

felix looks like he’s actually using his brain for once. “we thought… not finishing the job was growth.”

“that is the lowest bar i have ever heard in my LIFE.”

but you see, the thing is, this is a system error for them. you’re not prey right now. you’re not running. you’re furious, first of all. human. loud. hurt. they don’t know this game. they only know the killing and manipulating one, but they want to have you. they just… don’t know how to get you.

chan clears his throat. “so the correct action would be… removal of our presence.”

“yes.”

“immediately.”

“so fucking immediately.”

“we don’t want to kill you.” minho cuts in, hoping that this saves their situation a bit.

“yeah, you told me a hundred times already. your point?” you ask

“we like you.”

you make a face like you bit into soap. “that is not how liking works.”

“for you.” he agrees.

chan exhales. decisive. “we adjust behavior.”

you cross your arms. “into WHAT?”

silence.

felix brightens. “dinner?”

you stare at him.

han nods eagerly.

you look around the room at eight serial killers in your living space, one of them holding a roll of paper towels covered in someone else’s blood. “…dinner.”

changbin shrugs. “low pressure environment. public. you feel safer. we practice acting normal.”

minho adds: “exposure therapy. for all parties.”

“i just gave a speech about how you ruined my sense of safety.” you whisper, voice defeated.

hyunjin nods. “we heard you.”

“and you want to take me to DINNER.”

“yes.”

“why.”

he doesn’t hesitate. “because harming you is now counterproductive to the thing we want.”

you are actually taken aback by the words this guy uses. “…which is?”

he holds your gaze.

“you.”

the room goes quiet.

then han whispers to felix, way too loud: “is this flirting?”

“yeah.” felix whispers back. “i think this is the good kind.”

you drag a hand down your face. “…get the fuck out of my apartment.”

they stand, immediately obedient. getting their shoes on and whatnot.

changbin gives you a small wave. “we’ll text?”

“you do not have my number.”

jeongin points at hyunjin. “he’ll give it to us.”

“I WILL CALL THE POLICE.”

they walk out.

han pauses at the door. “sorry about the sink.”

door closes. silence. your apartment is a disaster. your life is worse.

but… they looked weirdly sincere, actually. and they were.

soon, they stopped showing up unannounced. mostly. they also stopped bringing weapons into your line of sight. mostly. and they stopped treating you like prey. completely.

how were they about you, comes the question.

obsessed.

and they did not process attachment normally. if they processed it. they did not understand love. but they understood preference, and if you told them enough times, then eventually they understood your emotions too. well, not understood, but they processed the fact that you feel the way you feel and they can do something about it if they actually try.

han once fell down an entire staircase because someone said your name and he turned too fast. chan pretended he wasn’t competitive about board games and then absolutely lost his mind over monopoly. hyunjin brought you flowers all the time. you learned that seungmin always had to sleep on his stomach.

you started to understand the function of them. not excuse, no. absolutely not. just understand and process the fact that they’re how they are. and you couldn’t do shit about it, and you couldn’t get rid of them now. so you lived with it.

they still killed, of course. that was one of the few things that brought them happiness in life, so you couldn’t expect them to stop doing it. they didn’t kill around you, though.

but you knew they still did it. and you could feel when the tension built when they haven’t hurt anybody in a long time.

it also… what’s the right word, scared? impressed? took you aback? could be either, what matters is that when you saw that all of them had it in them, even han and felix who behaved like total angels throughout the day, it… upset you. or just moved something in you, seeing that each of them has that empty place where fear or guilt or empathy should go.

they didn’t kill out of anger. it was release. their brains were wired wrong. thrill, control, mastery, stimulation, those hit the reward centers. violence scratched an itch they couldn’t reach any other way.

and after, they were calmer. lighter, like they’d gone for a run. when they were satisfied with themselves, they tried to tell you about it. you always stopped them, because you did NOT need to hear the horrible things they did. no matter how much they wanted to brag about it, how much they wanted to make you proud.

you weren’t safe in the world, but you were weirdly safe with them. and they would have died for you.

but you had to set rules. actual rules. “do not follow me into bathrooms.” “do not threaten my coworkers.” “do not kill anyone within a five-mile emotional radius of me.” the basics. and they tried. god, they tried. but they didn’t really… do well.

once you opened your door to seungmin at one in the morning, and he stood there, breathing a little heavy, COVERED in blood.

you just stared.

he stared back.

“…you good?” he asked.

“are you good??”

“oh. yeah. not mine.”

you almost slammed the door. he stopped it with a hand, but gently. always that now.

“didn’t come here for that.” he said.

“for what, seungmin, WHAT possible reason makes this a normal social call.”

he shrugged. “adrenaline crash. didn’t wanna be alone.”

that did something weird to your chest. not forgiving, just… information. because you realized that now they wanted you. your company, your voice, your hands. and it felt good.

anyways, you told him to take a shower, then you let him hang out with you.

they also fought each other more than they ever fought you.

once minho and jeongin, two extremely capable men mind you, actually went for each other’s throats in your kitchen while hyunjin and chan tried to separate them.

you yelled at them then. they paused and looked at you.

jeongin, bleeding from the lip, grinned. but like in that hot way. “sorry.”

“take it outside if you’re gonna be like this.” you told them.

“fair.” chan said, dragging minho back by the collar.

you weren’t scared of them like prey anymore. you were scared of the capacity. the strength. the speed. the way the air changed when something in them flipped.

you’d seen what they could do, you just weren’t the target now.

they were on your dick constantly, though. emotionally. socially. existentially. texting wasn’t their thing, but presence was. which meant they showed up unannounced a lot. but the reason for that was that they didn’t want to lose access to you, to be honest. didn’t like the thought of that.

one night you opened the door to changbin. he told you he was going to come over later. well, it was late. around midnight.

when he saw you, his eyes lit up, and wrapped you in the warmest, most affectionate, full-body hug of your life.

you froze.

because he was sticky.

wet sleeve. iron smell. your cheek against his skin. your hands touching the back of his shirt.

he squeezed tighter, cheek against your hair. “missed you.”

you pulled back.

looked down.

this boy was covered in blood.

he smiled, soft, relieved. “hi.”

you shoved back, stumbling, hand over your mouth, already shaking your head like that would stop it. you barely made it to the sink before you threw up in it.

behind you, changbin stood there, horrified. “oh. oh no. right. right. that’s— that’s on me.”

from the hallway, jeongin yelled: “did you forget again??”

“I GOT EXCITED.”

hyunjin was the only one who followed you then, already grabbing a towel, turning on the sink. he didn’t look at changbin, and he didn’t look at the blood. he looked at you. “i’ve got you. you’re okay. breathe.”

they kept forgetting what you were. alive. normal. human. that for you it was a body, a person, a life.

it wasn’t the only time, of fucking course. they’d be loose, relaxed, calm. you’d be staring at hands that had done something irreversible two hours ago. there were a few nights like that, a sleeve not changed, a stain not noticed, you throwing up in your own kitchen while eight men who could disassemble a human being panicked because they’d upset you.

not because they felt guilt like you did. because they’d hurt something important in the environment. you. you, who sometimes made it to the sink, sometimes didn’t.

they did learn, though. slowly. painfully. they didn’t feel what you felt, but they learned it mattered. which, for them, was the closest thing to empathy available in the system.

you fell asleep on the couch once while they were over. you didn’t mean to. how could you mean to, when you knew what they were capable of?

and you woke up pinned. well, luckily not trapped, just surrounded. han was hugging your ankle. felix was using your shoulder as a pillow. changbin had an arm across your middle. jeongin was half off the couch but anyways. seungmin pretended he wasn’t involved but his foot was hooked under your leg.

they didn’t experience comfort like most people did. but proximity? pressure? familiar scent? that, they liked.

they were really, really glad that you survived them. and because of that, somewhere in their broken little predator brains, you became home. and what do predators do? bring things home.

once han showed up beaming, holding something behind his back.

“i got you flowers.” he said.

you blinked. that was… new.

he revealed it.

you stared.

it was technically arranged like a bouquet. the only problem was that… they were human lower arms. a lot of them. like flowers. just… arms.

you made a noise. you looked away, then back at it, then had to look away again.

“i thought it was romantic.” he said, crushed.

“honey, i appreciate that, but—“ you gagged. held the doorframe. teared up.

he watched you throw up then. patted your back after.

felix once brought you a wallet because “you’re always losing yours.”

you opened it. immediately closed it. “felix.”

“yeah?”

“return that.”

chan was… fucking brutal. he didn’t bring objects. he brought information.

“found a guy who’d been stalking women in your area.” he said once.

you went cold. “…what did you do.”

he met your eyes calmly. “took care of him, of course.”

you didn’t know whether to scream or say thank you. this one wasn’t bad, actually. you just had to sit down for a minute.

they were not house trained though, not even a little. one time you caught seungmin about to piss in your giant houseplant.

“seungmin.” you sighed.

he froze mid-zip. “…yeah?”

“if you water that plant with your BODY i will end you.”

“okay, okay.” he said, offended. “god. boundaries.”

felix once wiped his hands on your curtains. han sat on your coffee table. minho had to be told three separate times that knives did not belong “wherever feels right.” changbin once tried to “air out” your apartment by opening every window during winter.

and jeongin was just really spontaneous in general. if a guy talked to you, he would insert himself into the conversation, no matter what. “bro.” he’d say, arm slung over the stranger’s shoulders. “i love your confidence. truly. quick question, how attached are you to having kneecaps?”

you hit him. he’d grin. the stranger would evaporate.

hyunjin was the only one who got you normal gifts. they were… brutally expensive, yeah, and you had no idea where he had that kind of money from, but you appreciated every gift from him.

and oh my fucking god, the mailman. felix hated the mailman. for no reason. the man was fifty something and friendly. still, every time the mail arrived, felix would appear at your window, talking bout sum “he’s back.” ???

“felix, that’s his job.”

“yeah but why is he always here?”

“because i live here. that’s how mail works.”

the suspicion remained.

but beneath all the insanity, the red flags, the daily reminder that they could bring a corpse to your doorstep any day, they were sincere. they never played with your feelings. never lied about what they were. never pretended.

they just… adjusted their behavior around one central rule, which was not to lose you. to keep you safe, even if they didn’t understand why they wanted to keep you so safe. or why did you find so many things they did wrong.

you had, at one point, physically grabbed felix by the hair and yanked him backward because he was halfway out your front door, whispering “i just wanna talk to him.” about the mailman.

“NO.” you barked, fist in his hair.

“he’s BEEN HERE THREE TIMES THIS WEEK.” felix insisted.

“THAT IS HOW MAIL WORKS.”

he did not agree with you.

changbin loved cheek kisses. loved them. unfortunately, changbin also had a chronic issue where he just… forgot he was holding things. knife. wrench. crowbar. gun.

you’d feel a gentle kiss on your cheek and open your eyes to see cold steel six inches from your face.

“baby.” you’d say.

“oh, shit.” weapon would go on the table like car keys. “sorry.” he’d say, and kiss your other cheek, now technically unarmed.

then once you mentioned to hyunjin that you were cold and he wordlessly took off his jacket. it had a suspicious stain. he saw you notice.

“…i’ll get another one.” he said immediately.

because he really didn’t want you to be cold. not like he understood what your problem was with a little blood, but alright. anything for you.

now that i’m getting carried away with the stories, i’ll tell you that han did not understand personal space.

for an example, if you scolded him? immediate cling. you’d finish saying “you cannot threaten the barista for writing my name wrong” and suddenly he’d be attached to your side, rubbing his face into you, arms around your shoulders, chin on your head.

“okay, but we’re good though, right?”

“sweetie, i’m trying to pay.”

he’d nod against your hair, not moving. that went on for twelve minutes until a woman asked if he was concussed.

they clung like that a lot, they didn’t understand a lot, they acted up a lot, they hated a lot, but they loved one thing.

you.

they didn’t understand jealousy as an emotion. they understood it as something wrong with their insticts, and you in danger. how did that make sense? it didn’t. it just sounded horrible. because it was. but it was also the most sincere attachment they were capable of.

you were still scared sometimes. still human. still deeply aware of what they were, and reminded of it a lot of times, of course.

but they’d learned one thing with absolute certainty:

you were not prey.

you were home.

and they were trying, badly, incorrectly, concerningly, to deserve to be there.

[whatdoyouwanttocallmefor]

THIS IS CHAOTICALLY GOOD

[whatdoyouwanttocallmefor]

Shelter in the Storm - Poly!MinChan x Fem!Reader

Warning: None

---

The hotel room in Chicago was technically luxurious, but right now, to Chan and Minho, it felt like a sterile box, another temporary stop on a dizzying global map. The roar of the crowd was still ringing in their ears, but the silence of the room was worse, leaving them alone with the exhaustion.

You were already on the large bed, having managed to beat them back from the venue. You had your laptop open, but your eyes were fixed on the door, waiting.

When they finally stumbled in, the sight was immediate: Minho went straight for the mini-fridge, shoulders hunched with tension, while Chan walked robotically toward the desk, immediately pulling out his laptop to check emails and demos, his producer hat still firmly glued on despite the 16-hour day.

You sighed, closed your own laptop, and gently slipped off the bed. This was your job tonight.

You walked over to Minho first. He was staring blankly at a bottle of water. You didn't speak. You just slipped your arms around his waist from behind and rested your cheek against the warm, expensive fabric of his stage jacket.

He took a sharp, shaky breath, and the tension in his back seemed to give way just a fraction. He turned in your arms, burying his face in your neck. His voice was a muffled grumble.

“I messed up the timing on the ‘Walkin On Water’ bridge. Twice.”

“No one noticed, Minho,” you murmured, stroking the nape of his neck. “It was a phenomenal show. But even if they did, you are allowed to have an off night after three consecutive shows.”

Minho just squeezed you tighter, needing the physical anchor. After a moment, he pulled back just enough to press a soft kiss to your forehead, his eyes finally looking a little less distant.

“Okay. Hyung first. He’s going to work himself into the ground,” he whispered, already pushing you toward the desk.

Chan was oblivious, headphones half on, the bright glare of his screen reflecting in his tired eyes. He was already drowning in his work, using stress as fuel.

You slipped the remaining ear cup over his ear, but instead of leaving it there, you gently took the entire headset off and set it down on the desk.

“Five more minutes, jagiya. Just need to send this to the sound team,” he said automatically, reaching for the mouse without looking up.

“Five minutes ended two hours ago, Chan.” You pulled the chair back and guided him up, turning him to face you.

He finally looked at you, and the weariness behind his smile was palpable. “You’re right. I’m just… I can’t turn it off. The set list for London needs a tweak, and my brain won’t let me sleep until I fix it.”

Before he could continue, you felt Minho’s presence behind you. He wrapped one arm securely around Chan’s waist, settling his chin on Chan's shoulder. Your hands went to Chan’s cheeks, gently pulling his face down for a soft kiss.

“We are not fixing London tonight,” you said, your voice firm but loving. “We are fixing you.”

“And me,” Minho added, leaning his full weight on Chan.

Chan let out a sound that was half-sigh, half-relieved grunt. Being physically pinned by the two people he loved most seemed to do the trick. The weight of his responsibilities was suddenly being shared.

“Fine,” he conceded, the tension melting visibly from his shoulders. “What’s the plan, commanders?”

The plan was simple. You steered them both toward the massive bathroom. Minho was the one to start the water, ensuring it was steaming hot. Chan found the tiny, complimentary bubble bath liquid, a rare tour luxury.

You made them strip off the sweaty stage clothes and get into the deep tub together, leaning back against the porcelain, limbs tangled. You didn't join them, knowing they needed the space to just be close without the obligation of talking.

You sat on the edge of the tub, leaning over to gently wash the gel out of Chan’s hair, then moving to Minho’s, massaging their scalps until their eyelids grew heavy. The sound of the running water was soothing, the steam was relaxing, and the shared space was a sanctuary.

“My neck hurts,” Minho confessed quietly, eyes closed.

“Mine too,” Chan echoed, his hand seeking Minho’s under the water.

You smiled, pulling a plush towel off the rack. “I know.”

---

Once they were dried off and dressed in their softest lounge pants, you led them to the bed. They instantly gravitated to their usual positions. Minho curled into your left side, throwing an arm and a leg across your torso, his head resting right over your heart. Chan lay on your right, his face buried in the pillow next to your head, one hand resting protectively on your hip.

You didn't need to choose one; you had both.

You just lay there, a comfortable, heavy weight of three bodies pressing together. The exhaustion of the tour, the pressure of being leaders, the need to always be on all of it seemed to dissipate in the soft hotel light.

After a long silence, Chan’s voice was a low rumble against the pillow. “This is the only place I can actually breathe.”

Minho lifted his head an inch, just enough to catch your eye. “You guys are my reset button. Our reset button.”

You threaded your fingers through the soft hair at the back of Chan’s neck, then shifted your hand to rub slow, comforting circles on Minho’s back.

“Good,” you whispered, kissing the top of Minho’s head, then turning slightly to press a kiss to Chan’s temple. “Because you two are the best part of my whole damn world.”

The only answer was the deep, coordinated breathing of two men who were finally, truly safe. You didn't know what time you fell asleep, only that you were surrounded by warmth, love, and the blissful, shared silence of three hearts finally beating at a manageable pace. The concert, the studio, the world it could all wait until morning.

---

Taglist: @m-325 @bbokarismeow @maddy24207 @kpop-trash-03 @brbwritingfanfic @staytinyluv

[whatdoyouwanttocallmefor]

Pasta and us - Minho x Fem!Reader

Genre: CUTE, hihihi

---

Minho comes home to chaos.

Specifically: you, standing on a chair in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, aggressively stirring something in a pot like it personally offended you.

He stops in the doorway. Blinks once. Twice.

“…Why does it smell like garlic and regret?”

You gasp. “Lee Minho! I am cooking.”

He squints at the pot. “That’s not cooking. That’s a cry for help.”

You point the wooden spoon at him. “You said you’d be late. I wanted to surprise you.”

“With what,” he asks carefully, “food poisoning?”

He drops his bag and immediately steps in, hands automatically going to your waist to steady you as you wobble on the chair. “Okay. First of all, down. Before you die and I have to explain to the members that my girlfriend perished making pasta.”

You huff but let him lift you down like you weigh nothing, still clutching the spoon. “I followed the recipe.”

Minho peers at your phone. “…You doubled the garlic.”

“It said two cloves.”

“Yes,” he says patiently, “not the entire bulb.”

Despite himself, he smiles. He always does. Because you tried. Because you’re pouting. Because this, this mess, this warmth is home.

He takes over the stove with practiced ease while you hover beside him like a stressed assistant chef. You keep sneaking tastes; he keeps slapping your hand away.

“Minhooo.”

“You will burn your tongue.”

“I like it hot.”

“That’s not what you said last time.”

You choke. “LEE MINHO—”

He laughs, loud and bright, eyes crinkling, leaning away as you try to smack his arm. He looks so happy it almost makes your chest ache.

Dinner ends up edible. Surprisingly good, actually. You sit cross-legged on the couch afterward, sharing the bowl, the TV playing some ridiculous variety show neither of you is watching.

Minho feeds you bites absentmindedly, eyes still on the screen. You steal one from his chopsticks.

“Hey.”

“You were too slow.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You grin. “I know.”

Later, you’re folded into his side, legs tangled, his hand lazily tracing patterns on your thigh. You yawn, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Minho?”

“Mm.”

“Thank you for not laughing at my cooking.”

He kisses your forehead. Then your cheek. Then your nose, because he’s annoying like that.

“I did laugh,” he admits softly. “But I also loved it.”

You look up at him. “Why?”

He shrugs, a little shy now. “Because it was loud and messy and very you. And you wanted to take care of me."

His thumb brushes under your eye. “I like being loved like that.”

Your heart absolutely melts.

You curl closer, tucking your face into his neck. “Stay with me.”

He tightens his arms around you instantly, no hesitation. “Always.”

The TV keeps playing. The apartment is quiet except for your breathing and his heartbeat under your ear. And for Minho, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be wrapped around you, in the middle of soft chaos, perfectly at home.

---

Taglist: @m-325 @bbokarismeow @maddy24207 @kpop-trash-03 @brbwritingfanfic @staytinyluv

[linoxpudding]

Hi

I love you

You made my day better and better

Bye

Hii pudding, I love you more 😽💜

[whatdoyouwanttocallmefor]

Hihihihi

[linoxpudding]

100 Days Of Being Parents - Bang Chan

summary: you and your husband celebrate your daughter's baek-il

pairing: dad!bang chan x mom!reader

genre: fluff

word count: 2440 words

a/n: based on this request ♡

Dad!SKZ Masterlist

~°~

baek-il : a korean tradition celebrating a baby’s 100th day of life

doljabi : a korean ritual during a baby’s baek-il where the baby picks an item from a table of symbolic objects to predict their future

You woke up to the warmth of your husband’s arm wrapped tightly around your waist, like even in sleep his body knew exactly where you belonged. His chest rose and fell steadily against your back, his breath warm at the nape of your neck. You smiled without even fully opening your eyes.

You try to move, just a little, testing if you can slip out of his hold, but you fail as his arm tightens, pulling you back flush against him.

“Mm… where d’you think you’re goin’?” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep, that unmistakable Australian accent even heavier in the mornings. “Let’s sleep a bit more.”

You giggle softly, the sound bubbling out before you can stop it. “Channie,” you whispered. “We can’t.”

“Mhm… we absolutely can.”

You laughed softly. “Baby,” you whispered, trying again. “We have to wake up.”

“Nope.” His face pressed into your shoulder, curls tickling your skin. “Five more minutes.”

You turn around carefully until you’re facing him, his arm still hooked around you like a lifeline. He looks peaceful—lashes resting against his cheeks, lips slightly parted. You take a second just to look.

It’s been years, and yet somehow every morning feels like discovering him all over again.

Maybe it’s a new tiny mole near his jaw. Maybe a curl that’s fallen differently than yesterday, oh his soft, unruly curls sticking up in every direction is your most favourite. You love it most like this, untouched and real without any hair setting sprays.

You reach up and gently ruffle his hair.

“Wake up, baby,” you murmur fondly. “We can’t be late for our own child’s baek-il.”

That does it. His eyes crack open and he blinks at you for a second, processing, and then realization hits him like a switch.

“Our—” he sits up abruptly, curls bouncing, eyes wide. “Juliana’s baek-il.”

You laugh as he groans dramatically, dropping his head back onto the pillow. “Why didn’t you wake me earlier?”

“I tried,” you tease. “You said five more minutes.”

He rubbed his face, groaning. “I forgot I’m a dad for a sec.”

You lean in and kiss his forehead. “Come on, dad. Let’s go see our baby.”

He smiled then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips softly. “Happy hundred days to us being parents to our little bean.”

***************************

Chan opened the nursery door quietly, sunlight spilling over soft pastel pink walls and tiny decorations that had been chosen with so much love months before her arrival. Juliana sleeps peacefully in her crib, wrapped snugly in the blanket Chan’s mom had customized just for her, the letter “J” stitched delicately into the corner with a tiny crown above it. One of her little hands is wrapped around the teddy bear her auntie Hannah gave her, hugging it close even in her sleep.

For a moment, you and Chan just stood there, holding hands, hearts impossibly full.

Then, as if she senses you, Juliana stirs. Her little brows knit together, and her eyes flutter open.

Chan gasped. “She knows.”

“She sensed us,” you whispered, emotional already.

“She gets that from you,” he said proudly.

He leaned over the crib and scooped her up with practiced ease, cradling her against his chest. Juliana made a soft sound, stretching her little fingers before relaxing completely in his arms.

“Good morning, princess,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Happy baek-il.”

You lean in, kissing her tiny nose, then her soft cheek. “Happy hundred days, my love.”

Juliana let out a small sound that seemed like a mixture of half yawn and half coo, and Chan laughed quietly.

“Okay,” he says, shifting her slightly. “Let’s get you ready.”

While Chan takes her to freshen her up, you cross the room to the closet and carefully pull out the bag you’ve been waiting to open all morning. Carefully, reverently, you took out the hanbok.

Juliana’s very first hanbok, chosen by you and Chan together. The fabric is a soft silk in shades of pink with maroon accents, delicate embroidery stitched carefully into every detail, the skirt light and airy, custom made just for your little girl.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, even though you’ve seen it before.

“She’s so small,” you whispered, holding it up. “Chan, look.”

He turned, Juliana balanced on one arm. His eyes softened immediately. “She will look so cute, I might combust.”

You giggled as you reached back into the closet, pulling out the tiny matching shoes, the little hairbands, and the adorable accessories you and Chan had been way too excited to buy. When the two of you had wandered through the baby shops last week, you couldn’t stop yourselves and every time you saw something cute, you’d look at each other and say, “She needs this.”

Getting Juliana dressed took time—gentle hands, soft laughter, Chan apologizing every time she squirmed.

“I swear I’m being careful,” he murmured. “Please don’t cry.”

Juliana gurgled instead. Chan keeps stopping to take pictures, then videos, then more pictures.

“Chan,” you laugh, adjusting the ribbon. “We haven’t even finished getting her ready yet.”

“I know,” he grins. “But look at her.”

Juliana stares up at you both, wide-eyed and curious, dressed like a tiny princess. 

He looked down at Juliana—and the moment his eyes softened, the smile on his face turning gentle and reverent, you quickly took out your phone and captured it. And just like that it was you taking pictures with the cameras clicking sound nonstop filling the room. You lose count somewhere after a hundred.

You moved around him, crouching, standing, angling the light just right, while Chan turned slightly, murmuring soft nothings to Juliana so she’d look toward the camera.

“There you go, princess,” he whispered. “Daddy’s right here.”

Juliana blinked up at him, her tiny mouth opening in a gummy half-smile, and Chan actually froze.

“…did you see that?” he asked quietly.

You laughed. “Yes. And I got it.”

Then it’s your turn to get dressed up. You and Chan step back into the bedroom, slipping into your own hanboks—perfectly matching as a family. When you look at him, standing there adjusting his sleeves, pride shining in his eyes, you fall in love with him all over again.

You walk up to him and press a soft kiss to his lips, lingering just a second longer than necessary. 

“Ready?” you ask, smiling.

He nods, smiling gently. “Ready.”

Soon after, Juliana is carefully settled into her car seat, and Chan opens the car door for you like he always does. Once you’re both seated, he leans over and steals another kiss, warm and filled with quiet excitement.

“Let’s do this,” he murmurs.

You smile as he starts the car, your hand resting over his on the center console while the city passes by outside the window. Together, you drive toward the fancy restaurant you had booked for Juliana’s baek-il celebration.

***************************

By the time you arrive at the venue, the place is already buzzing with soft chatter and laughter. The restaurant glows warmly, decorated beautifully for Juliana’s baek-il, and nearly everyone has already arrived. The moment you step inside, greetings surround you from every direction.

“Happy baek-il, Bahng Juliana!”

“She’s so beautiful!”

“Look at her hanbok!”

“Baek-il-eul chukha hamnida!”

Chan keeps one arm securely around you as the other cradles Juliana, pride written all over his face.

Then Chan’s brothers, the Stray Kids squad, spot you.

“Hyung!” Changbin calls out, and suddenly they’re all there, crowding around with the biggest smiles. 

They are always overly excited to meet Juliana, as she’s the first SKZ baby and it’s their first time being uncles.

“She’s… tiny,” Minho says in awe, carefully peeking closer.

“Why is she already this cute?” Jisung adds, genuinely distressed.

“She looks like Chris,” Felix says softly, eyes shining. “Like… a mini version.”

They each hand over gifts—carefully wrapped, thoughtful, clearly chosen with way too much adoration. Chan laughs, a little overwhelmed, thanking them over and over while they coo over Juliana like they’ve forgotten how to act like grown men.

“She’s our baby,” Changbin declares proudly.

“We should all have joint custody,” Hyunjin adds.

“I’d make a great teenage dad,” Jeongin declares, dead serious.

“Aren’t you already, like, fifty-four?” Seungmin teases, earning a playful punch from Jeongin.

Juliana is soon passed gently from one relative to another, arms always ready to hold her, everyone taking turns admiring her tiny fingers and round cheeks.

Throughout the party, everyone was obsessed with her.

“It’s a mini Chan,” someone says again.

“That nose, those cheeks… Chan’s baby for sure.”

You laugh softly, nodding without hesitation. “I love it.”

Chan looks at you then, eyes warm and emotional, and presses a quick kiss to your temple.

Later, the room quietens slightly as the doljabi table is prepared. The items are laid out carefully: a thread for long life, money for wealth, a pencil and book for education, and finally a microphone resting right in the center.

Juliana is placed in front of the table, sitting steadily with a little support. Everyone leans forward, holding their breath.

“Okay, okay,” Chan’s dad chuckled. “Let’s see what she chooses.”

“Take your time, baby,” Chan whispers, crouching beside her.

For a moment, she simply stares.

Then, without hesitation, her tiny hand reaches forward and closes around the microphone.

The room erupts with gasps, laughter and applause.

Chan freezes for a second before his hand flies to his mouth, eyes instantly glassy. The members lose it completely.

“Oh my God!” Han blinks rapidly.

“She chose the mic,” Felix whispers, emotional.

 “I’m gonna cry,” Hyunjin gasps.

 “Our legacy,” Changbin says, tearing up.

Jessica smiles knowingly, eyes shining. “I knew it,” she says softly.

You blink, tears spilling over before you can stop them. You looked at Chan, his eyes were already glassy. 

“Oh,” he breathed. “Oh…”

You knelt beside him, hand immediately finding his back.

“I can’t—” he whispered, voice breaking. “She—she picked a mic.”

“She really is daddy’s girl,” you smile tearfully.

Chan laughed through his tears, covering his face for a second before reaching out to steady Juliana.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, voice thick.

Juliana babbles happily, completely unaware of the moment she’s just created— the tiny microphone still clutched in her hand, surrounded by love, laughter, and a future already glowing bright.

After hours of laughter, music, and a feast that had everyone smiling, the celebration slowly came to an end. Plates were cleared, decorations carefully admired one last time, and the room hummed with warm, happy chatter.

As the guests began to leave, each person took a moment to shower Juliana with affection—gentle hugs, soft kisses on her cheeks, and endless congratulations. 

“She’s perfect,” your aunt whispered. “You two did such a beautiful job.”

Chan’s members lingered a little longer than the rest, kneeling down to wave goodbye to Juliana one last time. 

“We’ll always be here for her,” Hyunjin said, ruffling her hair gently. 

Chan chuckled, a little emotional, watching his friends, his family, and now their friends all adore their daughter so openly.

Finally, it was just the families. Chan’s parents and your own gathered around you both, pulling you into warm embraces. 

“You’re already such wonderful parents,” his mom said softly, brushing your hair back. “Juliana is so lucky.”

Your family echoed the sentiment, laughter and pride mingling as hugs were exchanged. “Look at them,” your sibling said, smiling at you and Chan. “You two were born to be parents.”

Chan’s hand found yours instinctively, squeezing it gently as he looked at you, his eyes soft and full of love. “We did it,” he murmured.

With hearts full and arms wrapped around your little family, you all finally headed back home. The car ride was quiet, filled only with soft coos from Juliana and the occasional sigh of contentment from both of you. The day had been magical, unforgettable, and entirely yours.

***************************

When you finally got home, Juliana was fast asleep in Chan’s arms, her head tucked beneath his chin, her little hanbok already changed into soft pajamas. His steps were slow and careful as he headed toward the nursery.

“I’ll run her a bath first,” Chan murmured softly, glancing down at her little form.

You shook your head gently, smiling. “Let’s just sit together first. Just us.”

He hesitated only a second, then nodded, a small, warm smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. Okay.”

You settled onto the couch in the living room, and Chan lowered himself beside you, still cradling Juliana securely. You leaned into his side, your head resting against his shoulder, watching the steady rise and fall of your daughter’s chest.

After a moment, Chan tilted his head and rested it gently against yours.

“She’s tired,” he whispered.

“She is,” you replied. “She had a big day.”

You traced a finger lightly along her tiny arm. “I’m really glad she has your curls.”

Chan let out a shy laugh. “Yeah?”

“She really is your mini version,” you teased softly. “Your cheeks. Your nose. Even the way she pouts when she’s sleepy.”

You looked down at Juliana, smiling fondly. “Yah… I carried you for nine months, and you came out as your dad’s twin?”

Chan laughed quietly, shoulders shaking. “Hey, you love it!”

You giggled, and Chan leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your hair. You turned your face toward him, and he met you halfway in a slow, gentle kiss, full of warmth and love. Pulling back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, he whispered softly, “Thank you… for this—for her, for us, for everything.”

You smiled, your fingers brushing against his cheek. “No… thank you, my love. For being the best daddy to her, for being you and for making all of this so perfect.”

He chuckled softly, eyes shining, and pressed another tender kiss to your lips. “We did this together,” he murmured.

“And I wouldn’t want it any other way,” you whispered.

Juliana stirred slightly between you, then settled again, warm and safe.

Chan let out a content sigh, eyes closing for just a moment. “I could stay like this forever,” he murmured.

“Mhm,” you sighed, tightening your arm around him.

 Chan glanced at you and whispered, “I love this life… and our little family.”

You smiled, resting your head on his shoulder. “Me too, baby. Me too.”

He smiled and you leaned in, savoring the quiet intimacy. Fingers intertwined, soft murmurs, shared warmth as the three of you cuddled. Juliana slept on, her tiny hands twitching occasionally, and you and Chan simply stayed there, together, letting the world fade away outside your little home.

------------------

Permanent Taglist 1:

@pixie-felix @multi-fandommaniac @emilyywhyy @geni-627 @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @brycesgirl @scribblesnsketches05 @lov3rachan @maddy24207 @river121798 @doodlebob2005 @stay-tiny-things @seungminnieinthebuilding @justwonder113 @nyaaa-cat @brbwritingfanfic @inlovewithstraykids @enhaskzverse @enhacolor @thisisnotjacinta @peskybirdysya @galaxygurlll @n4tr3ad5 @imnotsupposedtobedoingthis @linos-pudding-cup @xdbug-bob @7sunny07 @skzfangirl143 @felixsonlyrealwife @nougatjade @ysljoon @silentreadersthings @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @inmyfelixera @kokinu09 @ye0lkkot @ilovedallywinston @lexlikesbts @rachawritingblog @meelbarnes @nebs4real @icannotbelieveit @kayleefriedchicken @chranassaurus @rrhwang @chuahuahua @sturniolos4life16 @delulumel @mbioooo0000 @xoxomanicpanic

[whatdoyouwanttocallmefor]

MY HEART HELP! I would never skip skz story as a father 😔 THEY ARE JUST SO PRECIOUS IM- AKSNDBSKWKJAAJ

[pineapple-burgah]

𝙂𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙚𝙢𝙖𝙣

2K Event pairing: changbin x female reader

summary:after a slew of tragic romances and with the help of your best friend, you decide to try dating again. it's hard not to fall for him, not when he's a complete gentleman

wc: 5332  cw: fluff, comfort, talk about an abusive ex (it is about a paragraph of it, nothing too explicit but please don't read if this will hurt you)

a/n: ahh, this is only the beginning of my curly-hair/glasses/gentle giant changbin agenda

event masterlist ... masterlist

"Just tell him I'm sick or something," you whine, head thrown against the arm of the couch. Your legs are swung on top of your roommates legs. He shifts a little under them. Your arm is thrown over your eyes, but you can tell he's fixing you with a warning glance. "We don't even know each other, it's not like he's going to be that upset."

"He will be," Felix counters, "because I've been talking you up all week."

You sit up and look at him, "you haven't shown him any pictures have you?"

"Actually I have."

"Unfair!" You throw a cushion in his direction. He half-dodges it, but it still scrapes his face. "You have to show me one now!"

"No!" He pushes your legs off his lap, "the whole point of this is that you go in with no expectations."

Your shoulders slump and you fall back against the couch. You cross your arms when he scooches closer to you. You sigh, "it's hard."

"I know," Felix soothes, reaching out to calm his hand down your arm, "but I've told you, he is a complete gentleman okay? And if he does anything that remotely makes you uncomfortable, you can brag about it all you want and give up on men entirely." He watches your face for a reaction, but there's only a small tilt of your head. He continues, "I refuse to let you give up on love because of-"

"Don't even say his name."

"That little twerp." He finishes, "I promise you Y/N, Changbin is nothing like him."

Date One:

"I feel ridiculous." You slump, smoothing over the outfit Felix practically forced you in to.

"Well you look beautiful," he mutters, rounding your figure to adjust several things on your outfit.

You think for a moment, a small blush creeping up on your face as the question forms on your tongue. Usually, you'd be embarrassed to ask such things, but with Felix, there's never any judgement. "You... you told me he was hot..." you let your eyes flick over to his, "how hot exactly?"

"If you're wondering if he's going to be attracted to you, I'm going to stop you right there." He doesn't look at you, just keeps fiddling with the outfit.

"You said he was rich."

"Okay yes, but you can't tell him I told you that... he hates people knowing."

"So what you're saying is he could have anyone... any girl he wants... and he's being forced to go on a date with me."

"Right," Felix drops his hands and sets his eyes on you, "I don't know how many times I have to tell you. I've shown him your instagram, I've talked to him about the things you like. He wants to go on this date with you. If you saw the way he blushed when I showed him that picture I took of you at Hyunjin's New Years Party, you wouldn't be doubting him for a second."

"Don't remind me of that party..." you huff, "that's literally my favourite picture of myself and it's tainted with memories of him."

"Yes, it's tragic..." he muses, taking a step back to take you in. "You're so beautiful Y/N."

"You have to say that."

He sighs, "you know, one of these days, someone is going to say that to you and you'll believe it."

"No we've been through that. And now he's god knows where, burying himself in god knows who." You smile at him, rather sarcastically. 

"Right." Felix perks up, "no more talking about what's in the past. Tonight is about your future. Tonight is about healing," he grabs your shoulders, "you don't owe him a second date, but you owe it to yourself to go on this one. To open yourself back up. Trust me, this is good for you."

You can do nothing else but nod. 

You shift silently on the pavement. You feel ridiculous. Ridiculous and nervous. Felix insisted you arrive 10 minutes early. You hate to admit it, but it was smart. Changbin, having known what you look like thanks to Felix, would be the one to approach you. You wouldn't need to look around the restaurant awkwardly trying to find a man you'd never met. 

"Y/N?" His voice is like a siren call, drawing your attention to your left. "I'm Changbin," his voice makes you so weak you forget to be cynical for a moment. 

You allow your eyes to rake over his body. Felix wasn't lying when he said he was built, but he failed to mention his arms would be straining against the fabric of his black button-up. The first two buttons are undone, revealing a gold chain that catches the light of the street-lamp. And then there was his face, round, angled jaw and a mop of curly dark brown hair. His eyes, dark brown and dreamy, are hidden behind small-rimmed round glasses. And then his lips. Plump, bottom trapped between his teeth.

You hate how right Felix was. He was exactly your type. But you tell yourself it's physically. He can be hot all he wants, but he could have a horrible personality. 

"These are for you," he reveals a large bouquet of flowers. Shit. 

"Thank you..." you finally manage, "sorry.. um... I'm Y/N."

"I know," when he smiles it's sweet. His cheeks go full and his lips pull taut. He points to the restaurant door, "shall we?"

You nod. 

Before you can even reach for the handle, he's pulling the door open for you. He gestures inside, waiting until you're inside before he enters too.

He booked a nice table. A quiet one in the corner, with a view of the river outside.

The chatter was classic first-date small talk. You force polite smiles and craft the perfect responses. He does the same.

But then that demeanour slips.

"You're really beautiful," he whispers, nearly like he wasn't meant to say it out loud. But you heard it. And because he hasn't looked away from you, he sees the flinch in your reaction. He clears his throat, "sorry. I'm trying to be respectful but I'm having a hard time taking my eyes off of you."

You chuckle, because is this guy serious? You narrow your eyes at him, "you're good at this."

"At what?"

"Flirting."

He chuckles and drops his eyes to his plate. You feel it in your own stomach. He looks back up to you, shurgging, "I'm just being honest."

"Sure you are."

He watches you for a moment before, "Lix told me you almost pulled out of coming."

"Did he?" You ask, but already know the answer. You mutter, "snitch."

"But I'm glad you didn't," he says it with a straight face. He says it with a softness that has you double take. Because how can a voice that soft tell you something untruthful? He waits a moment, like building the courage to ask, "can I ask why?"

You shift, "why I almost pulled out or why I came anyway?"

"Both," he leans forward, caught on your every word. 

You allow yourself a breathy laugh, "well I came because Felix can be pretty persistent when he wants to be."

He laughs, "I know that much."

"And the why I almost pulled out..." you let your words die, "that's a story for another day. Not really first date material... let's just say my dating history is full of shitty men who can only think with their dicks."

You expect something more. A reaction, an argument, a 'not all men' speech. But he fixes you with the gaze he's had all night, a small smirk tugging at his lips. Not smug, but knowing. And then, he mutters something that nearly has you choking on your water. Because it's bold, entirely too bold, but said in that sweet, soft tone he's been speaking to you in, "I can change that."

You blink. He's not looking at you when he says it. He's looking down at his plate, like he's just accepted a challenge for himself. Not a sleazy one, but determined to be a mark in your history. Whether you let him stay and be your future to is up to you. At the very least he wants you to look back at his chapter and think 'maybe there is such thing as kindness.'

The waiter comes over with a little black folder and places it on the edge of the table. You both reach for it, but he snatches it up so quickly you think you've offended him. And clearly you have because he scoffs, "absolutely not. What kind of man would I be to let you pay for a date you were forced to be on?" He laughs.

His eyes are darting over the bill, hands reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. You don't think you've ever seen anything more attractive. The way his bicep bulges under the shirt as his arm flexes with the movement, the way he flips open his wallet and drops his card into the folder without care. When he signs the bill, he closes it, and hands it back to the waiter with a small kind smile.

When the waiter walks away, his eyes are back to you. You swallow, "I wasn't forced."

"Mm?"

"To be here. I wasn't forced, just heavily encouraged. I've just... it's been a while and I was nervous to come... that's why I nearly didn't... but Felix knew that... he kind always knows what's best for me."

Changbin chuckles, "I get that..." he thinks for a moment, "and for the record I was nervous too. If you could see my bedroom right now, I think I threw every shirt and pair of pants I own onto my floor and over my bed. I nearly had a breakdown at the florist because all of the bouquets looked so different, and I wanted to get the right ones for you."

You laugh. A genuine, unmasked laugh. 

When you're outside the restaurant again, he poses the question, "can I drive you home? You can totally say no, I'll understand."

You smile, "it's a 10 minute walk, I'll be fine."

"Can I walk you?" He asks, hands wringing together. His eyes flick down to the flowers in your hand, "they look heavy. I could carry them for you?"

And you found yourself saying yes. For yourself? Maybe not. But to tell Felix you said yes? Definitely. 

He takes the spot closest to the road, and you're convinced he read that somewhere. He walks close, but not enough to brush against you. His hands remain behind his back, gripping the flowers like a lifeline. 

"So how do you know Felix?" He asks.

"We met through my ex actually. He um... he kinda screwed us both over so he and I were kinda there for each other... we've been really close since."

"I see..." he nods like he's still processing.

"Sorry," you defend, "I shouldn't talk about my exes on a first date."

"It's fine Y/N." He smiles. Something about that felt genuine, like he really didn't care. 

You stop just in front of your building, "this is me."

He nods and reveals the flowers to you again, "I had a really nice time tonight."

You hum and can't help the smile that forms, "yeah.. me too."

He smiles big, but tries to lessen it a little, scared he might run you off with his eagerness. He clears his throat, "goodnight Y/N."

"Goodnight Changbin.."

You turn and walk up the small set of stairs outside your building. As you reach for the handle, his voice calls you back.

"Sorry if this is too forward but... I'd um... I'd like to see you again... if... if you'd like to as well..." he waits for your reaction, but is too impatient, "sorry I don't do the whole 'wait three days to call you back' thing."

You laugh, "I'd like to see you again too Changbin."

Date Two:

He'd insisted on something more casual, that's how you found yourself walking into a higher end bar. You see him immediately when you walk in. Still unruly hair flopping over his glasses-covered eyes, but the tight black t-shirt he wears feels a little different. 

Yes, the button-up suited him well. But there was something so simple about seeing him look so casual. 

"Y/N," he beams, walking over to you, "this is my favourite bar. I was thinking we could play billiards?" 

You nod and allow him to guide you over to the table. 

You'd be lying if you said you knew how to play. Instead of hiding it, you admit to it. Luckily for you, you're not playing with just anyone. You're playing with Changbin.

He takes his time to explain the rules, restating anything he thinks is complicated and helps you pick a cue. 

And now you both dance around the table, pool cues in hand, quiet chatter amongst you. 

"What is it you do again?" You ask, lining up a shot the best you can.

"Producing," he answers. He's planted the pool cue on the ground, leaning against it with one hand, the other holding onto the table. 

"You enjoy it?" The white ball rolls and rebounds off the side of the table. You sigh and stand up again.

"Very much," he starts lining up his own shot. "I would have gotten into music myself if I didn't need to come back home to take care of my mother."

"Oh," you hum, watching as he tried several angles to get the cue positioned right. "She's unwell."

"She was," he mutters and your heart drops. "But she's okay now."

You breathe a sigh of release, "that's good to hear. Would you take it up now?"

"Not a chance," he laughs, moving away to pick up the chalk and rub it on the cue, "turns out I love producing music more than I ever liked performing it."

He tries again, but the angle feels awkward. He huffs and straightens up, swinging the cue behind his back to line up the cue one last time. Satisfied, he knocks the ball and watches as it sinks his green one. He smiles.

You watch in awe, "how do you do that?"

He tries to sink another, but fails, "practice. Learning about angles and power and position."

"You sound like a professional." You state, leaning down to line up your own.

"It's rather easy actually," he watches you for a second, "here."

He rounds the table, finding a place beside you. He leans his cue against the wall and lifts his hands. He doesn't touch. Instead, he asks, "may I?" 

You nod. 

He moves beside you. Not behind like most men would do. It's intentional. His moves are intentional. One hand hovers gently around the middle of your back, still not touching. His other finds your hand and moves it back on the cue. From there, his hand glides up your arm to position your elbow better. He crouches, eyeing the angle of the cue before moving it over slightly. When he rises, he's close to your ear, "I want you to aim for the centre of the ball," he moves the cue forward a little to show you before pulling it back. "When you hit it, make sure to follow through, and with enough power," he pulls the cue back himself and your hands follow. The hand by your back is now warm and splayed across it. You're not sure when he did that.

With his grip still on the back of the cue, he pushes. You watch the white ball knock into your red one, and sinks in the back corner. You straighten with a bright smile, as it's your first one. You nearly knock him over with how quickly you rise. 

Your faces are closer than they've ever been. His eyes flick down to your lips, for a second too quick for you to comprehend before he's stepping away. 

"So yeah," he starts, but his voice is squeaky. He clears it before, "you have another turn now. You sunk it so..." he points to another ball, "why don't you try this one?"

You watch him for a moment longer before moving to line up the cue again. 

And then it's the same routine as last time. You walk outside the bar to both head home. 

"I can drive you if you'd like? It's a longer walk this time," he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. 

You smile, thankful for the darkness in the street as you feel your face heat up under his gaze. He leads you to his car. No, he leads you to his lamborghini. Slick, black, low to the ground. He opens the door for you. You've never been in a car with doors that open up instead of out. You step inside and he closes the door after you.

You blame the hormones. Or maybe just the attractive man in the seat beside you. But watching him drive, one hand up on the wheel, the other propped on the centre console, makes heat drop right to your stomach.

"I've really enjoyed tonight Y/N. Next time we'll have to do something that you like." He laughs, sneaking a glance over to you.

"Next time?" You ask.

His smile drops, "uh well... I mean... I'd like to see you again..."

You smile, "yeah... I guess that wouldn't be too bad."

He laughs. It's more of a cackle really, but it's endearing and sweet. 

Soon you find yourself on the stairs in front of your building again. He's a step below you as you mutter goodbyes to each other. Then you get the sudden urge to be bold.

Because how can he stand there, with cheeks this kissable, but no lipstick marks to stain them? So you lean forward and press one to his cheek. He immediately goes red and coughs slightly, "uh... thank you." He mutters, before scurrying down the stairs and back into his car.

You flop onto the couch with a loud sigh. Felix pauses his movie.

"What?"

"I think I like him." You admit before slapping your hands over your face. You scream a little into them, thrashing your body a little before dropping your hands and groaning. "I hate that you've done this to me."

Felix laughs, "done what?"

"You put me in front of an attractive, sweet, caring, gentleman and expect me to be calm about it!"

"I never said you had to be calm!" He exclaims. 

You crawl up the couch more to rest your head in his lap. "Do you think he's seeing anyone else?"

"Doubt it."

You sigh, "what if I mess this up? What if... what if he's just pretending? What if when the time comes, he shows me who he truly is?"

"I can guarantee you, that whoever he is around you, is who he is."

You sigh again and settle further into Felix's lap, allowing him to push against your muscles to ease them.

Date 5:

You bumble down the stairs to meet him. He's wearing a leather jacket tonight, and you have a hard time keeping your thoughts quiet. 

You let out a small giggle as you lean to kiss his cheek. He slips his hand into you, smile wide across his face. He leans back to look at you, "how do you manage to get more and more beautiful everytime I see you?"

You smack his arm playfully, "stop it."

"I'm serious," he looks over you once more, nodding like he's agreeing with someone other than himself, "I could look at you all day."

"Well you can't," you tease, "we have a booking."

He smiles and leads you over to his car. 

The theatre is packed. You find yourself gripping tighter to Changbins hand as he guides you through the crowd. He weaves through people, trying to make his way to the snack bar. You'd insisted it was okay, and that you didn't need any snacks.

But then he said, "I'm not taking my girl to a show and not feeding her. You will have snacks." And you melted.

You don't think he even realised he called you that. 'My girl', like it was nothing or natural or something he had always on the tip of his tongue and just couldn't use the brain power to keep it in anymore. 

He stops at the front of the line, and you hug his arm. You didn't realise he'd paid for the premium package until you arrived. It's not like he every flaunted his money, and it was never really a point of conversation for either of you.

But Felix had also told you how much he enjoyed spending on other people. Yes, he bought himself a fancy car and nice apartment, but those were needs that he decided to upgrade. When it comes to the wants of other people, he spares no expense. 

You watch him order the snacks and drinks you want and hands one to you. The rest he balances in his other hand. Neither of you let go of the ones you're holding.

Tonight was good. You'd maybe even risk saying it was perfect. You felt yourself slowly melting into Changbin. His gentleness, his patience, his ability to ask questions without probing too much. Both of you knew there were things you weren't telling him, but he didn't mind.

Not that he'd told you, but he wanted you to feel safe enough with him to tell him. But he could go his whole life not knowing and be completely fine. 

He feels your hand tense in his, "Y/N?"

Your eyes are locked across the room. A familiar mop of hair, standing out amongst the crowd. He smiles like he hadn't ended your world a year ago. And before you can do anything about it, he's walking over to you.

"Y/N." That voice. That horrid, scratchy voice. And those fucking eyes. You feel disgusting under his gaze. "It's been a minute." He eyes the way you cling to Changbin.

Who, still confused by the situation, introduces himself. But he can feel how uncomfortable you are. 

"This is my ex." You whisper to Changbin, "this is Changbin," you say louder.

"Ah, your new side piece huh?"

Your stomach drops, your heart breaks. He's still the same, still the asshole, dickhead, son of a bitch you once knew. 

Changbin straightens, "are you being territorial about a girl you barely know anymore?"

Your ex blinks, and his demeanor falters. "You don't know anything."

"No, but I can tell just by looking at you that you're a dickhead."

You choke on air, turning to see Changbin's demeanour. His straight, chest puffed out and shoulders rolled back. He looks confident. Confident and hot. 

"Listen here-" your ex nears.

Changbin tuts and nods his head towards the security guard, whose eyeing them both up, "I wouldn't go doing anything crazy now."

And with that, he scoffs and walks away.

Changbin turns to you, "are you okay?"

You can't form any words. 

Why does he have to show up now? Now, when you'd just started letting yourself heal, after you had just met Changbin?

"Hey, let's go," he says, dragging you towards the doors.

"No, we paid for the tickets."

He shrugs, "I heard it's lame anyway. Plus, we got our snacks so we're set for the rest of the night." He pulls you outside.

Instantly you feel better. Whether it's the cool, fresh air hitting your face, or maybe it's the absence of the vile creature you used to date. Or there's another option, where it's the presence of Changbins hand in yours. Either way, your heart doesn't feel so heavy.

"If you want, we can go back to my place and watch that movie you've been talking about?"

You think for a moment, eyeing him off suspiciously.

"What?" He asks.

"Are you not put off by that?"

"By seeing your ex?" He asks and you nod, "no. Should I be?"

"No."

He waits a moment, "well then I'm not. I can drop you home if you'd prefer?"

"No, I um... I like the sound of movie night."

"Perfect," he smiles, opening the door of his car for you, "you can wear something of mine if you'd like so you're not so uncomfortable." He drops, before closing the door and rounding the car. 

And when you walk into his place, the nerves start to build up again. Because this apartment, which you thought would be void of all personality, is surprisingly cozy. The building itself is modern, the technology is modern, but the furniture provides a warmth you hadn't expected. 

"Here," he hands you a pair of basketball shorts and his hoodie, "the bathroom's just in there."

He points and you enter. 

When you emerge, you find him making popcorn in the kitchen and pouring you each a drink. He's wearing a tank top. A fucking tank top. It's the first time you're seeing his arms exposed like this. 

"Hey," you croak out, trying to sound unaffected by him.

"Hi," his voice is sweet and his eyes find you in the doorway. He mutters, "fuck. Careful jagi, you look that good in my clothes I might have to pack you a suitcase full of them."

"Binnie..."

"Fuck," he drops what he was doing to turn his body to you fully.

"What now?"

"You've never called me that before."

"Oh, sorry."

"No don't apologise." He walks over to you, "I liked it. A little too much actually. You can... if you want... you can call me that anytime."

"Okay Binnie," you chuckle when he squeezes his eyes shut.

"You're going to kill me," he laughs, walking back into the kitchen to retrieve the popcorn.

Once you're settled on the couch, close but not cuddling, you decide to bring it up. He's searching for the movie, trying to find which platform it's on.

"Binnie?"

"Yes Princess?" He responds, eyes still glued to the screen.

"Can I... can I tell you something?"

The remote is out of his hand in a second and his body is turned to you, "anything."

"I... I just wanted to thank you for before. With my ex," your heart is beating like crazy. You hadn't spoken about it with anyone other than Felix. And it was your fifth date with Changbin. But you had to say something. "He wasn't exactly... he... he just treated me like shit... like I was his maid, and his cook and his therapist... and everything was always about what he wanted... what meal he wanted, what show he wanted to watch. We only ever had sex when he wanted to... even sometimes when I wasn't even in the mood..."

"Princess," he grips your hands tightly, "I'm so sorry..."

"You don't need to apologise. I feel like I need to apologise to you!"

"What? Why?"

"Because I haven't been able to... like... give myself fully to you... like we haven't even kissed and I haven't been that open with you..."

"Princess..." he soothes, "I don't care about that. I do, but I care that you do right by yourself first. You tell me what you need. You tell me what you want me to know when you're ready, not because you feel you owe it to me, because you don't."

"I just," you're holding back a tear, "I'm just worried that the waiting is going to make you resent me..."

"I don't think I could ever find a reason to resent you. And I'll wait until you're ready. And even if, a month from now, you decide you can't do it, I'll respect it and move on." He moves closer to you, "because-" you're not looking at him, "listen to me. Eyes up here. Because, you deserve happiness. You deserve love."

You're not sure how, or why or when, but a moment later, your lips are on his. He stills, breathing you in by letting you take the lead. It's soft, charged and addicting. You pull away a moment later and "sorry! Sorry- I should of asked! I should have-"

"Do it again." His voice is low and his tongue darts out to taste what's left of you on his lips. He's staring at yours, "please Y/N..." he flicks his eyes back up to you, "unless you-"

"Don't ask if I want to." You stern, "you always ask that. You always add 'if you want to' like I would ever say no to you."

"Jagiya," he breathes before your lips meets again.

This time it's hungrier, like the thought of not kissing you would kill him. His hand comes to cup your cheek, as he brings your face closer to his own. He moans into your mouth, like he's been holding back for so long. 

When he pulls back for air, his hand remains on your face and his eyes stay closed. "God I don't think I ever want to do anything else ever again." His eyes flutter open, "I just want to kiss you for the rest of time."

You laugh and lean back in.

Date 10:

"Binnie! Come on!" You giggle, dragging him over to the shooting game. You pause in front of it, "you have to win me a prize or else you're not a real man."

He gives you a fond smile, "is that so Princess?"

"Mmhm," you nod your head.

"I assume you want the big one?" 

"No!" You scoff, "I want the pink bunny!"

He looks over the prizes, eyebrows screwing together. "Jagi, that's a pig."

"It's very much NOT. It's a pink bunny!"

"It's clearly a pig!" He turns back to you, "but if you want the pig you can have the pig," he leans down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. 

You pull back, but your faces remain close together and you whisper, "bunny."

"Pig," he whispers back.

If you weren't sure about your decision before, you're sure of it now. You want to call him more than just the guy who spends all his money on you. You want to call him more than the guy you have fun with. 

And seeing him now, handing over the last tickets in exchange for more turns to win you the prize, you couldn't be more sure.

Eventually, the guy behind the counter fishes down the plush and hands it over to him. Changbin beams, turning to you immediately, "your pig m'lady."

"Bunny!" You laugh, but pull it close anyway. 

"I don't know why you wanted that one so badly..."

"It reminds me of you!" You giggle.

"How?"

"It has your energy!" You laugh together, the sounds of the carnival allowing you to be as loud as you want. 

Your eyes drift over to the ferris wheel, "come on," you say, picking up his hand and dragging him over. 

The wheel whirs to life, the carriage you're in rocks a little under the movement. It moves, then stops, and moves then stops. With it rocking like this, you scooch closer to Changbin to steady yourself. 

"It's so pretty from up here," you laugh and turn to him, "and don't pull the 'you're the better view' bullshit on me."

"At least you know it," he shrugs, "means I've done my job."

You smile at him, and soon the wheel stops at the top. 

"Binnie?"

"Yes Princess?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Anything, Jagi." He smiles.

You take a deep breath, smile impossibly big and painful. "Binnie, would you be my boyfriend?"

"What?" His smile drops and his eyes widen. You know it's not a bad reaction, it's just a reaction. "You... you want me... to be... your boyfriend?"

"Yes."

"YES!" He shouts and you flinch. He reaches for you, "sorry- sorry Jagi I got excited." He clears his throat, "yes Y/N... I want nothing more than to be your boyfriend."

"Really?"

"Are you kidding?" He leans over and smashes his lips into yours. It's quick, heated and adorable. He pulls back, thumbs caressing over your cheeks. He sighs and takes you in, "you're as beautiful as the day I first saw you."

"Lixie showed you a picture before I saw you."

"No..." he shakes his head, "do you know how long I was standing around, building up the courage to approach you?" You look at him confused, "I was half an hour early Jagi. I watched you arrive, I watched you stand there and I had to psych myself up to approach you because holy shit, that's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, how on earth would I ever be in her league? And now..." he leans over again, "and now she's my girlfriend. I have a girlfriend!" He turns his head to shout into the air, "I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND!"

You slap your hand over his mouth, "oh my god Binnie."

He pretends to bite your hand, forcing you to pull it back. You're laughing, and so is he. 

It fades into his sweet smile, the one you've grown so fond of. 

"I have a girlfriend," he whispers, leaning in to kiss you again.

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[whatdoyouwanttocallmefor]

THIS IS SO CUTE RAGHHHHHHHH

[whatdoyouwanttocallmefor]

Hi. I hope you are doing well. I really really loved your fic For You, Always! I was wondering if you would please do a sequel? Like do the three create this happiness together? Thank you 💕💕

Checkmate - Psychiatrist!Reader x Psycho!Han & Psycho!Minho

Genre: Dark Romance, Psychological Thrill

Warning: Obsessive behavior, confinement, psychological manipulation, and blurred consent.

Love, this is a very old draft and I already planned to published them. But, then I forgot and here we are 🥲 And I'm so sorry I just realizes them now. I hope you'll forgive me with this new chapter. 😔😔😔

Edit: I forgot to put first part here yall

The first thing you learned about your new life was that silence was a lie. In the asylum, silence meant peace. In this house, this sprawling, elegant fortress tucked away from the world, silence was just the breath Minho and Han held before they decided what to do with you next.

You sat at the edge of the velvet-covered bed, the silk pajamas they had dressed you in feeling like a second skin you didn't ask for. The door clicked open. You didn't look up; you knew the footfalls.

Two pairs of shoes. One heavy and deliberate, Minho. One light and slightly erratic, Han.

"You haven't touched the tea," Minho’s voice drifted over you, cool and smooth like polished stone. He walked into your line of sight, looking perfectly at home in a black turtleneck, his eyes scanning you with a clinical intensity that mocked your former profession. "Is it too cold? Or are you still trying to starve yourself as a form of protest? We discussed how unproductive that is, Y/N."

"I'm not hungry," you whispered, your throat dry.

A sudden weight settled on the bed beside you. Han leaned into your space, his head dropping onto your shoulder. He smelled like expensive cologne and something metallic, a sharp contrast to the soft, boyish pout on his face.

"You're making Minho-hyung grumpy," Han murmured, his voice vibrating against your skin. He reached out, his fingers tracing the vein in your wrist, his touch light as a feather but feeling like a shackle. "And when he’s grumpy, I get bored. You don't want us bored, do you, Doctor? You know what happens when we have to find our own entertainment."

You shivered, the memory of how they had "entertained" themselves during your final session at the asylum flashing through your mind.

Minho knelt in front of you, forcing you to look at him. He didn't use violence; he used presence. He took your hands in his, his grip firm. "You spent months trying to get inside our heads, Y/N. Analyzing our 'impulses.' Categorizing our 'deviations.' Did you ever think about what would happen if we decided to analyze you back?"

"I was trying to help you," you choked out.

Han let out a sharp, melodic laugh behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist to pull you flush against him. "And you did! You helped us realize that the world is a very loud, very ugly place, and you're the only thing in it that's quiet. The only thing that's ours."

Minho stood up, pulling you to your feet with him. He led you toward the vanity mirror, Han trailing behind like a dark shadow. They forced you to look at the reflection: you, flanked by two men who looked like they stepped out of a high-fashion magazine, yet possessed eyes that held no mercy.

"This isn't a prison, Y/N," Minho whispered into your ear, his hands resting on your shoulders. "It's a sanctuary. Out there, you were a slave to your ethics, to your patients, to a system that didn't care about you. Here, you are the only law. Our only focus."

"You can't keep me here forever," you said, though even your own voice sounded unconvinced.

Han leaned over your shoulder, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror. They were wide, dark, and sparkling with a terrifying kind of joy. "Forever is a long time, Doctor. But we're very patient. We've already started erasing the old Y/N. The one with the office and the reports. Soon, there will only be the Y/N who belongs to us."

Minho picked up a brush from the vanity, his movements graceful. He began to brush your hair with terrifying tenderness. "Do you feel that, Y/N? That's the sound of the world forgetting you. And the sound of us finally, finally keeping you safe."

You looked at your reflection and realized with a jolt of horror that you weren't looking for an exit anymore. You were looking at the way Minho’s eyes softened when he touched you, and the way Han’s heartbeat thudded against your back—and a small, dark part of your mind, the part they had been carefully cultivating, whispered that maybe, just maybe, this was the only place you were ever meant to be.

The "defeat" wasn't that they had locked the door. It was that they were making you forget why you wanted to leave.

For three days, you didn’t speak. You let them dress you, feed you, and watch you, but you remained a ghost. You knew that for men like Minho and Han, men who thrived on reaction, on fear, and on the thrill of the chase, silence was the ultimate deprivation.

They wanted a doll, but they also wanted a patient. They wanted to see the "Doctor" crumble.

On the fourth evening, the power dynamic shifted. It started at dinner. Minho was cutting a piece of steak for you, his movements precise, while Han was humming a disjointed tune, tapping his fingers restlessly on the mahogany table.

"Han," you said softly. It was the first word you had spoken in seventy-two hours.

The tapping stopped instantly. Han’s head snapped up, his eyes wide and hungry for the sound of your voice. "You spoke. Did you hear that, hyung? She spoke to me."

Minho’s eyes narrowed, his knife pausing. He didn't like the sudden shift in focus. "What is it, Y/N?"

You didn't look at Minho. You kept your gaze fixed on Han, softening your expression into the specific look of "professional empathy" you knew he was vulnerable to. "The tapping, Jisung-ah. You only do that when you feel like Minho is crowding you. Are you feeling suffocated today?"

Han blinked, his bravado flickering. "I—no. Hyung doesn’t suffocate me."

"Are you sure?" you asked, tilting your head. "Because in the asylum, you told me you hated feeling like a shadow. And right now, sitting here in his house, eating his food, following his rules... you look like a shadow again."

"That’s enough," Minho interjected, his voice dropping an octave into a dangerous warning. He slid the plate of food toward you. "Eat."

You finally turned your gaze to Minho. You didn't look afraid. You looked at him the way you would look at a fascinating, yet predictable, laboratory specimen.

"You’re overcompensating, Minho," you said calmly. "The aggression, the need for total control over the environment, it’s a classic defense mechanism. You’re terrified that if you let me speak, I’ll point out the one thing you’re trying to hide: that you’re not sure if Han actually wants to be here with you, or if he’s just afraid of being alone."

The room went icy. Minho slammed his hand on the table, the silverware rattling. A normal person would have screamed. You just picked up your tea and took a slow, deliberate sip.

"You think you’ve captured me," you continued, your voice steady and clinical. "But all you’ve done is give me twenty-four-hour access to your psyches. I’m not your prisoner. I’m your lead researcher. And I’ve already found the fracture."

You looked back at Han, who was watching the exchange with a mixture of awe and confusion. You reached across the table, a bold move, and brushed your thumb over the back of Han’s hand. He shivered, but he didn't pull away.

"He doesn’t tell you everything, does he, Han?" you whispered. "He keeps secrets to 'protect' you. But he really just wants to keep you small."

You saw the spark of doubt in Han’s eyes. It was tiny, but it was there. And then you looked at Minho, who was vibrating with a silent, murderous rage, not because you were escaping, but because you were right.

"If you want to play 'house,'" you said, leaning back and crossing your arms, "we can. But remember: I spent ten years learning how to dismantle minds like yours. Every time you touch me, every time you talk to me, I’m finding the nerves to press. By the end of the month, I won't need to unlock the door. You’ll be the ones begging me for the keys to your own heads."

For the first time since you had been brought to the house, Minho looked genuinely unsettled. Han, on the other hand, looked fascinated, his obsession shifting from your body to your intellect.

You took another sip of tea, the taste of victory far sweeter than the sugar. You had realized your weapon: they didn't just want you; they wanted your validation. And you were going to make them starve for it until they were at each other's throats.

Six months had passed since the night you decided to stop fighting the locks and start fixing the men behind them.

The house was no longer a cage; it was a kingdom. The atmosphere had shifted from cold, sharp tension to something thick, heavy, and strangely devoted. By dismantling their individual insecurities, you had done something the asylum never could: you had made them whole, but only in relation to you.

You sat in the grand library, the fire crackling in the hearth. You weren't in silk pajamas anymore. You wore a suit that commanded respect, a glass of wine in your hand.

Minho was seated at your feet, his head resting against your knee. He, the man who once demanded total control, now found peace in your silence. He liked it when you ran your fingers through his hair, a reward for his good behavior.

Han was sprawled across the sofa across from you, his eyes never leaving your face. He was no longer erratic or twitchy. He was calm, focused, and utterly enamored.

"You're thinking again, Y/N," Minho murmured, his voice a low purr. He turned his head to press a kiss to the palm of your hand. "Analyzing the air. What do you see?"

"I see a balance," you replied, your voice steady and authoritative. "I see a structure that finally works."

Han leaned forward, a playful yet sharp glint in his eyes. "You tried to break us, remember? You tried to make me hate him, and him hate me. You were so clever, Doctor."

"I wasn't trying to break you, Jisung," you corrected softly, tilting your head. "I was pruning the weeds. You two were a mess of trauma and obsession. I just... redirected the flow."

Minho looked up at you, his eyes dark and swirling with a terrifyingly pure devotion. "And now? Now that the weeds are gone, what are we?"

You set your glass down and reached out, beckoning Han to join you. He moved instantly, sliding off the sofa to kneel on your other side. Now, you were flanked by the two most dangerous men you had ever met, and they were looking at you as if you were the only source of light in the world.

"You are my masterpiece," you whispered.

The "Bad Side" of this ending was the reality: you had officially crossed the line. You were no longer a psychiatrist; you were their accomplice. You had used your knowledge to create a world where morality didn't exist, only the three of you. The world outside had stopped looking for you months ago, and honestly, you had stopped looking for it.

The "Good Side"? You were never lonely. You were protected by two predators who would burn the world down if you asked them to. You were loved with a ferocity that was frightening, but it was a love that never wavered.

"Checkmate," Han whispered, leaning in to kiss your jaw.

"Checkmate," Minho agreed, his hand covering yours.

You didn't feel defeated. As you looked into their eyes, you realized that in your quest to analyze their madness, you had found a home for your own. You reached out, pulling them both closer, and the library doors stayed locked, not because they forced you to stay, but because you had finally decided that the world wasn't worth the trouble without them.

The Doctor was out. The Queen was in.

Credit banner: @diviniyae

Taglist: @m-325 @bbokarismeow @maddy24207 @kpop-trash-03 @brbwritingfanfic @staytinyluv

[whatdoyouwanttocallmefor]

But She Choose to Use Me - Jeongin Ver

Genre: Angst, happy ending(?)

Warning: Reader use member just as a comfort place in need, unrequited feelings, same twist like other story

Other members: Chan, Minho, Changbin, Hyunjin, Han, Felix, Seungmin

Jeongin had always been the afterthought.

Not in your eyes, not really, you treated him kindly, laughed at his jokes, held his hand when crowds got too loud. But in the grand scheme of your heart, he wasn’t the one.

He knew it.

He knew because every time your phone lit up, it wasn’t his name that made you smile. Because every time you told a story, there was someone else at the center of it. Because when you whispered “I love you,” it was never meant for him.

And yet… you always came back to him.

When you fought with your boyfriend, you’d show up at Jeongin’s door, tear-stained and shaking.

When you felt lonely, you’d call him in the middle of the night, asking him to talk until you fell asleep.

When the world felt too heavy, you’d let him carry the weight, even though it wasn’t his to bear.

From the outside, it was obvious.

“She’s using him.”

“Poor Jeongin, always the backup.”

And they were right.

But Jeongin smiled anyway, opened his door anyway, stayed on the line anyway. Because being your shadow was better than not being near you at all.

---

The first time he saw you with your boyfriend, laughing, glowing, looking at him the way Jeongin wished you’d look at him, something inside him cracked.

But he swallowed it down, forcing his lips into a grin when you turned to him and said, “Innie, isn’t he amazing?”

“Yeah,” Jeongin lied, throat burning. “He’s… great.”

---

Nights were the worst.

He’d lie awake, staring at his phone, waiting for the buzz that meant you needed him. Half-hoping, half-dreading. Because it meant you were hurting again. Because it meant he got to hold the pieces your boyfriend broke.

And every time, he told himself: Maybe one day, she’ll see me instead.

But mornings always came. You’d thank him, hug him, and run back into someone else’s arms. Leaving Jeongin with nothing but your scent on his hoodie and silence in his chest.

---

One night, it went too far.

You showed up at his door, trembling, mascara streaked down your cheeks. “Innie… he said he doesn’t love me anymore.”

Jeongin’s world should have lit up, this was the moment he’d dreamed of, the moment you might finally look his way.

But instead, all he felt was rage. Rage at a man who had your heart but didn’t cherish it. Rage at himself for only being the consolation prize.

Still, he pulled you into his arms. Still, he let you sob into his shirt. Still, he whispered, “You’ll be okay. I’ve got you.”

Even though he knew, deep down, that once you pieced yourself back together, you’d find someone else. And he’d still be here, the boy you “used,” the boy who loved you too quietly, too loyally.

---

From the outside, people pitied him. They called him foolish, weak, naive.

But Jeongin didn’t care.

Because for him, love wasn’t about being chosen. It was about choosing, and he chose you. Over and over, even if you never once chose him back.

---

And maybe one day, when the world finally broke you one last time, you’d see him for what he was: the one who stayed.

But even if you didn’t, Jeongin decided he’d still open the door when you knocked.

Because that’s what love looked like for him.

Being used. And letting it hurt.

Because at least it meant it was you.

(why the hell am I doing this baby story like this- IM A MONSTER)

Anddddddddd, that's the end of this draft series. It's not much ngl, but I hope these shorts makes yall feel better.

See yall in next series!!!!

Credit banner: @diviniyae

Taglist: @m-325 @bbokarismeow @maddy24207 @kpop-trash-03 @brbwritingfanfic @staytinyluv

[whatdoyouwanttocallmefor]

But She Choose to Use Me - Felix Ver

Genre: Angst, happy ending(?)

Warning: Reader use member just as a comfort place in need, unrequited feelings.

Other members: Chan, Minho, Changbin, Hyunjin, Han, Seungmin, Jeongin

Felix had always been your safe place.

From scraped knees to exam failures, from first heartbreaks to bad days, he was the one constant. Your childhood best friend, your partner in crime, the boy who knew every version of you, even the messy ones.

He was sunshine, freckles, warm hugs, and the kind of laugh that could stitch your broken pieces back together.

But he wasn’t the one you fell for first.

Felix knew. He always knew. He saw the way your eyes glowed for someone else, the way your voice softened when you talked about him.

And when it all came crashing down, when your crush shattered your heart, Felix was the one you clung to.

“Lixie,” you whispered one night, curled against him on his couch, “I just want to forget him. I don’t want to feel this anymore.”

And Felix, even though his own chest ached, smiled and said, “Then let’s forget him together.”

So you did. You let him distract you, fill your days with laughter, fill your nights with warmth.

From the outside, people whispered.

“She’s just using him to move on.”

“He’s just the rebound best friend.”

But Felix didn’t care. Because if you had to “use” someone, he was glad it was him.

---

What you didn’t know was that Felix carried a secret.

That he loved you.

Not just as the best friend you always called him, not just as the boy who showed up at 2 a.m. with snacks and blankets. But as something more. Something he never dared to say aloud, because one wrong word could shatter the fragile, perfect thing you already had.

So he stayed “best friend.” Even when his heart screamed for more.

---

But then there was you, carrying the same secret.

Every time you laughed at his jokes, every time you leaned into his side, every time you caught yourself staring at his freckles a little too long, your heart whispered truths your mouth was too scared to speak.

Because what if telling him ruined everything?

What if losing him hurt worse than loving him silently?

So you wore the “best friend” mask, too.

Two people, hiding the same love behind the same word.

---

It came to a breaking point one night.

You were sitting side by side on his bed, surrounded by plushies, half-watching a movie neither of you cared about. The room was quiet, too quiet, and you blurted before you could stop yourself:

“Lixie… do you ever get tired of me? Everyone says I’m just using you.”

Felix’s eyes widened. His hands froze where they’d been fiddling with the edge of his blanket.

Then he smiled, soft, sad, but real. “I could never get tired of you. Not when being with you feels like home.”

Your chest tightened, tears burning your eyes. “But doesn’t it hurt? That I only ever call you my best friend?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then, quietly, he said, “It only hurts because… I want to be more.”

The world seemed to stop.

You stared at him, your heart pounding, your lips trembling. “You… what?”

Felix swallowed hard, freckles glowing under the lamp. “I want to be more. But if best friend is all you’ll give me… I’ll still take it. Because it means I get to keep you.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks. You laughed weakly, half-broken, half-relieved.

“Lixie,” you whispered, “I want more too. I’ve just been too scared to say it.”

His breath caught. The smile that bloomed on his face then, shaky, teary, radiant, was one you’d never forget.

“You mean it?”

You nodded, cupping his face with trembling hands. “It’s not using if it’s real, right? And this… this is real.”

---

That night, you stayed tangled up in his arms, still calling each other “best friend” out loud. But inside, both of you finally knew the truth.

It wasn’t use.

It wasn’t rebound.

It wasn’t pretending.

It was love, the kind that had been there all along, hidden beneath a title too small for what you felt.

And this time, neither of you was scared anymore.

Credit banner: @diviniyae

Taglist: @m-325 @bbokarismeow @maddy24207 @kpop-trash-03 @brbwritingfanfic @staytinyluv

[whatdoyouwanttocallmefor]

But She Choose to Use Me - Seungmin Ver.

Genre: Angst, happy ending(?)

Warning: Reader use member just as a comfort place in need, unrequited feelings, mentions of physical abuse (you being hit by your boyfriend). Please read with caution.

Other members: Chan, Minho, Changbin, Hyunjin, Han, Felix, Jeongin

Seungmin was always the quiet one. The steady one. The one who didn’t flinch when people whispered behind his back.

"She’s stringing him along."

"She only goes to him when her boyfriend hurts her."

"He’s just being used."

He heard it all. He just didn’t answer.

Because the truth was, he knew. He’d known for a long time.

That you weren’t in love with him. That your heart belonged to someone else, someone who didn’t deserve it. Someone who didn’t deserve you.

And yet, every time you staggered to his door with tear-stained cheeks and trembling hands, Seungmin still opened it.

Even when the bruises began to appear.

---

The first time you came with a split lip, you swore it wasn’t what it looked like.

"I fell," you insisted, avoiding his eyes.

Seungmin didn’t call you out. He just got the first aid kit, his touch gentle as he dabbed antiseptic on the wound.

The silence between you was thick, but he let it be. He didn’t force the truth out of you. Not yet.

But when your boyfriend’s name lit up your phone screen and you flinched visibly, Seungmin’s chest burned.

---

Eventually, the truth came out. Not in words, but in the way you avoided him.

You stopped showing up at his door. You ignored his messages. You laughed too brightly when he saw you in the hall, like you were trying too hard.

You were putting distance between you, a gap wide enough that even Seungmin couldn’t pretend anymore.

And he hated it. Not for himself, but for you.

Because distance meant you were hurting alone.

---

One evening, he found you sitting outside his building. Hoodie pulled low, sleeves tugged down, eyes swollen from crying.

When you saw him, you froze. Guilt, shame, fear - all of it flickered across your face.

"You shouldn’t be here," you whispered, standing quickly. "I shouldn’t… I can’t keep using you like this."

Seungmin’s jaw tightened. "Using me?"

Your throat bobbed as you tried to explain. "That’s what everyone says, right? That I only run to you when he- when I…" You trailed off, clutching your sleeves tighter. "I don’t want to drag you down with me."

For a long moment, Seungmin just looked at you. His gaze was sharp, unflinching, the way it always was when he was deciding whether to speak or stay silent.

Then he stepped forward.

"You’re not using me," he said quietly, but firmly. "You’re letting me do what I want most."

Your eyes widened. "What…?"

"To take care of you."

The words hung in the air, heavy and unshakable.

"You think putting distance between us will protect me," Seungmin continued, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest. "But all it does is protect him. It lets him keep hurting you. And I won’t stand by and watch that happen."

Tears spilled over your lashes. "Seungmin, I don’t want to hurt you-"

"You already hurt me," he interrupted, his tone sharper now. "Every time you go back to him. Every time you believe you deserve this. That hurts me more than anything you could do."

---

The silence after that was suffocating. But then Seungmin’s expression softened. He reached out slowly, brushing a thumb under your eye to catch a tear.

"I don’t care if the world says I’m being used. If choosing me only means you come here when you’re broken, then fine. I’ll take it. Because at least it means you’re safe with me."

You crumpled then, sobbing as you collapsed into his arms. He held you tightly, one hand cradling your head, the other around your back as if to shield you from the world.

For the first time, you didn’t try to deny it. You didn’t try to run. You just let yourself be held.

And Seungmin, steady, quiet, unyielding, whispered into your hair:

"You don’t have to love me. Just let me protect you. That’s enough."

---

To others, he was just being used.

But to Seungmin, he was finally being what you needed.

And he would never let go.

Credit banner: @diviniyae

Taglist: @m-325 @bbokarismeow @maddy24207 @kpop-trash-03 @brbwritingfanfic @staytinyluv

[whatdoyouwanttocallmefor]

But She Choose to Use Me - Jisung Ver.

Genre: Angst, happy ending(?)

Warning: Reader use member just as a comfort place in need, unrequited feelings, same twist like other story

Other members: Chan, Minho, Changbin, Hyunjin, Felix, Seungmin, Jeongin

Jisung liked to pretend.

Pretend he was fine when you talked about someone else.

Pretend he didn’t notice how your eyes sparkled for him but softened for another.

Pretend that the way you clung to him at 3 a.m., whispering secrets you couldn’t tell anyone else, was enough.

He was good at pretending. He was the class clown, the loud one, the one who could laugh so hard you almost believed he didn’t have cracks beneath the smile.

Almost.

Because every time you said his name the one you loved, Jisung’s laugh got a little too loud, his jokes a little too sharp, just to drown out the sound of his own breaking heart.

---

It always happened like this:

You’d come knocking on his door with a bag of snacks and a tired smile. "Movie night?"

And he’d grin like a fool, like he hadn’t been staring at his phone waiting for your text all day. "Only if you let me pick the movie this time."

Then you’d curl up on his couch, your legs tangled with his, your head resting on his shoulder like it belonged there.

And for a while, Jisung could pretend. Pretend you were his. Pretend this was what couples did. Pretend the warmth in his chest wasn’t about to consume him whole.

But sooner or later, the truth always slipped out.

"Do you think he’d like this movie?" you’d ask, halfway through a scene.

Or, "He’d laugh at this part, right?"

And Jisung’s smile would falter for a split second before he forced it back into place.

"Yeah," he’d say, voice too bright. "He totally would."

---

People whispered about you two, too.

"She’s stringing him along."

"She only uses him because he’s easy."

"Poor guy, doesn’t he know?"

And maybe they were right. Maybe Jisung was the fool they thought he was.

But when you chose to spend your nights here, with him, instead of anywhere else…

When you laughed so hard you nearly fell off his couch because of his dumb impressions…

When you whispered, "I feel safe with you, Ji," half-asleep against his chest…

How could he ever regret being “used”?

---

The question finally came one night.

"Jisung," you murmured, staring at the ceiling as the credits rolled. "Why do you let me do this? Everyone says I’m… using you. And maybe they’re right. I don’t know why you still put up with me."

Jisung swallowed hard, his heart hammering so loud he swore you could hear it. For once, he didn’t make a joke. He didn’t deflect.

Instead, he turned his head, studying your profile, the way the glow of the TV kissed your skin, the way your brows furrowed in guilt.

"Because if you’re using me," he said quietly, "it means you still need me."

You turned to him, startled. "Ji-"

"I know you love him," he admitted, his voice trembling but firm. "I know I’m not the one you look at that way. But you still look at me when you need comfort. You still knock on my door. You still choose me, even if it’s only for your broken moments. And that’s… enough for me."

Your throat tightened, tears welling in your eyes. "That’s not fair to you."

He gave a shaky laugh, wiping at his eyes before you could see the shine in them. "Love isn’t fair. But it’s real. And mine’s real, even if it’s messy."

You reached for his hand, fingers trembling. "I don’t deserve you, Ji.."

He squeezed back, smiling through the ache. "Maybe not. But you’ve got me anyway."

---

That night, when you fell asleep with your fingers still tangled with his, Jisung stared at the ceiling, biting back the tears that threatened again.

To the world, he was being used.

To him, he was just being yours, in the only way he was allowed to be.

And maybe one day, you’d see that the boy who made you laugh until your stomach hurt was also the one who loved you hardest.

Until then?

He’d let you use him. Because it meant you stayed.

Credit banner: @diviniyae

Taglist: @m-325 @bbokarismeow @maddy24207 @kpop-trash-03 @brbwritingfanfic @staytinyluv

[fanfictionandfantisies]

Minho doing the 'I can't pay the bills this month' trend

You're waiting for Minho to come home, phone propped up nearby when the door opens, your tired and sweaty husband walking through.

"Where are my kitties?" He goes straight for his cats, petting and kissing them.

"Hey, Min. Can we talk?"

He pauses his petting to look up from where he's crouched on the floor. You're leaned against the kitchen counter, face grim.

"What's going on?" He stands slowly.

You sigh. "I can't pay the bills this month." You look down, seeming upset, but really just trying to keep from laughing.

The silence is so long you have to look back up. He blinks at you, confusion building on his face. "Are you mad at me? I'm sorry," you try.

"What are you talking about? The bills?"

You nod. "Yeah, I don't have enough this month."

"You don't have enough?" He pulls his phone out, typing away. "How is several thousand dollars not enough to do anything you want?" He waves the number on his screen in your face from the account he deposited money into whenever you needed it. "You don't pay bills. You spread your legs. Period." He steps closer. "Something I was looking forward to when I got home, but instead, my wife was trying to be funny."

A laugh slips from your lips. "I'm sorry I thought it was funny."

He rolls his eyes, grabbing your wrist and dragging you to your bedroom. "Haha, very funny. Strip."

[whatdoyouwanttocallmefor]

NOT THE ENDING HAHAHAHAHA