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mangowillow · 1 month ago

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last to know | ch. 3: today's curtain opens

pairing: jungkook x (f) reader / kim woosung x (f) reader

summary: you and jeongguk got together at 16 years old, married at 20, and divorced at 21. what was once love ever after turned into nothing but pain and unfulfilled dreams. you keep going despite the pain in your heart that never really went away, until one day, jungkook comes back— to seoul and in your life.

general story tags: divorce au, childhood friends, angst, hurt & eventual comfort, kind of a slow burn, OC is an adopted child in this fic, a lot of flashbacks later on because context is important; and the others that a lot of people seem to dislike: a love triangle and a LOT of miscommunication. look away if this isn't your thing. tags and warnings will be updated as we go along with each chapter!

warnings: somewhere in this chapter, seokjin punches jeongguk

word count: 12.7k

author's note: oooh look at her coming back after more than a YEAR!

i have no words, no excuses to offer. most people would have forgotten this story already. BUT I DIDN'T and that's all that matters right now <3

gentle reminder that italics are flashbacks! please forgive any oversights or mistakes or whatnot; as of posting, i am sick and i just wanted to post this chapter that's been sitting in my drafts for the longest time now.

one more very important thing: since i haven't updated in so long, i lost track of my taglist i am very sorry! to make everything more organized, i came up with a google form that readers can fill out if they're interested in being included. i know this is such an inconvenience but because i am a very irregular poster, i will need all the help with tracking i can get!!!

so if you're interested in being tagged for this fic, please fill out this form. any requests for tags in the comments or ask box will not be considered at this time. tysm!! enjoy this very humble update!

As usual, you didn’t notice time passing until you realized it was already nighttime.

You are still cleaning up the art room at the university where you were teaching until you heard the pitter-patter of the rain. Big, fat raindrops relentlessly hit the window, creating a steady beat. The sound calms you but at the same time, it seems to mirror the turbulent thoughts that are running through your mind. Not that the thoughts were anything urgent or worrying; your mind just can’t seem to stop… thinking.

You pack the last of the paintbrushes your students forgot to return to the crate when your phone starts to ring. You wipe your hands across your paint-stained apron before picking up. You place the phone between your ear and shoulder as you start packing your bag.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Is this Mrs. Jeon ____?”

You haven’t heard that name in years; let alone be addressed as such.

“I um— may I know who is speaking?” you ask, your grip on the handle of your bag tightens.

“This is Kim Ae-jung calling from Gangnam Heights Medical Center. I’m calling regarding Mr. Jeon Jeongguk,” the caller states. Your heart starts to beat faster, knuckles almost turning white as you now grip your bag strap even more.

“Oh. Right. Is everything okay?”

“I'm sorry to inform you that Mr. Jeon has been admitted to our hospital. There's been a health emergency and they're currently receiving medical attention.”

The moment you hear “medical attention,” the thumping in your ears becomes louder. You clutch your heart tighter as the caller goes on, “I understand this is a lot to take in. The situation is being taken care of by our medical team. It's important that you come to the hospital as soon as possible to be with them—”

You didn’t have to be told anything further. You start gathering your things, hastily putting them inside your bag, and run out the door.

It didn’t matter that you got soaked in the pouring rain on the way to the bus stop. Of all days, you had to have your car at the shop for an oil change. You gnaw at your nails as you anxiously wait for the next bus to come. You look at your watch: 9:30 PM. You wonder why Jeongguk was in the hospital. You wonder why he was here— in Seoul.

As a self-proclaimed overthinker, you start to spiral and descend into negativity. You try to recall if Jeongguk has ever had any illnesses while you were still together. You try to remember if you missed anything then— a symptom, a cough, a fever.

The moment you sit down on the bus your heart starts to steady a bit and it allows you to think a bit clearer. Gangnam Heights Medical Center was a few kilometers away from the university. You can’t help but glance at the time almost every minute, your leg bouncing in agitation.

In that seemingly long bus ride, you are flooded with so many memories of Jeongguk almost instantaneously— the day you met him, the day he held your hand for the first time, the day he kissed you after a fireworks display—

The day he married you.

All of the memories you have tried so hard to keep buried in the recesses of your mind— they all came rushing back like no time has ever passed.

When you are reminded of Jeon Jeongguk, you are reminded of pain. But you are also reminded of the deepest love you’ve ever known your entire life.

As the public announcement on the bus declares that the next stop is the hospital, you hastily push the STOP button above you.

And you have never run as fast as you did to the hospital lobby. You were met by a very kind nurse who gently asked you to fill up a form before anything else even though you were clearly in distress.

You didn’t know what to write on the form. Legally speaking, you aren’t Jeongguk’s legal guardian. Not anymore. You grip the pen tighter, the ballpoint hovering just above the line that asks for “Spouse Name”. Your eyes start to blur and because of the adrenaline, you don’t realize right away that you are in near tears. For whatever reason, you didn’t know what to do.

So many questions run through your mind— why did the hospital call you? Why isn’t anyone coming to Jeongguk? Was he alone here in Seoul? Does he have anyone at all?

Your hands shake as you give back the form to the nurse. She gives you a small smile as she directs you to the room where Jeongguk is. Inside was the doctor in charge, as well as a different nurse.

They tell you Jeongguk had a panic attack on the side of the road. They also tell you that the attack was quite alarming because he fainted from sheer panic. You were asked if he had been taking his medication– a question you couldn’t straightforwardly answer. The doctor continued to advise you on his condition and what you could do to support him further but their words barely registered.

All you cared about at that moment was that Jeongguk was here with you in the same room. Lying on a hospital bed.

“Is— is he going to be okay?” you ask softly, your eyes never leaving Jeongguk’s form.

“Yes, he will fully recover. However, I do advise that he monitor his triggers and form a safety plan should another panic attack happen when he’s out in public or when he’s alone. Your husband was lucky because kind strangers helped take him here.”

You wanted nothing more but to cry, but your tears cannot seem to fall. You thank the doctor as he leaves the room, leaving you and Jeongguk completely alone.

You didn’t wake up today thinking that you’d see him again. Under the worst circumstances yet again, you look at the man who you used to call your husband. Jeongguk is no longer the lanky 21-year-old you married. He's more muscular now, with his physique sculpted in all the right places. Although his face was covered with an oxygen mask, you could still see the prominent eye lines, perhaps due to exhaustion and sleepless nights. He now sports a full tattoo sleeve on his right arm, a striking blend of intricate designs that flow seamlessly down to just above his wrist. A delicate lotus flower blooms amidst the ink, its petals unfolding with quiet elegance, while scattered stars add a celestial touch, as if mapping constellations across his skin. He finally did it, you thought. You look at Jeongguk and see that everything and nothing has changed.

You step closer to his bedside, your movements hesitant, almost fragile. With a trembling hand, you reach for the one free of the IV, your fingers brushing against his skin as if afraid he might break or worse– wake up. A shudder runs through you and your bottom lip quivers. You swallow hard, desperate to contain the sob threatening to slip past your lips.

Since when did Jeongguk suffer from panic attacks? No matter how hard you search your memory for warning signs, for any fleeting clue, you come up empty. Jeongguk was always strong, always steady—if anything, it was you who carried the weight of a restless mind.

Jeongguk had always been the one to carry the both of you.

You remain still, fingers laced with his as silent tears slipping down your cheeks. You mourn not just for him, but for everything you’ve lost—the Jeongguk you once knew, the love that once consumed your world, now reduced to fragments of what used to be.

"Mind telling me about you and ____?" Jeongguk starts, voice steady but laced with something ugly underneath.

He had been discharged just a day after—against Yoongi’s insistence. It wasn’t just the recklessness of it all that pissed Yoongi off—it was Jeongguk’s sheer stubbornness, his refusal to rest, his insistence that keeping himself busy was better than being left alone with his thoughts. He claimed it was for his mental health and that working was preferable to rotting away in self-pity.

But the truth was simpler. Jeongguk didn’t want to be alone.

Not after seeing you again.

Not after seven years.

Yoongi exhales sharply, shoving his hands into his pockets, already anticipating where this conversation is headed. He meets Jeongguk’s gaze—there’s something raw there, something unsettled. He tries to deflect. “Are you sure you’re not hungry? Because I am and—”

“I’m not in the mood to eat,” Jeongguk cuts in, his voice quieter but firm, the weight of his words sinking deep. “I need you to tell me what the hell is going on.”

Yoongi stills. The moment Jeongguk’s tone changed to his CEO voice, he knew—there was no dodging this.

The worst part is, Yoongi doesn’t even need to deflect. He just doesn’t think this is the time. They had barely even settled back in Seoul, and already, they’re reopening old wounds that never really healed. Then again… had he really expected Jeongguk to just let it go? To come back here, breathe the same air as you, and not at least try to find you?

Yoongi sighs. Over the years, he’s learned something that even Jeongguk himself refuses to admit—your name still undoes him. Every single time. Jeongguk is haunted by you— in ways he doesn’t even realize. It’s written in the way he grows quiet, in the way his jaw tenses, in the way his eyes darken with a sadness that only those closest to him can recognize.

And now, with Jeongguk looking at him like this—like he’s grasping for something, anything—Yoongi knows there’s no way out.

“It’s not a big deal, Jeongguk.” Yoongi hates downplaying anything especially when it comes to his friends, but even he doesn’t believe his words. “We just talk sometimes. I send her wishes on her birthday, greet her during Christmas, check in every now and then. But it’s rare.”

If Yoongi had any sense, he’d realize he sounded defensive. And if Jeongguk had any sense, he wouldn’t care.

But he does. Of course he does.

Jeongguk lets out a breathless scoff, shaking his head. “And you just… what? Didn’t think to mention that to me?” His tone is sharp, but not out of anger—out of something deeper, something resembling hurt. “Because everything you just said doesn’t sound like ‘rare.’”

And the worst part? Jeongguk isn’t even mad at Yoongi for keeping this from him. He’s mad at himself—for the fact that it even matters. That even after all these years, anything to do with you still destroys him.

God, Jeongguk hates himself for it—because it reminds him of all his past mistakes.

Yoongi sighs. “Because I knew you’d be like this.”

Jeongguk stills. His grip tightens. “Like what?”

Yoongi meets his gaze, exhausted. “Like this, Jeongguk. Tearing yourself apart over something that’s already gone.” He pauses, measuring his next words. “If I told you, would it have helped? Would it have made you feel better to know that your ex-wife still keeps in touch with your best friend?”

Jeongguk blinks, stunned into silence. Yoongi referring to you as his ex-wife is a fresh kind of pain he hadn’t anticipated.

"But you’re supposed to be my friend, Yoongi—” His voice wavers, cracking. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

"I am your friend, Jeongguk. I am on your side.” Yoongi’s voice is steady. Then, softer, “But ____ is my friend too. And you know damn well that I don’t condone what happened between you two.”

That shuts Jeongguk up. His mouth opens, but no words come out. Because he knows. He knows exactly what Yoongi is talking about. He knows the extent of the damage he caused. He’s known for years, and yet, it still hits him like a freight train.

His bottom lip trembles but he forces himself to keep it together. “It just… really hurts.”

Yoongi’s expression softens. “What does?”

Jeongguk swallows, looking past the city skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Everything.”

Yoongi exhales, his gaze dropping to the floor. In the heavy silence that follows, the only thing Jeongguk can hear is the thick sound of him trying to keep it together.

Then Yoongi speaks. “She panicked that night, you know?” His voice is quieter, careful. “Last night was the first time I heard her voice in a long time. She was worried about you.”

Jeongguk turns, eyes glassy. “She was?”

What Yoongi doesn’t tell him is how worried you were. The way your voice cracked when you said Jeongguk’s name. It wasn’t just panic— it was also helplessness, the way you sounded just as lost as Jeongguk feels now.

Yoongi hesitates, but Jeongguk speaks first. “I’ve always thought about it,” His voice is quieter now. “What it would be like… if I ever saw her again.”

Yoongi tilts his head. “And? Was it what you expected?”

Jeongguk lets out a humorless chuckle, one that sounds more like a sigh. “Definitely not me lying in a hospital bed because of a panic attack.” He rubs his face, shoulders slumping. “I thought about it a million times. But never like that.”

Yoongi watches him carefully. “You know what’s interesting?” His voice is almost amused, though his eyes remain heavy. “You never changed your emergency contact.”

Jeongguk doesn’t move.

Yoongi shrugs. “Jeongguk if the same thing had happened while you were still in New York—”

“I know.” Jeongguk cuts him off, a pang of something sharp hitting his chest. His voice drops. “I just… never got around to changing it.”

There’s a beat of silence. A kind of silence that carries the weight of all the things left unsaid.

Yoongi nods, almost to himself. “I guess that’s just it, huh?”

Jeongguk exhales. “I guess that’s it.”

And for some reason, those words feel heavier than anything else.

Yoongi sighs just as his phone notifies him of a text message. "I'll see you later, kid, okay? Take it easy, will you? You're still healing."

Jeongguk scoffed, "Healing is such an understatement, hyung." Yoongi gives him a look. "Fine, fine, I won't work too much today. Happy?"

Yoongi nods and walks out of Jeongguk's office. He takes a look at the message he received once he closed the door behind him.

It was you.

"How’s Jeongguk?"

NEW YORK, 2016

The golden hour light had long since faded from the university's art room windows, replaced by the harsh fluorescent glow that buzzed overhead. You sat motionless on the paint-splattered stool, your brush suspended mid-air above a canvas that remained untouched since morning. The half-finished painting— a landscape of a giant tree where you and Jeongguk used to find shade when you were in high school— seemed to mock you now with its vibrant colors and brushstrokes.

The divorce papers lay beside your easel like a death sentence— a few stark white pages against the chaos of paint tubes and dirty water jars. You hadn't moved them. Hadn't touched them since a stranger had placed them in your trembling hands eight hours ago.

"Ms. ____? Papers from Lee & Associates Law Firm."

The memory echoed in the silence.

The sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway broke through your trance. The footsteps paused, then quickened, and suddenly the art room door burst open with enough force to rattle the supply cabinets.

"____! Thank God, I've been looking everywhere for—" Yoongi's voice cut off abruptly as he took in the scene before him. His chest heaved from running, dark hair disheveled, but his eyes immediately found your slumped figure, seemingly spaced out looking outside the window. The color drained from his face.

You didn't turn around. You continued staring out the window at the empty courtyard below where university students had laughed and studied just hours before. Now it was nothing but shadows and abandoned benches.

"____..." Yoongi's voice was barely above a whisper. He stepped closer, his usual confident demeanor cracking.

You finally moved but only enough to quietly acknowledge Yoongi’s presence. Your movements were eerily calm, like someone sleepwalking through their own nightmare. Without a word, you picked up the papers and slowly extended them toward him, never meeting his eyes.

Yoongi's hands shook as he took them. The sound of rustling paper seemed deafening in the still room as he scanned the first page. His face went through a series of emotions—confusion, disbelief, and then a rage so pure it made his jaw clench.

"That bastard," he breathed, his voice trembling with fury. "That absolute—" He looked up at you and the words died in his throat.

You had finally turned to face him and the sight nearly broke him. Your eyes were dry but hollow. Dark circles shadowed your face, and your lips were pressed into a thin line that spoke of hours spent holding back screams.

Or sobs.

"____, I... I didn't know. He didn't tell me he was—" Yoongi's voice cracked. He crumpled the papers in his fist, then immediately smoothed them out again, as if destroying them could somehow undo what they represented. "When did this happen?"

"This morning." Your voice was barely audible, hoarse from not speaking the whole day. "Around ten maybe."

"It's past six now." The realization hit him like a physical blow. "You've been sitting here alone for eight hours?"

You shrugged, the gesture so small and defeated it made his heart ache. "I kept thinking... if I didn't move, if I didn't acknowledge those papers, maybe they weren't real."

Yoongi sank into the chair across from you, the divorce papers still clutched in his hands. He wanted to storm out, to find Jeongguk and demand an explanation, to shake his best friend until he came to his senses. But looking at you—really looking at you—he knew he couldn't leave. Not like this.

"Why didn't you call someone? Call me?"

"What was I supposed to say?" Your laugh was bitter, maybe a little broken too. "'Hi Yoongi, your best friend just divorced me through a law firm'? 'Could you come sit with me while I figure out how to breathe again'?"

"Yes," he said fiercely, almost frustrated. "Exactly that. You should have said exactly that."

Your composure finally cracked. Your shoulders shook, and you pressed your hands to your face. "I don't understand, Yoongi. We— we fought three days ago and he never came home after. He— he did that sometimes. But I always thought he’d come back, you know?" Your voice rose with each word, years of pain spilling out. "B-but how do you go from an argument to divorce papers in three days?"

Yoongi felt his own eyes burn. He'd known Jeongguk since they were teenagers, and had watched him fall for you like a man falling off a cliff— completely and without reservation. He'd been your witness at the courthouse wedding, had celebrated with you both, and had listened to Jeongguk talk about growing old with you just last month.

"I don't know," he admitted, his voice thick. "I swear to you, ____, I don't know. He hasn't said anything to me about problems, about wanting... this."

"Maybe that's the problem," you whispered. "Maybe he never talked to anyone about us. Maybe I was the only one who thought we were okay."

The words hung in the air like a funeral shroud. Yoongi wanted to argue, to tell you that wasn't true, but the evidence was literally in his hands. No one files for divorce if they're happy– were you and Jeongguk happy? But no one serves papers through a stranger if they still care.

"I want to confront him," Yoongi said quietly. "I want to find him and demand answers. Maybe punch him. Definitely yell at him." He looked down at the papers, then back at you. "But now... God, ____, I can't leave you alone like this."

"You should go to him. He's your best friend. This probably hurts you too."

"You're my friend too," Yoongi said firmly. "And right now, you need someone more than he does."

You stared at him for a long moment, and he saw the exact instant you stopped holding herself together. Your face crumpled, and the sob that escaped you was raw and devastating. Yoongi was out of his chair in seconds, pulling you into his arms as you finally, finally let yourself break.

"I loved him so much," you cried into his shoulder. "I loved him so much, and it wasn't enough. I wasn't enough."

"Don't say that," Yoongi whispered fiercely, his own tears falling now. "Don't you dare say that. This isn't about you not being enough. This is about him being a coward."

You cried until you had no tears left, until your body was exhausted from the force of your grief. Yoongi held you through all of it, one hand stroking your hair while the other kept the divorce papers from falling to the floor. Even now, even in your pain, he found himself protecting you from having to see them.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes were swollen and red, but there was something different in them. Not peace—you were too far from that—but a kind of terrible clarity.

"I need to sign them," you said.

"What are you– no. Not tonight." Yoongi's voice was gentle but firm. "Tonight, you need to go home and rest. The papers can wait."

"What if waiting makes it worse?"

"What if rushing makes it final when it doesn't have to be?"

You looked at him with something that might have been hope, if hope could be so fragile. "Do you think... do you think he might change his mind?"

Yoongi's heart broke all over again, because he could see how much you wanted him to say yes. How much you needed him to say yes. But he also knew Jeongguk, knew that his friend never did anything without thinking it through completely. The divorce papers weren't a mistake or a moment of anger— they were a decision.

"I think," he said carefully, "that you deserve someone who doesn't make you question whether you're enough. Whether he changes his mind or not."

It wasn't the answer you wanted, but it was the truth. And somehow, that seemed to be what you needed to hear.

You nodded slowly, then looked around the art room as if seeing it for the first time. "I should clean up. I've made a mess."

"Leave it," Yoongi said. "Just... leave it all. Come on, I'll drive you home."

As you gathered your things, you paused at the easel. The unfinished painting of the tree stared back at you, beautiful and incomplete.

"I don't think I'll ever finish it," she said quietly.

Yoongi looked at the painting, then at you. "Maybe that's okay. One battle at a time, hm?"

You nodded, understanding. Some stories didn't have happy endings. Sometimes love wasn't enough to make someone stay. And some paintings would forever remain half-done, frozen in a moment before everything fell apart.

The muted hum of the café outside your art studio filtered through the walls, but inside, the space remained still, save for the quiet strains of piano music playing in the background. The scent of paint and brewed coffee lingered in the air as you moved through the space, half-distracted by the canvas in front of you— until you heard your friends’ voices.

"Holy fuck, are you kidding me?"

You paused, your brush hovering mid-stroke over the canvas. That was Hoseok’s voice.

"Jesus wouldn’t be too pleased with your manner of expression, but no, I am not kidding." Taehyung’s response was calm, almost deadpan. "Can you keep your voice down? You should be feigning ignorance about all this."

"What good would that do?" Hoseok huffed. "Feigning ignorance, are you crazy? This is big, sweetie, and you know it."

Taehyung sighed like he was explaining something to a particularly slow student. "Honey, you’re acting like this is news. We already knew Jeongguk was back in Seoul."

“Yes, obviously, because you told me like five minutes ago!” Hoseok shoots back.

You froze for half a second before rolling your eyes. So that’s what they were talking about.

"It’s different knowing and talking about it," Hoseok shot back. "You’re gossiping."

"Of course I’m gossiping," Taehyung replied, unfazed. "We are gays, babe. We live for piping hot tea."

Hoseok groaned. "This is not the same as discussing someone’s bad haircut, babe—"

At that, you stepped into the room, making sure your voice was casual. "Someone had a bad haircut?"

The effect was immediate. Hoseok nearly jumped, eyes widening like he’d just been caught committing a crime, while Taehyung— though externally composed—blinked a little too fast.

"Ah," Hoseok choked out, his voice a little higher than usual. "____! Didn’t see you there. You, uh, move so quietly."

You arched a brow. "I literally opened a door."

Taehyung shot Hoseok a glare before turning to you, slipping into his usual laid-back demeanor—except for the way his fingers twitched against the edge of the table. "Nothing important," he said smoothly. "Just... discussing world events."

You bit back a smirk. "World events?"

Hoseok nodded a little too quickly. "Yes. You know, global issues. The stock market. The weather—"

"The weather," you repeated, unimpressed.

"Yes! Very unpredictable these days."

There was a beat of silence where you let them both squirm under your gaze. Internally, you were highly entertained. Two grown men who dominated the fashion industry– usually so confident and self-assured, reduced to awkward messes right in front of you.

You sighed, pretending to contemplate their words. "Hmm. The weather. That’s funny, because I could’ve sworn I heard Jeongguk’s name before I walked in."

Hoseok visibly winced. Taehyung dragged a hand down his face. "Goddammit."

"You two do realize that I already knew Jeongguk was back, right? And that I heard you both talking about it just now?" you asked, amused.

Taehyung exhaled, resigned. "Yeah, but we didn’t know if you were, like, in a place where you’d want to talk about it."

You hummed, considering. "And instead of asking, you decided to whisper behind my back like two teenagers?"

"Technically," Taehyung said, "only Hoseok was whispering. I was speaking at a reasonable volume."

Hoseok scoffed, offended. "Excuse me, I was being discreet!"

"You said ‘holy fuck’ loud enough for the café and for Jesus to hear."

Hoseok looked away. "Can you stop it with the holy jokes–"

You shook your head, lips twitching. "You two are ridiculous."

"But... are you okay?" Taehyung asked carefully.

You took a slow breath. The truth was, you didn’t know what you felt yet. Maybe it would hit you later, maybe it wouldn’t. But for now, you only had one response.

"Yes," you said simply. "I think I am."

Hoseok let out a breath like he’d been holding it for hours, while Taehyung gave you a long, measured look before nodding. They do not believe you— not even one bit.

But they let it slide for now.

"Alright," Taehyung said. "But if that changes, we’ve got you."

You smiled, softer this time. "I know."

The first time Woosung came to your art studio, he didn’t say much. He just wandered the space with his hands in his pockets, eyes drifting over your half-finished paintings and the faint smudges of color on your fingers.

Now, years later, he was here again, seated at the small wooden table near the windows while you worked, a book in his hand and a cup of coffee cooling beside him. You weren’t sure when it started— when he began showing up like this, keeping you company without needing to fill the silence with words.

Today was one of those days. Rain pattered against the glass, the sky outside dark, but inside, the air was warm.

You stood by the canvas, brush in hand, completely concentrating on your work. You had long since tuned out the world, lost in the rhythmic strokes of color. You always tie your hair up in a bun whenever you work but you also barely notice the strands of hair that keep falling in your face, sticking to your skin when you become so focused on the work.

At some point, you felt your lover’s quiet presence beside you. Without a word, Woosung reached over and gently tucked the stray strands behind your ear. His fingers were warm, his touch like a feather, and when you blinked out of your trance to look at him, he just smiled—soft, unhurried.

"Better?" he asked.

You nodded and smiled. "Yes. Thank you."

He hummed, stepping back, but before he could return to his seat, you reached for his wrist.

"Wait."

Woosung stopped, his eyes curious.

"Stay here. Just for a little bit," you murmured, not even sure why you said it. Maybe you just liked having him close.

Woosung didn’t question it. He just nodded, pulling a stool and positioning himself beside you. He watches you paint in comfortable silence.

Every so often, he would tilt his head, his gaze intent as if he were memorizing the way your fingers moved, the way the colors blended together under your touch.

"You’re really focused today," he observed after a while.

You hummed, biting your lip as you tried to perfect a small detail. "I am. It’s nice, though."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I think it’s because you’re here."

You said it without thinking and you realized how easily the words had slipped out. Woosung smiled again, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He lifted his hand, brushing a smudge of blue paint off your cheek with his thumb.

"Then I guess I’ll stay a little longer," he murmured.

And he did.

A little while later, the rain had softened to a drizzle, leaving the air thick with that post-rain stillness. Your brush hovered over the canvas, but your mind had long drifted elsewhere. Across the room, Woosung sat at the table, still flipping absently through his book, but you could tell— he wasn’t really reading. He was waiting.

It had been like this since last night.

He had held you while you cried, rubbing slow circles into your back, whispering, "It's okay, I’ve got you," even though he had no idea what had shattered you. He never asked, never pushed. But now, with the night stretching thin between you, you could feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing down.

"You didn’t sleep much," Woosung finally said, his voice gentle, as if he were testing the waters.

You swallowed, still dragging the brush along the canvas in slow, aimless strokes. "Neither did you."

Woosung exhaled a small chuckle, but it was knowing. "You cried yourself to sleep, ____. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I slept soundly through that?"

You winced at that—at the truth of it. At the guilt that curled in your stomach. He wasn’t accusing you of anything, but you felt like you had placed something heavy between you both.

You took a deep breath, still not looking at him. "It was just… a hard night."

Woosung nodded, his gaze steady. "Because of what happened at the hospital?"

Your fingers clenched around the brush. A long pause settled between you.

You could lie. You could brush past it, act as though it was just one of those nights where the weight of everything caught up to you. But Woosung had always been careful with you, had always made space for you to be honest in your own time. You had told him that you saw someone unexpectedly at the hospital before you went silent all over again last night.

You exhaled. And you poised yourself to tell Woosung the rest of what happened.

"I saw him," you said, voice barely above a whisper. "Jeongguk."

Woosung didn’t react—not right away. He just closed his book, setting it aside, like he had been expecting this. He didn’t ask how it happened. Didn’t ask why you hadn’t told him immediately. He just let you sit with it, let you offer whatever you were willing to.

You hesitated before continuing. "I didn’t even know he was back in Seoul, but then I got a call… he was in the hospital. I don’t know why they called me, but they did, and I—I went."

A deep breath.

You could feel Woosung’s eyes on you, but you kept your gaze on the canvas, focusing on the way the paint streaked across the surface, trying not to feel the way your throat was tightening again.

"I didn’t stay long," you added, half-truthfully. "I just… made sure he was okay before Yoongi came."

You heard the shift of a chair, and then Woosung was beside you. He didn’t say anything at first. Just reached out, his fingers grazing your wrist before curling around it lightly.

"How do you feel?" he asked quietly.

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. "I don’t know. Everyone keeps asking me that today."

“Everyone?” Woosung asked.

“Taehyung picked me up from the hospital. He uh, of course, he told Hoseok about it right away.”

Woosung nodded as if he understood that more than words could ever explain. Without hesitation, he pulled you against his chest, his chin resting atop your head. His arms around you were steady, warm. A grounding weight.

"You don’t have to figure it all out right now," he murmured. "Just… let yourself feel it. Whatever it is."

You pressed your forehead against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. He smelled like rain and coffee, like the warmth of something familiar and safe.

"I’m here," he added, voice so soft you almost didn’t catch it. "Whatever you need."

And just like that, the ache inside you loosened, just a little.

The apartment in Seoul was vast and hollow. Open-space style with high ceilings and sleek, modern finishes—everything about it screamed luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows spanned one entire wall, revealing the bustling Seoul skyline, lights flickering like stars.

It was the kind of apartment regular people dream of having. But right now, Jeongguk thought it felt more like an empty shell.

Half-unpacked boxes scattered all over the floor, some opened, some untouched. The air smelled of unlit scented candles, the kind his assistant had left, thinking they would make the place feel more like a home. He hadn’t bothered.

Jeongguk went through his things with quiet efficiency, pulling out clothes, books, old notebooks filled with immature, maybe even brilliant thoughts. His movements were mechanical— until his eyes landed on a single, still-sealed box in the farthest corner of the living room.

Something in his chest tightened.

For a long moment, Jeongguk just stood there, jaw tense. When he finally mustered up whatever courage was left of him, he crouched down, pressing his fingers into the packing tape and tearing it open. Inside, neatly stacked and untouched for years, were remnants of a past he had buried but never truly let go of.

Art books, their covers slightly worn. A few pieces of clothing, folded carefully as if waiting to be picked up again. And at the very bottom, almost like a cruel afterthought— photographs.

Jeongguk swallowed as he reached for them.

They were yours– belongings you never brought back to Seoul with you. And the photographs were from his high school years. Senior year. Before New York, before the weight of adulthood, before everything fell apart.

In one, you were laughing, head tilted back, eyes shining under the golden autumn sun. Jeongguk was next to you, hand in his pocket, pretending to be indifferent, but the way he looked at you even then—it told a different story.

Memories rushed in, sharp and clear as if no time had passed at all. Jeongguk braced himself for a fresh wave of unshed tears.

Busan, Hanseong High School - Three Years Before New York

Jeongguk had been at Hanseong High for three weeks and already, he was used to the routine.

The stares. The whispers. The way people spoke his last name like it carried weight, like it meant something.

Jeon Jeongguk. The son of a powerful real estate family. The new kid who was rich, handsome, untouchable. He was already bored of it all.

That afternoon, he found himself lingering in the school’s indoor gym—not because he had a reason to be there, but because he had nowhere else to be. The air smelled of sweat and old wood, the faint echo of bouncing basketballs in the distance. He leaned against the railing on the second floor, watching the scene below with disinterest. Maybe even boredom.

A group of girls sat huddled together on the bleachers, giggling. Among them was you— though you didn’t seem to be part of it. Not really.

You sat slightly apart, a book open on your lap, fingers idly turning the page. Your expression was neutral, but Jeongguk had already spent the last few weeks observing you in passing. You were in the same classes as him and yet, not even once did you acknowledge Jeongguk’s presence, let alone look his way. You weren't loud like the others and weren't desperate for attention. You had this quiet presence— one that didn’t demand space but somehow held it anyway.

You intrigued the hell out of Jeongguk.

But then it happened.

One of the girls suddenly stood, walking up behind her with a smirk. It was a slow, seemingly calculated movement, the kind that sent an uneasy feeling crawling up Jeongguk’s spine.

“Oops,” the girl said mockingly, just before tilting her hand.

A full carton of milk tipped forward, spilling over your head, soaking through your uniform, dripping onto the pages of the book.

Laughter erupted around you after that.

Jeongguk didn’t move. He should have done something. But he didn’t. Other people who were in the gym stopped whatever they were doing– waiting to see what you’d do next.

You sat there for a moment, milk running down your hair, shoulders stiff, fingers clenched into fists. Then, after what seemed like an eternity– silently, you shut your now soaked book, stood up, and walked away.

To this day, Jeongguk does not know what compelled him to follow you. His feet, at the time, moved of their own accord, his heart knowing he needed to do something. Anything.

He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was guilt because he could have warned you of what was going to happen. Maybe it was something else entirely.

You had made it outside to the back of the school, where the sky stretched wide and empty, where no one could see you. You stood with your hands braced on your knees, shoulders shaking—not in sobs, but in silent frustration.

“Hey.”

You flinched at Jeongguk’s voice, turning sharply. Your wet uniform clung to you, strands of milk-dampened hair sticking to your cheek. Your eyes flickered with something unreadable before you schooled your expression.

“What do you want?” you asked flatly as you turned away from him in humiliation.

Jeongguk shoved his hands into his pockets. “That was messed up.”

He hears you scoff. “No kidding.”

For some reason, your sarcasm made the corner of Jeongguk’s mouth twitch.

“Here.” Jeongguk shrugged off his school blazer, holding it out to you. “You’re cold.”

You looked at the blazer, then at him. “I don’t need it.”

“Well clearly, you’re shivering.”

You straightened. “I don’t need your pity.”

Jeongguk tilted his head slightly, intrigued. “Who said I pitied you?”

Silence. You stared at him, as if trying to decide whether to believe him. After a few seconds, without another word, you turned away, arms crossed tightly over yourself.

Jeongguk didn’t leave.

Instead, he sat down on the steps nearby, watching as the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the pavement. You didn’t tell him to go away.

And Jeongguk, for the first time since moving to this school, wasn’t bored.

The memory faded, but the feeling remained, lingering in the quiet of Jeongguk’s new, empty space.

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. The box remained open in front of him, pieces of the past staring back at him. He should have put them— the whole box— away. But instead, he picked up the photograph again, tracing the edges with his thumb.

It had been years since that day in the gym. Since he saw you stand at the cramped space at the back of the school looking so defeated, arms crossed, yet too stubborn to accept his help.

And yet, even now, you remained the only person who had ever made him feel like he wasn’t just Jeon Jeongguk—the boy with a name too heavy to carry.

Maybe, he thought bitterly and quite sadly, he had been trying to follow you ever since.

Yoongi stared at his phone screen, your message glowing back at him: "How's Jeongguk?"

Three simple words that felt like a loaded gun.

He set the phone down, then picked it up again. Typed a response, deleted it. Typed another.

His apartment felt suffocating suddenly. He walked to the window, looking out at the Seoul skyline—the same view Jeongguk probably had from his new place. With a scotch in hand, Yoongi clenched his jaw, thinking about how everything that was starting to unfold was quite funny.

He hadn’t counted on Jeongguk finding you so soon– even if it was by accident. Yoongi chuckles to himself like an idiot. “I guess this is what they call fate.”

Yoongi exhaled slowly and finally typed back: "He's physically fine. Discharged yesterday."

Your response came quickly: "And mentally?"

Yoongi closed his eyes. How could he explain that Jeongguk looked like a ghost of himself? That he'd been carrying this weight for seven years?

"He's struggling," he typed. "But then again, so are you."

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

"Did he ask about me?"

Yoongi's heart clenched. The honest answer was complicated— Jeongguk had asked, but not in the way you'd want to hear.

"He knows you were there that night— you already know that."

"That's not what I asked."

Yoongi found himself smiling despite everything. Even through text, you were still sharp, still direct.

"Yeah," he typed. "He asked about you."

Yoongi's thumb hovered over the keyboard. He could discourage you, protect you both from reopening old wounds. Or he could do what his heart was telling him to do.

“What now?”

“I just want him to be well,” you respond.

Yoongi purses his lips– you were still the same girl he met all those years ago. Selfless, kind-hearted.

Self-sacrificing.

And he will do anything in his power to protect you.

It was nearing closing time when the bell above the café door jingled softly, signaling one last customer. The warm yellow lights reflected on the glass, casting long shadows along the wood-paneled walls. Jimin, who was wiping down the counter, looked up instinctively and froze mid-motion.

Jeon Jeongguk stood just inside the doorway.

For a moment, Jimin simply stared, cloth in his hand. There was something surreal about it— Jeongguk, in this space, under this light, in this cafe of all places, with his hair slightly damp from the rain and his hoodie slightly crumpled from travel. Seoul clung to Jeongguk in an unfamiliar way, the years since New York etched into the way he carried himself. But Jimin recovered quickly, stepping forward with a practiced smile.

"Welcome," he said, his voice pleasant and casual. “Long day?”

Jeongguk blinked, slightly thrown off. He nodded, eyes flicking around the café. “Yeah. Just needed a place to warm up. This place looked...” He trailed off. Familiar? Safe? He didn’t finish the sentence.

Jimin gave a soft chuckle and gestured to the counter. “We’re just about to close but I can still get you something. Americano? Or do you want something sweet?”

There was a flicker of recognition in Jeongguk’s eyes as he looked at Jimin more closely. “...Have we met before?”

Jimin paused before giving a small nod. “New York. At a student exhibit in university. You came with Kim Namjoon.”

Jeongguk’s brow furrowed, but nothing clear surfaced. “Right,” he said quietly, though it was clear the memory didn’t fully register. “Sorry— I’ve had a long few days.”

“No worries.” Jimin’s smile didn’t falter but there was something distant in his eyes. “What can I get started for you?”

“Oh, um… a hot latte would be nice.”

Jimin worked the register but when Jeongguk was about to give him his card, Jimin smiled politely. “It’s on the house.”

“Oh, god no, I don’t want to—”

“It’s okay, Jeongguk-ssi,” Jimin smiles. Jeongguk honestly does not have the energy to argue further. Slumping his shoulders, he nodded and quietly thanked Jimin.

“You are very welcome. Please take a seat. I’ll get your drink started for you.”

Before Jeongguk could move toward a table, another door swung open at the back of the café.

“Yah Jimin-ah, did we confuse the flour with the cornstarch this time—”

Seokjin.

Still wearing his apron, flour smudged along one sleeve, Seokjin halted mid-step the moment he laid eyes on Jeongguk. The tray in his hands clattered onto the counter as his face twisted— recognition sharp and instant.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

The words cut across the room like a knife. Jimin looked up sharply from behind the espresso machine.

Jeongguk straightened, confusion flashing across his face before he registered who it was. “Seokjin?”

Seokjin didn’t give him a chance to speak further. He strode toward him in a blur of fury, fists clenched at his sides. “You have the audacity to walk in here? Like nothing happened? Like you didn’t fucking destroy my sister—?”

“Seokjin—”

“No,” Jin snarled, closing the distance. “You don’t get to say anything.”

Before Jeongguk could defend himself, before he could even raise a hand, Seokjin’s fist landed squarely against his jaw with a sickening crack.

Jeongguk staggered back, clutching the side of his face. He didn’t fall but the impact left him breathless. “What the hell—?”

The doors to the art studio burst open from the sound and you emerged, paintbrush still tucked behind your ear, paint smudges along your forearms. “What’s going on—?”

Your voice faltered as you took in the scene: Jeongguk standing by the counter, blood forming on the corner of his mouth; Jimin frozen; and Seokjin, chest heaving with rage, his knuckles still clenched and red.

“Jeongguk?” Your voice broke around his name.

He looked up slowly, eyes meeting yours like he’d been hit a second time. He opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out.

You turned sharply to Seokjin. “Did you hit him?”

“He deserved it,” Seokjin snapped.

“What the hell, Seokjin?”

“You’re really going to defend him?” Seokjin barked, disbelieving.

“I didn’t say that—” You took a deep breath, trying to steady your voice. “But punching him isn’t going to fix anything.”

Seokjin let out a sharp but bitter laugh. “Oh, so now you're protecting him? After everything?”

“I’m not protecting anyone, I’m trying to de-escalate this.”

Jeongguk wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his sleeve and stepped back, unsure whether he was allowed to speak, to breathe, to even stand there. It felt like trespassing. Maybe it was.

Seokjin turned on you now, jaw tight, voice low but shaking. “He broke you, ____. And now you’re defending him like he didn’t spend years forgetting you existed.”

You clenched your hands into fists, shoulders squaring. “I’m not defending what he did. But I am asking you not to turn this place into a battlefield. This is our café, Seokjin. Not a fucking war zone.”

Seokjin looked at you for a long moment, anger still coursing through his veins— but it was your eyes, calm but hurting, that finally made him yield.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But don’t ask me to be civil. Not with him.”

With that, Seokjin turned on his heel and stormed back toward the kitchen, door slamming shut behind him.

The silence that followed was tense. Jimin still stood behind the counter, lips parted as if unsure whether to speak.

You turned to Jeongguk. You didn’t step forward. You didn’t smile. Your voice came out quieter this time. “Why are you here?”

Jeongguk looked at you with wide, pained eyes, as if trying to memorize you all over again.

“I didn’t know,” he said. “I didn’t know this was your place.”

You nodded once as if that explained everything and nothing.

“You should go,” you added, softly. “It’s late and it’s raining.”

Jeongguk didn’t argue. Only glanced once more around the space, at the painting above the pastry display, at the polished wood tables, at you.

Then he turned and left, the door closing quietly behind him.

You stood there for a long while after, the paintbrush behind your ear suddenly feeling like the heaviest thing in the world.

After what seemed like an eternity, the clang of the swinging door echoed louder than it should’ve. You stood in the middle of the café for a moment longer, letting the silence settle like dust, before turning and pushing your way into the kitchen.

Seokjin was by the sink, aggressively scrubbing a saucepan that didn’t need cleaning. His back was tense, shoulders rising and falling with every breath like he was trying—and failing—to calm himself down.

“You didn’t have to hit him,” you said, voice steady, but your chest still trembled.

Seokjin didn’t look at you. “Didn’t I?”

“You don’t get to make that call.”

He whipped around at that, eyes blazing. “He left you, ____. No— he ruined you. And now what? He shows up here, like nothing ever happened, and I’m supposed to just, what, smile? Be polite? Serve him coffee?”

You folded your arms– not out of defiance but to stop your hands from shaking. “I’m not asking you to be polite. I’m asking you not to lash out like this is still your fight.”

“It is still my fight!” Seokjin’s voice cracked. “____ do you really think I forgot what you looked like after he walked out? I remember how quiet you got. How you stopped painting for months. How I had to sit with you in silence night after night because you couldn’t even cry anymore. You were gone, ____. He didn’t just leave you. He took the best parts of you when he did.”

His words stung because they were true. You bit your lip and looked away. “I let him in. I let him love me. That was my choice.”

“Don’t you dare turn this into your fault,” Seokjin said, voice softer now but still full of that same frustration. “You didn’t deserve what happened.”

“I didn’t say I did.”

There was a beat of silence. The sound of the refrigerator humming in the corner filled the space between you.

“He’s not the same,” you said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “His eyes… he looks like someone trying to hold the world together with fraying thread.”

“I don’t care,” Seokjin said but it was a lie. You both knew it.

You stepped closer to your brother. “I’m not defending him, Seokjin. But I’m also not ready to hate him as much as you do. I never did… I don’t know what that says about me… but it’s how I feel.”

Seokjin exhaled, hands braced on the countertop. “It says you’re kinder than he deserves.”

You gave a small, broken smile. “Or stupider.”

Your brother didn’t argue. Instead, after a long pause, he turned to you again. “Just… promise me one thing.”

“What?” You realize your exhaustion was already weighing you down.

“Don’t let him back in just because you think he’s broken.”

You nodded slowly. “I won’t.”

That was a lie too. But you both let it slide.

The door of the café closed behind Jeongguk with a dull thud and the cold Seoul air hit him like a wave. The rain hadn’t let up but he didn’t pull his hood over his head. He decided to walk slowly even though his car was still parked near the cafe, no destination in mind, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket as water soaked through the fabric.

His jaw ached where Seokjin had punched him but that pain was nothing compared to the one building in his chest.

Seeing you again had cracked him open.

You looked like someone he’d only ever see in dreams now—still ethereal, still grounded in color and softness. But the way you looked at him… like he was a stranger wrapped in old clothes. Like he didn’t belong in the same room as you anymore.

And maybe he didn’t.

Jeongguk wandered for blocks, barely paying attention to the street signs or blinking storefronts. He only stopped when he reached the Han River. The wide stretch of water lay quietly under the moonlight, blurred by the drizzle. Jungkook sat on the bench, shoulders hunched, and stared out at the current as it flowed without him.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and stared at the screen. No new messages. No missed calls. He unlocked it anyway and scrolled to his contacts, hovering over your name.

Still there. Still untouched.

His thumb brushed against it but he didn’t press.

Instead, he leaned back, eyes closing. Rain kissed his cheeks, soaked into his lashes. He welcomed it because it was easier than crying.

He let himself remember. Your laugh echoing across a sunlit room. The way you’d wrinkle your nose when you were concentrating on a painting. The way you used to trace circles on his palm when you thought he was asleep.

And he remembered the day it all fell apart.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do now. He didn’t know what he wanted.

No— he did. He wanted to rewind time. To walk into that café and see you smile at him like you used to. But time didn’t offer that kind of grace. It only offered consequences.

Jeongguk let out a shaky breath and leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. He didn’t know how long he sat there— just that eventually, the rain stopped and he was still alone.

The apartment was quiet when you got home.

Too quiet.

You slipped your keys onto the dish near the door and toed off your shoes slowly, trying not to make any noise. The familiarity of home—the throw blanket on the couch, the books stacked near the lamp, the faint scent of jasmine from the candle Woosung lit earlier—should’ve grounded you.

But it didn’t. Not tonight.

You stood in the dark for a moment longer than necessary– unsure whether to head straight to the shower or collapse into bed. You weren’t expecting to find Woosung still awake, let alone waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a warm mug in his hand.

“I made tea,” he said gently, as if his voice might spook you. “It’s probably cold by now.”

Your throat felt tight. “I didn’t think you’d still be up.”

He gave you a soft, crooked smile. “You said you were heading back late, not that you'd come home looking like you fought a ghost.”

You offered a weak laugh. “It kind of feels like I did.”

He didn’t press. Just walked to you, slowly, like he always did when he sensed you needed space and presence at the same time. When he reached you, he simply wrapped his arms around you, grounding you in the warmth of his chest, his chin resting lightly atop your head.

You didn’t cry. Not this time.

You just stood there and let yourself be held.

After a long pause, he spoke, voice low and careful. “Was it him?”

You didn’t need to ask who. “Yeah.”

You didn’t miss the way he stiffened just slightly before exhaling. “Did you talk?”

You nodded against his chest. “Not really. Seokjin hit him. I… I stopped it. Then I told him to leave.”

Another silence.

Woosung's hand moved in slow, rhythmic circles on your back. “How do you feel?”

You let the question hang there because you weren’t sure. Hollow? Rattled? Like someone had opened a box in your chest you’d long sealed shut?

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

Woosung didn’t respond with reassurance or try to fix it. He just kissed the crown of your head.

��I’m here,” he said.

You finally pulled back to look at him, eyes scanning his face. Kind. Patient. Still here.

You hated that part of you wished he weren’t.

The sun was already high in the sky when Jeongguk dragged himself into Yoongi's studio. He hadn’t slept. He looked like hell— bloodshot eyes, jaw bruised, hair a mess. But he moved like he had unfinished business burning in his veins.

Yoongi noticed immediately.

“Jesus, you look worse than yesterday.”

Jeongguk ignored the jab and dropped onto the couch with a sigh. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Yoongi didn’t respond right away. He just stared at the screen in front of him, tapping a few keys absently, before finally swiveling in his chair to face Jeongguk.

“Didn’t sleep, huh?”

“I walked for hours. I don’t even know how I ended up by the river.”

“You always end up there when you’re falling apart.”

Jeongguk let out a dry laugh. “You know me too well.”

Yoongi leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So? What now?”

“I saw her. I mean—I really saw her. It wasn’t just a memory or a picture in some gallery post. She was right in front of me, looking at me like I was…”

“A stranger?” Yoongi offered.

Jeongguk nodded, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah.”

“She didn’t look angry?”

“No,” Jeongguk muttered. “She looked… tired. Like she didn’t know whether to scream or hug me. Like she’s been trying to forget me and I just made it harder.”

Yoongi sighed. “That’s because you did make it harder. By showing up unannounced. Walking into her safe space.”

“I didn’t know it was her café. I swear.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

Jeongguk stared down at his hands. “I think she has someone.”

Yoongi didn’t answer right away, which told Jeongguk enough.

“Where did that come from?” Yoongi asked.

“I’m not sure… but just thinking about it… it hurts more than I expected,” he added quietly. “I don’t know what I want from her. I just… wanted to be seen. Not hated. Not erased.”

Yoongi’s voice softened. “She did see you.”

Jeongguk shook his head. “But not the way she used to.” He slumped further into the couch, staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers.

“I used to be her whole world.”

Yoongi leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “And then you burned it down.”

Jeongguk didn’t argue. He couldn’t.

“What do I do now, Yoongi?”

Yoongi looked at him for a long, quiet moment. “You ask yourself if you’re ready to rebuild anything. And if you’re willing to accept that the pieces might not fit the way they used to.”

Woosung watched you sleep from across the room, hands loosely wrapped around his coffee mug. The pale morning light filtered in through the blinds, casting golden stripes across the floor—and across your face, peaceful but withdrawn, even in rest.

You hadn’t said much since last night. Just that you were tired. Just that it had been “a long day.”

But he wasn’t dense. He saw it.

The tremor in your voice when you said his name. The way your arms wrapped around him like you were bracing yourself for a storm that hadn’t yet passed. The way your body felt warm against him but your mind had drifted somewhere far, far away.

He knew what a closed door looked like.

Woosung loved you. That wasn’t in question. And in most moments, being with you felt like being home— quiet, anchored, enough. But there were times—like now—when he could feel something slipping between his fingers. Something he couldn’t hold, no matter how gently he tried.

He knew you had a past. He’d accepted that. But he hadn’t prepared himself for what that past would look like when it returned, not as a memory, but as a man.

Jeongguk.

The name alone was a ghost in his mind. You rarely said it but when you did, it was with the kind of softness that didn’t belong to pain. Not completely. Woosung didn’t want to be the jealous type. Didn’t want to become the man who questioned the cracks in someone else’s heart. But when you looked at him last night, it wasn’t just sleep in your eyes— it was absence.

And he hated that he didn’t know how to bring you back.

He walked over to the window, mug still warm in his hand and stared out at the quiet street below. He’d give you time. Space. Safety. Whatever you needed.

But part of him already knew: if Jeongguk was back in your world, he would have to brace for a future that might not include him in it.

And he wasn’t sure he was ready for that.

The rain had finally stopped by the time you stepped out of the university gates that afternoon, sunlight peeking out from behind thin clouds. You hadn’t planned on stopping by the park, but your legs carried you there anyway. The world felt too loud lately— colors too sharp, memories too close— and you needed quiet after teaching the whole day.

The small café near the entrance of the park wasn’t busy. A few students occupied scattered tables, chatting over drinks, the occasional laughter bubbling into the air. You stepped inside and ordered chamomile tea.

You didn’t see him right away.

It wasn’t until you turned toward the window seat—your favorite one—that you noticed him. Sitting at the far corner of the room, hood pulled low, black journal open in front of him, pen tapping against the edge.

Jeongguk.

Your stomach dropped.

He looked smaller here somehow. Not in stature—his presence still drew attention—but in energy. Like someone trying to disappear into the corners of a page.

He hadn’t seen you yet. You froze, cup warm in your hands, unsure whether to approach or flee. You could walk away. You should.

But then he looked up.

Your eyes met. And time, once again, forgot how to move. He didn’t smile. He didn’t stand. He just looked at you like he’d been waiting. You walked toward him slowly. Carefully.

“Is this seat taken?” you asked, quietly.

Jeongguk stared at the empty chair across from him then shook his head. “It’s yours.”

Neither of you spoke for a moment. The air between you was heavy but not hostile—more like something ancient and sacred. Something that didn’t know how to begin again.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” you said, finally breaking the silence.

“I didn’t expect to be seen,” Jeongguk replied, eyes flickering to yours. He looked down at his journal, then closed it slowly. “I’m sorry. About the café. About… all of it. I didn’t know it was yours and Seokjin’s.”

You didn’t respond right away. You let the words hang there.

“I know,” you said eventually. “I believe you.”

He blinked, surprised by how easily you’d said it. But you weren’t done.

“That doesn’t change what happened,” you continued, voice steady, even if your heart wasn’t. “Seokjin was right. It doesn’t erase what we lost.”

“I know,” he said again. “I’m not here to fix anything.”

You looked at him then— not as the man who hurt you but as the man who now sat quietly with his regret. Not demanding anything. Not begging. Just… present.

For the first time in years, you didn’t look away.

“You don’t have to walk on eggshells,” you murmured. “Not with me. Not anymore.”

Jeongguk swallowed hard. “I don’t know how to be around you without feeling like I’m trespassing.”

You gave a faint, sad smile. “Then don’t try to be anything. Just… be here. If you want to be.”

Jeongguk nodded, jaw tight with the kind of relief that was almost indistinguishable from grief. And for a while, you both just sat there. Not as lovers. Not as exes. Not even as old friends.

Just as two people who once loved each other so deeply.

Jeongguk left the university café feeling hollow. The brief encounter with you—unexpected, painfully gentle—had undone something in him. You hadn't screamed. You hadn't walked out. But your voice, your eyes, the way your fingers gripped the edge of your mug—it haunted him more than any shouting ever could.

He had rehearsed nothing and left with everything unspoken lodged in his throat. It hadn’t been enough.

Not by a long shot.

So when night fell, his legs carried him somewhere he hadn't planned—your café. The one you shared with Seokjin. He didn’t expect to see you. Not really. But part of him hoped, in the smallest, most reckless corner of his heart, that maybe you’d still be there. That maybe you’d let him speak.

That maybe he could try again.

“I’m telling you, I nearly salted the croffle again,” Seokjin said as he wiped down the counter with exaggerated flair. “That’s the third time this month.”

“Hyung, you’re not cursed,” Jimin laughed, nudging the sugar shaker toward him. “You just have poor labeling habits.”

“It’s not labeling. It’s sabotage. Someone moved the sugar again. Probably Hoseok. He always looks guilty when I serve the wrong order.”

“He looks guilty because you gave someone a tuna melt instead of a vegan sandwich last week.”

“That was one time.”

Jimin smirked. “You are the chaos. Don’t drag Hoseok into your crimes.”

Seokjin rolled his eyes, drying the last mug. “Speaking of chaos, where’s my sister?”

“Still in the studio,” Jimin said, nodding toward the door to the attached workspace. “She’s been trying to finish that commission all week.”

At that moment, you emerged from the studio door with paint on your sleeve and a weary but focused expression.

“You guys can go,” you said, waving them off. “I want to get this done tonight.”

“You sure?” Seokjin asked, frowning. “I can stay—”

“I’m fine, really. The piece is almost done, I just need a few more hours.”

Jimin raised an eyebrow. “You just want to be alone with your tortured genius.”

You snorted. “Exactly.”

Seokjin opened his mouth to argue again but you raised a hand. “I’ll lock up. Promise.”

“Okay, but if a raccoon breaks in again, don’t call me,” Seokjin muttered as he grabbed his coat.

“Noted.”

Jimin gave you a kiss on the cheek before heading out. “Don’t stay up too late, okay?”

You nodded. “Goodnight, both of you.”

The café door clicked shut behind them, leaving you with the hum of quiet jazz and the smell of old coffee grounds. You turned back into the studio, prepared to pull an all-nighter.

You were cleaning brushes when you heard the door chime. Without looking up, you called out, "We're closed today, sorry—"

"I know."

The brush slipped from your fingers, clattering into the sink. You turned slowly and there he was.

Jeongguk stood in the doorway of your studio, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, shoulders tense.

"Hi," he said quietly.

"Hi." Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

An uncomfortable silence stretched between you. Jeongguk's gaze wandered around the studio—taking in your paintings, the organized chaos of your workspace, the coffee-stained easel in the corner.

"It’s a really nice cafe… it has an art studio just like how you wanted it," he said, for lack of anything else.

"Thank you." You wiped your hands on a towel, grateful for something to do with them.

"I wanted to thank you," Jeongguk continued. "For coming to the hospital. You didn't have to—"

"Yes, I did." The words came out sharper than intended. You softened your tone. "I mean... when someone calls and says you're in the hospital, of course I'd come."

His jaw tightened slightly. "Right. The emergency contact thing."

"Why didn't you change it?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Jeongguk looked down at his hands. "I don't know."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

You set the towel down slowly, trying to still your hands. The air between you had grown heavier, charged with too many years of silence and everything neither of you had the strength to say before now.

"Why are you really here, Jeongguk?" you asked, your voice low but steady. "Because if it's just to thank me—"

"It's not," he interrupted, voice frayed at the edges. He ran a hand through his hair—a gesture so familiar it knocked the breath from your lungs. "I don't know, okay? I’ve been back in Seoul for three weeks and I can’t stop thinking about you. About us."

"There is no us, Jeongguk."

"I know." His voice cracked. "Trust me, I know that better than anyone."

You leaned back against your workbench, exhaustion creeping in like a tide. “Then what do you want from me?”

“I want to explain—”

"Seven years too late for that, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. Probably. But I have to try.” He stepped forward instinctively, then caught himself, freezing mid-step like he didn’t trust himself to be closer. “The way I left… the way I ended things… it was wrong.”

“Wrong?” You let out a short, breathless laugh— one with no humor in it. “Jeongguk, you served me divorce papers through a stranger. A fucking stranger from some law office. I found out my marriage was over from a man who mispronounced my name.”

Jeongguk flinched, visibly. Shame seeped into the curve of his shoulders, the downturn of his mouth. “I know.”

“Do you?” Your voice wavered now, frustration bubbling up with the grief. “Do you know what that did to me? I sat in a room for eight hours—eight, Jeongguk—just staring at those papers, waiting for someone to tell me it was a mistake. That maybe they got the wrong person. That my husband wouldn’t do something so… something so….”

“____…”

“Do you know I reread the papers so many times I memorized the clause about 'irreconcilable differences'? Do you know I hated that phrase because it sounded so... neat, like we were just a bad spreadsheet?”

His face crumpled. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so—”

“Sorry doesn’t fix it,” you snapped, voice breaking. The tears came before you could stop them, burning hot trails down your cheeks. “Sorry doesn’t give me back the part of myself I lost when you decided I wasn’t even worth a conversation.”

There was a beat of silence so loud it pressed against your ribs.

“You think this was easy for me?” His voice rose slightly, hoarse and unsteady. “You think I wanted to hurt you like that?”

“I don’t know what you wanted. That’s the problem. You never gave me the chance to understand anything. You just... vanished, Jeongguk. I know we didn’t really resolve anything after our last argument. I knew we had our problems but…” Your tears continue to betray you. You bite your lip to keep yourself from sobbing even further.

“I didn’t think you’d leave me, Jeongguk…” you whisper helplessly.

Jeongguk took a deep breath then exhaled through his nose like it physically hurt to keep standing there. He wanted to come closer, maybe wrap you in his arms but he didn’t. He stood where he was. “I was scared.”

The words landed like a stone in water.

“Of what?” you asked, quieter now.

“Of everything,” he whispered. “Of not being enough for you. Of waking up next to you and realizing you were slipping away and I couldn’t stop it. Of becoming a burden. Of watching you look at me and wonder why you ever said yes.”

You stared at him, stunned. “So you left instead.”

“So I left instead,” he echoed, bitterly.

Your tears had stopped but your chest felt hollow.

“You didn’t even let me choose,” you said. “You didn’t give us a chance to fight.”

He looked at you then, something desperate flickering in his eyes. “Would you have? Chosen me?”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold—it was aching.

You wanted to say yes. To scream it. But the truth was heavier than that. The truth lived in long nights and unanswered texts and waking up alone.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, and it hurt you to say it. “But I would’ve tried.”

Jeongguk nodded slowly like he had already guessed your answer but hoped hearing it might change something. It didn’t.

“I think about that night a lot,” he said, his voice lower now. “Our last fight. I replay it all the time, trying to figure out where the breaking point was.”

“What was it even about?” you murmured. “I’ve tried to remember but all I can see is you walking out.”

He hesitated. “Money. My parents. My crazy ambitions. But it wasn’t really about that, was it?”

“No,” you whispered. “It was about the silence. About how we were living side by side but stopped reaching for each other.”

“Yeah.”

You stood in that shared quiet for a long beat, surrounded by the smell of paint and memory.

"I loved you Jeongguk," you said, your voice barely audible. "Even at the end, even when everything was falling apart, I loved you."

“I know.” His voice broke entirely now. “And I loved you. That’s why I thought letting go was the least selfish thing I could do.”

Another silence stretched, not as sharp this time. Just tired. Real.

Jeongguk rubbed at his jaw, the movement weary. “I’m not asking for anything. I just… needed you to know. I’ve carried this for so long and it’s eaten me alive… ____ I’m really sorry. I know there’s no apology that can ever make up for everything I’ve done to you but… I’m just really sorry.”

You look up at Jeongguk with your tear-stained eyes and it breaks Jeongguk more than he can ever describe in words.

“____ I am so sorry for leaving you the way I did…”

You nodded, barely. “I— I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he replied gently. “You’ve said more than I deserve.”

The studio had grown darker without either of you noticing.

Only the soft light from the café filtered in through the open door, casting long shadows across your half-finished painting and the uneven flecks of dried pigment on the floor. Somewhere in the distance, a car passed. A door slammed. But here, it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of you—and the distance between what was and what could never be again.

Jeongguk looked down at the floor then back up at you, his mouth pressed in a tight line, like he was still deciding whether to say one last thing. Maybe something small. Maybe something huge.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped back, slowly, like approaching a cliff’s edge he’d finally accepted he couldn’t jump from. His gaze lingered on your face a moment longer—memorizing you, or maybe just letting go. He opened his mouth slightly, closed it again. Whatever words he might’ve said had dissolved before they ever formed.

“I should go,” he said finally, and his voice was hoarse in that way people get when they’ve cried recently or haven’t slept in days.

You nodded. It was all you could manage.

He turned to leave, his footsteps almost soundless on the studio floor. When he reached the door, he hesitated—just long enough to make you wonder if he’d look back.

He did.

A brief glance over his shoulder. Nothing dramatic. No tears. Just that same familiar sadness in his eyes, now quieter. A little more surrendered.

“Goodnight, ____,” he said softly.

And then he was gone. The door closed behind him with a soft click. You stood there for a long while, staring at the space he’d just vacated, your hands still smeared faintly with color and time. The silence returned—but it was different now. Not peaceful, not exactly painful either.

Just... honest.

#jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook angst #jungkook imagine #jungkook scenarios #bts au #bts au fanfic #bts au fic #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #woosung x reader #woosung #jungkook fic

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miyx-amour · 1 year ago

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What do you think obsessive dommy Woosung w a fem y/n would be like?

HELLO WHY AM I ONLY SEEING THIS NOW IM CRYING

okay first things first he will do anything to play with your pussy everyday all day…after seeing his guitar solo in alive live let me tell you those fingers do NOT disappoint.

soft dom but TRUST he can be MEANNNN when he’s jelly 🙏 he does not give a flying fuck if you have an important meeting the next day. you WILL NOT be able to walk 😃

lemme tell you he doesn’t not fuck around with that big dick he got and needs to have it shoved up your pussy or down your throat at all times. definitely a qualifier for my strange addiction minus the strange part.

also OBSESSED with your ass and will touch it 24/7 365 no matter where you are or what you’re doing. oh and buttplug is a MUST!!! he just loves seeing a heart in your asshole when he fucks you in doggy.

overall woosung just loves fucking you 💗💗💗

#🎸 - miyx-amour #the rose hard hours #the rose hard thoughts #woosung hard hours #woosung hard thoughts #the rose smut #woosung smut #kpop hard hours #kpop hard thoughts #the rose x reader #woosung x reader

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kwanisms · 9 months ago

Text

Kinktober 「10:06」 — k.woosung

» the rose menu | woosung menu | kinktober masterlist «

➮ werewolf!Woosung × fem!Reader wc: 5.4k summary: All you wanted was a quiet, relaxing night to yourself after a tough week at work. One night to relax and unwind. With your clothes in the wash, you decide to borrow one of your roommate’s shirts. Something he notices when you walk back into the living room while he’s taking a break from gaming. genres/themes/au: angst/fluff/smut; supernatural, horror, thriller; non idol au, monster idol au warnings: adult dialogue, female reader, alcohol consumption, supernatural and horror themes, mentions of: pee, food consumption, alcohol, physical violence (as a joke); sexual content (18+ mdni), see smut warnings under the cut! taglist has been moved to reblogs join my taglists! taglist for kinktober is CLOSED. Strikethrough means I cannot tag you. MINORS WILL BE BLACKLISTED & BLOCKED. AGELESS BLOGS WILL ALSO BE BLOCKED.

a/n: this is my first time writing for Woosung so pls be nice! He’s been plaguing my thoughts a lot outside of this special and originally, this was supposed to be Tao but because of his impending nuptials and the announcement of his relationship, I’m respecting that and decided to make this my introduction to writing for the Rose, by request of my best friend! Thank you for reading and as always, this is a work of fiction and all characters are not reflective of their respective irl counterparts. for entertainment purposes only.

smut warnings: teratophilia (aka monsterfucking), knotting, creampie, unprotected sex (use condoms), use of pet names (hers: baby, darling, etc.; his: daddy), oral (f receiving), mild praise (f receiving), and that should be all but let me know if I missed any! kinks: Knotting + creampie dialogue prompt: ❛❛ Is that my shirt? ❜❜

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To say you had a shit day was an understatement.

First, your alarm went off late, then you burnt your toast while getting ready to leave the apartment, so you decided to stop by a coffee shop and get a muffin with your coffee but the line was so long so by the time you finally got to the office, you were late and while your boss was kind, you felt extremely bad and it set the mood for your entire day.

You were swamped with work, meetings one right after another. Your lunch in the breakroom fridge got thrown away by mistake so you decided to get something from the vending machines just to get you through the rest of the day but the machine ate your first bill and by the time you returned to your desk, you were drained and not ready to face the rest of your shift.

But face it you did, sitting through boring end of quarter meetings, watching slideshows about growth projections and even a couple meetings that could have been emails instead. By the time the end of the day rolled around, you were ready to go home and relax, ready to enjoy the weekend.

The trip home wasn’t any better than the trip to work. You missed your train as it was 15 minutes early and left before you got there, so you had to wait at the station for another 20 minutes for another train which also did not arrive at the correct time. So instead, you went back up to the street to see if the bus was any better. While waiting at the stop, someone’s dog tried to use your leg as a fire hydrant but managed to only get your shoe.

So now your foot was covered in piss, you were stuck in the city for almost an hour after work. By the time you arrived at your building, you discovered the elevator was down and you had no choice but to climb the stairs. To the fifth floor.

When you finally reached your front door, you were hot, sweaty, your foot was covered in dog piss, you were late, and all you wanted was to shower and then curl up in bed with a bottle of wine and cry for the rest of the night.

You pushed open the door after unlocking it, slamming it shut before kicking off your soiled shoe, cursing as you grabbed a paper towel, removed your stocking and grabbed the shoe to toss in the trash bin. The urine had soaked into it for over an hour and there was unfortunately no saving it, nor your stocking.

You kicked off your other shoe, adding it and your stocking to the trash and headed for your room, passing by your roommate’s shut door. You could vaguely hear soft music coming from behind the door as you passed and wished you had the tenacity and motivation to do what he did for work.

You knew being a full time content creator was not the easiest job in the world but Woosung made it seem easy. He was a largely popular twitch streamer with a large following and he managed to land several sponsorships and brand deals.

He paid his fair share of the rent, utilities, and groceries and you had no complaints. He was a generally quiet, clean, and courteous roommate and did his fair share of the chores. He was great company when you did spend time together and he was also a really great listener.

Not even the fact that he was a werewolf could put a damper on how much you loved sharing a space with him.

As you entered your room, you noticed your hamper and cursed under your breath. You still had a mountain of laundry to do. As you walked over and lifted the lid, you noticed it was empty. Shutting the lid, you saw a yellow post-it note sitting on the top of the lid.

I didn’t have enough laundry for a load so I added mine to yours.

Hope you don’t mind (:

~ your cool roommate

The corners of your eyes burned as you read the note over and over. The gesture meant more than you could say and as you walked out of your room and over to the small closet where the washer and dryer sat, you saw your clothes spinning with his, suds swirling around. ‘He must have just started the load before I got home,’ you told yourself.

You opened the dryer, hoping some of your clothes might be in here but it was only his. Cursing softly, you grabbed one of the tee shirts, a cream colored one with the picture of a Joshua tree with gray rocks in the background. It was one he’d gotten during one of his visits to the California national park.

It wasn’t uncommon for you to borrow his shirts when your clothes were in the wash as you often forgot to do your laundry in intervals so you always had clean clothes. You pulled the shirt out and shut the dryer, returning to your room to shower and change.

When you exited your room, wearing the shirt and a pair of loose shorts, you headed to the kitchen to make yourself some comfort ramen before drowning in a bottle of your favorite wine. You set up the pot with water and set it to boil, adding the noodles and soup base.

Once it was done, you sat at the kitchen island, eating the meal until it was all gone. It wasn’t the healthiest but sometimes you wanted something that tasted good, not necessarily something that was good for you. As you were washing the pot, you heard the soft click of a door and footsteps padding down the hall towards the kitchen.

“Hey,” your roommate said. You glanced over your shoulder at him and smiled. “Hey, Woo,” you said, turning back to finish washing the pot as he moved to open the fridge, rummaging around until he grabbed a can of cola and shut it.

You heard the snap of the metal as he popped the tab and the first sip. You could feel his eyes on you but kept to your task, rinsing the pot and setting it aside to dry before rinsing down the sink basin. Woosung said nothing as he drank from the can, standing in the kitchen and watching you rinse the sink and wipe the counter. He finished the small can, tossing it in the recycle as you set aside the dish gloves and turned to face him.

His eyes immediately went to your torso, noticing the shirt.

A look came over him as his eyes narrowed. “Is that my shirt?” he asked suddenly. You nodded, stomach sinking as you suddenly wondered if you crossed a line by wearing it. “I’m sorry,” you said softly. “I should have asked,” you continued. “I just didn’t have any clean shirts.”

Woosung blinked rapidly as he stared before tearing his gaze away. “It’s fine,” he said in a tense voice. “I need to go do something,” he added in an undertone before heading back in the direction of his room, leaving you staring after him, confusion written on your expression.

Shutting the door with a soft click, Woosung let out a groan, walking over to and throwing himself face down on his bed. The sight of you in his shirt had awakened something in him and he needed to leave the room before he crossed any lines. He’d been struggling with these thoughts since well before today.

Most of the time, he was able to mask them, push them down, but for some reason, now of all times, he just couldn’t do it. He’d been on the verge of pouncing on you from the moment you walked into the room he happened to be occupying at the time for the last couple weeks.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, stewing in thoughts of you in his clothes, thoughts of you not in his clothes, thoughts of you not in any clothes when there was a soft knock at the door. He lifted his head, turning to face the door, uncertain if he heard correctly but when he heard another knock, he knew he wasn’t imagining things.

He got up with a groan, walking over to unlock and turned the knob, pulling the door open. He regretted it instantly, finding you standing on the other side, still in his shirt and those tiny shorts. He held his breath as you stood there, looking up at him with those curious eyes of yours. The same eyes he envisioned himself looking into as he fu—

“Did I upset you?” you asked, drawing him from his thoughts. Woosung sighed, giving you a tired smile. “No,” he said, leaning against the door frame. “I’m not upset, darlin’,” he answered. “I’ve just been out of it lately.” Your brows furrowed together in worry.

“Anything I can do to help?” you asked and he cursed you internally for being so helpful. There were a great many things you could do to help him but he pushed those thoughts from his mind. He didn’t want to push things into awkward territory because he knew once that line was crossed, there was no going back.

“Nah,” he answered finally. “Just something I have to handle on my own,” he added with a reassuring smile. Your eyes narrowed slightly before widening. “Oh!” you said, suddenly looking very embarrassed as you looked around. “S-sorry!” you squeaked. It took Woosung all but two seconds to figure out he had given you the wrong impression.

“Oh, oh my god no! Not that!” he said quickly, waving his hands. You looked back at him, noticing the pink tinge of his cheeks. As he let out an awkward laugh, running his fingers through his hair, you were suddenly overwhelmed with an unexplainable attraction to him. It wasn’t like he was never attractive before but you’d always firmly seen him as your roommate and now?

Something was different.

Woosung noticed the shift in your demeanor, hell he could smell the difference. He didn’t even need body language. He wasn’t a stranger to the stench of arousal; in fact, it was a smell he knew all too well. He’d just never smelt it like this coming off of you.

It took every ounce of willpower he had to not jump you right then and there. He needed to get out of this situation before he did something he would regret. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can help you with?” you asked, taking a step forward. Woosung’s breath caught in his throat.

“I-I’m sure,” he answered, chuckling nervously. He didn’t miss the way your expression fell as you took a step back. “Well, if you insist,” you said softly. As you started to turn away, Woosung felt like he could breathe but suddenly you turned back to look at him. “Thanks by the way.”

He tilted his head curiously. “For what?”

“For doing my laundry,” you replied. “I know it’s not a big deal but today has been… an ordeal,” you said with a sigh. Woosung could hear the exhaustion in your voice. It wasn’t a physical exhaustion, it was a mental one. It was the tone he would normally hear before offering to listen to you because he actually cared about you. He didn’t like it when you were upset.

He liked it better when you were smiling and laughing at his dumb jokes.

“Oh no,” he said with a slight smirk. “What happened?” You looked up at him, your eyes shining with unshed tears and his smile fell immediately. “I had a really shitty day,” you replied, holding back a sob. He couldn’t bring himself to turn you away now, not when he could see that you were on the verge of tears. . He always provided you a shoulder to cry on and he wasn’t about to deny you that.

Opening his bedroom door more, he stepped back. “C’mere,” he said, holding out a hand for you. Hesitantly, you took it and allowed him to guide you into his room as he shut the door behind you. He guided you over to the bed, sitting you down before grabbing his desk chair and rolling it over to sit in front of you.

“Talk,” he said simply as he sat down. You looked up at him before bursting into tears, relaying the events of the day to him from waking up late all the way to missing the train. Woosung listened without complaint, as he always did. At some point he took your hand, rubbing soothing circles on the back with his thumb.

“And when I was waiting for the bus, someone’s fucking dog peed on my shoe and ruined it!” you sobbed, tears streaming down your cheeks. Woosung’s brow furrowed. “You mean the owner let their dog piss on you? What the actual fuck?” he snapped.

“Where did this happen?” he asked. “What did the dog look like?”

You look up at him, your sobs subsiding for a moment. “What? Wh-why?”

“Cause I’m gonna go case the area and beat the shit out of the owner for letting their dog pee on someone. Who the fuck does that?” A look of confusion crossed your face before you let out a laugh. Woosung’s expression softened immediately, reaching up to wipe a tear away.

“Gotcha,” he said with a smile, his voice softer. “I am serious though,” he added.

“I will go jump the owner, if you want me to.”

You shook your head, bringing your hands up to wipe your face. Woosung got up, grabbed a box of tissues from his desk and handed them to you. Thanking him, you used them to wipe your face and nose while he sat back down in his chair.

“You wanna order takeout and watch Gilmore Girls again? From the beginning?” he asked. You shook your head. “No,” you replied, looking up to meet his gaze. “But thank you. I think I’ll just go lay down and wallow in my misery for the night.” Woosung chuckled as you got up, moving to grab all your used tissues. Woosung rolled over to his desk, grabbing the waste bin, and rolled back.

You tossed the tissues in and thanked him again.

He got up after placing the bin back and walked you to the door.

“Maybe I’ll get on tinder,” you said suddenly. Woosung wrinkled his nose. “Why the fuck would you do that?” he asked as he leaned against the doorframe while you stood in the hallway. “I think I just need someone to fuck the sadness out of me,” you replied, your tone light and joking but Woosung felt a shift in the atmosphere.

“Ah well, goodnight,” you said, starting to turn away. Unable to control his movements, Woosung stepped forward, hand closing around your wrist, preventing you from leaving. You turned to look down at his hand around your wrist before looking up to meet his gaze. “What’re you—?”

“Don’t,” he said suddenly. You stared back at him, confusion invading your senses. “Don’t what?” you asked curiously. “Don’t go on tinder to find someone to fuck you,” he answered quickly. A little too quickly. “Woosung,” you started. “I was just kiddi—”

“Let me do it.”

‘Well that was unexpected.’

You stared back at him, eyes wide, brows raised as he held your gaze. As you studied his face, you could tell there wasn’t even an ounce of humor in his expression. He was being serious. “Wait,” you said softly. “You’re being serious?” you asked. Woosung nodded, again much too quickly. He was eager.

“Yes,” he answered. “Don’t bring some stranger into our home. If you want someone to fuck the sadness out of you, let me do it.”

You stared at him incredulously, a thousand reasons why this was a bad idea invading your mind, mostly about him being your roommate and potentially ruining the dynamic and making things extremely awkward. If you turned him down now, it would definitely make things awkward but if you accepted, wouldn’t that also make things awkward?

“But we’re roommates,” you said softly as he gently tugged you closer, keeping his eyes locked on yours. “So?” he asked softly as he pulled you into him. “It’s not uncommon for roommates to eventually hookup,” he added. “But what if this makes things weird between us?” you whispered as his hand moved up to cup your chin, tilting your head back.

“It doesn’t have to be weird,” he replied. “Not if we don’t make it weird.”

You stared up at him as his thumb brushed over your bottom lip. “Think about it,” he added. “You know me. We’ve lived together for how long? Three years at least? You trust me, right?” he asked. You nodded slowly, lips parting slightly.

Testing the waters, Woosung gently pushed his thumb between your parted lips, letting out a sigh as he felt your tongue meet his thumb as the pad pressed into your mouth. “Will you let me?” he asked softly, his free hand coming up to the back of your neck. You looked up at him, saliva pooling in your mouth as the pad of his thumb pressed down on your tongue.

“How about it, darlin’?” he asked. “Will you let me fuck the sadness out of you?”

An intense need washed over you and without thinking, you nodded as he retracted his thumb from your mouth. “I need to hear you say it, Y/N,” he said, taking your face in his hands. “Yes,” you croaked out. “Please, Woosung.”

“Please fuck the sadness out of me.”

Woosung pulled you into a kiss, lips crashing against yours roughly. Your hands settled on his chest as he backed into the room, pulling you with him until he could kick the door shut with his foot. His hands slid down your neck and shoulders to your sides until they found purchase on your hips, turning your back towards his bed as he guided you towards it.

You stopped when the back of your legs bumped the edge of the mattress but still Woosung didn’t break the kiss. He’d been thinking of this moment for longer than he’d like to admit and now he finally had you ready and willing in his grasp. He finally broke the kiss, lips trailing down the side of your neck as you tilted your head, giving him more access.

Goosebumps erupted over your skin as his hand moved down, smoothing over the curve of your ass and grabbing a handful of it, pulling your hips against his. “Have I ever told you how fucking hot you are?” he whispered in your ear. You shook your head as you felt his tongue against your skin.

“I’ve wanted to fuck you since the first time you borrowed one of my shirts,” he admitted. “Seeing you in my clothes makes me want to rip them off, pin you down, and fuck you until you can’t walk.” You let out a groan as his teeth sank into your skin. “Fuck, make that sound again, baby,” he groaned.

You let out another moan as he grinded against you, his half hard cock pressing into you. “Come here,” he said, sliding his hands down to the back of your thighs. You wrapped your arms around his neck as he lifted you with a surprising amount of strength that probably had a lot more to do with his werewolf nature than with the amount of time he spent in the gym.

He climbed into the bed, walking on his knees until he was able to drop you in the center of the mattress, leaning over you. His lips met yours again in a passionate kiss as his hands moved down to your waist, dipping under his shirt. His fingers left fire in their wake as his hands moved up to cup your chest under the shirt.

“No bra?” he groaned against your mouth. “God, you drive me fucking crazy.” Your back arched off the sheets as he grinded against your clothed pussy. “Woosung,” you groaned, hips rolling to match his movements. “Yeah, babe?” he asked, his breath hot against your skin.

“I need you,” you answered breathlessly, fingers dragging through his dark locks. You heard him chuckle softly. “You have me, baby. I’m not going anywhere until I’ve made you cum on my fingers, my tongue, and my cock,” he murmured. He pushed the shirt you wore up above your breast, thumbs brushing over your nipples as he kissed along your jaw.

Quickly, he pulled back, helping you pull the shirt off and tossing it aside. His eyes roamed your body, drinking in every detail. You started to feel hyper aware of every mark, and scar and attempted to cover yourself but he grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head.

“Don’t even think about hiding from me,” he said as his hands slid down your arms. Your lips parted in a sigh as he cupped your chest again, gently kneading your breasts. “God,” he groaned as he watched your body react to his touches. “You have the perfect tits.”

Your cheeks burned. “Woosung,” you whined. “What?” he asked, picking up your tone of embarrassment. “It’s true, baby. The things I want to do to these,” he added, squeezing them once more before his hands slid down to your shorts. “But this ain’t about me,” he continued.

“This is about you.”

His fingers tucked under the waistband of your shorts and panties, wasting no time as he pulled them both down your thighs and discarded them somewhere in the room, telling himself that he’d clean up later. He sat back on his heels, spreading your thighs and getting an eyeful of your wet pussy.

You watched as he licked his lips, the urge to close your legs crossing your mind but even if you had tried, he wouldn’t have let you as he held them open with a strong grip. “Remember what I said earlier?” he asked, not looking up from your cunt.

“‘I’m not going anywhere until I’ve made you cum on my fingers, my tongue, and my cock,’” he repeated. You nodded as his hands skimmed along the inside of your thighs. “Which do you want first?” You stared back at him as his words sank in. You had no idea where you wanted him to start. Your eyes watched as his tongue peeked out, wetting his lips.

“Tongue,” you said instantly. A smirk spread across his face as he grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled it off, tossing it aside. You didn’t get the chance to appreciate his body as he leaned over, kissing down the valley between your breasts, his kisses moving down your stomach until he drew level with your mound.

He laid down, getting comfortable as he spread your thighs. He glanced up once, meeting your eyes and giving you a smirk before he looked back down.

The first lick against your clit was slow, deliberate as he dragged his tongue up, making you moan loudly. He groaned against you, enjoying the taste on his tongue. “You taste so good,” he mumbled, pulling back briefly before going back in, tongue gliding over your clit in slow drags.

Your fingers curled into the sheets as your back arched off the bed. “F-fuck, don’t stop,” you moaned. Woosung took that personally, wrapping his arms around your thighs and holding you down as his mouth moved over your pussy, tongue dragging over wherever it could reach. From your clit to your entrance but he focused most of his attention on your clit, licking and suckling on the senstive nub until your thighs were shaking.

“M’close!” you gasped, tension building in the pit of your stomach until it snapped and you came with a moan of his name. Woosung pulled back, wiping his mouth and chin quickly before kissing his way up your body until his lips found yours, tongue slipping into your mouth as his fingers traced around your entrance, sliding into you quickly.

He barely gave you time to recover as he started pumping them in and out of you at an excruciatingly slow pace, curling them against your walls and making you moan against his mouth. He set a steady pace, alternating between pumping his fingers and curling them, enjoying the way your body responded to both motions.

“Come on, baby,” he groaned, moving his fingers faster. “Cum for me again. I know you can give me another one.” You let out a whimper as your orgasm approached quickly. “That’s it, baby girl, let go,” he cooed, smiling against your lips as you came again, walls fluttering around his fingers as he helped you ride it out. “Good girl,” he whispered between kisses. “You’re doing so well for me.”

You whined as pulled his fingers from you, eyes fluttering open as he removed his shorts and underwear. “Fuck,” he swore. “Let me get a condom.” He started to get up but you grabbed his arm. “Don’t,” you said breathlessly. “I’m on birth control and I haven’t been with anyone in over a year.”

Woosung stared at you, eyes wide. “Are you sure?” he asked. He was perfectly fine with foregoing condoms if it’s what you wanted but he wanted you to be absolutely sure. You nodded, tugging him back towards you. “Yes,” you said, nodding eagerly. “Just fuck me, please.”

Woosung slotted himself between your thighs, lips meeting yours as he kissed you slowly. “Are you absolutely sure, baby?” he whispered, pressing short kisses against your lips and cheeks. You nodded once more. “Yes, I’m sure. Please, daddy.”

Woosung’s eyes popped open as the name slipped out and he pulled back to look at you, a mischievous smile slowly spreading across his face. “Daddy, huh?” he whispered, chuckling when you whined in embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” you whined but he shook his head, kissing your cheeks again. “S’okay, baby. If you wanna call me daddy, I don’t mind.”

You felt the head of his cock sliding between your folds, pressing against your swollen clit. “I’m still gonna fuck the sadness out of you so it doesn’t matter what you call me.”

Before you could respond, he started to push into you, cock sliding into your hole slowly, stretching you as he gave you inch by inch until his shaft was buried fully inside you. He let out a strained groan as your walls enveloped him, his hips stilling as he let both of you adjust slowly.

“F-fuck,” he gasped, resting his forehead against yours. “Feels so fucking good, baby.” You whined in response, wiggling your hips and silently begging him to move. He didn’t need you to tell him again as he pulled back, sliding out of you before snapping his hips into you, sheathing his cock in one thrust and making you moan loudly.

“M’gonna fuck the sadness out of you,” he said in a low, deep voice. “But I need to know how hard you want it.” You grabbed the back of your thighs, pulling your legs closer and letting him sink deeper. “Hard,” you said softly as he pulled back to look at you. “If you’re going to fuck the sadness out of me,” you started, staring into his eyes.

“You’re gonna need to do it hard and fast. Make me forget everything bad that’s happened today.”

Woosung let out a chuckle, nodded. “You got it, baby girl.”

He immediately set a fast, hard pace, thrusting into you with deep, powerful strokes that had you choking on your moans as the sound of skin echoed around his room. Your cheeks burned as you heard the wet sound of his cock entering your cunt repeatedly but you couldn’t be bothered to say anything about it when the base of his cock pressed against your lips.

You hadn’t gotten a good look at it but you knew as a werewolf, he had some parts that weren’t entirely human. You sort of wish you’d gotten a look at his cock but you could feel the difference. With each thrust, the knot at the base of his cock pounded against your hole. You wondered if he was going to try and fit it inside you but that was something for future you to worry about.

“F-hng-fuck,” you moaned. “So fucking big.” Woosung let out a groan, cock twitching inside you. “You like it baby?” he whispered in your ear. “Like how my big cock feels inside you? Like how it stretches your tight little cunt?” You nodded, whimpers leaving your lips as you could feel the knot pressing against your hole even more, a slight stinging as it tried to enter you.

“M’gonna fuck you full,” he growled, thrusts increasing in pace and power as he tried to push the knot into you. “M’gonna fill this little pussy and knot you.” You gasped out as he slammed into you, the knot pushing halfway into you and making you cry out.

“I can’t, daddy! S’too big!” you whimpered. Woosung pulled back, resuming his thrusts. “You can take it, baby girl. I know you can,” he murmured. “Come on, baby. Show me how well you take it.”

He slammed into you again and you cried out as the knot pushed inside you, stretching your cunt as the pain stung, a burning settling in your pussy as he pushed all the way in until your cunt wrapped around the base of the knot, firmly locking him in place as he came, your cunt clenching around his cock.

The feeling of his seed spilling into you had you cumming in time, walls fluttering around his cock, knot and all. As the aftershocks of your orgasm washed over you, Woosung coaxed you through it, gently thrusting while buried deep inside you. “Good girl,” he murmured. “Taking all of it. I bet you feel so full,” he continued. “How does it feel, baby?”

Truthfully, the sting of taking the knot had subsided the moment you came and he was right, you felt extremely full of not only his cock but all of the cum he just dumped into you. As your cunt continued to contract around him, lodging the knot inside your walls, you could feel the tip of his cock pressed against your cervix.

“So full,” you moaned. Woosung let out a chuckle as he rested his weight on top of you, getting comfortable. “How long do we have to stay like this?” you asked, curiosity taking over. “Mmm,” Woosung hummed as he thought for a moment. “Maybe like an hour?” he said, not entirely certain. “That was a pretty large load,” he added. “The knot takes some time to go down after it starts swelling.”

“It is pretty large,” you noted in a low tone. Woosung let out a laugh. “Oh baby, this is what it’s normally like. It’s just now starting to swell.” Your eyes snapped open as you met his gaze. “What?” you asked incredulously. As you spoke, you could feel his cock start to throb. “There it goes,” he said and you moaned, feeling the knot start to throb as well, slowly, it started to swell, your cunt stretching around it.

“Oh fuck me,” you groaned as Woosung pushed his cock further, making sure the knot was full enclosed in your walls. “It’s okay,” he reassured you. “We’re gonna be like this for a while,” he added as he peppered your face in kisses, making you giggle.

“Did it work?” he asked suddenly, pulling back to look at you. Your eyebrows furrowed as you stared at him. “Did what work?” A smile spread across his face. “Did I fuck the sadness out of you?”

You laughed loudly, ending in a moan as the knot swelled even more. “Yeah,” you answered with a nod, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth briefly. “Yeah, it worked. I don’t even remember why I was sad.” Woosung’s smile grew, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips. “Good,” he muttered.

“Just let me know the next time you’re sad and I’ll fuck it out of you again.” You giggled as he kissed your face more. “How about you just fuck me whenever?” you asked. Woosung stared down at you, his smile turning into a smirk. “Yeah?” he asked. “Got a taste for the knot and now you want it all the time?” You rolled your eyes, a smirk tugging at your own lips. “Isn’t that what they say?”

“Get knotted one time and you’ll never want another cock?”

Woosung burst into laughter. “That’s not a thing but sure,” he replied. “Once you get the knot, you’ll never swap.”

“Or something like that.”

©️ kwanisms 2024 | all works on this blog are protected under copyright. Do not repost, continue, or translate my works. All graphics made by me.

#ksmutsociety #kvanity #mfu net #the rose scenarios #the rose imagines #the rose fanfiction #the rose fanfic #the rose smut #the rose x reader #woosung scenarios #woosung imagines #woosung fanfiction #woosung fanfic #woosung smut #woosung x reader #kwanisms kinktober 2024 #kinktober 2024

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key201303 · 1 year ago

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Kim Woosung NSFW A-Z

Warnings: NSFW content, smut, +18 content.

A/N. I'm so in love with these four men ��

A - AFTERCARE.

Woosung can be the sweetest human being at the same time he can be the sassiest. I believe he would take the aftercare really seriously like any other interaction you have with each other because he believes in quality relationships more than anything else. Soft touches and butterfly kisses are something in his list of to do’s when it comes to an aftercare. And if he was a bit too rough he would definitely take good care of you afterwards while teasing you.

B - BODY PART.

This boy is so confident he literally loves everything about himself. Not like he was born that way, it was a lot of self work and your work of praising him which led to that but you really loved seeing him being confident about his body.

In you he just loved every single inch of your body. He always said he didn’t have the right to give an opinion about anybody’s body, even less if it was you who we talked about. You were just beautiful in his sight and that was more than enough.

C - CUM.

You could never know. He’s so random and loves to experience new stuff so he would just ask you if he can try a new spot every time you had sex so he could choose his favorite. But for now I believe his favorite place is either your chest or your stomach.

D - DIRTY SECRET.

He fantasizes a lot about you waking him up with a good morning sex session. It is just so hot to think about it and such a great way to start a day. He tried to let you know but even though he might look pretty brave and open to talk about this kind of stuff, he became quite shy about asking you to wake him up with a soft massage to his cock.

E - EXPERIENCE.

I believe that Woosung is the type of person who would only have sex with someone if he really had a connection with that someone. Like he wouldn’t just fuck whoever comes in his way. So according to this I believe he doesn’t have had many sexual partners but I do believe he has had plenty of quality sex sessions with them.

F - FAVORITE POSITION.

Any in which he can lay back and look at you do all the work (lazy king). I believe he would also love any position involving you both facing a mirror so you could perfectly see each other’s and your own pleasure expressions.

G - GOOFY.

I don’t see him as someone who would be very goofy during sex. I see him as a person who takes sex really seriously and wouldn’t really be into being goofy while doing it with you. But he would definitely tease you a damn lot.

H - HAIR.

Don’t ask me why but I believe he has it all clean down there. No reason at all.

I - INTIMACY.

He absolutely LOVES being intimate with you doesn’t matter when and where. As I mentioned before, he is really into having deep and meaningful relationships with people and you weren’t an exception. Everytime he has the chance to be intimate with you, he will always be.

J - JERK OFF.

Quite a lot when he’s on tour, the lack of your presence makes him even more needy. He would not do it alone tho. He would always call you or text you so you could help him a bit, especially when he felt stressed out about something.

K - KINKS.

Mirror sex: as I said, he would def love the image of you two being intimate getting reflected on a mirror. It’s just another level of pleasure that he gets when he can have access to seeing not only your facial reactions to what he does to you but also his own reactions whenever you touch him.

Orgasm denial: He’s the biggest teaser between the members of the band and also the most possessive so he would love to be in control of your orgasm and it would give him a boost of energy deciding when you can come undone for him or not.

Cigarettes after sex: Not sure if this is considered a kink but he would definitely love to light up a cigarette and share it with you as you both came down from your highs and kept kissing each other from time to time.

L - LOCATION.

Any place where he can lay down is a perfect spot to have sex with you.

M - MOTIVATION (TURN ON).

He would turn on just by feeling your touch or with a bit of dirty talk coming from you. It wasn’t something you usually did so he really enjoyed it when you did so or tried to tease him before he would start his own tease show.

N - NO NO (TURN OFF).

Definitely he wouldn’t like it if you suggested to have a threesome. He wants you for him and only him and only for him, sharing not being a possible option in a relationship with him.

O - ORAL.

He loves going down on you but when you go down on him oh the boy gets hella excited. Would love taking your hair out of your face so he can perfectly see your face as you suck him off and he would love it even more if you made eye contact with him from time to time.

P - PACE.

Slow. He loves thrusting into you slowly so you can feel every single inch of him. Also so you had to beg him to go faster and he could tease you a bit more.

Q - QUICKIES.

His favorites. It would just give him a boost of energy, especially if they were right before practice or a concert.

R - RISK.

Love the risk and would love to experience it with you. Doesn’t care about trying out some risky semi-public sex when the members are next door or something like that. He thinks it gives a thrilling and funny feeling to the situation.

S - STAMINA.

A damn lot. He could spend hours and hours having sex with you if that meant being home naked and laying down.

T - TOYS.

As I said before, he enjoys trying new stuff so he wouldn’t mind using some toys if that meant your sexual life would get better.

U - UNFAIR.

His passion and hobby is teasing you so yeah, he’s probably the most unfair member.

V - VOCAL.

Not a big fan of having conversations while sex but he really is into listening to your moans and praising so he can know if you’re enjoying what he’s doing or not.

W - WILD CARD.

Sex after tour. It’s the first time you two meet after months of being apart because of a tour. As soon as he sees you, he wouldn’t waste a second to smash his lips with yours and start a heated make out session that will always end up in something else if you know what I mean 😏

X - X-RAY.

I think he’s average but definitely knows how to give his length a good use.

Y - YEARNING.

Every time he spends more than 2 days without seeing you. He’s so fond of you and so addicted to your touch that he cannot be without you for more than 24h.

Z - ZZZ.

The boy is lazy so he wouldn’t take long to fall asleep after he finishes making sure he did everything he has on his imaginary to do list of aftercare.

#kpop #kpop alphabet #kpop smut #the rose #the rose x reader #the rose smut #the rose woosung #the rose woosung x reader #the rose woosung smut #woosung #woosung x reader #woosung smut #kim woosung #kim woosung x reader #kim woosung smut

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star-eyed-angels · 7 months ago

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The Rose Reaction | FLUFF/CRACK | When They Have Too Much To Drink

On the fourth day of Christmas, I bring this gift to you. Four tipsy rose boys

In which your boyfriend has too much too drink during the Christmas season

Warnings: None

A/N: Day 4 of mini-Ficmas. Today I bring you my first reaction for the rose because I love them and have always wanted to write something for them🌹Enjoy my lovelies, and thank you so much for all the love on the days so far. And I will see you tomorrow with day 5 😘

FICMAS

MASTERLIST

WOOSUNG

It’s quiet in the taxi late at night. The windows rolled down a third of the way to let in the cold night air. You’re so busy watching the view that passes by that you don’t notice what’s going on next to you. You turn your head as you feel a warm body press against your side. Your boyfriend, Woosung, leans his head against your shoulder, clearly feeling the effects of the Christmas party you’ve both just left.

“You okay there Woo?” you ask, noticing the way he slumps further against you. You don’t think he even notices just what he’s doing as he begins to cuddle you.

“Mhm,” he hums, giving you a small nod. A smile twitches at your lips at his response.

“You sure you’re not gonna fall asleep on me?” you joke, reaching up to run your hands through his curls. He leans into the touch with ease, turning to look up at you. You can’t suppress your giggles as he blinks up at you, eyelids clearly drooping.

“I would never-” he’s interrupted by a yawn, only causing you to laugh more.

He’s right, normally he would never be one to fall asleep in a taxi ride home. Woosung is by no means a light drinker. He can easily handle his liquor on any normal night out. But with the amount of tequila you watched Jaehyeong pour into each Christmas themed beverage, you’re not surprised that your boyfriend is practically asleep. You’d practically had to carry him just to get into the damn taxi fifteen minutes ago. He’d still been his drunk and giggly self earlier. He’d been stumbly as you wrapped your arm around his side, guiding him to the car. He’d giggled the entire way, finding every step amusing as he’d leaned on you for support. Now he was clearly in his sleepy phase of being drunk, if his massive yawn wasn’t a sign enough.

“Okay, maybe I’m a bit sleepy,” he mutters, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. You can’t help but smile, pressing a soft kiss against his hair.

“It’s okay, I’ll wake you up when we get there,” you say softly.

“Thank you, love you,” he mutters sleepily, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your neck.

“Love you too,” you say, though Woosung is already snoring lightly against your shoulder. You only shake your head, continuing to run your hands through his hair.

DOJOON

Your boyfriend, Dojoon, is normally a free-spirited person. Never being one to shy away from being himself. It’s actually one of your favorite parts of his personality. But every once in a while when he’s had just a little too much to drink, the extrovert in him seems to multiply by a thousand. Like right now for instance, as you are coming home from his company Christmas party. Most people would be ready to sleep, or at the very least just get home. However you’re lovely, and incredibly drunk boyfriend, has decided now would be the perfect time to belt out Christmas songs as you attempt to walk back.

“Joonie, You’re going to wake the whole street up,” you say, shushing him with a tug to his hand.

He gasps dramatically, pointing an accusatory finger at you.

“You don’t like to hear my singing? I’m offended,” he huffs, turning his head away with a pout.

You roll your eyes for what feels like the thousandth time, both endeared and over his antics. Honestly, the amount of times you’ve rolled your eyes tonight should genuinely be studied.

“I didn’t say that, I just don’t think these people would enjoy being woken up at 2 am,” you say, continuing to drag him along.

“They’re just jealous of my singing!” he says, giggling next to you. You snort at his response, amused by the logic of his inebriated mind.

“Right, I'm sure that’s the reason. Not because some drunk man who’s had way too much alcohol is singing at the top of his lungs down the street,” you say.

“For your information, It wasn’t alcohol, it was eggnog,” he argues,

“Eggnog that Woosung spoke with god knows how much tequila,” you huff, recalling catching the other man mid act.

“Oh come on, we have to have a little fun,” he whines, throwing an arm around your shoulder. He tugs you into him, nearly throwing you off balance. He laughs as you pout up at him, the force jolting you against his chest.

“You’re insufferable,” you whine, swatting at him softly.

He catches your hand, bringing it up to his face. You rub your thumb against the side of his cheek. He leans into you easily, stroking the back of your hand where he holds it. Damn him for being so obnoxiously cute.

“You love me though, yeah?” he teases, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Well obviously,” you say, feigning annoyance. He only grins, pressing a kiss to the side of your palm.

“Good, because you’re stuck with me,” he says, eyes full of love.

HAJOON

“You know I love you, right?” Hajoon asks, suddenly.

“Yes, I know,” you say, chuckling slightly.

“Okay, good,” he says.

He’s quiet again as the two of you continue to walk down the street. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him glance at you repeatedly. He clearly has something else to say, but hesitates. You don’t try and press him on it, figuring he’s just thinking of what to say.

“And you love me too, right?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“Of course I do,” you laugh, squeezing his hand in yours.

“Okay,” he says, nodding to himself. Another silence falls over you,

“Are you sure?” he asks hesitantly.

You finally pause, turning to look at your boyfriend. He doesn’t meet your eyes, choosing to turn his head the other way.

“Hajoon, where is this coming from?” you prod, gently. You and Hajoon have been happily dating for years. You’d never once had a doubt in his relationship. You had always assumed Hajoon felt the same. Atleast, he’d never once showed a sign of anything different. He takes a second to collect his thoughts, still not meeting your gaze. With a sigh he finally turns to you. You’re about to ask him again, when he cups your face in both of his hands. He brings your face up to his, staring directly into your eyes.

“I just really need you to know how precious you are to me, and that I really, really, love you. Like beyond words love you, like can’t imagine a life without you, like I’m gonna marry you one day, love you,” he says, squishing your face between his hands.

You stare at him for a moment, so caught off guard by this out of character behavior. You’re still reeling from how serious he sounds that it takes you a moment to process his words. Once you do you're unable to stop the smile that spreads across your face.

“You’re absolutely adorable. And incredibly drunk right now,” you say, fondness seeping into every word. Dojoon had warned you earlier about the drinks being a little too strong. Hajoon had brushed him off, easily downing four Christmas flavored drinks without a second thought. But even hours later, he’s clearly still feeling the alcohol in his system. Which apparently makes him profess the most heartfelt things he’s ever said to you in the middle of an empty street.

“Just because I’m drunk doesn’t mean I love you any less,” he grumbles. His intense stare stays on you, brow furrowed in concentration.

“I know, it just makes you extra cute today,” you say, reaching up to cup his hands in yours. He still frowns slightly, eyes never leaving your face.

“You didn’t say it back,”

“Say what, back?” you tilt your head, pretending to think about it.

“Y/n….” he whines, pressing his forehead against yours.

You laugh, giving his hand a kiss

“I love you, Hajoon. Like I’m gonna marry you one day too,” you say softly. He grins, pressing a kiss to your lips,

“Happy now?”

“Very.

“Good, let's go home. Oh! and remind me to thank Dojoon tomorrow,” you giggle, already planning to hang this moment over your boyfriend’s head every chance you get.

JAEHYEONG

“What do you mean we can’t get daechang?” Jaehyeong whines, stopping in his tracks.

You turn to see him standing in place, with the world’s biggest pout on his face. He’d been begging for food for the last thirty minutes. It’s a normal occurrence for your Jaehyeong to whine about his food, he is the biggest foodie you know afterall. But now is definitely not a time where you can let him drag you off to one of his usual spots.

“Jae, it's the middle of the night, everything is closed,” you explain, watching his face fall.

“But, my daechang,” he sniffles, his eyes beginning to water slightly.

In any other circumstance, you’d be concerned about the sight of tears on your boyfriend’s face. But given the drunken state your boyfriend is in, you can only smile. He continues to stare at you like you’ve just crushed his dreams.

“I know. But it’s late, baby,” you say gently. Jaehyeong only looks more distraught, looking like he’ll burst into tears at any second. As funny as the situation is, you don’t think it’s a good idea to have your boyfriend have a breakdown here on the sidewalk. You remain patient, trying to be gentle as you soother him. Your main concern is to get him home as easily as possible. You and sober Jae can worry about his daechang tomorrow.

“Tell you what, once it’s normal people hours and your hangover is gone I’ll take you for all the daechang you can eat, okay?” you offer, smoothly.

He seems to think for a moment, going quiet in front of you. You turn to watch him, barely able to suppress your giggles at how much thought he’s putting into it.

“Promise?” he asks, giving you a hopeful look.

“I promise,” you say. You make a show of drawing an ‘x’ over your heart for him. This seems to appease him as he begins to nod.

“Okay,” he says, giving you the brightest smile.

It nearly gives you whiplash, with how fast his mood brightens. Like he wasn’t just about to cry from not being able to eat. You smile at him, still finding his drunken behaviors kinda cute.

“Come on silly,” you say, extending your hand out to him.

His grin widens, rushing towards you to wrap his hand in yours.

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mykoreanlove · 2 years ago

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Who Are You Dating?

Your friend was sitting opposite of you with crossed arms and pouting lips, being visibly upset with you.

“I just don’t understand why you are keeping this a secret from me! Don’t you trust me, y/n?” You laughed sheepishly.

“Of course I trust you. But just like I said, now is not the time to reveal his name. Not yet.”

Your friend sighed in annoyance.

“Fine. Keep your stupid secret then.” She gulped her drink in one go and thought about her next move for a minute.

“Hey, y/n!” You leaned over the table, paying her your utmost attention. “Since you won’t tell me the name of your famous sweetheart… can you at least tell me what he’s like? Is he treating you well?”

Your lips turned up into one big smile. Was your boyfriend treating you well? Was he paying attention to you and your needs? You took a sip of your drink and nodded, smiling nonchalantly.

“You could say so, yeah.” Your friend got up from the table and strode over to the bar, leaving you alone and confused. She came back with a bottle of soju in her hands and determination in her eyes.

“Do you know what this is?” You looked at her bewildered. “Soju”, you answered.

“Yes. Soju. This is a special kind of soju. With each shot we take, I get to ask you a question about your secret romance guy which you have to truthfully answer. Got it?” You admired your friend’s determination – she always had been stubborn and now was no exception.

“And you think you will figure it out that way?”

She smirked at you, then proceeded to pour the first two shots. You were nervous, yet amused. Would she figure it out? Or were you smart enough to keep your idol boyfriend’s identity a secret? You leaned back in anticipation and mustered the shots.

“Game on.”

Your friend clanked her glass with yours and both of you downed the bitter tasting alcohol in one go.

“Waaah”, she sighed in relief. “Nothing beats soju if you ask me.” You on the other hand winced in dismay as you weren’t the big drinker your friend wanted you to be.

You heard your friend clap her hands together, signaling that it was time to start her questionary game.

“Question one, and I’ll go easy on you with that one, is: when and where was your first date?”

You thought back to the first time you met him, smiling unconsciously.

“Well, it had to be months ago. Oh I know, it was the beginning of April. Shortly after my dad’s birthday. Even though I had met him weeks prior our first date was in April.”

“You met him weeks prior? What? Was he too shy to ask you out?” You threw your head back laughing.

“No, not at all. He asked me out right away – he didn’t waste any time on making clear that he liked me. However, it took us some time to meet up because he had to work non-stop. He was out of the country a lot and all his plans to take me out fell through. But then-”, you stopped with a big smile. “Then, it kind of happened spontaneously.”

Your friend looked at you skeptically. “Spontaneously?”

“Yeah. He was alone in the office, working on his music. It was late at night, so he ordered a cab for me and met me in his company’s building.” Your friend looked disappointed.

“That’s not the love story I wanted to hear, y/n.” You laughed in amusement.

“But why? He worked with what he got. He found some mats and a blanket and used those to imitate a picnic. He literally got all the snacks the office had to offer and he even found some fairy lights that he hung up to set the mood.” You smiled warmly, thinking back to how your boyfriend looked in those golden lights, admiring you just as much as you admired him.

“We talked all night and even slept there until we got woken up by the sun. I know it sounds like it wasn’t that much but it was actually very romantic.”

Your friend smirked. “Did something remarkable happen?” You blushed and looked down at your lap. “OMG, y/n. Spill the tea!”

“He, uhm, he actually showed me what he was working on. It was a love song, a very sexy one, too. And I loved it – he is so great at his craft. After he made sure that I loved the song he confessed to me – he actually wrote it for me. And then he kissed me.” Your cheeks grew redder by the second.

“No way, that sounds so lovely! He wrote a sexy love song for you? Can I hear it?” You chuckled silently.

“You already have.” Your friend’s eyes grew wide in surprise.

“What? No way? I have? He actually published a song he wrote for you?!” You smiled proudly while nodding your head. Your friend clasped her chest in amazement. “Damn.”

You took the bottle of soju in your hands and poured the next shots. After your friend had composed yourself you downed the next round. “Okay, now tell me. What is his best quality? And leave no part out!”

You leaned back in your chair, thinking about an answer that would do him justice. His best feature? You thought about his exceptional good looks – driving not only you, but thousands of fans crazy. He had those beautiful, yet intense eyes that could pierce right through you with just one glance. He had that cute nose that you could admire all day. You thought of his very sweet and kissable lips that you loved to hang unto. As you pictured your boyfriend’s face you automatically started recalling his body. The muscles on his back or his well-defined arms turned you on indefinitely. His strong legs or selient abs made you weak, as well as his cute little tushy did.

But was that his best quality? No, far from it. He was a very handsome man on the outside, but even more so on the inside. You admired his intellect, especially his emotional intelligence. He always knew how to take care of you and what to say to soothe your wounds. You admired his hard work and determination – you had never seen someone so ambitious and goal-focused as he was. You thought about his kindness – no matter how hard the day had been or which brutal lies had been spread about him, he always wore a smile on his face and treated the people around him with kindness and compassion.

“Hello? Earth to y/n? Are you still debating on his best quality?” You laughed at your friend. “Hey, it’s hard. He is such a great person. I-”

Suddenly you thought back to a moment in which you were laughing hysterically together about the most profane things, holding your stomachs while gasping for air. What you admired the most about your boyfriend was his humbleness – he never forgot where he came from and he always tried to stay down to earth while being his best self. A proud smile covered your lips again.

“His best quality is that he’s real.”

Your friend re-filled the shot glasses while monitoring the remaining soju. “Alright, I guess I have about 2 questions left, so I better make them count.” You both downed the next shots, which you started to regret immediately as you felt yourself getting dizzy. Your chest got warmer, you tongue got looser and your impulse to overshare grew quickly.

Your friend cleared her throat before posing her next question. “Is he dominant or submissive?” You nearly choked on your own spit after hearing that one. “What? It’s something your best friend should know!”

By now your cheeks were dark red – a mixture of the soju in your blood and the shyness you felt in your body. You were no prude but talking about your sex life made you feel awkward. Especially in a public place like a bar. About your super famous boyfriend that nobody was supposed to know about. You tried dodging the question but your friend was merciless.

“So?”

“Kind of both I guess?”

“I guess? I guess? Who is fucking him? You or me? What do you mean I guess?”

“Oh my god”, you whimpered as you lowered your head and hoped that the floor would swallow you this instant. How were you supposed to answer that?

He was in fact both – most of the times he loved to take on the dominant role. Usually he was the one seducing you, mounting you and having his way with you – which you totally loved. You loved getting on your knees for him, begging him to make you feel good and give you what you wanted. You loved when he was using his strength over you, pressing you into the mattress until not only your legs shook but also the walls around you. You fucking loved it when he was degrading you, being rough with you until it was over and he would pamper you like a princess.

But sometimes it was reverse – sometimes the responsibility of his work took a toll on him and he was happy to be submissive. He enjoyed being indecisive, not balancing the world on his shoulders for once and then he behaved like a brainless puppy that followed your every word. A pussydrunk boy that would burn the world down if you asked him to.

Your friend watched you debate your answer for what felt like eternity until she smirked naughtily. “You’re thinking about him fucking you for like 5 minutes and your face tells me everything, y/n. You don’t have to answer me. Lucky you though!” She stuck her tongue out and erupted in laughter afterwards.

You were eyeing the bottle of soju which was nearly empty. “Thank god”, you mumbled under your breath.

“Oh”, your friend pouted. “The bottle is almost empty. This game is so much fun – why don’t we get a new one after?” She beamed at you in excitement which you shut down immediately.

“If we get a new one, you’re the one answering questions, missy!” She rolled her eyes at you in annoyance.

“Drink up!”

Just one more question. You just had to answer one more question and you would be released from this torture. You did well until now, you had not said his name so far. You grinned at yourself proudly, congratulating yourself for your willpower.

“So, your special secret guy. Has he been in love before you?”

You felt your chest tighten. The alcohol in your blood made it impossible to hide your true feelings, so it was written all over your face. “Shit, wait. Is this a touchy subject?”

It was. In fact, it really was.

You sighed in dismay, taking your time before answering truthfully. “There has been someone before me that he was deeply in love with. His feelings were reciprocated and they shared a very beautiful, yet intense time together. It didn’t work out because there were a lot of obstacles in their way, rendering their love impossible.”

Your friend watched you silently for some time. “Y/N, it’s over between them, right? Why are you so disturbed by this?” You chuckled awkwardly.

“It is over between them, that’s true. And I shouldn’t be jealous or pissed off because of it but I find it very hard not to be. Especially when he sees that ex every day.” Your friend’s eyes widened in shock.

“Every day? Was he dating a staff member or something?” You shook your head.

“No, he was dating one of his members.” Your friend’s jaw hit the floor, leaving her silent for the first time that evening.

“You got to be shitting me. He was in a relationship with one of his members? Holy fuck. I thought those boy on boy ships were made up by crazy fan girls but they actually exist?”

“Of course they exist. Imagine spending years with someone that you like. You go through thick and thin, that person understands what you are going through like no other. It’s only natural to develop feelings in that scenario. Especially with all those sexy dances and touchy photoshoots.” Your friend nodded in agreement.

“Does he know?”

“About my insecurities? No. I try my best to hide them. What’s done is done, right?”

You glanced over at the bottle of soju. “It’s almost empty.“

“Almost”, your friend poured the remaining sip into your shot glass. “This is like half a shot. Do you get to ask me half a question then?” you grimaced.

“Haha, smart ass. Save those comments for your boyfriend. Let me think. We’ve covered your first date and his best qualities and we’ve talked about him in bed and his history with love. Oh! I know.” Your friend looked at you with a mixture of anticipation and excitement. You looked at the shot in your hand for the last time this night and downed it in one go. It actually didn’t taste so bad after four of them.

“Does he love you?”

Did he love you? You grinned the widest grin while thinking about all the ways he made you feel loved every single day. You swore yourself to secrecy in the beginning of the game but after all that soju you couldn’t help yourself. You gestured your friend to come nearer to you.

“Pssst”, you whispered, “Want to know how he loves me?” Your friend nodded while you checked your surroundings like a criminal that was about to confess his sins.

“Okay. He says ‘I love you’ obviously but you know that words are words and actions are what I’m about, right? Listen to this. When I wake up alone I always get a sweet good morning text. He randomly sends me songs that remind him of me. He loves to cook my favorite dinner. He gifts me presents all the fucking time. He calls just to hear my voice. He buys me lingerie only to take it off in 5 seconds. He sends flowers to my house just because I like flowers. He brings me soup when I feel sick. He even kisses me when I have a runny nose. If I complain about something that’s broken in my house he makes sure it gets repaired. He always asks about my family. He always compliments me – on my body and my character. He leaves random notes in my house. He always has the snacks I love most. He tracks my cycle and gets me pads and chocolate when my uterus is out to kill me. He leaves kisses all over my body. He helps me studying Korean and is so patient with me while I’m literally slaughtering his native tongue. He always checks in on me and reassures me when I feel insecure. He teaches me his dances and pretends I’m good at it. He laughs at my jokes – I mean obviously he does because I’m hilarious, but it’s like he laughs extra hard. And when I’m sad or down the drain he makes sure that I laugh a little bit more. He always makes sure that I know how proud he is of me. Even if I have to date him in secret right now I know that he loves me with all of his heart.” You looked at your teary-eyed friend.

“So, did you figure it out?”

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sleekervae · 2 years ago

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Under the Blooming Moon | Woosung x Reader

Masterlist

A/N: Something a little different, but since listening to The Rose and Woosung's solo work, I've had this scenario kicking around in my head for a while. Had to get this one out of my system and omg I think this is the longest thing I've ever written on this platform 🥲

Summary: Every year the blood moon rises, potential mates gather with their wolf pack for The Union. A carnal game of cat-and-mouse parlays into the wolves finding and claiming their mate for life, and Woosung already has his heart and claws sunk onto his omega best friend...

Warnings: light violence, blood (biting, scratching), some allusions to sexual harassment, werewolf smut

⋆ WORD COUNT — 8.2k

It was that time of year again. The air had picked up a particular sharp chill as it blew through the trees of Namhae Pyeonbaek forest, branches bustling and scattering loose raindrops across the thick thrush. The rains had fortunately lifted hours ago, setting the stage for what was sure to be a messy and chaotic night.

The moon hung high over the tree canopies, deep ruby in colour, with beams of sinister red light slicing through breaks in the leaves to provide only small semblances of light, all of which were drowned out by the roaring bonfire in the middle of the forest. What was just a typical spacial phenomenon to the lay eye represented a far more lecherous promise.

Far off from any trails or where humans dared to lurk, the wolf pack had gathered for their annual Union ritual. They were all relatively young, equal parts eager and anxious with a libidinous, insatiable appetite for tonight's activities. While the ritual sounded dastardly and vile at first, at the end of the day it was a massive cat-and-mouse game, a competition for beta wolves to find and capture their perfect life mate.

And Woosung had already his eye on his potential prize.

While the other beta wolves engaged in lively banter and indulged in drinks, he chose a more reserved and introverted approach, leaning against the weathered trunk of a thousand-year-old pine, sipping cautiously from his plastic cup. His intense gaze remained fixed on Iseul, undeterred by her unawareness as she conversed with her friends. Her soft bangs and long, dark locks swayed in harmony with the gentle breeze, occasionally brushing against her exposed skin, causing him to detect a subtle shiver running down her spine due to her lack of a coat. However, Woosung was well aware that Iseul had knowingly embarked on this evening's adventure, and if their plans unfolded as intended, a jacket would be the least of her concerns.

From his earliest memories, Woosung harbored a deep desire for Iseul. Their mothers had been best friends, and they had envisioned their pups sharing the same bond. Time proved them right. Raised side by side, they navigated the challenges of being hybrids in a world often unforgiving to their kind. In the face of adversity, Woosung and Iseul clung to each other, learning to rely on one another. This dependence evolved into a lifelong friendship. It was only when Woosung encountered his first heat cycle that he confronted a truth far more profound: his longing for Iseul extended beyond the boundaries of friendship. She was the one he wanted, fully and without consequence. However he was a little awkward back then, and the idea of confessing his feelings to Iseul was just as daunting as the notion of being scalped for a hat.

But he wasn't a teenager in his first awakening anymore. He had grown up, worked on his self confidence and -- of course -- his body. Obviously, there was nothing he could do about his height, he felt he was finally up to the challenge to pick and claim Iseul.

If she would have him, though. There was indeed the possibility that she would shut him down about as gently as a... well... a wolf.

Many betas pursued mates by resorting to quite vile and degrading methods, but Woosung and his friends weren't about that. They remained steadfast in their conviction, undeterred by the ridicule they sometimes faced from larger betas. For Woosung, the idea of a mate was intrinsically tied to mutual desire and respect. He wanted her to be as willing and eager to be with him as he was with her.

"Woosung? Earth to Woosung!" a pale hand waved in front of his face, breaking him out of his trance and his focus landed on one of his best friends, Dojoon. The happy-go-lucky beta chuckled at his shaggy-haired friend, "Where'd you go? I was talking to you,"

Woosung cocked a brow, "Where did I go? I've been here the whole time," he sassed back.

"You know what I mean," Dojoon rolled his eyes, "You're staring at Iseul again, aren't you?"

"I am not," Woosung replied sharply.

"Oh-ho-ho, yes he is," their other friends, Hajoon and Jaehyeong suddenly appeared at Woosung's other side, "He's been staring at her like Jaehyeong stares at ramyun,"

He glowered at the younger betas, "Aren't you guys supposed to be stalking potential mates instead of me?"

"Don't say it like that," Dojoon grimaced, "It makes us sound like animals,"

Jaehyeong cocked a brow, bumping Hajoon with his elbow, "Who wants to tell him?"

"You know what I mean, smart-ass," Dojoon scolded back, "Why are you even here? I thought you and Ji-Woon were already a thing?"

"We are, technically," the youngest beta shrugged back, "But she wanted to do this so we can make it 'official', or some shit,"

"Aw, adorable," Woosung smirked, "You better hope Muscle-Brain-McGee over there doesn't claim her, first," he nodded in the direction of the betas gathered closer to the fire, where a handful of them surrounded the pack's beloved figure, Yung. Yung was in the midst of shotgunning a beer can, encouraged by the echoing chants of his friends. With a mighty gesture, he tossed the empty can into the grass, then raised his fists triumphantly into the air, proudly displaying his array of bulging muscles through his snug t-shirt, captivating the attention of everyone around.

Hajoon rolled his eyes, "What a show dog," he muttered. Woosung couldn't agree more, the view of Iseul in the warm glow of the fire much more interesting to him, anyhow.

However, he was surprised when he shifted his gaze and discovered that she was already watching him, suppressing a mischievous smile. The shock nearly caused Woosung to fumble with his drink, but he managed to maintain his composure and playfully winked in her direction. Iseul chuckled softly and discreetly waved back in response.

Dojoon chuckled beside him, slinging an arm around his shoulders, "God, you are so obvious,"

"Oh, leave him alone, Dojoon," Jaehyeong scolded.

"And who are you to scold your alpha?"

"Well, for one: he's taller than you," Hajoon decided, "And he's the only one out of us who's actually got a mate,"

"Can't argue there," Woosung snickered.

On the other side of the bonfire, Iseul only swiveled her head when she caught wind of the boisterous revelry. She couldn't help but see Yung and his friends' juvenile behavior, and despite Yung's chiseled physique and k-drama good looks, she found his personality less than appealing. Naturally, she scanned the sea of radiant faces until her eyes locked onto Woosung, who met her gaze just moments later. Her heart skipped a beat when he winked at her, his charming, boyish grin quickly replaced with an expression of distaste as his friends took the piss out of him.

Woosung had been her most trusted confidant, privy to secrets about her that not even her closest girlfriends knew. She had observed his transformation from a slightly awkward, endearingly nerdy teenager into a sharp and agile young beta. He stood out in their pack as one of the few wolves who treasured her intellect, determination, and confidence over her physical attributes. Even during the times when she felt like the least among the female pups, as they underwent their awakenings and developed in ways she hadn't, he never failed to make her feel beautiful. Her fondness for him had gradually evolved into a subtle crush, particularly when she witnessed his prowess during pack hunts. It wasn't just about his physical appeal; she loved him regardless of his shaggy wolf's cut or sharp cheekbones. Not that she'd dare admit it, but he was the only one she ever thought of when she experienced her heat cycles.

If anyone was going to claim her tonight, she secretly hoped it would be Woosung.

"Iseul, stop staring," her friend, Duri, poked her shoulder, "You're being obvious,"

"What?" Iseul whipped around.

"Yeah," her other friend, Chae-Won, nodded, "Don't pay those mutts any mind,"

"I wasn't, believe me," she assured them.

"Good. Here's to hoping they won't pick up our scent," Chae-Won sighed, grimacing at the thought of Yung or one of his friends forcing her down, "I'll castrate one of them if I have to,"

"Ji-Woon's already covered," Duri smirked at their friend, "Jae had her scent pegged loooong ago,"

Ji-Woon gawked at her, scolding her with a whisper, "You didn't tell anybody, right?"

"That you two are already fucking? No, your secret's still safe with us," Iseul chuckled.

"Good," Ji-Woon huffed, "If the alphas were to find out --"

"They'd give you a stern talking to about breaking ritual and that would be it!" Duri assured her.

Chae-Won chuckled with amusement, "I bet I know someone who already has Iseul's scent pegged,"

Ji-Woon grimaced as she turned to Iseul, "Ugh! If that muscle-headed-meatball even comes within a hair of you, I'll tear out his gizzard and feed it to the strays," she growled, talking about Yung

Iseul rolled her eyes, "Chae's talking about Woosung, Teen Wolf,"

"Oh!" Ji-Woon nodded, sneakily stealing a glance at the group of boys behind them. She offered a fleeting smile when her gaze settled on the silhouette of her man engaged in conversation with Woosung. She then briefly assessed the older beta before returning her attention to Iseul, "No, I won't tear his gizz out,"

"How thoughtful of you," Iseul chuckled back.

A prolonged, resonant howl echoed through the air, capturing the attention of all the betas. They turned to face one of their alphas, Yoongi, who stood at the center of the encampment. Yoongi was a robust, unflappable, and sagacious leader, earning the unwavering respect of every beta under his and his brothers' protection. It was an exceedingly rare sight to witness alphas co-leading, given the often intense clashes of egos and struggles for dominance. However, all seven of them brought unique and distinctive qualities that made their pack one of the most formidable in South Korea.

"The Union is about to start! All participating betas are to meet at the edge of the clearing -- asap!" he called.

"At start of project!" his co-alpha, Jimin, called from behind him.

With that the mass of excited (and quite horny) betas migrated to the edge of their makeshift campsite. Duri sighed as she walked arm-in-arm with her friends, gazing longingly at Yoongi and Jimin, "If only alphas were allowed to participate in the Union,"

Iseul cocked a brow at her, "You forget they're the fucking alphas. They don't need to participate in this shit," she pointed out.

"Yeah! If Namjoon points at me and tells me to get on all fours, I'm there without question," Chae-Won nodded.

A familiar voice from behind the girls called out, "C'mon, girls. She's just saying that because she wants the privileges of alpha's mate," Dojoon said.

The girls turned around, smiling appreciably at their friends. Duri spoke up first, "And you don't fantasize about being alpha one day?" asked curiously.

"Of course he does, just not the boring parts," Woosung pointed out, "Diplomacy, security, pack treaties, mange breakouts..." he shuddered at the last one, "Nasty stuff,"

"Says the guy who spent a full two days lounging in a literal mud bath," Iseul teased back.

Woosung smirked back at her, "I didn't hear you complaining, Iseul," he pointed.

"I lost a bet; I wasn't supposed to complain," she replied, "You're lucky I didn't catch ticks,"

"Like I'd let that happen to you,"

Their friends meanwhile exchanged knowing glances between them, the boys tittering amongst themselves as they followed the male betas. Jaehyeong passed Ji-Woo and tossed a saucy wink her way, and the young beta couldn't help but blush and smile with giddy. Duri looped an arm around Ji-Woo's shoulders, tutting at her.

"God, you guys are gross," she commented with a smirk.

Ji-Woo rolled her eyes, peeling Duri's arm off of her as she followed the females, "Oh, go fantasize about Jungkook,"

"If Yung catches you, not even your wet dreams will save you," Chae-Won teased back. Duri flipped her off, she and Chae-Won chased after Ji-Woon meanwhile, knowing Iseul would catch up with them.

The young beta crossed her arms, nervously nibbling on her inner lip as she locked eyes with Woosung. His usually dark eyes were now speckled with gold, radiating beautifully against his illuminated complexion in the warm, flickering glow of the fire.

"So... are you ready?" he asked, praying his own anxiousness didn't show through his exterior.

They started walking together, "Am I ready to get shoved face-first into the dirt while a neanderthal tries to fuck me into his submission? Sure, why not?" she replied.

Woosung chuckled, "Sounds like you don't plan on getting caught tonight," he noted.

"If I can help it," she shrugged back, "You get the better end of the deal, anyhow: you get a say in who you want," her lips fell into a pout and Woosung saw he never saw anything cuter that night.

"Very true," he nodded, "But you never know, maybe you'll be tracked by somebody who would treat you right?"

"And maybe Duri's going to become an alpha's mate?" she chuckled back, "You have to agree though, Woo, this whole blood moon ritual is kind of ridiculous. For the twenty-first-century, anyway,"

"Maybe. But I like to think some of us adopted the twenty-first-century way of thinking," he replied.

"Besides you, I can't think of a single person," she said, "... Well, your friends are alright, too,"

"I'll let them know you said so," Woosung simpered.

They were coming to the starting line, with the girls grouped separately from the boys, all anticipating the howl to begin. Iseul glanced at Woosung, her stomach filled with excitement as the adrenaline surged, and her curiosity reached its peak, "So... out of curiosity... is there anybody here you're hoping to mate with?"

Woosung looked around, hoping he could throw her off his intentions as she shook his head, "I don't know. Obviously someone very obedient, submissive, knows how to cook and clean but fucks like a banshee, obviously," he smirked at her, living for that annoyed expression overtaking her face. She smacked his arm and he simply laughed.

"I know you're only joking, but if any part of you is serious I hope you die old and alone," she huffed.

Woosung's smirk never left as he started for his group, walking backwards to keep her in his line of sight, "In that case, you better hope I don't catch you, Iseul!" he teased.

Iseul tittered under her breath, her confidence flaring as she cocked her chin up, her own dark eyes illuminated with flecks of gold, "... I might not fight if you did," she admitted.

How it was that seven small words could get his heart racing so quickly he had no idea, but Woosung swore his mind blanked out as those seven words echoed in his head. There was a possibility that she was just teasing him, but then he knew when she was kidding around. Something in her tone told him she wasn't this time.

He couldn't help the pep in his step as he turned around, running to find his friends to tell them, "Dojoon!"

The group of female betas were chattering with giddy, some of them dressed skimpier than others, some had slipped notes into the pockets of potential suitors they wanted to tip off. And from the smell, so, so many of them were smack-dab in their heat cycles. Either way, the surrounding atmosphere was thick with lascivious anticipation, and of course there was a little bit of fear involved, too.

Iseul glanced behind her nervously, hoping to spot any trace of Woosung in the sea of faces. She caught him briefly, warming up with his friends for what she'd promised to be a long chase ahead of him. He caught her eye briefly, neither of them paying attention as Jimin reiterated the rules they'd heard time and time again. He winked at her again.

Iseul swore her heart stopped.

"Are you ready, girls?" he announced. The female betas let out a chorus of sharp howls, the sound echoing through the trees and across the horizon. Woosung could distinguish Iseul's pitched tone from miles away, her passionate howl igniting a fire in his core.

"Then... GO!" Jimin's call transformed into a prolonged howl, nearly overwhelmed by the sounds of excitement and squeals as the girls sprinted off into the shadowy depths of the woods. They usually had a minute's head start, but they all knew it wouldn't be long until the boys were upon them.

Iseul tried to keep close to her friends as best as she could, though when she looked over her shoulder again she was dismayed to find she was on her own. Nevertheless, her blood was pumping steadily, her legs burning with adrenaline and her feet thundered across the muddy landscape as she ran as fast and as far as she could. She leapt over bushes and careened around tree groves. Already she could hear howls and screams of the other females echoing through the trees, some twisted with salaciousness and eroticism. The boys were already prowling through the forest, and it wouldn't be long until they came upon her, too.

She slowed down at an old pine, stopping to catch her breath. It felt as though she had been running for hours, when Iseul knew that five or so minutes had only passed. This game wasn't supposed to end until dawn broke over the horizon, or until the males and females had found their mates. Either way, the night ahead of her was long and already the air was thick with the stench of sweat and sex.

Disembodied cries of lust continued to rattle her heightened hearing, intermingled with predatory howls. She could pick out Jaehyeong's pitch in the cacophony, and she had to wonder if he'd already pounced and claimed Ji-Woo, just like she'd always gone on and on about. Iseul shook her head at her friend's fantasies, never the less finding her enthusiasm endearing. Among the racket, Iseul could also pick out Yung's howl; a deep, ground-shuddering sound that reflected his own brutishness. She didn't like how close he sounded.

While she continued to run, Iseul came to the alarming realization that she hadn't heard Woosung's howl, not even once, not even when the boys initially set off. She couldn't help but wonder where he went, debating whether or not it was safe to call out to him, or if she'd gone too far for him to find her. But the latter was ridiculous, she knew he had her scent down to memory, if he wanted her he could find her easily.

That is... if he even wanted her in the first place. Who was to say he even took her previous pass at him so seriously.

The sharp snap of a twig pricked at her ears and Iseul turned hastily on her heel, her fingers curled God willing she needed to unleash her claws. But alas, there was nothing behind her.

Iseul, feeling a mixture of panic and indignation, turned around to find Yung's towering and imposing figure looming over her. His eyes bore a determined look, flecked with fiery gold and oranges, and his intent was clear - he was ready to claim her as his mate by any means necessary.

"Hi Iseul," he greeted, feigning politeness, taking a step forward. She took a step back, her worst nightmare coming true.

"Oh. Hey Yung," she said, doing her best to keep a brave front. The fact was she couldn't lie; she found Yung quite intimidating to be around on normal days. A frat-party-eque sex fest was even worse.

"I found you," he noted, his smile disgustingly lecherous.

"That you did," Iseul took another step back.

"So, you know what that means for us, right?" he asked, taking a step closer.

"That I didn't run far enough," she gaped back, not eager to a chase but she was willing if she needed to.

Yung chuckled darkly, "Oh, don't be that way, Iseul. You know the rules of the Union..." he reiterated, reaching out to stroke back her hair.

Iseul moved her head away, glaring sourly, "Yeah. The rules state you need to catch me, not just find me. That's just lazy," she pointed out.

"Somehow, I think you'll grant me the exception," he noted, "You and I would have beautiful pups together,"

She simpered back, "Not in this lifetime, show dog,"

Yung reached out, attempting to grab her, but with a swift movement, she extended her sharp claws and scratched him across his cheek. Yung yelped in pain and surprise as the sting of her claws met his flesh. It was a warning, a defense against his forceful advances.

Iseul wasted no time. She turned and bolted into the trees again, away from Yung, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and determination. Yung, nursing his bleeding face, roared in frustration as she disappeared, picking off her scent and taking off after her.

Sure, he was fast, he was practically the golden boy of the betas, but he wasn't as fast and agile as Iseul was. She knew he'd be hot on her tail and she had to find somewhere to hide, she'd even take the bog if she could find it. She didn't know where she was going, hell she couldn't even concentrate on looking straight ahead. Yung's vile scent was still in her nose and so long as that scent lingered, she knew she wasn't safe.

Rounding a grove of trees, Iseul was ready to hurl herself into the thrush when a pair of arms grabbed her. She screamed, fighting like a caged animal when she heard a familiar, soothing voice.

"Calm down! Calm down, Iseul! It's me! It's Woosung!" her friend held her tight against his chest as he fought to keep his grip on her. Iseul then relaxed, surrendering in his arms as her body suddenly felt incredibly heavy.

"Oh, thank God!" she panted, "I was this close to being mauled," she pinched the air with her pointer finger and thumb.

Woosung took a whiff of the air, "Don't thank the big guy, yet. Yung's still coming,"

As though on cue, the mighty werewolf emerged from behind the tree trunks, taking both of them off guard. He snarled viciously at Woosung, his own claws bearing from his fingertips.

"Let go of my mate," he growled.

Woosung shook his head, "Yung, c'mon -- we can talk about this. You know, like -- civilized men?"

Yung chuckled with pity, "We're not men, Woosung. We're barely human. And you have what belongs to me. I want it back,"

Iseul snarled back, "Oh, fuck you! Calling me an it!?" if she was stronger then Woosung she would've lunged for the beta, but Woosung held her fast against him. She could feel his heart thundering through her back.

It was then that Woosung had an idea, the only way he knew he could get Yung off of Iseul's back. Though, Iseul may not forgive him for it.

"She's not yours though, Yung," he pointed out, "I can smell her, you didn't claim her,"

Yung scoffed, "We were about to get there,"

"Not even in your dreams," Iseul spat back.

"But that means," Woosung continued, "That if you didn't claim her, then she's still fair game," he gave the bigger beta a cocky smirk. Yung's expression went from sheer anger to panic. He knew what Woosung was thinking.

"Don't do it," he warned him, "Don't you even think about it,"

Iseul caught on. If she wasn't so frightened, she may have been a little excited at what he was proposing. Woosung's breath cascaded down her ear, his vice-like grip on her loosening as he brushed his nose across the swoop of her neck. She smelled so fucking good. Iseul shuddered.

"I'm sorry," he whispered in her ear. Before Iseul had the chance to even ask, she felt his sharp teeth puncture the skin where her shoulder met her neck.

Her scream echoed across the forest.

As quickly as he latched on, Woosung released his bite. But the damage was done; her heat had overwhelmed her the moment he'd broken her skin. A sharp, pleasurable sensation coursed from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. Her heat had never felt so visceral before, consuming her to the point she fought to catch her breath. She could feel her blood trickling down her chest, and even more vividly, she could smell her own blood within Woosung's mouth.

Yung's spirit deflated, his claws retracting, and the once-ferocious gleam faded from his eyes. He understood the futility of his situation; that fighting back now would lead the alphas to exile him from the pack, not that it would make a difference if he did.

Iseul belonged to Woosung, now.

With a scathing snarl, Yung spat at the dirt, backing away slowly, "Fine. She's all yours. You enjoy," he turned on his heel and disappeared in the dark.

Both Woosung and Iseul sighed with relief. Woosung wiped his chin with his hand, guilt shuddering through him at the sight of her blood staining his hand. Guilt... but also a twinge of desire.

"He's gone now," he let her out of his arms. Iseul took two steps before she collapsed against a tree trunk, her legs as wobbly as jello and her skin felt as though it was caging an inferno. Woosung dashed to grab her before she could hit the ground, "Woah! You okay?"

She nodded, she let him set her down gently on the ground. Her breathing settled, as did the adrenaline coursing in her blood. Iseul was dirty, exhausted, but when she looked up at Woosung, sleep was the last thing she had on her mind.

"I'm fine," she huffed, averting her gaze to the clumps of grass and weeds before her, "That was -- oh my God!"

"I'm so sorry, Iseul. I didn't know what else to do," he crouched before her, laying a comforting hand on her knee. She was hot to the touch, every inch of her felt as though it was burning. Though she wasn't in pain.

Iseul cracked a smile and she placed her hand over his, "It's okay. Really, I'm okay," she assured him, "My dry-cleaning might have some questions about this, though," she pointed to the blood seeping into her t-shirt. Woosung simpered quietly, jokes were certainly a good sign.

"Does it still hurt?" he asked, his concern still sprawled across his expression.

She shrugged listlessly, "Not so much, anymore. I'd rather it was you than... you know," she sighed, "... Um... does this mean that...?"

"I think so," Woosung admitted, "We're mates, now,"

He expected Iseul to unleash a barrage of curses, to scold him for his reckless behaviour, but her hand on his remained steady. Her head fell back against the tree trunk, her eyes shimmering with flecks of gold, more radiant than Woosung had ever witnessed. She was utterly captivating, and the scent of her blood only intensified his smoldering desire.

What a dichotomy, he thought.

If Iseul wasn't so exhausted in that moment, she may have let her baser instincts win. She may have begged Woosung to take her hard and fast against this tree, to make her scream for him again and again. But Woosung wasn't just any werewolf, he was her friend first and foremost. And he already seemed so spooked from before.

"Well... do you wanna sit with your new mate until she regains the ability to walk again?" she asked, suppressing a chuckle.

Woosung's smile was genuine now, his tense shoulders relaxed as he gladly obliged her. He took his place beside her, careful of the bite as he looped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close. She smelled so tantalizing, his desire for her continuing to bubble in his gut and he prayed she didn't notice how he adjusted himself.

Iseul cuddled up into him, his familiar musk so comforting and the skin of his arms a cool contrast to hers. She didn't bother to suppress her smile when he laid a kiss on her temple, she felt as safe as she possibly could out here, under the blooming moon.

Indistinctive howls and moans continued to echo through the night, haunting Woosung and Iseul like harping banshees as they walked through the forest. While they couldn't see anybody, they knew better. There were couples thrusted into bushes, cloistered in the trees, copulating in the shadows and all around them.

The fire had definitely gone out by now, but the smell of burnt wood and kindling was as sharp as ever as it drew the pair back to their camp.

Any sting from Woosung's bite had subsided by now, but Iseul's state of desire remained the same. Nevertheless, she walked hand-in-hand with Woosung, silently processing what had just happened. Woosung really claimed her, after years and years of debating whether or not she should make the first move, praying that one day he'd come up to her and ask her himself, he'd really done it. Sure, it wasn't as romantic as she originally imagined, but the intent remained the same.

"So..." she sighed, "Are you gonna' rush and tell Dojoon and them what happened?" she asked, a mocking smile on her lips.

Woosung cocked a brow, glancing down at her curiously, "They might ask why I smell like your blood, so..." he chuckled, "But I'm not gonna -- I won't run and gossip with them, if that's what you mean,"

"That might be a tough one to play off," she simpered, "Did you follow me?"

"Hm?"

"Did you follow me -- back there? Or, did you just happen upon me like some sort of white knight?" she asked.

Woosung grinned sheepishly and his gaze averted to the ground, "I may or may not have been following your scent. It's easy to pick you out by now," he said.

Iseul smiled back, "Lucky you had," she replied, "Although it did kind of hinder your chance,"

"How do you mean?" Woosung asked, picking off the glimmer of mischief in her eyes.

She shrugged bashfully, "Well -- you didn't really get a chance to catch your mate properly. You know... after a ten minute chase, it's supposed to be filled with anticipation and sexual tension until you finally take her under a tree or something,"

Woosung cocked a brow, a sly smirk curling at his lips as he stopped in his tracks. Iseul stopped a couple steps after him, her gaze profoundly captivating.

"Is that what you want, Iseul?" he asked, taking a step closer. She wasn't intimidated as she had been with Yung, though she couldn't help the apprehensive pinching swirling in her gut as he looked at her that way. Something within him suddenly changed, shifting from the familiar, carefree Woosung to a more primal and instinctual version of himself.

She liked it a lot.

"... Maybe I do," she replied truthfully, "What would you say if I told you that... I only ever wanted you to be my mate?" she took a step closer as well.

Woosung though he was dreaming, he must've been. But the prickling breeze and the howls wailing over his head assured him over otherwise.

His excitement began to grow again, he cursed at himself for wearing fitted jeans because he knew that Iseul would be able to pick out the tent in his pants if she looked.

"I would say that I've longed to hear you say that for nearly my entire life," he admitted, bringing his chilled hand up to her cheek. Her skin wasn't as hot as before but she still felt so warm, the blood on her neck still tacky as his fingers fluttered down to her collarbone.

"How about I give you a five minute head start?" he offered.

Iseul gulped at his words, suddenly feeling her blood rushing to her cheeks. She was elated when the flecks of yellow and gold reappeared in his irises. She bit at her inner lip, a newly renowned adrenaline bubbling in her gut.

"A whole five minutes?" she queried, "Are we feeling confident?" she brought her hand to his chest, fingers flexing against the indent of his pectorals.

"Very," he leaned in, approaching her lips with his own. Iseul's eyes fluttered closed for a moment, waiting imminently to be lured into his trap before he whispered into her ear, "Your time starts now,"

Like a shot, Iseul pivoted on her heel and swiftly disappeared into the woods once again, a surge of renewed vitality propelling her as she ran. Woosung never truly appreciated the expression "I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave," more than he had in that moment, her slim physique but a flashing memory before his eyes though nevertheless her smell was still thick in his nose.

Iseul wasn't sure where she was going, much like previously she was itching to get as far away as fast as she could. Only difference here was she found herself laughing as she ran, coursing with giddy. She knew Woosung was a formidable hunter, he'd be on her in no time. Nevertheless, the chase this time was a little more more tantalizing than the last. She leapt over thrushes and ducked around trees, running until her legs burned and her chest began to tighten. She was excited, but it didn't mean that she was going to make this easy for him.

She finally stopped when she came to a clearing, dimly lit from the reddened tinge of the moon. The cacophony in the air had diminished, with many of her fellow betas either having found their own partners or chosen to remain hidden. Meanwhile, she was certain that numerous males had surrendered and retreated back. It was probably somewhere after midnight now, maybe closer to one in the morning? So much had already happened in such little time and yet Iseul still had so much energy to burn, anticipation prickling at her spine as she cased the area. There was no sound, not even a smell.

Iseul became nervous after ten minutes of waiting, wandering around the trees or stopping to stare up at the moon. She waited for the first whiff, the first crack of a twig or squelch of mud, giving her ample time to take off should she need to. If she even wanted to.

Her head whipped around when she heard a snapping in the distance, her apprehension elevated as she began to back out of the moonlight.

And then she smelled him. He was here.

She froze suddenly when her back made contact with something unexpected — not a tree trunk, but a chest. Almost immediately his scent overwhelmed her, the tip of his cold nose brushing softly across the unscathed side of her neck, her warm breath eliciting goosebumps over her skin. All thoughts of running vanished in a snap, her baser instinct taking over as his arms wrapped around her slim figure.

"Does it count now?" he tittered into her ear, his tone low and laced with a darker promise.

"Yes. Now it counts," she muttered, her voice just brushing above a whisper, "You took your time,"

"I wanted you to feel like you were winning," he teased, turning her so they came nose-to-nose. His face was infinitely closer now, maybe because her fingers were pressed against his nape, subtly pulling him lower. It didn’t take amazing eyesight to notice the tent growing in his pants. At this point her juices were trickling into her pants.

“I think I did win,” she looked at his lips. She loved the deep dimples in his cheeks; she had wanted to kiss them since she first noted them.

“We both did,”

She nodded, her fingers sliding under the edge of his t-shirt.

He shivered as he laid his lips against hers, simply pressing them there, pushing them gently against her own before disclosing them slightly with a barely-there lick. He moved back an inch to look at her, make sure she was alright.

Iseul's eyes were closed, her cheeks soft and warm under his palms, her lips inviting and thicker now that blood was rushing to them. Just as Woosung realized he wanted to stare at her some more, her eyelids lifted gently. Looking at his lips, she stretched forward, laying a peck on his dimpled smile before breathing out and sucking his lower lip into her mouth.

His growl was inhuman once he felt the warmth of her mouth on his tender skin. His hand went to the back of her head, pulling her closer while his other palm landed against the small of her back, her legs open so he could slot his hips between them, his pelvis meeting hers eagerly.

“Dammit. You’re beautiful,” he moaned, his mouth tracing her jaw. His mind raced at the thought all the sinful things he could do to his little eager mate.

She nodded and stretched her neck for him, offering him her throat. He bit instantly -- without breaking the skin this time, not even giving her time to think about it, causing her to moan and press her crotch against anything that could dull the edge of pleasure.

His hands went from her waist to the backs of her thighs, squeezing firmly, "Jump,"

"What?"

"Jump!" Iseul barely had her feet off the ground before his large hands held her fast against him, her legs wrapping around his torso. Then his knees were in the ground, using his core strength to lay her down under the tree canopy. He hissed when his muscles released.

“Did that hurt?” she asked, ready to fuss over him.

He shook his head curtly, “Listen, I don’t care about how far we go, okay? We can take this as slow as you want, we don't even --”

“Let’s play it by ear, mh?” she cooed, cupping his cheek as he kneeled over her.

He nuzzled his cheek against her palm, “Let’s do that," and he went in for another kiss.

She was teasing his lower lip with the tip of her tongue, making him frown as he tried to chase after her, “You've always been like a kid chasing for a treat, haven't you?”

“Just kiss me, you tease!” Woosung chuckled as he grabbed her face, pushing his open mouth against hers, his tongue making its way between her teeth, against her palate, caressing hers lewdly, slippery flesh against slippery flesh.

Iseul's hips grounded against his naturally, his palms lowering to grab her ass and lead you through the motion.

His own hips shyly pushing into hers caused her blood to boil, her skin flushed as her body temperature skyrocketed, “Keep moving on me,” he huffed out, his right hand leaving her hip to tease the hem of her shirt, “Can I?” he asked, waiting at the threshold of the naked skin below.

“I can take it off if you’d like,” she whispered, kissing the side of his neck.

“God, yes,”

The shirt was gone in a second, leaving her flushed chest clad only in her bra.

His focus went to her breasts immediately, “Oh.”

Iseul smirked and laid her hand on his, leading it to her left mound, making his fingers grab onto it, “You can squeeze it,”

He nodded and closed his eyes, relishing in the soft material. She was glad her bra was a thin cotton piece; she could feel him closer, harder, better.

Woosung watched her expression as he started massaging the flesh, gripping it energetically and pulling whimpers from her lips. He stopped immediately, “Too hard?”

She shook her head and giggled, “No, it's perfect. It’s perfect when it hurts just a little— Just like that, uh…” her eyes rolled back and her eyelids fluttered, “Just fine, Woosung. Damn perfect,”

He grinned, rutting his hips harder against her, “You like when it hurts?”

She hummed, too busy finding the perfect angle to meet his thrusts. “Kinda,”

Experimenting, he felt for her nipple pushing against the fabric before pinching it between thumb and forefinger, making her whimper even more. Her jaw fell slack before her back arched, her hand coming over her lips, a weak purr leaving her throat.

“Harder?” he asked, his free hand helping her grind against his thigh, gripping her asscheek, squeezing it, “Do you need it to hurt more? Better?”

She was far too gone to actually formulate sentences, no matter how small. The feel of his cock hardening, lengthening against her core was far too intense. She could feel it twitch and stretch, pressed against the zipper.

“Iseul,” he called for her attention.

She gave a small moan that meant both pleasure and acquiescence.

Deliberately, attentively, he pushed the cup of her bra down, studying the tender, thin skin of her breast while his lips pressed into her neck, leaving trails of kisses as he caressed her breasts, her hips, everywhere he could reach. He lolled his tongue out and managed to lick her nipple with the very tip of his tongue.

“Fuuuck, Woo, please, God… Just fuck me. I wanna cum. I— please. Make me feel good, Woo,”

He liked hearing her beg for him, he liked it way more than he ever thought he would. Somehow her pleas hit so much deeper within him. Maybe it was because she always looked so independent and self-sufficient, that feeling needed by her turned him on so wildly and inexplicably.

He nudged her left nipple with his lips, teasing it softly before sucking it into his mouth. The moan she emitted made his hips jut forward, a low grunt echoing in the air as he reckoned he needed to take his jeans off, still, having her warm torso against his was too much of a revelation for him to part from her hot skin.

Her hands buried into his hair as he swirled his tongue around her nipple before suckling on it lightly. Her body grew heavier at every movement trying to keep herself focused while his lips slid down her stomach to her aching core.

The wolf knew once he got this close to her beautiful heat there would be going back. Every day the taste of her would end up lingering on his tongue until he got to taste it again. This girl did things to him he could never explain to even her let alone anyone in the pack. Woosung was swift as he popped the buttons on her jeans, shoving her pants impatiently until he had her fully, vulnerable to him. His tongue moved up from her leaking hole to her throbbing clit. He couldn’t help but smile a little at how her whole body jerked at the new found pleasure.

Iseul felt how his tongue licked at one particular spot that jolted a surge up her pine, her body jerking. In seconds, she felt his lips wrap around the small nub, coaxing light moans to slip out of her while her fingers still tangled in his hair, “Woosung…”

His moan rattled vibrations against her core. With a slight pop, Woosung broke from his light snacking and bit into her thighs, a little treat just for him.

The smaller wolf giggled affectionately, caressing his head before he crawled over her. Propping herself up on her elbows, she watched Woosung strip himself of his clothes until they were both now bare. Her lust blown, golden eyes stared down at his twitching, hard member before licking her lips.

“Spread your legs,” he only had to tap her knee gently for her to move her legs apart more than enough for him to sneak in between. Wrapping his fingers around his cock, he rubbed the reddened tip against her clit making, elated as her head fell back, “You want it, baby?”

Iseul nodded frantically.

“I can’t hear you," his tip poked at her slit. The little game tortured him as much it did her, but he wanted to hear her beg again.

“Yes, I want it...” she jerked her hips against his movements, gasping when the tip of his cock entered her slightly, “I want it so bad,"

She always knew how to touch that extra nerve in his body every all the time. It was almost magical how Iseul had so much control over him by being so perfectly submissive. Woosung pushed his cock into her snug little hole with soaked ease, her cunt flowing, making it all the more harder not to just pound her into oblivion. His hips moved slow, letting the sounds of watery sloshing ring in his ears. Arms pressed down the sides of her body, caging over his mate as he relished in her warm walls.

Iseul held onto his forearm as she watched her pussy getting stretched by his cock. The amount of times she dreamed of this happening was a little embarrassing. Now that it was happening, she had him snug inside of her felt so invigorating, she could giggle in glee.

Their foreheads pressed together softly as Woosung whispered, “Is this good?”

She nodded, gasping and moaning. “Yeah…”

The one word was all that needed to be uttered for him to quicken his pace a little, skin slapping against skin ever so slightly. Woosung shifted down to his elbows now as he caressed her cheek, nosing at the base of her neck near her previous bite. His tongue drifted over the dried blood.

“Look at you,” he chuckled darkly, “I wanna' mark you again. Can I?”

“Please, Woo,” she begged, wrapping her arms around him,“Do it”

“Good girl,” He cooed.

When he opened his mouth and bit down — her voice echoed in a heavy cry, laced in pure lust and ecstasy. Woosung groaned, his knot sensitive as she clenched and pulsed around him. Her blood was sweet in his mouth as he broke the skin, pulling his canines out before licking over the wound to seal the punctures.

She now had matching marks, teeth punctures on either side of her neck.

And she fucking loved it.

“You're mine. You're all fucking mine,” he whispered breathlessly, still thrusting into her steadily.

“I'm yours,” she cupped his cheek, struggling to keep her gaze as the pleasure tickled her every nerve. “I always have been...”

Lips pressed against hers, tongue exploring everything he knew was willingly submitted to him tonight. Once the kiss broke the softness melted along with it as the beta pounded into her cunt. Arms back up, muscles popping out furiously before hooking one of her legs around his waist.

Her moaning became an uneven pattern melting into the sounds of their wet skin grinding and slapping against each other. As soon as Woosung leaned in closer, Iseul muffled a few of her whimpers into a heated kiss while her hand moved down to find that little nub, rubbing it to match with his thrusts. The tight ball in her lower belly exploded before she could even expect it, her legs trembling and a flurry of moans passing her lips.

Woosung felt her walls clench around him, already feeling the pressure around his cock push him closer to his orgasm. His thrusts grew a little more brutal, pawing at her hips and hammering into her while she gave him that beautiful, innocent smile to reassure him it was okay to keep going despite her sensitivity.

“Cum inside me…” she whimpered, her body literally shook with the force of his thrusts.

Her adorable whisper was all it took for the wolf to finally come undone, filling his mate up with his seed in sloppy and rough thrusts. Only until the last drop did he pull out slowly watching a little bit of his release dripping out of her.

“... That's it,” Iseul giggled, brushing his shaggy hair out from his eyes, "We're stuck together,"

Woosung's boyish grinned returned, his nose poking into the crook of her shoulder again as he collapsed on top of her. His scalding body was a surreal contrast to the cold, wet ground beneath her. All traces of the dominant wolf had vanished from his eyes, irises still flecked with gold as they adored her.

"You're mine," he cooed, laying a kiss over her pulse point, "You're so much more than just my mate, Iseul,"

"So are you," she awed, "I'm curious, though..."

"What about?" he asked.

She didn't want to ruin the mood they had, but she had to know, "... If we didn't mate tonight, would you have picked somebody else?"

Woosung gulped, not knowing how to tell her that he had eyes on her for the longest time, to the point that he rarely noticed the appearances of the other female betas. While he acknowledged their attractiveness, he also realized that many people were indeed "pretty." Nobody even came close to Iseul's beauty, “Probably not. None of them would taste as good as you,”

Iseul giggled, swatted at his bicep, “You didn't know what I tasted like until now.”

“No, but you smelled really fucking good,” he smiled, nudging her cheek with his nose, “I thought I lost you earlier… just for a second,”

Her head shook with dismay, "No one's gonna' mess with us, now. I’m yours now, remember?” she lay a small kiss on his chest.

Woosung caressed her cheek, not being able to help mimicking a little smile of his own, “You’re mine,"

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exouniverse · 1 year ago

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Layover - Moodboard • Woosung x gn!reader

#happy woosung day #happy birthday woosung #the rose woosung #kim woosung #woosung #sammy the rose #woosung x reader #woosung fluff #woosung fancfic #woosung the rose #sammy x reader #the rose fluff #the rose fanfiction #the rose fanfic #woosung moodboard #the rose moodboard #the rose band #the rose #moodboard

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yoongissweetdream · 5 months ago

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I have added a prompt list. There isn't many right now but if I think or find more, I'll add to it.

Requests are OPEN!

REMEMBER - I have the right to refuse a request if you've ignored my rules or it makes me feel uncomfortable.

When requesting...

- Send your request to my ask box. You can request on or off anon but please keep it kind and respectful.

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Who do I write for? 🚫- on hiatus

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What Can You Request?

Right now I am only taking requests for imagines & timestamps.

What am I willing and unwilling to write? NO List under cut for trigger warnings.

YES fluff, angst, comfort etc YES established relationship, platonic relationship, FWB, E2L, F2L, love triangle, unrequited love, brothers/sisters best friend YES pregnancy and family fics (mum!reader, dad!idol, single!parent etc) YES AU fics - mafia, paranormal, non-idol etc YES main/support character death

NO smut! (because I suck at writing it. Not all of us can be smut writers lol) NO poly/throuples! NO minor readers! NO abortions, stillbirth, infant/child death! NO severe mental illness! NO suicide/suicidal tendencies/attempts. NO cancer/terminal illness NO stepcest/incest NO Child, Domestic and Sexual abuse/violence

If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask.

Happy requesting everyone!

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wolfsung · 9 months ago

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𝑾𝒐𝒐𝒔𝒖𝒏𝒈 🜲

#kim woosung #woosung #the rose band #black rose #headers #headers twitter #x reader #foryou #foryopage #ullzang icons #korean ullzang #kpop #the rose kpop

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mangowillow · 1 year ago

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last to know | ch. 2: as always, even now

pairing: jungkook x (f) reader / kim woosung x (f) reader

warnings: mentions of weight loss and a hospital, jeongguk has a panic attack (semi-detailed), problematic parent-child dynamics. let me know if i miss anything and please be kind!

word count: 5.3k

author's note: *peeks into the void* why hello there! let's pretend i didn't disappear off the face of the earth. earlier this year i went to see The Rose live for their dawn to dusk tour and it was so much fun! there's just a lot of things that have happened and continue to do so; please accept my sincerest apologies for being inconsistent! BUT. know that i haven't forgotten about this story. heh.

also a few more things: ♡ to put things into perspective: jeongguk, OC/reader, and woosung are all the same age; that also means they're as old as seokjin and yoongi in this fic. all the other members maintain their age. honorifics may or may not appear at times. if that bothers you, well, can't please everybody! ♡ this fic isn't beta'd nor proofread by anyone. we go rogue, always.

tags for interested readers will be open for as long as this fic is ongoing! let me know in the comments or message me, whatever fits your preference!

fic masterlist

Woosung plants a big, sloppy kiss on your cheek and giggles.

Looking at him, you ask, “What was that for?”

“Do I need a reason?” Woosung teases as he chews on his jjajangmyeon. You chuckle at his candidness and reach out to wipe the sauce that landed on the corner of his lip. The both of you resorted to sitting on the floor, surrounded by boxes, using one of them as a makeshift table to place the food.

“I’m really happy you got to come today,” you muse, enjoying Woosung’s calming presence as he delicately places a piece of chicken karaage on your noodle bowl before setting his own down. You haven’t seen him for a few days because he needed to get some new music done in preparation for his application to a recording agency as a performer and a producer. You were more than happy to support him in any way you could, including giving him his space to figure things out. It was also who Woosung was— a quiet soul who liked working in solitude.

You and Woosung are so much alike.

“Why? Did you think I’d forget?” Woosung teases, a smirk playing on his lips.

“No, I just thought… maybe you needed more time to prepare for your application. That’s important.”

Woosung gently shakes his head, ready to disagree— “Nothing will ever be as important to me as you.”

A slight pink dusted your cheeks. You didn’t expect him to be this cheesy so early in the morning so you smile and cast your eyes back down to your meal.

“... I do have news for you, babe.” Woosung starts. He turns his body to face you. Giving your hundred percent attention, you cut the noodles with your teeth and place the bowl down. Wiping your mouth with a napkin, you hum at his statement, “What is it?”

Woosung smiles and looks at you lovingly. You feel a bit self-conscious every time he stares at you so intensely and like clockwork, you feel your cheeks heat up.

“I got the job, sweetheart.”

Hearing the news leave his lips leaves you surprised— your hands fly to your mouth and your eyes start to water. “R-really?” Woosung nods and chuckles through his own teary eyes, you throw yourself at him to give him a tight hug. “Woosung, oh my god— this is— “ you hold him by the shoulders, explore every inch of his face, elation in both of your hearts— “this is great, oh gosh I am so happy for you,” you hug him again.

You feel Woosung’s body relax instantly in your hold; it has been a journey, walking with Woosung through his own painful moments struggling with his art and passion. Two years ago, he came to Seoul desperately needing a break from life and music after many unsuccessful attempts to make it into the music industry back home in the United States. Although he and his bandmates have put out several songs in the past, they never really gained as much traction with an audience as they had hoped. Going back home to his roots in South Korea also meant leaving his bandmates behind— they have been nothing but supportive of him and his time as they also needed to re-assess their own lives and figure out what they truly wanted.

Two years ago, Woosung also met you. Both your lives changed ever since.

“Thank you for all your support, ____… you know I wouldn’t have been able to get through all this if it weren’t for you.” Woosung whispers, tightening his hold on your waist. You feel this, you feel everything when it comes to him— so you wrap your arms tighter around him, too. “This is all you, babe. This is all your hard work.”

You both stay that way for a while. Unspoken words are left hanging, as well. You both know well what might become of all this as you always try to communicate. You believe it is what has sustained your relationship for so long.

Both of you know that Woosung will always belong to music— it’s his dream and the reason why he took so many risks along the way. It was only a matter of when. The possibilities have always been there— should there be a moment where Woosung would return to his career, to his band, to becoming a global star. The fears that come along with those possibilities were also ever-present: what you and Woosung’s future would look like.

All of these thoughts come rushing to the both of you, but neither of you said anything.

For now, the both of you are happy. And that is enough.

When you parted from each other, you pushed away some of the hair that fell over Woosung’s eyes. “When do you start?”

Woosung takes a deep breath, “As soon as the higher-ups get settled in. I’ve been told they’ve recently landed in Seoul so it shouldn’t be too long now. I’ll be meeting with the owners and one of them is the lead producer. I heard he was a genius, but also a bit scary. They’ve also given me a signing bonus and a potential collaboration with him… that was new… he said they liked my work so much…”

“Wow, that… that sounds so exciting, baby. How are you feeling about all of this?”

“I’m nervous, for the most part,” Woosung murmurs, readjusting the collar of his shirt. It’s been a while since I talked to someone else about music professionally and… this company— I’ve heard so many wonderful things about it. For one, it was built by musicians, too. So I’m hoping they’re not just doing all of it for the business.”

You smile warmly at Woosung and hold his hands. “You’re going to do great, you know that, right?”

Woosung draws in a breath and nods before meeting your eyes.

That night, Woosung couldn’t sleep. He watches over you as you dream and when a strand of your hair falls on your face after moving a bit, he tucks it behind your ear. His fingers lightly dance while grazing the side of your face. Woosung sighs as a feeling of anxiety starts to creep into his heart. He loves change, but he cannot help but feel somewhat scared about it anyway. He gets so lost in his thoughts about you that he doesn’t notice you wake up.

“Baby, hey… you’re still awake.”

Your voice brings Woosung back to the present. Seeing your sleepy eyes under the sliver of moonlight that passes through your window makes his heart do a mini somersault— it always does.

“Hmm… I couldn’t sleep,” Woosung says. You scoot closer to him, his arm going under your shoulders to support your body in an embrace.

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” you whisper, eyes closed, inhaling his scent— him.

“Just… things. I’m not sure how to articulate them yet…”

You hum, “Then I’ll just stay like this with you to keep you warm… warmth helps you sleep, right?”

Woosung nods, bringing your body closer to his. “Hm… especially your warmth.” Seconds later, he feels you breathe deeper, letting him know that you’re about to let yourself succumb to sleep once more. “I love you.”

When no response came from you, Woosung closed his eyes. Then suddenly, in the stillness of the night, he feels your hand squeeze his ever so lightly.

“I love you, too.”

“Hyung, I think that’s the salt—” Jimin starts.

Seokjin snorts, stopping with the shaker in his hand mid-air, “What do you mean, Jimin-ah, I think I know the difference between salt and sugar.” He was about to potentially put salt on the croffle in front of him, leaving Jimin feeling both very nervous and distressed.

“Last time, I remember you put the sugar in a different container because a customer accidentally broke the original shaker. The color of the cap was blue, not red. This—” he pointed at the shaker Seokjin was holding, “— is obviously not blue.”

“Yah, that happened last week, but I already switched them out two days ago—” Seokjin tries to argue.

They didn’t notice Woosung enter the cafe until he spoke, “Why don’t you just taste it?”

“Oh hey, Woosung-hyung,” Jimin greets.

“Hey, Jimin. Good to see you,” Woosung replies as Jimin nods, his eyes turning into crescents as soon as he smiles.

Seokjin scoffs once more before greeting Woosung, but he relents and tastes whatever is inside the shaker. When he makes a funny face, Jimin and Woosung chuckle.

“Told ya, hyung. Tell us I saved your life.”

“I can’t believe this is salt, I knew I already switched it out—”

With possible disaster averted, Jimin doesn’t listen to Seokjin’s monologue anymore, “You’re here early today, hyung. Would you like to order the usual?”

“Actually, I am here to buy a mango parfait… ____’s fridge is crazy cold and the frozen mangoes are, well, too frozen. I might actually break the blender. I also forgot to make her usual overnight oats. We had to move a lot of things very quickly yesterday so she could have a bed to sleep on.”

“I got you, hyung. We just finished making a fresh batch of parfaits. Do you want one, too?” Jimin asks.

“Are there other flavors?”

“Blueberry and strawberry,” Seokjin adds.

“I’ll take one blueberry, then. Thanks.” Woosung gets ready to pay, but Seokjin waves him away. “It’s on the house.”

“You always give us free stuff, Seokjin—” Woosung tries to argue, but Seokjin shakes his head immediately.

“Taking care of my sister is more than enough, Woosung-ah.”

Woosung gives Seokjin a tight smile and nods. Seokjin then asks, albeit softer, “How is she doing lately?”

“She’s doing better,” Woosung reassures. “She has been painting more recently; not just because of her job at the university, but also at home. We’re going to set up her studio today so it should be fun.”

“That’s good to hear, right hyung?” Jimin turns to Seokjin, who nods. Jimin hands Woosung a paper bag with the parfaits. “I put some new desserts we’re experimenting with. Please give them a try.”

Woosung peeks at the paper bag and sees croissants and greenish muffins, presumably matcha-flavored. “Oh wow, thank you Jimin… I won’t take up too much of your time, guys. ____ is still sleeping and I need to clean up the mango disaster I left on her kitchen counter before she wakes up.”

Seokjin chuckles, “You really came all the way here for parfaits when you could have bought these anywhere near ____’s apartment.”

“Ah, but nothing beats your parfaits, Seokjin. A wise man once told me that,” Woosung smiles. He and Seokjin instantly formed a bond the moment they met two years ago, much to your relief. You’ve always been nervous to tell your brother anything remotely new about your love life— and you understand where he is coming from.

“Well whoever that wise man is must be pretty smart,” Seokjin replies. His eyes soften right afterward. “Go. Let’s have a drink sometime, yeah?”

“Sure thing,” Woosung waves goodbye to Seokjin and Jimin.

Jeongguk walks the hallway of the recording studio, still groggy from sleep. Hands in his pockets, he stood outside Yoongi’s door, staring at his peculiar mat: a cat with its middle finger raised, the words ‘fuck off’ glaring at him. Figures, he thought. A doormat won’t stop him from ringing Yoongi’s doorbell, though.

“Who is it?” he hears Yoongi call out.

“It’s your favorite person in the whole wide world,” Jeongguk says, sarcasm lacing his voice. He pinched the bridge of his nose; a habit he developed in college whenever he felt the exhaustion seep out of him. He hears scuffling from the other side of the door until the sound of the door’s automatic lock rings. Jeongguk sees Yoongi clad in a plaid shirt, ripped jeans, and a gray beanie— his signature style.

“Dumbass,” Yoongi mutters under his breath before turning his back to return to his equipment. “Good morning to you too,” Jeongguk teases as he closes the door behind him.

“How are you already set up? It’s barely a day since we arrived!”

Yoongi chooses not to respond.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Jeongguk asks in disbelief. “Please tell me you at least went home to get your shit sorted? Or maybe sleep like normal human beings do?”

“I did… for a brief moment, maybe?” Yoongi starts.

Jeongguk shakes his head, “You have to stop spreading yourself thin, Yoongi. It’ll be the death of you.”

Yoongi fiddles with a few knobs on the synthesizer before muttering, “That doesn’t seem so bad— spreading myself too thin, that is.”

Jeongguk throws his hands up in surrender and rolls his eyes.

“Have I succeeded in frustrating you to hell and back, yet?” Yoongi smirks while continuing to flit his eyes through the numerous screens in front of him.

Jeongguk was about to say something but then the door alarm clicked. Kim Namjoon’s head peeks out from behind the door.

“I came to say my welcome remarks,” Namjoon says as he lets himself in. Jeongguk’s mouth falls open because he couldn’t believe Namjoon could just easily waltz in without any resistance. What’s even more astounding was that he knew Yoongi’s passcode— while he, on the other hand, had to ring the fucking doorbell.

“Oh, great. So your boyfriend knows your passcode and I don’t?” Jeongguk asks.

“He isn’t my boyfriend,” Yoongi states, matter-of-factly. Jeongguk couldn’t help but glance at Namjoon’s way, who seemed unfazed.

“Right, and I’m Neil Armstrong,” Jeongguk plops down on the couch.

“You’re the CEO, Jeongguk, of course, you should know the passcode… right, Yoongi?” says Namjoon, ever the oblivious one.

Yoongi continues to do work on his computer, his fingers deftly flying across his keyboard, “Don’t encourage him, Namjoon.”

Namjoon looks back at Jeongguk who has now taken an interest in the plant beside the couch. When they met each other’s eyes, Namjoon just shrugged, his dimples showing.

“How was your flight, you guys? I hope everything was easy peasy.”

“Easy peasy lemon squeezy,” Jeongguk responds. “Not sure about Yoongi here though. He looked like he was about to puke.”

“Shut up,” Yoongi retaliates.

“I can’t imagine the both of you tolerating each other while in another country. It’s a miracle this production company is still standing upright,” Namjoon says chuckling.

Namjoon met Jeongguk first in university while they studied in New York. Although Jeongguk was a business student and Namjoon double majored in music theory and composition, they ran into each other at a frat party-— with Jeongguk being drunk off his ass. He was about to fall into the pool full of piss (which the other frat members thought was funny) when Namjoon saved him in the nick of time.

Apart from Yoongi, Namjoon also served as Jeongguk’s confidant, especially after things went south between you and Jeongguk. When the dust settled and Jeongguk was sober enough to realize the gravity of his mistakes, Namjoon helped Yoongi pick up the pieces of Jeongguk’s brokenness. As with time passing by, Namjoon and Yoongi started to develop into something more, too. Much to Jeongguk’s delight and envy.

However, neither Yoongi nor Namjoon has admitted their feelings to the other. And truth be told, Jeongguk is sick of them dancing around each other.

But he also knows it’s none of his business.

“Hey, Jeongguk, is that family dinner of yours still happening tonight?” Yoongi decides to ask. Also probably to change the subject.

Jeongguk lets out a deep sigh. “Yes, it is.”

“Ouch. Will you be alright?” Namjoon asks out of genuine concern.

“I don’t really have a choice.”

“You always have a choice, Jeongguk-ah,” Yoongi inserts. “You just need to work on making the right ones.”

Jeongguk slacks his jaw and runs his tongue across his lip ring. He doesn’t really have an answer to that.

Because once again, Yoongi was right. Not just about the damn family dinner; Jeongguk also knows his best friend’s words run deeper and imply a whole lot more than just feeling forced to sit down with his parents over steak and champagne.

“See you on the other side, then,” Namjoon says as he pats Jeongguk on the shoulder before leaving the room.

Jeongguk mulled over bringing flowers to the family dinner but decided against it.

He knows that the house would be filled with them, anyway. And his efforts won’t matter, either.

As he got out of his car, a chauffeur was already by his side ready to take his keys for him. When the car drove off, Jeongguk took a moment to look at the house he hadn’t lived in for years. It feels odd to come home; it feels even odder to feel numb about all of it.

It took Jeongguk a few seconds to ring the doorbell; for god’s sake, it was his house too, he thought. Ringing the doorbell meant he was a stranger— which he felt was appropriate.

He was greeted by a new housekeeper. He gave her a nod before stepping inside. Almost instantly, his mother appeared at the top of the staircase. They look at one another for a moment, before his mother breaks the silence.

“You finally decide to show yourself.”

Jeongguk doesn’t move. Doesn’t respond, either. He was prepared for a stare-off match with his mother, but that was until his father showed up from the kitchen. With a dish towel in hand, Jeongguk’s father smiled at him as he placed a hand on his son’s shoulder.

“It’s so good to see you, son.”

Jeongguk, once more, doesn’t have it in him to respond.

At the dinner table, the silence was so loud, that Jeongguk thought it could break glass.

“Did you settle in fine, Jeongguk?” his father asks.

“Yes, father, I did.”

“You should have chosen a place that was nearer to us, Jeongguk,” his mother chides.

“Honey…” Jeongguk’s father tries to put out a fire that is about to ignite. Jeongguk, on the other hand, was so tired from the flight and emotionally, that he felt a need to retaliate.

Because why not? Whether he speaks up or not wasn’t really up to him. Between him and his mother, he has nothing to lose.

“I don’t know, mother, I chose that place because I wanted to get away from here as much as possible.” Jeongguk remarks. He knows he hit a nerve because his mother downed her champagne rather than respond.

“How is the company going, son? Everything doing alright?” his father asks, trying to mitigate a conflict that neither of them could recover from.

“I guess. Yoongi and I haven’t managed to burn anything so that’s nice,” Jeongguk eats a spoonful of mashed potato. He knows he really needs to shut up and regulate his emotions, but he just can’t help but be sarcastic.

Once more, the silence won. However, Jeongguk’s mother is the type to not back down.

“You should think about getting married soon, Jeongguk—” she starts. Jeongguk feels himself grow cold as if on instinct.

“—and this time, we want you to marry someone your level,” she finishes. Jeongguk felt his heart twisting so painfully that he didn’t notice how tight he held on to his cutlery.

Jeongguk swallows the once-repressed pain that used to consume him whole. He knows this is futile because he never dares to face his regrets square in the face. Instead, he allows the pain to make him angry. He allows his resentment to consume him in ways he doesn’t know how to handle and in a pained effort to avoid causing further damage, he remains quiet. Unresponsive. Cold. Withdrawn.

But his own mother is even more cold-hearted than he is. She is the one who made him like this.

It’s her fault.

“You need to marry a good woman who can keep up with your social status. Remember you’re not just anyone, Jeongguk. You’re a Jeon. And you have a legacy to uphold,” his mother condescends.

Tears start to sting Jeongguk’s eyes, but he doesn’t want to let his mother win. So he keeps still.

“I have a few prospects for you, dear. We should set dates for them, don’t you think so? I chose the most refined and educated—” Jeongguk hates how his mother knows how to push his buttons and hurt him.

He knows that his mother knows his ultimate weakness.

You.

And because his mother cannot contain her insecurities and prejudice, she projects it all on her son. But most especially, you— whether you were in the room or not.

Jeongguk’s mother continues her monologue. His father miserably fails to become the referee (he always does). Heat starts to rise Jeongguk’s neck and he swears he could hear his own blood pumping through his ears. What almost immediately follows is the high-pitched ringing that only he can hear.

Jeongguk starts to feel dizzy; like he’s about to lose control.

But instead of releasing, instead of crying, instead of getting angry— he does none of them.

He finds himself standing up, his hands dragging the plate full of food to the ground. With all his might, Jeongguk tries to breathe deeply.

“That’s enough, mom.” Jeongguk croaks. A tear escapes his eye. “Please.”

Jeongguk rarely addresses her as “mom”. But in times of vulnerability and helplessness, it’s the term he ends up using.

“As I expected… you are still weak, Jeongguk.” his mother states with absolutely no remorse.

Jeongguk feels like he is about to throw up. To save himself, he drags his legs to leave the dining area. Housekeepers try to help him, but he brushes them aside. Security guards around the house up until the gate tried to support him, but Jeongguk just waved them all off.

He just needed to get away before his vision completely blurred. He needed to get out of this godforsaken house.

It was a miracle that Jeongguk got far away from the house as he had. But in doing so, he felt physically weaker and weaker. His mind isn’t done with him yet as thoughts of you start to resurface. His chest starts to tighten again. He feels cold and afraid and tired.

Jeongguk falls to his knees on the side of the road; he allows his body to go limp and fall to the ground.

He barely remembers what happened next.

When Jeongguk opens his eyes, bright, stale lights greet him.

He hears beeping, faint footsteps, a voice over an intercom.

He feels something brushing his leg so gently that it takes him a while before realizing that someone is standing over him, wiping the edge of his slacks.

Jeongguk squints his eyes to get a better look at the person touching his leg. When he tries to elevate his upper body, the person in front of him feels him moving.

Jeongguk couldn’t believe who he was seeing. His panic attack must still be happening because it was impossible.

It was you.

“Oh… hi,” you start. Jeongguk is at a loss for words so he continues to stare at you.

You immediately feel self-conscious so you start to wrangle the damp cloth you were holding.

“Are you okay? Hang on, I’ll call the nurse—”

You start to leave, but Jeongguk catches your wrist. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. You look at his hand on your wrist before Jeongguk lets go of it.

“W-what happened?”

“You’re at the hospital… um, I– I got a call from them saying you were here,” you say.

Jeongguk’s eyebrows met. He is still confused as to how or why the hospital would call you. As he looks at you, in the flesh, in front of him, the familiar ache in his chest threatens to overwhelm him again.

You look as beautiful as ever, even more so than the last time he saw you. The last time he did, you were crying to him. He did that to you. That was his fault.

“Are you hurt, anywhere, Jeongguk? I think I need to call your doctor, just give me a second—”

“No… please. I’m okay. I don’t feel any pain.” Except for my broken heart.

“Oh… okay.”

Jeongguk observes you, more particularly your hands. You still have that habit of fiddling with your fingers when you didn’t know what to do, he thinks.

“H-how did the hospital call you? You didn’t change your number?” Jeongguk is a hundred percent sure his choice of questions was dumb, but he doesn’t have any idea as to why you’re here.

“The hospital told me I was your emergency contact… they uh– they only found your wallet on you and found this,” you explain as you handed him his wallet. Inside was an old piece of paper with your emergency contact number and e-mail address.

“The e-mail address is now defunct, but my number is still the same because I had it reactivated when I came back here…”

When I came back here, Jeongguk repeated to himself.

Jeongguk wanted to ask you a million questions, but his throat feels dry and he is unable to speak.

“I um, I also called Yoongi. He should be here any minute,” you continue. When Jeongguk looks at you funny, you give him a small smile— the first one you’ve given him since he woke up. “We talk sometimes.”

There is a lot of information that Jeongguk needs to process but his head hurts a lot and he makes a mental note to interrogate his friend later.

You move to grab and open the plastic bag that is on the bedside table. You pull out a pair of black socks. Jeongguk sees you hesitate a bit before speaking again.

“I got these across the street… your socks got wet from the rain.”

“Oh.” Jeongguk feels really dumb.

“May I?” you tentatively ask. “Your feet will get cold if we don’t—and you have the IV on so you won’t be able to use your hands—”

“It’s okay…” Jeongguk’s response startles you. “Thank you.”

You nod and sit by his feet to put on the new socks. Jeongguk feels the tears again but he tries to hold them back as he feels your touch and your warm fingers graze his bare, cold skin. When you’re done putting them on him, you smile to yourself.

“Does that feel better?” you ask.

Jeongguk nods and hums. He took his time to look at you and to his mild surprise, you reciprocated. A sense of stillness seemed to occur like time stopped just so Jeongguk could fully take in the sight of you.

He hurriedly tries his best to memorize all your features—old and new. Your face is smaller, your cheekbones higher; both indicative of you losing a bit of weight since he saw you last. Your eyes are softer, but also more tired. You also grew out your hair.

To Jeongguk, you are still so beautiful.

And he missed you so much that his heart hurt again at the thought of losing you.

“How are y—” Jeongguk tries to ask, but the door to his hospital room slid open, revealing a disheveled Yoongi.

“Jeongguk, are you okay? What happened?”

Jeongguk notices you quickly moving aside to give Yoongi room.

“I’m fine, Yoongi. I guess I just passed out and—”

“You had another panic attack, Jeongguk. That’s the second time this week. Have you taken your medication?”

Yoongi’s string of questions had Jeongguk feeling anxious. He just had the unexpected chance of seeing you again but under the most dire circumstances. Surely, it wasn’t the time for you to hear about his mental health issues.

“Yoongi, can we—” Jeongguk tried to save face, but Yoongi was faster.

Yoongi turns to you and hugs you. “I’m sorry, ____, you must have been so confused.”

“No, not at all, I’m… I’m glad I could be of help,” you reassure. More so for Jeongguk because you know this must be very awkward for him.

A bit of awkwardness did happen because none of you spoke for a bit. Your phone ringing was the only saving grace.

“Hello? Oh, okay. I’ll be right out,” you answer the other person on the line. Hanging up, you say, “Um… I should get going.”

“Is someone picking you up?” Yoongi asks.

“Yes, Taehyung’s just a few minutes away,” you answer.

Yoongi nods and pulls you in for another hug. He whispers his thanks and you respond by hugging him tighter.

You also approach Jeongguk a little closer. “Take care of yourself, Jeongguk.” You see the pain in his eyes, but you refuse to acknowledge it to yourself, even if Jeongguk’s eyes were brimming with unshed tears and his nose was already pink.

Jeongguk doesn’t want you to go. But again, he has no choice but to let you.

“You too, ____.”

As soon as you close the door, Jeongguk allows his tears to fall.

As soon as you get into the car, Taehyung asks his questions.

“Why the hell did you just come out of a hospital?”

“Tae—”

“Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere? You’re the only one there? What happened?” You can feel the panic rising in Taehyung as he inspects you, but you just chuckle.

“Yah—you laugh?”

“I’m fine, Taehyung,” you tell him but he doesn’t look convinced. “I really am.”

“Then why were you in there?”

“I saw Jeongguk again, Tae,” you calmly respond.

Taehyung freezes. “You’re joking, right?”

“I’m not,” you answer.

“And you’re… are you okay?”

“I am.”

Taehyung knows you better than that but he gives you a pass because he could also tell you were tired and your short answers mean that you didn’t want to talk just yet.

“Do you want to talk about it over ice cream and fries?”

For a second, you felt tempted, but you just also wanted to go home. “Maybe some other time, Taehyung.”

Taehyung understands immediately and nods. “Should I take you to Woosung hyung or do I take you home?”

You do want to see Woosung because you know he is what you need, but you also don’t want to burden him with a bombshell of an event so you opt to be alone for the night. “Take me home, please.”

“Okay, ____,” Taehyung answers.

The rest of the car ride was a quiet one.

The short walk in the hallway leading to your home is a heavy one. As you punch in your passcode, you deeply sigh. You want nothing more than to collapse on the bed and ruminate on what just happened over the past few hours.

However, the moment you open the door, a wave of delicious scents welcomes you home. As you take off your shoes, you see a familiar pair. You smile to yourself as you place yours beside it.

You enter your home further and see Woosung with his back to you, working his way in the kitchen. As if on cue, Woosung turns around and walks toward you.

“Hey you,” you say with a smile.

“Hi,” Woosung responds, gathering you in his arms and pulling you into a tight embrace. “Did you have a good day, today?”

You feel yourself swallow once before nodding. Woosung, ever the sensitive boyfriend, holds you tighter.

You know you can’t hide from him. So you hold on to him tighter, too.

And you allow yourself to break down and cry.

Woosung feels your body shake and he runs his hand across your back to soothe you.

He may not know what’s going on right now, but he also knows you will talk to him when you’re ready. So he continues to embrace you; kissing the side of your head after a while.

Woosung whispers against your ear, “You’re safe with me, sweetheart.”

taglist: @whoa-jo @nays2112 @junecat18 @jk97bam @butterymin @smdnai

tags for interested readers will be open for as long as this fic is ongoing! let me know in the comments or message me, whatever fits your preference!

#jungkook x reader #jungkook imagine #jungkook x you #jungkook angst #jungkook scenarios #bts au #bts au fanfic #woosung x reader #jungkook divorce au #divorce au

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viola-verse · 5 months ago

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Fan Compilation Video: Samola Moments- Part One (?) by lalasgarden

Summary: 7 minutes of Samola (Sammy & Viola) moments all us flowers have been waiting for. All video clips have come from Viola's SEVENTEEN DAYS IN L.A: Part One (Coming Soon) vlog.

Small Bold - video captions.

A/N: Little late but Happy Woosung Day.

Youtube Compilation Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Send a request | Join the taglist

Hello, welcome back to my channel or welcome to my channel if you're new here. Today I bring you a new Viola compilation video. I have gathered all my favourite clips of Viola & The Roses's Woosung from Viola's latest vlog - SEVENTEEN DAYS IN L.A: Part One. I suggest you go watch that if you haven't yet.

Before we start, I just want to say, I am in no way shipping Sammy and Viola together. I created this video in appreciation of their friendship and the platonic love they have for one another.

Now onto the video:

The video starts video call between the two friends as they talk about Viola heading to Los Angeles for seventeen days to record some songs and shoot a music video for her next comeback. The two of them finally got permission to collaborate on two songs together.

“Are you excited about coming to L.A?” Woosung is heard asking Viola, who nods, a mix of excitement and nervousness on her face. “This is your first time coming to L.A, right?”

She nods again.

Woosung seems to pick up on her nervousness, “You’ll be good,” he assures her. “I’ll be there with you. I’ve already promised [name redacted] that I’ll look after you.”

As they continue their conversation, Viola shares her anticipation for the new experiences and opportunities that await her in Los Angeles. Their conversation is filled with mutual excitement and plans for their collaboration.

I love their dynamic so much already.

The screen then transitions to with Viola sitting on the plane, one of her managers sitting next to her, keeping her company. She’s always been a nervous flyer so the simple distraction her manager brings is welcomed warmly.

“What are you most excited for?” her manager asks.

“Aside from the experience, finally being able to work with Sammy,” she replies, honestly. “After he worked with one of our mutual friends, we started talking about working together if I ever came back to the idol life.”

“And now here you are,” Her manager nods understandingly, the conversation flowing smoothly and easing her nerves.

“Here I am,” she smiles.

The scene changes again to Viola in her hotel room, getting ready to head to the studio that will be her new home for the next seventeen days. “Once I’m ready I’ll be heading to the studio we’ve booked out for my time here. I think Sammy is meeting us there today?” she asks, looking at her manager to make sure that is indeed what is happening today. The manager nods confirming it. “And then we’re going to go from-”

She’s interrupted when there is a knock on the door. The door opens to reveal none other than Sammy himself, a warm smile on his face as he greets a surprised Viola, pulling her in for a friendly hug. Her manager, witnessing the reunion, smiles and steps back to give them a moment.

“I thought we were meeting at the studio,” she says hugging him tightly.

Sammy chuckles, "I couldn't wait to see you, so I thought I'd surprise you and come pick you up. Are you ready to go?"

Viola nods and gathers her things before the manager takes them only leaving her with her bag and phone.

My heart. The way he surprised her. I love that he did that. You could see she was nervous but as soon as she saw her bestie, she relaxed. The next scene I love even more.

It changes to when Woosung and Viola are in the studio with a couple producers, both hunched over a coffee table, notebooks, paper and pens scattered everywhere. Their voices echo softly in the studio, mingling with the hum of instruments as they experiment with sounds and go through the lyrics that they have already written down, changing them when a better idea enters their mind and doing everything it takes to write two songs. The video giving the viewers a small look into their creative process and how the two friends who share the same passion works together. Their chemistry is obvious but there is nothing romantic about it.

Their voices blend so well together.

The video then starts to switch between scenes where they finish writing the songs and are recording them. “I’m going to go over the last verse one more time,” Viola says from inside the recording booth as she records her parts to the first song, Wrong Time. A ballad about being the right person at the wrong time and having to walk away from it. “The emotion felt a bit off.”

“It’s already perfect,” Woosung reassures from the control panel. He of all people knows she’s a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to her songs. It’s one of the things that makes her a good songwriter. “But you can do it one more time if you want to.”

She gives them a thumbs up and the producer starts playing the music again. Viola’s voice once again fills the booth and this time you can tell she’s happier with it.

The scene transitions to Woosung in the recording booth, with Viola seated next to the producer. Her eyes are closed as she nods along to the music, immersing herself in Woosung’s vocals.

As the final notes resonate through the studio, Viola opens her eyes, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. She leans over and presses the button, speaking to Woosung, “I think that’s it on the first song.”

“I think so too,” he replies with his own satisfied smile.

I’m going to say it again; their voices go so well together. I don’t care what anybody else says.

It’s a couple days later in the next scene. Woosung has taken Viola out for dinner to celebrate them finishing recording their songs. The restaurant's warm, ambient light casts a gentle glow on their faces as they share stories and laughter.

“How are you feeling about having to dance with me for the music video?” Viola asks him, her voice taking on a serious tone, making sure he’s okay with it.

"I think it’ll be fun," he assures her, taking a sip of his drink. "I feel like I would be letting you down if I didn’t do some kind of dancing,” he adds, his eyes sparkle with mischief. “Been practicing my Lazy moves.”

Viola then joking starts singing his song Lazy and doing the moves herself. They both burst into laughter, drawing the attention of a few nearby diners.

I love them so much. That’s all I have to say. On to the last clip where we have a guest appearance by Dojoon.

The final clip shows the pair once again in the studio, finishing up their second song when they get a surprise call from Dojoon, Woosung’s bandmate. They pause their session to take some time to talk to their friend.

“I hope Sammy is treating you well, Lala,” Dojoon smiles. Viola had last talked to Dojoon a week before she came to L.A when they had dinner together with a few friends.

“You know he is,” Viola smiles leaning on Woosung’s shoulder to be in the frame. “We’ve been talking about doing another collaboration, but it’ll be Viola and The Rose, not just Woosung.”

“Or it could be Viola and the rest of The Rose. Sammy’s had his turn,” Dojoon teases.

Woosung makes a sound in protest while Viola laughs. The playful banter between Woosung, Viola, and Dojoon is infectious. The call eventually ends when the duo has to get back to recording.

Someone should petition for Woosung and Viola to work together again. When I say someone, I mean me.

Anyway, that’s it for this video, let me know if you’d like a part 2 with more Samola moments from SEVENTEEN DAYS IN L.A or Samola moments in general. Don’t forget to like and subscribe. It really helps me out.

see you soon!

View all comments:

samolastan I admit I shipped these two romantically when the rumours were going around but it's evident that it's alway just been platonic with them. He's just another brother to her.

violasuniverse I agree, their voices do blend well together!

sammylover I was reminded of when Viola covered She's in the Rain, now hearing her sing Lazy, I want her to cover that too.

woosung4eva yall must be blind if you can't see that Wrong Time is clearly about Viola and Woosung's relationship.

lalasgarden @/woosung4eva I have my theories on who Viola wrote it about and it's definitely not Woosung, in my opinion.

woohan01 more samola/woohan moments please!

ogviolettes I love their friendship. Anyone else wondering who [name redacted] is?

violafan001 @/ogviolettes it's gotta be her husband. We all already know that the mutal friend Woosung worked with is Yoongi. Maybe her husband is also a mutual friend.

lalasgarden @/ogviolettes I have my theories. I might make a video on it.

iheartviola petition for Viola to cover Lazy? I remember her saying it's one of her favourite Woosung songs.

©️2025 @viola-verse & @dancinglikebutterflywings - Do not copy. modify and/or repost anywhere.

Tagged: @forever-atiny - @carattinymoa - @rainyday-daydreamer

#viola verse #kpop-oc: viola kwon #woosung x oc #kim woosung x oc #sammy x oc #the rose #the rose woosung #the rose sammy #the rose sammy x oc #woosung #kim woosung #sammy kim #sammy kim x oc #kim woosung x reader #sammy x reader #sammy kim x reader #the rose x oc #the rose x reader #kpop fics

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kwanisms · 10 months ago

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»» Kinktober '24 »» L O A D I N G . . . »» L O A D I N G . . .

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ⓘ DISCLAIMER :: MONSTER/ALIEN FUCKER ENTHUSIAST ⓘ ©️ kwanisms 2018 - 2025 | all written and artistic works on this blog are protected under copyright. reposts, continuations, and translations of my works are not permitted. All graphics made by me.

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key201303 · 1 year ago

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Pairing: Woosung x reader. Word count: 1157 words Warnings: Just a bunch of fluff and love Plot: Woosung asks you to marry him. A/N: I'm so in love with this concept and I really see him doing something like this with his S/O. We stan a king 💕 Hope you enjoy reading this little scenario 💕 P. S. Dojoon was the one giving me this idea when he mentioned he saw Woosung asking his gf to marry him with a sour candy ring as a joke Taglist -> let me know if you want to be added! VALENTINE'S DAY X THE ROSE

It was a normal day in the office. Hajoon was practicing some beats, Jaehyeong was eating some snacks while playing on his phone, Woosung was in his studio playing with some melodies that have been clouding his mind lately and Dojoon was Dojooning as always.

You were surprised how calmed the building was but it was always like that once the tour was over. The only difference was the way Woosung had been treating you lately. And it is that after dating someone for almost 10 years should be a reason enough to get tired of the relationship or feel it a bit monotonous but in fact your relationship with Woosung was far away from that. You were not complaining at all but you had to admit you were surprised that Woosung has been treating you in a very lovely and a very clingy way lately.

He has always been very goofy with you but he was more lately. He has always been very territorial with you, not wanting anybody to have any opportunity to steal you from him, but he has been more lately. He would even ask you to sit on his lap whenever you were with the rest of the members or with friends, stating that he just wanted to be close to you.

You’ve tried asking him if there was something that made him act like that but he just said that it was because of the tour and not having enough quality time with you because of the tight schedules. Little did you know what he had in mind.

You exited the convenience store with a bag full of food to eat lunch with Woosung, just like you promised you would do once the tour was over. You decided to get some extra food to share with the rest of the boys even though Woosung told you that he wouldn’t let anybody interrupt your little date.

Once you arrived, you both went straight to the small terrace the building had. The same terrace where you took one of your favorite pictures that perfectly showed the personalities of your boyfriend and one of your best friends. The same terrace where you took that picture of him and Dojoon in underwear before a shooting while Woosung smoked. You were so in love with that picture for some reason.

“I have a few surprises for you today.” He said as you both ate in peace. You widened your eyes. “It’s not my birthday yet.” You said laughing. “What? Can’t I give the woman of my life a surprise without any specific reason?” He playfully said, placing a big kiss on your cheek making you blush. “It’s amazing how after 10 years I still make you blush with just a kiss.” He admired you, placing another big kiss on your cheek, this time harder. “What’s wrong with you?” You said, laughing uncontrollably and cringing a bit at his sudden behavior. “I just love you so much.” He said, a wide smile decorating his cherry lips. They looked so tempting. So sweet. You were about to get a taste of them and drown that smile in a deep kiss when he removed his face from you, turning to take a small box from his pocket. “Open it.” He said as he continued to finish his noodles.

When you opened the box, a sour candy ring popped out. You looked at him in confusion, not understanding what was going on. “Marry me?” He said, mouth full of the last bite of his noodles. You couldn’t believe he was asking you such a question in the least romantic way and with the least romantic ring. “You gotta be kidding me.” You said, a serious tone appearing in your voice, disappointment written all over your face. You’ve always dreamt about how he would ask you to be his wife but this was definitely not in the list of scenarios you imagined. He let out a soft laugh. “Meet me downstairs then.” He said, leaving you alone with your sour candy ring.

You ran behind him, not understanding what was going on. And then you finally found the room where everything was settled for a proper proposal. “Is this more of what you imagined?” He said with a cheeky smile, full of satisfaction for teasing you back on the terrace with that candy. “Fuck you Kim Woosung.” You said, tears already forming in the corner of your eyes as you hit his chest and covered your face. “Sure Mrs. Kim (Y/N).” He said, taking you into his arms, a massive smile decorating his face. Hearing him call you with his last name made your heart skip a beat. “I guess we’ll go to the first band wedding then.” Dojoon teased. “Actually I haven’t even asked her properly yet.” Woosung said, releasing his embrace from you. He signed for you to wait a moment and stand in front of him while clearing his throat before he started his little speech. “After 10 years, we managed to support each other and deal with each other’s annoying selves.” He teased, gaining a drown in tears laugh from you. At this point you didn’t care anymore if you were ugly crying in front of everyone. You didn’t care if he teased you about it afterwards because that was the boy you fell in love with 10 years ago. “We’ve shared cigarettes, alcohol bottles, hangovers, beds, foods, drinks, sickness and even DNA when we kiss…” He continued, making you laugh at the memory of all the things he mentioned. “You didn’t need to be that specific…” Jaehyeong quietly said disgustedly at that last statement. But Woosung ignored him. “And now, you would make me so happy and proud if you accept sharing our life until death do us apart.” He said, finally revealing a beautiful ring with a few rubies on it. You were amazed by its beauty.

“So? Would you marry me?” He asked, waiting impatiently for your answer. “Of course yes.” You said, throwing yourself into his arms. “You didn’t look this convinced when I asked you out there.” He said hugging you tightly, a massive smile drawn in his face. “That was not a proposal.” You said, letting go of him and staring with a death glare. “You at least gotta admit it was original.” He said proud of his first attempt. “Can you just put the ring on her finger and kiss?” Hajoon said impatiently, making everyone laugh.

And just like that Woosung was ready to give everything he had to take care of you. To show you he is the husband you always knew he was. And you were ready to show him you were made to be with him ever since you both met. Now another 10, 20, 30, 40, 1000000 years wait for both of you. Just like Woosung said, until death do you apart and even more.

#valentines day #valentines day special 🌸#kpop #kpop imagine #kpop fluff #the rose #the rose x reader #the rose imagine #the rose fluff #woosung #woosung x reader #woosung fluff #kim woosung #kim woosung x reader #kim woosung fluff #the rose woosung #the rose woosung x reader #the rose woosung fluff

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itsvici0usbaby · 5 days ago

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🥀Where it burns🥀

𓆩 idol!Dojoon × tour-staff!fem!reader 𓆪

⤷ angst · hurt/comfort · slow-burn → smut

⤷ one-shot · ~16k words · rated 18+ (mdni)

content warnings: self-harm (burns via lighter), suicidal ideation, panic attack, dissociation, trauma flashbacks, emotionally neglectful / abusive parent(s), past implied childhood SA (non-graphic, off-page), alcohol use, swearing, heavy emotional themes, comfort through music

explicit sexual content: phone sex, masturbation, dirty talk, oral (female implied), praise kink, desperation kink, clothed grinding / thigh riding, soft dom!Dojoon, aftercare (emotional ), power imbalance (idol × staff)– handled with care, mutual yearning

Summary : You don’t mean to catch his eye. But he sees you anyway– the burns, the silence, the way you flinch like you’re used to being forgotten. And when your phone rings at 2AM, his voice breaks through the static like he’s been waiting all night just to say your name.

There was a rhythm to tour life. Soundchecks in half-lit venues. Cardboard coffee trays sweating through your fingers. Long stretches of motion and white noise and waiting, always waiting for the next thing to start.

You didn’t belong here, not really. Not officially. And maybe that’s why no one paid too much attention to you at first.

You were just her, the quiet girl in the corner. The one with the duct tape always hanging off her wrist, or a clipboard tucked under one arm, or someone’s merch spreadsheet pulled up on her phone. The one who said please and thank you, who blended in at catering tables, who carried more than she had to.

You weren’t quiet because you were shy. You were quiet because silence felt safer than being noticed.

Your father, the tour manager, had built his entire life on logistics, precision, perfection. And somewhere along the way, he’d decided you had to reflect that, too. That you should always be composed, helpful, competent. That you should always be good.

You were the one who never caused trouble. Who never snapped. Who got straight A’s no matter how difficult it was to concentrate, the one who shut up when it was not the place to talk. The one who made his job easier, not harder.

He didn’t see the girl who cried in greenrooms when no one was looking. He didn’t hear the way your heart cracked when he introduced you as ‘One of my employees’ instead of ‘my daughter’.

He didn’t notice that you were slowly folding in on yourself.

Some nights, you weren’t even sure you had a self left. Just layers of function. Of forced calm. Of keeping it together because someone had to. You felt hollow a lot. Full of obnoxious noise but still somehow without sound. And you told yourself it was fine.Because breaking down would only make things harder.

But there was someone that noticed you.

Your name wasn’t on the official crew list. That had raised some eyebrows early on, especially with how strict your father could be about credentials. But no one questioned him for long, not once they realized how organized you were. You knew the setlist by heart before day six. You knew who liked their in-ears color-coded and which venues served soggy catering so you could warn the band in advance.

You worked like someone with something to prove, but were never loud about it. You were always just… there. Not shy, exactly. Just a little reserved. A little measured. Like you were watching everything. Deciding who was safe to let in. Like someone who’d learned not to take up too much space. Like someone who’d been punished for doing so before.

Dojoon wasn’t used to people like you. He was used to the kind of attention that flickered too bright. The type that burned fast and said too much too soon. But you didn’t interact. You didn’t linger. You held back. You tried to do your job as well as you could with all the chaos around, trying to stay invisible.

And perhaps that’s what caught him.

It had started slow. Almost nothing. A glance here. A comment there. But over weeks on tour, it had begun to accumulate, quietly, insistently.

The first time he spoke to you, it was because of a mic stand. You’d been hauling a broken one across a cluttered hallway, the kind of backstage space built with zero regard for personal space or common sense, and nearly knocked over a stack of road cases in the process.

He looked up from his phone, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You know,” he said, tilting his head, “that thing’s supposed to hold you up, not the other way around.”

You stopped, mid-struggle, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s funny. You wanna carry it?”

“If I help, do I get upgraded from mystery soup to the emergency snack stash I know you’re hiding in that clipboard case?”

You smirked. “That stash is sacred. Only those deemed worthy may partake.”

“Worthy, huh?” he grinned, already lifting the mic stand from your hands. “Guess I better start campaigning.”

“You’re literally doing it right now.”

He winked. “Damn. I am good.”

You didn’t realize then that he was already filing that moment away. That tiny glimpse of dry humor, the faint challenge in your tone… he clocked it instantly. Because Dojoon paid attention to people, even when they didn’t think he was looking.

After that, things shifted. Not dramatically. Not publicly. But subtly. You started catching him looking. During rehearsals, while you were perched on a side case scribbling into a setlist log. One night at load-in, you passed by just in time to catch him beatboxing into a test mic while Hajoon played along with dramatic air drums. Two stagehands cracked up. One of the lighting techs nearly dropped his clipboard from laughing. Dojoon wasn’t trying to be charming. He just was. And when he glanced your way mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, dimples sharp, you looked away too fast.

He never made it weird. Never crossed a line. But he always found a reason to speak to you.

“Didn’t peg you for the organized type,” he said once, catching sight of your neat, color-coded notes.

You looked up. “Why not?”

“Dunno. You give off chaos energy.”

You raised a brow. “I think that’s projection.”

He grinned. “Fair.”

Another time, he found you backstage with your hair tied up, paint pen in one hand, labeling cables.

He crouched next to you, watching. “So this is what a quiet genius looks like.”

“Genius is a stretch.”

“I’m serious. Most people label these things like psychopaths.”

“And you’ve met a lot of cable-labeling psychopaths?”

He smiled. “I’ve met enough to know you’re rare.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you said nothing. But the heat that bloomed under your skin stayed with you for hours.

And then there were the moments he wasn’t supposed to see.

Like the night you sat alone in the storage closet, knees drawn up, breathing too fast and too shallow. You’d told them you were looking for fresh gaffer tape. Really, you were trying to hold yourself together, your throat tight, your eyes rimmed red. You didn’t cry. You just folded, quietly, until your ribs stopped aching.

And when you stepped out, hoping no one had noticed, there he was. Park Dojoon. Leaning against the hallway wall, sipping a water bottle like he’d been there for hours. He didn’t ask what was wrong right away. Didn’t say anything at all. Just met your gaze. Quiet. Steady. Unshaken.

“You good?” he asked softly after a few seconds passed.

You didn’t answer him. Just nodded like you meant it and slipped past, heading toward the stage, not because you had a job to do, but because you needed something solid to hold. A tool. A case. A riser bolt. Anything with edges.

The riser was half-assembled when you got there. Stage left. One bracket loose. Nobody around. Good. You crouched next to it, hands already moving.

Somewhere out past the monitors, a chord rang out, low, lazy, familiar. Dojoon. Of course. You didn’t turn, but your pulse acknowledged him.

Another chord floated out, this one lower, throatier, more deliberate.

“Bracket giving you trouble?” His voice was light, that low-timbre ease he defaulted to when he wasn’t performing.

“It’s misaligned,” you said, not looking up. “Gravity’s a bitch.”

You heard his footsteps cross the plywood, soft, measured. Then a pause beside you. You still didn’t look.

“You good?” he asked quietly. The same words he’d asked in the hallway.

You nodded without thinking. “Fine.”

He didn’t press.

Instead: “Wanna trade? You take the guitar, I’ll fight the bracket.”

You turned to find him already unslinging his Strat-style electric from over one shoulder, the sunburst one with the maple fretboard worn to a shine. He held it out, neck-first, like an offering.

“I’m not a guitarist,” you said, brow raised.

“I’m not asking you to play a solo. Just tune it.”

You stared.

“Come on,” he added, voice coaxing now. “I’ll teach you.”

The riser finally locked into place with a thunk, and you followed him to the center stage floor where a pair of stools sat just outside the main light rig. The spotlights were off, but spill from the overheads painted him in soft, amber shadows.

He sat first, guitar resting across his lap. Then patted the seat next to him. “Come on,” he said.

You sat. Careful. The guitar looked heavier up close, and more alive. Heat clung to the strings where his hands had just been.

“She’s moody,” he said, adjusting the knobs. “You have to be patient. And a little persuasive.”

“I’m persuasive,” you murmured.

Dojoon grinned. “You’re terrifying. But yeah, same thing.”

He held the neck out toward you. You hesitated, then took it, angling the body into your lap.

“Like this,” he said. His palm pressed against your elbow, gently guiding it. “Let the body rest higher on your thigh. You’ll have better control of the tuning keys.”

You shifted. His fingers adjusted yours again, not in a grabby way, not even lingering. Just intentional. Warm.

He nodded at the headstock. “Start with low E.”

You plucked the string. It buzzed. Off.

“Too loose,” he said. “Turn the peg toward you. Slowly.”

You twisted, but not enough.

“Here.” He reached over, his hand covering yours. Fingers over fingers. Palm brushing your knuckles. The contact was simple. Not charged. But it sent something low and warm through you anyway. You adjusted again. The string rang cleaner this time.

Dojoon tilted his head, listening. “Almost. One micro-turn.”

You smirked. “Micro-turn?”

“It’s a technical term,” he said. “Used by professionals and people with trust issues.”

You breathed a quiet laugh and twisted again. The pitch landed, not perfect, but close enough to feel satisfying.

“Nice,” he said. “Now A.”

One by one, you moved up the strings. He didn’t correct much. Just offered the occasional pointer, his voice calm, low, close. Each time you hesitated, he was there, guiding, not taking over. His forearm brushed yours. His fingers steadied your wrist. Not in a flirtatious way. In a steadying way. The kind of way that made you feel… held, without being held.

When you reached the G string, you turned the peg too far. The note jumped sharp. You winced.

Dojoon didn’t tease.

“Easy fix,” he murmured, reaching in again. This time his fingers wrapped gently over yours, slowing the turn. His thumb dragged lightly across your inner wrist, not on purpose. Just part of the motion. But it stayed with you.

“There,” he said.

You strummed again. Perfect.

“That’s it.”

His tone had changed, not performance-proud, but something softer. Like he meant it. You glanced at him. He was already watching you. Not in a loaded way. Just… in that Dojoon way. Focused. Quiet. Real.

“Most people don’t care about this stuff,” he said, leaning back slightly. “Not the tuning. Not the tone. Just… plug in, play loud.”

“I like knowing how things work,” you said, voice quiet.

He nodded. “I know.”

You hesitated. “You pay attention.” It came out softer than you meant it to. But it was true. You’ve seen him pay attention to little things no one else pays attention to.

Dojoon looked at you like he heard it for what it was.

“You make it hard not to,” he said.

Your mouth went dry. He didn’t press. Didn’t lean in. Just let the silence stretch, like he trusted you to meet him there or not. Like either option was fine.

Eventually, he stood. You handed the guitar back, fingers grazing over his for a second too long. He didn’t comment on it. Just tucked the guitar under one arm and gave you a smile, lopsided and warm.

“You did good.”

“You did better,” you replied, internaly cringing. Because duh- that’s what he does for a living. You truly could’ve slapped yourself right then and there.

“Yeah, well.” He adjusted the strap over his shoulder. “I’ve had more practice.”

He turned to leave, then paused. Looked back.

“Next time,” he said, “we’ll try chords.”

You smiled, even though he wasn’t looking anymore. And somewhere in your chest, the tension he left behind still hummed.

The guitar stayed in your hands for maybe five minutes. But the memory of it — of him — lingered for hours. You still felt it on the bus later that night, fingers twitching like they needed something to hold. Or perhaps someone.

The following days had felt… heavier. Like the air was thicker. Like your brain was moving through fog. You kept missing things, minor things, unimportant on paper, but enough to make you feel like a glitch in your own body.

You weren’t sleeping. Not really. You weren’t eating much either.

And then that night happened.

You’d meant to take a second alone, just one second to breathe, so you’d slipped away from load-out and ducked into the lower back lounge of the new venue. It was empty, dark except for the faint overheads and the blue glow from the hallway exit sign.

You sat on the carpet. Cross-legged. Staring at nothing. The lighter was already in your pocket.You didn’t remember putting it there.

But your hands found it. Your thumb flicked it. Once. Then again. Then again. The flame flared, then disappeared. Then flared again. Like a heartbeat. Like control.

You weren’t doing anything. Not really. Just holding it a little too close to the balm of your hand. Just long enough that the heat started to bite. Just enough to feel something.You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal, it never was. You weren’t hurting yourself. You were just… tired.

So tired.

Flick.

You didn’t hear the door. But you felt it when he saw you.

“Hey.”

Dojoon’s voice. Quiet. Gentle. Not shocked, but not casual, either.

You froze. Flame gone. Fingers curling quickly around the lighter, slipping it back into your pocket like muscle memory. Like shame. He didn’t say anything for a second. Just stood there in the doorway, one hand still on the frame, like he wasn’t sure whether to come closer or leave you alone.

“Sorry,” he said finally. “Didn’t mean to… interrupt.”

Your throat felt tight. “It’s fine.”

He looked at you. Really looked. His expression softened, but it didn’t pity. Didn’t flinch.

“You okay?” The words sounded like a broken record at this point, having been asked too many times.

You nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Another pause. Then he crossed the room slowly and sat on the floor next to you. Close, but not touching. Elbows on his knees. Eyes forward. Like if he looked at you too long, you’d disappear.He didn’t ask about the lighter. He didn’t need to. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a Snickers bar. Held it out without turning his head.

“You look like someone who could use a reset.”

You stared at it.

“You’re bribing me with chocolate?”

He gasped, mock-offended. “I’ll have you know, I was voted ‘Best Emotional Support Snack Distributor’ two tours in a row.”

You snorted. “Was that a real vote?”

“Of course not. But it was close.”

Your mouth twitched. It wasn’t a smile, but it wanted to be.

He nudged your shoulder with his. Lightly. “Also I just wanted to sit next to you and this was the least awkward way I could think of.”

You let out a sound. Half-sigh, half-laugh. And you took the bar. You didn’t eat it. You just held it. The wrapper crinkled softly in your hands. You stared at it , at the faded red and brown lettering, the way the edges had already started to melt from your fingers. You weren’t hungry. You hadn’t been in days. But it felt good to hold something solid. Something real.

“Also,” he said, like it was nothing, “you’re easy to talk to.”

Dojoon hadn’t said anything else after that. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t try to fix it. Just sat with you. Elbows on his knees, fingers laced loosely, his head tilted forward, gaze fixed on the carpet in front of him like it held answers.

The back lounge was dim, lit only by the emergency light near the exit and a faint blue glow from the hallway. Shadows pooled in the corners. Your reflection stared back from the black TV screen across the room, small, slumped, tired. You looked like a ghost of yourself. And still, he didn’t leave.

You broke first.

“I didn’t mean for you to see that,” you said. Quiet. Rough. Like the words were being dragged out of you. But you had to address it.

Dojoon didn’t look over right away. When he did, his face was calm. Unfazed. But his eyes… his eyes held something else. Not pity. Not concern. Just recognition.

“I know.”

You swallowed hard. “It’s not— I wasn’t going to hurt myself.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

You hesitated. “You don’t believe me.”

“I do,” he said. No hesitation. “I just think you’re carrying more than you want anyone to notice.”

You stared down at your lap. Your hands were trembling slightly, even now. He leaned back slowly, head resting against the cushioned wall behind him, eyes on the ceiling.

“Sometimes I… forget to breathe before a show,” he said.

You looked over.

His voice stayed soft, steady. “I’ll be backstage, everything’s loud, everyone’s moving and I’ll just stop. Like, my chest tightens up. Not panic exactly. Just this feeling like… what if my voice doesn’t come tonight? What if they look at me and I’m just empty?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

He glanced at you. “You ever feel like you’re only allowed to exist if you’re doing something useful?”

The breath caught in your throat. You blinked fast.

“All the time,” you whispered.

He gave a half-laugh — quiet, but real. “Okay good, because if you’d said no, I was ready to accuse you of being a very convincing android.”

It always baffled you how easily Dojoon could lighten the mood. He never had to try too hard, just a word, a look, and somehow everything felt softer, easier within seconds. Like sunlight slipping through a crack in the clouds.

You let out a shaky breath. Almost a laugh. “You’re so weird.”

“And yet,” he said, nudging your elbow with his, “you’re still here.”

You shifted, curling your legs tighter underneath you.

Silence stretched. You reached into your pocket and pulled the lighter out again. Your thumb hovered over it. You didn’t flick it this time. Just held it, letting the weight settle in your palm like a confession.

“I hate this ,” you said. “I’m not like that. I just… sometimes it’s too loud in my head. And I need something to make it stop.” You turned the lighter in your fingers. The metal glinted faintly in the low light.

“I just need to feel something real. Even if it’s stupid.”

Dojoon was quiet for a beat.

Then, gently: “It’s not stupid.”

You looked up. His eyes were on you. Clear. Unflinching.

“I’m not judging you,” he said. “I’m just glad you’re still here.”

Something inside you buckled. And for a split second, just a second, you wanted to reach for him. To lean into the heat of his body, to bury yourself in the hoodie he wore, to press your cheek to the space just below his collarbone and forget everything else existed.

And that feeling scared you.

You saw him the next day.

Of course you did. The venue was small, the hallways narrow, and you were still his shadow. On paper.

He didn’t say anything about the other night. Didn’t press. But his eyes lingered a little too long when he passed you cables. His hand brushed yours when he didn’t need to. And once, when he cracked a joke at soundcheck and you actually laughed, he looked at you like he’d won something.

You pretended not to notice. Pretended nothing had shifted. Pretended you weren’t still carrying the weight of his hand on your wrist like a bruise you didn’t want to heal.

But you felt it. And so did he.

Two days later, he finally caught you alone.

“You skipping my lessons?”

You flinched. Not visibly. But internally, your stomach flipped, heart stumbling in your chest before you turned.

Dojoon was leaned against the wall like he belonged there, like gravity didn’t apply to him. sleeves of his long sleeve shirt rolled to his elbows, hands in his pockets, his hair a little messy in that deliberate, effortless way. The neck of his guitar peeked over one shoulder like a shadow.

“I’ve been busy,” you said. It wasn’t a lie.

He tilted his head. “With what, exactly?”

“Working.”

“That’s vague.”

“You’re annoying.”

He smiled, slow, quiet, warm. “There’s the girl I remember.”

You hated how that pulled at you. How your spine straightened. How you suddenly couldn’t remember a single item on that tech sheet.

He took a step closer. “C’mon. You owe me a follow-up.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Follow-up?”

“You already know how to tune her,” he said, nodding toward the guitar. “Now you learn to speak her language.”

It wasn’t on the stage this time. It was backstage, near a worn-out roadie bench and a flickering floor lamp someone had dragged in for mood lighting. A weirdly intimate little bubble of space.

You sat first. He followed.

He unslung the guitar and passed it to you, then dragged a stool close — too close — and sat directly in front of you, knees brushing yours. The air changed. Not dramatically. Just enough to make your skin aware of itself.

“Today’s chord is A minor,” he said. “Three fingers. Like this.”

He leaned forward and played it, slow, deliberate. The sound poured from the body of the guitar like something lived inside it. You watched his fingers move. Long. Sure. Steady. Then he nodded toward you.

“Your turn.”

You adjusted the guitar across your thigh, hands clumsy, posture stiff. Already too aware of how close he was. Already thinking too hard. Dojoon watched for a beat. Then he rose and stepped behind you. You froze.

“Ready?” he asked, voice low, gentle.

You nodded. Didn’t speak.

His hands came to rest on yours, not heavy, not invasive. Just there. Solid and certain, like anchors.

“Relax your wrist,” he murmured. “You’re trying to brute-force it.”

You exhaled shakily. His fingers adjusted yours, a slight correction to your index, a shift of your thumb. His palm brushed the inside of your wrist and you nearly forgot how to breathe.

“You’re thinking too much,” he said softly.

“I always do.”

“I know.”

He didn’t say it with judgment. Just fact.

Then, quieter: “Let me help.”

He guided your hand again. Carefully. He never touched more than necessary, but somehow, every point of contact felt loaded. Like he was speaking a language your body had never heard out loud.

You pressed into the chord. It buzzed. You winced.

Dojoon’s mouth was close to your ear when he said, “Try again. But don’t force it.”

You did. Still wrong.

He made a soft noise, not impatient, not amused. Just thoughtful. Then, slowly, he stepped around to the front again. Sat back down. But closer now. Knees against yours. His hand found yours again, not behind this time, but in front. He touched only your fingers. Only what was necessary.

But you felt everything. Every scrape of his skin. Every breath between adjustments. Every impossible inch of space between where his hand ended and yours began.

“You’re tightening too much on the third string,” he murmured, not looking up. “Ease off. Just a little.”

You did. The chord rang closer to how it’s supposed to sound like. He glanced up, his eyes catching yours like he knew what you were thinking. Like he was thinking it too.

“You hear that?” he asked.

You nodded. Your heart was too loud.

“Next chord,” he said, and you were grateful for the break in tension, until he added, “D minor.”

You groaned.

He smirked. “You know her?”

“She hates me.”

“She hates everyone at first.”

You tried it. It was awful. He laughed, real and soft.

“Okay, yeah, that was bad.”

You set the guitar down between your knees. Leaned forward, bracing your elbows on your thighs.

“I’m never gonna get this.”

He reached out and tucked your hair behind your ear. The motion was slow. Thoughtful. The back of his fingers grazed your cheek on the way down.

You blinked. He didn’t move away.

“You’ll get it,” he said, voice lower now. “You’re already halfway there.”

You looked up, and he was watching you again with that quiet intensity that made your lungs forget their job.

“Wanna know a secret?” he asked, studying your face. You nodded. He leaned in. Close enough that you smelled his cologne, faint cedar and something warm and familiar.

“I only asked you to learn chords,” he whispered, “because it’s an excuse to touch your hands.”

You forgot to breathe. Your stomach dropped, your skin flushed, and for a second all you could do was stare.

He pulled back an inch, smirking slightly. “You okay?”

“No,” you whispered.

“Good.”

He didn’t say anything else. Just looked at you, eyes still warm, but quieter now. Like whatever he wanted to say next wasn’t meant for this moment. Then he stood, slow and easy, and reached for the guitar.

You let him take it.

Your fingers stayed curled in the shape of a chord long after the weight was gone. He slung the strap over his shoulder without looking at you again, then paused, just before stepping past the curtain.

“Don’t overthink it,” he said, voice lighter now. “Your hands already know what they want.”

And then he was gone.

Leaving you alone in a too-quiet room, heart pounding, skin flushed, and absolutely useless for the rest of the day.

D-Minor? Never heard of her.

The crowd had been loud. Louder than usual, so loud the roar still rattled inside your ribs long after the house lights bled out. It left you splintered, jumpy, skin humming like a struck wire. Your clipboard lay somewhere under a heap of damp towels and half-crushed water bottles, you hadn’t even bothered to look for it.

You just needed the sanctuary of your hotel room where nobody expected you to smile. Time to yourself where the hollowness in your chest could be quiet. The elevator looked like escape: brushed-steel walls, soft yellow lights, a place to breathe without having to be useful.

You stepped in, thumbed your floor, let the doors whisper shut and finally exhaled, shoulders sagging against the cool paneling.

A heartbeat later, a hand slid between the closing doors.

Dojoon.

Post-show sweat still cooling on his black tee, hair damp at the temples, eyes shadowed but bright. The kind of tired that says alive, not depleted.

“Thought you’d already crashed,” he said as he slipped inside.

You tried for neutral, but your pulse was tap-dancing.He filled the small space, and just like that, you were hyper-aware of every part of you that felt a little too worn down. Just seven floors, you told yourself. You could hold it together for seven floors.

“You’re usually the last one out,” he murmured once the lift began its quiet climb.

You shrugged, gaze fixed on the numbers blinking overhead. “Someone has to sweep up the mess.”

His laugh was soft. “You say that like the mess isn’t sweeping you up, too.”

That scraped. Because it was too close to the truth you kept duct-taped shut: the exhaustion, the lighter tucked in your pocket, the way you sometimes pressed the hot metal to your thumb just to feel something sharper than the noise.

The elevator gave a little jolt as it passed the third floor, just enough to tip you sideways and brush his arm. It sent a flicker of static racing up your skin.

Silence stretched, thick as stage fog.

He shifted his weight slightly, eyes still on the numbers. “I’ve been meaning to say something. I just… haven’t known how.”

You looked at him, wary. “About what?”

“You,” he said simply. Then, quieter: “The way I think about you more than I probably should.”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t look away.

“I replay our conversations,” he admitted. “Try to remember if I made you laugh. Or if I said something stupid.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “You didn’t.”

“Good,” he said, with a small, almost embarrassed smile. “I think I’d be okay sounding like an idiot. As long as you remembered it.”

You wanted to believe he meant it. That it wasn’t just adrenaline or post-show static or some heat-of-the-moment fluke. But this, whatever this was, hadn’t started here. It had been creeping in for weeks, quiet moments, half-glances, the way he always stood a little closer than necessary. The way he remembered things you didn’t think anyone noticed. You’d spent the weeks trying to convince yourself it was nothing. That he was just kind. That you were just imagining it. Because it was safer to pretend than to hope.

A crack splintered inside you, equal parts thrill and panic. People didn’t see you; they saw the job you did, the calm you faked. And you knew, if he looked too close, he’d find the girl who shook in storage closets, who measured safety in flicks of a lighter flame. A child again, seven years old, small and silent, flinching from the world, dreaming of turning invisible just to feel safe.

“Dojoon– ”

“No one else makes me nervous like this,” he pressed on, stepping close enough that the warmth of him seeped through the static. “Like if I touch you, I won’t want to stop.”

Your back found cold metal. His hand braced beside your head, but he waited, eyes searching, as if asking permission to see the fractures you kept hidden.

The fear that he wouldn’t look was suddenly louder than the fear that he would.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

You didn’t. Couldn’t. Instead your fingers, still tingling from tonight’s applause, from every secret you’d smothered, curled into the front of his shirt and pulled.

Heat roared between you, fierce and dizzying. His mouth caught yours like oxygen after drowning: urgent, greedy, tasting the storm you’d tried to bury. You answered with equal desperation, nails scraping skin, hips tilting into the pressure of his knee. For one impossible moment, the emptiness inside you felt full.

The elevator chimed–six–but he didn’t break away. His breath stuttered against your lips when your thumb brushed the soft waistband of his jeans, and the sound went straight to the hollow places you hated.

Another chime–seven. You tore your mouth free, foreheads pressed together, lungs dragging ragged air.

“I should go,” you managed, though your hands would not unclench.

“I know,” he said, rough, but his thumb traced circles at your waist like he couldn’t let you drift.

A final, tender kiss: question, promise, warning.

“See you,” he rasped.

You stepped out on trembling legs, pulse still thrumming with the echo of him. The doors slid shut behind you. A mirror in the hallway caught your reflection, lips kiss-swollen, eyes bright with something dangerously like hope.

And beneath the rush, a familiar whisper curled up from the dark: He wouldn’t want you if he knew how broken you really are.

Maybe. Maybe not.

But that night, in the hush of a hotel corridor, the memory of his mouth felt louder than the fear. Your hand brushed the lighter in your pocket, but you didn’t take it out. Didn’t flick it once. Not because the urge was gone, but because for the first time in days, something else was louder.

You hadn’t spoken much to Dojoon since the kiss. Not because you didn’t want to. Because you weren’t sure how to exist around him now, not when your skin still buzzed with the echo of his mouth, not when your mind kept wandering back to the way he had said “I think about you, more than I probably should.” like it wasn’t a confession, but a fact.

It had been three days.

Three days of short nods and small acknowledgments. Three days of brushing past each other at catering or during load-in, pretending nothing had shifted when everything had. Three days of trying to function under the weight of something so tender, so startlingly real that it made your chest feel like a bruise.

You weren’t distant because you were unsure. You were distant because you couldn’t afford to fall apart.

Because even when someone saw you, really saw you, it didn’t undo the years spent pretending to be someone easier to manage. So instead, you worked. You stacked gear. You double-checked manifests. You triple-counted water bottles like hydration logistics were the only thing anchoring you to earth.

But the distractions didn’t stick the way they used to. Your body was tired, but your thoughts were loud, louder than the music, louder than your father’s clipped commands, louder even than the humming tension you tried not to read into every time Dojoon looked at you across the room.

By now, it was practically shouting.

The venue had been too hot. The power had glitched. Two cables went missing, and one tech nearly walked out mid-setup. And through it all, you kept your head down, your clipboard clutched to your chest like armor.

The truth was: you were slipping. Not in the big ways. Not in ways anyone else might’ve noticed.

But your dad noticed. He always did.

The door to the greenroom creaked open behind you, slicing through the quiet with a hollow finality. You barely had time to breathe before you heard him:

“You’ve been sloppy lately.”

You didn’t turn around. Just dropped your clipboard onto the counter and peeled off the lanyard from around your neck.

“Cable counts were off by three this morning,” he added. “And merch inventory didn’t match venue sheets last night. You didn’t even catch it.”

You ran a hand through your hair, jaw clenched. “It was fixed.”

He scoffed. “You’re missing the point.”

Finally, you looked at him. “What is the point exactly, then?”

“That you’re distracted,” he snapped, stepping closer. “You think I haven’t noticed? You’re slower. Distant. Unfocused.”

You looked at him, clipboard in one hand, tour schedule tucked neatly away, still mistaking control for care.

“I’ve been handling everything,” you said quietly.

“Barely.”

The silence that followed didn’t crackle, it pressed. Heavy. Suffocating.

Then he added, almost offhand: “Maybe I was wrong to bring you out here. You’re clearly not ready for the responsibility.”

That stung more than you’d admit.Not because you wanted his approval, that ship had sailed years ago. But because you’d earned your place here. Every task, every setlist, every sleepless night. You turned away, started packing granola bars into the supply bag.

He watched you, arms crossed. And kept pushing.

“You’ve been a liability this week,” he said. “Not an asset.”

You froze mid-reach. Something inside you clicked. Not loudly, just enough. Like a door unlocking after being shut for too long. You turned slowly. And when you spoke, your voice was… even. Measured. Dead calm.

“You only like me when I make your life easier.”

He blinked. “What?”

You smiled, not kindly. “That’s always been the deal, right? I stay quiet. I stay useful. I don’t take up space.”

His expression tightened. “You’re being dramatic.”

You shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just finally saying what’s true.”

He stepped forward. “What’s gotten into you?”

You tilted your head. “Nothing new. Just… less of the pretending.”

He scoffed. “You think this, this attitude, makes you look strong?”

“No,” you said, voice soft but sharp. “But it makes me feel real. Which is more than I can say about most of my life.”

He stared at you like he didn’t recognize the person in front of him. And maybe he didn’t. Because this version of you wasn’t smiling to appease. Wasn’t bowing her head. Wasn’t sanding herself down to something manageable. This version stood tall. Still. Hollowed out, but finally visible.

He tried again. “You have no idea what I’ve sacrificed to give you this opportunity.”

Your laugh came out low. Bitter. “You mean after you left me with her?”

He stilled.

“I was seven,” you said. Still calm. Still cold. “She couldn’t keep herself upright half the time. And you left me there with her. With him.”

You don’t slow.

“Remember how Mom used to forget the stove on when she was out of it? I’d come home to smoke rolling out of the kitchen. Had to dump flour on the pan before the curtains caught. She’d wake up high, laugh about ‘indoor campfires.’ I was ten, learning panic-mode problem solving so the neighbors wouldn’t call CPS.”

Your father’s face blanched.

You went on, still calm. Eerily calm.

“Made my own dinners,ramen, stale bread. Ran laundry so Mom wouldn’t leave bleach in the drum again. Hauled her to the couch when she passed out on the stairs. Set alarms every hour to check her breathing.”

“Did you know that right before death, a person’s lips turn blue, their fingertips go gray, and their breathing drops below eight breaths a minute, if it doesn’t stop altogether? That the skin cools, the eyes glaze over, and sometimes they lose control of their bladder? I do. I learned all of that when I was eleven.”

He stared, words jammed behind his teeth.

“And I kept waiting for you to show up,” you added, voice almost conversational. “Every rumble in the driveway, I’d think, He’s back, he saw, he knows. Eventually I figured you were busy saving the tour from mislabeled mic packs.”

Your father stayed silent.

“And him.” You kept your tone almost light, like quoting trivia. “He’d knock at midnight and ask if I’d ‘checked the locks.’ Funny mistake, since the locks were for him. I started sleeping under the bed, tucked between frame and wall.”

“Stop.”

Your voice didn’t rise. “Oh, are you uncomfortable? Good.” You paused for half a second before you continued. “He used to come into my room at night. You know that, right?”

He looked away.

“I told you. A couple of times, even. You said I must’ve dreamed it. That I was overreacting. That I was just sensitive.”

“That’s not what I–”

“It’s exactly what you said.” You didn’t shout. You didn’t cry. That was the most terrifying part. You were just… done.

“I used to push furniture against the door,” you whispered. “And I learned how to fake being asleep before I learned long division.”

He went pale.

“But you want to talk to me about focus?” You took a step closer. “You want to tell me I’m a distraction because I’ve been tired or quiet or maybe, for once, not perfect enough for your clipboard-and-schedule fantasy?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“I didn’t have parents,I had silence. I had survival.” Your voice dropped. “So don’t stand there and act like I don’t know what it takes to hold it together.”

A pin could’ve dropped.

He didn’t move.

You exhaled slowly. The ache in your chest didn’t vanish, but it felt less heavy. Like finally saying it out loud shifted something fundamental in the air. Then you turned toward the door. And paused. Because there, just past the threshold, half-shadowed in the dim hallway light stood Dojoon.

He must’ve heard. Maybe not all of it. But enough. His expression was unreadable, his hands tucked into his sleeves like he didn’t know what else to do with them.

Your eyes met. You didn’t say a word. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t break. You just walked past him. No explanation. No apology. Just silence. Not the kind that waits.

The kind that lingers. That says: You saw it, the wreck I keep hidden. And now it’s too late to pretend you didn’t.

The stairwell was dead quiet, the kind of quiet that made every breath feel too loud, like even your heartbeat might give you away.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting there, on that cold concrete step, hoodie pulled over your hands, knees drawn tight to your chest like you were trying to make yourself disappear. The air smelled like rust and cleaner. The light overhead flickered once, then steadied again, like even the wiring couldn’t decide what it wanted to be.

Your father’s voice was still in your head.

You’ve been a liability this week.

Not an asset.

It shouldn’t have hit the way it did. Not after everything you’d just said to him. Not after the years of tight-lipped tolerance and brittle-smile obedience. But it did. Because the worst part wasn’t that he was cruel. It was that he sounded disappointed. Like you’d failed at being convenient.

You let out a breath that trembled in your chest and pulled your sleeves tighter over your fists. But your fingers didn’t stay inside them. You reached for the lighter. It was already there. It always was. You’d stopped telling yourself it was for emergencies.

You rolled it between your fingers like a coin, felt the weight, the familiar edge of it. Your thumb hovered over the metal wheel. Your other hand rested in your lap, palm up, exposed.

The lighter clicked open like muscle memory. You didn’t even need to look. Just felt the heat bloom, soft, biting, against your skin like proof you still existed.

You brought the fire down to your skin, slower than you meant to. Deliberate. You pressed the heat just beneath the edge of your wrist, that delicate stretch where the skin was softer, thinner, where everything felt more real. The pain came fast. Clean. You held it anyway. One second. Two. Three. Your teeth gritted against the sting, but you didn’t pull away. Not yet. Not until something inside you said enough.

And just as your hand started to twitch…

“Hey-”

The voice cracked into the stairwell like thunder.

You barely had time to look up before he crossed the space between you in three sharp steps.

“Don’t,” Dojoon breathed, and before you could react, he snatched the lighter from your hand.

It was fast, not cruel, not violent, but it startled you. Your body jolted back like you’d been caught mid-crime. His hand hovered near yours, but he didn’t touch the burn. He didn’t even look at it right away.

“Are you-?” He stopped. Rewound. “Shit, are you okay?”

You swallowed, hard. Your wrist throbbed, red, tender, marked. But you shook your head like it didn’t matter. “I wasn’t- I didn’t mean-“

He cut you off, voice low. “Don’t lie.”

You froze.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t yelling. But something about the way he said it, quiet, steady, absolutely certain, rooted you to the step like stone.

“I’m not gonna freak out,” he added. “But don’t tell me that wasn’t on purpose. I’m not stupid.”

You stared at the wall. Anywhere but him. This was a new type of low. Being caught burning twice…

“I didn’t want to feel numb,” you whispered.

Silence.

Then, barely above the hum of the lights:

“Okay.”

You turned, surprised. But his face was unreadable. Calm. His eyes didn’t flinch.

“I mean it,” he said. “Okay. I get it.”

You blinked fast. “You do?”

“I know what it’s like to need something sharper than whatever’s in your head.”

You looked at him, really looked this time.

Dojoon crouched down, slow, knees bending until he was level with you. The lighter was still in his hand, but he didn’t toss it. Didn’t pocket it. He just… held it. Like it wasn’t the enemy. Like he knew the fight wasn’t with the object. It was with what you didn’t say.

He glanced at your wrist. “Can I see?”

You hesitated. Then gave a small nod. He didn’t grab for it. Just waited. And when you lifted your hand, he reached out gently, turning it in his palm. His touch was warm. Careful. Two fingers on your wrist, like he was checking a pulse, not damage.

The mark was small, but already pink, the edge raw. His jaw tensed, just for a second, and then relaxed.

“You didn’t let it get bad,” he said softly. “But it still hurts.”

You blinked again. Harder. “I didn’t want to cry.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Then why do I feel like I might fall apart if you say one more kind thing?”

He smiled . Not wide, not teasing. Just small. Gentle.

“Because it’s safer to feel pain than kindness when you don’t think you deserve either.”

And that.. that undid you. Your breath hitched. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… enough. You looked at him, eyes blurry, hands trembling, throat tight with years of silence suddenly screaming inside you.

“Dojoon-”

He didn’t wait. He pulled you in. Arms around your shoulders, your ribs, your back, solid and encompassing and present. You sank into him before you even realized. Chest to chest, breath to breath. You hadn’t realized how small you’d made yourself until he held you like you weren’t.

And you broke. Not loudly. But completely.

Your fingers fisted into the back of his hoodie, clutching the fabric like it might disappear. His hand cradled your head, thumb brushing the curve of your skull, slow and steady. His other arm was tight across your back, anchoring you like the stairwell didn’t exist, like the whole building could fall and you’d still be held.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, not as reassurance. As recognition.

You were here. Alive. Shaking in someone’s arms and still allowed to exist. You didn’t cry like a dam breaking. You cried like breath, soft, ragged, one exhale at a time. And he just held you. Not trying to stop it. Not filling the space with words. Just… being there.

His hoodie smelled like fabric softener and the faint trace of stage fog.You wanted to live in that smell. That moment. That grip. And after a while, when your breath evened, when your pulse slowed, when your body stopped gripping so tight, he leaned back just enough to look at you.

His hand stayed at your waist.

He tilted his head. “You mad?”

“No.”

“You sure? I was kinda rude.”

“I’m sure.”

Another pause. Then he said, quieter:

“I hate that you’re carrying this alone.”

He didn’t look away.

“I’m not saying it’s okay. I’m not. But if it ever gets that bad again…” His voice cracked. “Please don’t shut me out.”

And that– that was the moment your heart actually ached. Because he didn’t try to fix it. Or explain it away. He just stayed, in the mess, in the silence, in the truth of it. With you.

You let your forehead drop to his shoulder. Not because the weight was gone, but because, for a second, it didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Still, you didn’t say a word. Because when it came down to it, you knew the truth: you’d carry the weight yourself. You always had. And no matter how much you wanted to hand it over, you couldn’t. Not again. Not if it meant risking him walking away.

The hallway was quiet when you returned.

Someone had turned off the stage lights. Only the greenroom’s glow leaked under the door, soft and warm and too bright for how heavy everything felt. You didn’t speak as you walked, one slow step behind him, sleeves tugged over your hands. He didn’t offer small talk. He just stayed close, glancing back every few seconds like he wasn’t sure you were still with him.

At the door, you paused.

“I’m gonna grab my charger,” you said, barely above a whisper.

Dojoon hesitated, hand on the door. “I’ll wait.”

You looked at him. Your eyes didn’t flinch. Just tired. Wide open. A small nod. Then you slipped past him, disappearing inside.

He stayed in the hallway, rocking once on his heels, rubbing a thumb over the edge of his jeans like he needed to ground himself. When you came back out, your phone cord looped in one hand, he straightened instinctively.

“I’m okay,” you said.

He didn’t answer. He just walked beside you, down the hall, past the darkened stage, back toward the loading zone.

No one else said a word when the both of you climbed into the Van that would drive you to the hotel. Woosung was half-asleep in the back row. Taegyeom had his earbuds in. Hajoon glanced up once but didn’t speak. Maybe they knew. Maybe they didn’t.

But Dojoon didn’t sit in his usual spot.He slid in next to you instead, quiet, close, not touching. You rested your head against the window, face turned away. And he let you have that.

The drive to the hotel was uneventful. A blur of streetlights and radio static. The kind of silence that felt full, like no one knew what to say, and no one dared be the one to break it.

When you arrived, you were the first to move.

“I’ll head up,” you murmured.

Dojoon started to rise, but you gave him the faintest shake of your head. Not rejection. Just… space.

“Goodnight,” you said, before disappearing into the lobby. The elevator doors closed behind you with a soft ding. And only then did Dojoon exhale, like he’d been holding his breath since the moment he saw that flame kiss your skin.

After the greenroom, after your father’s voice slicing through you like piano wire, after everything that came out of your mouth without breaking, after the way Dojoon had just been there, you just went back to work.

There was no aftermath.

No heart-to-hearts. No confrontation. No follow-up text that said are you okay? in Dojoon's signature no-caps typing style.

But that was alright. That was the silent agreement. It made you feel normal.

Load-in was tight the next morning, weather humid enough to glue shirts to backs, and no one wanted to talk logistics. You walked through it like usual: headset on, clipboard balanced against your hip, gaffer tape stuck like a second wristband.

Dojoon cracked a joke about the busted fan in the greenroom being a “sad metal tulip.”

You snorted without looking up.

“Try standing in catering.”

He grinned. “Trying to sweat out my personality anyway.”

It felt normal. Or close enough.

Later that night, you found yourself crouched next to the merch table, inventory-checking lightsticks while the guys soundchecked. Dojoon passed by behind you, drumstick in hand for no reason at all. He didn’t say anything at first, just bumped your knee lightly with his foot like a secret hello.

You looked up. He was already walking away.

Things weren’t better. Not really. But they weren’t broken either.He didn’t push. You didn’t offer. And maybe that’s what made it bearable.

Until the silence got too loud again.

It was a few days later, just past 2AM.

The show had been loud. The venue chaotic. You hadn’t had a moment to breathe backstage, just faces, noise, adrenaline, and static. Your father barking commands at you non stop. It was all too much. You hadn’t spoken much since loading onto the bus. Now the others were asleep. You could feel it in the stillness. The bus hummed low, the lounge at the back dim with emergency light.

You hadn’t meant to bring the lighter. It just ended up in your hoodie pocket. Like always.

You sat cross-legged on the carpet, sleeves pushed up, the AC whispering over your bare arms. The crew jacket you’d had on earlier was folded beside you.

Your thumb clicked the lighter open. No hesitation this time, not when the urge was too present. The flame danced, small, hungry. You didn’t flinch. Not until the sting bloomed sharp under your skin, and even then, you welcomed it. Just a second. Just enough to feel it bite. Enough to override everything else clawing in your head. Again. This wasn’t a breakdown. It wasn’t a spiral.It was control.

The heat bloomed sharp against your wrist, the only thing lately that didn’t lie to you.

And then-

“You cannot be serious.”

You jolted. Too late to hide it.

Dojoon stood in the doorway. Sleep-rough hair, black t-shirt, no shoes, and absolutely fuming. Not the usual teasing squint. Not quiet concern. His eyes found the lighter. Found your wrist. And something in him snapped.

“Are you actually fucking serious right now?”

You froze. The lighter slipped from your hand, landing soft on the carpet. He didn’t move right away. Just stared. Like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, or maybe like he could, and that’s what made it worse.

Then he stepped in, fast. Two strides and he was towering over you.

“This has to stop.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came.

He crouched, not gentle, not slow. His movements were sharp, clipped, like he was trying to hold himself in place.

“You don’t get to keep doing this,” he said, voice low and tight. “You don’t get to hurt yourself like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t fucking ruin everyone who cares.”

You flinched. You’d never seen him like this.

He grabbed the lighter. Didn’t even look at it this time. Just stood, walked three paces, and hurled it at the trash bin. It missed. Hit the wall with a metallic clatter and skidded under the couch.

You stared.

“I didn’t -”

“No.” His voice cracked, not from volume, but from restraint. “Don’t.”

He turned back around. Hands on his hips. Breathing like he’d just sprinted. Jaw set. Shoulders tense.

“You know how many times I’ve almost said something?” he snapped. “About how you disappear. About the way you never let anyone close enough to notice when you’re bleeding.”

His eyes flashed, angry and tired. “And now you’re fucking doing this? Again?”

You looked down. The burn on your wrist was already darkening. His eyes tracked it like it physically hurt to look at it. It was the worst he’s seen so far.

“It wasn’t-” you started.

He took a step forward. “Don’t say it wasn’t what it looked like. Don’t do that.”

You looked up, startled. His voice had dropped lower, quieter, but somehow more dangerous.

“Because I was there the first time. And the second. And now here we are again, and I’m starting to think you don’t give a shit if anyone ever sees the aftermath.”

Your throat tightened. “I didn’t ask you to-”

“I don’t care if you asked,” he bit out. “I’m here. I saw. I told you to tell me when it gets this bad!”

Silence. Then his hand scrubbed over his face, and for the first time you noticed the shake in his fingers. Not from anger. From something closer to fear.

“Do you know what it’s like to see someone go still like that?” he asked, voice rasping. “To see them vanish behind their eyes and not know how to pull them back out?”

You said nothing. Because you knew. You’ve seen it with your mother. So many times.

“Because that’s what it feels like. When you do this.” He gestured to your wrist, to the room, to all of it. “Like I’m watching you disappear again and again and I can’t fucking reach you.”

Your voice finally scraped out: “I didn’t mean for you to see.”

He laughed. Bitter. Exhausted.

“Jesus. That’s the problem, isn’t it?” he said. “You don’t want anyone to see. You want to hide the mess. Pretend the burn is cleaner than the bruise.”

The words hit harder than the burn ever could. You bit the inside of your cheek. His chest rose. Fell. His voice dropped again, not softer, just… stripped down.

“You don’t have to be okay for me,” he said. “You don’t have to fix it. But you can’t lie like this isn’t killing you. Like it isn’t killing me to watch.”

You looked up. His eyes were bloodshot. His expression raw. And for once, he wasn’t trying to keep it together. Not for you. Not for himself. Something cracked inside your ribs. He dropped back down to his knees, slower this time, arms loose at his sides. Just looking at you. Like if he moved wrong, you’d vanish again.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted. “Except sit here. And be here. Until you want me gone or want me closer. Or both.”

You didn’t say anything. You just reached for him, hand landing somewhere between his shoulder and his collarbone, and folded into him with a quiet, shaking breath.

He held you tight. Tight like anger didn’t cancel care. Tight like your pulse might stop if he didn’t.

You didn’t mean to kiss him. Not really. But once your body remembered what it meant to be held like that, not restrained or managed or dismissed, but held, something inside you shifted.

You were shaking. Still. And he felt it. All of it. The tremble in your ribs. The way you tucked your face into the space between his neck and shoulder like you were hiding from the world that just saw too much.

And then you moved.Slow at first. A tilt of your head. A brush of your mouth along his jaw. Testing. He stilled, hands locked around your back, breath caught somewhere in his chest, but he didn’t pull away.

So you kissed him. Not soft. Not sweet.

Just real.

It was the kind of kiss born from salt and smoke and survival, the kind that doesn’t ask for permission because it’s not trying to seduce, it’s trying to just fucking feel something true.

His lips met yours like he’d been waiting for this moment all night. Maybe longer. But this time, he didn’t fall into it. Not right away. His hands tensed at your sides. Like he didn’t trust himself not to ruin it. Like he still hadn’t decided if this was what either of you needed.

You weren’t sure either. But you gave neither of you any room to second guess. You climbed into his lap, thighs bracketing his hips, breath ragged, and kissed him harder. Desperately. Like you were making a demand without words: Don’t leave me in this. Don’t look away now that you’ve seen all of it.

He responded in kind. His hands found your waist. Gripped. Not to push you away, to ground you. To keep you tethered. To make sure this wasn’t just in his head.

Your hips shifted without meaning to. Slow, experimental pressure. Cotton dragged over cotton, unhurried and deliberate, and your breath hitched as heat bloomed beneath the fabric. His did too, quiet, shaky, wanting. He groaned into your mouth.

“Don’t do this unless you mean it,” he rasped.

You looked him dead in the eye. “I fucking mean it.”

Something broke behind his eyes. He kissed you like you were oxygen. Like he’d been gasping for days. Like this was the only language either of you could speak anymore. That’s what it felt like.

Your hands slid under his shirt, palms splayed across his chest, hot skin, pounding heart. He hissed through his teeth.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You rocked down again, not to tease. Just to feel. To remind yourself that your body could experience more than pain. His hands shot to your hips. Not stopping you. Holding you steady. Reverent and rough at the same time. You bit down on his lip. He groaned again, deeper this time.

“You don’t get to kiss me like that,” he growled, voice cracking. “Not after tonight.”

You froze for a second, throat tight.

“Why not?” you whispered.

His eyes scanned your face. Wild. Burning.

“Because I want you so bad it hurts,” he said. “And because I’ve never wanted something that scared me this much.”

You didn’t speak. Just kissed him again, slower this time. Tongue brushing his, hands sliding to the back of his neck. He let it happen. Let you push him closer to the edge. Let you rock against him, heat pooling between you, breaths catching in tandem.

“You’re still shaking,” he whispered.

“So are you,” you murmured back.

He exhaled like the truth of it gutted him.

“I’m not gonna fuck you on a bus floor while your brain’s still bleeding,” he said, forehead to yours, voice broken open. “I want to. You have no idea how bad. But I’m not.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

“But I need to touch you.”

You nodded again. “Okay.”

His hands slid under your shirt, slow, reverent — and settled just below your ribs. His thumbs grazed your skin, not to provoke, but to anchor. To say: You’re here. I see you. I’ve got you. You stayed like that, chests heaving, mouths close but not kissing, foreheads touching.

His hands held you like a promise to not leave. And for the first time in a long time, you felt warm without burning.

You stayed there like that, bodies wrapped together on the floor, breath evening out, heat still humming between you. His hands never left your waist. Your fingers didn’t stop tracing the ridge of his collarbone. Absent. Steady. Like maybe you were learning each other’s outlines in the dark.

Eventually, his head tipped forward, his lips brushing yours lightly, and he exhaled, soft and bitter.

“I should get up before I fuse with this floor.”

You smirked without opening your eyes. “That’s what you’re worried about? Fusion?”

“I’m thirty-two,” he deadpanned. “My knees were not built for carpet-based emotional trauma.”

You snorted. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the girl who just made out with me like it was CPR.”

You pulled back enough to look at him.

“Well,” you said slowly, “You were kind of dying. And I’m an expert in CPR.”

He gave you a look, that signature Dojoon squint, dry and dangerous.

“You gonna take credit for saving me now?”

“I am very generous.”

“Yeah?” His hands shifted, palms sliding up your back, fingers brushing your shoulder blades. “You’re also a menace.”

You hummed. “Takes one to kiss one.”

He groaned. “God, shut up.”

You leaned in again, mouth brushing his ear. “Make me.”

The breath caught in his throat. Then his hands flexed, and for a second you thought he might snap again, crush you against him, kiss you like the floor could catch fire. But he didn’t. He let the silence stretch between your mouths, his eyes scanning yours like he was memorizing the new edges of you, the fire, the softness, the bite.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmured. “You know that?”

You shrugged. “You’re the one who keeps showing up.”

He laughed, low and hoarse and real, and it shook something loose between you. He tilted his head. Smirk curling lazy at the corner of his mouth.

“So, just to clarify,” he said, dragging the words out, “you’re into pyromania, verbal abuse, and lap-based cardio?”

You blinked, mock-innocent. “When you say it like that, it sounds weird.”

“You are weird.”

“Says the man who growled at me like a feral dog.”

“You were grinding like you were trying to end my bloodline.”

You burst into laughter. And so did he, full-bodied, head-tipped-back, that real Dojoon laugh that made your chest loosen without the help of flame or friction.

The silence that followed wasn’t tense this time. Just warm. Easy.

Then he shifted beneath you and groaned. “Seriously. My ass is numb. Help me up before I die dramatic and beautiful.”

You rolled your eyes and stood, offering him a hand. “Come on, grandpa.”

He took it, groaning as he stood. “I’m gonna need to ice my everything.”

“Oh no,” you said flatly. “Not your fragile rockstar knees.”

He gave you a look. “Watch it. Or I’ll throw you over my shoulder and make you sleep in the merch bins.”

You lifted your chin. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I absolutely would.”

“Then do it.”

You didn’t mean for it to come out like that, challenge baked into every syllable,but it did. His eyes dropped to your mouth again. Dark. Curious. A beat passed.

Then he leaned in, voice low. “Careful.”

You swallowed.

He grinned, that slow, dimpled, you-make-me-crazy grin, and stepped back before either of you lost control again.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. Dojoon didn’t say anything after that, just looked at you for a second, eyes soft again, like whatever had cracked open in him hadn’t quite sealed yet. Then he jerked his chin toward the back of the bus.

“Come on. Bed, gremlin.”

You groaned. “I don’t wanna move.”

“Too bad. I’m tucking you in like a problematic child.”

“You’re so bossy after 2 a.m.”

“Only when I catch people setting themselves on fire,” he said flatly, starting toward the bunks. “And emotionally blackmailing me with their thighs.”

You snorted. “You liked it.”

“I’ll never admit that in court.”

You followed him, bumping his shoulder with yours once in the narrow hallway. His fingers brushed your hand in return, barely there, but it sent heat sparking through your ribs all over again. At your bunk, you paused. The curtain was open, blanket twisted from where you’d tried and failed to sleep earlier. Dojoon didn’t even hesitate. He crouched slightly, grabbed the edge of the blanket, and fluffed it out like it was some five-star hotel turn-down service.

You gave him a look. “What is happening right now.”

“I am being the nurturing mother bird you never knew you needed.”

“Oh my god.”

“Shhh,” he whispered dramatically. “Time for the baby gremlin to rest.”

You shoved his shoulder, but he caught your wrist mid-air. Not hard, just enough to still you. Then, gently, he tugged your sleeve back down. Covered the raw spot on your wrist with his hand. Held it there for a second, gaze flicking up to yours.

His voice dropped. “Sleep, okay?”

You nodded. Something thick rose in your throat. But you swallowed it down.

He released your hand, reached up, and tapped your forehead with one finger. “That’s for being an idiot.”

Then he kissed the spot he’d just tapped. “That’s for not being alone anymore.”

Your breath caught.He saw it. Didn’t press. Just gave you a half-smile that held too much and said too little. You climbed into your bunk. He pulled the blanket over you like it was the most normal thing in the world. Then tucked it under your shoulder. Then paused.

“Goodnight.”

You didn’t answer out loud. Just let your eyes close, chest full and aching and finally still. And when you drifted off a few minutes later, body warm, wrist covered, blanket tucked tight, the last thing you heard was his footsteps fading down the corridor.

The European leg of the tour was over.

Too many cities, one shattered mic stand, and a dozen sleepless nights. Everyone had made it through with cracked knuckles and scratchy throats and an entire tour bus’s worth of inside jokes, but they made it.

And now, in a half-lit hotel bar with staff and crew half-drunk on wine and end-of-tour adrenaline, they were allowed to exhale.

Dojoon wasn’t drinking much, just nursing one of those whiskey sodas he only pretended to like. He was slouched back in a cracked leather chair, hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, legs sprawled out like the entire floor was his. He looked relaxed.

He wasn’t.

He was waiting.

They all were, really. Even if they didn’t say it. Everyone had noticed you hadn’t arrived yet. Chloe from tech had asked. Mina from lighting, too. One of the staff even asked your dad, only to be waved off with a tight smile and some mutter about “probably still changing.”

And then the door opened. And silence followed you in. You didn’t just walk into the room, you took it. Black dress. Thigh-highs. Boots that sounded like intention. Your hair was curled, your lips were painted, and your eyes looked like they were daring someone to say something.

They didn’t. Not at first.

Then:

“Jesus,” Hajoon muttered, eyes wide. “She could kill a man in that dress.”

“Dojoon’s already halfway dead,” Woosung said with a smirk.

Taegyeom made a choked sound. “I don’t think he’s breathing.”

Dojoon didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Just watched you. Not in the obvious way. Not with some jaw-dropped stare. He watched you like a song he already knew, one he hadn’t heard played quite like this before. The confidence. The way you walked like you knew how sharp you looked.

The way your eyes scanned the room and landed on him like it wasn’t even an accident. You smiled. It was small. But it hit like an elbow to the ribs. He blinked once and took a sip of his drink to keep his mouth from saying something stupid.

You were barely three steps into the room before your dad intercepted.

“Really?” he said, low, with that tone you knew too well. “You’re dressed like this for a work event?”

You tilted your head. “It’s a party.”

“It’s a professional celebration.”

You sipped your drink. “And I’m professionally celebrating.”

He sighed. “You don’t have to try so hard to be noticed.”

“I’m not trying.” You smiled sweetly. “This is just how I look.”

Then you turned, and walked straight past him, toward Chloe and Mina, who immediately whooped and wrapped you into a too-tight, too-loud hug like they’d been waiting all night to see you.

You didn’t look back. But someone else did. From across the room, Dojoon had seen everything. And while he didn’t say a word, his posture shifted just slightly. One hand flexed around the glass in his lap. His eyes didn’t move from you.

“Man,” Woosung said beside him, deadpan, “you’re making it too obvious.”

Dojoon didn’t respond.

“Seriously,” Hajoon added, flopping into the chair next to him, “you’re staring like she just invented knees.”

Dojoon leaned back, rested his elbow on the armrest, and muttered, “You think she dressed like that by accident?”

Woosung grinned. “I think she dressed like that knowing you’d look at her exactly like this.”

Dojoon’s mouth twitched. Because… yeah. She probably did. And the worst part? She didn’t have to try.

You were laughing now, not politely, not just crew-friendly giggles. Real laughter. Sparkling and raw. Flushed cheeks, smudged lipstick, a highball glass in hand. A little wild around the edges. A little like you belonged to the moment more than to the tour.

Dojoon couldn’t take his eyes off you. It wasn’t just the dress. It was the way you looked alive in it. Not quiet. Not careful. Not hidden in oversized sweatshirts and tightly gripped clipboards. But glowing. Smirking. Sharp.

And he'd watched you back every time your eyes drifted toward him. Not overtly. Never bold. But every time you threw your head back to laugh, you felt it. Every time your hand curled around a drink. Every time you shifted in your seat. He was there. Eyes like heat. Like want.

The party didn’t crash so much as fade.

One by one, people peeled off, stumbling out in pairs, slumping into hotel elevators, mumbling something about flights and hangovers and charging cables. Someone was still singing in the hallway two floors down. Chloe had cried over a spilled espresso martini. Hajoon and Taegyeom left arguing over what European food’s the best.

You stayed later than you meant to. Just barely. Not because you were drunk, you weren’t, not really. Just floaty. Skin humming. Every breath still tuned to the weight of his stare.

You’d expected him to follow. Or maybe you hoped he would.

But he didn’t.

Not when you slipped out. Not in the elevator ride up. Not when you kicked your boots off and peeled the stockings off your legs and stood in front of the mirror with your lipstick half-worn and your hair a little wild, glitter dusted across your collarbone like residue from something unspoken.

Now, in the room alone, everything felt tighter.

The mirror still held your reflection from earlier, flushed cheeks, dark eyes, a dress that clung. The towel you’d wrapped around yourself after the shower barely stayed in place, clinging damp to your skin. And your body buzzed. Not from alcohol. From him. From the look in his eyes when you walked away. From everything he didn’t say.

You lay back against the pillows, hair damp, towel barely staying put. The sheets under you felt cool, but your skin burned, that kind of heat that didn’t come from the hot water. The kind that pulsed low and slow behind your ribs.

You hadn’t meant to do anything. Not really.

It was just… lingering.

That tension. That need. You’d been carrying it for days and now, with the quiet stretching long and empty around you, it had nowhere to go. So you let your fingers drift. Just a little. Across your stomach. Down your thigh.

You tried to ignore the ache.

Tried to ignore the way your thoughts immediately conjured him, the roughness in his voice, the way his hand gripped your waist, the sound he made when you whimpered against his mouth.

And then, somehow, your fingers had slipped lower. You weren’t really doing anything. Just… pressing. Lightly. The smallest drag of touch. Like testing if the heat between your thighs was still there. It was. You shifted your legs slightly apart. Let your breath hitch. Closed your eyes and imagined his mouth.And just when your fingers started to move…

Your phone buzzed.

You jumped. Your heart lurched like you’d been caught. You snatched the phone off the bed, eyes wide.

Dojoon.

Your pulse was loud. Too loud. You wiped your hand quickly on the sheets and sat up halfway, tucking the towel tighter around your legs. Just to feel less exposed. Less… obvious. You stared at the screen a second longer.

Then answered.

“…Hi.”

There was silence at first. Then a soft, familiar chuckle.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough, like he hadn’t let himself breathe all night. “Still glowing from the party?” His voice was warm. Low. Familiar in a way that made you want to cry and moan at the same time.

“You good?” he asked after a second of you not answering, only breathing awkwardly into the line.

You cleared your throat. “Yeah. I’m- yeah. Just… tired.”

“You think I didn’t see you tonight?” he asked, voice low. “The way you looked in that dress? Like you were trying to kill me.”

“I- yeah, that was like the whole point.”

A soft breath from him. Not quite a laugh. “You sound flushed.” He didn’t say it teasingly this time. Just matter of factly.

“I just got out of the shower.”

Another beat. You could hear the smirk in his voice this time.

“Still in your towel?”

You groaned.

“Like the dress wasn’t enough?” he added, half-laughing. “I barely survived that. Now you’re naked and flushed and on the phone with me?”

You buried your face in your pillow. “Dojoon…”

“What? That’s a normal question.”

You snorted. “No, it’s not.”

A pause. Then: “So… yes?”

You let out the world’s quietest groan.

“God,” he said, voice tipping into something darker. “That’s not helping.”

You could practically hear him adjusting, like he’d leaned back, thrown an arm over his head, eyes closed, picturing you.

“I couldn’t stop looking at you tonight,” he said suddenly, voice softer. “Your legs. That lipstick. The way you kept teasing me with those small glances my way.”

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,”. A small pause. “Like actually distracted. I think Hajoon knows. He asked if I was dying.” You laughed into the pillow, nerves still buzzing in your skin.

“And now,” he continued, voice low and amused, “you’re on the phone, lying in bed, still warm from the shower, probably with your legs parted-”

Your breath caught. Audibly. He stopped. It was silent for a second and you could hear shuffling on the other end of the line.

“…Wait.”

Your heart slammed. Oh no.

“Sweetheart,” he said slowly. “Were you… touching yourself when I called?”

You made the tiniest noise in the back of your throat.

“Oh my god,” he said, almost laughing. “You were.”

“I wasn’t- I mean, I didn’t- I wasn’t doing anything,” you stammered, horrified, feeling caught by him.

“You sound like you were doing something,” he teased. “All breathless and flustered.”

You could feel your whole body heating up. You couldn’t even look at the phone. Like he could see you somehow.

“So now I’m wondering…” he said softly, curiosity laced into his voice. “Are you still?”

You nearly fucking died. For a full thirty seconds, you couldn’t even breathe, let alone speak — just stared at the wall, pulse hammering, caught between telling him to fuck off and hanging up or… giving in. You should’ve ended the call. Should’ve shut it down before it got worse. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Something in you was already unraveling — and he knew it.

“…No,” you whispered.

He was quiet for a second. Then: “But you want to.”

You didn’t answer.

“Hey…,” he murmured, gentle now. “Don’t hide from me.” You bit your lip hard enough to sting.

“Do you want me to stay on the phone?” he asked, his voice soft but thick with hunger, every word coiled tight with need. The kind that settled deep in your stomach and wouldn’t let go.

You nodded before realizing he couldn’t see it. “…Yes.”

“Good girl.”

You made a tiny sound.

“Can I help?” he asked, his voice like warm smoke, curling through the line and into your body, thick with promise.

“…How?” you managed, barely above a whisper.

“I’ll talk,” he said, simply. Calmly. Like it was the easiest thing in the world. “You listen. You touch. You come when I tell you to.”

Your thighs shifted involuntarily, the ache already blooming low and warm. His words wrapped around you like silk and pressure all at once — soft and commanding. Your breath stuttered.

“I don’t— I don’t know what to—”

“I’ll guide you,” he said, voice softer now, like velvet stretched tight.

You swallowed. “Okay.”

“I want you to keep it light,” he murmured. “Just your clit. No fingers inside, not yet.”

Your breath caught.

“I need you on edge,” he said, almost like it hurt him to say it. “Worked up and throbbing and so desperate you forget your own name.”

You made a tiny, needy sound.

“And I want to hear you,” he added, voice warm. “Every sound you make, every breath- I want all of it.”

You hesitated, the heat crawling up your neck. “I’m not good at-”

“You are,” he said immediately, and the certainty in his voice made your stomach twist. “You‘re just not aware of it. You make the prettiest sounds when you stop thinking.”

The sound that escaped you wasn’t intentional, a helpless little whimper, raw and shaky. Your hand clenched the sheets. You hated how easily he could draw that out of you. He loved it.

“There it is,” he murmured, voice low and pleased, like he’d just unwrapped something delicate. “God, I love that.”

Then, lower, darker: “So,” he breathed, dragging the word out like a secret, “are your fingers already between your thighs?”

Your heart nearly stopped.

“…Yes.”

“Fuck,” he groaned.

You let your hand settle again. Hesitant. Embarrassed. But so desperately warm.

“Start slow,” he said. You did. Your breath stuttered. “Just… tease it a little. Like I would if I were there. I’d just lightly touch. Barely anything.”

You did what he said. Your hips shifted under the towel. Your breath came faster. He let the silence stretch, just enough.

“Are you wet?” There was the faintest hesitation in his voice, like he already knew the answer but needed to hear you say it.

“…Yes” The pause on the line told you everything.

“Were you thinking about me. Before I called?”

You nodded instinctively, even though he couldn’t see you, breath catching in your throat.

“Y-yeah.”

“You know, I’d take my time,” he whispered. “I’d move so slow you’d beg me to stop teasing. I’d want your thighs shaking.” Your hips bucked.

“I want to hear it.”

You swallowed. “Hear what?”

“What it feels like.”

Your entire body flushed hot. Cheeks, chest, the tips of your ears, all burning. You blinked up at the ceiling like it might save you, but it didn’t. Nothing could. Not from that voice. That tone. Warm, rough, low with want. And full of knowing.

You bit your lip. “What… what do you mean?”

But you knew exactly what he meant. You just couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Not yet. Not like this, bare and trembling, hand between your thighs, heart thudding loud enough to fill the silence.

Dojoon was quiet for a beat. Then, softer now, coaxing: “Tell me what you feel.”

You whimpered.

“Tell me,” he said again, almost like he was pleading now. “Please. I want the words. I want to imagine exactly what you’re feeling, what I’d be feeling if I had you under me instead.”

Your throat bobbed. You licked your lips, desperate to find your voice.

“I- It’s warm,” you whispered, breath hitching. “It… it pulses. Feels so good. Every time I circle, it just- it gets tighter. Hotter.”

You heard it, the sharp breath he sucked in. The slight rustle of fabric on his end, like maybe he’d shifted in bed. Like maybe he was fisting the sheet.

“Fuck,” he groaned, low and hoarse. “I love hearing your voice like that.”

Your hips moved of their own accord, chasing that rhythm again. Slow, shaky, clumsy with how close you already were.

“I wish I was there,” he murmured, rough and reverent. “I wish I could see your face. Watch you struggle to say it. God, you sound so shy and so fucking desperate at the same time.”

You made a choked sound. “Dojoon-”

“Are you clenching around nothing?” he asked, voice ragged now. “So wet and aching it hurts?” You gasped, biting back a moan.

“Say it,” he rasped. “Say what you need.”

You hesitated. But your body answered for you, grinding down against your fingers harder now, the need unbearable.

“I- I need you,” you whimpered. “Need your mouth. Your fingers, anything. Need you to make it worse before you make it better.”

He could hear it in your breath, the stutter, the rhythm of it. The way your moans curled at the edges now, tighter, higher, trembling. You were close. He knew it.

But that wasn’t in his plans.

“No,” he said, gentle but firm. “Don’t rush. Take your hand away.”

Your fingers stilled, and your chest heaved with a soft, panicked gasp. “Dojoon-”

“I want you desperate,” he said, voice dipped in low heat. “And I want you begging.”

God, he was a cruel bastard. A beautiful, wicked, perfect bastard.

But your hand moved, trembling, away from your center anyway. Your body screamed at the loss, the slick ache between your legs throbbing without relief. You buried your face in the pillow and whimpered again. This was torture.

“You wanna know what I’d do?” he asked, his voice soft now, sinful and dark. Teasing. Torturous.

“Yes,” you breathed, like it hurt to admit.

“I’d start with slow kisses,” he murmured. “Down your thighs. Over your hips. Just to feel you twitch. To make you squirm. And then I’d press your legs open and taste you - one long, slow lick. Just enough to make you cry.”

You did cry out then, softly, helplessly, biting the sheet beneath your cheek like it could ground you.

“But I wouldn’t let you finish,” he said, a little breathless himself. “Not at first.”

“Why?” Your voice broke around the word.

“Because I love how you sound when you’re frustrated. Like right now.” His voice was pure hunger now, the low groan in his throat sending sparks down your spine.

“Dojoon-” You could hardly breathe.

“I want you to ask for it,” he said, voice shaking with restraint. “Ask to keep going.”

“Please,” you whimpered, hips twitching against the air. “Please, let me- ”

“Touch yourself again,” he whispered. “Faster. Just a little. I want to hear what I’m missing.”

You obeyed instantly, your hand finding its way back, fingers slick and needy. The relief was so sharp you moaned, high and broken and shaking. You barely even needed to move. Just a few strokes and your body was unraveling, inch by desperate inch.

But it was his voice, god, his voice, that ruined you. It wrapped around every nerve, pulled every breath from your lungs like it was tethered to his.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he groaned- ragged, like every word scraped straight from his throat. “I’m hard as fuck just listening to you.”

Your hand moved faster, helpless against it now. Every nerve in your body screamed for release. You were heat and ache and nothing else.

“Do you want to come?” he asked, and this time there was no softness to his voice, just hunger. Raw, strained, barely held back.

“Y-yes-” The answer tore out of you. You were already there. Balancing on the knife-edge, breath catching in your throat.

“Don’t. Not yet.”

You sobbed, actually sobbed, your hips stuttering against your hand, muscles clenching tight with the effort to obey. The pressure was unbearable.

“Just a little more,” he whispered. “Let it build. I want you ruined for me. I want to hear how bad you need it.”

And so you held on, body trembling, thighs tensed. Even as your fingers slipped and your breathing went ragged. Even as everything in you screamed now. You didn’t let go- because he told you not to.

“Please-” Your voice broke. Your eyes burned, tears pricking from sheer desperation. “I can’t-I can’t anymore, just… please-“

“Louder.”

“Please, Dojoon,” you gasped, your voice ruined, wrecking you. “I need to come. I need it- ”

There was a sound on the other end — something between a sigh and a groan, like he’d thrown his head back and exhaled through clenched teeth.

“God,” he hissed. “Okay. Come for me.”

Your body didn’t wait. It snapped. Release ripped through you like lightning- violent, staggering. You arched with it, mouth falling open on a moan that was only his name, over and over, broken and breathless like a prayer. Your thighs shook. Your whole body seized and shattered around the pleasure, wave after wave pulling you under.

And on the other end of the line, his breathing. Harsh. Shaky. Intimate. Like he’d been right there with you, feeling every second of it.

You didn’t know how long you’d been lying there. The world had gone quiet in the best kind of way- like time had slowed down to let you breathe. Your body was still curled loosely on the bed, skin flushed, chest rising slowly as you drifted somewhere between weightlessness and the steady pulse of him still lingering in your bones.

Your hand was limp against your stomach, fingers slightly curled like they hadn’t yet remembered how to let go. The towel had slipped off you at some point, the bed sheets clung to your thighs, the fabric warm and damp, tangled from how you’d twisted atop them, chasing his voice. Being undone by it.

And he was still there. In your ear. Breathing. Not talking yet, not teasing. Just present. You could hear the way his breath moved through him: slower now, a little unsteady, like he was still coming down too. It filled the silence with something quiet and intimate, the kind of closeness that didn’t need to be seen or touched to be real.

Then, softly, his voice scraped into your ear:

“Are you okay?”

Three words. Simple. But the way he said them made your chest pull tight.

You swallowed, blinking up at the ceiling. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m okay.”

He let out a slow breath. Like he’d been waiting to hear that.

“You sounded so good,” he murmured. “I mean- fucking unreal.”

You smiled, weak and flushed. “I hate how smug you sound right now.”

“I’m not smug,” he said, and you could hear the way his lips twitched around it. “I’m proud. Of my work.”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, and that made something shift in him, you could hear it in the way he shifted too.

“I’d kill to see you right now,” he said, more to himself than to you. “The way you look after.”

That made your breath catch again. Your eyes fluttered shut. “I wish you were here,” you whispered. Another pause. Not tense. Just full.

“I kind of am,” he said quietly. And in a way, he was right. You could feel him- the weight of his attention, the presence of him on the other end of the line like a hand resting low on your spine. Like he’d stretched himself through the static and settled right beside you.

“I kept thinking about your hands,” you said, voice low now, fragile with honesty. “What they felt like on my hips.“

He inhaled sharply.

You didn’t apologize. You didn’t explain. Neither did he. There was no shame in wanting. Not here.

“Are you still…” you trailed off, heat crawling back into your cheeks.

His voice was already there. Low. Rough. “Hard as hell.”

You groaned softly. “You’re insufferable.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it,” he murmured. “You like knowing what you do to me.”

“I do.”

“Mhm. There it is.”

Your lips curved. It was terrifying how easy it was to fall into him like this, not just the teasing, but the comfort underneath it. The way he felt like a place to land.

“Hey,” he said after a beat. “Did I… go too far?”

The question caught you off guard.

“No,” you said quickly. “God, no. You were perfect.”

He let out a breath that sounded like tension easing through his chest. “Good.”

Another pause. Then his voice gentled, softer than you’d ever heard it.

“Are you feeling okay? Like… really okay?”

You nodded instinctively, then answered. “Yeah. I feel safe.”

He didn’t say anything. Not for a few seconds. You could feel it settle into his body on the other end, the way those words landed. The way they mattered.

“That’s all I care about,” he said quietly. “That you feel held. Even like this.”

You blinked rapidly, trying to fight the sudden burn in your eyes. The feeling of being held, it was almost unreal. How had someone stayed, not walked away, not let go… even when they weren’t here?

“You do that,” you whispered.

“I’d be better in person.”

“I know.”

He didn’t offer to come over. You didn’t ask him to. The thing between you wasn’t about proving anything. It was about being here. Letting it unfold.

“I keep picturing it,” he said. “If I was there. What I’d be doing right now.”

You swallowed. “What would you be doing?”

He hesitated, just for a second.

“I’d be running my fingers down your spine,” he said softly. “Smoothing the hair off your face. Letting you tuck into me, your back against my chest. My arm across your waist, keeping you there. Kissing your neck. I’d stay.”

Your breath caught.

“I’d hold you until you fell asleep. And long after that,” he said. “Watching your body relax.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. The silence between you was too full to break, warm and heavy, like a blanket draped over both of you.

“You can sleep,” he said finally, voice so soft it barely touched your ear. “I’ll stay.”

“You sure? I snore.”

“Mhm I wanna hear that,” he murmured. “Bet you sound real sexy.”

You smiled, eyes drifting shut, your tired limbs finally relaxing.

“Mhm. Goodnight,” you said.

“Night, sweetheart.” A pause. “Don’t think too hard. Just feel it.”

You breathed in slowly. Let the quiet take you. And somewhere on the same floor, in a different bed, under the same ceiling, he stayed. Breathing with you. Holding you, in the only way he could.

And it was enough. For now.

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