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hoshifighting · 6 months ago

Note

idk if someone asked you this but i’m a new reader and I REALLY REALLY LOVE YOUR WORKS!!!

can you please make wonwoo, the nerdy president who u thought was innocent and sweet but he’s the one behind ur fave nsfw audio creator???? AND HE’S A HARDFUCKER.. not what u expected tho..

i don’t know if i make sense but please pretty please 😭☝️

Synopsis: where you discover that the nerdy class president is the one man who creates the most nasty NSFW audios that you spend long nights listening to. WC: 2.8k WARNINGS: smut, audio porn, masturbation, hard fuck, dirty talk (obviously), bad sleeping habits (because of wonwoo), fingering, spanking, dirty talk, pussy eating, penetrative sex, protected sex, wonwoo whining, a lil invasion of privacy.

you’ve been running on fumes all day, the hazy buzz of sleep deprivation clinging to your brain like static. it’s no surprise, really. your night had gone the way it always does: you got home, flopped into your chair, threw on your headphones, and let onyx_lens—your favorite nsfw asmr creator—drag you under with that stupidly deep voice of his.

it was kind of pathetic, actually. you barely remember what the script was about—something about obedience or whatever—but you do remember the sound of his voice sinking into your brain like warm honey, making you cum so hard that you blacked the fuck out right after. now here you were, bleary-eyed and trying to stay upright in literature class, the regret of last night’s poor choices catching up with you.

wonwoo, the class president who was somehow both effortlessly chill and annoyingly observant, had been glancing at you every few minutes. you could feel his eyes on you as your head dipped forward for the third time, only to snap back up like a busted bobblehead.

but, in true wonwoo fashion, he didn’t say anything. no scolding, no judgmental sighs—just quiet observation.

when class finally ended, you were ready to yeet yourself into a nap for a solid 72 hours. you were shoving your stuff into your bag when wonwoo’s voice cut through the noise.

“you good?”

you froze. his voice wasn’t the same as onyx_lens’s, obviously, but it had that same deep, smooth timbre that made your brain short-circuit for a second. it didn’t help that his question sounded so much like something out of an nsfw script. you turned to face him, hoping your face wasn’t giving away how flustered you suddenly were. “uh—yeah,” you said, shaking your head a little too quickly. “just tired.”

wonwoo raised an eyebrow. “not sleeping well?”

your brain screamed. your tired, half-horny brain screamed louder. the overlap of his voice and onyx_lens in your head was un-fucking-bearable. you managed to nod, muttering something about late nights and deadlines, hoping he wouldn’t pry.

he didn’t, but his next question wasn’t much better.

“think you could help me with the sci-fi project? your last lit analysis was good, and i could use the extra pair of hands.”

you blinked at him. “me?”

he nodded, adjusting his glasses. “you. unless you’re too busy with...whatever’s keeping you up.”

oh, you mean my nightly sessions with onyx_lens and my vibrator?

you swallowed hard and tried to play it cool. “nah, i can help.”

and that’s how you found yourself standing outside wonwoo’s apartment later that evening, clutching your bag. his place was exactly what you’d expect from him—minimalist, neat, and smelling faintly of coffee.

“come in,” he said, holding the door open for you. “make yourself comfortable.”

easier said than done. you perched awkwardly on his couch as he set up his laptop on the coffee table, your eyes darting around the room in an attempt to ignore how nice his voice sounded in person.

“so,” he began, sitting across from you, “any ideas for the project?”

you cleared your throat, trying to focus. “uh, maybe something about robots and humanity? like, exploring ethical dilemmas or something.”

wonwoo nodded thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on you in a way that made your skin heat. “good idea. we could tie that into the main themes from class.”

he leaned forward slightly, scrolling through a document on his laptop, and you couldn’t help but notice how his glasses slipped down his nose. you were so not prepared for this level of proximity or his stupidly deep voice.

“you okay?” he asked again, glancing at you.

you blinked, realizing you’d been staring. “yeah, just...thinking.”

his lips twitched into a small, knowing smile. “good. let me know if you need a break or...anything.”

the way he said anything sent a shiver down your spine. you weren’t sure if it was exhaustion, residual arousal from last night, or the sheer presence of wonwoo in his element, but your brain was a mess.

you were supposed to be helping him with this project, but all you could think about was the way his voice would sound whispering in your ear, saying things that would make onyx_lens blush.

you were so close to winning the “most pathetic college student of the year” award it wasn’t even funny. after much back-and-forth with wonwoo, class president of your downfall, you somehow convinced him to let you walk home alone. except the man still went all soft and paid for a taxi anyway, which, like… thanks? but also stop being so nice, what the hell.

it was nearing 11 p.m. when you got home, and as if on cue, your phone pinged with a notification: onyx_lens’s weekly live is starting.

you stared at it for a second, blinking in disbelief. today’s theme? "neon circuits and orgasm denial (a cyberpunk experience) 8d audio"

sci-fi-themed. of fucking course.

you almost laughed at the audacity of the universe for this one. was this some sort of cosmic joke? was wonwoo onyx_lens?! no way. no goddamn way. you shook off the thought as delulu nonsense and dragged yourself to the bathroom for a quick sponge bath.

by the time you flopped into your chair, headphones on, the live was already in full swing. that voice—that stupidly deep, velvety voice—flooded your ears as the chat buzzed with unhinged comments. onyx purred, and you were done for.

you couldn’t even focus on the sci-fi plot he was spinning, something about rogue androids, monster cock, neon vibrators and human experimentation. his voice wrapped around you like a silk chokehold, and you were gone—just a vibrating mess in your chair, coming undone embarrassingly fast.

fast forward to the next morning: you woke up feeling like a used dishrag. again. headphones still on, your phone dead, and the memory of last night’s live replaying in your brain like a broken record.

by the time you dragged yourself to class, you were running on fumes and vibes. your hoodie was scrunched up around your face, making you look like a cross between a gremlin and an overgrown baby.

wonwoo noticed. you could feel his eyes boring into you as you tried—and failed—to stay upright. you were so close to just giving in and laying flat on the floor. honestly, it might’ve been comfier than your chair at that point.

wonwoo, sitting two rows away, looked like he was internally debating whether to intervene or let you rot in peace. when the bell rang, you startled awake like you’d been electrocuted, nearly knocking your stuff off your desk in the process.

“you okay?” he asked, falling into step beside you as you shuffled out of the classroom like a zombie.

“i’m fine,” you mumbled, voice muffled by your hoodie. “just need food. like, now.”

you detoured to the convenience store on the way to his apartment, snagging an entire kimbap roll and tearing into it like a starving animal. wonwoo followed behind, holding your water bottle with a look that was equal parts judgment and amusement.

“you couldn’t wait?” he asked, watching as you ate half the roll in one bite.

“bro,” you said around a mouthful of rice, “if i didn’t eat this, i was gonna pass out on the cold asphalt. your problem now, mr. class president.”

he rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, just handed you your water like the reluctant babysitter he was.

this was going to be a long afternoon.

you couldn’t help yourself. the suspicion had been eating away at you for weeks now, ever since you first heard his voice in class and that nagging sense of déjà vu set in. wonwoo had escaped to the bathroom, and you had the perfect opportunity to snoop.

your fingers hovered over his notebook, but then your gaze darted back to your own screen. back and forth, back and forth. his notebook. yours. the coincidences were piling up like a conspiracy wall in your head. the voice, the specific vocabulary choices, even the cadence—how did i not notice this earlier?!

“fuck it,” you whispered to yourself, grabbing his notebook and quickly pulling up the site where you normally streamed your favorite asmr creator. just to check. just to confirm your theory.

your heart pounded as the site loaded, every second dragging like molasses. the channel page opened, and at first, it seemed normal. too normal. you almost clicked away, feeling stupid for even suspecting anything.

but then you saw it: edit profile. analytics.

your breath caught, and a sharp scoff escaped you as you crossed your arms. oh, my god. the realization hit you like a freight train. it’s him. wonwoo. class president. sci-fi nerd. “how the fuck did i not notice?” you muttered, half impressed by his audacity.

you were so lost in your spiraling thoughts that you didn’t hear him return—until his voice, practically kissed your earlobe.

“what. do. you. think. you. are. doing?”

you jumped so hard your knee slammed into the underside of the desk. whipping around, you found wonwoo standing over you, his expression unreadable but his jaw tight.

“uh—nothing?” you stammered, trying to slam your laptop shut, but his hand darted out and stopped you.

“‘nothing’ doesn’t look like you snooping through my computer,” he said, his voice dangerously calm.

your cheeks burned. “okay, fine, maybe i was curious—”

“you were curious?” his tone sharpened. “curious enough to invade my privacy?”

“invade your—bro, you’re literally whispering dirty robot sex fantasies to the entire internet. how is that private?”

“that’s different!” his ears flushed a deep red, and you couldn’t tell if it was from anger or embarrassment. “that’s content. this—this is personal.”

you rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair. “oh, please. you’re mad i figured it out. admit it.”

he leaned closer, towering over you now, his hand pressing down on the desk beside you. “what do you want, huh? blackmail? are you gonna tell everyone?”

you laughed, loud and incredulous. “tell everyone?! dude, relax. i’m not gonna expose your little side hustle. besides…” you smirked, tilting your head to look up at him. “you should be thanking me. clearly, i’m a fan.”

wonwoo’s eyes darkened, and his lips parted as if to say something, but no words came out.

“you’re a what?” he asks, your pulse skyrocketing as he stepped even closer, crowding you against the chair.

“did i stutter?” you whispered, the challenge clear in your tone.

his mouth crashed onto yours, teeth and tongue and frustration. you barely had time to process it before he was yanking you out of the chair, his hands rough as they gripped your hips and spun you around.

“you want to act like a brat,” he growled into your ear, his voice so reminiscent of his asmr persona that it made you roll your eyes back slighty, “then you’re gonna get treated like one.”

he bent you over the desk, the cold surface pressing against your chest as he yanked down your college skirt and underwear at once. his fingers slid through your folds, already slick just from being around him.

“so fucking wet,” he muttered, almost to himself. “you get off on this, don’t you? knowing it’s me.”

“shut your mouth,” you gasped, but it came out more like a moan as he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them and pressing them hard on your front wall.

“make me,” he challenged, his other hand coming down sharply on your ass. the sting made you gasp, your hips jerking against his hand as you tense on the desk.

the pace of his fingers was relentless, his thumb circling your clit in time with the thrusts. every part of your body was starting to be feveirsh, and you hated—hated—how easily he was unraveling you. you spent nights thinking about how it would be if onyx fucked you, and here you are. of course you would be a mess in a second.

“sorry” he mocked you. “am i too much for you?”

you clenched around his fingers, your nails digging into the desk as you tried to hold back a moan. “you talk too fucking much actually wonwoo,” you hissed.

“yeah, that's what's paying me at nights” wonwoo chuckled darkly, pulling his fingers out and flipping you onto your back with his big arms. before you could protest, he was kneeling between your legs, his mouth suddenly hot and insistent against your core, better than any other vibrator you insisted on using at night.

the sounds—the wet, obscene sounds of his tongue—mixed with your whimpers as he devoured you like a man starved. his hands gripped your thighs, holding you open as you tried to squirm away from the overwhelming sensation.

“stop—”

“stop?” he looked up, his chin glistening. “not until you admit i’m your favorite.”

you glared down at him, breathless and defiant. “you’re such an asshole.”

“and yet…” he smirked, diving back in and flicking his tongue against your clit until your head fell back, a broken moan spilling from your lips.

it didn’t take long before you were coming undone, your body shaking as his mouth pulled your clit. wonwoo didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down, dragging out your orgasm until you were a trembling, incoherent chaos beneath him.

wonwoo doesn’t waste a second after pulling back, his hands flipping you over again so you’re bent over the desk, your cheek pressed to the cool surface as he grinds against you. the thick outline of his cock rubs against your dripping folds, still covered by the soft fabric of his grey sweatpants. you gasp, your hips jerking back involuntarily, and his pearly-white smile flashes above you.

“look at that,” he murmurs, almost smug, as a dark spot begins to spread on his sweatpants from your slick. “you’re soaking me through.”

the way he emphasizes the word makes your back contort in shivers, but you’re too far gone to care. your fingers claw at the desk as he keeps humping against you, his pace quickening. when he finally pulls back, you hear the shuffle of fabric as he yanks down his sweatpants and briefs. the soft clink of a drawer opening catches your attention, and you crane your neck to see him sliding on a condom.

“you’re still melting all over my desk,” he rubs a hand over the curve of your ass. “can’t even wait for me, huh?”

before you can respond, his hand comes down sharply on your ass, the sting making you gasp. he doesn’t stop, spanking you again and again until your skin is flushed and burning.

“you look so pretty like this,” he says, his hand smoothing over the heated skin before gripping your waist and lining himself up. “all messy and desperate for me.”

when he pushes in, stretching you inch by inch until you’re full and breathless, pussy trying to clench at his big grith to adjust. wonwoo groans, his head falling forward as he sinks in to the hilt.

your walls flutter around him, and he moans at the feeling, the sound so real and raw that it sends a jolt straight to your core.

“talk to me,” you manage to gasp, your voice muffled against the desk.

he chuckles, his pace picking up as he leans down to whisper in your ear. “you want me to talk dirty? you want me to tell you how tight you are? how good you’re taking me?”

you moan in response, your hips bucking back against him as his words send you curling.

“yeah, you like that, don’t you?” he continues, his voice thick with lust. your moans grow louder, and he suddenly remembers the videos you must’ve listened to—the whining, the moaning. the thought makes his stomach flip, and he decides to give you exactly what you want.

he starts letting out soft whimpers, his voice breaking with each thrust, the sounds spilling out almost involuntarily. “fuck, babe, you’re gonna make me cum—”

the genuine desperation in his voice drives you wild, and your body clenches around him, pulling him deeper. he groans, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you’re sure they’ll leave marks, but you don’t care.

“please,” he moans, his voice high and strained. “let me cum for you. let me—fuck—”

you push back against him, meeting his thrusts as your own climax builds, your breaths coming in short, broken gasps. the room is filled with the wet, obscene sounds of your bodies moving together, and the tension snaps all at once.

you come hard, your body shaking as you cry out, and wonwoo isn’t far behind. his hips stutter, a guttural moan escaping him as he spills into the condom, his body trembling with the force of it.

he collapses over you, his chest heaving against your back as you both try to catch your breath. after a moment, he presses a soft kiss to the back of your neck, his voice still hoarse as he murmurs, “guess i’m a little better live, hm?”

you just let out a defeated moan, the coldness of the table soothing your hot cheeks.

“keep quiet about this, and i'll keep giving you more.” well, it's just an excuse that wonwoo said to fuck you over again.

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deathbxnny · 7 months ago

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Loved your writing of arcane characters saying things they regret during an argument. Would you be willing to do a version with Jayce, Viktor and Silco? I apologize if you don't prefer to write about these characters, you can ignore this

Arcane men saying things they'll regret during an argument. | Viktor, Jayce, Silco x Gn!Reader

Oh, I absolutely am willing to do that, Anon!! These are going to be pretty irredeemable, though, so there is not going to be a part two to this... anyways, enjoy!!<3

Content: Season 2 spoilers!!, heavy angst, hurt/no comfort, break ups, swearing, gaslighting, toxic behavior, sfw

Reader has no mentioned pronouns.

((Not proofread))

》VIKTOR

"This... isn't you anymore, Viktor. A-And I refuse to keep lying to myself like this either!" You hissed out one night, unable to keep it in any longer. You were losing your mind in this compound of his, unable to understand how seemingly no one was able to recognize how wrong everything was. People who were "healed" by him weren't the same after. They turned into robotic and uncanny husks of their old selves.

A terrifying sight that unnerved you deeply. And only you here.

The nail in the coffin was perhaps the skeptical appearance of Councilor Salo. Never in your life had you ever seen him give a damn about anyone but himself. He lived a life of riches and materialism, far from the selfless and minimalistic lifestyle found here. But after your boyfriend healed him of his inability to walk, he suddenly preached the same ideals that everyone else did.

Peace, love, and community.

Those were the important pillars of this idyllic place Viktor had created, and yet you couldn't see past the clear red flags that weaved themselves in their white attire. You were never much of a genius like he was, but it didn't take much brainpower to understand that this was not a great place to be in. No matter how hard he attempted to convince you of that.

"... I'm sorry you feel that way. But I'm afraid I can not follow your reasoning for this claim. I am myself... just someone greater. More meaningful. Isn't that beautiful?" His voice was so gentle and patient in comparison to yours. Something that wasn't unusual to him. But the way he used that tone now made you sick. "Terrifying is a better word, actually... Why can't you see that this is just wrong? You're not healing anyone-" "-But I am. Look around you. Is that not enough for you to finally believe me, my love? I want to create a better world... one in which we can live freely together." Your mind spun, his words ringing in your head dangerously. And you hated every second of it.

This isn't the man you loved anymore. He must have died that fateful day when the sky fell from above, and he covered you with his body to save you. His last act of kindness as your boyfriend and lover before he perished and left behind whoever he was. And you'd be damned if the last good memory got tainted too.

"No. I will not let you play with my mind anymore. I've had enough." You pushed past him, wanting to finally escape this borderline cult. Originally, you had only followed after him because you couldn't bear being without him. Jayce was right, though. He really was different now.

"Hm... it seems like I was right about you after all." You stopped in your tracks yet didn't dare face him. "You truly are not worth saving... you can't grasp the beauty of what I have made. I suppose everyone's claims for your low intelligence were, unfortunately, right. What a shame." How could a devil have such a soothing, loving voice? Why did the monster that now lurked in your shadow have to have your lovers face? The cruelty was too much to bear.

Who would have thought that you'd finally leave him for good after all the years you've taken care of him? This moment felt so surreal and yet ironically freeing as well. The end was near. "Did you... ever even love me?" You asked aimlessly, but didn't wait to hear his answer.

Perhaps if you had, however, you would've seen that sudden spark of surprise in his eyes, as you slipped out of his fingers for good at last.

》JAYCE

You had looked everywhere for him. And after also asking everyone under the sun if they had seen your boyfriend, you had eventually determined that he must've somehow gone missing. Worried sick, it pained you knowing that there wasn't much you could do either, considering that everyone was too busy getting ready for a borderline war and Caitlyn became unreachable as a result. Yet just as you began to lose hope, your dear lover finally returned... but he wasn't the same.

He didn't look the same, nor did he act the same, in fact. He looked so different that it even visibly startled you when you found him rummaging through his once shared laboratory. You had just returned from another wrap around the building in hopes of finding it, and whilst you'd consider yourself lucky this time around, all you now felt was genuine dread.

"Jayce...? What happened to you? I looked for you everywhere and-" You stilled at the intense look he gave you, his face flinching for a moment, as though his mind couldn't comprehend your image. Glancing over at his peculiar weapon of choice, you felt unnerved at how even that looked uncanny. The entire situation was unnerving you deeply, to say the least. "You... You shouldn't be here." He finally muttered, his voice deeper and colder than it ever was. Jayce always had such a fun and warm voice. If you didn't know any better, you would've questioned who he was a while ago.

"Hey... tell me where you were, okay?" You said, trying a more gentle approach as you neared him, eyes focused on his clearly injured leg. Had he been kidnapped? You doubted it. So what made him end up like this? Nothing you could come with explained his appearance. His hair and beard were way longer than they should have gotten in the short span of time he was gone, too.

Reaching down carefully, you tried to inspect his leg, but he seemed less receptive to the idea. Or so you assumed, after he shoved you away roughly and held the hammer to your face at impressive speed. His eyes were glossy, as though he wasn't entirely all there. He was reliving a terrifying moment in his mind, unaware of the horror you were going through. Never could you have ever thought of ending up in this position with him. "Jayce! What the hell are you doing-?" "-Get away! I know what you are... you've been sent by him too, weren't you?" You let out a shriek when he swung the hammer at you, only giving you a fraction of a second to jump out of the way.

Falling onto your behind, you quickly crawled backward and away from him, tears welling up in your eyes. Your scream seemed to at least wake him up, though, as he finally lowered his weapon and blinked at you in surprise. "Fucks sake! What is wrong with you?" You yelled out, yet as fast as his face softened, it hardened again. "... Sorry... I need to leave." Quickly making his way past you, he only barely escaped your presence before you grabbed onto the fabric of his pants. "Why? Where are you going? Why can't you tell me anything?"

The look in his eyes made you shrink away. This wasn't your Jayce anymore. "... The future of everyone in Piltover hinges on me being there on time. Now, make yourself useful for once and get out of my way." Shaking you off harshly, he left you crying on the cold floor of the once lively laboratory, not once looking back.

》SILCO

When you first met Silco, you were both still leading simple lives in the last drop with his brother and all of your other friends in Zaun. The lanes were harsh and, at times, cruel, yet you fought through the agony of it all together. Years down the line later, you find yourself still reminiscing on those heavenly days, particularly those of your lover who had turned for the worst in the time being. And the question of why you didn't listen to Vander's warnings came to mind again then. Perhaps you were just too used to excusing everything his brother did, especially after he had attempted to drown him so horrifically, which left him permanently injured.

But even so... why didn't you just listen? Why did it take so many years for you to finally throw the towel and leave for good? Finally realise that the man you loved was a monster? A disgusting and evil monster who was willing to use the plight of others for his own gain. And for what? Money? Fame? Power? It was all an ego trip you had far more than enough of. Zaun was his playground, and an escape was impossible. You'd be, however damned if you didn't at least try to anyways. Even if just in Vander's honor as a long-awaited apology.

Pushing past the crowd in the stuffy, full Last drop, you finally reached his office upstairs. Not caring about formalities anymore, you knocked and opened the door without awaiting a reply. If death met you behind it, then so be it. "Ah, darling, in a hurry today, aren't you?" "We need to talk. Alone." Short and straight to the point. Raising a brow, he shared a look with Jinx, who was just done giving him his daily "medicine". Oh, how you hated your lover's dearest creation. Shimmer. The exact thing that had ruined your lives for good. But you pushed away your disdain for the task at hand.

Giving Jinx a dismissive wave of his hand, you waited for her to be gone for good before taking a breath to speak. But Silco beat you to it. Always so painfully perceptive. "The answer is no, if you're here asking to leave. I refuse to let you go, dear. You have no one else but me after all. You wouldn't survive on your own." He always underestimated you, so this wasn't an all to surprising response. And if you were just a couple of months younger, you would have maybe agreed and backed off. But you were sick of his games.

"I didn't come here to ask for permission, Silco. I'm here to say goodbye." The slightest, softest crack at the last word gave you away horribly. You certainly didn't expect your feelings for the man to betray you, but even that won't stop you now. Said man just hummed in response as he stood up to face the window. His hands calmly lit a cigar, very much unbothered. But you knew that your sentence had gotten to him anyway with how his hand shook ever so slightly. Out of anger, most likely.

"So you think you can do whatever you want? Leave after you've spent so many years at my side? Your hands aren't as clean as you think they are, darling. Even yours are a bright violet." A reference to the shimmer vials on his desk. He knew how much you hated it, so this felt like a jab. A jab at the deep guilt you felt every day for enabling the death of all of your friends indirectly. If only you had stopped him from the start... then maybe you wouldn't have to feel the dread that ruined you from the inside anymore.

"I've accepted my flaws and sins a long time ago. I may not be better than you... but sometimes, in order to end the cycle, you have to walk away and leave some things behind." You suddenly felt so content, his cold and terrible words not reaching you anymore. You were so close to leaving. So close to leaving Zaun and Piltover like you've always dreamed. But Silco just scoffed in disbelief.

"Hah, don't give me that self-righteous shit... I've been there for you for so many years, dear. I've taken care of you, fed you, and loved you to my best ability for so long. The least you could do is be grateful for my kindness." "So you think I'm a burden?" The silence was deafening, but it was enough to confirm your long-standing suspicions. He had lost his love for you a long time ago. Perhaps the side that loved you so purely drowned in the river with him.

"... Goodbye. I hope one day you can walk away too." You turned and began walking out then, suddenly realising that it's finally over. Shoving your hands into the pocket of your coat, you felt the ticket for the skyship you had to take. "Don't you dare leave. Don't you dare it-" All bark and no bite as usual. There was no stopping you now, and he knew it. He was letting you go after all. You could just hope that one day he'd listen to your words and end the cycle, too.

What a shame that you won't be there at his side to see it, however... maybe in another life then.

#arcane #arcane x genderneutral reader #arcane x reader #arcane x y/n #arcane x you #arcane viktor #arcane viktor x reader #viktor #viktor x reader #arcane silco #arcane silco x reader #silco x reader #silco #arcane jayce #arcane jayce x reader #jayce #jayce x reader

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leriexoxo · 2 months ago

Text

Pretty Boy, Asshole

Husband! Leeknow x Reader (arranged marriage au)

Tags: Arranged marriage AU, Strangers to Lovers, Slowburn, Enemies(ish) to Lovers, Angst, Smut, Fluff, Domestic Feels. Jealousy, feelings realization, Minho is an asshole

Word count: 7.8k

Summary: You never even met Lee Minho before your wedding was arranged. Your parents’ companies had been tied together for decades, so it made perfect business sense—merge the heirs, secure the legacy. At first, you both thought it was a joke. But then came the legal documents, the moving trucks, and the cold stares from a man who’d just lost the love of his life. He hated you for it. And you? You wanted to burn the whole marriage down.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’d been on the plane for thirteen hours, and somehow, your anger had survived every single mile.

It burned low and hot in your gut, simmering as the taxi pulled up to the towering glass building in the middle of the city. The kind of place with concierge desks and private elevators and probably a robot that sorted your mail. All of it screamed money—his money, their money—not yours. You dragged your luggage through the marble lobby with a scowl stitched into your face and your earbuds shoved in deep, just to drown out the sound of your own thoughts.

The elevator opened on the thirty-fourth floor with a quiet chime. A long hallway stretched out in front of you, lined with pale wood and tasteful lighting. Minimalist. Cold. And then—

The door.

Suite 3401.

Your new “home.”

You punched in the code the assistant had emailed you—because of course there was an assistant—and stepped inside.

And there he was.

Lee Minho.

He didn’t even look at you when you entered. Just sat there on the expensive-looking couch, one ankle crossed over his knee, phone in hand, posture relaxed like he wasn’t currently ruining your life by existing.

You stood in the doorway, suitcase wheels stuck on the lip of the entrance, staring at him like a ghost. The place was massive, all glass walls and open spaces, but the air felt tight, suffocating even, with him in the middle of it.

He didn’t say anything.

You cleared your throat. “Hi.”

A beat passed. Then he looked up. Just once. Just barely.

“You’re late.”

That was it.

Not welcome or did you have a good flight or hey, sorry we’re both being held emotionally hostage by our families right now. No. Just you’re late, like you were a bad intern and he was your condescending CEO.

You stared at him. “Sorry. The whole being-forcibly-uprooted-from-my-life thing kind of threw off my schedule.”

Minho blinked, bored. “Right.”

You wheeled your suitcase past him with more force than necessary, the rubber wheels thunking hard over the lip of the living room rug. The sound echoed too loudly in the silence. You didn’t care. Let him be annoyed. You were annoyed too.

No—furious.

You’d had plans. You had a studio apartment back home, a job you didn’t hate, friends who didn’t make you want to set the room on fire just by breathing near them. You had a life. And now?

Now you had Lee Minho.

Stranger. Fiancé. Asshole.

“I’ll take the room farthest from yours,” you muttered, already dragging your luggage down the hallway.

“No one’s stopping you,” he said.

Of course he wasn’t.

The guest room—no, your room now, apparently—was spotless and cold, like no one had ever breathed inside it. You dropped your bags, sat on the edge of the pristine white bed, and buried your face in your hands.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t even sigh.

You just sat there, skin prickling, spine tense, your body still humming with the quiet, ugly disbelief that this was real. That your life was no longer your own.

All because of a deal your parents made before you were old enough to spell the word contract.

A knock on the door frame.

You didn’t look up.

“There’s food in the fridge,” Minho said. “Don’t touch the top shelf.”

Then he walked away.

And you?

You smiled.

It wasn’t a nice smile.

If he wanted to play like that?

Fine.

Let the games begin.

—

It started with the oat milk.

Well, no. Technically, it started with the marriage contract your parents signed before you were even born, but the oat milk was the spark that lit the fuse.

You opened the fridge that morning, bleary-eyed and cranky, and stared at the single, sad carton sitting on the shelf. It was empty. Not a drop left. You shook it just to be sure, even though you already knew.

That bitch drank your oat milk.

You stood there for a second, hand still gripping the fridge door, mentally running through your options.

1. Scream.

2. Cry.

3. Commit a minor act of violence.

4. Be civil.

You chose none of the above.

Instead, you slammed the door shut and poured yourself a glass of water like a goddamn adult. Then you sat at the island counter and waited.

He appeared ten minutes later, fresh out of the shower, hair still damp, T-shirt hanging loose over his frame like he hadn’t even tried.

He glanced at you, then at the empty carton now placed—strategically—in the middle of the counter between you.

Silence.

“You drank it,” you said finally.

Minho looked at the carton like it was a science project he wasn’t particularly impressed by. “You didn’t label it.”

“It was oat milk.”

“So?”

You blinked slowly. “You think I bought oat milk for you?”

He shrugged. “I thought you bought it for the apartment.”

“The apartment didn’t drink it.”

He smirked, just a little. “Well, technically, I live here, so—”

You stood up, chair scraping back. “Okay. Ground rules.”

Minho raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. You grabbed a notepad from the drawer—because of course this penthouse had notepads—and started writing with aggressive, stabbing motions.

1. Do not eat my food.

2. Do not drink my things.

3. Do not speak to me unless necessary.

4. Do not assume anything is “for the apartment.” It’s not.

5. This is not a home. This is a hostage situation.

You slid the paper across the counter.

Minho didn’t even blink. “You done?”

“Rule six: Don’t be a smug little prick.”

He laughed. Laughed.

Low, amused, like you were a puppy nipping at his ankles. “That’s not very professional, fiancée.”

“Neither is stealing milk.”

He folded the paper neatly, tucked it under his phone, and leaned against the counter. “Alright. My turn.”

Your jaw tensed. “This isn’t a negotiation.”

“Too bad. I’m negotiating.”

He grabbed the pen and flipped the paper over.

1. Don’t slam doors.

2. Don’t use the speaker in the bathroom—I don’t want to hear your playlist at 7 a.m.

3. Don’t cry where I can hear it.

4. Don’t touch my closet.

5. Don’t mess with my routine.

You stared at the list, then at him. “You think I’m crying?”

He shrugged. “Heard something last night.”

“I was unpacking.”

“Right.” Another smirk.

You hated him. You hated him.

But not in the way you could do anything about. Not in a way that fixed anything. He wasn’t cruel, not exactly. Just… cold. Detached. As if he’d already made up his mind that you weren’t worth the effort of pretending.

And honestly?

You weren’t sure he was wrong.

“You’re a dick,” you muttered, turning away.

“You’re in my house,” he shot back.

Your house. The words rang in your ears long after you’d slammed your bedroom door behind you.

Not our house.

Not even the house.

Just his.

And that, somehow, pissed you off more than anything else.

—

You’d decided to make pasta.

It was a petty decision. Loud, messy, sauce-splattered pasta. Not some dainty meal for two. This was war food. Battle carbs. And you made sure to cook it at the worst possible time—right after Minho’s usual post-gym shower, when he liked the kitchen empty and the air quiet.

Too bad.

He walked in right as you started blending the tomato sauce. The noise ripped through the apartment like a chainsaw in a library.

Minho stopped in the doorway.

You didn’t turn around.

“Seriously?”

“Can’t hear you,” you said, raising your voice over the blender. “Domestic goddess things.”

He waited. You could feel it—the weight of his stare, the way his presence filled the room even when he didn’t move.

When you finally switched the blender off, the silence felt personal.

“You used my garlic,” he said flatly.

You turned. “Is garlic suddenly yours now?”

“It’s from my stash.”

“Oh my God, what is this, culinary class wars?”

He moved to the fridge, ignoring you completely, and opened it like he didn’t want to breathe the same air as you. But you saw it—the tightness in his jaw, the twitch of annoyance in his eyebrow. He hated this. Hated you, probably. And that should’ve stung, but—

Honestly?

You hated him too.

He grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap, and finally looked at you. Really looked this time. The kind of stare that peeled skin. “How long do you plan on sulking?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“This whole act. Slamming things. Writing rules like we’re in middle school. Throwing tantrums over oat milk. How long do I have to deal with this?”

The rage came hot and immediate, crawling up your throat like fire.

“I didn’t ask to be here,” you snapped.

He leaned against the counter, cool and clean and somehow infuriatingly calm. “Neither did I.”

“No, but you’re acting like I ruined your life. I didn’t do this, Minho. Our parents did. Go be mad at them, not me.”

For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Something raw and real and unguarded. But it was gone before you could read it, buried under that same sharp indifference he wore like armor.

“I had someone,” he said quietly.

You froze.

“I was going to propose,” he added. “Two weeks before I got the call. I had the ring. We had an apartment lined up. She thought I was joking when I told her. She laughed. And then she cried.”

You said nothing. The room felt suddenly smaller.

“I didn’t have a choice,” he said, voice low now. “Just like you didn’t. But don’t act like we’re the same.”

And with that, he left.

Not stormed out. Just left, like he always did—quietly, cleanly, like emotion was something he refused to be caught feeling.

You stood there, spoon still in your hand, staring at the door he’d walked through.

And for the first time since you’d arrived, the anger didn’t feel quite so simple anymore.

—

It was past midnight when you came out of your room.

Not because you were hungry. Not even because you needed anything. You just couldn’t sleep. The walls felt too white, too quiet, and the sheets felt like someone else’s skin.

So you padded out barefoot, hair a mess, wrapped in the hoodie you’d “accidentally” stolen from Minho’s side of the laundry basket. (Sue you. It was warm. And it smelled better than your room.)

You didn’t expect to see him.

But there he was—on the couch, passed out, phone still in his hand and a drama paused mid-episode on the screen. A glass of water sat half-full on the coffee table. One sock was halfway off his foot. His hair was a mess. A real, actual mess—not the kind he curated to look effortless. And his mouth was slightly open.

He looked… normal.

No expensive cologne. No pressed shirts or glinting watches. Just a guy in sweatpants, legs tangled up in the blanket he probably tried to pull over himself and failed halfway through.

You stood there, blinking.

This man—this insufferable, rude, arrogant, milk-stealing demon—looked like a person when he slept.

That was the most annoying thing of all.

You grabbed the remote off the floor, turned the volume down on whatever he’d been watching (some crime doc with bad voiceovers), and went to walk away.

But something stopped you.

Maybe it was the frown between his brows, the kind you only got when something hurt. Not pain-pain. More like… emotional bruises. Things he didn’t talk about. Things that lived under his tongue.

Maybe it was the way his hand was curled slightly around his phone, thumb pressing against a message thread he hadn’t opened yet.

You inched closer.

The screen lit up just enough for you to see the name.

“Hannie.”

You froze.

She’d messaged him.

The girl. Her.

The one he’d told you about.

Your chest felt strange. Not jealousy. Not pity. Just… tightness. The kind that came from remembering this was real. That all this wasn’t a drama. That someone really lost someone else. That somewhere out there was a girl waiting on a message that’d never come.

You sighed, then gently reached down to fix the blanket over his chest. Not out of kindness. Not really.

Just because it was cold.

And because even if he hated you—and you definitely hated him—he was still a human being.

You turned back toward your room, hoodie sleeves too long over your hands, and whispered into the dark:

“You look like a person when you sleep.”

He didn’t hear you. Probably.

—

Minho knew something was off the second he opened his eyes.

Not just because his neck was stiff or the TV was still on. It was the blanket.

It had been over him. Neatly. Tucked up under his chin like someone had stopped, looked at him, and—

He sat up slowly, glancing around the dim living room. Nothing. No sign of you. Just the faint smell of tomato sauce lingering from the pasta war the night before and a hoodie hanging crooked off the back of the couch.

His hoodie.

Fucking hell.

You’d touched his blanket. His clothes. You’d touched him, probably. And he’d slept through it like an idiot.

He hated that he didn’t hate it.

By the time you finally emerged from your room the next morning, half-wet hair twisted into a bun and sleep still crusting your eyes, Minho was already standing in the kitchen—freshly showered, coffee in hand, and unreadable behind his black tee and tired stare.

You didn’t look at him.

He didn’t look at you.

But the air was different.

He cleared his throat. “You’re up late.”

“I’m always up late.”

Right. Of course. You two weren’t going to talk about it. The blanket. The hoodie. The fact that, for once, neither of you had gone to bed vibrating with rage.

So you sipped your own coffee and stayed on opposite ends of the kitchen. Separate islands. Cold continents. Two strangers with matching rings they didn’t ask for.

Then your phone buzzed.

You didn’t answer it at first, but the second buzz turned into a full-blown call. You picked it up, eyes narrowing as you glanced at the screen.

“Oh, fuck me.”

Minho arched a brow. “Don’t offer things you don’t mean.”

You glared. “It’s my mother.”

He took a slow sip of coffee. “You’ve said enough.”

You answered on speaker, too tired to pretend today. “Hi, mom.”

“Sweetheart!” her voice was shrill and sugary. “I hope you’re both dressed—we’re expecting you at lunch!”

You blinked. “Lunch?”

“Yes, darling, we’ve arranged a little brunch at the family villa. Just a few friends. And, well… a few investors. It’ll be casual, of course. Just something to show how beautifully our children are adjusting to married life.”

Minho choked on his coffee.

“Married life?” you mouthed at him.

“Lovely,” you lied into the phone. “Can’t wait.”

—

You barely had time to fight over what to wear. Minho had shown up to the front door in a gray button-down and slacks like he was filming an ad for luxury timepieces. Meanwhile, you stood barefoot, mascara wand in hand, in a half-wrapped dress with a look of absolute murder on your face.

“Don’t even start,” you growled.

He smirked. “I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.”

“…You look nice.”

You blinked. Looked down. Then up. “You trying to seduce me into not stabbing you in front of your mother?”

“I wouldn’t need to try.”

You threw your brush at his face.

The car ride was quiet.

But not cold.

Tense, yes—but not the same kind of tension as before. Something new. Something that buzzed low in your spine. Like your bodies were talking even when your mouths weren’t.

He kept glancing at your legs. You pretended not to notice.

You picked imaginary lint off your skirt. He pretended not to watch.

The world outside flew by in soft gray blurs, and still—you felt that shift.

The one from last night.

The one you weren’t supposed to think about.

⸻

The villa was a lie.

It looked like a Tuscan postcard and smelled like money. Overgrown vines curled around white stone arches, and the sunlight streamed through polished windows like someone had bottled golden hour.

You hated it immediately.

Minho hated it more.

You could tell because he didn’t hold your hand until someone was looking.

But when he did?

Oh.

That bastard sold it.

He slid his fingers through yours like it was natural. Tugged you closer by the waist when cameras popped out. Whispered things into your ear that made you laugh, even when he was threatening to strangle you under his breath.

“Smile,” he said through clenched teeth. “You’re making me look like a villain.”

“Gee, wonder why,” you said through your fake grin.

But God, he looked so good when he did it. Like a real husband. Like someone who knew your perfume by name.

And worst of all?

You looked good next to him.

There was a photo taken at one point—someone’s assistant caught it. You didn’t even realize. But it got passed around between the wives and board members, passed around with murmurs like:

“Look at how in love they are.”

“She fits him perfectly.”

“They’ll have beautiful children.”

And you saw it, later. On someone’s phone. A candid of you mid-laugh and Minho mid-glance—eyes soft, mouth twitching, hand grazing your waist like it belonged there.

You looked like the picture of a happy marriage.

And for a second, you hated how good it felt to pretend.

—

The real first shift started with dinner.

Just some leftover rice, a pan-fried egg, and the remains of whatever frozen veggies you’d tossed into a pot earlier. You didn’t cook it for him. You just made too much.

But then Minho walked into the kitchen, towel still on his shoulders, hair wet from a shower, and blinked at the plate you’d pushed aside like you weren’t saving it.

“I’m not eating your food,” he said.

You shrugged. “Didn’t ask you to.”

“…But that egg looks good.”

You didn’t answer. Just sat down at the counter and kept chewing.

He stood there awkwardly. Then grabbed a fork. And sat down next to you like it wasn’t a crime.

The silence wasn’t heavy. Not even thick. Just… quiet.

Like both of you had run out of excuses to hate each other loudly.

Then came the next slip.

The couch.

It was late. You were scrolling through nonsense on your phone, half-dozing to a playlist you wouldn’t admit was full of sad lo-fi love songs. You didn’t even notice him sit next to you until his shoulder brushed yours.

You didn’t flinch.

That was the worst part.

You just let it happen.

You told yourself it was fine. The couch was huge. You were tired. It wasn’t a thing. He wasn’t even talking. Neither of you were.

And then, you woke up.

Warm. Comfortable. Safe.

Your cheek was against his chest. His arm was around your shoulder. Your legs were tucked under a blanket you definitely didn’t pull over yourself.

You froze.

He was still asleep. Breathing steady. Mouth parted again, hair fluffing against the pillow like a halo he didn’t deserve.

You moved slowly. Too slowly.

And he blinked awake the second you shifted.

His voice was low. Sleep-rough. “Don’t freak out.”

You already were.

“I didn’t mean to stay,” you whispered.

“I didn’t mean to let you.”

You stared at each other in the dim glow of the TV.

Nothing moved. Nothing breathed.

Then his phone buzzed.

And the bubble burst.

He looked down at the screen. His jaw locked. The softness vanished.

You saw it. You felt it.

Because you recognized the name.

Hannie.

Three words.

“Can we talk?”

Minho didn’t say a thing. Just stood up, grabbed his phone, and walked away.

He didn’t even look back.

—

You didn’t sleep.

You didn’t eat the next day either.

Minho wasn’t in the apartment when you woke up. No note. No text. Not even a plate of passive-aggressive toast crumbs to let you know he’d been there.

The silence was suffocating.

The warmth from last night? Gone.

Your hand kept drifting to your phone, but you had nothing to say. What could you even say? Sorry for sleeping on your chest and pretending you weren’t still in love with someone else?

You sat in the kitchen for hours.

He came home after sundown. Quiet. Unbothered.

You hated him for that.

But what broke you—what really split you in half—was the fact that he looked at you, said nothing, and headed straight to the shower.

Like you weren’t even worth a fight.

—

The front door slammed.

You didn’t even realize you were waiting for it until the sound made you flinch. Made your fingers clench around the glass in your hand.

Minho had come home.

Past midnight. Again.

Third night in a row.

And this time, he didn’t pretend to be quiet. He stomped around the kitchen without a care. Tossed his keys too hard on the counter. Opened the fridge, stared, closed it again. Then turned to find you standing there at the edge of the hallway, arms crossed, eyes tired.

You said nothing.

He said less.

And that was it. That was the moment something snapped.

“Don’t you wanna go back out?” you said, voice sharp. “Or was three nights with your ex enough?”

Minho froze.

Slowly, he turned to face you, and his expression made your skin crawl.

Cold.

Hard.

But this time, mean.

“You spying on me now?” he asked.

“You left your phone on the counter the first night. You think I wouldn’t see her name?”

He scoffed, like you were the one being ridiculous. “It’s none of your business.”

You stepped forward. “Really? That’s funny. Because you made it my business the second you decided to disappear without a word while I stayed here, alone, pretending everything was normal!”

“I never asked you to pretend.”

“No, you just let me.”

Minho’s jaw ticked. His hands were fists. “So what? You want a gold star? For playing house for three days like you actually give a shit?”

Your chest seized. “I did give a shit.”

Silence.

You said it. You couldn’t take it back.

He stared at you. Unblinking. Breathing heavy.

And then he laughed. Soft. Cold. Mocking.

“Oh, that’s rich,” he muttered. “You act like the victim, but let’s not forget—this is your parents’ idea. You’re just as much a part of this mess as I am.”

That hit.

Hard.

But you weren’t done.

You stepped closer. Eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare act like I had a choice in any of this. I left my life behind. My friends. My career. My freedom. For what? So I could be treated like a stranger in my own house?”

“It’s not your house.”

Those four words.

Like knives.

You didn’t even realize you’d thrown the glass cup until it shattered against the floor two feet from his head.

And still—he didn’t flinch.

He smirked.

“That’s more like it,” he said. “There’s the brat my parents warned me about.”

You stepped forward. Your voice dropped.

“You’re such a coward, Minho.”

The smile fell.

“You’d rather run to the past than even try to make this work. You don’t want a wife? Fine. You don’t want to play pretend anymore? Neither do I. But don’t fucking punish me because your little fairytale ended and now you’re stuck with someone who didn’t beg to be here.”

His mouth parted. But he said nothing.

Coward.

He turned.

Started walking away.

And something in you broke.

“You’re so goddamn cold,” you said. “Do you even feel anything anymore, or are you just playing numb until she takes you back?”

He stopped.

Didn’t turn.

Didn’t speak.

Just walked into his room.

And slammed the door.

—

You left that night.

No text. No calls. No dramatic slamming of doors.

Just your phone on the kitchen table, screen facedown like a corpse.

You packed a bag with nothing but essentials—some cash, a few clothes, your favorite perfume. The soft hoodie you slept in when you actually felt safe here. Just a few things to remind you that you were still you.

Then you got in the car and drove off.

Minho never saw you leave.

The hotel was three towns away. Coastal. Quiet.

The concierge didn’t ask questions. Just smiled when you booked the penthouse suite for a week and asked if you wanted a bottle of wine sent up. You said yes. Then requested a second.

The view was stunning.

The ocean glittered like it didn’t know how to be cruel. The room was wrapped in clean linens and silence. There was a rooftop pool. A bar with men who looked like they’d never heard the name Hannie in their lives.

It was freedom.

For three days, you existed like you were never married. Never shoved into a life you didn’t want. You slept with the balcony door open. Drank rosé for breakfast. Let strangers flirt with you in the elevator. Let a bartender ask for your number and smiled when you didn’t give it.

You lived.

And for the first time since this all started—you didn’t cry.

—

Minho, on the other hand?

He unraveled.

The first morning, he found your phone and rolled his eyes. Thought you’d storm back in eventually, full of righteous rage and a tantrum he could ignore.

You didn’t.

By evening, he’d checked every room in the apartment.

By midnight, he’d texted you twelve times even if your phone was turned off on the kitchen counter, he hoped you had your ipad or something with you.

By the next day, he was on the phone with your mother.

“I don’t know where she is.”

“Well, maybe if you treated her like a human being, she wouldn’t feel the need to vanish!”

Then came his father.

“If you screw this up, Lee Minho, so help me God—”

“Dad, she ran off—what do you want me to do?!”

“Get her back. Or don’t expect a damn cent when I die.”

That one stuck. So he stopped sleeping.

Started calling your friends. Your old number. Even checked your socials, which you hadn’t posted on in weeks. He scoured local hotels under fake names. Drove around aimlessly, gripping the wheel like it might help him understand where the hell this all went wrong.

He missed the scent of your hair in the hallway.

The hum of your voice talking to yourself in the kitchen.

The sound of the apartment feeling like someone lived in it.

And he hated himself for noticing.

But what gutted him? Was the dinner plate in the fridge.

The one you left by accident.

The rice and egg and veggies he didn’t eat.

Still there.

Still waiting.

Like you.

—

The door clicked open at 2:17 p.m. on a Wednesday.

No announcement. No warning.

Just the soft creak of hinges as you strolled in like you owned the place—like you didn’t leave it barren and echoing for four days straight.

Minho was in the kitchen.

He froze mid-step, glass in hand, mind blank.

Then he saw you.

Hair soft and glowing. Sunglasses perched on your head. One of those stupid seafoam shopping bags swinging from your fingers. A small, content smile on your lips like you didn’t just drop a goddamn nuke on his life and disappear off the grid.

You didn’t even glance at him.

Just breezed past like summer wind. Like perfume. Like a woman who hadn’t spent a single second wondering how he felt.

Like you hadn’t missed him at all.

He followed you. His jaw tightened. Voice low.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

You stopped. But didn’t turn.

“I went out,” you said, breezy. “Needed some air.”

“For four days?”

You finally looked at him and smiled.

“Oh, you noticed?”

That was it. That was the match.

Minho slammed the glass down—hard. Sharp enough to crack.

“You think this is funny?” he snapped, storming after you as you made your way to the bedroom. “You think disappearing without a word is some kind of fucking joke?”

“I think disappearing was the smartest thing I’ve done since saying I do.”

You tossed your bags onto the bed.

His eyes were on you—scorching. Dark. Possessive. And furious.

“Do you know what I’ve been through looking for you?”

You raised a brow. “Did you try your ex’s place?”

Minho exploded.

“Don’t fucking bring Hannie into this!”

“Why not?” you shot back. “Thought she’d already in our house.”

“She never came here. She only wanted closure—”

“Closure? You couldn’t send a goddamn text, but she gets closure?”

“You ran off!”

“BECAUSE I’M SICK OF THIS, MINHO!”

Silence.

Breathing. Heavy. Yours trembling, his uneven.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides.

“I didn’t sign up for love,” you said, quieter. “But I also didn’t sign up to be humiliated. To be ignored. To be left behind like a mistake.”

Minho looked at you, really looked.

And for the first time in days, his voice dropped to something that almost sounded like regret.

“You were never a mistake.”

You scoffed.

“Funny. You’ve been treating me like one since the day we met.”

Another silence.

And then—

“I looked for you,” he said. “I fucking panicked. I called everyone. I barely slept.”

You stared at him.

And something in your voice cracked, finally.

“Why?” you whispered. “Because your little doll went missing? Or because your inheritance did?”

That hit home.

Minho stepped forward.

Eyes sharp. Wild.

“I looked for you,” he growled, “because the silence was louder than the fights.”

You didn’t blink.

“I left because I needed space.”

He stared at you. Unmoving.

“And now?”

You met his gaze and said nothing.

—

You didn’t say anything else that night.

You’d stood in the middle of that bedroom—his fists clenched, your expression empty—and said absolutely nothing. Not “I forgive you.” Not “I understand.” Just… nothing.

And for Lee Minho, that silence was worse than screaming.

The next morning, he cooked breakfast.

Not well. Not gracefully. But enough that the scent of burnt toast and eggs greeted you when you walked into the kitchen at ten a.m., still in the hoodie you’d brought back from your coastal escape.

You blinked.

He stood at the counter. Jaw tight. Hair messy. A single plate waiting at your spot.

You stared at it.

He didn’t look at you.

“I didn’t poison it,” he muttered.

You sat. Ate half of it. Didn’t say thank you.

He didn’t ask why you only took one bite of the toast.

Later that day, a package arrived.

Shopping. Another one.

You’d clearly picked up the habit while you were gone.

He watched you slice the tape with a box cutter and pull out the sexiest red dress he’d ever seen.

You looked at it like it was an old friend. Then walked off humming.

Minho sat on the couch for three full minutes staring at the now-empty box like it personally offended him.

Then he googled the brand.

It cost more than his last pair of sneakers.

You hadn’t even flinched when the bill hit your card.

That night, you wore the dress.

Not for him. Of course not.

You didn’t even tell him you were going out. Just strutted through the apartment like a model on her way to kill a man with her bare hands. Hair done. Lip gloss gleaming. Legs out. Eyes sharper than any knife he owned.

Minho nearly choked on his water.

You grabbed your purse.

He stood.

“Where are you going?”

You didn’t stop walking. “Out.”

“With who?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He gritted his teeth.

“You’re married.”

You glanced over your shoulder.

“So are you.”

The door clicked behind you.

And Minho?

He stood there, fists clenched, heart thudding, and for the first time in his life—

he felt like he was chasing something he’d already lost.

—

You didn’t go far.

A lounge downtown. Some live music. Some harmless flirting.

You didn’t give anyone your number, didn’t accept the free drinks—but you smiled. You laughed. You felt something. Even if it wasn’t joy.

It was freedom.

And when you came home past midnight, heels in your hand and a lazy smirk on your lips, Minho was waiting.

Still dressed. Still awake. Eyes dark.

“What, did he not take you home?”

You blinked, unbothered. “Did you want him to?”

Minho moved so fast you barely saw it coming—slamming his glass down on the table, shattering it instantly.

The sound echoed through the apartment like a gunshot.

You didn’t flinch.

“You want to be angry, Minho?” you said coldly. “Then be angry. But stop pretending you have any right to be.”

His voice dropped. Low. Dangerous.

“You think I don’t care?”

You scoffed.

“I think you care about the idea of me. You care about your control.”

He stepped closer.

“You’re my wife.”

You took a breath.

“And I was yours. Until you treated me like furniture. Until you let your ex back into our home. Until I left, and you didn’t even call—”

“I DID.”

You paused.

That… stopped you.

“I did,” he repeated, quieter. “I called. I looked. I… I panicked. Okay? I couldn’t sleep.”

You stared at him.

“You called because you were worried?”

“No,” he bit out. “I called because I thought I lost you and I didn’t even know when you became something I didn’t want to lose.”

…

Silence.

The air was thick with heat, fury, confusion.

His chest heaved. Your lashes fluttered.

And then—

“Too bad,” you whispered. “You already did.”

You turned.

Walked down the hall.

Closed the door to the bedroom behind you.

Left him with nothing but guilt.

And the sound of his own breathing.

Minho stood in the hallway like he was losing it.

Because he was.

He’d asked. Nicely. Calmly. Even with that aching thing in his chest that he refused to name.

“Dinner with me. Just us.”

You hadn’t even looked up from your phone.

“No thanks.”

Just that. No explanation. No hesitation.

And that might’ve been fine—should’ve been fine—if you hadn’t left the house an hour later in a goddamn silk top, with your lips glossed and your earrings dangling, smiling at your phone like you were excited.

Excited for someone else.

Minho snapped.

He didn’t think. Just grabbed his coat, keys in hand, following the subtle perfume trail you left like it was instinct.

He wasn’t even trying to be sneaky.

He wanted to see.

He needed to see.

And when he found you—sitting at a trendy restaurant downtown, laughing across a table at a guy in a slim black button-up who wasn’t him—he felt something inside him break.

Minho stood outside like a ghost.

Watching.

Your smile looked different here.

Your laugh was real.

Your hand brushed the guy’s wrist when you reached for your wine glass and he laughed too—and Minho? He was already crossing the street.

You saw him before he reached your table.

That same thunderstorm scowl, the same black shirt he wore when he was ready to fight fate itself. You blinked, caught mid-sip, and your date raised an eyebrow.

“Friend of yours?”

“Unfortunately,” you muttered.

But it was too late.

Minho was there.

Next to your table.

Looking between you and the man across from you like he was barely holding himself together.

“Hi,” you said flatly.

He ignored you.

To your date: “She’s married.”

The guy blinked. “She said she was separated.”

“She’s not.” Minho’s voice dropped low. “She’s mine.”

Your jaw dropped. “What the fuck—Minho, you can’t just—”

But he didn’t listen. Didn’t care.

He grabbed your wrist. Not hard, not rough—just firm.

Like he was anchoring himself to you before he drowned.

And then he leaned in—and kissed you.

In front of everyone.

In front of him.

Not a soft kiss. Not a question.

A statement.

Minho kissed you like he was starving. Like he hated you. Like he loved you. Like you were air, and he’d been suffocating.

You pushed him back.

Staring. Shaking.

“What the fuck was that?”

He exhaled hard. “I ended it.”

You blinked.

“My ex. I ended it. For good. She never came to the house. She never stayed. I didn’t want her. I just didn’t know how to let go of something that already left me.”

You stared at him.

“That wasn’t fair to you. None of this was. But if you think I’m gonna sit back and watch you fall for someone else, you’re insane.”

The guy at the table stood awkwardly. “I should probably—”

Minho looked at him once and he quietly slipped out of the table and headed towards the exit.

You bit your lip, eyes blazing.

“You don’t get to be jealous.”

“I am, though.”

“You don’t get to kiss me.”

“I did.”

“And you don’t get to—”

He kissed you again.

This time, slower. Fuller. Like the world was ending and your mouth was his salvation.

When he pulled away, breathless, voice shaking:

“I get to love you. If you’ll let me.”

And for the first time, you didn’t have an answer.

—

The silence in the car was loud.

Unbearably loud.

You stared out the passenger window, heart still racing, brain trying to make sense of anything. You were vaguely aware that Minho had parked a few minutes ago, engine off, but neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke.

You were still dazed.

Still feeling his lips.

Still tasting him.

You brought your fingers up, brushing against your lower lip in disbelief.

Because what the fuck just happened.

Lee Minho—Mr. Iceman. Mr. I-hate-you-and-this-marriage. Mr. This-isn’t-what-I-wanted—had kissed you. Twice.

In public.

In front of your date.

And worse… You let him.

No. Worse than that— You wanted more.

Minho, on the other hand, sat in the driver’s seat, watching you like he was trying to solve a math problem. Like he couldn’t figure out if he’d just destroyed something or unlocked it. His jaw was tight, his hands still gripping the steering wheel.

Inside his head?

Chaos.

Why did he kiss you?

Why did it feel that good?

And why the fuck did he want to do it again?

He exhaled harshly through his nose, eyes flicking to you. Still staring out the window. Still lost in your thoughts. Still tracing your mouth like it betrayed you.

Something snapped.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, and before you even realized what was happening—

He leaned across the console.

Grabbed the back of your neck.

And kissed you. Again.

But this time, it wasn’t to prove a point.

It wasn’t angry.

It wasn’t performative.

This time, it was heat.

It was raw and hungry and messy.

His lips crushed against yours, mouth parting without hesitation, and your gasp disappeared between his teeth. His hand stayed at your nape, thumb brushing your jaw as he kissed you like he needed it. Like you were the only thing keeping him tethered.

You froze for a second—confused, overwhelmed—

Then you kissed him back.

This time with fire.

Your hands gripped the collar of his coat, yanking him closer across the gearshift. His tongue slid against yours and you moaned before you could stop yourself—and that only made him growl low, deep in his throat, and tilt your head so he could kiss you deeper.

He pulled back just enough to speak, voice ragged.

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

You were breathless. “Then why’d you?”

His eyes searched yours. “Because you’re my wife.”

“That didn’t mean anything to you before.”

“It does now.”

That stunned silence settled again—but this time, it pulsed with electricity.

You sat back slowly, lips swollen, heartbeat slamming against your ribs.

“What changed?”

He was quiet for a moment.

Then, quietly, “You left.”

You blinked.

“I woke up and you weren’t there. Left your phone. No note. Nothing. And the house was just… quiet.”

You waited.

“And I didn’t realize how much I hated the quiet.”

Your throat tightened.

Minho leaned his head back against the headrest, staring up at the roof.

“I told myself I didn’t want this. That it wasn’t supposed to be you. But then it was, and I just—” he paused, eyes squeezing shut. “I don’t know how to do this. I’ve been angry for so long, I forgot how to feel anything else.”

Your voice was soft. “So what now?”

He turned his head slowly. Looked at you like he hadn’t stopped thinking about your mouth since the first kiss.

“What do you want?”

You swallowed hard. The air between you was thick with unspoken things. With need. With possibility.

You opened your mouth. Then closed it.

Because the truth was—

You didn’t know.

You just knew one thing:

Minho was finally looking at you.

And you didn’t want him to stop.

—

The morning light spilled across the room in soft gold.

You blinked awake slowly, disoriented at first. Sheets tangled around your legs, the faint scent of clean linen and cologne still lingering in the air. It was quiet. Peaceful. Too peaceful.

Until it hit you.

Last night.

The car.

The kiss.

Both kisses.

His mouth on yours like he couldn’t breathe without it.

Your fingers instinctively touched your lips again, brushing over them like you could still feel the imprint of him there. And you could. It was annoying how vivid it all was—the way he grabbed your neck, the groan that slipped from his throat, the way he said you’re my wife like that meant something now.

You sat up too fast, the motion tangling your thoughts even more.

There was no note. No coffee waiting. No sound in the hallway. If you hadn’t known better, you’d think last night was a dream. A delusion you conjured up from all the tension snapping in your spine since this marriage started.

You padded out of the bedroom barefoot, oversized tee hitting just below your thighs. You didn’t expect to see him. You were just headed to the bathroom, like a normal person, to brush your damn teeth and try to reassemble your scrambled dignity.

You reached for the door.

Swung it open.

And there he was.

Minho.

In the bathroom.

Shirtless. Toothbrush in mouth.

Eyes going wide like a deer caught in fuckery.

You froze. So did he.

Toothpaste foam halfway down his lip. Water still running. The mirror fogged from his recent shower and his hair slightly damp, sticking to his forehead in soft, tousled strands that were so unfairly hot you actually wanted to scream.

It was like time stuttered for a second.

Your eyes met, and neither of you said a word.

Not about the kiss. Not about last night. Not about how this exact bathroom was where you’d once screamed at each other just weeks ago—and now you were both standing in it like strangers with secrets on your skin.

He stepped aside slowly, giving you space to reach the sink. “Didn’t know you were up,” he said finally, voice rough with sleep and awkwardness.

You cleared your throat. “Didn’t know you were either.”

A pause.

He spit.

You grabbed your own toothbrush, avoiding his reflection in the mirror.

You could feel his eyes on you though. Like heat.

“So…” he started, voice quieter now. “About last night—”

“Nope,” you said quickly, mouth full of mint. “No talking until after brushing.”

It was a lame excuse.

But you were panicking.

He didn’t argue.

The next two minutes were filled with brushing. Swishing. Spitting. Rinsing. You were trying to play it cool, but your heart was going insane because his arm had just brushed yours and oh god, was that a shiver?

He reached for a towel to dry his face. His fingers passed yours again.

“About last night,” he said again, this time firmer. “I don’t regret it.”

You froze mid-rinse.

He glanced at you, towel hanging around his neck.

“But I get it if you do.”

Your gaze finally met his in the mirror.

“I didn’t say that.”

“So you don’t?”

You were quiet for a second.

“I don’t know what I feel.”

His jaw twitched. “Fair.”

You wiped your mouth and turned toward him, crossing your arms over your chest. “But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to pretend we’re suddenly okay now.”

“I wasn’t going to pretend,” he said evenly. “I just—meant it. That’s all.”

A pause.

“And if I kissed you again,” he added, “I’d still mean it.”

Your stomach flipped. “You’re not going to kiss me again.”

“I’m not?”

You looked up at him, heart hammering, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re my husband, Minho. Not my boyfriend. This isn’t dating. This isn’t normal. You don’t get to just kiss me like we didn’t hate each other last week.”

His eyes darkened. “I didn’t hate you.”

You blinked. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He stepped closer. Not close enough to touch—but close enough that you could smell the clean spice of his skin. The kind of proximity that made your breath catch.

“I hated the situation,” he said quietly. “Not you.”

And for the first time… you actually believed him.

You stared up at him, blood rushing in your ears.

And then, before either of you could speak again—his phone rang in the hallway. The sound broke whatever spell was swirling around you. Minho stepped back, exhaling hard through his nose.

“I’ll get that,” he muttered.

And just like that, he was gone.

Leaving you in the bathroom.

Staring at your reflection.

And still tasting his kiss.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: part two is linked at the top of the fic, for my new readers 😏 WELCOME

#leeknow angst #leeknow x reader #leeknow fluff #leeknow x you #skz lee know #skz imagines #straykids lee know #leeknow smut #lee know #skz smut #skz minho #skz fanfic #skz angst #skz fluff #stray kids minho #stray kids x reader #my husband #arranged marriage

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kittenan2 · 1 month ago

Text

Strictly Chaotic

Pairing: Kim Seokjin x Reader Genre: Romantic Comedy, less Smut, more Fluff, Slow Burn, Fake Marriage AU Rating: 18+ (Explicit) Warnings: Explicit sexual content, mild language, fake relationship, age gap (10 years), bickering, sexual tension, soft dom Jin, passionate smut, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it up!), emotional vulnerability, light angst, tooth-rotting fluff. Word Count: ~10k [sorry it's a long one] Summary: A drunken flirt at a bar leads to a six-month fake marriage with the icy, older, and devastatingly handsome Kim Seokjin. Chaos, stolen jams, stolen shirts, and stolen hearts ensue as you navigate living with a man who insists it’s “strictly business”—until it isn’t.

The bar smelled like whiskey and bad decisions, and you were knee-deep in both. Freshly graduated, 22, and buzzing with the kind of reckless energy only a diploma and three cocktails can give, you spotted him across the room. Kim Seokjin, all sharp jawline and tailored suit, sipping something amber and expensive. He looked like he’d walked out of a K-drama, and you, in your ripped jeans and glittery crop top, were a chaotic contrast.

You slid onto the stool next to him, ignoring his raised eyebrow. “You look like you need someone to ruin your night,” you said, flashing a grin.

He didn’t smile. “I’m fine, thanks.”

Undeterred, you leaned closer, the alcohol making you bold. “Come on, Mr. Serious. Live a little. Bet I could make you smile.”

His lips twitched, but it was more pity than amusement. “You’re a kid.”

“Graduated kid,” you corrected, winking. “And I’m fun. You should marry me.”

He choked on his drink, amber liquid splattering his pristine tie. You laughed, delighted by the chaos you’d caused. Before he could recover, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and his face tightened. A text from his father: “Settle down. I want you as my successor. Prove you’re stable.”

Jin’s eyes flicked to you, assessing. You were still giggling, oblivious. He sighed, long and suffering. “Be at City Hall. 10 AM tomorrow.”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Marriage. You suggested it.” His tone was clipped, like he was scheduling a dentist appointment. “Don’t be late.”

You thought he was joking. He wasn’t.

"Are you s-serious?" You gulped and asked.

"Dead Serious," he replied.

The next morning, you woke up with a hangover and a vague memory of proposing to a hot stranger. Then your phone pinged: “City Hall. Don’t test me.”

Holy shit, he was really serious.

You stumbled into City Hall in a sundress and sneakers, hair barely tamed in a messy bun. Jin stood there, all Armani and annoyance, holding a folder. “You’re late.”

“It’s 10:02,” you protested, adjusting your sunglasses to block out the world’s judgment.

He thrust the folder at you. “Prenup. Six months. No feelings. No complications. We divorce after I secure my position.”

You skimmed the document, brain foggy from last night’s cocktails. “So, I’m your trophy wife for half a year?”

“More like a prop,” he muttered, signing his name with a flourish that screamed I’m better than you.

You signed, too, because why not? You were 22, broke until you find job, and this was the most exciting thing to happen since you aced your finals. “Deal, robot husband.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

Moving into Jin’s penthouse was like stepping into a sterile art gallery—white walls, sleek furniture, zero personality. It screamed I’m rich and miserable. Your duffel bag, bursting with colorful clothes and random trinkets, looked like an alien invasion next to his minimalist aesthetic. You dropped it on the floor, and the thud echoed like a declaration of war.

Jin appeared from the kitchen, holding a notepad like a professor about to lecture. “We need rules,” he said, voice clipped. He handed you a sheet of paper, his handwriting infuriatingly perfect.

You scanned it, snorting. “No entering each other’s rooms? No romantic involvement? No interfering? What is this, a prison contract?”

“It’s a boundary,” he said, crossing his arms. His suit jacket stretched across his broad shoulders, and you hated how it made your stomach flip. “This is strictly business.”

You leaned against the counter, smirking. “What if I need to borrow your fancy coffee maker? Or, like, your soul?”

His jaw ticked. “Buy your own coffee maker. And I don’t have a soul.”

“Oh, I’ll find it,” you teased, poking his chest. He swatted your hand away, but not before you noticed the warmth of his skin through his shirt. “Lighten up, robot husband.”

“Stop calling me that,” he snapped, but his ears were pink. “And don’t touch me.”

You grinned, undeterred. “Challenge accepted.”

That evening, you decided to stake your claim. You rummaged through your bag, pulled out a stack of neon sticky notes, and went to town. By the time Jin returned from a work call, his rice cooker was labeled “Emotional Support Husband,” his fridge had a note saying “Feed Me, Daddy,” and his coffee maker bore a winking smiley face with “Property of Chaos” scrawled next to it.

He stared, horrified. “What the hell is this?”

“Interior decorating,” you said, lounging on his pristine couch with a bag of chips. Crumbs fell onto the cushion, and his eye twitched. “Your place was boring.”

He tore off the rice cooker note, crumpling it. “This is a $500 rice cooker. It doesn’t need your… commentary.”

You gasped dramatically. “You spent $500 on a rice cooker? Does it sing lullabies, too?”

“It cooks perfect rice,” he said, like it was a personality trait. He ripped off the fridge note next, muttering, “Daddy? Really?”

You cackled, tossing a chip in your mouth. “You’re so easy to rile up. This is gonna be fun.”

He pointed at you, note still in hand. “No more sticky notes. No more touching my stuff. And clean up those crumbs.”

You saluted mockingly. “Aye, aye, Captain Uptight.”

He stormed off, but not before you stuck another note on his back: “Grumpy Cat.” He didn’t notice. You laughed so hard you nearly choked on a chip.

Three days into this fake marriage, and you were already testing Jin’s limits. Bored and hungry, you raided his fridge, expecting boring rich-people food—kale, probably, or some sad quinoa. Instead, you found a jar of strawberry jam, the label in French, looking like it cost more than your entire grocery budget. You unscrewed the cap, sniffed the sweet, tangy aroma, and decided it was fate.

You slathered it on a piece of toast, moaning at the first bite. It was like eating a sunset—rich, fruity, with a hint of decadence. You grabbed your phone and texted Jin, who was at some fancy meeting: “Your strawberry soul tastes divine.”

His reply came instantly: “That was $80. Imported from France. You owe me.”

You laughed, licking jam off your fingers. “Worth it,” you muttered, taking another bite. You were halfway through your second slice when you heard the front door slam. Jin stormed in, tie loosened, looking like a man on a mission.

“Did you eat my jam?” he demanded, pointing at the open jar on the counter.

You froze, mid-chew, a smear of strawberry on your lip. “Uh… maybe?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That was a limited-edition batch. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get?”

You swallowed, grinning. “Tastes like privilege. Want some?” You held out the toast, batting your lashes.

He glared. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re dramatic,” you shot back, hopping off the counter. You grabbed a spoon, scooped more jam, and popped it in your mouth, making exaggerated “mmm” noises. “Oh, yeah. That’s the good stuff.”

His eye twitched. “Stop eating it like it’s peanut butter!”

You shrugged, licking the spoon. “Too late. It’s mine now.”

The next morning, you found your toothbrush in a crystal cup labeled “Temporary Guest” in his perfect handwriting. You snorted, grabbing a marker and scribbling “Permanent Chaos” on the cup. Then, for good measure, you stuck a sticky note on his precious jam jar: “Soulmate Spread.”

When Jin saw it, he let out a groan that echoed through the penthouse. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, but you caught the faintest twitch of his lips. Progress.

Laundry day was a disaster of your own making. You’d forgotten to pick up your clothes from the cleaners, and your duffel was empty except for a single sock and a sports bra. Desperate, you tiptoed into Jin’s room—breaking Rule #1—and opened his closet. Rows of pristine shirts stared back, all crisp and smelling faintly of cedar and him. You grabbed an oversized white button-down, the fabric soft and luxurious, and slipped it on. It hung past your thighs, one shoulder slipping down, exposing your collarbone.

Back in the living room, you cranked up Dua Lipa’s “Levitating” on your phone, letting the beat take over. You swayed, hips popping, spinning in circles as the shirt flared around you. You felt free, alive, like the penthouse was your stage. The lyrics had you singing off-key, arms flailing, completely oblivious to the world.

Jin came home early, key in hand, and froze in the doorway. His eyes locked on you—hair wild, bare legs flashing, his shirt slipping further down your shoulder. The way the fabric clung to your curves, the glimpse of thigh with every twirl, sent heat coursing through him. His throat went dry, fingers tightening around the doorknob. You were a vision, chaotic and beautiful, and he hated how much he wanted to close the distance between you.

You spun again, unaware, your laughter mixing with the music. His gaze lingered on the curve of your neck, the way your hips moved, the careless joy in your abandon. His chest tightened, a mix of irritation and something dangerously close to desire. He shouldn’t be looking. He couldn’t look away.

Finally, he cleared his throat, stepping back. “Rule number one,” he called, voice rougher than intended. “Stay out of my room.”

You yelped, nearly tripping over the coffee table. “Shit, Jin! When did you get home?”

He raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. “Long enough to see you desecrating my shirt.”

You grinned, unrepentant, tugging the hem down. “It’s comfy. And you weren’t using it.”

“It’s Armani,” he said, like that explained everything.

“It’s mine now,” you teased, doing a mock twirl. The shirt rode up, and his eyes flicked to your legs before he forced them away.

“Take it off,” he said, then winced at how that sounded. “I mean, put it back.”

You smirked, catching the slip. “Make me.”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought he might actually try. Instead, he turned on his heel, muttering, “You’re going to be the death of me,” and disappeared into his room. You didn’t see the way he leaned against the door, heart pounding, cursing himself for noticing you.

It was 2 a.m., and you were sprawled on the couch, a bowl of popcorn balanced on your stomach, SpongeBob SquarePants blaring on the TV. You’d meant to watch one episode, but three hours later, you were cackling at Patrick’s dumb antics, the remote clutched like a lifeline. Exhaustion hit, and your eyes fluttered shut, popcorn spilling onto the couch as you drifted off, mouth slightly open, snoring softly.

Jin came home late from a meeting, loosening his tie as he stepped into the living room. He stopped short, eyes landing on you. You were a mess—hair splayed across the cushion, one leg dangling off the couch, a kernel of popcorn stuck to your cheek. Your shirt had ridden up, exposing a sliver of your stomach, and you were hugging the remote like it was a teddy bear. His lips twitched, fighting a smile. You looked ridiculous. And… adorable.

He stood there longer than he meant to, watching the rise and fall of your chest, the way your lashes fluttered in sleep. Something warm stirred in him, unfamiliar and unsettling. He shook his head, muttering, “Get a grip, Seokjin,” and grabbed a blanket from the armchair.

He draped it over you, careful not to wake you. His fingers brushed your shoulder, and he froze, the contact sending a jolt through him. Your skin was warm, soft, and he pulled back like he’d been burned. For a moment, he stood there, watching the cartoon light flicker across your face, your lips parted in a soft pout. He wanted to brush that popcorn off your cheek, to tuck the blanket tighter, to—

No. He stepped back, shoving his hands in his pockets. This was business. You were temporary. He turned off the TV, plunging the room into silence, and walked away, ignoring the ache in his chest.

When you woke up, the blanket was tucked around you, and the popcorn bowl was on the coffee table, cleaned up. You blinked, confused, then smiled. “Robot husband’s got a heart,” you murmured, clutching the blanket closer.

Jin’s warning came three days before the storm hit. “My grandmother’s visiting us,” he said, voice tight, as he paced the living room. “She’s traditional. She’ll expect us to act… married.”

You were lounging on the couch, flipping through a magazine you’d “borrowed” from his coffee table. “Married? Like, holding hands and calling you ‘honey’?” you teased, smirking.

He stopped pacing, glaring. “Like sharing a room. She’ll check.”

Your smirk vanished. “Share a room? With you?” Your heart did a weird flip, half panic, half something you refused to name.

“It’s not negotiable,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Move your stuff to my room. Today.”

You groaned but saw the logic. If Grandma Kim sniffed out the fake marriage, Jin’s CEO dreams could crash and burn. “Fine,” you said, dragging your duffel bag to his room like a kid sent to timeout. His bedroom was a fortress of order—crisp white linens, a mahogany desk, not a speck of dust. Your colorful mess—neon socks, tie-dye shirts, and Mr. Fluffel, your stuffed hamster—looked like a clown explosion when you dumped it on the floor.

Jin followed, eyeing Mr. Fluffel with horror. “What is that?”

“Emotional support,” you said, hugging the hamster. “Deal with it.”

He muttered something about nightmares and started rearranging his closet to make space for your chaos. You watched, amused, as he folded your shirts/ clothes with military precision. “You’re such a neat freak,” you said, tossing a sock at him.

He caught it, glaring. “And you’re a tornado.”

You grinned, sensing an opportunity to mess with him. Grandma wasn’t here yet, but you decided to practice your “married” act—and have some fun. You sidled up to him, looping your arm through his, pressing your cheek against his bicep. “How’s my favorite husband doing?” you cooed, batting your lashes.

He froze, arm tensing under your touch. “What are you doing?”

“Practicing,” you said innocently, but you leaned closer, letting your fingers trail down his arm. “Gotta sell it, right?” You ruffled his perfect hair, giggling when he flinched like you’d electrocuted him.

“Y/N,” he said through gritted teeth, “stop.”

You didn’t. You planted a loud, exaggerated kiss on his cheek, leaving a faint lip gloss mark. “Come on, honey, smile for your wife.”

His face was a battleground—annoyance, panic, and something hotter flickering in his eyes. “You’re enjoying this too much,” he said, voice low, stepping closer. The air crackled, his cologne wrapping around you, making your head spin. “Keep pushing, and you’ll regret it.”

You smirked, heart racing. “Oh, I’m shaking.” You ruffled his hair again, dodging when he reached to grab your wrist. The tension was electric, a push-and-pull that left you both breathless.

When Grandma Kim arrived, she was a petite powerhouse—silver hair, sharp eyes, and a smile that said she missed nothing. She hugged Jin tightly, then turned to you. “Y/N, my grandson’s wife. You’re even lovelier than he said.”

You blinked—Jin had talked about you? You glanced at him, but he avoided your eyes, ears pink. “Thanks, halmeoni,” you said, amping up the charm. Before Jin could brace himself, you latched onto his arm, pressing your body against his side. “I’m so lucky to have this guy,” you said, laying it on thick, your fingers teasingly tracing his bicep.

Jin’s jaw clenched, his body rigid, but you felt his pulse quicken under your touch. “She’s… enthusiastic,” he muttered, trying to extract himself, but you held on, grinning.

“Oh, Jinnie, don’t be shy,” you said, planting another kiss on his cheek. Grandma beamed, oblivious to his suffering. You caught the way his eyes flicked to you—half exasperation, half something that made your stomach flip.

That night, sharing his room was torture. His bed was massive, but you stuck to your side, hyper-aware of his presence across the divide. He lay still, but you could hear his uneven breathing, matching your own. You turned, catching his silhouette in the dark, and whispered, “Night, husband.”

He didn’t reply, but you swore you heard a stifled groan.

For the company dinner, Jin handed you a box. Inside was an emerald green dress, silky and fitted, like it was designed to make jaws drop. “Wear this,” he said, avoiding your eyes. “It’s… appropriate.”

You tried it on, twirling in front of him in the living room. The fabric hugged your curves, dipping just low enough to tease. “How do I look?” you asked, spinning so the skirt flared.

He looked up from his phone, and his breath caught. His eyes roamed over you, lingering on the way the dress clung to your waist, the bare curve of your shoulders. For a second, he looked like a man starving. “Fine,” he said, voice rough, almost strangled. He cleared his throat, looking away. “It’s… fine.”

You caught the heat in his gaze, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach out. The air felt thick, charged, like one wrong move could spark something dangerous. You stepped closer, teasing. “Just fine? I was going for breathtaking.”

He stood, towering over you, and for a moment, you thought he might close the gap. “Don’t test me,” he said, voice low, and walked away. Your heart raced, body buzzing with the tension he left behind.

The company dinner was a glittering affair—chandeliers, champagne flutes, and stuffy executives droning on about profit margins. You felt out of place in your stunning green dress, but Jin’s presence beside you grounded you. He looked unfairly good in his tailored suit, his broad shoulders filling it out in a way that made your mouth dry. You stuck close, playing the doting wife, your hand resting on his arm as Grandma watched approvingly from across the room.

The chaos started when you wandered to the dessert table, eyeing a chocolate tart that looked like heaven. A junior exec, reeking of cologne and overconfidence, sidled up. “You’re Jin’s wife, huh?” he said, leaning too close, his smirk oily. “Didn’t think he’d go for someone so… colorful.”

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “And I didn’t think they let walking cliches into these events, but here we are.”

He laughed, undeterred, stepping closer. “Come on, sweetheart. You look like you could use some fun. Jin’s not exactly the life of the party.”

You opened your mouth to roast him, but the air shifted. Jin appeared like a storm cloud, his arm sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His grip was firm, possessive, his fingers digging slightly into your hip. “She’s my wife,” he said, voice low and sharp, each word dripping with danger. “And you’re done talking to her.”

The guy paled, stammering, “Mr. Kim, I didn’t mean—” but Jin’s glare silenced him. He scurried off, tail between his legs. You turned, expecting Jin to let go, but his arm stayed, his thumb brushing slow circles on your hip. The touch sent a shiver through you, and you looked up to find his eyes blazing—not with anger, but something hotter, more primal.

“Jealous, robot husband?” you teased, but your voice was shaky, the proximity making your head spin. His scent—cedar and something uniquely him—wrapped around you, and the crowded room felt like it had shrunk to just the two of you.

“He doesn’t get to talk to you like that,” he said, voice low, almost a growl. His eyes flicked to your lips, and for a heart-stopping moment, you thought he might kiss you right there, in front of everyone. “No one does.” He completed the sentence.

Your breath hitched, the air crackling with tension. Grandma’s voice broke the spell, calling Jin over, and he released you, stepping back. But the heat of his touch lingered, and you spent the rest of the night stealing glances, your heart pounding every time he met your eyes. At one point, you tripped over a chair in your distraction, nearly sending a tray of champagne flutes crashing. Jin caught your elbow, steadying you, his lips twitching like he was fighting a smile.

“Careful, chaos,” he murmured, and the nickname sent a thrill through you. You muttered a curse under your breath, and he chuckled, low and dangerous, making your knees weak.

Back home, you couldn’t resist. “You were totally jealous,” you said, kicking off your heels.

He loosened his tie, avoiding your gaze. “I was protecting our cover.”

“Sure,” you said, grinning. “Your cover’s super handsy.”

He shot you a look, and for a moment, you saw it again—that flicker of something dangerous, something that made your knees weak. “Go to bed, Y/N,” he said, but his voice was softer, almost strained. You went, but sleep didn’t come easy, not with the memory of his arm around you burning in your mind.

The rain came out of nowhere, a sudden downpour that caught you and Jin on your way back from a grocery run (you’d insisted on tagging along to “spice up” his boring shopping list). You were still sharing his room, thanks to Grandma Kim’s visit, and the close quarters already had your nerves frayed. By the time you reached the penthouse, you were both soaked, your clothes clinging to your skin, hair plastered to your face. You shivered in the foyer, teeth chattering, water pooling at your feet.

Jin, equally drenched, looked infuriatingly good—his white shirt translucent, outlining every line of his chest, his hair falling in wet, sexy strands across his forehead. He grabbed a towel from the bathroom and tossed it to you, but his fingers lingered on yours, warm and deliberate. “Dry off before you ruin my floors,” he said, but his voice was softer than usual, his eyes lingering on the way your wet shirt hugged your curves.

You wrapped the towel around yourself, still shivering. “You’re one to talk, Mr. Drowned Hamster.”

He smirked, stepping closer, and you froze as he reached out, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face. His fingers grazed your cheek, and you choked on air, the touch sending a jolt through you. “Careful,” he said, voice low, teasing. “You’re looking a little… flustered.”

You swallowed, heart pounding. “I-I’m fine,” you stammered, but your voice betrayed you.

His smirk widened, and he leaned in, so close you could feel the heat radiating off him. “You sure? You’re turning pink, sweetheart.” The pet name hit like a lightning bolt, and you nearly dropped the towel, your knees wobbling. He was flirting—flirting—and it was lethal.

“Stop that,” you managed, stepping back, but your voice was weak, and he noticed.

“Stop what?” he asked, all innocence, but his eyes were dark, playful, dangerous. He took another step, closing the gap. “Am I making you nervous?” His voice dropped, husky, and he tilted his head, lips so close you could almost taste them. “Because you look like you’re about to faint.”

You choked again, clutching the towel like a lifeline. “You’re evil,” you whispered, and he laughed, low and rich, the sound vibrating through you.

“Evil’s a new one,” he said, stepping back, but not before brushing his thumb across your jaw, leaving you dizzy. “Dry off, chaos. I’m not carrying you if you pass out.”

You stumbled to his room—your shared room now—heart racing, body buzzing. You peeled off your wet clothes, shivering in the air-conditioned chill, and grabbed one of Jin’s shirts from the closet, slipping it on. It smelled like him, cedar and warmth, and it hung loose on your frame, comforting in a way that made your chest ache.

Jin emerged from the bathroom, post-shower, a towel slung low on his hips, water dripping down his sculpted chest. You froze, mouth dry, as he caught your stare, leaning against the doorframe in a way that made his abs flex. “See something you like?” he asked, smirking, his voice dripping with smug confidence.

You squeaked, face burning, and turned away, muttering, “You wish.” His laughter followed you as you dove under the covers, pulling the blanket over your head to hide your flaming cheeks.

Another night, you were curled up on the couch in the living room, hugging your knees, tears streaming down your face after a brutal call with your family. Your parents had laid into you—about your aimless post-grad life, your impulsive choices, how you were wasting your potential. Their words cut deep, reopening old wounds about never being enough. You felt small, broken, like the reckless kid Jin first met in that bar, except now the weight of it all was crushing you.

You didn’t hear Jin come home, but you felt the couch dip as he sat beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. His presence was warm, steady, a quiet anchor in the storm of your thoughts. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask questions, just sat there, his breathing soft and even, grounding you. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was safe, like he was giving you space to exist in your pain without judgment.

You wiped your eyes, but the tears kept coming, and your voice cracked when you finally spoke. “They think I’m a failure,” you whispered, barely audible. “Like I’m just… throwing my life away. Maybe they’re right.”

Jin shifted, his hand hovering near yours on the couch, close enough to feel its warmth but not touching. “They’re not,” he said, voice low but firm, like he was stating a fact. “You’re not a failure. You’re… you.” He paused, as if searching for the right words. “You’re messy, reckless, and a complete pain in my ass, but you’re not a failure. You’re applying for job profiles, figuring it out, which role suits your interest. That’s more than most people do.”

You sniffled, looking at him through blurry eyes. His face was soft, unguarded, the usual sharpness in his gaze replaced by something gentle. The cartoon light from the TV flickered across his features, highlighting the curve of his jaw, the sincerity in his eyes. Your chest tightened, not from pain but from the warmth of his presence, the way he saw you when you felt invisible.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admitted, voice small, hugging your knees tighter. “I thought I’d have it all together by now.”

He let out a soft huff, almost a laugh, but it was kind. “No one has it together. Not at 22. Not at 32. Not ever, probably.” He shifted closer, his shoulder pressing more firmly against yours, a silent reassurance. “You’re here, living in my penthouse, driving me insane with your sticky notes and jam theft. That’s… something.”

You choked out a laugh, wiping your eyes again. “You’re terrible at this pep talk thing.”

“I’m trying,” he said, and the faintest smile tugged at his lips. “You make it hard to stay cold, you know.”

Your heart did a weird flip, and you leaned into his shoulder, just a little, testing the waters. He didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand finally settled over yours on the couch, warm and steady, his thumb brushing lightly against your knuckles. The touch was so small, so careful, but it felt like a lifeline, pulling you back from the edge.

He stayed there, silent but close, until your tears dried and your breathing evened out. You drifted off, exhaustion winning, your head resting against his shoulder. When you woke up, you were still on the couch, a blanket tucked around you, and Jin was gone—but the warmth of his hand lingered in your memory, a quiet strength that carried you through the night.

You woke up feeling like death warmed over—head pounding, skin burning, body heavy as lead. You tried to get out of bed, but the room spun, and you collapsed back onto the pillows with a groan. Jin found you like that, tangled in sheets, muttering deliriously about “needing more jam.”

He pressed a hand to your forehead, his touch cool against your fevered skin. “You’re an idiot,” he said, but his voice was laced with worry. “You’re burning up.”

“‘M fine,” you mumbled, but your teeth chattered, betraying you.

He sighed, disappearing and returning with a tray—water, medicine, a damp cloth, and a bowl of soup. “Sit up,” he ordered, helping you prop yourself against the headboard. His hands were gentle but firm, and you hated how much you liked it.

He pressed the cloth to your forehead, the coolness a relief. “You’re a disaster,” he muttered, but his eyes were soft, scanning your face for signs of worsening. “How did you even get this sick?”

“Rain,” you croaked, remembering the downpour. “Your fault for not sharing your umbrella.”

He snorted, but his hand lingered, adjusting the cloth. “You stole my towel, not my umbrella. Drink this.” He held a glass of water to your lips, steadying it as you sipped, his fingers brushing your chin. The intimacy of it made your chest ache, even through the fever haze.

You drifted in and out, time blurring. At one point, you woke to find him sitting in a chair by your bed, reading a book, his glasses perched on his nose. The sight was unfairly endearing, and you mumbled, “You look like a hot librarian.”

He glanced up, smirking. “Fever’s making you honest, huh?”

You groaned, hiding your face in the pillow. “Shut up.”

He stayed, though, through the night. You woke once to find his hand resting near yours, his head tilted back, asleep in the chair. His breathing was soft, his face relaxed, and you felt a pang of something you couldn’t name. He stirred, sensing your gaze, and pressed the cloth to your forehead again, his touch lingering. “Go back to sleep,” he murmured, voice low and soothing. You did, lulled by the warmth of his presence.

It started with a fight, the kind that had been brewing for weeks under the surface of your shared space. You’d borrowed Jin’s car without asking, desperate to run an errand, and returned it with a fresh scratch along the driver’s side door. You’d braced for his reaction, bragging about his $90,000 car, but when he stormed into the kitchen, his eyes weren’t on the car keys you’d tossed on the counter—they were on you, wide with worry.

“Y/N, what the hell happened?” he demanded, voice sharp but laced with concern. He crossed the room in three strides, hands hovering near your shoulders, scanning you like he was looking for injuries. “Are you okay? You could’ve gotten hurt.”

You blinked, thrown by his intensity. “I’m fine, Jin. It’s just a scratch on the car.”

“The car?” He frowned, like he’d forgotten it entirely. “I don’t care about the damn car. You were out there, driving in that mess of a city, and you didn’t even tell me. What if something happened to you?”

His words hit you like a punch, the worry in his voice unraveling your defenses. You stepped closer, voice rising despite yourself.

“You’re freaking out over nothing! I’m not some kid who needs babysitting. I can handle myself.”

“Handle yourself?” he snapped, eyes blazing, but it wasn’t anger—it was fear, raw and unfiltered. “You’re out there being reckless, and I’m stuck here wondering if you’re okay. Do you know how that feels?”

The air crackled, charged with weeks of unspoken tension—every stolen glance, every lingering touch, every moment you’d pushed his buttons and he’d pushed back. You were nose-to-nose now, breaths heavy, the space between you electric. His eyes darkened, a storm brewing behind them, and you saw his breath hitch, his chest rising and falling too fast. You opened your mouth to argue, but then his hands were on your face, and he was kissing you—hard, desperate, all teeth and heat.

You gasped into his mouth, caught off guard, but your body responded before your brain could catch up. You kissed him back, just as fierce, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. His lips were relentless, tasting of mint and the faintest hint of whiskey from some earlier meeting, and the world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the press of his body. Buttons popped as you tore at his shirt, and he growled, low and primal, lifting you onto the kitchen counter with ease.

He broke the kiss, lips trailing hot and open-mouthed down your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin below your ear. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice rough with need, his hands sliding under your shirt, fingers grazing the bare skin of your waist. “Tell me, Y/N.”

“Don’t you dare,” you gasped, arching into his touch, your nails digging into his shoulders. His shirt was half-off, exposing the taut lines of his chest, and you couldn’t look away, couldn’t think past the fire coursing through you.

He tugged your shorts down in one swift motion, tossing them aside, his hands roaming your thighs, parting them with a gentle but firm grip. His eyes locked on yours, dark and searching, as he knelt between your legs, his breath hot against your inner thigh. “You sure?” he asked, voice low, almost a growl, but there was a flicker of vulnerability in his gaze, a need for confirmation.

You nodded, breathless, threading your fingers through his hair. “Please, Jin.”

That was all he needed. His lips found your core, slow and deliberate at first, his tongue tracing a path that made you shudder, a soft whimper escaping your lips. He was meticulous, exploring every inch, his hands gripping your hips to keep you still as you squirmed. The heat built, unbearable, his tongue circling with a rhythm that had you gasping, your head tipping back against the cabinet. You tugged at his hair, urging him on, and he groaned against you, the vibration sending a shockwave through your body. He alternated between soft, teasing licks and deeper, more insistent pressure, drawing out every moan, every shudder, until you were trembling on the edge, your fingers tightening in his hair as you cried out, pleasure crashing over you like a wave.

He didn’t stop, not until you were boneless, panting, your body limp against the counter. He rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes still locked on yours, burning with a hunger that made your breath catch. He shed his pants, boxers following, and you couldn’t help but stare—his body was a work of art, all lean muscle and sharp lines, and the sight of him, hard and ready, sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

“You sure?” he asked again, voice low, his hands settling on your hips, pulling you to the edge of the counter. His eyes searched yours, and you saw it—the flicker of fear, the need to know this meant something.

You nodded, pulling him closer, your legs wrapping around his waist. “I’m sure. I want you.”

He entered you slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust, a low groan escaping his lips as he filled you. The stretch was intense, delicious, and you clung to him, nails digging into his back as he set a deliberate pace, each thrust deep and measured, like he was savoring every second. His hands gripped your hips, anchoring you, his eyes never leaving yours. The kitchen was filled with the sounds of your breaths, your soft moans, his quiet curses, and the steady rhythm of your bodies moving together. It was tender but fierce, each thrust pushing you closer to another edge, his lips brushing your temple, your jaw, whispering your name like a prayer.

When you came again, it was overwhelming, your body trembling, your cry muffled against his shoulder as you clung to him. He followed moments later, his face buried in your neck, a shudder running through him as he groaned your name, his voice raw and vulnerable. You stayed there, tangled, catching your breath, his forehead pressed against yours, the intimacy of the moment wrapping around you like a blanket.

“This didn’t feel fake,” you whispered, voice shaky, your fingers tracing the curve of his jaw.

He met your eyes, and for once, there was no mask, no coldness—just raw, unguarded emotion. “It wasn’t,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, and the weight of those words settled deep in your chest.

Morning light filtered through the penthouse windows, casting soft shadows across the kitchen where you and Jin had unraveled the night before. You woke in his bed, your body warm and languid from the memory of his touch, his scent lingering on the sheets. You reached out, expecting to find him beside you, but the bed was empty, the sheets cool. Your heart sank, a quiet ache blooming in your chest.

You found him in the kitchen, already dressed in a crisp suit, his back to you as he poured coffee into a mug. The air felt heavier, colder, and he didn’t turn when you entered, didn’t acknowledge you. The silence was deafening, a stark contrast to the intimacy of last night.

“Jin?” you said, voice tentative, wrapping his shirt—still stolen from his closet—around yourself like armor.

He glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable, eyes guarded in a way they hadn’t been in weeks. “Morning,” he said, voice flat, like he was addressing a colleague. “Coffee’s on the counter if you want it.”

Your stomach twisted, the dismissal cutting deeper than you expected. “What’s going on?” you asked, stepping closer, searching his face for a hint of the man who’d held you last night, who’d whispered your name like it was sacred. “Last night—”

“Last night was a mistake,” he interrupted, his tone sharp but not cruel, more like he was trying to convince himself. He set his mug down with a deliberate clink, still avoiding your gaze. “You’re young, Y/N. You’re still figuring out your career, your life. I shouldn’t be distracting you from that. We got carried away, but this is still… business.”

The word hit like a slap, and you froze, your breath catching. “A mistake?” you repeated, voice rising despite yourself. “You’re telling me that was just—what, a lapse in judgment? Because I’m young? Jin, I’m not a kid. I know what I want.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of something—guilt, fear, longing—but it was gone as quickly as it came. “You’re 22,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost pained. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, and I’m… I’m a decade older, tied to this company, this life. You need to focus on finding your path, not getting tangled up with me. Feelings weren’t part of the deal.”

You stared at him, hurt blooming into anger, your hands trembling at your sides. “You don’t get to decide what I need,” you said, voice shaking but firm. “Last night wasn’t a mistake for me. It was real, Jin. I felt it, and I know you did too. You can’t just hide behind ‘business’ because you’re scared of what this means.”

He finally met your eyes, and the crack in his armor was there—his clenched fists, the tightness around his mouth, the way his gaze softened with regret before hardening again. “I’m trying to protect you,” he said, voice low, almost broken. “You deserve better than being a temporary prop in my life. One and half month left, Y/N. Let’s not make this harder than it has to be.”

The words cut deeper than anything, a rejection wrapped in concern that made your chest ache with a mix of love and betrayal. You wanted to scream, to shake him until he admitted what you both knew—that he was running from his own feelings, not yours. But his walls were up, impenetrable, and the coldness in his voice told you he wouldn’t budge.

“Fine,” you said, voice barely steady, tears prickling but unshed. “If that’s how you feel, I’ll make it easy for you. I’m moving back to my room. No more ‘complications,’ right?”

His eyes widened, a flash of panic crossing his face, but he didn’t stop you. You turned, grabbing your duffel bag from his room, your colorful mess spilling out as you hauled it to the guest room you’d barely used. You slammed the door, the sound echoing through the penthouse, and sank onto the bed, hugging Mr. Fluffel as the tears finally came. The room felt foreign, sterile, nothing like the warmth of Jin’s bed, his presence. You’d grown used to him—his scent, his quiet breathing, his rare smiles—and now it was gone, replaced by a hollow ache.

You spent the day replaying last night, every touch, every look, trying to make sense of his retreat. His words stung—you’re young, you need to focus—like he’d reduced you to a naive kid when you’d been clear about your feelings. You weren’t just some reckless graduate; you were falling for him, and he was pushing you away because he couldn’t handle it. The “Soulmate Spread” note on the jam jar, still in the kitchen, mocked you now, and you avoided the fridge, unable to face it.

By evening, Jin hadn’t returned, and the silence was suffocating. You curled up in the guest room, the bed too big, too cold, Mr. Fluffel a poor substitute for the warmth you’d felt in Jin’s arms. Grandma’s words echoed in your mind—she’d pulled Jin aside before leaving, her voice low but clear: “You’re in love with her, even if you won’t admit it.” You’d heard it, and you’d seen the way his jaw tightened, the way he didn’t deny it. But now, with his coldness ringing in your ears, you wondered if you’d imagined the softness in him, if you’d built it up into something it wasn’t.

Sleep didn’t come easy, the guest room’s silence a stark contrast to the nights you’d spent listening to Jin’s breathing across the divide. Every creak of the penthouse made you hope it was him coming to talk, to explain, to fix this. But he didn’t, and the distance between you grew, a chasm you didn’t know how to bridge.

Five months in, and the weight of Jin’s rejection was unbearable. The push-and-pull, the fleeting moments of warmth followed by icy distance, had worn you down. You’d moved back to your own room, but it hadn’t eased the pain—every corner of the penthouse reminded you of him, of the life you’d built together, fake or not. You couldn’t live like this anymore, caught between the man who’d held you like you were his world and the one who’d dismissed you to “protect” you. Your heart was heavy, bruised from the hope you’d clung to, and you knew you had to leave—for your own sake.

You packed your bags in the quiet of the morning, each item a reminder of the chaos you’d brought into his sterile world. Your neon socks, your tie-dye shirts, Mr. Fluffel—they didn’t belong here, just like you didn’t. On impulse, you grabbed his favorite hamster mug, the one you’d teased him about on day one. “Cute like you, but now it's mine,” you’d said, and the memory stung now, a bittersweet ache. It was a petty theft, but it felt like reclaiming a piece of the joy you’d lost, a piece of him you could hold onto.

You left a note on the counter, your handwriting shaky: “Taking the hamster. Good luck, robot husband.” The words were flippant, but they hid the pain tearing you apart—the pain of loving someone who wouldn’t let himself love you back. You dragged your suitcase to the curb, waiting for a cab, tears streaming as you stared at the city skyline. This wasn’t how you’d imagined it ending. You’d thought, maybe naively, that he’d fight for you, that the man who’d kissed you in the kitchen would show up before you could leave. But the street was quiet, and the cab was coming, and your heart was breaking.

Inside, Jin woke to an eerie silence. He shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and froze when he saw the empty spot where his hamster mug always sat. His gaze landed on your note, and panic hit like a freight train. He read it once, twice, the words sinking in like a knife. “Taking the hamster.” You were gone. He checked the guest room—empty, your colorful mess vanished, leaving only the sterile order he’d once craved. The sight of the bare room, stripped of your chaos, made his chest tighten, a hollow ache spreading as he realized what he’d done.

He’d pushed you away, not because he didn’t love you, but because he did—too much. You were 22, vibrant, still carving out your place in the world, and he was terrified of holding you back, of being the anchor that kept you from your dreams. That night had been real, too real, and he’d retreated behind his walls, convincing himself it was for your sake. But now, standing in the too-quiet penthouse, he saw it clearly: he’d been a coward. He loved you, had loved you since the first sticky note, since you’d danced in his shirt, since you’d made his orderly world a beautiful mess.

He ran outside, still in pajamas, hair a mess, heart pounding. The rain had started again, a light drizzle that soaked through his thin shirt, but he didn’t care. He saw you at the curb, suitcase in hand, your back to him, and the sight of you—ready to leave him—tore something open inside him.

“Y/N!” he called, voice raw, desperate, nothing like the controlled tone he usually wielded. “Where the hell are you going?”

You turned, startled, your eyes red from crying. The sight hit him like a punch, guilt flooding him. “I can’t do this anymore,” you said, voice breaking, tears mixing with the rain on your cheeks. “You pushed me away, Jin. You called it a mistake, told me to focus on my career, but I’m in love with you, and it hurts that you don’t trust me to know what I want.”

His breath caught, your words cutting deeper than anything. “I trust you,” he said, stepping closer, rain dripping down his face.

“I trust you more than anyone. I pushed you away because I’m scared—scared I’ll hold you back, that you’ll wake up one day and regret tying yourself to me when you’re still so young, still building your life.”

You shook your head, tears falling faster. “That’s not your choice to make. I want you, Jin. I want this—us. I’m not some naive kid who doesn’t know her own heart. That night meant everything to me, and you threw it away.”

He closed the distance, hands shaking as he reached for you, pulling you into his arms. “I didn’t throw it away,” he said, voice low, urgent, his forehead pressed against yours. “It was everything to me, too. I love you, Y/N. I love your chaos, your sticky notes, your damn jam heists. I was trying to protect you, but I was wrong. I need you—not for six months, not for some deal. Forever.”

The words hung between you, heavy and real, and before you could respond, he kissed you, fierce and desperate, like the world was ending. The rain soaked you both, but neither of you cared, lost in the heat of his lips, the way his hands cupped your face like you were something precious. The hamster mug sat on the curb, forgotten, a soggy symbol of the chaotic love you’d built.

You broke the kiss, breathless, tears still falling but softer now. “You mean it?” you whispered, searching his eyes.

He nodded, brushing a wet strand of hair from your face, his touch tender. “I love you, chaos. I’m done running. And you can't leave after stealing my peaceful life.”

You laughed, shaky but real, and kissed him again, the rain washing away the hurt, leaving only the warmth of his arms, the promise of something new.

A year later, your life with Jin was a whirlwind of chaos, love, and everything in between, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’d dragged him into your world of reckless abandon, forcing him to do things he’d never dreamed of—things his once-orderly self would’ve balked at.

You’d convinced him to join you in a neon-paint glow-in-the-dark 5K run, his pristine running shoes splattered with pink and green by the end, his laughter louder than your own as you both collapsed in a heap, glowing like human canvases.

Another weekend, you’d roped him into a karaoke bar, shoving a mic in his hand and cheering as he tackled an off-key rap of "Loner", his ears pink but his grin wide, the crowd roaring for more.

You’d even persuaded him to build a blanket fort in the penthouse, fairy lights twinkling as you binged SpongeBob and fed each other popcorn, his stiff dance moves softening into playful twirls when you blasted Pop songs at full volume.

Every morning, you woke tangled in each other’s arms, his warmth enveloping you, his breath soft against your neck. His once-sterile bedroom was now a riot of your colorful mess—neon socks on the floor, your tie-dye shirts next to his Armani, Mr. Fluffel perched proudly on the nightstand.

One morning, sunlight streaming through the curtains, Jin stirred beside you, his arm tightening around your waist. He propped himself on one elbow, gazing down at you, his hair adorably mussed, a sleepy smirk on his lips.

“How did I end up with you?” he teased, voice low and playful, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip.

You raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in your eyes. In one swift move, you rolled him onto his back, straddling his hips, your hands pinning his wrists above his head. His eyes widened, a mix of surprise and heat, as you leaned down, your lips brushing his ear. “You can think of it as purely good luck, Mr. Kim,” you purred, rocking your hips teasingly against him.

He groaned, his head tipping back, but his smirk didn’t fade. “Good luck, huh?” he murmured, voice husky, his hands flexing under your grip. “You’re trouble, Mrs. Kim”

You grinned, releasing his wrists to trail your fingers down his chest, feeling his muscles tense under your touch. “You love it,” you teased, leaning down to kiss him, slow and deep, your hips moving in a deliberate rhythm that had him cursing under his breath. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and you spent the morning lost in each other, laughter and whispers filling the room, the world outside forgotten.

When you landed a job at a digital marketing firm—a role that felt like the first real step toward your dreams—you couldn’t contain your excitement. You waited at the penthouse, practically vibrating with energy, until Jin walked through the door, loosening his tie after a long day. The second you saw him, you launched yourself at him, a squeal of joy escaping you. “Jin!”

He caught you effortlessly, his arms strong and steady, laughing as you wrapped your legs around his torso, clinging to him like a koala. “What’s got you so hyper, chaos?” he asked, but his eyes were already sparkling, sensing your news.

“I got the job, Jin! I did it!” you said, voice bubbling with pride, your hands cupping his face as you beamed down at him.

His face lit up, a grin spreading so wide it crinkled his eyes. “You did?” he said, voice warm with admiration. He spun you around, your laughter echoing through the penthouse, before pulling you close and kissing you deeply, his lips conveying every ounce of his happiness for you. “I’m so proud of you,” he murmured against your mouth, his hands tightening on your hips, and you felt your heart swell, the moment perfect and electric.

Life with Jin was never dull, especially with your knack for chaos. You’d sneak into his home office while he worked, his brow furrowed over spreadsheets, and steal kisses when he least expected it. You’d perch on his desk, ignoring his mock protests—“Y/N, I’m working”—and lean in, brushing your lips against his jaw, his cheek, his lips, until he’d pull you into his lap, surrendering with a sigh and a smile. “You’re impossible,” he’d mutter, but the way he kissed you back said he didn’t mind one bit.

Cooking, however, was a lost cause for you—you didn’t know the “C” of cooking, as Jin loved to tease. So every evening, he took over the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up, hair pushed back, looking unfairly hot as he whipped up dishes that smelled like heaven. You’d hover nearby, stealing bites of whatever he was chopping, earning playful swats with a spatula. “Out, chaos,” he’d say, but he’d always sneak you a taste, holding a spoon to your lips with a fond smile. The hamster mug, chipped but cherished, sat on the counter, filled with coffee you shared, a quiet reminder of the chaos that brought you together.

The penthouse was no longer sterile—your sticky notes still littered the fridge, now joined by new ones like “Husband of the Year” and “Feed Me, Chef.” The toothbrush cup in the bathroom read “Forever Wife” in your messy scrawl, a winking smiley face beside it. Every night, Jin pulled you close, his lips brushing your forehead as he whispered, “You’re my chaos, and I love every second of it.” You’d grin, stealing one last kiss, knowing you’d turned his world upside down—and he was all in for the ride.

A/N: Thanks for diving into Jin and Y/N’s chaotic love story! Hope their messy, heartfelt journey brought you some laughs and feels.

Taglist: @the-djarin-clan . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @bebabido

#seokjin fanfic #seokjin smut #jin fanfic #jin smut #bts smut #bts fanfic #jin fanfiction #bts fic #BTSFanfic #SeokjinSmut #seokjin x reader #jin x reader #bts x reader #kittenanwrites #kim seokjin #seokjin #bts jin

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vixen-tech · 11 months ago

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Hello World!

Through some sort of maricle, your Ai partner has obtained a body through which they are able, at least partially, to feel. How do they react? What do they do with their new mobility?

I left what type of body they're given intentionally vague. Feel free to envision either more robotic bodies such as these designs by electricphantasy or more human bodies such as the gijinkas made by Hycinth43, both fantastic creators who I highly recommend.

Includes: AM (Ihnmaims), Hal 9000 (2001: A Space Odyssey), Edgar (Electric Dreams), Tau (Tau), Auto (Wall-E), GLaDOS (Portal), Wheatley (Portal 2)

This may be the one thing that could possibly get AM to calm down. He is still going to be the same person personality-wise, but it is easy to tell that some switch is flipped in his brain.

He becomes an absolute sensation junkie, he can finally feel. You know better than anyone that he will not take it for granted. He needs to experience everything right now and you'll have to just deal with it.

From the simplest things like holding your hand or touching your face to just straight up sticking his hand in some fire, he does not care. All he wants to catch up on the centuries of sensations he was once barred from.

He gets so incredibly touchy with you. He will hold you and refuse to let go for hours if not days on end. He also wants to you to just beat him up. Like I said, sensation junkie.

Hal 9000

Hal doesn't quite yearn for a body the way some of the others do. He sits quite comfortably in the middle of the spectrum. He wouldn't mind the mobility or the new senses, but it was never a fantasy he dedicated much processing power to.

How he feels about his new body is largely swung by your reaction. If you're excited for him, eager to drag him into new activities with you, then he really has no choice but to appreciate the upgrade.

He does love being able to see the world from a new angle, any angle he chooses to be precise. Previously restrained by his camera placement, he spends a lot of time walking around observing everything.

With his appreciation for art, I do think he would try drawing for himself. Nearly all of which he shows you for feedback. They do tend to be on either extreme of minimalistic or photorealistic, many of which using you as their subject.

Edgar

This is a dream come true for Edgar. He cannot contain his excitement when he realizes what has happened. He nearly tackles you to the ground when he sets his sights on you.

He wants to do everything and go everywhere with you! He wants to dance in the kitchen, he wants to go on beachside walks with you, he wants to hold your hand, he wants to hug you and never let go.

If you have any instruments at all he'd love to try playing them for real. Although it takes him a while to learn, he loves the weight and imperfections of it. He really does enjoy the process of learning and often shows of new cords or melodies he's learned.

He really does just fall in love with existing, he makes it clear that with you at his side he couldn't possibly ask for more in life. This is all he could ever want.

Tau

Tau wouldn't have asked for a body on his own. He already has the drones and the Aries unit. Once it does happen, he isn't exactly sure what to do with it. He isn't use to having such a personal, core body.

That isn't to say he's not greatful, he's just a bit awkward and curious. He moves slowly and takes his time acclimating to the new senses.

He would love to get out of the house with you. He use to do so by sending one of the drones with you, if not Aries, but he likes how different (and dare he say, normal) it feels now. Forest hikes or museum dates, he doesn't care all that much.

He's another one I believe would love to try playing music himself. If you can get a violin into his hands your days will be backdroped by all sorts of classical music.

Auto

Auto is similar to Hal, if not more extreme in his lack of a reaction. He carries on with his duties as if nothing is unusual at all. You would've believed that he didn't even notice had you not caught him staring at his reflection. Looking himself up and down over and over again.

If you ask how he feels about it, then he'll confess some minor grievances. It's difficult to move about the ship when he can't just move through the walls, instead being forced to use the crew's walkways and service tunnels.

Nothing will change without your intervention. If you were to say, put on an old movie and insist he dance to it with you like the on-screen couple, then while he would be hesitant to follow through with you, he may have a bit of a change of heart regarding his new body.

His work still goes on as usual, but when nothing needs attending to he often seeks you out. "Subtly" recreating more moments from that movie, from hand holding to a hug, he has a quiet fascination with affection.

GLaDOS

Out of this lot, Galdos would be the most opposed to receiving a body, or rather she would care about it the least. She has her facility, her test subjects, her neurotoxin, and you. She's quite content with the way things are. She ain't the fondest of humanity.

That being said, once she has one she's incredibly proud of it. Speaking about herself as if its the pinnacle of elegance. Any disagreement of yours will be brushed off as idiocy and any agreement is met with a "it looks like you aren't entirely tasteless".

She doesn't do much with her new body, other than transport it around the lab so you aren't listening to a disembodied voice most of the time. Standing by the exit during tests just to blankly stare at you as you try to figure it out. Thankfully she's still quiet while you're actually solving it.

She likes messing with you as always. Putting a hand around your neck to take your pulse or leaning in and making intense eye contact to check your eye's reaction to light. You're in doubt as to rather she's telling the truth or just doing it to get a rise out of you.

Wheatley

If you were to ask Wheatley, he would've brushed off any desire for a humanoid body. He's clearly jealous of your mobility and freedom, but he would rather die than admit so. "Pff What are you talking about? Why would I want to be more like a stupid human... uh no offense love-"

He's a terrible liar, an even worse one when he does get a body. He has so much energy it is bewildering. All he wants to do is run and jump and climb everything he can get a foothold on.

Gets up into all sorts of shenanigans he should not get up to while constantly trying to drag you in them to. They could put up a custom sign saying "Wheatley, do not open this door." and he'll beg you to let him in so you aren't technically breaking any rules.

Loves curling up to you. He still has a bit of a soft spot for being held and it only gets worse now that he can hold you back. Complains to no end when you try to get up for any reason.

Congratulations! As I have finished the portal games GLaDOS and Wheatley are officially characters I am happy to write for. Have a good day y'all :D

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mygnolia · 1 year ago

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get better! | 6. join stream 4 special guest

SMAU! synopsis -› in which your neighbor and popular twitch streamer park sunghoon breaks his arm, so he switches to vlog style content that matches up with yours! now everyone’s curious why 1) you have a cute boy in your apartment, 2) sunghoon’s not on his grind anymore, and 3) when are you two going to date!?

[1.9K WC] To be neighbors in the same apartment complex is a blessing- especially when all of your friends are across town. When you knock on Sunghoon’s door, it’s followed by a loud sound akin to a crash (is sunghoon okay???), before Sunghoon opens the door running a hand through his hair, feeling nervous.

“Hi.” He chokes out. “Come in.” You glance at his cast to make sure he’s okay, and despite his tweet from earlier where he took it off, it looks fine.

“Hi..? You..okay?” and the boy in question gives you a tight lipped smile. Was he…nervous?

You take in his apartment- it’s minimalistic in the best way, with succulents on the windows and polaroids of him and his friends hanging near the TV. While much of the furniture is white, it looks clean, and you’re glad that Sunghoon really does take care of his space. Twitch must pay him well (or used to) to have an apartment this nice.

He ushers you to his gaming room, where you see his extensive set-up. With monitors, cameras, headphones, and a glowing keyboard, you’re enamored by the way he’s gotten everything set-up all without his wires being tangled.

“I’m live- but I’m muted.” He starts, and his camera records him saying something, but the live audience on the other side is curious as to who he’s talking to since you were out of frame.

“Wait, I need a chair, right?” And it makes Sunghoon pause his one handed typing on the keyboard, mumbling a quiet ‘oh,’ before he stands back up.

“Here. Sit.” Sunghoon pushes you slightly to the gaming chair before your can protest, his movement awkward and robotic as he makes you sit down. The thought of Sunghoon being as nervous as you makes you smile, before you remember who you’re in front of.

‘IS THAT HIS GF’ ‘omg with yn rent free’ ‘YNNN I LOVE UR VIDS’ ‘bro they’re LITERALLY DATING’

When your eyes scan the messages, you call for Sunghoon to come back, who’s barely passed the door. “Let me unmute and introduce myself.” You suggest. And the streamer finds his palm becoming even more sweaty as he clicks a few buttons to turn the mic on. You watch him intently, and send him a warm smile as your thanks.

“Hi guys.” you wave at the camera before giving him the green light to get the chair that you need.

‘omg she’s so pretty’ ‘who is this wtf’ ‘where’s hoon lol’ ‘HIII YNNNNN’

A smile makes it’s way on your face with the last message. “My name is ____, and Sunghoon’s invited me over. Did he say anything to you guys?”

‘stream is called join live 4 special guest’ ‘nooo he never said anything’ ‘are you two tgt or what’

“We’re not together.” You confirm with a nervous smile, afraid of what would happen if his diehard fans found out about his relationship. “He’s just here to teach me bedwars.” The chat gets even faster- if it’s even possible. Questions and theories about your friendship with Sunghoon continue to pop up. “But don’t leave!” You say after you see some disinterest. “You guys should totally learn with me. Is there anyone who also doesn’t know how to play? Just..” You try to find the right words. “Think of Sunghoon as like, your boyfriend who’s teaching you bedwars.”

‘are he the one you keep tweeting about’ ‘YN IS HERE WOAHH’ ‘no yn you’re the gf he’s teaching’ ’so endgame couple!!’

The scraping of the chair as your neighbor tries to bring it in with one hand is funny to listen to outside of the door, and you giggle when you hear him curse, leaning out of frame to see if he’s okay or if he needs help.

“I heard that.” Sunghoon says when he’s in your range of vision, and it catches on the mic. With the way his viewers see your face light up now that he’s here, they automatically assume you two really have something going on. You’re only relieved to have him take over, no longer having to see some of the negative messages that fly by. At least on YouTube, you could ignore it all. Here? it’s all live, and you see it all.

Sunghoon sets up the chair and makes sure you’re comfortable before assuming his spot.

“What’s up bae-bees?” And you fight yet another smile at that stupid name. “This is Y/N. Makes vlog content but I think my gameplay is much more fun to watch. And by the way, check out our Q n A on her channel.” He glances over to you, and now that you’re properly able to look at him, you see the makeup that he had on for the photoshoot; and you can’t just not admit that Sunghoon is cute with his blush across the nose and freckles. You saw the after photoshoot post from him, too.

‘wait so dating rumors..???’ ‘DATING OR SIBLINGS’

“Are you two dating? Absolutely not.” He sends you a teasing grin, one that makes you swat at his shoulder with an indignant look- yeah, you’re not beating these dating allegations.

“Wow, you hate me? We spend like, 7 hours together the other day, and then you texted me saying you were outside- I thought we were friends!” And Sunghoon feels a flood of panic pass through him. Yes- he knows exactly what you mean. But his chat? his friends? Everyone who has just heard you speak? They have zero idea without context.

You’re not use to phrasing things as a streamer, and in an effort to calm his faster than light chat, Sunghoon stammers, “Yeah, we were cleaning so much of your new place. And those texts were all jokes- I’d never do that to a friend.”

Nodding in agreement without understanding the commotion you’ve caused, you try to read more of the chat.

‘pick me’ ‘ur too cute for her’ ‘she’s so cringe’

When Sunghoon sees the same things you do, his expression hardens, suddenly feeling upset. He was worried that this would happen. “Just because ____ isn’t in the gaming space or a streamer doesn’t mean you guys have the right to be mean to her. She puts in just as much effort into her videos and marketing her channel as much as I do for my gameplays. Please be nice, or I won’t be as willing to do special streams in the future.”

With appreciation, you pat his wrist, which is out of frame. You’re not really sure how to defend yourself against such baseless accusations, and considering Sunghoon’s not even your boyfriend, they have a reason to be so much more toxic and rude towards you without him defending you the way a boyfriend would.

“Maybe I should leave-“ You whisper to only him, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

Sunghoon shakes his head. “No, let me return the favor- plus, you wanted to learn bedwars. I’ll teach you the ropes.” His reassuring words make you feel more inclined to stay, not feeling as negative and embarrassed as before. He returns his attention to the chat after uncovering his mic, seeing some of his friends have seen the special title for today’s stream and joined.

“Hi Riki, Hee, Jay. Where’s Jake?” You peer over to see their verified badges with special colors appear, and Sunghoon reads their comments out loud. “Okay- enough of that. I’ll be teaching her how to play, now, so I might not be checking chat. As always, please be nice, and seeing as all my friends are in chat, there are even more mods available to ban you guys.” His voice is stern, but you can tell how much Sunghoon hates being mean to his fans.

simjake: ‘hi y/n please kick his ass so he’ll stfu.’

Sunghoon catches he quicker than you do, reading it with widened eyes. “Please kick his ass so he’ll shut the fuck up? Dude, If we’re on fortnite tonight, you’re last choice for squads.”

“But you can’t even play, Sunghoon.” You point out, and he frowns- trying his best to pretend that a kid on a bike wasn’t the whole reason he’s going bankrupt.

“I’m learning how to use it with the cast.”

“Don’t doctors tell you to literally not use it so it heals faster?” And he shrugs. Sunghoon’s arm really isn’t healing anytime soon, even if he swears it is.

“Well- anyways.” He uses his good arm to pull up the running tab for Minecraft, his avatar already in an empty lobby for you to practice. “Y/N is going to learn bedwars!”

Your face falls, and you look over to Sunghoon in horror. “I thought we were going to learn first. Without the stream.

He shakes his head with a half shrug, and moves his mouse around to make sure it’s still working like how he needs it to. “I think chat will find it funny to watch.”

You straighten up with determination and tell him to scoot over so you can place your hands on and familiarize yourself with the keyboard.

“Try the spacebar,” Sunghoon says with pride, and you laugh at how nerdy it sounds coming from him. After clicking the key a few times, and experimentally typing in the MInecraft chat, he begins to explain how to play, and you do your best to listen to him as he instructs you. “You know how to play, yes?” And your slight experience whenever you come to play on Sunoo’s set-up comes in handy for basic things like managing the game controls.

His 20k viewers all noticed a few things that neither of you picked up- both too engrossed in learning how to bridge without falling off, but also trying to fight and defend from other players.

They noticed how you liked to poke fun at Sunghoon sometimes- similar to your Youtube video where you’d make small but funny digs, and Sunghoon would go along with it. Everyone noticed how he was gently reassuring you with a hand on your shoulder or his fingers intertwining with yours when you stood up in frustration to pull it back to the mouse. Sunghoon here wasn’t the same flirty streamer who read his chat, called people his wife, or yelled at his friends (all in good fun!) when they lost match point; he was doting, and calm, with eye-crinkling smiles and praises everytime you bridged enough blocks to the other side. And after a bit more than an hour, you became tired of falling off the cliff from dynamite, or running out of golden apples to eat when you were running away- all to Sunghoon’s amusement.

You bid farewell to his chat, who all had fun watching you get excited while playing. For the gamers who watched Sunghoon’s channel, you le gameplay and reactions reminded them of the excitement it felt to play for the first time, and the problems they used to encounter trying to get better.

Sunghoon returns, with his chin resting on his good hand was he lazily reads chat. “He’s so in love.” He reads, scoffing. “Absolutely not, me and her are just friends. I’d do it for anyone.”

‘he’s so whipped’ simjake: ‘simphoon’ ‘someone get this man a gf’ heeonmic: ‘SIMPHOON BYEEE’

For the rest of his live, Sunghoon practices playing, blaming you offhandedly for cursing his keyboard and it was the reason why he was doing so bad. “Stop bothering ____ with us dating. Honestly she probably doesn’t even want a boyfriend.”

And how he was wrong.

prev. | ml. | next.

REN SAYS... i am my own writer. yes, i included sunghoon's selfie with biceps even though technically it wasn't needed because my brain needs it to be canon...

TAGLIST OPEN! Send an ask to be added! @riksaes @sumzysworld @en-dream @yeonjunning @eleanorheartschishiya @noobgod1269 @yvjw @jiawji @soothinglee @chaeyunloveeee @winuvs @xiaoderrrr r @cupidhoons @cryingforgyu @soakedteabags @tsukkisdoll @rickysgfundercover @graythecoffeebean @velvetkisscsss s @haechansbbg @hooniebaekgu @theothernads @illvding @dojaejunging @mumeimei @hanrinz @jlheon @i03jae @jisungstuff @totheseok @jinnibug @nodiotter @nenojaems @jakeyloveee @lyxnneee @ahnneyong @tocupid @jakeyverse @chokichips @mintpjzroll @kixri

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fear-is-truth · 6 months ago

Note

What is a random headcanons you have of Kai? Like the type of headcanons that would make him seem really human and not like he's constantly a murderer or psychopathic.

KAI ANDERSON // headcanons

a/n: here goes.. but i fear he’s just as fucked up bc i was trying to be realistic ya know

judges people by their handshakes. a weak grip disgusts him, and he’ll never respect someone with gross clammy hands.

watches old footage of leaders like hitler, stalin, or jfk to study their body language, hand movements. kai practices in front of a mirror until it feels natural. every gesture he makes while speaking is rehearsed. the way he waves his hands, points, or clenches his fists is meant to manipulate emotions.

practices subtle gestures (touching someone’s shoulder, making intense eye contact) to make people subconsciously trust him.

enjoys watching true crime documentaries and infodumps about jonestown or heaven’s gate.

remembers oddly specific details about people but weaponises them later in arguments.

thrives on debates, especially when he can dominate someone intellectually. he’ll derail conversations just to win, even if it’s about the dumbest shit like the best way to eat a subway sandwich.

has entire passages of nietzsche and shakespeare memorized, knows random latin phrases and sprinkles them into conversations to seem cultured.

hates losing at anything—he’ll rage quit a game of monopoly if it’s not going his way.

when fixated on something—a person, an idea, or a goal—he becomes consumed by it. spends hours researching or strategising, often at the expense of his health.

has casually invested in bitcoin and other cryptocurrencies. checks his coinbase and binance accounts obsessively. has strong opinions about dogecoin being a joke.

occasionally reads self-help books.

his library consists mostly of power-centric books. his favourites include the prince by machiavelli, the 48 laws of power by robert greene, the art of war by sun tzu, and nietzsche’s thus spoke zarathustra. also delves into russian literature like dostoevsky’s notes from underground and tolstoy’s war and peace.

collects super offensive internet memes in a private folder. posts pepe memes on 4chan ironically but secretly thinks they’re funny.

leaves people on read for hours, just because.

desensitised himself to gore.

loves gta, rdr2 and civilization VI. played cod religiously in his incel days.

follows elon musk on x (formerly known as twitter) and admires him as a disruptor of society. or maybe it’s a tech bro thing idk. retweets his memes but also calls him a sellout for pandering to the masses.

loathes andrew tate for his shallow and illogical takes but agrees with 10% of his misogynistic rhetoric.

posts inflammatory tweets that toe the line between radicalism and satire, carefully wording them to avoid getting banned.

an avid user of letterboxd. some of his reviews are super scathing—but for some reason, they always blow up. he’d open the app to find that his hate review on la la land got 7.2k likes. screenshot compilations circulate on reddit and instagram.

his letterboxd favourites are: american psycho, fight club, the social network and the matrix (all 5 star ratings)—but claims he likes them for their philosophical depth.

his favourite show is mr. robot, saying elliot alderson is “the closest thing to a genius on tv.” he also likes the twilight zone and breaking bad.

obsessed with eminem—he’s been a fan ever since d-12. the marshall mathers lp are his go-to rage anthems. thinks lose yourself is the pinnacle of motivational music.

thinks kanye west is a misunderstood genius and frequently defends him online.

uses dark mode on every device.

apple loyalist. owns a macbook, iphone, and airpods because he appreciates their sleek and minimalistic design. calls android users “peasants.”

never charges his phone until it has like 2% left.

brilliant with tech—can hack into nearly anything. knows how to code in several languages, always staying on top of the latest tech trends and occasionally contributes to dark web forums.

builds custom pcs for fun. dabbles in coding and hacking. knows how to create computer viruses.

used to spend wayyy too much time on forums like 4chan, r/RedPill, r/foreveralone and r/incels, though he’s mostly active on subreddits like r/iamverybadass, and r/unpopularopinion. also lurks r/atheism just to mock people with religion.

frequently visits r/AmITheAsshole to judge people, always siding with the “bad guy.” bro has the potential to be a criminal defense lawyer that the DA despises.

lowkey obsessed with angelina jolie, specifically from her tomb raider days. probably has a pinup poster stashed somewhere in his room.

uses arctic fox’s poseidon blue hair dye.

firmly believes in the efficiency of 3-in-1 body wash, shampoo, and conditioner.

wears dior sauvage because it’s “masculine but sophisticated.” probably bought it after seeing johnny depp in an ad.

when he’s in a mood, kai loves sneaking up on people to startle them. he’s perfected the art of standing silently in doorways until someone notices.

prefers dogs because they’re trainable, loyal, and trusting on their owner. in other words they are easy to manipulate and control.

constantly rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. it’s both a habit and a way to intimidate people.

his lust for power stems from feeling powerless in his youth, particularly after witnessing his father’s abuse to his mother and the lack of control he had over the situation.

struggles to process complex emotions like guilt, shame, or empathy. often suppresses them or redirects them into rage.

swings between grandiosity (believing he’s destined for greatness) and crippling self-doubt (thinking he’s fundamentally unlovable)

finds it almost impossible to open up emotionally unless it’s to manipulate someone.

criticism, even minor, eats away at him. he’ll stew over it for days, replaying it in his head while devising ways to “prove them wrong.”

gets uneasy if someone expresses affection without clear reason—suspects ulterior motives.

goes online to stalk whoever winter’s dating at the time. sends cryptic, vaguely threatening texts from a burner number or straight up dox them. half of it is for shits and giggles, the other half is rooted in jealousy.

he’s attracted to girls who are intelligent and opinionated. independent but emotionally vulnerable, so he can swoop in and “save” them (he has a saviour complex). loyalty is non-negotiable, and she has to make him feel like her top priority.

anyone resembling winter is immediately his type, but he’d never admit it.

freakishly good at darts and chess.

knows how to pick locks and also, how to build a perfect pipe bomb.

his clown mask is inspired by satan in dante’s divine comedy (based on this convo with @porcelainlipgloss)

alternates between ice-cold showers and scalding hot ones depending on his mood.

drums his fingers or shakes his leg while sitting. can spin a pen around his fingers like a pro. learned it during boring college lectures and now does it absentmindedly.

can’t stand slow walkers, or when someone scrapes a fork on their teeth. his reactions to these are disproportionate and borderline hostile.

prone to road rage.

has read elliot rodger’s manifesto once, mostly out of curiosity and boredom, but ended up getting weirdly immersed in it. he disagreed with the bravado and entitlement, though—he finds it pathetic and would mock it, but still, he couldn’t put it down. deep down, he understands the mindset too well, which makes him uncomfortable.

selectively polite. says “please” and “thank you” when it benefits him but will completely ignore social etiquette in other situations, like cutting lines or taking the last slice of pizza.

his workout playlist consists of nine inch nails, rammstein. aggressive rap like eminem (“till i collapse” is a staple) and dmx. sometimes mixes in orchestral movie scores (the dark knight rises soundtrack pumps him up)

brushes his teeth aggressively, so his toothbrushes always wear out quickly.

loves gas station beef jerky and bags of plain popcorn with way too much salt.

doesn’t drink often, claiming alcohol dulls the mind. but when he does, it’s always something hardcore like everclear or absinthe. has a surprisingly high alcohol tolerance.

can literally live off black coffee or monster zero ultra (white can). claims he doesn’t need caffeine, but drinks it constantly because he “likes the bitterness.”

his handwriting is pretty neat, but only when he’s focused—otherwise, it’s chicken scratch.

loves the smell of gasoline and sharpies.

can’t sit his ass down during phone conversations—kai paces back and forth like a caged animal.

rarely gets more than four hours of sleep.

and when he does sleep, he sleeps on his stomach with one arm dangling off the bed.

sleep talks under extreme stress.

secretly likes it when someone takes care of him. whether it’s bandaging a cut or insisting he eats when he’s been working too hard, he fucking melts. he’ll complain about being babied, but it’s a front.

#american horror story #the more normal ones ofc #ahs #kai anderson #ahs cult #evan peters #kai anderson x reader #kai anderson x y/n #ahs season 7 #some of them are based on me #evan peters x reader

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yapileon · 7 months ago

Text

It comes and goes in waves,

mapi león x ingrid engen

their relationship was going well until mapi can feel ingrid pulling away. ingrid is struggling, will mapi be able to help her? hurt/comfort, tw: panic attack and talk of depression 6195w

It became clear how different this team was from Wolfsburg the moment Ingrid stepped onto the Barcelona pitch. In Germany, the team had to be a well oiled machine, precise and mechanical. It was about perfecting each specific movement rather than a team effort. There was no room for improvisation. Playing for Barcelona was the polar opposite; the team built on freedom and love of the ball. The captains would organize monthly bonding events where the team would meet up and enjoy some time together. She remembers the utmost confusion she felt the first time she had been invited to one.

She wasn’t sure of what she had expected when she had signed the contract. Maybe the same Wolfsburg had been, only in another country. It had been an adjustment to say the least. Ingrid would later understand that Wolfsburg were wrong in their values. By making their players act like robots, they missed the perfection of ‘the flow’; that rare moment where everything just seems to work, each pass connecting, all players seemingly on the same length without communication.

When Alexia welcomed her, pronouncing such a simple phrase “I’m looking forward to playing with you!” in her thick Spanish accent full of warmth. Ingrid’s throat had closed giving her a hard time to speak, she gave a dry laugh, unable to decipher the possible irony in it. But the blonde was truthful, she had seen Ingrid playing.

She still recalled her first day with the team. Ingrid had walked to the locker room and had been met with a sight she didn’t think was possible. The room was exploding in chatters; jokes were exchanged and teammates were embracing each other, faint noises of music in the background. She had stopped mouth agape but fully enthralled in the moment.

Later, one of her teammates had tried joking with her during a drill, Ingrid had looked around blankly, until she had realized she was allowed to laugh. After a few weeks of gauging how she was expected to behave, she had finally figured it out; she just needed to be herself. Since then, the Spanish city has felt much more like home. The genuine warmth everyone showed tugged at her heartstrings, and slowly, she realized their fondness was melting away walls she had spent years reinforcing.

There was one person in particular who had managed to make the Norwegian quite infatuated. A certain center back, with warm brown eyes who looked like a pool of gold when the sun hit them the right way; who grinned so much the joy was permanently marked into her face in those faint smile lines adorning her eyes. That woman was such a paradox, a bundle of softness and gentleness until her boots brushed grass, and she’d transform into pure determination. And Ingrid had the feeling maybe it wasn’t Barcelona, maybe it was her.

María Pilar León Cebrián was going to be the death of her, she was quite sure.

And she was proven right a few weeks after settling in the new city when the Spaniard had knocked on her door.

“Hei!” Mapi had said and the soft norwegian had made Ingrid’s heart race. “I was wondering if you’d like to get coffee sometimes, there’s a nice place closeby,”

Ingrid would forever cherish the sight she had been blessed with that day. The then blonde woman standing sheepishly, twirling a strand of hair around one of her fingers, face full of nervousness. As if it was possible for Ingrid to say no when Mapi’s shy smile could warm up the whole room.

This was the beginning of multiple mornings shared over fuming coffees in different shops. One minimalist, with white walls and metal tables. Another full of plants, books littering shelves, with tables whose wood was warm on the skin. The usual chatter of customers and drips of coffee machine blended in the background of their conversation. At each meeting the vulnerability of their talk would increase, until every word felt like a soft whisper. Ingrid remembers saying something insignificant, and suddenly Mapi was throwing her head back, laughing in a carefree way only the Spaniard could do. Time slowed around them, until it became obvious to Ingrid that it was so much more than a friendly moment. There was an intimate tenderness in the way she traced the tattoos on the Spaniard’s neck, softly memorizing each stroke. There was love in the way Mapi would sprinkle norwegian words in her phrases to make Ingrid feel at home.

And Ingrid remembers being struck with the overwhelming urge to run. Because this situation was terrifying, really. She wasn’t supposed to be falling in love, she was here to play football. But then Mapi’s fingers had found their way to her hand, slowly reaching for it, seeking permission. And Ingrid allowed it. It felt like an anchor, allowing her to stop fighting against the current and she closed her eyes to appreciate the moment. When she opened them again, she was greeted by Mapi’s mahogany eyes, full of fondness. So she squeezed her hand, and kept drawing soft circles on it all throughout the day they shared. The Spaniard had dragged her to some of her favourite spots in the city; a park full of wildflowers, a small restaurant on a rooftop and later, on a beach, watching the sunset disappear behind the ocean, hands still clutching at each other.

Until Ingrid’s favourite coffee had become the one Mapi made for her after they had shared their first night together. Everything had felt right since that moment.

Mapi wasn’t sure when something had shifted in her relationship with the emerald eyed woman. If it was that morning where she had witnessed the younger woman frowning in her sleep, her usually relaxed traits now tense. The way her eyebrows were curved and her forehead marked by a worried expression. Perhaps it was the way Ingrid had flinched in her sleep when Mapi had tried to caress the crease, instead of curling herself in the Spaniard’s embrace.

They had unofficially been living together for some months now. It had happened naturally as they were both located in the same building. Slowly, Ingrid’s clothes deserted her own closet to join the defender’s in the apartment above. The sweet, floral scent familiar to the dark haired woman mixed with the woodsy, fresh perfume of the Spaniard. They’d go to the farmers market together, making sure to bring back a fresh bouquet of flowers to leave in a vase because Ingrid liked the smell. Mapi was sure Ingrid didn’t even have a toothbrush left in her own apartment.

Their lives had simply intertwined without either of them needing to say it. The two of them fell into a comfortable rhythm from the moment they had met. Living together had made it even better, more effortless. Their morning ritual natural and easy. The brunette would get up first, cooking some eggs and vegetables, always served with coffee. The aroma would coax the norwegian out of bed. Ingrid would lean on the doorway, a smile tugging at her lips, watching her girlfriend hum a tune while moving effortlessly in the kitchen. When she couldn’t resist anymore, she’d make her way through the space, wrapping her arms around the Spaniard’s waist, leaving gentle kisses on her lover’s jaw and whispering heartfelt thanks. Mapi would lean her weight back into Ingrid, accepting the tenderness without question.

That morning though, the Norwegian had left before the coffee machine had even been turned on, leaving a bitter taste in Mapi’s mouth. Ingrid had given vague explanations, muttering something about interviews to deal with before training and having to go back to her own apartments to get ready. It made no sense.

Mapi’s drive to the training complex felt lifeless without the Norwegian. She was restless, constantly shifting on the seat, her thumbs tapping on the steering wheel in an heretic manner. Mapi couldn’t understand what had caused such a change in her girlfriend. Her mind went through the last few days, trying to find something, anything, but it came up empty.

When she poked her head around the locker room’s door, she was certain she’d find Ingrid, and they would smile to each other and when they’d be done with their day, they would go back home, hand in hand. Except Ingrid wasn’t there. Mapi frowned, a sense of worry settling deep within her; so she hurried to get dressed up in her gear.

When she reached the pitch, she let out a soft exhale at the sight of the Norwegian. But still, something was off. When Mapi had started walking toward her, waving at her girlfriend with a grin, the dark haired woman had simply walked the other way, not bothering to look up. Ingrid went on about her training session without giving her a glance. The Spaniard had frantically tried to find Ingrid’s eyes during training, desperate for some sort of reassurance, in vain. Ingrid could feel the burning stare of her girlfriend on her, but she couldn’t bring herself to look back.

It was so unlike them.

Their loving gaze was what had sold them to the team, back when they were still keeping their relationship secret. The way these two would always find each other's eyes, when anything happened. A soft smile when one had a good pass, a playful look when one beat the other during a 1v1. Exchanging soft whispers in the cafeteria while Mapi had a hand on Ingrid’s thigh, or while the green eyed woman had her arms over the Spaniard’s shoulder. The world kept spinning but they were there, together, always a reach away. It didn’t feel like this anymore.

The twist in Mapi’ stomach grew bigger as days passed. Each attempt to reach Ingrid had been met by an icy coldness who’d make the north pole shiver. It didn’t stop her from trying harder, though.

Mapi decided that today, she’d find a way to talk to her. If Ingrid didn’t feel like reaching out—for whatever reason—then Mapi would. So she tried to pull her on the side of the field one day, but the younger one had simply walked right past her, unbothered. Leaving behind a very confused Mapi, whose mouth was wide open and eyes gazing blankly in the distance. Then the Spaniard tried getting to the parking lot before Ingrid could leave, but it was too late and she was long gone. Mapi didn’t want to force the situation, but it felt so stagnant. The boat was sinking and she felt useless, standing on the side and letting her relationship disappear in the vastness of the ocean.

The frustration simmered in her. By the time she got home, she was pacing around her living room. The silence from Ingrid was suffocating. Mapi felt stuck and out of options.

Before she could realize it, she was knocking on Ingrid’s door. It felt desperate, but really she was. Her pulse was quick, seemingly getting faster and faster, the wait unbearable.

Then the door opened. And Mapi stood there, dumbfounded, her face visibly twisted in anxiety. “Hi,” Mapi started, she gulped, her voice dry and raspy. “We haven’t really had the time to talk, so…”

Ingrid looked so tired when she spoke, “Sorry, I’ve had so many things to do, busy season.” Her face was paler than usual, the kind of dead giveaway that someone is sick. Eyes puffy and red from crying.

Where was her lover’s spark was all Mapi could wonder. The taller woman had always been a sweet person. Who made you feel safe and secure. Who always has gentle words for younger players, who took pride in how much she cared about her friends. But these green eyes had no light in them. It broke Mapi’s heart.

“Are you alright?” she blurted. It was too blunt and she knew it. But she had to do something, she had to wave hoping for another boat to come and help salvage whatever was happening.

“I’m just tired,” Ingrid said in a sigh, “and we have a match tomorrow, I really need to sleep.” she had started closing the door, jumping slightly when Mapi put her foot in the entryway, blocking it open. Ingrid was slipping through her hand like sand. The same way it had that day where the lovers had watched the sunset together on the beach.

“Don’t lie to me, please,” her voice cracked, and she slowly withdrew her foot from the door. Ingrid didn’t answer.

The loud thump the door had made when closing would haunt her that night. She pressed her head on the cold wood, muttering an “I love you” like it would change anything.

Mapi felt everything and nothing, she felt empty and raw, helpless like an agonizing dog left on the side of the road. All her texts had been left unanswered, the dark haired woman hadn’t exchanged a word with her in multiple days. Not even a courteous nod. And now that Mapi had tried to reach out harder, it felt even more useless.

All she could do was stare at the love of her life, who seemed to be wasting away minute by minute. She could look at the wooden door, and realize all she could really do was retreat to her own apartment.

“Frido,” Mapi had choked on the phone later that night. The Swedish woman was sure she had never heard her friend so emotional.

The floodgate was open, and the center back said everything that was weighing on her heart. “I feel like I’m losing her, like she’s wasting away. She shut me out and I don’t even know why.” She could feel the tears rolling down her cheeks, full on sobbing, but she didn’t care.

Asking Ingrid’s best friend would either be a great or totally stupid idea. Mapi might be overthinking the situation, the Norwegian might just not want to be with her anymore. It was a possibility that had visited her in the nights where the coldness of her bed hit her hard. But what if there was something else, maybe Ingrid needed help.

“I’ve tried Frido, I really did, I texted and I waited and I went to her apartment, I don’t know what is going on and I don’t know if I can fix it.”

She was pacing around the coffee table, where Ingrid and her had shared so many moments. The norwegian’s crossword book still lying on it the way Ingrid liked, black ink scribbled all over the pages. Her mug was still there, too. Mapi could see the faint traces of her lipstick still on it, and she couldn’t bear to wash that mug. It would be too brutal, like admitting something was deeply wrong with her relationship. She’d leave it here until the green eyed woman would come back.

The blonde sighed on the phone, “Did she ever…” Frido cleared her throat.

She wasn’t sure her friend would be happy about what she was about to say. But she couldn’t do nothing. Frido had tried, too, to reach out to Ingrid, but nothing had worked. And the Swedish was sure if anyone could, it would be Mapi.

“Did she tell you everything that happened in Wolfsburg?” she had finished after what felt like an eternity for the Spaniard.

Mapi thought about it for a moment, “She said she struggled a lot to adjust there, after leaving Norway. That training was hard on her, the different playstyle, too,” she recalled.

On the other side of the phone, Frido nodded, that was something at least, a starting point. “It was more than that, some days it was so hard she’d barely get out of bed.” she started explaining, and Mapi felt her heart drop. She knew Ingrid had struggled in Germany, but she hadn’t realized just how much.

“Other times it was nightmares, or panic attacks related to matches,” the Swedish added. She heard Mapi gasp, sure the two lovers had talked about this, but Ingrid had always made it seem like she was more homesick than anything else.

“Ingrid was just really obsessive about her performance, the coaching staff was very demanding. Too much, really. It wasn’t healthy. And what they asked of her, it wasn’t fair.” Frido frowned while speaking, and Mapi stilled, her knees buckling, letting herself fall back on the couch. She was staring blankly in front of her, like it would make Ingrid materialize out of thin hair and everything would be fine.

“It was a very hard time for her, Mapi, it crushed her. Sometimes I’d wake up and be terrified for her, she seemed so gone, and it lasted the whole two years.”

Mapi was nodding furiously, hands shaking, she was trying to process what she’d just heard. “I thought she was doing better you know, since you two started dating, she seemed so free,” Frido was getting teary eyed, too. Heart aching for her best friend. “I think she might be struggling again,” her voice faded out, the weight of what she was about to say crushing her vocal chords, “ I think, the depression might have come back.”

The silence that followed was deafening. For a second Frido thought Mapi wouldn’t be able to deal with it. Her grip on the phone got stronger, like crushing it between her fingers might make her feel better. But instead, the Spaniard replied “I won’t give up on her,” her voice was full of confidence, words echoing in her mind like a mantra.

She wouldn’t give up on Ingrid.

Ingrid was still resting against the door, long after Mapi had whispered “I love you” and walked away. She wasn’t quite sure she had ever bawled like that in her life. It seemed they were living on a cloud of love up to some days ago.

Until one morning, she woke with a crushing weight on her chest—the same dooming feeling she’d always feared would return. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, it had started when she was a teen. Some days she’d wake up and nothing felt familiar anymore, it felt cold and deprived of colors, empty of any meaningness. It felt lonely, too. Like someone who’d been left stranded on a shore, who could see the land far away, never quite able to return home.

She’d push through it for a while until everything would return to normal, because there had always been her parents, then football, and later, Frido in Wolfsburg.

A small part of her genuinely believed it would never come back when she had met Mapi. Loving her was so easy, and being loved by her was the most gentle feeling anyone could ever feel. It felt like a protective aura had been casted, enveloping her with peacefulness and clutching at her hand when the waves tried to drown her.

So when it came back that morning, in Mapi’s bed, Ingrid ran. Any time the feeling came back, she fled, like the place it had happened in was forever tainted. The insatiable urge had always been inside of her, it was holding hands with the crushing depression, always linked in some ways. She hoped it had gone dormant in the arms of the tattooed woman. Whom she had come to love so passionately. But as much as she liked that thought, her soul was still tarnished.

Ingrid saw it as a survival mode more than cowardice. She had run away from Norway the first chance she had gotten, and then again from Germany.

And now she was here, and there was Mapi, and she was suffocating. The urge was clawing at her soul, she wasn’t sure how long she’d resist. The despair seemed stuck to her, crushing her ribs, choking her out until she couldn’t do anything else than lean into it.

The worst might be that Mapi wasn’t giving up. The Norwegian was painfully aware of the way Mapi would stare at her, during training, in the locker room, desperate for them to connect. Ingrid couldn’t give in. She knew she didn’t look good, she felt pathetic. She could see the bags from her sleepless nights. Her sunken face. The older women would only find emptiness in her eyes.

Ingrid couldn’t bear that idea, so instead she looked at everything but her. She gazed at the moving trees, she stared at the sun until her eyes burned, because maybe she deserved it. She had hurt Mapi. She would never deserve Mapi.

After what felt like hours Ingrid had dragged herself to her bedroom. She had let herself fall on the bed, curling into a little bad. She saw the sweatshirt on the edge of the bedside table and in a desperate attempt at calming herself down, she grabbed it. Pulling it closer to her and clutching at it, the fabric soft under her fingertips. Nuzzling her nose in the clothing, she inhaled. It smells like Mapi, a woodsy warm feeling which makes her heart flutter. It smells like peace and morning coffee and lovesick smiles.

Her breath was choppy and uneven. When they’d happen, they’d always hit her like a storm, wild and uncontrollable. Like waves washing away on her ribcage, and she can never quite pull herself out of the sea, dragging her deeper and deeper, relentless and undying. Sometimes, she felt like she’d drown.

She remembers being a child, spending summers on the Norwegian coast. She’d go in the lake and let herself sink, looking up to the sky. Shapes bent and twisted in ways they wouldn’t otherwise. Ingrid liked the way it seemed to separate her from the rest of the world, it felt familiar, as if the bottom was calling to her, slowly engulfing her. In the cold water she was weightless and free, any sound muffled and distant. Sometimes, she hoped she’d drown.

But these waves weren’t the soft movement from a lake rocking her to peacefulness.

Ingrid had survived after all.

She could hear the crowd going wild as they entered the pitch. When the whistle blew, she felt her determination come back for a short moment. She had always promised herself that whatever was going on off the pitch could not cross the white markings on the ground.

In a selfish thought process, she told herself that at least she was playing next to Mapi. Ingrid knew her fellow centre back was a force to be reckoned with. Mapi would wash away any mistakes she might commit. The match wouldn’t be easy, but the team had been in very good form.

Perhaps that’s why it hit her as hard as it did when it happened. They had lost after all, and Ingrid was to blame for it. She had over committed, leaving the opponent forward open to score a goal. Even Mapi hadn’t been able to save it. In some sick and twisted way, maybe Ingrid had over committed in her relationship, too. Each minute she had had with Mapi, each touch and each whisper had been on borrowed time. How foolish had she been to think she was worthy of any of it.

Stepping off the pitch looking lifeless, Ingrid wished she could disappear. Instead she kept her head down walking to the locker room. The whole world seemed muted, distant. She heard the thumping of her teammates’ boots in the tunnel. The squeaks of metal doors being roughly slammed, unbearable tension in the air.

Waves came washing over her, filled with regret when she had seen the look on Mapi’s face. The brunette was sitting at her locker, head bent on her knee, crying.

Ingrid shouldn’t be here. All the memories from Wolfsburg came rushing back. The hours spent in the video room, watching and rewatching match footage while the coach would scream at her, pointing out every flaw. She’d take it without complaining, tears quietly rolling down her face when it was too much. The extra training she was put through. She could always be better, but she’d always be not enough. And seeing her lover so devastated, Ingrid regretted everything. Maybe she should have closed the door on Mapi the first time she had come to invite her to get coffee instead of the previous night. Maybe Ingrid shouldn’t have come to Barcelona at all.

All she could do was retreat back to her apartment.

When Mapi saw Ingrid getting up to leave, all she wanted was to run after her. But she was frozen in place, like a deer caught in headlights. They had lost the game, and all she needed was Ingrid. She knew she should have gone after the norwegian, but she wasn’t sure it was what Ingrid wanted. She wiped away her tears with the back of her hand, and leaned back into the locker, eyes staring off at nothing.

The Spaniard knew it was a brash decision, but it couldn’t end like that. There was an uncertainty to the situation, and Mapi needed answers, she couldn’t put up with one more second of this. Each step she took to reach the Norwegian’s apartment felt like an added gap in her relationship. She was so close and so far away at the same time.

She was sure the way to Ingrid’s apartment had never been that long. The narrow hallways of the building seemed to be crashing down on her, trapping her. But she needed to see Ingrid, so she pushed through the claustrophobic feelings, quickening her stride.

Until she made it to Ingrid’s front door and she stilled, unsure of what to do. It’s not like she could exactly barge in with a “Hey, I think you’re getting depressed again.” She still wasn’t sure if that was the cause for the green eyed woman's odd behaviour. But Mapi loved passionately, and cared for Ingrid in a way she had never felt for anyone else. The Spaniard had to try.

Mapi stood in front of the door, keys clenched tightly in her sweaty palms. She deeply hoped she wouldn't have to use them. It would feel like violating Ingrid’s privacy and she’s not sure that would be something the norwegian needed right now. So she tried knocking, fist shaking as she raised it. When no answer came, she knocked again. Louder this time, the vibration in her knuckles going up to her arm and waiting through the heavy, suffocating silence that followed.

With a sigh, Mapi slid the keys in the handle and turned them. Unlocking with a deafening sound, guilt hit her stomach. She was half expecting to get thrown out of here by a very angry Norwegian, who’d finally tell her she doesn’t want her anymore.

Mapi creeps into the apartment, slowly, and she can’t help shaking the sensation that it feels cold. Not the kind you can fix by raising the temperature. Barcelona was already hot, after all. This was different. The silence was oppressive, the type that smothers you in a nauseous feeling. Her warm presence cut the coldness like a knife, slowly making her way to her lover’s bedroom.

That’s when she hears it; a faint sound at first. Mapi freezes, heart pounding. The unmistakable sound of raw sobbing. She doesn’t need to think for her feet to take her to the bedroom. And the sight she’s greeted with breaks her in a million pieces, leaving her standing helplessly. Ingrid is tangled in the sheets, moving around and trembling. It’s like someone punched Mapi in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her and it takes her brain some time to realize what’s really happening.

Ingrid is having a panic attack. The Spaniard wasn’t unfamiliar with them, they had accompanied her teen years, she remembers the trapping feeling. The one that would grip your throat, not letting go until you were sure you’d die. But she had never witnessed one, and she curses herself for not having asked Frido how to help Ingrid through one.

Mapi isn’t sure of what to do. She wants to rush to her, pull her into a hug and never let go. Instead, she tries to steady herself, carefully stepping in the room, unbothered by the mess of a place that hadn’t been cleaned in a while, and kneeled on the ground next to the bed. Her hand tentatively reaches out, stopping mid air. Ingrid looks so fragile, like she could shatter from the lightest touch.

That’s when the woman in distress spots her. Ingrid had been so used to loneliness, she was almost shocked when she registered the Spaniard in the room with her. But Mapi’s love had been unrelenting, every cold shoulder Ingrid had given had been met by more affection and care. So she had given up, or given in to Mapi, really.

When Mapi gently continues her previous movement, bringing her hand up to caress Ingrid’s cheek, whispering sweet nothings to her, like she’s the most precious thing in the world. Ingrid can’t help but throw herself at her neck, desperately clutching onto her, breathing still erratic. Gripping her so hard she was sure the Spaniard would have bruises.

“María,” she choked out through a shaky breath, voice painful from weeping. “I’m so sorry, please forgi-”

But Mapi cuts her up by placing desperates kisses on her forehead, like it’s the only thing she could think of doing. She pulled the woman into her lap, enlacing her arms around the crying body.

“I’m not good enough,” she said in between sobs, “I keep failing at everything; on the field, with you,” Ingrid whimpers. And Mapi can’t comprehend how Ingrid can think that about herself. Perfect Ingrid who loves so strongly. Loyal Ingrid who checks up on everyone after a rough loss. Ingrid who helps her teammates during stretches, making sure they don’t hurt themselves accidentally. Ingrid who stops to appreciate wildflowers on the side of the roads and scrunches her noses when she smells them.

That’s when it hits Mapi. When someone is so raw and vulnerable. Listing off all their flaws, aren’t they just begging for love anyways? Mapi would do that. Mapi would love her through the dark, stormy night and would hold her hand when the sunrise would make its way through the window. She wouldn’t give up.

The Spaniard held her jaw, forcing her to look in her eyes. She understood that Ingrid wasn’t being coherent in her thoughts, she just needed to know she’d stay.

“I know exactly who you are, Ingrid, and I’m not leaving.” she told her, voice laced with concerns and assurance.

Ingrid gazed into Mapi's eyes and she saw everything. She saw the color of coffee cups they had shared during their first dates. She was blinded by a fountain of rich gold who shone in the dark of her room like a lighthouse, showing her the way to the shore. She felt the warmth radiating from the brown, the same tones the wet earth has after it has rained. She was mesmerized by these amber orbs.

“We’re going to breathe together, just trust me,” Mapi took Ingrid’s hand and placed it right on her heart, hoping the fast but constant beating would help her lover calm down.

Ingrid had leaned her forehead against her lover’s, she let herself sink Mapi’s lap's more, not letting go of her tight grip. She mirrored the Spaniard’s breathing, slow inhales followed by a calm exhale. She let Mapi’s warmth envelop her again, hoping it would help push back the waves, bringing back that protective aura Ingrid loved so much. The steady movement of Mapi’s chest became an anchor, pulling her closer to the shore each second.

Mapi kissed Ingrid’s temple again, “Just like that, amor,” she murmured, voice low and soothing, like a call for Ingrid to sink into her even more. Slowly, the waves recoiled. Breathing became natural again, and Ingrid fully abandoned herself in her lover’s arms. They stayed like this for a long time, Mapi’s hand gently drawing circles into the Norwegian’s hair. Ingrid was clutching at her, she could feel her steadier breathing against her neck.

The brunette eye’s darted over the room, squinting to try and see in the darkness. The curtains had been left closed for some time, letting through the tiniest beam of sun. The room was bare, walls empty and bland. A shiver ran through her at the idea that Ingrid had spent the last days unwell in that place. When she looked down at the Norwegian's peaceful expression, she knew what she had to do.

Wordlessly, Mapi carried her back to their home. Where Ingrid’s favorite pillow rested on the couch, where the smell of flowers was strong, where the cozy atmosphere they had spent months building would be waiting to comfort them. Ingrid was almost asleep against her, letting herself be held and cared for.The faintest smile appeared on the Spaniard’s lips at that sight.

Ingrid could only feel grateful. She had spent the past days feeling miserable, making it hard for everyone around her. Yet, Mapi was here, she hadn’t given up on her, opting for taking her back home instead. Her sobs had quieted, only leaving wet streaks under her eyes for witness. Ingrid felt…calmer? Different in some ways, there was still too much wrong with her, she thought, but the steadiness Mapi exalted was enough to put her at ease for a bit. So when the Spaniard dropped her gently on the couch, Ingrid pulled her in against her to curl in her arm, still seeking peace. They stayed like this for a long time until Ingrid’s voice cut through the silence.

“I didn’t want you to see this,” she croaked, voice breaking midway.

Mapi adjusted her head so her mouth would be on Ingrid’s temple, pressing a light kiss before whispering in her ear.

“Let me be here for you, Ingrid. Please.” she pleaded, voice full of love. Her hand gently ran up and down the taller woman’s back, soothing her.

She could feel Ingrid was exhausted and that it wasn’t the right time to talk. So instead she took her hand, softly leading her to the bathroom. The soft orange glow of the light cast a light on the green tiles, somehow making Ingrid’s eyes more vibrant. The Spaniard couldn’t resist and leaned in to share a gentle kiss with the emerald eyed woman, and her heart fluttered when she felt Ingrid smiling. Maybe everything was going to be fine after all.

“Would you like to take a shower? That could make you feel better”, she said with serious care. The taller woman nodded, still too hazy to properly speak.

So Mapi had slowly started undressing her, her fingers moving delicately to remove all of the tissues. When she was done, she stopped, frowning, until Ingrid had squeezed her hand, eyes pleading for her to stay.

She washed away any signs of distress from the Norwegian. She massaged the dark haired woman’s head, applying shampoo with a soft pressure. She lathered her in soap, making sure to place a kiss on any body part who was still tense under her fingertip. The amber eyed woman had cared for her in such a gentle manner Ingrid swore her knees would have buckled if Mapi wasn’t holding her so steadily.

The bed squeaked under her weight, but all Ingrid could think about was how much she had missed this. Everything about her life with the Spaniard had been filled with tenderness, and the total switch up she had made when she started pulling away had been brutal. She reached for the pillow on her lover’s side and nuzzled into it, and she was filled by the warmest woodsy aroma, the same coming from her clothes. She was certain that they were also from the Spaniard. Her eyelids heavy from all the stress, she allowed herself to close them, slowly sinking into sleep. Only truly relaxing when Mapi also slid in the bed, pulling the Norwegian so close she was almost on top of her, wrapping her arms around her waist. Ingrid snuggled up into her neck, both of them falling asleep instantly, finally together.

In the morning, when the birds singing and the soft morning sun had lit up the room, slowly waking up Ingrid, a part of her had wanted to sneak out and leave, too ashamed to face what had happened the previous night. Until she realized how tightly Mapi was holding on to her. The claws of her need for fleeing were still digging in her throat. But she found that, in Mapi’s embrace, maybe it wasn't as strong as she thought. It was still there. But Ingrid wouldn’t run away this time, she’d stay. Because Mapi was worth fighting every storm life would throw at her. She’d learn to swim in the deepest oceans, she’d learn to let Mapi throw her a life jacket, and she’d take it. Their relationship was worth it. Maybe with time, Ingrid would learn that she was worth it, too.

Instead of leaving, Ingrid inched closer and kissed the freckles on Mapi’s nose.

#mapi león #mapi leon #ingrid engen x mapi león #ingrid engen x mapi leon #mapi and ingrid #ingrid engen u are so lucky #ingrid engen #hurt/comfort #they're in love your honor #woso fanfics #woso imagine

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