bahngarang

[bahngarang]

there is some stupid mosquito buzzing about my room

i am trying to sleep

girl SHUT UP

[bahngarang]

Odd question, but I’m not quite sure where else to turn to with this.

Does sadness have to be earned? Like do some people have the right to be more sad than others, or is it all a matter of perspective? Do you need to justify it?

Can someone who’s been through little to no hardships justify being just as sad as someone who has been through hell?

You don't need to earn or justify feeling jack fucking shit. If someone tells you that you haven't been hurt enough to be in pain, you've earned the right to bite them. And if they bitch about that, tell them that being bit by you can't hurt that much, some people get bit by sharks or pitbulls or bears, so being bit by you isn't bad enough to justify feeling pain. See if they like it.

[bahngarang]

a house we build | chapter 2: gene pool entagelment

pairing: established!Minsung x fem!reader

< previous chapter | next chapter >

⋆｡°✩

word count: 1461

warnings: MDNI, smut, creampies, unprotected sex (duh)

You move in on a Thursday.

You don’t bring much with you. It feels more like a retreat than anything else, quiet, sprawling, strangely peaceful for a home owned by two world-famous idols. The property is surrounded by trees and tall gates, but the inside is warm. Wooden floors, wide windows, the smell of something sweet simmering in the kitchen. 

The guest room isn’t a guest room at all. It’s yours now, with a full closet, a brand-new mattress, blackout curtains. There’s a card on the nightstand written in Jisung’s handwriting. Welcome home (for now, unless you want to stay forever lol).

Jisung carries your suitcase in and promptly trips over the threshold. "Sorry," he mutters, face flushed. "Bad omen, right? Should I try again?"

Minho rolls his eyes and plucks the bag from his hand. "You’re going to scare her off."

You smile, small and genuine. "No, it’s okay. It feels… nice. Just strange."

"Strange is fair," Jisung says. "Weird and nice can coexist. That’s, like, our entire marriage."

Minho snorts. "Speak for yourself. I’m extremely normal."

"That's not what you said in 2 kids room" you laugh. It feels too easy, dangerously easy.

Jisung's the one who shows you around the house, too. He talks with his hands, bumbling through stories about the different rooms, the backyard garden, the espresso machine Minho doesn’t let him touch unsupervised.

Minho walks behind you both, quiet and sharp-eyed, the way he always is. He doesn’t speak unless he has to. But when you reach for the banister going upstairs, he’s the one who steadies you with a hand on your lower back.

The night moves slow after that.

There’s takeout and tea. A movie no one watches. Your things sit unpacked. It’s strange, like everything else: not romantic, but intimate. Like a sleepover you shouldn’t be at. Like a marriage you were dropped into halfway through.

It’s not discussed again, not explicitly, the arrangement, the act.

It just… happens.

⋆｡°✩

The night is strange. No one says it, but it hovers thick in the silence. This is the part that’s supposed to be clean, quick. Just biology. But there’s no doctor. No equipment. Just you and them. And nerves, humming sharp and high under your skin.

They give you time to shower. You come out in a robe someone left folded at the end of the bed, soft, fresh. Your hands twist in the fabric, and Jisung stares at the floor like it might swallow him whole.

“This is so weird,” he mutters.

Minho’s mouth twitches. “Weirder things have made families.”

“I guess.” Jisung looks up at you. “But also… kind of perfect?”

You nod. Something catches in your throat. There’s no plan. You end up in Minho’s room, bigger bed, darker curtains. The air smells like cedar and sage. No one moves at first. 

Jisung kisses you first. His lips are warm, a little dry, but sweet. Gentle. Shaky. You feel his nervousness in the way he keeps breaking away, like he’s trying to check your face for fear, for hesitation. His hands come up to cradle your face, then immediately drop like he doesn’t trust himself.

“This is so weird,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. “But also kinda… perfect?”

You nod. You can’t find your voice.

Minho doesn’t touch you until you’re already in bed, but when he does, it’s decisive. One hand curls around your waist from behind, pulling you closer to where he’s kneeling. He presses his nose to your hair, breath warm against your neck.

“You’re sure?” he murmurs.

You whisper yes.

Minho is focused. Deliberate. Everything he does feels intentional, like he’s not just trying to get you pregnant but trying to make you feel good, trying to remember every part of it. He kisses your throat, your shoulder, your breast, then leans back to look at you fully bare.

"You’re doing something beautiful," he says, fingertips ghosting over your stomach. "Let us make it feel that way."

Jisung exhales like he’s been holding it in all day.

He’s more nervous than Minho. His hands shake when he pushes your legs open. But he never stops talking, praise tumbling out of him like it’s the only thing grounding him.

“So fucking pretty,” he whispers, sinking to his knees. “You smell so good. You’re gonna take us so well, aren’t you?”

You whimper when his tongue brushes you, and he groans against your folds like it’s too much for him. He eats you out with something close to worship, slow, messy licks, his nose nudging your clit just right. His hands stay on your thighs, trembling, then stroking, then gripping.

Minho watches from behind you, running his fingers down your spine like he’s memorizing the shape. You can feel his erection pressed against your hip, hard through his sweats, but he doesn’t move yet. He just whispers, "Relax, Jagi. You’re safe here."

It makes you tremble.

Jisung pulls back, chin wet, lips swollen, he smiles, bashful, but cocky. “She’s ready,” he tells Minho. “I got her nice and soft for you.”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “That’s not how anatomy works.”

“Shut up, I’m being romantic.”

You giggle through your haze of arousal.

Minho presses a kiss to your shoulder, then reaches down to guide himself to your entrance. He goes slow, achingly, carefully slow, but even so, you feel the stretch, the unfamiliar fullness. His hips press flush to yours, and he just… stays there for a moment, trembling with restraint.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re-” He stops himself, jaw flexing. “First time I’ve ever…”

You turn your head. “With a woman?”

He nods, kissing the shell of your ear.

“But I’ve fucked Ji before,” he says softly, pulling out halfway before sliding back in.

“Hey,” Jisung huffs from where he’s propped on an elbow beside you. “You don’t have to tell all our secrets.”

“You’re loud when you come,” Minho murmurs, deadpan.

Jisung flushes pink and grins anyway. “You like it.”

You’re moaning through the pressure now, the fullness of Minho rocking into you. He moves deep and slow, gripping your hips like he’s holding on for dear life. His cock drags inside you thick and careful, each thrust brushing that soft, needy spot that makes your toes curl.

Jisung kisses you again. His hand slips between your legs, fingers circling your clit. “We’ve got you,” he breathes. “We’re doing it right, right?”

You nod, dizzy.

They’re not perfect, they’re clumsy, awkward, a little too tender, but it’s overwhelming in the best way. Like... Like a beginning.

Minho loses rhythm first. You feel it in the way his hips falter, the way he groans against your neck and presses his forehead to your shoulder.

“I’m close,” he mutters. “I’m gonna- fuck!”

“Do it,” you whisper. “Come on. Come inside.”

He moans, one deep, broken sound, and thrusts in hard one last time. He stills deep in your cunt and spills with a shudder, thick and hot and pulsing.

You clench around him without meaning to.

Jisung groans at the sight. “My turn?”

Minho pulls out, slowly, and you feel his spend drip out before Jisung’s already moving between your legs.

“Shit,” he breathes. “That’s so hot.”

He doesn’t tease, he can’t. He’s already leaking when he pushes in, a wet squelch of cum and needs making him hiss through his teeth, you whine at the overstimulation. He fucks you faster than Minho, less patient, all desperation and want.

You pull him in by the neck and kiss him hard. He whines into your mouth. “Gonna knock you up,” he babbles. “Gonna be so fucking full of us.”

You tighten around him, and he shudders, breath hitching.

“Fuck- fuck! I’m coming, baby, I’m-”

He jerks forward and spills deep inside you, twitching and gasping as he fills you to the brim. His hips keep moving, little aftershocks, and his arms curl around you so tight it hurts.

You lie in silence.

Your thighs are sticky. The air smells like sweat and sex and something bigger.

Minho kisses your hair. Jisung’s fingers trace lazy circles on your belly.

You fall asleep like that, tangled, aching, full. In the morning, you don’t talk about what it meant.

Three weeks later, you throw up into the sink and cry at a cat video.

You call the clinic and schedule the test.

And one baby, healthy, growing, none of you ask who the father is.

Because it doesn’t matter.

They both look at you like it’s theirs. Like you’re theirs.

Jisung hugs you too tightly when the doctor confirms it. Minho touches your stomach like it already means something. And even though the process is barely beginning, you already feel it in your chest.This isn’t just a job.

series taglist: @rougegenshin @imagine-all-the-imagines @Imma-much-happier-person @Jisungs-iced-americano @Seungminthesnail @straykids4lifeee @peskybirdysya @straykid2004 @geni-627 @Numberonedefendorpenguin @codex-12 @skzbiasot8 @Skzlover143 @jeonginsbaee @rekussk @bahngarang @mareuxkala @wwwtxao @katchowbbie @Alondra601 @ateez-atiny380 @nanaluizam @littledeadleaves @iluvluvfictionalmen @Whitejuliana1204 @tsukiloveskitties @Chasinghxran @mocharacha @channiesbighugs @kpop-trash-03 @stvrryl0ve @lillymochilover @aemondsb1tch @kwanniehae @Kjinwoon

taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here @m-325 @0sunshinecryptid0 @beal-o @hug4helios @oksullen @rileylovescats @dreamyfelixx @yxna-bliss @turtledove824 @enhacolor @skzz0213 @hannahlue @purplelady85 @velvetmoonlght @inishij @bangchanspineapple @straykids4lifeee @peskybirdysya @gnabsss

[bahngarang]

I got a different doctor than normal and he actually listened 🥹

and I'm going to get some tests done

I'm so happy

I have a doctor's appointment... and I have to try to get him to actually do something about my health (he does not give a single shit about me)

wish me luck guys 🥲

[bahngarang]

I have a doctor's appointment... and I have to try to get him to actually do something about my health (he does not give a single shit about me)

wish me luck guys 🥲

[bahngarang]

AISLE BE DAMNED

two: closer than my comfort allows

wc: 6.3k ss count: 8 < previous | navigation | next >

friday, 2:50pm

the florist studio is tucked into the edge of the city like it belongs somewhere else entirely— glass walls half-swallowed by ivy, a hand-painted sign that reads blush & thistle, and the thick, heady perfume of fresh blooms rolling out onto the street like it’s trying to pull you in.

you’re early for once, as opposed to being just on time.

you stand just outside the doorway, one hand shading your eyes from the afternoon sun as you scan the carefully curated front window: a spiraling bouquet of peonies the color of spilled champagne, ranunculus with edges kissed in soft coral, and something vaguely poetic and wispy in cream. the arrangement is asymmetrical in the way only the most meticulous hands can make look effortless.

it smells like the kind of life you never admit to wanting.

you close your eyes for a breath, let it catch at the back of your throat. it already smells like the wedding. like the version of it you can see in your head— soft, decadent, wild around the edges but structured just enough to hold its shape. like magic, but orderly.

a place where nothing gets dropped. where the timeline bends without breaking. where everything just works.

“i knew you being early as a concept was real,” comes a voice behind you. dry. familiar. amused. “but seeing it in person? shocking.”

you turn without even flinching.

“oh my god,” you say, deadpanning. “you’re early and funny. someone write this down. it needs an entire section in the history books that will be studied for generations to come.”

minho steps beside you without looking over. he’s dressed more casually this time— well, casual for him. a slate-grey sweater layered cleanly over a collared shirt, coat folded neatly over one arm, sleeves already pushed to the forearms like he’s bracing to fix something broken. even now, he looks like a walking google calendar. somehow both timeless and scheduled.

he doesn’t glance at the flowers, just pushes open the glass door and steps inside like he’s done it a thousand times.

you follow behind him. “you didn't tell me this place was so fancy.”

“you never asked,” he replies, voice low as his eyes sweep across the shop’s glossy floors.

inside, the florist is already setting out samples on a long oak table— velvet-lined trays of boutonnières arranged like jewelry displays, pale rose bundles rising from glass cylinders in perfectly staggered tiers, tall taper candles resting in antique brass holders that glow soft gold under the skylights. it’s as close to sacred as a planning space can feel.

you catch your breath for a second.

minho, naturally, doesn’t blink.

he slides his coat onto the back of a nearby chair with surgical precision, then rolls up his sleeves and starts flipping through the sample binder like he’s clocking in at a job he plans to outperform.

you narrow your eyes at him. “you’re awfully comfortable.”

he shrugs. “i like efficiency.”

but then he pauses. his fingers stop mid-turn over a page showcasing a trailing jasmine installation, its shape loose but elegant— intentional, but not rigid. something about the mess that makes sense.

he taps the page once.

“this one,” he asserts.

you blink. “…really?”

“your cousin will love it,” he replies simply. “you were right about the overgrown romantic thing.”

you stare at him.

not just because he said it. but because he said it like it cost nothing. like you being right was a given, not an anomaly. like you weren’t supposed to be on opposite ends of a never-ending argument.

“mark the calendar,” you mutter. “lee minho said something nice and no one has died.”

he rolls his eyes. “yet.”

the walkthrough begins in earnest. the florist leads you both through timelines, options, backup options. you follow her across the studio, scribbling in your notebook, nodding in all the right places, but your eyes keep drifting back to minho.

he’s not watching you. he’s not really watching anything.

he’s tracking.

when your pen slips from your notebook, he catches it mid-fall and sets it silently beside your hand. when the florist struggles with the ladder, he steps in without hesitation, holding it steady with one hand while helping rearrange a stubborn garland with the other. when she asks if you'd prefer the jasmine woven through the arch or draped more freely, you pause, unsure— and minho just says, quietly, “the drape. it catches the light better.”

you watch him without meaning to.

watch the way he folds his sleeves again as they start to slide. how he wipes his palms on his pants before handling delicate pieces. how he does things without being asked, does them well, and says nothing afterward.

it’s infuriating.

it’s— kind of amazing.

he’s not just good at this. he’s quietly good.

the kind of good that doesn’t need credit. that doesn’t point to his work when he’s done. that just makes sure the thing gets finished the way it’s supposed to.

you hate how the chaos seems less sharp when he’s near it.

you hate that you didn’t see it sooner.

you hate that you are seeing it now.

and you really, really hate the way your stomach flips when he steps back from the archway, nods at the florist, and says, “better. now it looks like it was meant to be here.”

what the hell is this supposed to mean?

later, as the florist talks through delivery dates, you find yourself zoning out just enough to realise how close the two of you are standing now. how his shoulder brushes yours each time he shifts weight. how he doesn’t seem to mind.

he notices everything, and yet— he doesn’t step away.

you’re not sure what that means.

you’re not sure you want to know.

you scribble a few final notes. mostly for show. your brain is a fog of jasmine, candle wax, and the smell of minho’s cologne that is unfortunately expensive and effective.

the florist asks for a final decision on what centrepieces and small motifs you’d like to order for the dining tables.

you open your mouth to speak, but before you do, minho leans forward, just slightly.

“she wants the low ones,” he affirms. “so people can see each other across the tables.”

the florist nods while ticking a section in her binder, then turns away.

you look at him.

not annoyed. not defensive.

just—

“how’d you know that?”

he shrugs. doesn’t look at you. “your eyes hovered over that section of the page for almost a full minute.”

you blink.

“…what?” he questions, catching your stare.

“nothing.”

“you’re doing the face.”

“what face?”

“the one where you realise i’m useful.”

you scoff. “i’d rather die.”

he grins.

not smirks. grins.

full, unguarded, slightly lopsided, but bright across his whole face. not for show, not for spite.

just for a second.

just for you.

and it hits you somewhere low and warm. something small but deep and entirely unprepared for.

you look away. immediately.

the florist clears her throat gently. you say something vaguely articulate.

he doesn’t look at you again.

when the meeting wraps, he helps pack the samples with the same quiet competence. he holds the door for her, thanks her for her time, checks the time and murmurs “on schedule, good” under his breath.

you linger by the car after. watching his hands as he scrolls through his calendar. efficient. focused.

you try not to notice his sharp knuckles or the veins raised along his wrists and hands that contorted with each of his movements.

you fail.

you used to think he was cold.

now you’re starting to wonder if he’s just careful.

and if maybe—just maybe—there’s more under that surface than either of you are ready to say out loud.

friday, 8:14pm

saturday, 12:48pm

sunday, 4:23pm

he should have said no to meeting at her place.

he should have said no the second the words “you can just come over, i have snacks and post-its” appeared in his texts like that was a normal thing to offer your co-planner. like it was a completely neutral suggestion to invite someone you had spent the past week or so bickering with into your living room with snacks and oddly aggressively colour-coded planning boards.

he told himself it was fine. he would stay an hour, maybe less. they would rearrange the seating chart, double-check the RSVPs, confirm vendor follow-ups, and move on. he wasn’t there to hang out. or linger. or notice things.

but now he was standing at your door, folder under his arm, coffee in his free hand, staring at the crooked little magnet on your front door that read:

no bad vibes (and also no men with opinions)

he stared at it for five seconds.

then knocked.

the door swung open on the second knock. you were already mid-sentence, wild and animated, one sock bunched halfway down your ankle like you hadn’t stopped moving all morning.

“ignore the mess,” you spoke quickly before he could get a greeting in, backing up into the apartment. “i’ve been in wedding-brain for three hours and i’m down a glue stick and most of my dignity.”

he stepped inside.

the first thing he noticed was the smell. vanilla and paper and something faintly like clean linen or lotion. the second thing was the absolute chaos spread across your living room floor. cushions tossed around a coffee table covered in seating cards, floor plan sketches, colour swatches, and the remains of what looked like a very enthusiastic snack run.

it looked like a storm made of washi tape had landed here and been told to get married.

“you said this would be a working meeting,” he said.

“this is a working meeting,” you replied, nudging a space clear on the floor for him to sit. “it just happens to include a little pizazz. and comfortableness. essentials!”

he didn’t roll his eyes. not outwardly.

but he did hesitate before lowering himself onto the floor beside you.

close. too close, maybe. but the coffee table left no room for distance.

“we’ll be quick,” he informed, opening his folder. “just seating and caterer reconfirmation. no need to—”

“minho,” you interrupted, reaching across him for a pen. “i designed laminated name tags! see?”

he blinked.

“you… laminated them?”

you held one up like it was a trophy, waving it proudly. “mhm, we’re not animals in this household.”

he didn’t respond. but he felt the corner of his mouth twitch once. involuntarily.

they settled into the work slowly.

or rather— you settled. you were cross-legged, phone propped against a jar of markers, flipping through guest notes and muttering about which side of the family was “least likely to start a scene,” or who was most incompatible with the elders of the family. your handwriting was neat but frantic. your mind, faster than your mouth.

he sat straighter. made notes in real time. watched your process like it was a foreign language he almost understood.

and slowly—almost annoyingly—he found himself syncing to it.

you spoke in half-formed ideas. he filled in the blanks.

you reached for one name, he already had it sorted alphabetically.

you frowned at the spacing when it felt off, he adjusted the layout with three quick gestures and no fanfare.

he didn’t ask questions. he didn’t announce when you had made a mistake. he just fixed it, no questions asked.

and for once, you didn’t fight him on it.

sometime between the third snack break and the fourth round of placements, he started noticing things.

like how you always tapped the side of her pencil twice before suggesting a change.

how you rechecked the same line of the guest list even after he’d confirmed it.

how you would squint at the chart with the intensity of someone trying to win an argument without saying a word.

and also— how your knee kept brushing his.

not deliberately. not flirtatiously. just the accidental contact of two people sitting too close for too long, both pretending not to notice.

but minho did notice.

he noticed it every time.

and the longer they sat there, the more aware of you he became. not in a distracting way. not even in a romantic one.

just… aware.

your perfume. faint. sweet. nothing showy. just you.

your fingers. always moving. fidgeting. rearranging.

your voice. lower when you were focused. softer.

your laugh, when you let it slip between sentences— unconfined, quick, like it surprised even you.

he didn’t want to learn these things. he just did.

“what if we moved table six next to the head table?” you suggested suddenly, breaking his spiral. “it’s awkward now, having these people out by the fireplace. it’s too far.”

he looked down at the map. then up at her.

you were biting the corner of her lip. unsure, for once.

he took the name cards. shifted the pieces around. slid your proposed change into place.

“you’re right,” he agreed.

you blinked. “i am?”

he nodded. “it balances the room.”

you smiled then— soft and easy. the kind that didn’t feel defensive or smug or rehearsed. the kind that made something buzz low in his throat.

“you’re not bad at this,” you hummed.

“you sound surprised.”

“just impressed. you didn’t even sigh once this time.”

“yet.”

you laughed again. this time, he let himself smile too.

they sat in that hush for a long moment. paper around them like flower petals. warm yellow light spilling from the lamp above. your shoulder barely brushing his. his thumb tapping absently against the corner of a card.

he didn’t say the thing in his throat.

the one that sounded a lot like you’re easier to be around than i thought. i like this more than i’m letting myself admit.

he didn’t say anything at all.

but when he reached for the final place card and your fingers met his halfway, neither of you pulled back.

not for a second.

then—finally—you stood, and stretched your arms above your head.

the moment broke like sugar glass.

“i’ll finalise this tonight,” you spoke. “unless you want to triple-check everything in your sleep.”

he stood too. adjusted his folder. gave you a look.

“only twice.”

you rolled your eyes.

he watched you without meaning to.

in the car, on the way back to his side of the city, he stared out the window.

not thinking about anything.

but not not thinking about you.

that was new.

monday, 10:02am

wednesday, 1:27pm

friday, 5:11pm

the sky is a melted spill of lavender and peach, the last sun-glow dipping behind the treetops. the breeze is warm for winter, dusted in late golden hour, and you’re adjusting the strap of your dress with a pit in your stomach and a buzzing under your skin.

you smooth your dress again. fix the collar of your coat. stare at your reflection in the hallway mirror like it might give you instructions.

just take a deep breath.

it’s just minho.

just minho, who once called your table styling “visually exhausting.” minho, who adjusted the itinerary once because your bullet points weren’t “uniform enough.” minho, who made planning feel like a chess match played with garden shears.

except tonight, you are fairly certain he is in a suit.

you do not know that for a fact, but you’ve heard him say “semi-formal” in the exact same tone most people say “murder,” and if he took it seriously—which he would—then he is absolutely out there right now dressed like a warning label for heartbreak.

you are not nervous. you are not. you are just slightly flushed from the glass of white wine you definitely did not drink to calm yourself. and maybe your hands are a little cold, and maybe your thoughts are not particularly safe for work, but—

you peek through the front window.

he’s here.

minho. suit-clad. leaning against the side of his car like he stepped out of a magazine editorial called brooding elegance. charcoal grey jacket and black slacks, tie tied almost too perfectly around his neck. his sleeves are rolled just slightly, enough to reveal forearms and a glint of silver watch that should not make you feel the way it does. his hair is still damp from a recent shower, the ends curling just above his temples.

you grip the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping your knees upright.

and then— your phone lights up. his name. your thumb hesitates above the screen before you answer.

“i’m outside,” he informs, voice smooth, low. irritatingly calm.

you nearly drop your phone. “be down in a sec,” you reply, breathless. “hold your horses. or whatever it is you drive.”

the door opens.

he turns.

you descend the steps one by one, heels soft against the concrete, coat draped over your arms, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes catch— how they stay fixed. the way he straightens up as if jolted by electricity.

he blinks. once. twice.

and then— he swears under his breath. quietly. reverently.

he’s trying to stay neutral. to act like your presence in that dress isn’t causing minor system failure. but he is not fooling anyone. especially not himself.

he opens the passenger door for you.

“you look—” he begins, but then his voice cuts out like he changed his mind halfway through.

“you’re driving?” you deflect, half-laughing, already sliding into the seat.

“i can legally operate a vehicle,” he feigns offense, but his mouth twitches into a smile. he sits in the drivers seat. “don’t act surprised.”

“no, it’s not that. it’s just…” you exhale and give him a pointed once-over. “you. suit. behind the wheel. how dare you.”

“oh how dare i, hm?”

his hands tense around the wheel, knuckles white.

“the way you said that. oh that’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me,” you murmur to yourself, quietly enough so that he doesn’t hear.

he does hear it.

the rest of the ride is quiet. not silent, not comfortable, charged. like someone turned the volume down on the world but turned the brightness way, way up.

his cologne coils low in your throat. something clean, something subtle, like cedar, cold water, and a hint of heat beneath. you keep your eyes ahead, fingers fidgeting in your lap, trying not to notice the line of his thigh pressed close, the way his hand flexes on the gearshift. the flick of his gaze toward you at every red light.

he doesn’t speak. but he feels. like static across your skin.

friday, 5:44pm

the venue is glowing when you arrive— fairy lights strung in loose constellations through the trellises, draping low over the courtyard like starlight caught in a net. soft instrumental music filters through hidden speakers, just shy of orchestral, just shy of overwhelming. it pools into the golden hour like it belongs there. like it was written to gild the edges of a night like this.

it’s elegant. lush. dizzying.

it’s everything you had wanted for your cousin. it’s everything you had drafted in sketches, pinterest boards, and blurry midnight notes in your phone.

and it feels real now.

you step inside. and minho is beside you.

not ahead, not trailing behind— just there. shoulder to shoulder. like the rhythm has been established and neither of you are willing to break it now.

you both field questions like co-hosts. not just efficient— seamless. one unit split between two bodies.

he defers to you on décor. you defer to him on vendor logistics. a glance is all it takes for a decision to be made.

people notice.

they always do.

someone’s aunt knocks over a glass of wine with a too-wide gesture. you both move at once— him for the glass, you for the napkins. he catches it mid-fall. you’re already blotting the linen. he holds the glass steady as you reach for it. your hands brush— barely.

neither of you says anything.

but your pulse thuds behind your ears.

he disappears at one point and reappears moments later with a new drink, no explanation. he does not ask if you want it. just places it beside your elbow like it belongs there. there for you if you were to want a fresh glass. he would be unoffended if you left it, you know. he just wants you to have what you want.

obviously only in the context of ease and convenience. nothing else.

you do not thank him out loud.

you just hand him a new place card for table five without being prompted.

this is how it goes now. reflexive. unspoken. comfortably in swing with each other.

you do not touch.

but you almost do.

when you reach across him for the floral sample, your sleeve brushes his wrist.

he doesn’t move.

at one point, you bend to fix the ribbon placement along the sweetheart table. he kneels beside you, adjusting the arrangement opposite your hands with quiet precision. you’re close— close enough to see the shadow of his lashes, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth when he concentrates.

you glance over to him.

he’s already looking at you.

and for one full second, neither of you look away.

your breath sticks.

his fingers pause mid-placement.

then—too fast—he clears his throat and shifts back like nothing happened.

“you handled that toast well,” he compliments—almost smugly—later, voice just behind your shoulder.

you turn your head, slightly.

he’s close enough that the scent of his cologne fogs your senses. warm. dark. something spiced that makes your head hum.

“was that a compliment?” you murmur, lips tilted.

he blinks once. then—quiet, like it’s an accident—he says, “maybe.”

you don’t answer.

but you also don’t move away.

you stand like that for a few long beats. shoulder to shoulder in the half-lit hallway, the sound of laughter echoing off the walls from the next room. the party goes on without you. but your body is tuned to him, now. to the static, the charge, the sharp ache of whatever this is becoming.

friday, 7:32pm

the courtyard is warm with late sun and champagne. the soft glimmer of fairy lights makes the air feel a little enchanted— like something impossible might happen if you just stepped a little farther into the gold.

you step back instead.

a soft breeze trails through the stone archway as you slip away from the bustle, away from the table setup and the politely enthusiastic relatives and the never-ending sea of questions. you don’t go far— just near the fountain, where the string music fades into a gentler hush and the flowers curl around the trellises like they grew just for tonight.

you breathe.

a moment. just one.

and then, your cousin appears. she’s still in rehearsal whites, hair pinned up loosely, glowing with that particular kind of joy that only belongs to the week before a wedding. when she sees you, she smiles like she’s been waiting for this exact moment.

"you look like you needed rescuing," she laughs softly, linking her arm through yours.

you breathe out a soft laugh. "i was hiding."

"same thing."

you stand like that for a moment. the breeze is just warm enough, the laughter from inside low and soft like it's part of the décor.

she pulls back slightly to look at you. "so… how are things going with my two favourite planners?"

you snort. "we haven’t killed each other. yet."

"interesting," she hums, tilting her head, clearly playing innocent. "because it looked a lot like i saw minho refill your glass and brush the hair off your shoulder and laugh at something that was not remotely funny."

"he didn’t—"

"mmhm."

you blink, suddenly aware of the residual warmth in your chest. of the way you’d caught yourself watching him earlier— adjusting the lighting chart, jacket off, tie loosened, sleeves rolled. how he’d glanced over like he felt it too. like he was watching you back.

"he’s just being polite," you dismiss finally.

"he’s never been polite a day in his life."

you glare. "do you want me to plan your wedding or not."

she grins, completely unbothered. "just sayin’. you two are… something."

"something?"

"something. simmering."

a moment passes.

she rests her head briefly against your shoulder, voice gentler now. “thank you. for everything. i know this past time has been hell, i know how he can be to deal with sometimes. i know i dumped you into this on the spot when i asked you.”

you shake your head. “no, you didn’t. i said yes. and… i’m glad i did.”

“even with him?”

“…maybe especially with him.”

she smiles. then, her head perks up like she’s just remembered something.

"anyway—before i forget—do you have next weekend blocked out?"

you furrow your brows. "uh. no? what’s next weekend? i didn't think i had forgotten something was on..."

"oh no, you didn't forget. i just booked this yesterday. it's a super crazy catering presentation, with that chef group you picked out—great taste, by the way. it’s at their fancy vineyard estate a few hours out. the head chef wants you and minho to sample the full menu and sign off."

"that sounds…" you trail off, suspicious.

"delicious?" your cousin offers.

"inconvenient."

"it’s in the evening," she says, all fake-cheerful. "they’re serving everything as a full-course dinner. with champagne pairings. and the estate insists on overnight guests to ‘ensure palette clarity’ or some crap."

"girl—"

"relax. i already booked the room."

"the room? singular?"

"the one room they had left."

you stare at her.

she smiles like she just got away with a crime. "it’s all they had on short notice! i said you were very close coworkers."

"you’re going to hell."

"worth it."

you cover your face with both hands. she hugs you sideways.

"you’re welcome," she smiles into your shoulder. "only good can come from this."

friday, 9:17pm

the champagne goes straight to your head.

not a lot. but just enough.

you’re perched beside him on a low stone ledge in the garden, empty glasses between you, the air full of murmuring laughter and distant violin.

you’re tipsy. not sloppy. you’re still completely in control, just loose around the edges.

your cheeks are warm. your guard’s cracked.

you glance sideways. he’s got one arm draped across his knee, suit jacket folded neatly over a nearby chair, dress shirt unbuttoned just slightly at the collar, tie abandoned to his pocket.

“you look really—” you start. pause. sip your drink even though it’s empty. “—stupid hot tonight.”

minho stills.

you don’t look at him when you say it. you stare straight ahead. pretend it was a joke. a mistake. a side effect of the alcohol.

but he turns slowly.

you feel the weight of his gaze like a hand on your throat.

he says nothing.

he doesn’t need to.

the air shifts. tightens.

his knee brushes yours.

you don’t move.

he should say something. you should say something.

instead, you both just sit in it. the weight of what was said and what wasn’t. the electric hum under your skin. the way your eyes catch on the curve of his mouth every time he exhales.

someone calls you both back, instantly shattering any moment you both were in. minho helps you up and aside to let you reenter the building first, his palm lightly brushing the centre of your back to guide you.

you almost thank him.

you almost reach for his wrist as you pass.

but neither of you breaks the silence.

instead, you fall back into step.

like gravity.

like a pattern already written.

and in every step beside him, in every look passed between wine glasses and candles, the truth lingers beneath the surface:

you are not pretending to hate each other anymore.

but you are still pretending not to want.

and that’s worse.

so much worse.

friday, 10:01pm

it’s later that night, and the party is starting to splinter— guests leaving in soft clusters, heels in hands, speeches echoing in their laughter. minho stands near the exit, nursing the last half of a drink that’s long since lost its chill.

minho does not look for you.

he’s been doing that all night. too much. too obviously.

so now, he’s looking at the chandelier. or the gift table. or absolutely anything that isn’t the swing of your dress across the room.

"you’re brooding," comes a voice to his left.

he turns slowly, and sees the groom looking back at him.

"i’m standing," minho replies.

"brooding while standing, then." his friend clinks their glasses together. “what’s going on with you and my fiancée’s cousin?”

minho exhales through his nose. “nothing.”

"mhmm. and yet here you are, glowering into your whiskey like a tortured protagonist.”

"we’re working."

"you’re working,” the groom echoes, nodding with mock seriousness. “working together. respectfully. professionally. with all that almost-hand-touching and deep eye contact."

minho sips his drink and says nothing.

"anyway," the groom says, smirking now, "the missus told me i was meant to give you a heads-up."

minho raises a brow.

"about next weekend. the vineyard. she booked you both in for the catering run-through."

“right,” minho nods. “the dinner thing was mentioned to me earlier in passing.”

“it’s a whole presentation now,” the groom replies. “chef’s running a full-course mock-up— wine pairings, menu tasting, all that. they’re trying to make a night of it. impress you.”

minho nods once. this was practical. expected, even.

then the groom adds, far too casually: “and they’ve got a room ready for you two.”

minho pauses. “a room?”

“mhm. they only had one left. something about peak wedding season. it's been booked already.”

there’s a beat of silence. the music has shifted— slow, distant, some soft piano instrumental echoing through the space like the tail end of a love story.

minho sets his glass down with a little more force than necessary.

“it’s not weird,” the groom offers, attempting nonchalance. “it’s a huge room. i think. probably. big vineyard. rustic charm. candles and shit. very aesthetic.”

“why would i care,” minho says, voice tight. his attempt to cover the fact that he in fact does care is futile.

the groom’s expression shifts— just slightly. “you shouldn’t. obviously. but you do look a little…”

"i don’t."

“…weirdly tense about it.”

minho closes his eyes for half a second. opens them again.

“we’re professionals,” he breathes evenly. “we’ll manage.”

"mm. you do seem like you're managing. especially when you aren’t staring at her for three minutes straight across the bar."

minho doesn’t reply.

he picks up his jacket from the back of the chair. straightens the collar. and ignores the grin spreading across his friend’s face.

"if it helps," the groom remarks, one last parting shot, “from the time that i've known her, i think she likes working with you.”

minho freezes for half a breath.

then leaves. the silence swells around him, full of everything he didn’t say. didn’t ask.

she likes working with you.

he lets the words sink in.

one room.

one dinner.

not a problem.

not a problem at all.

this might be a problem.

friday, 10:37pm

on the way back, the silence is unbearable.

minho drives.

his right hand stays steady on the wheel, knuckles tight with restraint, the other resting uselessly on the gear shift as though it needs something to grip— anything to ground him. the interior of the car smells like you. your perfume, the faintest trace of champagne on your breath, your laughter still echoing somewhere in the seams of the leather seats.

you do not speak.

you do not dare.

your body is turned slightly toward the window, knees angled just enough to look casual, but not distant. the air between you is vibrating, humming with the static of everything that did not get said. your thigh brushes his once—accidental. then again, more like a whisper. more like your skin asking a question it cannot voice.

he does not flinch.

you are thinking things you are not supposed to think.

what his mouth would taste like— how it would feel to pull him in by the collar and kiss him like you mean it. what sound he would make if you said his name like a secret. if his hands would hesitate or devour. whether his tie is still tucked into his coat pocket and whether he would ever let you tug on it just once.

you grip the hem of your coat tighter in your fists.

outside, the streetlights paint passing gold ribbons across your thighs, your cheek, the line of his jaw when you steal a glance.

a red light.

you risk it.

you look at him.

and he is already watching you.

his eyes are dark, unreadable. but something inside them flickers— something raw and wrecked and wanting. his jaw is tense. his mouth parted like there are words balanced right there on the edge, waiting to tumble out if only he could bear to say them.

he opens his mouth.

your breath catches. you feel it— feel the shift, the second the air grows tight and ready to snap. your lips part too, like maybe this is it. maybe this is the moment everything gives way.

but then—

the light turns green.

he exhales like he’s been holding it in for hours.

and he drives.

he walks you to your door because he is polite. because he is eighty-five percent sure you're still tipsy, and you actually don’t know what you’re doing. (you do know). because if he leaves without seeing you inside, he will worry. because if he leaves without one last look, he will break.

you fumble with your keys.

your hands shake a little— not obviously, not enough for him to comment, but you feel it. the adrenaline of something almost-born still stuttering beneath your ribs. you glance up once, open your mouth. the words are right there, tucked beneath your tongue. i wanted to kiss you. i don’t hate you anymore. i don’t want to pretend.

but he speaks first.

“goodnight.”

simple. even. too smooth to be accidental.

you blink.

“…goodnight,” you echo.

neither of you moves.

he stands there, hands in the pockets of his coat, chest rising slowly. you think he might lean in again, just slightly, barely perceptible— but you see it. you feel it. like the universe is teetering forward with him.

his gaze traces the outline of your lips.

your collarbone.

your eyes.

you are all heat, all pulse, and all maybe, and he is looking at you like he might do something unforgivable.

but then— he tilts his head. just a fraction. and steps back.

“see you soon, get some rest,” he mutters, voice thick, rough around the edges like it scraped against everything he did not say.

you nod. even though you are not ready. even though your mouth aches with every unspoken thing you swallowed down instead.

the door closes softly behind you.

you lean against it. then slide down to the floor in your stupid pretty dress and too-warm skin and heartbeat that does not know how to calm down. you press your palm flat to the hardwood flooring, like if you stay there long enough you might still feel the echo of his footsteps through it.

you want to tell him to come back. say something. scream.

instead, you just sit there, clutching your coat like it might explain anything.

outside, he does not move.

minho stands under the porch light, eyes fixed on the crack between your curtains, trying to convince himself to turn around. to breathe. to forget.

but he can't.

his hands curl into fists inside his pockets, like they’re holding him together. like if he loosens one finger, the whole thing might break.

minho doesn't sleep that night.

and neither do you.

both of you lying in separate beds, in separate parts of the city, thinking the exact same thing:

i should have said something.

i should have kissed them.

but the window of opportunity has closed. and the night has carried on, leaving you in the dust.

saturday, 11:04am

the morning is too bright.

you wake with your cheek pressed into your pillow and your hand curled beneath your chin, the imprint of last night’s makeup faint against the fabric. your mouth is dry. your hair smells like champagne and something floral.

you do not open your eyes right away.

you are remembering things. not dreams— real things.

his hand on the small of your back, guiding you inside like it was nothing.

the look he gave you when you stepped into the car.

the silence between you, thick enough to drown in.

you should have said something.

you roll onto your back with a hefty sigh, blanket kicked to the floor, one arm draped across your stomach like it might hold the ache there still. it is not a romantic ache. not a lovesick one. it is sharper than that. brighter. like your body is still buzzing from a voltage it was never allowed to discharge.

your phone is facedown on your nightstand. you consider ignoring it.

you do not.

the screen lights up in your palm— no messages from him. no messages to him, either. not yet.

your text thread from yesterday is still open, like it’s waiting for one of you to admit something.

it mocks you.

you type out thanks for the ride

then delete it.

you type what would you have done if i brought you inside?

then delete it.

you type did you get home okay?

then delete that too.

you lock your phone and toss it gently across the bed.

in the kitchen, your kettle sputters to life, and you lean against the counter, waiting, eyes still swollen from too little sleep. your dress is still pooled on the chair. your heels by the door.

you don’t feel bad.

you just feel… unsettled.

as if something important almost happened.

as if it still might.

somewhere across the city, minho sits on the edge of his bed, tie still crumpled in the pocket of his coat, phone in his hand. his thumb hovers above your name, unread messages unsent.

he’d meant to text.

he’d meant to say goodnight, or you looked beautiful, or what would you have done if i leaned in?

he doesn’t text any of those things.

instead, he gets up, drags a hand through his hair, and stares at the mess on his desk— your invitation designs, your schedules, your ceremony timings.

everything in its place.

everything but this.

he thinks about your perfume.

the way you looked at him when you said that’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me.

how your fingers almost touched his at the stoplight.

how he almost said i wanted to kiss you and instead said nothing at all.

he makes coffee, and proceeds to not drink it.

he tells himself to let it go.

he knows he won’t.

you sip your tea slowly.

you scroll through photos you do not remember taking— random areas of the venue, family members you haven’t seen in too long, and only one of minho. it appears to have been taken in a random room at the venue, you think he was speaking with some vendors? the memory is foggy. it’s a candid image, and your slightly blurred-drunken photography gives it a dreamy look, making him appear even more ethereal than you remember.

you stop on that one and stare at it for a long time. it’s like you’re frozen in a daze, he’s so capturing.

then, you open your messages with him and him the image.

just that.

no message. no caption. no follow-up.

you leave your phone on the counter and walk away.

when you return five minutes later, there’s a reply.

your heart stutters once.

you close the thread.

and smile. freely.

you’re alone, and you’re sick of pretending he isn’t the reason for it.

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thanks for reading chapter two! keep hanging around for chapter three and beyond <3

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😳😳

Missing Keycard

Seungmin x Tour Manager Reader

Tags: shy dom seungmin, one bed trope, sleep groping, nipple play, forbidden sex, power imbalance, choking, spanking, riding, oral, braless reader, touch starved reader, unprotected sex, aftercare

Word Count: 6k

Summary: You’re a tour manager for Stray Kids, just trying to survive another city. But when a drunk, keycard-less Seungmin knocks on your hotel door at 2AM, mistaking it for his own room, sleep is the last thing either of you get. What starts as an accident turns into tension that finally snaps — and Seungmin? He’s nothing like you expected.

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

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The Chicago stop was a blur of chaos.

A venue delay, a last-minute setlist change, a prop that went missing ten minutes before curtain—and somehow, you’d still managed to get everyone on stage, on time, and in one piece.

Barely.

By the time the show ended and the meet-and-greet cleared, you were running on fumes, your phone at 3% battery and your body running mostly on espresso and anger. You’d finalized hotel room keys, triple-checked the luggage manifest, made sure all the boys had post-show meals waiting.

And then—finally—freedom.

You could’ve joined them at the bar. Hell, Chan had even tugged your sleeve and offered you a shot before leaving the lobby with a slurred grin.

But your legs had already carried you into the elevator, eyes closing before the doors even shut.

All you wanted was a bed.

No bra. No briefs. No bullshit.

So you stripped the second your door clicked shut.

Your panties were soft and high-cut, practically invisible beneath the oversized T-shirt you’d planned to sleep in—until you peeled that off too and reached for the one thing lighter, cooler: a thin, cropped camisole you’d worn under your manager’s jacket earlier.

The fabric barely kissed the curve of your chest. No padding, no support, nothing to hide how worn-down and sensitive you felt.

But fuck it, you were on a private floor, not sharing a room with anyone. No one would see you.

You passed out across the bed in seconds, limbs loose, hair stuck to your cheek, one leg tangled in the sheet and the other kicked free.

You didn’t even register the first knock.

But the second—louder, clumsier—jerked you upright.

You blinked, dazed and crusty-eyed. The room was dark, the hallway light seeping in under the door like a spotlight.

Knock knock.

You groaned, grabbing a pillow to your chest and hauling yourself to your feet. You were half-asleep, brain fogged and skin warm from sleep, not thinking at all as you padded barefoot across the floor.

The camisole had ridden up.

Your panties clung high across your hips.

But none of that registered—not until you cracked the door open and saw him.

“Hyung?” Seungmin mumbled, brows furrowed, eyes red and shiny. “Is this your—wait.”

His voice dipped. His gaze dropped.

And then he froze.

“…Oh,” he said, small and stunned.

You blinked at him. “Seungmin?”

He didn’t answer.

Because his brain—tipsy as it was—had just realized two things in rapid succession:

1. This wasn’t Chan’s room.

2. You were very naked.

Not technically. But close enough.

Your bare thighs were on full display, the camisole barely grazing your belly button, your nipples visibly hard through the thin fabric. The hallway light behind him cast your silhouette against the room’s dark interior in dangerous clarity.

He swallowed.

You blinked, still not fully processing.

“Wait—why’re you here?”

“I—” he scratched his head, swaying slightly. “Lost my card. Everyone locked their doors. Thought this was—uh—Chan-hyung’s room. My bad. I’ll just—”

You stepped aside and yanked him inside.

Hard.

His shoulder hit your chest and your hand scrambled to slam the door shut before anyone saw. Your heart pounded.

“Are you insane? What if someone took a picture of you?!”

“I’m sorry!” he whispered, voice strangled. “I didn’t—fuck, I really thought—”

You turned to him, panting slightly from the adrenaline, your blanket long forgotten on the bed.

Only then did you realize.

You looked down.

Oh. Shit.

Full tits. Bare thighs. Tight panties.

Seungmin was right there—eyes wide, frozen like a deer in headlights, clearly trying to keep his gaze anywhere but on your body.

Too late. He’d seen.

And now he was actively malfunctioning.

“I—I didn’t mean to knock on yours,” he stammered. “I thought it was Hyung’s. I swear. You just—you opened and I saw and I—”

You covered your face with both hands.

He was still talking, tipsy and spiraling.

“—and I was gonna leave but then you pulled me in and now I’m here and you’re—you’re dressed like that—”

“Stop talking, Seungmin.”

Silence.

His mouth snapped shut.

You peeked between your fingers.

He looked like he wanted to evaporate.

Which might’ve been cute—if you weren’t acutely aware that your nipples were still hard and your underwear left nothing to the imagination.

You dropped your hands with a sigh and crossed your arms under your chest, trying to ignore how that only pushed them up more.

“Okay,” you said, exhaling shakily. “You lost your card.”

He nodded quickly. “Yes.”

“No one else answered.”

“Correct.”

“And now you’re in my room.”

He nodded again, slower this time.

Your heart was still thumping. His eyes flicked up to yours—then away again. Every few seconds they betrayed him, dropping back down, catching on your thighs, your waist, your chest before he forced them back up again.

His ears were flushed red.

He was trying so hard not to look—and failing.

You didn’t know what possessed you to say it. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or curiosity. Or the way his bottom lip was caught between his teeth, swaying slightly, hands tucked behind his back like a schoolboy caught in the wrong classroom.

You sighed, one hand dragging down your face, the other cradling the pillow against your chest again.

“Well,” you muttered. “You smell like you lost a drinking game.”

“I probably did,” he said, voice rough but quiet.

“Bathroom’s through there,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the door near the dresser. “Freshen up. We’ll figure out the room situation in the morning.”

Seungmin blinked at you, dazed.

“You’re letting me stay?”

“Well that’s a given,” you said. “I’m not about to throw a drunk idol into the hallway at 2AM. God knows what sasaeng would love that headline.”

He made a soft, embarrassed noise in the back of his throat and practically scrambled toward the bathroom. You heard the door click shut behind him, followed by the water running.

Alone again, you exhaled sharply and looked down at yourself.

The camisole still clung to your chest, the fabric wrinkled from sleep. Your panties had shifted during your rush to the door, one hip strap riding higher than the other. The damage was already done—he’d seen you, fully—and suddenly, modesty felt stupid.

You weren’t thinking like a professional anymore. You were thinking like a tired woman who just wanted sleep and had, quite unfortunately, let a very drunk, very awkward, very cute Seungmin into her room.

Not ideal.

You crossed to the bed and slipped under the duvet, this time tugging it up to your neck like a shield, every inch of your body burrowing into the mattress. You didn’t even glance back when you heard the bathroom door open.

The room was small—modest compared to the suite-style ones booked for the boys—and there wasn’t much in the way of extra space. One armchair sat in the corner, low-backed and thin, its tiny matching ottoman clearly not meant for sleeping.

You could hear him hovering.

Fidgeting.

Shifting on his feet like he was trying to make himself disappear.

You kept your face to the wall.

More shuffling. A pause. Then a tiny sigh.

You rolled your eyes, still not turning.

“The bed’s big enough for two.”

Silence.

Then—

“…Are you sure?”

“I legally cannot let you sleep on the cold floor, Seungmin.”

“…Fair.”

The mattress dipped a few moments later. You felt the careful weight of him as he climbed in—slow, hesitant, like the bed might collapse under the guilt of it. He stayed close to the edge, not even rustling the duvet as he pulled it over his legs.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

You could feel the silence settle in like warmth, like tension slipping between your shoulder blades. He smelled cleaner now—soap and mouthwash, the lingering sharpness of whatever cheap vodka the boys had probably downed earlier. But mostly soap.

He didn’t move.

You didn’t either.

Eventually, his voice came, hushed in the dark.

“…Thank you.”

You mumbled something in return, barely audible.

Another pause. Then, quieter—

“I didn’t mean to see. Before. I wasn’t trying to.”

You sighed.

“I know.”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine,” you said, and you were surprised to realize you meant it.

Maybe because he wasn’t leering. Maybe because he was clearly still rattled. Maybe because your back was to him and your body had long since relaxed again.

But you were tired. He was tired.

And despite everything, the room felt soft again.

Safe.

You closed your eyes and whispered into the pillow.

“Goodnight, Seungmin.”

He swallowed, voice low and raw behind you.

“…Goodnight.”

And then—finally—stillness.

But neither of you slept just yet.

Because under the sheets, just inches away, your heart was beating too loud.

And Seungmin, with his flushed ears and twitchy fingers, was still trying not to picture what he’d already seen.

⸻

The room had gone colder.

At some point, maybe around 4AM, the air conditioning kicked into overdrive, and the soft hum of it stirred you from sleep.

You shifted under the duvet with a lazy frown, your body instinctively chasing warmth. And then—

You felt it.

Not the chill of the room, but the heat of someone behind you.

A slow, calm breath ghosted over the back of your neck. Warm, steady.

Then the arm.

An arm wrapped around your waist. A hand splayed low, fingers spread wide and firm across your stomach, half tucked beneath the hem of your camisole.

Your breath hitched—eyes fluttering open as your senses slowly caught up to what was happening.

Seungmin.

He was pressed flush against your back now, close in a way that neither of you had planned. Your ass rested snugly against his hips, your legs curved toward your chest in a soft tuck, his body following the shape of yours like he’d been molded to it in sleep.

The realization hit like a slow, hot wave:

Somewhere between drifting off and now, you’d gravitated toward each other. Maybe it had started with a brush of knees. A shared pillow. Maybe he’d pulled you in. Maybe you had backed into him without thinking.

But now?

Now, you were wrapped in him.

And he was touching you.

That hand—broad and warm—shifted slightly, fingers flexing in his sleep. His knuckles grazed higher up your stomach, a slow, unconscious movement that felt more like a caress than a twitch.

Your skin prickled.

Your breath stuttered again.

And that was before you felt the subtle, unmistakable pressure against your ass.

He was hard. Not fully, not completely, but enough that the bulge was there—thick and lazy, tucked against the dip of your curves like it belonged there.

You froze.

Every nerve in your body suddenly wide awake.

It was still innocent enough. He was asleep. Dreaming. He wasn’t doing anything on purpose. But the heat that licked up your spine didn’t care about intentions. It cared about the weight of him behind you, the way his fingertips had curled slightly, like they liked the skin they’d found.

Your thighs pressed tighter.

Seungmin murmured something in his sleep. A sound low in his chest. And then—

His hips shifted.

Just a fraction. But enough.

He pressed into you.

Your lips parted, breath shaky, heart slamming against your ribs as his hips settled again, snug against the curve of your ass like he’d wanted to be closer. Like his sleeping body knew what it wanted, even if his mind hadn’t caught up.

You stayed still, not daring to move. Not even blinking.

His fingers on your stomach moved again. Slow. Dragging higher. The edge of his pinky grazed the underside of your breast, just barely. Not a grab. Not a grope. Just enough to send a thrill zipping through your chest.

You swallowed.

Carefully, silently, you reached down and clutched the duvet a little tighter.

But you didn’t move away.

And neither did he.

You stayed frozen.

Not because you were scared. Not because you didn’t want it. But because the smallest twitch of movement might’ve broken the spell—and right now, with his hands on you, his body warming your back, and his breath soft and steady against your neck… you didn’t want it to stop.

Even if he didn’t mean it.

Even if he wasn’t fully awake.

Even if this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Your body didn’t care about reason. Your body cared about the ache that had been living under your skin for too long. The way your thighs clenched when his fingertips brushed just under the curve of your breast again. The way your stomach fluttered when he pulled you closer, unconsciously grinding that hardening length against the softness of your ass.

A soft sound slipped from his throat—barely a hum, muffled into your hair.

Then his hand moved again.

Slow. Searching. Sliding downward over your stomach, like he was touching something delicate in his dream—fingertips gliding beneath the hem of your camisole, callused pads grazing skin that hadn’t been touched in months.

You held your breath. Every muscle tensed, every inch of you begging for more and terrified of it all at once.

Then the other hand found your hip.

It gripped you there—fingers digging into the flesh, like he was holding on. Like he needed to.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

His hips shifted again. His hard cock pressed tighter against your ass, no longer just a ghost of a touch but a full, heavy presence—throbbing through the fabric of his sweats, thick and real and there.

A soft gasp caught in your throat.

And then—God—his hands started moving.

The one on your stomach caressed upward, grazing the underside of your breast again with just the backs of his fingers. Not a grope. Not rough. But reverent. Careful. A sleeping man worshiping a dream he didn’t know was real.

The other stayed firm on your hip, squeezing lightly, rhythmically, as if guiding himself into the curve of your ass with slow, sleepy rolls of his hips.

You bit your lip so hard it almost hurt.

Because your body… it betrayed you.

Your nipples hardened, tight and sensitive beneath the thin fabric of your cami. Your thighs pressed together, desperate, seeking friction. And heat pulsed low in your stomach—building with every moan that slipped from his lips. Tiny, broken little things. Like he didn’t even realize he was making them.

You’d never heard Seungmin make those kinds of sounds before.

And you weren’t even sure he was fully awake.

Your breath shook. Your hand fisted into the duvet. You didn’t move, not an inch—but God, you felt everything. And you wanted more.

You wanted to press back into him.

You wanted his hands higher. Lower.

You wanted—

“…Hnn…”

A little whimper escaped him—almost helpless.

And then—his fingers twitched again.

Dragged higher.

This time brushing—accidentally, devastatingly—over your nipple.

But then didn’t mean to move.

Not really.

Not in a way you could blame on sleep.

But the ache had settled too deep now, thick and warm in your belly, and the feel of his hands on your skin—soft and curious and a little desperate—was unraveling your last thread of willpower.

So you gave in.

Just a little.

A slow, subtle push of your hips back into him—just enough for your ass to press tighter into the hard length straining behind his sweats. Your breath caught in your throat, chest tightening as the hand on your stomach twitched in response… and then slid up.

His palm cupped your breast.

Full, warm, heavy in his hand.

You gasped—a soft, broken little sigh—because the pad of his thumb grazed your nipple again through your top, and it was too much, too sensitive, too good. Your back arched into it instinctively, the quietest sound escaping your lips, and you felt him—

Stilling.

Breathing.

Then freezing.

Seungmin’s body went stiff behind you.

Like a man pulled straight out of a dream and dropped into a nightmare.

His hand stopped moving. His hips locked. His breath caught like he’d choked on it—and then dragged in sharp and tight, like he couldn’t even remember how to breathe anymore.

“…fuck.”

The word was barely audible. Choked. Wrecked. He jerked his hand away from your breast like he’d been burned, stumbling backward out of the bed in a tangle of limbs and blankets, his body trembling with confusion and guilt and raw panic.

He stood there beside the bed in nothing but a loose tee and sweats, hair messy, eyes wide, lips parted, and face pale in the blue light bleeding through the hotel curtains.

“I—I didn’t—I thought—” he stammered, hands raised like he’d accidentally committed a crime.

“I was dreaming,” he said, voice hoarse. “I didn’t know—fuck, I didn’t know it was you—”

You sat up slowly, duvet still pulled tight to your chest, your body flushed and your heart hammering so hard you thought it might burst through your ribs.

“I’m sorry,” Seungmin said, breathless, eyes darting everywhere but your face. “Shit, I touched you, I—God, I’m so sorry.”

He backed away, visibly shaking. “I swear I wasn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean to—”

You should’ve said something. Anything.

But you were still reeling—body buzzing, skin on fire, the ghost of his touch still etched into your chest.

And for a moment, neither of you moved.

Until he did—

You didn’t mean to stop him. Didn’t plan it.

Didn’t think it through.

But the second he took a step back—panic all over his face, like he was ready to disappear and pretend this never happened—your voice came out, small and raw, right before you could even breathe it back.

“…Seungmin.”

He froze.

Turned slowly. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

You just looked at him—bare shoulders rising and falling beneath the duvet, hair tousled from sleep, lips parted, heart thudding behind your ribs like it wanted to escape.

“I…” you started, the words thick in your throat. “It’s okay.”

His brows furrowed. “What?”

“I didn’t stop you,” you said softly, eyes searching his. “Maybe… I didn’t want to.”

The room went silent.

And Seungmin—sweet, shy, brilliant Seungmin—stood there like the air had been punched from his lungs.

“You—” He blinked hard, swallowing, jaw clenched like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “You didn’t want me to stop?”

“I should have,” you said, honestly. “But I didn’t.”

You sat up a little, the duvet sliding down with the motion—revealing the thin strap of your camisole slipping off your shoulder, and just the barest peek of soft skin beneath it. The hem had already ridden up, underboob visible, your thighs spread slightly beneath the covers, body warm and flushed and so real in the low light.

Seungmin’s breath hitched.

You caught the way his eyes flicked down—just for a second—before he snapped them away, fists clenched at his sides, every muscle in his lean body tense.

“I’m your tour manager,” you whispered, more to yourself than him. “If I hadn’t been so tired, I could’ve sorted your room. I should’ve gone to the reception or called someone. I should’ve helped you.”

You looked down at your lap, voice quieter now. “Instead, you walked into my room. I was basically naked. And I let you into my bed.”

Seungmin stayed quiet. Still trembling. Still hard. You could see it—his sweats doing nothing to hide the thick, straining outline pressing forward. He wasn’t even drunk anymore. Just dazed. Wrecked. Fighting something inside him that was so clearly losing.

“And I didn’t stop you,” you finished, eyes lifting to meet his again. “Even when I should have. I let it happen. So…”

You took a breath.

“…you don’t have to go.”

His eyes locked onto yours.

And fuck, the look in them—like every wall he’d carefully built was cracking, like he was fighting to be good, to be professional, but his body was screaming something else entirely. Something raw. Something needy.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said hoarsely.

“Like what?”

“Like you want me.”

The duvet slipped lower when you shifted—bare thighs now visible. And Seungmin’s gaze flicked downward again. Just for a second. Just long enough to see how your cami clung to the swell of your chest, how it had ridden so high your round underboobs were visible, soft and tempting and so close.

You tilted your head, slow. Careful. Still quiet.

“…What if I do?”

That was it.

That was the moment.

Because Seungmin’s lips parted—eyes flicking back to yours, mouth pink and breath shallow, his cock visibly throbbing behind his sweats. The hunger was there now. He wasn’t just hard—he was wrecked by the sight of you, sprawled out like a dream he hadn’t meant to touch, and couldn’t resist anymore.

You were still his tour manager.

Still the professional. Still the one with authority.

But in that moment, with your hair a mess and your thighs spread and your lips barely parted in invitation—God, you looked so soft. So warm. So fucking beautiful it hurt.

And he had such a crush on you. Always had.

Maybe now he didn’t want to pretend otherwise.

Seungmin didn’t move at first. He just stood there, staring—like he couldn’t believe what was in front of him. You, almost bare-chested and flushed, thighs pressed tight beneath you, nipples peaked and your chest rising with every slow breath. His eyes dropped to your breasts, and he swore under his breath, the tension in his throat thick enough to choke on.

When you didn’t move to cover yourself, he dragged his gaze back up to yours.

Like he was waiting for the world to stop him.

Like he was seconds away from burning.

You didn’t say anything. Just held his stare and reached for his hand, curling your fingers around his and guiding it to your face—pressing his palm to your cheek.

That’s when he cracked.

His hand tightened. His jaw flexed. And then he moved—fast and quiet, crawling onto the bed over you with one knee on either side, not touching you yet, just looking down like he still couldn’t believe it was real.

“Tell me this isn’t a dream,” he said hoarsely, voice thick. “Please.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Because your body did—arching subtly, thighs parting slightly beneath him in silent invitation.

He bent down, mouth finding the slope of your neck like he’d been aching for it for years. You gasped, head tipping back, the heat of his breath dragging over your collarbone. Then his hands—those long, trembling fingers—finally reached your breasts. He cupped them like they were something sacred, thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, reverent circles.

“God,” he whispered against your skin. “You feel…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t have to.

His tongue found your nipple and you gasped, back arching under him. He was breathing harder now, grinding against your thigh through his sweatpants, restraint unraveling one touch at a time. His lips moved from one breast to the other, mouth open, hot and wet, tongue lapping and sucking until your thighs started to tremble beneath him.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he said against your skin, voice guttural.

You looked up at him, wrecked already, pupils blown wide. “Then show me.”

Something in his expression darkened.

And just like that, he sat back, pulled the duvet the rest of the way down, and let his eyes roam over every inch of you. His chest heaved once. Twice.

Then he dragged your panties down your legs, slow, savoring it, watching the fabric slide off your body like it was the last thing tethering you to decency.

He swore under his breath again.

You shifted, but he stopped you with a firm hand on your hip.

“Don’t move.”

He stripped his sweatpants in one motion, cock heavy and flushed and hard as it slapped against his stomach. You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t breathe. He was beautiful, yes, but there was something feral now in his silence—something hungry and barely restrained.

You reached for him, and he let you. Let you wrap your fingers around him, let you guide him down to your mouth.

But just as you leaned in, he caught your wrist.

His voice dropped an octave.

“You do that and I’m not going to last.”

Your smirk faltered.

“You think I care?”

And before he could stop you again, you leaned down and took him into your mouth—hot, slow, tongue dragging along the underside as your lips slid down inch by inch. He let out a strangled sound, fists curling in the sheets on either side of him, chest rising fast.

“Shit—don’t stop—fuck—”

You didn’t. You moaned around him, letting the vibrations buzz through his cock. Your fingers curled at the base, your pace teasing at first, and then faster—your lips slick, jaw flexing as you swallowed him deeper.

He groaned, head falling back, hair sticking to his forehead.

“Fucking hell—how are you—” He choked, hips twitching. “You’re gonna make me—”

You pulled off with a gasp, a line of spit catching on your lip as you looked up at him, flushed and ruined.

Seungmin reached for you in a blur.

His hand wrapped around the back of your neck, dragging you up until your lips crashed into his. He kissed you like he wanted to memorize you, like he wanted to devour you—and as he pushed you back against the mattress, the last trace of hesitation fell away from him.

“This shouldn’t be happening,” he murmured against your mouth. “But I’m not stopping.”

And then he pressed the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, dragging it slow, teasing, watching your body react—watching your legs fall wider, your breath hitch.

“Is this what you want?” he asked, voice low and ruined. “Say it.”

“Yes, I want it.”

His cock nudged at your entrance—thick, hot, pulsing. You whimpered just from the feel of it pressing against you. Seungmin’s eyes locked on yours, blown wide, hair damp, jaw clenched so tight it ticked beneath his flushed skin.

“I want to fuck you so bad,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “But if I move right now, I’m gonna come.”

You bit your lip, your hips already rocking forward the slightest bit, aching for him.

“Please do it,” you whispered. “Slow. I want to feel every inch.”

He groaned like he was in pain and slid in—just the tip.

Then deeper.

And deeper.

You cried out when he bottomed out inside you, your walls stretching to take him, fluttering from the fullness. His head dropped to your shoulder as he trembled above you, trying so fucking hard to stay still.

“Fuck—” he rasped, breath hot on your neck. “You’re—Jesus, you’re tight. Warm. You feel so—fuck—I can’t—”

His hips rocked once, slow, thick drag of cock that pulled a breathless moan from your throat. He kissed your collarbone, hands gripping your thighs, keeping your legs spread wide for him as he started fucking you in slow, careful thrusts.

Each one sent shocks through your spine—steady, deep, possessive. He groaned every time he sank back in, voice rough with disbelief, hips shuddering as he fought not to lose it.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

“You’re not what I expected,” you breathed, already gasping as he set a slow rhythm, grinding in circles that had your toes curling. “You’re so—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

Just moaned, softly, “Oh Baby…”

The effect was instant.

Seungmin froze mid-thrust.

His eyes met yours—dark, blown wide, almost dangerous.

“Say that again,” he said, low, like a growl from deep in his chest.

You blinked up at him, surprised, breathless. “…Baby.”

He snapped.

His mouth was on yours, desperate, tongue tasting every sound you made. Then he grabbed your hips and started fucking you with rougher, sharper thrusts—still deep, but now filled with urgency.

“You feel that?” he panted, hips snapping forward again. “That’s mine. You understand?”

You whimpered, clinging to him, head rolling back as he fucked you like he was trying to brand you.

“God, you’re so good,” he moaned, voice cracking. “Can’t believe you’re letting me do this. Can’t believe I’m inside you like this.”

You barely heard him—you were too busy writhing, body twitching under him, orgasm crawling up your spine like wildfire.

But you wanted more. You wanted to see him break.

You pushed at his chest, flipping him over and straddling him in one breathless motion. He let you, watching you like he was starved, lips parted as you lined him back up and sank down on him, slow and tight and trembling.

“Oh, fuck,” he gasped, gripping the sheets. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You started riding him, steady at first—hips rolling, eyes locked on his, both of you completely lost in the sight of your bodies moving together.

But when you leaned forward, whispering “You like this?” into his ear—

—he moved.

Fast.

One hand grabbed your throat, not choking, just holding—just owning. His other arm locked around your waist, and suddenly he was fucking up into you, lifting you off the bed with every brutal, delicious thrust.

“Is this what you wanted?” he growled. “Wanted to ride me, make me lose my fucking mind?”

You gasped, fingers flying to his wrist, not to stop him—just to feel him. His cock hit deeper like this, angled right against your sweet spot, and your thighs started to tremble from the sheer power of his pace.

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe.

“Look at me.”

You did—and his face. God, his face. Eyes locked on yours like he was watching you fall apart just for him.

“I’m gonna come,” he warned, voice hoarse. “You’re gonna take it. All of it.”

Your orgasm was still crashing through your body when Seungmin moved again.

Without warning, he flipped you onto your stomach, strong hands manhandling you like you weighed nothing. You gasped into the sheets, dizzy from the sudden shift—but the moment your cheek hit the pillow, you felt him behind you again, kneeling between your thighs, gripping your hips like he was about to lose himself.

“Fucking perfect,” he growled, voice low and wrecked as he stared at the arch of your back, your ass up high, your cunt slick and pulsing from how hard you’d just come. “You look like this and expect me to hold back?”

You whined into the sheets, pressing your hips up for him—begging without words.

He lined up.

And slammed into you.

You screamed.

It wasn’t pain—it was bliss. He was fucking deeper than before, harder, snapping his hips against your ass so roughly you could hear the wet slap echo in the room. You clawed the sheets. Your voice was a broken string of moans and gasps.

Every time he drove in, your ass bounced back against him, the sting of skin on skin turning into pure heat.

Then—smack.

His hand landed hard on your ass.

You cried out, back arching like a bow.

“Oh my god—Seungmin—!”

He did it again. And again. Spanked you until the skin burned and the sounds were too filthy to be real, and he was groaning behind you like a man possessed.

“I’ve dreamt of this,” he gasped, watching the jiggle of your ass as he fucked you. “Touching you. Being inside you. You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

His hand slid forward, fingers pinching one of your nipples, twisting it, tugging until you choked on a sob.

“Please—please—” you begged, not even sure what you were asking for anymore.

He leaned over your back, his breath hot on your ear. “Begging already?”

You were shaking. Crying out for more. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, wet and wild, and his rhythm got even more brutal—like he was trying to ruin you for anyone else.

“You want me to break you?” he whispered, thrusting deep and hard enough to push you forward.

“Yes—Seungmin—please—”

He pulled out suddenly and flipped you again, your body pliant and trembling as he pushed your knees up and apart, exposing you completely. He hovered over you, eyes wild, jaw slack, body covered in a sheen of sweat.

“You’re mine right now,” he said, voice trembling from restraint, “and I’m gonna make sure you never forget it.”

Then he sank back into you and started pounding again—deep, rough, so good you couldn’t breathe. Your breasts bounced with every thrust, and Seungmin’s hands were everywhere—gripping your thighs, tweaking your nipples, palming your throat just enough to make your head spin.

“Say it,” he growled, eyes locked on yours. “Say I’m the only one who’s ever made you feel like this.”

“You are—fuck—you are—” you cried, losing yourself completely as another orgasm tore through you, clenching so tight around him that he finally let go.

He groaned—loud, raw—head thrown back as he spilled inside you, hips still moving like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t want to.

Even as he came, he kept fucking you.

Slow now. Deep. Letting it ride out as long as possible.

His voice cracked when he said, “I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

And honestly? You didn’t want him to.

⸻

The room was quiet now, save for the hum of the air conditioning and the sound of your shaky breathing. Your body was limp beneath him, boneless, skin slick with sweat and heat and everything he’d just poured into you. He was still inside, still twitching a little, as if even his cock didn’t want to leave your warmth.

But then Seungmin exhaled—shaky and slow—and pulled out of you with a soft hiss. He moved so carefully, hands trembling a bit as he reached for the discarded duvet to cover your body, his eyes wide and stunned, his lips parted like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

You watched him sit back on his heels, hair sticking to his forehead, cheeks flushed, lashes low. The confidence—the filth—the devastating way he just fucked you… it was gone.

Now he looked shy.

Almost embarrassed.

“…Did I hurt you?” he asked quietly, reaching for the tissues from the nightstand. His voice was soft again—barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to be that rough. I just— I kind of lost it.”

You smiled, dazed and aching but full of warmth, watching as he carefully cleaned you up. He was so gentle, even shaking a little, his thumb brushing your inner thigh like he didn’t know if he had the right.

You pushed yourself up slightly and cupped his jaw. “Seungmin.”

His eyes flicked up to yours.

“I’m fine. Better than fine.” You leaned in and kissed him—slow and deep, tasting the way his breath hitched in surprise. “You don’t have to be so scared. I wanted it. All of it.”

He let out a sigh, the kind that sounded more like relief than anything else.

When you broke the kiss, he hesitated, then bent to grab the shirt he’d worn earlier that night from the edge of the bed. “Here,” he murmured, helping you slip it over your head. It was soft and warm, and it smelled like him—clean laundry and sweat and the tiniest hint of cologne. He smoothed the hem over your hips gently, reverently, then looked up at you with those sweet, wrecked eyes.

“…I’ll shut up now.”

You laughed softly and dragged him into the bed beside you. He climbed in, curling behind you like it was the most natural thing in the world, pulling you into his chest, holding you so tight it was almost like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

And for a few minutes, it was just quiet. Breathing. His nose buried in your hair. Your fingers lightly tracing the lines of his knuckles where they rested over your stomach.

Then you whispered, “No one has to know, right?”

He stiffened slightly. “Right.”

“But…” you tilted your head back, meeting his eyes, “I wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t just a one-time thing.”

Seungmin blinked. His voice cracked when he said, “You mean that?”

You nodded, smiling softly. “There’s no going back to pretending we’re just coworkers. Not after this.”

His arms tightened around you.

“Good,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder. “Because I don’t think I could look at you like that again. I want this. You. As much as you’ll let me have.”

And then he kissed your neck—so softly, so sweet—and whispered, “I’m yours if you want me.”

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

Authors note: The way Seungmin has been creeping up on me and wrecking me these days???? Then that cute abs reveal? Safe to say he’s stuck in my head and Ive been thinking about this scenario for a VERY long time🥹

Also, we’re almost at 2k guys! 😭😭😭😭 you guys are the best fr!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8 @sunflwerstar @shxdowofdarkness @aeyla @annyeongffs @beppybeesnuggets @iamwritteninyourstars @crisle19 @stxysakura @ocean-glacierblue

[bahngarang]

... oh I have a very evil fic idea...

[bahngarang]

Hiya! I just randomly stumbled on your blog (i think...yesterday...? Don't quote me on that lol) and I just wanted to say that it's been making me feel so much better! I have Hypermobile EDS and seeing someone write for it (with mobility aids included) has made my entire life! Thank you for helping me feel not so isolated and writing something that for once i feel like i relate to❤️ you're the best 😭

awwwh 🥺 I'm so glad that my silly stuff is helping!

I only started this blog for me and I didn't think anyone would see it but hearing how it's helping people is melting my heart 🥹

the isolation is so real but we gotta stick together and remind each other we're not alone in this mess <3

sending my love!

[bahngarang]

LEE KNOW — buzz rhythm 02 (250614)

[bahngarang]

Not Your Type

Hyunjin x fem!reader

Warnings: Nothing much

Genre: strangers to lovers, fluffff, angst

Summary: He saves you from trouble. And you fall head over heels. You're a rich girl, he's struggling to make ends meet. But love knows no bounds right?

a/n: Ok, so this turned into a whole Kdrama 🤣 But I love this Jinnie so much omg 🥺 I usually don't post on Mondays, but here it is 🤷‍♀️

You knew this dress was a mistake. You hated it the moment your mum shoved it into your hands and demanded you to wear it. 

A shimmery, black number with a cut so high on the thigh you might as well have just worn some glitter and called it a day. But no. This was mum's way of nudging you not so subtly into the marriage market, hoping that some future business heir from this high-society party would take an interest.

And if that dress wasn't enough, your mum had the nerve to slide next to you and poke your ribs with her elbow and say, “Smile, darling. You look like a corpse in designer wear.”

So you gave a withering glare and you left. Stomped out. Heels clicking against the marble dramatically until they clicked on the road dramatically.

You had walked a long way until you registered the silence. You stopped short, swallowing as you took in your surroundings. A quiet alley. Dark.

The moment the reality of your situation crashed in in the form of a shadow in the dark, your knees were already shaking. Literally.

You turned and started speed walking - as fast as those cursed heels let you - but you could hear heavy footsteps behind you, closing in fast. 

Of course this was the perfect time and outfit for a creepy stalker to take interest in you. Of course. The night you looked like an expensive, trembling snack in five-inch heels.

“Hey, princess,” the voice rasped behind you.

Shit.

But before you could even gasp, another figure stepped in between you and the stalker. Tall. Long limbs. Broad shoulders in a dark hoodie. Short dark hair. And cold.

His gaze flicked lazily to your stalker. And he took a step forward. 

“Leave,” he said, voice low and calm. “Now.”

The creep stammered. Blinked. And to your surprise, turned and ran.

Silence.

Then the stranger’s eyes slid to you. You were frozen - heart pounding and barely breathing.

“You’re not from here.” He stated, voice flat.

His gaze ran down your dress - slow and unbothered - and back up. And then he sighed. 

“What kind of idiot walks through this part of the city dressed like that?” Another glance at your outfit. “You’re lucky he was a coward.”

“I wasn’t exactly planning to get stalked, thanks.” You bristled. 

His brows lifted the tiniest bit as he said, “And yet here you are.”

“What’s it to you?” you snapped, crossing your arms.

“Nothing, actually.” He said, and turned like he was about to leave.

“Wait!” you blurted. “Please don't leave me here!”

He stopped and sighed again.

“Where do you live?” You swallowed and told him.

“That's not too far.” He said. “Come on, I'll walk you.”

He started walking, not waiting for you. The nerve. The absolute nerve. You wanted to throw a tantrum right there, but you hurried after him, heels clicking. 

“You know, you could be nicer to the girl you just saved.”

“Oh so I have to save you, and be nice to you. And anything your highness?” 

Your heart flipped. But you caught yourself, but not fast enough, unfortunately, because you were pretty sure that you just imprinted on him like a damn baby duck. 

“Do you treat all damsels like this?” you muttered.

He snorted, the tiniest, briefest smirk ghosting his mouth. “You’re no damsel.”

Damn right. 

“I cannot stop thinking about him.”

“You’re still on this? Seriously?” Your cousin Minho groaned loudly from your bed, face buried in a silk pillow. 

Jeongin, your best friend, didn’t even look up from his phone, as he said, “What’s his name again?”

“I don’t know,” you whined, flopping dramatically onto the bed. “That’s the problem. He saved me from that creep. He was gorgeous…like a fallen angel in a hoodie.”

“Or like a potential criminal.” Minho snorted.

You threw a cushion at him. “Don’t ruin this for me.”

Jeongin sighed deeply, finally looking at you. He was the picture of a perfect young businessman. Perfect black hair. Rolex watch. Already CEO of his father’s company.

“Babe. Seriously. Why him?” he asked. 

“Because,” you huffed, rolling over, “he didn’t care about me. He didn’t even look impressed. Or starstruck. Or interested. Like I was just... normal.”

Minho lifted his head, looking scandalized. “God forbid.”

You pointed at Jeongin. “You. You can find out who he is. I know you can. Call Seungmin and find out for me, please, Innie.”

Jeongin squinted at you like you’d grown two heads. And you'd mentioned Seungmin - Jeongin’s friend (your short term fling from your uni days), and also a lawyer, who had the necessary “contacts”. 

“You want me to run a background check on the stranger who saved you in a back alley? With the help of your ex.” Jeongin repeated. 

“Obviously. He isn't my ex, he's just -”

“Babe. You cannot be serious.”

You flopped again, more dramatically this time.

“Innie, this is a life and death situation.” You stared at the ceiling with a sigh. “I want him.”

Minho sat up and hit you with a pillow. “You are unhinged.”

Jeongin stared at you for a moment and then sighed like his soul was leaking out of his body.

“I cannot believe I’m doing this,” he muttered, pulling out his other phone - the shady one. The black one you weren’t supposed to know existed.

“Jeongin!” Minho gasped. “No. Don’t encourage her insanity, so quickly.”

“She’s going to make me anyway,” Jeongin grumbled, typing furiously. “Might as well get it done before she sells her watch to hire a private investigator.”

“That was one time!” you cried.

“Princess. What exactly are you planning when I do find him?” he asked, glancing at you over the screen.

You grinned, wicked and sure.

“Oh, I’m going to marry him. Oh my God.” you squealed and tackled Minho into a hug as he flailed. 

“She’s going to eat this poor man alive.” he wheezed as he wrestled you away.

—

A few hours later:

Jeongin stood in front of you, holding his tablet like it was the Holy Grail.

“I found him.”

You sat up so fast your hair smacked Minho in the face, and he made a disgusted sound, shoving you away.

“Tell me everything,” you gasped.

“Name - Hwang Hyunjin. Lives in a terrible part of town with his single mother and little sister, Yeji - high school, smart kid. He works two jobs. Day shifts at a garage. Night shifts at a diner near the river.” Jeongin read out. 

“Criminal record?” Minho asked, sitting up.

“None. Not even a parking ticket.” Jeongin scrolled. “Guy’s clean. Like... painfully clean. His school record? Top of his class. Wanted to go to art school. Didn’t. Had to stay and take care of the family ‘cos dad's not in the picture, and mum's a bit poorly to work.”

You were silent. Too silent.

Jeongin looked up as he said, “No mob ties. No arrests. He’s just... broke. Really broke. But responsible. Works like a dog to keep his sister in school. And keeps weird rich heiresses safe from creeps, apparently.”

You stared. Heart pounding.

Minho squinted at you. “Oh no.”

“I love him,” you whispered.

Minho threw his arms up. “Jesus CHRIST -”

“I knew he was good.” You grabbed a pillow, hugging it to your chest. “I knew it. I could smell it. Like... honour. And a bit of tragedy.”

“Princess, no.” Jeongin pointed sharply at you. “You can’t ‘love’ someone because you read a background check. That’s insane.”

“I can and I do.” You grinned, full teeth. “I’m going to marry him.”

“Stop. Stop this immediately.” Minho said, shaking his head. “If your mum finds out-”

“Marry him. Have his babies. Take care of his family.” you ranted. 

“You’ve lost your mind,” Minho said, dragging a hand down his face. “Jeongin, you broke her.”

“Babe. You can’t just... show up in his life. You’re from this world.” He gestured grandly around your room. “He’s from a place where if rent is late, the landlord screams through the walls.”

You just smiled.

“All the more reason I want him.”

Minho groaned. Jeongin groaned harder. You flopped back on the bed, sighing dreamily.

Hwang Hyunjin. Beautiful. Big sad eyes and rough hands and a world you weren’t supposed to touch.

The bell above the greasy diner door chimed when you pushed it open. God. It smelled like fried onions and floor cleaner in there.

“Okay, princess,” Jeongin’s voice crackled through your AirPods. “Go seduce the poor man.”

“I hate this,” Minho groaned. “This is actual social suicide. She’s going to die.”

“Shut up, both of you,” you hissed under your breath, sauntering toward the counter. “He’s here. I see him. Oh my God, he's such a dream.”

Hyunjin stood behind the counter, white apron on, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and head down as he wiped the counter with a rag.

He glanced up, saw you, froze and narrowed his eyes.

You had half a mind to scramble from there, but you took in a deep breath and walked up to him, sat on the cracked red bar stool and smiled at him.

“Ohhh it’s you,” you said aloud, and heard snickering from your idiot friends on the other side. 

“What are you doing here?” Hyunjin asked. 

“Just here for some coffee-” you said, smiling like a maniac.

Silence. He looked you up and down like you’d fallen from space.

“Coffee,” he repeated slowly. “Here?”

“This is so bad,” Minho whispered.

Hyunjin folded his arms, apron tugging tight.

“Not really your type of place, princess,” he said coolly. “We don’t serve sparkling water or gold-dusted lattes, in case you got lost.”

But you didn't hear half of what he said because you were gazing at him with those big eyes, pupils blown wide and a soft blush covering your cheeks. 

“You’re perfect,” you said without thinking.

“Oh my God,” Jeongin shrieked. “BABE HE JUST INSULTED YOU!”

Hyunjin blinked and frowned as he asked, “What?”

“I…uh…I heard the coffee’s good here!” you yelped. “Just wanted to try it. I love coffee. And local businesses, you know. Love them.”

“Oh for fucks sake,” Minho said, cringing on your behalf.

Hyunjin sighed and turned, grabbing the ancient coffee pot.

“She’s gonna drink that sludge and die,” Minho whispered gleefully.

“Babe, you can still run, he’s not watching,” Jeongin said.

Before you could say anything, a chipped mug slammed in front of you. Hyunjin leaned in, eyes sharp.

“Drink.”

You blinked up at him and then lifted the mug. Taking a deep breath, you sipped. And nearly died. It tasted like nightmares and tar. 

Jeongin snorted as he said, “Want me to call an ambulance?”

Hyunjin watched your struggle, his mouth quirking - just barely - as you forced it down.

“Good?” he asked. 

“Delicious,” you coughed, smiling like your life depended on it. “Best... best coffee ever.”

He leaned closer, elbows on the counter and his eyes burned into yours.

“Why are you really here, princess?”

“Oh my God,” Jeongin gasped. “He’s onto you. Abort! Abort!”

“Maybe I like the view?” you offered in a small voice. 

Minho made a dying seal noise and said, “NO. You did not just say that.”

Hyunjin gave you a suspicious look. 

“Try not to choke on it,” he muttered, sliding the sugar jar toward you. “Can’t have you dying here. Bad for the business.”

You nodded, stirring sugar into the horror coffee.

“She’s gone. This is the end. She’s ruined.” You heard Minho groan as Jeongin laughed.

You took another sip, and grimaced. Ok, so you can't do this. Not another sip. So you pushed the awful cup away.

“Ugh. You win,” you huffed, looking up at Hyunjin. “Fuck the coffee.”

Hyunjin leaned on the counter, arms folded, a slow amused smile tugging at his mouth. He looked like he was trying not to laugh.

“You think?” he drawled. “Told you it was bad. But you rich types always gotta try things for the thrill, right?”

You pouted, feeling your face heating up. 

“No,” you said loudly, with your heart in your throat. “It’s not the coffee.”

His brow arched, his eyes daring you to speak. 

“I like you, okay?” you blurted. “I really do. You’re the first person I’ve actually liked in…God, forever. And I don’t know how to play the cute, coy girl. So there. I like you.”

The air froze between you as Hyunjin blinked and stared like you’d just spoken parseltongue.

“What?” he said flatly.

“I like you.”

His mouth twitched - but not into a smile. But rather into disbelief and cold annoyance.

“Okay. That’s not funny.” He said, his jaw ticking.  “If that's all, you can leave.”

Your stomach twisted. Oh this was all so wrong. 

“I’m not joking,” you said, sitting up straight. “I swear I’m not. I -”

His hand hit the counter, hard. Not loud, but firm - enough to make you shut up.

“This is my workplace,” he said sharply, but his voice didn't raise at all. “Not your playground. I work double shifts to pay for rent. To buy dinner. To keep my sister in school. Not that you’d know what that feels like.”

You flinched.

“I’m not some shiny toy for you to chase when you’re bored,” he bit out, voice tired, but sharp. “So whatever game you’re playing - stop. Get out. And I’ll pretend this whole thing didn’t happen.”

His chest rose and fell fast, jaw tight. His hand gripped the counter like he wanted to break it.

And you - ridiculous, spoiled, hopeless you - just sat there. Heart racing and face hot.  And wanting him more than ever.

“Hyun-”

“Get. Out.” he muttered again, cold, sharp, final. “Please don't play with my life.”

Oh, you weren't doing this. You weren't used to this - being told off for being simply honest. You were so innocent like that. What did you even do wrong? You were in love, was that a crime? 

So you stood and stepped closer, leaning in till his face was inches away from yours. Hyunjin’s body stilled like a wild animal caught in headlights.

And you smiled, slowly and sweetly. Like you knew something he didn’t.

“How dare you. I know you think I'm some deranged rich girl. But you don't get to say things like that just because I'm rich. I'm human too. And,” you whispered. “Just so you know - I’m gonna marry the fuck out of you, Hwang Hyunjin.”

His eyes blew wide, and his mouth parted in barely concealed shock.

“Because I think you're amazing and I'm in love with you,” your voice cracked, but you held on. “I’m gonna marry you. And then I’m gonna show you what I can really do. Just you wait.”

SILENCE.

And then - 

“AAAAAAAAHHHHH -” Jeongin squealed in your ear like a dying dolphin. So damn loud that your eardrum actually rang. “OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD SHE SAID IT - SHE PROPOSED IN A DINER - MINHO SHE PROPOSED IN A DINER -”

Hyunjin was frozen. His jaw moved but no words came out. His pretty mouth opened, closed and opened again. Like you’d broken his entire brain.

“Speechless, babe?” you teased softly, and he blinked - once, twice.

“You’ll see, Hyunjin,” you said softly, the hurt showing on your face for the first time since you stepped into the diner, and Hyunjin swallowed hard. 

You straightened, collected yourself, winked, and sashayed your rich, totally humiliated ass right out of that diner, leaving him gaping like you’d hit him with a truck.

---

You wobbled out of the diner with your heart hammering and your throat burning. Your friends watched as you yanked open the car door - Minho’s sleek black Porsche - and threw yourself into the back seat. 

And burst into tears. Loud, ugly, no dignity left tears.

Minho turned slowly in the driver’s seat and sighed.

“Oh my God,” he muttered, staring dead ahead. “Are you seriously crying over diner-boy now?”

Jeongin popped his head between the front seats, grinning like a gremlin.

“Babe,” he cooed. “Babe no, come on. You killed it in there. It was hot. Honestly I nearly asked for your hand myself.”

You sniffed, wiping your eyes. “He hates me.”

“No he doesn’t,” Jeongin said, climbing fully into the backseat beside you and pulling you into a hug. “He was shook. You fried his brain, babe. He doesn’t know what hit him.”

“He told me to get out,” you wailed.

“Maybe because you proposed like a crazy person, while he was at work!” Minho scolded, grabbing a few tissues out of the box in the dashboard, and offering them to you. 

“Shut up, hyung!” Jeongin snapped. “She’s so brave. She’s a queen. She just confessed her love, that's not a crime!”

You sniffed again, and hugged Jeongin tighter.

“I’m gonna marry him,” you mumbled miserably.

Jeongin grinned wide. “Damn right you are.”

The next morning:

Hyunjin shoved open the garage door - his face dark and tired. Chris, the owner of the garage, glanced up from the ledger he was looking at.

“What's that face for?” he asked, walking around the little counter and walking towards the garage door to swat his younger brother Felix, who was ogling at a girl outside.

“Stop flirting with her, Lix! Her dad’s gonna kill you, and then throw her in a convent. So please get back to -”

“Hyung! She smiled at me!” Felix whined, rubbing his head. “Ahhhh she smiled!!”

Chris glared. “Get back to work, right now.”

Hyunjin sighed loudly and sat down on an old toolbox.

“And you,” Chris said, pointing at Hyunjin. “What happened?”

Hyunjin ran a hand through his hair and mumbled, “She happened.”

“She who?” Felix’s head popped up from behind a car. “The rich girl?”

“That girl,” Hyunjin muttered.

“OHHHHH?”

Hyunjin shot him a look. “Shut up.”

Chris smirked. “And?”

“She came to the diner last night. Said she liked me. Confessed. Right there. And told me she's gonna marry me.”

“Holy shit,” Felix breathed, looking way too excited for someone who just got swatted for slacking.

“And what did you do?” Chris asked, trying to hide the fact that he was trying not to laugh. 

“I may have kicked her out of the diner…and she may have left crying…”

Felix gasped so loud.

“HYUNJIN YOU DON'T MAKE GIRLS CRY!” he scolded, his beautiful face set in a scowl. 

“I had to,” Hyunjin whined. “I’m not dragging someone like that down here. What am I supposed to do, make her eat instant ramen and ride the subway? She’s not built for this life. She thinks she is. But she’s not.”

Chris leaned on a car, eyes wide. “But you like her.”

“What?” Hyunjin said, looking surprised.

“You obviously like her.”

“Maybe.” Hyunjin exhaled, looking pained. “She's adorable, ok? She looks at me with those big sparkly eyes and I'm gone. Like when I helped her with that creep? She looked at me like that. And yesterday? She looked at me like that again, and I wanted to die. I just wanted the earth to open up and swallow me whole, because I know I don't deserve her, but now it's gonna kill me to see her marry some CEO and carry on with her life -”

“Man. You’re so doomed.” Felix said with a grin. 

Hyunjin groaned, covering his face with his hands. 

You were strolling down the street with Minho, sipping on bubble tea, looking totally depressed.  Well, that was until your face lit up like a Christmas tree as your eyes fell on him. Across the street. You gripped Minho's arm so tight, it made him yelp.

“Oh my god, oh my god, Lino look!!’

Minho's eyes followed you. And there came Hwang Hyunjin, with a pretty teenage girl beside him - his sister, had to be - and they were laughing at something.

“He looks so happy. Are you gonna terrify him in the middle of the street, darling?” Minho asked, sipping his coffee.

“I mean, I have say hi to my sister-in-law, don't you think?”

“You're unhinged.”

“I learned from you.” You quipped with a shrug, before waving at Hyunjin. 

He slowed the moment his eyes locked onto yours. And they widened in horror. 

“Hyunjin!” you chirped, and Minho stopped dead beside you. 

Hyunjin froze like an animal in headlights. Again. Yeji blinked up at him and then, across the street at you.

“Who's that?” she whispered, tugging at his sleeve. 

You beamed and bounced across the street with Minho sighing and trailing behind like a weary dad.

“Hi!” you greeted brightly, waving.

Hyunjin rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting everywhere but your face. Yeji was glancing between you both and her narrowed, seeing her brother’s ears turn a bright shade of red. 

“This is...uh…” Hyunjin coughed. “This is...a friend.”

“A friend?!” Minho hissed in your ear. “When did that happen? When did that happen?!”

You elbowed him sharply, grinning at Yeji.

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” you said, smiling sweetly. “It’s so nice to meet you. You must be Yeji, right?”

Her face lit up as she nodded.

“Oh, your brother talks about you all the time,” you teased, shooting Hyunjin a glance.

He choked.

“I don’t -”

“Oppa, you didn’t tell me you had such a pretty friend!” Yeji giggled and you giggled back - like two old friends already.

Hyunjin’s eyes met Minho's, who stood beside you, utterly silent, sipping his bubble tea with the sourest poker face you’d ever seen.

“Hyunjinnie, how come you didn't invite her over for dinner?” She said, giving Hyunjin a teasing look, and then turned to you and said, “Do you wanna come home for dinner? He’s cooking tonight!”

“No, she doesn’t -” Hyunjin started, panicking.

“Yes I do!” you gasped, clapping your hands. “I’d love to!”

Hyunjin closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Like he was praying to every god he knew. Because honestly, his heart ached seeing that smile on your face.

“It’s nothing fancy, but you’ll come, right? I wanna hear how you met oppa!” Yeji saud and you nodded. 

“Oh, I’ll tell you everything,” you laughed.

“Of course you will. Of course you will.” Minho groaned softly beside you. 

---

You stood in front of Hyunjin’s apartment door with a paper bag in one hand and flowers in the other. You have been standing outside his door for like ten minutes now, trying to gather your thoughts. You were scared to death. You really were. 

You so desperately wanted him to like you, but that sharp stab every time he looked so done with you didn't help. Neither did the butterflies in your tummy. 

Just as you raised your hand to knock, Hyunjin opened the door. Seeing your panicked face, he grinned and leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed across his chest. 

“Were you gonna stand here all night?” He teased and yeah. All that sass and courage leaked out of your body and left the chat real quick.

“I was gonna knock.” You said, indignantly.

“Like you were gonna knock that last five times?”

“Shut up.”

“My home, my rules.”

“Well, it's gonna be mine soon. So there.” you said, you face so close to his, and he looked away, but still had that grin intact. 

But he had to give it to you. You looked like a dream in your pale pink dress, hair loose, face fresh, holding flowers and chocolates like you were here to charm a kingdom.

“Who’s at the door, Hyunjin?” his mother called from the kitchen.

Yeji popped into view behind him, eyes going huge.

“Y/N! Why are you just standing there?! Come in! Mum look!”

You grinned and held out the flowers, just as his mum came into view. 

“For you, princess. And these are for you, Mrs. Hwang. I hope it’s okay.”

“They're beautiful!” Yeji gasped, grabbing them.

Hyunjin stepped back silently, watching you charm his mum and sister. You slid past him with a wink.

“Smells amazing in here. Can I help?” you asked. 

His mum smiled, sweet and tired, and said, “Of course you can help. Hyunjin, give her an apron!”

He fumbled one off the hook, muttering under his breath.

“You really don’t have to -”

“But I want to,” you cut in, tying the apron with a grin. “Tell me what to do.”

And just like that, you were in, chopping garlic beside his mother and stirring soup with Yeji chattering happily beside you. You laughed when his mum teased you about your useless rich-kid knife skills, and showed you how to do it right.

And Hyunjin? He leaned against the counter, watching it all unfold. Stealing glances every moment he could.

He didn’t mean to. He'd promised himself not to dream about something he knew wasn't possible for him. But here you were in his little kitchen, hair in a messy bun, sweating in the kitchen heat, and laughing so sweetly when his mum scolded you for cutting the tofu too thick. And his chest squeezed.

Damn it. You looked like you belonged there. Like you fit. Like you could stay forever. Even though his poor heart screamed the reality. 

Yeji hooked your arm, giggling, telling you some story about Hyunjin, and you laughed, throwing your head back - so unapologetically… you. 

Hyunjin felt his ears burn, and his cheeks burn. His entire body burned. His mother leaned in close to him, smiling.

“She’s sweet,” she said softly. “I like her.”

Hyunjin swallowed hard and shook his head. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he muttered, eyes flicking to you.

“I think you’d be lucky, boy.” His mum patted his arm, and Hyunjin really didn’t know what to say to that.

Because you were stirring soup in his kitchen, smiling like sunshine. And he was already losing this war.

A few weeks later:

Hyunjin had just started his evening shift at the diner and it was unusually quiet, except for the soft clink of cutlery and the low hum of old music crackling from the radio.

Hyunjin wiped down the counter, shoulders stiff, and his eyes tired. And then the doorbell chimed. He looked up expecting his usual trucker gang. But it wasn't them.

It was Jeongin - waltzing in like he owned the place, his silk shirt gleaming. He grinned his beautiful boyish grin as he sat on the exact barstool you had sat on some days ago.

Hyunjin went on to stacking the coffee cups for no real reason, avoiding Jeongin’s eye. 

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Hyunjin muttered without glancing up, “it’s a no.”

Jeongin propped his chin on his palm, and said, “Don’t be like that, hyung. I came for coffee. And maybe to give you some unsolicited advice.”

Hyunjin scowled. “No coffee. No favors. No schemes.”

Jeongin sighed, dramatic as hell.

“You’re so difficult. I get it, you don’t like me, I’m too rich, too flashy, blah blah.” He waved a hand. “But you like her, don’t you?”

Hyunjin froze, the last cup on his stack wobbling. 

“That’s none of your business,” he said quietly.

“Wrong,” Jeongin smiled. “She’s my best friend. It’s exactly my business.”

Hyunjin’s jaw ticked as he gave Jeongin a glare. 

“She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t want this. Or me.” He hissed. “She’ll hate this life. Give her time. She’ll wake up.” 

Jeongin leaned forward, and sajd, “She’s not asleep, hyung. You are.”

Hyunjin shot him a warning glance, but Jeongin kept going, softer now.

“You think you’re protecting her. Like she’s some delicate princess in a glass tower.”

Hyunjin frowned.

“But you don’t know her like I do.” Jeongin’s voice dropped, gentle and serious now. “She looks strong and loud and stubborn. I know. But she’s the softest, most breakable thing I’ve ever met. So good. So stupidly genuine. And if it’s not you…” He shrugged. “It’ll be some rich husband. Some billionaire. Yes. You think she deserves that. But do you really want her to have a pretentious empty life? She’ll smile in pretty dresses and die quietly inside. Have you seen her smile, Hyunjin? The one she has when she talks about you? I have.”

The silence stretched between them. Hyunjin put the wobbly cup down and sighed. 

“It’s not fair to her,” he whispered. “I can’t give her anything.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want things, hyung. Maybe she wants you.” Jeongin smiled softly. "Besides, what's wrong in letting her give for a change?"

Hyunjin looked down - his chest feeling tight. Like even breathing hurt. Because no matter how many times he told himself that he can't do this, the way you babied Yeji and cooked with his mum, so many times over the weeks, had his heart completely surrendering to you. 

“She deserves better.” he said, his voice a whisper.

“She deserves what she wants,” Jeongin said gently. “And she wants you.”

The bell above the door jingled again and Jeongin stood, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve.

“Think about it, hyung.” He smiled, knowing. “She loves you.”

And with that, he left, leaving Hyunjin staring at the cup in front of him. Chipped and old. And wondering if Jeongin was right.

But his thought bubble popped as his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, and pressed the phone to his ear, ignoring the ‘no phones during working hours’ policy. 

“Hey mum-”

---

Hyunjin burst into his apartment, panicking. 

“Yeji?”

His little sister sat curled on the couch, face buried in a cushion, sniffling like the world had ended. Their mum stroked her hair gently, looking absolutely worried.

“She won’t talk to me.” she said. “She hasn't said a word since she got home.”

Hyunjin's eyes fell on the big blotches of ink stains on her white uniform shirt, his heart squeezing in worry. 

“Yeji, come on.” Hyunjin crouched beside her. “Talk to me. Who did this?”

She just sniffled. And it hurt Hyunjin more because she was the sweetest child. She knew Hyunjin did everything he could to give her a reasonably good life. He did take up extra work apart from his diner and garage jobs, whenever he could. She hated to burden him. Or their mum. He knew that. 

Hyunjin sighed, dragging a hand down his face.

“Damn it,” he muttered, and grudging, almost desperately, he pulled out his phone.

And did the thing he never thought he'd do. 

---

Twenty minutes later, you blew into the apartment like a spring breeze, in a soft sundress and pretty sandals. And a giant stuffed bunny under one arm.

Jeongin strolled in behind you with grocery bags and the smuggest grin ever as he placed a few tubs of ice cream on the kitchen counter.

“Where’s my baby?” you said softly, kneeling beside Yeji. “Hey, princess. Wanna tell me what happened?”

Yeji peeked out from the pillow, eyes huge and wet. For a long, awful moment - she said nothing. Hyunjin and his mum watched as she quietly stood up, took your hand and led you inside to her bedroom. 

And now, seated on her bed, she held your hand and said, “They...called me poor…said my clothes were ugly. Called me trash... and...and poured ink all over me and laughed at me, because they know I would go back with this shirt again...”

And she broke, his tiny little sobs absolutely breaking your heart. Your eyes went soft as you held her as she cried. You saw Hyunjin peeking through the crack in the door, taking a step back as he saw his sister in your arms. 

Hyunjin's back hit the wall, a hand over his heart as he willed himself not to cry. He felt so terribly guilty.

“Yeji,” you said gently. “Look at me.”

She did. 

"First of all," you whispered, "anyone who says something like that is smaller than a speck of dust. Second, you know what I see when I look at you?"

Yeji blinked.

"I see someone kind. Someone smart. Someone who’s gonna grow up and run the world. And, you should know that bullies always end up in the gutter…at some point of time."

A soft, tiny smile graced her face. 

"There it is," you grinned. "That pretty smile. Just like your brother's."

Yeji laughed a teary laugh and sniffled.

“Of course you'll say that,” she teased in a shaky voice.

Hyunjin heard you laugh, and even through his tears, he smiled.

“Will you allow me to fix this?” you asked.

“Can you?” Yeji's eyes were big as she asked that.

“Of course, you're my family now. And no one messes with my family.”

Yeji giggled softly, and Hyunjin’s heart cracked a little. Then a lot.

“And you have this now.” You plopped the giant bunny into her lap. “Hold on to this, and consider it done.”

Yeji giggled harder and hugged the bunny tight.

You stood, smoothing your dress, and stepping out of the room to find Hyunjin standing right outside. You could see that his beautiful eyes were moist and he was trying so hard to not let it show.

“Don't worry, Hyunjin, I'll handle it.” you said.

“Wait, what?” Hyunjin said, alarmed. “What are you -”

But you were already walking out the door, grabbing Jeongin’s arm like a handbag.

“Let’s go, Innie. We’ve got bullies to end.”

“No violence!” Hyunjin called out. “Y/N!”

You stopped so abruptly on hearing Hyunjin say your name (probably for the first time) that Jeongin walked straight into you and stumbled.

You turned around, trying not to let your emotions display on your face as you said, “Of course not,” 

The next day, when Hyunjin arrived at the principal’s office at Yeji's school, you were already there, laughing with the principal. 

A few teachers and four girls stood by the side, shifting nervously. You were dressed in a dark blue dress, hair styled perfectly, with a smug look on your face.

“Hyunjinnie, come, sit,” you said, and the principal was quickly on her feet, welcoming Hyunjin in like he was the president. 

Hyunjin shuffled in and took a seat next to you, completely lost. And you slid a file across the table toward the principal, and said, “And that is a formal complaint against the girls bullying my sister-in-law. I have such low tolerance to bullying, but obviously you are such a capable educator, I'm sure you'll handle the situation well. If not, I'll have my lawyer pay a visit, since we already know the lowlifes who ignored all the previous complaints -”

The principal shook her head vigorously, and the teachers on the side looked horrified. So did the girls. And Hyunjin was glancing at you and then those teachers with wide eyes. 

“We'll let the principal handle this for now, right, Hyunjinnie?” You said, turning to look at Hyunjin, who nodded and said, “Yeah. Yes.”

“Oh good!” You said, standing up, throwing those girls one last death glare. And Hyunjin stood up too, and followed you out of the office.

“What did you do?” He asked, catching up with you.

“Oh nothing much. Just a few new computers. New library shelves and books, and -” You smiled sweetly. 

“Ohh so you didn't flex your money at all.” Hyunjin rolled his eyes. 

“Oh please. No one messes with my family, babe,” you shot back. “I take my sister-in-law duties very seriously.”

You winked and Hyunjin stared, his heart fully betraying him. Because he was this close to accepting the fact that he was in love with you. 

You turned with a swish and strolled past him like the queen you were.

“See you at dinner, Hyunjinnie.”

He caught your hand, suddenly, and you turned, your eyes falling on his hand and then looking up. 

“Hey.” Hyunjin said, his ears turning red. “Thank you.”

You smiled, a truly lovesick giddy shy smile, and ran off - leaving him standing there. Blushing and breathless. And absolutely, 100%, hopelessly doomed.

---

Later that night:

Dinner was done. You and Yeji were howling with laughter as you told her all about how her bullies begged and apologized. And their mum, smiling as she watched. 

Now as you carried the dishes to the sink, where his mum was washing the dishes, Hyunjin came up to you. 

“Hey,” He muttered awkwardly. “A word?”

Your eyes met, and you nodded, before following him into his room. 

Door closed, and Hyunjin sighed, back to you, hand on the handle, steadying himself.

“Listen, I’m trying to make this make sense in my head,” he began, voice strained. “You can’t just…do things like that. Being here. Charming my mum. Fixing things for Yeji. Make my heart -”

He stopped, and turned. And saw you gazing at him like he was the only star in the entire sky. Like he'd hung the moon. Like you were so gone for him -  it made him absolutely dizzy.

“God,” he whispered. “I can’t do this. I can’t -”

And then he grabbed you, and cupped your face, breathless, and kissed the hell out of you.

No warning, no hesitation, no self control. Just pure unfiltered need. You gasped, and then melted into him, clutching his shirt as he walked you backward to the bed, lips moving together. The back of your legs hit the bed, and you fell back pulling him down with you. And of course -

SQUEAK. The world’s loudest, most traitorous bed squeak.

“Shit -” Hyunjin muttered against your mouth, trying to stop the metal springs from screaming.

“Fuck, they’ll hear -”

You grinned into his kiss, holding on to him tighter. “Hyunjin... they already know...”

He groaned softly, forehead dropping to yours.

“I swear to God, hold still. Or they’re gonna totally misunderstand this.”

SQEEEEAK.

The bed protested again as you shifted deliberately, smug as hell.

His eyes flew wide and he whispered, “Don’t you dare.”

You gave him a wicked grin, your fingers running through his hair now, and his jaw tightened. He closed his eyes as your nails raked over his scalp.

“Woman, you’re going to ruin me.”

“You like it,” you whispered.

He groaned, helplessly and then kissed you again. And you adjusted underneath him and the bed screamed again. 

“We're gonna need a new bed if-” You said matter of factly. 

“Yeah yeah, we do-”

Divider: @saradika-graphics

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @hwangjoanna @pixie-felix @sailor--sun @chancloud8 @captainchrisstan @hansmic @emilyywhyy @inlovewithstraykids @my-neurodivergent-world @nightmarenyxx @channie4lifeee143127 @lezleeferguson-120 @silly250 @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes @sammhisphere @soona-huh @princesskrystix

[bahngarang]

suffering is not a hierarchy you dont need to collapse just to be believed

[bahngarang]

[bahngarang]

[bahngarang]

RANDOM TEXTS W/ STRAY KIDS (hyung line ver.)

genre: crack, humor

a/n: rlly meant it w the “random” part 💔 these are literal conversations with my nightstand at 1 am no judgement allowed

CHAN:

MINHO:

CHANGBIN:

HYUNJIN:

[bahngarang]

kitty needs a $250,000 yearly allowance