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fenya-scribbles · 7 days ago

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I will add you my love 💜

I’m so happy you like it!! 🥹

Rain

Network: @staynotes

Pairing: Hyunin x fem!Reader

Other Characters: none

Summary: Three weeks post-breakup, Hyunjin shows up to apologize with all he has.

Genre: exes to lovers, angst with happy ending, smut, 18+ MDNI

Content warnings: lots of crying, heartbreak, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (don't be stupid), piv, multiple orgasmns

Word Count: 3086

A/N: can't thank @skzdreamer13 enough for their feedback on this, love you to the moon and back <3

It’s been three weeks. Three miserable, horrific, painful weeks. His words still ring in your head. "I can't deal with you anymore," he'd said. You'd been needy, he'd been busy, you'd felt neglected. Weeks of unanswered calls, missed reservations, empty bedsheets had led up to an explosion of bottled-up feelings. Both of you had screamed, saying things you didn't mean.

But in the end, you'd left that night, feeling heartbroken and oddly empty, stumbled home, blocked his number. You had cried for days. You were still crying.

Hyunjin is everything to you. Always has been. Always will be. There aren’t many things you’re certain of, but Hyunjin being your soulmate is one of them. And now he's gone. No contact for three hellish weeks. You took a few sick days from work, shut out all your friends - not ready to tell them. Not ready to write it out. Spell it out. We broke up. It feels wrong. It feels like a lie, even though you know it’s over.

Instead, you spend your days - and also some particularly horrendous nights - on the couch, surrounded by your stash of cookies and chocolate, trying to drown the burning, biting, blazing pain in your chest.

It doesn’t work.

It’s a rainy Sunday. Your phone sits beside you on the couch, taunting you with notifications from worried friends and nosy family members. You’ve given them one-word answers to keep them off your back. There’s a part of you, somewhere beneath the lingering hurt, the grief of losing your one true love, that urges you to tell them the truth. But your heart is too heavy, your mind too foggy, and you just can’t bring yourself to do it.

So you just sit there, listening to the rain hammer against your windows, some anime show flickering on the TV. It’s more to drown out the silence than to actually watch it.

Ding-dong.

You blink repeatedly as the sound of the doorbell pulls you from your thoughts. You’re not expecting anyone. Right? It’s Sunday evening. Who would show up unannounced? Your eyes drift to your phone, lighting up again with more notifications. You sigh. Maybe it’s your best friend - she would show up without warning. But on a Sunday? You sigh again.

Ding-dong.

You grumble, slowly rising, the blanket still wrapped tightly around your body. Whoever it is will have to deal with you looking like a sick raccoon - dark circles under your eyes, messy hair, tear-streaked cheeks. If it’s one of your friends, they won’t care anyways. If it’s not, maybe you can use your current state to scare them off. You tap towards the door, don’t even check the spy hole. Too much effort. You just open the door - and freeze.

Hyunjin.

He’s a vision. Tall and beautiful - and completely soaked. His short hair sticks to his forehead, his hoodie clings to his arms and chest, his sweatpants hang heavy and dangerously low on his hips. He looks like a wet cat. He also looks divine. It’s such a dichotomy, such a paradox, but somehow it fits. Even drenched in rainwater, eyes puffy from crying - because he’s very clearly been crying - he looks like a damn angel.

All you can do is stare at him, eyes wandering up and down his body, searching his face, taking in his form, as your heart clenches painfully in your chest. There he is - the man you love more than you ever thought possible, the only person you’ve ever told all your secrets to - and all you want to do is slam the door in his face. Because how dare he just show up like this? After that fight? After all those daggers he sent through your heart?

Your hand tightens around the door handle. You’re almost ready to send him away - and then a sob breaks from his lips. It’s a broken thing, short and breathless and heavy. It rips through you with unexpected force, pulling at your heartstrings, shattering your resolve.

So you step aside, wordlessly inviting him in.

Some voice in your head yells at you, but you tune it out. The door falls shut behind him. You stare at each other, tears streaking both your faces. You stare until you can’t take it anymore, until his gaze grows too heavy and you feel your heart crumble in your chest. Ashamed, you look away, suddenly very interested in your floor boards. That’s when you see the puddle. There’s an actual puddle building underneath him, wet clothes dripping relentlessly. Your head snaps back up.

"Bathroom. Now."

He looks down, tries to understand. “Oh”, he says as he discovers the issue. You’re already halfway to the bathroom when he reaches you. Awkwardly, he pushes past you and proceeds to stand between your bathtub and your sink, looking like a lost puppy. A wet, lost puppy. “I’m sorry”, he says, when you continue staring at him, unsure what to do with yourself. Or with him. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll clean it up later.” A broken, humourless laugh escapes him. “Not what I meant.” “Oh.”

Silence fills the space between you, as you look at each other, neither of you able to hold eye contact for long. “Why are you here, Hyunjin?”, you ask eventually, voice shakier than you’d like it to be. He takes a deep breath, a stray tear running down his perfect cheek.

“I missed you”, he confesses. Another sob breaks from his lips before he can stop it. Your heart hurts. “I couldn’t stop thinking about our fight…I couldn’t stop thinking about you…it’s just…I missed you so much and it hurt to be without you and I can’t believe I said all of those vile things!”

Helplessly, he tries to dry his cheeks with the soaked sleeves of his hoodie. It only makes it worse, rain water joining the tears dripping from his chin. There’s a whole new puddle on the floor beneath him. He looks heartwarmingly pathetic like this, so much smaller than he actually is, and you feel your heart soften just a bit.

“Please”, he says, “I know I fucked up. I know I sent you away and it was the worst thing I’ve ever done!” He’s rambling now, words falling from his lips without thought or filter, and all you can do is listen. You don’t have it in you to interrupt him. Not when his eyes are this big and red and filled with grief.

“When I said that…that I can’t deal with you anymore…I shouldn’t have…I never meant to…I never meant that! I was so tired and stressed and I know that’s no excuse, but I just…I took it out on you and I’m so so sorry, please…please Y/N…” His voice finally falters. His eyes are fixed on you, the tiniest bit of hope shimmering beneath the tears that still keep coming.

There’s a shift in the air as he takes a step towards you. The awkwardness disappears, leaving the air thick with the lingering uncertainty of your reply. “I’m so sorry, Y/N”, he repeats, locking eyes with you. His hands are twitching, like he wants to touch you but isn’t sure he’s allowed to. You feel another wave of tears rolling down your face. You feel your heart painfully hammering against your chest.

“Please”, he all but whispers, the longing in his eyes so strong you might just drown in it, “say something.” You let out a shaky breath.

“I don’t know…”, is all you can manage.

Because you don’t. You have no idea how to forgive his words. You know that all you want is to be back with him, to be wrapped in his arms, to laugh about stupid jokes and spend the nights painting and drinking wine until neither of you can draw a straight line, to fall asleep tangled up in his sheets and spend every damn day telling him about the most mundane shit.

You just don’t know how to go back. How to forgive the hurtful things he said. How to rectify your own venomous words.

“Please”, he begs again, taking another step towards you, despite the limited space, as if he can’t stop himself. As if he’s drawn to you by some invisible force. And then you reach out, because you can’t stand the tremor in his voice and the hurt on his face.

Your fingers brush his cheeks just so, your eyes soften as you keep them locked on his, and it’s all he needs. Suddenly, his arms wrap around you and his lips crash into yours and you’re pressed against his soaked hoodie, blanket pooling forgotten at your feet. You don’t even remember dropping it.

You also forgot that you’re wearing nothing but panties and a crop top.

Hyunjin notices immediately, hands pressed to the bare skin on your back as he pulls you against him. He groans into the kiss at the skin contact, and you curse your body for sending shockwaves to your core.

And yet, despite yourself, you let your hands wander to the hem of his hoodie, pulling it up just enough for him to get the message. He breaks away from you long enough to remove the soggy fabric. He’s not wearing a shirt underneath.

Fuck.

A gasp leaves your mouth before you can hold back, but he’s already on you again, kissing you like his life depends on it. His bare skin is hot under your fingertips, as his lips trail along your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. “I’m so sorry”, he whispers against your skin. Breathlessly you sigh, leaning into him, fingers digging into his broad shoulders.

“I shouldn’t have said any of that”, he mumbles against your collar bone, hands already moving upwards, trailing over the sides of your ribcage. “Please”, he whispers again as his thumb brushes the underside of your breast, “forgive me, my love.”

The crop top is gone before you know it, dropped unceremoniously to the floor, and you shudder at the sudden feel of cold air against your heated skin. But he’s there already, cupping your breasts with his hands, peppering kisses all over your chest. You lose any resistance that might have been left within you, as his plump lips close around your nipple and suck.

Your ungodly moan bounces off the bathroom walls.

You need him. You need him now. “Pants”, you gasp, and he understands immediately. He lets go of your nipple with a prominent plop and pulls down his pants, removing his shoes and socks along with them.

It gives you a moment to gather your thoughts, to escape the haze his touch envelops you in. You suck in a breath, watching him get almost naked in your bathroom after three weeks of radio silence. What are you doing? What the fuck are you doing?

But it’s too late. He’s on you the second he’s done undressing, hands gabbing your ass, lips finding yours hot and hungry. Quickly, his hands slide down your thighs and he lifts you up, your legs wrapping around him on instinct. He carries you to your bedroom - he knows the way, been here often enough, carried you there more than once - and gently places you down onto the soft sheets. Your own sheets.

The sheets you’ve been crying into for the past 3 weeks.

He doesn’t allow you to linger on the thought, kisses trailing down your neck again. He’s getting bolder, needier, sucking marks into your skin. And you don’t stop him, don’t hold him back - because despite everything you don’t want to.

You don’t want to hold on to this pain that has dominated your every move for the past three weeks, you don’t want to feel broken anymore, you don’t want to refuse the man who just walked all this way to apologise to you despite the pouring rain. The man you love with all your heart.

All you want is him.

All he wants is you.

“I’m so sorry, my angel”, he whispers against the soft swell of your breast.

“Please forgive me”, he murmurs against your navel.

“I’ll do anything”, he promises against your hip bone.

When he hooks his fingers into your underwear, you lift your hip willingly. His hot breath hits the inside of your thigh just a heartbeat later, followed by a kiss so tender, it feels more like worship than lovemaking. “I’ve missed you so much, my muse.” His words vibrate against your delicate skin and go straight to your core - and your heart.

You melt underneath him, putty in his hands like you always were, and you don’t find it within yourself to feel bad about it. If there’s a heaven, this is it.

“Hyune”, you gasp when his lips brush your centre, “please.” He doesn’t hesitate. His tongue runs through your folds. Slow. Hot. Deliberate. Savouring every drop of you. “I’m so so sorry”, he breathes against your most sensitive spot, before pressing his tongue flat against it. He licks and sucks and eats you out like he’s been waiting for this, dreaming of this, starving for this.

It’s messy and desperate and so fucking good.

All you can do is moan and gasp and beg, one hand gripping his hair, the other fisting the bedsheets, as you arch your back and press yourself into his touch. “Ngh….holy fuck….Hyunjin”, you all but scream, as his tongue continues to move over your clit with deadly precision, sending wave after wave of pleasure through your body.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, legs shaking, arousal spilling on his tongue, as your vision goes white and your mind goes blank. He drinks it all up, strong hands holding you as steady as he can beneath him. He doesn’t stop until you go still, until an overstimulated whine escapes your lips and he’s sure you can’t take anymore.

Sweet kisses land on your inner thighs. “You’re my everything”, he whispers, “you’re my whole world.” The kisses move upwards, covering your hips and your stomach and your rip cage. “I’m so fucking sorry”, he says when he reaches your nipple, placing but a ghost of a kiss on the rim of the sensitive bud. “I missed you so much, my muse”, he confesses again as his lips find the crook of your neck.

He moves, hands leaving your body for a moment, but you almost don’t notice, still coming down from your high.

Then he’s there, fully exposed, tip pressing gently against your core.

“Please”, he breathes right next to your ear. Then again, voice breaking this time. “Please.”

“Yes.” It’s all you can say. All you want to say. All you need to say.

The stretch is formidable. It always is with him. But he goes slow. Gentle. Giving you time to adjust. You love this part, love the little gasps that escape him, love the feel of him slowly filling you up. You love having him inside you. You love being so close to him, love being all his. You love being the one to make him feel this good.

You love him.

“Please”, he whispers as he pushes in further.

“Please”, he groans as he bottoms out. “Please”, he gasps as you clench around him.

Then his hips still. He moves only slightly to look at you, fingers brushing the hair from your sweaty forehead. “Please forgive me”, he says, voice low and surprisingly steady, “I was such a fool. I didn’t think. I’m so sorry.”

You bring your hands up to cup his face. You can feel him throb inside you, hard and heavy. It drives you mad. He drives you mad.

“I love you”, you say.

The moment his lips meet yours he starts to move. His thrusts are slow at first. Measured. Deliberate. But bit by bit the kiss grows deeper, hungrier, and so do his movements. He doesn’t let go of you for one second, swallowing your moans, keeping your chest pressed to his as he drills into you almost frantically.

He fucks you with a wicked desperation, like he has everything to lose, like his whole fucking life depends on it. He makes you feel every part of him, interlacing your fingers, kissing you over and over and over. He brushes over that perfect spot inside you again and again, slamming into you with controlled force, and you’re certain this will leave marks. You don’t care.

You can feel your second orgasm build, can feel your body light on fire again for him. You free one of your hands to tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling just enough to drive him insane. “Please…”, you beg between kisses, “don’t stop….’m close…fuck…please…” The words fall from your lips like a prayer against his mouth, like a desperate plea for salvation.

And then he breaks the kiss and presses his forehead against you. His gaze digs into yours, eyes lidded, pupils blown. He looks feral and wrecked and absolutely divine. “I…ngh…fuck…I love y-….you too...ahhh…fuckfuckfuck…”

With stuttering hips, he comes undone, spilling into you, and it pulls you right over the edge. And again, he doesn’t let up, helps you ride it out even though he’s already overstimulated and fucked out. You shiver beneath him, pleasure surging through every cell of your body like a blazing fire, until you forget why you ever fought with him to begin with.

For a while, heavy panting is the only sound that fills the room. He lies collapsed half on top of you, body sweat soaked, fingers still interlaced with yours. Your mind is empty, but your heart feels full.

He doesn’t pull out right away, but when he does it feels oddly wrong. Like he’s removing himself from the only place he belongs.

You don’t fully register what happens next. Something with a soft, warm, wet cloth and his arms lifting you up a bit and then there’s a blanket on top of you and a warm body behind you. Arms wrap around your body. A comforting sense of peace settles in your chest, like you’re home again. Like you’re whole again.

Then, silence falls. It’s not uncomfortable, not heavy and painful like it had been those past few weeks. It’s warm and safe and familiar. It stays for a long time, while you lie there, curled up against him, catching your breath and regaining your sanity.

Eventually, it’s you who breaks the silence.

“Hyune?”, you whisper. “Hm?” He sounds absolutely spent.

“I forgive you.”

Fenya’s Masterlist

Taglist @lov3rachan @breakmeoff

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fenya-scribbles · 9 days ago

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A lil update

I have now copied all my fics to my AO3 account.

I will also be posting everything both on tumblr and AO3 in the future.

That's it, that's all :3

#fenya scribbles #update #ao3

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fenya-scribbles · 11 days ago

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Rain

Network: @staynotes

Pairing: Hyunin x fem!Reader

Other Characters: none

Summary: Three weeks post-breakup, Hyunjin shows up to apologize with all he has.

Genre: exes to lovers, angst with happy ending, smut, 18+ MDNI

Content warnings: lots of crying, heartbreak, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (don't be stupid), piv, multiple orgasmns

Word Count: 3086

A/N: can't thank @skzdreamer13 enough for their feedback on this, love you to the moon and back <3

But in the end, you'd left that night, feeling heartbroken and oddly empty, stumbled home, blocked his number. You had cried for days. You were still crying.

It doesn’t work.

So you just sit there, listening to the rain hammer against your windows, some anime show flickering on the TV. It’s more to drown out the silence than to actually watch it.

Ding-dong.

Hyunjin.

So you step aside, wordlessly inviting him in.

"Bathroom. Now."

“Please”, he all but whispers, the longing in his eyes so strong you might just drown in it, “say something.” You let out a shaky breath.

“I don’t know…”, is all you can manage.

You just don’t know how to go back. How to forgive the hurtful things he said. How to rectify your own venomous words.

You also forgot that you’re wearing nothing but panties and a crop top.

Fuck.

Your ungodly moan bounces off the bathroom walls.

The sheets you’ve been crying into for the past 3 weeks.

All you want is him.

All he wants is you.

“I’m so sorry, my angel”, he whispers against the soft swell of your breast.

“Please forgive me”, he murmurs against your navel.

“I’ll do anything”, he promises against your hip bone.

You melt underneath him, putty in his hands like you always were, and you don’t find it within yourself to feel bad about it. If there’s a heaven, this is it.

It’s messy and desperate and so fucking good.

He moves, hands leaving your body for a moment, but you almost don’t notice, still coming down from your high.

Then he’s there, fully exposed, tip pressing gently against your core.

“Please”, he breathes right next to your ear. Then again, voice breaking this time. “Please.”

“Yes.” It’s all you can say. All you want to say. All you need to say.

You love him.

“Please”, he whispers as he pushes in further.

“Please”, he groans as he bottoms out. “Please”, he gasps as you clench around him.

You bring your hands up to cup his face. You can feel him throb inside you, hard and heavy. It drives you mad. He drives you mad.

“I love you”, you say.

He doesn’t pull out right away, but when he does it feels oddly wrong. Like he’s removing himself from the only place he belongs.

Eventually, it’s you who breaks the silence.

“Hyune?”, you whisper. “Hm?” He sounds absolutely spent.

“I forgive you.”

Fenya’s Masterlist

Taglist @lov3rachan @breakmeoff

478 notes · View notes

fenya-scribbles · 21 days ago

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-> me, being informed that one of my fav authors has so much more of one of my fav fanfic to give hehehehehe

You Live Like This? - pt II

Series master list PART 2 INFO

pairing: Bang Chan x fem!reader rating: mature, dark themes summary: home invader!Chris makes good on his promise to rob your ex to avenge your painful breakup, only to find that you're already there trying to collect your belongings. In order to keep your ex-bf from including you as an accomplice in his inevitable police report, you have to pretend you don't know the robber who keeps flirting with you. (plus like a lot more)

warnings: camping, murder, Ateez mentioned, mature

word count: ~5k

It’s nearly four in the afternoon when the worn green sign comes into view, peeking out from overgrown tree branches on the side of the road.

Blue River Campground written in faded white letters, and dangling beneath it, a removable panel reading —no vacancies.

Reaching into the mess of your passenger seat, you push a disturbing collection of empty Red Bull cans and McDonald’s coffee cups into the floorboard, fingers blindly scrambling for the familiar plastic cover of your binder.

A handful of granola bar wrappers and the chicken nugget carton from your lunch later, you have the thick blue book in hand. Your eyes are firmly planted on the road when you drop the binder into your lap, steering your car off the back country road and onto the paved driveway of the campground.

As the park ranger booth appears around a bend of trees, you reach over and turn down your music.

After a long day on the road, entertaining yourself with a mixture of a dozen hand crafted playlist and a few chapters here and there of some audio books you’d struggled to find interesting, you’re eager to get out of your car and stretch your legs under the open sky.

When you drive up, a female park ranger slides open the window of the booth and grins down at you, folding her arms over the sill.

You hit the button to roll down your window, shooting her a polite smile as you flip open your binder and reach for the first printout that’s safely tucked inside a clear sheet protector.

“Hi there!” She greets you cheerfully. “What can I help you with today?”

You produce the piece of paper and hand it to her. “I’m checking in for a campsite. This is my reservation.”

She beams at you with far too much enthusiasm for someone who clearly doesn’t have air conditioner in the cramped little station. “Great! Lemme get you checked in.”

As she turns away from you to clack away at a keyboard that sounds like it’s had one too many sodas spilled over it, your eyes fall to the binder in your lap.

Taped to the inside cover, words faded from time and sun exposure, is that little Post-It Note.

‘Had a great time last night. Coffee later? Also, text me your ex’s address. - Chris.’

It’s been six months since that terrifying and strange evening, where a lunatic had broken into your house to rob you blind, only to end up on your couch, with you asleep in his arms.

Sometimes you can’t believe it wasn’t just a dream that you’d concocted after enduring the perfect storm of finding your boyfriend cheating on you, losing your job, and having to sell your house all in seemingly one fell stroke.

But you know it wasn’t.

You know it was real.

Because that hadn’t been the last time you’d seen him.

“Alright!” The park ranger chirps, distracting you from the confusing amalgamation of emotions that the little yellow sticky note always sets off. “I’ve got you all checked in! Check out is no later than 2pm tomorrow. Here is a map of the campground,” she passes your reservation back with a sheet of printer paper that bears a grainy black and white map. “You’ll hang a left down there at the gate, and then a right at the bathrooms. The campsites are numbered, you should be able to find yours, no problem. Camp hosts will be floating around until 9pm if you have any questions!”

Taking in the bubbly onslaught of information with an awkward smile, you wait until she leans back into the booth and stops for a breath. “Okay, thank you,”

“You can purchase firewood if you need to, but it’s cash only.”

“Okay.”

“Obviously gathering or cutting down your own firewood is prohibited.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And there’s fresh water outside the bathrooms.”

“Okay, great.”

“Alright! Have a great time!”

You’re not even sure which polite response you manage to rattle off before you urge your window all the way back up and pull away from the station before you even bother to slide the reservation and the map back into their designated sheet protector.

The forest drive is winding and beautiful, and soon enough, the campsites appear. You roll through the spots, passing dozens of campers already there and setting up or completely finished and working on dinner until you roll up to spot 25.

You park in your own personal little gravel lane and take a deep breath. You’re a little nervous. You’ve gone on a few experimental camping trips to teach yourself how to get into the routine of it, but this is the first time you’ve committed to a multi-day roadtrip without any hotel reservations to fall back on until you reach your destination.

To calm yourself, you focus on sliding the pages into your binder, your eyes falling on that sticky note again.

Six months since Chris broke into your house and scared the bejeezus out of you and your dogs.

And as monumental a memory as that is, it’s not the only absurd memory you have of Chris.

Not in the slightest.

There hadn’t been coffee after. In the mess of waking up in disbelief that you had nearly been robbed, but had a movie night with the criminal instead, and being unable to dwell on it because you had to focus on having somewhere to live after your house sold, the events with Chris kind of disappeared into a hazy memory.

You’d sent the address as requested—facetiously. In all honesty, you’d just thought he was flirting. That the address was an excuse to get a conversation going, and you’d find yourself merely teasing about his criminal endeavors until he got up the nerve to properly ask you out for coffee.

But you’d sent the address, your own little private joke, and he had sent a thumbs-up emoji.

Just that.

Like you were some stranger confirming an appointment.

A thumbs-up, nothing more.

You didn’t reach out to him again. Mortification had prompted you to delete his number and pretend you’d never met him, and that’s exactly what you did. For about two weeks.

FIVE (AND A HALF) MONTHS AGO

If anything good can come out of this absolute crap show that your life has turned into, it’s that your superhero of a realtor somehow got your house closed on in less than two weeks. She’d warned you that you would probably have to dump a couple thousand dollars into sprucing up the place to increase interest, and you’d been drowning your financial sorrows in a cup of old tea, wishing it was a dry red wine, when she called you back.

In less than eight hours, she had news for you. Somebody wanted your house at face value, for not a dime below your asking price.

House sold, as is.

You spent the next two weeks on pins and needles as all the paperwork went through, waiting for the buyers to back out of the deal. Your realtor warned you not to get your hopes up. First attempts usually dry up when they see the monthly payment and sales tax.

But it never happened.

The paperwork went through.

The deal closed.

Twelve hours later, there was money in your bank account.

Mortgage deducted, realtor paid, closing costs settled, you were still left with a sum you’ve never before had behind your name.

Things were looking up.

Until the text came in.

‘Come get your shit before I throw it out.’

Woosung.

The ex who slept with your best friend when he decided you were too emotionally unavailable for him.

You considered sacrificing your belongings to the garbage, except you know you left a bracelet and a pair of earrings there that were handed down from your grandmother. He has clothes that you don’t necessarily care for, but he also has your favorite mug—gifted by a coworker—that says ‘Today’s Yoga Pose is a Downward Spiral’.

Everything else, the various books and toiletries and overnight kits, you can do without.

You tried to avoid the interaction.

‘Just mail it to me.’

‘I’m not paying for postage to mail your crap.’

‘I’ll pay for it. Or leave it at the front desk of the spa.’ You don’t work there anymore, but your friends do, and they’ll accept your belongings for you long enough for you to come pick them up.

‘I’m not going to pick through the apartment to find your stuff. Come get it tomorrow.’

You don’t know why he’s being so hostile about the whole thing, when he’s the one who threw your relationship down the drain, but you know him well enough to recognize when he’s not going to be talked out of (or into) something.

So you begrudgingly make a plan to swing by tomorrow, leaving off all the choice words you want to punctuate the message with, and resign yourself to a miserable day that you will have no chance at salvaging once you’re surrounded by all of those memories again.

You’ve been in his apartment building a million times. Enough to exchange passing greetings with his neighbors, to call one of their dogs by name when they scoot by you in the hallway, headed out to the parking lot for a walk.

You say the usual prayer when you stand in the struggling elevator and stare at the expired safety inspection certificate, and mimic the familiar strangled ding as it arrives at his floor with a shudder.

He opens the door after three knocks and about ninety seconds of awkward silence.

And then he’s there.

Standing in front of you.

Your perfect boyfriend, who, with all his little faults, only ever indicated that you weren’t quite working out when you found him in your best friend’s bed.

He kicks the door open and stands aside, a can of Coors in hand and a distracted look on his face. “Be quick about it. I don’t have all day.” He mutters, and promptly leaves you in the entry way to return to a well-dented spot in the couch to stare at an ESPN rerun booming through the TV set.

You were wrong.

This isn’t as painful as you thought it was gonna be.

He’s slouched on the couch, one sweatpants leg hiked up over his knee, covered in chip crumbs, and instead of being flooded with sweet, loving memories, you’re looking at the future you almost had.

Pulling a number of reusable grocery bags out of your backpack, you don’t bother taking off your shoes and cross the room to the kitchen. “It’s ten AM, Woosung.”

“Thanks, mom.” He doesn’t even look at you.

It occurs to you that this may be some form of grief, some part of him heartbroken by you ending your long term relationship, but it’s none of your business all the same.

You pull open the cupboards and begin your search for your favorite mug. After shuffling through a collection of beer glasses and novelty cups from movie theaters and sport events, you find the familiar red ceramic shoved in the back.

Next, you make your way to his bedroom.

It’s a disaster zone of dirty laundry and half empty pizza boxes and enough aluminum cans to single handedly win World War II, but you push down your distaste at the squalor and the smell of body odor and pick your way through stale jeans and takeout boxes to what used to be your side of the bed.

You remember his life being cleaner.

Or maybe it had been your presence that had kept the laundry in the hamper and the trash in the garbage can.

At some point in the two weeks since you left him, he’s filled your personal drawer in the nightstand to the absolute brim with condoms.

Unimpressed and somewhat disgusted, you delve your hand into the avalanching pile of foil packets and can’t bring yourself to care when they spill out over the sides. In your blind search for the little satin drawstring that holds your jewelry, your fingers touch something lacy.

A pair of women’s panties, pink and sexy and not yours is hooked on your thumb when you draw your hand out.

They’re not your size, not your color, and absolutely placed there on purpose.

He made sure you came, made sure you had to get your belongings from that very drawer, and planted an entire nightclub vending machine in there for you to find.

You toss the offending lingerie carelessly onto his pillow and keep searching.

Surprising even yourself, the only thing that truly bothers you about all this is the disturbed sense of worry that those panties belong to your former best friend, which disgusts you on too many levels to count.

So, all in all, it’s a good week. You sold your house, got some money in your pocket, retrieved your valuables, and got all the proof you needed that losing your boyfriend is likely the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

The hurt and betrayal and anger leftover from the breakup is fodder for your therapy sessions and nothing more.

The moment you have your grandmother’s jewelry in hand and headed for your pocket, you hear a panicked shout from the living room.

Dismissing it as some masculine indignation towards whatever fight he’s watching, you move to the closet and push through the hanging shirts to find one of your nice evening dresses and one of your coziest sweaters.

As long as you’re here, you might as well grab the things you’d wear again.

Some of the other things that have been defiled by memories of Woosung—your red nightgown, the lacy shirt you’d worn to his promotion ceremony at work—you leave on their hangers.

He can give them to his next conquest for all you care.

“What are you doing in my house?”

That shout doesn’t sound like something aimed at the TV.

“Get out before I call the police!”

There’s no way.

You drop your slowly filling tote bags at your feet and hurry to the doorway just in time to hear the anger in your ex-boyfriend’s voice crumble into terror.

“No, wait! Okay, okay, take it easy.”

Peeking around the door frame, you see a figure shrouded in black facing away from you, and in front of him, Woosung still on the couch like he’d been shoved.

His eyes are wide with panic, darting from the person’s face to his waist, where you can only assume the man is holding a weapon.

“Please,” Woosung starts. “Please, my girlfriend is here. Please don’t hurt me, just take what you want.”

While you’re struggling with the insinuation of that attempt at bargaining, the figure in the living room turns towards you.

Black hoodie.

Mask over his face.

A gun in gloved hands.

Goddammit.

He really meant it.

And you gave him the fucking address.

The man surges towards you.

“No!” Woosung lurches forward. “No, wait! Don’t hurt her!”

Well, that’s something, you guess.

The man in black pauses and twists around to flash the gun at him again. “Don’t move.”

When Woosung falls back against the couch with his hands up, a panicked squeak crossing his lips, the man spins back to you and reaches out his empty hand, shoving you forcefully back into the bedroom. Before he slams the door shut in your face, he shows you the gun. “Stay here,” he snaps. “Don’t make a sound.”

You have no intention of calling for help.

If he’s going to make you wait in the dirty bedroom while he scares the shit out of your ex boyfriend, you’re happy to practice your fake tears until he’s finished.

The door bangs shut and latches.

Beyond, you hear Woosung utter another frightened shout, and then the sound of duct tape ripping off a roll.

Woosung’s proceeding arguments are comically muffled by tape obviously being stuck over his mouth.

Approximately five minutes later, the bedroom door opens again and you utter a short, loud cry just for good measure.

“Shut up!” His hissed voice carries down the hall before he shoves the door closed. The moment he’s locked inside with you, the man throws off his hood and yanks his mask off.

Chris.

Big surprise.

His eyes are laughably wide. “What are you doing here?” He whispers, dropping the gun and the roll of duct tape on the bed. “I thought you broke up with him!”

“No, please, stop!” You should be an actor.

Theatrics tabled for the moment, you cross your arms and narrow your eyes at him. “I did. I’m picking up my stuff.” You nod to the bags on the floor. “I can’t believe you’re actually robbing him.”

He studies the grocery bags at your feet, the ambivalent tension in your posture. “Oh.” He scrubs his hands through his hair with a wry laugh. “I told you I would. Somebody’s gotta defend your honor.”

That single thumbs-up emoji stands in jarring opposition to the sweet smile he’s giving you.

“Really?” You quirk an eyebrow. “Because you seemed so committed to our night together.”

He shrugs almost bashfully and checks his watch. “I had to get some things in order and plan the heist before I could offer my heart and soul to you, babygirl. I couldn’t have you thinking I deliver only empty promises.” The smirk he flashes at you is dangerous.

You’re unimpressed. “And you had to do it the day I show up here?”

He throws his hands up helplessly. “What was I supposed to do? I went to your house three days later and it was empty.”

Instead of informing him that he could have texted you, which he was fully capable of doing, you form a sly smile and give him a simple thumbs-up.

Chris stares at your hand with sheepish recognition. “I was gonna text you,” he says. “As soon as I finished up here, I was gonna take you for that coffee and give you the good news.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, now you’re in a pickle. What did you do with him?”

He blinks, like he’s not sure what you’re talking about. It sinks in a second later. “Oh! He’s duct taped to the furnace. He’s not going anywhere, trust me, I know how to tie people up.” He shoots you another wink, which lands without impact.

“What’s the plan now, hot shot? Now I’m an accomplice.”

Chris watches you stare him down, awe blooming in his expression. “You’re a whole different person when you’re not scared of me. God, you are hot like this, anybody ever tell you that?”

The rather flattering moment is somewhat dampened by the fact that it’s between you and an armed home invader. “I don’t want to go to jail tonight, Chris. Clean this up.”

He scoops the duct tape and the gun of the bed, nodding calmly. “Don’t worry, I have a plan. I’ll keep you in here, use you as leverage to keep him compliant, and make it seem like we don’t know each other. Make it good, alright? Put your hand over your mouth and make scared noises.”

This is not how you expected your morning to go.

You can’t believe he decided to rob your boyfriend in broad daylight.

When he just stands there, waiting for you to agree to pretend to be a victim of his egregious crimes, you utter a long sigh.

So far, your survival rate with altercations involving Chris is 100%. Last time had been surprisingly decompressing in its own way, and if this time involves scaring the dirty sweatpants off your ex, you’ll happily call it a two for two.

“Fine. Is that real?” Nodding to the gun in his hand, you feel only the slightest bit of apprehension over the fact that somebody could be accidentally shot in the middle of all this.

He’d convinced you that murder and battery were charges too hot for his lifestyle, but you can’t be sure that he or Woosung won’t unintentionally do something stupid. You can just imagine your ex boyfriend, day-drunk and high on delusions of grandeur, grabbing the gun out of Chris’ hands and trying to be a hero.

He waves the weapon at you. “It’s a real BB gun.” A cheeky grin. “Airsoft. Harmless. Don’t worry.”

Eyes rolling to the ceiling, you sit yourself on the unmade bed and glare at him. “Whatever you’re gonna do, do it fast. I have appointments this afternoon.”

He nods and dons his mask and hood once again, like a misguided version of Batman, and puts his hand to the doorknob. “Let me hear you, babygirl.”

Your responding deadpan is lethal.

Bringing your hand up to cover your mouth, you pray for your poor vocal cords and do your best impression of Weepy Girl Held Hostage.

“Shut up! Stay still!” He snaps in a genuinely good Christian Bale, which only furthers your Robber Batman agenda, and amuses you to no end.

All in all, it’s the best possible outcome for having ventured into a den of painful nostalgia to collect your things.

Chris disappears into the hallway, letting in the sounds of Woosung’s enraged terror, and closes the door behind him.

The next series of noises tell their own story.

Drawers scraping.

Picture frames falling off the wall.

Cabinets banging.

Woosung’s muffled screaming.

“I told you to keep it down.” Footsteps nearing. “I guess you don’t care about your girlfriend.”

Muffled groaning.

The door opens and Chris reappears. You give a theatrical yelp and shove a stack of comic books off the bed for good measure.

“I got his Play Station and his laptop.” Chris tells you, showing you his backpack. “What else should I grab?”

Now you really are an accomplice. “You’re actually robbing him?”

He shrugs. “He has more stuff than you did.”

At your offended sneer, he laughs and shakes the backpack at you. “Come on, tell me how to hurt this asshole. He’s in there crying all over his duct tape. I’ve only got like ten more minutes before I wanna be out of here. Give me something good.”

Taking a second to think, you mentally catalogue all of the things in this apartment that Woosung might bitterly miss. It is true that he has more irreplaceable valuables than you did, and part of you wonders if you should be the bigger person and protect the things that matter to him.

Unfortunately, the bigger part of you isn’t that virtuous. “He’s got a bunch of signed sports paraphernalia. There are display cases in the dining room with signed baseballs. They’re legit and he never stops bragging about them.”

Chris’ eyes light up over the top of his mask. “Perfect! Be right back!”

The door slams shut on your embellished cries of fright.

Furniture shoved across the floor.

Something banging against the wall.

Glass shattering.

Woosung pleading stupidly past his gag.

You should be sympathetic. You should be thinking of when Chris broke into your own house and scared the life out of you, when you thought you were going to be assaulted and robbed.

But you’re not.

You know this is mostly harmless.

And Woosung deserves this.

He’d stepped out on you with your own best friend and blamed you for it.

When are you ever going to get the chance to avoid the sweet taste of revenge like this again?

All you have to do is sit comfortably in this nasty pig pen of a room, scrolling through your Pinterest feed with mild disinterest.

You use your time to relax a bit and enjoy a moment of online retail therapy while your ex shits his pants at the mercy of your masked avenger. With a comfortable sum in your bank account, you allow yourself exactly two frivolities—Ateez is having a comeback.

You put their latest album in your cart and scroll through tour dates.

Woosung screams.

You pick a seat and add the ticket to your cart.

The pathetic cry you give when the bedroom door opens again is a little distracted but seems to do the trick well enough. Woosung keeps pleading pathetically as the door closes.

“Having fun in here?” Chris asks lightly.

You hum a noncommittal response, still staring down at your phone. “You almost done?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a couple thousand in here for sure.” Chris zips up his backpack. “Thanks for the score.”

Finishing your checkout before the vendor times out, you manage a smirk. “You can settle my fee with my bookkeeper.”

“Oh, funny.” He rolls his shoulders, stretching his arms before slinging the bag across his back. “I’ll go back in there and do my whole threatening routine and then I’ll head out. I hope my services have been satisfactory?”

You pocket your phone and finally give him your attention. “Yes, Chris.” You respond dryly. “Thank you for robbing my ex of his valuables and his dignity. How can I ever repay you?”

In the face of your unconcerned wit, he just chuckles down at you with almost a look of fondness in his crinkled eyes. “You’re a gem, babygirl. Just say yes.”

Confusion wrinkles your nose. “To what?”

“Coffee. Later. I’ll text you.”

“Oh, you will?”

He lifts his hands defensively. “I will. I’ve kept my promise. I can approach you, all deals settled now. I’ll text you.”

A short laugh scrapes up your raw throat. “What makes you think I want to get coffee with a seasoned criminal?”

“Just my bad boy charm and devilish good looks.” He says with a wink, and then his cocky self-assurance melts into a series of awkward chuckles. “I hope you will. I’d like to see you again. You’re the most interesting girl I’ve ever robbed.”

“Well, take me now, sailor.” You utter flatly, but there’s a rebellious fluttering in your chest that assures you that you will be accepting his invitation if it ever comes. Even just for the sake of the experience.

How often are you gonna go on a date with someone who breaks into your house and helps you punish your ex?

“Coffee, then.” You agree. “Later.”

Before he leaves, you tell him your name. It’s dumb, foolish, to hand a criminal personal information, but he already has your phone number and he doesn’t exactly knock to enter anyway. And you can’t have him calling you babygirl in public, no matter how much it seems to tickle him.

He gives you one last long look and repeats your name back to you. “Take care of yourself,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”

He leaves a few strips of duct tape for you to cover your mouth with for appearances, and then he’s gone.

When Woosung comes in to rescue you moments later, you snatch up your tote bags and make a show of fleeing his apartment in a rush of frantic distress.

The police contact you a few hours later to request a statement, which you politely decline on the basis of being traumatized and having no interest in enduring a criminal case with your cheating ex boyfriend.

They don’t bother you again.

Chris texts you a few days later, when you’re interviewing for a new apartment, and the coffee date comes and goes. He shows up in jeans and a button down, no mask in sight, calls you babygirl in public anyway, and is the perfect gentleman.

You share flirty banter over his tea and your mocha, trading relationship horror stories back and forth; he hears all about your adventures in getting back on your feet, you learn about his dreams to become a personal trainer and outdoors enthusiast. He pays the bill, kisses your cheek, and promises not to sully your good name with ties to his criminal lifestyle.

It ends, just like that.

You get a few texts here and there over the next few months—checking up on you, offering humorous anecdotes as he passes various milestones towards getting certifications and experience for training, and offers interest in your own responding updates about your life.

Nothing more than that.

He lives on the second page of your messages, the banner of his rare text notification ranging in impact from excitement to disinterest as time goes on.

You’d liked him, in a thrilling sort of way that promised no commitment, but he was right—his past (and current) indiscretions aren’t good for your future.

And the heart racing excitement of seeing his name appear on your lock screen always spirals into disappointment when his flirty tone is undermined by a three-day-old read receipt and only revived by a “Hey! How’s it going?” five weeks later.

It gets old.

It turns sour.

Sometimes you ignore him.

He’s friendly and sweet, but uninterested in forming an actual connection, so all you can do is stop letting yourself think about him as you fall asleep, stop imagining running into him again, stop daydreaming about him rescuing you from Woosung’s occasional “been thinking about you” texts.

Time passes, and Chris becomes nothing more than the occasional painful tug on your silly little heartstrings.

NOW

Camping is a new hobby for you. After finding out what it feels like to have nothing, to wonder where your next meal is coming from, bouncing from friends’ couches to family’s guest beds, your slowly accumulated life feels like a luxury that can be yanked from you at any moment.

You get a new job and develop an obsession for managing your finances. Half a dozen savings accounts, allowances for hobbies and expenses, long term goals and short term goals and a healthy padding for emergencies.

You get a comfy little apartment and furnish it sparingly. You don’t need excess. You want to appreciate living minimally, to learn how to survive without frivolous comforts, just in case you ever have to lose everything again—and one day it dawned on you.

What better way to appreciate the little things in life than to sleep under the open sky and make your own food over a fire you started with your own hands and gaze at the stars instead of just doom scrolling?

You invest in camping as your new exploration of self. You teach yourself basic wilderness skills. You booked a few local campsites to learn the ropes.

And then, when it came time to hammer out travel plans for the Ateez concert you had booked while Chris was exacting revenge on your ex, you found the perfect opportunity.

An app, called ShowTripper, that let you turn your destination into a journey. When you selected camping as your preference, it showed you a route of sites and allowed you to book them right there, all at once, neat and organized.

So here you are.

On a four day roadtrip to a concert you’d booked on impulse, camping all along the way.

Your gear is minimal and easy to set up. Once you’re out of your car and working through your mental checklist, it’s only twenty minutes before you’re standing back, hands on your hips as you proudly scan your small tent, folding table, and camp chair.

There’s plenty of time before nightfall to get a fire started and make something light for dinner. Fortunately, considering your subpar culinary skills—none of which naturally translate to open fire cooking, by the way—you’re not especially hungry after your fast food lunch and gas station snacks throughout the day.

And you know it’s only because it’s your first day on the road, but you’re not too tired yet, so instead of digging your food supplies out of your car, you fasten all of your tent zippers with tiny colorful padlocks and use a bike lock to secure your table, chair, and tent to each other.

No one has ever bothered your campsite before, but in your defense, you have been robbed on occasion.

It helps you find some peace of mind every time you venture to wherever the bathrooms and showers are if you know that your site is an inconvenient one to burglarize.

Pocketing your little bundle of keys, you sling your backpack over your shoulders, grab your vintage film camera from your passenger seat, and take a hike through the campground.

The sky is big and blue overhead, obstructed by a sparse tree cover, and the sun is just starting to make its colorful descent. Birds chirp pleasantly above you, squirrels darting through the bushes in search of dropped food, the occasional strolling camper shooting you a friendly nod as you pass by.

It’s a nice space.

You like one of your local camp grounds a little better, only because it sits on a lake instead of a river, but this one is no less beautiful.

Gradually filling your film roll with shots of your surroundings that you know will develop with sun spots and discoloration due to a light leak somewhere inside the old camera, you take your time exploring.

The techs at the drugstore where you develop your film always leave a note about the poor quality, informing you that your camera is broken and needs repair, but you’re ridiculously fond of the defect. You found it on a shelf in your local thrift store, greasy and grimy and hailing from the eighties, and you’d instantly fallen in love with it.

The unique spills of color and lens flares that cut through every photo give each image a touch of genuine character that could only be replicated by modern manipulation.

Ever since you found it and cleaned it up, it’s been your favorite method of documenting your outdoor excursions. You already have a small bookshelf of photo books littered with notes and memories from your few adventures, and it’s one of your most motivating ways of unwinding some evenings just to sit and flip through them.

By the time you circle back to your campsite, your neighbors have arrived. They’re parked on the other side of a cluster of bushes in a van, appearing to be a group of rowdy young men who are loudly rushing their way through setting up a number of large tents.

Paying them no mind, comforted by the shrubs and trees that separate you, you focus on starting a fire in the pit. A bundle of store bought firewood, a handful of kindling, and two matches later, you have the beginnings of a cozy little cook fire.

Within half an hour, you’re settled in your folding chair with a steaming plate of canned ravioli.

The sun is nearly set. Once you finish your dinner, you’ll grab your toiletry Kit and head for the bathrooms to wash up, and then you’ll be cozied up in your sleeping bag, drifting happily to sleep with the first leg of your solo adventure successfully under your belt.

You are self sufficient, independent, and brimming with satisfaction.

“There’s no. Way.”

You are fucked.

to be continued

tag list: @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @estella-novella @babyphotos0325 @softfor-svtptg @furfoxsake22 @tubelightanyaa @kayleefriedchicken @rockstarkkami @sp1derst0rrr @eastjonowhere @its-stayville-forever @allenajade-ite @naraportokala @jinniejjam @blackberryrains @feetoffthemalfoy @highandalive @scarlet789 @ramadiiiisme @thecutiepieme @lemonn015 @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @dreamingartist13 @ebnabi @bangtan-sonyeondamn8 @lemonn015 @thepoeticpurplepotato @brbwritingfanfic @skzlover24 @stephanieeeyang @my-neurodivergent-world @xgridx @igotajuicyass @annovaz @robinnotgood24 @butterflybananabread @tirena1 @nougatjade @wickedbutlovely @justiceforvillains @beewilko @nougatjade @ellelabelle @qwonyoung23 @hwangjoanna

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fenya-scribbles · 21 days ago

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Pairing: Lee Minho/Han Jisung

Other Characters: Bangchan, Changbin

Summary: Han is sick and Minho is having none of that.

Genre: fluff

Content warnings: none

Word Count: 1,259

A/N: This is a very special fic as it is my first ever non-reader fic and on top of that it's my first ever collab with the wonderful @intrikatie - my darling, it was such a joy bringing this little story to life with you! Writing this truly was chicken noodle soup for the soul <3

“Under no circumstances are you allowed to enter Jisung's room. Understand?” The manager’s voice was sharp enough to slice paper. His clipboard clutched like a weapon of righteous authority. Minho stood there, hands tucked in his hoodie pocket, nodding slowly. Very obedient. Very respectful. Very obviously not listening at all.

“We can’t afford anyone else catching this bug before next week’s schedule,” the manager went on, stabbing the air with his pen. “Especially you, Lee Know. You always catch things too easily—remember last winter?”

Minho nodded again. Blinked once. Thought about what Jisung might need: Honey. Lemon. Lots of sweet things. Chicken noodle soup. Out of the corner of his eye, Bang Chan and Changbin exchanged a look. That look. The silent, tired, “He’s totally going to ignore this” look. Chan even sighed quietly, muttering, “Dead man walking,” under his breath. “Did you hear me, Lee Know?” the manager snapped. Minho smiled. Innocent. Pure. The world’s most unconvincing angel. “Loud and clear."

Minho turned on his heel and disappeared down the hallway. The manager turned to Chris with an exasperated sigh. "He's going to ignore me isn't he?" Chan grinned. "He already did."

He waited until it was sufficiently late for at least most of the staff to be asleep, before he made his way over to Jisung's room. He’d done a little shopping earlier, and was now fully geared up to nurse Jisung back to health. Carefully, he snuck down the hallway, making his way to Jisung's room.

There was a soft knock at Jisung's hotel room door. Three taps. Pause. Two more. Not Skijigi... one of the kids.

Jisung shuffled to the door, dragging his duvet with him like some grumpy, feverish snail. His hair stuck up in every direction. His eyes were puffy and half-lidded. Nose red. Face pale.

In short: he looked like absolute shit. and felt worse.

He squinted at the peephole.

Minho. Hoodie up. A stupid grin on his face.

With a sigh that turned into a pathetic cough halfway through, Jisung cracked the door open.

“You can’t be here, hyung,” he rasped, voice rough and miserable. He sniffled. Pouted. Coughed again. “You’ll get sick too.”

“Want me to leave, then?” Minho said lightly, already half-turning, as if to go.

Jisung's pout deepened. His fingers curled tighter into the edge of his duvet.

“No…” he muttered, dragging the door wider. His lower lip wobbled, sullen and miserable. “You’re here now. Might as well... stay.”

Minho grinned. Victorious. He stepped inside without waiting for an actual invitation.

While Jisung climbed back into the bed, Minho put down the supplies he brought - cups of instant noodles, tea, chocolate. On the TV screen, Howl’s Moving Castle flickered softly. The part where Howl fussed about his hair. Jisung chuckled. Coughed. Peeking at Minho from his mountain of blankets as Minho turned on the kettle. Tired, bleary eyes following his every move. When everything was set, Minho proceeded to join the sick boy, he crouched beside the bed, pressing the back of his hand to Jisung’s forehead. Too warm.

Jisung sighed at the touch. Usually he’d complain about Minho’s cold hands. But tonight, they were welcome respite.

“Feels nice,” Jisung murmured, making Minho chuckle at him, “No flirting with the nurse.”

Jisung pouted.

The kettle clicked softly to signal it was ready. Minho stood, brushing Jisung’s hair gently off his forehead to make him some tea. “I’ve got chicken noodle soup too,” Minho said, as he pulled a plastic container and carefully peeled it open. The smell of broth and herbs filled the room, rich and soothing.”I bet you haven’t eaten anything proper today.”

Jisung grumbled something non committal into his duvet.

“Thought so,” Minho nodded, as he fetched a little spoon from the bag and stirred the soup. “Come on,” he said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Sit up a bit, yeah? You need actual real food.”

Jisung sighed like it was the greatest burden in the universe, but shuffled upright with Minho’s help, wrapped tight in his duvet cocoon.

Minho scooped up a spoonful of soup and held it out.

Jisung gave him a look. A pitiful, betrayed look.“Really? You’re gonna feed me?” he croaked.

Minho smirked. “Unless you want to spill this all down your front and cry about it later? Yes. Open up. Here comes the airplane!”

With a sniff and a grumble, Jisung opened his mouth and let Minho feed him the warm broth. He sighed as it went down, eyes closing in relief.

“See? Not so bad,” Minho murmured, offering another spoonful.

“Could get used to this,” Jisung mumbled.

Another spoonful. And another. Slow and careful. The quiet of the room filled only with the sound of Howl’s Moving Castle murmuring in the background and the soft scrape of the spoon against the container.

Minho set the empty soup container aside and brushed the back of his knuckles over Han’s cheek. Still too warm, but not as flushed as before. Progress.

“All done,” Minho murmured. “What else do you need, hmm?”

Jisung didn’t answer right away. He blinked slowly, eyes heavy-lidded, then raised both arms weakly in the air. A silent little gesture. Wordless. But clear.

Minho’s heart tugged sharp and fond.

“Needy baby,” he teased softly, but his voice was warm. Already moving to kick off his shoes.

Carefully climbing into bed next to Jisung. The younger boy immediately curled into the offered embrace, letting Minho wrap himself around him.

“Better?” Minho asked quietly.

A small nod against his shoulder. A quiet hum.

They woke up hours later with the faintest bit of light filtering through the edges of the curtain. Jisung turned around, not leaving Minho’s arms, and nuzzled his head into the older boy’s shoulder. For a while, they laid like that, wrapped up in each other, close, safe. Until the coughing started. Jisung curled in on himself, covering his mouth with his arm.

“Do you want more soup? Or tea? Chocolate? I got everything right here.” Minho asked, soft, careful, caring. But Jisung just shook his head, pulling his hyung closer. “I just need you.”

Minho snatched Jisung’s second room key the next morning and came back the next evening. And the one after. Jisung did not fight him on it, did not argue, just accepted the care that was provided. He ignored the nagging voice in his head that told him not to be so close to Minho, not to snuggle up like that, for fear of infecting him. But being held by Minho was enough to turn Jisung’s brain off. Being fed chicken noodle soup was enough to sedate any foul thoughts or nagging worry. Minho was there. Warm. Close. Present. Like he was the only medicine Jisung truly needed.

And then, three days later, Jisung finally woke up without that uncanny itch in his throat. “I’m back!”, he shouted, as he stumbled into Chan’s room, where Changbin was already seated on the couch. Both of them looked at him, a grin tugging at the corners of their mouths. “Good to have you back, buddy”, Chan said, and then after a moment of consideration, “where’s Minho?”

That’s when the door opened again, Minho stepping inside. He looked like hell. Face pale, hair tousled, eyes slightly swollen. Chan looked at him with raised eyebrows, already starting to ask the question, when Minho coughed. Once. Twice. Jisung’s face was suddenly riddled with guilt. “Sorry, hyung”, he said, more a whisper than anything, but Minho somehow found it within himself to grin. “Worth it.”

Fenya’s Masterlist

Taglist @lov3rachan @breakmeoff

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fenya-scribbles · 22 days ago

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He's so gorgeous it's not even funny anymore

My King!

Global Brand Ambassador for Gucci

#pls minho #leave some for the rest of us

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fenya-scribbles · 22 days ago

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Purple

Network: @staynotes

Pairing: barista!Minho x gn!Reader

Other Characters: none

Summary: Barista Minho falling for his favourite regular.

Genre: fluff

Content warnings: none

Word Count: 352

A/N: Just a lil sweet drabble I made based on this mood board for the StayPhone Pride Event :3

You looked so sweet. Like you always did. Purple cardigan falling off your shoulder as you sat back in the arm chair, gripping your blueberry hot chocolate with both hands and staring at the laptop on the low table in front of you.

Minho watched you from behind the counter. Like he always did. You were his favourite regular. He always had your drink ready by the time you came in, and you always gave him the sweetest little smile when you noticed. Every damn time. It made his heart flutter. It made your heart flutter.

You mostly came in late, spent your evenings at the café, typing on your laptop, then staring at it for a bit, then typing again. He wondered what you were doing. Wondered what was going on in that pretty little head of yours. Wanted to know you. Needed to know you.

It wasn't like him. He didn't get soft. He didn't get nervous. He was composed and sharp-edged and in control. But you. You made him falter. You made him melt. And you hadn't even really talked to him, only placing orders and saying thank you. How did you do it?

You placed down your emptied mug on the table, still staring at your laptop, but Minho was already there. He picked up the mug, and his presence startled you for a moment. You looked up. Looked at him. The light hit his hair just right, made it look so shiny and soft and then you noticed - it was purple. Like your cardigan.

"I like your hair", you said, out of nowhere. He stopped in his tracks. Looked at you, eyes locking. The silence stretched for a moment, as his eyes searched yours, dropped to your lips for just a split second. Then he spoke. "I like your cardigan."

He sat with you for the first time that night. The café was empty anyways, nobody else came in. Just the two of you, sitting, talking, laughing. And then he walked you home. It was quiet, comfortable. The start of something you'd both been waiting for.

Fenya’s Masterlist

Taglist @lov3rachan @breakmeoff

#skz #skz fanfic #stray kids #stray kids fanfic #lee minho #skz x reader #skz lee know #stray kids lee know #skz lee know x reader #lee know x reader #gn reader #drabble #skz drabble #stray kids drabble #barista au #stayphone:note

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fenya-scribbles · 1 month ago

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Build a fic for I.N - Part 3

Alright, we're going to do a rivals to lovers :3 Can't wait to get started on that! But I have one last poll for you:

Again, feel free to share the post :3

#skz #skz fanfic #stray kids #stray kids fanfic #skz yang jeongin #yang jeongin x reader #yang jeongin #jeongin x reader #stray kids jeongin #jeongin #skz i.n #stray kids i.n #innie #i.n #build a fic #tumblr polls #fenya scribbles #skz x reader #stray kids x reader

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fenya-scribbles · 1 month ago

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Build a fic for I.N - Part 2

We have a winner! Innie will get a mainly fluffy fic, with a tad of angst and a tad of smut (I'll probably keep it suggestive). Now, what character dynamic are we thinking?

Feel free to share the poll :3

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fenya-scribbles · 1 month ago

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@intrikatie forehead!!🫠🫠🫠🫠

#Lino #pls my guy #have mercy

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fenya-scribbles · 1 month ago

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Built a fic for I.N

I’ve noticed a distinct lack of Innie fics on my blog, so we’ll be making one together! First off:

I will be trying to blend genres according to the results.

Have fun voting! Next poll will go up once this one is done :3

#skz #skz fanfic #stray kids #stray kids fanfic #innie #i.n #skz i.n #stray kids i.n #yang jeongin #jeongin #skz jeongin #stray kids jeongin #skz yang jeongin #jeongin fic #jeongin x reader #skz x reader #yang jeongin x reader #fenya scribbles

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fenya-scribbles · 1 month ago

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Hi, congrats on reaching 150. Love your writing. Could I request Thunderstorms and Hyunjin?

Thank you so much!!

I really enjoyed your request!! You can read your fic here :3

#fenya answers #fic request #follower event

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fenya-scribbles · 1 month ago

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Thunderstorm

Network: @staynotes

Pairing: Hyunjin x fem!Reader

Other Characters: none

Summary: You hate thunderstorms almost as much as Hyunjin loves you.

Genre: angst (with kind of a happy ending), strangers to lovers, exes to lovers

Content warnings: reader is terrified of thunderstorms, reader has severe self-worth issues, break up, heartbreak, inability to accept love

Word Count: 1,639

A/N: I’m so sorry, this is so much angstier than I had planned. Requested by a lovely anon for my 150 Follower Event :3 Hope you like it!!

It was raining.

No, pouring. And as if that wasn’t enough already, there was thunder roaring in the distance. Your heart dropped, knees feeling suddenly weak, and your mind raced with just about every worst case scenario ever. You had to get out of this storm, you had to leave, you had to be somewhere safe. So you rushed into the next best store, not even looking what it was. The door softly closed behind you, shrouding you in sudden silence, and you froze in place. You were dripping on the floor, a puddle of rainwater forming at your feet. You looked up - it was an art store. It smelled of paper and paint and old wood. It was a comforting place to be while the thunderstorm raged outside, but you didn’t dare move.

“Hey”, a soft voice forced you out of your stagnation, “are you okay?” You looked up. A man was towering over you, but not in a menacing way. More like he didn’t know how to make himself smaller. You had to do a double take, because he was quite possibly the most gorgeous person you’d ever seen, all cheek bones and plush lips and silky hair. His beautiful eyes filled with genuine concern for this strange, rain-soaked girl that stood frozen in the entrance way.

“I…uhm…”, you stuttered, hugging yourself to keep from shaking. Another roar of thunder had you flinch involuntarily. “There”, he said, shrugging off his hoodie, “you should get out of those wet clothes, but we can only do so much here.” An adorable crooked smile spread over his face. Stunned by his kindness, you shrugged off your soaked cardigan and let him drape his big, dry, warm hoodie around your shoulders.

That’s how it started.

That’s how you met Hyunjin, who asked you for your number and then for a date. Who’d arrived to said date with red roses. Who’d paint you on your second date and begged you to stay at his place on the third. Quickly, you let yourself get lost in him, lost in the way he loved you - but a part of you always knew he was too good for you. As the months went by, you found yourself feeling overwhelmed with his display of affection, unsure of how to accept it, unable to see yourself like he did.

Because this was you, just you, and you weren’t worth all of this affection, all of this care, all of these gestures and paintings and flowers and letters. Hyunjin told you, he’d never fallen in love like this before. He talked about your future together. He held you through every thunderstorm, draping his hoodie around your shoulders like a ritual, but the more he gave, the less you could take.

Until you finally broke.

It was raining again. Thunder and lightning and a mean storm, and you were curled up on your couch, hugging your favourite stuffed animal and watching a well-known movie. Hyunjin sat beside you, eyes more on you than the movie, worry painted all over his handsome face. He’d been noticing it for weeks now, how you pulled away. Allowing him to touch you less and less, not bearing his closeness, not able to hold his gaze. And his heart was already cracked, held together by only the blind hope that this would pass and the bone deep love he had for you. The love you didn’t know how to accept. The love that you were sure you didn’t deserve.

The thunder came again, and you winced, tightening your grip on the stuffed animal in your arms. “Here, my love”, he said, hushed and careful, as if you were a scared animal he didn’t want to upset. Carefully he shrugged out of his hoodie, like he’d done during every other thunderstorm. Gently he placed it around your shoulders like a blanket, like he’d done a million times before. Violently, you flinched.

It was too much, right then and there, it was too fucking much. “No”, you said, “take it back.” You moved, turning away from him, slithering out of the hoodie, jumping off the couch. “No!”

He looked at you with doe eyes, visibly terrified by what he knew was about to happen. “You hate thunderstorms”, he whispered, “It’s just a thunderstorm.” “It’s not! It’s you! It’s me. It doesn’t work, it doesn’t…I can’t do it, Hyunjin. I can’t do this! I can’t be with you. I can’t…I can’t…”, you were half yelling and half sobbing, arms still wrapped tightly around the stuffed animal. “It’s just the thunderstorm”, he repeated, like a mantra, like it would calm you down, like it would change your mind. But he knew you were already slipping from his grasp. “You have to leave”, you said, quieter now, voice shaky. Another roar of thunder had you fall to your knees, sobbing, burying your face in your plushie.

“You have to leave, please. I can’t do it anymore. Please go. Please…” You were begging him, urging him to just leave you be, oblivious to the searing, burning, earth-shattering pain that spread all throughout his body. “Baby please”, he said, slipping down from the couch to kneel before you, “please don’t do this, please. It’s the storm, you hate thunderstorms, please. I love you. I love you so much.” He was reaching for you, but didn’t dare to touch, tears streaming down his face. “Please, Hyune”, you whispered. “I can’t do this anymore, please just leave. Please go.”

And even though it shattered his soul, he did.

The weeks that followed were a nightmare. You walked around on autopilot, functional but not quite alive. He sent you texts every day until you found the strength to block him. The weeks turned to months and you slowly found ways to almost feel like yourself again - almost. But even with all your efforts, you could never escape him. He was everywhere. A Versace ad here, a magazine cover there. Glaring at you from a concert poster. Singing to you through the grocery store speakers. He haunted you every day, reminding you of what you’d pushed away, what you’d given up. All because he had loved you too hard.

You made it through a total of 6 thunderstorms without him, each one tearing you apart worse than the last. You found yourself missing his hoodie around your shoulders, but even more so, you found yourself missing him and the love he’d given you on his own accord. Every time it stormed, you asked yourself why you’d done it. Every time it rained you wondered where he was. Every time the lightning had you shiver you begged the universe to fix it. Fix you. Make you whole, make you right, so you could deserve him. So you could accept his unconditional, unwavering, unbreakable love for you.

It had been 8 months, when the 7th thunderstorm hit. It was a bad one, too. Loud and intimidating and all consuming.

Hyunjin watched the city drown, streets looking like rivers and not a car on the move. And he thought of you. He always thought of you. His mind was overtaken by you, had been ever since you met him. The break up hadn’t changed that. Because he knew that you were it. You were his person, you were his end game. His heart was bleeding but he’d never stopped loving you. He’d tried to stay away, but he never stopped texting. Not even after you blocked him. And when he saw how bad the rain was, how loud the thunder roared, how bright the lightning struck, he couldn’t stay still.

So he moved.

You felt bad. Horrific. Worse than you had in months. The storm had triggered every single bad thought you’d ever had and you were curled into a ball on your bathroom floor, gripping your phone so hard your knuckles turned white. It was not okay, you were not okay, nothing would ever be okay. You couldn’t take it anymore. In a moment of sheer impulse, you unblocked his number. 1430 messages. He’d messaged you every day, multiple times. He’d sent pictures and poems and short little notes and videos of Kkami and I still love you over and over and over. So many messages. For a moment you were so overwhelmed that you forgot about the storm.

But then you got to the last message. “Come down.” Sent 3 minutes ago. He was here. He was here.

Never in a million years would you have ever thought that anyone could get you to leave your home during a thunderstorm. But now you were moving, putting on your shoes, grabbing your keys. No jacket, no umbrella, just your worn out sweatpants and that damned cardigan you’d worn when you first met him. It was like your heart was urging you, pushing you out the door, demanding that you finally do the right thing. And you were too weak, too broken, too incomplete without him to deny yourself.

You were soaked the moment you stepped foot outside your apartment building. But you didn’t care, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the man standing there, in the pouring rain, looking at you with those eyes, those damn beautiful eyes. Your favourite eyes. The only eyes you ever wanted on you. You stepped closer, meeting him in the rain, and for once not jumping when the thunder came again. Because you didn’t even register. All you could see was him.

You stared at each other for a moment, standing there, close enough to touch but not daring. “My love”, he said, barely audible in the rain. “Hyune”, you answered, and then:“Why are you here?” You watched his eyes flicker over your face as tears started to stream down his already wet cheeks. “Because you hate thunderstorms.”

Fenya’s Masterlist

Taglist @lov3rachan @breakmeoff

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