lonelydarknessblog

[lonelydarknessblog]

UNTOUCH-UP

Tattoo Artist!Lee Minho x Reader | Exes. Ink. Unfinished business. And nowhere left to run.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You go in for a touch-up. He’s the one holding the machine. Your ex. The one who fucked you like he loved you—and left like he didn’t. Now he’s working on your skin again. And you’re both trying not to fall back in. Too late. You never stopped wanting him. He never stopped being yours. This time, he’s not letting go.

💌a/n: bro. BRO. i am ✨deceased✨ this fic nearly ate me alive. i was so lazy writing it my brain was just like . . . O.O static noise the ENTIRE time. BUT I DID IT. I DID IT. SHE’S DONE. Minho's demon dick: delivered. Tattoo angst: served. You: ruined. also not me having a day™️ — my cat knocked over a potted flower like she pays rent in this house?? broke the damn pot. soil everywhere. ON. THE. CARPET. and guess who was sitting in the mess like a chaotic forest gremlin? her. the criminal. not even sorry. anyway enjoy the filth I bled for <3 p.s. reblog for minho's sake. he worked very hard. p.p.s. if you read this and didn’t moan once, you're lying. p.p.p.s. minho said “mine” and I folded like a lawn chair in a hurricane.

⚠️ warnings: 18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI | Exes to lovers with years of tension | Fingering (f. receiving), oral sex (f. receiving), face riding | Protected sex because Minho is a King | Overstimulation, squirting, rough sex | Hair pulling, light choking, possessive behavior | Filthy talk™ and degrading praise | Clit play so intense you might ascend | Reader is gone. dumb. dripping | Minho lives upstairs. You live upstairs now too. It’s canon.

📌 Please read with caution. Scream into a pillow. Mop your floor. Apologize to your downstairs neighbors.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » WANT — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:29 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

BACKSTORY

You met Lee Minho back when he was still building himself. Not the man with a waitlist. Not the name clients whispered like prayer. Just a perfectionist with ink-stained fingers, a cigarette habit, and a sketchbook full of obsessions.

He only took blackwork clients. His designs were architectural. Cold. Brutally beautiful. Like cityscapes carved into skin. Like cathedrals swallowed by shadow. You used to tease him—“Do you ever draw anything soft?”

He never answered.

But he kissed you like his mouth was a vow.

You were chaos to his control. Bright to his brutalism. A fire escape on legs, always halfway out the window—but you stayed for him.

The first tattoo he gave you was on your ribcage. Fine lines. Intricate, dark, permanent. He said, “I’ve never done this for someone I care about before.”

You said, “Don’t make it perfect. Just make it ours.”

He made it perfect anyway.

But love wasn’t enough—not when his world narrowed to ink and reputation, and yours was spinning with needs he couldn’t name, let alone meet. He stopped coming home. You stopped trying to explain. The last fight was quiet. The kind of silence that ends things.

You left. He let you. Neither of you ever reached out again.

Seoul, South Korea. Wednesday, 4:03 PM

The bell over the door jingles.

It’s the same goddamn sound. That soft metallic chime, like a warning.

You step into NO SAINT INK and inhale the familiar scent—disinfectant, ink, citrus cleaner, and something darker beneath it. Nostalgia, maybe. Or just Minho’s ghost.

“Hi! Welcome to—”

Jisung’s voice cuts off the moment he looks up. Eyes widen. Blink. Blink. Jaw slightly drops. He’s behind the counter in a ripped vintage tee, one glove on, holding a paper cup of iced Americano like it’s mid-scene in a music video.

“...Holy shit.”

“Nice to see you too,” you deadpan, stepping up to the reception desk like it’s a confession booth.

From the back, Felix emerges, sliding in with a practiced spin on the rolling stool. His crop top says “NO SAINT, JUST HOT” and he’s chewing pink bubblegum like it’s personal.

He squints. “Wait. Waitwaitwait—no way.” He turns to Jisung. “That’s her, right?”

Jisung nods slowly, eyes still on you like you might disappear if he blinks. “Mm-hm. That’s her. The ribcage girl.”

You sigh, reaching for the clipboard. “Still the same greeting process, I see.”

Felix leans in over the counter, lashes weaponized. “So. What brings you back to the scene of the crime, gorgeous?”

“Tattoo,” you say simply, checking the box marked cover-up on the intake form.

Felix raises a brow. “Cover-up? On what?”

You give him a flat look. Then slowly, deliberately, tap your rib.

Jisung immediately chokes on his iced coffee. “Oh my god. You’re covering Minho’s piece?” he hisses.

“Don’t say it like that,” you mutter.

Felix gasps dramatically, grabbing your form. “Does he know? Does he know you’re here?”

“No.”

“Does he know you're gonna cover the sacred rib tattoo of doomed romance™?”

“Still no.”

Jisung is now whispering to himself in horror. “He’s gonna combust. He’s gonna short-circuit like a printer from 2003.”

Felix pats your hand. “You’re braver than the Marines.”

You slide the completed form back to them. “You gonna let me through, or you want me to relive the breakup right here?”

“Booth Three,” Jisung says instantly. “He’s in there right now. I’ll text him that a client is coming in.”

Felix grins like the devil. “We won’t say who. Surprise trauma!”

You exhale slowly as you make your way to Booth Three and pushing the door open.

Minho is inside, doesn't even look up. Of course he doesn't. He is seated at his workstation, black hoodie sleeves pushed up, long fingers flying over his iPad. The screen glows with precision: a mandala lattice interwoven with brutalist architecture, all angles and absence. It’s violently elegant. Just like him.

He’s got one AirPod in. The other rests on the desk, silent. His tattoo gun is prepped and sterilized beside it. Black gloves folded, still untouched.

You stay silent for a beat.

He’s changed, but not really. Hair darker now. Under-eye shadows deeper. Forearms inked in blackwork he used to say wasn’t “for him.” You recognize his neck tattoo—you designed that motif. He said he’d never use it. Guess he changed his mind.

You speak, voice even, soft.

“Hope you still remember how to do ribs.”

He freezes. Literally freezes mid-stroke, like someone hit pause on a film reel.

His eyes flick up.

And when they meet yours—his stylus drops.

“...No fucking way.”

You smile, tight-lipped. “Hi.”

Minho blinks. Once. Twice. Then leans back slowly in his chair, as if needing distance just to believe you're real. He doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes drag down you like a scan—lips, collarbones, arms. His gaze stops right where it used to rest: the dip beneath your ribs. “What the fuck are you doing here.” You shrug, like this isn’t a slow-burn emotional arson scene. “Cover-up.”

He exhales like he got sucker punched.

You don’t say it. You don’t have to. He knows which one. For a moment, neither of you move. The only sound is the quiet buzz of the fluorescent light, and your pulse hammering against silence.

Minho finally breaks it, voice lower now. Raspier. Rough around the edges.

“Sit.”

You walk forward. The vinyl of the chair squeaks as you lower yourself onto it.

Minho adjusts his stool with one foot, pulling closer—close enough that your knees nearly touch. He reaches for a fresh pair of gloves and pulls them on with a muted snap.

“You still flinch?” he asks, without looking up.

“Only when it matters.”

A breath leaves him like a short laugh, disbelieving and hollow. He nods at your ribs.

“Show me.”

You tug your top up slowly. The air is cool against your skin. But his gaze is colder.

The tattoo’s still there—his lines, his shape, the intimate architecture of a design he once called a cathedral just for you. You watch his eyes trace it like he’s reading a language he forgot he wrote.

He exhales through his nose, once. Then leans in. Not touching. But close.

“Still healed well,” he mutters. “Even after everything.”

He lets out a short sound—not quite a laugh. Not quite not.

Then turns to grab his iPad.

You watch him swipe past old sketches. Lines. Shapes. A few human figures, but mostly… structures. Always structures. Stained glass, brutal staircases, the shadows between pillars. And suddenly—one design with your face sketched into the edge of a crumbling spire flashes past.

You blink.

He quickly flips to a blank layer.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, stylus in hand.

You hesitate. Then: “Something clean. Cold. Geometric. No softness.”

He looks at you. Just looks. Then tilts his head. “So the opposite of what you used to want.”

You lift a brow. “People change.”

“Do they?” He doesn’t say it like a question.

Silence. Only the soft tick of the stylus moving. Drawing. Erasing. Redrawing.

You glance over.

The lines are sharp. Intricate. Interlocking shapes—architectural, yes, but still haunting. There’s depth beneath the harshness, shadows where light should be. He’s already building something brutal.

“You always sketch this fast for clients?” you ask.

He doesn’t look up. “Only the ones who know how to bleed for it.”

Your breath stutters. He notices.

After another beat, he holds the iPad out to you, jaw tense. “You want this? Final answer.”

You study it. And it’s beautiful. Devastatingly so. The kind of piece that erases history—not by covering it, but by burying it in monument.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s perfect.”

He huffs softly. “It’s not.”

“Minho—”

“It’s not what I wanted to put here.”

The sentence hits like a quiet car crash. No screech, just impact. You say nothing. He turns away to print the stencil. You watch the lines appear on paper, black and cruel.

“This gonna take long?” you ask lightly, trying to breathe again.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “It’s big.”

“Good. I’ve got time.”

He turns. Looks at you—really looks. The gloves are still on. The stencil in hand. “You sure you can lie here for hours with me that close?”

“You sure you can touch me for that long and not fall apart?”

For one suspended moment, the room goes still.

Then Minho steps forward. “Let’s find out.”

He sets the stencil aside. Pulls out the prep tray. It���s methodical—his ritual. You remember it. He moves with that same detached precision: antiseptic wipe, alcohol spray, barrier film over his tray, black nitrile gloves pulled snug with that quiet snap that used to make your stomach twist.

The scent of alcohol hits first. Then the click of the spray bottle. Then his voice—low, close. “I’m cleaning the area.”

He waits. You nod.

And then his hand—gloved, cold—presses gently at your side, just under your ribs. The contact makes your breath hitch. He feels it. “Still ticklish,” he murmurs, but there’s no amusement in it. Just memory.

His fingers move across the old tattoo and you close your eyes as he presses the stencil on.

“Hold still,” he says softly. Too softly.

You feel the pressure of his palm, the warm slide of his knuckles against your waist, the careful tension as he positions the design.

Then he pulls back. Steps away. And you exhale.

“Mirror’s there,” he says, voice neutral.

You sit up, top still raised, and step to the full-length mirror near the booth’s edge.

The stencil is stark black. Clean. Brutal. It spans from just under your chest down to your hipbone—an interlocking spiral staircase, collapsing inward on itself, surrounded by broken geometry and cathedral archways. Inside the spiral, there’s a single vacant silhouette—like a missing piece in the shape of a person.

“It’s…” you begin. But you can’t find the word.

“Empty?” he offers.

“Yeah.”

Minho shrugs slightly, adjusting the height of the chair. “You wanted cold. Unsweet. Brutal.”

You nod. “I did.”

He doesn’t move until you return to the chair and settle in again. He leans down, pulls the stool closer—so close his knee brushes yours. “Ready?”

“No.”

A pause. Then: “Good. That’s honest.”

The machine buzzes to life. He dips the needle into the ink—pitch black—and presses the foot pedal. Then the first contact hits. The sting. The bite. The sound.

Your breath stutters. His hand is firm on your waist, grounding. “Still breathe like that,” he murmurs.

“Still touch like that.”

The buzz of the machine fills the booth like static between stations.

Minho works in silence. You breathe in silence. Time stretches. His gloved hand stays steady on your waist—anchoring, professional, unyielding. But every time his fingers shift to wipe the ink, every time his forearm brushes your side, you feel something buried rattle. Like bones under floorboards.

You focus on the ceiling tiles. Count them. Try not to flinch when he drags the line near your ribcage. He’s precise. Too precise. You feel every goddamn millimeter.

And still—he says nothing. It’s been maybe an hour. Then—quietly, like a thread being tugged:

“You finish school?”

Your eyes blink open. “Yeah. A while ago.”

“Thought so,” he murmurs. “You used to study here. In this chair.”

You huff. “I used to do a lot of things in this chair.”

He pauses. Then wipes your skin with slow, deliberate pressure. “Still mouthy.”

“Still quiet.”

“One of us had to be.”

The machine hums again. You both fall silent. But the air isn’t. It hums now—charged and heavy. After another few minutes, you speak, voice softer.

“You still living above the shop?”

Minho’s hand doesn’t pause, but you hear the answer in the way he exhales. “Yeah.”

“You ever fix the leak by the kitchen window?”

“Eventually. Felix slipped on the water and broke his assbone, so…”

“Justice.”

A faint smile ghosts across his lips. You catch it. Pretend not to. “What about you?” he asks. “Where are you now?”

You shrug. “Seoul. Still. I work freelance—mostly visual design, some concept art stuff. Clients suck. Pay’s decent.”

“Still draw?”

“Always.”

He nods, as if that explains something only he understands.

Another beat of quiet. Then: “You tattoo now too?”

That makes you pause. “A little. Not full-time.”

“Anyone ever ink your ribs like this again?”

You meet his eyes. “No one ever touched me here again.”

That silence? Not like before. This one cracks. Minho sets the machine down slowly. Wipes the needle. Re-inks. Doesn’t speak for a full thirty seconds.

Then: “Good.”

You shift, heart thudding. “Why?”

He glances up, and for once, doesn’t look away. “Because it’s not theirs to touch.” He says it like he didn’t just lay a claim. Like it’s fact. Like it’s law.

You don’t reply. You can’t. Your ribs ache—not from the needle, but from the breath you’ve been holding since he started this goddamn piece.

Minho presses the foot pedal again.

The machine whirs to life, slicing through the silence. The black ink spreads, sharp and deliberate, marking over what was once softness.

His hand settles against your waist again. Firmer now. Less technician—more… anchor. His fingers brush under the hem of your top again. Not on purpose.

But he doesn’t apologize.

“Gonna do the lower spiral now,” he murmurs. “I need to adjust your position.”

You nod. Try to keep your voice even. “Tell me what you want.”

His gaze flicks up. Something flashes in it—heat, recognition, regret. “Lift your arm. Stretch back.”

You obey. Your back arches slightly. The angle shifts. Your shirt slides up higher. And suddenly, his breath catches. Not visibly. Not loudly. But you feel it—in the tiny hesitation between glove and skin. He moves slower now. Drapes the barrier cloth gently over your chest. Focuses on the lower edge of the design.

His hand brushes the curve of your hip. “Still got the scar,” he mutters.

“From your old chair. That screw that stuck out.”

“I told you to stop climbing into my lap during sessions.”

“I told you to fix your fucking chair.”

Another small ghost of a smile. Another memory you didn’t mean to let through. The machine buzzes. The lines go deeper now. Bolder. You wince slightly—less from pain, more from the weight of his closeness. “Hurts?” he asks, quiet. “Not as much as losing you did.”

The machine goes silent. He sets it down. Slowly. His head tilts up, eyes dark, unreadable. “You think I didn’t lose you too?”

Before you can answer—knock knock knock.

The booth door creaks open an inch, and Jisung’s head pops in. “Hey, just checking—OH.” He blinks. Stares. Feels the temperature of the room. “Never mind.”

Another head appears behind him—Chan, black tee, clipboard in hand. Owner. OG. Quiet ringleader of this whole tattoo circus.

“Minho, did you review the—” He pauses mid-sentence. Eyes shift from Minho to you. To your lifted shirt. To the way Minho’s gloved hand is hovering just above your skin.

Chan arches a brow. “...So this is happening again.”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “Out.”

Jisung salutes. “Godspeed, soldier.”

Chan just sighs. “Try not to punch holes in the wall this time.”

The door shuts. The lock clicks. Silence again.

You exhale. “They always this nosy?”

“You always this distracting?” His voice is low now. Tight.

You blink. “Minho—”

“Lie back.”

You obey. He pulls the stool closer. Closer than necessary. Then, gloved hands on your hip, he says—quiet, slow: “I’m finishing this. Every goddamn line.”

You nod. And the machine starts again.

You lose track of time somewhere around the fifth wipe.

The sky outside is darker now. The booth hums with that post-tattoo stillness—low light, blood buzz, the deep ache under your skin like something blooming and bruised.

Minho’s working slower now. Not out of fatigue. No—he’s dragging it out. You can feel it in the way he traces your skin. The pauses. The glances.

It’s 7:23 PM.

You know this because your phone buzzes uselessly on the counter and Minho glares at it like it’s an intruder. Then again—he hasn’t looked away from you much at all.

“You’re almost done?” you ask quietly, voice hoarse from the hours of not speaking.

“Final shading,” he says, shifting. “Then bandage.”

You nod, letting your head fall back against the chair. You close your eyes.

Until—click. The door opens again.

“You better not be tattooing her feelings back on,” Jisung says, peeking in once more.

“It’s after seven,” Chan adds, stepping in behind him. “We’re leaving. You can lock up.”

Minho doesn’t even glance at them. “Bye.”

“Damn,” Jisung mutters. “I missed when you were nice.”

Chan folds his arms. “He was never nice.”

Minho wipes your side again. “Do you two need something, or are you just doing walk-in commentary now?”

“We’re giving you the key,” Chan says patiently, tossing it toward the counter. It lands with a clatter. “And also warning you: no sex on the chair.”

“Especially not that chair,” Jisung adds. “That’s the holy one. Client blood and heartbreak juice only.”

You blink up at them. “You do know I can hear you, right?”

“Sweetheart, you’re like three moans away from a confessional,” Jisung grins.

Minho’s hand tenses on your hip.

Chan gives Jisung a sharp look. “Okay, that’s enough. Let the man finish tattooing his ex.”

Minho’s voice cuts in—low, flat, and dry: “I’m raising the booth rent if you two don’t leave.”

Jisung gasps. “You can’t evict my vibe.”

“Watch me.”

With one final laugh, Chan tips an invisible hat at you. “Pleasure seeing you again. Don’t break our boy, yeah?”

You don’t respond. You just hold Minho’s gaze.

The door closes. The lock clicks again. Alone. Again.

He exhales. “They never change.”

You hum. “Neither do you.”

“Not with you.”

His hand brushes your skin again, wiping the last bit of ink away. He doesn’t move it. Just leaves it there. Warm and steady.

“I’m done.”

You nod. Slow. Dazed. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too.”

But neither of you move.

The machine is off. The gloves are still on. His hand is still resting on your bare waist.

You watch his throat move as he swallows.

“I need to bandage it.”

You nod.

Minho finally pulls back. Peels off the gloves, slow. Tosses them into the bin with a soft crack. His hands are bare now—warmer, familiar, devastating. He reaches for the tattoo film. The kind that clings like a second skin.

“This part’ll be cold,” he murmurs.

“So were you.”

His hands pause.

Then, with infinite care, he presses the bandage to your ribs. The plastic clings, sealing the ink beneath. His fingertips ghost over your side. Flattening. Smoothing.

Too gentle.

His hand lingers a second too long on your hipbone. Then again on the edge of your waist, just under your breast. You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

Neither does he.

“You’re still warm here,” he murmurs. “Still soft.”

“I never stopped being yours here,” you whisper. “Even after you let me go.”

His hand freezes.

And then—

Minho exhales. Slow. Controlled. Devastated. “Fuck,” he says. “Don’t say shit like that unless you mean it.”

“I do mean it.”

He looks up at you, finally. Face unreadable. But his eyes? Wrecked.

“I didn’t stop wanting you,” you say, soft. “I just stopped begging.”

And that’s when something inside him cracks. Minho drops the rest of the bandage. One hand cups your jaw. The other pulls you forward by the waist. His lips crash into yours—not neat, not planned, not patient. Just real. Messy. Hot. Familiar. Like all the years you lost were just smoke.

He tastes the same. Regret and hunger.

You kiss him back. Desperate. Needy. Home.

When he pulls away, he’s breathless. “The shop’s closed,” he says hoarsely.

“I know.”

“You’re not leaving yet.”

“I know.”

But he can't stop kissing you and his kisses leave you gasping, lips parted, your ribs burning with fresh ink and something even hotter under your skin.

But Minho doesn’t move for your mouth again.

He just looks at you. And presses the last edge of the bandage into place. Palms flat on either side of your ribs, holding it there. Holding you there.

“You need to keep this clean,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Saniderm on for at least a day. No sweat. No friction. No heat.”

You smirk. “So I shouldn’t fuck my tattoo artist, huh?”

He closes his eyes like that physically hurts. Then opens them again, and they’re darker. Gone. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Come here.”

He grabs your face and kisses you again—harder this time. His mouth is warm, demanding. He tastes like ink and restraint and the last piece of something you thought you’d never get again.

You whimper into it, fingers fisting into his hoodie, tugging him closer. He moves fast now, pulling you upright, spinning you around so your back hits the wall behind the chair.

Your top rides up, exposing your waist. His hands drag along the un-tattooed side of your ribs, his touch finally hungry.

“Minho—”

“You still talk too much.”

His hand finds your thigh, fingers digging in as he lifts you onto the edge of the chair.

“Don’t you dare come undone on this chair unless you want your name carved into it,” he growls.

“Do it,” you whisper, breath hot. “Like old times.”

He groans. Hands gripping your hips, pulling you forward against the bulge in his jeans. But even now—he's careful. His fingers skirt around the bandage. His mouth trails everywhere but the fresh ink.

“I can’t touch there,” he pants. “But everywhere else? Mine.”

He leans in—bites at your neck. Licks under your jaw. You shudder. “Mine.”

You nod, breathless. “Yours.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours.”

He groans into your skin. One hand slips under your waistband—slow, deliberate, filthy. “Keep still. You move too much, I’ll stop.”

“Minho—”

He kisses your collarbone. Soft now. “I never should’ve stopped touching you.” His voice is low, almost broken against your skin. And then his hand dips further—sliding past the waistband of your pants, then beneath your underwear. You flinch at the first brush of his fingers against your bare heat.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Already soaked?”

You moan, soft and unfiltered. “You did this.”

“Damn right I did.”

He doesn’t dive in right away.

Minho’s fingers ghost along your folds, barely there—just the suggestion of touch. Teasing, cruel, worshipful. Like he wants to remember this. Every slick, desperate twitch.

“Still so fucking warm,” he murmurs. “Still react to me like this.”

“Because I never stopped needing you.”

That does something to him. His jaw tightens. His free hand grips your thigh harder.

His fingers stroke your clit now—slow and purposeful. He still hasn’t pushed in. Just teasing, rubbing, feeling every tremble in your core.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “All this time and I still ruin you like this.”

You whimper, hips bucking up—but he presses you down against the chair again.

“What did I say?” he growls. “Keep. Fucking. Still.”

You nod, gasping. “I’m trying—fuck—Minho, please—”

He slips one finger inside. Just one. It glides in so easily, so wet, he groans low into your neck.

“Still tight,” he pants. “Still perfect.”

You clench around him and he curses, fingers curling just slightly as he begins to move.

“Say it again,” he whispers, lips dragging over your ear.

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m—fuck—Minho, I’m yours—”

His second finger joins the first. Scissoring. Filling. So slow it’s maddening. His thumb circles your clit in rhythm, expertly cruel. You’re grinding against him now, trying not to cry out.

But it’s no use.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let me hear you. You think I forgot what you sound like?”

You moan—loud this time—and he smiles against your skin.

“There she is.”

His fingers curl again—deep, deliberate, cruel. You cry out, thighs trembling, body completely unhinged on his tattoo chair.

“Fuck, you’re clenching so hard,” he groans, dragging his fingers out almost entirely before plunging back in with a wet sound that makes you whimper. “You missed this, didn’t you?”

“Y-Yes,” you gasp.

“How much?”

You can barely breathe. “So much—Minho—fuck—”

“That’s not good enough.”

He pumps harder. Faster. His fingers scissor deep inside you, stretching you wide while his thumb circles your clit with just enough pressure to keep you right on the edge. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged, jaw clenched like he's holding back a growl.

“Feel how fucking hard I am for you,” he grits, grabbing your free hand and dragging it down between you both.

Your fingers brush the bulge in his jeans and—fuck. He’s thick. Hard in a way that hurts even through the denim.

“All that from just your voice,” he rasps. “From your pussy sucking my fingers in like it still belongs to me.”

You whimper, hand tightening instinctively over his cock. He twitches under your grip.

“You’re gonna make me cum just from your fist at this rate,” he breathes, panting into your mouth. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Your hips roll against his hand, the wet slap of your cunt obscene now, the squelch of each pump making your eyes roll back.

“M-Minho—can’t—too much—”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Take it. You used to take it so well.”

You cry out, grinding shamelessly against his hand, your wrist still caught against the outline of his cock. His fingers are relentless now—deep, punishing strokes that angle just right, hitting the spot that makes your back arch.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, voice hot and filthy. “You gonna cum for me?”

“Please—need to—”

“You think I’m letting you go home with anyone else’s cum in you again?” His hand grips tighter. “Nah. You’ll cum on my fingers. Then my tongue. Then my cock. One by one. Until you remember who you belong to.”

You sob into his shoulder, body locking up.

“Then cum,” he growls. “Let me feel you fucking fall apart.”

And you do. You shatter. Right there in his chair, cunt clenching around his fingers so hard he curses, hips bucking involuntarily, thighs shaking. The orgasm crashes through you like a wave that never breaks.

You’re still gasping, barely coming down, when he kisses you again—rough and breathless.

Then he pulls his hand out and brings his digits to his lips, licking his fingers clean with a sinful groan. “Still the sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Minho leans in—presses a soft kiss just beneath your jaw. Then another. Then pulls back, his lips swollen and wet with you.

“Stay,” he says simply.

“Yes.”

“Upstairs.”

You nod again, dazed. He grabs a clean towel, wipes his fingers off, then flicks off the booth lights.

You stumble to your feet. He steadies you with a hand on your lower back—protective, but firm. The other hand? Already sliding down to cup the curve of your ass.

“Don’t test me,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Or I’ll take you right here. Front door be damned.”

You laugh breathlessly. “You always talk this much now?”

“Only when I’m starving.”

He steps out first. Walks to the front.

The shop’s dark now—just the glow of the neon sign outside, and the sound of him flipping the lock with a click. Pulling the blinds. Turning the CLOSED sign.

The only other sound is your breath. And the creak of stairs.

Minho turns back to you. Extends his hand. “Come home.”

And you do. You follow him up the stairs—your fingers tangled in his, your heart in your throat. He pulls you behind him, not once looking back.

The upstairs apartment is dim, clean, and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

His hoodie hits the floor first. Your shirt follows. Your bra is gone with one snap of his practiced fingers.

“Fuck,” he breathes, stepping in closer. “I’ve dreamed about this. Exactly this.”

“Then stop dreaming.”

“I’m not stopping anything tonight.”

He kisses you hard, mouths crashing, tongues tangled. His hands roam over every inch of skin he missed—the good side of your ribs, your back, your thighs. He lifts you. You wrap your legs around his waist.

Your back hits the hallway wall.

Your pants are yanked down, barely a memory. His belt clinks open, jeans shoved past his hips. You’re both gasping, biting, pulling, years of silence poured into filthy, reckless touch.

“I missed your body,” he mutters into your mouth. “Missed how you sound. How you taste. How you fucking feel.”

“Then take me.”

“You think I won’t?”

He kicks the bedroom door open with one foot, lays you down onto his bed, and finally—finally—he crawls over you like you’re something holy. You are.

Minho kisses you again, slower now, lips dragging down the column of your throat. Over your collarbone. Across the top of your chest. He palms your breast—squeezes, just enough to make you gasp—and then closes his mouth over your nipple.

You arch.

“Still so responsive,” he murmurs, flicking his tongue over the peak before sucking hard, slow. “Still so good for me.”

Your hands knot in his hair.

He kisses across to the other one—giving it the same attention, tongue lazy, mouth open and hot. Every sound you make fuels him.

Then lower.

His mouth trails down the center of your stomach—soft kisses, open-mouthed and hot, then bites just sharp enough to leave blooming heat behind. He kneels between your legs, hands parting your thighs.

You’re soaked again. Dripping. Panties long gone.

He growls low, eyes locked to your pussy like it’s fucking divine.

“You knew this was next,” he says, voice low, hands sliding under your thighs to lift your hips. “I told you.”

“Then shut up and—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

Minho licks one long stripe up your slit—slow and filthy—from the bottom of your entrance to your clit. And moans. Loud.

“Still taste like a fucking fever dream.”

Your hands shoot into his hair again. “Minho—fuck—”

He flattens his tongue against your clit, then circles it. Slow, heavy pressure. Just enough to make your thighs jerk around his head. “Keep them open,” he mutters, pulling back only to kiss your inner thigh, your hipbone, your mound. “Let me see all of you.”

And then he devours.

Tongue pressed deep. Lapping. Sucking. Flicking. He eats like he missed meals for years and this is how he survives now. Your moans go from soft to broken, gasps ragged, legs shaking around his head.

“Oh my—fuck—Minho—”

He groans into you, the vibration making your hips buck. His arms wrap tighter around your thighs, holding you down, keeping you right there as his tongue circles your clit in tight, ruthless rhythm.

He sucks your clit—harder now. Lips wrapped around your clit, tongue swirling in circles so precise it feels like he mapped this out. Every flick is a promise. Every kiss, a punishment.

“Minho—fuckfuck—please—”

Your thighs tremble against his shoulders, toes curling, head thrown back into his sheets. But he’s relentless. Focused. Cruel in the way only someone who knows your body this well can be.

Then—suddenly—his tongue dips lower again.

He licks into you—deep—pressing into your entrance, slow and wet and hot.

Minho—”

He moans into your cunt, arms flexing around your thighs, nose pressed into your mound like he never wants to come up for air. He tongue-fucks you harder, the slick sounds obscene now, spit and arousal dripping down his chin.

He pulls back just enough to suck your clit again, messy and loud—then goes back down, tongue fucking you like it’s a competition. Like it’s penance. Like he’s going to draw the second orgasm out of you with his mouth alone.

“You’re close again,” he pants. “I feel it. You gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna soak my face?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. In fact, he doubles down—tongue driving in and out while he rubs tight, fast circles on your clit with his thumb. Your thighs snap around his head. You try to pull away, too sensitive, too much—

But Minho just growls, deep and possessive.

“Fucking take it.”

Fuck you do. You fucking do take it. How can you not. And you finally break apart on his face, legs locking, body spasming as that second orgasm rips through you harder, wetter, longer. He holds you through it, licking and sucking until your voice is nothing but choked whimpers and your body can’t stop twitching.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth is glossy, chin soaked.

He smirks—wild, satisfied, dark before kneeling up, grabbing a condom from the drawer, tearing it open with his teeth.

“Now I’m gonna ruin this pussy properly.”

You’re barely conscious of the way he tears the condom wrapper open—just the sound of it, sharp and needed in the haze of your wrecked body. He rolls it on quick, jaw clenched, hand pumping his cock once, twice, eyes locked on you like you’re prey he’s finally allowed to devour.

“Get on all fours.”

You try to move, limbs shaking, but he grabs your hips and flips you himself—effortless, firm, like muscle memory. You barely get your arms under you before he’s behind you, one hand gripping your ass, the other dragging along your spine.

“You remember how loud you used to get?” he mutters, voice thick. “Gonna make you scream into my fucking sheets again.”

He guides his cock to your entrance—rubbing the tip through your soaked folds, slow and teasing, soaking himself in your mess.

“Fuck—you’re dripping,” he groans. “You came so hard for my mouth, and you’re still ready for my cock?”

“Please—Minho—need it—need you—”

He sinks in. Deep. One smooth, devastating thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

“Oh my fuck—”

“That’s it,” he growls, bottoming out. “Tight as ever. Like your pussy never forgot me.”

You choke on a moan as he pulls out slow—just to slam back in, harder this time. Your arms buckle, face falling into the mattress as his hips snap against your ass with punishing rhythm.

“Minho—fuck—you’re so—deep—”

“Yeah? You missed this cock?” His voice is ragged, filthy. “Tell me. Tell me who fucks you like this.”

“Only you—fuck—only you, Minho—”

“Damn right.”

He grips your hair, pulling you up by the back of your neck, arching your body so your back curves into him. His mouth is by your ear now, panting, biting.

“No one touches you here,” he growls, fucking into you harder, deeper. “Not your mouth. Not your thighs. Not your pussy. All mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours—Minho—I’m fucking yours—”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours!”

He snarls into your neck and slams into you so deep you see stars. One of his hands slides down to your clit, rubbing fast, relentless circles while his cock drags against your g-spot.

“You gonna cum again?” he pants. “On my cock this time?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

“Let go for me, baby.”

You don’t even need to try.

His thumb circles your clit with such devastating precision, and his cock hits so deep, so right, you come apart again—body locking up, mouth falling open in a moan that barely sounds like your own.

Your orgasm slams into you like a wave, sharp and overwhelming, your pussy fluttering around him, gripping him, milking him like your body knows he’s supposed to stay there.

“Fuuuuck—Minho—!”

“That’s it,” he growls. “Cum on my cock like a good girl. So fucking wet—so tight—I can feel you pulsing, fuck—”

Your vision blurs. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps thrusting through it, relentless, dragging it out with brutal pace, your pussy so sensitive now you can barely breathe. His hand’s still on your clit, rubbing slow now—just enough to make you whimper.

“Minho—please—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.”

He leans over your back again, teeth dragging along your shoulder, breath hot and harsh. “You gonna take it, baby,” he pants. “You’re gonna be good and take it. All of it. Until I cum too.”

You cry out when he fucks you harder, cock slamming in deep, hips slapping skin, the sound so obscene it makes your whole body flush. You feel your own slick running down your thighs, pooling under you—and still he keeps going.

“You said you were mine,” he groans. “So act like it. Let me fuck you how you need.”

“Minho—f-fuck—it’s too—too much—”

“It’s never too much,” he hisses. “Not for my good girl.”

His fingers leave your clit, only to grip your throat—lightly, possessively, pulling you up so your back is flush to his chest. His cock drives into you deeper from this angle, the stretch unbearable, perfect.

“You feel this?” he whispers into your ear. “You feel how hard I still am inside you? I’m not even close, baby.”

“Oh my god—”

“You’re gonna take every fucking second of it.”

You moan, broken and needy, as he slams into you again and again. His hips are ruthless now, fucking you straight through your oversensitivity, chasing his own high while demanding you keep up.

“Gonna ruin you,” he groans. “Gonna fill you up and fuck you until you can’t even stand—until all you know is my name in your throat.”

“Please—Minho—yes—yes, please—”

You feel another orgasm building and he knows it. His hand snakes down again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing quick tight circles just as he starts fucking you even deeper, fucking into your sweet spot with perfect, punishing rhythm.

“Cum again,” he growls. “Do it. Show me how good your pussy gets when it’s mine.”

Your legs are trembling now, slick and spent, but Minho doesn’t let up.

“C’mon,” he pants, voice wrecked. “Give it to me again. You know you can.”

His fingers never leave your clit—tight, ruthless circles in time with the brutal rhythm of his thrusts. He’s fucking into you so deep you swear he’s carved out space inside you. Your body’s a live wire, too sensitive, too soaked, too close.

And then—

You break.

A cry tears out of you as your body convulses, squirting hard around him, wetness gushing as your vision whites out. He curses low and vicious, gripping your hips to ride it out, holding you through the aftershocks.

“Fuck—just like that, baby. Look at this mess. All for me.”

You’re limp, gasping, gone—and he’s still fucking you, chasing the edge with a growl in his throat. His rhythm stutters, hips snapping faster, deeper, until he finally buries himself to the hilt with a sharp gasp.

“Mine,” he groans. “Taking all of me—fuck—mine.”

You feel the shudder of him spilling into the condom, body tight, muscles locked, every filthy, pent-up second poured into you.

And then—

Silence.

Only breath. Sweat. Your heartbeat in your ears. He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays there, chest pressed to yours, mouth by your ear and pressing soft kisses.

Then finally—slowly—he pulls out. You both shiver from the loss.

Minho moves carefully now, the storm in him simmered down to something softer, raw-edged but human. He slides off the condom, ties it off, discards it in the bin by the bed. Then he vanishes for a beat—into the bathroom maybe—but returns just as fast with a warm cloth, water, tissues.

“Easy,” he murmurs as he wipes between your legs, his touch gentle, reverent. “Let me take care of you.”

You wince slightly when the cloth brushes too close to your clit, overstimulated and twitchy. He notices immediately.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “You okay?”

You nod. Too gone to speak yet, but he sees it—your blinking gratitude, the softness returning to your breath. He kisses the inside of your knee before tossing the cloth aside.

And then he climbs back into bed, arms open. You crawl into them without hesitation. He pulls the blanket over both of you, tucks your head beneath his chin. One hand rubs slow circles into your back; the other is tangled in your hair.

For a long time, neither of you say anything. Just breath. The muted thud of his heartbeat under your ear. The faint creak of the studio pipes somewhere above.

Until you finally whisper, “Why’d we stop talking?”

His fingers still for a moment. Then resume. Slower. “I was angry,” he says. “And stupid.”

You hum. “Me too.”

He sighs. “I hated that you left without saying goodbye.”

“I hated that you let me.”

A pause.

“You came back,” he says quietly.

“I never stopped thinking about you.”

Another beat of silence, heavier now. “I never moved on,” he admits.

You look up at him, eyes glassy. “Neither did I.”

His jaw flexes. His thumb brushes your cheek. And this time, when he kisses you—it’s slow. Deep. No lust. Just longing. A kiss built on what-ifs. On might-have-beens. On maybe-again.

He whispers against your lips, “Stay the night.”

You nod, barely breathing. “Okay.”

It’s been three weeks since that night. Since Minho locked the studio door, fucked you senseless, and told you—without words—that he never stopped wanting you.

Now?

Now, your toothbrush is in his bathroom. Your sketchbook’s on his kitchen counter. Your bra’s been living on his bedpost for four days and counting.

You’re upstairs more than not—first it was overnight visits, then a drawer, then a closet, then one morning he just grunted, “Your stuff’s already here. Might as well stop pretending.”

So you stayed.

Mornings are quiet. Shared coffee in oversized mugs, his hand on your thigh while he skims client bookings. Nights are louder—sometimes it’s just TV and takeout, sometimes it’s moaning into his mouth while he fucks you over the arm of the couch, one hand tangled in your hair and the other keeping your legs spread.

Rebuilding hasn’t been linear. You argue. You remember old fights. You see old wounds still healing. But you talk now. And when you don’t have the words, he kisses the silence out of you, palms framing your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks too long.

One afternoon, Jisung barges in to drop off a delivery and freezes at the top of the stairs. You’re half-naked in one of Minho’s shirts. He’s behind you, tattoo gun still buzzing.

“Are you seriously tattooing her naked again?”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “My apartment. My rules.”

Jisung groans. “I’m gonna start charging rent for the trauma.”

Minho just smirks, wiping your skin clean and pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Close the door on your way out.”

You laugh into the sleeve of your shirt. You’re glowing. A little inked, a lot in love.

And Minho? He’s not going anywhere this time.

[lonelydarknessblog]

ConviNiziu store episode was so much fun, especially with my two favorites :)

[lonelydarknessblog]

[lonelydarknessblog]

Lore: Dominant Wolves and Created Wolves

Hello Pack lovelies,

Firstly, I watched K Pop Demon Hunters and loved it! But one of the songs also gave me a story for Seungmin! I hope to write it soon! Meanwhile, here is the sacred text on Dominants and Created.

D O M I N A N T S

🐾Werewolves who are born with the genes are known as Dominants. Offspring of werewolf x werewolf couples. They tend to be stronger and faster, with their senses more attuned. This is because they didn’t have to learn to train those parts. 

🐾Dominants are the only weres who risk ferality. Again, this is because they are born with the wolf, which makes the wolf gene equally in control of the body as the human gene. (Note: In a created werewolf, though the werewolf gene is stronger than the human gene, it is still considered an intruder gene and creates an internal war. Consequently, a created wolf does not go feral but begins self destructing. More information in Created Wolves section).

🐾Dominant wolves can shift, but very few can shift completely. A wolf who is capable of a complete shift is usually revered, not only because shifting is very painful, but because shifting back from a wolf requires the human instinct to be more powerful than the wolf’s. Anyone who is able to do this is considered divinely blessed.

🐾In the Eastern Hemisphere, the only recorded full shifter is Bangchan, but there is speculation, since no one has seen his wolf. The only reason there is speculation is because of the mark left from when he turned Felix. Felix has a scar shaped like a wolf maw on his shoulder. 

🐾The regular dominant werewolves can do partial shifts. This means that their hands and legs morph into paws, and eyes turn yellow. In more extreme shifts, triggered by rage or angst, the nose and ears may morph too. Claws extend and fur pushes through the skin during partial shifts. Bones morph but don’t break. Shifts are painful, but the pain is often overridden by the emotion causing the shift. After a shift, the body is extremely sore, specially around the joints and shifted body parts.

🐾The three leadership roles of a pack, the alpha, beta and the guardian, are always held by dominant wolves. These positions cannot be held by created wolves.

🐾Dominant wolves tend to find mates who exhibit dominance as well. It might not be in the nature of their birth, but their mates dominate in various ways, like intellect, speed, strategy, etc. 

C R E A T E D

🐾Created wolves are made when the saliva of an alpha dominant enters the blood stream of a race whose genes are weaker than the werewolf gene. The DNA in the saliva of the alpha dominant enters the cells of the other race and begins to combine with the original DNA and re-code parts of it. However, this will not work with races whose genetics are as strong or stronger than wolves. Of the discovered races, vampires, and dark and light fae are the only ones who can resist the DNA shift. 

🐾The process of Creation is long. The rewriting of the DNA takes a few hours, and then the changes caused by the rewriting begin to take place in the body. Think of it like a virus attack. The body tries to reject it at first, and in the process, it weakens. Then the DNA recoding takes place. The body simultaneously begins to show the phenotype of the rewriting. Eyes change colour, nails turn into claws and back into nails. Fur pushes through skin and then retracts. Often, the code rewrites and rewrites again, which shows up as different colour fur, or canines growing and then falling out. The process takes around two weeks and is more painful the older the Created is.

🐾Once the process of creation is complete, the Created can no longer shift. After the process, they have werewolf cells, but these do not manifest in the physical appearance. They instead present as sharper senses. 

🐾While extreme emotions or reactions cannot directly trigger a feral state in a Created wolf, what it does is aggravates the werewolf cells in the body. This consequently makes the human cells attack it to protect the rest of the body. In most cases, the fight between the human cells and aggravated werewolf cells leads to the body killing itself from the inside. Created wolves don’t become feral because their bodies cannot get to that stage.

🐾Created wolves cannot become alphas, betas or guardians. Their instincts are not considered strong enough for them to hold pack leadership roles.

🐾Created wolves mostly find their soulmates in other created wolves. This is because the bond is determined by the Moon, and the blessings of the Moon only fall when the wolf is born or created. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I hope you found knowledge during your time with the sacred texts! With this knowledge, if you have questions, if you have prompts, if you want to see more werewolf SKZ, please send me asks! They are open!

Taglist: @stxysakura

[lonelydarknessblog]

Sunset, Sundress and Sandals

ִֶָ࣪��. 방찬 —

paring: idol!chan x fem!reader

genre: fluff

warnings: none?

wc / cc : 1.2k / 6.8k

skz summer masterlist

synopsis —---

chan asks you to go watch the sunset at the beach with him but with the condition that you must wear a sundress. very odd condition but you agree

—-- ⪩⪨⪩⪨

You went through your closet, throwing clothes out onto the ground.

    “Where is it...?” you mutter as your search went on.

You were looking for something in specific. It was like it vanished— oh wait silly you, your light blue sundress had fallen off the hanger and into your belt basket. You thought you were going crazy but it was just in your closet. You mentally face palm.

Your friend Chan, yes the Bangchan of stray kids asked you to go for a walk on the beach with him today. You agreed because who in their right mind would turn down, Chan? You may have had a crush on him for a couple months now... I mean come on, it's the Christopher Chan—who wouldn't have a crush on him. Though of course you were stuck in the friendzone. He was clearly too busy to date and well he was most certainly not interested in you. But being his friend was enough. That's what you told yourself.

You two had a mutual friend, Changbin and that's how you met Chan and the rest of the kids. Lately though, you noticed that Chan had been texting you more often and hanging out when he had time, just the two of you, alone. He said he liked your company, that comment had made your stomach erupt into a million butterflies but you had to be nonchalant, you learned the best from Minho and Seungmin.

Anyways, back to the date—I mean the hangout with Chan. You couldn't let your delulus take over you, not today. He had specifically asked you to wear a sundress, he knew of your huge collection since those were your favorite things to wear. Who were you to deny him?

You begin to get ready at around 5:40. He asked to meet at 7 to watch the sunset together. That would have been the most romantic thing ever if it wasn't for the cough barrier called friendship cough. 

You took an everything shower. You felt refreshed and a bit tired but it was worth it. You got ready, doing your hair and makeup, and putting your clothes on. You spray some perfume before you deeming yourself ready. You put on your sandals and grab your bag. You look great, that you couldn't deny. You sure hope Chan thought so too. Time to head to the beach.

⪩⪨

You arrive at the beach, and find Chan already there. He was leaning against his car on his phone, his eyebrows furrow at whatever it was on the screen. He looks annoyed.

“Hi, Chan.” He looks up at you, whatever annoyance that was on his face melts as soon as he looks at you

    “Y/N! You're here. Wow I really love your dress.” He compliments. Your heart literally stops.

    “Ah—Thank you! I like your outfit too.” He looks like a whole meal in his white button down shirt that were short sleeved. He has three buttons unbuttoned which gave a nice view of the top his chest. And his forehead was exposed, what a deadly combo.

    “Shall we get going?”

You two head onto the beach, you walk for a bit chatting and laughing like old friends. The sun was near setting now. You had both ditched your sandals to go stand in the shallow tide. The water was cool as it rushed to your feet before pulling back in hushed whispers. The sun reflected onto the water giving the world a warmish glow. It was a couple hours after golden hour yet this moment still felt golden in your treasured memories.

Chan suddenly takes your hands into his, he stares into your eyes making you feel nervous. The sunset breeze was cool compared to earlier's humid air. The golden colors of the sunset reflect on your eyes making you 10x prettier in his eyes.

    “Y/N. Let me get to the point... I brought you here for a reason.” you tilt your head slightly. Your eyes on him, steady because you're afraid if you let yourself you would have collapsed from the way he was making eye contact with you. “I spent all day trying to figure out how to tell you, practiced a speech in front of the mirror and everything. But I guess I got too nervous as I was driving here so I forgot everything I rehersed. I know, that was very dumb. So I'll just freestyle this from the bottom of my heart.

“Y/N everytime I look at you, you make me feel nervous but in a good way. You make time stop each time you look at me with those pretty eyes of yours, my heart starts to race and I can't help it. Truthfully I like you. I like you a lot to the point of loving. Fuck I love you, Y/N. You mean so much to me. I can't live without you, your smile, your laugh, the way you bite your lip when youre nervous and how your nose scrunches up when you smile. I love every single part of you but it hurts to think that you aren't mine, hurts to know that someone else out there could come and snatch you up at any given moment. So I was hoping, really hoping you'd give me the chance to be your boyfriend. I'll make sure you won't regret it.” He quickly rushes out out of pure nerves, just speaking whatever that comes from the bottom of his heart. You were speechless, surprised that your friend was really confessing to you right now. Your heart flutters at his sweet words. When he notices you haven't said a word yet, he starts to panic, “Ah of course you don't have to say yes or anything. You could reject me right now, I'll be able to take it even if it hurts a little or a lo-”

You shut him up by kissing him, now it was his turn to be surprised. He relaxes from whatever panic he was feeling and kisses your soft lips gently, his hand going to the back of your head.

You both finally part for air, faces flushed pink in the salty air. “I'd love for you to be my boyfriend, Channie.”

You smile that smile he loves as you take his hand.

    “I didn't know I'd be one of the lucky ones to see your romantic sides. I've only heard about it.” You giggle.

    “Yeah? Well now you'll be the only one to see my romantic side.” He says.

    “I like that but I don't know how STAYs would feel about that. You know your babygirls love their rizz daddy.” You tease. He groans loudly, the tips of his ears turning red. “I guess I'm one lucky STAY.”

You smile up at him. The ocean rushes, hugging your ankles again with it's last calm whisper of gold before the sun sunk down. Leaving the sky dark with tints of pink and purple. You hadn't really thought on the troubles dating a kpop idol would bring because of their fandoms but you were too happy, too in the moment to even care. You could worry about that stuff later. Right now, you have Chan right in front of you as your boyfriend. Somewhere between the silent gazing of you both, the gap between you had become significantly smaller. You take this chance and close the gap. His lips are soft, he tasted fainty of strawberries.

The sandals were long forgotten just like the sun that had disappeared when it had set. The calm ocean hugs your ankles once more as a congrats to the new couple. This blue sundress had become your favorite just because of the sole memory of how you two got together.

©2025 imbaebi — all rights reserved, I don't allow copy of my work. Inspiration is one thing, plagiarism is another. reblogging is appreciated.

skz summer masterlist

taglist — comment under the masterlist to be added ;

@lezleeferguson-120, @swagblazemilkshake,

[lonelydarknessblog]

Me: Has never wanted kids

Me: Reads this.

Me: Gets into an argument with my uterus.

S K Z R e a c t i n g t o a P o s i t i v e P r e g n a n c y T e s t

stray kids ot8 x reader | two pink lines, eight breakdowns, one very lucky uterus.

🍼 synopsis: You didn’t plan this. Not the moment, not the timing, not the trembling plastic test that changed your life in a heartbeat. But one by one, you tell them. One by one, you hold out that tiny white stick with two pink lines. And one by one—each of them breaks open. Sometimes, two lines is all it takes to rewrite everything. And sometimes, everything sounds a lot like: “You’re having my baby?”

💌 a/n: To the anon who sent this prompt: I HOPE YOUR PILLOWS ARE COLD AND YOUR WIFI NEVER LAGS. You gave me eight men and said “make them react to a pregnancy test 🥺👉👈” and I said BET. AND THEN THEY DID. THEY REACTED. THEY BROKE DOWN. THEY GOT ON THEIR KNEES. THEY CRIED ON BATHROOM FLOORS. THEY STARTED PRENATAL POWER SNACK PREP. this was so cute you now owe me therapy. p.s. reblog for clear skin and an emotionally available babydaddy. p.p.s. if Chan on his knees didn’t ruin you emotionally, you’re lying. p.p.p.s. somebody please make fanart of Dori in a bib that says “Hyung.”

📍credits: @cafekitsune , @thecutestgrotto for the dividers

🎧 » Hug Me — I.N « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:00 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Bang Chan

You didn’t plan to tell him like this.

You had wanted to wait. Set up something quiet and sweet. A note, maybe. Or a mug with #1 Appa written on it. Something he could hold in his hands while you stood across the room, heart pounding.

But life has never followed your plans when it comes to Bang Chan. It has always moved faster, deeper, louder.

Like tonight. When you called his name from the bathroom with something trembling in your fingers. A white stick. A faint second line. And all the blood draining from your face.

Chan enters the room in sleep pants and a hoodie, half-damp hair from the shower. He blinks at you—then the test in your hand—and in a moment, all air disappears from his lungs.

“What…?”

You pass it to him wordlessly, heart in your throat.

His fingers shake as he takes it. Looks down.

Silence.

You try to prepare for anything. Shock. Denial. Fear.

But what you get is breathless awe.

“…It’s real?”

You nod. You think.

“I mean—I took another one. And I’ll take more. I don’t know how accurate they are this early—”

But Chan’s already across the space between you, wrapping his arms around you so tight, so careful, so anchored you forget how to speak.

“You’re really having my baby,” he breathes into your hair. “You’re really—” He laughs, and the sound cracks. Then again, softer. Wet. “I love you. I love you so much. I swear I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna take such good care of both of you.”

He drops to his knees. Presses his cheek to your stomach even though there’s nothing to see yet.

Just skin. Just potential. Just a future that’s suddenly real.

“Hi, little one,” he whispers. “It’s Appa. We haven’t met yet, but you’re gonna be so loved, okay? We’ve got you.”

You run your fingers through his curls and feel him kiss you gently—reverently—through the fabric of your shirt. Everything around you fades, every fear fades, except him.

Because this man? He was born to love like this.

Lee Minho

It’s 8:17 PM on a Sunday.

Minho is sprawled on the couch in sweatpants and a wrinkled shirt he’s been wearing since last night, a half-finished plate of tteokbokki on the coffee table, and three cats currently fighting for ownership of his chest. Soonie’s curled up against his ribs. Doongie’s nestled by his knee. Dori is actively trying to sit on his face.

It’s domestic bliss in its purest form—until you walk in holding a tiny plastic stick with two pink lines.

“Babe?” you say softly.

He looks up, squinting. Dori meows, offended at being jostled.

Minho blinks once. Then again. “What’s that?”

You bite your lip and hold it out. “I think… we’re gonna need more than three bowls soon.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Soonie sneezes. Doongie flops over dramatically. Minho doesn’t move.

Then—

“…No way.”

His voice is low. Disbelieving. He slowly sits up, cats scattering. He takes the test like it might dissolve in his hands.

“Wait, wait—two lines means…”

You nod. He stares.

“You’re pregnant.”

Another nod. You’re suddenly very aware of your own heartbeat.

Minho exhales. Long. Sharp. Then he turns and stares at the cats. “You three are about to be older siblings,” he tells them. Dori blinks. Then he looks at you again. His eyes are wide, but soft. “You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

“Like really serious.”

“Yes, Minho.”

He crosses the room and pulls you into his arms without another word. Just wraps you up, tight and warm, chin tucked over your shoulder. You can feel how fast his heart is beating.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he mumbles.

“You’ll be amazing,” you whisper back. “You take care of all of us already.”

He pulls back just enough to look at your stomach. “You’ve been feeding me double portions all week. You were preparing.”

You laugh through the tears. “You think I planned this?”

“No,” he says, grinning now. “But I’m glad it’s you. And me. And—”

His hand brushes gently over your lower belly. “And whoever you are in there.”

Behind you, there’s a crash. You both turn to find Doongie knocking over the tteokbokki, Soonie sniffing it, and Dori sitting proudly in the bowl.

Minho sighs. “We need to teach them boundaries before the baby gets here.”

You’re still laughing when he kisses your temple.

Seo Changbin

You don’t plan some Pinterest-worthy reveal. No onesies in gift boxes. No custom cookies that say ‘bun in the oven.’

You just... panic-laugh and blurt it out at the worst possible moment. Which, in this case, is: right as Changbin is taking the world’s biggest bite of a protein bar post-leg day.

“I’m pregnant,” you say.

He chokes. Literally. Gags, coughs, eyes watering as he grabs a water bottle and downs half of it in three seconds. You reach out to thump his back, but he waves you off—one hand in the air like he needs to process the universe first.

“Wait,” he rasps. “Wait. What?”

You just hold up the test.

His jaw drops. Like, drops.

“THAT’S A PREGNANCY TEST.”

You nod.

“AND IT’S—TWO LINES—TWO—” He counts them out on his fingers just to be sure. “That means positive, right? POSITIVE like YES, not positive like ‘good vibes’ positive?”

You nod again, nearly in tears now from how panicked and adorable he looks.

Then there’s a beat. A shift. His entire face changes.

“…You’re really having my baby?” Soft. Quiet. Disbelieving. He steps forward slowly, like you might vanish.

You nod again, biting your lip. “Yeah. I am.”

And then he just—melts.

“I’m gonna be a dad,” he says, dazed. “I’m gonna be a DAD. Like—little shoes. Little clothes. Little you. With like—tiny arms. And maybe your nose. Oh my god.”

You blink, and he’s hugging you like he’s trying to shield you from the whole world. Then pulling back, both hands cupping your cheeks.

“I’m so fucking happy,” he breathes. “Like, terrified—but also really happy. Are you okay? Do you need water? Snacks? Protein? Oh my god, you need protein. You’re literally building a person.”

You laugh. “I don’t think the baby needs whey powder, Binnie.”

“You never know!” he yells toward the kitchen. “Fetus needs gains!”

Then he runs off to make a “power snack” for you and your microscopic baby, while mumbling, “I need to call my mom—no, wait, I need to learn how to swaddle—what the hell is swaddling—”

You lean against the wall, stomach fluttering, and smile so wide your cheeks ache. You’re about to have a baby. And that baby’s father? Is Seo Changbin.

Loud, loyal, chaotic, golden-hearted Seo Changbin. And that means everything’s going to be okay.

Hwang Hyunjin

It happens on a quiet morning.

The sun is creeping in through the curtains, golden and warm. You’re in one of his oversized shirts, curled on the couch with your knees pulled to your chest. The test sits on the coffee table, face-up. Positive. Blunt and unreal.

Hyunjin is in the kitchen humming something, probably working on a smoothie with way too much honey.

You don't say anything. You just… Wait. And when he wanders in with the drink, barefaced and sleepy-eyed, he sees you staring at the test. Then follows your gaze.

Then—stops breathing. “What… is that?”

You blink up at him. “Baby,” you say. “I think I’m pregnant.”

The smoothie hits the floor. He doesn't even flinch. Just stares at the test like it's glowing. “No way,” he whispers. Then again, like he’s in a dream: “No way.”

You nod. Careful. Soft.

He drops to his knees in front of you. Grabs both your hands. “You’re not kidding?” he asks. “You’re not—like, this isn’t a dream or some surreal performance art you’ve constructed to test my emotional range?”

You giggle through the nerves. “It’s real, Jinnie.”

And then—oh, the eyes. Big and glassy and full of awe. He gently presses his hands to your stomach, even though there’s nothing visible yet.

“You’re carrying something made of us?” he says, like he’s tasting every word.

You nod. And he starts to cry. Not loud or messy. Just that beautiful, quiet unravelling he does when his heart gets too full. His forehead presses to your belly. His voice breaks. “I already love them so much,” he whispers. “And you. You—God, you’re going to be the most beautiful mother. I’m going to paint you. Every day. You’ll hate it, but I’ll do it anyway.”

You laugh and pull him close. “I’m scared,” you admit softly.

“I know,” he says, cupping your face, brushing his thumb under your eye. “Me too. But we’ll make something beautiful. We already are.”

Behind him, the smoothie seeps into the floorboards. He doesn’t notice. He’s too busy falling in love all over again.

Han JIsung

You make the mistake of showing him the pregnancy test in the middle of a Mario Kart match.

You were trying to wait until the end. But you couldn’t. The plastic stick in your hoodie pocket felt like it was burning a hole through your skin. So you pause the game. Turn to him on the couch. And say: “Ji… I’m pregnant.”

His character flies off Rainbow Road. He doesn’t even flinch.

You hold out the test. He squints at it like you’ve handed him alien technology. Then looks at you. Then back at the test. “…Wait,” he says. “Waitwaitwaitwait. WAIT. Like—pregnant pregnant?? Like—not the fake TikTok prank kind? Not the 'ha-ha, gotcha,’ kind???”

“Pregnant pregnant,” you say gently. “No ha-ha.”

Silence.

Then: Han Jisung.exe has stopped working. He sits completely still. Eyes wide. Hands frozen in place.

You can see the thoughts ping-ponging through his brain at lightning speed. Baby? Dad? Bottles? Diapers? Are we ready? Oh my god—tiny socks—oh my god—do babies even like me—Then—

“I NEED TO CALL MY MOM.”

You grab his arm. “Ji—”

“No no no wait, I need to call your mom too. I need to call the hospital. Do we need to buy a crib? I need a book. I need—”

“Ji—breathe.”

He finally looks at you. Really looks. And you watch the panic melt into something quieter. More real. “You’re serious?” he whispers.

You nod. “Yeah. I took three tests. All the same.”

He just… folds. Lets out the softest, shakiest breath. “I’m gonna be a dad,” he says, almost reverently. “I’m gonna have a little person who’s half you. Who might have your nose. Or your laugh. Or your attitude—God help me—”

You snort, already teary-eyed. “We’re doomed.”

But then he’s holding you. Pulling you close. Rocking gently on the couch with his face buried in your neck. “I’m so happy,” he mumbles. “So fucking happy. I just—I don’t know if I’ll be good at it, but I’m gonna try so hard. Like, Olympic-level try. Like, gold medal in dad-ing.”

You smile into his hair. “You’ll be the best,” you whisper. “Because it’s you.”

And while the softness surrounds both of you, his poor Mario Kart character is still falling off Rainbow Road.

Lee Felix

He’s lying in bed next to you, all warm freckles and sleepy smiles, arms slung lazily over your waist while some random YouTube video plays in the background.

You’ve been quiet for the last ten minutes. Too quiet.

He shifts. “You okay, angel?”

You glance down at the white stick hidden in the blanket fold between you. Your fingers tremble. Then you blurt it out. “Lix. I think I’m pregnant.”

He blinks. Then blinks again.

“Like… right now?”

You nod.

“Right now now?”

You nod again and hold out the test.

He stares.

“…That’s the kind with the lines, right? Like the ones in movies?”

You laugh. It sounds watery.

“Two lines means yes,” you whisper. “It means we’re—”

Before you can finish the sentence, he’s already sitting up. Fully. Completely. Alert like someone just hit a giant red “you’re about to be a father” button in his brain. “There’s a baby… in there?” He looks down at your belly with eyes so wide they practically sparkle. “Right now? Like—ours?”

You nod again, tearful now.

And he immediately buries his face against your stomach and starts whispering in that low, raspy voice of his. “Hi, little bean. It’s Appa. Or Daddy. We haven’t figured that out yet. But I love you. So much. I haven’t even seen you, and I love you more than anything.”

You start crying for real then. Because of course you do.

Felix pulls himself up to kiss you—everywhere. Forehead, cheeks, lips, nose. All of it soft and gentle, like you’re made of something sacred now. “You’re amazing,” he murmurs. “You’re magic. You’re literally building a person, babe. Like, with your body. That’s the most powerful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You laugh, wiping at your eyes. “What if I get weird cravings turn into a hormonal mess?”

“I will feed you whatever you want,” he promises. “Even if it’s pickles dipped in chocolate and shame. I will oil your belly every night. I will write bedtime songs for the baby starting tonight.”

And then, softer, reverent: “I’ve never wanted anything more.”

You melt into him, into this freckled sunshine that keeps holding your belly like something sacred. And at the same time, all you can think about is that this baby will grow up wrapped in sunshine.

Kim Seungmin

You find him in the kitchen making coffee.

He’s in his weekend hoodie, hair messy, muttering under his breath about how someone (you) finished the oat milk and put the empty carton back in the fridge. Classic Seungmin domesticity.

You hesitate in the doorway. Then: “Hey. I need to tell you something.”

He turns, brow raised. “If it’s about the milk—”

You pull the test out of your pocket and hold it up.

He goes quiet. Completely still. “…What’s that?”

You bite your lip. “It’s… a pregnancy test. It’s positive.”

Seungmin blinks. Twice. His eyes flick from your face to the stick and back again. Then: “Okay,” he says.

Just that. No gasp. No dropped mug. No dramatic reaction.

You stare at him. “Okay?”

He crosses the room. Slowly. Carefully and takes the test from your hand, studies it in total silence. You expect a thousand things. A lecture. A long pause. Maybe even dry sarcasm to ease the tension.

But what you don’t expect… Is the way his voice breaks.

“Is this real?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

You nod, tearfully. “Yeah. It’s real.”

He just stands there, the weight of it sinking in. Then he looks up at you with glassy eyes, and your heart cracks wide open. “I didn’t know I could love anything more than I love you,” he says, voice shaking. “But I think I already do.” That’s when he pulls you into him. Not tight—careful. Like you’re suddenly made of something priceless. One hand ghosts over your stomach. The other wraps around your back.

“I’m gonna be so annoying,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’m gonna track every symptom. I’m gonna argue with every doctor. I’m gonna ask a thousand questions until I know exactly how to keep you safe.”

You laugh through your tears. “That sounds about right.”

“I’m not even sorry,” he mutters. “You’re mine. So is the baby. I don’t take chances with the things I love.”

And then he says it. For the first time, out loud. With a quiet breath of wonder: “We’re going to be parents.”

Yang Jeongin

You don’t even mean to tell him today.

You were going to wait. Let it sink in first. Get a doctor’s confirmation. Maybe wrap a tiny baby onesie in a box and watch him open it on camera so you could save the reaction forever.

But he comes home early.

And finds you on the bathroom floor, holding the test in your hand, eyes puffy like you’ve already cried yourself through six different emotional stages.

“Babe?”

You jump. Try to shove the test behind your back like a kid caught stealing cookies.

Too late.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, stepping in, voice instantly soft. Concerned. “Are you sick? Did something happen—?”

You don’t answer. Just… hand him the stick with shaking fingers. He takes it. Looks at it. And then freezes. Like actually freezes. Like, cartoon buffering wheel spinning behind his eyes.

“…This is… is this what I think it is?” he asks.

You nod.

He blinks. “…Are you—?”

You nod again. “Yeah.”

Silence.

“…Like, really really?”

You sniffle. “Yeah, Innie. Really really.”

There’s a pause. A long one.

Then—

He sits down on the floor beside you. Cross-legged. Like you’re on a picnic instead of in a panic.

And he lets out a breath that sounds like everything.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. I have no idea what I’m doing. Like, actually zero. I’ve never held a baby. I don’t know how to burp them. I’ve never even changed a diaper. I’m scared out of my mind.”

You nod, already crying again.

“But,” he continues, looking at you now—eyes wide and watery and so full of love—“I want this. I want to learn. I want to do it with you. I want to hold their hand the first time they walk. And cry like a loser when they call me Appa. And panic over every little fever and then call my hyungs crying in the group chat. I want to do it all—with you.”

He cups your face in both hands, gentle and grounding.

“You’re gonna be such a good mom,” he says. “And I’m gonna be annoying and awkward and scared but I’m gonna love you both so much you’ll get sick of me.”

You laugh, hiccuping. “Never.”

“I’ll try anyway.”

Then he kisses you. Sweet, gentle, shaky. His hands tremble a little against your cheeks. When you finally pull apart, he grins, eyes still wet.

“Guess I'm not the maknae anymore,” he says softly, resting his hand on your stomach. “Someone’s coming for my crown.”

[lonelydarknessblog]

Reblogging this so that we are all on the same page regarding what content to expect from me!

Meet and Greet | Guidelines

Hello my galaxies! I figured since I was going to be creating content here, I should introduce myself. There is a certain expectation that comes with content creation, from content consumers, and I felt it was only fair to be real about it. So I wanted to give you a peep into who I am and then put down the guidelines for this blog.

So who is Star?

I am a 26 something year old geek. I love far too many things, have been in and out of far too many fandoms. I love creating content, but often don't get time, or don't have the brain juice. Right now, I am drowning in BTS and SKZ.

In the real, undelulu world, I am a teacher. I work in a fully residential school, which means I am a stand in parent for approximately 250 kids who range from 10 to 18 years. My job requires me to be available to these kids 24/7. I love it. I hate it.

Which brings me to...

Guidelines

⭐I can't promise a schedule because of my job. I get very little down time apart from vacations and often when I do get time to myself, I tend to crash out. Consequently, I might not be able to write for weeks, or I might have a situation where I'm writing a 100 things one night.

⭐I will continue to write and answer asks. Your beautiful brain thoughts give me ideas and a direction to write in, so please keep sending those. I may take a day or two to answer them, but they will be answered.

⭐I retain the right to refuse to write certain themes. Some things just aren't for me, and I might recognise it when I see it. Apart from that, I won't write the following broad categories:

MxM

Member x member

Non-con

Underage

Incest

Toxic dynamics

⭐At the moment, I find it easier to write for Chan, Minho and Changbin. I'm working on building the characters of the younger members, and will try to write more for them. However, I will not be writing smut for the younger five members, simply because I am not comfortable doing that. If this changes, I will update it here, but please do understand that I have my boundaries, for whatever reasons, and I hope you'll respect those.

⭐If I am writing something that might be triggering, I will put warnings. Please heed the warnings. Prioritise your mental health.

If you've made it this far, thank you, and welcome to Star's world! Feel free to send asks, message me or just scream into the void! I welcome it!

[lonelydarknessblog]

imagine this. my vampire!Bang Chan—born-Abnormal, bloodvault empire king, scent-worshipping control freak—meets your werewolf!Bang Chan.

do they growl? do they circle? do they SNARL at each other like mirrored beasts?? does one bite, does one claw, or do they just instantly agree to fuck shit up together while covered in blood under a full moon.

i’m losing it. i think the multiverse would combust from the sheer feral tension.

like. vamp!bang chan wouldn't even flinch. wouldn't even blink. just tilt his head with that slow, condescending smirk all curious. not threatened one bit.

love you — Daku 🦇💋

Oh my god, Daku! The things this idea did to me. I woke up and read it, and went right back to sleep because I needed to see how this would pan out in 4K UHD in my head! And boy was that movie worth it! I am feral, foaming at the mouth, my jaws desperate to lock around this crossover. You have unleashed something I didn't know was hiding.

Were!Chan is absolutely threatened. Here is someone with his face, his mannerism. What else does he know about were!Chan? Does he have access to were!Chan's thoughts, memories, his darkest secrets? Is this a shapeshifter? A skinwalker? What does he want? Is he after were!Chan's mate? The thought makes him snarl, canines breaking through bone and gum, onyx fur pushing through skin.

And vamp!Bang Chan is completely unfazed, eyes eerily unblinking, lips curled up in a smirk. "You smell like dog." He chuckles.

"And you smell like a corpse," were!Chan snaps back, hackles still up.

Vamp!Bang Chan tilts his head, a thoughtful expression on his face before he responds. "That is fair. I guess we both stink."

Honestly, the way I see it, vamp!Bang Chan and were!Chan would remain locked in a silent face off while the blood doll and the mate, each made to stand behind their respective Chans, do the actual communicating. They figure out that neither Chan is a threat to the other ("as if I could feel threatened by a pup," vamp!Bang Chan smirks to which were!Chan responds by asking if the undead even feel at all). The blood doll and mate reluctantly accept that this is how it is going to be, snarky comments and subtle jibes.

Yet vamp!Bang Chan and were!Chan end up being each other's greatest allies. They may have lived different lives, come from different universes, but the core of who they are is the same. They agree that pineapple juice is fine, but pineapple flavoured blood or pineapple pieces in burgers are absolutely unacceptable. They instinctively understand the absolute feral need to protect their lovers, the complete destruction they will unleash if one of them even imagines a threat. (This strange bro-ship results in the blood doll and mate having not one, but two over-protective Chans). Vamp!Bang Chan explains his need for complete control to were!Chan, who nods in understanding. After all, that need for complete control is exactly why were!Chan is the most feared of his race. What is it, if not control, to have the ability to shift fully and yet have no living being see your wolf.

They both disappear one dark new moon night, and when they return at the crack of dawn, vamp!Bang Chan's eyes shine with a new kind of understanding and respect for were!Chan, while were!Chan leans his exhausted body on vamp!Bang Chan with a little less reluctance than one would expect. When were!Chan's mate realises that he's shown vamp!Bang Chan his wolf, she pouts and mumbles something about how were!Chan said that it wasn't something any living being should witness, to which vamp!Bang Chan grins and retorts, "Well thank fuck I am not a living being then."

Daku, you have opened Pandora's box with this one! I could go on and on, powered by nothing but coffee and the feral need to actually see this come alive. What have you done to me? This is in my veins now, and I need to bleed! I am curious though, if this was a movie and you were the scriptwriter, how would you see this play out?

[lonelydarknessblog]

May I please be added to your tag list? Thank you for your time, love your works🥰😘

First, thank you so much for reading!! I am glad you're enjoying my brainrot moments!

Second, Oh my god! I have a taglist now! Thank you so much Styx, and welcome to the pack!

[lonelydarknessblog]

ahhh hello! i’m so excited to get into werewolf!skz !!!(i came from daku’s page right after i saw the post) everything looks so amazing already, i can’t wait so see what comes next!

i do have a question tho: how would they take care of you when you are sick, but ignoring it? like, you’re about to pass out from a fever but you’re still making lunch like everything’s fine?

would you mind if i was 🪷 anon?

luv u lots, can’t wait to see what comes next!

Oh lovely lovely 🪷! You have come with the softest ask and I want to hug you for it! Thank you so much for it! I hope this gives you the same warm feeling that your ask gave me.

Also, if you are sick, please please rest the way our boys would want you to!

Honestly, you should have seen it coming. It started as a tickle at the back of your throat. A day later, your head felt like your brain had turned into a lead block. By day 3, you knew the fever was next, but by then, you had told far too many people you were fine and now didn't want to hear 'I told you so'. So, against your better judgement, you decided to go on with life like nothing was wrong.

Bangchan

He smelled it before you began to show signs, his sharp werewolf senses picking up the change in your body, the way it began fighting the infection even before the symptoms showed. But he wanted to respect you, your boundaries. He figured you'd tell him eventually.

You didn't. And he didn't push, but he prepared. So when he found you staring bleary eyed at your laptop, he was ready. He gently shut your device before sitting next to you, not saying a word.

"I'm fine." You grumble even as he wraps his arm around your shoulder and tugs you against him.

"I know." He whispers back, smiling. His other hand runs through your hair, massaging your scalp. You're asleep before you even know it. He carries you to bed, soaks a small towel and presses it to your forehead before tucking you under the blankets.

You wake up hours later, your body having been exhausted after pushing yourself, only to find all the chores completed, a delicate pot of soup simmering, and Chan waiting for you with a gentle smile and a warm hug (and antibiotics, supplements and vitamins).

Minho

You had told him you were tired, and if he could come over for date night instead of going out. That was his first clue that something was wrong. The second was when he stepped into your house to find the aircon set to freezing and you wrapped in three layers of woolens and sweating. He knew you were weird, but not this weird.

Realisation dawned when he slid behind you to check on the jjigae, and felt the heat radiating from your skin.

"You're sick." He stated.

You shook your head. "Nothing severe."

He rolled his eyes, gently manhandled you so that you were in his hold one moment and the plopped on the couch the next.

"The jjigae!" You protested, trying to get back up only for him to press you back down.

"I don't want your germs in my meal. I'll finish cooking. Stay."

You knew better than to argue, and a few minutes later, when he silently pressed a mug of herbal tea in your hands, you didn't have the heart to pretend you were okay. Not when he was looking at you with such unbearable concern and love.

Changbin

At first, Changbin thought the sweat was because you were at the gym, where you were supposed to sweat. But when he saw your arms tremble while holding the 5 kg dumbbell, he knew something was wrong. But you weren't the kind to tell anyone. So he faked a yawn, and you were only too happy to end the session early.

Only when you stepped into the apartment did he let on what he was truly doing; trapping you. His arms went around you in a bridal carry and you were deposited gently in bed. It took five minutes of negotiating to get him to let you shower, on the condition that you would wear the softest pink pajamas after and eat a bowlful of soup.

The exhaustion along with the warm soup left you drowsy, so he pressed a couple of tablets into your hand. Once you downed them, he wrapped you in his arms and you fell asleep with your burning forehead on the cool skin of his chest.

Hyunjin

The first time you cough, Hyunjin pretends like you've personally offended him and his ancestors. He makes you put on a mask and spritzes your hand with sanitiser.

But when it happens the second time, he frowns. His long fingers press against your forehead and he yanks his hand back dramatically, blowing on his fingers as if he touched a flame.

"This fever didn't happen just now." He scolds, rummaging through his things. He pulls out a snap and freeze ice pack and makes you hold it against your head while he shrugs off his hoodie. He bundles you in it, excuses you both from the get together and drives home, making a pit stop at the pharmacy and convenience store. You're obviously not allowed out of the car, commanded to wait for him. And when you reach home and he's given you the necessary medicines and is in bed with you, long limbs wrapped around you like he needs comfort, he whispers, "Don't get hotter, my heart can't take it."

Han

You get a little quiet. You know you're sick and you are ignoring it, going about your day like nothing is wrong. Except Han thinks you are ignoring him. He panics internally, but tries to play it cool. But when you don't react with the usual enthusiasm to the memes he sends, he begins to crash out.

"Baby. What did I do? Tell me how to make it better. You know I love you, right? Whatever it is, I didn't do it intentionally. Please." He's clinging to you, arms wrapped around you, face pressed into your neck. He squeezes you a tad too tight and you sneeze. Once, twice and then a third time.

Han pulls away and squints at you. "Are you sick?"

You nod. He collapses on the floor. "Oh my god, I thought you fell out of love with me!" You giggle and that is all he needs to recover. A while later, you both are wrapped in a tortilla printed blanket, a whole pile of snacks topped by a couple of medicines. And you've been told that Han can't have any of the snacks under the meds unless you have the meds. You get better in a record time of three days, and when people ask how, you and Han grin when he says, "Her love for me cured her."

Felix

Felix senses something is wrong. As a healer, he can pick up on the subtle changes in your body, and he wants to be prepared. So he spends long hours in his apothecary, putting together tinctures and decoctions for different things, nausea, fever, headaches, anything that he can think of.

When he finds you bent over the toilet bowl, he kneels beside you and holds your hair away from your face, rubbing your back. He has a glass of water ready for you and then carries you back to bed, ignoring your half hearted protests about needing to go back to work. He holds your hands and asks you to tell him what you are feeling, so he can bring the right concoction. You are about to scrunch your nose when he assures you that he's added berries to mask the flavour of the herbs.

He serves the concoction in a wine glass, decorates it with mint leaves and a slice of citrus. He wraps you in his arms, puts on your favourite show and nuzzles into your hair when you fall asleep. And when he lays you down on your pillow, he makes sure there is a fresh lavender, vanilla and eucalyptus potpourri under it to ensure you rest well.

Seungmin

He finds you with your head on the table, eyes swollen and a pile of tissues around you. He pokes you with a pen, which he also uses to toss the tissues into a bin. You wake with a groan and see him standing there like a traffic cop, arm pointing to the bedroom. His raised eyebrow makes you swallow whatever you are about say and you trudge to the room.

You remember falling face first into the pillow and passing out, but when you wake up, you're in fluffy pajamas, a hot water bag at your feet while a damp washcloth rests on your forehead. There is a plate of crackers on your night table, along with a flask of tea, a bottle of water and your medicine.

You pad out to the living room, only for him to send you back to bed, having designated it at the only 'germ zone' in the house. When he climbs into bed at night, you mumble something about him falling sick.

"You are germy, but unfortunately, you are my germy. Just don't drool on me, okay?" He says, even as he tucks you under his chin and kisses your head.

Jeongin

When he finds out that not only are you sick, you've also hid it from him, his eyes go wide, lips curve into a pout. He immediately begins gathering items that seem random; a blanket, a cup, the medicine box, a few tea bags, a pillow, bottles of water, an electric kettle and the television remote.

You look confused, but when he tugs you to the couch, some of it begins to make sense. He curls around you before wrapping both of you in the blanket. He is still pouting into your neck even as he rubs little circles into your back.

"You are not moving from here until you are a hundred percent better. And I am not moving from here until I have deemed you a hundred percent better." He grumbles.

"Is that why you have put all the supplies in arm's reach?" You chuckle.

"I said what I said."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thank you so much, 🪷! This was so much fun to write!

[lonelydarknessblog]

Meet and Greet | Guidelines

Hello my galaxies! I figured since I was going to be creating content here, I should introduce myself. There is a certain expectation that comes with content creation, from content consumers, and I felt it was only fair to be real about it. So I wanted to give you a peep into who I am and then put down the guidelines for this blog.

So who is Star?

I am a 26 something year old geek. I love far too many things, have been in and out of far too many fandoms. I love creating content, but often don't get time, or don't have the brain juice. Right now, I am drowning in BTS and SKZ.

In the real, undelulu world, I am a teacher. I work in a fully residential school, which means I am a stand in parent for approximately 250 kids who range from 10 to 18 years. My job requires me to be available to these kids 24/7. I love it. I hate it.

Which brings me to...

Guidelines

⭐I can't promise a schedule because of my job. I get very little down time apart from vacations and often when I do get time to myself, I tend to crash out. Consequently, I might not be able to write for weeks, or I might have a situation where I'm writing a 100 things one night.

⭐I will continue to write and answer asks. Your beautiful brain thoughts give me ideas and a direction to write in, so please keep sending those. I may take a day or two to answer them, but they will be answered.

⭐I retain the right to refuse to write certain themes. Some things just aren't for me, and I might recognise it when I see it. Apart from that, I won't write the following broad categories:

MxM

Member x member

Non-con

Underage

Incest

Toxic dynamics

⭐At the moment, I find it easier to write for Chan, Minho and Changbin. I'm working on building the characters of the younger members, and will try to write more for them. However, I will not be writing smut for the younger five members, simply because I am not comfortable doing that. If this changes, I will update it here, but please do understand that I have my boundaries, for whatever reasons, and I hope you'll respect those.

⭐If I am writing something that might be triggering, I will put warnings. Please heed the warnings. Prioritise your mental health.

If you've made it this far, thank you, and welcome to Star's world! Feel free to send asks, message me or just scream into the void! I welcome it!

[lonelydarknessblog]

Hello, can I be 💚 anon? Also I have a possibly stupid question. In the meeting their soulmate fic you said something about the town acknowledging the pack and letting them live in the forest. So does that mean there’s no bad stereotypes about the werewolves? Like the town doesn’t think they’re monsters? Also here’s a second question: was this inspired by Twilight? Or something else?

Hello 💚! Welcome to the pack, you are claimed and a part of this world!

First off, no question is stupid. Any question is worth asking so please please ask. Ask anytime. Ask anything. I will answer. Also, your question is actually great because it allows me to elaborate on the social dynamics of the world!

I'll answer your second question first and then delve into society.

So I have always been into werewolves. This obsession kind of began when I was in grade 7, and surprisingly, not from Twilight. My first foray into werewolves was a book series called The Wolf of Mercy Falls by Maggie Stiefvater. After that, I got a bit into Twilight, but then I went down a dark dark dark rabbit hole called Wattpad.

I guess the long story short is, I have been inspired by many different worlds and lores and at the same time, as a creator, I have the urge to diverge away from the more common ideas and lore. It can get tough, but it is also fun!

And now... to the...

S O C I A L D Y N A M I C S!

In this world, the races mingle freely. There really isn't a distinction between humans and weres and fae and vampires and other races.

However, like in every society, there is racism, there is stereotyping, there are historical rifts and there are communal clashes. And while mingling freely is fine, relationships between races are a taboo (however, you are human. Do with that information what you will😈).

The reason relationships between races is considered a taboo is because of power dynamics. Specially for humans, who have no visible powers, it can be dangerous. In a relationship between a magical race and a human, the human will always be more vulnerable, both to magic and physically. Now if interracial relationships weren't taboo, and someone wanted to mess with someone else, if that someone else had a human partner, the easiest way would be to hurt the human. A human would not be able to defend themselves against a magical being and consequently, they would become a liability.

There is also the question of procreation, and the dangers of beings who are interracial (I will direct you to Minho's character file). Because genetics is unpredictable, and what is unknown is feared, offspring from interracial conjugations are, from birth, considered dangerous. Often, neither of the parental races will accept them, making them outcasts.

Some of the races in this lore, apart from humans and werewolves, are dark fae and light fae, vampires, imps, pixies, dwarves and goblins. They all exist freely.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I feel like I rambled a lot with this one, but thank you once again, sweet anon 💚 for this ask, because it has become part of the structure of the world!

[lonelydarknessblog]

Hiii! I'm so invested in the pack! But i don't understand well what it is hehe...

Is going to be a fic? Or something else? Is like, sk x reader?

Wish you the best!!!

Alos, can i claimed 🌸?

Hello Little 🌸! You have claimed your sigil. Welcome to the pack!

What I am hoping is this will be a mix of everything that is interconnected. There will be fics, ficlets, world building, lore exploration through asks, a lot of things. And all of it will be skz x reader! But they'll be part of the same world and so it will follow the same lore.

I can't wait to show you more of what this world holds!

[lonelydarknessblog]

The sacred hall, where the lore of the world is kept safe.

Meet and Greet | Guidelines

Anon Roster

Were!SKZ Masterlist

Lore

Character Files

Soulmate Lore + How You Meet

Social Dynamics

Dominants and Created

Fics

When You Are Sick

[lonelydarknessblog]

The Pack

You have been claimed. Now it is time to put you in the pack ledger.

The rules are simple: You pick an emoji for yourself. It is your sigil. Your brand. It represents you. And it is how you will be recorded for posterity. It is vital that you do not choose the same sigil as another. The moon has blessed each one of you to be unique and distinctly identifiable.

The Ledger

🌘|💫|✨|🌸|💚|🪷

[lonelydarknessblog]

hiii omg! i am obsessed with this already. i don’t know if you will do anon emoji claims, but if you do, i would love to be 💫! i can’t wait for more posts about werewolf!SKZ!

an interesting ask, how would each meeting between (reader) and a member go? would it be something straight out of a fantasy book, like on a stroll in the forest on a full moon, or would it be something as simple as meeting at a park while (reader) walks their dog?

Welcome 💫Anon! You have claimed your emoji. Welcome to the pack. You are now one of us!

Your ask is not just interesting, but also the perfect segue to introducing the lore behind soulmates, bonds and knowing our characters more. You, my beautiful, wild anon, have set the stage!

Let us first search the archives for soulmate lore.

S O U L M A T E L O R E

🌙Werewolves have only one mate, and no one, wolf or human, will appeal to them apart from the mate destined for them.

🌙The soulmate is said to be determined by the Moon, but it has also been noticed that mated pairs tend to complement each other's personalities and habits. There is a balance, chaos and order, as everything in nature.

🌙When a were finds their soulmate, they begin to undergo subtle physiological changes. There isn't an immediate recognition (like imprinting in Twilight or knowing just by the first touch, like in other lore). However, the body and soul recognise a piece of themselves. Some changes that take place are:

They begin to get desensitised to pheromones apart from the ones released by their mate.

Their entire system begins to rewire and gets attuned to their mate. They become hyper aware of them and can sense the slightest changes in their emotional, mental and physical state.

Weres develop either strong protector and/or provider instincts.

The bond demands proximity until the mates acknowledge the existence of the bond. Until the bond is acknowledged, wolves will find themselves constantly needing to be near their soulmate, whether they like it or not.

🌙When both mates acknowledge the bond, something clicks within them. The soul no longer feels restless. The wolf retains its wildness, but it is no longer a frantic or desperate wildness.

🌙There are no rituals for acknowledging the soulmate bond. No magic bindings or symbolic bites. But when a werewolf initially feels the bond click into place, the dormant primal within them awakens. This is because finding your soulmate is finding the last piece of yourself, and consequently, every part of the soul awakens. It is like putting in the last piece of an electric circuit. Everything lights up.

🌙When the primal awakens, there is an urge for the mates to go into the wild. This is because the primal needs to prove that they can protect and provide. Most weres choose to give into this urge during the full moon as a way of honouring the Moon Goddess, seeking her blessing over the bond. There are practical reasons for this as well.

🌙While the basics of the soulmate bonds are the same for Dominant and Created weres, there are certain differences in how their wolves and primals respond to the bond.

How You Meet 🐺Bang Chan

He smells you before he actually sees you. He's at the only park in the small town a few miles away from the pack settlement when the scent of dark coffee and something like raspberries filters through the myriad other scents that he's learned to tune out. His eyes find you without much effort, drawn to you like a magnet. You're playing hide and seek with a group of small children and you have strategically placed yourself on a leafy branch of a tree. His eyes meet yours just as the tiny seeker wanders under the tree you're hiding in. You give Chan a broad smile and press your finger to your lips. It is the epitome of childishness, but a dormant, quietly primal part of him is ready to guard your secret with his teeth bared. No one will ever hunt you if he has anything to say about it. After the game ends and the children scatter, you make your way to him.

"You have a keen eye. You should team up with me when it is my turn to seek. We'll find the littles in no time."

He just nods. From then, he's at the park often, a new addition to the playgroup. And if he gets a little giddy every time he is on your team and you win, well, that is no one's concern.

🐺Minho

Minho would never have met you if it wasn't for Han. You and Han had become friends when the server at the local coffee shop announced to you that they had run out of blueberry muffins. One dramatic dialogue about the tragedy of it later, you and Han were fast friends.

You were at the same coffee shop with him months later when a storm blew out of nowhere. Rain cascaded from the sky in sheets, rattling windows. Han called Minho and begged him to come and pick you both up so you would not get washed away from the surface of the earth. Minho had been tempted to ignore Han's call but eventually decided that taking the car was better than dealing with Han's dramatic whining later.

If Han alone was noisy, you and Han together were nothing short of a cacophony. But somehow, when the car filled and echoed with the sound of your laughter, it didn't grate on Minho's nerves. And when you sang completely off key to the songs in Han's playlist, his lips almost twitched into a smile. When he pulled over at your apartment and you grinned at him and said, "See you again, MinMin," he'll never admit it, but he hoped that he would see you again, even if it meant hearing that ridiculous nickname.

🐺Changbin

You saw Changbin before he saw you. You watched him argue with the ducks in the pond, trying to convince them to eat the bread he was tossing into the water. When the ducks quacked back, you were almost convinced that they were communicating back with the man who looked like he could you snap you in half, if not for the pink bunny eared hat and the sunflower sling bag.

You had spotted the problem early on. The chunks of bread that he was tearing were too small and soaked up water quickly, effectively becoming fish food instead. It took you a couple of tries to get his attention, your voice far too soft in the chaos of his conversation with the ducks. You explained the issue and showed him how to tear the bread, your fingers precise. He took advantage of your shyness, and while you refused to meet his eyes, he studied your face with a broad grin on his. When the ducks dove after the pieces you tossed to them, he cheered, dubbed you the duck whisperer and insisted that you tell him your secret to duck whispering over a coffee.

🐺Hyunjin

The only reason Hyunjin allows you to tell people the story of how you first met is because your eyes light up with a different kind of delight at the memory.

You met Hyunjin from the other side of a door, literally. You were trying to leave the building where you worked, while Hyunjin was trying to enter it. Except Hyunjin kept pulling a 'push' door. The wooden door wouldn't budge when you tried to open it. Unaware of the events taking place on the other side, you yanked the door at the same time that Hyunjin realised that he had to push it. The momentum sent him crashing into you, and you into the ground. His first thought was that you smell delicious, like lemon cake. Your first thought was that he is an idiot.

You began to see him around more often, and when he finally brings himself to ask you out for a coffee, you told yourself that you agreed only because you wanted him to stop walking backwards on the stairs.

🐺Han

Han had been using your office as a place for him to safely ride out anxious episodes when the world around him gets too loud, too overwhelming. He first stumbled across it by accident, the gentle scent of lavender and vanilla drawing him in. He didn't know whose office it was, but it felt safe and that was all he could focus on. The lights were gentle and warm, unlike the bright, clinical white lights that the rest of the office used. The curtains were translucent, letting in enough light during the day without becoming a safety hazard for vampires (it is the only way he can describe the ambience). There is familiarity. The lavender and vanilla diffuser is always from the same brand, as are the chamomile tea bags that are kept on the shelf. The blanket on the two seater is always rabbit fleece, alternating between pale green or deep blue. He knows that they are laundered every week, and that the owner of the office uses lily scented softener.

The first time you meet, he doesn't even realise you're in the office. He stumbles in, throws himself on the two seater and screams into the pillowy cushion. He screams again, this time out of fright, when you tap his shoulder to silently hand him warm chamomile tea. You let him ramble out apologies and explanations, and when he stops to breathe, you tell him you don't mind him using the office since you're hardly in it, preferring to work in a shared space with your team. You're just glad that you were able to create a space where someone finds safety.

🐺Felix

You hated bullies, and when you saw those three jocks picking on the platinum blonde boy who only ever had smiles for everyone in your department, you saw red. You didn't even know him, but he showed up for class with wildflowers in his hair and a smile that radiated sunshine and you believed that innocence like that was sacred.

Jock 1 had barely touched the little purple sprig tucked behind the fae-like boy's ear when your fist flew. Your knuckles split against his jaw even as your knee came up between his legs. Jock 2 and 3 must have seen something in your eyes, because they simply grabbed their friend and scampered. You tucked your fist against your side, the blood invisible against your black tee and leather jacket. Once the three bullies had disappeared out of sight, you turned to head back to your seat when a cool hand reached for your uninjured wrist.

"I have an herbal paste for your knuckles in my friend's car. He likes to box without gloves."

When you look back at that day later, Chan will tell you that it was an interesting sight, seeing Felix with the sun reflecting off his hair, decorated with wildflowers, and you, a good foot shorter, clad in all black and a warning on your face, make your way to his car.

🐺Seungmin

Everyone knew about the pack settlement on the outskirts of town. After all, it was common knowledge that weres preferred to have their homes closer to wild lands and when that pack had moved there, over two decades ago, the townsfolk were happy to let them build their settlement. Having the pack around meant that the town had just a little more protection from the dangers that lurked in the woods. And dangers did lurk there.

Those dangers did not deter you from your whimsical ideas though, and you found yourself exploring a deeper section of the woods late one afternoon. You're so lost in your own head that you don't hear him behind you, following you. It is only when you stop to sit, wanting to rest your feet, when you spot him from between the trees. You freeze, instinctively realising that this is a predator and you might be prey. But when he steps closer, you can see the disapproving frown on his face.

"I've been following you for nearly an hour and you did not even know. You're a hazard to yourself." He says flatly.

"Maybe. But somehow I get the feeling you aren't a hazard to me." You reply. He both hates and relishes how certain you sound.

After that, even though you never tell him when you go on one of your impromptu wood wanderings, you know he finds you and keeps you safe, even from yourself.

🐺Jeongin

You don't have a very clear memory of the first time you met Jeongin, so you have to rely on his recollection. You know it was a party, there was a lot of dancing and there was a lot of alcohol.

For as long as you can remember, you've been the life of the party, confident and outgoing. This party was no different, except there was a sweet faced boy, with a smile that made his eyes disappear, hiding in a corner and not dancing. You grooved your way to him, giggling when his face turned scarlet as you wrapped your arms around his neck and moved. Jeongin says that you didn't grind up against him, nor move in a way that made him uncomfortable, but you did insist that he dance. Eventually, he did dance, if only to keep you away from the beer kegs.

Apparently, you gave him many nicknames. When he recounts some of them, you aren't entirely convinced that he isn't exaggerating just to mortify you. You made him drive his brother's car around the neighbourhood twice before actually showing him where you lived. When he asked you why, you said it was so he knew the place well enough and would not get lost when he picked you up for your date.

Though you were mortified, with a good side of hungover, something warm bloomed in your chest when he showed up the next morning with soup and an after party survival pack.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thank you so much for this ask, my beautiful 💫! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

[lonelydarknessblog]

Please give me a moment while I gather the gently crushed pieces of my heart and try to shove it back into my chest.

How The y Court You (Vampire Seduction 101)

Vampire!SKZ OT8 x Reader | eight vampires. eight courtships. and every quiet, calculated way they make being chosen feel like fate.

🌹synopsis: Welcome to Vampire Seduction 101. This isn’t a love story. It’s a field guide for how they choose you, study you, orchestrate you. Not all vampires hunt with fangs. Some use flowers. Letters. Custom playlists. Some knock. Others already have your keys. Every profile begins with a courtship style. They don’t fall in love. They fall into you. And build the cage from inside your chest. You call it seduction. They call it already done.

💌a/n: okay. LISTEN. first of all—i’m sorry for the first version. i don’t know what spell i was under. i thought i was writing vampire seduction and somehow ended up with ✨vampires but make it porn✨. it didn’t fit. it didn’t breathe right. this version? better. because vampire courtship actually is not sex. not chaos. it is ritual. precision. obsession dressed in quiet affection. i wanted to make it NSFW originally but that’s not what this is. i really hope this version is much better and you enjoy it more. thank you for being patient. i hope it lives in your chest cavity the way it’s living in mine 💋🦇. p.s. if this one hit different—slower, sharper, deeper—reblog it. let me know the ritual worked. p.p.s. tell me your favorite vampire. i’m collecting data. for science. or stalking.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Paradise — EXO « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:37 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

🩸 𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍 // Abnormal | The Leader

Composed. Relentless. Devotion built like a fortress around you.

Courtship Style: Chan doesn’t flirt. He fortifies. He doesn’t chase. He chooses. And once you’re chosen—everything changes.

You don’t notice it at first. The second cup of coffee on your desk. The way your groceries never seem to run out. The warm hoodie folded on your couch that you swear you didn’t leave there.

You start dreaming of him before you ever see him. And when you do? It’s in passing. At night. Always near a streetlamp. Always watching.

He never says too much. Never touches. But his voice? Low. Measured. Gentle like a lullaby made of steel.

“Let me walk you home.” “You shouldn’t be out this late.” “I noticed your lights were off for three days. Were you sick?”

He calls it concern. You call it comfort. But it’s ownership, waiting to bloom. Chan learns you like a blueprint. He catalogues your sighs, notes your routines, tailors his presence to your loneliness. And when he finally touches you—just a brush of knuckles, a hand at your back—you lean in like you’ve been waiting your whole life.

Mini Ficlet:

You don’t remember when it started. Maybe it was the day someone left orchids on your doorstep—your favourite, though you’d never told a soul. Maybe it was the night a man’s silhouette walked you home from the shadows—always just far enough to not be real.

Or maybe it was now. Now, when he stands in front of you, dressed in charcoal wool and midnight silence, placing a velvet box in your palm like it weighs less than his restraint.

“It reminded me of you,” he says.

Inside is a necklace—simple, but devastating. A dark garnet set in a delicate rose gold setting, the stone carved with your initials.

You’ve known him for three months now. Or rather, he’s let you know him. Bit by bit. Hour by hour. He speaks slowly. Moves gently. But you’ve never doubted the force beneath it. When he takes you out, it’s always somewhere quiet. expensive. safe. Private rooftops. After-hours galleries. Candlelit corners of museums you didn’t know opened at night.

“I booked the entire floor,” he said once, when you gaped at the empty hall of mirrored sculptures. “I wanted it to be just us.”

It should be too much. Too fast. Too intense. But he never touches you without asking. Never pushes. Never forces. Still, every time you wake up, there’s something new: — your favourite pastry waiting at your desk — your name whispered in a stranger’s dream — a tailored coat in your size, already broken in with your scent

You never see him do these things. But you know it’s him. Always him.

There’s something devastating about how deliberately he loves. He never hides that he wants you. He just refuses to take without invitation. He never kisses you first. But he watches your mouth like it’s a sacrament he’s not yet holy enough to touch.

He sends letters, sometimes—written in ink so rich you’re sure it was pressed from crushed roses and wine. Folded into parchment that smells faintly of smoke and sandalwood. Each one signed with his name.

On one of your dates, he brings you to a vineyard. Not a restaurant—the entire vineyard. It’s winter now, barren and beautiful, trellises skeletal under silver clouds.

He lights a fire. Pours wine he says is older than most empires. Then he tells you something no one else has.

“You don’t have to give me anything,” he says, voice low, eyes locked to yours. “Not your blood. Not your time. Not even a kiss.”

“Then why all this?” you ask.

He smiles. “Because if I’m to be damned by desire, I want it to be desire I earned.”

The silence between you shifts. Thicker now. Softer. You look at him. Really look. The broad shoulders draped in black wool. The hand curled around his glass—barely suppressing the tremble when your knee brushes his under the table.

He’s not pretending to be calm. He’s just choosing to be.

You realize, suddenly— He’s not waiting for you to fall in love. He’s waiting for you to realize he already has.

And when you kiss him that night—finally, breathlessly, fingers in his curls—he sighs like a man who’s been underwater for centuries, and just now remembered how to breathe.

Because Bang Chan courts like a vow. And you? You’re already his holy thing.

🩸 𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 // Abnormal | The Prince of Teeth

Elegant. Ritualistic. Lethal devotion wrapped in silence.

Courtship Style: Minho doesn’t fall often. But when he does—he falls decidedly. No games. No glamours. No guessing. He won’t flood you with gifts or whisper pretty nothings just to hear himself speak. He won’t show up where you are by chance—he’ll ask to see you. And if you say yes, he shows up on time, dressed well, and holds the door open like he was born to. He doesn’t love loudly, but he loves deliberately. He watches what matters to you—and shows you that he saw. You like cats? He donates to a local shelter in your name. You’re learning to cook? He handwrites his family’s jjigae recipe and includes a box of the exact spices he uses. You wore a necklace once and never again? He asks why—and listens to the answer. He doesn’t flirt with words. He flirts with consistency.

Mini Ficlet:

You don’t expect flowers from Lee Minho. But he brings them anyway. Not roses. Never anything cliché. Today it’s blue thistles and white tulips—sharp and quiet and unexpectedly lovely.

“They reminded me of you,” he says, handing them over with a half-shrug, like it’s no big deal. Like your heart didn’t just knock against your ribs.

Your second date is simple. Thoughtful.

A tucked-away gallery filled with black-and-white photographs. He barely speaks—just watches you wander, nodding occasionally when your eyes light up.

“You like architecture,” he says after. “You kept staring at the lines.”

You blink. “You were watching me?”

“Of course I was,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “How else would I know what to give you next time?”

Your third date? A quiet, high-windowed café. A sketchpad set on your seat. You didn’t tell him you draw.

“I saw the graphite on your fingers,” he explains. “I figured you ran out of pages.”

Minho’s romance isn’t chaotic or grandiose. It’s intentional. He doesn’t drown you in affection. He builds a place for it. One you can trust. One you can return to. Again and again and again.

He never makes promises. He makes patterns.

Wakes you up with a morning message—dry, short, often sarcastic. But always sent at the same time. Asks how your day went every evening. Remembers the answer. Brings you lunch when you forget to eat. Doesn’t scold. Just puts it in front of you and says, “Try the soup.”

Minho is steady like a tide. Silent when you need it. Fiercely present when you don’t know you do. Not a whirlwind. Not a fantasy. He’s the man who waits outside your building with a paper umbrella when it rains and says, “Took the long way. Needed the walk.”

Your fourth date? He teaches you how to make dumplings.

The kitchen smells like sesame and steam. Your hands are messy with flour, your braid keeps slipping loose. He rolls his sleeves up, doesn’t complain once when you ruin his shirt with soy sauce.

You ask him why he’s doing all this.

His gaze is unreadable for a second. Then he says: “Because I like you. And I’m not going to pretend I don’t.”

“So this is… what? Wooing?”

“If that’s what it takes.” He leans against the counter, eyes sweeping your face. “I don’t want almost. I want you. Properly.”

No one’s ever said that to you so plainly before. No hunger hiding behind it. No game. Just truth, dressed in clean hands and sharp cheekbones.

That night, he walks you home without touching you once. Doesn’t kiss you at the door. Just looks at you for a long moment—like he’s memorizing the way the light hits your face.

“Tell me when,” he says.

You nod.

And the next morning, there’s a single white tulip waiting on your windowsill.

Because Lee Minho courts you like he means it. And when he loves, he does so with silence, surety, and the kind of care that turns staying into a sacred act.

🩸 𝐒𝐄𝐎 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐁𝐈𝐍 // Normal | The Enforcer

Fiercely Devoted. Tenderly Observant. Worships the ground you walk on.

Courtship Style: Changbin doesn’t flirt to impress you. He adores you from day one—and you know it. He’s the type to fumble his words when you smile too hard, then spend all night writing a letter that says what he really meant. He respects space like it’s sacred, but still makes sure you feel chosen. Every second. Every step. You mention you’re cold once? He shows up the next day with a custom hoodie embroidered with your initials. You say you’ve never been to a concert? He books VIP tickets. And gets a seat that faces the stage and lets you lean on his shoulder. He doesn’t overstep. He doesn’t assume. But he makes it clear—he wants you. Not for a night. Not for a thrill. For always. He listens better than anyone you’ve ever met. Recites your favourite quotes back to you when you forget how to believe in yourself. Cooks for you when you’re too tired. Asks permission before touching you, even just to brush your hair behind your ear.

Mini Ficlet:

You don’t notice it at first. The extra protein bar in your locker. The umbrella left leaning by your door on a rainy night. The playlist you found on your phone one morning—filled with songs you’d mentioned once, offhand, at dinner.

But then there’s him. Seo Changbin. Big smile. Bigger heart. Eyes that track you like you’re gravity.

“You okay?” he asks, every time you look the tiniest bit off. “Need anything? Water? Snack? A nap and a forehead kiss?”

You laugh the first time. He doesn’t.

“I’m serious.”

He takes you to the gym on your second date—not for a workout, but because he wants to see what makes you strong. Between sets, he grins every time you beat your personal best. Offers his water bottle like it’s sacred. Wipes a bead of sweat from your temple with a reverent thumb.

“You’re amazing,” he says, voice low and proud. “Do you know that?”

Your third date is homemade bibimbap at his place, candles flickering, your favourite show queued up. He wears an apron. It says “Simpire Chef” in stitched red thread.

You ask if it’s a joke.

“Nope,” he says. “It’s a lifestyle.”

The fourth date is a quiet walk through a night market—he buys you a moonstone ring from a stall you barely glanced at. Later, when you ask how he knew your size, he only winks.

“I have good instincts. And maybe I borrowed one of your rings when you weren’t looking.”

You roll your eyes. But your chest is glowing.

It’s never about the money. It’s about how much he notices.

He remembers your deadlines. Sends silly voice notes when you’re stressed. Brings your favourite fruit to your apartment with your name carved into the peel like it’s a ritual.

“I don’t want to rush you,” he says once, when you pause before reaching for his hand. “You don’t have to rush anything. Just let me stay close.”

And you do.

Because Changbin courts like a man who believes love is a promise. Not a prize. Not a performance. Just a steady hand held out, palm up. Waiting. And when you take it—finally, fully—he laces your fingers together, brings them to his lips, and whispers against your knuckles: “I’d wait another lifetime just to do this right.”

🩸 𝐇𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐉𝐈𝐍 // Abnormal | The Siren

Romantic. Expressive. Devoted like a disciple.

Courtship Style: Hyunjin doesn’t date you. He paints you into his world. Everything becomes about you—from the brushstrokes on his canvas to the songs he hums when he thinks no one’s listening. He doesn’t just fall. He descends, feather by feather, like an angel surrendering to gravity. He brings you flowers, yes. But they’re always arranged by meaning. White gardenias for secret admiration; Purple hyacinths for deep sorrow you never told him about; A single red camellia when he’s ready to say “I love you” without speaking. He writes you letters. Not just love letters—devotional scrolls. He doodles your initials in the margins, signs them with wax seals, and never asks if you’ve read them. He leaves them tucked in books, under your pillow, slipped inside your coat pocket. His love doesn’t demand. It offers. He’ll take you to art museums and stand behind you, barely touching, whispering how the light catches on your hair. He’ll draw your silhouette a hundred times before ever daring to kiss you. Hyunjin courts you like you’re a divine secret.

Mini Ficlet:

You find the sketchbook before you find the courage to ask.

It’s filled with you—your eyes in the morning light, your smile caught mid-laugh, your hand reaching for something just out of frame. Each page is dated. Some are smudged. Some soaked at the corners, as if he wept while drawing you.

You’re not even dating.

Not yet.

Hyunjin walks you home every time you stay out too late. Buys your favorite pastries without asking. Sends you poems at 3AM with a “This reminded me of you. I hope you’re dreaming something soft.”

Once, you told him you liked the stars.

So he brought you to a hill just outside the city, wrapped you in blankets, and traced constellations onto your palm with his finger.

“This one,” he said, guiding your wrist, “I’ll name after your laugh.”

Another time, you cried in front of him—something small. Stupid, you said.

He didn’t speak. Just knelt in front of you, pressed his forehead to your knee like a knight surrendering, and whispered: “Nothing that hurts you is stupid.”

“I look awful,” you mumbled.

Hyunjin tilted his head, resting his cheek on your knee now, grinning up at you with that infuriating, heart-melting sparkle.

“You look real. I like real,” he said. “Also, your nose gets pink when you cry. Very cute. I might draw that next.”

You shoved his shoulder, half-laughing through your tears. “You’re a menace.”

“Your menace,” he said immediately—then paused. “I mean. Hopefully. Someday. Pending approval. From HR. Which is... you.”

You broke into full laughter then, the kind that shook your shoulders and made your ribs ache. And Hyunjin—Hyunjin looked at you like he’d just witnessed a miracle. Like you’d cracked open a world he’d been painting blind, and now there was colour.

He never rushes you. Never asks for more than you’re ready to give. But he offers—daily, hourly, like a love letter folded into time.

On your birthday, he brings you a cake he baked himself. It's lopsided. Icing smudged. He’s got flour on his cheek and a candle stuck in crooked.

“Is this edible?” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

“No promises,” he grins. “But it’s made with love. And too much cinnamon. And possibly one egg too many. You like protein, right?”

You eat the whole thing. Together. Off paper plates, sitting on the floor, laughing so hard you forget what loneliness tastes like.

And when he kisses you again—weeks later, on a rainy morning under a café awning, fingers laced tight in yours—he does it laughing. Giddy. Like a boy who just found out magic is real and has your name.

“I loved you before I met you,” he murmurs after, pressing his forehead to yours. “But this? You choosing me back? This is my favorite version of fate.”

Because Hyunjin doesn’t just romance you. He reveres you. He cherishes you. He makes you feel like being loved by him is both sacred and silly—a sacred thing with jelly on its chin and glitter in its pockets.

🩸 𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐉𝐈𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐆 // Normal | The Shadow Walker

Clingy. Chaotic. Loves you louder than anyone ever has.

Courtship Style: Jisung doesn’t court you in the traditional sense. He adopts you like a stray thought he can’t put down. One day you’re acquaintances, the next he’s texting you twenty memes a day and showing up with bubble tea “just in case you were sad or bored or hungry or slightly thirsty or missed me a little.” He doesn’t confess. He accumulates. Your Spotify wrapped suddenly has his favourite songs; Your fridge always has his weird snack combos; Your phone background mysteriously changes to a photo of you two (he swears it “just glitched”). He’s the loudest thing in your life—and the softest, too.

Mini Ficlet:

One day, Han Jisung was your loud, chaotic friend who kept showing up with a second sandwich. Now? He's asleep on your couch in a hoodie that smells like you, mumbling your name into a pillow like it's a prayer wrapped in drool.

You don't even fucking remember when you agreed to go on a date with him. But, here you are, him always in your space, on your couch napping and drooling.

“Did we… start dating?” you ask one day, halfway through a Netflix binge, your head on his shoulder.

He pauses. Blinks at you. “We’re not??”

You laugh. He doesn’t.

“No seriously, babe. I’ve been in a committed relationship with you for, like, seven months. I made you a playlist called ‘She Could Punch Me and I’d Say Thank You.’ That’s not something I do for friends.”

You do start dating officially after that. Or maybe you just start acknowledging it. Either way, nothing changes—and everything does. He still texts you in all caps. Still fake-cries if you don’t answer in five minutes. But now? He kisses your cheek when he drops off food. Holds your hand when you walk. Shouts “THAT’S MY GIRLFRIEND” any time you do literally anything, including sneeze.

You tell him he’s embarrassing. He tells you you’re hot when you’re annoyed. You throw a pillow at him. He pretends to die.

But beneath all that chaos is something startlingly serious. Like when you’re stressed and he reads to you until you fall asleep. Or when he shows up at your workplace during a late shift, holding your favourite drink, eyes all soft and worried.

“I just wanted to see your face,” he says, quieter than usual. “It makes the noise in mine stop.”

And when he finally tells you he loves you, it’s not loud. Not a joke. Just whispered against your neck after a long day, arms around you like armor.

“I know I’m a lot,” he murmurs. “But I’ll love you right. Every version of you. Loud or quiet. Messy or magic. Just let me stay, okay?”

Because Han Jisung courts with friendship, laughter, and loyalty. You don’t fall in love with him. You trip—face first—and he’s already there at the bottom, holding out a juice box and saying: “Took you long enough, baby.”

🩸 𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐗 // Abnormal | The Dreamer

Gentle voice. Corrupt touch. Dangerous devotion.

Courtship Style: Felix doesn’t ask for your attention. He radiates until you can’t help but turn toward him. He’s warmth incarnate—smiling like a sunrise, touching your arm just a second too long, laughing like the two of you already share a secret. He burns easy, but never recklessly. His affection is loud, his intentions louder, and his desire? Always hiding behind a wink. Or a lip bite. Or a murmured: “Tell me to stop flirting and I will. You won’t, though… will you?” Felix courts like he’s falling and loving it. He brings you coffee with your name written in hearts. He sends voice notes just to say he missed your voice. He insists on “sun days”—your private tradition of skipping responsibilities just to stay in bed with the curtains open.

Mini Ficlet:

You swear you’re not imagining it. The way his gaze lingers. The way he always finds you, no matter where you are. The way his hand always settles just above your knee under the table, like a promise he’s not quite ready to cash in.

He brings you sunflowers one day. Not roses. Not peonies. Sunflowers—loud, bright, unapologetic. Like him.

“They reminded me of your laugh,” he says, grinning as he sets the bouquet in your arms. “All sunshine and kind of… illegal. In a good way.”

Your cheeks burn.

“I should arrest you,” you mutter.

“Oh please do,” he purrs. “But be gentle. I bruise easy.”

You shove him. He laughs. But then—he looks at you. All warmth gone. What’s left is molten.

“I’m serious, you know,” he says softly. “About you.”

Later, he takes you on a date that isn’t a date (Except it is. He’s just waiting for you to call it that). Rooftop blanket. Takeout. Shared earbuds. His pinky hooked around yours like a pinky promise. The stars are out. So is the moon. So is his heart, apparently.

He leans in and murmurs, “Y’know… if you ever wanted to, we could just stay like this forever.”

You laugh. “What, on a roof?”

“No,” he says, smile curling. “On you.”

You roll your eyes. He doesn’t mind. You always roll them—and you always blush after.

He starts showing up more. With snacks. With games. With that stupid grin. You say you’re not in the mood to hang. He offers to just sit beside you, “for atmosphere.” Then somehow you’re tangled on the couch, your head on his chest while he scrolls for a movie you’ve already seen.

He insists you bake something together one night.

“I’m not a baker,” you warn.

“I am,” he says. “You just stand there and look cute.”

You throw flour at him. He retaliates with sugar. It escalates fast. You’re breathless, covered in powdered sweetness, half-laughing, half-melting when he pins you to the counter with dough-covered hands.

“You’ve got something on your face,” he whispers.

“You do too.”

He kisses you anyway.

You burn the cookies. He calls them love-blasted shortbread disasters. Eats six.

He writes notes. Sticky ones. Slips them into your jacket, your bag, your favourite book. One night, you find him humming in your kitchen—wearing your apron. Cooking something elaborate. With candles already lit.

You blink. “Did you break in?”

“I used the key you pretended not to give me.”

“…That’s not how pretending works.”

He grins. “Neither is love, apparently.”

He doesn’t ask to stay over. He just does. He doesn’t ask to hold you closer. He just fits. Like the spaces between your fingers were always waiting for his rings. Like your nights were always meant to end with him whispering: “You know I’m falling, right? Faster than I should. Not that I’m gonna stop.”

And maybe it’s the way he never lets you doubt it. Not in the way he kisses your temple after you’ve fallen asleep. Not in the way he carries you to bed when you refuse to move. Not in the way he holds your face like you’re the sun—and he’s the vampire stupid enough to burn for you (not that he'd burn, given he's an Abnormal, but go with it). Because Felix courts with warmth, with chaos, with craving— but above all, with clarity.

🩸 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐌𝐈𝐍 // Normal | The Beloved

Dry wit. Reluctant softness. Secretly yours before you even know it.

Courtship Style: Seungmin doesn’t court like a romantic. He courts like a realist who accidentally fell too hard and refuses to admit it. He won’t say he likes you. He’ll just roast your taste in music. Then send you a playlist. Labeled: “Fix your standards. Start here.” He won’t compliment your outfit. He’ll say, “You wore that? On purpose?” Then immediately take a photo when you’re not looking and make it his phone lockscreen. His flirting is all sharp edges and sidelong glances. If he calls you annoying, you’re already halfway to being his. And still—beneath the banter, Seungmin shows up. Remembers how you take your coffee. Waits until you’re home safe. Asks how your day was and actually listens. Buys your favourite gum. Takes you on dates disguised as “hangouts” and grumbles when you call it cute.

Mini Ficlet:

You’re fighting again.

Over something stupid. Probably the last donut or your tragic Spotify history. He’s smirking. You’re pouting. The usual.

“I honestly don’t know how someone with your taste functions in public,” Seungmin says, shaking his head like a disappointed tutor.

“Keep talking,” you shoot back, “and I’ll block you on everything.”

He blinks. Then grins. “Cute. Like you could go five hours without texting me.”

You go quiet.

Because, well. You can’t.

Later that night, there’s a knock at your door. You open it to find—

A box of your favourite snacks. A hoodie you thought you lost. A note.

“Thought you’d be dramatic and sad. I’m not doing this because I care. I just don’t want you crying on my hoodie.”

You roll your eyes. Smile anyway.

He’s not big on grand gestures. But he shows up when it counts. You mention your favourite childhood show once? The next week, he has the full DVD set in his bag. “Stumbled across it. Don’t flatter yourself.” You say you’re too tired to go out? He drags you to the convenience store. Buys two drinks. Tosses a jacket over your shoulders without looking at you. “I needed air. You just happened to exist nearby.”

One day, you fall asleep on his couch. You wake up warm. Covered. Music low. The lights dimmed. He’s in the kitchen, quietly washing mugs.

You say nothing. Neither does he. But when he turns to glance at you—his eyes soften like he’s watching a sunrise he doesn’t want to end.

You catch him smiling. He scowls instantly. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m soft.”

You laugh. “You are soft.”

He groans. “Ugh. I knew I should’ve let you freeze.”

You start noticing it everywhere. The way he always buys an extra snack, then pretends he “accidentally” got two. The way he adjusts his walking pace so your steps line up. The way his sarcasm slows down when you’re quiet—like he knows when to tease, and when to just… be there.

One night, he calls you without a reason.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You didn’t send me a meme today. Thought maybe you died.”

You snort. “Would you miss me?”

“No,” he says flatly. “I’d just have to find someone else with horrible taste in music. Tragic.”

But the next day, your favourite drink shows up at your door. No note this time. Just a sticky tab on the bottle that says:

You better not be sad again. I’m busy this weekend and can’t deal with your feelings until Monday.

And then:

...Unless it’s serious. In which case, tell me now so I can cancel.

That’s how he does it. Quiet commitment. Unspoken loyalty. Sarcastic devotion. You’re not dating. Not officially. But you’ve already become a habit to him. You realize it the day he gets genuinely mad—not fake-annoyed, not teasing. Someone hurt your feelings. And when you tell him, he goes silent. Dead quiet. Then he asks, low and sharp: “What’s their name?”

You blink. “Why?”

“Just curious. No reason. Definitely not going to curse them.”

“…You’re not serious.”

He tilts his head. “You think I wouldn’t? For you?”

You freeze.

Because his voice doesn’t sound sarcastic anymore. It sounds deadly. And suddenly, it’s so clear: He’s been choosing you. Every day. In every way. Not with grand declarations. But in the spaces between arguments. In the silences after laughter. In the way he always remembers where you left your phone, what song calms you down, and when to stop joking—just to wrap you in the quietest kind of love.

So you lean against his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything. But he lets you stay there. All night. And when you wake up? There’s a note stuck to your forehead.

I like you. Don’t make it weird.

🩸 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐉𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍 // Normal (Evolving Abnormal) | The Smile with Fangs

Soft charm. Hidden heat. A smile that sneaks under your skin.

Courtship Style: Jeongin courts like he’s been planning it forever—but wants you to think it’s spontaneous. A mix of Chan’s old-school romance and Felix’s sunshine flirtation, he leaves you laughing and breathless in the same moment. He’ll bring you flowers “because they looked lonely without you,” but hide a note inside that reads like a love letter. He buys matching rings, shrugs when you notice, then blushes when you wear yours. He’s all easy banter and eye contact that lasts a second too long. He doesn’t just listen—he memorizes. The way you sip your drink. The songs you hum. The one day you said you hated rain—and how he always shows up with an umbrella. With Jeongin, the courting is gentle until it isn’t. Until the teasing falls away and he’s looking at you like he already belongs to you. And he does.

Mini Ficlet:

It starts with a dare.

“I bet you won’t show up to our next hangout in something that isn’t tragic,” he says, eyeing your hoodie with mock disdain.

So you show up in a dress. And he chokes on his drink.

“You look—” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “That’s… illegal.”

You raise a brow. “So I won?”

“No,” he grins, cheeks pink. “I did.”

Later, he tugs you by the wrist into a photo booth, insists on five different poses, and refuses to give you the strip. “Evidence of your crimes. It’s safer with me.”

You roll your eyes. But when you get home, the photos are in your bag. You have no idea when he managed to do that so quick, but he did.

He doesn’t mention it the next day. Just sends a text.

jeongin 🦊: u look better in those pics than me. rude.

you: you insisted on five poses.

jeongin 🦊: exactly. more chances to suffer.

You laugh. But your fingers linger on the photo strip anyway. Especially on the third one—where you're both laughing so hard his eyes are almost closed, and your head’s tilted toward his like it belongs there.

From then on, the courting becomes a quiet game. He sends you videos of cute animals with captions like “you when I look at you”. He wears that one cologne you complimented—then pretends not to notice when you lean in a little closer. He starts showing up to your classes, "coincidentally" holding your favourite drink. Leaves your favourite snack in your bag with a sticky note: “bribery. stay cute.” He draws hearts on the fogged-up café window and denies it. Blames the barista.

He randomly brings you keychains from vending machines. Ones that make no sense—tiny frogs, a plastic spoon, a lopsided heart. “This one’s you.” he says, handing you the spoon. You start collecting them on your bag.

He buys a small sketchbook and fills it with dumb little doodles: you as a cat. You as a villain. You as the reason he’s broke because “someone eats too many croissants.”

He doesn’t say I like you. But he wears the bracelet you made him from string and beads. Keeps the wrapper from the gum you shared in his wallet. Asks your friends what kind of earrings you’ve been looking at lately, then acts surprised when he “randomly found” them on sale.

One evening, he takes you to a rooftop arcade. You win every game—barely—and he pretends to be devastated.

“You’re cheating,” he accuses.

“Am not.”

“Then marry me,” he blurts.

You freeze. So does he.

“…That was a joke,” he says immediately.

It wasn’t.

The next week, he gives you a hoodie. Custom-made. Embroidered over the heart: fox boy’s favourite.

Jeongin’s courtship isn’t loud. It’s a slow-burn playlist. A silent “text me when you get home.” A bag of snacks he swears he didn’t buy for you—but somehow match your exact cravings. It’s teasing that feels like touch. Laughter that feels like safety. Looks that linger too long.

He courts you like a secret he doesn’t want to keep anymore.

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