woninggg

[woninggg]

Tell Me, Puppy

Synopsis: Mingyu tries to tell you about his day—really, he does—but it's so hard not to turn into a pathetic puppy when you're stroking him so good :(

Pairing: idol!Mingyu x afab!reader

Genre: smut, established relationship, oneshot

Rating: mature

Word count: 1k

Warnings: petnames (puppy), handjob, sub!Mingyu, soft dom!reader, lemme know if I missed anything!

Note: Inspired by this post, I read it and immediately thought of Mingyu.

@gyubakeries here's your sub!Mingyu :)

Click here to join my taglist!

Read on ao3

Reblogs are appreciated ♡

.ᐟMinors/blank/no age indicator blogs will be blocked.ᐟ

A bright smile is plastered on Mingyu's face as he steps inside, finally home after a long day of photoshoots and interviews. A soft giggle escapes him when he spots you waiting in the living room. He immediately drops his bag and runs up to you like an eager puppy.

You laugh as he crashes into you, his weight pressing against yours. Wrapping your arms around him, you press a kiss to the crown of his head while he nuzzles into the crook of your neck.

"Missed you," he mumbles, voice muffled against your skin.

"Missed you too," you giggle, fingers weaving gently through his hair.

You feel the tension seep out of him as he melts into your embrace, the exhaustion of the day slowly fading.

"How was your day, Gyu?" you murmur, still stroking his hair.

He lifts his head, eyes brightening. "The morning shoot was fun!" he grins.

"Yeah?"

"The concept was totally different from usual. It was so cool to try something new!"

You listen intently as he rambles about the experimental theme, the bold styling choices, and the energy of the set. His excitement is contagious, his eyes sparkling as he recounts every detail. Unable to resist, you cup his cheek, thumb brushing lightly over his skin, a fond smile tugging at your lips.

"Baby?" His voice is soft, cheeks tinged pink under your touch.

"Don't mind me," you murmur. "Just admiring how pretty you are. Go on."

He lets out a shy laugh before continuing, but your hand drifts lower, thumb tracing his bottom lip. His words stutter, breath hitching as you smirk, letting your touch trail down his body, lingering just long enough to squeeze his muscles teasingly. Mingyu's voice wavers, his breaths turning uneven between sentences.

A soft whine escapes his lips as your fingers slip beneath his shirt, nails lightly scratching the skin just below his navel.

"Shhh…keep telling me about your day, puppy," you murmur, grinning when he lets out another helpless whimper at the nickname.

He stumbles over his words for a second before shakily continuing, his breath hitching as your hand rests just above his waistband—motionless, but enough to make him squirm under your touch.

"Did you feel handsome in those outfits, puppy?" you hum, fingers tracing idle circles.

Mingyu nods shyly, the blush on his cheeks deepening.

"Words, puppy," you chide gently.

"Y-Yes," he admits, voice barely above a whisper.

"I bet everyone was staring, weren't they? Couldn't take their eyes off how pretty you looked," you tease, smirking as he buries his face in the crook of your neck with a muffled groan.

You laugh, fingers carding through his hair before cooing, "My handsome boy,"—and the whine he lets out is downright delicious.

Your fingers catch his chin, tilting his face up until your lips hover just a breath apart. He already looks ruined—eyes blown dark, lips parted, cheeks flushed pink with anticipation.

"Tell me about the interviews," you command, voice low and hushed.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips before he starts speaking, words coming in uneven bursts as your hand begins its slow descent. You take your time, dragging your touch downward at a deliberate, torturous pace that has Mingyu squirming beneath you. When your fingers finally reach his waistband, you unhurriedly pull down the zipper of his pants. His breath hitches, cutting off mid-sentence with a whimper.

"Did I tell you to stop?" you ask, arching a brow.

"N-No, sorry," he whispers, voice trembling, before he forces himself to continue.

With his help, you tug his pants down, leaving him in nothing but his boxers—already damp at the front, the outline of his hard cock unmistakable. You palm him through the fabric, and Mingyu chokes back a moan, hips twitching helplessly into your touch.

"Go on," you urge, thumb rubbing slow circles over his straining length.

He sucks in a shaky breath, struggling to keep his composure, but it's impossible when you're touching him like this, when he's already leaking and desperate. You stroke him once, twice over the damp fabric, and Mingyu bites down hard on his bottom lip, stifling a whine.

Just as he parts his lips to speak again, your hand slips beneath his waistband, freeing his cock—and the sound he makes is nothing short of shattered.

"I said go on," you command, pressing your thumb into his slit to gather the precum beading there. Mingyu hisses through clenched teeth, hips twitching.

He whimpers out a broken sentence, trying his best to be good. But your hand starts moving—slow, deliberate strokes—and his resolve crumbles. You grab his face, forcing his lips into a pout.

"If you stop, I'll stop," you growl, freezing your hand mid-stroke.

"I'm sorry! I won't—please—" he babbles, rushing to continue.

You reward him with another torturous glide up his length. His breathing turns ragged, body trembles as he fights to stay composed. You drink in the sight—his furrowed brows, tear-bright eyes, the way his voice cracks around every word.

"T-The interviewer flirted with me," he admits, voice thready.

"Oh?" You raise an eyebrow, stopping your movements.

"B-But I shut it down! I was good—hnng—promise!" he sobs, desperate.

"Aww, my perfect puppy," you coo, thumbing away a tear. "Should I reward you?" He nods frantically, whimpering when you crush your lips to his. He kisses back like a man starving, moaning as your hand resumes its pace.

"I'm close—please, please, let me cum—" His begging dissolves into high-pitched whines, hips jerking.

"Hm, I don't know." You slow to a maddening tease.

"Please!" He’s fully crying now, tears streaking his flushed cheeks. "I've been so good!”

"Fine," you smirk. "Cum."

A few more strokes and he's spilling over your fist with a choked cry, painting his stomach in stripes of white. He collapses against you, boneless and panting. You lick a stripe up your palm, savouring his taste as he whines.

"Worked so hard today," you murmur, kissing his forehead. "My good puppy."

"…Thank you," he mumbles, nuzzling into your neck.

"Let's clean up before dinner, hm?"

Mingyu perks up, suddenly energetic as he scoops you into his arms. That knowing smile says it all—this is far from over.

Taglist: @tinyelfperson @gyuguys @stay-tiny-things @unlikelysublimekryptonite @miyx-amour @iamawkwardandshy @codeinebelle @brownbunnyb @do-you-remember-summer-127 @sclovreina @theidontknowmehn @toplinehyunjin @gyuhao365 @mysticfairies @cherrylovescheol @cookiearmy @4shypotato @lxnnrobin @sashaaahh @xueisaaa17 @aeriyell @eshia16 @dreamingofpcy @archivistworld @kyeomiis @iwannakisspoutycheol @foxiesgf24 @livelaughloveseventeen @kwanniehae @ateez-atiny380 @junnhuisworld @horangipower17 @cheolsbb26 @scoupshawty @shuas-winnie30 @amaranthar @cherriecsc @shadowkoo @winterisnt @combinatoright-blog @my-neurodivergent-world @chugging-antiseptic-dye @aliiikareed @jennwonwoo @cherrybb96 @smiileflower @yumyumcoo @cherriecsc

[woninggg]

LOOP—Nishimura riki

Ni-ki × Producer!Reader // enemies to lovers | slow burn

When ENHYPEN’s last producers are suddenly wiped from the credits, HYBE assigns their new comeback to an elusive young producer.

you're a, sleep deprived 19 year old, and very much not here to babysit idols. Especially not Ni-ki, who talks like he owns the room and looks at you like you already failed.

Too bad you’re stuck in the same studio for the next year.

And neither of you plans on backing down first.

published!! @ sailorgoonn on wattpad

link 👯‍♂️

[woninggg]

The boxer next door—part 1/3

Choi Seungcheol 崔胜澈 × reader

Genre: Slow burn, domestic fluff, ex-athlete au, slice of life, grumpy x sunshine, soft romance

summary: After leaving the ring for good, retired boxer Choi Seungcheol tries to find peace in a quiet neighborhood, a pink apron, and his dog Kkuma. What he doesn’t expect is your fat demon of a cat launching herself into his dog and obliterating your herb garden.

Your garden was your sanctuary.

Some people journaled. Some people drank. You grew things. Tomatoes, mostly. Basil. A few cucumbers.

It wasn’t much, just a little box of earth in a neighborhood filled with square lawns and pastel doors. But it was yours. You fought tooth and nail to keep it alive.

Unlike your cat.

Mochi, despite the name, was a menace. She was fat, grumpy, and absolutely certain that she owned you. The only living thing she hated more than birds was dogs. Specifically, the fluffy, yappy kind that barked too loud and peed on your garden hose.

So of course, your new neighbor had one.

You’d only seen glimpses of him at first.

The man next door. Quiet. Built like a statue. He kept to himself. Always wore hoodies, even in summer. His garage light stayed on late, but the house lights never did. He walked his dog— Kkuma, according to her pink little tag, twice a day like clockwork. Morning. Sunset.

That only made you more curious.

You finally saw him one morning while walking out to grab your mail. Hood up. Broad shoulders. Quiet steps for someone so big. He didn’t look at you, but you caught a glimpse of him from the side. There was a faint scar above his brow. A fresh one, too, maybe a year old. You recognized it because your older brother had one just like it from splitting his forehead open on a playground bench as a kid.

Your nosy instincts began to itch.

Not that you did anything about it. You just watched. From your kitchen. Through the blinds. While sipping tea like an undercover spy.

You didn’t even know his name. But you gave him one.

Mr. Pink Apron.

Because that’s what he wore. Every time he was outside baking—yes, baking. He wore this ridiculous pink apron with frills and flour stains, and he’d squat by his little flower boxes, muttering something to the dog by his side.

He was…intimidating. But not in a bad way. In a "he could throw a man across a parking lot but also probably writes poetry" way.

The whispers at the corner store were vague.

Some said he used to be famous.

Some said he was recovering from something.

Some said he’d punched a guy so hard his jaw dislocated and they both had to retire.

You didn't care about the rumors, and you definitely didn’t expect to interact with him for the first time by watching your cat body slam his dog into your basil.

It happened fast.

You’d cracked your back patio door open to get some breeze, and you thought you’d locked the screen.

You were wrong.

The screen door didn’t latch.

Mochi saw movement.

Mochi launched herself like a cannonball on a mission from hell.

And suddenly you were running barefoot into your backyard in your floral robe and one fuzzy sock, shrieking like your house was on fire.

“MOCHI GET BACK HERE—!”

Your cat had launched herself off the porch like a cannonball, tail fluffed to max volume, she was in attack mode.

You had no idea what happened. One second she was sniffing a beetle, and the next she was flying through a hole in the fence and body checking a whole dog.

“KKUMA—!”

That was when you saw him.

Mr. Pink Apron in the flesh.

Except this time the apron was gone, and he was wearing just a tank top and sweat pants, and god, his arms—

You should not have been ogling the man while your cat was physically assaulting his dog.

He looked up just as you clambered through the broken fence plank, hair flying, chest heaving, and—

Your breath stopped.

Because holy shit, he was hot.

Like, "saw a man so beautiful I cried" level hot.

Jet-black hair, a bruising scar by his jaw. Deep-set eyes with lashes that belonged in a Maybelline commercial. His shoulders were a war crime. And his hands— one of them had thick bandaging wrapped around the knuckles.

You stopped a foot from him, holding your cat like a baby, both of you panting.

“…Hi,” you gasped. “Um. Sorry. She hates joy.”

His brow lifted slightly. “She also hates dogs.”

“She hates everything, really.”

Kkuma barked once, then trotted behind his leg, unfazed. Your cat snarled and hissed and tried to wriggle from your arms like a drunk uncle at a wedding.

“…I—uh—I swear she’s usually friendly,” you blurt. “Well. Not friendly. Just… less murdery?”

A beat. Then his gaze drifts to you, really looks at you and you feel flushed, suddenly very aware of your robe, your hair sticking out, and the fact that you are not, in fact, wearing a bra.

Your gaze flicked around, suddenly landing on your garden. Your poor, innocent little garden.

Trampled. Flattened. The tomato vine was crying.

“My basil!” you whimpered.

He crouched down slowly, one hand reaching to pick up a shattered clay pot. “I’ll… replace that. All of it.”

You nodded dumbly. Still catching your breath.

“Name’s Seungcheol,” he said. “I live—”

“Next door. Yeah. I know.”

He paused. Smirked. “You’ve been watching me?”

You choked. “NO—! I mean. Not, like, watching watching. Just. Neighborly observations. Casual glances.”

His eyes twinkled. “Casual glances through your kitchen blinds?”

You wanted to melt into the soil next to your dead basil.

Mochi hissed again.

“I think she wants to kill me,” Seungcheol said.

“She wants to kill everyone. You’re special if she just glares.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment.”

------🍮

Later that day, you’re halfway through vacuuming up potting soil when there’s a knock on your door.

You open it—and nearly choke.

Seungcheol.

Same pink apron. His hair tucked under a backwards cap, awkwardly holding a tupperware container.

“Hey,” he says.

You blink. “Hi.”

“I brought cookies.”

Of fucking course he did.

“They’re oatmeal chocolate chip,” he adds, lifting the lid just enough for you to see. “With cinnamon. I didn’t know if you were allergic to anything.”

You short-circuit a little. This man looks like he could crush a watermelon between his biceps but here he is, offering spiced cookies like some kind of domestic demigod.

“I—wow. You didn’t have to. It was my cat’s fault.”

He shrugs. “Still. Thought it might cheer you up. Your garden looked like you were trying.”

You snort. “Trying and failing.”

“I can help,” he says. “With the plants. If you want.”

“…You garden?”

He nods. “Used to box. Now I bake and grow flowers. Keeps my head quiet.”

You blink at him, still short-circuiting. This is a lot of wholesome masculinity for one Wednesday afternoon.

“Okay, well…” you open the door a little wider, hesitating. “Do you wanna—come in? Just for a minute? I’m still vacuuming soil out of my carpet, but I have…like, water. Or juice.”

He smiles. Not a full one, just a little quirk of the mouth that makes your stomach flutter.

“I’ll take water,” he says, stepping inside.

He smells like soap and cinnamon and summer. Kkuma waits politely on your porch, tail wagging. Mochi watches from the kitchen counter like she’s planning another attack.

You gesture vaguely to the couch as you head to the kitchen, trying to pretend your robe isn’t slipping off one shoulder and that your house doesn’t smell vaguely like potting soil.

“Sorry about the mess,” you call out. “I wasn’t planning on… visitors. Or war.”

He chuckles. It’s low, like it rumbles from deep in his chest.

“Is that the culprit?” he asks, nodding at Mochi.

Mochi sneezes and turns away, her entire body radiating judgment.

“She’s not sorry.” You laugh.

He sets the cookies down gently on the table and looks around. There’s a softness in his eyes— like he’s cataloging things. The sun-faded curtain. The chipped mug on the shelf. The faint floral smell coming off your dish soap.

“I like your place,” he says.

You blink. “Really?”

You turn to hand him the water, and he’s watching you.

Not like a creep.

Not like a man.

Like someone seeing you for the first time.

He shrugs. “Feels… alive. You know?”

You don’t, actually. No one’s ever described your cluttered chaos as anything but messy. But coming from him—with his clean lines and quiet presence—it feels like a compliment. Like something he means.

You stare at him. He looks away quickly, rubs the back of his neck. The pink apron is embroidered with a tiny cupcake. You’re losing your fucking mind.

“Thanks,” you say, trying not to combust.

You fiddle with the edge of the tablecloth.

“So… flowers, huh?”

He smiles, and it’s the first real one you’ve seen—slow, crooked, the kind that sneaks up on you.

“Yeah. Dahlias, mostly. And snapdragons.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Those sound fake.”

“They’re not. They’re dramatic little assholes. Real temperamental. Gotta check the soil every other day or they freak out.”

You grin. “So basically, they’re the flower version of cats.”

“Exactly.”

There’s a pause. A gentle shift.

“I could use the help,” you say quietly. “I keep overwatering my basil"

He chuckles, low and warm.

“First rule of gardening,” he says. “It only works if you’re patient.”

You look at him.

And maybe it’s something in his voice. Or the way his shoulders have relaxed. Or the way he’s standing like he doesn’t want to leave just yet.

But something about him feels patient.

And safe.

And a little bit sad.

You swallow.

“Okay,” you say. “Tomorrow morning?”

He nods. “I’ll bring gloves. And coffee.”

You smile. “Deal.”

He moves to leave, then stops in the doorway.

“Oh—and one more thing?”

You tilt your head.

“Your cat?” he says. “She scratched my ankle. I think I’m bleeding.”

You gasp. “Mochi!”

From the couch, she yawns. Unbothered. Unapologetic. Regal in her cruelty.

He laughs and waves you off, but you’re already rushing to the kitchen drawer, yanking it open like you’re preparing for surgery.

“I have band-aids! Wait—do you want one with ducks or cherries? Or like… the boring kind?”

He looks over his shoulder, amused. “Surprise me.”

You grab the cherries. Because of course.

When you crouch in front of him, he automatically shifts his stance, offering you his ankle like it’s the most normal thing in the world and not completely derailing your brain. His sock is rolled down a little, and the scratch is thin but angry looking.

“Mochi’s got a vendetta,” you mutter, gently wiping around it with cotton first. “I think she hates men on sight.”

“She’s not wrong.”

Your fingers slow for a second. You smooth the band-aid over the scratch like it’s fragile. Like he is.

“There,” you say softly. “All better.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches you from where he stands— close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating off him, to notice the faint scent of cinnamon and sun-dried cotton clinging to his skin.

“Thanks,” he says, just as quiet.

You stand up, suddenly aware of the space between you. Or lack thereof.

He’s taller like this. Closer. You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, and for a second, the room stills again— like it did earlier, but deeper now. Thicker. Like time’s holding its breath.

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but he steps back. Just an inch. Barely.

“I should let you rest,” he says. “See you tomorrow?”

You nod, and your voice feels like it’s catching on something soft in your throat.

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

He lingers in your doorway for a second too long before finally turning to go. Kkuma perks up as he steps outside, tail thumping against your welcome mat. Seungcheol gives the dog a soft pat on the head, then glances back at you one more time—like he’s making sure this wasn’t just a weird dream.

You lift the tupperware and shake it playfully. “Don’t forget to bring more of these.”

He grins. That same crooked one that ruins you just a little.

“Only if you promise not to let your cat assassinate me again.”

“No promises.”

He laughs again. Then he’s gone.

You close the door gently, cookies pressed to your chest like they’re sacred. When you glance toward the couch, Mochi is still sprawled there, smug and content.

“You’re a menace,” you whisper. “But I think you just changed my life.”

She flicks her tail. As if to say, you’re welcome.

[woninggg]

Me after clicking a p link thinking it was a fic rec.

Jumpscare.

[woninggg]

nini 我刚读完你的 ml 都太好读了wc能看出你在svt里偏谁~~ 如果能看你用中文写我不敢想会多完美 🥹

看到你留言我真的乐疯了555谢谢你喜欢!!!偏谁我不说但你懂🙂我中文现在写得有点拉但我真的有在练哪天真写了中文版你要是不来看我真的会生气🫵😤

[woninggg]

The boxer next door—part 1/3

Choi Seungcheol 崔胜澈 × reader

Genre: Slow burn, domestic fluff, ex-athlete au, slice of life, grumpy x sunshine, soft romance

summary: After leaving the ring for good, retired boxer Choi Seungcheol tries to find peace in a quiet neighborhood, a pink apron, and his dog Kkuma. What he doesn’t expect is your fat demon of a cat launching herself into his dog and obliterating your herb garden.

Your garden was your sanctuary.

Some people journaled. Some people drank. You grew things. Tomatoes, mostly. Basil. A few cucumbers.

It wasn’t much, just a little box of earth in a neighborhood filled with square lawns and pastel doors. But it was yours. You fought tooth and nail to keep it alive.

Unlike your cat.

Mochi, despite the name, was a menace. She was fat, grumpy, and absolutely certain that she owned you. The only living thing she hated more than birds was dogs. Specifically, the fluffy, yappy kind that barked too loud and peed on your garden hose.

So of course, your new neighbor had one.

You’d only seen glimpses of him at first.

The man next door. Quiet. Built like a statue. He kept to himself. Always wore hoodies, even in summer. His garage light stayed on late, but the house lights never did. He walked his dog— Kkuma, according to her pink little tag, twice a day like clockwork. Morning. Sunset.

That only made you more curious.

You finally saw him one morning while walking out to grab your mail. Hood up. Broad shoulders. Quiet steps for someone so big. He didn’t look at you, but you caught a glimpse of him from the side. There was a faint scar above his brow. A fresh one, too, maybe a year old. You recognized it because your older brother had one just like it from splitting his forehead open on a playground bench as a kid.

Your nosy instincts began to itch.

Not that you did anything about it. You just watched. From your kitchen. Through the blinds. While sipping tea like an undercover spy.

You didn’t even know his name. But you gave him one.

Mr. Pink Apron.

Because that’s what he wore. Every time he was outside baking—yes, baking. He wore this ridiculous pink apron with frills and flour stains, and he’d squat by his little flower boxes, muttering something to the dog by his side.

He was…intimidating. But not in a bad way. In a "he could throw a man across a parking lot but also probably writes poetry" way.

The whispers at the corner store were vague.

Some said he used to be famous.

Some said he was recovering from something.

Some said he’d punched a guy so hard his jaw dislocated and they both had to retire.

You didn't care about the rumors, and you definitely didn’t expect to interact with him for the first time by watching your cat body slam his dog into your basil.

It happened fast.

You’d cracked your back patio door open to get some breeze, and you thought you’d locked the screen.

You were wrong.

The screen door didn’t latch.

Mochi saw movement.

Mochi launched herself like a cannonball on a mission from hell.

And suddenly you were running barefoot into your backyard in your floral robe and one fuzzy sock, shrieking like your house was on fire.

“MOCHI GET BACK HERE—!”

Your cat had launched herself off the porch like a cannonball, tail fluffed to max volume, she was in attack mode.

You had no idea what happened. One second she was sniffing a beetle, and the next she was flying through a hole in the fence and body checking a whole dog.

“KKUMA—!”

That was when you saw him.

Mr. Pink Apron in the flesh.

Except this time the apron was gone, and he was wearing just a tank top and sweat pants, and god, his arms—

You should not have been ogling the man while your cat was physically assaulting his dog.

He looked up just as you clambered through the broken fence plank, hair flying, chest heaving, and—

Your breath stopped.

Because holy shit, he was hot.

Like, "saw a man so beautiful I cried" level hot.

Jet-black hair, a bruising scar by his jaw. Deep-set eyes with lashes that belonged in a Maybelline commercial. His shoulders were a war crime. And his hands— one of them had thick bandaging wrapped around the knuckles.

You stopped a foot from him, holding your cat like a baby, both of you panting.

“…Hi,” you gasped. “Um. Sorry. She hates joy.”

His brow lifted slightly. “She also hates dogs.”

“She hates everything, really.”

Kkuma barked once, then trotted behind his leg, unfazed. Your cat snarled and hissed and tried to wriggle from your arms like a drunk uncle at a wedding.

“…I—uh—I swear she’s usually friendly,” you blurt. “Well. Not friendly. Just… less murdery?”

A beat. Then his gaze drifts to you, really looks at you and you feel flushed, suddenly very aware of your robe, your hair sticking out, and the fact that you are not, in fact, wearing a bra.

Your gaze flicked around, suddenly landing on your garden. Your poor, innocent little garden.

Trampled. Flattened. The tomato vine was crying.

“My basil!” you whimpered.

He crouched down slowly, one hand reaching to pick up a shattered clay pot. “I’ll… replace that. All of it.”

You nodded dumbly. Still catching your breath.

“Name’s Seungcheol,” he said. “I live—”

“Next door. Yeah. I know.”

He paused. Smirked. “You’ve been watching me?”

You choked. “NO—! I mean. Not, like, watching watching. Just. Neighborly observations. Casual glances.”

His eyes twinkled. “Casual glances through your kitchen blinds?”

You wanted to melt into the soil next to your dead basil.

Mochi hissed again.

“I think she wants to kill me,” Seungcheol said.

“She wants to kill everyone. You’re special if she just glares.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment.”

------🍮

Later that day, you’re halfway through vacuuming up potting soil when there’s a knock on your door.

You open it—and nearly choke.

Seungcheol.

Same pink apron. His hair tucked under a backwards cap, awkwardly holding a tupperware container.

“Hey,” he says.

You blink. “Hi.”

“I brought cookies.”

Of fucking course he did.

“They’re oatmeal chocolate chip,” he adds, lifting the lid just enough for you to see. “With cinnamon. I didn’t know if you were allergic to anything.”

You short-circuit a little. This man looks like he could crush a watermelon between his biceps but here he is, offering spiced cookies like some kind of domestic demigod.

“I—wow. You didn’t have to. It was my cat’s fault.”

He shrugs. “Still. Thought it might cheer you up. Your garden looked like you were trying.”

You snort. “Trying and failing.”

“I can help,” he says. “With the plants. If you want.”

“…You garden?”

He nods. “Used to box. Now I bake and grow flowers. Keeps my head quiet.”

You blink at him, still short-circuiting. This is a lot of wholesome masculinity for one Wednesday afternoon.

“Okay, well…” you open the door a little wider, hesitating. “Do you wanna—come in? Just for a minute? I’m still vacuuming soil out of my carpet, but I have…like, water. Or juice.”

He smiles. Not a full one, just a little quirk of the mouth that makes your stomach flutter.

“I’ll take water,” he says, stepping inside.

He smells like soap and cinnamon and summer. Kkuma waits politely on your porch, tail wagging. Mochi watches from the kitchen counter like she’s planning another attack.

You gesture vaguely to the couch as you head to the kitchen, trying to pretend your robe isn’t slipping off one shoulder and that your house doesn’t smell vaguely like potting soil.

“Sorry about the mess,” you call out. “I wasn’t planning on… visitors. Or war.”

He chuckles. It’s low, like it rumbles from deep in his chest.

“Is that the culprit?” he asks, nodding at Mochi.

Mochi sneezes and turns away, her entire body radiating judgment.

“She’s not sorry.” You laugh.

He sets the cookies down gently on the table and looks around. There’s a softness in his eyes— like he’s cataloging things. The sun-faded curtain. The chipped mug on the shelf. The faint floral smell coming off your dish soap.

“I like your place,” he says.

You blink. “Really?”

You turn to hand him the water, and he’s watching you.

Not like a creep.

Not like a man.

Like someone seeing you for the first time.

He shrugs. “Feels… alive. You know?”

You don’t, actually. No one’s ever described your cluttered chaos as anything but messy. But coming from him—with his clean lines and quiet presence—it feels like a compliment. Like something he means.

You stare at him. He looks away quickly, rubs the back of his neck. The pink apron is embroidered with a tiny cupcake. You’re losing your fucking mind.

“Thanks,” you say, trying not to combust.

You fiddle with the edge of the tablecloth.

“So… flowers, huh?”

He smiles, and it’s the first real one you’ve seen—slow, crooked, the kind that sneaks up on you.

“Yeah. Dahlias, mostly. And snapdragons.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Those sound fake.”

“They’re not. They’re dramatic little assholes. Real temperamental. Gotta check the soil every other day or they freak out.”

You grin. “So basically, they’re the flower version of cats.”

“Exactly.”

There’s a pause. A gentle shift.

“I could use the help,” you say quietly. “I keep overwatering my basil"

He chuckles, low and warm.

“First rule of gardening,” he says. “It only works if you’re patient.”

You look at him.

And maybe it’s something in his voice. Or the way his shoulders have relaxed. Or the way he’s standing like he doesn’t want to leave just yet.

But something about him feels patient.

And safe.

And a little bit sad.

You swallow.

“Okay,” you say. “Tomorrow morning?”

He nods. “I’ll bring gloves. And coffee.”

You smile. “Deal.”

He moves to leave, then stops in the doorway.

“Oh—and one more thing?”

You tilt your head.

“Your cat?” he says. “She scratched my ankle. I think I’m bleeding.”

You gasp. “Mochi!”

From the couch, she yawns. Unbothered. Unapologetic. Regal in her cruelty.

He laughs and waves you off, but you’re already rushing to the kitchen drawer, yanking it open like you’re preparing for surgery.

“I have band-aids! Wait—do you want one with ducks or cherries? Or like… the boring kind?”

He looks over his shoulder, amused. “Surprise me.”

You grab the cherries. Because of course.

When you crouch in front of him, he automatically shifts his stance, offering you his ankle like it’s the most normal thing in the world and not completely derailing your brain. His sock is rolled down a little, and the scratch is thin but angry looking.

“Mochi’s got a vendetta,” you mutter, gently wiping around it with cotton first. “I think she hates men on sight.”

“She’s not wrong.”

Your fingers slow for a second. You smooth the band-aid over the scratch like it’s fragile. Like he is.

“There,” you say softly. “All better.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches you from where he stands— close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating off him, to notice the faint scent of cinnamon and sun-dried cotton clinging to his skin.

“Thanks,” he says, just as quiet.

You stand up, suddenly aware of the space between you. Or lack thereof.

He’s taller like this. Closer. You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, and for a second, the room stills again— like it did earlier, but deeper now. Thicker. Like time’s holding its breath.

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but he steps back. Just an inch. Barely.

“I should let you rest,” he says. “See you tomorrow?”

You nod, and your voice feels like it’s catching on something soft in your throat.

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

He lingers in your doorway for a second too long before finally turning to go. Kkuma perks up as he steps outside, tail thumping against your welcome mat. Seungcheol gives the dog a soft pat on the head, then glances back at you one more time—like he’s making sure this wasn’t just a weird dream.

You lift the tupperware and shake it playfully. “Don’t forget to bring more of these.”

He grins. That same crooked one that ruins you just a little.

“Only if you promise not to let your cat assassinate me again.”

“No promises.”

He laughs again. Then he’s gone.

You close the door gently, cookies pressed to your chest like they’re sacred. When you glance toward the couch, Mochi is still sprawled there, smug and content.

“You’re a menace,” you whisper. “But I think you just changed my life.”

She flicks her tail. As if to say, you’re welcome.

[woninggg]

The boxer next door—part 1/3

Choi Seungcheol 崔胜澈 × reader

Genre: Slow burn, domestic fluff, ex-athlete au, slice of life, grumpy x sunshine, soft romance

summary: After leaving the ring for good, retired boxer Choi Seungcheol tries to find peace in a quiet neighborhood, a pink apron, and his dog Kkuma. What he doesn’t expect is your fat demon of a cat launching herself into his dog and obliterating your herb garden.

Your garden was your sanctuary.

Some people journaled. Some people drank. You grew things. Tomatoes, mostly. Basil. A few cucumbers.

It wasn’t much, just a little box of earth in a neighborhood filled with square lawns and pastel doors. But it was yours. You fought tooth and nail to keep it alive.

Unlike your cat.

Mochi, despite the name, was a menace. She was fat, grumpy, and absolutely certain that she owned you. The only living thing she hated more than birds was dogs. Specifically, the fluffy, yappy kind that barked too loud and peed on your garden hose.

So of course, your new neighbor had one.

You’d only seen glimpses of him at first.

The man next door. Quiet. Built like a statue. He kept to himself. Always wore hoodies, even in summer. His garage light stayed on late, but the house lights never did. He walked his dog— Kkuma, according to her pink little tag, twice a day like clockwork. Morning. Sunset.

That only made you more curious.

You finally saw him one morning while walking out to grab your mail. Hood up. Broad shoulders. Quiet steps for someone so big. He didn’t look at you, but you caught a glimpse of him from the side. There was a faint scar above his brow. A fresh one, too, maybe a year old. You recognized it because your older brother had one just like it from splitting his forehead open on a playground bench as a kid.

Your nosy instincts began to itch.

Not that you did anything about it. You just watched. From your kitchen. Through the blinds. While sipping tea like an undercover spy.

You didn’t even know his name. But you gave him one.

Mr. Pink Apron.

Because that’s what he wore. Every time he was outside baking—yes, baking. He wore this ridiculous pink apron with frills and flour stains, and he’d squat by his little flower boxes, muttering something to the dog by his side.

He was…intimidating. But not in a bad way. In a "he could throw a man across a parking lot but also probably writes poetry" way.

The whispers at the corner store were vague.

Some said he used to be famous.

Some said he was recovering from something.

Some said he’d punched a guy so hard his jaw dislocated and they both had to retire.

You didn't care about the rumors, and you definitely didn’t expect to interact with him for the first time by watching your cat body slam his dog into your basil.

It happened fast.

You’d cracked your back patio door open to get some breeze, and you thought you’d locked the screen.

You were wrong.

The screen door didn’t latch.

Mochi saw movement.

Mochi launched herself like a cannonball on a mission from hell.

And suddenly you were running barefoot into your backyard in your floral robe and one fuzzy sock, shrieking like your house was on fire.

“MOCHI GET BACK HERE—!”

Your cat had launched herself off the porch like a cannonball, tail fluffed to max volume, she was in attack mode.

You had no idea what happened. One second she was sniffing a beetle, and the next she was flying through a hole in the fence and body checking a whole dog.

“KKUMA—!”

That was when you saw him.

Mr. Pink Apron in the flesh.

Except this time the apron was gone, and he was wearing just a tank top and sweat pants, and god, his arms—

You should not have been ogling the man while your cat was physically assaulting his dog.

He looked up just as you clambered through the broken fence plank, hair flying, chest heaving, and—

Your breath stopped.

Because holy shit, he was hot.

Like, "saw a man so beautiful I cried" level hot.

Jet-black hair, a bruising scar by his jaw. Deep-set eyes with lashes that belonged in a Maybelline commercial. His shoulders were a war crime. And his hands— one of them had thick bandaging wrapped around the knuckles.

You stopped a foot from him, holding your cat like a baby, both of you panting.

“…Hi,” you gasped. “Um. Sorry. She hates joy.”

His brow lifted slightly. “She also hates dogs.”

“She hates everything, really.”

Kkuma barked once, then trotted behind his leg, unfazed. Your cat snarled and hissed and tried to wriggle from your arms like a drunk uncle at a wedding.

“…I—uh—I swear she’s usually friendly,” you blurt. “Well. Not friendly. Just… less murdery?”

A beat. Then his gaze drifts to you, really looks at you and you feel flushed, suddenly very aware of your robe, your hair sticking out, and the fact that you are not, in fact, wearing a bra.

Your gaze flicked around, suddenly landing on your garden. Your poor, innocent little garden.

Trampled. Flattened. The tomato vine was crying.

“My basil!” you whimpered.

He crouched down slowly, one hand reaching to pick up a shattered clay pot. “I’ll… replace that. All of it.”

You nodded dumbly. Still catching your breath.

“Name’s Seungcheol,” he said. “I live—”

“Next door. Yeah. I know.”

He paused. Smirked. “You’ve been watching me?”

You choked. “NO—! I mean. Not, like, watching watching. Just. Neighborly observations. Casual glances.”

His eyes twinkled. “Casual glances through your kitchen blinds?”

You wanted to melt into the soil next to your dead basil.

Mochi hissed again.

“I think she wants to kill me,” Seungcheol said.

“She wants to kill everyone. You’re special if she just glares.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment.”

------🍮

Later that day, you’re halfway through vacuuming up potting soil when there’s a knock on your door.

You open it—and nearly choke.

Seungcheol.

Same pink apron. His hair tucked under a backwards cap, awkwardly holding a tupperware container.

“Hey,” he says.

You blink. “Hi.”

“I brought cookies.”

Of fucking course he did.

“They’re oatmeal chocolate chip,” he adds, lifting the lid just enough for you to see. “With cinnamon. I didn’t know if you were allergic to anything.”

You short-circuit a little. This man looks like he could crush a watermelon between his biceps but here he is, offering spiced cookies like some kind of domestic demigod.

“I—wow. You didn’t have to. It was my cat’s fault.”

He shrugs. “Still. Thought it might cheer you up. Your garden looked like you were trying.”

You snort. “Trying and failing.”

“I can help,” he says. “With the plants. If you want.”

“…You garden?”

He nods. “Used to box. Now I bake and grow flowers. Keeps my head quiet.”

You blink at him, still short-circuiting. This is a lot of wholesome masculinity for one Wednesday afternoon.

“Okay, well…” you open the door a little wider, hesitating. “Do you wanna—come in? Just for a minute? I’m still vacuuming soil out of my carpet, but I have…like, water. Or juice.”

He smiles. Not a full one, just a little quirk of the mouth that makes your stomach flutter.

“I’ll take water,” he says, stepping inside.

He smells like soap and cinnamon and summer. Kkuma waits politely on your porch, tail wagging. Mochi watches from the kitchen counter like she’s planning another attack.

You gesture vaguely to the couch as you head to the kitchen, trying to pretend your robe isn’t slipping off one shoulder and that your house doesn’t smell vaguely like potting soil.

“Sorry about the mess,” you call out. “I wasn’t planning on… visitors. Or war.”

He chuckles. It’s low, like it rumbles from deep in his chest.

“Is that the culprit?” he asks, nodding at Mochi.

Mochi sneezes and turns away, her entire body radiating judgment.

“She’s not sorry.” You laugh.

He sets the cookies down gently on the table and looks around. There’s a softness in his eyes— like he’s cataloging things. The sun-faded curtain. The chipped mug on the shelf. The faint floral smell coming off your dish soap.

“I like your place,” he says.

You blink. “Really?”

You turn to hand him the water, and he’s watching you.

Not like a creep.

Not like a man.

Like someone seeing you for the first time.

He shrugs. “Feels… alive. You know?”

You don’t, actually. No one’s ever described your cluttered chaos as anything but messy. But coming from him—with his clean lines and quiet presence—it feels like a compliment. Like something he means.

You stare at him. He looks away quickly, rubs the back of his neck. The pink apron is embroidered with a tiny cupcake. You’re losing your fucking mind.

“Thanks,” you say, trying not to combust.

You fiddle with the edge of the tablecloth.

“So… flowers, huh?”

He smiles, and it’s the first real one you’ve seen—slow, crooked, the kind that sneaks up on you.

“Yeah. Dahlias, mostly. And snapdragons.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Those sound fake.”

“They’re not. They’re dramatic little assholes. Real temperamental. Gotta check the soil every other day or they freak out.”

You grin. “So basically, they’re the flower version of cats.”

“Exactly.”

There’s a pause. A gentle shift.

“I could use the help,” you say quietly. “I keep overwatering my basil"

He chuckles, low and warm.

“First rule of gardening,” he says. “It only works if you’re patient.”

You look at him.

And maybe it’s something in his voice. Or the way his shoulders have relaxed. Or the way he’s standing like he doesn’t want to leave just yet.

But something about him feels patient.

And safe.

And a little bit sad.

You swallow.

“Okay,” you say. “Tomorrow morning?”

He nods. “I’ll bring gloves. And coffee.”

You smile. “Deal.”

He moves to leave, then stops in the doorway.

“Oh—and one more thing?”

You tilt your head.

“Your cat?” he says. “She scratched my ankle. I think I’m bleeding.”

You gasp. “Mochi!”

From the couch, she yawns. Unbothered. Unapologetic. Regal in her cruelty.

He laughs and waves you off, but you’re already rushing to the kitchen drawer, yanking it open like you’re preparing for surgery.

“I have band-aids! Wait—do you want one with ducks or cherries? Or like… the boring kind?”

He looks over his shoulder, amused. “Surprise me.”

You grab the cherries. Because of course.

When you crouch in front of him, he automatically shifts his stance, offering you his ankle like it’s the most normal thing in the world and not completely derailing your brain. His sock is rolled down a little, and the scratch is thin but angry looking.

“Mochi’s got a vendetta,” you mutter, gently wiping around it with cotton first. “I think she hates men on sight.”

“She’s not wrong.”

Your fingers slow for a second. You smooth the band-aid over the scratch like it’s fragile. Like he is.

“There,” you say softly. “All better.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches you from where he stands— close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating off him, to notice the faint scent of cinnamon and sun-dried cotton clinging to his skin.

“Thanks,” he says, just as quiet.

You stand up, suddenly aware of the space between you. Or lack thereof.

He’s taller like this. Closer. You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, and for a second, the room stills again— like it did earlier, but deeper now. Thicker. Like time’s holding its breath.

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but he steps back. Just an inch. Barely.

“I should let you rest,” he says. “See you tomorrow?”

You nod, and your voice feels like it’s catching on something soft in your throat.

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

He lingers in your doorway for a second too long before finally turning to go. Kkuma perks up as he steps outside, tail thumping against your welcome mat. Seungcheol gives the dog a soft pat on the head, then glances back at you one more time—like he’s making sure this wasn’t just a weird dream.

You lift the tupperware and shake it playfully. “Don’t forget to bring more of these.”

He grins. That same crooked one that ruins you just a little.

“Only if you promise not to let your cat assassinate me again.”

“No promises.”

He laughs again. Then he’s gone.

You close the door gently, cookies pressed to your chest like they’re sacred. When you glance toward the couch, Mochi is still sprawled there, smug and content.

“You’re a menace,” you whisper. “But I think you just changed my life.”

She flicks her tail. As if to say, you’re welcome.

[woninggg]

WHAT IF WHAT IF THIGH RIDING WITH CHEOL WITH HIS said so TUMMY AWHWHHHH im ovulatinnnNNNN

GIRL I LOVEEEEEEEE HIS TUMMY DONT EVENNNN IM SO GONNA WRITE SMT ABOUT THIS HEHEHWJWNWK

[woninggg]

OH MY GOD minie you're an engene ??? 🤠🤠🤠 DO YOU TAKE ENHA REQUESTS??? CUZ I GOT SO MANY

ii am an engene hehe though I've never written smt for enhypen but maybe I'll take requests?? idk send my way and I'll see 🫦🫦🫦

[woninggg]

Nini I'm gonna eat you up because of that jeonghan fic I'm literally on the floor YOURE WRITTING IS SO SCRUMPTIOUS

STOP GLAZING ME OMG IM AN AWKWARD BISH IDK HOW TO TAKE COMPLIMENTS BUT THANK YOU SM IM GONNA SMOOCH U

[woninggg]

that jeonghan fic was the most unbelievable thing i’ve read in my entire life. your writing skills are the best i’ve seen in a while and you’ve truly topped everything i’ve read on this platform.

STOPPPP IM GIGGLING SO HARD RN thank you cutie omggg this genuinely made my day 🫦

[woninggg]

nini omg I need to knowww do u stan any other groups

I do!!! carat obviously I've been a reveluv since happiness era I DONT PLAY ABOUT RED VELVET cuz they're the first group I remember stanning and a p1ece for a year now I think I'm not sure I've also recently gotten into enhypen during the romance untold era they're all so damn fine and their songs are so addictive so engene too I guess 😭

[woninggg]

HELLO CUTTING UP OVER YOU ???? THAT WAS INSANE THE WRITTING ????? THE DETAILS??? IM ON THE FLOUR ITS SO FREAKING GOOD I WILL NEVER SHUT UP ABOUT IT

THANK YOUU random but I had it in the drafts since February I was just too lazy to proofread 😭😭😭

[woninggg]

cutting up over you— jeonghan x reader

warnings : exes to lovers but in a fucked up way, gaslighting, possessiveness, emotional manipulation,Obsession & Stalking Undertones,bruising, desperate/possessive sex, unprotected sex, overstimulation, mild degradation,Reader Being Emotionally Torn, spit kink (?).

————

There are two kinds of heartbreak.

The kind that shatters you in one clean blow—glass against tile, quick and bloody.

And the kind that’s slow.

That creeps up on you like black mold in your lungs. Rotting you from the inside while you keep smiling for the pictures.

Jeonghan was the second kind.

Because there was never a moment you fell for Jeonghan.

It wasn’t a gentle descent, like the sun dipping behind clouds or water washing over sand. It wasn’t innocent, or soft, or warm.

It was violent.

It was waking up one morning and realizing your skin already smelled like him.

You didn’t fall—you were pulled, dragged into him like gravity itself had bent around his smile.

He was beautiful, yes. Devastatingly so. But it wasn’t his looks that ruined you.

It was the way he looked at you.

Like he saw through your skin. Like he knew every fracture in your mind and every ugly thing you tried to hide—and loved you anyway. Worshipped you. Obsessively. Intimately. Until you couldn’t breathe without wondering what he’d think of it.

He was charming in that way that made your friends uneasy. Too good with words. Too good at being good—until he wasn’t.

Until he turned cold mid sentence. Until he kissed you with a kind of hunger that felt like punishment. Until he said things like:

“You’ll never find anyone who loves you like I do.”

“Why do you always think I’m trying to hurt you? Don’t you trust me?”

“You’d die without me, wouldn’t you?”

And you believed him.

Because loving Jeonghan wasn’t like love at all.

It was need.

It was religion.

It was burning your own house down just to feel the warmth.

He loved you like an artist destroying his masterpiece mid-brushstroke.

At least, that’s what it felt like. Back when you still thought it was love.

The relationship was an illusion. A beautiful, intoxicating illusion that he maintained with precision. One minute he was your lifeline, whispering how he couldn’t live without you. The next, he was a stranger, gaslighting you into believing you were the problem. That you were too sensitive. Too clingy. Too dramatic.

He never raised his voice.

He didn’t need to.

Jeonghan’s cruelty was quiet.

Like a razor blade in a silk glove.

He’d kiss you and say you were perfect—right after making you apologize for “imagining things.”

He’d bring you flowers—after making you cry for hours over something he swore never happened.

He'd fuck you like you were his last breath—then leave you wondering why you felt so empty after.

And still, you stayed. Because staying felt like survival.

Until it didn’t.

The breaking point was not as dramatic as you thought it’d be.

There was no screaming. No final betrayal. No cheating or scandal or glass shattered against walls. That would’ve made it easier. That would’ve made it make sense.

It was a Tuesday.

Rain on the windows. You’d skipped breakfast. He showed up late, didn’t answer your texts, and when you asked—gently, softly, scared of your own voice—he tilted his head and said:

“Why do you always assume the worst of me? That’s kind of toxic.”

Toxic.

You.

The word hit harder than anything else ever had.

You stared at him. Really stared. Past the pretty face. Past the charm. And what you saw wasn’t love.

It was ownership. obsession.

It was fear wearing the mask of passion.

Something in you snapped. Not loud. Not loud at all.

Just…done.

You told him you were leaving. That it was over. He blinked. Smiled. Tilted his head again like he hadn’t heard you right.

“Come on,” he said softly, like you were joking. “You’re just upset. You’ll feel better after we sleep.”

But you weren’t upset.

You were exhausted.

"No," you said. "This isn’t love."

He didn’t argue. Didn’t chase. He stood, kissed your forehead—your fucking forehead, like a goodbye you didn’t ask for, and walked out the door.

Just like that.

No fight.

No closure.

No apology.

Just silence.

And that silence? It never left you.

It crawled into your bed. Sat beside you when you cried. Whispered that maybe he was right.

Maybe you were too much.

Maybe you really would die without him.

And at night—when the lights were off and the walls felt too close—you swore you could feel him watching.

But you told yourself you were just paranoid.

That it was trauma.

That you were healing.

You didn’t know then—

The worst part hadn’t even begun.

Because after Jeonghan left, it was too quiet.

Not just in your apartment.

In your body.

The silence wrapped around your ribs like barbed wire. You’d wake up gasping, not from nightmares—but from the unbearable stillness. No voice next to you. No heat beside you in bed. No fingers brushing your cheek while murmuring half-sweet, half-sick things like "mine mine mine"

You didn’t miss him.

You missed the way he ruined you so beautifully.

You missed the attention. The ownership. The high of being adored by someone who could also destroy you with a single word. There was a sick comfort in knowing his moods, in dancing around his coldness, in earning affection like a prize.

Now you had nothing.

No games.

No bruises to map out in the mirror and pretend were love.

Just you.

Your skin.

And the guilt.

Your friends tried to help. Sort of.

They were supportive in the way people are when they don’t really know what you’ve been through. Coffee dates. Encouraging texts. “Proud of you” sprinkled in like glitter to cover the cracks in your voice.

You just nodded. Smiled. Bit your tongue until it bled.

Because they didn’t understand that surviving Jeonghan wasn’t the hard part.

It was what came after.

The constant need to prove that you were okay. To act like you didn’t want to scream every time your phone buzzed. To lie and say you didn’t look for him in crowds. That you weren’t still craving his presence.

Your therapist said it was withdrawal.

Said people like Jeonghan rewired your nervous system. That trauma bonds can mimic love. That obsession and abuse often look like romance from the inside. That it wasn’t your fault.

But it still felt like your fault.

Because even when you were healing, even when you were journaling, meditating, drinking herbal tea, and doing fucking shadow work—you still thought about him.

You still touched yourself thinking about his voice.

You still caught yourself listening to voicemails you never remembered receiving.

“Don’t forget me,” one of them whispered. No caller ID. No timestamp.

You blocked the number.

And that’s when it all started.

The noises.

First, the floorboards creaked at night. Then came the lights— off when they should’ve been on. The bedroom window, open, even though you hadn’t touched it in weeks.

Once, your underwear drawer was pulled slightly open.

Another time, your towel was damp when you knew it hadn’t been used.

You told yourself it was anxiety.

That your brain was playing tricks on you.

That you were traumatized, not haunted.

Because Jeonghan couldn’t be here. That would be insane.

That would mean he’d never left.

Right?

You started sleeping with a knife under your pillow.

Stopped posting your location.

Stopped going out after dark.

Your friends noticed. You brushed it off.

They started suggesting therapy more often.

Your therapist started asking if you felt safe in your home.

You lied.

You said yes.

Because how the fuck could you explain it?

How could you explain the way your skin prickled when you stepped out of the shower—like someone was watching?

How could you explain the scent?

The same scent he used to wear.

Lingering on your sheets in the middle of the night.

How could you explain the dream you had where he was on top of you, mouth on your neck, hand between your thighs, and when you woke up, you were sore in all the places he touched?

Dreams don’t leave bruises.

But you told yourself they did.

Because the alternative was too terrifying.

Then came the sightings.

The street corner near your apartment, he was there, standing still, too still. Back turned, hoodie pulled low. You blinked. He was gone.

A tall figure in the crowd with the same posture, same gait, same lazy hands shoved in pockets like nothing could touch him.

You told yourself it wasn’t real.

You told yourself ghosts don’t wear Dior cologne.

You told yourself if you turned around fast enough, he wouldn’t be there.

But he always was.

Just for a second.

After that, you'd wake up every night around 3:17 a.m.

Always.

Exactly.

At first, you thought it was just your body readjusting. That trauma and therapy and whatever the hell grief really was—messed up your internal clock.

But then the pattern started forming.

You’d wake up sweaty. Thirsty. Needing something.

Your thighs pressed tight together.

Heart racing.

Like you’d just come down from something filthy.

The dreams got worse. Or better.

You couldn’t tell anymore.

You’d fall asleep and find yourself back in his apartment.

Naked. Bruised. Tied up.

You never saw his face. But you felt his breath on your neck. His voice in your spine.

“Tell me you miss me.”

“Tell me no one else touches you like I do.”

“Tell me you want me back.”

And you always did.

Even in dreams.

You started writing them down in your journal. Your therapist told you that might help.

It didn’t.

Because you weren’t writing dreams.

You were documenting memories you never remembered having

Once, you woke up crying.

Another time, you woke up cuming.

That was the night you found your front door unlocked.

You were so sure you locked it. Triple checked. Always did.

But that night the bolt was turned, the chain was loose. And your bedroom smelled like sandalwood and him.

You didn’t sleep.

You sat in the corner with a knife, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

The next day, you tried to be brave.

You dressed up. Did your makeup. Went on a date.

The guy was nice. Kind of funny. Not your type.

Which is to say—he wasn’t Jeonghan.

You tried to laugh. You tried to listen. You tried to stay in the moment. But then his hand brushed your thigh, you flinched so hard the drink in your hand shattered.

The guy looked confused.

You excused yourself to the bathroom. Sat in the stall shaking.

Because in the second that stranger touched you, your body screamed wrong.

Because it wasn’t him.

Because the only hands you wanted were the ones that used to bruise you.

You went home early.

Blocked the date’s number.

Cried in the shower.

Tried not to imagine him in the room with you, watching, waiting.

You failed.

Because Jeonghan lived in your mind like mold. Spreading. Rancid. Unseen.

And the next morning, there was a bite mark on your thigh.

Faint. Deep. Familiar.

Your first instinct was denial.

Then panic.

Then—

Desire.

Because even now, even after all this time—you still wanted him.

You still wanted the hands that hurt you. The mouth that ruined you. The man you left but never escaped.

The final straw came three days later.

You were in the shower again. Hot water. Lavender soap. Eyes closed. Trying to scrub yourself clean of the past.

You scrubbed your skin until it turned red, your shoulders relaxed, your body softened.

Maybe you were okay.

Maybe tonight, you’d sleep.

But when you stepped out—towel wrapped around your body, hair dripping, heart calm, you saw it.

Your bedroom door. Open.

Your phone. Moved.

And him.

Jeonghan.

Lying on your bed. Hands behind his head. Legs crossed. Eyes dark.

His mouth curled.

“Finally,” he said.

“You looked so pretty screaming my name every night. I was starting to think you wanted me to come back.”

Your breath caught. Your hand clutched the towel tighter. The room was suddenly colder than the water you’d just left behind.

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even scream.

Because you knew he’d never left.

And he was never going to.

He sat up, the bed groaning under his weight. His eyes trailed over your wet, trembling body.

His eyes studying every inch of skin like they’re memorizing the bruises he hasn’t given you yet.

His chest rising slow. Measured.

His jaw clenched like he’s holding back from tearing you apart.

You don’t move.

Can’t.

Water drips from your hair down your back, and the towel suddenly feels too thin, too small, too vulnerable.

"Come here" he says, his voice a low purr that sends a chill down your spine.

Three words. Simple. Soft.

But you’ve never heard a command sound like a promise before.

You shake your head, whispering, “No.”

And he smiles. The fucker smiles.

Not cruel. Not angry.

Worse—fond. Like you’re cute for thinking you still have choices.

“You’ve been waiting for me. I gave you time to pretend otherwise.”

He sits up slowly, his voice is lower now. Quieter.

“You let them convince you that you could live without me.”

“You even lied to yourself about it.”

“But tell me the truth, baby...”

He rises, walking toward you. You take one step back. He takes two forward. A game. One you always lose.

“When you touched yourself…was it ever anyone else in your head?”

You don’t answer.

Because your thighs are clenched. Your nipples are hard under the towel. Your mouth is dry.

And he knows.

He stops right in front of you. Leans down. Breath brushes your jaw.

“I’ll remind you.”

His voice whispers in your ear, his breath hot against your neck. You try to push him away, but your arms are weak, trembling. His hand reaches for the towel, his fingertips grazing your skin.

the towel drops.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t touch you yet. He stares. Like you’re art. Like you’re a prize he already won, but wants to unwrap again, slowly.

Then he grabs your throat—gently, but with pressure—and pushes you back onto the bed.

You hit the mattress with a soft thud, legs open, body naked, mind reeling.

He climbs over you, one knee between your thighs. He doesn’t kiss you. Not yet.

Instead, he traces the line of your neck with a finger, watching your pulse race. His other hand slides down your body, over your ribs, your stomach, until it rests right above your clit. He’s not touching you where you need it most, but he’s so close that your whole body feels electrified.

You whimper, trying to arch into his touch, but his grip tightens, keeping you pinned.

"Easy," he warns. "Remember who's in control here."

You bite your lip, trying to hold back a moan as his hand finally makes contact with your clit, his thumb circling with featherlight strokes that make your hips jerk upward. You're torn between the desire to push him away and the need for more of his touch

“So wet,” he murmurs. “Were you hoping I’d come back?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

He slips two fingers inside and presses his thumb to your clit, watching your body jolt like a marionette on strings. His strings.

You hate it.

You hate how good it feels.

You hate him.

But your body is a traitor.

It remembers his touch, craves his dominance.

You try to fight, but your hips betray you, grinding against his hand.

He chuckles, low and dark.

“I’ve missed this.”

He’s not asking if you’ve missed him.

He’s telling you that he’s missed making you feel like this.

Your breath hitches as he starts to pump his fingers in and out of you, setting a rhythm that you can’t fight. Your eyes squeeze shut, but you see him everywhere.

“Look at me,” he commands.

Your eyes flutter open. The room is a blur of half-light, his face the only thing in focus. His gaze is unrelenting, his eyes holding yours hostage. You want to look away, but you can’t.

He pumps his fingers faster.

You can’t breathe. You can’t think. All you know is the burn of his touch, the flood of arousal soaking the sheets, the ache of your body remembering exactly how to fall apart for him.

His grip on your throat tightens. Not enough to cut off air, just enough to make everything else irrelevant.

You cum fast. Too fast.

He doesn’t stop.

Your back arches. He adds a third finger.

“That’s one.”

You blink. Confused.

“We’re not done, sweetheart. You’ve got more in you. You owe me.”

His words hang in the air as your orgasm subsides, leaving you trembling and exposed. He pulls his hand away, smearing your wetness across your belly, his eyes never leaving yours.

Then he’s pulling away, lining himself up, and in one deep, slow thrust, he’s inside.

You cry out, half-moan, half-scream.

He fills you so perfectly it’s obscene. Like you were made to hold him. Like every nerve ending in your body was coded to remember him and only him.

“Tight,” he groans. “Missed this fucking pussy.”

Your eyes burn with tears as he starts to move, his hips rolling into yours with a familiar, punishing rhythm. The bed frame hits the wall, echoing through the silent apartment. The sound is almost comforting—proof that this is real. That you’re not just trapped in another dream.

Your nails dig into his back—he smiles.

“You like when it hurts, don’t you?”

“You like knowing no one else gets to fuck you like this.”

He’s right. You do. And you hate it.

The way he says it—like he’s peeling back every layer of your soul to expose your deepest, darkest secret—makes you want to claw at his eyes, rip out his tongue. But the pleasure is too intense, too overwhelming, and your body is responding against your will.

You can feel his smirk against your neck as he starts to move, his hips slamming into yours with a force that sends waves of pain and pleasure through your body. You’re so wet that every movement is a slick slide, his cock filling you up until you think you might break.

You cum again—legs shaking, body convulsing. It’s like he’s waking up every nerve ending in your body that had been lying dormant, forced into submission. Jeonghan's teeth graze your neck, his breath hot and hungry, his eyes gleaming with victory.

“Two.”

He doesn’t stop.

He throws your legs over his shoulders and hits deeper, harder.

Your voice is gone.

You’re just a series of whimpers and gasps, each one feeding his ego.

The pain mixes with the pleasure in a sickening cocktail that you know you shouldn’t enjoy.

But you do.

And that makes you despise him more.

He’s everywhere. His weight, his scent, his breath, his voice, his eyes, his hands, his cock.

You can’t escape him.

“J-Jeonghan, please—” you whimper, your voice shaking.

But it’s not a protest.

It’s a plea.

A desperate, needy, pathetic plea for what you know he’s going to give you.

For what you’re going to take.

His eyes light up at the sound of your voice, broken and begging. He leans in, his teeth grazing your bottom lip.

“Say it again,” he whispers, his breath hot on your face. “Tell me how much you’ve missed this.”

“I missed you—fucking missed you—need you—”

The words taste bitter, but they’re all he’ll let you say.

He groans, a victory growl that vibrates through his chest and into yours. His hips piston harder, faster, his cock hitting that spot deep inside that makes you see stars.

You fucking hate it, but you can’t help the moan that bubbles up from your chest. He’s winning, and you’re letting him.

Then, without warning He spits into your mouth the salty wetness mixing with the tears on your tongue. He kisses you hard, his teeth scraping your lips, forcing your mouth open wider, invading your space in a way that’s both violating and strangely familiar.

It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s the kiss of a man reclaiming what’s his.

And as you cum again—hands clutching the sheets, back arching, muscles tightening around his cock—he follows. His movements become erratic, his breath hitching.

You can feel his climax building, his cock swelling, and it’s like you’re riding a wave of pure power. You hate it. You love it. You can’t tell anymore.

His release fills you, hot and thick, and you clench around him, your body milking every last drop.

“I’m not done,” he says.

“You think I came back for just one round?”

He cups your cheek.

“I’m staying, baby. You know that, right?”

You nod.

You cry.

You arch your hips and let him keep going.

Because what else can you do?

Your body is his playground, and he’s not about to leave without exploring every inch.

------

guys I wrote the smut at like 4 in the morning if u see smt that doesn't make sens–no tf u didn't 🦙

[woninggg]

requests are open again hehehe since I have nothing to do on summer break 🦙

(also random but I've been so obsessed with lamas lately and I miss hannie and wonu sm I'm going insane)

[woninggg]

THANK GOD IVE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

I MISS UUU HOW HAVE U BEEN CUTIE

[woninggg]

hey yall I'm back 🤡