Work Text:
Everything was fine. Everything was literally perfectly fine fifteen minutes ago.
Wooyoung was stretched across Yunho's bed, lounging nestled under some fleece blankets like he belonged there. He had one arm tucked under his head, leaning against the headboard, one leg sticking out of the covers and hanging lazily off the mattress. An old, oversized hoodie was bundled under his cheek. It smelled like Yunho — his laundry detergent and warmth. Like comfort, like home.
Yunho sat at his desk a few meters away. Headset on, concentration furrowing his brow, but his shoulders were relaxed. His fingers were moving over his keyboard rapidly, clicking and tapping away, while the soft glow monitor painted his profile blue. Every now and then, Wooyoung looked up from his phone just to watch him with a fond smile, just to see his handsome boyfriend, the way his tongue poked into his cheek in that adorable way whenever a turret of the rivaling team collapsed, the way he huffed when he got ganked out of nowhere.
Everything felt steady. Everything was quiet, safe.
Until now.
Wooyoung's phone buzzes in his hand as he’s scrolling through some silly Instagram Reels. The notification lets him know it's Yeosang. He swipes the message down, opening it.
yeosangie <3
hiiiii!!
woo i’m so sorry but i can't make it 2nite :(
sannie got rly sick out of nowhere
must be last night’s take out we had earlier :/
i think i’m gonna stay home 2 take care of him
wanna reschedule for next saturday? was rly looking forward to it!!
Wooyoung stares at the message. His first thought is automatic, calm.
Of course Yeosang wants to stay home. San is sick. That makes sense. It's what good boyfriends do.
Shortly after, San’s apologetic message follows in the group chat.
sannieee :3
puked 2 times and a 3rd is coming kms
i feel miserable T_T
i’m so sorry :(
rly wanted 2 see u, miss u sm youngie :c
Wooyoung pouts in sympathy and starts typing back.
me
aww nooo!! ;-;
no worries bbys i understand
sannie i’m giving u a biiiig hug, hope u feel better soon! <3
i love u both!!
and yeaa let's reschedule for next saturday c: x
Send.
Cool, no big deal. All is fine. Perfectly fine. Nothing to worry about.
The spiral starts anyway.
It's subtle at first, just a shift in temperature under his skin.
Then comes that sensation in his gut he loathes. His heart dropping into his tummy, making his abdomen cramp up. A strange kind of pinching settles deep down there, poking at his intestines like fiery tendrils.
I knew it. I fucking knew it. They didn't want to hang out after all. Bet this is just an easy excuse and San just has a minor headache. Of course he would have a headache. Just the thought of hanging out with me is exhausting.
The room tilts slightly. Even though Wooyoung is safely sitting on Yunho’s bed, the swing is enough to make him unsure of his footing, like he’s missing a step in the pitch dark.
Wooyoung unlocks his phone, then locks it immediately after.
No. Stop. They're my best friends. They love me. Look at their messages. Reread them. It's obvious that they feel sad and guilty about it. They both want to reschedule, they both want to see you.
He picks at a cuticle. Worries his bottom lip between his teeth to chew on it. Opens the message again anyways.
Yeosangie must be relieved. I’m too loud for him. Too ‘in his face’. He's probably complaining about me to San right now. Why do they even keep me around?
His chest tightens. His stomach churns.
For a second, his finger hovers over the ‘leave group’ button. Then it moves to San's icon, a cutesy candid pic of him with Yeosang in his lap, microphones in hand, both flushed and tipsy as hell, both laughing with their heads tipped back. Wooyoung took that picture some months ago at the karaoke bar they all love to visit.
But Yeosang was your friend first. Your best friend. And now he's with San. San has taken him away from you. He likes San more than you, obviously. Hell, he even likes Yunho more than you. Do those three have a group chat without me? I bet they have.
me
actually nvm abt that reschedule. i'm not
He stops typing. Presses backspace until the characters disappear and the screen is empty. Types again.
me
next saturday won't work bc i'll be hanging out with mingi!! he's such a nice guy i’m so happy i
Delete.
Pathetic. Trying to make them jealous with Yunho's childhood best friend? That's a new low, even for you.
His knuckles whiten around his phone.
Thoughts stack fast and merciless. Images flash too rapidly — former friends abandoning him without any form of closure, exes calling him clingy, smothering. ‘Accidentally’ being left on read by San for 3 days straight, a snappy tone shift when Yeosang was ‘tired’ two months ago. A strange look from the both of them that might have meant nothing but now means everything.
Everything is proof, confirmation.
The Instagram Reels play on without disturbance. A group of friends at a cat café. One of the cats, a tuxedo, dips its paw in the whipping cream. The person laughing at its adorable antics sounds a bit like Yeosang.
Wooyoung opens Yeosang's contact information, ignoring the profile picture of him giving the older boy a piggy back ride. The block option looks strangely inviting. White letters in a red button stare back at him almost mockingly, as if it's daring him “come on, press me”.
He almost taps it.
Cut him off before he leaves you like everyone else did. Do it. It's for the best.
He doesn't.
Instead, Wooyoung's gaze drifts to Yunho's broad back.
Ten minutes. His boyfriend hasn't talked to him or even acknowledged his presence for ten whole minutes.
Wooyoung swallows. Is he mad?
Don't be ridiculous. He's gaming. You literally said you were fine just watching.
Yunho shifts in his chair and curses softly. His shoulders look tight.
The knot in Wooyoung's stomach tightens. Bile rises in his throat. He swallows again, harder this time. The lump doesn’t disappear. God, he's nauseous.
Look at that. He’s tense, idiot. You’re distracting him. He thinks you’re annoying as hell. See? He doesn’t want you here either.
More images and memories flash in front of his eyes. Simple, silly things. Yunho’s yawn when Wooyoung was talking his head off about his day. Yunho not automatically reaching for his hand when they crossed the street some days ago. It’s proof. Undeniable and indisputable.
The rational voice tries again, smaller now.
He’s in a ranked match. Of course he’s tense.
But it’s drowned out by the hum under Wooyoung’s skin. That familiar itch he can't scratch away. Like millions of bullet ants crawling just beneath the surface. The need to do something. To hurt something. To hurt himself just enough to quiet.
He tugs the sleeves of his jumper over his wrists, yanking at the material until it covers his fingers. White, faded scars from years ago prickle beneath the fabric, under the intricate black lines of his tattoo. Scars Yunho had kissed when he first saw Wooyoung without a long sleeve. Scars he had promised his boyfriend not to reopen ever again.
His eyes flick to Yunho's bedside drawer.
Cigarettes.
Fuck, he needs one. Or three. Maybe he can push one out on his skin, somewhere where no one will notice, not even Yunho. The inside of his upper arm, close to his armpit, perhaps.
Wooyoung hasn't smoked in a long time. Yunho smiled about it this morning, pressed a soft kiss to his temple like he was proud.
The thought of that almost makes it worse.
Not only are you a shit friend, you're a shit partner as well. No wonder he can't stand you.
He unlocks his phone and opens the chat again. Three dots appear, both from San and Yeosang. They're typing something. Then stop typing. Start typing again.
Probably some piss poor excuse. Or worse: they're trying to calm me down because they know how my brain works. Some confirmation that it's nothing personal. It is personal. It always is. Fuck, I should've never told them. Of course they wouldn't understand, everything always comes so easy for them.
Wooyoung turns off his phone and throws it somewhere onto the mattress. Four cigarettes it is.
Before he can think too hard about it, he worms himself out of the heap of suddenly suffocating blankets, swings his legs off the bed and reaches for the drawer. The wood scrapes and creaks as it opens. His pack of cigarettes is right where he left it, red, rectangular, singing his name like a siren’s call.
His fingers tremble as they close around it.
He stands.
Yunho notices. Of course he does.
“Where’re you going, baby?” he asks him, casual, eyes still fixed on the screen, panning the camera to check if his team’s inhibitor is still safe while he flawlessly ambushes an unsuspecting champion from the opposite team.
“‘m going out for a smoke.”
It comes out clipped and flat, like his voice isn't his own, distant and absent. Not at all the tone he normally uses when he's talking to the love of his life.
There's a beat of silence. Yunho's palm lifts from the mouse. The older boy bends the mic of his headphones closer to his mouth, and says “hold on, I'll be right back. Push mid if you can.”
“But—!”
Protesting noises of his teammates. Some curses. Some very loud, clearly displeased sighs. Yunho pays them no mind.
Shit. Shit shit shit. Look what you've done, now you've pissed him off. Good fucking job. I ruin everything. Why do I ruin everything?
A pause. The faint echo of Discord chatter as Yunho mutes both the chat and himself.
The wheels of his gaming chair scrape against the laminate as he turns around.
“No, you're not,” he says. Not accusing, not angry, but gentle. Concerned. “You haven't smoked in weeks.”
Wooyoung's jaw clenches. Heat floods up his neck, making him feel even more warm than he already is. The concern is like a spotlight he can’t avoid.
Anger bubbles up. It starts all the way in his icy cold toes, concentrates and flares brighter when it gathers in his midriff. From there it surges upwards, fast and hot and uncontrollable, begging for somewhere to go.
It never goes anywhere. It burns in him, hot and acidic, clawing at his ribs.
He thinks you can't take care of yourself. See? He's monitoring you. You're just a project to him. A failed one, that is. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Why do you care?” he snaps before he can stop himself. The pack of cigarettes crinkles under his tightening grip.
Inside, the rational part of him is screaming.
He cares because he loves you. He muted his friends for you.
But the louder voice hisses:
Push him first. Before he sees how much of a mess you truly are. Cause a scene. Yell at him. Push him so he can finally leave your sorry ass.
Yunho doesn't rise up to his taunt. That's what makes it even worse.
Wooyoung needs to scream so hard his vocal chords tear, and to have someone shout back so loud his eardrums threaten to burst.
The mouse Yunho's palm hovers over looks very throwable. Wooyoung briefly wonders if that would make his boyfriend tick and lose his shit. He imagines the sound of it crashing against either the floor or the wall would be extremely satisfying.
It was a shit gift Wooyoung bought him for his birthday, anyways. Yunho deserves so much better than some stupid mouse. Deserves so much better than him.
Wooyoung's anger rises further up his chest which feels too tight. It becomes a huge, glowing mace, its spikes white-hot, scraping against his lungs, his diaphragm. Transforming into rage slowly but surely, it scratches at the surface like a trapped beast desperate to break free.
Yunho looks at him. He doesn’t snap back, doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t say “fine, go ruin your streak”. He just watches Wooyoung carefully, headset pushed down around his neck now, those big brown puppy eyes steady and far too perceptive. Far too kind.
There's something there, in those pretty chocolate depths. No annoyance, and certainly no mirrored anger like Wooyoung wishes. Like Wooyoung needs.
Recognition.
It only fuels the fury.
Yunho holds out his hand, palm facing the ceiling.
“Give me the pack,” he says calmly.
Wooyoung lets out a sharp laugh, that, just like his voice, doesn't quite sound like himself.
“Seriously?” he huffs, “it's a fucking cigarette, not heroin.”
“I know what it is.”
Yunho gets up from his gaming chair and stands slowly, like approaching a skittish animal.
“And I know what this is.”
That word.
This.
Yunho's room is no longer a bedroom anymore. It spins around Wooyoung like a battlefield, and he is outnumbered. Ice settles in his veins, fire fills his throat.
“I’m fine,” he bristles. “Yeosangie cancelled for tonight. Whatever. It’s no big deal.”
His boyfriend’s expression refuses to harden like frost hardens Wooyoung's tone. It softens further, mellowing the sharp lines of Yunho's handsome face.
There it is again. That fucking look.
Understanding.
Wooyoung feels naked, exposed to the very bone. Every unsightly, disgusting fracture in him is visible. Split open. Organs spilling out, splashing wetly against the floor like gutted snakes. His heart dangling on an artery before it joins the bloody mess, beating deafeningly loud, betraying him.
He can see it. That means it's obvious. You're failing at holding yourself together. You're weak. Pussy.
His spine straightens. He lifts his chin and sticks his nose in the air, making himself bigger despite their height difference, despite the centimeters Yunho has on him. Squares his shoulders like he’s about to walk into battle instead of out the bedroom door.
He sees himself pull up that terrible mask, that chilling armor of pride and apathy. That awareness is the worst, knowing he's actively sabotaging that one safe place he has. Under the armor, he feels monstrous. Broken.
“Leave me be,” he grits out. The package wrinkles in his grip. Tobacco and the scent of paper mix together in the air that crackles between them. “I need this right now.”
He swallows back the pathetic “please” that threatens to follow after right on time, moving to step past the older boy.
Yunho's hand closes around his wrist before he reaches the doorhandle. His long fingers don't pull, don't maneuver, don't crush the delicate bones. They don’t hurt him like Wooyoung wants them to.
“I don't think that's what you need right now.”
The softness in his voice hits him harder than if he had yelled.
Shut up. Shut the fuck up. What do you know, Mister Perfect? Think you can read my mind now? You’d smoke five packs of those goddamn cigarettes in one day if you could.
Wooyoung's breath stutters.
Salt prickles on his lashlines, his vision blurring for a second when tears well up from the corners of his eyes. He blinks so hard it makes him dizzy. Beneath the fire, there is that split-second flash of terror. The kind you feel when standing on the edge of a gigantic mountain and the stones crumble under your feet.
“Don't, Yunho,” he hisses. “Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
Asshole. Fucking asshole.
“Talk to me like that.”
Like he's fragile, like he's seen.
The air is wrong. His skin is wrong. He can’t tell where his body ends and the heat begins. Every nerve is lit up. Raw, like exposed wire sparking under drywall. He needs to stay angry. If he stays angry, he doesn't have to feel the knife in his stomach twisting and turning, the yawning chasm under his ribs.
Yunho blurs into a symbol of rejection, of humiliation, of being too much. There's no grey left, only black and white. Attempting to stop it would be like holding back a tidal wave with bare hands.
Wooyoung tries to pull away, but Yunho doesn't let go, though his grip is gentle. His thumb dips under the sleeve, lightly brushing the inside of Wooyoung's wrist.
Use your nails. Tear it open again. Hurt me. I know you want to. Everyone does, especially you. Fuck, I hate him. Stop. Don't split on him. You're splitting, Wooyoung. Breathe. Have you taken your meds? Five things you can see, four things you can—
The younger averts his gaze, jaw trembling. He bites down on his lower lip until he tastes metal. The sting barely registers over the storm in his chest.
His breathing turns ragged — in through his mouth, out too fast. His free hand curls into a fist, nails digging into his palm. He focuses on the pain, on staying upright, on not shattering. It feels good, the sting. The ache. The wounding before someone else can wound him.
But not for long.
He can feel it happening. The slipping. The regression he never talks about.
He floats above his body. Wooyoung sees himself, yet not as he is now. As a younger teenager, with obsidian hair sticking out in various directions from yanking on it until his skull hurt, with puffy cheeks red and blotchy from crying, with balled fists and his mouth wet with spit open in a scream to split the heavens.
Furious, near delirious with rage. Terrified. Alone. So alone.
It's like he's shrinking. His clothes are too big, drowning him. The sudden, overwhelming need for someone older, wiser, steadier, to tell him what to do seizes him. The need for someone to take this rage from him, to make the terrible noise inside his head stop.
From the corner of his unfocused eyes, he spots a glass of water. He isn't certain if he wants Yunho to splash the contents into his face so he can toughen the fuck up and get his act together, or if he wants to smash it and watch it shatter in a thousand pieces.
Yunho steps closer.
Wooyoung's instincts scream at him to push him away.
Don't touch me. Don't come close. You'll leave anyway. I won't let you in. I won't let anyone in.
He is frozen solid, rooted to the ground as his boyfriend draws him in. He wants to resist, to brace for impact. Posture rigid, shoulders locked, jaw clenched. Proud, distant, cold.
Yet he doesn’t fight when Yunho’s other hand settles at his waist, solid and warm. He’s tired. So fucking tired. Tired of pretending he doesn’t need reassurance like it’s oxygen.
Wooyoung lets himself be guided the half step forward, his rapidly moving chest brushing Yunho’s calm one. He just stupidly stands there, socked feet ice cold on the wood while his hands are sweating. He wants to fold into Yunho, press his face into his pecs, let the warmth anchor him.
He wants to be held hard enough that the shaking stops. But the current underneath is too electric, too sharp.
Pressure builds under his ribs, that violent urge to do something. Anything. To say something he knows will land like a blade, something that will finally make Yunho leave him.
Two fingers tip his chin up. His gums itch to bite down on them as though he is a frightened feral cat.
“Look at me, little one.”
The nickname makes his throat close. More bile tries to push past it, his esophagus burning from the sour acid as it flushes back down with no way to go.
“What do you truly need right now?”
Nothing. No one. You. I need you. Please don't leave me.
He opens his mouth, but his brain is static. Too many thoughts at once. One part of him is small, scared, but the other is building his walls even higher, stacking bricks at frantic speed.
Yunho cradles his jaw.
It almost breaks him. Even through the simple touch, he feels the affection, the care, the love. It's like a threat, like a gun pressed against his temple — if Yunho walks away, there won't be enough left of Wooyoung to survive it.
He feels tiny. So tiny. Standing in shoes three sizes too big, buried alive by feelings he doesn’t know how to hold. Carrying the weight of the world in his back, a world that doesn't understand him.
“I—” His voice cracks. “I don't—”
He will leave. Don't say it. Don't be weak. Don’t let him see you like this. Don't need it. Let him go back to his game and forget about this. Don't. Don't. Don’t.
There's wetness on his scorchingly hot cheeks. His shoulders shake as he hiccups over a stifled sob, furious at his own weakness.
Both of Yunho's hands cup the back of his neck, thumbs warm against his goosebump littered skin.
“You need daddy, don't you?” he says. His tone carries no smugness or teasing. Just softness, gentle certainty.
The word tears something open.
The breath Wooyoung has been holding and choking on leaves him in a shudder. He melts in Yunho's arms. His forehead drops forward, thudding against Yunho’s shoulder as the fight drains out of his limbs all at once. The cigarette pack slips from his fingers, forgotten.
He hates that Yunho sees right through him. He hates that Yunho is right.
He nods despite himself. Just a short jerk of his head, a teeny tiny one.
It's enough for Yunho. He takes the younger boy’s hand in his, not once letting go of it even once as unmutes the chat and bends over to talk into the microphone.
“Something important came up,” he announces. “Gotta go. See you all later.”
A chorus of protest explodes through his headset.
“Dude, what? We’re literally about to win!”
“Yunho, don’t troll.”
“Just five more minutes man, I can tank—”
Yunho doesn’t hesitate.
“Later guys,” he repeats simply. He clicks out of League of Legends and logs off from Discord without even sparing a single glance at the screen.
No apologies, no excuses. No sigh of annoyance at how he has to gather the pieces and make Wooyoung whole again because the other can’t do it himself, at the nuisance his stupid, pathetic boyfriend is.
Wooyoung presses his mouth in a thin line and stares at the floor, at the abandoned pack of cigarettes. Some have rolled out of the package. The smell of tobacco makes his nostrils flare and his stomach turn. He doesn't need one anymore. Just the thought of lighting one makes him recoil.
His legs are unsteady now that the anger has nowhere to go. The fight may have seeped out of him in Yunho's embrace, but the fury is still there, tearing him open from the inside out. It's white-hot and prickly, tangled up with shame and humiliation, turning his already confusing emotions into an overwhelming mess that's all over the place.
They were about to win, and you ruined it. You ruin everything. You manipulated him and made him leave the game. A ranked game. You're too much, you fucking attention seeker. Too much for Yeosangie, too much for Sannie, too much for your boyfriend.
He tries not to cry. Not to bolt. Not to shake himself loose from Yunho's gentle hold and to lock himself in the bathroom.
“I’m here.”
Wooyoung nods again.
Yunho guides him toward the bed, slow and deliberate, taking his time as Wooyoung follows him on wobbly feet. He releases the younger long enough to step to his dresser, where he opens the second drawer. Their drawer. Filled with some of Wooyoung’s baseball shorts for summer, the rings he currently isn’t wearing, a cozy Spiderman Snuggie for two, a box of memorabilia — train tickets, polaroids, handwritten love notes from years ago.
Leather catches the afternoon sunlight filtering through the blinds. In Yunho’s hands lies a simple black collar, soft, expensive, handmade. The small silver heart on the front gleams faintly, engraved with one word. Kitten.
Beside it, the matching set of ears. Huge, fluffy, commissioned by Yunho as well. Also black as obsidian, with cute grey tufts on the ends.
Wooyoung’s boyfriend presents the items to him.
“Do you need them?”
The younger’s face burns. Even now when he’s trembling like he's coming down with a fever, embarrassment flares. Standing next to the bed, Wooyoung looks at the sheets, picking at a loose thread of the duvet.
“J-just the collar.”
Yunho places the ears back into the drawer without comment, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. For him, it is. For Wooyoung, this feels like some sort of humiliation ritual, some vile, sick game that Yunho can drop any second now to laugh at him.
It’s not, the rational voice whispers. It’s barely audible. He loves you. He knows what you need right now.
With quiet patience, Yunho walks Wooyoung to sit on the edge of the bed. Wooyoung’s hands hover uselessly in his lap, fingers twitching with leftover adrenaline.
Yunho grabs the remote and turns on the TV mounted to the wall across the bed. After some scrolling, a nature documentary fills the screen. It’s calm, with soft narration from a gentle voice, sweeping shots of forests and slow-moving rivers. Nothing loud, nothing sharp. A fluffle of rabbits seeking shelter from the rain. Birds chirping as spring arrives.
It distracts Wooyoung for a moment, until the taller boy steps in front of him.
“Chin up for me.”
Wooyoung hesitates.
Push him away. You don’t deserve this. Push. Him. You don’t deserve the collar or his attention. You’re a waste of time. Of everyone’s time.
Still, he obeys.
The leather is cool against his heated skin still buzzing with emotions. Yunho fastens it around his neck, pulling ever so slightly to test if it’s not too tight. The click of the buckle is definitive, resonating through the room to be swallowed up by wind rustling through the trees outside.
Something microscopically small loosens in Wooyoung’s chest. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s there, a thin thread of relief, fine as hair, threading through the chaos in both his brain and body. On instinct, his head tips back, seeking more warmth of Yunho’s long fingers lingering at his nape.
“Good,” Yunho murmurs, soft yet proud. “Good boy.”
Wooyoung shivers.
Yunho climbs onto the mattress, scooting over to the right side and settles against the headboard, then reaches out to an open box under the bed to hand something to Wooyoung without a single word.
Yoru. Wooyoung’s cat plushie. Pointed pink ears and the cutest little nose in the same colour, big, beaded eyes, round and kind. Its fur is black as night, just like Wooyoung's hair. Just like the collar he’s wearing. Worn soft from being held too many nights like this.
What grown up your age even needs a stuffed animal? Pathetic. You’re so—
Shut up, he whispers at the nagging voice, pleading. Shut. Up. Not now. Please. Just let me have this.
He presses Yoru against his chest, nuzzling his nose in its fur. The stuffie smells comforting, like the woody incense Yunho keeps in that same box and his laundry detergent. Like home. His eyelashes flutter close at the scent. His throat tightens, but this time it isn’t sharp. He blinks away a stray tear that seems to appear out of nowhere before he gathers the courage to look at Yunho.
His boyfriend opens his arms as an invitation and smiles at him, fond and genuine. Tilts his head to the left. His hair flops in the same direction. It reminds Wooyoung of a big lap dog eager to cuddle with its owner. Not like the hissing, feral cat he feels scratching under his skin, claws out, ready to strike.
“C’mere, kiddo.”
Wooyoung’s knees buckle.
He crawls forward slowly, like he’s afraid both the offer and Yunho might disappear. While he moves to the left side of the older’s bed, still tentative and hesitant, Yunho lifts his shirt just enough to bare his chest.
Wooyoung can’t help but let his eyes wander. He sees soft, warm skin, paler than his, tempting in the softest of ways. Plush pecs that have grown just a little bigger thanks to Yunho’s new workout, a taut tummy, slim yet squishable hips, a peek of red boxers that hug those hips perfectly. A cute happy trail that starts right under his navel, thin at first, trailing down into fuzzier hairs the further down it goes.
He knows what Yunho is suggesting. What he’s implying. And he needs it. Fuck, he needs it. Those nasty tendrils of rage still poke at him, daring him to lash out. It’s raw. Ugly. But he settles next to Yunho anyway, sneaking under the blankets, pressing close to his lover.
With Yoru pressed against his nose, his pupils flit between Yunho’s face and his torso. Back to his face. Torso again. His eyes burn with lingering tears that refuse to either disappear or fall, and they’re full of questions he doesn’t dare ask.
So Yunho fills in the blanks for him.
“Do you want to suckle, kitten?”
Colour climbs Wooyoung’s neck, his cheeks, the tips of his ears.
Part of him wants Yunho to grab him by the hair, to shove his miserable ugly crying face into a pillow, to absolutely demolish him until he can no longer think or feel anything. Part of him wants sharp nails in his back, brutal slaps on his ass so hard his ears ring from the force, painful bruises that will still be there after three nights. Degrading words that will make him sob, thrust so violent his rim threatens to rip and tear, a heavy foot on his neck to choke him, maybe.
It’s what you deserve, after all. Why Yunho keeps you around. Just to function as an object, a sloppy hole to use. It’s all you’re good for.
But Yunho is kind. Loving. Yunho knows better. Knows deep within, he craves care and softness and guidance. And he trusts Yunho.
So he averts his gaze. Nods.
“Please,” he croaks out.
He sags just a bit lower, curling up against Yunho, his cheek pressed to the other’s chest. For a moment, he simply lies there, letting the scenery of lush woods on the TV seep into his mind while he mouths at the ear of his plushie, the warmth and ever-surrounding presence of Yunho invading his senses. His skin. His heart beating under that broad chest. His scent, deodorant and something deeper, muskier. His strong arm safely wrapped around Wooyoung.
The collar around his neck is grounding, a gentle weight. A reminder of where he is right now. Who he is. Daddy’s. Yunho’s little one. His kiddo, his kitten. He is allowed to be small. To be needy.
It doesn’t really land or stick, that wordless reassurance. It's hard to believe it through the flames of barely contained fire.
Letting Yoru fall from his mouth, but still holding it tightly in his sweaty hands, he presses a soft kiss to Yunho’s chest. Just a ghost of a touch, barely there. Then another, with a bit more pressure, a bit more certainty.
Yunho’s fingers thread through the black locks falling in his face. Not all of them — the older boy knows he needs something to hide behind. Knows he is vulnerable now. Withdrawn. Timid, almost. So unlike his every day demeanor, his bright, loud, confident, happy self.
Too loud. Always too loud. Annoying.
The fingers make slow, soothing strokes, nails scraping lightly over Wooyoung’s scalp.
“It’s okay,” Yunho murmurs. “Take whatever you need. Daddy’s here.”
Wooyoung shifts slightly, turning his face inward. He nuzzles closer. It’s not long until his mouth instinctively finds his boyfriend’s nipple. Soft, dusky pink, familiar as his bottom lip brushes over it.
The first contact is gentle, shy and testing as he closes his mouth around it carefully. There is no tension or teasing. No hunger or urgency like normally when they're making love. There’s only skin beneath his lips. His boyfriend’s skin.
He hollows his cheeks slightly, suckling on the bud.
His lids slip close.
The thoughts are still there, obnoxious, making his head pound.
Ridiculous. Needy. Fucking embarrassing. Look at you, latched to your boyfriend's chest like a whining baby, holding your stupid stuffie.
He whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut until he sees stars, but he keeps going. Slow, small suckling motions.
Yunho hums. It sounds pleased, content, the sound vibrating through his chest, through Wooyoung's lips.
“That's it, little one.”
Long, elegant fingers move from the younger's scalp to that spot behind his ear. There, nails scratch gently, much like how one would pet a cat. It makes Wooyoung's shoulders loosen centimeter by centimeter. In turn, Wooyoung's irregular suckling finds a rhythm, a pattern. Something he can follow. Something he can focus on.
Wooyoung holds on tighter to his plushie, thumb brushing its fur absentmindedly. Wrapping his arm around Yunho's waist, he presses his boyfriend closer against him, needing more warmth, more skin.
The second there's no space left between them, Wooyoung's hand not holding the stuffed cat wanders to Yunho's other pec, fingertips sinking into the plush flesh. He feels it spill between his fingers, malleable and supple, and he kneads a bit harder, like a small kitten making biscuits. Yoru sits squished between them, the wrinkly whiskers from the stuffed toy cat undoubtedly tickling the older boy's ribs.
“‘s that nice?” Yunho asks quietly. His voice is low and pleasantly rumbling. Steady, a safe harbor in the storm.
Wooyoung nods faintly against him, not taking his mouth off Yunho's nipple that starts to harden between his lips.
“Mm, good. You're so good.”
No “relax for me”, no other instructions or questions, just the confirmation that he's being good.
The praise seeps into Wooyoung's skin, and he shudders despite how hot he still runs from his lingering anger which sharp edges start to dull. With each suckle, with each stroke of Yunho's hand through his hair, each low, satisfied hum, the noise in the younger's head seems to fade further into the background.
He is still trembling, though. Still tense. Guilt, maybe? Shame? He doesn't know. Perhaps that's where the tears come from. Stifling his sniffle is futile — Yunho hears it, feels the wetness on his chest, how Wooyoung's hands clutch both his shirt and the plush cat harder.
“Shhh,” he shushes. Presses a kiss atop of Wooyoung's scalp. Rocks him back and forth in those strong arms. “Shhh. There, there. You're safe.”
For the first time since his spiral began, Wooyoung believes it. He strokes Yoru over Yunho's side, his ribs, a silent “thank you”, still suckling gently. The documentary’s narrator on the TV becomes a distant hum. Yunho’s heartbeat is louder.
He lets the tears fall. There's no sobbing, no frantic heaving of his chest, no hiccuping, but quiet, silent tears. His boyfriend's hand stays on his head, combing through the black locks.
One second he’s jittery and quivering, clinging to Yunho like he might drift away. The next, the world feels more mellow, exhaling its hard lines, the air carrying a tender blur. It's confusing. Wooyoung accepts it anyway.
Yunho's nipple is now fully hard in his mouth, stiff under his ministrations. It feels nice against Wooyoung's tongue, the peak firm under the wet muscle. The rhythmic cadence of his suckling is calming, comforting, sedative, almost. He laps over the hard bud, a soft sigh escaping him, the thoughts in his head thinning out like fog under sunlight.
Wooyoung's brain is weirdly quiet as Yunho mirrors his sigh. His body seems heavier now, pleasantly so, as though he's sinking into a warm bath. His fingers loosen in the fabric they’re gripping. Without thinking about it, Wooyoung rubs his cheek against his boyfriend’s chest, almost like a content cat settling deeper into a favorite spot.
“That's it,” Yunho mumbles again. “That's it, kitten.”
Despite the cotton buds filling up his head and ears, he hears the fond smile in the older’s voice. Wooyoung makes a small sound in response. A soft purr. The silver bangle with his pet name engraved on it jingles as he shifts impossibly closer, the leather of the collar now warm against his neck, anchoring, another silent reminder of what he's allowed to be right now.
His suckles transform into soft kittenish licks as he parts his lips, his tongue broad, feeling it grow harder under it, tasting skin and soap and salt and Yunho. It's good. So good, that the earlier anger burns out completely, leaving behind something else under his skin.
A buzz. Heat, a slow, spreading warmth in his veins that makes him squirm. It’s different from the restless itch that drove him to the cigarettes, heavier, thicker. It pools low in his stomach and makes him draw a shaky breath.
His body reacts before his rational brain can catch up.
Wooyoung's hips buck up involuntarily, without him fully meaning to. Under the safety of the covers, his crotch rubs against the firm outside of Yunho's thigh, and a frustrated, needy whine slips out of him.
He doesn't even have to look down to realize he's getting hard.
“What's that, kiddo?”
Wooyoung can't answer, his words are gone. He blushes and shakes his head. Doesn’t know how to move his tongue to talk. His lips wrap around Yunho's nipple again, and he sucks, a bit harder this time, with more intent.
The pressure of Yunho's leg against his hardening cock soon isn't enough anymore. He huffs, petulant, nails bunching in the fabric of Yunho's shirt, his thumb brushing over his stuffie’s fur in irregular, frantic patterns.
Yunho lets his free hand stroke Wooyoung's side. He flexes his leg. Wooyoung's breath catches in his throat.
“Mm, I know. It’s okay. Daddy’s got you.”
The reassurance melts the younger. Another small whine escapes him, higher this time, as he rubs his face into Yunho’s chest again, seeking more contact, more closeness. He peeks through his lowered lashes, a new flush of warmth spreading through him when he spots how Yunho's chest is a pretty shade of petal-pink, how both goosebumps and the tiny blond hairs have raised up.
Yunho cups the back of his head and flexes his leg again.
“Too soft to use your words, hm?”
Wooyoung nods and whimpers. His hips buck. He can't help it. He feels so small, so needy. The world narrows to that warm, broad chest, to the rhythmic pressure against his cock, to Yunho.
“That's alright,” Yunho whispers. “I can read you. Up you go, kitten.”
Two big hands slide under the younger's armpits. Wooyoung gasps, but he goes willingly, pliant in the tender hold like a little ragdoll, boneless. A string of spit hangs between his lips and Yunho's stiff nipple as he lets himself get maneuvered around until he's sitting in Yunho's lap.
His hand stays curled around his plushie always.
He blinks his eyes fully open, dazed, disoriented. Everything else around him is a blur as his boyfriend's handsome face comes into view — his sharp nose and jaw, his heart-shaped lips curled into a smile, his brown eyes kind and attentive with dilated pupils. Wooyoung's heart skips a beat, and he shifts on top of Yunho, feeling a familiar hardness brush against his ass.
Yunho slides a finger over his collar and nuzzles the tip of his nose against Wooyoung's.
“Does my little one want to ride?”
Please. I need you. Need you to take care of me.
For the nth time that afternoon, Wooyoung gives the tiniest nod.
Yunho smiles and spreads his legs.
The increased closeness makes Wooyoung inhale sharply, hips twitching again before he can stop them. The need inside him keeps building and building, making him restless, making him want to move, to press closer, to feel more. He casts a helpless look at Yunho, apologetic, his spit-slick bottom lip trembling.
A flicker of shame tries to rise.
You’re gross. You're using him. You were just spiraling and now you’re—
He fists his hands in Yunho’s shirt. The older boy senses his unease, reading him like a book, knowing him like the back of his hand.
“You’re okay,” he promises. His hands settle at Wooyoung’s waist as a grounding presence. “You don’t have to fight it. It’s okay.”
Wooyoung bites his bottom lip. He shifts experimentally, a small movement, barely intentional. In this new angle, he truly feels it — Yunho is aroused too, his seizable clothed length sliding against Wooyoung’s as the younger shifts instinctively, warm and solid and so hard. It’s confirmation, validation, proof that Yunho loves him and wants him.
He moves again. The friction pulls a startled moan from him, so loud his cheeks burn.
Yunho doesn’t tease or smirk or lift his eyebrow like he normally would outside of scenes. He just watches, attentive and observant.
“Can daddy kiss you?”
Not answering Yunho with words, Wooyoung leans in, closing the distance between them. Their lips meet in small, closed-mouthed pecs. Yunho is careful, as though he's testing the temperature of something, letting the younger boy feel the softness of his lips, the way they give in to the pressure as Wooyoung presses his mouth against his a bit harder.
One hand stays firm at Wooyoung's waist, long fingers curling around the subtle curve. The other joins Wooyoung's holding Yoru, stroking its fur.
The tender intimacy and the indescribable sweetness of it sparks something in Wooyoung. His lips part, tongue darting out to shyly swipe over the seam of Yunho's mouth with an inquiring little hum — is this okay? Am I being good?
Zaps of electricity zing up his spine when his boyfriend immediately answers him by deepening the kiss. Tips of tongues touch, breaths mingle, heads tip sideways for better access. From here, Wooyoung gladly allows Yunho to take the reins — his own tongue is pliant, following Yunho's leading movements, tangling and curling and twisting in a gentle dance.
Yunho groans, licking into the younger's mouth, feeling him, tasting him.
“Good,” he breathes against Wooyoung's mouth, licking over the mole that decorates his precious baby’s bottom lip. “So good. You're so good.”
And Wooyoung soars, his chest no longer tight with rage but warm with pride and affection. The heat inside him flares brighter now, replacing the last remnants of earlier fury with something consuming yet safe. Instead of drowning in his feelings, he drowns in Yunho, the older boy omnipresent, his guidance wrapping around him like a weighted blanket.
He shifts again, more deliberately this time, their bodies sliding together, chest-to-chest, equally hard cocks brushing.
“O-oh,” Wooyoung stutters, half blissful sigh, half desperate whine. It comes out scratchy from not having used his vocal chords for so long, and the shell of his ears burn scarlet at how small he sounds, how tiny and vulnerable.
Yet he can't stop himself from rocking forward, seeking more of that delicious friction, again, again, again. He is dripping by now, his dick hard and aching while precum trickles from the tip as his foreskin moves back and forth over it, leaving a damp spot that blossoms into a bigger, wetter spot with each instinctive rut against Yunho.
He's too fuzzy to feel embarrassed by it. Too floaty. Open, exposed in a strangely safe way, his brain melting, every hum and caress and gasp from Yunho sending ripples through him like ink spreading in water.
Placing grounding kisses on Wooyoung's throat, Yunho lets him buck and rut and grind. But he adjusts the younger's rhythm slightly, guiding with that big hand solid on Wooyoung's waist, slowing him just enough, steadying him.
“Nice and slow,” he murmurs, smiling as Wooyoung decelerates under his gentle command. “Yeah, that's it. Perfect. Just let yourself feel it, let daddy take care of his little one.”
Under Wooyoung, Yunho rolls his own hips at a languid, lazy pace. He contracts the muscles of his tummy and pelvis to deliberately make his cock jump and twitch against Wooyoung's, heightening the pleasure a thousandfold.
Wooyoung is wet, so wet, his cock leaking within his sweats, his mouth drooling as it wraps around the plushie’s pink ear. He clutches Yoru to Yunho's pecs, petting the older boy with it. His movements grow more confident, his hips alternating between drawing circles and humping back and forth, functioning on complete autopilot and following whatever feels right, whatever makes them both chase the warmth building between them.
The suckling on the stuffie’s ear soon isn't enough anymore. His mouth feels empty, his tongue itches, his palms prickle. As the cloudy headspace settles in fully, thinning the walls inside his mind, he starts pawing at Yunho's flushed chest, soft whines and whimpers slipping out of him, needy and high-pitched.
Yunho coos at him, sensing exactly what Wooyoung craves, sagging down the headboard.
“Shh. I've got you,” he shushes, his voice deep and husky. “C'mere, settle against daddy's chest, kiddo.”
Wooyoung makes a small sound, equal parts desperate and thankful, relieved, almost. On pure instinct, Wooyoung's lips brush over heated skin, finding Yunho's nipple again. His breath comes quicker now, puffing hotly against the older boy's broad chest as he resumes his suckling, his eyes crossing and rolling back into his skull at the taste, the smell, Yunho, daddy, safety.
Above him, Yunho hisses in surprise at the collar’s cold bangle ghosting over his pecs as his boyfriend switches sides.
Wooyoung doesn't even register it.
He clings tighter, burrowing himself like a little prey animal seeking shelter from the rain, one hand trembling on Yunho's clothed shoulder, the other still gripping the plushie like a lifeline. His boyfriend's name burns on the tip of his lapping tongue, but it just won't come out. All he can do is moan and gasp and whine, his noises increasing in both pitch and volume, mingling seamlessly with Yunho's soft groans and heavy breathing.
The mean voices are gone, and now remains only warmth, praise. Pressure on his cock. Pleasure coursing through his veins. Smooth leather securely fastened around his throat. The steady cadence of Yunho’s voice anchoring him as he moves, small and needy and held.
Yunho threads his fingers through his hair, pulling him closer to his chest. Presses a kiss on top of his scalp and smiles.
“There you go. That's nice, hm?”
Wooyoung tries to answer him. Can't. Words are too difficult. Fluffy cotton has replaced his brain, and even held in Yunho's grounding embrace, he is floating high on the clouds.
He doesn't realize he's getting close until it's almost too much. The heat that has been building in his gut gradually starts to crest, turning bright and overwhelming. His thighs quiver, his dick won't stop throbbing and twitching in his damp sweatpants, his balls ache with the growing need to release, to let go.
It's different in this headspace, less sharp, less frantic. A tide pulling back before the wave, or like gently being carried toward something instead of frantically chasing it.
His rhythm stutters, getting choppy and uneven. With a mewl, muffled against Yunho's strong flushed chest where spit now dribbles in a steady stream, he ruts his cock down harder, seeking friction, seeking that last bit of release.
“I—” he tries, breaking off in a whine. “H-hnghh—”
“Yeah, I know kitten,” Yunho murmurs back, tone threaded with his own strain. “You're almost there. You're working so hard for me. Just a little bit more.”
His fingers tighten around Wooyoung's waist, in his hair. He doesn't harshly yank on the black locks, nor does he sink his nails into the golden skin — he just keeps that tender, firm hold, leading and steering, helping Wooyoung towards his peak.
“D-daddynghh—”
It's the only thing that manages to tear itself from Wooyoung's drooling mouth.
Yunho exhales shakily beneath the smaller, shivering boy, letting his own pleasure show in his voice.
“Good boy,” he groans. “Just like that. Fuck, you feel so good…”
Still attached to Yunho's chest, never seizing his suckling, Wooyoung locks his gaze with Yunho, looking up at him hopelessly lost, cheeks blotchy, eyes glassy and wet with fresh tears that gather on his lashlines, his black collar askew. He needs the eye-contact, the steadiness and comfort in those kind, brown eyes that always look at him with so much love and admiration, no matter how monstrous he feels.
His heart rattles against his ribcage, and he's panting, inhaling too much air for his lungs to take, hiccuping while three, four tears slipping free.
“That's right,” Yunho praises him with a breathy moan, wiping the salted beads away with the soft stuffie, not once taking his eyes off of Wooyoung. “Focus on me, okay? Only on me. Let it happen, little one. Let go for daddy.”
For what is either a heartbeat or an eternity, there's just exquisite sensation flowing through Wooyoung, pure bliss and ecstasy radiating outward to spread warmth through his limbs, through his spine, flowing inwards to fill up that terrible hollow void his anger has left. His awareness contracts to Yunho, only Yunho, to that one, single point of bright intensity before it fractures into blinding light.
And then it hits Wooyoung. The flaming ball in his lower tummy knots to its tightest, then unravels all at once, the intensity peaking. It's not explosive or wild like it normally is, but a dissolution, causing his entire shuddering frame to tense and then melt all at once. His hips stutter, his eyes cross. His cock ruts over Yunho's, pressing down hard twice, thrice, his orgasm washing over him in a serene surf.
Lips to Yunho's chest, gaze on Yunho's eyes, he empties himself with a high whine, more utter relief than anything else, cum splattering messily to coat his joggers in streaks of white.
The sight of the younger's face softening mid-peak, that ethereal expression of ultimate trust, vulnerability and bliss is more than enough for Yunho, who follows soon after. He goes rigid under Wooyoung, back arching off the mattress, reaching his own peak with a deep, satisfied groan. Wetness spreads between them, seeping through layers of clothes, bleeding together in a tacky mess of translucent white.
Everything is light. Quiet. A softened space where Wooyoung lingers, drifting. He is both heavy and weightless, floating on his back in open ocean. Distant yet present, his surroundings blurry and nebulous. The aftershocks fade slowly, rippling in diminishing swells. The undertow tugs at his center, pulling him deeper for just a little longer until tranquil waves carry him back to shore.
Wooyoung goes pliant in Yunho’s embrace, his exhausted body collapsing, his head dipping forward until his ear rests on his boyfriend’s chest. There, he hears his heartbeat. Thud—thud, thud—thud, thud—dud. A calming rhythm, a soothing sound. Wooyoung presses his stuffie against his nose, inhaling its scent while listening to the steady drum of Yunho’s heart.
Other than catching his breath, he does nothing. He is just… there. Small and held and safe. Little and taken care of. Right now, he doesn’t have to perform or mask, doesn’t have to clad himself in spikey armor and fight, doesn’t have to scream or brace or protect himself. He just simply exists for some time, with Yunho’s fingers combing through his hair, allowing the last of the storm to drain out of him.
Slowly but surely, his world widens again. Yunho’s bedroom gains back its dimensions. The TV hums. Air flowing from Yunho’s opened window blows over skin, soft and cooling. Awareness returns to Wooyoung, and he lets it happen.
He lifts his head from Yunho’s chest and blinks, dazed and a little out of it, his vision still dotted black at the edges. Yunho’s appears in tiny fragments — that post-orgasmic veil that he always wears so well having settled on his handsome features, the petal-pink flush draped over his sharp nose and high cheekbones. His heart-shaped, smiling lips. His kind, ever understanding, ever patient eyes.
“Hi, kitten,” Yunho whispers. He wipes some of Wooyoung’s spit away from the younger’s chin with his thumb, making a shushing noise before a flicker of shame even dares to flit through the other.
“There you are again. My pretty boy.”
Wooyoung’s voice is rough and raspy when he finally finds it to speak.
“H-hi,” he mutters sheepishly, managing a careful, wobbly smile. “‘m back, I think.”
“Mm, welcome back.”
Wooyoung lets Yunho maneuver him so that they’re both laying down. He drapes himself over Yunho's naked chest, too drowsy to notice the remains of his own spit on the warm skin or the sticky, cooling cum in his own sweats. He props Yoru up on Yunho's sternum, still petting the little plush kitten as his breathing evens out. Yunho's fingers sneak under the hem of Wooyoung's shirt, tracing lazy patterns up and down the younger's spine.
On the TV, the documentary has shifted from lush forests to ocean waves, rolling tides that feel like the gentle current Wooyoung is still floating on.
After a few minutes spent in comfortable silence where nothing exists but Wooyoung, Yunho, and the sounds of marine wildlife on the TV, the older boy presses a kiss to Wooyoung's hair.
“How’re you feeling, baby?”
Wooyoung takes some seconds to check. He expects to find sharp edges, shame, leftover anger bubbling to the surface again. Instead, he only finds bone-deep exhaustion.
“Tired,” he mumbles honestly. His voice still feels scratchy. “Very drained.”
Yunho hums in acknowledgement, nuzzling his nose in Wooyoung's hair. He is so warm against Wooyoung. So solid and real. Having him so close sparks the tiniest flicker of hope that he isn't going anywhere.
“But… calmer,” Wooyoung adds. “It's not so loud anymore.”
“That's good.”
Wooyoung swallows. Although there is no more all-or-nothing rage, there is still guilt. It creeps in softer than before, but still persistent, as it always does after an episode. After he has snapped, after he's needed too much. Even now, as their legs tangle together under the sheets when everything feels close and connected and right, the nagging voice hisses at him, scratching at the corners of his brain to be heard. Muted, muffled by the cotton having filled up his head, like someone is talking to him underwater, yet still there.
God, you're so exhausting. Yunho shouldn't have to deal with your bullshit, with your over the top emotions. With you clinging to him like a child. With you ruining his game.
His fingers tighten in Yunho's shirt.
“I—” he hesitates, pulls Yoru to his cheek, and then, quieter: “...I’m sorry, Yunnie.”
Yunho hugs him closer, tilts his head enough to look at him. He doesn't push, he just lets Wooyoung talk.
“For spiraling. For snapping at you, and—” Wooyoung gestures vaguely and sighs. “Y’know. All of this fucking mess.”
A thumb follows the smooth black leather of the collar. The pendant is warm from lingering heat as Yunho tenderly presses it into the hollow of Wooyoung's collarbones, the caress a token, a gentle reminder.
“You had a trigger,” Yunho simply answers. “You didn't choose to spiral, Wooyoungie. And you let me help you.”
Wooyoung blinks. Sometimes it just seems to come so easy for Yunho, saying something so effortless, so straightforward the younger hasn't thought about, reframing everything.
“You don't have to apologize for struggling,” Yunho continues. He brushes away some of the stubborn black locks that have fallen over Wooyoung's brow, leaning in to kiss his forehead. “Especially not if you stayed. You're growing, kitten. You're making so much progress, and I'm so proud of you.”
It's difficult to progress the genuine praise. Wooyoung immediately wants to protest and deflect as soon as the words leave his boyfriend's mouth.
You still spiral, even after having taken your meds, even after months of therapy, You're still this angry little child who gets upset by the smallest of things. You still think about harming either yourself or others. You've learned nothing after all. You—
Maybe, the rational voice in his head interrupts. It's just a whisper, yet Wooyoung can hear it loud and clear. But I try. I didn't sent a mean text back and I didn't do anything impulsive even though I wanted to. I didn’t block Sannie or Yeosangie. I didn't scream at Yunho or push him away. Years ago, I would have. But I tried not to, I tried to let Yunho in, and in the end, the situation didn't escalate. Even though it's hard, I still try. Maybe, just maybe, I am making progress after all.
Before Wooyoung can sink deeper into his contradicting thoughts, Yunho's phone buzzes where he has left it on his nightstand. He shifts slightly, glancing over at the wallpaper of him and Yunho’s first Valentine's Day together. Several messages on top light up the screen.
yeosangie <3
yunnie!! is woo with you?
nvm of course he is
my messages won't deliver to his phone :/
so i'm trying it this way
sannie is still feeling blegh but he doesn't look as sickly pale anymore
sannieee :3
happy to announce that the 3rd trip to the toilet was the last time!!
lol sorry for the TMI ^^”
but i do feel slightly better
me and sangie were wondering
does wooyoung wanna facetime 2nite?
or hop on discord?
feeling rly guilty that i had to cancel
we miss him sm T_T
yeosangie <3
we do :(
can u ask him for us?
hope he's okay
ofc you can join too if u want too!
sannieee :3
maybe we can all game together!!!! :D
been a while c:
yeosangie <3
ooo we can play mario party
if woo is also up for it ofc
let us know ^^
Wooyoung stares at the messages, rereads them, again and again, until the screen darkens. That tight, defensive part of him simply falters, not knowing what to do with this proof, this evidence that San still thinks of him despite having puked his guts out and Yeosang still missing him despite being busy with taking care of his sick boyfriend.
The messages are genuine, too sweet for the cruel voice in his head to argue with.
“They love you, Woo-ya,” Yunho says softly. “As do I.”
Something in Wooyoung’s chest loosens so fast it almost hurts. It’s a good kind of ache, a tingle of fragile relief blooming under his ribs, the delicate confirmation of being wanted, of being loved.
His vision blurs as he keeps staring at Yunho’s phone on the nightstand, more tears prickling on his waterlines. He sniffles, scrubbing his eyes with a fragile smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Let’s text them back after our shower,” Yunho suggests. “Is that okay, darling?”
“Yeah,” mumbles Wooyoung. He cranes his neck so he can look at him before nuzzling his nose in the space between Yunho's flank and armpit, inhaling the comforting scent there.
“But you want to stay here a little longer, don't you?”
Wooyoung blushes, nodding and burrowing himself deeper.
“...Yeah. Can I?”
His boyfriend chuckles, endeared, ruffling Wooyoung's hair.
“Of course you can, you little snugglebug.”
With a content hum, Wooyoung nestles closer. He feels calmer now, lighter. Less coiled, less on guard. His breathing is deeper, his muscles, despite still being sore from holding tight to that terrible anger, aren’t braced for the next emotional drop anymore.
The world feels less hostile, less precarious. He wouldn't exactly call it peaceful, more of a truce, as though the battle in his head has been ceased momentarily by waving a white flag.
Still, some silent tears escape him, as he shakily exhales and lays his head back on Yunho's chest. It always happens after scenes, as if his body is trying to force the last slivers of frustration out to bring him back to a cleansed state. The droplets drip from the corner of one eye, sliding over his nose before they crash onto Yunho's warm pecs.
Yunho carefully dabs his tears away with the belly of the cat plushie, and Wooyoung grimaces in both sympathy and disgust.
“He needs a bath,” he mutters, half-laughing under his breath. “Look at the poor thing. There’s snot and drool all over him.”
Yunho laughs.
“It’s just tears. Just a bit of water. Nothing he can’t handle, hm? He’s brave and strong, just like you.”
He lets Yoru walk from Wooyoung’s tummy to his collarbones, imitating a little meow and a purr while making the stuffie paw at Wooyoung’s collar.
“You can shower with us,” Yunho says to the stuffed cat, “we’ll make you smell like cookies and vanilla from Youngie’s delicious body wash.”
A questioning mrow? This time.
“Oh, you want my body wash? So you smell like me? Hm, you're just like your owner…”
Yunho turns Yoru’s head towards him and makes the plushie triumphantly nod its head. Then there's another soft meow, followed by an exaggerated purring noise as Yunho lets the plushie happily vibrate against Wooyoung's cheek.
Wooyoung can't help but giggle through his tears.
“You're ridiculous.”
“But you're smiling again,” Yunho counters with a fond grin of his own. He bends forwards to brush his lips over Wooyoung's, tucking a stubborn lock of black hair behind the younger's ear. “And it's the prettiest sight in the world, kitten.”
Wooyoung leans his forehead against Yunho's, closing his eyes, basking in the comfortable quiet, the way those big hands cup his jaw to kiss him tenderly. Yoru's fur is fluffy under his palm as he absentmindedly brushes its fur, and a heartbeat of silence passes before Yunho speaks again.
“I'll pick you up after therapy on Monday, by the way.”
Wooyoung pauses his stroking, his fingers hovering above the cat stuffie.
“Huh? But you have work on Monday—”
“I'll leave a little early.”
Placing Yoru on the bed, Wooyoung props himself up, folding himself into a comfortable position with his legs folded criss-cross applesauce under him. He frowns at Yunho.
Needing things, especially repeatedly, still makes him uneasy. There is always that background fear that love has a limit, that every accommodation is a tally mark somewhere. That one day the total will be too high, and Yunho will give up on him.
“Yuyu, you don't have to—”
Yunho's answer comes simple and immediate.
“You’re right, I don't have to. But I want to.”
There's no hesitation as Wooyoung searches his face, nor is there obligation or annoyance. The older boy simply smiles at him and cradles his jaw with a big, warm hand that is irresistible not to nuzzle against.
“You always feel kind of wrung out after sessions. So I figured it’d be nice if you didn't have to commute alone.”
He shrugs, like it's the simplest thing in the world.
The words hit somewhere deep, settling comfortably next to the reassurance of his best friend, warming his very core. It's not even dramatic or grand in theory, but to Wooyoung, it is. Effortlessly, undemandingly, Yunho expands the space Wooyoung is terrified of taking up too much, without further ado, without a hitch. Without even thinking about it.
After years of being together, Wooyoung knows Yunho isn't the type of person to do this out of obligation or management, or because he thinks Wooyoung is fragile and needs to be managed.
He doesn't have to do all this — quitting his game, holding Wooyoung through his spiral of rage and fury, taking care of him in a way only he can, and yet he still does. He is doing it because it makes sense for him to show up for Wooyoung like this. Like Wooyoung deserves it. Like he chooses Wooyoung, despite the younger boy's ugly flaws and stupid angry thoughts and the hideous cracks in his heart left there by both himself and other.
Wooyoung bites his bottom lip. His eyes are still watery as he looks at his boyfriend.
“You really don't mind…?” he asks with a small voice.
Yunho’s expression softens as though that’s the silliest question he has ever heard.
“I love you,” he says simply. “Why would I mind?”
It sinks in without resistance.
Overwhelmed with affection, Wooyoung surges up to wrap his arms around Yunho's neck, pulling him in for another hug, squeezing the other boy so close to his body he can barely breathe.
“I love you too, Yunnie,” he mumbles back. “So much.”
It’s not a permanent cure. Wooyoung knows that. He knows the patterns will flare again someday when he least expects it, knows there are unavoidable triggers that will hurt him and cause him to lash out. He knows he will doubt his friends’ and Yunho's love for him again, he knows the cruel voice won't be muted forever.
But with the gentle narration on the TV, his stuffie watching them hug, the grounding collar around his throat and the slow, soothing strokes of Yunho's hands on his back, the world feels steady again. It's not perfect, but stable, secure, safe.
And for now, that's more than enough.