GAYEST THINGS (MALE READER)

cheesiest_keyk on AO3 IT'S EITHER MLM OR GN (BUT IN MLM POV SORRY 🥹)

[apieceofcheezzeecake]

MASTERLIST

ATEEZ · BTOB · BTS · BOYNEXTDOOR · ENHYPEN · EXO · GOT7 · KHH · NCT · P1HARMONY · SHINEE · STRAYKIDS · SEVENTEEN · TOMORROW BY TOGETHER

ATEEZ

Kim Hongjoong

Blue Noise

Lines We Cross, Lines We Draw — smut

Song Mingi

Eyelocks and Giggles — Valentines Series

Park Seonghwa

Baby

BTOB

Im Hyunsik

Vanilla Ice Cream — Valentines Series

BTS

Kim Taehyung

Midnight Laughter — bibingka series

Park Jimin

Tender Is The Act

Min Yoongi

Every Smiles Of Yours — Valentines Series

JEON JUNGKOOK

After The Smoke

BOYNEXTDOOR

Leehan × Taesan

Feast, Fish, Fireworks, You

ENHYPEN

Jake Sim

Ghost of Us — top song series

Park Sunghoon

All My Heart Is Yours — Valentines Series

EXO

Do Kyungsoo

Things That Melt, Things That Stay

Park Chanyeol x Byun Baekhyun

Creep

GOT7

Park Jinyoung

Prayer — bibingka series

Jackson Wang

Coffee and Milk - top song

KHH

Choi "Khakii" Heetae

The Decision That Was Mine

NCT

Lee Taeyong

Diary

Jung Jaehyun

Nine Nights to Redemption — bibingka series

Mark Lee

At dawn, we questioned quietly — bibingka series

Johnny Suh

Notes Left On My Desk — Valentines Series

Lee Jeno

Nap And Bouquet — Valentines Series

Na Jaemin

Latte And Late Night Talks — Valentines Series

Liu YangYang

My Cat Missed You, Apparently

P1HARMONY

Hwang Intak

In Your Arms — Valentines Series

Yoon Keeho

You, That I Worship

SHINEE

Lee Taemin

Guilty

STRAYKIDS

Lee Felix

Nine nights, Then You — bibingka series

Yang Jeongin

Warmth between hymns — bibingka series

Kim Seungmin

Tangerine Sunset — Valentines Series

SEVENTEEN

Seventeen series:

When Seoul Turn Around - University Series (AU)

Kim Mingyu

Three wishes, One answer — bibingka series

Joshua Hong

What began beneath the pakuhan tree — bibingka series

Yoon Jeonghan

Heartbeat — top song series

Lee Jihoon

My Dearest, Star — top song series

Choi Seungcheol

Sinfully Yours This Valentines — Valentines series

Wen Junhui x Xu Minghao

Red Blooms In Winter

TOMORROW BY TOGETHER

Kang Taehyun

Breathing in Your Name — top song series

Choi Soobin

Courage — bibingka series

one shots unless stated · series are linked per chapter.

I’m taking story requests! 💌

[apieceofcheezzeecake]

YOU, THAT I WORSHIP

PAIRING: Yoon Keeho x Male Reader

RATING: 18 and up

WARNING: implicit sexual cotent, intense intimacy, religious imagery, and mature tone.

WORD COUNT: 818

Keeho doesn’t ask permission when he pulls you closer.

Not because he assumes—but because he already knows. You’re standing there, eyes dark, mouth parted like you’ve been holding back a confession too long. The space between you is thin as a lie, charged with the low hum of a distant city and the scent of ozone from a storm that hasn’t broken yet. The air is heavy, clinging to your skin like a promise.

“If this ruins me,” he says quietly, fingers hooking into your belt like an oath, the cool metal of his buckle a stark contrast to the heat of his knuckles, “don’t stop me.”

You swallow, the sound loud in the sudden stillness. “You’re shaking.”

He laughs under his breath, a warm puff of air against your cheek. “That’s the faith leaving my body.”

No masters or kings.

Your back hits the wall—not hard, just deliberate. The kind of pressure that says stay. The plaster is cool and solid through the thin fabric of your shirt, a grounding point in the chaos. His body cages you in, heat and intention, his voice low enough to feel rather than hear.

“When the ritual begins,” he murmurs, “they expect blood.”

His mouth traces your jaw, slow, reverent. Not kissing yet. The rough scrape of his evening stubble is a delicious friction against your skin, a prelude that makes your nerves hum. Testing restraint like a sin he’s about to commit.

“I prefer breath.”

There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin.

When he finally kisses you, it’s deep—unapologetic. Not frantic, but hungry in a way that’s been denied too long. He tastes of mint and something darker, like coffee and longing. Like he’s been fasting and you’re the first thing he’s allowed to taste.

You make a sound before you can stop yourself, a soft, helpless noise that’s swallowed by his mouth.

Keeho freezes just long enough to smile against your mouth, the curve of his lips a brand against yours.

“That,” he says softly, “is the sound they warned me about.”

Your hands slide into his hair, ruining it, grounding him. The strands are surprisingly soft, silken between your fingers. “Then why are you smiling?”

“Because if this is what damns me,” he whispers, lips brushing yours again, a feather-light touch that’s more intimate than the kiss itself, “I’ve never felt so saved.”

In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene, his hands roam—slow, deliberate—learning you like scripture rewritten. His palms are warm as they map the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, each touch a question with only one acceptable answer. Every touch is a question with only one acceptable answer.

Your breath stutters. “Keeho…”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide, swallowing the color of his irises. Eyes dark, earnest, dangerous—like he’s standing at the edge of something irreversible.

“Say stop,” he says. “And I’ll kneel.”

You don’t.

Instead, you cup his face, thumbs brushing beneath his eyes like you’re blessing him—or condemning him. You can feel the faint, frantic thrum of his pulse against your fingertips.

Your voice doesn’t shake.

“Your name is my religion,” you say quietly.

“Your body is the only thing I worship.”

“And your words are the only thing I follow.”

For a moment, Keeho forgets how to breathe.

Only then I am human.

His forehead falls against yours, a broken sound leaving his chest—not laughter, not tears, but something undone. The sound is raw, caught in the space where your breath mingles.

“Then we’re both damned,” he whispers.

His mouth finds your throat, your collarbone, reverent as worship, desperate as hunger. Each press of his lips is a new point of heat, a slow burn against your skin that feels both like a surrender and a conquest. Each kiss feels like defiance—soft, deliberate blasphemy.

“If kissing you costs me my life,” he says against your skin, voice rough now, stripped bare, the vibration of his words sinking deep into your bones, “then let them sharpen the blade.”

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, the firm muscle beneath his shirt a tangible anchor. “You’d really give it up?”

He lifts his head, eyes locked on yours.

“For you?” A breath. A truth.

“I’d offer it gladly.”

Only then I am clean.

Because this, this choosing, is the first commandment either of you has ever believed in.

He presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard, undone. The world narrows to this single point of contact, to the ragged sound of his breathing and the frantic beat of your own heart.

“Ooh… amen,” he whispers—not as surrender, but as vow.

You kiss him again—deeper, slower—like sealing scripture written in skin instead of ink. It’s a kiss that feels like an ending and a beginning, all at once.

Not asking for forgiveness.

Not seeking heaven.

Just choosing each other.

Amen.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: THERE'S ACTUALLY LOT OF DRAFTS STORY ON MY NOTE BUT I AM TOO BUSY TO POST IT, SO SORRY FOR DELAYED UPDATES AND SUCH

[apieceofcheezzeecake]

After The Smoke

PAIRING: Jeon Jungkook x Male Choreographer Reader

RATING: 18 and up

WARNING: smoking, mention of stress/anxiety, and panic attack

WORD COUNT: 2,066

The studio smells like sweat, rubber flooring, and stress.

You’ve been pacing near the mirrors for ten minutes now, hand dipping into your pocket out of pure muscle memory— Empty. Again.

Your vape is gone.

Not misplaced, not probably in your bag gone. Gone-gone.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, dragging a hand through your hair. Rehearsals have been brutal today—timing off, bodies exhausted, Jungkook pushing harder than usual, perfection etched into every sharp count. You can feel the pressure buzzing under your skin, restless and loud.

You don’t usually smoke cigarettes. You don’t like them.

But right now, you need something.

You scan the room and spot one of the backup dancers stretching near the wall. You hesitate—pride, nerves, whatever—but the tension wins.

“Hey,” you say quietly, clearing your throat. “Uh… you wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you?”

They raise a brow, amused, but shrug and pull out a pack. “Yeah. Just one?”

“Yeah. Thanks,” you exhale, relief washing over you as they pass it over.

The smoking area is dimmer, tucked behind the building where the noise dulls and the air feels heavier. You step outside, lean against the wall, cigarette unlit between your fingers.

And then— You see him.

Jeon Jungkook stands a few feet away, hoodie pulled low, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette like it’s second nature. The glow at the tip flares briefly as he inhales, cheeks hollowing slightly, eyes unfocused in that familiar post-rehearsal daze.

Your stomach drops. Of course he’s here.

You’ve choreographed with him for months now—countless hours side by side, hands brushing, eyes meeting in mirrors—but conversations always stay professional. Polite. Safe. And yet, every time, there’s that pull. That quiet awareness you try not to think about.

You freeze. He hasn’t noticed you yet.

Your heart starts pounding harder than the bass from inside the studio. You glance down at the cigarette in your hand, then back up at him. The stupidest thought crosses your mind: You don’t even have a lighter.

You could leave. You should leave.

Instead, your feet move before your brain can catch up. “Um—” Your voice cracks.

Jungkook looks over.

For a split second, surprise flickers across his face. Then recognition. Then something softer, unreadable. “Hey,” he says, low, casual. “You okay?”

You nod too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, just—” You lift the cigarette awkwardly. “Do you, uh… have a lighter?”

Your hands betray you.

They shake. Not violently, but enough that you notice—and worse, enough that he notices.

Jungkook’s gaze drops to your fingers. His brows knit slightly, concern slipping through his usual calm mask. He steps closer without thinking, close enough that you can smell smoke and faint laundry detergent.

“Here,” he says gently, pulling out his lighter.

When he flicks it on, the flame dances between you, warm and steady. You lean in to light your cigarette, but your hands tremble again, and the tip misses the flame.

“Sorry,” you mumble, embarrassment flooding your chest. “I don’t usually—”

“I know,” he interrupts softly.

You glance up, startled. His eyes meet yours. There’s a small smile on his lips—not teasing, not amused. Just… kind. “You vape,” he adds. “I’ve seen.”

Your ears burn. “Yeah. Lost it today.”

“That sucks,” he says, genuinely.

He holds the lighter a little closer this time, steadying it. You manage to light the cigarette, inhale carefully, cough a little, and laugh at yourself.

“Yeah, okay. I still hate these.”

Jungkook chuckles under his breath. “They’re not great.”

Silence settles between you—not awkward this time. Just quiet. Comfortable. The city hums faintly beyond the alley.

After a moment, he speaks again. “You looked really stressed in there,” he says. “I was, too.”

You nod, exhaling smoke slowly. “Yeah. Guess we both needed air.”

His gaze lingers on you, thoughtful.

“Next time,” he says, almost casually, “you can just ask me. You don’t have to be nervous.”

Your heart skips. You swallow, fingers tightening slightly around the cigarette. “Was it that obvious?”

He smiles—small, warm, real. “A little.”

And somehow, standing there beside him, hands still faintly shaking, you don’t feel embarrassed anymore.

Just seen.

A year in, you’ve learned the shape of Jungkook’s habits.

The way he kicks off his shoes without looking. How his backpack always ends up half-unzipped, spilling choreography notes, spare hoodies, tangled wires. The way he hums under his breath when he’s relaxed—soft, absent, safe.

Tonight feels like that kind of night.

No tension. No pressure. Just the two of you moving around the apartment in quiet sync, post-rehearsal exhaustion settling in. Jungkook showers while you stretch on the floor, answering emails, mentally revising counts for tomorrow.

You feel… calm.

That’s why you don’t think twice when your phone buzzes and dies at the same time.

“Shit,” you mumble, tapping the dark screen. You glance toward the bathroom door. “Kook, can I steal your charger?”

“Yeah,” he calls easily over the sound of running water. “In my bag.”

You don’t mean to find it.

That’s the worst part.

Jungkook’s backpack is slung over the chair, half-unzipped like it always is. You’re just looking for his charger—yours died, his phone is closer, routine muscle memory guiding your hands.

Your fingers brush against cardboard.

You freeze.

Slowly, like your body already knows what your brain doesn’t want to accept, you pull it out.

A cigarette pack. Half full.

Your chest tightens, sharp and sudden, like you forgot how to breathe properly.

When Jungkook comes out of the shower, hair damp, hoodie already tugged on, he stops short when he sees you sitting on the edge of the bed. The pack rests in your hands, unopened, untouched.

But heavy.

“…Hey,” he says carefully.

You look up. You’re not angry. That might be what scares him most.

“You promised,” you say quietly.

The words aren’t sharp. They don’t accuse. They just exist between you.

Jungkook swallows. “I know,” he replies. His voice is low. “I was going to tell you.”

“When?” you ask, soft. “After you finished them?”

He flinches. Just a little.

Silence stretches. The room feels too still, like it’s waiting.

“I didn’t smoke today,” he says quickly, then slower, more honest, “I haven’t in three days.”

You nod. “But you brought them with you.”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I panicked.”

That makes you look at him again.

“About what?”

“About failing,” he admits. “About needing it. About you looking at me like I broke something.”

Your grip tightens around the pack, then loosens. You set it down on the bed between you, like it might bite.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” you say. Your voice wavers despite your best effort. “I just need you to not lie to me. Even by omission.”

Jungkook steps closer, slow, like approaching a skittish animal.

“I wasn’t trying to hide it from you,” he says. “I was trying to hide it from myself.”

That lands.

You close your eyes briefly, breathing in, grounding yourself the way he taught you.

“I lost my vape again last week,” you admit quietly.

His brows knit together. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I know,” you say. “Because I was embarrassed. Because I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t handle stress without it.”

Your eyes meet his. “That’s what this feels like,” you continue. “Like you didn’t trust me with the ugly part.”

Jungkook’s shoulders drop. “I’m sorry,” he says, immediately. No excuses. No defensiveness. Just truth. “I should’ve told you the moment I bought them. I didn’t smoke them because… every time I thought about it, I thought about you finding out.”

Your throat tightens. “That’s not quitting,” you say gently. “That’s just delaying.”

He nods. “I know.”

Another beat of silence. Then Jungkook reaches out—not for you, but for the pack. He holds it for a second, staring at it like it’s heavier than it should be.

Then he hands it to you. “I don’t want this to be something between us,” he says. “Not again. If I slip, I want it to be with you knowing. And if I quit—” his voice softens, “—I want it to be because I chose us every day, not because I was scared.”

Your chest aches in that familiar, tender way.

You stand, closing the distance between you. You don’t take the pack. Instead, you wrap your arms around his waist, pressing your forehead into his chest.

He exhales shakily and holds you like he’s been waiting to breathe.

“I’m not leaving,” you murmur. “I just needed you to be honest.”

“I promise,” he says immediately, voice thick. “No more hiding. If I struggle, you’ll know. And if I quit—” he presses a kiss into your hair, “—I’ll quit out loud.”

You nod, squeezing him tighter.

Later, the pack ends up in the trash. Not dramatically. Not ceremoniously. Just… gone.

And when Jungkook curls around you in bed, fingers tracing slow patterns into your arm, he whispers—

“Thank you for staying soft with me.”

You turn, kiss him once, slow and sure.

“Always,” you say. “Just don’t make me find surprises in your backpack again.”

He laughs quietly, relief threaded through it.

“Deal.”

And this time, the promise feels real.

Another year later, things are… different.

Better. Softer. Real.

You don’t meet Jungkook in the smoking area anymore—because there isn’t one for the two of you now. The spot behind the building is just concrete and quiet air, stripped of old habits.

Jungkook quit smoking six months ago.

Not all at once. Not easily. You remember the nights he’d pace your apartment balcony, jaw tight, fingers restless, breathing through it while you sat nearby, grounding him with touch instead of lectures. He never asked you to quit vaping—but you cut back anyway, instinctively, like your bodies had learned how to move toward the same rhythm.

Tonight, rehearsal runs late again.

Some things never change.

You’re packing up your bag when that familiar itch crawls up your spine. Muscle memory kicks in. You reach for your pocket.

Nothing.

You freeze.

“No,” you mutter, checking the other pocket. Your bag. The side pouch. The floor. “No, no, no…”

Jungkook looks up from tying his shoes. “What?”

“My vape,” you say, already spiraling. “I had it during break, I swear—”

You feel stupid the second the stress spikes. It’s not a big deal. You know that. But your body doesn’t. A long day, tight deadlines, the pressure of leading choreography for his upcoming stage—it all stacks until it’s buzzing under your skin.

Jungkook stands, immediately alert.

“Hey,” he says gently, crossing the room. “It’s okay.”

You huff out a breath. “I know. I just—damn it. I really wanted one right now.”

For a split second, you worry. Old habits. Old ghosts.

Instead, Jungkook reaches for your hands.

They’re shaking.

He rubs slow circles into your knuckles, grounding, familiar. “Come outside with me.”

The night air is cool, clean. No smoke. No haze. Just the city breathing around you. You lean against the wall, frustrated, jaw tight.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “I don’t want to trigger anything for you.”

Jungkook snorts softly. “You’re not my trigger.”

He steps closer, foreheads almost touching. “Stress is.”

That makes your chest ache—in a good way.

“You know,” he continues, quieter now, “a year ago, if you’d lost your vape, I would’ve offered you a cigarette.”

You laugh under your breath. “And I would’ve hated it.”

“And my lighter,” he adds, smiling faintly. “Your hands were shaking so bad.”

You groan. “Please don’t remind me.”

But his thumb lifts your chin gently, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“I liked that,” he says. “Not the shaking. The fact that you still asked. Even when you were embarrassed.”

You swallow.

“I quit because I didn’t want you worrying about me,” he admits. “And because… I didn’t want the thing we shared to be smoke.”

Your throat tightens.

“So what do we do now?” you ask quietly. “No vape. No cigarettes.”

Jungkook leans in, brushing a kiss against your temple. Soft. Unrushed.

“We breathe,” he says. “We go home. I make tea. You complain about choreography counts. I listen.”

You exhale slow, deep.

Your hands are steady. “Yeah,” you say. “That sounds better.”

As you walk back inside together, fingers laced, you realize something

You didn’t need the vape after all.

You already learned how to let the stress out.

Through him.

[apieceofcheezzeecake]

Red Blooms In Winter

PAIRING: Wen Junhui x Xu Minghao

RATING: General Audience

WARNING: none

WORD COUNT: 1,414

They broke up quietly. No fight. No shouting. No dramatic last words.

Just a long silence that stretched between two cities — one in the cold north, the other wrapped in the soft humidity of the south.

They had been university students then — sharing late-night noodles, library tables, studio practice rooms, and the kind of love that felt like it grew naturally, like breathing. But life kept pulling at them — schedules, distance, expectations, the fear of choosing each other too early… or too completely.

So they stopped.

They still followed each other online. Still knew when the other cut their hair. Still noticed when a post sounded lonely.

But they never spoke.

At 11:48 PM, his phone buzzed.

Jun: Happy Chinese New Year. I hope you eat well tonight.

That was all.

Simple. Careful. Polite.

Minghao stared at the message so long the fireworks outside his window blurred into streaks of gold. His parents were laughing in the living room, wrapping dumplings, arguing about whether more vinegar was needed.

He typed a reply. Deleted it. Typed again.

Minghao: You too. Don’t forget to sleep after midnight.

He almost added I miss you.

He didn’t.

Breakfast was loud — chopsticks clinking, TV blaring festival shows, relatives calling nonstop.

Then his mother asked casually while pouring tea:

“Did you greet Jun? He must be alone in the south. That boy always felt like another son.”

Minghao froze.

His father nodded. “You two used to talk every day. Why so quiet now? Busy with studies?”

Just friends. That’s what their parents believed. Just very close friends from university.

He swallowed. “Yeah… busy.”

But something twisted inside his chest.

Far away in the south, Jun was hearing the same thing.

His mother is arranging oranges on the table. His father hung red decorations on the door.

“So,” his mother said gently, “did Minghao reply to your greeting?”

Jun looked down at his bowl.

“He did.”

His father smiled. “Good. Friendship that lasts is rare. Invite him to visit someday. Festivals shouldn’t be spent apart from people who matter.”

Jun laughed softly — but his hands trembled slightly around his chopsticks.

The conversation didn’t end with greetings.

It became a small update.

How’s your semester? Did you finish that art project? Are you still drinking coffee at 2 AM?

Careful at first. Then warmer.

Then natural.

Like no time had passed at all.

Three days later, Minghao booked a train ticket south.

He didn’t tell Jun.

He told himself it was just a holiday visit. Just what their parents wanted. Just friendship.

But he packed carefully. Chose his coat twice. Bought fresh red flowers at the station — peonies, blooming wide and bright.

In Chinese tradition, red flowers during the New Year symbolize renewal, good fortune… and love that thrives even after winter.

He told the florist, “They must survive to travel.”

She smiled knowingly.

The air grew warmer the farther he traveled. Snow disappeared. The sky softened. The scent of citrus trees drifted through open windows near the station.

Jun opened his door expecting a delivery package.

Instead, Minghao stood there — wind-tousled hair, red peonies in hand, breath slightly uneven from the long journey.

For three full seconds, neither spoke.

Then Jun whispered, “You came all this way… just to visit?”

Minghao held out the flowers.

“They’re supposed to bring luck for the new year.”

Jun took them slowly.

Their fingers brushed.

Neither let go immediately.

They spent the next days exactly how their parents imagined — like close friends reuniting for the holidays.

Eating too much. Being teased by relatives. Watching festival shows side by side on the couch. Sleeping in separate guest rooms.

But at night, when everyone else slept, they walked outside beneath red lanterns swaying in the warm southern breeze.

They talked about everything they avoided for a year.

Fear of distance. Fear of choosing wrong. Fear of wanting too much.

Jun admitted softly, “When my parents asked about you… it felt like losing you all over again.”

Minghao replied, voice barely above a whisper, “Mine still think you’re part of the family.”

Silence stretched between them — but this time it wasn’t empty.

It was full. Heavy. Waiting.

On the final night of the New Year celebrations, Jun placed the peonies in a porcelain vase near his window.

“They lasted,” he said quietly.

Minghao stood beside him. “They’re meant to.”

Jun turned.

“What if… we try again?”

No promises about forever. No dramatic declarations.

Just a quiet question — like their beginning.

Minghao looked at the red petals, bright even in dim light.

“In the new year,” he said slowly, “people say everything can start fresh.”

He reached out — this time not hesitating.

Their fingers intertwined naturally, like memory guiding them.

Outside, fireworks burst across the sky.

Inside, the red flowers bloomed fully open.

Winter has ended. And something they thought had faded… had only been waiting for spring.

A week after the southern celebrations ended, they traveled again.

This time — north.

The air turned colder with every passing station. Jun watched frost gather at the window while Minghao dozed beside him, scarf pulled high over his nose. The landscape shifted from soft greens to pale winter fields, quiet and wide.

“Are you nervous?” Jun asked softly.

Minghao didn’t open his eyes. “My parents already love you.”

That did not help.

The house smelled like ginger, steamed buns, and something slowly simmering in a clay pot.

Minghao’s mother hugged Jun the moment he stepped inside.

“You’ve gotten thinner! University life is too hard on you boys.”

Jun tried to protest but was immediately handed warm tea.

Minghao’s father was quieter — observant. The kind of man who spoke little but noticed everything.

He studied Jun for a long moment… then nodded once.

“Long journey,” he said simply.

Jun bowed slightly. “Yes, Uncle.”

“Good. Sit. Eat first.”

Dinner was loud, comforting, full of overlapping conversations. Minghao’s childhood stories were exposed without mercy.

Jun laughed more than he expected to.

At one point, Minghao’s father refilled Jun’s bowl personally — twice. Minghao raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

It felt… strangely like being evaluated. But not judged.

Measured. Considered.

Accepted — slowly.

After dinner, Minghao’s father stood and walked to a cabinet near the wall. He returned with two red envelopes.

Deep red. Heavy paper. Gold characters pressed neatly across the front.

He handed the first to Minghao.

“For stability this year. Work hard. Take care of yourself.”

Minghao accepted respectfully with both hands. “Thank you, Dad.”

Then his father turned to Jun.

“And for you.”

Jun blinked. “Uncle… you don’t have to—”

“You came far from the south,” Minghao’s father said calmly. “Take it.”

Jun accepted, slightly flustered.

They didn’t open them until later — sitting on Minghao’s childhood bed, surrounded by shelves of old sketchbooks and trophies.

Minghao opened his first.

Normal amount. Expected.

Jun opened his. He froze.

“…Minghao.”

Minghao leaned over.

Silence.

They counted once. Then again.

Jun’s envelope held twice the amount Minghao received.

Minghao blinked slowly. “…That’s not right.”

Jun swallowed. “Maybe he mixed them up?”

They stared at each other — then immediately went back to the living room.

“Uncle,” Jun said politely, holding both envelopes carefully, “I think there’s a mistake.”

Minghao’s father looked up from peeling an orange.

“No mistake.”

Jun hesitated. “Mine has more than Minghao’s.”

“Yes.”

Minghao frowned slightly. “Dad…”

His father placed the orange slices neatly on a plate before speaking.

“You traveled the farthest.”

Jun shook his head gently. “But he’s your son.”

Minghao’s father finally met Jun’s eyes.

His voice was calm. Certain.

“My son comes home because it is natural.”

A pause.

“You came because you chose to.”

The room went very quiet.

Minghao’s mother smiled softly but said nothing.

His father continued, tone steady:

“People who willingly cross distance to stay beside someone… should receive more blessing for the year ahead.”

Jun felt his chest tighten unexpectedly.

Minghao looked down, ears turning red.

Snow fell lightly outside Minghao’s window.

Jun turned the red envelope over in his hands. “Your father… he knows something.”

Minghao lay beside him, staring at the ceiling.

“He always does.”

Jun hesitated. “Is he… okay with it?”

Minghao was quiet for a long time.

Then he whispered: “He gave you double.”

Jun didn’t respond.

Their hands slowly found each other between them — warm against the cold northern air.

Outside, snow settled softly over the quiet streets.

Inside, without a single direct question… without a single confession spoken aloud…

They had been seen. And gently, silently… blessed. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Happy Chinese New Year Wishing all of you a prosperous year ahead, may it be filled with happiness, good health, growth, and countless new beginnings. May this year bring you the courage to chase what you love and the warmth to cherish what you already have. And thank you so, so much… we reached 1000 likes 🥹 I’m truly grateful for every single one of you who reads, supports with my stories.

[apieceofcheezzeecake]

When Seoul Turn Around

SEVENTEEN AU: UNIVERSITY SERIES

Pairing: Seventeen x Male Original Character

rating: Teen and Up

Chapter 5.2/6

word count: 3,611

The morning sunlight spilled through the blinds, striping Yoonjae’s apartment with gold. Joshua shuffled in from the bedroom, hair still damp from the shower, slippers scuffing lightly against the wooden floor.

“Coffee?” Yoonjae called from the kitchen, where he was juggling two mugs and a small frosted French press.

“Please,” Joshua said, stretching. He leaned against the counter, watching Yoonjae move with that effortless precision he always admired—the same care he gave to his designs, now applied to coffee grounds and hot water.

They sipped quietly, the only sounds the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional chirp from Yoonjae’s cat, Mochi, who had claimed the sunniest spot on the windowsill. Joshua crouched to scratch behind Mochi’s ears, and the cat purred loud enough to almost drown out Yoonjae’s humming from the kitchen.

“I could watch you do that all day,” Joshua said, smiling as Mochi rolled onto his back, paws twitching.

“Do what?” Yoonjae asked, glancing over.

“Whatever you do,” Joshua said casually. “Even washing a cat looks… impressive.”

Yoonjae rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched. “Don’t let him get too spoiled.” He turned back to the stove, flipping eggs with care.

Breakfast done, the pair moved into quieter work. Joshua pulled out his notebook and laptop. “I have this international business paper due,” he said, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Can you help me check citations?”

Yoonjae grabbed a pen, leaning over. “Sure, let’s make it look like it actually makes sense.”

Minutes passed in a comfortable rhythm—typing, muttering over formulas, Joshua occasionally reading sentences aloud in a mix of Korean and English, Yoonjae correcting or adding notes. Mochi twitched on the windowsill, occasionally batting at Joshua’s pen when it rolled too close.

Later, Joshua fetched a small basin. “Time for your bath,” he said, holding Mochi carefully. Yoonjae peeked over the laptop. “I swear he’s plotting revenge for this.”

Joshua laughed, the kind of soft laugh that made Yoonjae pause mid-sentence. “Worth it. He’s cute. And clean cats are happier cats.”

By evening, they had moved to the balcony, laptops open, sipping tea. Joshua scrolled through designs for a group project, Yoonjae reviewing the business plan draft he’d been tweaking all week. Occasionally, they exchanged tips or pointed at something on the screen.

Somewhere between international business papers and cat hair, the apartment felt less like a place to crash and more like home.

Joshua leaned back, looking at Yoonjae. “You know, we could do this every day. Work, cats, coffee… maybe some cooking disasters.”

Yoonjae smirked, closing his laptop. “I’d survive it… as long as you don’t burn the kitchen down.”

Joshua laughed. Mochi purred. And for a little while, the world outside could wait.

─────────────────────────────

The Lee family dining table is longer than Soonyoung expected.

Not intimidating—just… serious. Polished wood, neatly arranged dishes, the kind of table where you sit up straight without being told. Soonyoung smooths his pants under the table and smiles for what feels like the hundredth time.

Haemin sits beside him, calm as ever, knee bumping his under the table like a quiet anchor.

“So,” Haemin’s mother begins, smiling kindly but with sharp curiosity, “Soonyoung, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says immediately. Too soon.

Haemin’s father folds his hands. “Dance major?”

“Yes, sir. Contemporary and performance track.”

“And you plan to make a career out of it?” his mother asks.

Soonyoung nods, earnest. “Yes. I’m already doing projects, performances—teaching when I can. I know it’s unstable, but I’m serious about it.”

Jihoon, sitting across from them, watches carefully while eating like this is a variety show.

Haemin’s mother hums. “Our Haemin fixes athletes. Very practical.”

Haemin shoots her a look. “Mom.”

“Soonyoung dances,” she continues. “Not exactly… the same.”

Soonyoung bows his head slightly. “But I promise I will take care of my body very carefully,” he says. Then adds, panicking, “Most of the time.”

Jihoon snorts into his rice.

Haemin’s father smiles faintly. “You were injured recently, weren’t you?”

Soonyoung blinks. “Ah—yes. Knee strain.”

“And you met Haemin at KNSU because of that.”

“Yes, sir.”

Haemin’s mother looks between them. “And now you’re… together.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Soonyoung says, softer now.

There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable—just heavy with meaning.

Then Jihoon sets his chopsticks down. “Soonyoung.”

Soonyoung straightens immediately. “Yes, Jihoon.”

Jihoon smiles. It’s polite. Too polite. “You know,” Jihoon says casually, “I’m his older brother.”

“Yes,” Soonyoung says again, louder.

Jihoon tilts his head. “So if you ever hurt him—”

Haemin groans. “Hyung.”

“I’m joking,” Jihoon says quickly, then leans forward, eyes sparkling. “Mostly.”

Soonyoung swallows. “I would never.”

Jihoon grins. “Good answer.”

Haemin’s father chuckles. “You sound like you’re interrogating him.”

Jihoon shrugs. “I have to. It’s in my contract as a big brother.”

Haemin’s mother laughs softly. “He was worse when Haemin brought friends home in high school.”

“Soonyoung,” Jihoon adds lightly, “if you make Haemin cry—”

“I’ll cry first,” Soonyoung says earnestly.

The table goes quiet. Haemin turns to him, stunned. “You don’t have to—”

“I will,” Soonyoung insists. “I cry easily.”

Jihoon bursts out laughing. “Okay, I like him.”

Dinner eases after that.

Conversation turns lighter—about dance competitions, rehab horror stories, Jihoon joking that Haemin fixes everyone except himself. Haemin’s mother starts serving Soonyoung extra food.

“You need energy,” she says. “Dancers burn a lot.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Soonyoung says, touched.

Under the table, Haemin squeezes his hand.

Later, as plates are cleared, Haemin’s father nods at Soonyoung. “You seem sincere.”

Soonyoung bows deeply. “I am.”

Jihoon stands, stretching. “Alright. I’ve officially scared him enough.”

“You enjoyed that,” Haemin mutters.

Jihoon slings an arm around Soonyoung’s shoulders. “Take care of him. He’s tougher than he looks—but still.”

Soonyoung nods seriously. “I will.”

Jihoon pats his back. “Good. Because if you don’t—”

“Jihoon.”

Jihoon laughs. “Kidding. Welcome to the family dinner.”

Soonyoung exhales for the first time all night.

And when Haemin smiles at him—soft, grateful, warm—Soonyoung knows it was worth every second of nervousness.

─────────────────────────────

A week later Jihoon grabs Dongmin’s wrist and the second class ends.

“Food,” he says, already walking.

Dongmin barely has time to sling his bag over his shoulder. “Wait—what kind of food?”

“Korean barbecue.”

Dongmin blinks. “Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Why does that sound like an emergency?”

Jihoon doesn’t answer. He just keeps pulling him down the hallway, expression unreadable in that way that usually means Jihoon has already decided something and the universe can deal with it later.

Dongmin assumes—wrongly—that it’s just the two of them.

They arrive at the restaurant and Dongmin is still shrugging off his jacket when—

“Oh?”

“Oh?”

“Oh???”

Seungkwan’s voice cuts through the air like a siren. Dongmin freezes.

At the table are Seungcheol, Jeonghan, Wonwoo, Mingyu, and Seungkwan, already mid-meal, grill smoking, side dishes everywhere. This is not a quiet dinner. This is Jihoon’s entire circle.

Seungkwan stands halfway up. “Is that the music tech guy??”

Dongmin looks helplessly at Jihoon. “You said food.”

Jihoon, already sitting down and pulling out a chair beside him, says calmly, “This is food.”

“You did not say audience,” Dongmin hisses.

Seungkwan is already beside him, grinning like he’s found a new favorite toy. “Hi! I’m Seungkwan. You’re Dongmin, right? Jihoon’s been—”

Jihoon kicks Seungkwan under the table. Hard. “—been what?” Dongmin asks.

“Nothing,” Jihoon says quickly. “Sit. You’ll get a cold.”

Dongmin sits. Jihoon immediately starts grilling meat like his life depends on it.

Seungkwan, however, is undeterred. “So,” he says brightly, leaning closer to Dongmin, “music tech, huh? That’s hot. Like… emotionally.”

Dongmin laughs. A real one. Easy. Jihoon’s chopsticks pause mid-air. 

“Oh?” Seungkwan continues. “You laugh nicely too. Very warm. Very—”

Another kick. Jeonghan smirks. Wonwoo pretends not to notice. Mingyu watches the grill like it’s a live drama.

Dongmin, oblivious, is answering Seungkwan’s questions—about mixing, about live setups, about favorite gear. Seungkwan listens intensely, nodding, reacting dramatically.

“That’s so cool,” Seungkwan says. “You should come watch us practice sometime.”

Dongmin smiles. “Sure, if Jihoon’s okay with it.”All eyes turn to Jihoon.

Jihoon clears his throat. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Seungkwan tilts his head. “You’re gripping the tongs like they betrayed you.”  Jihoon flips meat aggressively. Dongmin leans closer, voice soft. “Are you… okay?”

Jihoon meets his eyes for half a second too long. “Eat,” he says. “Before Seungkwan steals your attention completely.”

Seungkwan gasps. “Steals? As if attention isn’t freely given?” Dongmin laughs again.

Jihoon feels it in his chest—sharp and ridiculous. He knows it’s stupid. Seungkwan is just Seungkwan. Loud. Friendly. Impossible to ignore.

Still. Jihoon slides a piece of perfectly cooked meat onto Dongmin’s plate. Then another. Then another. Dongmin blinks. “Jihoon, I can—”

“Eat,” Jihoon repeats, quieter now.

Their knees brush under the table. Dongmin stills.

Seungkwan watches this, eyes narrowing. Slowly, a grin spreads across his face. “Oh,” he says. “Ohhh.” Jihoon glares.

Seungkwan leans back, satisfied. “Nothing. Just realized something very interesting.”

“What?” Dongmin asks.

“Jihoon gets weird when people flirt with you.” Dongmin chokes on his drink.

Jihoon stands abruptly. “I’m getting more lettuce.”

“There is lettuce right in front of you,” Seungcheol says.

Jihoon grabs it anyway.

Dongmin watches him go, heart doing something stupid and warm. When Jihoon comes back, Dongmin gently nudges his knee again.

“You didn’t have to bring me here,” Dongmin says softly. “But… I’m glad you did.”

Jihoon exhales. “You fit,” he mutters.

“With you?”

“With us,” Jihoon corrects, then freezes like he said too much.

Dongmin smiles, small and real. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I do.”

Across the table, Seungkwan beams like he just witnessed a live confession.

Jealousy fades into something steadier. Something braver.

Jihoon reaches for Dongmin’s chopsticks by mistake.

Neither of them moves it back.

And no one—not even Seungkwan—teases them about it.

─────────────────────────────

Dating Sungho does not immediately make Jeonghan sane.

It does, however, make him quieter.

The library dates continue, almost suspiciously unchanged. Same corner. Same table. Same flickering lamp. The difference is subtle but undeniable—Sungho’s foot nudging Jeonghan’s under the table, Jeonghan automatically sliding his coffee closer when Sungho’s cup is empty.

They study. They whisper. They pretend this is normal. It isn’t.

Jeonghan is hyperaware of everything now: the way Sungho leans in when explaining something, the faint crease between his brows when he concentrates, the way he smiles before he laughs, like his body knows the joke before his brain does.

Sungho notices. “You’re doing it again,” he murmurs one night.

“Doing what,” Jeonghan whispers back.

“Looking at me like I’m a long-term case study.”

Jeonghan scoffs. “Please. I’ve concluded my research.”

Sungho hums. “Peer-reviewed?”

“Painfully.”

By the time the library closes, it’s raining. Soft but insistent. Sungho checks the weather app and sighs. “You can stay over,” he says, casual like it’s nothing. “It’s late.”

Jeonghan hesitates for exactly half a second. “Okay.”

This time, it’s intentional.

Sungho’s apartment has started to feel familiar. Jeonghan knows where the spare towels are. Knows which mug Sungho secretly prefers. Knows the couch really does pull out, but Sungho always falls asleep before unfolding it.

They eat instant ramen at the counter, shoulders brushing. Sungho cooks. Jeonghan critiques from a purely emotional standpoint. “This tastes like care,” Jeonghan says seriously.

Sungho snorts. “That’s sodium.”

Later, Jeonghan changes into one of Sungho’s oversized shirts because his own clothes are “psychologically compromised by rain.” Sungho watches him pad out of the bathroom, barefoot, hair damp. He freezes.

Jeonghan notices. “What?”

Sungho exhales slowly. “Nothing. Just… wow.”

Jeonghan’s ears go red. “Don’t say things like that so calmly.”

“I can’t help it,” Sungho replies. “You’re clinically in love and borrowing my clothes. That’s progression.”

Jeonghan throws a pillow at him. “You promised not to keep using that phrase.”

“I promised no such thing.”

They end up on the couch anyway. Not touching at first. Then shoulders. Then Jeonghan’s head on Sungho’s chest like it’s always belonged there.

Jeonghan listens to Sungho’s heartbeat, steady and grounding. His own thoughts—usually loud, spiraling—are quiet for once. 

“This is dangerous,” Jeonghan murmurs.

“For your brain?” Sungho asks gently.

“For my attachment style.”

Sungho laughs softly and kisses the top of his head. “We’ll manage the side effects.”

Jeonghan falls asleep like that.

He wakes up at dawn, tangled in blankets, Sungho’s arm heavy across his waist. For a split second, panic flickers—then dissolves into warmth.

Sungho stirs. “You’re awake.”

“Yes,” Jeonghan whispers.

“Any symptoms?”

Jeonghan thinks. “Elevated heart rate. Reduced anxiety. Increased desire to stay exactly here.”

Sungho smiles, eyes still closed. “Sounds serious.”

“Terminal,” Jeonghan agrees, pressing closer.

They don’t rush anything. They don’t need to.

Library dates keep turning into late nights. Late nights keep turning into mornings. Somewhere between borrowed pens and shared toothbrush space, Jeonghan stops trying to explain what he feels.

He just feels it. And Sungho, infuriatingly gentle, stays—teasing him, steadying him, loving him in a way no theory could ever fully explain.

Clinically in love. And for once, Jeonghan doesn’t try to cure it.

─────────────────────────────

Yejun doesn’t realize he’s jealous at first.

He tells himself it’s observational. Academic, even. A neutral noting of variables.

Like the way Seokmin laughs a little louder around him.

The theater student—Jiwon, according to the script cover—sits too close during read-throughs. Knows the lines before anyone else. Anticipates Seokmin’s cues like muscle memory. Finishes his jokes.

Yejun watches from the back row, arms folded, a reviewer resting uselessly on his knee.

They’re good together. That’s the problem.

“You already read this?” Jiwon asks Seokmin, tapping the pages.

“Yeah,” Seokmin replies easily. “Twice, actually.”

Yejun’s fingers curl against the paper. Twice.

Seokmin had mentioned being tired. Had said he’d read it later. Yejun remembers nodding, understanding, and being rational. Now he wonders when later became someone else.

He doesn’t say anything. That’s the second problem.

The messages slow. Not disappear—just… flatten. Yejun still replies. Still jokes. But the warmth is sanded down, careful, distant. He stops asking follow-up questions. Stops sending voice notes. Stops reacting the way he used to.

Seokmin notices by the third day.

By the fifth, he’s pacing backstage with his phone in hand. “This is weird,” Seokmin mutters.

Jeonghan, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a coffee that’s gone cold, when his phone rang and the caller ID showed Seokmin’s name . “What is.”

“Yejun,” Seokmin says. “He’s being… polite.”

Jeonghan winces. “Oh. That’s bad.”

“What do you mean bad?”

“That’s sometimes people's defense mechanism,” Jeonghan replies calmly. “When people go formal, it means he’s upset but trying to be reasonable about it.”

Seokmin frowns. “About what?”

Jeonghan studies him for a moment. Then sighs. “Okay. Context check. Are you, by any chance, spending a lot of time with another guy recently?”

Seokmin freezes. “The cast?”

“The one who finishes your sentences,” Jeonghan adds gently. “And read the script early.”

Oh. “Oh.”

Seokmin sinks onto the bench beside him. “He didn’t say anything.”

“Yejun rarely does,” Jeonghan says. “He internalizes until it becomes a case study he’s losing.”

Seokmin rubs his face. “He’s jealous?”

Jeonghan smiles, soft and knowing. “Clinically.”

That night, Seokmin didn't text.

He shows up.

Yejun opens his door in socked feet and confusion. “Seokmin?”

“We need to talk,” Seokmin says. Not urgent. Just honest.

Yejun steps aside without argument.

They sit on the floor again. No ramen this time. No jokes to cushion the space. “I did something wrong,” Seokmin says.

Yejun opens his mouth. Close it. “I didn’t say that.”

“I know,” Seokmin replies. “But you stopped sounding like you.”

Silence. Yejun exhales, slow and controlled. “You read the script with him.”

Seokmin blinks. “That’s it?”

“That’s not nothing,” Yejun says quietly. “You didn’t tell me. And I felt… replaced. Which is irrational, statistically unsupported, and deeply embarrassing.”

Seokmin’s expression softens immediately. “I didn’t think it mattered,” he says. “Because it didn’t feel like this.” He gestures between them. “I didn’t know you’d feel pushed out.”

Yejun swallows. “I don’t want to be the kind of person who gets jealous. I don’t want to police your world.”

“You’re not,” Seokmin says gently. “You’re just… wanting a place in it.” The words undo something tight in Yejun’s chest.

Seokmin shifts closer—not touching, but near enough that the air changes. “I should’ve said something. And you should’ve told me.” 

“I didn’t want to make it awkward.”

Seokmin smiles, small and fond. “You already make everything awkward. That’s kind of your charm.” Yejun lets out a shaky laugh.

“I like you,” Seokmin says simply. “Not in a theoretical way. Not in a ‘who read the script first’ way. In a you-show-up-at-2-a.m. way.”

Yejun looks at him, eyes searching. “Then why does this feel so fragile?”

“Because it matters,” Seokmin replies. “And because we’re learning.”

He reaches out—not to hold Yejun’s hand, just to rest his fingers briefly over his wrist. A grounding point. “You don’t have to compete,” Seokmin adds. “You’re already here.”

The jealousy doesn’t vanish. But it loosens. Becomes manageable. Humans.

Yejun nods once. “Next time… I’ll say something.”

Seokmin smiles. “Next time, I’ll notice faster.”

They sit there, shoulders nearly touching, the quiet no longer heavy.

Not fixed. But understood.

─────────────────────────────

By the time the sculpture is finished, Minghao hasn’t slept properly in three days.

It shows—not in the work, but in him. There’s a quiet intensity to the way he adjusts the plinth, the way his fingers hover near the surface without touching, like he’s still negotiating with the idea that this piece no longer belongs only to him.

Hongik’s student exhibition fills the art museum with noise and color. Booths line the hall—paintings stacked like arguments, installations that hum or blink or demand attention. Minghao has more works than most: ink studies, small abstract pieces, a series of fragmented torsos that earned murmurs of approval during setup.

But the center of his booth is unmistakable.

The sculpture stands alone, lit carefully. Life-sized. Unpolished in places. The surface still bears fingerprints—not flaws, but proof. People slow as they pass it. Some stop entirely.

Yichen arrives late.

Minghao notices anyway.

He feels it before he sees him—the shift in his focus, the way the room dulls at the edges. Yichen weaves through the crowd, catalog tucked under his arm, eyes already sharp with analysis.

He stops short when he reaches the booth. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything.

He circles the sculpture once. Twice. Slow. Reverent.

“This is dangerous,” Yichen murmurs finally.

Minghao blinks. “Dangerous?”

Yichen nods, still studying it. “You put it in the center. That’s a very Renaissance move.” He glances at Minghao, amused. “Humanism. The belief that the human figure can hold meaning all on its own.”

Minghao exhales, tension easing just a little. “I wasn’t thinking about the Renaissance.”

“I know,” Yichen says. “That’s why it works.”

A couple nearby whispers. Someone takes a photo. Minghao feels strangely exposed, like the sculpture has peeled something open in him too.

Yichen steps closer, reading the placard. No title. Just materials. Just the year. “You didn’t name it,” he says.

“I couldn’t,” Minghao replies. “Anything I chose felt like a lie.”

Yichen hums thoughtfully. “In art history, unfinished or untitled works usually mean one of two things.” He looks at Minghao now. “Either the artist was interrupted… or the work was too personal to reduce.”

Minghao’s throat tightens. “You know,” Yichen continues softly, “Rodin used to say that a surface should show the trace of the hand. That perfection erases intimacy.”

Minghao meets his gaze. “That’s why I stopped smoothing it.”

Yichen smiles, small and stunned. “You left the places where you hesitated.”

“Yes.”

“And the places where you were certain.”

“Yes.”

The crowd swells around them, but it feels like they’re standing inside a pocket of stillness. Yichen’s voice lowers.

“You didn’t just sculpt a figure,” he says. “You sculpted attention. That’s very modern of you. Almost… confessional.”

Minghao laughs weakly. “Is that your professional assessment?”

“No,” Yichen says gently. “That’s my personal one.”

Silence stretches. The kind that asks to be crossed. “I spent all semester teaching people how to look at art,” Yichen adds. “Context. Lineage. Meaning.” He gestures to the sculpture. “But standing here, I can’t think of anything except how it feels to be seen like this.”

Minghao’s heart kicks hard against his ribs. “I didn’t plan it,” he admits. “But every time I tried to pull back, the piece lost something. Like I was erasing you. Or… us.”

Yichen’s breath catches, almost imperceptibly. “In Baroque art,” he says, voice unsteady now, “emotion was meant to spill outward. No restraint. No distance between the viewer and the subject.” He steps closer—to Minghao this time. “I think you did that,” Yichen says. “You collapsed the distance.”

Minghao swallows. The museum lights feel too bright. Or maybe not bright enough.

“This sculpture,” he says quietly, “is the most honest thing I’ve ever made.”

Yichen nods. “That’s what scared me.”

They stand there, two students surrounded by history and noise and borrowed theories, saying something far older than any of it.

“I don’t want this to end at the exhibition,” Minghao says. The words come out steadier than he expects. “I don’t want you to become a footnote.”

Yichen’s smile is slow, luminous. “Then don’t historicize me yet.”

He reaches out—not to the sculpture, but to Minghao’s sleeve, fingers brushing fabric like a question. “Let’s stay in the present a little longer,” he says.

Minghao laughs, breaths shaky. “You’re terrible for my focus.”

Yichen shrugs. “Every great artist had a distraction.”

Around them, people keep moving. Art keeps being viewed, critiqued, cataloged.

But at the center of the booth—of the room, of the semester, of something newly undeniable—Minghao realizes the sculpture has already done its job.

PREVIOUS

[apieceofcheezzeecake]

When Seoul Turn Around

SEVENTEEN AU: UNIVERSITY SERIES

Pairing: Seventeen x Male Original Character

rating: Teen and Up

Chapter 5.1/?

word count:4,822

Seungkwan tells himself he’s being normal.

Normal people walk across campus to meet their boyfriend after class.

Normal people wait outside the College of Social Sciences building with iced coffee in hand. Normal people do not mentally list reasons why the person currently laughing with their boyfriend should step back half a meter.

The problem is that Jihyun is laughing.

Not polite-laughing. Not courtesy-laughing. Real laughing—the kind where his shoulders shake and his eyes crinkle, the kind Seungkwan has known for years and now feels irrationally protective over.

The guy standing across from him is tall. Journalism student. Camera slung around his neck like an accessory instead of a tool. Too relaxed. Too familiar.

Seungkwan watches as the guy leans in slightly, pointing at something on his phone.

Seungkwan’s jaw tightens. Breathe, he tells himself. You’re dating a journalism student. This is literally his ecosystem.

Still. He shifts his weight, checking his phone for the third time in a minute. No new messages.

Another laugh. That’s it. Seungkwan walks over. “Hey,” he says, bright and sharp at the same time. “Jihyun.”

Jihyun looks up immediately, face lighting up in a way that makes Seungkwan’s irritation wobble. “Oh! You’re here early.”

“I brought coffee,” Seungkwan says, handing it over. His fingers linger for half a second too long. On purpose.

Jihyun smiles. “You’re the best.”

The other guy finally notices Seungkwan properly. “Oh—hey. I’m Minseok.”

“Seungkwan,” he replies, smiling politely. Controlled. The kind he uses during presentations.

Minseok nods toward Jihyun. “We were just wrapping up the interview. He’s really good. Sharp questions.”

“Obviously,” Seungkwan says.

Jihyun shoots him a look. “Kwannie.” Seungkwan hums innocently.

Minseok chuckles. “You two seem close.”

Before Seungkwan can stop himself, he says, “We are.” Jihyun blinks.

Minseok grins. “Ah. Got it.” He slings his camera higher onto his shoulder. “Didn’t mean to keep your boyfriend.”

The word hits Seungkwan like a dropped microphone. Boyfriend. He feels it—right in his chest. Warm. Startling. Real.

Jihyun freezes for half a second. Then—slowly—he smiles. “That’s okay,” Jihyun says. “He’s allowed to be jealous.”

Seungkwan’s brain short-circuits. “I’m not—”

Minseok laughs. “Sure you’re not.”

He waves and heads off, leaving Seungkwan staring at Jihyun, who is now looking at him with a mix of amusement and fondness that should be illegal.

“You didn’t deny it,” Seungkwan says weakly.

Jihyun tilts his head. “Deny what?”

“That I’m your—” He lowers his voice. “Your boyfriend.”

Jihyun steps closer, close enough that Seungkwan can smell his coffee. “Why would I?”

Seungkwan opens his mouth. Close it.

Jihyun watches him carefully. “Were you jealous?”

“No,” Seungkwan lies immediately. It made Jihyun raise an eyebrow. “…A little,” Seungkwan admits. “He was leaning too close.”

Jihyun laughs softly. “You literally lean into my personal space all the time.”

“That’s different.”

“Because?”

Seungkwan sighs, defeated. “Because I like you.”

Jihyun’s expression softens. “I know.”

He reaches out, fingers brushing Seungkwan’s wrist. Casual. Grounding. “For the record,” Jihyun adds, “you don’t have competition.”

Seungkwan swallows. “You sure?”

“I’m very good at verifying my feelings,” Jihyun says. “And they’re consistent.”

Seungkwan laughs under his breath. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re my boyfriend,” Jihyun says, like it’s the most natural sentence in the world.

Seungkwan feels his face heat up all over again. “…Say it again.”

Jihyun smiles, leaning in just enough that only Seungkwan can hear.

“My boyfriend.”

Seungkwan decides, right then, that jealousy might be embarrassing but this?

This is worth it.

─────────────────────────────

They choose an internet café halfway between two train lines. Neutral ground. Public. Loud enough that nothing too serious can happen.

Wonwoo tells himself that’s why he suggested it.

SVT internet café hangouts are never subtle. There’s always too much noise, too many snacks, chairs dragged together without permission. When Wonwoo walks in, Seungcheol is already arguing with Jeonghan about seating, Hoshi is testing mouse sensitivity like it’s a life-or-death decision, and Mingyu is waving at him from the back.

“You’re late,” Mingyu says cheerfully. “We saved you a spot.”

Wonwoo nods, sliding into the chair. His eyes flick—just once—to the door.

Hyunwoo arrives a minute later. Not Mr. Nine. Hyunwoo. In a hoodie this time, hair a little neater than the café where they first met. He hesitates at the entrance, clearly overwhelmed by the sheer number of people.

Wonwoo stands without thinking. “Hey.” Hyunwoo’s face visibly relaxes when he sees him. “Hi.”

Introductions happen fast. Too fast. Names thrown around, hands shaken, someone shoving a headset into Hyunwoo’s hands before he can process what’s happening.

“This is Nine,” Wonwoo says automatically—then corrects himself. “Hyunwoo.”

There’s a half-second pause. “Oh,” Mingyu says.

Wonwoo turns slowly. “What?”

Mingyu squints at Hyunwoo’s face, head tilting like he’s aligning a memory. “Huh. I knew it.”

Hyunwoo stiffens. “You… did?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu says easily. “Friends of friends. Data science, right? Department Nine?” He grins. “I thought you looked familiar.”

The words shouldn’t mean anything. But they do. Wonwoo feels it—sharp and sudden, something hot twisting low in his chest.

“You knew his real name?” Wonwoo asks, too casually.

Mingyu shrugs. “Not personally. Just… knew of him.”

Hyunwoo laughs awkwardly. “I didn’t realize I was that recognizable.”

Mingyu waves it off. “Nah, just Seoul things.” Wonwoo doesn’t laugh.

The games start. Headsets on. Screens glowing. Hyunwoo settles into the chair beside Wonwoo, careful not to bump him. Familiar, but not bold.

Still— Mingyu leans over mid-game. “Hyunwoo, right? You play like someone who thinks too much.”

Hyunwoo smiles sheepishly. “Occupational hazard.”

Wonwoo misses a timing cue. Once. Then twice.

“You okay?” Hyunwoo murmurs through the headset.

Wonwoo clenches his jaw. “Fine.” He isn’t.

The thought keeps looping, unhelpful and irrational:

You knew him before I did. You knew his name before I earned it.

It’s stupid. Wonwoo knows that. Mingyu isn’t flirting. Mingyu flirts with furniture. But jealousy isn’t logical—it’s territorial in the quietest way.

After the game, they take a break. Someone orders ramen. Chairs roll back. Noise swells.

Hyunwoo leans closer to Wonwoo, voice low. “Did I do something?”

Wonwoo exhales through his nose. “No.”

Hyunwoo studies him. “You’re lying.”

Wonwoo looks at him then—really looks. The careful posture. The way he’s clearly trying not to take up too much space among Wonwoo’s friends. “…I didn’t like that Mingyu knew you,” Wonwoo admits.

Hyunwoo blinks. Then his lips curve—not teasing. Soft. Understanding. “Ah.”

“That’s all you’re going to say?” Wonwoo mutters.

Hyunwoo laughs quietly. “You were jealous.”

“Don’t sound so pleased.”

“I’m not,” Hyunwoo says. “I’m… relieved.”

Wonwoo frowns. “Why?”

“Because it means you care,” Hyunwoo says simply. “And because I was worried I didn’t belong here.”

Wonwoo’s chest tightens. He reaches out, fingers brushing Hyunwoo’s sleeve—subtle, hidden behind the desk. “You do.”

Hyunwoo smiles, smaller this time. “Good. Because I don’t plan on disappearing again.”

From across the room, Mingyu squints at them. “Why do you two look like you’re having a K-drama moment?”

Wonwoo doesn’t even look away. “Mind your business.”

Hyunwoo laughs—real, unguarded. And for the first time that night, Wonwoo feels the jealousy loosen its grip.

─────────────────────────────

Of course Jeonghan notices first.

They spill out of the internet café in clusters—complaints about lag, debates about who carried the game, Mingyu loudly announcing he’s starving again. The night air is cool, the kind that makes everyone linger instead of immediately heading home.

Seungcheol is mid-sentence, arguing with Jeonghan about whether that last round even counted, when a familiar car pulls up to the curb.

The window rolls down. "Choi Seungcheol,” Junhyuk calls, voice carrying easily over the noise. “You done?”

Seungcheol freezes. Jeonghan’s head snaps toward the car. Slowly. Like a predator sensing entertainment. “…Is that,” Jeonghan says sweetly, “the political science menace?”

Seungcheol groans. “Don’t call him that.”

Junhyuk steps out of the car, jacket slung over one shoulder, tie loosened like he’s been arguing for hours—which, knowing him, he probably has. He smiles when he sees Seungcheol, wide and unguarded. “You look tired,” Junhyuk says.

“You’re the one who offered to pick me up,” Seungcheol replies, but there’s no bite to it.

Jeonghan is already circling Junhyuk like he’s evaluating a stray kitten. “So,” Jeonghan says, hand on Seungcheol’s shoulder, eyes never leaving Junhyuk. “You must be Junhyuk.”

Junhyuk straightens instinctively. “Yes, sir—”

“Don’t ‘sir’ me,” Jeonghan interrupts. “I hate that.” Then, brighter, “I’m Jeonghan.”

Junhyuk blinks. “Oh. I’ve heard… a lot.” 

Jeonghan smiles. That’s never a good sign. “All good things, I hope.”

Junhyuk glances at Seungcheol. Seungcheol looks away. “Debatable,” Junhyuk says honestly.

Jeonghan laughs, delighted. “Oh, I like you already.”

Seungcheol exhales sharply. “Jeonghan.”

“What?” Jeonghan says. “He debates you, picks you up, and hasn’t insulted me yet. That’s impressive.”

Junhyuk opens the passenger door. “You can ride with us, if you want,” he offers politely.

Jeonghan gasps. “Adopted.”

Seungcheol groans again. “It’s been five seconds.”

“Five seconds is plenty,” Jeonghan says, patting Junhyuk’s arm. “Do you eat well? Do you sleep? Has this one” he nudges Seungcheol “been terrorizing you during debates?”

Junhyuk smiles helplessly. “Constantly.”

“See?” Jeonghan says, triumphant. “Victim.”

Seungcheol slides into the car, defeated. “You’re both unbearable.”

Jeonghan leans down to Seungcheol’s window. “Text me when you get home,” he says, then looks back at Junhyuk. “And you—drive safely. I’m very invested now.”

Junhyuk nods solemnly. “I’ll protect him.”

Jeonghan beams. “Good answer.” The car pulls away. Seungcheol stares straight ahead, ears burning.

After a moment, Junhyuk chuckles. “Your friend is… intense.”

Seungcheol sighs. “You have no idea.”

Junhyuk glances at him, smile softening. “He likes you.”

“He likes everyone,” Seungcheol mutters.

Junhyuk hums. “Still. I think I’ve been approved.” Seungcheol doesn’t argue.

─────────────────────────────

Vernon walks back to his dorm with his hood half-up, earbuds dangling uselessly around his neck. His brain is fried—night class clips still echoing in his head, professors talking about audience retention and framing theory and things that all blur together after midnight.

He doesn’t think about it much when he taps Noah’s name.

The call connects on the third ring.

“Hey,” Noah says, breathless. There’s the faint scratch of a stylus, the low hum of a fan. “Give me a second—don’t hang up.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Vernon says. “Are you busy?”

“Always,” Noah replies, then adds quickly, “But you can stay. Talking to you helps me think.”

Vernon smiles without meaning to. “That sounds fake.”

“It’s not,” Noah insists. “You say weird things at random. It gives me ideas.”

“I do not say weird things.”

“You absolutely do.”

Noah finally pauses whatever he’s working on. “Okay, talk. What’s in your head?”

Vernon exhales, kicking a pebble along the path. “Nothing useful. My brain’s just… loud.”

“Same,” Noah says. “I’ve been staring at this panel for twenty minutes. I think my character looks like he’s judging me.”

“As he should.”

Noah laughs. Then, out of nowhere, “Do you drink energy drinks?”

Vernon blinks. “What?”

“No reason,” Noah says. “I was thinking about colors. Energy drinks have aggressive branding. Like they’re yelling at you.”

“That’s because they want you awake,” Vernon says. “And afraid.”

“See?” Noah says triumphantly. “That. That’s what I mean.”

Vernon reaches the dorm, hesitates at the door. “You shouldn’t drink them this late.”

“I know,” Noah says. “I won’t. I was just thinking.”

Vernon glances at the empty café equipment room through the glass—lights still on, blenders lined up like they’re waiting. He’s tired. He is so tired. His shoulders ache. “…Do you like milkshakes?” he asks.

There’s a pause. “Is this a trick question?”

“I’m serious.”

“I love milkshakes,” Noah says carefully. “Why?”

Vernon exhales. “Stay where you are.”

By the time Vernon is rinsing out the blender, his laptop is propped open on the counter, a lecture playing softly in the background. The professor is talking about narrative pacing. Vernon is half-listening, half-measuring ice cream. “Are you cooking?” Noah asks through the phone.

“Technically,” Vernon says. “Don’t judge me if this is bad.”

“I would never,” Noah lies.

Vernon juggles the phone between shoulder and ear, blending too long, then not long enough, pausing the lecture to rewind ten seconds because he missed something important about media convergence. “You’re multitasking,” Noah says fondly. “That’s dangerous.”

“So is your coffee,” Vernon mutters.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” When he finally pours the milkshake into a takeaway cup, it’s messier than usual. He wipes the lid, grabs a second straw just in case, and texts Noah: outside in five.

Noah meets him on the campus grounds like it’s the most natural thing in the world—hoodie, messy hair, sketchbook tucked under his arm. It’s almost three in the morning. The university is quiet in a way that feels earned. “You walked all the way here?” Noah asks.

Vernon shrugs, handing him the cup. “You said energy drinks were yelling at you.”

Noah takes a sip. His eyes widened. “Oh.”

“Bad ‘oh’?”

“No,” Noah says quickly. “Good ‘oh.’ This is… stupidly good.”

Vernon relaxes, sitting beside him on the cold steps. They share the second straw without comment. Somewhere, a light flickers on in a distant building. The city hums softly around them. “What were you working on?” Vernon asks.

Noah flips the sketchbook open, showing a half-finished strip. A chibi barista with tired eyes. A customer with headphones. A caption that just says: still awake.

Vernon snorts. “That’s me.” Minghao’s voice echoes in his memory—even if it’s chibi, it still shows as you.

Noah watches him over the rim of the cup. “Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

They sit there until the milkshake is gone and the lecture is forgotten and the sky starts thinking about lightning.

At some point, Noah says quietly, “Thanks for calling me.” Vernon leans back on his hands. “Thanks for answering.”

Three a.m. settles around them like a secret—shared, gentle, and not going anywhere just yet.

─────────────────────────────

Chan doesn’t mean for it to happen.

It starts as practice—warm-up lines while the game loads, idle strokes while he waits for a queue. His tablet stays just out of frame, angled away from the webcam. If anyone asked, he could say it’s muscle memory. Habit. Nothing personal.

Except it is.

Junseo’s hands, always ink-stained. The way he leans when he’s thinking, head tipped like he’s listening to something no one else can hear. Chan doesn’t draw his face straight on—never that bold. Just fragments. A sleeve cuff. A profile caught mid-turn. The curve of a smile that hasn’t fully decided to exist yet.

He alt-tabs fast when footsteps approach. Too slow.

Seungkwan squints at the screen over Chan’s shoulder in the internet café. “Hey,” he says slowly, “why does your assignment look like it’s judging me?”

Chan freezes. “It’s not— it’s just…”

Seungkwan leans closer. The lines are soft. Intentional. Familiar in a way Seungkwan recognizes immediately. He straightens, eyes sharp now. “That’s Junseo.”

Chan’s ears burn. “It’s for class.”

“Chan,” Seungkwan says gently, which somehow makes it worse, “you’re illustrating someone. Repeatedly.”

“So?”

“So,” Seungkwan continues, lowering his voice like he’s delivering classified information, “that’s basically a confession.”

Chan scoffs, too quick. “No it’s not.”

“It is,” Seungkwan insists. “Artists don’t draw people they feel nothing about. Especially not like that.” He gestures at the screen. “You even softened the line weight.”

Chan stares at the tablet. He hadn’t noticed that. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Seungkwan hums. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Junseo doesn’t mean for this to happen either.

The page was supposed to be anonymous. A filler piece for the Creative Writing section of the university paper—short, lyrical, easily overlooked. He’s written hundreds like it. This one just… refuses to let go.

He titles it nothing. No names. Just a poem structured carefully, each line beginning with a letter he pretends is random.

Carrying silence like it’s fragile Holding space where words hesitate Amid drafts and margins, I learn Nothing honest stays hidden for long

Junseo reads it twice before submitting. Three times before publication. He doesn’t say the name. He doesn’t have to.

Chan sees it by accident. Someone posted a photo in the group chat—Seungkwan again, of course.

Seungkwan: creative writing page this week is kinda insane btw

Chan scrolls. Stops.

His chest tightens, sharp and sudden. He reads the poem once. Then again. The letters line up in his head before he can stop them.

C. H. A. N.

His name, spelled carefully by someone who knows how much care costs.

Later that day, Chan finds Junseo in the library, pretending to read, failing at it. Chan sits across from him without asking.

“That poem,” Chan says quietly. Junseo doesn’t look up. “Which one.”

“The one that spelled my name without spelling it.”

Junseo exhales, slowly. Finally meets his eyes. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”

Chan swallows. “I did.” Silence stretches—not awkward. Just heavy with recognition.

Junseo tilts his head slightly. “And?” Chan thinks of the illustration still open on his tablet. The softened lines. The way Seungkwan’s voice echoed in his head.

“Then I guess,” Chan says, voice steady despite everything, “we’re both really bad at hiding things.”

Junseo’s smile is small. Real. “Maybe we’re just waiting to be understood.”

Chan nods. “Yeah.” This time, neither of them looks away.

─────────────────────────────

Mingyu doesn’t realize what he’s done until the notification sound goes off.

Once.

Twice.

Then chaos.

GROUP STUDY (LIE)

Seungkwan: ???

Jeonghan: Why does this look like a floor plan

Vernon: is that… a house

Minghao: wait why is the kitchen labeled shared mornings

Seungcheol: Kim Mingyu. Explain.

Mingyu stares at his phone, horror blooming in slow motion.

He’d been mid-rant on call with Minjae, tablet balanced on his knees, stylus hovering over a clean architectural plate—section views, sunlight angles, circulation paths. He hadn’t even noticed when he hit send. To the wrong chat. “I’m dead,” Mingyu mutters.

“What?” Minjae asks on the other end, voice warm, curious.

“I—” Mingyu scrubs a hand down his face. “I just sent my plate. To the group chat.”

A pause.  “…The one you were just talking about?” Minjae asks carefully.

“Yes,” Mingyu groans. “The hypothetical one.”

“The future house one?”

“Yes.”

Another pause. Then—Minjae laughs. Not teasing. Soft. Fond. “That’s kind of brave,” he says.

“It was an accident,” Mingyu argues weakly. “I didn’t even finish the annotations.”

STUDY GROUP (LIE)

 Jeonghan: Accident my ass

Minghao: the light well is very intentional

Seungcheol: why is there only one bedroom

Vernon: bro???

Mingyu throws his phone face-down on the bed. “They’re never letting me live this down.”

Minjae hums. “Can I see it?”

Mingyu hesitates. “You… want to?”

“I’m an industrial design student,” Minjae says lightly. “You can’t dangle a space like that and not expect me to respond.”

Mingyu sends it. This time, to the right person.

There’s a long silence. Too long. “…Minjae?” Mingyu asks.

“I’m thinking,” Minjae says. “Don’t rush me.”

When he speaks again, his tone has shifted—focused, careful, the way he sounds when something matters. “You designed it like a structure,” Minjae says. “Not just a house. The way the stairs turn inward, the way the windows pull the outside in—you’re thinking about movement. About how someone lives there.”

Mingyu’s chest tightens. “Yeah. I wanted it to feel… steady.”

“It does,” Minjae says. “But it needs warmth.”

A soft tapping sound. Keys. A pen. “I’m going to do something,” Minjae adds. “Okay?”

Minutes pass. Mingyu watches the ceiling, heart doing strange, uneven things.

Then a file arrives. It’s not a floor plan.

It’s a set of object sketches—furniture concepts designed for the space. A low table that curves to match the stair landing. Modular shelving that shifts with sunlight. A kitchen island designed for two people to cook without colliding, edges softened where hands would naturally reach.

Notes in the margins:

– materials chosen for touch, not just durability

– shared use over single function

– designed to age well together

Mingyu’s throat goes tight. “I didn’t change your house,” Minjae says softly. “I just… imagined how we’d live in it.”

Mingyu laughs, a little breathless. “You just industrial-designed my accidental confession.”

“Someone had to respond properly,” Minjae says.

STUDY GROUP (LIE) (muted until i change it)

 Seungkwan: IS THIS A MARRIAGE ANNOUNCEMENT

Jeonghan: I call dibs on the couch

Minghao: the ergonomics are good though

Seungcheol: I hate all of you

Mingyu finally turns his phone back over, silences the chat. “Hey,” he says to Minjae. “Next time… I’ll send it to you first.”

Minjae smiles—Mingyu can hear it. “Good,” he says. “I’ll keep designing the life inside it.”

And for the first time, the house doesn’t feel hypothetical at all.

─────────────────────────────

The final week of the semester had arrived, and the studio buzzed with a nervous, electric energy. For the fashion design students, it wasn’t enough to hand in sketches or pinned patterns—final projects demanded a runway. From preliminary concepts to finished garments, every step mattered, and the culmination was a show, a performance, a declaration of skill and vision.

Jun’s collection had evolved quietly, meticulously, like a secret being polished until it shone. Each piece was hand-stitched, delicate, demanding attention, but also movement. Fabrics whispered, floated, clung just enough to suggest form without suffocating it. And the models? His friends—the Seventeen boys—had volunteered, unknowingly stepping into an intimate collaboration that blurred friendship and artistry.

Seowon, as the assigned photographer, moved like a ghost around the studio, capturing angles Jun didn’t even notice. His camera followed the subtle shifts of light on fabric, the tension in a sleeve, the way Jun adjusted a collar with a possessive flick of his wrist. he caught him in moments where his hands lingered too long on a seam, or when his gaze swept over a model as if measuring their worth not just for the clothes, but for his collection itself.

Jun had been protective all week. Protective of the outfits, protective of the models, and—subtly, impossibly—protective of Seowon.

“You’ve got to relax,” Seungcheol said, holding up a shirt for adjustment. “It’s fabric, not a live grenade.”

Jun’s eyes flicked up, sharp. “It’s more than fabric. It’s… everything we’ve worked for.”

Minghao smirked. “You mean, more than us too?”

Jun’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer.

The day of the runway arrived. The studio had been transformed: soft spotlights, a clear path for walking, the models rehearsing their steps under Jun’s meticulous eye. Seowon crouched with her camera, snapping shots and murmuring guidance, capturing moments Jun couldn’t stop himself from noticing—the way she tilted her head, the way her fingers brushed stray hair back.

Before the first model stepped on the runway, Seowon handed Jun a small, simple bracelet.

“For the vibe,” he said, half-smile teasing. “It’s… you, but wearable.”

Jun glanced at it, then at his outfit, and then slid it onto his wrist despite it not matching the ensemble. He felt a strange warmth, like a quiet rebellion against his own perfectionism—something personal he wouldn’t explain.

The show began. From the first model striding down the runway in Jun’s delicate creations to the final ensemble, every piece told a story. Each step echoed the months of work, the late nights, the trials, and the triumphs. Jun’s eyes never left the models, his hands itching to adjust a hem or flick a sleeve, but he let the show flow, letting the clothes breathe in motion.

And yet, the teasing started. Vernon leaned forward, whispering to Mingyu, “I think Seowon’s secretly dating Jun.”

Seungcheol snorted. “Yeah, being possessive about fashion counts as relationship energy.”

Jun’s cheeks flared, though he refused to glance their way. He wasn’t possessive—he was careful. Protective. Devoted. The nuance didn’t translate into whispers and laughter.

When the final model—the last of the Seventeen boys—took the runway, Jun’s collection had reached its crescendo. Every stitch, every fold, every carefully curated detail carried the weight of months of labor and the quiet intensity of his vision. The applause was immediate, earnest, and loud.

Seowon lowered his camera and met Jun’s eyes. He smiled softly. He returned it, a little stiffly, still holding onto the bracelet he’d given him.

“You wore it,” he said quietly, almost in disbelief.

“It’s… not supposed to match,” Jun replied, voice low. “But some things… shouldn’t be altered.”

The lights dimmed. The models gathered, Jun’s friends laughing and teasing, but the collection had spoken. The show was over, the project complete. For Jun, the work wasn’t just about passing a subject. It was about proof: proof that care, obsession, and artistry could coexist, proof that he could hand his vision to the world and have it returned, fully understood, in movement and light.

And as the group dispersed, Seowon lingered for a moment, snapping one last shot. Jun caught her gaze. In the quiet between flashes, there was an unspoken acknowledgment: some connections didn’t need to be named. They were already stitched in, delicate as the seams of a hand-crafted garment.

The lights had dimmed, the models were stepping off the runway, and the applause still hummed in the room. Jun exhaled, running a hand over his face, trying to loosen the tension that had coiled there all week. He hadn’t even noticed Mingyu hovering nearby, phone raised like evidence.

“Hey, Jun,” Mingyu said, smirking, “is that bracelet Seowon gave you supposed to… signal something? Or is it just for style points?”

Jun froze mid-breath. “It’s… just a—”

Seungcheol leaned in, grin spreading. “Come on, you don’t need to explain. We saw you hovering like a hawk every time he adjusted the camera. And now this. It’s obvious.”

Jun’s ears heated. “I—”

Jeonghan laughed softly from behind, shaking his head. “Jun, it’s cute. You think you’re subtle, but everyone can see. Especially him.”

Jun swallowed, gaze flicking to Seowon, who was busy reviewing shots on his camera, seemingly unaware—or maybe pretending not to notice. But the way he glanced at him just once, a tiny, unguarded smile, made his chest tighten.

“I—” Jun started again, then paused. His fingers fiddled with the bracelet. “I think… I didn’t realize it until now. But… I like… I mean, I care about him. More than I thought I did.”

Vernon, leaning against a wall, raised an eyebrow. “I finally figured it out, huh?”

Jun huffed, part exasperated, part embarrassed. “It’s not that simple.”

Seungcheol snorted. “Nothing about you is simple, Jun.”

Jun’s eyes flicked back to Seowon, who looked up and caught his gaze, and something inside him shifted. Not just appreciation for her photography, not just respect for him judgment—but something warmer, fiercer, and undeniably personal.

He realized, quietly, that the possessiveness, the sleepless nights tweaking details, the constant tension between perfection and care—it wasn’t just about fashion. It was about him.

And just like that, in the soft post-show chaos, Jun understood something he hadn’t let himself admit: he wanted more than collaboration. He wanted him. The bracelet on his wrist felt heavier now, not from weight, but significance. It was subtle. It was small. But it marked a beginning.

Seowon caught his eye again and raised his camera, lens pointed at him, playful. Jun laughed, faintly, exhaling relief, and for the first time, allowed himself to imagine what that something more could actually mean.

─────────────────────────────

Joshua’s bag hit the floor with a soft thud. Yoonjae leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching him like he was studying a particularly interesting problem.

“So… you actually came,” Yoonjae said, voice neutral but with a hint of something softer underneath.

Joshua grinned. “I told you. I’m staying tonight. You just… didn’t expect it this fast.”

Yoonjae smirked. “I did expect it. I just didn’t expect you to act on it.”

Joshua winked and headed to the bathroom. “Shower first. Then I’ll reclaim my spot on your couch… or bed… depending.”

Yoonjae raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, leaning on the doorframe as Joshua disappeared behind the frosted glass.

Seconds later, Yoonjae’s phone buzzed insistently on the counter. He glanced at the screen.

Seungcheol Hyung

It blinked again. And again. “Guess someone’s desperate,” Yoonjae muttered, picking up. “Hello?”

“JOSHUA!” Seungcheol’s voice exploded through the speaker, full of panic and disbelief. “Where are you?! I’ve been calling a million times!”

Yoonjae’s lips twitched. “He’s… unavailable. Taking a shower.”

“…What?” Seungcheol’s voice cracked, incredulous. “Shower?! You’re… you’re at Yoonjae’s apartment?!”

Yoonjae’s smirk grew. “That’s what I said.”

“…He—he said he was just going to grab dinner!” Seungcheol sputtered, clearly flabbergasted. “You mean he’s… he’s staying the night?!”

Yoonjae leaned back against the counter, amusement clear. “Yes. And he told me to tell you. Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. Maybe take a deep breath, though.”

“…I—” Seungcheol’s protest dissolved into helpless laughter. “I… okay. I need to rethink… everything.”

Yoonjae hung up, shaking his head with a grin. Joshua emerged a few moments later, towel around his waist, eyes sparkling.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Perfectly,” Yoonjae said, handing him a bottle of water. “Though I think someone just had a minor heart attack over the phone.”

Joshua laughed, ruffling Yoonjae’s hair lightly. “Worth it.”

And just like that, the apartment felt warmer. Not from the shower steam, but from the ease of being together.

PREVIOUS NEXT

[apieceofcheezzeecake]

Sinfully   Yours   This   Valentine’s

P a i r i n g : CHOI SEUNGCHEOL x MALE READER (14th member of SVT)

R a t i n g : 18 and UP

W a r n i n g : EXPLICIT SMUT, ANAL FINGERING, DOGSTYLE, KITCHEN SEX, SHOWER SEX, VALENTINES SEX, SECRET SEX... MULTIPLE CUMMING,

The city of Seoul pulsed below, a billion scattered diamonds on black velvet, but in Seungcheol’s penthouse, the only world that mattered was the one contained within these four walls. The air was thick and sweet, a warm blanket of vanilla and cinnamon from the cookies you’d abandoned on the counter, their half-baked state a perfect metaphor for the evening. It was Valentine’s Day, but the manufactured romance of the holiday felt a universe away. This was something else—something raw and real, born from months of grueling schedules, stolen glances, and a tension that had coiled so tightly it was ready to snap.

Seungcheol was a predator at rest, leaning against the marble kitchen island. The soft cotton of his white tee did little to hide the powerful lines of his chest and shoulders, muscles earned through sheer force of will. His gray sweatpants hung low on his hips, a casual invitation that was anything but. He watched you, his gaze a physical weight, tracing the curve of your spine as you reached for a mug. The silence in the room wasn't empty; it was vibrating, humming with an unspoken current.

"You're making me hungry," he said, his voice not a growl, but a low, resonant rumble that vibrated through the floor and up your legs. It was a statement of fact, not a complaint.

You turned, a slow, deliberate pivot, and let a smirk touch your lips. The worn denim of your jeans was a second skin, and you knew exactly how the tight black tank top clung to your frame. "Is that so, Seungcheol?" you purred, your voice a soft challenge. You didn't walk; you drifted towards him, each step a measured beat in the silent rhythm you were building. You stopped just shy of touching, the heat radiating from his body a palpable force. Your eyes, dark and knowing, held his as you looked up.

He didn't move, but his presence seemed to expand, filling the space around you. His hands, which had been resting casually on the counter, slowly curled into fists. He was fighting for control, and the sight was intoxicating. "You have no idea," he breathed, the words barely more than air.

You decided to break him. You leaned in, your chest brushing his, and slid your hands up the solid wall of his chest. You felt the sharp intake of his breath, the stutter in his heartbeat beneath your palm. That was all it took.

With a guttural groan, his control shattered. His hands shot out, gripping your hips with a bruising intensity, and he yanked you flush against him. The hard, thick line of his cock was no longer a promise; it was a demand, pressing insistently against your stomach through the layers of fabric. Your own body responded instantly, a rush of heat and a sharp, undeniable ache as your dick hardened.

Before you could process the shift, he spun you. The world became a blur of city lights and marble before your hands slammed flat against the cold countertop to steady yourself. He was behind you, a furnace of heat and raw need. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your jeans, the rough denim scraping against your skin as he tugged them down, exposing you to the cool air and his burning gaze. He paused, and you could feel his eyes on you, a worshipful and possessive stare.

Then, the sharp, stinging crack of his palm against your ass echoed in the quiet kitchen. It wasn't just pain; it was a jolt of pure electricity that shot straight to your cock.

"Fuck, Seungcheol!" you gasped, your hips bucking back involuntarily.

He chuckled, a dark, wicked sound. "You like that, don't you?" he murmured, his voice a caress. His hands soothed the sting, his thumbs kneading the firm muscle, his fingers tracing the sensitive cleft, teasingly light. You moaned, pushing back, silently begging for more.

He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his hot breath branding your ear. "I'm going to ruin you," he whispered, the words a terrifying, thrilling promise. His teeth grazed your earlobe, a sharp, pleasurable bite that made you whimper. "Right here. Right now."

He stripped you with efficient, deliberate movements, leaving you bare and trembling under his gaze. Then, the soft rustle of his sweatpants hitting the floor. You heard him spit, the wet, lewd sound followed by the rhythmic slick of a hand coating a thick, eager cock. He pressed the blunt, slick head against your tight hole, not pushing in, just resting there, letting you feel his size, his intent.

"Relax for me," he commanded, his voice tight with restraint.

He pushed in, a slow, relentless stretch that burned and pleasured in equal measure. He gave you inch by agonizing inch, forcing your body to accommodate him, until he was fully sheathed, his hips flush against your ass. You were full, so incredibly full, pinned to the counter by his weight and his cock.

He began to move, withdrawing almost completely before sliding back home, his pace torturously slow. The sound of flesh meeting flesh was a soft, rhythmic slap that mingled with your ragged breaths. He reached around, his hand finding your neglected cock, his grip firm and sure. He stroked you in time with his languid thrusts, a perfect, maddening synchronization.

"Seungcheol," you panted, your fingers white-knuckled on the counter. "I can't... I'm gonna come."

"Not yet," he grunted, but his pace quickened, the slow burn igniting into a raging fire. His thrusts became harder, deeper, his cock nailing that sweet spot inside you with every powerful snap of his hips. "Come for me, baby. Now."

The command shattered your control. Your body bowed, a hoarse cry tearing from your throat as your cock pulsed, painting the marble with thick, hot ropes of cum. The clenching of your ass around him was his undoing. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself deep, and you felt the hot flood of his release spilling inside you, coating your walls.

He stayed there for a moment, his forehead resting on your back, both of you slick with sweat and shaking with the aftermath. Then, he slowly pulled out, and you felt the trickle of his cum follow, a warm, possessive mark on your skin. He turned you around, his eyes dark with satisfaction and a hunger that was already returning. He kissed you, a deep, claiming kiss that tasted of sweat and cinnamon. He lifted you effortlessly onto the counter, spreading your legs wide.

Without a word, he knelt, his eyes locking with yours as he leaned in and slowly, deliberately, licked your cum from your stomach. The sight was so obscene, so intimate, that your spent cock gave an interesting twitch. He cleaned you with his tongue, then stood, his own cock already hardening again.

"We're not done," he promised, his voice a low growl. He pulled you to the edge of the counter and pressed back into your cum-slick hole, his eyes locked on yours as he began to move again. The night was young, and he had every intention of worshiping every inch of you, in every room of this apartment, until the sun rose to paint the city in a new light.

The promise hung in the air between you, thick as the scent of sex and cinnamon. "Just a bath," Seungcheol had murmured against your temple, his voice a low, soothing rumble. He’d carried you from the kitchen, your legs wrapped around his waist, his body still humming with a latent energy that belied his gentle tone. The bathroom was a sanctuary of dark tile and polished chrome, the air cool against your overheated skin. He set you down on your feet, his hands lingering on your waist as he turned to the enormous glass-walled shower, twisting the faucet.

The sound of the water was a sudden, hissing roar, a cascade of steam that instantly began to fog the glass and curl in the air. Seungcheol turned back to you, his silhouette framed by the billowing mist, and for a moment, he looked every bit the leader, the man in control. But his eyes, dark and soft, told a different story. He held out a hand. "Come here."

You took it, letting him pull you under the hot spray. The water was a delicious shock, a thousand hot needles massaging your tired muscles and washing away the sweat and cum. It was supposed to be cleansing, a moment of quiet intimacy. But the moment the water slicked your skin, his hands were on you, sliding over your shoulders, down your back, tracing the curve of your ass with a possessiveness that was anything but innocent. His "bath" was a lie, and you both knew it.

He tilted your head back, his fingers tangling in your wet hair as he captured your mouth in a slow, deep kiss. The water poured over your faces, and you tasted the clean, hot spray on his lips. His cock, trapped between your bodies, began to harden again, a thick, insistent pressure against your stomach. He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in ragged pants.

"I lied," he confessed, his voice raw. "I need you again."

You didn't answer with words. You simply turned in his arms, bracing your hands against the cool, wet tile of the shower wall and arching your back, presenting yourself to him. It was an invitation, a surrender.

He groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated need. His hands gripped your hips, pulling them back. He kicked your feet apart with his own, widening your stance. You felt the head of his cock, slick with water and pre-cum, nudging against your already-sensitive hole. He pushed in, and this time there was no slow burn. He slid home in one smooth, deep stroke, the water acting as the perfect, effortless lubricant.

You cried out, the sound swallowed by the roar of the shower. He was deeper like this, the angle new and intense. He set a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against your ass, the wet, slapping sound echoing off the tile. One hand held you steady at your hip while the other snaked around your body, his fingers wrapping around your rapidly hardening cock. He stroked you in time with his thrusts, his grip slick and sure.

"Look at you," he growled, his voice strained with effort. He reached up with his free hand, wiping a clear patch on the fogged glass in front of you. "Look how beautiful you are when I'm fucking you."

Your eyes fluttered open, and you saw your reflection: your face flushed with pleasure, your mouth parted in a silent moan, your body bent and taken. Behind you, Seungcheol was a vision of raw power, his muscles flexing with each thrust, his face a mask of intense concentration and desire. The sight was your undoing.

"Seungcheol, I'm... I'm coming," you gasped, your body tensing, your balls drawing up tight.

"Come for me," he commanded, his voice a low snarl. "Let me see you."

Your orgasm ripped through you, a blinding wave of pleasure that left you shaking. Your cock pulsed in his hand, your cum spurting onto the wet tile wall in thick, white ribbons that were instantly washed away by the cascading water. The clenching of your body around his cock sent him over the edge. He buried himself deep with a final, guttural groan, and you felt him swell and pulse, his hot release flooding you for the second time that night.

He stayed inside you, his chest heaving against your back as you both struggled to catch your breath under the hot spray. He finally pulled out slowly, and you felt the water wash away the evidence of his possession. He turned you in his arms, his expression soft and sated. He took the bottle of soap and poured some into his hands, lathering them before he began to wash you with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the ferocity of his actions just moments before. His hands were gentle, worshipful, as they cleaned every inch of your body.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: THE S IN THE VALENTINES IS STAND FOR SEX SO- JK. MY SECOND SMUT CAUSE I AM IN HEAT AS FUDGE /J!

When he was done, you took the soap from him and returned the favor, your hands gliding over his broad shoulders, his sculpted chest, his powerful thighs. You were no longer just two members of a band; you were two halves of a whole, tangled together in the steam and the water, your quiet moans and soft kisses the only sounds in the world. The bath he had promised had become a baptism, washing away the old world and leaving only this. Only him. Only us.

JOKES ASIDES, I HOPE YOU ARE ALWAYS BEEN FEEL LOVED NOT ONLY IN VALENTINES BUT IN DAILY BASIS!

Also, I hope you noticed that the first letters of all the story titles I posted today spell ‘VALENTINES.’

[apieceofcheezzeecake]

Eyelocks And Giggles

PAIRING: Song Mingi x GN! Reader

RATING: General Audience

WARNING: valentines fluff

WORD COUNT: 569

You’d always known Mingi had a way of making the world shrink when he looked at you.

It wasn’t dramatic, not like something out of a movie. It was quiet, intentional—the way his dark eyes lingered on you, unblinking, memorizing every line of your face.

And on Valentine’s, that gaze carried a different weight—intense, teasing, almost dizzying.

“The look of love, the rush of blood to the head…”

Yes. That was exactly how it felt.

The studio was empty, bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon. Pink and red decorations hung half-heartedly from the ceiling, remnants of the company’s small party earlier. The quiet hum of the speakers carried a soft instrumental of a song you liked, almost like the universe was aligning just for you two.

Mingi leaned against the mirror wall, casual as ever, but his gaze was fixed, unwavering.

“You know,” he murmured, voice low, teasing, dangerous in its tenderness, “I could just… watch you all day.”

You laughed softly, hiding the heat rising in your chest. “Mingi, that’s… kind of intense.”

He smirked, taking a deliberate step closer, his eyes dark and playful. “Intense? Maybe. But you feel it too, don’t you?”

The rush of blood to the head…

You blinked, caught off guard, heart skipping in staccato beats.

He reached out, fingertips brushing yours. Not holding, not yet—but enough to send warmth spiraling through your chest. His gaze locked on yours, unrelenting. You could feel the tension, the pull, the magnetic gravity of his stare.

“Eyelocks,” he whispered, grinning softly. “It’s the best kind of lock.”

You snorted, a little breathless. “And giggles?”

“Essential,” he said, leaning slightly closer, so the warmth of him brushed your cheek. “Can’t have one without the other.”

He pulled a small, wrapped box from behind his back, eyes twinkling. “Happy Valentine’s,” he said, voice soft and playful.

Inside, two tiny star-shaped charms gleamed, delicate and shining. “For us,” he said. “So whenever you look at them, you know… I’m staring at you, listening, memorizing, and yes… giggling at the same time.”

You laughed, heart full. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous? Maybe,” he said, tilting his head. “But you love it. Admit it.”

The look of love…

Your knees went weak. “I do,” you whispered, eyes locked on his.

Mingi’s grin widened, victorious and teasing. He leaned in, forehead resting lightly against yours, the proximity sending a shock of warmth straight to your chest.

“Eyelocks and giggles,” he murmured, voice low, playful, and tender all at once. “That’s us.”

You giggled again, heart hammering. The soft glow of the studio lights reflected in his eyes, making them shimmer with a mix of mischief and adoration.

And in that quiet room, surrounded by faint music, soft lighting, and Valentine’s energy, you realized something:

Sometimes, it wasn’t the grand gestures, the roses, or the chocolates.

Sometimes, it was the look of love in someone’s eyes, the magnetic pull of a gaze, the rush of blood to your head, and shared giggles over a private joke.

It was the connection, the quiet intimacy, the heartbeats syncing without a single word.

You leaned into him, and he pressed a light kiss to your temple.

“Next Valentine’s,” he whispered, “we’ll make even more giggles and even stronger locks.”

And as your eyes met his, steady, mischievous, loving, you realized… This was a love that didn’t need words.

Just eyelocks… giggles… and hearts racing together.

[apieceofcheezzeecake]

Notes Left On My Desk

PAIRING: Johnny Suh x GN! Reader

RATING: General Audience

WARNING: valentines fluff

WORD COUNT: 465

It started a few weeks ago.

Johnny had called you secretly after practice one night, voice low and playful.

“I saw these tulips today,” he said. “They’re not blooming yet… but I thought… maybe by your birthday, they might.”

You laughed softly. “Tulips? Not fully open?”

“Exactly,” he said, a grin in his tone you could feel even over the phone. “I wanted to give you something… that grows. Just like us, I guess.”

You had felt your heart squeeze at the thought, imagining him picking each stem carefully, arranging them perfectly, even though they weren’t in full bloom.

Your birthday came, and the bouquet arrived at your apartment, wrapped in simple brown paper, tied with a soft pink ribbon. Attached was a small card in his neat handwriting:

“Happy Birthday. Tulips may be sleeping now… but I promise they’ll wake up soon. Just like me—thinking of you, always.”

You smiled, touched by the metaphor. Gently, you placed the tulips on your desk, watching the buds curl closed. Each day, you whispered little well-wishes to them, secretly imagining Johnny doing the same somewhere miles away.

Days passed, and then came February 14.

The tulips were fully bloomed, petals wide and vibrant, almost like they had been holding their beauty for this exact moment.

You laughed softly, realizing the timing was perfect. Smiling, you carefully wrapped the bouquet again and sent it to Johnny’s apartment with a note:

“Happy Valentine’s. The tulips finally woke up… just like me, thinking of you.”

When Johnny opened the door, his apartment smelled faintly of tulips and spring, though it was midwinter. He held the bouquet, stunned. There was a folded note tucked between the blooms.

He opened it.

“I’ve been waiting to see you smile like this… Happy Valentine’s.”

Johnny froze, then chuckled softly, shaking his head. He looked around his apartment, then noticed something on his desk—a small envelope he had left there a few days ago, almost forgotten in the rush of schedules.

Curious, he opened it. Inside was another note, in his handwriting:

“If you ever see this, know that I’m thinking of you. One day, I hope we can watch flowers bloom together. Until then, I’ll leave a piece of me with you.”

He smiled, heart racing. The connection between your note and his own created a silent, perfect conversation—two hearts speaking across time and distance.

He sat down, holding the tulips close, petals brushing his palm, and whispered to himself:

“Every bloom… every thought… it’s all you.”

For the first time that day, he truly felt the warmth of your love, as if the tulips had carried it across the miles and time itself. The buds had blossomed on Valentine’s, but it was the shared hearts and silent notes that made the moment unforgettable.

[apieceofcheezzeecake]

In Your Arms

PAIRING: Hwang Intak x GN! Reader

RATING: General Audience

WARNING: valentines fluff

WORD COUNT: 573

It was Valentine’s Day, and the company building was unusually quiet.

You and Intak were the last to leave practice, the corridors empty, soft overhead lights reflecting on the polished floor. The scent of faint perfume and leftover stage makeup lingered in the air.

He walked beside you, warm, energetic as always, his hand brushing yours once or twice instinctively. Small touches he had always loved, that made his heart race—but you never returned them.

Not because you didn’t care. You did. You just… weren’t used to physical closeness. Being an idol, a performer, always maintaining a professional image, keeping boundaries—it had become second nature.

Yet, today was different.

You could feel it in your chest—the beat faster, softer, trembling. It was Valentine’s, and you couldn’t stop thinking about him. About how gentle he was, how affectionate he had always been, how he’d joke about hugging you all the time but never push. How his eyes lit up when he caught yours, even for a second.

Finally, by the rooftop garden, you both stopped. The night sky stretched above, lit faintly by city lights and the last glow of sunset. Intak’s smile was soft, almost shy.

“Happy Valentine’s,” he said quietly, hands in his pockets, voice low and warm.

You blinked, heart pounding. “Happy Valentine’s,” you whispered back.

He stepped a little closer. “You… don’t have to—”

Before he could finish, something inside you broke through the hesitation you had carried for so long.

You reached out, not slowly, not cautiously. You launched yourself forward and hugged him with everything you had. Every ounce of love, every quiet longing, every unspoken emotion you’d held back.

His arms went around you instantly, a little surprised at first, but then tightening, holding you like you were precious and fragile.

“I… you—” he stammered softly, voice muffled against your shoulder.

“I love you,” you whispered against his chest. “I’ve always… I just…”

You buried your face into him. The scent of him—warm, clean, familiar—made your heart swell. For a moment, everything melted away: schedules, cameras, labels, expectations.

Intak’s hands slid gently around your waist, holding you like he never wanted to let go. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, matching yours as if synchronizing with the night.

“I’ve waited for this… for you,” he murmured, soft and tender. “All this time… even when you pulled away.”

“I’m here now,” you said softly, pulling back just enough to look at him. Your hands rested on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “All of me is here, for you.”

His smile widened, genuine, radiant in the dim rooftop light. “All of you?”

“All of me,” you confirmed.

The city hummed quietly around you. The lights, the faint music from distant streets, the soft whisper of the wind—it was all part of this moment, perfect and fragile.

Intak leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. “I think… this is the best Valentine’s ever.”

You laughed softly, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “It’s only the beginning.”

He tightened the hug one last time, heart full, eyes shining. “Then let me spend every Valentine’s with you, every hug, every touch, every moment. I promise.”

And in that quiet rooftop garden, surrounded by city lights and the soft glow of love, you realized: sometimes, physical touch isn’t just comfort—it’s the language of love. And for the first time, you spoke it with your whole heart.

[apieceofcheezzeecake]

Tangerine Sunset

PAIRING: Kim Seungmin x GN! Reader

RATING: General Audience

WARNING: valentines fluff

WORD COUNT: 707

It had become a quiet ritual—your little habit of sending him sunsets, and his soft reply that never failed to make your chest warm.

Your phone buzzed.

Another photo. The sky was ablaze in shades of gold, pink, and violet. The clouds stretched like wisps of cotton candy across the horizon.

“Look, I remember you.”

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, soft and shy. His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second before he typed back:

“Let’s watch it together.”

Even if you were miles apart—in the dim glow of the studio, you in your office surrounded by papers and laptops—it felt intimate, like the sky itself was connecting you.

Later that evening, you video called.

“Look at that,” you whispered, holding up your phone toward the window. The sun was just kissing the horizon, spilling orange and gold across the rooftops.

Seungmin leaned closer, resting his chin on his hand, his eyes soft. “Beautiful… almost like it’s made for us,” he murmured.

You laughed softly. “Stop being cheesy.”

“No,” he said firmly, eyes gleaming. “I’m just… honest.”

The wind whispered outside your window, carrying the faint scent of evening. You took a sip of your tea and noticed him leaning slightly closer to the camera, the soft glow highlighting his gentle features.

“You always do this,” he continued. “Send me sunsets. Make me feel… calm, like everything’s okay.”

“And you always reply with the same line,” you teased. “’Let’s watch it together.’ You know it’s my favorite, right?”

He tilted his head, a small smirk forming. “Then I’ll keep saying it. I like the way you smile when I do.”

Your conversation drifted effortlessly from sunsets to life updates.

“So, how was rehearsal today?” you asked.

“Exhausting,” he admitted with a soft sigh. “We had three full runs, and my legs feel like jelly. But… the stage looked amazing tonight. Lights, fans cheering… it reminded me why I do this.”

You nodded, smiling. “I know that feeling. I finally finished that big project at work, and when it was over, I just wanted to call you immediately.”

“I’m proud of you,” he said softly, a tone so sincere it made your heart flutter. “Even if I’m miles away, I’m cheering the loudest.”

The Taylor Swift playlist you had been listening to earlier in the day hummed through your speaker. “Daylight” played softly. You laughed.

“Perfect, right? Our soundtrack.”

Seungmin leaned closer, eyes reflecting the dim light. “Yeah… it feels like us. Like… warm, safe, and right.”

Valentine’s Day arrived. Neither of you wanted anything flashy—just a shared moment. But Seungmin had a little surprise.

Your phone pinged again.

A new photo. Not a sunset. Not a skyline. It was him, standing in a softly lit room, holding a small bouquet of fresh flowers—sunlight streaming through the window behind him, petals golden and slightly tilted, imperfect in the most charming way.

A video call followed immediately.

“Happy Valentine’s,” he said softly, voice low, almost shy. “I… I wanted to do something for you. Not much, but…”

“You didn’t have to,” you whispered, smiling, heart already full.

“I wanted to,” he insisted, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “You send me sunsets every day… I wanted to send something back. Something that’s me… for you.”

Your hand went to your chest. “It’s perfect,” you breathed.

He smiled, that soft, shy grin that always made your stomach flutter. “Now… can we watch it together?”

You laughed softly, holding your phone so the screen matched the sunset outside your window. “Yes. Let’s watch it together.”

And there they were.

Two people. Miles apart. Connected by sky, song, and quiet devotion.

The golden-orange horizon stretched across both cities.

Seungmin’s fingers brushed yours over the screen.

“I love these moments,” he murmured.

“Me too,” you replied.

“Then we’ll keep doing this. Every day, every sunset, every Valentine’s… together.”

And as the Taylor Swift song drifted through your speakers, warm and familiar, you realized something: it wasn’t the grand gifts or the flowers that mattered most.

It was the quiet, shared moments, the soft smiles over a phone screen, the promise that sunsets would always be theirs together, and the love that quietly bloomed with every passing day.

[apieceofcheezzeecake]

Nap And Bouquet

PAIRING: Lee Jeno x GN! Reader

RATING: General Audience

WARNING: valentines fluff

WORD COUNT: 838

It was supposed to be simple.

Jeno had seen it online—a LEGO flower bouquet. Not real flowers, not fleeting, not drooping in a day. Perfect. Thoughtful. Something he could give you that lasted… like how he wanted his attention to last, quietly, even when he wasn’t awake.

He set it on the living room table, instructions spread out neatly. “I can totally do this,” he mumbled to himself, brushing back his soft hair.

An hour later, Jeno was snuggled up on the couch.

LEGO pieces scattered like confetti. A half-built bouquet stood untouched. And a soft snore filled the room.

He had meant to focus. He had meant to be precise. But the day had been long. Between practice, schedules, and just… life, his eyelids had betrayed him.

You paused, watching him nap. His cheek pressed into his folded arm, chest rising gently. The faintest smile tugged at his lips.

“Typical,” you whispered, grinning.

You sat down beside him. Carefully, quietly, you started building. Piece by piece, petal by petal.

The hour passed unnoticed. The couch became a small kingdom of pastel LEGO blooms. And eventually, the bouquet stood complete—a little taller than intended, a little crooked in the most charming way.

You nudged Jeno gently.

“Jeno…”

He stirred, blinking slowly, like the world was a little blurry and the sun had just returned. “Hm?”

You held up the finished bouquet. “It’s done.”

He rubbed his eyes and sat up, a small yawn escaping. “I… what happened?”

“You napped,” you said simply, smiling. “And I finished it for you.”

Jeno blinked at the LEGO petals, then at you. His soft grin spread slowly. “You… you really did that?”

“I did,” you said, tilting the bouquet slightly for him to see. “Your sleepy self deserves a perfect bouquet.”

He reached out, gently touching the flowers, then looked at you with a lopsided, soft, utterly flustered grin. “You’re too good to me.”

You laughed. “I’m just finishing your masterpiece while you nap.”

He pretended to pout, but it was obvious he was touched. “I’ll… repay you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “How?”

He yawned and leaned against you, fingers brushing yours. “By napping next to you. For moral support.”

And that’s exactly what he did.

The LEGO bouquet sat between you two on the table, a little crooked, a little imperfect—but more perfect than anything else, because it came from both of you.

And Jeno? He slept on. Content. Cozy. A sleepy little prince, knowing you had made his dream bouquet even sweeter.

This year was different.

No naps. No half-built LEGO bouquets. No sleepy smiles.

Jeno woke up before sunrise, heart racing with purpose. He had flown to Jeju, where the canola fields stretched like liquid gold, swaying softly in the early morning wind.

He walked through the blooms, carefully selecting 214 flowers. Some were in full radiant bloom, petals glowing like little suns. Others were just starting to open, tender and shy, like the quiet moments you two shared.

“214,” he muttered softly, counting under his breath as he carried them carefully. “One for every… memory, every smile, every little thing I want to see on your face.”

Back home, he arranged them meticulously.

The full blooms were at the center, bold and bright. The budding ones framed them, delicate, almost whispering promises of more moments to come.

He didn’t nap that day. He didn’t sit. He didn’t even let himself blink too long. He had a mission.

When you arrived, the door opened to a room transformed. Sunlight reflected off the golden petals, filling every corner. And there he was, standing straight, eyes bright, hands slightly trembling as he presented the bouquet.

“No naps this time,” he said softly, a small grin tugging at his lips. “I stayed awake for every second of this. Just… for you.”

You blinked. Speechless. The sheer scale, the thought, the precision—it was overwhelming.

“You… you really did all this?” you whispered.

He nodded, heart thudding. “Every bloom, every petal. I wanted you to see… how much you mean to me. And I wanted to see you smile.”

You stepped closer. The scent of canola filled your senses. It was sweet, fresh, and unmistakably alive—just like the feeling in your chest.

You reached out to touch a bloom. Then another. Then the whole bouquet. And finally… your eyes met his.

You smiled.

And this time, Jeno didn’t just grin softly. His heart practically lifted. Years of quiet gestures, sleepy afternoons, LEGO petals… they all culminated in this. Every flower, every careful choice, every sleepless second—worth it.

“214 smiles,” he whispered. “One for each flower. One for each moment I’ve ever wanted to make you happy.”

You laughed softly, brushing your fingers against his hand. “I think… I might need more than 214 to repay you.”

He shook his head, eyes shining. “Then I’ll stay awake to see them all.”

And on Valentine's Day, he didn’t sleep at all—not because he was tired, but because he was completely awake to every smile of yours.

[apieceofcheezzeecake]

EVERY SMILE OF YOURS

PAIRING: Min Yoongi x GN! Reader

RATING: General Audience

WARNING: valentines fluff

WORD COUNT: 635

Min Yoongi used to think smiles were simple.

Automatic. Unintentional. Meaningless.

Until he started memorizing yours.

Not intentionally, of course. He would never admit that.

It began with small things.

The way your lips curved slightly when you were trying not to laugh. The way your eyes disappeared when something genuinely amused you. The way your shoulders relaxed when you felt safe.

He noticed.

He remembered.

And without realizing it, he began working for it.

At first, it was subtle.

He’d slide your favorite drink across the table without looking at you.

“I ordered too much,” he’d mutter.

You’d smile.

He wouldn’t react. But his chest would feel strangely full.

Then it became intentional.

He’d send you dry texts at 3 a.m.

Did you eat?It’s cold. Wear something warm.I left something in your bag.

You’d check your bag and find a small snack, or a handwritten note that read:

Don’t skip meals.

You’d smile at your phone.

He’d pretend he didn’t wait for that exact reaction.

Little by little, Min Yoongi—who claimed he didn’t care about smiles—started collecting yours like precious things.

A sleepy smile. A proud smile. A shy smile. An embarrassed smile. A teary smile when you were overwhelmed and he quietly pulled you into his chest.

Each one different. Each one his favorite.

The first Valentine’s Day came quietly.

He didn’t make a big announcement.

No grand gestures. No dramatic confessions.

He simply handed you a small box.

“I saw it and thought of you,” he said casually.

Inside was something simple. Thoughtful. Personal.

You looked up at him.

And you smiled.

Not the polite kind. Not the surprised kind.

The soft, overwhelmed, you remembered kind.

Yoongi froze.

He’d seen you smile hundreds of times by then.

But this one—

This one felt like it wrapped around his heart and squeezed gently.

“Why are you staring?” you asked, laughing softly.

He looked away.

“Nothing.”

But he knew.

Nothing would ever compare to that.

Years passed.

Schedules changed. Apartments changed. Hair colors changed. Even arguments came and went.

But Valentine’s Day?

That never changed.

No matter how busy he was, he would prepare something.

Sometimes it was small—your favorite dessert after a long day.

Sometimes it was elaborate—something custom-made, something you once mentioned offhand years ago.

And every single time—

You smiled.

And every single time—

He felt the same quiet surrender.

On your fifth Valentine’s together, you asked him, “You don’t get tired of this?”

“Of what?”

“Trying so hard every year.”

He looked at you like the answer was obvious.

“I’m not trying hard,” he said.

You frowned. “You literally planned this for weeks.”

He shrugged.

“I just like seeing you smile.”

You softened.

“You see it every day.”

He shook his head slightly.

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

“No matter how many years pass,” he said quietly, stepping closer, “nothing compares to the smile you give when you receive something on Valentine’s Day.”

He brushed his thumb lightly over your cheek.

“It’s like the first time. Every time.”

Your lips trembled slightly before curving again.

There it was.

That one.

The one that made him fall. The one that made him stay. The one he would spend the rest of his life protecting.

You laughed softly. “You’re such a romantic.”

“I’m really not.”

“You are.”

He leaned his forehead against yours.

“If being a romantic means I get to see that smile every year,” he murmured, “then fine.”

Silence wrapped around the two of you.

Warm. Familiar. Certain.

Min Yoongi once said he would never fall for someone just because of their smile.

He was right.

He didn’t fall because of it.

He fell because he wanted to be the reason for it.

And every Valentine’s Day—no matter how many years passed— he made sure he still was.

[apieceofcheezzeecake]

LATTE AND LATE NIGHT TEXT

PAIRING: Na Jaemin x GN! Reader

RATING: General Audience

WARNING: valentines fluff

WORD COUNT: 969

Valentine’s Day was not supposed to be your problem.

Yet here you were—February 14th, standing in the NCT Dream dorm kitchen while pink heart-shaped candy sat on the counter like it personally offended you.

Your brother, Mark, was pacing.

“I don’t understand why the company scheduled recording today of all days,” he sighed.

“You say that like you had plans,” you replied.

He gasped. “I could’ve had plans.”

“Sure.”

From the hallway, a familiar voice chimed in, “Hyung, you definitely didn’t.”

You didn’t need to turn around to know it was Jaemin.

He walked in wearing a soft cream sweater, sleeves slightly too long, hair fluffy in that effortlessly unfair way. He carried a small paper bag and a calm expression that instantly made you suspicious.

“What’s in the bag?” you asked.

“Classified,” he replied smoothly.

Mark groaned. “If it’s chocolate, hide it. Jeno already ate half the gifts fans sent.”

Jaemin placed the bag carefully on the counter. “It’s not chocolate.”

He glanced at you.

You narrowed your eyes.

That look meant something.

By 9 p.m., Mark was gone—called back into the studio for “just an hour.”

You didn’t even react anymore.

Instead, you leaned against the counter scrolling through your phone, trying not to think about how every social feed was drowning in couple photos and heart emojis.

Your phone buzzed.

You frowned.

Jaemin:

Kitchen. Now.

A second later, Jaemin appeared from behind the fridge door like he’d been hiding there dramatically.

You:

I’m literally in the kitchen.

“Wow,” you deadpanned. “Terrifying.”

“Come here,” he said, suddenly softer.

You hesitated.

There were candles.

Small ones. Pink. Probably stolen from some decorative stash.

And in the middle of the counter sat his espresso machine.

“You decorated?” you asked.

“Don’t make it a big deal,” he muttered, already avoiding eye contact.

Your heart did something unfair in your chest.

“Jaemin,” you said carefully, “is this…?”

“Valentine’s,” he admitted. “But not the cringe version.”

He opened the paper bag.

Inside was a small bag of strawberry-flavored coffee beans and a bottle of vanilla syrup tied with a thin red ribbon.

“I’ve been experimenting,” he said. “Strawberry vanilla latte.”

You blinked. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It’s romantic,” he corrected.

“That’s debatable.”

He ignored you and started working.

The soft hum of the machine filled the kitchen. The smell of espresso mixed with something subtly sweet. He moved more carefully than usual, like this wasn’t just coffee—it was a confession he was trying to get right.

“Why strawberry?” you asked quietly.

He didn’t look up. “It’s your favorite fruit.”

You froze.

“I mentioned that once,” you said.

“I remember things.”

You swallowed.

He poured the milk slowly, steady hand, focused expression. When he finished, he turned the cup toward you.

The foam art was a heart.

Not just any heart—this one had a tiny swirl through the center.

“What’s that?” you asked.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s supposed to look like it’s connected.”

“Connected?”

“Yeah.” He finally met your eyes. “Like… you and me.”

Your breath caught.

The kitchen suddenly felt warmer than it should have.

You picked up the cup and took a sip.

It was surprisingly good. Sweet, but not overwhelming. Familiar, but different.

“It tastes like Valentine’s,” you murmured.

Jaemin smiled softly. “That was the goal.”

Later, you were both sitting on the floor, backs against the cabinets, sharing the rest of the latte because he insisted on making it “for two.”

Your phone buzzed.

You frowned. “You’re sitting right here.”

Jaemin:

Check your messages.

“Just check.”

You opened your chat with him.

A photo appeared.

It was from months ago—the very first crooked latte heart he ever made for you.

Under it, he had typed:

You looked at him slowly.

Jaemin:

From this to now.

Guess I’ve been practicing for you.

“You saved that?”

“Of course.”

Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t awkward. It was heavy in the best way.

“Jaemin,” you whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Ask me properly.”

His eyes widened slightly. “Properly?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” you said. “Do it right.”

He set his cup down, suddenly nervous in a way you’d rarely seen.

He shifted so he was facing you fully, knees almost touching yours.

“Okay,” he said softly.

He took your hand—warm fingers lacing carefully with yours like he was afraid you might disappear.

“I know you’re Mark’s sibling,” he began, “and I know that makes this slightly terrifying.”

You laughed quietly.

“But I don’t just like you because you’re around,” he continued. “I like you because you stay. Because you listen. Because you pretend not to care but you care the most.”

Your heart felt like it might burst.

“So,” he inhaled, “will you be my Valentine? Officially. Not just latte partner.”

You squeezed his hand.

“I already am,” you said.

He blinked. “That’s not an answer.”

“Yes, Jaemin,” you smiled. “I’ll be your Valentine.”

The relief on his face was immediate—and bright.

He leaned closer, resting his forehead gently against yours.

“I was so nervous,” he admitted.

“You? Na Jaemin? Nervous?”

“Only when it matters.”

Your phone buzzed again.

You both ignored it.

Then it buzzed again.

Jaemin groaned. “It’s Mark, isn’t it?”

You checked.

You both froze.

Mark:

Why did I just see candles on the kitchen security cam.

“…Security cam?” you whispered.

Jaemin stood up immediately. “Abort mission.”

You burst into laughter, grabbing his sleeve.

“It’s fine,” you said. “He’s bluffing.”

Your phone buzzed once more.

Jaemin looked at you in horror. “He wasn’t bluffing.”

Mark:

Also why is there pink foam in my espresso machine?

You laughed so hard you almost spilled the cup.

Jaemin shook his head, smiling despite himself.

“Worth it,” he said softly.

And honestly?

With strawberry sweetness lingering on your tongue, candles flickering around you, and Jaemin’s hand still holding yours—

It really was. 

[apieceofcheezzeecake]

All My Heart Is Yours

PAIRING:Park Sunghoon x GN! Reader

RATING: General Audience

WARNING: Valentines Fluff

WORD COUNT: 880

Valentine’s Day was a week away.

Which meant the industry was insufferable.

Every stage suddenly had heart-shaped confetti. Every fan call included teasing questions about “ideal dates.” Every variety show MC thought they were hilarious for asking idols who they’d spend February 14th with.

And you hated that it was getting to you.

You weren’t the jealous type. You couldn’t be. Not when both of you were idols. Not when your schedules overlapped at music shows, when cameras were always inches away, when one wrong glance could spiral into dating rumors.

Still.

You couldn’t stop replaying it.

The MC’s voice echoing in the studio. “Sunghoon-ssi, what kind of Valentine’s date do you like?”

He’d smiled—polite, composed, the perfect idol expression. “Something simple. Maybe walking by the Han River at night.”

The audience had swooned. The comments online were already losing their minds.

And you—

You had smiled too. Because you had to.

But later that night, alone in your dorm, scrolling through edits of him with captions like “He’s definitely taking his future girlfriend there”, something ugly and insecure twisted in your chest.

You knew he didn’t mean it like that. You knew how scripted these answers could be.

But what if—

What if he got tired of hiding? What if he wanted someone less complicated? Someone who didn’t have to sneak around back hallways and communicate through managers?

You stared at your phone.

You had typed and erased the same message five times.

Are you busy? Delete. Do you ever— Delete.

Before you could overthink again, your screen lit up.

Sunghoon 🐧: You’re quiet tonight. Everything okay?

Your throat tightened.

You: Yeah. Just tired. Three dots appeared instantly.

Sunghoon 🐧: That’s not the truth.

Of course he’d know.

Two nights later, you ran into him at the music show recording. Technically “ran into” meant both of your managers stepped away at the same time and left you in the dim hallway between waiting rooms.

He was still in stage makeup. You were half out of yours.

He studied you immediately.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t.”

“You have.”

His voice wasn’t accusatory. Just certain.

You crossed your arms, hating how small you suddenly felt. “You’ve just been busy.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Talk to me.”

That did it.

“Do you ever…” You hesitated. “Do you ever wish it was easier? Like… dating someone who isn’t an idol?”

Silence.

The air felt heavier than it should have.

“Why would you ask that?” he said quietly.

You looked down. “Because of the Valentine’s question. And all the comments. And the edits. And— I don’t know. It just feels like I’m… temporary. Like one day you’ll want something you can actually show.”

The second the words left your mouth, you wished you could swallow them back.

Sunghoon stepped closer.

Not enough to be obvious if someone turned the corner. Just enough.

“Look at me.”

You did.

He wasn’t smiling. Not the camera smile. Not the soft fan-service one.

Just him.

“You think I’d throw away what we have because it’s hard?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “Sometimes I feel like I’m competing with an imaginary future.”

His brows pulled together slightly, almost offended.

“There is no future that doesn’t have you in it.”

Your breath caught.

He exhaled slowly, like he was choosing his words carefully.

“Do you know why I said I wanted to walk by the Han River?”

You blinked. “Because it’s romantic?”

“Because that’s what we did last winter. After practice. When it was freezing and you complained the whole time.”

Heat rushed to your face. “I did not complain the whole—”

“You did,” he said softly, almost fond. “You said your hands were numb, so I held them in my pockets.”

Your heart stuttered at the memory.

“I wasn’t talking about some future girlfriend,” he continued. “I was thinking about you.”

The hallway suddenly felt too small for the way your chest swelled.

“But we can’t even—” you gestured vaguely, meaning publicly.

“I don’t care about public,” he said, firmer now. “I care about real.”

His hand hovered near yours before finally intertwining your fingers, hidden between your bodies.

“Valentine’s Day isn’t about what I can post. It’s about who I choose.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“And I choose you. Every time. Even if no one knows.”

Your eyes burned embarrassingly.

“I get jealous too,” he admitted quietly. “When I see you laughing with other idols. When comments ship you with someone else. But I trust you.”

He squeezed your hand.

“Trust me too.”

The doubt that had been clawing at you all week slowly unraveled.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“Don’t be.” His expression softened. “Just don’t build fears alone. I’m right here.”

Footsteps echoed faintly down the corridor.

He reluctantly stepped back, but before fully letting go, he leaned in just enough for only you to hear.

“February 14th. After schedules. Same place.”

“The Han River?”

He nodded once.

“And this time,” he added, eyes steady on yours, “you won’t have to worry about who I’m thinking about.”

Your lips curved despite yourself.

Because now you knew.

All his quiet glances. All his steady reassurances. All the things he couldn’t say out loud.

They all meant the same thing.

All his heart was yours.

[apieceofcheezzeecake]

Vanilla Ice Cream

PAIRING: Lim Hyunsik x GN! READER

RATING: General Audience

WARNING: VALENTINES FLUFF

WORD COUNT: 700

You’re blending blush on Minhyuk’s cheeks when you notice Hyunsik standing nervously by the door. His hands are buried in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched.

"Hyunsik… you look like you’re about to confess to someone," you tease, smirking.

He swallows, scratching the back of his neck. "Ha… maybe something like that."

"Something like that?" you echo.

Minhyuk leans forward, grinning. "Ooooh! Is this the long-awaited Hyunsik confession?"

"Minhyuk!" Hyunsik groans, hiding his face.

"Come on, you’ve been pacing for five minutes!" Changsub teases. "We’re all dying to know!"

"Harder," Hyunsik mutters, cheeks red.

He fidgets, looking at you with earnest eyes. "I… I like you. I’ve liked you for a long time… even back then. You’re… you. And I can’t pretend I don’t feel this anymore."

Minhyuk whispers, "Awww, so cute!"

Changsub grins. "Scary? Nah, exciting!"

You brush a stray hair from his forehead. "Hyunsik… I like you too."

Ilhoon yells, "Someone get him a medal!"

Hyunsik groans but smiles. "Really?"

"Really," you say softly, holding his hand.

Minhyuk squeals. "YES! Replay!"

To your surprise, Hyunsik pulls a small cup from behind his back. "And… I brought something. Vanilla ice cream. Thought you might like it."

You blink. "Vanilla ice cream?"

He nods shyly. "Yeah… kind of my… signature confession thing now."

You laugh softly, touched. "I love it. I love you."

"Happy Valentine’s, you," he whispers.

"Happy Valentine’s, Hyunsik," you reply, smiling as the members quietly cheer.

Your mind drifts back, nearly a year ago. The memory is vivid—backstage after a casual schedule, the room quiet except for the hum of the heaters. Hyunsik had been younger, quieter, fidgeting with his jacket like he couldn’t decide where to put his hands.

"Uh… I… um…", he stammered, cheeks pink, eyes avoiding yours.

You tilted your head, waiting patiently. "You can tell me, Hyunsik."

He froze for a moment, then blurted: "I… I like you!"

You blinked, caught off guard. He looked so nervous, so earnest, holding a small cup of vanilla ice cream. "I… I thought maybe instead of flowers… you’d like this. Vanilla… because it’s simple, like… um… like how I feel."

You blinked, heart softening. The gesture was awkward but sweet, and you could feel the sincerity in every word.

"Hyunsik… that’s really thoughtful. And I… I like you too… as a friend. But I’m not ready… not for more than that right now," you said gently, touching his shoulder.

He nodded quickly, swallowing back disappointment. "Yeah… I understand… I just… I had to tell you."

You remembered the faint tremor in his voice, the way he tried to hide his hurt behind a shy smile. Even then, you had admired his courage.

That moment had planted a seed, one that would grow over the months until now—when he was standing before you again, older, steadier, and ready to confess once more.

Exactly one year later, you sit across from Hyunsik in a cozy cafe. Snowflakes drift past the window, tiny heart-shaped lights twinkling above.

"So… you remembered," he says, pulling a cup of vanilla ice cream from his bag, a small spoon tucked neatly beside it.

"Of course I remembered. It’s been a whole year since… well, you know," you reply, smiling.

He laughs, slightly nervous. "Yeah… that day. I was such a mess!"

"Adorable mess," you correct him. "Still are."

He blushes. "Adorable? I’ve been trying to be cool this whole year."

"Cool? Sure," you tease. "But I like this version too."

He carefully sets the ice cream between you two. "For you… my first Valentine’s gift as your boyfriend. Vanilla, of course."

"It’s perfect," you say, touched. You pull out a small card: “Happy Valentine’s, to the boy who never gave up on me.”

His eyes shine. "You… wrote this? You remembered?"

"Of course," you reply. "We’re lucky together."

He leans closer. "Yeah… we really are."

You laugh quietly, sharing the ice cream together, playful spoonfuls and shy smiles, the world outside snowy and quiet.

"Next year," he murmurs, eyes sparkling, "I’ll bring even more vanilla."

"Next year," you agree, laughing, "and the year after that."

And in that quiet warmth, you realize the sweetest days—your Vanilla Ice Cream Days—are the ones spent with him.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: THE START OF VALLENTINES SERIES, WATCH AS WE FOLDS EVERY CHAPTER OF THE LOVER BOYS TO DEAL THE HEART'S DAY.

[apieceofcheezzeecake]

CREEP

PAIRING: Park Chanyeol x Byun Baekhyun

RATING: General Audience

WARNING: ANGST

WORD COUNT: 1,841

The lights dim the way they always do before the last song—slow, deliberate, like the stadium itself is holding its breath.

Chanyeol stands alone at center stage.

No backing track. No band. Just his own guitar, worn at the edges, the strap softened by years of practice rooms and winters that don’t quite let go. The crowd roars anyway, a tidal wave of voices calling his name, but he doesn’t smile right away. He looks out instead—scanning, searching, like he’s looking for something he already knows might not be there.

The first chord rings out.

Creep.

A murmur ripples through the stadium. Some people gasp. Some people laugh in disbelief. Some people go very, very quiet.

His voice comes in low, controlled, almost too steady.

When you were here before Couldn’t look you in the eye

The sound echoes—huge, raw, imperfect in the best way. His fingers move with muscle memory, but his eyes keep drifting to the crowd, to the sea of lightsticks and banners and faces half-hidden by masks.

Then it comes.

The line everyone knows.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He’s just like an angel His skin makes me cry

The stadium freezes.

And Chanyeol is suddenly somewhere else.

Winter—sharp and clean, the kind that stings your lungs. A break between schedules that barely counts as rest. They’re younger, wrapped in oversized coats, shoulders brushing as they wait outside, Baekhyun whining dramatically about the cold.

“Why is it always freezing?” Baekhyun complains, already stepping closer.

His hands are icy. He laughs about it, then—without asking—slides them into Chanyeol’s coat pockets. Fingers brushing skin, lingering.

“Wow,” Baekhyun says, delighted. “You’re warm.”

Chanyeol doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Just lets Baekhyun stay there, close enough that warmth becomes shared instead of owned.

Another memory folds in—practice room floors at 2 a.m., Baekhyun leaning into him during playback, head resting on Chanyeol’s shoulder like it’s instinct. Sweat-damp skin, shared hoodies, arms slung over shoulders without thinking. Skinship so casual it never felt like something that could be taken away.

No labels. No fear. Just him.

Back onstage, Chanyeol’s throat tightens. The words his skin makes me cry echo again, and now he knows why.

It’s not desire.

It’s recognition.

Because once, Baekhyun’s closeness was the safest place in the world.

The crowd erupts late, delayed by shock, by understanding. Some scream. Some clutch their chests. Because everyone knows.

They used to call Baekhyun angel. They still do.

Chanyeol swallows, thumb brushing the strings harder now. His voice roughens, cracks just enough to be real.

And then—he sees him.

Not front row. Not backstage. Buried in the middle of the crowd, like he’s trying not to be found.

A cap pulled low. A mask hiding his mouth.

But those eyes.

Still bright. Still soft. Still looking at Chanyeol like the world has narrowed down to one stage and one boy holding a guitar.

The song keeps going, but Chanyeol’s breath stutters.

Whatever makes you happy Whatever you want

His gaze doesn’t move now. It can’t.

You’re so fuckin’ special I wish I was special

The line lands heavier than ever before.

Because once—once—he was. Once, happiness was shared dorm rooms and harmonies through thin walls. Once, wanting the same things didn’t feel impossible.

Now there are contracts and closed doors and conversations that happen without them. Now there are names that can’t be said too loudly, units pulled apart, futures debated far away from stages like this.

Baekhyun’s eyes shine. He doesn’t look away.

Chanyeol’s voice drops on the next lines, almost swallowed by the stadium’s echo.

What the hell am I doin’ here? I don’t belong here

Not without you.

The words aren’t sung. They confessed.

I don’t belong here.

The last chord rings out, vibrating through the stands, through the bones of everyone listening. For a heartbeat, there is no cheering. Just that echo—stretching, lingering, refusing to disappear.

Chanyeol bows.

When he straightens, Baekhyun is already gone.

But the song stays.

And somewhere between the lights shutting off and the crowd finally erupting, everyone understands:

Some love songs aren’t meant to be resolved. Some memories live in skin and warmth and winters long gone. Some confessions are only safe when sung slightly wrong— one pronoun changed, one angel remembered, echoing through a stadium that knows exactly who it was for.

Baekhyun leaves before the lights fully come up.

He keeps his head down, mask pulled snug, hands shoved into his coat pockets like muscle memory might still save him from shaking. The crowd is loud again—buzzing, excited, alive—but it feels far away, like sound underwater.

His phone vibrates.

Once. Twice. Group chats exploding. Notifications stacking.

He ignores all of it.

Outside, the air is cold in the familiar, unforgiving way. Winter hasn’t changed. He exhales, watches his breath fog, and for a stupid, painful second, he thinks of hands tucked into someone else’s pockets.

You’re warm.

He unlocks his phone.

There it is—Chanyeol’s name. Untouched. No new messages. Of course not. There wouldn’t be. There can’t be.

Still, his thumb hovers.

He opens the notes app instead. It feels safer there. No read receipts. No consequences.

He types.

I was there.

Deletes it.

Too obvious.

Types again.

You didn’t have to do that.

Deletes it too. That sounds like an accusation, and it wasn’t. It really, really wasn’t.

His chest tightens. He leans against the wall, eyes closed, stadium lights still burning behind his eyelids. That line replays again, uninvited, merciless.

He’s just like an angel.

His fingers move faster now.

You still remember.

He stares at the words. Laughs once, quietly, because of course Chanyeol remembers. Chanyeol always remembers everything. Birthdays. Old jokes. The way Baekhyun takes his coffee. The way he used to lean in without thinking.

His skin makes me cry.

Baekhyun swallows.

Another memory slips in—cold fingers, borrowed warmth, the way Chanyeol never pulled away. The way he always made space.

His eyes sting. He blinks hard, opens the note again.

I didn’t know you still—

He stops.

Still what? Still cared? Still noticed? Still hurt?

He deletes the line.

The truth sits heavy and simple, too dangerous to type.

I saw you see me.

His thumb drifts to the messages app despite himself. Chanyeol’s chat opens—blank, silent, like it’s holding its breath too.

He types there this time.

I hope the concert went well.

A lie. A coward’s sentence. A safe one.

He doesn’t send it.

Instead, he switches back to the note, heart pounding, and types the thing he’s not allowed to say out loud anymore.

When you sang that line, it felt like winter again. Like your coat. Like your shoulder. Like a place I used to belong.

His vision blurs. He locks the phone quickly, like it might betray him.

Around him, fans pass by, laughing, replaying clips, already immortalizing the moment online. He wonders how many of them noticed his eyes in the crowd. How many of them understood.

Baekhyun straightens, pulls his mask up higher.

Before he walks away, he unlocks his phone one last time.

Deletes the note.

All of it.

The words disappear, but the feeling doesn’t. It stays lodged under his ribs, warm and aching and unmistakably alive.

Later, much later, when he’s alone and the night has gone quiet, he’ll replay the song again in his head— the wrong pronoun, the right meaning, the echo that followed him out into the cold.

And he’ll think, not for the first time:

Some messages are never sent not because they aren’t true— but because they’re too true to survive being read.

Chanyeol doesn’t go back to the dressing room right away.

He sits on the edge of the stage steps after the staff clears, guitar still in his lap, fingers resting on strings that have already cooled. The stadium feels hollow now—too big for one person, too quiet after all that truth spilled into it.

Someone tells him, “Good job.” Someone else pats his shoulder.

He nods. Smiles when he’s supposed to.

The moment he’s alone, his phone is in his hand.

He doesn’t open any apps at first. He just stares at the lock screen, at the time ticking forward like it’s daring him to do something irreversible.

Then—

Baekhyun’s name.

Not lighting up. Not buzzing.

Just… there. Existing. Like it always has.

Chanyeol exhales slowly and opens the chat.

Nothing new.

Of course.

He types anyway.

Did you get home safe?

His thumb hovers over send. He imagines how harmless it looks. How easy it would be to pass it off as concern, as habit, as nothing more than two people who shared too much history to be strangers.

He deletes it.

Too easy. Too obvious. Too close to opening something he doesn’t know how to close again.

He locks the phone. Unlocks it again almost immediately.

This time, he opens his notes.

The words come faster than he expects, like they’ve been waiting all night.

I saw you.

He stops. Heart racing.

Adds:

I wasn’t sure it was really you until you looked at me like that. Like you used to.

His jaw tightens. He remembers those eyes in the crowd—soft, steady, aching in the exact same way his chest did when they met.

He keeps typing.

I changed the lyrics on purpose. I don’t know if you hated that. I don’t know if you noticed.

A lie. He knows Baekhyun noticed. Baekhyun always notices.

When I sang “his skin makes me cry,” I wasn’t thinking about the crowd. I was thinking about winter. Your hands. My coat. How you never asked you just stayed.

His vision blurs. He rubs his face with his free hand, lets the guitar lean against his leg like an anchor.

I think I’ve been pretending I belong here without you. Tonight I realized I don’t. Not really.

That one hurts the most.

He sets the phone down, breath uneven, like he’s already said too much—even if no one else will ever read it.

A notification pops up.

Not Baekhyun.

Group chat. Management. Schedules. Noise.

He almost laughs.

Chanyeol picks the phone back up and types one last line.

You don’t have to answer. I just needed you to know it was you.

He stares at the note for a long time.

Then—slowly, deliberately—he deletes it.

All of it.

The screen goes blank. His reflection stares back at him, eyes tired, honest in a way he doesn’t get to be very often.

Later, as he leaves the venue, cold air biting at his hands, he shoves them into his coat pockets out of instinct.

They’re empty.

Still, for a second, he swears he can feel warmth there—memory-shaped, lingering, impossible to let go of.

His phone stays silent.

And Chanyeol understands, finally, that some conversations exist only in echoes: a line sung wrong on purpose, a look held too long, two messages deleted on opposite sides of the same night

proof that even if they don’t belong together anymore, they once belonged to each other.

And that might have to be enough.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I MISS THEM, DO I LOOK LIKE A CHILD OF DIVORCE QWQ