Hey, can y’all rb this if it’s okay to send you messages asking about your ocs, cause on god I wanna interact with y’all but I am terrified of being annoying lol
Just a little ask, I do not remember if you have a tag to find your works, I wanted to re-read some of them but I cannot see it, and scrolling down it is hard sometimes, as I do not have much time due college.
Hope you are healthy and sleeping well!
Hiiii ! I haven't been around lots, my health is doing shit these past few months :((
I do not currently have a hashtag/masterlist but I will make one soon.
a caretaker letting out an absolute heart-wrenching sob while inspecting whumpee's body. Them having to be the one to confirm that the body is whumpee's. It taking so much inspection because the body is so mangled and torn apart and caretaker hating every second of it, doing it only because they are the only one who can.
Summary: “By the time the ambulance arrived he was barely conscious anymore and he was so feverish. He seemed to be in so much pain, he was holding Jihoonie’s hand so tightly that it was turning white."
What else was he supposed to do? He hadn’t expected a call from Hoshi, who was supposed to be on a schedule with Woozi, Minghao and Seungkwan until late at night.
Heart pounding in his chest, he fled the dance practice room where he had been with Jun and Dino, helping them with their practice with a watchful eye. He didn’t even manage to mutter an apology to them.
Once outside he leaned against the wall, bowing forwards to hold himself up with one hand on his knee, the other holding his phone in a white-knuckled grip to his ears. He could hear how awful, how ragged and fast his own breathing was. But he couldn’t help it. It wasn’t Hoshi’s style to call, especially not during a schedule and not with those words. He was used to them coming from Mingyu who had broken something again or maybe even, without the formal speech form, from Jeonghan after he had been too mischevious for his own good.
“What’s going on, Soonyoung-ah?”, he asked, trying to steady his breathing. It wouldn’t help if he fell into a panic attack himself.
Hoshi seemed to think along the same lines. “Are you okay, hyung? Breathe.”
“I’m okay”, Seungcheol pressed out, “Soonyoung-ah, why am I not supposed to freak out?”
Hoshi sighed and replied: “We had to call an ambulance for Hao. A manager and Jihoonie are with him. The paramedics think he has appendicitis and decided to take him to the hospital.”
Seungcheol felt his head swim. Minghao. Hospital. Appendicitis. And he hadn’t been there. Of course he knew that Hoshi and Woozi, especially combined, were able to take care of the younger members well, but still the leader wished he had been there. Maybe he … no. There was nothing he could have done.
“Hyung, you still there?”
“Yeah, umm…”, Seungcheol swallowed, licked his dry lips, “what happened?”
💎
“I’m sorry”, Minghao apologized, curled into himself on the chair some staff had brought for him. Jihoon was kneeling in front of him, patting his mouth with a damp towel. Seungkwan was standing behind the sitting dancer, rubbing his neck in a comforting way. Hoshi, not wanting to crowd the sick member, stood to the side, holding a bottle and a plastic bag just in case. “I didn’t mean to ruin the take.”
“You didn’t ruin anything, hyung”, Seungkwan instantly protested, “you’re sick. It’s not your fault.”
“Kwan-ah is right”, Hoshi added, bowing to a staff member who brought an ice pack wrapped in a towel in thanks. He handed the ice to Seungkwan who placed it onto Minghao’s neck. “You should have said you felt this sick earlier.”
Minghao hadn’t looked great when he had climbed into the car that morning, wincing and in pain. When Woozi had asked, he reluctantly told them he had a stomach ache since the night but he would be fine. And he had seemed better. Well, until he had suddenly rushed off in the middle of a scene to throw up to the side of the filming location. Luckily they had been outside, so not much damage was done - though maybe some to Minghao’s pride when he realized that all staff had watched him puke.
“Still, I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing, Hao”, Woozi grumbled with fondness in his no-nonsense voice especially reserved for stubborn maknae-line members. And if he had to admit it, also towards Hoshi. “How are you feeling now? Is your stomach still hurting? Still feeling sick?”
“Yeah”, Minghao mumbled, unconsciously tightening the hold he had on his stomach. “To both. But give me a few minutes, then I can continue.”
Woozi and Hoshi exchanged a worried glance. They both were reluctant to let their sick dongsaeng continue working but they also knew that filming could not just be halted for an upset stomach. Nearly all thirteen of them had fought through stomach related issues for work before, filmings, MV shootings, concerts, interviews, you name it. If any accommodations could be made, they would be done before the member could ask for them, but what could they do for Minghao?
“Do you want another painkiller, Minghao-yah?”, their manager asked, finally speaking up. He was as worried as the members were, they knew that, but the responsibility and pressure of the shooting rested on his shoulders.
“Another?”, Hoshi echoed.
“He asked for one earlier”, the manager explained. Minghao nodded in agreement to that statement but then said: “No, thank you. I … I feel too queasy to take anything right now, I think.”
“Are you sure?”, Seungkwan asked, playing with Minghao’s hair now, “it might help you feel better.”
“Yeah”, Minghao breathed out. It was clear he was still really nauseous. “Let’s go on.”
💎
It took only about fifteen minutes, if that, until Minghao suddenly clutched Seungkwan’s wrist, the back of his other hand pressed to his mouth. Seungkwan didn’t hesitate to call for a break, not caring at all if it was his place or not to do so. There was no way he would let Minghao suffer any longer if he could do anything.
“Come on”, he whispered, wrapping his hand around Minghao’s in turn and pulling him away from any cameras and the filming crew. They ended up by a tree just out of sight and Seungkwan helped Minghao crouch down so he was in a squatting position. They didn’t have any longer, Minghao opened his mouth and a spray of mostly liquid vomit wet the ground in front of him. Seungkwan placed both hands on his hyung’s shoulders, rubbing soothing circles into his nape with his thumb.
Footsteps appeared behind them and a quick glance over his shoulder revealed Woozi and Hoshi standing next to each other to help block the view of the poorly member. Both looked incredibly concerned but before any of them could speak, Minghao started to sway even as he continued to get sick. Instantly Seungkwan stepped directly behind him, so he could lean against his legs and tightened his hold on Minghao’s shoulders. Luckily it was enough to keep Minghao from falling and soon after, he was done for the time-being.
With Woozi’s help, Seungkwan was able to pull Minghao to his feet and none of them missed the pained wince on his face at the movement. Nor the groan he let out unwillingly, his hand coming to clutch his upset stomach.
“Hao”, Woozi mumbled with a sigh, “let’s take a longer break, okay? Maybe squeeze in a nap. You can’t keep going like this.”
Seungkwan was so grateful to the hyungs for making that decision. Watching Minghao be so sick was awful. They led the exhausted dancer past the crew, Minghao’s head ducked and Seungkwan was sure he was seeing tears in his eyes, frustrated and embarrassed.
💎
The break and the nap - that even the director and the filming crew had had no problems allowing - didn’t help.
Minghao had only been asleep curled up onto Hoshi’s lap and his arms holding his abused abdomen for about ten minutes when he woke up again, barely able to push himself away from the older to avoid puking on him. Woozi helped hold him up as he gagged and retched, the puddle just growing under him. Tears were running down Minghao’s face, dripping into the vomit below.
Minghao was barely done with throwing up, when the hold he had on one of Woozi’s hands tightened and he blanched even more. “Bathroom”, he whispered, panicked.
Woozi didn’t hesitate to help him up, understanding immediately that Minghao didn’t mean he was going to throw up again. Within a minute he had managed to half-drag half-carry the younger into one of the trailers at the back of the filming areas. It had been difficult - Minghao had seemed to be in so much pain that walking had been hard for him.
Seeing how shaky and ill Minghao was, Woozi didn’t dare leave him alone in the trailer, he just closed the bathroom door while Minghao fumbled with his pants and stepped back. He couldn’t hear anything but pained sobs though and his worry overruling his discomfort at disturbing the younger in such a precarious situation, so within a few minutes he knocked on the door.
“Hao?”, he asked hesitantly, “are you okay?”
It was a stupid question of course but what else could he say?
“It hurts, hyung”, Minghao sobbed, “I thought I had to … but … uhm … I don’t. Everything just hurts so badly. I … I can’t get up.”
Woozi winced internally. He knew how Minghao was about privacy. “Do you need help?”
“Please, hyungie…”
Without any hesitation Woozi pushed open the door, instantly met with Minghao’s teary face. The younger upon seeing him enter covered his face in embarrassment though it was more than obvious that he was flushing red.
“I’ve got you, it’s okay, baby”, Woozi said, a bit helpless in the face of the situation.
Helping Minghao stand up wasn’t even close to embarrassing for either of them. They had seen each other in various states of undress before of course and all their focus was on moving so slowly that Minghao didn’t cry in pain as his muscles ached and cramped. It took a long minute until Minghao was upright and dressed again and by then he was in so much pain that tears were just streaming down his pale face without him even trying to stop them.
They made it about two steps out of the bathroom when Minghao suddenly coughed and throw up dripped down his lips. The coughing painted a grimace on Minghao’s face and he cried out. Nothing much came up but it was enough that Woozi realized that they needed real help. Something was horrifically wrong with the younger.
He managed to get Minghao to lie down on his side on a couch in the trailer’s mainroom and gently brushed his hair from his face. Had Minghao been burning up this badly earlier too?
“Hyungie, it hurts so badly”, Minghao mumbled, his speech slurred. He had his eyes pressed shut and his whole face was soaked in sweat.
“I know, we’ll get you help, okay?”, Woozi soothed, hoping deep down they could get him relief soon. He squeezed Minghao’s shoulder in comfort, then ran out of the trailer.
They needed more help than they could give Minghao themselves.
💎
“By the time the ambulance arrived he was barely conscious anymore and he was so feverish. He seemed to be in so much pain, he was holding Jihoonie’s hand so tightly that it was turning white”, Hoshi explained, “the paramedics gave him some pain meds but I don’t know how much that helped.”
“Damn”, Seungcheol mumbled, pressing his free hand to his temple, “which hospital are they at?”
Hoshi gave him the name he had gotten from another manager. “You go, hyung, but take care of yourself. Manager-hyung is taking Seungkwannie and me home.”
“Okay, yeah.”
They said their goodbyes, then hung up. Before slipping his phone into his pocket, Seungcheol sent Jihoon a text, letting him know he was on his way.
As much as Seungcheol wanted to get to the hospital as soon as possible, he knew he needed to calm himself down first. It wouldn’t help if he “freaked out” as Hoshi had called it.
Just as he pushed himself off the wall to return to the dance practice room to gather his stuff and get his car keys, Jun exited the room, worry on his face as he spotted Seungcheol.
“Are you okay, hyung?”, he asked, coming closer instantly.
“Soonyoungie called. Minghao is in hospital”, Seungcheol said, ignoring the question about himself. “They think he has appendicitis. He’s been throwing up and his stomach hurts a lot. He’s got a fever too.”
Instantly Jun’s frown deepened. “Can we go see him?”
“I am on my way there but I don’t know how many people can come…”, Seungcheol trailed off as his phone started to ring again. Seeing Woozi’s contact glowing at him, he quickly accepted the call and put him on speaker.
“Jihoonie?”, Seungcheol asked, “how is he doing?”
When Woozi spoke his voice was waving and quivering in a way that Seungcheel hadn’t heard very often. He seemed to be worried out of his mind.
“Can you find Junnie for me? I don’t think that, uh, I don’t think that Minghao knows what’s going on. He keeps crying and fighting the nurses and I … I’m so sorry, hyung. I’m at my wit’s end. I don’t know how to get through him and explain what is happening. I don’t think he even understands Korean …”, Woozi rambled, clearly overwhelmed. At least he had had enough sense to call Seungcheol in case Jun didn’t know what was going on yet. Luckily, he did.
“Stop, Jihoonie”, Jun interrupted him, “I’m here. Let me speak to Xiao Ba, hm?”
“Oh, thank God”, Woozi breathed out and his footsteps sounded hurried through the phone. Then: “Hao? I have Junnie on the phone, okay? He will explain to you what is happening.”
Instantly Jun started to talk to Minghao in rapid Chinese, sounding like he was barely leaving any space between words to breathe.
By that time Dino stuck his head out of the practice room as well, curious and concerned why both his hyungs had disappeared and never came back. He seemed to be instantly able to tell that something was going on with the way Jun was speaking and he probably saw the concern on their faces.
“What’s happening?”, he asked, coming to stand as close as possible by Seungcheol without actively touching him. He seemed uncertain too, faced with the unknown situation. With a sigh, Seungcheol pulled him into his side, tucking the maknae under his arm. “Why is Junnie-hyung speaking that fast in Chinese?”
“Minghao is sick. He was throwing up at the schedule, so they brought him to hospital. Jihoonie just called because he needed Jun to translate some stuff for Hao”, Seungcheol explained, hoping the short and maybe a bit sugarcoated version of things was enough for Dino. It was enough that already he himself, Jihoon, Jun, Hoshi, Seungkwan and most of all Minghao were frightened.
“Oh no, poor hyung”, Dino said, sounding heartfelt sorry.
“They are taking him to surgery now”, Jun said with a tremble in his voice, Seungcheol’s phone in hand, call ended. “They needed him to give permission for it but he didn’t even understand what was wrong and what they wanted him to sign. He was so scared…”
“Come here, love”, Seungcheol offered, reaching out his free arm to the younger. Instantly Jun complied and wrapped his other arm around Dino. Together they stood in the hallway for a moment, just holding each other.
💎
The moment Seungcheol and Jun stepped into the waiting room, the leader had his arms full of shaking Jihoon. It was clear that the producer was overwhelmed and scared and he couldn’t blame him. From what Jun had said after the phone call it was clear that MInghao had been too feverish and sick to make any sense. The younger dancer had been crying so badly he kept throwing up and he didn’t understand what was going on at all. His Korean sure was great now but medical terms? That was even hard for native speakers.
“He … hyung, he is so sick”, Jihoon whispered, resting his head against Seungcheol’s shoulder. “I didn’t know how to help him except hold his hand. He was so scared. I don’t think he even knew I was there.”
“He knew, I’m sure”, Jun comforted, placing a hand on Jihoon’s shoulder.
Seungcheol nodded in agreement and moved his hand up to ruffle the producer’s hair. “You did well, Jihoonie.”
They all turned to look at the manager and a nurse arriving behind them, though Jihoon’s hand stayed fisted to the back of Seungcheol’s hoodie.
“They took him into surgery now”, the nurse explained, “it’s a standard procedure, so don’t worry too much. We perform appendectomies every day multiple times. Your friend is in good hands.”
“How long will the surgery take?”, Seungcheol asked anxiously. He couldn’t imagine waiting for hours now.
“About an hour is typical”, the nurse explained, “less now that they have already started, probably. I can bring you to what is going to be his room after surgery. You can wait there for him.”
Waiting was agony. It was like the arms of the clock didn’t want to move at all. There were only two chairs in the room, which meant Jun having his own and Jihoon ending up on Seungcheol’s lap. Surprisingly he didn’t mind. Normally Jihoon tended to be a pacer but right now it seemed like being in contact with his members was priority.
The manager had gone outside for various phone calls with management. Seungcheol had called Jeonghan to let him know what was going on and to have him go check on the members worried in the dorms and to spread the news. Their second-oldest hadn’t been a fan of not being allowed at the hospital but the nurse had already made sure that they knew they were already over the limit of visitors allowed and that it was an exception. Besides, Jeonghan knew that taking care of the concerned members was important too.
It was about forty-five minutes after they had arrived in the room that the door opened and an orderly was pushing in a bed. Minghao was stark pale against the sheets and he was still asleep from the anesthetics.
As soon as the orderly had left, they crowded around the bed. Jihoon was instantly clutching one of Minghao’s hands but Jun visibly recoiled from the other where there were various lines in his veins.
A doctor who entered with the manager said: “Don’t be scared of the IV-lines. He needs pain meds, some fever reducers and we gave him some antiemetics just in case. He should wake up in the next half hour. Let somebody know when he does.”
While being physically close to Minghao brought some comfort it was also hard to see him like that. His skin was flushed from his fever and he was soaked in sweat. Connected to the IVs he seemed so small on the bed. Like a young child not an internationally known idol.
“The worst is over, Junnie”, Seungcheol said and took Jun’s hand, guiding it to hold Minghao’s. “He’s okay. The surgery must have gone well, they would have said something if it didn’t.” Jun nodded hesitantly and knelt down next to Minghao’s bed, pressing his head onto the mattress.
Seungcheol took a few steps back, watching the scene. Minghao would need some time to recover but he was fine. Their friends were worried but a quick text to Jeonghan would calm them down.
Word Count: 8256 words ; Reading Time: 30-ish mins
Trope: Arranged Marriage | Strangers to Lovers | Mutual Pining | Secret Softies
Warnings: angst, mentions of family pressure, suggestive language, slow burn, Mingyu is cheol's bestie and woozi is the the reader's bestie, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE
Synopsis:
A rising journalist. A quiet chef. Thrown into a contract marriage to please their families, neither expected the late-night meals, soft silences, or stolen glances. But what happens when pretend becomes too real… and time runs out?
Author’s Note:
This one’s for the foodies and the pining girlies. Cheol is soft, hot, and fully whipped—just how we like him. Hope you fall in love bite by bite.
The scent of freshly baked bread hit you before anything else. But it wasn’t the comforting, cozy kind that made you think of home, of cinnamon and shared laughter. No, this was the suffocating kind—the kind that followed a man who showed up forty minutes late to a dinner you didn’t even know was a marriage meeting.
You stared across the meticulously set table, chopsticks frozen mid-air, the half-eaten plate of what your mother had enthusiastically described as "a very auspicious pasta with a secret family sauce" suddenly tasting like ash. The front door creaked open, and in walked him.
Rolled-up sleeves revealed forearms dusted with a fine layer of white. A flour-dusted apron was still tied firmly at his waist, a testament to whatever culinary emergency had delayed him. Dark hair, usually neat in the photos your mother had subtly (and not-so-subtly) shown you, was ruffled like he’d run his fingers through it repeatedly in the car. His expression didn’t read "sorry I’m late." More like, “I’d rather be elbow-deep in fish guts than here.”
Same. A silent, emphatic agreement settled in your chest.
Your mother turned to you with that practiced smile—the one she only pulled out when she was scheming, a smile that promised both sugar and a hidden agenda.
“Y/N, darling, this is Seungcheol. Seungcheol, this is my daughter.” Her voice was saccharine sweet, the kind that usually preceded a request to call some distant relative you’d never met.
You managed a tight smile, the muscles in your cheeks protesting the forced pleasantry. “Wow. What a totally casual and not-at-all-orchestrated dinner. The surprise element really adds to the charm.”
He raised a dark eyebrow, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. Did you also get tricked into this elaborate carb-loading session?”
“Absolutely. I was promised jjajangmyeon and a quiet evening with Netflix, not a proposal disguised as a pasta night.”
A snort escaped him, a genuine, unguarded sound that surprised you. His eyes crinkled at the corners, softening his otherwise sharp features. “Good. Then we’re on the same sinking ship.”
You didn’t expect to laugh. But there it was, bubbling up like a secret understanding between two strangers thrown into the same ridiculous, sauce-splattered situation.
Dinner passed in a blur of polite conversation that felt anything but. Your mom gushed about your burgeoning writing career, exaggerating your freelance articles into the next great literary sensation. His father, a stern-faced man with kind eyes, boasted about his son’s Michelin-starred potential, his words painting a picture of a culinary prodigy. You exchanged increasingly bewildered looks with Seungcheol every five minutes, a silent language passing between you that translated to: is this real life? Are our parents actually serious?
And then came the bombshell, delivered with the same casual sweetness your mother reserved for offering you a second helping of suspiciously healthy vegetables.
“We’ve drawn up a six-month agreement,” your mother said, her smile unwavering. “Live together. Get to know each other. See if… compatibility blossoms. If it doesn’t work, no harm done. We’ll simply consider it a well-intentioned experiment.”
Your wine glass hit the table a little too hard, the clink echoing in the suddenly tense silence. A splash of red stained the white tablecloth like a dramatic punctuation mark. “I’m sorry—what agreement?”
Cheol didn’t look surprised. Just… resigned. A weariness settled on his face, etching lines around his mouth.
“They talked to me about it last week,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the intricate pattern of the tablecloth. “I said no. Several times.”
“So did I,” you echoed, the absurdity of the situation hitting you with the force of a rogue wave.
A beat of silence hung in the air, thick with unspoken expectations and parental determination.
Then:
“We’re still doing it,” your mom said, her tone leaving no room for argument. That was that. The finality in her voice was a familiar, frustrating force of nature.
The next few weeks were a whirlwind of hushed phone calls between your parents and his, logistical nightmares disguised as helpful suggestions, and a growing sense of surreal detachment. You found yourself signing papers you barely read, nodding along to conversations you only half-heard. It felt like you were sleepwalking through a bizarre play where you’d somehow landed the lead role in a romantic comedy you definitely hadn’t auditioned for.
Then came the day you found yourself standing in a sterile, brightly lit room, the scent of industrial-strength cleaner overpowering even the nervous sweat prickling your skin. A justice of the peace, a woman with tired eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor, droned on about the legalities of marriage. Your parents beamed from the front row, their faces radiating a triumphant “we know best” glow. His parents, while less overtly enthusiastic, offered polite, if somewhat strained, smiles.
Beside you stood Seungcheol. He looked… surprisingly calm. He wore a simple but elegant dark suit, the flour long gone, his hair neatly styled. He looked like he belonged here, in this official setting, taking these serious vows. You, on the other hand, felt like an imposter in the borrowed cream dress your mother had insisted on, your hands clammy as you clutched a small bouquet of white roses.
You hadn't had a proposal, no romantic declarations, no whispered promises under a starry sky. Instead, you had a late dinner, a shared sense of being tricked, and a six-month agreement. Yet, here you were, about to legally bind yourself to a man you’d met less than a month ago.
The justice of the peace turned to you. “L/N Y/N, do you take Seungcheol to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
Your throat felt dry. You looked at Seungcheol, really looked at him. Beyond the initial annoyance and shared disbelief, you saw a flicker of something… else. A quiet understanding, a shared burden, maybe even a hint of reluctant curiosity.
Taking a deep breath, you said, your voice surprisingly steady, “I do.”
Then it was his turn. “Choi Seungcheol, do you take Y/N to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
He met your gaze, his dark eyes holding a depth you hadn’t noticed before. There was a seriousness there that went beyond the absurdity of the situation. “I do.”
And just like that, with a few signatures and the exchange of simple, unadorned silver bands that felt more like handcuffs than symbols of love, you were married.
The apartment you moved into together a week later was bigger than you expected. Minimalistic, all neutral tones and clean lines, with a kitchen so pristine it clearly belonged to someone who knew how to use it. Aka, definitely not you.
“You take the left room,” he said, lugging in a surprisingly heavy box labeled “Spices – Handle with Extreme Care.” “I’ll take the right.”
“Thanks. Also, no offense, but if you burn something past midnight and set off the fire alarm, I will throw you and your precious spices and you off the balcony.”
“Fair. And if you leave so much as a single strand of your hair in the drain, I’m reporting you to the housing gods for crimes against plumbing.”
You smiled, a genuine smile this time, as you set your suitcase by the door of your designated room. “Sounds like the beginning of a beautiful fake marriage.”
He turned away, his shoulders slightly hunched as he wrestled with another box. But not before you caught it—a small, real smile playing on his lips.
That night, you lay in bed, the unfamiliar silence of the apartment amplifying the frantic spinning of the ceiling fan. From the kitchen, a soft clinking of pots and pans drifted through the thin walls. Maybe he was cooking, a late-night creation born out of habit and passion. Or maybe, like you, he was stress-baking his way through the sheer, unbelievable reality of it all.
Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Woozi :
please tell me this isn’t real
please tell me he’s not hot
You sighed, picking up your phone and typing back, a small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips.
You:
he showed up with flour in his hair
and he made me laugh.
and yeah… he looked surprisingly decent in a suit today.
so yes. I’m doomed.
Deadlines felt less like a ticking clock and more like a pack of rabid badgers gnawing at your sanity. You’d been surgically attached to your laptop for what felt like a geological epoch, the blue light from the screen tattooing itself onto your retinas.
Eight hours. Eight glorious hours spent wrestling with the elusive nuances of Seoul’s underground supper club scene, a world apparently fueled by more secrecy than the CIA and questionable amounts of soju. Your editor, bless their demanding soul, had graced your inbox with a string of three increasingly frantic question marks.
Your stomach, meanwhile, had long since moved past rumbling and was now emitting a low, mournful groan that echoed the general state of your existence. You were too caffeine-addled and deadline-induced to even register hunger as a tangible sensation.
So, when the unmistakable aroma of garlic sautéing in sesame oil began to snake its way under your door and infiltrate your cramped office-slash-bedroom, your initial reaction wasn’t a Pavlovian surge of appetite.
No, it was a sharp pang of guilt, the kind that usually accompanied forgetting your best friend’s birthday or accidentally liking a tweet from 2012. This guilt, however, had a distinctly culinary origin. You knew exactly who was responsible for the tantalizing scent assaulting your senses.
With the slow, deliberate movements of a zombie emerging from its digital grave, you swiveled your chair around.
The kitchen lights blazed with an almost aggressively cheerful brightness, illuminating Seungcheol as he navigated the small space with an unnerving level of calm. Olive oil hissed gently in a pan, a soft sizzle that spoke of practiced hands and controlled heat. With a casual flick of his wrist, he sent a shower of perfectly diced carrots into a gentle, aromatic tumble.
He looked… composed. Unflustered. Like he wasn’t currently orchestrating a meal for a roommate who had communicated with him solely through a series of increasingly desperate Slack messages to her editor and the occasional frustrated sigh that probably vibrated through the shared walls.
“I… didn’t ask you to cook,” you mumbled from the hallway, your voice raspy from disuse and the sheer effort of forming coherent words.
He didn’t even glance up, his focus entirely on the sizzling vegetables. “Didn’t ask for your permission either.”
You blinked slowly, the sarcasm bubbling up despite your exhaustion. “Wow. How utterly… romantic. Should I expect a serenade next? Perhaps a sonnet dedicated to the exquisite aroma of sautéed onions?”
“I’m not trying to be romantic,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of any playful inflection. “I’m trying to prevent you from collapsing face-first onto your keyboard and leaving a permanent imprint of the ‘shift’ key on your forehead.”
His bluntness, while undeniably practical, still managed to make your ears burn with a faint blush. You opened your mouth to deliver a suitably withering retort, something about the inherent dangers of unsolicited culinary interventions, but the way he was now meticulously plating fluffy white rice into a bowl stopped you. There was a quiet focus in his movements, a deliberate care that seemed at odds with the forced nature of your cohabitation.
Then, with a silent grace that felt almost theatrical, he slid the filled bowl across the countertop towards your designated spot at the small kitchen table.
You froze, halfway between the hallway and the kitchen. The aroma hit you then, fully, and it was like a punch to the gut. It was your comfort food, the culinary equivalent of a warm hug on a bad day. Soy-braised beef, cooked the way your mom used to make it.
The meat was impossibly tender, glistening with a hint of honey in the rich, savory glaze. And the carrots… the carrots were cut into perfect little stars. Your mom had always insisted on that flourish, a ridiculously time-consuming detail that had annoyed your younger self to no end, but now… now it just felt like a memory, warm and unexpected.
“How did you—?” The question hung in the air, a mixture of disbelief and something akin to… gratitude? You weren’t entirely sure.
He finally wiped his hands on a clean kitchen towel, his expression still neutral. “You mentioned it in passing last week. Something about childhood comfort food and the psychological benefits of star-shaped vegetables. I Googled a bit.”
“You… Googled the recipe of my childhood comfort food?” The absurdity of the situation almost made you laugh, a dry, humorless sound.
You sat down slowly, the wooden chair scraping against the linoleum. You picked up the offered chopsticks, the smooth bamboo feeling strangely foreign in your hand.
You didn’t say thank you. The words felt too inadequate, too… real for this bizarre, orchestrated reality.
But you cleaned the bowl. Every last morsel of tender beef, every star-shaped carrot, every grain of rice soaked in the sweet and savory sauce. You even used a stray piece of lettuce to mop up the remaining glaze, a testament to your unexpected hunger and the undeniable deliciousness of the meal.
Later that night, the glow of your laptop screen finally fading, you padded out of your room in search of water, your bare feet silent on the cool wooden floor. Sleep clung to you like a heavy blanket, blurring the edges of your vision.
The faint sliver of light emanating from beneath Cheol’s closed bedroom door caught your attention. You were about to shuffle past, heading straight for the blessed oblivion of the kitchen sink, when a soft sound made you pause. The rhythmic click-click-click of a mouse. And then… a familiar headline.
Your name.
Curiosity, that insidious little gremlin, nudged you forward. You stepped closer to his door, your ear pressed lightly against the cool wood. The soft glow intensified, illuminating the space just beyond the frame.
He was reading your article. The one that was currently three frantic question marks away from being submitted.
You peeked just enough to see his screen. Your opening paragraph, the one you’d rewritten approximately seventeen times, was highlighted in a soft blue. His head was tilted slightly as he read, his brow furrowed in concentration, his mouth quirked in that thoughtful way you’d briefly observed during your disastrous first dinner. Then, a small, almost imperceptible huff escaped him. Was he…? Was he actually… smiling?
Panic, swift and sharp, shot through you. You backed away from the door as if it had suddenly become electrified, your bare feet padding silently back towards your own room.
Once inside, you leaned heavily against the closed door, the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat echoing in your ears.
He made you your mom’s ridiculously specific dish.
He was reading your work.
You were so utterly and completely screwed. This wasn't just a bizarre living arrangement anymore. This was… something else. Something unsettlingly domestic. Something that threatened the carefully constructed wall of sarcasm you’d erected around your unwilling participation in this matrimonial farce.
Whereas, cheol's phone kept buzzing.
mingyu: sooooooo
mingyu: she licked the plate clean, didn’t she? Those star carrots really did the trick, huh? You're practically a culinary Cupid.
cheol: shut up
mingyu: OH MY GOD HE RESPONDED. The silent chef speaks! And with such eloquence! This is progress, my friend. Next thing you know, you'll be holding hands and gazing longingly at each other over a shared bowl of tteokbokki.
cheol: blocked
This was going to be a long six months. A very, very long six months filled with unexpected acts of kindness, the lingering scent of delicious food, and increasingly uncomfortable eye contact that hinted at a reality far more complicated than a simple agreement.
Next Morning <3
You’d barely managed to peel your eyelids apart when the email notification chimed, a digital herald of the day’s impending absurdity.
Subject: New Series: Love in the Everyday—Couples Who Cook Together, Stay Together
Your marriage is adorable. Myself as a editor, I am obsessed. First article & content due next week. Go wild, Mrs. Choi ❤️
Your lovely,
Unhinged editor!
You stared at the glowing screen, the word “adorable” practically dripping with saccharine irony. Your contract marriage. Adorable. The sheer audacity of it made you want to bang your head gently against the headboard.
This was supposed to be a strategic alliance, a mutually beneficial arrangement built on tax breaks and convenient cohabitation, devoid of any genuine sentiment. Yet, your professional life was now hinging on convincing the world that you and your fake husband were the poster couple for domestic bliss.
Your life had officially devolved into a poorly written rom-com where the leads were constantly improvising a love story they weren’t actually living.
You found Cheol in the kitchen, a serene island of culinary focus amidst your internal storm. He was meticulously chopping vegetables, the rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of his knife a stark contrast to the chaotic thoughts swirling in your brain. He looked effortlessly domestic, a stark reminder of the role he was about to play.
“Hey,” you began, the laptop clutched under your arm like a shield against the impending awkwardness. “So, about this video series… the editor really wants us to lean into the ‘adorable married couple’ thing.” You cringed internally at your own words.
He didn’t look up, his concentration unwavering. “Adorable, huh? Should I start wearing matching aprons with little hearts on them?”
“Please, no,” you pleaded. “Just… you know… the usual. Cooking, maybe some light banter. But she specifically mentioned wanting to see the ‘husband and wife dynamic’ shine through.”
Cheol finally paused, wiping his hands on a pristine kitchen towel. “So, more… ‘my wife this’ and ‘my wife that’?”
You nodded, a wave of secondhand embarrassment washing over you. “Pretty much. Apparently, the readers are eating it up.”
He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Eating up a lie. Fascinating.”
“It pays the bills,” you reminded him, a weak justification for the charade.
“True,” he conceded with a sigh. “Alright, Mrs. Choi. Let’s give the people what they apparently crave: a heaping serving of marital fiction.”
The first video shoot felt like a masterclass in forced intimacy. Every time you fumbled a step, Cheol would smoothly step in, his hand briefly covering yours as he corrected your technique, murmuring a casual, “My wife always struggles with this part.” The phrase felt foreign and yet… strangely natural coming from him.
“My wife has a particular fondness for extra garlic,” he’d declare to the camera, adding another clove with a knowing smile that wasn’t directed at you.
“Actually, my husband here sometimes overdoes it,” you’d retort, forcing a playful eye roll that felt about as genuine as a three-dollar bill.
By the third video, a strange rhythm had developed. Cheol seamlessly integrated the “my wife” moniker into his explanations, his tone a casual blend of affection and mild exasperation that, you had to admit, sounded surprisingly convincing.
“My wife insists on adding this much chili,” he’d say, holding up a generous pinch of red pepper flakes, a slight shake of his head that somehow conveyed years of loving compromise.
“Well, my husband has the taste buds of a toddler,” you’d fire back, a genuine smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.
The fan comments exploded with even more fervor.
@ KitchenGoddessFan: OMG the way he says “my wife” # marriedlife # soinlove
@ KDramaObsessed: Their chemistry is OFF THE CHARTS! He’s totally whipped for his wife! # husbandgoals
@ SwooningStans: Every time he calls her “my wife” I get butterflies! This is the cutest couple ever!
You tried to remain detached, reminding yourself that it was all an act, a carefully constructed performance for an audience that believed your carefully curated online persona. But with each casual “my wife,” a tiny crack seemed to appear in the wall you’d built around your emotions.
One evening, while filming a particularly chaotic attempt at making homemade pasta, flour dusted both of your faces. Cheol reached out, his thumb gently wiping a smudge from your cheek.
“My wife is a disaster in the kitchen,” he said to the camera, his voice softer than usual, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he looked at you.
Your breath hitched. The warmth of his touch lingered, and the casual endearment, spoken so naturally for the camera, resonated in a way it shouldn’t have.
Later, while editing, you replayed that moment countless times. The way his eyes had crinkled at the corners. The almost imperceptible tenderness in his touch. The easy, possessive way he’d said “my wife.”
It was all for show. You knew that. But a small, treacherous part of you couldn’t help but wonder if, somewhere beneath the layers of performance, a sliver of something real was starting to emerge.
Your phone buzzed.
Woozi :
okay that “my wife” compilation your fans are making is genuinely concerning
it’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion
You:
tell me about it
i think i need to move to another continent
Woozi :
maybe just… stop letting him call you his wife so much on camera?
You:
easier said than done bestie
the editor is OBSESSED with the “husband and wife dynamic”
i think i’ve created a monster
One month after the “Love in the Everyday” videos had inexplicably turned your bizarre contractual arrangement into internet gold, you found yourself wishing for the sweet oblivion of a root canal. Family gatherings on your mother’s side were less about familial warmth and more about a meticulously orchestrated judgment parade, with you and your life choices invariably taking center stage.
And tonight’s special guest of honor? Your husband. Your arranged husband. Choi Seungcheol. The chef. The infuriatingly talented, quietly observant, and undeniably attractive man who had a disconcerting habit of positioning himself just slightly behind you in social situations, as if unsure if he’d been granted permission to occupy the spotlight.
Apparently, some things never changed, even with a burgeoning online fanbase and articles dissecting your “adorable” marriage.
“Ah, the literary sensation graces us with her presence,” your Aunt Hyemi sang out as she greeted you at the door, her arms opening wide in a gesture that felt more performative than welcoming. “Still churning out those little think pieces that set the internet ablaze, dear?” Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes, which held a familiar glint of condescension.
Then, her gaze slid to Cheol, lingering for a moment as if he were an unwelcome piece of furniture she hadn’t noticed until now.
“And the… husband,” she drawled, the word stretched out like a particularly unpleasant note in a poorly sung song. “Still… playing with food?” The implication hung heavy in the air: while you were out conquering the world with your intellect, he was merely toiling away in a kitchen.
Your grip on Cheol’s hand tightened instinctively, a silent offering of solidarity. He, as always, responded with a gentle squeeze and a polite bow, his expression serene.
"Still cooking, yes, Auntie. Someone has to ensure Y/N eats something other than lukewarm coffee and deadline-induced anxiety,” he replied, his tone even and devoid of any defensiveness. “Her work is important. I’m just here to… support her endeavors.” His choice of words, “support her endeavors,” felt deliberately understated, a subtle deflection of the implied slight.
You knew that smile. It was the carefully neutral mask he wore when people became too loud, too invasive, too prone to making assumptions based on outdated societal norms. It was the smile that preceded his polite but firm deflections when people asked him what it felt like to be married to someone “more successful” or when they patted him on the back and told him he’d “landed himself a good one.”
Your aunt tilted her head, her gaze sharp and probing. “Mm. Must be… peculiar, though. To be constantly in your wife’s shadow. A man… defined by his wife’s accomplishments.”
You choked on the lukewarm tea you’d just been handed, a sputtering cough escaping your lips. Cheol, however, didn’t so much as flinch.
He simply chuckled softly, the sound surprisingly genuine despite the underlying tension. “I find immense satisfaction in Y/N’s achievements. Being ‘in her shadow,’ as you so eloquently put it, doesn’t bother me in the slightest. We’re a team. Her wins are my wins.”
You weren’t sure if the sudden heat rising in your chest was pride at his quiet strength or a simmering fury at your aunt’s blatant rudeness. Perhaps it was a volatile cocktail of both.
Your aunt snorted, the sound akin to a cat hacking up a hairball. “That’s what men with no ambition say. A man content to stir pots while his wife ‘conquers the world’ with her… little articles?” She punctuated her statement with a loud, brittle laugh that echoed through the suddenly hushed living room. “He’s practically dirt under your heels, sweetheart. A charity case you keep around for the cooking and… well, whatever else a docile husband is good for.”
The room went utterly silent. Forks paused mid-air, halfway to pursed lips. Snippets of conversations died mid-sentence. Every eye in the room swiveled towards the unfolding drama.
Something inside you, something you hadn’t even realized was holding itself together with frayed edges, finally snapped. It didn’t crack subtly; it shattered into a million sharp pieces.
You stepped forward, your grip on Cheol’s hand tightening until your knuckles were white. Your voice, when it finally emerged, was low and sharp, each word clipped and cold as glass. “Say that again, Auntie.”
Your aunt blinked, her painted eyebrows arching in feigned surprise. “What, dear?”
“No, I want you to repeat it. Every single condescending, belittling word you just spewed about my husband. Go on. Say it again so I can hear just how utterly pathetic and small-minded you sound.” The polite facade you usually wore at these gatherings had completely crumbled, replaced by a raw, protective anger.
She recoiled slightly, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “Excuse me, young lady—”
“No, you excuse me,” you interrupted, your voice rising slightly. “You think because he chooses to work in a kitchen, because his passion lies in creating something tangible with his hands, that he’s somehow less of a man? He runs a kitchen that feeds hundreds of people every single day. He manages a team of skilled individuals. He knows more about the complexities of human nature in an hour of observing his diners than you’ve learned in a lifetime of judging others over lukewarm tea and stale gossip.”
You could feel Cheol’s steady gaze on your back, a silent presence of support.
“He has more strength, more integrity, more sheer grit in his pinky finger than half the men in this room who are currently trying to impress each other with their fancy business cards and hollow boasts. And if you genuinely believe that the size of someone’s bank account is the sole measure of their worth, the only reason to marry someone—then frankly, Auntie, I’m eternally grateful that your husband chooses to sleep in a different room, likely to escape your poisonous opinions.”
A stunned silence descended upon the room, thick and heavy. Your aunt’s perfectly painted mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish gasping for air. Someone coughed nervously. Another relative muttered a low, impressed “damn.”
Cheol was still quiet, but the tips of his ears were flushed a delicate shade of pink, a rare outward display of his usually well-contained emotions.
You took his hand, your grip firm and possessive, and turned to address the rest of the room, your gaze sweeping over their stunned faces. “Anyone else have something they’d like to add? Any other insightful commentary on my husband’s chosen profession or his supposed lack of… backbone?”
They didn’t. The silence remained unbroken, save for the faint clinking of silverware as someone nervously resumed eating.
Later that night, after the tense atmosphere had (somewhat) dissipated and you’d retreated to the guest bedroom, you found a small tray outside your door. On it sat a bowl of still-warm stew, the comforting aroma filling the hallway. A neatly folded napkin lay beside it, and beneath it, a simple, handwritten note.
“You’ve been standing for me since day one.
Let me be your place to fall.
– Cheol”
You found him in the kitchen, the familiar quiet of his sanctuary enveloping him. His elbows were resting on the cool countertop, his dark hair tousled as if he’d been running his fingers through it, his gaze fixed on some unseen point in the distance.
He didn’t look up when you walked in, his posture radiating a quiet weariness. “I didn’t expect you to go that hard.”
“I didn’t expect her to be that… cruel,” you admitted, the anger from earlier having receded, leaving behind a hollow ache.
“She’s your family,” he said softly, a statement of fact, not an excuse.
You walked over to him, the silence between you comfortable and understanding. You pulled out the chair next to his and sat down, the wooden legs scraping softly against the floor.
“You’re my husband,” you said, the words spoken softly but with a newfound conviction that surprised even yourself.
Cheol finally looked up, his dark eyes meeting yours. For the first time since the ink had dried on the ridiculous contract, his carefully guarded expression cracked, just a little. A flicker of something vulnerable, something real, softened the sharp angles of his face. It was as if the lines between the performance and the unexpected connection you shared were finally starting to blur beyond recognition.
He smiled. Not the polite, reserved smile he offered to the world. This was a different smile. A real one. A smile that reached his eyes and held a hint of something… more.
You didn’t sleep in the guest bedroom that night. You found yourself drawn to the quiet comfort of the hallroom's couch. You fell asleep with your legs tangled together, your head resting on his steady chest, his hand gently resting on your waist, a silent promise of support and understanding passing between you in the darkness.
Next day, you find woozi's texts, you had vented to him….you always did. After all he is your bestfriend.
💬 Woozi :
You defended him in front of your entire family? Like a freaking knight in shining armor?
💬 You:
I wasn’t about to stand there and let her talk about him like he was disposable. Like his worth was tied to a paycheck.
💬 Woozi :
Girl. You are so screwed. You know that, right? This isn't just some cooking show anymore.
The silence in the apartment had become a tangible thing, a heavy blanket suffocating the vibrant energy that had once flickered between you. It wasn’t the comfortable quiet of shared understanding, but a hollow echo in the spaces where laughter used to bounce off the walls. A silence that felt stolen, a temporary reprieve before the inevitable storm.
Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours ticking down with agonizing slowness until the contract expired. Until the apartment keys were exchanged, his worn leather apron would be folded away into a box, the subtle, comforting scent of his cologne would vanish from the bathroom counter, leaving behind only the ghost of his presence.
You’d meticulously constructed a narrative of readiness in your head, a mental checklist of practicalities and detached acceptance.
It was a lie. A pathetic, paper-thin fabrication that crumbled a little more each day.
You felt his absence in the way your hand instinctively reached for his when you navigated crowded spaces, only to grasp empty air. In the way your footsteps hesitated outside his closed bedroom door at night, a silent plea for connection warring with a stubborn refusal to acknowledge the ache in your chest. It intensified with the muffled sound of his laughter during phone calls with Mingyu, a pang of longing twisting in your gut because that unrestrained joy wasn’t directed at you.
And then Woozi, bless her oblivious heart, had dropped a conversational grenade with the casualness of commenting on the weather.
“You gonna write about his Paris job in the last article?”
Your feet had slammed to a halt in the middle of the living room, the mundane task of watering the wilting basil plant suddenly forgotten.
“His what?” The question hung in the air, laced with a dread you couldn’t quite articulate.
Later, with a trembling hand, you’d navigated to his open laptop, the screen glowing with an email that felt like a betrayal waiting to be discovered.
Subject: An Invitation to Paris – Chef Choi Seungcheol
Chef Seungcheol,
We are thrilled to extend an invitation to join our esteemed team in Paris… Our establishment boasts three Michelin stars… We offer a long-term residency with full creative freedom…
It was everything a chef of his caliber dreamed of, the pinnacle of his profession. A chance to truly shine.
And you hadn’t heard a single word.
He walked in later, the familiar comforting scent of cinnamon and star anise clinging to his clothes. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the familiar dusting of flour, his dark hair endearingly messy, his cheeks flushed a healthy pink from the kitchen’s heat. He looked vibrant, alive, on the cusp of something extraordinary.
You stood frozen at the counter, his laptop screen a silent accusation between you.
He stopped dead in his tracks, his easy smile fading as his gaze landed on the open laptop.
“You got an email,” you stated, your voice flat, devoid of inflection.
Cheol didn’t move, his eyes locked on the glowing screen. “You… you read it?”
You nodded, your fingers gripping the cool edge of the marble countertop as if it were the only thing anchoring you to reality.
“You weren’t going to tell me.” The words were a quiet accusation, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within you.
“I was going to,” he said, his voice low, defensive.
“When?” you pressed, the question laced with a bitter edge. “Before you packed your knives? Or after the plane took off, with a casual postcard saying ‘Wish you were here, wife’?”
His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking visibly. He finally broke eye contact, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere over your shoulder. “Why does it matter? This… this was always fake. Right?”
The air in the kitchen seemed to thicken, the comfortable warmth replaced by a glacial chill.
“You made it very clear from day one,” he continued, his voice tight. “We do the contract. We play the part. We get what we need. Then we leave. No strings. No… expectations.” He still wouldn’t meet your eyes, and the avoidance felt like a physical blow.
You opened your mouth to argue, to deny the sudden, sharp pain that pierced through your carefully constructed indifference, but the words caught in your throat. He was right. That had been the agreement.
But the agreement hadn’t accounted for the unexpected warmth of his smile, the quiet understanding in his eyes, the way your lives had inexplicably intertwined in the shared space of your fake marriage. The agreement hadn’t factored in the terrifying realization that you were falling for the man you were contractually obligated to leave.
That night, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime of shared meals, you cooked. You hadn’t done it in months. Not since the wedding, a distant, surreal memory. Not since he’d started anticipating your hunger, feeding you without a word, without expectation. Not since you’d realized how much you’d come to rely on his quiet care.
You made something simple, something that tasted of home before home became this strange, temporary space with him. A comforting kimchi jjigae, the familiar spicy aroma filling the silent apartment.
He took one tentative bite, his eyes closed, and then slowly, deliberately, set the spoon down.
“What?” you asked quietly, your voice barely a whisper in the echoing silence.
He shook his head, his gaze distant. “Tastes like… distance.” The word hung in the air, a heavy, unspoken truth.
The apartment became a battleground of unspoken words and averted gazes. He retreated to the comforting chaos of the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans a stark contrast to the heavy silence emanating from your closed bedroom door where you furiously typed words that refused to capture the storm raging within you. Dinners were eaten hours apart, cold and solitary affairs. Your carefully synchronized routines, once interwoven like delicate threads, now lay untangled, frayed at the edges.
But your heart, that stubborn, foolish organ, never stopped searching for him in the empty spaces.
Two nights later, with a heavy heart and trembling fingers, you submitted the final article draft. The one your editor had eagerly anticipated – the grand finale of “Love in the Everyday,” featuring you and your adorably, undeniably real-seeming husband.
But the words on the screen weren’t the lighthearted anecdotes she expected. You didn’t write about the joy of shared cooking, the enthusiastic fan comments, or the viral videos that had chronicled your fabricated romance.
Instead, you wrote about him.
About the quiet strength with which he carried your world, never demanding center stage. About the way he’d wait patiently outside your office with a packed lunch, a silent gesture of care amidst your chaotic deadlines. About the fierce, unwavering support he’d offered that night with your family, standing steadfastly behind you, unflinching in the face of their cruel judgment.
You wrote about the terrifying, gut-wrenching realization of falling in love with someone who had never explicitly stated if he was allowed to love you back, within the confines of your bizarre, temporary arrangement. You poured your raw, vulnerable truth onto the digital page, a confession disguised as a farewell.
You hit send before your courage failed you, the click of the button echoing the finality of the impending goodbye.
💬 Mingyu :
You really gonna leave without telling her how you feel, you idiot? She practically went to war for you.
💬 Cheol:
What if… what if the ‘my wife’ thing was just for the cameras? What if the comfort food was just a nice gesture? What if I’ve completely misread everything? The contract ends in two weeks, Mingyu. Two weeks and this whole… performance is over.
💬 Mingyu :
She made you dinner, Cheol. After finding out you’re leaving for Paris. A home-cooked meal filled with the taste of… distance, according to you. That’s not just a friendly gesture. That’s practically a declaration in Y/N-speak. She might as well have proposed with a side of kimchi. Don’t be a fool.
--
Choi Seungcheol, a man who could coax flavor from the simplest ingredients, had become a master of emotional suppression, a skill honed in the demanding heat of Michelin-starred kitchens where sentimentality was a weakness.
He had meticulously constructed a fortress around his burgeoning affection for Y/N, each brick a layer of logic, practicality, and the stark, unyielding reality of their contractual arrangement. Mingyu’s hopeful pronouncements, filled with the saccharine optimism of a K-drama fanatic, had been dismissed as mere fantasy. Love? A dangerous delusion.
Their entire relationship had been a carefully orchestrated performance, a series of “my wife this” and “my wife that” delivered for the insatiable gaze of the internet, a cruel pantomime of intimacy. The absence of a single genuine kiss, a fundamental act of connection, underscored the hollowness of their charade.
And a persistent, agonizing question gnawed at him: did she even need him beyond the occasional recipe critique and the shared performance of marital bliss?
And so, with a heart heavier than any cast-iron skillet, he had adhered to the cold, unyielding terms of their agreement. On the fourteenth day, the expiration date circled in his mental calendar since their first disastrous dinner, he had placed the signed divorce papers on the pristine kitchen counter, the crisp finality of the document a stark counterpoint to the messy tangle of his emotions.
The silence as he’d closed the apartment door behind him had been a deafening testament to the chasm he was leaving behind. The gleaming promise of a prestigious kitchen in Paris, a lifelong ambition realized, felt like ash in his mouth, the bitter taste of what he was sacrificing lingering on his tongue.
The journey to forget Y/N, the woman he had sworn to protect his heart from, stretched before him, a desolate and seemingly endless road.
Your final article went live at 7:00 a.m., a digital ghost released into the vast echo chamber of the internet. You didn’t refresh the page, didn’t dare to scroll through the comments section, a battlefield of opinions dissecting a love story that had never truly been yours. Woozi’s frantic texts remained unanswered, each unanswered ping a testament to your profound emotional exhaustion.
Instead, you remained on the cold kitchen floor, a fetal curl of despair amidst the sterile normalcy of the apartment. Your gaze was fixed on the empty space where Cheol’s favorite skillet had hung, a phantom weight pulling at your chest.
He was gone. The silence he’d left behind was a suffocating shroud, each breath a painful reminder of his absence. You replayed the soft click of the closing door in your mind, a sound that had severed the fragile thread connecting your lives. The image of his neatly packed suitcase leaning against the door the night before was a fresh wound.
And so, as the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the empty rooms, you didn’t move. You simply let him go, the unspoken words and unacknowledged feelings a leaden weight in your soul. The future stretched before you, a vast and terrifying expanse devoid of his quiet presence.
But what you didn’t know, as you sat amidst the ruins of your almost-love story, was that miles above the earth, suspended in the sterile cabin of an airplane, your raw, vulnerable words were finding their mark.
[YOUR ARTICLE: EXCERPT]
"He always used to say the right meal could mend a broken spirit. I was skeptical, a cynic of grand gestures and easy comfort. But then there were nights when the weight of the world pressed down, when the carefully constructed walls around my heart threatened to crumble, and he would simply offer a warm bowl, a silent presence, a tangible act of care that spoke volumes without uttering a single word of forced comfort. He held space for my anxieties, my exhaustion, the messy, unfiltered parts of myself that I usually kept hidden from the world.
He saw the cracks in my facade, the vulnerabilities I fought so hard to conceal, and instead of recoiling, he offered a quiet understanding, a shared meal that tasted of acceptance. He never demanded explanations, never pushed for vulnerability I wasn’t ready to offer. He simply was, a steady anchor in the turbulent sea of my emotions.
And now, the thought of a future without the comforting aroma of his cooking filling this apartment, without the quiet strength of his presence a constant reassurance, without the unexpected warmth of his hand brushing mine in a fleeting moment of shared laughter… the thought is a vast, echoing emptiness. The idea of navigating life without his quiet support is a chilling prospect, a flavor of profound loss that no amount of professional success or fleeting internet fame can ever hope to mask."
Seungcheol sat rigidly in seat 14A of his first class, the leather of his worn satchel digging into his clenched fists. The plane remained stubbornly grounded, the pre-flight announcements a distant, meaningless drone. Outside the window, the grey expanse of the tarmac mirrored the desolate landscape of his heart.
His gaze was fixed on the illuminated screen of his phone, your words a searing indictment of his carefully constructed logic. Each sentence was a fresh wound, tearing through the layers of denial he had so painstakingly built. He saw the quiet moments you described, the unspoken language of shared meals, the fragile connection he had so readily dismissed as mere performance.
A wave of agonizing regret washed over him, a bitter taste of what he was so carelessly leaving behind. He had prioritized a lifelong ambition over the quiet, unexpected love that had bloomed in the most unlikely of circumstances. He had chosen the glittering promise of Paris over the raw, vulnerable truth reflected in your words.
With a sudden, visceral certainty, he knew he was making a catastrophic mistake. The Michelin stars, the accolades, the culinary triumphs – they all paled in comparison to the simple, profound connection he had shared with you.
He unbuckled his seatbelt with a trembling hand and stood abruptly, his bag clutched like a lifeline.
“Sir, we are now preparing for departure—” the flight attendant began, her voice laced with professional concern.
“I can’t,” he choked out, the words a raw whisper torn from his throat. “I have to go back.” He didn’t meet her questioning gaze, his focus solely on the urgent, desperate need to return to the woman whose quiet strength had unknowingly become his own anchor.
You heard the hesitant knock around noon, a fragile sound that barely penetrated the heavy silence of the apartment. You remained curled on the floor, a hollow ache where your heart used to be.
Then another knock, slightly more insistent, followed by the soft, hesitant murmur of your name. His voice. The sound, so familiar yet so unexpected, sent a jolt of disbelief through your numb despair.
With a slow, almost agonizing movement, you pushed yourself up, your limbs heavy and unresponsive. He stood in the doorway, his breath ragged, his dark hair disheveled, the familiar fabric of his apron peeking out from beneath his rumpled jacket. He looked like a man who had run across continents for a single breath of air.
“I… I came back,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes searching yours with a desperate intensity.
A single tear traced a lonely path down your cheek. “Why?” The question was barely a whisper, laced with a fragile hope you didn’t dare to believe.
He held up the small bento box, his hands trembling slightly. The warmth radiating from it was a tangible reminder of his quiet care. Inside, nestled amongst the carefully arranged ingredients, was the simple, comforting stew he had made on the night your carefully constructed world had threatened to shatter.
“I made you this,” he said, his voice low and raw. “Because… because you once said it helped you survive. And… and your words… they made me realize… I don’t want to just survive without you, Y/N.”
He took a hesitant step closer, his gaze locking onto yours, his dark eyes filled with a raw vulnerability you had never witnessed before.
“You… you’re more than just someone I cooked for. You… you help me breathe,” he confessed, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. “I was so afraid… afraid of ruining what we had, even if it was… unconventional. I didn’t know if I was allowed to feel this… this real. I was so terrified of being rejected, of misreading every small gesture…”
Before he could unravel further, you reached for him, your fingers tangling in the soft fabric of his jacket, your face pressing into the familiar comfort of his chest. The scent of him, a blend of spices and something uniquely his, filled your senses, a lifeline in the suffocating emptiness.
“You always were,” you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears, the words a fragile affirmation of the feelings you had both tried so hard to deny.
He leaned down, his lips finding yours with a desperate tenderness, a kiss that tasted of regret, of longing, and finally, of a hesitant, burgeoning hope. It wasn’t tentative, wasn’t careful, wasn’t a performance for an audience. It was real, raw, and a promise of something more than a contract.
That night, the silence in the apartment was finally replaced by the comfortable hum of shared presence. He moved around the kitchen with a familiar grace, preparing a simple meal while you sat on the counter, legs swinging, watching him with a newfound tenderness. You stole bites from the simmering pans, and he didn’t stop you, his gaze lingering on you with a soft smile. When you burned your tongue on a particularly eager taste, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a gentle, lingering kiss that tasted of forgiveness and the promise of a future finally worth savoring.
💬 Woozi :
So… real marriage now? No more pretending for the internet?
💬 You:
Real everything, Woozi. Finally. And it tastes so much better than any viral video.
💬 Woozi :
My best friend’s finally whipped. Beautifully, irrevocably whipped. About damn time.
fanfic writers are so fucking awesome man. they write novel length fics that are sometimes even better than some published bestselling books written by professional writers. like fanfic writers are professional writers to me and they gift us their masterpieces for free. they give us something we can look forward to after a long day. something from which we can seek comfort when life is hard. something that can be our own little getaway. in a world of capitalism, despite everything, they give us all of these for free. like holy fuck. shout out to every fanfic writer. I wish all fanfic writers a very ‘I love you with all my heart and soul. I thank you from the bottom of my heart’
Small fantasy worldbuilding elements you might want to think about:
A currency that isn’t gold-standard/having gold be as valuable as tin
A currency that runs entirely on a perishable resource, like cocoa beans
A clock that isn’t 24-hours
More or less than four seasons/seasons other than the ones we know
Fantastical weather patterns like irregular cloud formations, iridescent rain
Multiple moons/no moon
Planetary rings
A northern lights effect, but near the equator
Roads that aren’t brown or grey/black, like San Juan’s blue bricks
Jewelry beyond precious gems and metals
Marriage signifiers other than wedding bands
The husband taking the wife's name / newlyweds inventing a new surname upon marriage
No concept of virginity or bastardry
More than 2 genders/no concept of gender
Monotheism, but not creationism
Gods that don’t look like people
Domesticated pets that aren’t re-skinned dogs and cats
Some normalized supernatural element that has nothing to do with the plot
Magical communication that isn’t Fantasy Zoom
“Books” that aren’t bound or scrolls
A nonverbal means of communicating, like sign language
A race of people who are obligate carnivores/ vegetarians/ vegans/ pescatarians (not religious, biological imperative)
I’ve done about half of these myself in one WIP or another and a little detail here or there goes a long way in reminding the audience that this isn’t Kansas anymore.
♱ The Hunger Games AU - peacekeeper!seokmin x covey!reader | wc: 5.5k
♱ set in ballad of songbirds and snakes era except it's seokmin x reader. see replies for the glossary of terms if you're not familiar with thg.
a/n: I can’t believe I was gone for more than TWO MONTHS?! I don’t even have a good reason for my sudden hiatus other than life messed with me. I think this is a curse all fanfic writers bear—we must have heavy and unspeakable lore. Anyways, I’m back because it’s seokmin’s birthday tomorrow!! Enjoy, my dearest cuties g <33
tags: fluff, angst, smut, female anatomy, fingering, p in v sex, unprotected sex (stay safe!), creampie, pet names, childhood friends, rebellion, capitalism (I mean, it's a thg fic, what did u expect)
Your footfalls echoed in the mist of dawn in District 2. Last night was full of hearty laughs and the clinking of glasses. Everyone in the district was celebrating what could be the final night they’d see their children. Now that the bottles were empty and the windows were closed, it was eerily quiet. You were only twelve but could already understand their unease. It was the morning of the reaping.
Your family was asleep in the inn, exhausted from a night of performing songs and dances. Your mother, the singer of the band, was still in her colorful dress as she slept on a cheap cot. You, however, had barely played the guitar at the side of the stage. The energy was still in your system, ready to perform, but there was no audience in the morning. So you kept walking. Away from the sleeping band. Away from the quiet district. It was the day the Capitol would pick children who would become tributes to The Hunger Games. No one batted an eye when they saw a Covey child walking with a guitar on her back.
Stories of The Hunger Games scared you, but your mother always told you not to fret because your people weren’t part of the districts. You were free. Coveys traveled from one place to another, not for the Capitol and not for the districts. Your name couldn’t be called in the reaping. You were musicians, a family with no roots tied to one place. But every year during the reaping, you couldn’t help but sympathize with the district people.
You sat on top of a boulder overlooking the rest of the town. District 2 was on a rocky mountain, a strikingly different terrain from the other districts you’d been to. You could already see the sun starting to rise on the horizon. Without caring who might hear, you started playing a song.
It was a different rendition of what your family had sung on the stage. Coveys always sang of finding one’s home, so much so that people assumed you were on a mission to find an actual place. That was far from the truth. Home, to your people, was with one another. It was in the soul of your family. It was in the harmony of your voices. It was in the air as you hummed the familiar tune while your small fingers played the chords.
You were almost at the end of the song when another voice harmonized from behind. At first, you thought it was one of your cousins. Only the Covey carried the tune of this song so well. But when you turned your head, you realized how wrong you were.
The boy looked about the same age as you. He had messy black hair and kind eyes. He stood at the foot of the boulder, swallowing nervously. This boy wasn’t part of your band, but he looked at you like he was expecting to be acknowledged.
“What are you doing here, District Boy?” you called out, giving him the only nickname you could think of.
“Nothing, I just like this song.” He wore an embarrassed smile, unable to look you straight in the eye.
“Well, come on then. Sit with me and sing.” You moved to the side to give him space.
District Boy climbed the boulder with ease, catching you by surprise. He didn’t look like someone who climbed rocks daily, but then again, he had already broken your assumptions the moment you laid eyes on him.
He sat in front of you, blocking the view of the rising sun. You couldn’t tell him to move, though. This view was the most beautiful one you’d seen in District 2.
“I’m Seokmin,” he said, smiling in a way that crinkled his eyes.
You introduced yourself simply. There was no need to make friends when your band would be on the road by midday. Still, it would have been a shame to let this opportunity pass.
“So, how’d you know about this song?” you asked him, trying to sound casual.
“I watched you last night. You didn’t sing much, though. It’s a shame. You have a lovely voice.”
You quickly turned your gaze to the guitar, pretending to adjust the tune. There was no way an audience had been looking at you when you were practically at the edge of the stage, away from the spotlight. No one in all the districts had ever given you compliments before.
Instead of answering, you started playing another song. A calmer version of one of the performances your family gave last night. District Boy—Seokmin—bobbed his head and tapped his fingers on the rock, humming the tune with you. You kept going from one song to another until the sun showed up in the sky. Until songs became a conversation.
“Aren’t you scared of the reaping?” you finally asked him. Kids like him should have been with their parents, hugging them goodbye in case their names were called out for the games.
“Honestly? I’m more scared if I don’t get chosen.” He picked up a pebble and fiddled with it, running his gaze across the horizon. “I turned twelve last month. It’s the first time my name could be picked. I was trained for this, you know? They'll call us Career Tributes. Previous victors train us to prepare for the games and win. I have a better chance than the others. If someone with no training gets chosen, they’d most likely die. I’d rather it be me than anyone else.”
You stared at him and knew he was speaking the truth. A quick look at Seokmin would convince anyone that he was easily afraid. But a proper study of his face, the lines of his expression, and the hardness of his eyes told you he was braver than he seemed.
It was the quiet morning of the reaping when you decided that a district boy named Seokmin had caught your eye. That day, after you both climbed down and gathered with the rest of the crowd, you watched the names get called.
It was your first time watching the event up close. Coveys didn’t participate in these things. They didn’t have to. Watching families cry and wail for their children wasn’t something they wanted to do. But for this kid, who was barely taller than you yet already stood like he could carry the entire weight of the world on his back, you watched the reaping.
When it was time for the boy tribute to be picked, he reached out for your hand. Your heart skipped a beat when he did so. He kept his eyes trained on the stage, but yours stayed on him. You squeezed his hand, afraid of the worst.
The lady on the stage gave a moment’s pause, then yelled a name you didn’t recognize. Someone wailed at the back of the crowd, crying the same name. A little boy appeared on the screen, sallow and thin. He walked toward the stage as the crying woman, possibly his mother, stood at the back, begging for her son to come back.
You’d heard that people not chosen could volunteer in the place of the chosen tributes. And somehow, you knew it was exactly what Seokmin was thinking. You had met him just a few hours ago, but it felt like you’d known him all your life.
You whisper to the air, “Please don't volunteer.”
Please don't volunteer.
Please don't volunteer.
As he drew a breath to yell out, your hands flew to his mouth, shutting him up.
“No volunteers?” the lady asked the crowd.
Seokmin struggled to get your hands off his mouth, muffling the words “I volunteer! I volunteer!” into incoherent noises. You could tell Seokmin didn’t want that sickly child to be in the games. You knew he’d trained all his life to fight for his district. But Seokmin was a child, too. And it was only his first reaping. You weren’t going to watch this boy die on a screen.
When the crowds had dispersed and Seokmin stopped struggling, you let go of him. Betrayal filled his eyes. You tensed, preparing yourself to be yelled at or hit. But when he opened his mouth, what came out was a breathless question.
“What were you thinking?”
“I… I stopped you from making a mistake.”
“A mistake? That kid’s going to die! You should have let me volunteer. It wasn’t your choice to make. Why did you stop me?”
He was right. A person like you had no right to interfere. But the thought of Seokmin fighting for his life in the arena was too much to bear. He waited for an answer even as the peacekeepers ushered the crowd to go home.
You thought of any rational explanation. Anything that wasn’t going to end up with you confessing a few-hours-old crush on a district boy. “In my family, we believe that whatever’s for you will come to you. If you were meant to be in the games, your name would’ve been called. Maybe it’s not your year.”
“That’s ridiculous. Do you think it’s fair that they’re sending him instead?”
“No.” You straightened your spine, answering with every ounce of conviction. “It’s not fair. None of it is fair. The Hunger Games shouldn’t even exist. It’s cruel and wrong.”
At this, a couple of peacekeepers in white uniforms turned their heads toward you. They approached briskly. Seokmin noticed and placed a hand on your shoulder.
“Let’s go.” He led you to the road, his arm never leaving your back. “You shouldn’t have said that near the peacekeepers. They’re sworn to punish anyone who speaks against the Capitol.”
You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. “Where are we going?”
“You’re going back to your family. I’ll go back to mine,” he said simply. But you both knew it meant goodbye.
When you reached the inn, he stopped. You turned to look at him and couldn’t help but admire his features. In another life, you might have become good friends. If he was part of the band, you’d love singing on the stage with him. You’d love to be his best friend and grow up together. But of course, it was all a fantasy. He was training to be a Career Tribute. A future victor.
“You don’t really want to be in the games,” you said softly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He sounded defensive, almost insulted. It was as if you had called him weak.
“When I was covering your mouth, you could have thrown me off easily. You’re stronger than me, but you didn’t.”
“Well, first, I don’t want to hurt you. Second, I don’t want to break your guitar.” He nodded toward the instrument strapped to your back. “And third, don’t think for a second that I don’t want to volunteer. I meant what I said back there. I’d rather it be me than some untrained kid.”
You knew this was the end. That once your family was back on the road, you would never see him again. If he didn’t volunteer now, he would next year. Still, something tugged at your heart to try, even just one last time.
“I meant what I said, too. If it’s meant for you, it will happen, just not now. Maybe you’re meant to fight someday, but not today. Someone might need you in the future, and you have to be ready for that. If you volunteer now, you might save one kid, but who will save the others if you’re gone?”
Seokmin hummed, the stubbornness in his eyes softening. “Alright. I’ll think about it. But don’t hate me when I end up in the arena.”
Despite the ache in your heart, you nodded. “I won’t.”
“Have a safe journey back home.”
You couldn’t bring yourself to say you had already found it.
That day was the last time you saw the district boy. It was the first and last reaping you had watched in person. For the next several years, during the reaping day, you watched through a screen, hoping his name was never called. Hoping he would remember your words and never volunteer.
And just as you’d hoped, he never did.
TEN YEARS LATER
In District 12, you were no longer at the edge of the stage. You were performing for the crowd each night as the main singer, basking in the spotlight. Your mother stayed at home, caring for your younger cousins. The feathered dress she once wore now adorned you, and her songs filled the air as you sang with the band. The Covey spent the previous months in District 12, settling near a lake. This was routine. This was life.
Despite the Capitol forbidding it, peacekeepers made up most of your audience. They liked to splurge on the money sent by their supervisors. They believed it boosted morale. You didn't follow their logic but chose not to call it out if it meant stuffing coins in your pocket.
Tonight, however, was a change of routine. The new Head peacekeeper deployed a new batch of troops to District 12. They tightened the security and snuffled any conspiracy of resistance. The Covey had never sided with the Capitol nor the rebels, so your people were safe from the interrogations.
You sang the usual songs, played the usual chords, and smiled at the usual crowd. But when the new peacekeepers in town joined the audience, a sudden rush filled your body. Your eyes scanned the crowd until it landed on a tall silhouette. It took you a few moments before the lights hit the figure just right.
It took every part of you to keep singing when you figured out who it was. He was taller than most men in the crowd. He had a regal air to him, something about his posture that demanded respect. He had his hair cropped short, accentuating the sharpness of his jaw and nose. You were out of breath by the time the song ended.
Seokmin was staring at you with his sharp, calculating eyes from across the room. You suppressed a shudder, feeling exposed despite your dress being long. He was in a white peacekeeper uniform like the rest of the crowd. He studied you less like an audience but like a jungle cat awaiting its prey.
When the performance ended, your cousin grabbed your arm. “What's wrong? Are you not feeling well?”
“No, it's fine,” you lied.
You had no idea why he was here. Maybe he was staring because he couldn’t remember where he’d seen you before. It had been ten years. There was no reason for him to approach you. So you swallowed your pride and pretended not to see him.
For the next few nights, Seokmin kept watching. It was as if he enjoyed toying with your head. You couldn’t sing about lovers without glancing at him. Heat rose to your skin, but he never approached you after your performances. He never said hello. You stopped thinking he remembered you.
You felt like a tribute being forced to perform on screen, acting for the audience. It was a mental tug-of-war, teetering back and forth. Whatever it was, you couldn’t sing another song without knowing why he was there.
And then one night, after your performance, he finally approached you. Seokmin was even more striking up close. He had a well-defined frame, broad shoulders, and effortless grace. The peacekeeper looked at you with no hint of emotion, but his eyes gleamed just like they did when you first saw him.
“How can I help you, peacekeeper?” You almost called him District Boy. But the man before you was no boy. He was a weapon for the Capitol.
“You have something I need.”
His voice sent a rush down your spine. What the hell was he talking about? And why did his voice affect you that much?
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’ll explain, but we can’t talk here. I’ll wait for you in the house near the Seam. Make sure you’re not being followed.”
Of course, he was only doing his duty for the Capitol. They were here to investigate the rising number of rebels in District 12. Still, a small part of you felt disappointed. Whatever he needed, it was information, not you. Seokmin wasn’t the same boy you had met all those years ago. He was dangerous. And you’d be damned if that didn’t pique your interest.
You made your way toward the Seam, thoughts swirling in your head. The image of the twelve-year-old boy you once knew and the tall peacekeeper before you were strikingly different, yet it made sense. He had trained his whole life to be a victor of the Games but never volunteered to enter. It was only a matter of time before he became a peacekeeper. District 2, his home, provided weapons and soldiers for the Capitol, after all.
The meeting place, as it turned out, was not an interrogation room but a small house. Seokmin was sitting at a dining table, studying a barely lit map of what seemed to be District 12. It was quiet, a contrast to the howling crowd back at the Hob. The windows were covered, and you didn’t notice any other peacekeepers.
“Were you followed?” The serious tone of his voice startled you, and you had to glance at the closed door behind you to make sure the question was directed at you.
“No? I—I don’t think so.”
“You can never be too sure. Next time, change your clothes after the performance before coming here so people won’t recognize you immediately.”
Next time?
“What is going on?” you asked.
“Sit down,” Seokmin said, completely ignoring your question.
You sat across from him and looked at the map. Some places were encircled, some routes traced, but one mark stood out—a cross on your house near the lake as if it were a target.
“What is this?”
“You are under surveillance for potential rebel connections.”
“I have never—”
“I know. That’s why I’m talking to you alone. I already cleared your name, but not your entire family’s. Your cousins were smuggling contraband, delivering weapons from one district to another. They got caught in District 11 five months ago. That’s why you’re laying low here.”
“No, we’re just settling because… because…”
Your mind reeled. Because your mother was getting old? Some of the elders in your family had been traveling despite their age, and it had never been a problem. It never occurred to you that there might have been another reason they chose to stop. Your cousins had mentioned their disdain for the Capitol before, but you had never once thought they’d conspire with the rebels.
“How are you so sure? You could’ve mistaken them for other people.”
Seokmin held your gaze and spoke with sincerity, almost an apology. “Because I was the one who caught them.”
“But—”
“And I was the one who let them go.”
The gasp that tore from your throat echoed in the small house. Not just because your cousins had been doing something dangerous, but because Seokmin—the same boy you once knew, the boy trained to be loyal to the Capitol—had met your family. Had protected your family.
He pointed at the encircled places on the map. “Here’s where the peacekeepers are stationed. We were told to interrogate everyone who may be involved. I advised your cousins to pause, but they almost got caught last night. I covered it up, but now your entire family is being monitored.”
Seokmin spent the entire night instructing you on how to steer clear of the peacekeepers' attention and how to lie when questioned. He repeated the routes, schedules, and important connections over and over again until you memorized them like the songs you loved to play. When he was certain you had the necessary information, he let you leave, but not without a goodbye.
“I’m glad you get to play at the center of the stage now. You’re amazing.”
For a second, your heart leaped at the praise, and you forgot the danger you were in and the job he had. Before you could stop yourself, you wrapped your arms around him and pulled him into a hug.
“I don’t know why you’re helping my family, Seokmin, but thank you. Thank you for not volunteering in the Games. I’m so happy to see you.”
There was so much more you wanted to tell him. When you pulled back and looked up, you could tell he wanted to say many things too. But dawn was approaching, and neither of you could risk being caught, so you let go and followed the route he taught you.
Your cousins had an earful from you that day, but mostly because you were worried for their sake. The Covey didn’t hold grudges against one another, and by the end of the day, your family had agreed to be careful and follow Seokmin’s instructions.
Being careful did not mean your cousins stopped aiding the rebels, though. The house near the Seam, where Seokmin explained everything to you, became a meeting hub for the rebellion. Shivers ran down your spine when you realized Seokmin not only protected the Covey but also directly took part in the rebellion by providing details on the peacekeepers’ plans. It was grounds for a death sentence, yet he spoke in each meeting like an experienced commander.
The unease with the arrangement grew bigger inside you each time you saw your cousins hauling weapons for the rebels. Some were stationed in the coal mines, some in the Hob. They were biding their time, gathering as much manpower as they could to plan an attack.
When he was certain there were no eyes around you, Seokmin would spend his time talking to you. He’d walk you home after a performance, staying at the edge of the houses to ensure none of the peacekeepers saw you with him. You wished you could take the main roads, uncaring of the eyes on you, but you cherished the quiet as well. Taking this route meant more time to talk to him.
“Since when have you been doing this?” you asked him.
Seokmin knew you were referring to the rebellion. “Since you told me not to volunteer in the Games.” He let those words hang in the midnight air before continuing.
“You made me think about what I actually wanted to do. If I had gone to the arena and fought, there’s a good chance I’d die. I wouldn’t be able to help the district children. But if I joined the resistance, whatever help I could give would pass on even when I’m gone. I think that’s why, when I was recommended for the peacekeepers, I saw it as an opportunity. The resistance needed an eye inside, and I was trained to perform while people were watching me.”
You couldn’t help but admire him even more. You were trained to perform as well, but not in the way Seokmin was. He led you home and gave you a warm hug before disappearing into the night. Every time he left, the warmth in your heart lingered like wisps of smoke calling back to him.
The logistics of the resistance took a heavy toll on everyone involved. They often met in the house near the Seam and debated the figures of the plan. After one particular meeting that lasted several hours, you were left with Seokmin asleep on your lap. You stroked his hair, wondering what would happen between the two of you if the circumstances were different.
You barely noticed the time until you heard a knock on the door. The knock did not follow the pattern agreed upon by the rebels. Heart pounding, you woke Seokmin up, gently brushing your fingers across his cheek.
He immediately stood up and looked through the cracks of the boarded-up window.
Seokmin cursed under his breath. “It’s the Head Peacekeeper.”
You quickly hid the maps, documents, and boxes of supplies as Seokmin put on his uniform.
“Open the door!” boomed the voice outside.
“Hide, I’ll talk to him.” Seokmin’s voice was steady, yet he eyed the door warily. You saw your reflection in the mirror and noticed how disheveled you looked compared to him. An idea crossed your mind.
“Seokmin, let me talk to him.”
“What?”
The knocking grew more aggressive.
“Please, trust me. Go upstairs.”
Seokmin searched your eyes, saw the stubbornness, and nodded. If there was anyone he trusted with his life, it was you. He stepped back and let you answer the visitor.
The second you opened the door, you were held at gunpoint. The Head Peacekeeper was stocky and fuming with anger. Two peacekeepers at his side held their weapons against you.
“Where is he?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t start with me. I keep receiving reports that one of my men has been visiting this house and acting suspiciously. Stand back.”
“No, wait. He’s— well, I might have torn his uniform. It will take me a few stitches. We had an eventful night, you see.”
The Head Peacekeeper’s eyes widened. He opened the door wider and found the sofa, the blankets placed haphazardly, and the disheveled state of your dress. The peacekeeper to his left suppressed a snort. The other whistled slowly.
He understood. A peacekeeper sleeping with a Covey was controversial, but not as controversial as a rebellion. So you did your best to act ashamed. If you were going to convince everyone that you were sleeping with Seokmin, you’d better do a damn good job of it.
“Tell him to report back to me immediately.” The disappointment in his tone sent relief through your entire system.
“Of course, sir.”
You waited until the man’s silhouette disappeared before you closed the door and locked it.
“Tore my uniform, huh?” Seokmin teased, clearly amused with your alibi.
“Don’t look at me like that. That's all I could think of at the moment.”
“And why is that?” His smile grew wider.
“I don’t know. Stop staring!”
Seokmin didn’t listen. He walked toward you with a different expression—one that made your knees weak with want. Your back hit the door as he towered over you. Somehow, your heart pounded faster than when you were being held at gunpoint.
“Why is that?” he repeated, placing his hands on the door, caging you between his arms yet not quite touching. You swallowed, your ears ringing at the proximity.
“I don't know. I figured it was believable,” your voice was barely a whisper.
The smirk that flashed across his face told you it was the wrong answer. You were digging your own grave, and Seokmin was enjoying every moment. He tilted his head, taunting you to try again. When you couldn’t bring yourself to speak, he leaned closer.
“I don’t think it’s believable, darling. There’s no damage to my uniform.”
You barely suppressed a whimper at the insinuation. Seokmin caught it immediately and placed his lips near your ear.
“Would you like to create some evidence?”
“Yes,” you breathed against his collarbone.
It was all he needed before pressing his lips against yours. His hands traveled to your hips, squeezing and groping as he devoured your mouth with so much fervor. You could barely keep up with the intensity of his movements. It was as if a dam collapsed inside him and desire flooded his veins.
It took him no effort to scoop you in his arms towards the table across the room. Your fingers fumbled at his collar, gripping the fabric as you pulled him closer.
His mouth opened when the sharp sound of fabric cut through the air. You paused, hands curled in the loosened seams. A smirk ghosted his lips. The heat in his gaze made you pull at the fabric again, just enough to leave behind proof.
Seokmin kissed you again, stripping his now perfectly damaged uniform as you ran your hands through his hair. He pulled your dress down to reveal your breasts, nipples perked with arousal. He leaned over you, tracing his tongue on your chest. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him even closer.
You wanted him to drive into you, to fill you with his fingers. Seokmin seemed to read your mind when he took a step back and tore your dress off, leaving you in nothing but soaked underwear. The mahogany table was not the ideal bed, but your cunt ached to have him.
Seokmin traced the wet patch on your core and pressed his fingers. You let out a loud moan, pushing your pelvis against his hand for more friction. He wrapped his left arm around your back while his other hand got to work.
He pulled the fabric off in one second and drew circles around your wet entrance. His mouth found its way back to your tits and moved his tongue across your nipple in a similar manner. After moments of teasing, he finally inserted a finger inside you.
The intrusion pulled a gasp from you. His finger moved inside you in a steady rhythm before adding another. You moved your hips to meet his thrusts, trying not to scream every time his teeth grazed your nipple.
“You have no idea how long I wanted this.” Seokmin's voice was breathy, shooting directly to your core.
“I need more. Please…”
You were gasping for air when he drove four fingers in and out of you rapidly. His thumb circled your clit, confirming the skills you dreamed about each time you thought of his big hands. He trailed kisses from your chest to your mouth, drinking in each sound.
With a few more coaxes, you came fast, mouth open and legs shaking. Seokmin cursed, praising you for being good to him.
“Seokmin,” you moaned when the last waves of pleasure crashed into you. You could barely breathe from the intensity of the high.
The only thing left in your mind was the urge to satisfy him. To break him. Your hands found their way to his rock-hard cock, practically begging to be inside your walls.
He was big. Bigger than you had expected. And yet, you couldn't wait for even a second. Seokmin nipped your earlobe and rubbed his cock against your pulsating heat.
“You have no idea what you do to me.” Seokmin rasped, his hands roaming every inch of your body.
“Show me.”
You locked his lips with yours, taking everything he had to give— his groans, his breath, his sanity. When he slid his cock into your awaiting cunt, you barely remembered where you were. It was a song. A duet. Your walls gripped his dick deliciously, feeling the head reach so deep inside you.
His form was godly, with sculpted muscles and veins running through his arms. He pulled out slightly before plunging his cock back deep inside, tearing a gasp from your throat.
“Hold on,” Seokmin said as he took you hard.
Gripping his shoulders for dear life, you met his thrusts with barely contained moans. He pulled you harder to the edge of the table, fucking you as your legs locked around his waist.
“Please, I'm so close. Don't stop.”
“I know, I got you.”
Each snap of his hips was driven by desire, filling the house with lewd noises. You arched your back, keening closer to the edge. Seokmin’s pace didn't falter as he whispered dirty words with each ruthless move.
With a final set of rough thrusts, your orgasm ripped through your system. Seokmin wrapped his arm around your body tighter. You clenched around his length as pleasure filled your entire body. The waves of your orgasm crashed for what seemed like forever before Seokmin pulled out to cum on your sweat-slicked torso.
Everything was a blur after the mind-shattering orgasm he gave you. Seokmin carried you to a more comfortable bed upstairs and cleaned your body. He fixed his uniform back on, making sure it was functional but damaged just enough for an alibi. Your heavy eyelids dropped close as he kissed your forehead goodbye.
The resistance only grew stronger from that moment forward. When the suspicions of the Head peacekeeper had died down, the eyes on you and your family became fewer. You no longer had to constantly look back, afraid of the dogs trailing your scent.
To them, you and Seokmin were doing nothing but each other at the edge of the Seam. Peacekeepers would smirk and shake their heads whenever they saw you with him instead of accusing you of rebellion. This gave the resistance more chances to mobilize their plans. And it gave you more reason to spend time with him.
There you found yourself on stage, dedicating each song to the district boy you once met. The man you loved. Seokmin watched, singing along to the old tunes passed down from one generation to another.
For a moment, you allowed yourself to dream under the stars of District 12. Under alibis and feathered dresses, you dreamed of a future with him. A future devoid of the Capitol’s cruelty, where the Games existed only as tales, and where a Covey and a peacekeeper get to love each other forever.
a/n: I will be cleansing my permanent taglist. For those of you who want to be removed, please let me know by sending an ask or messaging me, thank you!
warnings: descriptions; headcanons; gn (mostly) reader self insert; you might find it a little kinky at some point;
pairings: svt x gn reader
gender/aus: fluff; slightly suggestive;
Scoups
The whole night, Seungcheol tried to focus on dinner, the conversation, and the sophisticated atmosphere of the restaurant. But it was impossible. From the moment you appeared in front of him, wearing that outfit that hugged your body in a way that seemed tailor-made to tease him, nothing else mattered. His dark gaze kept falling on you every second, his jaw clenching every time you moved in a way that made it impossible to ignore the effect you had on him.
On the way home, the tension between you was palpable. The city passed unnoticed through the car windows while the only thing that truly mattered to Seungcheol was the sensation of your skin under his palm. His large hand rested firmly on your thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles, occasionally pressing as if testing your patience as if making it clear what was coming next.
When he finally parked in front of your house, he got out of the car first. The click of the door opening echoed in the stillness of the night as he moved around, his calm, calculated movements with that dominant presence that made your breath hitch before he even touched you.
Seungcheol extended his hand, helping you out of the car, his eyes never leaving yours. As soon as you were standing, he shut the door behind you—and before you could even process the movement, his body was already pressed against yours on the car.
The impact was gentle but definitive. One of his hands found your waist, pulling you against him, while the other cupped the side of your face. And then, without hesitation, he took your lips.
The kiss was fierce, filled with everything he’d been holding back the whole night. Seungcheol wasn’t one for half-measures, and there, against the car, under the dim streetlight, he made that clear. His lips were demanding against yours, his tongue exploring your mouth without rushing, as if savoring every second, as if he’d been waiting for this for far too long.
When he felt you melt under his touch, the need for more took over. Without effort, one of his hands slid down the side of your body until it found your thigh, and in one swift move, he lifted it, pressing it against his waist. The contrast between the cold metal of the car and the heat of his body made a shiver run up your spine.
Dressed entirely in black, Seungcheol looked even more imposing. The dark shirt clung to his body, accentuating every defined muscle, and the strength with which he held you against him made it impossible to ignore how badly he wanted this.
The kiss didn’t slow down. Seungcheol deepened every movement, exploring, dominating, as if his intention was to etch the feeling into every cell of your body. The firm hand holding your leg against him, his chest rising and falling against yours, the muffled sound of heavy breathing between kisses – all contributing to the electricity that hung in the air.
When he finally broke the kiss, just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and gleaming with desire, he smiled crookedly.
— I should’ve brought you home earlier... — He murmured, his voice rough.
But the way he pressed his body against yours afterward made it clear that the night was far from over.
Jeonghan
The smell of your parents' house was familiar, a mix of fresh coffee and old wood that brought back childhood memories. Lunch had been peaceful, and Jeonghan, with his charming ways, had effortlessly won over your parents. He laughed at the stories they told about you as a child, his eyes gleaming with that mischievous interest only he could have.
After eating, you decided to give him a tour of the house. You walked through the rooms, stopping at every detail that was part of your history—the mark on the living room wall where you used to measure your height as a kid, the bookshelf filled with old books, the garden where you used to play. But it was in your bedroom that the tour truly ended.
The space felt smaller now, but it still carried your essence. Jeonghan was immediately distracted by the old photos scattered around, picking one up with an amused smile.
— Look at you here, such a cutie! — He laughed, holding a picture of you as a little kid. — Who would’ve thought that this innocent little face would grow up to be so bossy?
You rolled your eyes, throwing yourself onto the old bed with a sigh. The mattress creaked slightly under your weight, and you closed your eyes for a moment, letting nostalgia wash over you. But before you could fully relax, you felt an added weight on top of you.
You opened your eyes only to find Jeonghan sitting on your lap, a mischievous smile playing on his lips as his fingers pinned your wrists against the mattress.
— Jeonghan… — You murmured, your heart racing.
— Yes? — He tilted his head, feigning innocence, but the playful glint in his eyes betrayed his true intentions.
— My parents are in the next room.
He smiled even more, leaning down until his lips barely brushed against yours, teasing.
— And? — His voice came out low, almost a whisper. — I don’t plan on making any noise.
And then, he kissed you.
The first kiss was slow, teasing, as if he wanted to test the limits of the situation. Jeonghan’s lips were warm and soft against yours, and the way he moved—always in control, always knowing exactly what to do – made your entire body react instantly.
But he didn’t stop there.
Jeonghan was a game of cat and mouse, and he loved playing with you. Every time you tried to catch your breath, he captured your lips again, stealing quick kisses, smiling against your mouth, his fingers lazily tracing your face, then trailing down to your waist, where he held you with deceptive gentleness.
The bed creaked softly beneath the subtle movements, and every time you tried to protest, he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his lips molding to yours with more intensity.
Your fingers clenched around his shirt, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. The way he dominated the moment, the way he whispered something between kisses just to tease you, made every cell in your body vibrate with anticipation.
And when he finally pulled away, just enough to look into your eyes, the satisfied smile on his lips made it clear that he knew exactly what he was doing.
— See? — He whispered, his thumb slowly brushing over your lower lip. — Not a single sound.
But his eyes said something else.
He was just getting started.
Joshua
The elevator doors close smoothly, and you lean against the wall, holding Joshua's hand, watching him with a suspicious look. You two had just returned from a date, and throughout the entire night, Joshua had behaved better than expected—no pranks, no teasing comments.
He's been too quiet, which is never a good sign.
Then, before the elevator even ascends a single floor, he presses a hidden button on the panel. The lights flicker, the elevator gives a slight jolt, and… stops.
— Oh, no… — Joshua murmurs, covering his mouth with an exaggerated expression of surprise. — Looks like we’re stuck.
Your eyes widen. — What?!
— Yeah, it happened again… These elevators are a bit unstable, you know?
Suspicion hits immediately.
— Joshua. What did you do?
He tilts his head, eyes gleaming with pure amusement.
— Me? Nothing. — But the mischievous smile gives everything away.
You let out an exasperated sigh and reach for the emergency button, but he moves fast. Before you can even touch the panel, Joshua steps closer and cups your face with both hands, his palms covering your cheeks, his long, warm fingers pressing into your skin.
— Hey, hey, what’s the rush? — He murmurs, his voice low and lazy, his playful gaze shifting into something more intense. — Maybe it’s a sign from fate.
Your heart jumps when he leans in slowly, his warm breath grazing your lips before he finally captures them with his own.
The kiss starts as a tease – just like him. Joshua’s lips move against yours deliberately, savoring, testing, as if he’s relishing your reaction. But as you respond, he deepens it, making it slower, more consuming, his tongue sliding against yours in a heated, intoxicating touch.
He smiles against your lips the moment he feels you melt in his arms, giving in to the kiss, your fingers dragging over the nape of his neck with growing need. One of his hands glides to your waist, circling it and pulling you closer, while the other discreetly moves behind you. His fingers find the right button, and without you even noticing, he presses it.
Suddenly, the elevator starts moving again.
You pull back with a start, blinking in surprise. — Wait…
Joshua lets out a low, satisfied chuckle.
— Oops. Guess it’s working again. — He shrugs as if he hadn’t just tricked you once more.
— You…!
He grins like he’s having way too much fun, his thumb brushing lightly over your swollen lips. — Don’t look at me like that. You liked it.
The worst part? He’s right.
Jun
The muffled sound of the audience echoed through the backstage hallways, and you could hardly believe you were there, accompanying Jun to yet another one of the group’s shows. He seemed calm, but there was something in his eyes—a mischievous glint you couldn’t quite decipher.
— Let’s go grab some water — he said suddenly, his voice casual.
You didn’t find it strange. Jun was the kind of person everyone adored—sweet and attentive to those around him—and he hated being away from you when you had a day to be together, so nothing seemed out of the ordinary. None of the members even glanced in your direction, too busy with their own preparations. So, without questioning, you followed him down the hallways.
It happened too fast. Before you even realized it, Jun pushed open the door of an empty dressing room and, in one swift motion, pulled you inside. The soft click of the door closing sounded louder than it should have.
— Jun-?
Your voice was cut off as he leaned against the wall and pulled you against him, your bodies colliding in the narrow space. He smirked, a malicious glint in his eyes. — I didn’t scare you, did I?
His expression softened into feigned innocence, but his tone betrayed his true intentions.
Your heart skipped a beat. He looked nothing like the adorable Jun everyone knew—here, alone with you, there was something else, something undeniably provocative.
The question lingered in the air, but before you could respond, Jun slid one of his hands down your waist, giving a light squeeze. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine, and that cocky smile still hadn’t left his lips.
And then, he leaned in closer, so close that you could feel his warm breath against your skin.
— We’ve got a few minutes… — he murmured, the tip of his nose grazing your jawline.
— Yeah? — you asked, wrapping your arm around his shoulders and tilting up to capture his lips in a slow, restrained kiss. One that Jun wasted no time deepening as he held you by the waist with one arm, while his other hand tangled into the hair at the nape of your neck.
He used his grip on your hair to position you exactly how he wanted, making the kiss more comfortable for him—and better for you. He pulled you closer by the hips, leaving one leg between yours, your bodies pressed together enough to feel the rise and fall of each breath.
Outside, the show was about to begin. But at that moment, nothing else seemed to matter except the way Jun looked at you—and what he wanted to do with those stolen minutes.
Wonwoo
Wonwoo was off today and decided to spend his free day playing the game he had been waiting for over the past two months. He was sitting comfortably in his gaming chair, the room lit faintly by a soft yellow LED light.
The sound of the keyboard clicks filled the air, and the soft light of the late afternoon illuminated the space. Since the beginning of the afternoon, Wonwoo had been immersed in the game, as if nothing else in the world mattered. You watched him for a moment, respecting the fact that he needed this time for himself after working so much. However, it was already night, and the longing for his touch, for his presence, started to weigh on you.
You quietly approached, leaning against his back. Your hands, soft and delicate, began massaging his shoulders, feeling the tension accumulated there. Wonwoo let out a slight sigh of pleasure but kept his focus on the game, as if trying not to get distracted. But it was impossible not to notice the touch of your presence and the warmth of your proximity.
After a few seconds, he tilted his head back, his eyes meeting yours. His smile was gentle but full of something you recognized well: desire, affection, and a slight complicity.
Without hesitation, you moved closer and, with a quick motion, kissed him in the Spider-Man and Mary Jane style, your lips meeting gently as he was still leaning back. The kiss was soft, gentle, and even a bit playful, but full of undeniable chemistry.
Fortunately, that wasn’t enough for Wonwoo – and even less so for you. He took control, spinning the chair to face you without missing a beat, and with one firm hand, placed it behind your thigh, slowly pulling you onto his lap.
The movement was smooth, but full of intention. You settled there, feeling the warmth of his body against yours, and the world around you seemed to fade away. He was closer now, and the distance between the two of you seemed to vanish completely.
The kiss quickly escalated, going from something gentle and playful to pure need and desire. Wonwoo held your waist, pressing you down against him as you wrapped your arms around his neck, instinctively arching your back.
— Your game... — You murmured between kisses and caresses.
Wonwoo simply hummed, not paying attention to your words – he had better things to focus on: marking the length of your neck and shoulders. The sound of battle filled the space between the two of you's panting breaths. The game long forgotten.
The night was just beginning, but you knew that, beside him, time would just be a word.
Hoshi
The office was finally silent. After hours immersed in the group's new project, you and Hoshi were the last to leave. He stretched, intertwining his fingers above his head before casting a casual glance in your direction.
— Ready to go? — He asked, already walking ahead.
— Always. — you replied, grabbing your bag and following him down the hallway.
Hoshi pressed the elevator button, but when the doors opened, he suddenly made a face as if he had just remembered something important.
— Oh, wait... I think we'd better take the stairs. I heard the elevator has been acting up lately. — He scratched the back of his neck, his expression a mix of concern and amusement.
You raised an eyebrow, skeptical, not buying his excuse but also not protesting as he started heading toward the stairwell. Hoshi smiled innocently and began descending, still leading the way. You kept following him until, two floors down, he suddenly stopped and turned to you, biting back a mischievous smile.
— Already? — You crossed your arms, tilting your head to the side. — Couldn't keep up the lie for too long, huh?
He didn’t answer. Instead, in one swift motion, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you down a step, making you stumble slightly. Before you could regain your balance, his hands were firm on your waist, pressing your body against his. Hoshi leaned back against the railing, a playful glint in his eyes.
Before you could say anything, Hoshi leaned up, capturing your lips in a deep, yearning kiss. Stealthily, his palms slid along the sides of your waist until his fingers pressed firmly against your skin, keeping you close.
For a moment, the world around you disappeared, leaving only the heat of his body against yours, the intoxicating taste of his kiss. His touch became gentle again, filled with hidden intentions, but the way his fingertips moved was so light that you barely felt them creeping upward.
Not until he reached your chest, teasingly squeezing them.
You pulled away, breathless, your face flushed. Your heart pounded wildly as you opened your eyes again, only to find that satisfied smile on his lips. His scent, mixed with the faint, enclosed air of the stairwell, made your head spin slightly.
— You should know by now that I could never resist an opportunity like this. — He murmured, his voice low enough to send a shiver down your spine.
Your heart pounded against your ribs. You could feel his breath far too close to your skin – warm and enticing. The empty stairwell, the silence around you, the way he held your waist as if he had no intention of letting go… everything seemed to conspire against any chance of escape.
But did you really want to escape?
Woozi
You and Woozi had decided to have another one of those afternoons where you both worked on your own projects while enjoying each other's quiet company. His new comeback was approaching, and he still had many songs to work on, while you had to deal with the planning of this new project your boss had made you responsible for.
The room was immersed in a tranquil, almost dreamlike atmosphere. The soft strumming of Woozi’s guitar filled the space with an enchanting melody, blending with the sweet aroma of the warm cookies on the table.
At first, everything felt perfect. Your cup of your favorite drink was still warm between your fingers, and the ambiance seemed to conspire in your favor, helping you focus on the project assigned to you. But as the hours passed, the open pages on your laptop remained nearly untouched, the blinking cursor a cruel reminder that you weren’t even halfway through your planning.
A tired sigh escaped your lips, and Woozi, ever attentive, noticed. He stopped strumming, placing his guitar aside before standing up. His quiet steps didn’t immediately alert you, but soon you felt his firm yet gentle touch as he pulled your chair to turn you towards him.
Before you could question him, Woozi slid his hands around your waist, effortlessly lifting you, making a small laugh slip from your surprised lips. He didn’t say a word, simply carrying you in his arms toward the bed and laying you down gently on the mattress. His eyes met yours for a moment, a silent invitation reflected in the dark shimmer of his gaze.
He lay down beside you, pulling your leg over his hip, bringing your bodies closer. One of his hands traced slow, deliberate paths down your back, making your breath hitch. The kiss that followed was deep and sensual, filled with tenderness and intent. His tongue moved slowly against yours as his fingertips ghosted over your skin, coaxing you into relaxation in his arms.
You let your nails trail lazily down his abdomen, sending shivers across his skin, making him smile against your lips. Every touch was a silent promise that here, in his embrace, you could finally rest. The warmth of his body surrounded yours, and without even realizing it, your eyes began to close.
And just like that, clinging to him, you finally surrendered to sleep.
Dokeyom
You and your boyfriend were having yet another secret rendezvous at your place – just a night to binge-watch some random Netflix series while eating too much pizza and ice cream.
The house was filled with laughter, and footsteps hurried against the floor, as if, instead of a grown-up couple, two mischievous children had taken over the place. Every time you and Dokyeom were together, time seemed to rewind, and each date turned into a collection of questionable decisions and pure fun. The latest one? Play-fighting.
It all started harmlessly – a fierce battle for the TV remote. You grabbed it first, clutching it to your chest as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Dokyeom, with his usual mischievous grin, tried to snatch it from you, the two of you wrestling as if the fate of humanity depended on who would pick the next show.
What you didn’t realize, however, was that behind your boyfriend’s gentle and smiley nature, there was actual strength. And it was only when, in the blink of an eye, he grabbed your ankle with firm hands and pulled you down onto the couch that you understood how dangerous it had been to challenge him.
— Hey! — you exclaimed, trying to regain your balance, but it was too late.
Dokyeom laughed out loud, triumphant, and before you could turn around or come up with a counterattack, he was already on top of you. He pinned your wrists above your head with humiliating ease, his absurd strength contrasting with the bright, innocent smile he always carried.
— Did you really think you could win against me? — he teased, leaning in a little closer, his eyes sparkling with amusement. — You really shouldn’t underestimate me like that, sweetheart.
Your heart pounded – partly from the fight, partly because the sudden closeness between you made everything feel even more electrifying. Dokyeom held your wrists firmly but not tightly enough to hurt, and the way he hovered over you, his hair falling slightly over his eyes, made the world seem to slow down.
Dokyeom brushed his lips against yours, giving your lower lip a playful bite. You gasped against his mouth, and he finally took your lips in a gentle kiss, his tongue making its way into your mouth.
This kiss would be just like the others you’ve shared, but there was something different about this one – something more intense, something that sent shivers down your spine, that twisted into a familiar knot in the pit of your stomach, and all because of the way he’s manhandling you and pressing you into the couch effortlessly.
— I haven’t given up yet — you breathlessly challenged when he broke the kiss, squirming in an attempt to free yourself, but Dokyeom only laughed, tightening his fingers just a little around your wrists.
— Oh, really? Then convince me.
The challenge was set. And whatever the next bad decision of the night would be, one thing was certain – you two wouldn’t come out of this fight without consequences.
Mingyu
The kitchen was warm, filled with the aroma of spices and the soft sound of the knife slicing ingredients on the cutting board. Mingyu stood beside you, big and imposing, absentmindedly stirring the spoon inside the pan. But no matter how much he tried to focus on the food, he kept watching you – a gaze heavy with something intense, something that made your whole body tingle under his attention.
You tried to ignore it, continuing to chop the vegetables, but his presence was impossible to overlook. The way he moved, how his broad shoulders seemed to take up all the space around you, how the difference in size between you both became even more obvious every time he leaned in slightly to grab something from the counter.
And then, suddenly, you realized. His gaze wasn’t just a gaze. It was a warning.
Before you could react, Mingyu slid closer, his warm body brushing lightly against yours. He didn’t say anything – he simply pushed the scattered utensils and ingredients aside, clearing the counter. Your heart skipped a beat as you slowly turned to face him.
He was already there, too close, too tall, too broad, with those dark eyes locked onto yours.
Your stomach flipped when his hand found your waist, long fingers pressing firmly into the curve. But what truly caught you off guard was when he slipped his other hand under your leg, gliding up to the back of your knee before lifting you effortlessly.
A small gasp escaped your lips as your body was lifted as if it weighed nothing, and within seconds, you were seated on the counter, with Mingyu standing between your legs.
His warmth seemed to consume everything around you. Your breath was uneven, and you barely had time to say anything before he leaned in, his hands gripping your waist tighter as his lips met yours.
The kiss started slow, intense, as if he wanted to savor every second, as if he had waited too long for this. His lips were warm, firm against yours, and as the tension between you both grew, the kiss deepened, turning hungrier, more demanding.
Mingyu slid his fingers across your skin, holding you against him as if he didn’t want to let you go. His left hand trailed up to the base of your throat, his long fingers wrapping around it, applying just enough pressure for you to feel him there, but not enough to choke. Your body fit against his almost naturally, and the sensation of contrast – your height against his, his strength against your fragility – made your heart race even faster.
When he finally pulled back, your faces remained close, breaths mingling. Mingyu’s eyes were darker, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips.
— Forget the food. — He murmured, his voice husky. — I have a better idea...
And before you could respond, he kissed you again, stealing any words that might have left your mouth.
Minghao
The deserted beach looked like a scene straight out of a dream – the sky painted in warm hues of orange and pink, the salty breeze caressing your skin, the sound of waves crashing softly against the sand. Minghao had chosen this place carefully, a secret hideaway where the world seemed to exist just for the two of you.
He stood in front of you, his gaze fixed on you with that intensity that always made your heart race. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his light pants, his posture relaxed, but his eyes said something else – he was having fun, and you knew that meant he was in a teasing mood.
— I have your present. — He announced, his velvety voice blending with the night breeze.
Your eyes sparkled with excitement, and you practically bounced in place, clasping your hands together like a child waiting for candy.
— Give it to me! Let me see! — You insisted, a wide smile spreading across your face.
Minghao let out a short, muffled chuckle, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek, the corner of his lips curving into an arrogant smirk. His gaze darkened slightly, glinting with veiled mischief as he replied:
— Beg me. — He answered. — Beg me, and maybe I’ll show you.
Your smile faltered for a second, weighing your options. Minghao loved this kind of game, and you knew the only way to win was to play along. So, slowly, you wrapped your arms around his waist, pulling him a little closer.
Your eyes traveled up to his, softer than usual, and you blinked a few times, leaning slightly into him.
— Hao... — Your voice came out lower, almost a whisper.
He laughed, a low, amused sound, and squeezed your waist with one hand before shaking his head.
— I know what you’re doing, but it wont work. — His fingertips brushed along your jaw, tilting your face up slightly. His smirk deepened, a spark of anticipation dancing in his gaze. — I want you to beg for real.
The way he said it, with his voice slow and dripping with provocation, sent a delicious shiver down your spine. Minghao wanted you to truly beg, and judging by the way he looked at you – with that lazy smirk and the mischievous glint in his eyes – you knew he wouldn’t give in easily.
So, taking a deep breath, you leaned even closer, your arms still wrapped around his waist, your fingers tracing subtle patterns along the hem of his lightweight shirt. Your gaze lingered on his lips before slowly meeting his eyes again, filled with something deeper, something more genuine.
— Please, Hao… — Your voice was soft, almost a whisper, and your fingers pressed gently against his waist as if urging him closer. — Give it to me…
For a moment, time seemed to slow down. You saw his smirk falter slightly, his eyes darkening as he took in your words and the way you said them. Then, Minghao tilted his head to the side, his lips curling back into that satisfied smile.
He hummed, looking at you with a predatory glint in his eyes, and finally, he leaned in toward you.
The kiss started off slow, a delicious contrast to his earlier teasing. His lips met yours with patience, as if savoring every second, drinking in the taste of your surrender. But it didn’t take long for the softness to shift into something more intense—the rhythm picking up as he gripped your waist tighter, deepening the kiss.
His fingers traveled up your back, the light touches sending shivers through your skin as he pulled you even closer, as if trying to erase any space between you. You felt his breath mix with yours, the warmth of his body radiating through the thin fabric separating you.
When he finally pulled back, that same smirk lingered, but his eyes now held a different shine – less playful, more intense. He kept his hand tangled in your hair at the nape of your neck, keeping you tilted toward him, and rested his forehead against yours, his fingers still gripping your waist firmly.
— Now that’s more like it. — He murmured against your lips, his voice low and satisfied.
You smiled, breathless, your eyes shining with expectation.
— And my present?
Minghao let out a soft chuckle, sliding his hands down to your arms before pressing a lingering kiss to your lips.
— I’m already giving it to you.
Seungkwan
The court was empty at that hour, illuminated only by the tall lampposts scattered around the space. The scent of dry earth and freshly cut grass mixed with the night breeze, and the only sound besides the rustling of the trees was Seungkwan’s slightly quickened breath – and your quiet, satisfied laughter.
— Stop laughing. — He grumbled, crossing his arms, but the glint in his eyes betrayed that he wasn’t actually mad.
— I’m not laughing. — You lied shamelessly, holding back another chuckle as you watched him huff.
You had made a bet. Seungkwan, always competitive, had sworn he could make ten consecutive shots without missing a single one. Knowing his exaggerated confidence all too well, you had doubted him. What he hadn’t expected was to miss the very last attempt, and now he was standing there, staring at you with feigned indignation while you basked in your victory.
— Come on, admit it. I won. — You teased, tilting your head to the side. — I told you you couldn’t do it.
Seungkwan rolled his eyes, tossing the basketball away before stepping closer with slow, deliberate steps.
— So what? I missed a single shot, that means nothing. — He grumbled, his voice lower now, laced with that same playful provocation he always used to throw you off.
Your heart skipped a beat, but you held his gaze.
— On the contrary, it means you have to do whatever I want for a full minute.
Seungkwan raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms again as if weighing the idea. The problem was, despite his stubborn front, he already knew he was doomed. The way you looked at him, a mix of mischief and that touch of sweetness that always disarmed him, made his pride waver just a little.
— And what do you want? — He asked, wetting his lips before looking at you more challengingly.
You took a step forward, closing the distance between you until you could feel the warmth of his body despite the cool night breeze. Your fingers trailed slowly up the fabric of his shirt, stopping at the collar.
— You know. — Your voice came out soft, almost a whisper.
Seungkwan let out a short breath through his nose, as if frustrated with himself for giving in so easily, but the way his shoulders relaxed betrayed the truth.
— You’re impossible. — He murmured, and then, before you could respond, he pulled you in by the collar of his own shirt, his lips meeting yours with the perfect mix of urgency and teasing.
The kiss started firm, dominated by his competitive nature, as if he was proving a point. But then, as the seconds passed, the initial tension melted away, giving way to something more genuine. The rhythm slowed, his lips moving against yours more languidly, the heat of his touch consuming every part of you.
Seungkwan cupped your face with both hands, his thumbs brushing over your skin as he deepened the kiss with a satisfied sigh. He had wanted to tease you, but in the end, he was always the one who got lost first.
When he pulled away, his eyes still closed, he took a moment before finally speaking, his voice a little husky:
— I bet you cheated.
— You missed all on your own, babe. I had nothing to do with it. — You laughed, resting your forehead against his.
He opened his eyes, narrowing them slightly before smirking. — Best out of three.
— If I win again, will you kiss me again?
Seungkwan let out a dramatic sigh, but the smile still lingered, hidden at the corner of his lips. — You’re not gonna win.
But judging by the way he was already pulling you toward the ball, you knew he wouldn’t mind losing again.
Vernon
It was only the first month of your relationship with Vernon, and you were already sure he was everything you could ever want: fun, funny, kind, and even a little shy. But there was a problem.
The kiss… or rather, the lack of one.
Vernon always came up with excuses whenever you had the chance to be alone, and it was starting to seem like he preferred anything over kissing you. So when he invited you over for a movie night at his place… you were surprised, to say the least. Was it finally going to happen? Did he want to make it special?
Everything was perfectly set up, the dim lighting in the living room making the atmosphere even cozier – and more romantic. You and Vernon were sitting on the couch, a forgotten bucket of popcorn beside you, while the movie played on the screen. You were the one who picked the film, excited by its premise – TikTok edits – but before you even pressed play, Vernon had already commented:
— I'm pretty sure I saw some bad reviews about this one…
You ignored him, more focused on other things than the movie. But as the minutes passed and nothing you expected happened the slow-paced plot and forced dialogues started to weigh down. Boredom filled the air. You sighed, resting your head against the back of the couch, and without realizing it, you started playing with the soft strands at the nape of his neck, gently twisting them between your fingers.
Vernon, on the other hand, was distracted, his eyes on the screen, but when you started bouncing your leg non-stop, he smirked, recognizing your restlessness. He didn’t say anything, simply enjoying your impatience in silence.
— This movie is so boring — you huffed impatiently after a few more minutes.
Vernon let out a low chuckle and turned to you, murmuring teasingly: — I told you so.
You huffed again, sinking into the soft couch, but Vernon was more cunning than he seemed, and you barely noticed his warm breath approaching your neck in the dimly lit living room. A shiver ran down your spine as he leaned in closer, lightly rubbing his nose along your neck before leaving a soft kiss on your skin. A mischievous smile immediately formed on your lips.
Slowly, you tilted your head to the side, and your eyes locked on his. For a second, everything faded into the background – the forgotten movie, the justified bad reviews, the untouched popcorn. Vernon still had that playful smile on his lips when you leaned in, and he welcomed you eagerly.
It started slow and comfortable, filled with repressed longing. Vernon gripped the back of your neck firmly, deepening the kiss. You gripped the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer to you. Sensing that, Vernon swiftly slid his free hand down to your ass, pulling you onto his lap with a strong, quick motion.
The movie kept playing on the TV, but your attention was on something far more interesting.
Dino
Your boyfriend had to cancel the dinner you were supposed to have because of the rehearsal for his solo launch, but he felt bad about rescheduling with you, knowing how much those moments meant to you – he also didn’t want to be away from you that night. That’s why he invited you to watch the rehearsal.
The muffled sound of the music still reverberated in the air as Dino monitored each step of the choreography in the mirror like a hawk. During the rehearsal, he barely took his eyes off you. Every movement of yours, every reaction, every subtle and hurried touch during the breaks between the clean-up of the choreography seemed to carry something more, an intensity and veiled yearning between the two of you.
And you felt every furtive glance he cast your way, sensing something growing between you, something irresistible.
Now, at the end of the session, the mood was different. The empty room and the sudden silence seemed to make the atmosphere more tense. Dino approached you unexpectedly, his steps firm, almost challenging. He stopped right in front of you, and in a swift movement, he pushed you against the door, trapping you between his body and the cold wood. His gaze was full of intensity, as if he was measuring the moment with precision.
His lips were close to yours, the heat of his body radiating onto you. The pressure of his presence was almost physical, and you could feel your heart racing in your chest, but you also felt a delicious shiver, as if the air around you had changed in temperature.
Time seemed to slow down as he looked into your eyes, trying to gauge if you were ready for the next step, for what had yet to be said. His usual confident smile was now tinged with something more mysterious, something deeper, something between provocation and anticipation.
Dino tilted his head, his eyes locked on yours, and you felt as though the air around you was condensed into a single point of tension. He lowered his voice, almost whispering, and his words were laden with something you could barely understand:
— You know what I want, don’t you?
The question lingered in the air, like a provocation and a promise. He moved closer, his body pressed against yours, and you felt the intensity of his presence like never before. Dino held your chin, tilting your head to the side, and let a couple of kisses and light bites along your neck.
You deeply gasped, feeling the heat of his body against yours. He hid his smile in the crook of your neck, lifted his head up, locking his eyes on yours again, then bit your lower lip, making you whimper softly.
— The others… — you started, but Dino cut your words off before you could continue.
— There’s no one here anymore, beauty — he murmured on your lips, and in the next second, he took your lips in a hungry kiss.
His hands traveled down along your side, lifting you with no effort and pressing your back against the door, his body pressed on yours. After that, he slid his hand right to your butt, squeezing your soft flesh and pulling you against him, pressing your bodies together with fervor and desire.
Any ideas for a non stoic but still very defiant whumpee?
Like, most things about how defiant whumpees would act is about stoic ones
Sure! Deviancy comes in many forms!
Comic relief Whumpee
Whumpee who deals with everything by using humor. So here they do to. They won't answer Whumper's questions, they just sarcastically answer each time.
Or Whumper tries to break them, but Whumpee refuses to give in. All the do is just snap back. "If I were you, I'd watch my mouth right about now." - "If you were me, I'd be ugly."
They just keep insulting and annoying Whumper.
They keep singing an annoying tune that pisses Whumper off.
They refuse to break, to show pain. They won't stop smiling, joking. If they stop, they've broken. And they won't. break.
Defiant Whumpee who won't stop fighting
They're not stoic; they cry and scream and maybe even beg. But they won't stop fighting.
Whumper gets too close? They get hit.
Watch out for their teeth, they bite.
Whumper leaves the room and they instantly try to escape.
They get caught in an escape attempt and dragged back, but they just try again the next day.
They plan, pretending to be weak and then jumping up, wrapping their chain around Whumper's throat.
They curl up when Whumper leaves, sobbing in pain and barely holding on. But they pull themselves together, and keep fighting the next day.
Whumpee who is secretly defiant
Maybe they work for Whumper. They're just another henchmen, not tough, not stoic and battle hardened like some other workers. They appear scared and stay in the back.
But they are working against Whumper. They give information to the enemy, the sabotage missions.
They seem 'weak' and 'mess up' things, and Whumper punishes them each time. But they'll do it again. Because it was punishment, or killing those innocent people.
Whumpee who won't cooperate
Whumpee knows there is no way out, knows Whumper will hurt them, but they won't break.
They cry and scream and beg, but they won't give Whumper what they want (information?)
They're not strong, they can't lock their emotions away and pretend to be fine. But they just won't do what Whumper says, no matter what.
I read a lot of scripts. A lot. From professionals to aspiring writers to complete newbies. Features and pilots. Specs and treatments.
And 8 times out of 10 the fan fic that I’ve read over the last, oh, 15 years is leagues better than this stuff. It’s more inspired. It’s more compelling. It’s genre bending and creative and heartfelt. It’s well-paced and intense and funny and sexy and meaningful. It’s smart and thoughtful and good. It’s novel-quality. Better than, sometimes.
Rare is the script I don’t want to put down, but how often have we stayed up until 3am to get to the last chapter of a 100k fic? And it’s not even a fan fic author’s day job. This is what they do on the side. In their spare time. For free.
So my point is, fan fic authors, you’re good. You’re good writers and great storytellers. I know it doesn’t always feel like it, especially if you’re one of the authors who’s not a BNF and doesn’t get the notes/hits that a few do. And because some people still view fic as “not real writing.” You guys know the shit that gets made into movies. You’re better than that. So be better than that. If writing is what you think want to do, then just know you’re already doing it. You’ve already started.
pixelskylines
tangentwithtanner
jimmyeatworldofficial
germansingergirl
areudirty
